The Fog

by Amanda McKinney

He pushed off of her and stood, staring down at her. His lips were pressed in a straight line, his eyes blank.

  She smiled, and between heavy breaths said, “Wow.”

  He nodded. “Good.”

  “Did you?”

  He nodded.

  She squirmed on the carpet. “Oh, my God. That was…” she pushed up on her elbows as he slid on his clothes. He was quiet and in a hurry. Why? What was going on?

  She watched him pull keys from his pocket and step to the front door. He put his hand on the knob, paused and turned.

  “Will you swing by tomorrow?” He asked.

  “That’s the plan.”

  He nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Wesley parked in-between a jacked-up truck with two hunting dogs panting in the bed, and a dually with an American flag attached to the antenna. Donny’s Diner was packed, not that it surprised him. The diner was busy from the moment it opened its doors at five a.m. to the moment it closed. He glanced at the clock—1:02. Apparently, the entire town had shown up for lunch.

  He slid his SIG, the gun he always carried with him, into its holster underneath a worn plaid button-up that he’d thrown over his T-shirt. It was a cloudy fall day, sitting steadily in the mid-sixties. The afternoon had grown completely overcast.

  He pushed through the glass doors and was welcomed by the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee. One of his favorite things about the South was that bacon was an acceptable side dish no matter what time of day it was. His stomach growled, which was a hell of a lot better than the flip-flops it had been doing since he awoke. Progress.

  “Well, howdy there, Wesley!” Carrying a tray packed to the edges with steaming plates and mugs of coffee, Ms. Booth paused in front of him.

  He wiped his cowboy boots on the Howdy mat and smiled. “Hi, Ms. Booth. Crowded today.”

  She glanced past him, out the window. “Folks comin’ in before the storm hits.”

  “Supposed to be big?”

  The waitress nodded, her thick-rimmed glasses bobbing on top of her gray hair, knotted in a bun with a yellow number-two pencil. “Storms, I should say. Don’t you watch the weather, boy? Supposed to be gettin’ some really bad weather over the next two days. Thunderstorms and bad floodin’. Stan the Weatherman even mentioned the possibility of a tornado.”

  “Tornadoes, huh?”

  “Yep. Always busy before bad weather,” she nodded to her tray. “Better get these passed out before Mr. and Mrs. Boone pull a shotgun on me like they did to their daughter’s boyfriend last week.”

  Wesley grinned. Ms. Booth worked seven days a week and served up as much gossip as she did coffee. Apparently, though, the news of the latest dead body in Berry Springs hadn’t reached her. Thank God.

  She started to walk away, but paused, “Hey, congrats on that big government contract you signed. Hear you’re rollin’ in the money now, son.”

  Son. He smiled. “Thanks. It’s keeping me busy, that’s for sure.” He scanned the diner.

  “Who ya lookin’ for?”

  “Dean…”

  “Back corner, the usual. Be right there to get your order.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Booth.”

  Wesley spotted the detective in an intense conversation on his cell phone. Officer Willard sat across from him, scrolling through his phone. Wesley walked up as Dean tossed the phone on the table. His eyes were puffy, his brown hair messy and his face pale—the typical appearance for any detective after working a homicide all night.

  “Hey, Wesley. Have a seat.”

  Willard scooted over in the red booth and without looking up from his phone, muttered, “Hey, man.”

  “Hey.” He slid into the booth.

  Dean blankly stared out the window, his thoughts obviously a million miles away. After a moment, he said, “Bad weather coming.”

  “So I hear. Chance of tornadoes, according to Ms. Booth.”

  Dean shook his head and looked at the waitress scurrying across the room. “Thank God that’s the only news she’s spreading today.”

  “Won’t take long. Bobbi already heard about it.”

  “Ah, hell.”

  Willard clicked off his phone, finally joining the conversation. “Won’t matter anyway. It’ll be out before too long. Lanie Peabody from NAR news already left me a voicemail. Only knows something happened last night. Probably heard the commotion over the scanner.”

  Dread crawled like ants over Wesley’s skin. Shit was going to hit the fan when the news broke that his former lover was found with her throat slashed in his basement. The small town would be buzzing with theories, most involving his name. Just the thought made him want to skip town for a few days. Not because of the gossip, but because he didn’t want it to affect his family and business.

  “Alright boys,” Ms. Booth walked up, yanking a pencil from behind her ear. “What can I get Berry Springs’s finest… and Wesley,” she winked.

  Dean handed her his menu. “Tuna melt, fries, and sweet tea. Please, ma’am.”

  Willard nodded. “Exact same.”

  Wesley glanced down at the menu. After a quick debate, he went with ol’ faithful. “Chili cheeseburger, extra cheese, fries, and sweet tea.” Greasy food to even out his blood sugar.

  Willard cocked an eyebrow.

  “And a brownie,” he added, looking at the rookie.

  Willard laughed.

  Ms. Booth scribbled on her notebook and grinned. “Two tuna melts, and one cure for the hangover, comin’ right up.”

  The waitress walked away, and Wesley leaned back. “Is it really that obvious?”

  Dean and Willard glanced at each other. They didn’t need to respond, Wesley knew he looked like shit. Dog shit. Oh, well. He looked at Dean and got down to business. “First things first. I inventoried my shop—all guns accounted for, so we can let go of the robbery gone wrong theory, which made no fucking sense anyway.”

  “Good. Thanks for getting that done so quickly.”

  “What’ve we got so far?”

  Dean blew out a breath and checked his phone as if willing an update to come through at that moment. “Nothing concrete. We did get the results back on your doorknob. No prints, but they found traces of latex.”

  “He wore gloves.”

  “Exactly. Which gives us jack shit, other than confirming he broke in.” Dean shook his head. “I can’t believe you don’t double lock your basement. Anyone could’ve broken in that door. Hell, whoever did it probably used a damn credit card.”

  Maybe Dean was right, but Wesley had never worried too much about security on his property. He had over a hundred guns in his house and was lethally trained in hand-to-hand combat. Hell, he was a walking security system.

  “Anything new with her apartment?”

  “No,” Willard said. “Like I said last night, no sign of a break in, a struggle or anything suspicious so far.”

  “Security cameras?”

  “No.”

  “What about her neighbors? They see or hear anything?”

  “Not a damn thing. She lives in a four-unit building. One unoccupied; the couple in another were out for the evening, and yes, I’ve verified that, and the elderly woman in the fourth unit says she didn’t see or hear anything, although I don’t think she can hear very much if you catch my drift.”

  Dean chimed in. “We’ve got Leena on camera leaving the grocery store at seven-fifteen last night, that’s it. Best we can tell she went home, put up the groceries, and that’s where the trail ends.”

  “Still no purse or cell?”

  “No. Whoever took her tossed them probably. The cell’s off. We’re going through the red tape to get her call and text log. Hoping for that by tomorrow, the latest.”

  “Goddamn red tape.” Wesley sighed, then said, “What did her folks say?”

  Willard stiffened next to him, and Dean shifted in his seat before looking at him.

  Wesley narrowed his eyes. “What?”

/>   Ms. Booth delivered their teas, and picking up on the sudden tension, lingered a moment before walking away. Wesley’s eyes didn’t leave Dean.

  Willard broke the silence. “They mentioned you.”

  “What?”

  Dean shot Willard an icy glare.

  “They mentioned me?” He looked at Willard, who was avoiding eye contact by stirring sugar into his tea, then at Dean. “You weren’t going to tell me? What did they say?”

  “Look, Wesley.” Dean took a quick sip of tea. “I’ve got no doubt you had nothing to do with this. Hell, you’ve got an ironclad alibi. But that doesn’t mean people aren’t gonna talk. To answer your question, no, I wasn’t going to tell you. You’ve got enough on your shoulders right now.”

  “What the fuck did they say?” He enunciated each word, his voice colored with impatience and anger.

  Dean took a deep breath. “Apparently, Leena had mentioned y’alls argument the other day. Was very upset, so they say. I guess… she liked you a hell of a lot more than you realized, man.”

  His stomach dropped. The mountain of guilt he was already feeling tripled.

  “She told them you seemed agitated with her. I guess because she couldn’t move on or something.”

  His eyes widened and a rush of panic pulsed through him. “Wait… are you saying they insinuated that I might have something to do with it?”

  Dean’s gaze leveled on him. In a no-bullshit tone, he said, “Yes. Her father did, yes.”

  His heart started to race. “You told them about my alibis, right?”

  “Of course. But, the thing is, according to them, they couldn’t think of a single person who had anything against her. She was really well-liked around town. She wasn’t seeing anyone; no arguments with friends, nothing. No arguments lately, except for with you.”

  Wesley clenched his jaw and inhaled to unload his frustration on them when Ms. Booth, with her impeccable timing again, delivered their food. He grabbed his burger and took a bite. A second, a pause, to calm down.

  Willard popped a fry into his mouth. “And that’s that part of it.” An obvious attempt to move the conversation along. “Her mom also said that she’d spoken with Leena on the way to the grocery store last night, around six-forty-five. Said Leena said she’d just planned to stay home and catch up on laundry. She had no plans with anyone.”

  Dean nodded. “So, if that’s true, it’s less likely that someone she knew came over.”

  “Unless it was a drop-in.”

  “True. We’ve also spoken with her closest friends, Sara Brown and Morgan Clark.” Dean slid a glance at Wesley, to which Wesley rolled his eyes and said, “No, I haven’t slept with either of them, you son of a bitch.”

  Dean grinned, shrugged, then continued. “They both confirmed what her mom said. Leena didn’t have any plans with anyone last night. Best we can tell right now, Leena Ross was abducted from her apartment, taken to your house, and murdered to set you up.” He narrowed his eyes. “It’s about you, not her.”

  Dean and Willard’s gaze laid heavily on him for what felt like a solid ten seconds. He forced himself to chew his food and not throw it up. He knew it, and he’d known they knew it, but hearing the words made it real.

  Leena Ross died because of him.

  “It could have been anyone, then? Any woman? Is that what you’re saying? Whoever I was last involved with?”

  “That’s my gut reaction. Hell, Wesley, it’s the only thing that makes sense.” Dean leaned forward. “Now we need to figure out why. Who the hell’s setting you up, and why?”

  Dean and Willard picked up their tuna melts and dug in. Wesley took another bite, needing a moment to choose his next words carefully. After a few minutes, he sat down his burger and said what had been rolling around his head since Bobbi told him that Leena implied she’d been followed.

  “It might not be a cut-and-dry setup. Think about it. No one would go to the effort of kidnapping someone I had a relationship with, drag her to my house and kill her without making sure I was somewhere that couldn’t be confirmed. They’d make sure I didn’t have an alibi, right? Bobbi said Leena had been acting odd at yoga Wednesday night, kept looking out the windows. The killer had been watching her, more than likely me too. He’d planned this out for days, potentially. He knew I wasn’t home and probably knew exactly where I was—around dozens of people and multiple security cameras.” He paused, narrowed his eyes. “It’s not a setup, guys. It’s a message. Someone’s fucking with me.”

  A heavy silence settled around the booth. Finally, Dean slowly nodded. “It’s a possibility. But, again, Wesley, who? Why?”

  “No clue.”

  “Think, Wesley. Anyone you’ve pissed off lately? Work-related, even? Shit, could be someone from high school, maybe? Maybe someone jealous?”

  Willard cut him a glance. “Woman related?”

  Wesley pounced. “Why the fuck does everyone think that?”

  “Dude, come on, now’s not the time to beat around the bush or worry about offending, or being politically correct. We’re looking at everything.”

  “Listen,” his tone curter than intended. “I know I’ve got a reputation as a bit of a cocky ladies’ man—

  Dean snorted.

  Wesley glared, then continued, “But I’ve always been respectful to women. I’ve never strung anyone along, and I’ve always been honest.”

  “Honest that you don’t care to settle down?”

  “Yes. Always.”

  Willard cocked his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Why is that?”

  Wesley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. What kind of question was that? He cleared his throat. “What is this, fucking Oprah?”

  Willard chuckled.

  Dean didn’t. “Well, buddy, it might feel like Oprah shortly. I met with the Chief an hour ago, and he wants you to come by the station if you can. Considering that it appears that the motive of Leena’s murder is all on you, he’d like you to answer some more questions, on the record. It’ll be no pressure, no heat.”

  He nodded. He’d expected as much. “Anything you need, Dean.”

  “Thanks. We’ll make it as quick and painless as possible.”

  Wesley mindlessly stirred his tea. “Where’s Leena… I mean, her body, now?”

  “Jessica’s got her. She started the autopsy this morning.” Dean glanced at his cell. “I told her to call the minute she has any information…”

  Just then, behind them, “How about a face-to-face instead?”

  Wesley turned to see the vivacious, redheaded, green-eyed medical examiner step up to the table. Jessica Heathrow was not only notorious for her infallible competency when it came to dissecting dead bodies, but also for her ball-busting attitude, and ability to cuss any man under the table. Wesley had liked her the moment they’d met when they were little kids.

  Dean’s eyebrows tipped up as he scooted over in the booth. “Speak of the devil.”

  She slid in next to him. “I just went by your office. They said you’d come here to grab a bite to eat and Lord knows I’d never pass up a meal at Donny’s.”

  Wesley pushed his plate across the table. “Eat. My stomach’s not…”

  “Doing well since you found a dead body in your basement?” She ripped the corner off a napkin, pulled a massive wad of bright pink gum out of her mouth and wrapped it up.

  Willard wrinkled his nose. “What is that? Bubblicious?”

  “Yep. Watermelon. Got a problem with that?”

  “No, not at all. Watermelon was my favorite… in 1985.”

  “Ha. Ha.” She grabbed the burger and took a bite. With a mouthful, she looked at Wesley and asked, “Seriously, how you doing?”

  “A lot better if you’ve got any information to move this damn thing forward.”

  She swallowed and looked around the table at the intense stares aimed at her. She grabbed Wesley’s drink, sipped, then cleared her throat. “I confirmed the cause of death was cardiac arrest due to rap
id blood loss.”

  “Cardiac arrest?”

  “Yes.” She grabbed a napkin and wiped her mouth. “There’s two ways to die from a sliced throat. If only the trachea is cut, the victim dies from lack of oxygen or from blood flowing through the laceration into the lungs. Kind of like drowning. Not fun. Now, if the carotid arteries are cut, blood loss is the cause. Sometimes, only one gets severed, which is a slower death. In Leena’s case, both arteries were severed, along with the trachea.”

  Both Dean and Willard set down their tuna melts.

  “This tells me two things, potentially. The killer is strong, and/or, he knows what he’s doing. Meaning, he’s done this before.”

  “Why do you assume he’s strong?”

  “To cut through both arteries and the trachea takes some pressure. He’d had to have restrained her as well. And it implies he knows what he’s doing—how to kill with the most impact.”

  Wesley remembered seeing the bone of Leena’s spine through her throat. “Or, anger, right? Rage? Rage can give someone abnormal strength. I’ve seen it.”

  “Me, too. And with every victim I’ve examined that linked back to rage, he or she was beaten badly before, and in some cases after. She wasn’t.” She continued, “So the good news with Leena is that she died quickly. Probably passed out within a few seconds, officially died maybe a minute later. If only one artery had been cut, it would’ve been longer.”

  In a grim voice, Willard muttered, “Silver-lining.”

  Jessica bit into Wesley’s chili cheeseburger, the red sauce dripping onto the plate. Wesley, Willard, and Dean looked away simultaneously.

  Dean leaned forward. “Based on your assessment that Leena’s death doesn’t appear to be personal, it furthers our theory that this one-hundred percent has to do with Wesley.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Just telling you what I’ve found so far.”

  “What else?” Wesley asked.

  “I can confirm your killer cut her from behind and is left-handed. The piercing is the deepest on her right side, and gradually lessens as the knife was dragged across.”

  “How do you know she was cut from behind?”

  “The angle of the cut, and the bruising on her right bicep. He was behind her. Can almost see his grip, and the bruising is concurrent with the time of death.”