Die Smiling (15 page)

A chill rippled over my skin like a cold wildfire. “You're not talking about necrophilia?”

He nodded. “Maybe. He's a sick son of a bitch. That's the kind of perpetrator who'd molest a corpse. The note he left is hard to explain. It doesn't seem like he's sending us a message. And he isn't asking for anything, either. The quote's well known enough, but I suspect it means something special to his twisted mind. It's pretty obvious he has some perverted fixation on the mouth, and smiles, too, by the sound of it. I've never run across another case with the lips removed. Have you run it through your data banks?”

“First thing I did. No hits yet. I talked to Harve up in Michigan earlier this morning, and he's gonna do a search for similar crimes and victims with severed lips, but hasn't gotten back to me with anything. This guy's MO's pretty specific. If a similar case pops up, it's probably the same perp.” I glanced across the seat at Black “What about motive?”

“I'd say it's personal with him. The lips are something he equates with the victim. Could be he liked Hilde's smile or wanted her to smile at him or smiling triggers some traumatic event in his past. Who knows? Maybe this was just his way of forcing her to be pleasant toward him, acknowledge him positively in a way she wouldn't before. Or if you take the quote into account, it could be that she simply betrayed him and he's punishing her. I'm wondering why he murdered her at her place. It'd probably be easier to abduct her or lure her to his own lair and commit the murder there. It doesn't make a lot of sense, which again points to a crime of passion, something very personal.”

“Who knows what makes a sicko tick.” The truth is, though, I hope to hell Black's right about this being a personal crime. Another serial killer picking off victims here at the lake was the last thing I needed.

Black slowed for a traffic light and glanced over at me. “You didn't cause this, if you're still thinking that. Quit blaming yourself.”

“And I thought McKay was the psychic around here.”

“I know how you think. You always blame yourself if anybody close to you gets hurt.”

“Well, my personal history pretty much supports that theory, wouldn't you say?”

Shrink or not, Black didn't have an answering quip for that one. Uh-uh, no glib answers this time. He knew my ugly personal history. He didn't have an alternate theory that would hold up.

Eric Dixson's place turned out to be touristy, all right. It was one of those trendy photography shops that catered to giddy tourists who wanted to memorialize their vacation at the lake forever and ever. Go figure. They stampeded in family flocks to our neck of the woods throughout the spring and summer months. There were also lots of state conventions held weekly in our fanciest resorts, Cedar Bend Lodge being the primo. Most of those attendees, however, were executive types who spent their time snapping pictures of themselves with colleagues holding expensive briefcases and/or recognition plaques with their names engraved on them.

As it turned out, Dixson had loads of colorful costumes for his clients to play dress up in. Black and I paused just inside the door, where a long rack of feather boas caught my eye. In rainbow hues, no less, purple and red being the predominant choice. Other racks held row after row of Union and Confederate uniforms replete with gold-fringed sashes and wicked sabers. Wannabe southern belles would feel right at home, too, frocks of every hue, every material, all designed to tie in the back over your clothes, one size fits all. About six thousand portraits of the aforementioned historically correct tourists hung about on the walls in the shop's trademark brown-and-gold paper frames. Eric obviously did a helluva good business.

We could see a man was working in a large gold velvet-draped alcove at the rear of the store. A group of a dozen or so ladies sat before his old-fashioned draped camera, all decked out in wide-brimmed straw hats and flowing antebellum gowns, a couple of gaudily bedecked saloon hall girls thrown in for good measure. They were giggling and teasing each other and having a rip-roaring good time. I briefly considered a citation for public intoxication, but decided they deserved a night out. One lady on the front row sat with both hands propped atop a closed ruffled parasol and looked quite the patrician matriarch.

Eric was egging them on, laughing with them, making sure they came back to immortalize their next vacation jaunt. I watched silently for a moment and wondered what it would be like to have that many friends to hang out with. I didn't make friends easily. For some reason, most of them turned out to be men—my partners and ex-partners, usually, and then there was Black, who had, against my better judgment, turned out to be much more than a friend. Maybe Jude could be my next best lady friend. I thought of her in that unbuttoned black silk outfit. Nope, nix that as a crummy idea.

Black and I stood silently and watched the fun. Hailing originally from the Big Easy, Black would go for the Confederacy uniform, I'd bet money on it. General Lee, probably so he could run everything and everybody like he did in real life. Moi? I would go floozy.

As I predicted, Black fingered the gold fringe epaulets on a gray Confederate general's uniform. “We might as well pose for him since we're already here. See that red saloon getup over there, it's got your name written all over it.” So there you go. See how well we're getting to know each other?

“I've got a couple of those saloon outfits at home that I'll model for you tonight.”

“Never mind. I'll stick with the shoulder holster and high heels from last night.”

Some pretty sexy visuals danced around inside my head, until I heard Eric Dixson instruct the ladies to “Smile pretty now.” Hilde's face welled up inside my head in its gruesome death mask, and I sobered back to reality pretty damn fast.

The chitchatting ladies took some time scraping together enough cash for each to have their very own, personal, eight-by-ten group portrait to treasure, a steal at just twenty-five dollars a pop. They left in a whirl of laughter and wafting expensive fragrances, and Mr. Dixson shut the cash register drawer, looking rather smug and satisfied as he headed toward us, his next pair of gullible, vacationing suckers.

“Sorry to make you wait. The more people in the shot, the longer it takes to get the lighting just right.”

The camera angles in my line of work usually entailed only one dead body at a time, so I couldn't comment. “No problem. Are you Eric Dixson?”

His
looking-forward-to-shooting-you-nice-folks
expression faded to a
wary-as-hell-of-both-of-you
one. “Yes, ma'am, that's right. What can I do for you?”

I displayed to him the badge clipped to my belt. He displayed to me his startled face. I said, “I'm Detective Claire Morgan from the Canton County Sheriff's Department. I need to ask you a couple of questions, that is, if you've got a few minutes to spare.”

He looked then as if he had a stash of weed hidden in his camera case. “I don't understand, Detective. I've got zoning permits to take these photographs, and my license is in good order. I made sure of that before I ever opened my doors.”

“I'm afraid it's a little more serious than that, Mr. Dixson.”

Dixson kept glancing at Black, who stood behind me, as tall, imperious, and sophisticated as ever, no doubt trying to look inconspicuous in his solid gold cufflinks and silk suit made by the finest tailor in Hong Kong proper. The giant Humvee sitting outside the plate-glass front window probably helped his image, too. Dixson was probably mentally rubbing his palms together, thinking Black had enough cash to order the Giant Deluxe Color Spring Package, double prints, one for each of us.

“Are you acquainted with a woman named Hilde Swensen, Mr. Dixson?”

“Sure. I've worked with her on several occasions. Actually I took her pageant portfolio for the Cedar Bend Dogwood Pageant a few days ago. Last Tuesday, I think. She asked me to come and set up at her place up at the Royal. Why do you ask?”

“So you're well acquainted with her?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I mean, we're not romantically involved or anything like that. She's a nice kid. I've known her a long time. You know, seen her around the circuit, and stuff.”

Great, and he didn't have a clue that she was dead. So I was going to get to break it to him. Lucky me. “Mr. Dixson, I'm afraid I've got some bad news concerning Ms. Swensen.”

“Oh, my God, Hil's okay, isn't she?”

“I'm afraid she isn't okay, sir. She was found dead in her condo yesterday, murdered, and we have reason to believe you might have been the last person to see her alive.”

Dixson's face drained of color, and I mean drained as if somebody had pulled a plug in his jugular. Ghost white and trembling all over, he stumbled backward a step or two until a rack of Victorian white lace dresses brought him to a standstill. “Oh, my God, no way. What happened? Who could've done something like that? And why, why?”

“I'm sorry I had to break it to you like this, Mr. Dixson. I can see it's upsetting to you. Would you like to sit down? Maybe there's a more private place where we could talk for a few moments?”

Dixson had both hands over his mouth, and I had a sneaking suspicion he was about to lose his breakfast.

I said, “Take a couple of deep breaths, sir. I realize this is a shock.”

“Oh, my God! I was just with her the other day! She was feeling so good, happy and smiling constantly, enjoying the spring weather.”

I glanced at Black when Dixson mentioned the smile. “Let's sit down somewhere, Mr. Dixson. I have a few questions, but it shouldn't take long.”

Using one hand to steady himself, Dixson moved on shaky legs through the narrow aisles crowded with racked costumes. I looked around at the displayed photographs we passed and marveled at how many families thought playing dress up was a fun souvenir for their trip to Lake of the Ozarks.

A maroon velvet curtain draped an archway at the rear corner of the store, and Dixson parted it and led us into a large office. A huge, scarred, rolltop oak desk sat in one corner, and an oblong harvest table was positioned adjacent to a filthy window that looked out on a brick building across a narrow alley. The building was extremely old, at least a hundred years, I'd guess, and a single bare lightbulb dangled from the middle of the ceiling, giving the place a spooky, black-and-white,
Godfather II
kind of look.

Eric Dixson walked straight to a closed cupboard, opened one door, and pulled out a half-full bottle of Jack Daniel's. He unscrewed the cap and splashed a good portion into a short glass, a lot of it landing on the counter. “Sorry, I need a drink. Want one?”

Black shook his head.

I said, “No, thank you.”

Dixson tossed it down like it was nothing stronger than grandma's root beer sarsaparilla, then gestured for Black and me to have a seat at the table. He poured himself number two straightaway, and I noticed his hands were still shaking. Maybe number three would do it.

Dixson sat holding the glass in one hand, the bottle in the other. He stared at Black for a moment. “It took me a couple of minutes, but you're that doctor, Nicholas Black, right?” He turned to me. “And you're the detective who's been in the newspaper for getting those serial killers.”

I nodded, but did not want to rehash our well-documented notoriety. Black said his usual nothing and looked damn fine doing it.

Dixson sank down in the chair across from me and placed the bottle on the table in front of him. He tippled some more booze into his glass. I got out my trusty pad and pen. I better ask him what I wanted to know before he soused himself enough to pass out completely. He said, “How'd she die? Can you tell me that?”

I was surprised he craved the gory details, not after the elaborate shock scene we'd witnessed a few seconds before. “I really can't get into that with you, sir. Right now, I need you to tell me about the last time you saw Ms. Swensen. How would you describe her demeanor on that day?”

Dixson tossed down another shot, poured some more, sighed some more, stared at me some more. Obviously he intended to drown his sorrows, right here, right now, not later, get it done with the detective watching.

“Maybe you should lay off the hooch until we get finished with our interview, Mr. Dixson.”

When a bell rang at the front door, Black and I looked at the velvet curtain, then back at Dixson. Dixson didn't move.

Dixson finally said, “Ignore them. They'll go away if I don't go out.”

“That can't be good for business.” That was Black, ever the entrepreneur.

“Nothing I could do would hurt this business. Everybody wants to smile for the camera and take their own face home to look at.”

Okay, enough about the joys of photography. “I asked you about Hilde Swensen, Mr. Dixson. Why don't we get on with this and then you can finish your drink there?”

Anger came up inside Dixson then, fast and furious, taking over his ruddy face like a flash of lightning. “Just give me a fuckin' minute, why don't you? For God's sake, she was my friend and now she's dead. You might be able to shove it aside and work your case, cold as ice, but I can't.”