The Element Case

by Edward Kendrick

  Clay ate his sandwich, washing it down with the coffee, left the plate in the sink for later and started back toward the studio. Halfway there, he realized he was too antsy to stand still and paint again. The problem was, pacing the loft wasn't going to make him unwind.

  I need to get out of here, at least for a while. Quint said to stay here but he's not… He chuckled. What's the phrase kids use these days? He's not the boss of me? Yeah. I won't leave the building but it should be safe enough on the roof.

  With that decided, Clay changed out of his paint-stained work clothes into jeans and a T-shirt then left the loft, making certain to turn on the security and lock the door.

  * * * *

  Quint arrived at Clay's building around five-thirty, carrying a bag of take-out from The Spaghetti Factory. He pushed the buzzer for the loft and waited to be let into the lobby. When there was no answer he tried again, holding down the button for a few seconds in case Clay was concentrating on his work and hadn't heard it the first time. Still nothing. Worried, but not overly so, Quint took out his cell and called, muttering, "I probably should have given him a heads-up that I was on my way."

  When Clay didn't answer his phone, Quint felt a wave of panic. He jabbed another tenant's buzzer button, quickly introducing himself as the detective who had talked to the woman right after the break-in at Clay's loft. The minute she buzzed him in, he dashed for the elevator, swearing under his breath when it seemed to take forever to arrive. At soon as he got to the fifth floor he strode down to the door to Clay's loft, banging on the door repeatedly.

  "Where the fuck are you?" Quint said angrily when Clay didn't open the door. "So help me if you left… If you went somewhere…" He banged again. Why the hell didn't I have him give me the security code? And a key? He knew the answer to that. It would have meant a level of trust on Clay's part that he probably didn't have on a personal level. The fact that we're screwing doesn't mean he wants me in his life as more than a fuck buddy and a cop who's trying to stop whoever's trying to mess up his life.

  That idea didn't sit well with Quint, much to his surprise. In that moment, as his fear for Clay's safety ramped up a notch, he realized that he'd begun to care about the fairly reclusive artist as more than just a possible friend. Even though that's all he sees me as, I'm sure. If that.

  He slammed his fist against the door again—fear, anger and frustration raging through him.

  "You'll break it down, setting off the alarm," Clay said from behind Quint, a trace of amusement in his voice.

  Quint whirled to look at him. "Where the hell were you? I thought I told you not to leave the loft."

  "I was restless and had to get out of there, so I went up to the patio," Clay replied defensively. Then he said with more than a touch of anger, "Besides which, you don't tell me how to live my life."

  "I do if I want you alive at the end of this," Quint retorted. "And I do. I'm not losing you to some insane madman."

  "Is there such a thing as a sane madman?"

  "Damn it, you know what I meant. Now how about you open the door so we can go inside?" Quint held up the bag. "Dinner is getting cold."

  Clay touched his finger to his forehead in a mock salute, opened the door, and disarmed the security. Then he stepped aside to let Quint in.

  "I need the code and a key," Quint told him as he walked to the table to set down the bag. "And plates and silverware, so we can eat."

  "Not happening. I mean the code and key," Clay replied.

  "Why not? What if Matty had gotten in here and done something to you?"

  Clay glared at him, arms crossed. "Do you think I'm stupid enough to let that happen?"

  "If you thought he was a deliveryman, or a cop, or…hell, anyone you'd trust."

  "He'd have to prove it first," Clay countered, although from the expression on his face he seemed to realize what Quint had said might be a possibility. "Besides which, I know what he looks like, so there's no way I'd even let him into the building without going downstairs to check first."

  "And he's there, with a gun, so you're dead on the lobby floor," Quint spat out.

  "Then you wouldn't need the code and the key."

  They glowered at each other for a moment, then the ridiculousness of what Clay had said hit them both and they broke out laughing.

  "Okay, good point I guess," Quint said when he sobered some. "But still…" He took a deep breath. "Do you trust me enough to give them to me?"

  "I suppose. I mean…why wouldn't I?"

  "Because… Never mind." Quint started toward the kitchen to get plates and silverware, intent of not saying what he'd been thinking a few minutes earlier.

  "Quint," Clay said quietly. "What?"

  "Nothing." Quint gathered up what was needed, returned, and put them down on the table before opening the bag to take out the containers of food.

  "Talk to me."

  "This"—Quint waved his arm to encompass the loft—"is your home. Your sanctuary. A place I don't think you want to…to share, if that's the right word. If I can get in anytime I want to, you lose that. You might think that's okay right now, because of everything that's going down. But once this is over… Hell, you're the man who told me you don't even give out your phone number to men you bring home with you."

  "Who are few and far between, not that that negates your point. Yeah, I'll be the first to admit I don't usually like the idea that someone can be a part of my life unless it's absolutely necessary. It's the way I am. But"—Clay moved closer to him, taking his hands in a gesture that surprised Quint—"you're different. I don't know why. I do know it's more than that you've taken it upon yourself to keep me safe. The reason I said you couldn't have the key was…habit? Fear of letting someone I'm only just getting to know have that kind of access to my life? I'm not certain that makes sense, because I actually like you as a person. I'm not sure what that says about me, or you, but I do."

  "Maybe it says we can at least be friends…after?" Quint waited in anticipation, hoping the answer would be yes. It was suddenly very important to him that he wouldn't lose this man he had, very surprisingly, allowed to get under his skin to the point that he didn't like the idea Clay might not be in his life for… For the long-term? How the hell—?

  "Yes," Clay replied softly. "At least friends." He released his grip on Quint's hands, looked at him for the space of a second then leaned in to kiss him quickly before saying, "Now dinner is probably really cold."

  "Microwave," Quint replied, feeling elated and somehow content at the same time.

  "On it." Clay opened the containers, left the one with the salad where it was, and took the others into the kitchen to heat their contents.

  Quint watched him, shaking his head. He's not quite the most…romantic man in the world, not by a long shot. But I'll take what I can get and right now it's the promise that we can be friends—and maybe a bit more.

  * * * *

  What the hell did I just commit to? Clay watched the container of spaghetti as it went around and around in the microwave. But he wasn't really seeing it. He was contemplating a future when he might consider sharing the loft with someone, namely Quint.

  How did this happen? And why? Sure he is a nice man…I guess. I don't really know him except as the guy who's made it his mission to protect me.

  Turning, he called out, "Do you have family?"

  Quint snickered. "No. I was found in the wilderness by a pack of wolves that raised me. Yes, I have a family. The requisite parents, plus two sisters, both younger than me."

  "Are you a native Denverite?"

  "Nope. Born and bred in a small town in Iowa."

  "You're kidding." The microwave dinged, Clay took out the spaghetti, and put in the lasagna. "You bought enough to feed an army."

  "Well, we eat like one," Quint replied with a laugh. "And no, I wasn't kidding. Dad was a teacher at the local high school. Mom was a housewife and the backbone of the family. Diana and Susan were bratty or sweet, depending on their moods."
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br />   "How the hell did you end up here…and a cop?"

  "My uncle was a deputy sheriff in Algona, the town where I grew up. I used to follow after him when he'd let me. I got hooked, did the whole police academy thing at ILEA, got my first job in Des Moines then moved out here when there was an opening on the Fort Collins force. From there I came to Denver, three years ago, made detective six months later, and here I am."

  "Standing in my loft, keeping me safe." The lasagna was heated so Clay put it on a plate, the spaghetti into a serving bowl, and brought them to the table.

  "Yep. Following the police motto, to serve—"

  "Uh-huh, got it. Let's eat before it gets cold…again."

  * * * *

  With dinner over and the table cleared, Quint gestured to the sofa. "We need to talk about Matty and how to stop him before he kills again. That means I have to know everything about Travis, not just what he looks like and his background. I have that in reports about him now. And not the fact that he was a controlling SOB."

  "Not controlling. Needy. He needed every bit of my attention. I think it was his way of affirming that he had value—at least to someone."

  "All right. Start at the beginning. You met him at Toppers."

  "Yes. I'd seen him there once before and I remember thinking he seemed very lonely despite being in a crowd of people. So the second time I made it a point to go over and ask if he'd mind if I did some sketches of him."

  "Not the norm for you."

  "No. I told you. Since my breakup with my first…boyfriend, I had become very insular. But I felt sorry for Travis for some reason, and when I asked him that, he practically glowed. So I did the sketches, and when he asked if I wanted to go out for coffee with him some time in the future, I didn't have the heart to say no. I figured it would be just that but somehow it became more. He made me feel as if I mattered. I guess it was a mutual thing and in the end we started sleeping together on and off then he moved in with me."

  "Your idea or his?"

  "His, but I didn't dismiss it."

  "Okay. So he's living here then what? Did he talk to you about things? Family and what have you? About his life before you two met? Anything at all that could help me get a handle on why his brother might be coming after you?"

  "Not much, and not often. He was more about peppering me with questions, as if in some way he was living vicariously through me. What was my life like as a kid? Who were my friends in school? What did we do together? When I'd try to turn the questions back on him, he'd change the subject."

  Quint nodded. "Did you ever get the feeling that maybe he'd been abused by his parents? Him or his brothers?"

  "No," Clay replied slowly. "It was more like he was just the one who didn't get much attention, because he was the middle brother. Patrick, the older one, was all into to sports from what little Travis told me—football star, the apple of his dad's eye. Vince…well, Matty I guess, was the baby and his mother doted on him."

  "No wonder Travis was needy. How did he get along with them?"

  "His brothers?" Clay tried to remember anything Travis had said about that. "I really don't know about Patrick. Vince, umm Matty, though… Travis said—"

  "Just call him Matty. That's how we know him."

  "Okay. Travis said that when they got older, when Travis was a junior in high school and Matty had just started there, some of the kids bullied Matty and Travis stood up for him whenever he found out about it." Clay shook his head. "Travis told me it was the first time he really felt someone in his family needed him. I guess it ended when he went off to college."

  "The bullying or his feeling needed?"

  "The latter."

  "Okay. Were you his first real boyfriend?"

  "To hear him tell it, yes."

  "Did he ever go home to visit his family?"

  "Yeah. The first Christmas we were together." Clay grimaced. "To be honest, when he asked if it would be okay with me, I told him it was. I was kind of looking forward to having the place to myself for a while. I hadn't gotten to the point of feeling stifled yet, but…" He shrugged.

  "I understand. How was he when he got back?"

  Clay sighed. "Clingy for a while. He didn't seem to want to talk about the vacation other than to say he and Matty had reconnected and spent most of their time together."

  "So the bond between them was still strong."

  "After that Christmas, I'd say yes. It's not like Matty came out here or Travis went to visit him, but they called each other on and off. When I'd overhear some of the conversations, which was rarely, Travis was always bubbling on about how happy I made him. It was embarrassing."

  "Okay. We have Travis telling his brother—or at least implying—that you two were the perfect couple. Then the two of you break up and he heads back down to Texas, either home or to where his brother's living. Chances are he cried on Matty's shoulder then…then it gets strange."

  "Meaning the whole new name thing then going to Oregon?"

  "Yep."

  "They might have had a falling out."

  "That would sort of negate Matty having a reason to come after you."

  "I suppose. Maybe…" Clay paused in thought. "What if Matty was into something illegal by then? What if both of them changed their names, either to get Matty out from under or because Travis, being who he was, let himself get drawn into it because he needed affirmation that someone, Matty this time, needed him?"

  "That's one possible scenario. According to the information we have on Travis, he worked for a travel agency while he was here in Denver. Since then, there's no record of his holding another job in that field or any other one, at least not as Travis Nelson."

  "He was very proud of that job," Clay said, smiling as he remembered how elated Travis had been when he'd been hired. "What about as Franks?"

  "Mr Franks doesn't seem to exist except on that driver's license. The ID he used to get it listed is an address that's no longer viable since the building was torn down two years ago, according to what Captain Palmer has found out."

  "And Matty?"

  "When he worked, it was as a roofer or in construction. He seems to have problems holding a job for any length of time. His last job on record was with a company out of Houston. That ended about a week before he turned up at Toppers for the first time."

  "Did he quit or was he fired?"

  "Actually he was let go, due to the economy. The company built houses."

  "At least that makes sense. What about when he wasn't working?"

  "A good question, for which we have no definite answer," Quint replied. "He lived in Austin three years ago then seems to have vanished for about a year, turning up in Austin again two years ago then moving on to Houston."

  "Three years ago would have been when Travis left Denver."

  "Then got his Texas driver's license as Franks. To me, that says that as soon as Travis got down there, he changed his name. My gut reaction is…he didn't want you to be able to find him."

  "A few days ago you were saying he had to have been one of the killer's victims, because otherwise he'd have tried to keep in touch, not hide from me."

  "That was then, when we were first trying to figure things out and I didn't know much about him."

  "So that's scenario number two. He was just trying to be certain I couldn't find him. If that's the case, he must have hated me something fierce."

  "And told Matty."

  "Giving Matty a reason to come after me. It sure took him a long time to do that, if he is the killer."

  "People are funny." Quint drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. "Okay, third scenario. Travis goes to Austin to be with his brother, changes his name, and maybe Matty does too. Then they both take off for parts unknown. As I said, Matty disappeared, probably not long after Travis got there. They end up in Oregon, have a falling out, and Matty kills his brother. He goes on the run and six months later thinks it safe to return to Austin, maybe because he needs money and has job contacts there."

/>   "But it eats at him that he killed Travis," Clay said pensively, "and somehow he makes it my fault. Perhaps he thought if I hadn't broken up with Travis, he never would have gone to Matty and…and what?"

  Quint lifted a shoulder. "Your guess is as good as mine. And all of this, everything we've been coming up with, is just supposition. We could be on the wrong track and Matty has nothing to do with the killings."

  "It's pretty strange that he turned up just before they started," Clay protested.

  "Agreed. Still, we have no proof that it wasn't anything more than coincidence. What we have to do is draw the killer out."

  "Meaning I better get it in gear and finish your portrait."

  "For starters. Do that and get it hung at the gallery."

  "Then wait two days for the killer to come after you, if he sticks to his usual MO."

  "You got it."

  "I wonder if he—whoever he is—knows you're a cop."

  "After the break-in he might, if he was watching the building. Which was my stupidity for not telling you to call 911 the way the average person would have. That way a couple of patrol officers would have shown up. As it was, the only responders were the CSI team. If he's smart, and we know he is, he'd have figured out at that point I'm not just the new man in your life."

  "If he did, then he might think twice about trying to kill you."

  Quint nodded. "Or he might break from tradition and come after me, even before the painting goes up at the gallery."

  "Damn." Clay scowled, pounding a fist into his other hand.

  Quint gripped Clay's wrists. "I can take care of myself."

  "I know. It's just…you shouldn't have to. No one… All those deaths and now this. How can someone be so full of hate that they'll go after innocents just to make me suffer? Why not just come straight for me?"

  "Because making you suffer is the whole point of his game. Suffer as you watch the net pull tighter and tighter around you. Then bang, you're dead."