I Shall Not Want

by Debbie Viguié

  “I don’t think Derek was one of the victims. I think he was one of the villains.”

  Jeremiah wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep off the rest of the flu. After hearing the song dedication on the radio, though, he had known he would get no rest until he knew for sure that his old colleague was actually dead.

  I saw him, I touched the body, inspected the wound. I don’t know how he could have faked that, unless it wasn’t really him.

  There was only one way to find out. He stood and looked himself over in the mirror. He was dressed in all black from head to toe. There were no buttons, zippers, or any other identifying marks. The black was dull and flat, not even the shoes held any shine and neither did the gloves that he wore. He put on the cap and mask, which were made of the thin, black material used to hide a person’s face in many of the Halloween costumes that were so popular. The effect was perfect. Even as he stared at himself in the mirror, he felt his eyes drifting slightly away from his own reflection. He could see just fine through the cloth, but no one could see him.

  He gripped the edge of the sink as a wave of cold washed over him. The shape in the mirror was one he had not had reason to behold in a long time. What would Marie say if she could see her rabbi now?

  He turned the television in his bedroom on low and piled pillows under his blankets that would pass a cursory inspection through the window. He had left the bottom quarter of the window uncovered by blinds. Finished, he moved to his office, and after a minute spent studying the world outside the window, he opened it and eased himself out and onto the ground below, feet touching down silently. He slid the window closed, leaving only a crack for him to be able to use his fingers to open it again.

  He carried no wallet or keys. Strapped to his left leg was a small black knife, also dull black, and a tiny black tool set. He made his way to a street three over from his without being spotted and then from there walked to the local movie theater. It was only two miles, but they served to remind him of just how weak the flu had made him.

  Once in the parking lot, he kept to the shadows, even though he could have walked freely and not been noticed by the moviegoers. With no bit of color or shine there was nothing for the human eye to track on. Even if someone did see him, they would never be able to tell someone even the most rudimentary information, such as his height or body shape.

  He drifted close to a dark car as it parked. Three guys jumped out. “Hurry, dudes, the movie starts in like five minutes, and I don’t want to miss the previews,” the driver called as the three ran toward the theater. “It’s gonna be awesome!”

  Jeremiah waited three minutes to make sure none of them had left a wallet in the car and would come back for it. When they didn’t return, he moved to the driver’s side, pulled one of the lock-pick tools from the kit on his leg, and opened the door in seconds. He slid behind the wheel, reached under the steering column, and hotwired the car.

  He wasn’t proud of it, but he was at least pleased to see that none of his old skills had faded. A minute later he pulled out of the parking lot. He drove to the hospital, parked the car, and then proceeded to make his way down to the morgue.

  He made short work of the lock, relocked the door once inside, and bypassed the light switch. He pulled a small pen-light out of his pocket, the lens covered in cloth to diffuse the light. The room smelled of antiseptic, which could not cover the stench of death.

  A minute later Jeremiah found the correct drawer and stared into a familiar face. The coroner had finished with the body, and it awaited transport. Jeremiah didn’t care about the forensic work that had been done. He cared only about a positive identification.

  The face was as he remembered it; a beard could not alter it enough to obscure it. But faces could be changed, and for all he knew the man might have had a brother. He should have checked while he was searching him, but he had believed him to be the man he thought him to be and had not questioned it until the radio dedication.

  Jeremiah grabbed the right arm and shone the light on the skin just above the elbow. There, subtle enough that a plastic surgeon would not have bothered to duplicate it, was a one-inch scar, faded with age. It was a scar that Jeremiah had given him. He gently lowered the arm back down.

  “Rest in peace, friend,” he whispered.

  He slid the drawer back in place. As he turned toward the door, he heard voices coming down the hallway outside the morgue, whisper-faint but drawing closer. He turned off the penlight, returned it to his pocket, and melted into the shadows.

  A minute later the door opened, overhead lights flickered on, and two men entered with a body.

  “Where was this one found?” the taller of the two men asked.

  “Joseph Coulter’s house, where the body was found on Friday.”

  “It looks like this guy’s been dead a while too.”

  Jeremiah listened intently while pressed against a wall in the corner, not moving a muscle.

  “Connected?”

  “Dollars to donuts.”

  They placed the body on one of the examination tables and a minute later left.

  Jeremiah glided over to the body, taking a moment to examine the face. He did not know the man, and he was quite sure he had not seen him before. He exited the room, locking the door behind him.

  Within an hour he had returned the car to the parking lot and made it back home. He took a dose of flu medication and crawled into bed. A mystery still remained about the radio dedication, and it troubled him, but there was nothing he could do about it that night, and certainly nothing he could do about it while so sick. He had gotten lucky that he had managed to accomplish all he had. There was no way he was willing to risk more without pressing need.

  “I’ve had it with this case,” Paul said as they arrived back at the station.

  “You and me both,” Mark said with a sigh.

  He pulled the CD out of his jacket and tossed it to one of the other officers. “I need to see if we can identify all the people in these pictures, particularly the protestors. And keep your eyes out for one of them who might be homeless as well.”

  “When do you need it?”

  “First thing in the morning,” Mark said with a sigh. “We need to question all of them as soon as possible.”

  The officer nodded and headed off with the disc.

  “I don’t like working Thanksgiving,” Paul said.

  “Who does? But criminals need catching, even if it is a holiday for the rest of the world.”

  “I should have listened to my mother and become a banker.”

  Mark snorted. “I have a hard time picturing that.”

  “Me too. That’s why I became a cop. Catching killers instead of cashing checks.”

  “Well, I need to head home to Traci, or you’ll be catching my killer.”

  “If Traci ever kills you, it will be justifiable homicide, of that I’m certain.”

  “You really think Derek was involved in some sort of plot?” Joseph asked Cindy once the police had left.

  “Did you ever check with that dog breeder’s family to see if Derek actually worked for him?”

  Joseph blinked several times. “I made a phone call, to a number he gave me. The man on the other end of the line verified it.”

  “But did you know who the man on the other end of the line was for sure?”

  “No,” Joseph admitted. “I’d only met the old man. I didn’t know any of his family.”

  “I think Derek was involved in something. Why else would Larry, the vet tech, be dead in Derek’s locked room? Why would Derek have had a new lock installed without informing you? I don’t think he ever worked for that man on the East Coast. I think he sought you out on purpose.”

  “Why? What was his motive?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever it was, I bet Larry was his partner in some way.”

  “You think he double-crossed him?”

  “Maybe.”

  Joseph shook his head. “I don’t know if the th
ought that he was somehow part of a plot and that’s what got him killed makes me feel any better about him being killed here in my house. I haven’t slept well since all this started. My home has been broken into, and now I learn two people have been killed in it. How am I supposed to get any rest ever again? I’ve contacted a different security company to redo the entire system next week, but I’m not sure I’ll feel better even after that happens.”

  “It will take time, but eventually it will get better,” Cindy said, reaching out to grip his hand. “Believe me. Even though you’re surrounded by death, even though your home has been broken into, you will get through this, and at some point you’ll even be able to relax again, if you let yourself.”

  “I knew a lot of terrible things happened to you earlier this year. I don’t think I ever really understood or appreciated what you went through until now. I’m so sorry. I should have been more sympathetic, tried to help out in some way.”

  “There was nothing you could have done,” Cindy said. “And besides, we barely knew each other back then. Don’t worry; I made it through. And because I do understand, I’ll help you make it through this.”

  “Thank you. Again.”

  “No problem. If you could help me figure out what Derek might have been after, though, it will help us put this all behind us much faster.”

  “Well, we ruled out the diamond collar,” he said ruefully.

  “Yes. I would think if it was simple robbery, he would have been able to snatch whatever he was after months ago, without the help of accomplices.”

  “Tina always told me I was too trusting,” Joseph said grimly. “Yes, it would have been easy for him to steal anything in this house at any time in the last several months.”

  “So let’s rule out robbery.”

  “Okay, what does that leave us with?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, racking her brain to think of something that Mark wouldn’t call a Scooby Doo plot. “Blackmail?”

  Joseph shrugged. “How, what? There’s nothing in my life that I would pay to keep quiet.”

  “Good to know,” she said with a wry smile. “Ransom?”

  “No one demanded anything in return for the puppies. I would have gladly paid a ransom for their return.” “Revenge?”

  “Again, for what? I have no enemies that I know of. Rivals, yes, enemies, no. And, even if I did, Derek had multiple opportunities to kill me, maim me, or harm me in any number of ways.”

  Cindy sat quietly. What else could there be? She had to be missing something. What other motive could drive a man to spend six months in the employ of someone, waiting and planning, and drive one or more people to kill? Why was Derek killed? Why was Larry killed?

  “It’s getting late,” Joseph said softly. “And clearly you’re not going to be able to find those letters. You should go home.”

  The letters. “If it was some activist that did this, why kill Derek and not you? Why allow the adoptions to happen at all?”

  “Even if an activist did kill Derek or the vet tech, that doesn’t explain what Derek was doing.”

  “Or where he put all your papers,” Cindy said softly. “Are you sure he didn’t have some other place, an apartment, a storage unit?”

  “If he did, I don’t know about it.”

  “I wish I knew what was on his laptop and where it is right now,” she sighed.

  “I wish I knew where six months of paperwork was. If I can’t find it, then he’s done more damage to me than stealing everything in this house.”

  13

  CINDY WAS UP AT SIX A.M. ON THANKSGIVING MORNING STUFFING THE TURkey. When she finally slid it into the oven, she had a new found respect for her father, who had always been up before anyone else, prepping Thanksgiving dinner.

  On a whim she called his cell phone as soon as she closed the oven door. “Hi, Dad,” she said when he answered.

  “Sweetheart, what are you doing up so early on Thanksgiving?”

  “I just put the turkey in the oven.”

  “Ah. Me too. Bread’s rising nicely.”

  She kicked herself. She had forgotten to prep the bread the night before. Oh, well, the sourdough loaf she had would have to do for sandwiches later. “I’m glad to hear it. I love your bread.”

  “You could come home and have some, you know. We’d love to have you for the holiday.”

  “Someday.”

  “Or maybe we could come sample your turkey, someday.”

  She smiled. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  She hung up with her father and headed off to the shower. Holidays at her home had always been somewhat strange, at least when she compared them to those of her friends. Half the time her dad was out of the country and missed the entire event. When he was home, her mother regaled him with tales of Kyle’s adventures and praised him until Cindy felt like her presence was completely optional. She was still fairly certain that no one had even missed her the first holiday she hadn’t gone.

  Then again, her current holidays were starting to become even stranger than those of her childhood. It was destined to be one of the oddest, most memorable Thanksgivings in her history. She could feel it.

  When she exited the shower, the phone was ringing and she hurried to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Geanie. Sorry to call so early, but you said you’d be up stuffing the turkey.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Actually, it’s more what I can do for you. I was wondering if you needed any help?”

  “Actually, that would be fantastic.”

  “Cool. I’ll be there in about half an hour.”

  “Works for me.”

  No sooner had she hung up than the phone rang again. She assumed it was Geanie and was surprised when she heard a male voice instead.

  “It’s Detective Paul,” he said.

  “Oh, hi. What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “I need a better description of the homeless protestor who jumped in front of your car Friday night.”

  “I told you all I could remember,” Cindy said. “He had dreadlocks. Haven’t you found him yet?”

  “No, we’ve circulated the description you gave us, but no one seems to know who he is. There must be something else, even if it’s minor, that you overlooked.”

  “I just don’t think so,” Cindy said, her frustration mounting.

  “Well, if you think of something, call Mark or me on our cells.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  Why can’t they find him? Could he also be dead?

  Geanie arrived a few minutes later with pies and enthusiasm and completely managed to distract Cindy from the grimmer questions of the week. She was in shorts and a tank top and had brought her dinner clothes with her. She dumped her stuff in Cindy’s room and then returned to the kitchen.

  “Okay, what can I do?”

  Cindy nodded toward the refrigerator. “The list is up there of the dishes we’re making, with approximate cook and prep times listed. Dinner is in six hours, so we need to plan accordingly. The turkey with the stuffing is already in the oven.”

  “Maybe we should set the table first, since a lot of this has to be done closer to eating.”

  “Good idea.”

  Together they moved Cindy’s kitchen table into the living room.

  “How many are we expecting?” Geanie asked.

  “Seven, no, six,” she corrected herself, remembering that Harry would still be in the hospital.

  Geanie eyed the tiny table. “I’m not sure we’re going to be able to fit six people around this table.”

  “I’ve got a card table in the office closet,” Cindy said, moving to get it.

  A minute later they had it set up next to the dining table. It turned out that Cindy’s one and only tablecloth just fit over both of them. Together they set the table before returning to the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong?” Traci asked Mark.<
br />
  He shrugged. They were watching the Thanksgiving Day parade on television while eating oatmeal. She was curled up on the couch, with Buster asleep on her legs.

  “I wish I didn’t have to work today,” he admitted.

  “Then don’t.”

  “You know I can’t do that. Another body turned up last night.”

  “This is getting as bad as that serial killer,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, I mean, I’ve just had an uneasy feeling all morning. Promise me you’ll be safe.”

  “I promise,” he said. He knew how hollow that promise could be. Cops were never safe, and she knew that as well as he did. He knew she lived in fear that one day he wouldn’t come home, and that she’d answer the door and Paul or one of the other officers would tell her that he was dead. It was a terrible burden she carried being married to him, and he knew it.

  “Dinner at my sister’s house is at six, and I want to drive over together.”

  “I’ll be home by five so I can clean up,” he said.

  She smiled at him, and it warmed his heart as it always did. “I love you,” he said.

  “Of course you do,” she teased. “You’d be crazy not to.”

  He got up and kissed her.

  “I love you too,” she said.

  Paul was at his desk when Mark got in. “Have you been here all night?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “What gave me away? The bags under my eyes, or that I’m wearing the same suit?”

  “Actually, it’s the Styrofoam cups and dozens of packets of sugar in your trash can.”

  Paul shrugged. “Coffee is my friend.”

  “Okay, so what do you have? Other than a caffeine rush, I mean.”

  “We’ve managed to identify all the people in the photographs.”

  Mark blinked. “All of them?”

  “All of them,” Paul said emphatically. “The reporters, the volunteers, the donors, the recipients, the hired help all check out as people we interviewed after being called to the scene.”

  “Did you see any pictures of the homeless protestor Cindy said jumped in front of her car?”