Kill Six

by C. E. Nelson

  Les Berger turned to his right as Carlisle came up to his shoulder. He had his hands deep in the pockets of his wool overcoat. His cheeks were red.

  “Carlisle. You going to show up every time we have a dead body in this town?”

  “Yeah. I’m going for the Guinness World Record.”

  “Seriously. What are you doing here?”

  “We think this is related to the Maples murder at Hillside.”

  “How so?” said Berger.

  “I spoke to Sandy Roberts just last night. She said she was being threatened.”

  “About what?” said Berger.

  “She thought people were stealing drugs from the patients at Hillside. Getting paid to do it. And she refused to join in.”

  “She was a nurse there?”

  “She was. She was working at the hospital.”

  “No idea who?” said Berger.

  “We’re looking at it.”

  Berger turned back to look at the men in the water. “Family?”

  “Husband. Infant daughter.”

  “Christ.”

  They all watched as the divers walked out of the water. One of them gave a thumbs-up sign. A man with a blue stocking cap standing on the opposite side of the truck from Carlisle pushed down on a lever. The cable tightened. They all watched. The constant waves on Superior were making it hard to see but soon a ghostly white figure appeared below the surface. The trunk of a Nissan Sentra emerged. The car was pulled from the water to the point where the back wheels had reached the tow truck bed, the front wheels still in a few inches of water. Berger yelled at the man operating the winch to stop. No one moved. Like they had hauled some monster from the sea, but no one wanted to see if it was really dead.

  “You taking this one too?” said Berger, still looking at the car, the water slowly draining.

  “I guess. Who found it?”

  “The owner of the house. Retired guy. Was walking his dog down here when he spotted it.”

  Carlisle looked towards the house. A man with silver hair stood on the patio holding the leash of a dog at his side.

  “He didn’t hear or see anything last night?”

  “Nope. Bedroom is on the other side of the house. He said the dog barked a couple of times late, like midnight, but the dog stopped, and he never got up.”

  “He let anyone use the ramp?”

  “Didn’t get that far yet. You’ll have to ask.”

  “ME called?”

  “On the way.”

  Chapter 16

  Trask pulled his 4-Runner into the parking lot of the small apartment building. The lot was pitted and cracked, potholes making the driving like going through an exploded minefield. He babied his SUV to a stop, nosed up to a cement sidewalk that didn’t look much better than the parking lot. The building in front of him did not appear in any better condition. Brown shake siding ran halfway down the building before it met a red brick facing. The paint on the siding was peeling, pieces of mortar missing between several bricks. Trask counted windows and guessed there were sixteen units in the building.

  He walked to the front entry and stepped inside. The interior security door was wedged open. Not much security. He counted sixteen mailboxes. Looked for West’s name on the button pad next to the boxes. About to press the button for West’s apartment, he decided it may be to his advantage to surprise him. He stepped through the security door and went to his left, up the stairs to the second level. West’s apartment was immediately on his right. Trask stood outside for a moment listening. Nothing. He knocked. Waited ten seconds and knocked again, harder, with the side of his fist.

  Sam Bishop opened the door. Bishop stood an inch taller than Trask. He had broad shoulders. Long arms and legs. He was wearing the same jeans and sweatshirt he had on when Trask had interviewed him at his parent’s home. Bishop’s dark shoulder-length hair was now greasy. He finger-combed it back from his tired face.

  “Mr. Bishop. Can I ask you a few more questions?”

  Bishop didn’t answer, simply turned and walked down the short hall into the living room. Trask closed the door and followed. Bishop dropped onto an upholstered couch, lime green with a raised floral pattern, numerous stains and burns easily visible. There was a pillow with a blanket wadded up at the opposite end of the couch. Trask looked around and thought the couch and the other furniture he could see fit in well with the general condition of the building.

  “West here?”

  “No, he’s working, I think.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “That machine shop just off of 61 north of town.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “Um, I don’t know his hours.”

  Trask could smell the fragrance of pot but didn’t see any paraphernalia. The search of the Bishop house had not turned up any evidence of drug use. Bishop looked beat, worn and defeated, but not stoned or high.

  “Does West smoke pot?” Green’s search had turned up nothing on Bishop, but West had been arrested two years ago for possession.

  Bishop looked up. “Yeah, once in a while.”

  “Does he do anything else?”

  “Like drugs?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Drugs? Dope?”

  “I’ve smoked a little before, but that’s it. What is this about?”

  “What about your parents? Did they ever use drugs?”

  “Seriously? If they had two glasses of wine on a Saturday it was a wild time for them,” said Bishop. “You think they were killed because of drugs?”

  “We’re just trying to cover all the bases.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re way off base on that one.”

  Trask felt the same. “You can get back in the house now, Sam. Get some clean clothes. Stay there if you want.”

  “I’m not sure I want to.”

  “I understand. I can arrange for someone to get some clothes for you and bring them here.”

  Bishop leaned back, head down. “No. Thanks. I can do it. I need to get cleaned up anyway.”

  “Have you done anything about telling people about their death or made any funeral arrangements?”

  “No.”

  Trask pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Bishop. “This is kind of a checklist. I’m guessing most people know about it because of the news reports, but it might be good if you called your dad’s brothers and sisters. Tell them that you’re working on the arrangements. Maybe they’d help.”

  Bishop looked at the paper. “Thanks.”

  “I can give you a ride over if you want to go now.”

  Bishop looked up at Trask and blew out a breath. Trask could see him thinking about the scene he had left, his parents slaughtered.

  “Things have been cleaned up, Sam.”

  He blew out a second breath before pushing himself up off the couch. “OK.”

  They were quiet on the ride to Sam’s parent’s house. Trask realized he didn’t know if the house was open when he stopped in front, but Sam went immediately to the keypad by the garage door and punched in a code, lifting the door. Trask was about to ask if Sam wanted him to stay, but Bishop ducked under the rising door, and Trask followed. Bishop got into the kitchen and stopped. His eyes grew large as he stared ahead at the entryway, sure the bodies of his parents would be there. Trask came up to his side. Put his hand on Bishop’s shoulder.

  “It’s OK, Sam.”

  Bishop nearly sprinted through the entryway, eyes straight ahead, and then down the stairs. Trask watched him go and then stood in the entryway, looking at the floor. The rug that had been there had been removed but there were still stains on the wood floor. Who and why? He was certain now Sam Bishop had nothing to do with it, and although he still needed to go back and talk to West, he knew that would likely lead nowhere either. Trask thought he heard a shower come on in the lower level. He decided to wait a little longer.<
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  Chapter 17

  Although certain it would no longer make a difference, Carlisle slipped on gloves, and walked cautiously up to the driver’s door on the Sentra. She didn’t know what to expect. They’d let the water drain from the car as it sat on the landing, but she had never opened the door of a submerged vehicle before. Movie scenes of water pouring from the vehicle, fish cascading down, filled her mind. She thought about asking the tow truck driver. She would not ask Lerner. Standing away from the vehicle, she pulled on the handle, cracking the door. Nothing. She pulled the door open further, looking at the driver’s seat. Nothing.

  “She’s here,” said Lerner from the opposite side of the car.

  Carlisle looked between the seats and could see someone lying on the floor behind. She stepped to the rear door and opened it. Sandy Roberts lay on the floor in front of the back seat. She was face-down, her head toward Carlisle. Silver duct tape was over her mouth and around her wrists, arms behind her back. Her legs had been taped too, around the ankles. Lerner stared at Carlisle across the seat. His ever-present smile was gone.

  “Jeez,” said Lerner.

  “Yeah,” responded Carlisle.

  They did a thorough search of the car, turning up little. Besides her insurance card and manual in the glove compartment, there were a couple of soggy receipts, hard to read. Nothing in the trunk but a snow brush and blanket. By the time they had finished, the adrenaline rush was long gone, Carlisle feeling cold, hands making fists inside her jacket pocket trying to get some feeling. She pulled them out and rubbed her palms together.

  “I’m going to call Farmer and then go talk to the owner. You OK staying here to wait for the ME?”

  Lerner’s cheeks were bright red. He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve.

  “OK if I wait in your car?”

  “Sure.” She dug the key from her pocket and tossed it over the car. “Move it down here.”

  Carlisle called Farmer as she walked toward the house, telling him about what she knew.

  “Hard to see this isn’t related to the Maples’ killing,” said Farmer. “But the connection to the Bishop shooting isn’t as clear.”

  “I agree.”

  “OK, Danny. I guess you are back on it,” he said. “You’ve talked to Sheriff Trask?”

  “I did before I heard about Roberts. I’ll give him a call and update him.”

  “Good.” Farmer paused. “This isn’t a competition, Danny. Lots of agencies involved. Working together will get this wrapped up sooner.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carlisle was about to hang up when her boss’s words hit a chord. She asked if he could have someone send the Bishop contact information to the sheriff’s department. He said he would take care of it. He also said he would let the sheriff know about Roberts.

  Carlisle had been looking at Robert’s car as she talked. She turned now toward the house again to see the owner watching from the sliding glass doors to the deck. Carlisle had received Farmer’s message loud and clear. He had talked to her about her competitive nature occasionally. Carlisle had been a swimmer and runner in high school. She was good. Not division I good, but good enough to get smaller school offers. It wasn’t the feeling of elation at winning that drove her as much as the fact that she hated to lose. She had learned. Her drive had cost her a partner and had been a factor in a case where she had almost been killed, but she was better now. Still, Farmer made sure to remind her.

  Carlisle walked up two steps to the large redwood deck, the deck now completely in shadows. An older man in jeans and a dark green fleece slid the deck door open. Carlisle introduced herself and showed her ID to the man. A cocker spaniel yapped at his side, and he admonished the animal to be quiet as he handed Carlisle her ID back.

  “Come in, Agent. You look cold.”

  The heat inside washed over Danny like a wonderful comforting wave. A half-circle of five comfortable looking stuffed club chairs, interspersed with small tables between, was directly ahead. A large braided rug was on the floor in front of them. The chairs faced a large fireplace of mixed-brick, the fire burning, the smell filling the air. Cozy.

  “Can I get you some coffee or hot chocolate?”

  “Hot chocolate sounds wonderful.”

  “Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll be right back.”

  The man disappeared to the left, behind the fireplace, his dog sniffing Carlisle and then following its owner. Carlisle walked to the fire and held out her hands to the flame.

  “Here you are,” he said holding out a cup to her. “I hope you like marshmallows.”

  Carlisle looked at the five small white puffs floating on the surface of her drink and breathed in the aroma. Instantly she was transported back to the round kitchen table in her parents’ home, just inside from a morning of sledding, only big enough to tip the cup to her mouth. She took a sip.

  “Thank you, Mr. …?”

  “Charles. Ray Charles.”

  “Ray Charles? Really?”

  “Afraid so. Total coincidence.”

  The man had gold wire-rimmed glasses perched on a thin nose, clear blue eyes behind. His smile revealed straight white teeth. His dog sat obediently at his side looking up at Carlisle.

  “OK, Mr. Charles. What can you tell me about last night?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Like I told the other policeman, Jasper barked a couple of times around midnight, but I didn’t hear anything. Of course, I don’t hear much without my hearing aids.”

  Wires from hearing aids were just visible behind his bushy sideburns.

  “Can you be more specific about the time?”

  “12:11. I looked at the clock by the bed when Jasper woke me.”

  Carlisle made a note.

  “You didn’t get up?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “No problem. You live here alone?”

  “Yes. My wife passed about five years ago. Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, no,” he said as he waved his hand. “It was a blessing. She had suffered with it for a long time.”

  A blessing like Laura Maples’ death, thought Carlisle. “How long have you lived here, Mr. Charles?”

  “Thirty-two years.”

  Carlisle guessed Charles was close to eighty. The man was sharp.

  “Tell me about your boat landing.”

  “Well, that was a very nice feature when we bought the house. I had a fishing boat, and it was very convenient to put it in the lake. I don’t use it anymore.”

  “Did you let anyone else use it?”

  “A couple of neighbors. A few friends from church. No one I didn’t know.”

  “Any trouble with people you didn’t know using it?”

  “No. I have that chain across the entrance on the street.”

  Carlisle had seen the chain when she walked in. It hung between two metal posts on hooks. No lock.

  “So. Can I ask? Was someone in that car?”

  Carlisle turned back to look at the landing. The shadows from the setting sun were reaching towards the shore. There was someone by the car. The medical examiner. “I’m afraid so.”

  Chapter 18

  Linda James waddled into the examination room. Her large brown eyes caught sight of Ben Adams standing over the stainless-steel counter to her right, making notes. The Eagles were singing about Hotel California. James walked over and turned down the volume. Adams looked up.

  “You’re here late.”

  “Yes. Just finishing up.”

  “Something interesting?” said James.

  “Yes, actually. A woman who I thought may have had a heart attack.”

  “I take it she didn’t?”

  “No. Nothing wrong with her heart or anything else except there was a definite lack of oxygen to her brain. Like she had choked to death, but there was nothing blocking her airways, although they were a bit contracted.”

  “Asphyxiation of some type?”

  Adams looked at his notes. “Yes, but nothing
external. I found remains of something she had eaten in her mouth. It was also in her stomach. It’s possible she had some allergic reaction but it’s not like anything I’m aware of. I’ve sent a sample of what was in her mouth, stomach, and a blood sample to St. Paul.”

  “Hmm. Could it have been poison?”

  “I suppose. I should probably give the police a heads-up,” said Adams. “So, will I be seeing you on Monday?”

  “Unfortunately, it looks that way.”

  “Chin up. Our intern actually assisted me earlier today and did not get sick.”

  Adams finished in the examination room, went into his office, and dialed the Duluth Police Department. He left a message for Les Berger, the investigating officer in the Helen Johnson death, detailing what he had found in the autopsy, what he had done, and what he suspected. Berger had gone for the day but listened to the message later from home. He decided that his initial investigation of the death scene was sufficient but wondered if there had been progress on finding the woman’s relatives.

  “Jackson.” Amy Jackson was an Information Officer with the Duluth PD.

  “This is Berger.”

  “I thought you went home?”

  “I did, but the ME called about the Johnson woman’s autopsy.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Maybe. But not yet,” said Berger. “Anyway, where are we with next of kin for her?”

  “Still working on it. DMV was no help. Birth certificate listed Raymond and Alice Bishop as her parents. Down by Proctor. Called a Raymond Bishop, but he wasn’t her father. Parents could be deceased, and there are a million Bishops in the area. I requested tax returns but won’t get anything until Monday now.”

  “Did you talk to the neighbors?”

  “Yeah. No help.”

  “OK. What about her doctor? Maybe has emergency contact info?”

  “Did you find medical records?”

  “There were some bills in the box. On my desk.”

  “OK. I’ll let you know.”

  Ken Bishop was a marketing consultant. It was more out of necessity than anything else. He had lost his job at the start of the recession. The few interviews he received resulted from the companies making sure they did not appear to be prejudiced against older applicants. Bishop ran into a former colleague at the casino one night who told him about a trucking company that had approached him to do some marketing consulting, something he could not do as a full-time employee. After creating business cards and some sales materials, Bishop contacted the company. He had his first client.