by Alex Barclay
Joe looked at him.
‘The museum,’ said Neal.
‘That would be great,’ said Joe.
They walked through the doorway into the musty chemical air of the small museum. Joe was sucked back in time. Antique mahogany cabinets ran the length of each wall and a heavy mahogany counter sat on top of more cabinets at the centre of the room. Behind each door were shelves of stuffed animals and creatures suspended in jars of murky formaldehyde.
‘Take a guess,’ said Neal, stopping at one of the displays and covering the plaque. Inside, was a large round, delicate-looking object the colour of ginger root, with a strange bulbous growth at one side. Around the back, a hollow was carved out revealing a centre lined with a gaping honeycombed effect.
‘I have no clue,’ said Joe.
‘It’s a camel’s stomach. Those little pockets inside are where they store water.’
‘Wow. That’s not what I expected.’
Neal pointed to another jar in one of the cabinets. There was a long string of what looked like tagliatelle suspended in a greenish solution.
‘Do you eat black pudding?’ asked Neal.
‘Aw, don’t spoil that for me,’ said Joe.
‘Well, this guy is the reason you should always cook it thoroughly. Tapeworm. It’s a big fan of pigs.’
‘I’ll be nuking it from now on.’ Joe squinted into the jar. ‘That’s just way too long,’ he said, shaking his head.
When he turned around, Neal was pulling out trays from a drawer that smelt of wood and naphthalene. Rows of preserved insects were secured onto a cream backing by straight pins. Neal talked through the different species, then stopped eventually to check his watch.
‘OK. The lab,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a meeting to go to. Remind me again what can I help you with.’
Joe lied for a living, but he was feeling a strange compulsion to be honest with Neal Columb. However, he knew he couldn’t. So his compromise was to start with the truth.
‘There’s a forest near my house. I found this empty pupal case there two nights ago. I guess I was just curious. I did a little entomology in college, back in the States, but I dropped out…I’m still fascinated by it, though, but not one hundred per cent clued in.’
Then he moved on to the lie.
‘There was a dead animal nearby and I wondered if it had anything to do with that. Or if you could maybe pinpoint the species of the fly and how long it’s been there, you know…’
‘OK,’ said Neal, reaching out for the small brown pill jar where Joe had put the pupal case. He slipped it under a dissecting microscope and peered in.
‘You’re absolutely right. It is, indeed, a fly pupal case. Now let’s see if we can put a name on the little fellow.’
He pulled out taxonomic guides and looked back and forth between them and the pupal case. Every now and then, he would stop and point something out to Joe. Eventually, he went to a cupboard packed with bottled insect specimens and brought out a jar that held a pupal case and larva, suspended in a formaldehyde solution.
‘Right,’ he said after an hour. ‘What you have is a Calliphora, which as I’m sure you know, is a bluebottle. Species-wise, I would have said vicina or vomitoria, but now I can say for definite that it’s vomitoria, based on comparisons. That would also tie in with where you found it – it’s much more likely to show up in rural areas, particularly forests. It’s actually a great tool for estimating time of death in murder investigations.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But, of course, you know all this.’
Joe nodded. ‘OK. And what would that mean in terms of life cycle…’ He trailed off, hoping Neal would just give him a time frame, so he could find something out that would help Shaun.
‘Well, bluebottles come to the body almost immediately. They have an extremely advanced radar for death. This, of course, won’t happen during the night, but it will during the day. So if your little fox or whatever was killed in the evening, the blow fly would be there the next morning, busily laying anything up to 300 eggs in one go, heading straight for the orifices or wound sites.’ He looked up at Joe. ‘I’m doing it again, telling you things you already know. So I’ll get down to it. Basically taking into account what you’ve told me, I’d say this would mean that your little creature died about twenty days before you found this.’
Joe hesitated. ‘Thanks.’ He tried to hide his disappointment. This put Katie’s death back to the night of her disappearance when the last person to see her alive apart from her killer was poor Petey Grant and before that – Shaun. He threw the pupal case in the bin as he walked back through the campus. His anger he understood, but the emotion that came out of nowhere hitting him like a slap, was an unfamiliar sense of embarrassment.
‘I meant to tell you,’ said Frank, ‘before Shaun was called in yesterday, Joe Lucchesi was here with some new information.’
‘That’s convenient,’ said Richie.
‘Come on now. Our job is to take it all in. Joe was concerned because he thinks someone from a previous case back in New York could be out to get him and went through Katie to do it. Joe shot someone dead last year – that’s not common knowledge – and the man’s friend has just got out of prison and could possibly have come over here.’
Frank watched how Richie’s eyes would glaze over if the conversation stretched to more than a few sentences. His right eye would turn out slightly, then in again as he came back to reality.
‘Why does Joe think that?’ he said eventually.
‘Well, in fairness to the man, he found some evidence outside Danaher’s the other night that was a direct link to the original shooting.’
‘Wow,’ said Richie after thinking it through. ‘That’s weird. There could be something to this.’
Frank strained to find the sarcasm until he realised there was none. He could not understand Richie. One minute he was one way, the next minute he was another. He clung to each new development as if it was a single unit. Whoever was attached to that development was, by Richie’s rationale, a suspect. Suspects walked in and out of his sights accordingly: Petey, Shaun, Joe, Duke Rawlins…
Frank was about to remark on this, give a weights and measures speech, but he was too tired for a head-on collision with the spiky young guard. Instead, he filled him in on more details and left.
Anna was sitting on the sofa with her glasses on, reading a book. Her legs were stretched out onto the low coffee table. Joe walked in and sat beside her. He grabbed the remote control, flicking channels on the muted TV.
‘So you’re not going to tell me anything,’ Anna said. ‘Our son has been lying to us, you’ve been keeping things from me…’
‘Not this again.’
‘Yes, this again. We don’t just talk when it suits you, Joe. This is serious. He lied.’
‘Shaun’s sixteen. He was scared. The last thing you’re gonna do is tell any grown-up that you were having sex, let alone your parents and a bunch of cops.’
She stared at him.
‘What?’ he said. ‘You’ve never lied to your parents?’
‘You were never arrested for murder,’ she hissed. ‘Are you crazy?’
He stood up. ‘I’m going for a walk.’
Oran Butler and Keith Twomey sat in an unmarked squad car outside Healy’s Carpet Warehouse. Two other guards were in a car at the entrance to the industrial estate.
‘I can’t believe this is happening again,’ said Keith.
‘We don’t know that,’ said Oran. ‘They could show up yet.’
‘It’s two in the morning. We’ve been here four hours, Butler. Not a chance.’ Oran leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He dozed for an hour until the surveillance was called off and Keith drove them back to Waterford station.
Anna had forgotten to ask Shaun about the email he had received at school. She knocked lightly on his bedroom door and walked in. His thumbs were hammering on a Game Boy Advance, his bloodshot eyes focused on the bright screen.
‘I just
wanted to know what you were talking about the other day,’ she said. ‘Some email I was supposed to have sent you.’
‘Supposed to,’ snorted Shaun, fixed on the game. ‘Who else would be sending me a photo of your stupid shoot?’
‘But I haven’t even seen those photos yet, Shaun. Brendan hasn’t emailed them to me.’
‘What?’ He lost his last life and threw down the game. ‘Damn!’ He stared at her. ‘But I saw it. In my school account.’
‘Why would I do that? Why would I even use your school account? I’d use Hotmail if I was going to email you. Bring it home to me tomorrow.’
‘I get my school mails forwarded to Hotmail. I can show it to you now.’
They went into the den and Shaun downloaded his mail. He clicked on the newest one. The image appeared on screen. Anna frowned. It was definitely the shoot.
‘But look,’ she said, pointing to the screen.
‘There’s Brendan. He’s in it. He couldn’t have taken this.’
Frank hated being in the station after hours. It was too quiet. He was reading and rereading every statement he had copied. Endless scenarios were running through his head. The phone on his desk rang and he was surprised to hear O’Connor at the other end.
‘Frank? Myles. I’ve a bit of news for you on Katie’s phone records.’
‘Fire away.’
‘The last person she called that night—’
‘She called someone?’
‘No. I should say “the last person she tried to call”…’
‘Yes?’
‘Was you, Frank.’
The house was quiet when Joe got back. He went into the den and closed the door quietly behind him. He took a deep breath, then dialled international directory enquiries for a number in a town that wasn’t even a tiny dot on the world map.
‘Officer Henson, Stinger’s Creek.’ The voice was slow, laconic.
‘My name is Detective Joe Lucchesi, NYPD. I’d like to speak to someone about a local guy, a Duke Rawlins, got out of prison some months back, would have been sent away in the mid-nineties.’
‘Duke Rawlins. Doesn’t sound familiar, but I’m kinda new here. Why are you asking?’
Joe chose his words carefully.
‘You think he might be involved in something? Well, you let me go check that for you,’ said Henson. ‘But I won’t be able to get back to you for a day or two.’
‘I just need—’
‘We lost an officer, detective. Funeral’s tomorrow.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ said Joe. ‘What happened?’
‘Uh, self-inflicted gunshot wound. Tragedy. Former Police Chief, too. Ogden Parnum, a good man. Retired only recently.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Joe.
‘So were we,’ said Henson. ‘Give me your number. I’ll call you as soon as I can.’
Joe turned on the computer and waited while it started up. He connected to the Internet and typed in three words: Stinger’s Creek Parnum. He got several hits on what seemed to be the same story. He clicked on the first one, a short piece from the Herald Democrat Online.
Town in Mourning after Suicide Tragedy
Former Police Chief Ogden Parnum from the small Grayson County town of Stinger’s Creek was found dead yesterday morning of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Chief Parnum first hit the headlines in the late eighties/early nineties for his work on the Crosscut Killer Investigation when nine young women were brutally raped and murdered, their bodies left in wooded areas off the I-35. To date, the case remains unsolved…
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Joe.
TWENTY
Sherman, North Central Texas, 1987
‘One of these days, someone’s gonna snap you right in half, Alexis,’ said Diner Dave, picking up her bony wrist and dropping it back on the counter.
‘Skinny is in, or haven’t you heard?’ said Alexis, pushing her bright plastic bangles up to her elbow and letting them slide down again.
Suddenly, Dave reached out and squeezed her by both hands.
‘You look after yourself out there, sweetheart. I mean that,’ he said.
‘Aw, Dave, you say that to me all the time,’ she said, squeezing back. She stopped. ‘You look so sad.’
‘But I see how you come in sometimes,’ he said.
‘I know what I’m doin’, but thanks for carin’,’ she said. ‘Now, get me a basket of greasy chicken and fries.’
When she had finished eating, she slid off the red leather stool, leaving two hot sweat stains from the bare cheeks under her short satin skirt. She swayed out the door.
‘Bye, Diner Dave!’ she called as she swung the heavy door open. ‘Until the next time,’ she said in a deep superhero voiceover. Her words were drowned out by the meat, slapped and sizzling on the grill in front of Dave.
She walked to the corner, then crossed the street to a rundown brownstone. If she had taken one second longer to climb the stairs to her apartment, the phone would have stopped ringing and the caller would have moved on to the fourth business card he had found in the phone booth. But she made it, panting into the receiver as she grabbed it to her mouth.
‘Sounds like we’re off to a good start already,’ said Donnie. Alexis laughed.
‘I’ve been a busy girl,’ she said, switching to business. ‘All by myself.’
‘Wanna tell me about it?’ he said.
‘Why don’t you come over and see for yourself?’ she said.
‘Your card here says you’re blond, 110 lbs. I’m not gonna arrive and find some big momma with a moustache now, am I?’
‘No, sir,’ said Alexis. ‘You’ll find the sweetest little pussy you’ve ever—’
‘Lunchtime OK?’ he said.
‘Why, that’s when I really get goin’,’ said Alexis.
Donnie put the phone down and ran to the truck where Duke was waiting.
When it was all over, Alexis sat on the edge of the bed.
‘You look sad, sweetheart,’ said Donnie. ‘Is it because—’
‘I love what I do,’ she said. ‘I make people happy. Men come to me because they want to be happy. I give them that, they walk away on a cloud.’ She stopped. ‘You look like you don’t get it.’
‘I get it,’ said Donnie.
‘You’re a sweet guy,’ she said.
‘Let me take you for a drive.’
‘Where?’ said Alexis.
‘You go to your prom?’ he asked.
‘What?’ she said. ‘No, I did not. Was long gone at prom time.’
‘Well, why not come on a little prom date with me?’ said Donnie.
She searched his eyes for danger and saw just honesty.
‘In the afternoon? What the hell,’ she said. ‘It’s never too late.’
One hour later, Alexis found herself naked from the waist up, her skirt blowing in the breeze.
‘What’s your real name?’ roared Duke, grabbing her by the hair and shaking her. She screamed.
‘I said, What’s. Your. Real. Name.’ He pulled her backwards and she twisted her body to take the weight off her hair. He shook her again.
‘Janet,’ she said.
‘Janet WHAT?’ he roared.
‘Janet Bell,’ she said, whimpering.
‘Well, it’s goodbye Janet Bell…’ He stopped. ‘In fact, it’s goodbye Janet Bell, hello no-one! It’s goodbye Janet Bell and it’s goodbye Alexis, the trampy little whore with the dumb name. It’s goodbye all of you!’
He released her hair, then turned her away from him, kicking her, sending her stumbling onto the hard earth. She was too weak to move, her head hanging listlessly.
‘Run, little lady, run,’ said Duke. ‘Go on, Donnie, chase her down!’
Donnie ran, while Duke pulled a three-blade arrow from his pack, raising his bow to shoulder height, then squeezing shut his left eye.
Alexis turned to him, confused, then screamed when she saw what he was doing. She fell back, then pushed herself up from the groun
d, now desperate to stay alive, desperate to run. Donnie was right behind her. She staggered away from him until the first arrow hit, piercing her left kidney.
‘Ten points,’ shouted Duke, laughing at Donnie.
As she went down, the second arrow flew wide, missing her by an inch.
‘Damn,’ said Duke, running towards her. ‘Damn.’ He stood over her with Donnie, listening to her shallow breath.
‘Make it go away,’ she whispered through chattering teeth. ‘Make it stop.’ She looked towards Donnie. He was standing there, mesmerised.
‘OK,’ said Duke as he turned her on her stomach, slid the knife under her for the first cut and pressed down hard.
When he was finished, he got up and walked to the truck, pulling two shovels from under the tarpaulin, throwing one to Donnie. He went back to where Alexis lay, face down in the dirt. He kicked her bloodied ribs and smiled.
He walked over to a tree nearby and struck the hard earth with his shovel. ‘Damn this! Donnie, get the hell over here.’
They dug until sweat soaked their shirts and a shallow grave opened up before them. Duke grabbed Alexis’ wrists and slid her across the ground into the hole, pebbles hopping up around her. They covered her with earth, then branches and leaves. Donnie sat in the truck. Duke stood solemnly over the grave and clasped his hands.
‘Goodbye, Alexis,’ he said and walked away smiling, humming the theme tune to Dynasty. ‘Goodbye, JR. G’night Mary Ellen…isn’t that it?’
Donnie was sitting at the bar in the Amazon, his hands wrapped around his fifth bottle of Busch.
‘Look at your eyes, boy, one playin’ pool, the other keepin’ the score,’ said Jake, the barman.
‘How can I look at my own eyes?’ said Donnie.
‘Such a shame your daddy didn’t whip that smart mouth offa you,’ said Jake, shaking his head.
‘Nothin’ wrong with my eyes, anyways,’ said Donnie, nodding towards the girls twisted high and low around poles on the low platform in front of them.
One of the dancers strode across the floor, her eyes blazing.
‘You wanna raise that goddamn stage, Jake,’ she said, stabbing the air with her spiky finger. ‘I can’t work with those truckers pawin’ me all night. I’m about three inches higher than ’em. How in the hell’s that gonna stop their roamin’ hands?’