Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder (2 page)

Chapter
Two

Untitled

By: Charles Edgar Collingsworth III

St. Paul, MN

Late October

I
T WAS WHAT RICK WILSON didn’t hear that mattered in the end.

If only he’d been able to hear the lock being picked, the stealthy
footsteps of the killer as he entered the apartment, he might have been able to
do something. He might have called the cops, or hidden away, or even found the
courage to go after the bad guy with the Louisville Slugger he kept under his
bed, if he was feeling bad-ass enough.

But he’d worn the neon-green
earplugs to bed, so he wouldn’t wake up later to hear his roommate Kyle fucking
Anna, the girl he’d been in love with since freshman year. He knew they’d
stumble in after another night of partying at the frat house and he couldn’t
bear to hear their sexual escapades one more time.

The earplugs silenced everything except the pounding inside his
head. That is, until the bullet furrowed its way through his skull. Then all
sound ceased.

He didn’t hear Anna’s cry of ecstasy crescendo into a scream of
terror, nor the abrupt halt of her breath with the spit of a silenced gun. He
didn’t hear the whimpered pleas of Kyle, begging for his life before it, too,
was gone.

He didn’t hear the sounds of the apartment being torn apart, of
his laptop being smashed, all his meticulous notes ripped from the notebook,
crumpled up and set on fire. He didn’t hear the killer leave.

He didn’t hear the shouts of Grant, the hipster who lived two
doors down, when he snuffed out the fledgling flames with a blanket.

He didn’t hear the EMTs shove everyone aside to work frantically
on his body that was desperately trying to mend itself.

He didn’t hear the siren of the ambulance or the beeping of the
instruments as he was whisked away to the hospital.

As it was, he was blissfully unaware of it all. He didn’t hear a
thing.

Chapter Three

Hyatt Hotel, Minneapolis

September

I
N
HIS ROOM CHIP WORKED
on his opening chapter for over three
hours. He was in one of his rare writing zones where ideas came quickly, and he
shut out the rest of the world. His fingers tapped out word after word,
sentence after sentence as his new story came to life on the screen. He had a
vision of Sven in his campus apartment, an intruder coming in and shooting him
in the head. He couldn’t think of anything worse for a parent. Should he start
his book this way? Jane would be horrified, and it might frighten Sven and his
friends. But, it certainly would get a reader’s attention.

He
called Jane again, hoping to catch her at the vet clinic. She answered with
“Dr. Jane speaking.”

“Hi
Jane, you’re not going to believe this.”

“Let
me guess, ONCE UPON A CRIME sold 100 copies of your book today.”

“No,
the total sold was zero, but the dead body count was one. We
found Patrick Finnegan dead on the floor of the
store. The signing was called off and the police want me to stay in Minneapolis.”

“Oh my God. Dead? Was it a sudden heart
attack?”

“No, he was murdered, shot someplace
else and deposited in the store. Frisco and Dr. Goodman showed up. It was
surreal.”

 
“Chip,
you’re talking gibberish. Frisco and Goodman are characters from your books.
Have you been drinking?”

“Jeez, Jane, I haven’t had anything to
eat or drink today except for a couple cups of coffee and one beer. I’m a
little freaked out, I guess.”

“Why would someone kill Finnegan? You
don’t think there’s a maniac running loose who kills writers, do you?”

Chip broke out in a cold sweat, and he
felt dizzy. “That hadn’t even crossed my mind. You’ve been reading too many
crime novels lately. Now I’ll be seeing murderers behind every bush and
standing in every dark doorway.”

“Chip, I didn’t mean that. Relax.”

“I have a room at the Hyatt. It’s not
too far from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design. Sven and his friends
were outside the store. I’m sure he’s heard about the dead body and will be
eager for the details. I’ll call him, and invite him out to dinner and Kojak
and Cagney and Lacey, too.” Silly or not, he realized he wanted to assure
himself that Sven was okay.

“Who? Chip, you’re not making sense. Get
something to eat and clear your head. You’ve obviously had a traumatic day.
Call me after your dinner with Sven. I’m worried about you, honey.”

Chip wiped the sweat off his forehead
with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’ll be fine, Jane, I’m just a little shaken by
all of this. I’ll call again later. Love you.”

He pondered his confusion between the
characters in his book and the detective and medical examiner he had met at the
crime scene. Franco for Frisco was obvious…the name similarity for two homicide
detectives. But, it was more than that; it was the guy’s manner of speech, his gruffness.
When Franco entered the store and said, “Hey Pat and Gary, hear you found a
stiff in the stacks. Hell of a marketing ploy,” Chip had immediately looked up,
expecting Frisco.

But
what about the medical examiner? What was it that made me confuse him with Dr.
Goodman?
Chip thought about Dr.
Cooper, recalling his appearance and how he examined Finnegan’s body. Tall,
handsome, physically fit, impeccably dressed, highly professional.
Yes, most definitely the dashing Dr.
Goodman-type
.

He felt relieved to have sorted out the
real people from the fictional ones. His two worlds had intertwined ever since
he started writing crime stories. At times it benefited his creativity, but on
occasion, it could be disturbing. Today was one of those days.

***

Sven and his friends eagerly accepted his invitation
to dinner. They suggested a place called Brit’s Pub on Nicollet Mall. From the
rooftop veranda they could see the newly renovated Orchestra Hall and Peavey
Plaza, even hear the tinkling of the fountain. Under different circumstances
Chip would have relished an opportunity to explore the city’s attractions.

He told the kids to have whatever they
wanted, and they ordered Bangers & Mash, making a series of silly jokes
about the name. He opted for fish and chips and a glass of Surly Furious, a
locally-brewed ale.

“Shut up,” said Sven, when Chip
described the scene inside the bookstore. “A dead author inside a mystery
bookstore, that’s so cool. Well, not for the dead dude, but you know what I
mean.”

Chip observed Sven. Unlike his sister,
who was the spitting image of Jane, Sven had brown hair, not red. He was tall
and lanky, not burly like his father, Hal. Chip had been told Sven looked a lot
like his grandfather, the vet whose practice Jane took over upon his death. The
boy seemed happy, he had friends; he was in his element studying film-making.
Jane would be pleased to hear her son was doing well. She had wanted him home
for the summer, but he had opted to take a summer class. Chip thought it was a
good idea, but it had led to a dispute with his wife. When it came to
discipline or decision-making about her children, Jane insisted she have the
final say-so.

“Well, Sven, any exciting projects
coming up?” Chip asked.

“Yes, I just heard about an opportunity
to spend next semester shooting a documentary on the new Wild West,” Sven said,
as he grabbed the dessert menu. “Places like North Dakota, where they’re
fracking for oil. And filming gold miners in Alaska and cattle ranchers in
Wyoming. Drillers, prospectors, cowboys.”

“Very exciting. I think you should go
for it.” As he said it, he wondered if Jane’s apron strings would reach to
Alaska.

***

The walk back to the hotel refreshed Chip. It was
late to call Jane. She usually went to bed early and rose early, often arriving
at a client’s farm by 5:00 a.m. Yet, he called her knowing she would wake with
no complaint. She answered quickly.

“Sorry to wake you, Janey. I just wanted
to assure you that I’m fine.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I’m painting the
kitchen…tomato red.”

“Red. Are you sure you want a red
kitchen?”

“No, I’m done with one wall and now I’m
not sure. With the white cupboards the room is starting to look like a huge can
of Campbell’s tomato soup.”

“Ah, you could be the Andy Warhol of
Turners Bend.”

Chip shared his dinner conversation with
Sven and his friends, and the two ended their call with phone kisses.

Chip’s thoughts strayed to his new
novel. No title was coming to him, but it would. His titles always seemed to
pop out at him, usually in the middle of the night.

 
His thoughts then switched to Finnegan
. What kind of research

had he been doing? Did it get him killed?

Untitled

Minneapolis,
MN

Late October

D
R. JOHN GOODMAN IGNORED
the slight
pull at the scarring on his right thigh as he climbed the steps to the back
door of the south Minneapolis house he now shared with Special Agent Jo
Schwann. The gunshot wound to his leg was in its final stages of healing.
Morning laps in the university pool had restored it to almost complete
mobility, and the limp was barely noticeable to anyone but John.

Caddy, the retriever that had become his – now theirs – when he
and Jo had met on a case, greeted him as he entered the kitchen. She licked his
cheek eagerly as he set down his packages to scratch her behind the ears. Cleo,
their black cat, was more aloof, but purred appreciatively when he rubbed his
hand along her back. She sniffed delicately at the paint can on the floor at
his side. “Hello, sweet girls. Where’s your mom? Still painting?”

John picked up the paint can and the bag of paint roller refills,
and took the steps, two at a time, up to the second floor. As he walked down
the hallway, the slightly sour, chemical scent of fresh paint assaulted his
nose and he could hear loud music coming from the spare bedroom where Jo was
working.

He stopped at the doorway, taking a moment to admire the view of
Jo balanced on a rung of the step ladder. Fully focused on painting the walls
and singing along with the music, she was unaware of John’s scrutiny.

 
Her red hair was pulled
back into a ponytail, and splatters of green paint clung to the ends of a few
errant curls. In spite of the chill in the air outside, inside the house it was
warm and her toned legs stretched out from cut-off denim shorts. A maroon and
gold University of Minnesota t-shirt clung to her in all the right places.

From her I-Phone connected to speakers, Grand Funk Railroad urged
everyone to do “The LocoMotion.” Jo, a classic rock fan, obliged by swinging
her hips atop the ladder as she sang along to the music with gusto,
occasionally reaching out to a distant spot with her paintbrush. Her face
radiated joy. He loved seeing her so relaxed; in his opinion, her job with the
FBI made her too serious most of the time.

The realization of how much he loved her at that moment caused
John’s chest to tighten and a thought came to him in an instant.
It’s time
.

He dragged his eyes away from her and turned his attention to the
progress she had made since he had left for the hardware store. His grin grew
wider as he scanned each wall in turn.

Forcing a straight face, he called out, “Is it just me or has this
room gotten smaller in the last couple of hours?”

Jo started at his voice and John reached out to steady the ladder
as she shifted her weight. A rose flush spread across Jo’s cheeks, as if she
was embarrassed because he had witnessed her performance. She said, “Sorry…what
did you say?”

John turned down the volume of the music and repeated, “The room.
It’s smaller.”

A confused look appeared in her green eyes. “Smaller?”

Unable to contain his amusement any longer, he grinned. “You’ve
changed the color of the room so many times. I think all the layers of paint
are shrinking the room.”

Jo’s eyes scanned the room, looking from one colored wall to the
next, each a different shade of green. She burst out laughing. “I guess I have
been a little indecisive. Geez, I can take down a bad guy without a second
thought, but I can’t make up my mind on a paint color for your home office.”

She wiped her hands on one of his old t-shirts she used as a paint
rag and eased down the ladder. “I just want it to be perfect for you. I want…”
She paused, and then finished, “I want this to be
our
home.”

He set the paint can and bag on the tarp spread over the hardwood
floors, and reached out, pulling her to him. Studying her face for a moment, he
thumbed the fresh smear of paint on her cheek. “This is my favorite shade of
green.” John gently turned her around to face the wall by the door. Pointing,
he said, “That is where I’ll put my dad’s old desk tomorrow. Sitting in his
creaky chair, I will look around and think of this moment, and this dab of
color on your cheek. It will always remind me of how lucky I am to share a life
with you.”

Her eyes grew bright and she blinked a few times. “I feel the same
way. I…”

John interrupted her by holding her slightly away from him and
looked around the room again. “Ok. Enough goofing off for me. What can I do to
help?”

“Well, you can start by taping off the wood trim on that wall over
there.”

John looked at the wall she had just completed and noticed the
trim was not protected with painters’ tape. Not a drop of wall paint had
strayed to the white woodwork. “But you don’t tape off the woodwork….” His eyes
narrowed and, with mock indignation, he said, “Hey, wait a minute. Are you just
giving me busy work so I’ll stay out of your way?”

Jo’s grin was sheepish. “Guilty as charged. You know I painted
houses to put myself through college, so I can practically do this in my
sleep.” She nudged him, and continued, “But I love it when we work together.”

“Well, there is that.” They worked for another hour, until John
went downstairs to make a late dinner of spaghetti and salad.

As they sat at the kitchen table, John refilled Jo’s wine glass
and cleared his throat. He needed to say what was on his mind before he lost
his nerve. “You still have one more important decision to make, you know.”

She peered at him from across the table. “Oh, yeah. And what’s
that?”

“Will you marry me?”

Jo went utterly still. For one awful moment, John felt queasy.
Shit. Too soon. I scared her off….

His mind was searching for something to say, anything to fill the
empty silence in the room, when she stood up from her chair and came to sit on
his lap. She kissed him until she robbed him of breath. At last, Jo pulled away
and said in a slightly shaky voice, “Yes! Oh, yes.” Tears filled her eyes and
she swiped at them with the edge of her t-shirt. She chuckled through the
tears. “God, for a moment there, I thought you wanted me to make a hard
decision, like what color to paint the wood trim.”

They both laughed until they almost fell out of the chair, and
then John was kissing her hard. He picked her up and carried her to their
bedroom.

***

Jo woke up in the darkened bedroom a few hours later, with a sense
of panic. The dream that had awakened her was rapidly dissolving into a
gossamer mist, but she recalled walking down a long church aisle, one that
never seemed to end. She had called out to John, but he couldn’t – or wouldn’t
– answer her. There were no guests, no one but her.

The residual feeling of uneasiness from her dream made her wonder
if she had made a mistake accepting John’s marriage proposal so quickly.
Looking back over the evening, she couldn’t quite believe her own reaction, the
fact that she hadn’t the slightest doubt in her mind when she said yes. She had
never been more certain of anything in her life. Even the job offer from the
FBI had cost her a few nights of sleep before she accepted.

But what if I
screw up the marriage?
Her father
had not remarried after her mother had died when Jo was a toddler, and so she
didn’t have a significant role model of how to be married. Before John, her
previous relationships had burned out quickly. Her life with John was perfect
now, just the way it was. Did they really want to mess that up?

She rolled over on her side, craving the comfort of curling up to
John’s muscular back. Her hand encountered nothing but cool sheets and a slip
of paper. Jo flipped back over and turned on the bedside lamp, reading the note
he had left her.

So sorry to
leave you tonight, of all nights. My pager went off for a severe head trauma
case and I didn’t want to wake you. I hope to be home in time to serve you breakfast
in bed, but I’ll call if I’m running late.

Love, J.

P.S. Thanks
for saying yes.

Jo sighed, missing him already. They had so much to discuss.
However, to be honest, she was relieved to have some time to herself to sort
out her feelings.

She looked at the clock and saw it was 1:16 a.m.

Hearing Caddy scratch on the closed bedroom door, she slipped her
shorts and t-shirt back on and padded over to the door to let her in. Caddy
trotted in and, without waiting for an invitation, climbed up into their bed.
Cleo followed suit and curled up next to the warmth of the retriever.

Jo laughed. “All right, you two. Just for tonight. Guess I’m too
wound up to sleep anyway, so I might as well finish painting John’s office. A
good way to work out my nerves, right?”

***

John arrived at the hospital and quickly slipped into a set of
scrubs. When he hung up his sweatshirt, he caught a whiff of Jo’s perfume that
clung to the fabric from the last time she had borrowed it. He sighed and
closed the locker door.

As he prepped for surgery, the emergency physician peppered him
with the case details. “We’re in Trauma 2. Patient’s name is Rick Wilson. Male,
age twenty-one. Shot a little over an hour ago. Entry wound is to the left
occipital lobe, with the exit wound just above the left eye. The bullet’s path
appears to be limited to the left hemisphere.”

“We may have caught a break there, if the bullet avoided the large
blood vessels down the middle and didn’t ricochet around the skull. What are
the vitals?”

“As stable as can be expected. Blood pressure is at 150, heart
rate is 100, temp is at 100.7, respiratory is at 25.” The emergency physician’s
face was grave as he gave the final statistic. “The ICP is 21.”

“The intracranial pressure is at 21?” He shook his head. “Well,
first order of business is to get that down.” John snapped on a pair of gloves
and pushed his way through the operating room doors with his forearms.

John’s day had begun.