Star Spangled Killer

by Summer Prescott

  “Okay, I get it,” Missy said wearily, heading behind the counter to help the girls. “Thanks for the heads-up, Chuck.”

  “Wish I could do more, Ms. Beckett. You have a good day now,” he flashed another professional smile and left.

  ***

  “Who do I need to talk to?” Missy demanded, more furious than she’d been in a long time.

  The clerk at the Health Department wasn’t even remotely sympathetic. “Mr. Gambel is out of the office at the moment,” she dismissed the irate blonde in front of her and went back to chewing her gum and pretending to work.

  “Then I want to see his boss.”

  “He’s on vacation for two weeks. I can schedule an appointment for when he comes back. I think he has an opening in six weeks,” she peered at Missy over the top of her glasses.

  “This is an outrage. I’m going to the mayor,” her grey eyes flashed fire as the woman gazed at her skeptically.

  “The mayor? Yeah, you do that, honey,” the clerk snickered, having no idea that the mayor happened to know Missy by name.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” Missy suddenly exploded, the barely contained fury that she’d held back for the past few days finally spilling over. “People come in here with issues and concerns and you don’t even pretend to care. There are people out there who would be grateful to have your job and you sit smugly behind that desk, entirely unwilling to actually do something,” she vented, her words sounding shrewish, even to her own ears.

  The woman leaned forward, her expression unchanged, with the exception of a fire that had been ignited in her eyes.

  “You know nothing about me,” she said quietly, but with the full force of her anger. “You don’t know what I’m dealing with in my life, you don’t know the mask that I have to put on every day just to function. You have no idea, up in that ivory tower of yours, what kind of abuse and nastiness that I have to deal with every day from people like you. No one can admit that they’ve made a mistake, no one even tries to hold themselves accountable when they fall short—it’s much easier to take it out on me. I don’t have the slightest idea whether you’re right or you’re wrong in this particular case, and you are correct, I really don’t care. The reason that I don’t care is because you came barreling in here, guns blazing, making demands and not treating me like a human being. Yeah, I know, government workers are just a cog in the machine, right? Sorry, honey. You be as rude as you want to, but it’s not gonna make me care about your problem. Have a nice day,” the clerk ended with a sarcastic smile that dripped venom, and Missy felt like she was an inch tall.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t realize… you’re right…” she began.

  “Save it, ma’am. Make up for it by treating the next person you meet with dignity, no matter where they work,” the clerk retorted, lips pursed.

  Missy practically fled the office, cheeks burning with shame. She knew better, she hadn’t been raised to treat people poorly, no matter what the circumstances. When she got back to her car, she took several deep breaths, willing herself not to cry, and feverishly making plans for what nice things she could do for the clerk. Sending over a dozen patriotic cupcakes and a floral arrangement would be a good start.

  Jerome Freneman had found a series of tiny, ridiculous infractions and had insisted that her cupcake shop stay closed until the infractions were remedied. Her freezer temperature was one degree too low, there wasn’t a specific way to distinguish the hand towels from the kitchen towels, the rubber baseboard in the kitchen wasn’t the correct height… the list went on and on and none of the items listed had a direct impact on food safety. Missy felt that she had been targeted and wanted to know by whom and why. Chuck Gambel had always been kind to her, so she doubted that the genial man had been a part of what was going on, but she needed to get to the bottom of this before it had a profoundly detrimental impact on the beginning of her busy season. Freneman had insisted on posting a report card in her front window, proclaiming that her health inspection had been unsatisfactory, and that definitely wasn’t going to be good for business. Her day took a definite turn for the worse when she got back to her shop and found Arthur Solinsky waiting for her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  Spencer had been given very specific guidance before he’d made the call to Sheriff Arlen Bemis. Timothy Eckels had given Chas the sheriff’s phone number, but had made it clear that nothing should be said to arouse the sheriff’s suspicions. It was now Spencer’s job to mine information from the opinionated and closed-minded small-town sheriff, without giving away his motivation for asking. Apparently the sheriff had once arrested a serial killer who Tim believed was now stalking Fiona. How he knew about this, or the extent of his involvement was a mystery that the fledgling PI was going to delve into further on his own.

  “Bemis,” the sheriff drawled into the phone.

  “Good morning, Sheriff. My name is Cooper Nelson. I’m an author doing research for a book on serial killers. I wondered if you might have a few minutes to talk with me. From what I understand, you’re a bit of an expert on the subject.”

  Tim had clued Chas in to the fact that perhaps the best way to approach the bristly, egomaniacal sheriff would be to flatter him, so Spencer chose to lead with compliments.

  “Well now, I don’t know about all that, but I s’pose I could answer some questions for ya,” the sheriff’s attempt at modesty failed miserably.

  “Perfect. Are there any encounters with serial killers that you’ve had that really stick out in your mind?” Spencer asked, doing his best to sound fascinated, like an eager young reporter.

  “Well, I’ll tell ya, there was this one case a couple years back,” Bemis began, and a slow smile spread across Spencer’s face as he picked up his pen. Bingo.

  ***

  Chas had just hung up after speaking with the mayor on Missy’s behalf. While Archie Greenbaum was sympathetic, there was nothing that he could do. The restaurants and bakeries that were under scrutiny were being targeted by Detective Art Solinsky because, while Dal Puxton’s grieving widow didn’t want any publicity or official inquiry into her husband’s death, she wanted someone to suffer over it. Once the inspection reports had been logged, no one could legally take them out of the system; the only answer was for the owners to bring everything up to code and hope that no additional items were found on subsequent inspections. The alternative was closing the shop.

  The former detective rubbed his face in annoyance, and looked up when Spencer appeared in the doorway.

  “Got any objection to me taking off to investigate for a few days?” the young man asked.

  “Of course not. Where you headed?”

  “Minnesota and Key West.”

  “Just charge it to the account. So your conversation with the sheriff was enlightening?” Chas raised an eyebrow.

  “Interesting, odd, and enlightening, yes,” Spencer agreed.

  “I get why you’d want to head to Minnesota, after having spoken with the sheriff, but why Key West?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Well, your hunches have worked out well in the past, so I have no problem with you chasing this thing down. Try and wrap it up as quickly as you can though, I’m seriously concerned about Fiona’s safety, and Eckels’s.”

  “I’m on it,” Spencer nodded, his mouth set in a determined line.

  “Heading out now?”

  “As soon as I can throw a bag together.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do,” Spencer turned to leave.

  “Hey Spence,” Chas stopped him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Ever deal with a serial killer before?”

  “Not that I can publicly disclose. Command had a… different way of dealing with such things,” he replied grimly, referring to his top-secret past.

  “Understood. Be careful out there.”

  “Careful doesn’t always get the job done.”

  ***<
br />
  Izzy sat in the familiar confines of her New York apartment, staring at her laptop as if it were a snake. Its blank screen mocked her, as it had been doing for the past few days. She hadn’t written a word, not a single one. She had her plot in front of her, all her usual supplies: a cup of tea beside her, aromatic oils wafting from a diffuser, basket full of healthy snacks that she hadn’t touched, and fuzzy slippers on her feet, but still… nothing. It wasn’t that words weren’t flowing, it was that she felt entirely incapable of producing words at all. She’d made seven attempts at her first sentence before giving up and taking Hercules for a walk, thinking that she’d find inspiration while she was outside, in the midst of the buzz of city life. Yet here she sat, facing the same creative paralysis that had gripped her all week.

  Her phone buzzed, breaking into her thoughts and making her heart jump. She looked at the screen, almost hoping that it might be Spencer, and incredibly disappointed when she saw that it was her publisher.

  “Hi, Miranda,” she sighed into the phone, stirring her now-lukewarm cup of tea.

  “Hi yourself.” The dour woman’s annoyed response was entirely expected. It was just how she operated, and Izzy had ceased taking it personally a long time ago. “When am I getting the book? You’re edging up on a deadline in a few weeks, and last time I saw you, you were staring out your window patting the dog. He’s a nice dog, but that don’t get books written, Little Miss.”

  Izzy made a face, knowing that Miranda was right, but not knowing what to do about it.

  “I’m just blocked right now,” she admitted. “I’ll go see a movie, or buy a purse or something and I’ll get past it. It’ll be fine.”

  “You haven’t written a word yet, have you?” Miranda accused. “Let me tell you something. I’ve been around the block more than once, and I know that you aren’t going to get squat done until you’ve faced and resolved whatever it is that you’re running from, sweetheart,” there was a pause and Izzy heard the intake of breath as her publisher took a long drag on one of her thin, expensive cigarettes. “Go get your life in order, handle your business, then get your tush back here and get my book written. Got it?”

  “It’s not that simple…” Izzy began.

  “Don’t gimme that nonsense,” Miranda cut her off. “Put on those big girl panties and handle your stuff. I’d hate to have to fine you for a late manuscript,” she threatened.

  “I never turn in late manuscripts,” Izzy protested.

  “Yeah, let’s keep it that way, Sunshine,” Miranda puffed her cigarette again and abruptly hung up, ensuring that she had the final word.

  As much as Izzy hated to admit it, her irascible publisher was right. She couldn’t work because she couldn’t get her mind off Spencer. She needed to talk to him, the sooner the better. She tried calling him and reached his voicemail, but didn’t leave a message. She didn’t want to text because it seemed so impersonal, so she decided to initiate a full-court press and return to Calgon. If she loved this man the way she thought she did, she owed it to herself and him to be an adult and have a face to face conversation.

  “I’m on the next plane out,” she texted Miranda. The only reply she received was an exclamation point, but she knew her publisher well enough to know what that meant.

  CHAPTER TEN

  * * *

  Fiona McCamish had finally resorted to taking hard-hitting allergy medicine to help her go to sleep. The garage hadn’t been a total loss, but it had taken days for the cleanup crew to strip it, then clean the entire interior of the house to get rid of the smoky smell after the fire. A construction crew had made quick work of restoring the garage, and life should be back to normal at this point, but the fact remained that someone, who seemed to be getting more dangerous by the day, was stalking her.

  She slept hard, mouth open, snoring, a trickle of drool pooling on her pillow, entirely unaware of the dark presence that lurked in her home. Feeling completely befuddled, not knowing what had awakened her, and so exhausted that she could barely open her eyes, Fiona barely registered that a strong hand clamped a sweet-smelling rag over her nose and mouth. The journey back into oblivion was short, and considering the circumstances, sweet.

  Waking the next morning, her mouth dry and her head throbbing, one of the first things that Fiona realized was that her leg seemed to be stuck to the sheet below her, and her calf hurt like crazy. Rolling over, she peeled her leg from the sheet below and cried out in pain and fear. Throwing the covers back, she saw that the tattoo on the back of her calf, a tribute to her Native American ancestry, had been partially removed. The part of the artwork that had been a blue and purple eagle feather, roughly four inches long and an inch wide, had been precisely cut away from the rest of the design, along with several layers of skin beneath it. Fearing for her life, she called 911.

  ***

  “Look, there’s a knife from your kitchen on your nightstand, no one’s fingerprints but yours are on it, and there’s a bottle of pills you might have used to deaden the pain. It’s okay to admit that you need help, young lady. We’re going to take you to a place where you can get the help you need,” a uniformed police officer explained to Fiona, in just about the most patronizing voice she’d ever heard.

  “Are you kidding me right now?” she was aghast. “I’m not crazy, I did not do this to myself,” she insisted, wincing as EMTs cleaned up the skin surrounding the wound.

  “No one thinks you’re crazy. Everything will be fine,” the officer gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re a mortician’s assistant, correct? And you work at the morgue as well?”

  “Yes, but what does that have to do with…”

  “So you use scalpels and other surgical-type tools on a regular basis?”

  “When Tim lets me, which isn’t very often, but…. Wait, you’re insinuating that I was practicing my body prep skills on myself? That’s just sick. I wouldn’t have the stomach for that anyway,” she sighed, frustrated beyond belief.

  “And you’re familiar with the construction of skin layers and anatomy?” he continued, glancing down at her leg. “This is very precise work.”

  “How on earth could anyone perform ‘precise work’ as you call it, on themselves? I mean, think about it! Look, if you want someone to vouch for the fact that I’m not crazy, call my boss, Tim Eckels. He’ll tell you that not only am I totally sane, but my dissection skills aren’t nearly good enough to have done this.”

  “We spoke with your boss. He came over when he saw the emergency vehicles. He also seemed to think it was a good idea for you to… go away for a while, just to take some time for yourself.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Fiona shook her head vehemently. “He needs me, both at the mortuary and the morgue, and he knows I’m not crazy.”

  “He said he was giving you a leave of absence. Now you can fight this process and I’ll get a court order within half an hour, or you can comply willingly, but either way, you’re going to get the help that you need, okay?”

  “This is outrageous,” she shook her head and began to cry. “I’m being stalked by a dangerous person, and instead of trying to find him and put him in jail, you’re having me committed. Unbelievable!” Her tears were bitter, and Tim’s betrayal made it even worse. She knew that he was just trying to protect her, but this was not the way to go about it.

  “Will you agree to be taken to a facility to receive medical and psychiatric care?” the officer prompted.

  “It’s not like I have much choice,” she muttered.

  “Here, this will help you rest while we transport you, and it’ll help with the pain,” an EMT assured her, slipping a needle into her arm. That was the last thing that she remembered.

  ***

  “Thank you for coming to see me,” Fiona greeted Chas, whom she used to call Detective Tall, Dark, and Handsome. “I know we don’t know each other very well, but I’m in a really sticky situation and I just don’t know where to turn.”

  Chas held up a hand. “I thin
k I know where you’re going with this, and I believe I may be able to ease your fears and frustrations a bit. Your boss came to see me last week, and explained some of the things that have been happening to you. Since I’m no longer on the police force, I don’t have access to any of the information that they have, but I’m guessing that they haven’t really given this case the attention that it deserves anyway…” he began.

  “Yeah, it’s easier for the cops to think I’m just crazy,” she interjected bitterly.

  “It may be in your best interest that they’re in the dark for the moment,” Chas said carefully.

  “How is that possible?”

  “Well, for one thing, this place is staffed round the clock, and no one is allowed in or out without permission. That means that you’ll be safe from the stalker until we get this figured out. Also, the stalker seems to be pretty smart. If we can allow him to believe that the police have no idea what’s going on, he may get bolder and he may get sloppier, then we can nail him.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense,” Fiona nodded. “Still, I hate being trapped here. At least they’ve stopped drugging me,” she sighed.

  “If you can just hang in here and cooperate with the staff, I’ll try my best to get this all cleared up in a hurry,” Chas promised.

  “Thanks, Detective,” she shook his hand.

  “It’s not ‘Detective’ anymore,” he reminded her. “It’s just Chas.”

  “Well, thanks, Just Chas,” she smiled for the first time in days.

  ***

  Timothy Eckels was sorely pressed to keep up with his duties, both at the mortuary and the morgue, without his assistant at his elbow. She handled all the tasks which involved contact with the public: talking on the phone, funeral planning, funeral insurance, scheduling and planning viewings, wakes… and now he’d be forced to handle those odious activities by himself. For the first time in his professional life, he hoped that there would be few, if any, bodies to autopsy and/or prepare.