Claws and Effect (4 page)

Harry, wisely, did not comment on what Marilyn perceived of as a romance and what Blair Bainbridge thought of as a growing friendship. At least, that's what Harry thought was her peripatetic neighbor's position regarding Little Mim. “I don't know much about Bruce other than that he comes in for his mail. He's a little bit moody—but I never see him with a woman. Too busy, I guess.”

Little Marilyn stood up, as did Harry. “You can talk to anyone you like about my candidacy. It's not a secret and I'll make a formal announcement March first.”

“Okay.” Harry reached the door, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker behind her, and then she turned and stopped. “Hey, did you get a chain letter last week?”

“I probably did but I throw them in the trash after reading the first line. Why?”

“Your mother got one and it upset her.”

“Why?”

“Just junk mail, but you know how those things predict dire consequences if you don't send out the money and pass them along.”

“A tidal wave will engulf your home in Tempe, Arizona.” A gleam of humor illuminated Little Mim's attractive face.

“Right, that sort of thing. Oh well. I'll see you.” Harry opened the door as her cat and dog scampered for the truck.

A tidal wave wasn't about to engulf Tempe, Arizona, but the creeks were rising fast in Crozet.

As Harry headed toward Route 64, she noticed Deputy Cynthia Cooper on Route 250 heading in the opposite direction, siren blaring, lights flashing. Harry pulled off the two-lane road.

“Another wreck, I'll bet,” Harry said to her passengers.

“Pretty bad.”
Mrs. Murphy, sharp-eyed, had noticed how grim Coop looked.

It occurred to Harry, the way things usually occurred to Harry—meaning it just popped into her head—that she didn't know what an IVAC unit was.

5

The straight corridors of lead pipes running overhead testified to the 1930s updating of the oldest section of the hospital. Like a metallic spiderweb, they led to the boiler room, a square cut deep down at the center of the old building. Smack in the middle of this deep square sat the enormous cast-iron boiler, as good as the day it was built in 1911.

Hunkered down, fingers touching the stone floor for balance, Rick Shaw, sheriff of Albemarle County, glanced up when his trusted deputy walked into the room.

She stopped a moment, surveyed the blood splattered on the wall ten feet away, then bent down on one knee next to her boss. “Jesus Christ.”

Lying in front of her was the still-warm body of Hank Brevard. His throat had been cut straight across with such force that he was nearly decapitated. She could see his neckbone.

“Left to right.” Rick pointed to the direction of the cut.

“Right-handed perp.”

“Yep.”

The blood had shot across the room when the victim was killed, his heart pumping furiously.

“Tracks?”

“No.” Rick stood up. “Whoever did this must have come up behind him. He might not have much blood on him at all and then again even if he did, this is a hospital. Easy to dump your scrubs.”

“I'll look around.”

Coop hurried down the main corridor. She heard a door slam behind her, hearing the voices of the fingerprint and lab teams.

She pushed open grimy pea-green doors, each one guarding supplies, empty cartons, odds and ends. The old incinerating room was intact. Finally she found the laundry room for the old part of the hospital. Nothing there caught her eye.

Rejoining Rick she shrugged. “Nada.” She paused a moment. “You know, I had a thought. I'll be back. But one quick thing. There may be laundry rooms for the newer sections of the hospital. We'll need to check them fast.”

“Where are you going?”

“Incinerator.”

She ran back down the corridor, opened the door, and walked in. In the old days the incinerating room burned body parts. These days such things were considered biohazards so they were hauled out of the hospital and burned somewhere else. It seemed odd, trucks of gallbladders and cirrhotic livers rolling down Main Street to their final destination, but the laws made such incongruity normal.

She searched each corner of the room, then picked up the iron hook and gingerly opened the incinerator. A sheet of flame swept near her face. Instinctively she slammed the door shut. If there had been any evidence tossed in there, it was gone now.

“Damn!” She wiped her face, put the hook back on its hanger, and left the room.

Rick had returned to the corpse. Wearing thin plastic gloves like the ones worn in the hospital he went through Hank's pockets. A set of keys hung from the dead man's belt. In his left pocket he had $57.29. His right pocket contained his car keys and a folded sheet of notepaper, a grocery list. Rick put everything back in Hank's pockets.

“All right, guys. Do what you can.” He stood up again and propelled Coop away from the others. “Let's get to Hank's office before we notify the hospital staff.”

“Boss, who called you? And why isn't anyone else here?”

“Bobby Minifee called me from his cell phone. I told him not to speak to anyone, to stay with the body. He's outside in the unmarked car with Petey.”

Bobby Minifee was Hank's assistant.

Petey D'Angelo, a young officer on the force, showed a flair for his job. Both Rick and Coop, young herself at thirty-four, liked him.

“So you're hoping no one knows about this except for Bobby Minifee and whoever killed Hank?”

“Yeah. That's why I want to get to Hank's office. Bobby said it was at the northeast corner of the building. This is the center so we take that corridor.” As they walked along in the dim underground light, Rick cursed. “Shit, this is like a maze from hell.”

“You'd have to know your way around or you'd run into the Minotaur.”

“I'll remember that.” He vaguely remembered the Greek myth about the half-bull, half-man.

They arrived at an open door, the name Hank Brevard on a black sliding nameplate prominently displayed. The spacious office was jammed with file cabinets. Hank's desk, reasonably neat, had an old wooden teacher's swivel chair behind it and a newer, nicer chair in front for visitors.

Coop began flipping through drawers while Rick pulled out the file drawers.

“Records go back ten years. If this is only ten years I'd hate to see all of the records.”

“I've got a pile of oil bills from Tiger Fuel. A picture of the wife and kids.” She stopped. Who would get that awful job, telling them? She opened the long middle drawer. “Pencils, pens, a tiny light, paper clips. Ah . . .” She pulled the drawer out even farther. A few envelopes, lying flat, were at the rear. “Winter basketball league schedule. Repair bill for his car. A new alternator. Three hundred forty-nine dollars with labor. That hurts. And . . .” She turned. “You getting anything?”

“It will take half the force to go through these file cabinets and we'll do it, too, but no, nothing is jumping right out at me except the mouse droppings.”

“Need Mrs. Murphy.”

“You're getting as bad about that cat as Harry.”

Coop opened the last letter; the end of the envelope had been slit. She took out the letter. “Sister Sophonisba will bring you good fortune.” She laughed a low laugh. “Guess not.” She glanced up at the date. “Guess he didn't make the twenty copies in time.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“A chain letter. Mail out twenty copies in three days. Well, it's past the three days.”

Rick came over, snatched the chain letter, and read it. “‘Ignore this letter at your peril.' Under the circumstances it's like a sick joke.” He handed the letter back to Coop, who replaced it inside the envelope. “All right, let's find Sam Mahanes.”

“Saturday night.”

“H-m-m. I'll find Sam. You find out who's the head honcho Saturday night.”

“Boss, when are we going to notify people?”

“Not until I talk to Sam and you talk to whoever. I think we're already too late. The killer's flown the coop.”

“Or he's over our head.” She looked up at the ceiling.

“There is that. I'll send Petey over to Lisa Brevard. He's going to have to learn to deliver the bad news. Might as well start now. I'll keep Bobby Minifee with me—for now.”

“Rick, think Bobby could have done it?”

“I don't know. Right now I don't know much except that our killer is strong, very strong, and he knows where to cut.”

6

Face as white as the snow that remained in the crevices and cracks of the county, Bobby Minifee clung to the Jesus strap above the window on the passenger side of the squad car.

Rick lit up a Camel, unfiltered, opening the window a crack. “Mind?”

“You're the sheriff,” Bobby said.

“You need me to pull over?”

“No. Why?”

“You look like you're going to be sick.”

A jagged intake of breath and Bobby shook his head no. At twenty-one, Minifee was good-looking. He worked nights at the hospital to make ends meet. During the day he studied at Piedmont Community College. A poor boy, he had hopes of going on to Virginia Tech at Blacksburg. He was bright and he wanted a degree in mechanical engineering. The more he studied the more he realized he liked fluid dynamics, waves, water, anything that flowed. He wasn't sure where this would lead him but right now he was considering a different kind of flow.

“Sheriff, you must see stuff like that all the time. Blood and all.”

“Enough. Car wrecks mostly. Well, and the occasional murder.”

“I had no idea blood could shoot like that. It was all over the wall.”

“When the jugular is cut, the heart, which is close to the throat, remember, pumps it out like a straight jet. It's amazing—the human body. Amazing. Was he still bleeding like that when you found him?” Rick slowly worked his way into more questions. When he arrived on the crime scene he had gone easy on Bobby because the kid was shaking like a leaf.

“No, oozing.”

“Do you think he was still alive when you found him?”

“No. I felt for his pulse.”

“How warm was his wrist or his hand when you touched him?”

“Warm. Not clammy or anything. Like he just died.”

“The blood was bright red?” Bobby nodded yes, so Rick continued. “Sure? Not caked around the edges, or clumping up on his neck?”

“No, Sheriff. The reddest red I've ever seen, and I could smell it.” He shook his head as if to clear his brain.

“It's the smell that gets you.” Rick slowed down for a stoplight. “I'd say you were a lucky man.”

“Me?”

“You, Minifee, could be lying there with Hank. I'd guess you were within five minutes of seeing the killer. Did you hear a footfall?”

“No. The boiler is pretty noisy.”

“Freight train. Those old cast-iron babies go forever, though. Our ancestors expected what they built to last. Now we tear stuff down and build structures and systems that decay in seven years' time.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Didn't mean to lecture.”

“Takes my mind off—”

“When I drive you home I'll give you a few names of people you can talk to, people who specialize in this kind of shock. It is a shock, Bobby, and don't do the stupid testosterone thing and go it alone.”

“Okay.” His voice faded.

“Did you like Hank Brevard?”

“He was a hardass. You know what I mean? One of those guys who likes to make you feel stupid. He always knew more than I did or anybody did. A real negative kind of guy.”

“So you didn't like him?”

Bobby turned to directly stare at Rick. “Funny, but I did. I figured here's a real loser. In his fifties, mad about young guys coming up. Used to shit on me all the time about my studies. ‘An ounce of experience is worth a pound of book learning,'” Bobby imitated Hank. “I kind of felt sorry for him because he really knew his stuff. He kept on top of everything and he could fix just about anything. Even computers and he's not a computer guy. He had a gift.”

“Being plant manager of a hospital isn't a small job.”

“No, but he couldn't rise any higher.” Bobby sighed.

“Maybe he didn't want to.”

“He did. You should have heard him gripe about baseball player salaries or basketball. He felt plenty trapped.”

“Insightful for a young man.”

“What's age got to do with it?” Bobby turned back to gaze out the window. The night seemed blacker than when they had driven away from the hospital.

“Oh, probably nothing. I'm just used to young people being self-absorbed. But then think of what I see every day.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“The other men who worked under Hank, feel the same way you did?”

“I'm night shift. I don't know those guys.”

“Can you think of anyone who might want to kill Hank?”

“He could really piss people off.” Bobby paused. “But enough to kill him—” He shrugged. “No. I'd feel better if I could.”

“Listen to me. When you return to work, stuff will fly through your head, when you first go back to that boiler room. Sometimes there's a telling detail. Call me. The other thing is, you might be scared for yourself. I know I would be. From my experience this doesn't look like a sicko killer. Sickos have signatures. Part of their game. Hank either crossed the wrong man or he surprised somebody.”

“What could be down in the boiler room worth killing for?”

“That's my job.” Rick coasted to a stop at Sam Mahanes' large, impressive home in Ednam Forest, a well-to-do subdivision off Route 250. “Bobby, come on in with me.”

The two men walked to the red door, a graceful brass knocker in the middle. Rick knocked, then heard kids yelling, laughing in the background.

“I'll get it,” a young voice declared, running feet heading toward the door.

“My turn,” another voice, feet also running, called out.

The door swung open and two boys, aged six and eight, looked up in awe at the sheriff.

“Mommy!” The youngest scurried away.

“Hi. I'm Sheriff Shaw and we're here to see Daddy. Is he home?”

“Yes, sir.” The eight-year-old opened the door wider.

Sally Mahanes, a well-groomed, very attractive woman in her middle thirties, appeared. “Kyle, honey, close the door. Hello, Sheriff. Hi, Bobby. What can I do for you?”

Kyle stood alongside his mother as his younger brother, Dennis, flattened himself along the door into the library.

“I'd like to see Sam.”

“He's down in his shop. The Taj Mahal, I call it. Sam owns every gadget known to man. He's now building me a purple martin house and—” She smiled. “You don't need to know all that, do you?” She crossed over to the center stairwell, walked behind it, opened a door, and called, “Sam.” Music blared up the stairs. “Kyle, go on down and get Daddy, will you?” She turned to Rick and Bobby. “Come on in the living room. Can I get you a drink or a bite to eat?”

“No, thanks.” Rick liked Sally. Everyone did.

“No, thank you.” Bobby sat on the edge of a mint-colored wing chair.

Sam, twenty years older than his wife, but in good shape and good-looking, entered the living room, his oldest son walking a step behind him. “Sheriff. Bobby?” He tilted his head a moment. “Bobby, is everything all right?”

“Uh—no.”

“Boys, come upstairs.” The boys reluctantly followed their mother's lead, Dennis looking over his shoulder. “Dennis. Come on.”

Once Rick thought the children were out of earshot he quietly said, “Hank Brevard has been murdered in the boiler room of the hospital. Bobby found him.”

Thunderstruck, Sam shouted, “What?”

“Right after sunset, I'd guess.”

“How do you know he was murdered?” Sam was having difficulty taking this all in.

“His throat was cut clean from ear to ear,” Rick calmly informed him.

Sam glanced to Bobby. “Bobby?”

Bobby turned his palms up, cleared his voice. “I came down the service elevator from the fourth floor. I checked the hot line for messages. None. So I thought I'd check the pressure of the boiler. Supposed to be cold tonight. I walked in and Hank was flat on his back, eyes staring up, and it's kind of strange but at first I didn't notice his wound. I noticed the blood on the wall. I thought maybe he threw a can of paint. You know, he had a temper. And then I guess I realized how bad it was and I knelt down. Then I saw his throat. I took his pulse. Nothing. I called the sheriff—”

Rick interrupted. “Sam, I ordered him not to call anyone else, not even you. I was there in five minutes. Coop took seven. He would have called you.”

“I quite understand. Bobby, I'm very sorry this has happened to you. We'll get you some counseling.”

“Thank you.”

“Sam, running a hospital is a high-pressure job. I know you have many things on your mind, lots of staff, future building plans, but you did know Hank pretty well, didn't you?”

“Oh sure. He was there when I took over from Quincy Lowther. He was a good plant manager. Set in his ways but good.”

“Did you like him?”

“Yes.” Sam's face softened. “Once you got to know Hank, he was okay.” A furrow crossed his brow, he leaned forward. “Have you told Lisa?”

“I have an officer over there right now.”

“Unless you need to question her, Sally and I will go over.”

“Pete will ask the basics if she's capable. I'll see her tomorrow. I'm sure she would be grateful for your comfort.” Rick never grew accustomed to the grief of those left behind. “Do you have any idea who would kill Hank or why? Did he have a gambling problem? Was he having an affair? I know it's human nature to protect friends and staff but anything you know might lead me to his killer. If you hold back, Sam, the trail gets cold.”

Sam folded his hands together. “Rick, I can't think of a thing. Bobby told you he had a hot temper but it flared up and then was over. We all shrugged it off. Unless he had a secret life, I really can't think of anyone or anything.”

Rick reached in his shirt pocket. “Here. If you think of anything, tell me. Coop, too. If I'm not around, she'll handle it.”

“I will.” Sam shifted his gaze to Bobby. “Why don't you take off a few days—with pay. And”—he rose—“let me get those counselors' names for you.”

“Sam, you get on over to Lisa. I'll give him some names.” Rick stood up, as did Bobby.

“Right.” Sam showed them to the door.

Rick drove Bobby home and as he pulled into the driveway of his rented apartment he asked, “Who's in charge of night maintenance?”

“Me.”

“Upstairs?”

“You mean, who stands in for Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“Usually the assistant director, Jordan Ivanic.”

Rick clicked on the overhead light, scribbled the name on his notepad, tore off the sheet. “Can't hurt.”

“Thanks.” Bobby opened the squad car door, stepped out, then bent down. “Do you ever get used to this?”

“No, not really.”

On the way back to the hospital, Rick called Coop. She'd questioned Jordan Ivanic. Not much there except she said he had nearly passed out. The body had been removed thirty minutes ago and was on its way to the morgue. The coroner was driving in to get to work immediately. She had ordered Ivanic to sit tight until Rick got there and she hadn't called the city desk at the newspaper, although she would as soon as Rick gave her the okay. If she helped the media, they would help her. It was an odd relationship, often tense, but she knew she'd better do a good job with the media tonight.

“Good work.” Rick sighed over his car phone. “Coop, it's going to be a long night.”

“This one's out of the blue.”

“Yep.”