by A W Hartoin
Tank got me some Tylenol and we finished our sandwiches, got mugs of tea, and some brownies before heading down into the basement of the Sentinel. In hindsight, that was a really bad idea.
Microfiche, film, or whatever is bad enough when you’ve slept. It’s brutal when you haven’t. I got nauseated right off and Tank had to take over, even though he was practically cross-eyed from looking it at half the night.
It took nearly an hour to find the little box with the appropriate year in it and another fifteen minutes to find Barney Scheer’s rudimentary articles about his missing intern.
Tank was not happy. Especially after I told him what Spidermonkey and his guy had found out about the flooding and Chief Lucas.
“Will lied,” he said.
“How surprised are you?” I asked.
“My brother-in-law is a good cop and Woody Lucas was supposed to be, too.”
Fats did a series of stretches and said, “Things have changed.”
“I don’t know how I’m going to tell Mallory,” he said.
“No reason to tell her anything yet,” I said.
“It’s going to come out,” said Tank. “We’re talking conspiracy here and it’s my wife’s family. I almost wish you’d never come to town.”
“I get that all the time.”
“I bet,” he said. “Here we go.”
Tank read the articles about Young’s disappearance and it wasn’t good. He didn’t say anything, but it showed in the set of his thin shoulders and the way he kept reading the words over and over again. Fats and I exchanged a look, not daring to interrupt the newsman’s concentration. Whatever he was seeing was probably not something that we would pick up.
Instead, we waited, making a nest for Moe in Fats’ coat and, I’m not ashamed to say, looking on Amazon for a Santa costume for her to wear at Christmas. Okay. I’m a little ashamed. Dogs should not be made to dress up for the amusement of humans, but she was such a weirdo, it was going to be adorable.
“We should buy one for Skanky,” said Fats.
“He’ll probably just eat the fur and throw up all over,” I said.
“There’s something wrong with your cat.”
“You’ll get no argument here.”
We both jumped when Tank’s ginormous printer beast fired up and attempted to deafen us.
“I’ll print you some copies,” said Tank, not looking at us.
“Okay. Thanks,” I said.
Eventually, the behemoth finally spit out copies of the stories Tank had been pouring over. He handed them to us and leaned on the desk with crossed arms, watching. I felt like I did when I thought I was going to fail the AP Physics exam spectacularly and everyone was going to know. I did and they did. Tank looked like my teacher when he asked what I got. Prematurely disappointed.
I read the article twice, looking for one of those ah-ha moment things and not finding it. The articles were disinterested at best. It was possible that Barney really didn’t like Kenneth Young. Just by reading the articles you never would’ve known that he knew the kid personally. It was that impersonal. I know. I know. The news isn’t supposed to be biased, but this writing was more like a traffic report. I expected something like a plea for help. Barney Scheer was talking about a missing twenty-three year old that had worked all summer in the very basement we were in and he couldn’t have been less intense.
“Am I missing something?” Fats asked. “So he’s a crappy reporter, so what?”
“He’s not a crappy reporter,” said Tank. “The articles about Maggie’s murder before the switch were insightful and caring. You can hear the compassion for her right in there with the facts. He did that without saying how he felt in so many words. Barney was good.”
“Well, there’s not much here,” I said. “Barney sure wasn’t on the hunt to find out what happened to that kid.”
“Maybe he already knew,” said Fats.
“If he figured out what Young was working on, then it’s not a stretch,” said Tank.
“But Barney Scheer didn’t kill him, if any of these basic facts are right,” I said.
“No?”
“No. Barney names himself as the last person, other than the guy that pumped his gas, to talk to Young before he left town and he says that two more members of the staff were here at the time. That puts Barney right in the mix.”
“He knew when Young left,” said Fats. “Following isn’t hard.”
“I’m sure the staff members alibied him.”
Fats glanced at the paper and read, “Kenneth Young left the Sentinel at approximately twelve-thirty. A member of the staff, Ralph Sullentrop, walked him out and saw him get in his 1971 VW Beetle and drive away.”
1971 Beetle.
“He still could’ve done it or tipped someone off,” said Tank.
1971 Beetle.
“Sure, but I’m saying Barney felt secure in his own position, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have a suspicion about what happened to his intern. These articles show feeling, just not the ones we’d expect,” I said. “Let’s see how Young did as an intern. Can you see if he has any articles?”
Tank went back to the summer, the months whizzing by and then jolting to a stop on May. He zipped around looking for Young’s name and I had to step away. The movement got to me in a huge way and I paid for it. Fats made me stretch and then do some lunges. She said it was good for me, but she didn’t do any lunges. Then I had to do some squats by myself, but I drew the line at up-downs. Not going to happen.
I was sensing a theme with me working out and Fats not. The next six months was going to be rough, but the rhythm of the workout freed my mind to roll around on the case. I had to go through that yearbook page by page. If it didn’t reveal any connections to Stott, I’d start googling classmates. Carrie was a sophomore in 1965, but she said her friends didn’t really hang out with seniors. She would make some calls for me. Maybe that would help.
I wanted to concentrate on Stott, but no matter where I wanted my mind to go, it kept coming back to that 1971 Bug and I didn’t know why it sounded so familiar. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Maggie, but still, there it was, popping up into the forefront. The connection was right on the tip of my brain. I could almost reach it. Almost.
“He liked him,” said Tank.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Young. Barney Scheer liked him.”
Fats and I went over and looked at the screen. Tank had an article about the fair up. Young had done a three-part article on judging irregularities during the livestock showing. I know that doesn’t sound exciting and it isn’t. I read the articles. Young alleged bias, bribes, and downright cheating with the scales. Tank assured us that this was a big deal in the farming community. Having a prizewinning steer could give a farmer a leg up with their breeding program and the extra income could make the farm profitable in a bad year.
“So he trusted Young to investigate this,” said Fats. “I wonder why. He was only in college.”
Tank sat back. “Kenneth Young was gifted. His prose is wonderful and he doesn’t embellish. He’s just good. Barney was happy to have him here. More than happy.”
“You got all that from an article on dirty cattle judges?” I asked.
“That and this.” Tank zipped the pages back to June and an article on Kenneth Young appeared. It included a photo of Young, smiling and leaning back on his Beetle. I couldn’t stop looking at that face, young, hopeful, handsome. Gone. And his car. It felt like déjà vu, but that was just stupid. I’d seen a thousand Beetles. More even. They weren’t exactly unique. But 1971. I couldn’t get it out of my head.
“He wrote an article on his intern? Don’t interns usually get kicked around and ordered to shut up and make coffee?” I asked.
Tank smiled. “I did. On my first internship, the biggest story I got to write was about people not picking up their dog’s poop. Young got a half-page spread with a picture. He was recommended by the head of the journalism school and se
veral professors.”
“They thought he was going places,” said Fats. “No offense, but was the Sentinel a hot gig for Young?”
“Sure,” said Tank. “If you want to work and get a lot of bylines. The big papers will give you scut work. Barney let Young have free rein.”
“That’s probably how he found out about Maggie’s murder,” I said.
“Young was clearly cut out for investigative journalism. He would’ve been looking for a good story.”
“A murdered nun definitely fits the bill,” said Fats.
“Look at this story.” Tank zipped over to a human-interest story on veterans and combat stress. “Young could write anything. He had real heart.”
“And not bad looking,” said Fats, glancing at me. “That probably opens doors.”
“It closes them, too,” I said. “But he looked to be in the sweet spot of not too good looking.”
Tank scratched his chin. “A guy like that he would’ve been popular with the ladies.”
“Maybe we can find someone he dated,” I said.
“I imagine that’d be a wide field. Take it from me, a guy like that could’ve had any girl he wanted.”
“Not any girl,” said Fats. “I wouldn’t have been interested.”
Tank and I looked at her.
“Seriously?” I asked. “What’s wrong with Kenneth Young? You went out with Lorenzo Fibonacci. He might be gorgeous, but what a moron.”
“I like a man who knows how to take care of business.”
Tank and I frowned simultaneously.
“How on Earth can you tell if that kid couldn’t take care of business? Is it the eyebrows?” Tank asked. “My daughter’s big on eyebrow maintenance. God knows why.”
“It’s the car,” said Fats. “A man that won’t maintain his vehicle, won’t maintain himself. It’s a deal breaker.”
“What’s wrong with his Beetle?” I asked.
“It’s damaged and has rust.”
“Do you have some sort of rust detection sensor? That photo’s in black and white. And it’s hella grainy.”
Tank held up his hand. “She’s right. I think I saw that.” He went back to the photo and I got the weirdest feeling. Déjà vu, but stronger.
“Where?” I said with a strangled voice.
Tank glanced at me, frowning, but then zoomed in on the rear wheel and bumper. Sure enough, it was damaged. The panel over the wheel had some discoloration and the bumper hung down too far. The feeling got stronger.
“Mercy?” Tank asked. “Are you okay?”
“That’s a 1971 Beetle,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“What color would you say it is?”
Tank and Fats looked at the screen for a second and Tank said, “White, I guess.”
I looked up at Fats, the human rust sensor, and she shook her head. “It’s beige.”
Crap on a cracker.
“That’s a 1971 beige Beetle with rear end damage.”
“Yes,” said Tank and Fats, in unison.
“I think I know where that car is.”
Tank looked back at the screen. “That car? You couldn’t possibly. It’s been missing since ’74. You weren’t even born.”
I looked at Fats and watched her put it together. She took a deep breath and said, “It could be a coincidence. Millions of Beetles were sold that year. Beige was a popular color.”
“But only one ended up where Maggie’s medal was found,” I said.
“Are you talking about that serial killer graveyard?” Tank asked. “They found a car?”
“Not just a car,” said Fats. “A 1971 beige Beetle.”
“With rear end damage,” I said. “Chuck showed me a picture. That damage was the only thing they had to go on. The VIN was pried off and the car was clean, not so much as a plastic straw was found inside.”
Tank ran his fingers through his long hair. “So they’re looking for murder victims who had that car.”
“That could take a while,” said Fats. “Or forever, depending on whether that damage was on the original police report.”
“It still might not be the car,” said Tank.
Moe jumped up out of her nest and started barking.
“Even the dog knows we’re on to something,” I said.
“This is going to kill Mallory. Her grandfather, mother, and now her brother let a serial killer skate?” He put his head in his heads. “Nightmare.”
Moe went nuts, spinning in a circle and yipping.
“Does she need to go out?” I asked, even though Moe was a calm dog when it came to it. I’d only seen her go to the door and stare at it. No barking at all.
“Maybe.” Fats grabbed her coat. “I’ll take her and you call the rookies.”
I drew a blank. The rookies?
“You’re done, Mercy,” said Fats. “They wanted you to find something to reopen Maggie’s case, this is it.”
“I can’t just leave it,” I said. “I promised Myrtle.”
She put on her coat and popped out a toothpick. “And Morty’s in the hospital. Throw the guy a bone. Get yourself off the No Fly List and his blood pressure goes down.”
It was selfish of me, but I didn’t want to do it. This was my case now. Mine. I wanted to solve it for my godmothers, for Maggie, for Kenneth Young, and Father Dominic. It wasn’t just about getting to Greece anymore.
I started to tell her that, but Moe went batshit crazy and Fats said over the clamor, “Do it, Mercy. You’ve got an uncle in the hospital and a wedding to plan.”
Not the wedding.
“Fine,” I said, pulling out my phone. “I’ll give it to the rookies.”
Fats nodded at us and held out her arms to Moe, who normally would’ve jumped in them to go outside. But that time she ran around Fats and went up five stairs. Her brindle fur rose up to hackles and she bared her pointy little teeth.
Fats snapped her fingers. “No.”
Moe growled in response and her hackles got pointier.
“Is she normally like that?” Tank asked.
“No.” Fats went into dog training mode that had worked so well before, but Moe charged her, snapping at her hand as Fats reached for her.
I jolted to my feet. “Something’s wrong.”
“No kidding,” said Fats. “She’s lost her mind.”
Moe darted around her owner and leapt at her ankle, snagging the fabric of Fat’s legging and yanking it back.
“What the hell are you doing?” Fats yelled, stumbling backward.
“She doesn’t want you to go upstairs,” I said. “Tank, call the chief.”
“Because the dog—”
“Do it.” I pulled out my Mauser and took off the safety.
Fats pointed at Moe and said, “Stop.”
Moe sat and went silent. Fats got her Python out of her backpack and crept toward the stairs. Moe growled. She stopped and an explosion ripped through the floor above us, bringing down the ceiling and turning the world black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I COULD SMELL the flames, but I couldn’t see them. The lights were out and the only illumination was from the exit sign next to the collapsed stairs. I dug my way out from under the acoustic ceiling tiles and hit my head on something. Fire alarms were going off and it sounded like there were a hundred in that basement alone. Then the sprinkler system triggered and a heavy spray hit my face.
“Fats! Tank!”
Fats grabbed me from behind and hauled me to my feet. She had Moe under one arm and a face covered in blood. I tried to see where she’d been injured, but she pushed me away. “Fire exit!”
“Where?” I yelled.
She shoved a trembling Moe into my arms and pointed at an egress window beyond the tall shelving that had fallen over like dominos. Its exit sign was blinking, but I wasn’t leaving. Tank was still in there under the debris and I didn’t have my Mauser. Talk about a sitting duck.
“We have to find Tank!”
“Go now.”
>
“You think this is an accident?” I yelled. “He’s out there.”
“I lost my Python! Do you have your Mauser?” Fats yelled.
I shook my head and set Moe on a tile. “Tank has to be near the desk.”
We squinted in the dim light and saw a pile against the wall. The destruction was worse over there. Not just the tiles had come down. Beams, insulation and I was pretty sure a bookcase from upstairs was there.
“Look for your Mauser!” Fats yelled. “I’ll find him.”
“I’m the nurse!”
“You gonna lift those beams?”
She had a point and I got down looking for my weapon. “Find the gun, Moe! Find it.”
I’ll be damned if she didn’t. Moe alerted on a pile of tiles next to the collapsed stairs and I found my Mauser underneath. “Good dog!”
I kissed her little noggin and climbed over to Fats, narrowly missing being hit by a beam she tossed aside like a Lincoln Log.
“I got him!”
Tank lay face down, not moving, and there was blood. I couldn’t tell how much, but I could smell it and then I could feel it, wet, sticky, and warm. That red light wasn’t helpful in finding the source.
“Should we move him?” Fats asked.
“Let’s roll him.”
I assessed his neck and back and didn’t find anything obvious. I had to check his airway so there was nothing for it but to go ahead and turn him over. I supported his head and neck and Fats moved his body. We got him on his back and I checked his vitals. Erratic. He had a head injury, where I thought most of the blood was coming from, a broken collarbone, and a hand that looked like someone dropped a safe on it. It wasn’t bleeding like the head injury, so I didn’t do a tourniquet.
“We have to get him out of here!” I yelled.
There wasn’t a lot of smoke, but I was coughing and so was Fats.
“Do you hear that?” she asked.
“What?”
“Sirens!”
“Thank God!”
Fats gave Moe a pat and said, “Stay with him. I’ll go out.”
“Be careful!” I gave her my Mauser and it disappeared in her big hand.