by Erik Carter
“Of course not,” she said and grabbed a white personal towel from a large stack on a shelf behind her. She began using it to wipe the counter. Evidently she needed an outlet for her frustration because the counter looked perfectly clean to Dale. “We’ve had so many troubles with this guy. This isn’t the first time he’s missed work. But it’s gonna be the last. Carol told me she’s gonna fire him the next time he comes in. It’s about time. So why are you guys looking into him? Did he do something while he was drunk? Skip out on a debt?”
“The murders—we need to speak to Clyde about them.”
Camila's lips parted. Suddenly her anger left. Shock replace it.
“Oh my god ... I know he’s a scumbag, but I would have never imagined ... I mean, he’s so shitty to women, but ... to kill them …”
“Shitty to women? How do you mean?”
Camila's eyes darted about, and it took her a moment to compose herself before she responded.
“Well, he’s a masseuse. He has his hands all over them while they’re practically naked. And he’s charming. Very charming. I ... well, honestly, I went out with him a couple times when he first started working here. Anyway, he’d smooth-talk these women—young, old, it didn’t matter as long as they were attractive—and then he’d take them across the street to Sullivan’s.”
“I imagine that’s against the spa’s policies, maybe even illegal, for a masseuse to make social arrangements with clients.”
“Of course. But there’s not much Carol can say if Clyde goes to Sullivan’s and ‘happens’ to meet up with someone he’d seen here. That’s how he does it. Tells them to meet him over there when his shift’s over.”
“But he has a girlfriend. Mira Lyndon.”
Camila laughed hard. “I’ve never met the girl, but she must be blind as a bat. Or deaf. Because everyone knows about Clyde and his girls’.”
Dale and Nash Stood at another counter, facing another woman just as they had minutes prior at Alistaire’s. Except this was a very different place. And a very different woman.
They were at Sullivan's. A dive bar. Right across Central Avenue from Alistaire’s Bathhouse. It was dark, and the overall color of the place was brown, but there were spots of green and red and blue from colored lightbulbs, neon signs, illuminated black velvet paintings. It was a narrow place—shotgun-style—with the bar running on one side and on the other side a lone booth and two tables. In the back was a bathroom, a door for an office, and another door that led out. Cigarette smoke in the air. Smell of spilled beer. Sticky floors.
The bartender’s name was Kathy, and she was likely ten years younger than Camila back at Alistaire’s, but her skin had a lot more ‘character.’ And wrinkles. She looked like the kind of lady bartender who’d put up with too much shit for too many years. She wore a black tank top, faded, and her white bra strap showed on either side.
There was a group of people in the booth, a couple more at a table, and two guys at the bar—one fairly average-looking man, and the other was the requisite barfly drunk. Gray, greasy hair, both hands on his beer, hunched over.
Dale and Nash had positioned themselves close to the bar, squeezed in between the well worn stools, and Kathy was giving them her time but not her full attention, as she kept looking back cautiously at the other people in the bar.
“Yeah, Clyde brings his girls over here,” she said. “The jerk.”
“Between the spa and here, Clyde doesn’t seem too popular.”
“Oh, no. He’s popular around here, all right. Just not with me. Take a look.”
Kathy pointed to the front wall, beside the entrance, which was covered in small photos in cheap frames.
As Dale and Nash headed to the wall, Dale saw that the old drunk was looking his way. When Dale’s gaze caught his, the man quickly looked away, snickering.
It was a typical assortment of bar photos. People hanging on each other, beers in hand, doing nothing but … well, drinking. There were lots of photos of Clyde, several of which featured him with attractive women. Some with one lady. Others with two or three. One showed Clyde—the only male—with a group of eight women in bikini tops and denim shorts. As Dale’s eyes scanned over the images of Clyde, he noticed again Clyde’s short height. None of the women were more than a few inches shorter than him, and many of them were his height or taller.
Dale remembered the ‘stranger,’ running through the Promenade and the Fordyce. How small he’d been.
On the fall right side of the photo wall was a sectioned off are with letters tacked on top that spelled out: SULLIVAN’S SUPPORTS COPS & FIREFIGHTERS. Bill Sadler was in several of these photos. Among the images with Sadler, Dale noticed four with Clyde Bowen—the first in a group; the second two with just the two of them, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders; and a final one with the two of them and the same group of bikini-top-clad women.
They returned to the bar.
“I didn’t see any photos of Clyde with his girlfriend,” Dale said.
The drunk snickered. “Which one?”
The drunk and others around him laughed.
Kathy scowled at the drunk and turned back to Dale.
“Mira doesn’t come in here. She doesn’t like it. I don’t blame her. She’s not stupid. She knows what Clyde does. He’s an asshole.”
“Hey!” the drunk shouted. “You watch ... and ... I ... You watch your mouth, Kathy. Clyde, he gets ... he... he gets all that pussy. And you’re just jealous.”
The other men around him laughed again.
Kathy planted her hands on the bar and shouted at the men.
“Shut up! All of you!”
This just made them laugh louder.
Dale gave her a look that let her know he sympathized with her situation.
“Thank you for your time.”
Dale stepped back toward the photo wall. His eyes scanned over the images again.
“What do you think?” Nash said behind him.
“I think I’m starting to formulate an idea…”
“You mind letting me in on it?”
Dale grinned at him. “Not just yet.”
“But—“
A voice cut Nash off.
“Excuse me.”
A neat man—cleaner in appearance than most of the others in the bar, with parted hair, a yellow polo shirt, and pressed corduroy pants—stepped up to them.
There was a concerned look on his face.
“You’re looking for Clyde Bowen?”
“That’s right,” Dale said.
“I have something I think you’ll want to see.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The neat man opened up the door at the back of the bar, revealing Exchange Street beyond, the quasi-alley. He held it open for Dale and Nash, letting them pass.
And a burlap sack fell over Dale’s head.
Someone grabbed Dale from behind, getting him into a full Nelson.
Then there was a punch to his ribs.
Dale bent over grunting.
“Like that, huh?” a man’s voice said.
Dale heard a punch landing behind him—a fist thumping into flesh—and then Nash yelling out in pain.
Dale took another blow, this one to the stomach. He doubled over again.
Another punch, across the face, burlap scratching into his cheek.
Another ugly voice spoke to him. “You just watch how close you follow Clyde Bowen, now.”
And a third man’s voice. “And you ain’t never finding their place!”
Dale listened intently, sensed someone coming at him, and used it to his advantage.
He pulled to the side suddenly, and the blow that was intended for him hit the man holding him in a full Nelson from behind. The man yelled out, and his grip loosened.
Dale threw his head back, cracking the man’s forehead. He released Dale, and Dale instantly reached for the sack on his head.
Just before he could grab it, there was a whoosh sound of something being swung thr
ough the air followed by an incredibly sharp pain on the back of his thighs, sending him to the ground. Dale knew it was some sort of board or pipe that struck him across the back of the legs.
There was the clatter of the object landing on the ground, followed by footsteps at a running, going away down Exchange Street.
Dale tore the sack off his head.
He saw four men were sprinting away. One of them looked back and made eye contact with Dale for a split second. It was the old drunk that had been at the bar.
“Oh, shit!” the drunk said and quickly turned back around, ran faster.
Beside Dale, Nash was also on the ground, burlap sack still on his head.
Dale groaned. He could hardly move as he reached out and pulled the sack off Nash’s head.
“You okay, buddy?”
Nash looked at him through half-closed eyes. “No, Dale. No I’m not.”
There was the squeak of hinges to the side. The back door to the bar opened. The neat man steps out.
“Oh my goodness! What happened to you guys? Well, there was something I really wanted to show you two out here, but it looks like you’re taking a nap. I’ll show you another time.”
He gave Dale a nasty little smile and walked back into the bar.
Groaning more, Dale rolled himself onto his back, stared into the gray, rainy sky. Drops fell on his face.
He thought about the wall of photos. And more thoughts began to gel in his mind. He grinned.
“Dale?” Nash said.
“Yes?”
“What the hell are you smiling about? What you possibly have to smile about right now?”
“I’m onto something, Nash. And we need to get back to Clyde Bowen’s house. But first, it’s such a lovely day, why don’t we just lie here in the alley for a few minutes.”
“Sounds just swell,” Nash said, his voice groaning.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ten minutes later, Nash put a hand to the roof of the car and steadied himself as Dale swung Arancia past another vehicle, one that hadn’t yielded to the siren.
Arancia’s wipers flashed across the windshield. Outside, the rain streaked up her shiny, mirror-smooth finish.
When they’d been in the alley, recovering from their beating, Nash thought for sure that the injuries would slow Dale down, that it would take some time after they peeled themselves off the ground for him to fully get back to speed.
But as soon as they got in Arancia, he went right back to business. And now they were barreling down the road, headed back to Clyde Bowen’s house.
The road opened up a a bit before them, and Dale dropped the stick. The engine roared, and they rocketed forward.
“You’re my consultant on this assignment, Nash, and now I need your expertise more than ever. Tell me, would serial killer dream of having a network, some sort of way of having constant victims, a non-ending supply? Or is the scarcity part of the thrill?”
“You’re solving this thing, aren’t you?”
“I’m getting a good idea, yes.”
“Which is?”
Dale tapped the breaks. A car in front of them was slow to pull over. Once it was clear, Dale gunned the gas.
“Just answer the question. Please.”
Nash was clearly pissed off, but answered.
“I can’t speak for every serial killer’s brain, of course. I imagine for some, the thought of getting away with something is a big part of the thrill. But for my fantasies, yes, a systematic, endless supply would be ideal.”
Dale nodded, grinning. “Then I am onto something.”
“If you expect me to be of any real help here, you can stop being so secretive.”
“Nash, I have an idea, and need to follow up on it. I need you to trust me. Believe me when I say that I can’t tell you what I’m thinking at the moment. We’re in this together, but the truth of the matter is, you’re a consultant, not an agent. and I don’t need to share anything with you. Sorry to be harsh, but them’s the facts, buddy.”
Nash looked at Dale coldly, then turned and looked out the passenger window.
Ahead was the sign for Pullman Road.
Dale flipped on his turn signal, touched the brakes for the slightest moment, then thrashed Arancia onto Pullman Road.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nash hurried to keep up with Dale and the muscular cop they’d met earlier, the latter of whom was escorting them through the house and back to Clyde Bowen’s office again.
The cop stopped at the office door and gestured them inside.
“And has Sadler stopped by yet?” Dale asked as they stepped into the room.
“No, sir. Not yet.”
Dale gave him a nod, and the cop left.
They were alone in the room. Dale walked to the desk. Nash followed. Dale took a tissue from the box and opened the book to the index. He took a small notebook and pen out of his pocket and handed them to Nash.
“Will you write down the list of names?” he said and pointed to the listing of chapters, each of which was dedicated to a different unidentified serial killer.
“Whatever you say,” Nash said.
Dale looked at him for a moment then stepped away to the photos on the wall.
Nash copied the list.
When he’s done, he turned around and saw Dale staring over the photos, hands behind his back. His head scanned over the rows, like he was reading, occasionally stopping for a long moment at one of the frames.
Finally, he turned around and faced Nash.
There was a serious look on his face. “I need to get back to the hospital.”
Dale and Nash stepped out of the heavy rain and under the porte cochere, headed toward the front entrance of the hospital. Both men shook the rain out of their hair with their hands.
Dale came to a stop, and Nash does the same.
“What are you doing?”
“I need to speak to her. To Mira Lyndon. I need to confirm something. And I don’t want you there.”
“Oh, well … no offense taken.”
“We’re in this together. We are. But right now, I’m protecting you. You just need to trust me.”
Nash shook his head, turned around, and took a few steps away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dale strode quickly down the hall towards Mira Lyndon’s hospital room. A uniformed officer sat at chair by door and stood up when he saw Dale. Black, tall, and lean. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. His mustache was teenagerishly wispy, and his lanky limbs hadn’t completely filled out. His skin was a light caramel, spattered with freckles. His name tag said BRENNAN.
“Officer Brennan?” Dale said and flashed his badge. “Special Agent Conley.”
“Yes, sir. They told us you might be stopping by.”
Dale motioned behind them. “Sadler wants to see you.”
Brennan cocked his head.
“Really?”
“In the cafeteria.”
Brennan nodded, still confused, and took off.
Dale hated to lie.
He entered the room. Mira Lyndon’s eyes fell upon him as he approached. She watched him cautiously, almost fearfully. A nurse with a clipboard stood over her, and she watched Dale as he approached.
Dale pointed at the the bed. “Could she and I have a minute?”
The nurse gave a small smile as an affirmative, made one more quick note, and walked past him.
When she was out of the room, Dale closed the door. He then went to the side of the bed and pulled up the same chair he’d sat. He positioned himself closer to the bed this time, leaning his arms on the bed rail.
His quick, assertive actions seemed to puzzle her, making her watch him even more suspiciously, fearfully. Dale hated to upset a shell-shocked individual who had been through what she’d suffered only hours prior, but time was extremely limited. He didn’t have time to be gentle.
“Miss Lyndon, how many police have come to see you today?”
She thought this over
. “You and your consultant this morning. A couple uniformed officers later.”
“But no detectives?”
Mira shook her head no. Her mouth opened. Dale saw her stomach rise and lower quickly.
“You know why I’m asked that, don’t you? Why I want to know about detectives. That’s why you’re short of breath.”
She nodded, her eyes going wider, lower lip quivering slightly.
“Bill Sadler is the detective in charge of Hot Springs’ side of the investigation,” Dale said. “Did you know that?”
“Oh no,” she said. No…”
“Sadler and your boyfriend are good friends. Aren’t they? Very good friends.”
“Yes.”
“And they take part in certain … activities together?”
Hearing this made her shudder. “Yes. But I would have never thought Clyde was capable of what he did to me this morning, and—”
“Of course you wouldn’t. What I don’t know is if Sadler is just covering for your boyfriend … or if he’s part of the killings. Now I—as an out-of-towner and a fed, who local cops often distrust—could go the higher-ups at HSPD, try to convince them that one of their decorated detectives. And in the meantime more women could get slaughtered. And you could remain in here, a sitting duck. That’s not the route I’m taking. This investigation is completely corrupt. And you’re not safe.”
“What are you going to do?”
Again Dale didn’t have time to be gentle. There were a thousand different ways he could go about what he needed to say next. He could ease his way into it. He could lay out more of the facts he’d uncovered, try to appeal to her logical side. He could ask her kindly, making sure it was her decision.
But there was no time for any of that. So he just said, “I’m getting you out of here.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Nash stood outside the hospital’s front entrance, under the shelter of the porte cochere. Beyond, the rain poured. He watched the patterns in the air, like blankets of the rain, rolling and twisting. They shimmered in the streetlights, which had already turned on even though it was only two in the afternoon. It was that gloomy. Another gust blew more mist onto his bare arms, collecting in little droplets on his arm hairs, chilling him and causing his skin to goosebump.