Time of Death (20 page)

There was a second murder in Florissant, the teacher’s neighbor. Bernard Dewey was middle-aged, divorced, and had a job putting up billboard displays. And he was shot, like Frank Simmons. The Florissant police were looking into the two homicides, and she hoped they would be able to come up with something definitive to rule out the Metro Mangler. She didn’t need any more corpses to worry about.

If they were all connected, then there were two classes of murders: one personal, bloody, and focused on mutilation; the other one, impersonal shootings. Two or more killers? One killer who did it dirty when it mattered to him and clean when it didn’t?

There was a low rumble of conversation in her office, punctuated often by Schultz’s strident voice. The three of them were discussing the lack of forensic evidence. The expanded drug testing battery for Arlan had turned up ketamine. None of the other victims were drugged. For murder weapons they had a total of three bullets from two different guns and one knife as evidence for five killings, plus whatever turned up from the barn, if anything. No fingerprints, no footprints, no fibers. No ripped buttons or earrings left at the scene. No discarded, bloody clothing. No skin under the victims’ fingernails. No bodily fluids other than some sperm remaining inside Shower Woman, already determined to be from her boyfriend.

Blood spatter analysis of the kitchen floor where Loretta Blanchette was murdered revealed blank spots where the killer stood as the mutilation was done. The blood fell on the killer’s feet instead of on the floor, so the blank areas should have been shoe-shaped and allowed the size of the killer’s feet to be determined. Instead, they were ovals corresponding to a men’s size 26 7E shoe. Possible, but more likely a deliberate attempt to disguise shoe size, such as plastic bags stuffed with padding and tied around the ankles.

There was one tantalizing piece of evidence from the location of Shower Woman’s chest wound. The stabbing was done with an overhand thrust, but it could be a short person using an extended arm or a taller person using a bent elbow. The killer’s projected height range was five foot two to six feet, too wide a range to be useful yet.

They were working with an extremely knowledgeable, or extremely lucky, perpetrator.

Just about every square inch of the corkboard on the wall across from PJ’s desk was covered with tacked-up timelines and photos. She struggled to make sense of it.

Start with the first link in the chain.

“Who actually thinks Arlan was killed by his brother-in-law, Frank Simmons, who was arrested for the crime?” PJ said.

No hands went up.

“That leaves us with May, June, and Fredericka, plus the possibility of a sociopathic stranger.”

“Glad you narrowed that down for us, Boss,” Anita said.

“May and June really seem to hate each other,” Dave said. “Although they try to keep everything peaches and cream on the surface, like visiting each other so often. I can’t see June killing her husband to spite May. My theory is that they killed each other’s husbands, to get back at each other for old hurts.”

“I could go for that except for one thing,” Schultz said. “The look-alike. Someone went to a lot of trouble to establish an alibi for June in Kansas City at the time of Arlan’s murder. The one who would benefit from that would be June.”

“Unless May did it to cast suspicion on June,” Anita said.

“I have a headache,” PJ said.

“Maybe Fredericka wanted to do away with Arlan so she could inherit the whole business, and set June up to take the blame by giving her an alibi that looks phony,” Dave said.

“You’re saying that June really was in Kansas City and Fredericka or May located a stranger who looks like June so that neighbors would believe she was at home. Then the look-alike was killed to make it look like June was cleaning up, making sure no one could talk. I don’t see how we can rule that out,” PJ said. “I can’t believe there was no trace in K.C. that could prove whether June was there or not.”

“Nothing’s turned up, but I haven’t given up, either. Haven’t given up trying to break Fredericka’s alibi, either. Shit, what a mess,” Anita said. “I hate this family crap.”

“How does the teacher fit in? That’s a finger-and-heart killing,” PJ said.

Dave shuffled some papers. “I got some preliminary stuff from the Florissant police. Loretta Blanchette was a teacher in Cape Girardeau all her working life. After retirement, she moved here to be near a brother who was in a nursing home. The brother died last year, natural causes. None of our suspects has a Cape Girardeau connection. May and June went to private school here in St. Louis, and Fredericka grew up in New Mexico. No links.”

“So the wacko stranger moves back into the suspect arena,” Schultz said. The rest of the group looked glum.

“We’re all tired,” PJ said. “Why don’t we knock off for tonight and see if the Florissant police come up with anything. Maybe we’ll get a break.”

Dave and Anita left immediately, as though they’d been waiting for a chance to get out of a discussion that raised more questions than it answered.

PJ looked at the clock on her desk. Mickey’s white gloves said that it was 12:30 a.m. “Leo, I’m going to hang around for another half hour. I have some research I want to do. I’ll take a cab when I’m done.”

“The hell you will. Check out your chest. Somebody’s already tried to hurt you. I’ll drive you home. Come to think of it, let me check out your chest.”

It felt good to smile. “Thanks. I’ll ride home with you, but I’ll take a rain check on that second offer.”

“Got anything to eat?”

PJ opened a desk drawer. “I’ve got some Little Debbie cakes.”

“You’re kidding. That would be too good to be true.”

She pulled out an unopened box of Zebra Cakes. Schultz snatched the whole thing before she had a chance to offer him an individual package.

“Woman, we are soul mates. See you in half an hour.”

DEAR DIARY,

These are things that happened to me, cross my heart and hope to die.

It’s my ninth birthday and I should be happy. Instead, I’m in my room crying and I can’t stop. Old Jingles is dead, and I saw it happen.

My sister’s folded-up laundry is in a basket in the hall. She’s supposed to put it away. It’s part of her taking more responsibility and learning how to do things on her own. She’s smart but never finishes anything. She has been to two colleges and dropped out before she got her first set of grades. Our parents are upset about that, and my sister hasn’t found a husband either. She’s twenty years old and Dad says she’s a freeloader. Things have changed a lot in the past year. Some things happened that I don’t know about and now Mom and Dad don’t like my sister very much. One thing I know is that my sister hears people talking to her when there aren’t any people around. There’s been some talk about her moving out because she’s getting really funny. I don’t mean funny ha-ha.

My sister must have done something really bad because she’s supposed to be their darling, their favorite who is always right. But not anymore. Mom had this strange talk with me and asked me about the things my sister did when we were alone. I didn’t think it would do much good, but I answered truthfully. I figured I’d get punished, but she wanted to hear everything. Imagine that!

You know what, I think Mom and Dad are scared of her and they don’t know what to do. They feel guilty about it, though. I’ve been scared all my life, and I’m a little guilty, too. I’m supposed to love my sister.

Mom is going to have a baby soon. She looks like she’s carrying around a watermelon under her clothes. I hope it’s a brother, because I’ve had enough of sisters.

Anyway, the laundry is in a basket and Jingles jumps in and makes a bed. When my sister gets home, she’s really mad about him being on top of her laundry. She hollers and Jingles tries to sneak off to get away from her. Her face gets strange, kind of frozen, not like a person who’s angry but she’s saying angry words. I try to save Jingles, but she pushes me away. The second time she pushes me, I fall down the stairs and end up on the landing. My knee hurts a lot.

Mom and Dad hear the noise and come to see what’s going on. My mother shrieks and Dad says some bad words. Mom tries to get Jingles away, but my sister balls up her fist like she does with me, and punches Mom in the stomach. Dad steps in and slaps my sister in the face, hard. I’ve never seen anything like that before. She comes after him with her hands out like claws. He picks up a vase on a table in the hall and smashes it over her head. She falls down and lies still. Mother is on the floor, holding Jingles, but his legs are every which way. Dad comes over and says he’s got to do it and she says yes. Mom calls to me to close my eyes. I only pretend to. Dad turns Jingles’ head around and he’s quiet.

The silence makes me feel a lot better, even though I know he’s dead.

Dad picks up my sister and carries her to her room. Mom comes down the stairs to check on me. I’m okay; I just have a hurt knee. I’m not okay inside, though.

Dad comes along and carries me down the stairs. He puts me on the couch and Mom gets a pillow and some ice for my knee. I hear Dad on the phone. Mom sits with me and pats my hand. In a little while, our doctor comes to the house. That’s another thing I’ve never seen happen. He goes into my sister’s room and later talks with Dad in the upstairs hall. I can’t hear everything they’re saying, but I heard that the doctor gave my sister a shot. I hate shots. She deserves it. She deserves a million shots.

Dad brings me a bowl of ice cream, chocolate chip, and tells me that he’s sorry about Jingles. I want to tell him that I’m thankful for what he did for Jingles, but I can’t find any words to say it. So I just eat my ice cream. Mom helps me up the stairs and into bed.

When she’s gone, I start crying.

I’ll never, ever forget my ninth birthday.

W
HEN THOMAS GOT OFF
the bus, he had a twinge of doubt. He could do his bus route in reverse and be back in his room in forty-five minutes. No one would know he’d left.

Except him. Nope, he was going through with it. If he had to leave the game early to get back before Mom got home, then he’d just make some excuse.

Thomas skirted the parking lot in front of Brookings Hall. It was well lighted and probably patrolled by car or bicycle. It took him quite a bit out of his way, but he managed to enter the Hilltop campus from the south side. He hesitated and ducked into the shadows between Brown and Busch Halls. Near midnight, there was no foot traffic near the buildings. Libraries were closed, and it being Friday night, the dorms were a lot livelier than the academic portions of the campus.

A student strolled by on the walkway, wearing a vest and carrying a radio. It was a member of the Bear Patrol, volunteers who walked the campus to help the university police. Thomas had read about it and hoped he wouldn’t run into any Bears. Or maybe he was hoping he would. The young man stopped and looked in Thomas’s general direction. Thomas was sure his nervous breathing or the blood roaring in his ears was loud enough to be heard. Just then a rabbit ran across the walk. Satisfied, the student moved on.

It was scary and exhilarating. And he hadn’t even gotten to the game scene yet.

If he was caught, he’d be reported as a suspicious person, and no doubt held for his mom to come pick him up. The thought of that made him flatten himself even more against the cold bricks of the building. There were some bushes as part of the landscaping, but since the branches were bare, they impeded rather than concealed him.

He’d been told that his first challenge was getting into Brookings Hall, and then into the tunnels. Brookings had a gothic look to it. There were four towers that looked like rooks from a chess game, arranged in a square. On the north and south sides of the square were long halls. Stone archways were everywhere. Thomas prowled along the outside of South Brookings, trying any door he came across. On the fourth try, the door opened and he slipped inside. He was in a hallway lined with office doors. A staircase led him to a lower level, but there was nothing remotely resembling a tunnel entrance. He returned to the main floor and tried another staircase. This time, in a dimly lit corner, he found a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only” and tried it. It swung aside easily. It had to be the place, or it would have been locked.

Inside, he put an envelope on the floor with his ten dollars in it. There had been no instructions for paying gronz_eye, but sooner or later, the guy had to leave by this door, and he’d find it.

Ahead of him was a tunnel with pipes running overhead, some a foot in diameter or more. A string of utility lights wrapped in metal cages lit the way, but the light from one bulb didn’t quite reach the next, so that the tunnel appeared to a series of light and dark areas. It was very warm, heat radiating throughout the tunnel from the steam pipes above his head. Beneath his feet was bare concrete, damp in places.

A few steps in, there was a wooden box about the size of a textbook on the floor. Thomas turned it over and over in his hands, unable to open it.

Great. This is going to be embarrassing if I can’t even discover what my quest is.

His fingers finally slid a panel open by accident, and then it was just a matter of time until he found the other sliding panels that opened the box. It was just like the game, only here it was in his hands.

Inside were two sealed envelopes, lettered in gold calligraphy. One of them read Vyzer Lok. So there was one person still to come after him. He removed his envelope and resealed the box.

Excited, he ripped the envelope open. Inside was a cryptic message.

Greetings, Vyzer Lok. Your quest is to find the Four Lost Keys of Durbane and bring them, and yourself, safely back to the entrance. No Vyzer has yet succeeded. The Keys do not want to be found, except for the North Key that may offer help or treachery. Good luck and beware.

Thomas stuffed the letter in his pocket and studied his surroundings. He could barely contain his glee.