Past Due

by Richard Stockford

  “Never mind who I am,” Murch said, looming over her. “Where are the jewels?”

  “I don’t know where they are,” Janice cried. “I’ve never seen them, Bill didn’t…” The fist came out of nowhere, snapping her head back and flooding her mouth with the metallic taste of blood.

  “No!” shouted Murch. “You do know! They’re mine and you know where they are.” His voice turned grim as he bent to pull her up by her hair. “And before we’re done, you’re going to be happy to tell me,” he whispered, slapping her face with an open right hand.

  Ears ringing, Janice flailed ineffectually against Murch, before finally pulling loose and stumbling back.

  Murch was on her like a cat, grabbing her arm and twisting it up behind her back as he turned her and slammed her up against a coffin. Janice’s lungs emptied in a soundless scream as she instinctively came to her toes to try to escape the terrible pain in her shoulder, darkness creeping into the edges of her vision.

  Murch was completely out of control. His mind had tipped into that animal place that revels in the pain it inflicts, and the first inkling he had of danger was the horrendous pain of two ribs breaking on his left side. He was turning and dropping, hunching into the flaring pain when Clipper’s thundering right hand brought merciful oblivion.

  With Adam’s words still echoing in his ears, Clipper had screamed out of the station parking lot in an unmarked car, Peters riding shotgun and Adams and Angelo fighting for their balance in the back seat. Peters was on the radio as soon as they got in the car, calling for marked units to converge on the State hospital, but they were alone, ahead of the pack as they tore up the long drive on Hospital Hill. Flanking the main hospital buildings, sliding across lawns and pathways, Clipper skidded to a stop at the edge of the cemetery and hit the ground running towards a ragged opening in the hillside undergrowth, his long legs quickly outdistancing the other three. Pushing through the vegetation, he stepped through the open door and saw Murch and Janice directly in front of him. In unconscious rage, Clipper used all of his momentum to drive a tremendous left hook into Murch’s left side and timed the follow-up right cross perfectly. Murch crumpled soundlessly and Clipped had Janice sobbing in his arms when Peters scrambled through the door.

  Chapter 2.16

  “I wonder if they can charge you with brutality when you’re already on suspension?” mused John Peters as he watched a nurse tape up the broken pinky finger on Clipper’s left hand.

  “Huh,” grunted Clipper, “probably have to charge me with impersonating a cop first.”

  “Did you forget you had a gun?”

  “Never thought of it. Just wanted to hit the bastard. Ouch!” Clipper glared at the Matronly nurse who glared right back in prim disapproval. “He deserved it, really.”

  In the aftermath of Janice’s rescue, she and Murch had gone to Bangor General Hospital in separate ambulances with Clipper accompanying her and two uniforms guarding the semi-conscious Murch. It wasn’t until Janice reached for his hand in the ambulance that Clipper had noticed the throbbing in his little finger.

  “Well, you did that,” said Peters stepping towards the door. “The x-ray guy said he had two broken ribs, a broken zygomatic arch, whatever the hell that is, and two cracked cervical vertebrae. Looks like they’re going to operate to put his face back together. I’m going to see where they are with all that and give the SO a call for some guards.”

  Clipper grunted. “Keep two guys on him ‘til then, and make sure he’s Miranda’d, even if we can’t talk to him yet,” he said. “I’ll be down here with Janice if anyone’s looking for me.”

  “I don’t think we have to guard her anymore,” Peters chuckled.

  “Well,” Clipper said, smiling, “someone’s got to get her statement.”

  Later in the evening, Clipper, Peters, Janice and the Paul Drupell, the assistant Attorney General talked in Clipper’s office.

  “So, he’s been planning this since 2003?” asked Drupell, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “He heard the story from Albert in college and he believed it,” said Janice through puffed and split lips. She had insisted on leaving the hospital with Chipper after having been treated for concussion, dehydration and numerous cuts and bruises. “I don’t think Albert really ever did. Bill said he never showed much interest. Just thought it was an interesting story.”

  “Somebody, I assume Murch, dug his way into that crypt recently,” said Peters. “And after you guys left in the ambulance, we found a skeleton behind the caskets with this laying on top.” He tossed a dry leather identification folder onto the table, opened to reveal Penn Sloater’s FBI credentials.

  Janice gasped. “So Bill’s grandfather really did kill him?” she asked.

  Clipper nodded. “He must have, and then Murch blackmailed Bill for more information, and, when he thought he had it all, killed him and Rupert Jones so he wouldn’t have to share. I bet we find out that Bill’s son lost a house key too when his stuff was stolen out of his dorm room. That’s how Murch got in, and then he must have seen Peeps on the street, or maybe even caught him looking in the window, so Peeps had to go too.”

  “And by the time he got to Hal and Janice,” Peters added, “he was totally wacked out. By the way, we interviewed Murch’s girlfriend this afternoon. Wanda Lambert. She said she’s seen an old army knife and a wooden billy club in Murch’s den before, but doesn’t know where they are now. We’ve got the warrants for the apartment, but haven’t gotten to it yet. No hurry now, got it sealed, and we’ll get to it first thing in the morning.” Peters flipped through his notebook. “Adams and Angelo are giving Orono a hand with Dennison’s house, and according to the Docs I spoke to, Murch probably won’t be available for questioning until Monday at the earliest.” He looked at Clipper. “Why don’t you go home? We got it under control.”

  Clipper smiled tiredly. “Might as well,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be here anyway.” As Clipper got out of this chair, Janice Owens stood as well, looking at him in silent question.

  “If you don’t feel like being alone, I’ve got a spare bedroom and some eggs in the refrigerator,” Clipper said quietly.

  “Well,” Janice smiled, “my mother really doesn’t need to see me all beat up like this and I haven’t had any better offers, so…”

  They slipped out of the station through a back exit, avoiding the press gathering in the lobby. In the dimness of Clipper’s truck, Janice spoke softly. “I can’t close my eyes without seeing Hal… and if I do, I’m afraid I’ll be back in that damn crypt when I open them.”

  Clipper pulled to a stop in his driveway and reached for her hand. “You’ve had a hard day,” he said, “but, you’ll be safe here and it will get better, I promise.”

  Supper, much needed but barely tasted, consisted of scrambled eggs, toast and milk, eaten at the kitchen table before Clipper led a nearly unconscious Janice upstairs to the spare bedroom. Retiring down the hall to his own room, Clipper shed his clothes and was asleep himself within moments of falling in bed. He didn’t quite awaken when Janice crept quietly through the moonlight into his room and curled up at his side.

  “Well, he still can’t talk much, but he’s admitted to Dennison and the kidnapping.”

  It was Tuesday morning and Clipper and Janice were sitting with John Peters in Clipper’s office. For two days they had been content to rest and get acquainted in the privacy of Clippers house. Janice made herself at home in Clipper’s kitchen and, after inspecting the cupboards, sent him out with a huge shopping list. Clipper had driven Janice to her mother’s to pick up some clothes, and now clear eyed and recharged they were back in the game. She was dressed in a flowery summer print dress that drew some attention away from the yellowing bruises on her face, and he was in jeans and running shoes with a black tee shirt covering the Kimber on his hip.

  “Dennison!” snorted Clipper. He’s got a lot more than Dennison to own up to.”

  “Well,” Peters frowned, “so far, he�
��s denying the rest. Probably figures we got no proof, so…”

  Chief Norris appeared in the open doorway. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said stiffly, nodding in the direction of Janice. “I just got a call from the Attorney General, Lieutenant Clipper. He’s finished his investigation into the shooting and has cleared you and the department of any wrongdoing. He’ll be presenting to the August Grand Jury and recommending a no-bill. Your suspension is lifted, effective immediately.” He turned to leave, and then hesitated. “Oh, and congratulations to all of you on a job well done on these homicides.”

  Clipper grinned at Peters as the chief’s footsteps retreated. “You know, I’d forgotten all about the suspension.” He stood. “Now get your damn ass out of my chair.”

  “Yes, boss,” Peters murmured as he scrambled out from behind the desk. Slumping into one of the visitors’ chairs, he continued. “So, he’s claiming he went to Dennison’s to force Janice to take him to the jewels.” Peters glanced at Janice. “He still thinks you know where they are. And then Dennison put up a fight and things went downhill from there.”

  Janice shook her head in disgust. “Hal didn’t even know he was there,” she said. “He came running up behind him from the kitchen and just smashed him with a club. He didn’t even say anything. I tried to run, but I guess he hit me to. The next thing I knew, I was in that awful crypt.” She shuddered with the recollection.

  Clipper sat behind his desk and leaned back in the chair. Janice and I spent a little while with those phone records yesterday,” he said, and both the threatening calls she got came from Murch’s cell phone. I think that gives us intent on Bill Owens.”

  Peters thumbed through his notebook. “Patrol found Murch’s car near an old shack at the back of the hospital property. Had a roll of duct tape on the front seat. It’s downstairs, waiting for ID.”

  Dave Adams stuck his head in the door. “We’re headed out to Murch’s place. Anyone want to come?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Clipper cut the police seal and led the way into Murch’s apartment. He went directly to Murch’s office and noted immediately an empty space on the wall where he’d remembered seeing an antique wooden police baton on his previous visit. A half hour later, he was browsing through the books in the living room when Adam’s excited shout brought him back into the office on the run. Adams had pulled out the small bookcase beside the Edgewink research table and was on his knees photographing the trench knife clipped to its back. “Looks like the handle’s been wiped,” he said peering closer, “but I think we got blood on the blade.”

  When they left Murch’s apartment, three hours later, his computer and the entire boxed contents of his office went with them.

  Chapter 2.17

  Raymond Bennett shook his head decisively. “My client will not answer any questions at this time,” he said with more authority than he felt. At age thirty-one, but only two years out of law school, Bennett was somewhat intimidated by the egregious nature of the crimes alleged against his client. He was a small man seated at a small table in a small office commandeered as a conference room at Bangor General Hospital, surrounded by an Assistant Attorney General and two large police detectives. It was Wednesday morning, beginning to look as though Colin Murch would need to remain in the hospital for at least a few days longer, and the state prosecutors were anxious to get through the interrogation process and begin crafting the indictments.

  Paul Drupell sighed, but Clipper spoke up. “Look,” he said, not unkindly, “he’s already admitted to one murder and felony kidnapping, and we’ve got motive, threats and the weapon in the others.” He glanced at Drupell. “Obviously, I can’t speak for Paul, but this is a complicated case, and it’ll be an expensive trial. Maybe there would be some advantage to your client if he helps us tie it all up now.”

  Bennett shook his head again. “We’ve spoken, and he denies the allegations completely. If you wish to hear it from him, that’s fine, but I’ll allow no questions. He looked at Drupell. “We would, of course, be willing to entertain any plea offers the state deems appropriate,” he said stiffly.

  The four walked down the hall, past a uniformed deputy sheriff on guard at the door and into Murch’s room. The reporter lay on his back on a bed with an IV attached to his left arm, electronic monitors attached to the right and a bulky cervical collar immobilizing his head. A line of fine stitches crawled down from his temple in front of his left ear, and his eyes were red rimmed and swollen. He strained to focus an angry sideways glare at Clipper who stepped back out of his field of view, keeping his face impassive.

  “Mister Murch,” said Drupell, “I’m Paul Drupell, Assistant Attorney General for the State of Maine. He glanced around. “I believe you know these other gentlemen.” Stepping directly in front of Murch, Drupell open a folder. “Mister Murch, the State of Maine intends to charge you with the murders of William Owens, Rupert Jones, Randolph Pelky and Harold Dennison as well as the kidnapping of Janice Owens. These are very serious matters and there may be other charges forthcoming. I’m sure Mr. Bennett has told you that you don’t have to speak to us, but it is the policy of my office to offer people in your position an opportunity to comment before the indictments are brought. This is that opportunity.”

  Murch opened his mouth painfully. “Didn’t murder anyone,” he slurred, the words garbled as he tried to speak without moving his jaw. “We had a deal… self-defense…”

  Raymond Bennett quickly stepped in front of the bed. “That’s enough,” he said holding up his hand. We have nothing further to say.”

  With the abortive interview over, Clipper and Peters went back to the station and spent the rest of the day catching up with the log jam of lesser cases that had piled up during the past two weeks. At six o’clock, Clipper pushed away from his desk and headed for home, stopping on the way to pick up a bottle of wine that he’d found out Janice liked. He paused for a moment in his doorway, amused, and a little scared, by the simple domestic pleasure of arriving home to wonderful cooking aromas and a woman’s pleasant smile. He wondered if he should show her the new poem he had snatched from the bulletin board on his way out of the station…

  You may be a fighter and feeling real chipper,

  but you don’t want to mess with the Bangor Clipper.

  A smile on his face, not easy to rile,

  Think he’d be easy? No, not by a mile.

  Fists made of iron, arms in a whirl,

  Pity the man who bothers his girl.

  PP

  The growl of the cell phone vibrating on the night stand filtered slowly into Clipper’s consciousness. He woke in darkness, a dream of musty animals and dark caverns slipping away as he groped for the phone.

  “Saddle up, Bub. We got problems.” John Peters sounded grim.

  “What?” snapped Clipper, rolling up to sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly wide awake.

  “Murch escaped. Guard’s dead and he’s gone.”

  “When?”

  “Three o’clock now, maybe thirty minutes ago. I’m at the hospital. Couldn’t sleep, so I was hanging out in dispatch when the call came in that they were missing. Told ‘em to hold off on calling you ‘til I’d checked it out.” Peters grunted hollowly. “Didn’t want to ruin your beauty sleep for a false alarm, but he’s gone, all right. Found the guard in a closet.”

  “I’m on the way,” said Clipper turning to a white faced Janice already getting up from the other side of the bed. “Murch has escaped from the hospital, and I’ve got to go.”

  “I’m coming too!”

  “Damn right you are. There’s no way I’m leaving you alone with him on the loose.”

  In ten minutes, they were dressed and in the truck, chasing their headlights through the sleeping city.

  “I thought he was too sick to get out of bed.” Clipper glared at the small group of nurses and one older doctor gathered outside Murch’s room.

  “He’s gotta be hurting,” the doctor replied, “and he’s gonna screw up the work we
did to stabilize his neck and jaw, but he can get around as long as he can stand the pain.”

  Clipper and Janice had arrived at the hospital to find Troy Stoner, the County Sheriff standing over his dead deputy, fists clenched, a glint of tears in his eyes. An orderly and Dave Adams were standing patiently behind him. Although Stoner was an ex-Maine State Trooper and in his fifth four-year term as Sheriff, this was his first loss to the line of duty, and he was clearly devastated. The deputy, a gangly young man with a shock of blond hair and pimples, was wedged on his back in the small closet, a hypodermic syringe still dangling from his neck, eyes dull behind half closed lids. Clipper could see a nametag ‘D.S. Akins’, hanging askew and an empty holster on his uniform belt. A tan Stetson lay upside down in the corner of the closet. He laid a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder for a moment in mute sympathy, and then gently led him out of the room to a bench in the hall. “Let them take care of him, Troy,” he said quietly.

  John Peters strode up the hall, portable radio in hand. “No sign of him outside,” he said. “Looks like he jumped the deputy, pulled him into the room, and just walked out, probably got at least a half-hour head start. Far as I can tell, he’s on foot, but who knows, he could’a grabbed a bus or hitch-hiked, whatever. I checked the cab companies, nothing there, but I got his description out to everyone, and alerted the State Hospital. We’ve got patrol, all our guys and a batch of deputies prowling this side of the city.”

  Clipper got to his feet. “Get someone in to help Dave with the scene,” he said scrubbing his face tiredly, “and we need to keep an eye on my place and Janice’s house in case he’s not just running. Janice’ll be with me ‘til we track him down, and we’ll be on the air.”

  Clipper and Janice went down to his truck, and he drove a slow, outward spiral from the hospital, ghosting along in the cool dark, headlights off, windows down, stopping to watch open areas and then moving again, always headed toward hospital hill.