Time of Death (31 page)

“Jasmine as much as admitted that April was schizophrenic. Talk to me about that.”

“The common age of onset is sixteen to twenty-five, which fits April perfectly. The one thing the public seems to know best about schizophrenics is delusions, like getting special messages from the TV or being singled out for persecution. There are also hallucinations, which can be seen, smelled, felt, or heard. Sometimes schizophrenics believe someone or something is giving commands for dangerous or violent behavior. ‘My pillow whispers to me when I put my head on it, and it told me I had to kill Uncle Wally,’ or something like that.”

“You mean your pillow doesn’t talk to you?”

“Not funny. Insensitive, too. People don’t choose schizophrenia, Leo. Ten percent of them commit suicide, and for the rest it can be a miserable life. Social withdrawal, erratic behavior, unpredictability, the list goes on. Often they have drug or alcohol problems and can’t keep a job. Antipsychotic drugs can sometimes help, but often there’s a compliance problem.”

“Jesus. As if young people didn’t have a tough enough time already, some of them have to get saddled with this. Would a person with this problem be organized enough to carry out the planning for these murders? That barn scene was elaborate.”

PJ hesitated before answering. “If she’s taking her meds consistently to stay focused, probably so. But if she slips up on the meds, the killings will get less elaborate.”

Schultz nodded. “Like Shower Woman and the teacher in Florissant—just bust in and kill. So what makes one teenager start hearing voices and others don’t?”

“There’s no single thing we can point to as the cause,” PJ said. “Brain chemistry, genetics, even physical problems with the brain; each seem to play a part.”

“Genetics. Didn’t you say April was a child of rape?”

“Yes.”

“As far as we know, April’s mother didn’t have the problem. So we could be looking for a schizo father.” Schultz waved his hands around. He seemed to be on some track of thinking that hadn’t occurred to PJ.

“Ten percent chance of inheritance.”

“Oh. Not so good.” His face fell briefly, then became animated again. “Still, what are the most common family secrets?” Schultz said.

“You mean besides murdered household maids?”

“Look who’s being unfunny now.”

“Hmm. I’d say spousal abuse,” PJ said.

“And?”

“Child abuse. I see where you’re going with this,” PJ said. “Virginia would have been about seventeen when she gave birth to April. Maybe sixteen when raped.”

“She could have gotten screwed by some high school punk or it could have been a family matter. Her father,” Schultz said. He crossed his arms over his belly and leaned back. The chair creaked.

“There’re a lot of ifs in that reasoning,” PJ said. “Even if it’s true, what good does it do us?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

“It was devious to put the maid in the casket and bury her, claiming it was April,” PJ said. “An uncle I’ve talked to attended the funeral. He was certainly convinced his niece was dead. That made it easier to hide April away with no questions.”

“I suppose we’re going to have to go for exhumation. The maid’s family deserves that much, at least. What was the name again?”

“Elissa Nevers,” PJ said.

“I’ll get to work on an exhumation order in the morning,” Schultz said.

“Jasmine is a devious woman. We have only her word that April’s alive. It’s convenient that the doctor who was taking care of her is dead.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That Jasmine is the killer and her whole story is a massive delusion?”

“Shit,” said Schultz. “I was hoping you weren’t thinking that.”

PJ changed the subject and talked to him about her latest simulation, Shower Woman’s murder. He thought the rug and slippers that kept the scene free of footprints were good ideas.

“Fibers from a thick pile rug were found on the bathroom floor,” he said. “There were rugs in the linen closet that matched, so we didn’t think much of it. April’s going to have a bloody rug in her car. Not that it’s still there, but forensics can compare fibers and match the blood.”

“One thing that really worries me,” said PJ, “is that if Jasmine is telling the truth, she hasn’t found April in six months. How are we going to do any better?”

Schultz was wide-awake in bed next to PJ, who was asleep with Megabite curled on her stomach. He reviewed everything they’d discussed. Pieces were still floating around, not settling into place. Bringing April into the story made his special sense, cop’s intuition or something else, perk up. The thread that he envisioned connecting him to a killer had uncoiled and was casting about for the link.

Where was she, this mysterious oldest sister who was wreaking vengeance on what was left of her family? What would be her next step? It could be killing June, May, and Jasmine, and then April might achieve some kind of peace, whatever her tortured mind would allow her.

Also pressing on his mind was the question of whether she was the person trying to kill PJ. April was a formidable opponent, maybe the most cunning he’d come up against. He wasn’t going to let PJ out of his sight, and she could damn well complain about it all she wanted.

DEAR DIARY
,

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

That’s the way I used to start all my diary entries. Juvenile, isn’t it? Some of those entries are so rambling and nonsensical it’s hard to believe I was really like that. One thing that was interesting to see was the progression from printed letters in pencil to flowery script with hearts over the “i’s” in pink ink.

I found this old thing when I was cleaning out Frank’s office. I forgot I had a drawer in one of the file cabinets that contained some of my old things. Fortunately they were under lock and key, or my poor husband would have gotten an eyeful.

My last entry was when I was sixteen and in lust with my chemistry teacher, Mr. Boner. That was his name, I swear. He was so hot he burned brighter than the Bunsen burner flames in the lab. Late twenties, built like a gymnast, shiny, straight blond hair, pale blue eyes. I used to love to watch him move. I volunteered to be a lab assistant just to spend a little time after school with him, helping set up for the next day. I had him all to myself for a wonderful week, then that dweeb Maurice Serbin volunteered, too. Having Maurice around was like a dozen wet blankets. I could tell Mr. Boner was attracted to me. He was just too professional to do anything about it, and I loved him all the more for that.

Entries from that time are scorching, hot enough to singe the pages. I had a boyfriend at the time, who of course didn’t know he was number two in my heart. Men are so dumb that way.

Then I just drifted away from writing in my diary. I’m surprised that I didn’t throw it out, because by that time June was old
e
nough to steal it. If she’d known about this little pink book with the tiny lock, she wouldn’t have rested until she’d gotten her hands on it. That’s the way she was. Nosy and obnoxious. If April hadn’t died, she would have whipped little June’s ass and made her not pry into things that weren’t her business. Ha! That would have been something to see. Instead, I had to deal with the whining twerp. That’s what June still is today, a whining twerp.

I just might keep writing in this diary. I can say anything about anybody, and not worry about whether it’ll get me ahead or not. It’s such a liberating thing to do, just saying things for their own sakes. Fuck. Cunt. Rim job. Motherfucker. Pussy fart. Look at me, I can use words that are frowned upon by polite society. I wonder what other society women scream out when they have an orgasm. “Thank you oh so much,” or “Join me for tea next Tuesday?” What hypocrites. Whatever else I am, I’m never that.

P
J SLEPT LATE ON
Saturday morning. She’d been getting by on less sleep than her usual seven to eight hours, and her body staged a sleep-in. She awoke at eleven o’clock, alone in bed and hungry.

On her way to the kitchen, she checked on Thomas and found him asleep, too. A teenager’s need for sleep was legendary, and there were at least a couple of physiological reasons for it. Hormones are released mostly during sleep, and there are also surges in brain growth and organization. Her son, a little thread of drool connecting his mouth to his pillow, was maturing in abstract reasoning capability and impulse control right in front of her eyes. She left him to it.

She spotted a DVD propped up on the table. It was the movie
Babe,
and on it was a note from Schultz.

What do you know, you were right. Babe is an oink-oink pig in a movie. Sorry for getting mad.

Just then, Schultz knocked at the back door and she let him in. He was carrying a stack of mail from her mailbox.

“Don’t you ever pick up your mail out front?” he said. Not waiting for an answer, he went on. “Hey, did you hear about Fredericka? Green Vista is thriving under her sole ownership. She was on the TV news with a new thing she’s got going, a planned neighborhood. All eco-friendly, solar power, row houses with small footprints to fight sprawl. That ‘sit lightly on the land’ crap. No doubt it’ll make a fortune. She doesn’t seem to miss Arlan’s business advice. She looked good on camera, too.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“No, I mean good. Dressed up in one of those power suits she has. I guess she had to wear them sometime.”

She gave him a quizzical look as he dumped the mail on her kitchen table.
He’s studied her wardrobe? I guess it goes with his professional assessment of breast sizes.

A hand-addressed letter stood out from the envelopes with computer-printed labels. She picked it up and slit the top. “Haven’t you gotten a new car assigned yet?”

“No. I think they’re punishing me because my old one got wrecked. Like it was my fault. I’ve been looking at that little red number you rented. You like it?”

“I’m considering buying one just like it.”

He snorted. “It looks like a woman’s car. Fits you just fine. I’ll probably get some piece of crap assigned to me.”

“Dare I say it would fit you just fine?”

Schultz broke out in a wide grin and clapped her on the back.

She pulled out the contents of the envelope. It was from John Winter, and it was a photo of two girls standing together at a beach in bright bathing suits. She flipped it over. In fine script on the back, it said:
April and May on vacation in Mexico. April is about sixteen, May about five. You can keep this.

PJ studied the girls. May was a gorgeous child, tanned and lithe. Straight, shiny hair fell like a waterfall to her shoulders, light brown hair lightened further by the sun, sand clinging to her cheek. April towered over her little sister. She filled out her swimsuit, a modest one-piece, in all the right places. April was fair-skinned and wore a wide-brimmed hat that shaded the top half of her face. The short hair that curled out from underneath the hat was red. Tucked under one arm was a large beach ball. Although the logical thing to assume was that the girls were playfully batting the beach ball around right before the picture was taken, PJ somehow had the impression it had been more of a game of keep-away. In spite of the smile glued on her face. May’s body language broadcast frustration.

She passed the photo over to Schultz, who also read the back and looked closely at the girls.

“You can see the family resemblance between May and June,” he said. “But April looks like Sparkle Farkle.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a
Laugh In
fan.”

“Rowan and Martin were my idols.”

“I get the point, though,” PJ said. “April looks as though she could have had a different father from the other sisters. Or her appearance could be recessive genes finally getting their day in the sun.”

Feeling drawn to work after the indulgence of sleeping late, PJ left without breakfast, planning to get a quick meal at Millie’s Diner. The place was busy when they got there.

“By the way, thanks for the DVD,” she said.
And the thought behind it.

“Oh, hell, I shouldn’t have gotten so bent out of shape about it.”

Millie drifted over to take PJ’s order. She was beaming. “It was nice of you to send a card,” she said. “I put it up in a real prominent place.” Millie pointed at a Christmas card directly over the door to the women’s room. PJ recognized her card, looking distinctly fresh next to the yellowed ones of previous years.

“My pleasure,” PJ said. “I know it’s late, Millie, but could I have breakfast instead of lunch?”

“Anything you want, Dearie.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, then, I’ll have some pancakes and a couple of scrambled eggs.”

“Coming right up.”

“Would you two cut out this little love fest?” Schultz said. “I’m about to barf on the counter.”

Millie gave him a withering look and stalked off.

“Before I forget, some guy’s been calling at HQ for you,” Schultz said. “Won’t talk to anyone else, says he saw your name in the paper. I figure it’s a reporter or true crime writer. Anyway, here’s his number.”

Schultz handed her a slip of paper with a greasy spot occupying two-thirds of the surface. The phone number was scrunched into one corner.

“I’m taking a run out to May’s house after this,” he said. “I want to take another look at that shed where the cart was found. I have this feeling we missed something out there. Wanna come?”

“Shouldn’t we be trying to track down April?”

“Who’s to say the answer isn’t in that shed? Anyway, Dave and Anita and some guys from Missing Persons are on it. The Michigan police are real interested, too. They have a dead doctor on their hands and now a link to several more homicides in Missouri.”

“I’m going to pass on going to May’s house,” PJ said. “I’ve got some work at the office.”

They drove to Headquarters and Schultz headed off to bum a ride.

PJ dialed the phone number Schultz had given to her as soon as she arrived at her desk. A man answered and she identified herself.