MATCHSTICK MEN: a Hunter Dane investigation

by Adira August

  4:15 Dane gets call

  "Let's go wild and make an assumption," Cam said.

  WED NIGHT

  7:32 Bryant leaves SANH

  8:00 65 degrees

  8:00 Bryant is home

  8:30 Bryant is dead.

  9:00 38 degrees

  10:30 Neighbor hears music

  "It's not an assumption," said Hunter. "Someplace in the hour between eight and nine, it dropped to a temperature too cold for that mosquito to fly. Bryant never had time to do anything once she got home but get dead. Maybe you can push it fifteen minutes, but that's what fits the data."

  "What happened between eight and eight-thirty, then?" Cam asked.

  Hunt pulled up one leg and wrapped his arms around his knee, gazing at the blank wall behind Cam. When he spoke, his eyes moved as if he were watching a movie playing on the wall.

  I rush out of the club and bolt down the stairs. I can't get to the car fast enough. I get in, fumble the key into the ignition. My purse is on the floor. My coat on the passenger's seat. It was warm when I arrived. It's cold now, but I don't notice. I slam my phone into the dock and call my sister. Peel out of the lot, hope I accidentally smash into the bastard's car.

  Bastard! I rant and rave at my sister. Tell her I want to kill him. I speed home. I don't care. My sister tells me to be careful. Asks if I've been drinking. I hang up on her. Overshoot my street and end up in Cherry Creek. I stop in a parking lot. Panting. Take a minute. Drive home.

  I grab my purse, I need the house keys. I leave the coat, it'll be warm tomorrow, I'm just going inside. The old house is gloomy and dark. The wind is starting to come up. It feels chillier inside than out.

  I drop my purse on the table and walk to down the long hall. There's a thermostat in the summer room for the back of the house - the added on summer room and servants' rooms.

  I enter. Turn on the lights. As I cross to the thermostat and crank it up to get the furnace to kick on, I catch a movement from the patio.

  I see the killer. It's someone I know. What the hell are they doing here? I'm not afraid. Just pissed. I open the patio door. Challenge them. They … offer me sympathy. I let them in. I don't see the mosquito that follows.

  I close the doors. Walk to the bar. God knows, I need a drink. When I turn the killer is on me. I raise my arms to protect myself, go down under the rain of blows, everything is dark. I'm gone.

  Hunter looked at Cam, whose hands were frozen on the keyboard. His eyes were huge and dark.

  "No wonder you were so fucked up Friday night. Do you always see them?"

  Hunter ignored that, writing quickly. "If what you assumed is right and she died before eight-thirty, then the music doesn't tell us what time she died. It tells us what time the killer left."

  He pushed the notes toward Cam who entered them into the timeline.

  7:32 Bryant leaves SANH

  7:35 Calls sister

  8:00 67 degrees - Bryant at Cherry Creek

  8: 15 Bryant is home CRANKS up heat

  8:20-8:30 Attacked; dies

  8:30-10:30 Killer sets up speakers

  gets bitten

  9:00 38 degrees

  10:30 Killer leaves. Neighbor hears music

  "Yeah," said Cam studying the monitor after inputting the data. "Yeah, it works."

  "Now all we have to do is figure out who did it," Hunter said. "Because by that timeline, there are only two suspects."

  Cam frowned, "Who?"

  "You and I."

  5:30pm Suspect List

  "We didn't do it," Cam said.

  "Let's get the exit images from the front door up there."

  "All of them or just the five-seven and below ones."

  "Start with the height parameters. Did you adjust for heel heights?" Hunt asked.

  Cam rolled his eyes.

  "Good," Hunt said.

  Twenty-six images appeared. Two were men. Three were trans women. Cam had ordered them by exit times. The earliest any of them left was 21:07 on the digital read-out, 9:07pm in Cam time.

  Hunter cocked his head, thinking. "Bryant had been dead a half-hour by that time in the model we're using."

  "What happens if we move the death up to say, nine-fifteen. Maybe EllBee stopped on the way home. She can still see the killer at the door."

  Hunt shook his head. "Too cold outside to account for the mosquito."

  "She let it in earlier?" Cam suggested.

  "It would have bitten her and not the killer," Hunt said.

  "It was someone not at the club."

  Hunt shook his head. "Then it's someone who knew she spent the night at the house on Wednesdays or else just followed her around? The song and the speakers, it all indicates planning. Normally, EllBee wouldn't be leaving for at least another hour. So we have to assume a killer hanging around outside her house from before eight, expecting to be there until after nine, maybe ten or later. That's lot of nosy neighbors and people walking dogs to avoid."

  "There was one person who could do it easily," Cam said.

  Hunter nodded. "The sister. Or, someone Bryant was sleeping with and knew where a spare key was hidden. Someone who wanted to get me looking at the club, who Bryant talked to about the matchstick games."

  "But you don't think that's a possibility," Cam said.

  "It’s a lot of speculation. The sister's flight checks out, she was a couple thousand miles away when it happened. If Bryant has a likely ex, or even a non-ex, Natali's going to find them. Or I will. Right now, I have to focus on the club, eliminate the membership."

  Hang on," Cam held up a hand. "You're not looking for a suspect, you're trying to eliminate them?"

  "That's how you eliminate them, Cam, by looking for the ones who might have done it. When there aren’t any, you look somewhere else."

  "Okay," Cam said. "They were watching from the parking lot, and never went in."

  "I made Chez arrange for full coverage of the lot. The cameras would catch a car that came in and no one got out of. That left after she did," Hunt said.

  "Right." Cam was already scanning the footage. "And that's the only door?"

  "There's a fire door back by the bar. It's alarmed."

  Hunter knew there was nowhere else to surveille the property from. He'd checked it out years ago when Chez had first expressed concern some pap would find out about them and start taking pictures of his elite clientele coming and going.

  Only the blank back of one building bordered the alley opposite SANH. It housed a furniture store and a liquor outlet. Neither had windows in the back. Both roofs were alarmed. A car would have to sit in the alley and move for any oncoming traffic.

  His cell rang. "Chez, I was just thinking about you and - whoa, slow down. … Slower. ... Take a breath. …"

  Cam looked up.

  "Did you touch anything? … Okay. No, we can't. It has to be now. Clear everyone out. … Just do it. I'll be there in twenty. … Do as I say, Chez, or I'll arrest you for interference."

  He punched a new contact on his cell. Cam was already closing down the laptop.

  "We'll take my car," Hunt told him, while waiting to connect. He shoved the briefcase across the table to him.

  "Dane?" Natali's voice in his ear.

  "Yeah. I just got a call from the establishment I've been working on. It's possible there's evidence there. It's also possible the owner is overreacting. … Drama queen would not be an exaggeration. … I'm on the way, I just wanted you to know. … No, I haven't called anyone but you. I don't even know if there's anything there. … Okay."

  He clicked off and took the briefcase Cam handed him.

  "I'll tell you in the car."

  Hunter drove them through side streets to avoid rush hour traffic. It would be easier when they reached downtown. Everyone else would be coming out.

  Cam had the laptop open to finish checking the parking lot video. He shouldn't have been there at all. Technically, Hunter was working, on the way to interview a witness and assess possible eviden
ce. It was no place for a civilian.

  But, Hunt shouldn't have been there, either. He would normally never work a case where he was so intimately connected to the principals. But on this case, everyone, including Hunt, was more concerned with protecting members of the city's elite, than following protocol.

  What concerned Hunt was screwing it all up. That like a doctor treating their own family, his judgment would be skewed. He considered Cam, frowning over the monitor in his lap. Right now, he was the only person from the club Hunter could be positive didn't kill Louise Bryant.

  Hunt was never so grateful for his own libido. If he hadn't gone home with Cam last night, hadn't been with him pretty much constantly since Bryant walked out alive, Cam would be a prime suspect. Cam had feelings for him, had prepared for his submission long before he knew, himself, he would kneel. But instinct told him Cam was about as likely as K-girl to have committed the crime.

  And Cam had been with Hunt. And he was far too tall.

  "Cam, there's another thing you can help me with," Hunt said. Cam lifted his fingers to listen.

  "Chez was practically incoherent on the phone. He has a big sub-crush on you, and a fanboy thing."

  "You think my presence will calm him?"

  Hunt glanced over. "Some. But I think you might need to - look - if you were my partner, I'd say 'take the lead' and you'd know what I meant."

  Cam raised an eyebrow. "Is it like on TV when they say that?"

  Hunt grinned. "Pretty much, yeah."

  "I'm good with that," Cam told him.

  "I'll have to hand him off to you. He'll start off talking to me. When there's a question that should be asked, you ask it. Just … Dom him."

  "You sure you want to watch him wriggling around a boner?"

  "I'm sure if that's his immediate concern he'll be less of a basket case." Hunt turned onto a one-way into downtown. Traffic melted away.

  "He'll want to please you. You won't have to do anything to make that happen. Just … look, you get people. You'll get this and anything I want to know, I'll ask if you don't."

  "Can you get in a lot of trouble for this?"

  "Sure, if they end up needing a scapegoat"-- he shrugged -- "and if I handle this right, they won't care."

  "Other than you catch the rich dead guy cases, why do you think the song is aimed right at you," Cam said.

  "I'm the reigning matchsticks champion. The killer picked a song with a title that would have special meaning to the investigator on the case," Hunt said.

  He turned onto a two-way a few blocks from the club.

  "Hunter," Cam looked concerned. "That means some murderer is stalking you, too."

  Hunt shrugged. "I don't know. I think a lot of people know these things about me. You did. You weren’t stalking me.”

  A quick flash of red.

  “You were stalking me?”

  “No!” Cam said. “I was just interested. In a personal way.”

  Hunt raised an eyebrow.

  “I might have mini-stalked you a little,” Cam admitted. “Now, get back to the song. Why make it a big mystery? Why not just play the song as is?”

  Hunt turned into the alley to the club. "People don't give you unsolvable puzzles. Then it's not a puzzle. They want the person to be able to solve it, but not do so. When the puzzle-maker shows the answer, they win."

  Hunt shut down the Bronco behind the club and reached in back for his briefcase.

  "What do they win?" asked Cam.

  "The 'I'm smarter than you' derby," Hunt told him. "It's about power, basically."

  "Everything is," said Cam, opening his door.

  They climbed the wooden staircase together. Cam lagged behind, thinking hard. "Hunt? Do you think someone would kill, just to win?"

  Hunt knocked on the club door which sported a sign: Closed for repairs. Open Friday.

  "You're the expert on winning, here, Cam. Would they?"

  Cam put a hand on Hunt's arm. "Wait. That would mean it could all be about you. The plan was about you. And beating EllBee to death was just … an opening gambit?"

  Cam recoiled at the look of dread that flitted across his Hunt's face. They heard the chain being removed and Hunt stepped to the side, out of Cam's grasp, so Chez would see Cam first.

  It took a couple minutes for Chez to adjust to Cam's presence. He didn't seem to know who to talk to, the Olympian who was far higher in status than the cop, or the man who could shut him down, permanently.

  Cam moved a little in front of Hunt and looked down on Chez, who was not the tallest man in the room. Or any room.

  "So what happened, Chez? Tell me why you called." It would be hard to say if Cam extended an invitation or delivered an order.

  Chez opened his mouth and glanced at Hunt who was purposely gazing around as if uninterested.

  "I - uh - is it okay?"

  "Sure. I sort of deputized Mr. Snow," Hunt said.

  "They don't still do that. Can you still do that?"

  "It's the West, Chez. Denver. Hell, yeah, I can," Hunt said. And he could. Legally. In certain circumstances. None of which applied here.

  Sherrilynne, who might have known better, was off showing a condo building to a real estate client. Chez was on his own.

  "Okay, well …" He led the way down the long center hall to The Church. It was the club's largest playroom, where multiple scenes could go on at once. Instead of pews, it was a room of crosses. St. Andrew's, of course, and other restraint systems.

  Chez, whose talent was creating spaces his clientele loved to play in, had put in big wooden doors, with a copy of Martin Luther's 95 theses nailed to the outside. There were stained "glass" windows, and inside, a confessional. In the raised Sanctuary was an altar table, studded along the sides with handy metal rings for restraint attachment. A modified prie dieu provided a handy device for creative forms of penance.

  But in the center, under special lighting, was the Angel. The Angle Angel, more precisely. It was a version of a St. Andrew's cross made of a lightweight titanium/polymer alloy hinged to allow the beams to be set at different angles and give ultimate control to the user.

  Cam had put Hunter on it Friday night. It had been most satisfactory.

  Chez stopped near the Angel. "You know there's a door in the Sanctuary that leads to the Sacristy, right?"

  Cam nodded. "Yes, you did a wonderful job with the place. Very authentic."

  Chez colored. "Oh. Good. Well, you know there's a bed in there, and not much else, because it's small.

  "I do know about the bed," Cam told him. Chez flushed. "Very convenient." He gave Chez a one-dimple smile.

  "Yes. Well," Chez squirmed a little. Hunt averted his gaze from Chez to Cam, who blinked his long blond lashes at the club owner. Hunter bit his lip. Cam was, after all, a sadist.

  "Chez," Cam said, his voice harder than the club owner's cock. "Tell me what's going on, right now."

  "Storage," Chez squeaked. "Under the bed. Drawers. With parts for all this. Screws - I mean - " He went red. "The Angel has all these parts."

  He looked wildly around to Hunt. "Please, just go look. The one nearest the door." Hunter went. Chez turned back to his tormentor. "Was that okay?"

  "We'll see. Wait here," Cam said, pointing to the floor. Chez dropped not very gracefully to his knees.

  Cam found Hunter inside the Sacristy, squatting by the side of the bed, pulling on nitrile gloves. He handed Cam a pair.

  "You are a wicked man," Hunt said.

  "He's having a good time."

  "But you aren't going to pay it off, are you?"

  Cam looked affronted. "Sherrilynne's not here. You think I'd touch her sub?"

  There were two drawers in the platform that supported the queen-sized mattress. Hunter slid the one closest to the foot of the bed open. Cam leaned over his shoulder.

  "Oh. Well. No wonder he was hysterical on the phone," Cam said. And ran out of the room to vomit.

  Hunt called Diane Natani. "Looks like I've got the murder w
eapon," he said. "The place is closed. How discretely can you get someone from the lab down here to process one room?"

  "Damn," she said.

  "Yeah." Hunter waited. He heard her blow out a breath.

  "Okay. Stand by. You handle transfer of all evidence. Which means waiting for the lab to call and checking it in, yourself."

  "Got it," he said. There was a brief silence.

  "Hunt," she said. "Do you have any ideas at all?"

  "I'm working on it, Diane. Keep everybody busy tomorrow. I'll be in around three and we'll put our heads together, okay?"

  "I'll get a tech to you." She clicked off.

  Hunter

  6:00pm SANH

  I squatted down for a look at the bar laid diagonally in the drawer, maybe thirty inches long. Bloody, of course. The blood was black. Dried. A piece of scalp with a thick lock of hair stuck to the bar.

  The killer had been careful, managing to convey the bar from the scene to this drawer without dislodging the scalp.

  The heat was cranked up. An hypothesis, an imagined scenario.

  If it was two hours between the deposit of the scalp onto the bar at 80 degrees or more, single hairs would have easily been glued to the metal surface by even a thin layer of dried blood. The scalp piece came along for the ride.

  I stood up. It seemed oddly familiar to me. Not the weapon with blood and hair, those things commonplace in my work. It was the scenario. Someone leaving a piece of the crime for me.

  No, bringing me a piece of the crime ....

  … a dead bird.

  In my closet, looking for my baseball glove. On the floor in the corner. Behind the bat. Where I'd left it last winter.

  Jinko barked his short, sharp, attention bark. Right behind me. I didn't even know he was in the house. Startled. I turned around.

  He'd left it at my feet. A fat robin. Dead. Jinko smiled, tongue lolling. Look what I did. Waiting for praise.

  The killer wants my praise? Jinko thought I’d be happy with what he did. The killer wants to please me?

  Gooseflesh raced across my arms. My scalp prickled. I closed the drawer. Deep breaths.

  Okay. The situation might be new for me, but the work was the work. Homicides get solved the same way. Analysis of data.