Shatter the Night

by Emily Littlejohn

  Fuego whined again. Ramirez leaned down, scratched his head. “A couple of buddies of mine from Iraq were passing through. We met up at a bar after my shift ended. I knew them well, or at least I thought I did. But they’d brought some other friends, guys I didn’t know. Anyway, by midnight, there were five of them. I was careful, watching how much I drank. Someone, I don’t know who, slipped something into my margarita when I stepped away to use the restroom. I woke up the next morning, covered in bruises, in some shitty hotel room off the strip.”

  “You’d been raped?”

  Ramirez nodded. “Raped, beaten, and robbed. The assholes stole three hundred dollars from my purse. The worst part was it wasn’t the first time. I’d been attacked, twice before, in Iraq. Each time I reported it to my commanding officer and each time, nothing was done. You’d be surprised at the ‘boys will be boys’ mentality still entrenched in the military. Or maybe not. Maybe you’ve experienced it yourself.”

  I met her stare. “Nothing like that. Did you report the crimes in Vegas?”

  Ramirez nodded. “Yes. The guys were long gone by then. I don’t know how seriously the Vegas cops looked for them. I took a day off from work, then went in hot and furious. I was pissed at the world. I wanted someone else to hurt as badly as I did. I let it get to me and I did something stupid.”

  She paused, took another deep breath, and smiled. “His name was John Dervy. We called him Pervy Dervy because he was a fat old pig of an engineer on our crew, always leering at women, making disgusting jokes. We were at a simulation and I got my hands on the fire hose. I turned it on Dervy full blast, right in the nuts. He went down screaming. It took four guys to get that hose away from me. God, it felt good.”

  I had to smile, too. Although I rarely advocated violence, it was satisfying to hear Ramirez kick at the establishment, one perv at a time.

  She continued. “After that, my chief wasn’t too happy with me. I think he was mostly pissed because I was a good, solid team player, but he couldn’t keep both Dervy and me on. And Dervy had seniority while I was the hothead busted with a hose in my hand. So a week later, I was here, tired and exhausted and about ready to throw in the towel.” Ramirez straightened up, her eyes blazing with emotion. “Then things started happening; good things. I found a sweet little rental. Fire Chief Teller turned out to be awesome. And this town is beautiful. I’d never spent so much time in the mountains. I always thought of myself as a beach gal, but these peaks, they’re something else. Why would I risk all of that to copy the crimes of some old guy I’ve never even heard of?”

  She was right, of course. Absolutely nothing she’d done to this point was indicative of a murderer. I took a deep breath and said, “I’m so sorry, about all of it. The last thing I want to do is make you feel even more persecuted than you’ve been.”

  Ramirez said, “I served in the military, with honor. You will never understand the sacrifices our troops make so that you can live in the land of the free. And yes, I’ve earned a black belt after hours, hours, of practice and further sacrifice. As for the comic books? I had a learning disability when I was younger. I struggled with reading. A librarian at my elementary school introduced me to comic books. She taught me how to enjoy books; she saved my life that way. How do you think I survived Iraq? Fiction. Stories. Comics. Drawing. I poured my anxiety and my pain and my anger into those things. And now you’re holding all of that against me.”

  My face was on fire by the time she finished; I couldn’t remember being more embarrassed in my professional life than at that moment. Finn’s reckless actions had put me into a baseless confrontation with not a superhero, but an ordinary woman who was using every tool at her disposal to simply get through the day. She was a thousand times more impressive than any superhero.

  Lamely, I tried to appeal my case. “You’re an investigator; you know the drill. I had to ask.”

  “Not like this, you didn’t. I shouldn’t have expected that we might be friends.” Ramirez leaned back and stared at the table, a scornful expression on her face.

  I was sorely disappointed. If we hadn’t questioned her, we wouldn’t have been doing our jobs, and yet she was right; it didn’t have to go down like this. I was sorry she’d had to relive her trauma; sorry she’d had to lay bare her past in order for me to understand her present. And sorry that in all likelihood, I wouldn’t be part of her future. In the short time I’d gotten to know her, I too had thought we could become friends. Maybe even good friends. And that was something I was missing in my life: strong female friends that I could both respect and learn from.

  Ramirez pushed back from the table. “Are we done here?”

  I nodded. “You’ve done a great job with the investigation. I respect your skills tremendously.”

  “Yeah, sure. Fuego, come.” The dog followed his master out of the room, with me trailing behind them. In the hallway, Finn straightened up from the wall where he’d been leaning. Ramirez paused in front of him.

  Fuego looked up at Finn and pulled his lips back in an angry snarl, then let out a short, quick bark.

  My God, even the dog hated him.

  Ramirez stared Finn in the eyes. “Was any of it real? Or did you just use me for your investigation?”

  Before he could answer, she slapped him, hard, against the cheek. “See you around, Francis.”

  She walked away, her long dark hair swinging behind her, matching her angry strides.

  I said to Finn in a low voice, “Consider yourself lucky. She could have knocked your head against that wall and I, for one, wouldn’t have stopped her.”

  But my partner ignored me, instead staring after Liv Ramirez, a hangdog look in his eyes and a bright red palm print on the side of his face.

  * * *

  Finn and I sat with the team and went over everything, from the beginning: the death threats Caleb had received and his murder; our trips to Bishop and Belle Vista; the robbery and killing at First Pillar; all of it. On the conference room table were copies of the investigative reports into Josiah Black; his arrest and trial records; copies of newspaper articles covering the crimes; and finally, all the paperwork, photographs included, that Renee, the clerk in Utah, had faxed to me.

  Also on the table was a red-and-white-striped box of doughnut holes. Someone else had brought in a bag of clementine oranges. The fruit sat untouched as the doughnut holes dwindled, though I knew if we were in here long enough, eventually one of us would cave and then we’d all follow suit.

  Occasionally someone would pick up a transcript, or stare at a photograph, praying that something new would jump out. But nothing did, and the collective mood was glum and anxious. Only Jimmy maintained a steady level of excitement, and I had to admit I knew what he was feeling; it was akin to being in the air mid-dive, feet off the ground, body high up, not yet in the water. It was the same feeling I got when I was deep in the belly of a twisting, complicated case.

  But this case, this one, it was too personal, too twisty. I felt nothing but a sense of despair in my chest.

  Moriarty leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “What about the father? Casey Black’s dad?”

  “We have no idea who he is. Jimmy tracked down a birth certificate and the name of the father was left blank. I think we can assume that Casey, who is male, by the way, was born out of wedlock.” I reached for the last doughnut in the box. It was chocolate, with orange sprinkles, and I quickly popped it in my mouth before anyone could object. “Jimmy did great; he stayed late and found out quite a bit. Jimmy, why don’t you share the rest?”

  The intern stood and slipped his hands into the pockets of his camo-patterned jacket. “In 1990, just before her mother, Amelia, died, Debbie Black rented a house in Seaport, Texas. She worked days at a dry cleaner and nights at a bar. And she enrolled Casey Black in the local school system. But Debbie wasn’t happy. She’d spent too many years looking for a home of her own, listening to Amelia spill poison about Cedar Valley, telling her to never trust anyone
. A lot of this is conjecture, by the way, but I think it’s close to accurate. Bottom line is that Debbie took her own life during Casey’s senior year of high school.”

  As we sat back and absorbed the tragic story, Armstrong caved first and pulled a clementine from the bag. As he peeled the fruit, the smell of citrus began to fill the room and I found myself wondering if oranges were grown in Texas. Had Debbie Black stood at her kitchen sink, morning after morning, washing dishes and looking out at citrus groves?

  Or was Seaport actually on the coast? Had her view been one of blue on blue, sky on ocean?

  Had that been the last thing she’d seen on the day she died?

  I couldn’t fathom taking my own life, especially now that I had a child … but my tragedies, my losses, were different than those of Amelia and Debbie Black. Though I’d grown up without parents, I’d been raised with love, in a loving home. This was my home, my town; it grounded and centered me.

  Amelia, and Debbie by proxy, must have felt like refugees; forced to leave their home to escape persecution, never to go back.

  “How did Debbie kill herself?” Armstrong asked.

  “She rented a small boat and took it out in the harbor. When night fell, she still hadn’t returned. It was two days before they found the boat, drifting out at sea. Inside, they found ropes and bricks. They never did find Debbie’s body.” Jimmy paused, swallowed. “Cops didn’t suspect foul play; Debbie went out on the water alone, the harbormaster and the manager at the rental company both swore to that. A couple of days later, they found a suicide note in Debbie’s personal effects.”

  The thought of Debbie Black picking up brick after brick and tying them to her body, then slipping from the boat down into the dark, cold depths of the Gulf waters was too gruesome to bear.

  “And Casey?” Chief Chavez asked. “What happened to him?”

  Jimmy continued. “Casey soon graduated high school and enlisted in the military the next day. This morning, Gemma sent an urgent request to the National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis. Turnaround time could be two days, though they’re going to try to get it to us sooner.”

  “Get what? His military records?” Moriarty asked.

  I nodded. “The trail goes cold after Seaport. We’ve been unable to locate a Casey Black with that birthdate and Social Security number anywhere in the U.S. But if we can determine where Casey was sent, if he was deployed overseas or stationed in another state, we’re that much closer to tracking him down.”

  Chief Chavez rubbed at his jaw. “And we’re sure that’s where we should be expending our energy?”

  “Yes,” Finn said. We’d spent a long time talking about this. “These are the facts: someone is re-creating Josiah Black’s crimes. That someone is comfortable with explosives and weapons. He didn’t flinch when he shot Mike Esposito. Now we discover Black’s grandson has military experience. The kid’s mom took her own life. He has all the reason in the world to hate this town. He’s our best, and only, suspect.”

  Jimmy jumped back in. “And the comic book is the icing on the cake. The Ghost Boy character debuted the year Casey Black was born. At his core, Ghost Boy is a soldier who believes the world owes him something. He’s a big baby, really … his dramatic allegiances to evil armies, his disguises. A real man would come out, show himself, and fight an honorable fight. But our killer, like Ghost Boy, slinks around in costumes. The comics he leaves behind are his calling card.”

  “Do we have a photograph of Casey?” Moriarty asked. He too went for a clementine, though he bit into it and peeled it with his teeth. “Might help if we knew what the kid looked like.”

  “I’m hoping the military records can provide one. We’ve left a message with the DMV in Seaport; they may have a copy of his driver’s license photo still on file. We also tried the high school. Tragically, it burned to the ground a few days after Casey graduated, taking with it all the archived yearbooks. We’ve sent a request to the principal; perhaps there’s a teacher or administrator still around with yearbooks of their own. At this point, anything would help. All we’ve got is the picture of Casey with his mother and grandmother at Disneyland, and all that tells us is that Casey is Caucasian with brown eyes.” I paused, looked over the room. “In other words, Josiah Black’s grandchild, who is now an adult, could be anyone … anywhere.”

  Finn added, “There are signs the fire at Casey’s school was a deliberate act of arson. He’s been comfortable with flames, with fire, for a long time.”

  Chief Chavez sighed and leaned forward. “Talk to us about the 1948 crimes. Who got hurt and why.”

  Finn stood up, began pacing the room. “The first target was the doctor, then the bank guard, then the people in the tavern, specifically the owner. In all three instances, the prosecution argued that Josiah Black’s victims were people he blamed for the suffering he’d endured during World War II.”

  Moriarty ran a hand through his thick white hair. “So the next hit is a bar.”

  I said, “Not necessarily. Our modern killer didn’t target a doctor. Instead, he killed the son of the judge who presided over Josiah Black’s trial. The location of the killing was off by about a half mile. In this instance, the victim was more important than the absolute re-creation of the original killing. However, with Mike Esposito’s death, it’s the opposite; the location becomes the driving factor: First Pillar Bank and Trust. The victim doesn’t matter, as long as it’s a guard.”

  “So what Gemma’s saying is that the third attack, which we believe to be imminent, could be either victim-based or location-based. Not only that, but this town’s roots go deep. There are folks here, our neighbors, friends, whose relatives are the people pictured in the angry mob outside Josiah Black’s trial.” Finn paused, took a deep breath. “What I’m saying is that for all we do know, we have no way of knowing where the killer will strike next.”

  After a moment, Moriarty quietly asked, “And the theater?”

  I looked at him. “What about it?”

  “Oh, come on. The Shotgun Playhouse will open its doors tomorrow night to the public, for the first time in over a hundred years. It’s a sold-out crowd. Doesn’t that seem like an obvious target for the creep?” Moriarty sat back, crossed his legs, and folded his arms. “You’re friendly with Nash Dumont, Gemma. Get him to reschedule the grand opening.”

  “I’m hardly friendly with him. I know him and his wife very superficially. He’s not going to budge. Opening night, the play … his reputation is at stake.”

  Moriarty turned to Armstrong. “Lucas, your own daughter will be on that stage. You’re okay with that?”

  “No, I’m not.” Armstrong shook his head, troubled. “But Maggie’s an adult. I can’t lock her in her room. Besides, if the theater is the target, pushing back opening night won’t make any difference. The killer will simply wait until the later date, then strike. I think a better approach is to get every available cop in this valley on board. All hands on deck, Chief. We run patrols at the theater, do bag and purse checks. We can move in metal detectors. There’s no way this punk gets through us.”

  Jimmy said, “However … thus far, the killer has stuck to Black’s schedule, with attacks roughly five days apart. If the theater is the target and we keep its doors closed, the killer may move on to another location anyway, to stick with his timetable. He won’t want to delay.”

  “So is it the date or the location that’s important?” Moriarty groaned. “This is like playing poker with the three blind mice. All bets are good; all bets are bad. Doesn’t matter what the cards show; there’s no one around to see them.”

  I bit my lip. “If we direct our efforts on the theater, and we’re wrong, then we risk leaving the rest of the town defenseless. And I just don’t think the theater is the target. The Shotgun Playhouse closed its doors well before Josiah Black’s time. There’s no connection to him, no link to his crimes or his personal life.”

  We fell silent after that. Long minutes later, Chief Chavez said, “Wh
at I don’t understand, and what I think is critical to understand, is why now? What’s happened to bring this son of a bitch forward? Sure, we’re at the seventy-year anniversary of the original crimes. But his crimes, they’re history.”

  “No. Not to the killer, they’re not.” I looked around the room, briefly stopping at each person on the team. “To him, they’re personal. They’re everything.”

  * * *

  We broke after that. Moriarty and Armstrong decided to pore through Black’s records and the articles on him once more, this time looking for any mention of something or someplace that might be especially personal to Black, someplace that could be a potential target. In the meantime, Finn and Jimmy would check the names in the same articles and records, to see if there was anyone still in town that might be a relation to, say, the arresting officer or jury members.

  I would have joined them, but Edith Montgomery called and asked me for an update on the case. I reached her house in the late afternoon, once more parking on the street and walking down the driveway, now clear of the leaves that had been there the week before. The snow had stopped falling, although the air remained frigid.

  “We can talk in the library; I’ve got a fire going.” She gestured for me to follow her and I did, our footsteps echoing on the floor. “It’s as though frost has settled in my bones. Maybe it’s in my soul.”

  “Where’s Tom?”

  She said in a low voice, “He’s around here somewhere. I think he’s having a midlife crisis. Our mother always did coddle him. I think it made him soft, if you know what I mean. Truth be told, I’m looking forward to him leaving soon. He can be a bit … dramatic. It’s wearing on me.”

  Inside the library, a fire roared. Edith offered me a brandy, which I declined. She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She poured herself a generous amount, neat, into a crystal snifter.

  We took seats in two plush armchairs that were set back a comfortable distance from the fireplace. Edith had left the ceiling lights off, preferring instead to turn on only a few side table lamps. Though the fire was bright, and Edith pleasant, the room felt heavy with gloom.