Murder in Rat Alley

by Mark de Castrique

  My grandmother always told me I had two ears and one mouth for a reason. I should listen twice as much as I speak. I’d learned that was a cardinal rule in investigative work. Something that Chuck McNulty said Eddie Gilmore had mastered. Interviews may be conversational, but they aren’t conversations. You are listening for what’s said and what’s not said. What had Brecht told me that could be verified? Had we attributed more to his statements than was warranted? I closed my eyes and tried to reconstruct our encounters.

  Brecht had told me Randall Johnson had dirty overalls, but Randall died before that statement could be checked. Brecht had told me Loretta had come looking for Frank and seen Johnson’s dirty overalls. But no one else could corroborate his claim. What if it was Brecht who had the earth-covered knees? At the time, Loretta wouldn’t have made much of it, since no one knew Frank’s body lay in a freshly dug grave. But when I’d told her about the shovel, the memory must have come flooding back. Johnson having dirt on his clothes wouldn’t have been unusual. But Brecht? And who was the person she was planning to meet that night after their gig? Not me, but surely someone involved in the case. That would have been Randall, Gordowski, or Brecht.

  Then a more damning thought emerged. Brecht and I’d been talking, and I’d mentioned Loretta’s song lyrics. He’d commented how it must have alarmed someone when she sang it. Thinking back, I was pretty sure I’d never said she’d sung it that night. I’d just shared the lyrics. Brecht could have been on the stairs between the vegetarian restaurant and the pub, heard her, and realized the implications of what she might do. Had she contacted him to discuss their memories of the night Frank disappeared? Or had he contacted her to see what she remembered? Had the planned rendezvous become an opportunity to silence her?

  The firebombing had occurred before I’d spoken to Brecht. But Janet at PARI said she told Gordowski and Brecht that the famous detective, Sam Blackman, was investigating. Had my reputation created such an extreme response that he’d turned to arson? When that failed, did he feel compelled to return my call? And the gas cans? Nakayla said Brecht had a small mower but no can. Who hauls a mower to the gas station? The fact that he had no gas can was more significant than the nearly empty one in Gordowski’s garage. Randall Johnson had multiple ones including a new one. Was Brecht’s can planted among them?

  I opened my eyes and saw Gordowski was no longer my main suspect. I’d attributed guilt to things that had other explanations. Gordowski had no alibi for that Apollo mission night because he had gone home just like he said. He specialized in maximizing the communications between the astronauts and mission control. Why couldn’t his hobby be ham radio? And he was helping with the NOAA computer system and PARI backup because Brecht worked there. Who had asked whom? We’d only heard Brecht’s version.

  I felt an icy shiver. If Gordowski was out of the picture, there was no one left on my list of suspects who could challenge whatever Brecht said.

  I looked at my watch. Ten minutes after four. Brecht and Gordowski would have left the restaurant hours ago. Had they gone back to work? I fished through my pockets for Owen Sharp’s business card. There was a direct number and a cell number. I punched in the cell.

  “Owen Sharp.”

  “Owen, it’s Sam Blackman.”

  He laughed. “That was quick. More questions?”

  “Are you in your office?”

  “No. I just arrived home. What’s up?”

  “Do you know if Theo Brecht and Joseph Gordowski are still in the building?”

  He paused. “What’s this about?”

  I gave him an off-the-top-of-my-head answer. “It’s a question about PARI, not NOAA. I’m aiding the police on a cold case, and they might be able to help me.”

  “That skeleton they found?”

  “Yes. Both men knew the victim. We’re trying to help the family.”

  “I see,” he said sympathetically. “Well, they were in the building this morning. I overheard them tell someone they were going to PARI tonight after it closed. When I returned from meeting you, they were at lunch. I don’t know if they came back.”

  “Do you have a cell number for either one?”

  “Not with me. Their numbers would be at the office. I’ll see if I can raise anybody there. Maybe they’re still working.”

  “Thanks. Oh, one other thing. How did Joseph come to be part of the computer team?”

  “Theo suggested it. Like you said, they’ve worked together for years. Their security clearances were above mine, so I said go ahead. But Joseph’s not full-time.”

  “I understand. So Joseph didn’t come to you for the job?”

  “No,” Sharp said. “I knew we needed some extra help for this secure data project, and Theo said he had the perfect person. I told him to pursue him.” The edge of uncertainty crept back into his voice. “Is there something about Joseph I should know?”

  “No. I just hope I’ll have his and Theo’s energy when I’m their age.”

  “They’re scientists,” Sharp said. “A scientist never retires as long as he’s got his curiosity.”

  Or someone’s paying or blackmailing him for classified data, I thought.

  “Thanks,” I said. “If I can reach them today, it will be a big help.”

  I hung up, untucked my shirt, and slid my Kimber .45 into a holster that fit against the small of my back.

  Hurrying down the sidewalk of Biltmore Avenue to my parking garage, I noticed a change in the weather. The hot, humid air began to move in short, strong gusts. Maybe the inversion was breaking up. Maybe somewhere behind the ridges, a storm was brewing.

  I phoned Nakayla and half shouted, “It’s Brecht.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Hell, no. But things he’s said don’t add up. Get to the Laughing Seed and ask if anyone remembers Brecht eating there last Tuesday night. Someone should know him, and he and Gordowski ate lunch there today if that helps jog a memory.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Wherever I can find Gordowski. I’m expecting a call from Owen Sharp with Gordowski’s cell phone number. Sharp said Brecht and Gordowski are working at PARI tonight. I’m hoping Gordowski has gone home in the meantime.”

  “You think he’s in danger?”

  I entered the parking garage and pressed the remote key to unlock the CR-V. “Brecht’s made claims that Gordowski can refute. If Gordowski’s gone, there’s no one left to contradict him. For all I know, Brecht might be setting Gordowski up to be the final fall guy.”

  “Are you going back to Brevard?”

  “Yes, assuming Gordowski’s headed home. If I can make sure he’s safe, then we can focus on Brecht.”

  “We?”

  “Newly, Boyce, Hickman, Browder. Whoever’s closest and willing to question him again. That’s why discovering if he was near Rat Alley when Loretta died is so important.”

  “Then I’m on it,” Nakayla said.

  I started the engine. “Thanks, my love.”

  “You can thank me by not being a hero. If things start to break bad, promise you’ll call for help.”

  “Trust me. I have no intention of putting myself in danger.”

  “Intentions aren’t promises, Sam.” She rang off.

  I headed for the interstate with every intention of keeping my promise. Five minutes later, Owen Sharp called.

  “I’ve got the cell numbers for Theo and Joseph.”

  “Do you know when they left?”

  “The person I spoke with said about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Together?”

  “I didn’t ask. Does it matter?”

  “No. No. I just thought if I caught them together, it would save a phone call. Thanks, Owen. I’m driving, so it would be better if you could text me the numbers.”

  “You got it.”

  A few minutes late
r, I heard the ding and took a quick glance at the phone’s screen. Two 828 area codes and no indication of which number belonged to which man. My phone highlighted them so that all I had to do was touch to activate the call. I tried the second one first, thinking full-time staffer Brecht would be alphabetized first.

  “Hello.” Brecht’s voice.

  “Sorry. Wrong number.” I disengaged and realized my mistake. I should have come up with some nonthreatening reason for the call. Like Cory DeMille wanted to learn more about what her uncle was like. I’d created a problem, because Brecht knew my cell number.

  I called Gordowski.

  One ring and then, “This is Joseph. Leave a message.”

  “Joseph. Sam Blackman. Please return my call.” I didn’t want to say any more. The fact that I went straight to voicemail suggested he was on the phone, in a dead zone, or had a dead battery. My next option was to wait at his house and hope to intercept him.

  I turned onto highway 280 and passed the Asheville airport. Windsocks snapped as gusts intensified. Thunderheads towered over the ridges to the west, blocking the late afternoon sun and casting the world into unnatural twilight. Perhaps the storm would dissuade Brecht and Gordowski from even traveling those narrow, curving roads to PARI. Or perhaps the storm would isolate the two, creating an opportunity for some accident to be arranged that would leave Brecht the sole survivor of the Apollo tracking team.

  Ingenuity put a man on the moon. What ingenuity would be devised to put another man in the earth?

  Chapter 27

  I drove past Gordowski’s driveway. The white concrete was becoming blotched with dark, wet splotches created by raindrops the size of small water balloons. I saw no sign of lights in the house or garage, but I couldn’t be sure that Gordowski’s car wasn’t behind the closed door.

  I turned around and parked in the driveway. A mad dash from my vehicle to the screened porch semisoaked me. I vigorously shook off the water in a manner that would have made Blue proud. Then I opened the garage’s side door. No car. Gordowski wasn’t home yet.

  A quick look at my watch confirmed it was only forty minutes till PARI’s scheduled Sunday closing time of six o’clock. Gordowski must have elected to go straight there.

  My cell rang. Nakayla.

  “Are you at the Laughing Seed?” I asked.

  “Yes. Both Gordowski and Brecht were well known by the manager on duty. In fact, sometimes Brecht ordered takeout and then went downstairs to Jack of the Wood so that Gordowski could have a burger.”

  “And were either one there last Tuesday night?”

  “The manager took a quick poll of his wait staff. One of them remembered serving Brecht.”

  “He claimed he was home,” I said. “And Newly checked the patron receipts.”

  “Brecht never asked for his check,” Nakayla said. “He left more than enough cash. No card swiped, no restaurant record with a name. And the waiter was off when the police did their follow-up the next day. Get this. Brecht’s table was next to the stairs. He could have heard Loretta singing from where he sat.”

  “And then slipped down to the pub,” I added.

  “All he had to do was catch Loretta’s eye and suggest they step into Rat Alley.”

  I could see it happening, because now we had confirmation of Brecht at the scene. “Loretta probably confronted him and then turned away. The garrote would be around her neck in less than a second.”

  “He came prepared to kill,” Nakayla said.

  “Yes. And then he tried to use Loretta’s song to throw suspicion on Randall Johnson. He probably saw Randall’s guitar at some point over the years and bought Martin strings because he thought he was matching the brand.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m at Gordowski’s house in the middle of a thunderstorm. I think he’s gone straight to PARI.”

  “Sam, you’re not going out there alone.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I’ll call Hickman. He and his deputies can at least provide protection if Brecht means Gordowski harm. You brief Newly on what you’ve learned at the Laughing Seed. He’ll want to bring Brecht in for questioning.”

  I ended the call. The Transylvania County Sheriff’s Department was in the 911 system, and the operator quickly routed me. A Deputy Hanes answered.

  “This is Sam Blackman. I’m reporting trouble at PARI. Please alert Sheriff Hickman that he needs to send deputies for what might be a hostile situation involving a possible hostage. Have him call this number if he has any questions.”

  Deputy Hanes assured me he would handle it. I dashed back through the torrent, climbed into the driver’s seat, and drove into the heart of the storm.

  There was a good reason I joined the army rather than the navy—I preferred being on land rather than sea. But the excruciating drive from Brevard to PARI had to be more of an underwater submarine experience. The wipers slapped across the windshield in a futile attempt to clear the glass. Thunder boomed like artillery, and the bursts of lightning could have been muzzle flashes.

  My hands cramped from gripping the steering wheel, and the twisting, narrow road kept my speed to a crawl. I hoped Sheriff Hickman had responded quickly, although I was concerned he’d neither called nor had a patrol car overtake me. Maybe the storm hampered the deputies as much as it did me. After thirty minutes, I risked a quick glance at my phone. No service. Hickman might have tried to reach me only to be thwarted by my dead-zone location.

  A few minutes before seven, I glimpsed the PARI sign with barely enough reaction time to make the left turn. At least from this point on, the road wouldn’t be as winding.

  I crested a small hill and made out the shadowless gray shapes of the radio telescopes standing like impervious sentinels, neither aware of nor alarmed by the antagonistic wind and rain.

  I leaned over the steering wheel, searching for any sign of law enforcement. As I neared the parking lot of the main building, I saw only two cars, parked side by side, head-on against a wall. I couldn’t be sure, but odds were they belonged to Gordowski and Brecht.

  I circled and brought my vehicle broadside as close to the rear bumpers as I could, effectively barricading the cars in place.

  The wind had slackened, but the rain still fell in a steady stream. The sun dropped behind the ridge, and the heavy, black clouds created an eerie darkness as night came prematurely. I could either sit in my car and wait for the cavalry or confront what might be occurring inside. I made my choice, had made my choice when I took on the case. I adjusted the pistol under my shirt and ran for the door of the Visitors Center. It opened with a barely audible squeal.

  Voices sounded somewhere farther into the building. I remembered from Gordowski’s tour that a room was being converted into a multiterminal space that would link to the servers planned for a new building to house the stored data. Hardware and software needed to be upgraded and designed.

  I looked at the floor. Wet spots indicated the men had come in during the rain. Perhaps they’d only been here a little longer than me. They could have sat in their cars until the worst of the storm passed. Although there must be a staff entrance, the visitors’ door was closest to their parking spots, and I was lucky they’d left it unlocked. From their perspective, who in his right mind would come to PARI in a tempest?

  I crept along the wall into the room that controls the telescopes. Careful to avoid stumbling against chairs or display tables, I followed the hum of voices until the words became intelligible.

  “It must be the power supply, Joseph. It was working fine on Friday, but you can see the circuit breaker’s been tripped.”

  Joseph Gordowski muttered something and then spoke louder. “The power wire might have been stripped or loosened. Heat could have caused expansion that displaced it enough to short it out.”

  I edged around a corner and saw the two men through a door left ajar. Both
wore damp rain slickers. Gordowski was bending in front of a black metal rack of equipment that sat on a raised floor. Several panels of the floor had been removed to reveal cabling running underneath. One of them must have been to the faulty power supply.

  Brecht stood beside a breaker box built into the wall. He watched Gordowski with his head cocked at an angle as if considering Gordowski’s conclusion. “Maybe,” he said. “It was Friday evening, and I was anxious to get back to Asheville. I hope it isn’t damaged beyond repair.”

  “Let me take a look.” Gordowski picked up a screwdriver from a toolbox beside him and began to work on a piece of equipment on the bottom of the rack.

  Brecht’s hand jerked up to the breaker box.

  “No!” I shouted.

  Gordowski turned his head toward me. Lightning flashed in his hands as the storm seemed to have exploded through the floor. Gordowski’s face contorted into a rigid mask of pain. His body twitched in a macabre dance. A loud pop released him, and he fell into one of the open floor panels.

  I drew my pistol as Brecht charged me, slamming his shoulder into the half-open door. I fired, but the door’s impact knocked the shot wide to the left. I staggered backward, trying to keep my balance. My prosthetic leg buckled, and I fell to one knee. The hand holding the gun braced me against the wall.

  Brecht saw his avenue of escape and darted past me. He disappeared around the corner before I could fire a second shot.

  I scrambled to Gordowski. The sharp odor of ozone hung in the air around him. I pressed two fingers against his carotid artery. At first, I felt nothing, and then the faintest trace of a pulse. But he wasn’t out of danger yet, not if Brecht came back for us both.

  Holding the gun in front of me, I retraced my steps to the lobby. Outside, a renewed onslaught of wind and rain beat against the building. Lightning streaked the black sky, briefly displaying the world in strobing, frozen images. Above the howl of wind and crack of thunder, I heard the crunch of metal and glass. Brecht was in his car, ramming the side of my SUV in a desperate effort to flee. I bolted through the door and down the steps. Gordowski’s vehicle blocked a clear shot, but I could get an angle on Brecht’s rear tire as it spun in an effort to shove back my CR-V. I fired two rounds into the side wall. Then I saw enough of the rear window to send a .45-caliber slug through it. The glass exploded as lightning turned the shards into sparkling diamonds.