Star Spangled Killer

by Summer Prescott

  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he’d gone over to talk with police, first making sure that she was okay, then making sure that she stayed okay by insinuating that she could have harmed herself. He’d hated to do it, but he knew that she’d be protected within the strictly controlled confines of a psychiatric center. In the meantime, he intended to do what he could to find her stalker.

  He needed to wash his hands before he made his breakfast, and what he saw when he approached his sink made his heartbeat speed up, and he turned rapidly in a circle, looking for the stalker. There was a smudge of blood by the sink, and he was guessing that it was Fiona’s, which meant that once the stalker had finished their evil deed next door, they’d come to Tim’s house to wash up. Thankfully the police hadn’t asked to come in, as it would have been hard to explain the blood away. Also beside the sink was a strand of short dark hair. It wasn’t black, like Fiona’s, nor non-descript brown/blond like his; it was an almost auburn strand, which puzzled him.

  He heard a sound from the direction of his bedroom, and froze, listening hard. He heard it again, and recognized it as the flapping of the blackout curtains in his room. The window was open. He never left his windows open. Ever. The intruder had been in his room, and a quick tour of the rest of his house revealed that clues had actually been left in every room, including the bathroom. While he slept, the dark presence from which he had fled years ago had haunted his safe and sterile world.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  * * *

  Angel Tucker saw the official-looking paper on the door of Cupcakes in Paradise and leaned closer to read it.

  “Sorry, we’re closed,” she heard Missy’s voice from behind her.

  “I just saw the notice,” Angel pointed to the paper in the window. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, it’s temporary, I hope.” Missy sighed. “Just a misunderstanding with the health department, so I’m afraid I won’t have any cupcakes to donate for a while.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad, but… umm… that’s actually not why I’m here. I was hoping that you might be hiring,” Angel confessed.

  “Really? I thought you were working at the Refuge.”

  “I was. I hated to leave, but some things happening there really made me question whether it was a healthy environment for me to be in,” the young woman shook her head sadly.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. You know the vice mayor, the guy who died?”

  “I knew him vaguely. We attended some of the same events,” Missy was intrigued.

  “Well, for some reason, Maria Rossman, my boss at the Refuge, hated him. She used to say how he was arrogant and didn’t deserve his title, stuff like that. The night before he died, I heard her on the phone, and she was shouting and saying some not-so-very-nice things. After she left to go to dinner, I checked the caller ID and saw that she was talking to Dallas Puxton.”

  “The night before he died?” Missy clarified.

  “Yeah. I didn’t want to cause any problems, but I knew I couldn’t stay there with everything that kept happening,” Angel looked sad and uncomfortable.

  “There’s more?” Missy’s eyes went wide.

  “Definitely. A week before the vice mayor died, a homeless guy named Ricky died too. Maria told me to have Feldman’s Funeral Home pick up the body, rather than Memorial, because she said they’d ask fewer questions,” she explained.

  “Do you think she…?” Missy couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “I don’t know. But the thought certainly crossed my mind, and I knew that I couldn’t stay there anymore. So here I am,” the young woman shrugged.

  “Well, we’ll be opened back up in a few days, hopefully, and when we do, I actually could use a delivery driver.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t have a license. Driving is just something I’ve never learned to do,” Angel seemed embarrassed.

  “Oh, okay. Well, maybe you could mind the counter while I make deliveries. You’re certainly accustomed to dealing with the public. I would think taking care of the cash register would be…”

  “A piece of cake?” Angel grinned.

  “Exactly,” Missy laughed, taking her phone out of her purse. “What’s your number? I’ll put it in my contacts and call you when we’re open again,” she looked at the young woman expectantly.

  “This is really embarrassing, but… the shelter didn’t actually pay me enough for me to afford a phone,” Angel’s face flushed.

  “Oh, honey, don’t be embarrassed. You were doing important work. How about I just jot down my number and you can call me to check in periodically?”

  “That’s perfect, thanks for being so understanding. Oh, and I’d really appreciate it if we could keep the stuff I said about Maria just between us. I don’t have any proof or anything, just a really bad feeling.”

  “Of course, my lips are sealed. But you know, sometimes women’s intuition is a powerful thing. You might want to think about going to the police. If they look into things and find her innocent, that’s great, but if she’s committing… crimes, then she needs to be stopped.”

  “I see your point. I hate to be a tattle-tale, but you’re right, this could be important,” Angel agreed.

  “Keep in touch, sugar,” Missy squeezed her arm supportively.

  “Will do. Thanks!”

  ***

  Timothy Eckels was so rattled when he got to work at the mortuary that he sat at his desk for a full ten minutes, just staring into space, brought out of his reverie only by the insistent ringing of his office phone. The caller was Dallas Puxton’s wife, wondering if everything was in place for Dal’s funeral the following day. Tim had been so preoccupied that he hadn’t yet started the preparations of the body, so immediately after hanging up, he locked the front doors of the mortuary and headed for his underground prep area.

  He pulled out the refrigerated drawer containing the former vice mayor, and used a gurney to place the bulky corpse onto a stainless steel prep table. Hours into the process, when he began to remove organs and entrails, something significant caught his eye. He held up a kidney and examined it under a magnifying glass, nodding, then proceeded to do the same with several other organs, as well as exploring stomach contents, confirming his hypothesis.

  When Tim finally finished the internal preparation of Dallas Puxton’s body, he realized, with great trepidation, that, like it or not, he had to call Arthur Solinsky and report his findings. He briefly considered calling Chas Beckett and letting him deal with the cranky detective, but decided ultimately that that wouldn’t be fair.

  Snapping off his nitrile gloves, he picked up the phone, dialed Calgon PD, and asked to speak with Solinsky. Timothy Eckels was a man of few words, and wasted no time with niceties on this man for whom he had no respect, professionally.

  “Dallas Puxton was murdered,” he announced, monotone, when Solinsky picked up the phone.

  “Are you out of your mind, Eckels? First of all, no. He wasn’t. He died of food poisoning and a heart attack. And secondly, it would take an autopsy to determine that, and you were not directed to perform an autopsy,” the detective’s tone was menacing, but didn’t affect the mortician in the least.

  “First, no. He didn’t die of food poisoning and a heart attack. I have positive proof that he was poisoned, most likely with ethylene glycol. Second, it didn’t require an autopsy to secure that proof, because it was more than evident when I removed the organs to prepare the body.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eckels, but you had better be darn certain about this or your career is over, am I making myself fairly clear?”

  “Indubitably,” Tim made a face.

  “What the heck is ethel-whoever-you-said, anyhow?” Solinsky demanded, his Jersey accent somehow enhancing his skepticism.

  “Ethylene glycol. Antifreeze,” Tim explained, rolling his eyes.

  Solinsky was silent for a beat. “You expect me to believe that the vice mayor of this town was stupid enough to consume antifreeze
and not know it?” he challenged.

  “Intellect has nothing to do with it. Antifreeze has a sweet taste, and is odorless and colorless, all of which makes it easy to mask in sweet foods or drinks.”

  “Antifreeze isn’t colorless, it’s green,” Solinsky tried one last time to argue, but Tim was out of patience, and had no desire to try and explain distillation and chemical properties to the Neanderthal detective.

  “I’ll be submitting my official report to your department, with a copy to the chief, before I leave the office tonight. I would think that you’d want to do some investigating in the meantime. I find it rather odd that Puxton’s wife didn’t want an autopsy and now we’ve discovered that he’s been poisoned,” the mortician suggested.

  “You tryin’ to tell me how to do my job, Freakshow?” was Solinsky’s immature defensive response.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tim replied, and promptly hung up.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  * * *

  “Will this madness never stop?” Missy shook her head in disbelief. “I told you last time we spoke that I’ve only met Dallas Puxton briefly at social events, and I have nothing against him,” she told Arthur Solinsky again.

  He’d shown up shortly after she’d gone into the cupcake shop to do some deep cleaning. She’d already passed the latest health inspection, and was simply doing everything that she could to spruce up the cozy little bakery while awaiting the arrival of her compliance certificate.

  “I’ve jumped through your stupid hoops, nothing was found here that could have caused food poisoning, yet you keep coming around and questioning me. Wouldn’t it be more productive to find a realistic suspect?” she challenged.

  “You got a garage on this building?” Solinsky asked, looking around and ignoring every word she uttered.

  “There was a garage, yes. This used to be a home, but since we didn’t need the garage, it’s been converted into a storage shed.”

  “Mind if I take a look around?”

  “If I allow you to go through the shed, will you leave me alone and go find a real criminal?” Missy shot back, at her wits’ end.

  “Depends on what I find,” Solinsky smirked.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Missy muttered. “Come on,” she directed, heading for the back door. “It’s quicker this way.”

  Solinsky called in a team and performed an exhaustive search, finding nothing of value or interest for his investigation.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he told Missy when he and his team left, making it sound like a threat.

  “Can’t wait,” her reply was drenched in sarcasm. “Hey, Detective,” she called out, just as Solinsky was about to get into his car.

  “Yeah?”

  “If you want to make some headway in your case, you might try talking to Maria Rossman,” Missy suggested, squirming a bit inside for having betrayed her promise to Angel.

  The detective seemed to consider her statement, then narrowed his eyes. “You know, Ms. Beckett, lots of perps try to disguise their guilt by throwing someone else under the bus.”

  “What a piece of work,” Missy murmured under her breath. Aloud, however, she replied, “Sure, whatever, just continue to spin your wheels. That’s how all crimes get solved, right? You just keep pursuing dead-end leads until something falls into your lap?”

  Solinsky didn’t hear her last sentence, as he had already slammed his car door behind him and started up the engine of the police sedan formerly used by Chas. Missy watched him go, arms folded, and wondered just what had gotten into her lately. She’d been short-tempered, snippy, and borderline rude. While it was true that being constantly badgered by an uncouth detective about being a potential suspect in a death that hadn’t even been classified as suspicious, and being put in her place by a government clerk hadn’t been the most fun she’d ever had, it was unlike her to be so out of sorts.

  ***

  Maria Rossman had just experienced a particularly challenging day, and her face fell when she saw a cop walk through the door of the shelter.

  “What happened and who did it?” she asked wearily, when Solinsky flashed his badge.

  “Funny, that’s what I’d like to know,” Solinsky gave her a direct look.

  “Whatever it is, spit it out so I can get on with my life. So far today, I’ve had to break up two fights, clean up vomit and urine, and delouse the place. I ain’t got the time or patience for games, so give me the bottom line and I’ll tell you all I know about whoever it is,” Maria sighed.

  “How well did you know Dallas Puxton?” Solinsky got straight to the point, hoping to throw her off guard.

  “Better than I would’ve liked. He was my daughter’s biological father,” Maria replied matter-of-factly. “We didn’t exactly get along.”

  “Sounds like you got along at least once,” Solinsky shot back crudely, receiving a withering glance in response.

  “Even that once wasn’t exactly grand, Detective,” she rolled her eyes.

  “Dallas Puxton stopped by here on the day before he died, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, tell me about the nature of his visit.”

  “He was doing some publicity tour for the mayor, trying to make people believe that he actually cares or something like that. He came, shook hands with a few people on camera, had some refreshments and left,” she shrugged. “It wasn’t a personal call at all, and he behaved himself because the cameras were on. Most likely his job was on the line or he wouldn’t have done it.”

  “Did he and the Mayor have issues?”

  “He had issues with everybody. I don’t think anyone liked him, including his wife. I hate to speak badly of the dead, but he was just not a nice guy.”

  “Did he have marital problems that you know of?”

  “I wasn’t exactly his confidante, Detective,” Maria said dryly.

  “Did you have any recent contact with him? Aside from the publicity stunt?”

  “He called the day before. Tried to tell me that I needed to pay half of our daughter’s tuition. He knows what I make, and everyone knows that he’s loaded, so I told him where he could shove it.”

  “How did he respond?”

  “How do you think he responded? He said that if he had to take me to court to pay for my daughter’s education, she’d see that I’m not a good mom and she’d hate me.”

  “And your reply?”

  “Is not suitable for your ears. I called him every name in the book and told him I’d see him in court.”

  “I see. Does the shelter operate any vehicles and keep them on the premises?”

  “Yeah, we have a shuttle bus that we use to take the residents to job fairs, or doctor’s appointments, stuff like that. Why?”

  “Who does the maintenance on the vehicles?”

  “I do most of it. Sometimes we’re lucky enough to get a former mechanic in and they help out.”

  “So you do things like change the oil, put antifreeze in, that sort of thing?”

  “Well, it’s Florida, so we use coolant, but yeah, that’s usually all me,” she nodded. “I really need to get going, Detective, are we done here?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she gazed at him with suspicion.

  “Maria Rossman, you are under arrest.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  * * *

  Timothy Eckels opened the newspaper and one particular headline caught his eye… “Vice Mayor Murdered, Killer in Custody.”

  “Oh no,” he whispered aloud, his eyes going wide. “Oh no…”

  When Tim got to the psychiatric hospital to check on Fiona, after ignoring his incessantly-ringing phone, he was greeted by the terrifying sight of an ambulance, fire truck and assorted police cars clustered around the entrance. He flashed his credentials at the officer directing traffic near the front gate, and feared he was too late. Hoping against hope that the killer hadn’t reached Fiona before he could, he hast
ily parked his car and made his way to the wide front doors at the front of the hospital. Art Solinsky was on the sandstone steps, speaking with a uniformed cop, and looking more than annoyed at having to go out on a homicide call so early in the morning.

  “Eckels!” he barked, when he saw Tim approaching. “What took you so long, why didn’t you answer your phone, and why aren’t you driving the meat wagon?” the detective drilled him with a glare.

  “I’m… assessing the situation,” he replied carefully, truthfully. “My assistant is…” he couldn’t finish the sentence, the lump in his throat preventing him from speaking.

  “It’s not your job to assess the situation. We got a stiff, and it was obviously a homicide. You need to get in there and do your job.”

  “I will,” Tim nodded, in shock. “What room?” his voice was almost a whisper.

  “If you would have answered your phone or listened to your messages, you’d know that,” Solinsky snapped. “It’s 221, get up there, pronto.”

  The reclusive coroner’s vision greyed a bit. Room 221. Fiona’s room. The killer had gotten her. He’d tried to protect her by having her committed, and she died anyway.

  “Move it, Dr. Death,” Solinsky’s near-shout broke through the fog of his thoughts, startling him, and he automatically headed inside, his feet moving despite the paralysis in his soul.

  Timothy Eckels stood outside the door of Fiona’s room for a moment, wanting to delay facing the inevitable for as long as possible, but eventually, after receiving strange looks from the forensics techs and police wandering in and out of the crime scene, he made himself step inside. It took no more than a second for Tim to realize that something was desperately amiss. The body splayed out on the floor was larger than Fiona, had different hair than Fiona, and was wearing pink scrubs.