Danny’s eyes finally shift from the tabletop to Bob.
“I want you to tell me about the man who got killed,” Bob says quickly, taking advantage of Danny’s apparent attention. “You told Hildy you saw the man get killed.”
Danny squeezes his eyes closed, his forehead wrinkling in concentration. The hand stroking Roscoe’s head freezes in place at the back of the dog’s neck. A second later, Danny snatches his hand away from the dog and starts rubbing both hands together on top of the table. “Artie’s dead,” Danny says. He starts to rock in his seat. “He’s dead. And the purple and pink polka-dot dinosaur saw the whole thing happen.”
Bob frowns.
“May I?” I say, placing a hand on Bob’s arm. He nods. I turn the other way and say, “Danny, can you tell me what the purple and pink polka-dot dinosaur saw?”
Danny opens his eyes and looks across the table at Bob. Then he looks at me. His rocking motion speeds up and his expression turns panicked. “He’s dead,” he says. “They shot him because he wouldn’t do it. And now he’s a ghost.” He pauses and looks at me, wide-eyed and clearly afraid. “He’s mad at me because I didn’t help him. I didn’t stop them.” His voice is rising and Roscoe inches closer to him, nuzzling his nose on Danny’s belly. This contact has an immediate and startling effect, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at what Roscoe can do anymore. I’ve seen him work his magic too many times.
Danny’s hand drifts to the dog’s head and he starts stroking again, though with a degree of urgency. Still, he seems calmer. Roscoe rolls his eyes upward, looking at Danny, and snuggles his face in harder. Danny’s petting slows, his body visibly relaxes, and he looks down at Roscoe with a smile. “Good boy,” Danny murmurs.
Roscoe thumps his tail a couple of times in response.
“Danny,” I say, “can you tell me what it is that the man... Artie wouldn’t do?”
At first, I think he hasn’t heard me, or that he’s going to ignore me. There is little to no reaction from him and he keeps petting Roscoe, smiling beatifically at the dog. Just as I’m about to nudge him again, he finally provides an answer . . . a chilling one.
“Artie said he wouldn’t kill them all.”
Chapter 8
I look at Bob with a wary expression but neither of us says anything. Even Lucien appears nonplussed, and I get the sense that this man is rarely at a loss for words. Danny has also fallen silent, though he continues to stroke Roscoe’s head.
“Danny, do you know who killed Artie?”
Danny looks at me, his expression neutral. Then his gaze takes on that glassy-eyed, unfocused quality again as he stares off into space. “Artie killed Artie. Do you understand?” he says, with a mimicking tone to his voice. Then, in his normal voice he says, “I understand. Artie killed Artie.”
“He knows the victim’s name well enough, even uses a nickname,” Bob says. “If we find his prints out at that farmhouse, or in the barn—”
“I think my client needs to stop answering your questions,” Lucien says with a worried expression.
“Don’t stop him,” I say. “I think he’s echoing what someone else told him to say. Don’t you hear it in his voice?”
Lucien chews on his lower lip, looking indecisive. Before he can say anything, Bob leans forward and says, “Danny, did someone tell you to say that Arthur... Artie killed himself?”
I half expect Lucien to object to this, but he stays silent.
Danny frowns, still staring off into space, seeing who knew what—nothing pleasant judging from the terrified look on his face. Finally, tears welling in his eyes, he says, “Artie has to kill Artie, or the others will die. The others can’t die.” He breaks into sobs, his whole body shaking. Roscoe snuggles in again.
Allie reaches over and rubs her brother’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Danny,” she says. She looks at me with a pleading expression that speaks volumes without her saying another word.
I nod at her. “I don’t think Danny is going to be able to help us much today,” I say to Bob. “He isn’t thinking clearly yet, and this ghost thing has too strong a hold on him. We need to give him more time for his meds to get better balanced.”
Clearly, Bob isn’t happy about this and he makes one last desperate attempt to get a clear answer. “Danny, did you kill Arthur?” he says.
“Danny, don’t answer that!” Lucien says. “My client is done answering questions for today.” Lucien pushes back his chair and stands.
“I’m going to have to hold him,” Bob says. “He may be a killer.”
“My brother didn’t kill anyone,” Allie says, clearly upset. “Please don’t lock him up. It won’t go well if you do. He doesn’t like restraints of any sort.”
“I have to agree with Allie,” I say. “And Danny isn’t going anywhere. He’s not a flight risk.”
Bob shakes his head and makes a face of disapproval, but I can tell he’s going to cave.
“What proof do you have that my client was even near your victim at the time of his death?” Lucien asks.
“We know he knew the victim based on his use of a nickname for him,” Bob says. “And we can also place him at the scene. He saw something there, something unusual that one wouldn’t normally know or mention.”
“What?” Lucien snaps. “That ridiculous polka-dotted dinosaur you mentioned?” His tone is heavy with skepticism.
“I know it sounds farfetched,” I say, “but there was a pink and purple polka-dotted dinosaur cookie jar on the counter right behind Mr. Fletcher’s body.”
“Which means my client could have seen it at any time,” Lucien points out. “Perhaps he incorporated the image of that cookie jar into whatever schizoid hallucination he is experiencing with this current break from reality. It proves nothing. Do you have anything else? His prints on the weapon, perhaps? Or blood spatter evidence on him or his clothing?”
Bob sighs irritably. “When your client first started spouting off the stuff about someone getting killed, we had no idea there was any truth behind it. There was no reason to examine him or his clothing for blood spatter. We do have his fingerprints on file now. We obtained those upon his arrival here at the station, but I don’t know yet if they match any found on the gun or at the house.”
“So, is that your long-winded way of saying no?” Lucien asks.
Rather than answer Lucien’s obviously mocking question, Bob looks at Allie and says, “Has your brother changed his clothes since he came home last night and started talking about death and ghosts?”
Allie looks at her brother and nods.
“There was no obvious blood spatter on his clothes when I saw him,” I say.
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t there,” Bob says. “It could be microscopic.” He looks at Lucien. “I would like to search your client’s house for the clothing he was wearing last night.”
“And I’d like to visit the moon,” Lucien says with a sardonic smile. “Get a warrant.” With that, he closes his briefcase and says to Allie, “Take your brother home. And if anyone shows up at your house wanting to come inside and look around, don’t let them in. Call me first.”
Allie nods, gets up from her chair, and nudges her brother’s arm. “Come on, Danny. Let’s go home.”
“Roscoe, come,” I say, and my dog dutifully backs up several steps, though he doesn’t take his eyes off Danny’s face.
Danny pushes back his chair and stands, smiling briefly at Roscoe before walking around the end of the table behind me and to the door that Lucien is now holding open. Allie mutters, “Thanks, Hildy,” as she follows him, and she gives Roscoe a good-boy pat on the head. Lucien is the last one out and he shuts the door firmly behind him, not quite a slam, but something of a statement nonetheless, it seems to me.
Bob looks over at me with a tired, frustrated expression. “Your thoughts?” he says.
“I think that lawyer is a piece of work. Rude and crude.”
“And today was nothing. I’ve seen him much worse. Did you kno
w that he’s Mattie Winston’s brother-in-law? He’s married to her sister, Desi.”
“Really?” I’m a little surprised to hear this and it makes me wonder what this sister is like. I’ve met Mattie a few times and she seems very down-to-earth, a no-nonsense person. She doesn’t strike me as someone who would tolerate Lucien Colter very well. Her sister must be nothing like her. “Do you know the sister?” I ask Bob.
“Can’t say I know her, but I’ve met her a few times. She’s very nice. I don’t quite get how she ended up with Lucien.”
I shrug and smile. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”
This creates an awkward silence between us. Despite a mutual attraction, Bob and I have been out on only one date. And that was only sort of a date. I had to hijack some potential evidence in a case and essentially bribe him with it to get him to eat dinner with me. I did make it clear that I was interested in pursuing him on a nonwork level, however, and after today’s inquiry, it’s clear that the two of us are on a potential romantic path together. Complicating this—as if a sixteen-year age difference and the fact that Bob is practically a fifty-year-old virgin aren’t complications enough—I’ve also been on one dinner date with Jonas Kriedeman, the police department evidence tech and single father to an adorable and somewhat precocious little girl named Sofie. That date consisted of dinner at Jonas’s house with him and Sofie.
Each man knew I’d seen the other, and in the three weeks since, neither one of them has seen fit to ask me out again. I figure if I sit around waiting for these men to take the initiative, I’ll grow old and moldy all alone.
Bob rousts me from my thoughts and snaps me back to the here and now. “Give me your thoughts on Danny.”
“I’ve known him for two years now and I’ve worked with him and his sister through several of his mental breaks.”
“Breaks?” Bob says with a scoffing chuckle. “You make it sound like he’s taking a mental health vacation or something.”
“Well, in essence, he is,” I say. “Danny functions completely normally when his meds are in balance and his schizophrenia is in check. You wouldn’t know he has a mental health problem. But the medications have some horrible side effects, like impotence, sedation, clouded thinking, and taste alterations. If they’re severe enough they can lead some people to stop taking the meds. They typically do okay at first because it takes a while for the levels to wear off, but eventually their illness takes hold again and you’re back to square one, trying to balance the effects of the meds with the desired quality of life.”
“Danny doesn’t always take his meds?” Bob asks.
“That’s been an issue for him in the past, for the very reasons I just gave you. But the last time I saw him he was on a new mix of meds and they seemed to be working well and not giving him the kinds of side effects that he hates.”
“In the past, when he stopped taking his meds, did he ever get violent?”
I shake my head. “No, never. Danny often hears voices, but I’ve never known him to be violent. That’s not to say that he couldn’t be. The voices one hears during a schizophrenic break can be quite convincing and determined. Danny wouldn’t be the first person to act on them, but his voices have never been provocative on a violent level.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Bob says.
“I suppose. Last night’s episode wasn’t quite his typical break,” I admit. I summarize the events that led to our trip to the ER. “Danny had the auditory hallucinations as usual, but last night he apparently had some visual ones, as well. He claims he saw a ghost, though I suppose that might have been the work of an overstressed imagination.”
“Do you think he killed Arthur Fletcher?”
“I don’t,” I say without hesitation, talking through a yawn. “Do I think he knows what happened out there at that farm? Yes, I do. Lucien is right about the possibility of Danny incorporating the cookie jar into whatever fantasy scenario his mind cooked up, so I don’t know if he witnessed it happening, or simply saw the dead man afterward. Clearly, he was there, however. That cookie jar matched his description too closely for any other explanation. We just have to figure out how, why, and when he was there.” I pause for another yawn and my jaw cracks loudly.
Bob smiles at me. “You’ve been up all night. You should go home and get some sleep.”
“It is a bit past my bedtime,” I say, shifting in my chair to relieve some body kinks. “I’m supposed to ride again tonight with Brenda Joiner.”
“Are you looking forward to it?”
“Never a dull moment,” I say archly. “But I like it that way. It’s been both fun and educational so far. And I like to think it’s been helpful, too.”
Bob pushes his chair back and starts to get up. I realize it’s now or never if I’m going to take the plunge.
“Today is Saturday and that means I can sleep during the day and have my evening free before I go out to ride with Brenda at eleven. Any chance I can interest you in having dinner with me again?”
Bob cocks his head to one side and eyes me for a moment. I try to read his expression but can’t guess what he’s thinking. Finally, he says, “What about Jonas?”
“I haven’t heard anything from him since my initial dinner with him and his daughter. But if you’re asking me if I’ve ruled him out as a suitor, then my answer would be no. I like you both. I need more data before I can come to any conclusions.”
“You sound very methodical and scientific about it,” Bob observes.
“Does that bother you?”
“On the contrary. I kind of like it. And yes, we can have dinner tonight. Though it will have to be a quick one. The sheriff’s department has a detective assigned to this case, but they’ve asked us to help. They have tasked me with a lot of the groundwork, and I need to be working the case until I can make some headway. So, there is a possibility I might have to cancel on you. I’ve also got the FBI and Homeland Security directing and giving me work to do, so I’m not sure just how involved I’ll need to be. Plus, I think the DEA is in the mix now, too.”
“Quite the alphabet soup,” I say. “Who’s ultimately in charge?”
“The county guys, technically,” Bob says with a frown. “But they’re operating on a skeleton crew. They’re stretched too thin just with the car accidents and overdoses they get calls for.” He sighs wearily. “I can tell you how it will go because I’ve dealt with these multi-jurisdictional situations before. The federal agencies will argue over who gets to be in charge and just when you think they’re about to kill one another, they’ll all step back, see me as someone they can boss around, and then slap an investigation coordinator title on me. Basically, it means I get to do all the dirty work, report back to each of them, and then they’ll take most of the credit.” He pauses, sighs, and shakes his head. “It’s like working with the Hydra, except I’m not Heracles.”
I give him a surprised look. “You’re up on your Greek and Roman mythology, I see,” I say, admittedly impressed.
He shrugs. “Yeah, I read a lot when I was younger. Still do, for that matter. I was a fat kid who didn’t participate in sports and didn’t have a lot of friends, so I spent my time with books exploring alternate worlds.”
“We have less than stellar childhoods in common, it seems,” I say. We share an awkward moment of gazing at one another with half smiles before Bob clears his throat and looks away. “With regards to dinner,” I say, “tell you what. I make a mean sausage sandwich with onions, peppers, and provolone cheese. How about we plan to meet at my place and if something comes up and you can’t get away, I’ll bring the sandwich to you.”
Bob frowns. “That doesn’t sound like much of a date.”
“Sometimes you have to take what you can get. I’m nothing if not adaptable. Growing up in the foster system teaches you that.”
He smiles. “You’re an interesting woman, Hildy Schneider.”
“Yeah, you’ve said that before. Makes me think you might need t
o get out in the world a little more. How does six sound for dinner?” This question triggers another in my mind.
“Sounds just fine. I’ll see you then. If I can’t make it or think I’ll be late, I’ll text you.” He pauses and I realize after a second that he’s staring at me. “Is that okay?” he says.
“Sorry, I was thinking about something. Is what okay?”
“If I text you to cancel or say I’ll be late. Is that an acceptable thing to do these days? I have a hard time keeping up with all this new technology and the etiquette that goes with it.”
“That’s fine. Or if you’re more comfortable calling, do so.”
Bob tilts his head to one side, studying me. “What were you thinking about just now?”
“The timeline. Doc Morton said the time of death was eighteen to thirty-six hours earlier, but that there were things that didn’t quite add up. If he’s right, it sounds like Arthur Fletcher was killed earlier in the day yesterday, or maybe even the day before. When we got to Allie’s house last night, Danny was pacing, ranting, and holding a slice of pizza from Quik-E-Mart. I took it away from him and set it aside when I was trying to talk to him. The pizza was warm, so he had to have been there right before he got home. That makes sense, because the city cemetery is nearby and that’s where Danny said he saw the ghost. Maybe there’s video of him there. And we should have asked him, or Allie, if he worked at the food processing plant yesterday. He might have an alibi for the time of death if we can nail down when it was.”
Bob assumes a wistful expression for a moment. “That’s good to know,” he says. “I’ll look into it.” He jots down some notes on the pad in front of him, identical to one he gave me at the start of the session, which remains on the table in front of me, blank, but exquisitely aligned with the table’s edge and the pen that is resting beside it.
I get up then and, on cue, Roscoe rises at my side. I try unsuccessfully to stifle a big yawn, and Bob smiles at me.
Night Shift Page 8