* * *
Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague, her sensual lips mouthing an enigmatic murmur … I am not authorized to reveal minority opinions.
The woman in room 215 at the Holiday Inn, fashionably dressed in black pinstripe … You may call me Missy Whisper.
Patsy Poynter screaming at the fire chief … I’m so upset I’m don’t even know my own name!
From a subliminal memory deposited in the rancher’s subconscious while he had been talking to Pete Bushman on the telephone—Aunt Daisy recalling last night’s nightmare: She said she was locked inside that truck to rot like some dead animal—and wanted me to go let her out.
Charlie Moon’s solitary night-drive back to the Columbine, with the old Bronco trailing along behind in the chill starlight. (An unknown presence whispering in his ear: We have not been properly introduced…)
A faceless ex-Texas Ranger telling Scott Parris over the telephone, “I think I’ll go fishing.”
Sidewinder, sniffing his supersensitive hound’s nose at the unshod hooves of an edgy blue-and-white bronco that was about to reward the dog with a swift kick in the head.
Miss Whysper, with black-cherry nails and lipstick, choking on her Columbine breakfast … like she might strangle herself.
The Ford Bronco, it’s blue-and-white paint now blistered black … a cindered corpse inside—her mouth opened wide in a silent scream.
Again, Miss Whysper, determined to carry her own luggage—pulling the shabby pink suitcase from Charlie Moon’s grip.
An amiable Scott Parris—checking Miss Whysper out of the Holiday Inn.
Scene-stealer Lila Mae McTeague’s gorgeous face flashing onto the silver screen, her violet eyes capable of seeing him from afar … Be careful, Charlie … sometimes things are not what they seem to be.
* * *
This self-inflicted cinema fairly made Charlie’s head spin; but, like the news-at-ten, disjointed flashbacks are not known for being either comforting or particularly informative. Deputy Moon was relieved when the unsettling experience came to an abrupt end. But, then …
It started up again.
* * *
Listen to Patsy and Tiffany’s catty girl-chatter about Miss Whysper and her peculiar notion of color coordination.
Watch Scott Parris haul off like a star quarterback, let ’er go for the home team—and down purse snatcher LeRoy Hooten with a can of black-eyed peas.
This dubious entertainment was followed by additional (equally inane) sequences.
Capping it all off, behold Sidewinder, entering stage right—his dark muzzle lifted to the night sky, toothy mouth gaped. Is the Columbine hound performing his soul-chilling wolf imitation? Yes. More or less. But lacking the conventional lunar prop, the resourceful canine was obliged to improvise right on the spot. (There being no silvery satellite overhead, he was howling at the closest Moon at hand.)
Right—the very same Señor Luna whom Aunt Daisy (when severely vexed) referred to as that big gourd-head.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
THE OLD PRO AND HIS ADMIRING SIDEKICKS
While Charlie Moon’s mind was struggling vainly to make sense of the series of disconnected flashbacks, the medical examiner’s van arrived at the opposite end of the block from where the lawmen friends had parked their vehicles.
Completely absorbed in their shared vocation, Doc Simpson and his two assistants passed by Chief of Police Parris, Deputy Moon, and Officer Martin without so much as a sideways glance. Completely immersed in their private world, the single-minded trio headed directly to the smoking SUV, where the firemen had finally doused the last flame. With no smoke to veil her gruesome countenance, the charred corpse patiently awaited the thoughtful appraisal of the skilled professional and his adoring second bananas. Arriving at the driver’s door, Simpson peered into the burned-out interior and exclaimed, “My goodness—we are presented a textbook-perfect example!” (Of precisely what, the ME did not elaborate, and one hesitates to inquire for further details.) Like an old-fashioned gentleman who has just encountered an old and dear lady friend, Simpson removed his hat with due respect and smiled with genuine pleasure at the skull almost denuded of flesh.
As if she were pleased to see him, Louella Smithson’s bony countenance returned a wide, garish grin.
Observing this macabre performance with a barely suppressed shudder, Scott Parris tried to recall the gist of a pithy proverb. How does it go? Something like … Let him who enjoys his work ask for no other blessing. Desirous of cleansing his mind of the grisly scene, the chief of police turned to his favorite GCPD uniformed cop and requested a continuation of her update.
Eager to get on with it, Officer Martin pointed her gloved hand at the boxy ambulances that were blocking the center of the street. “Patsy’s going to be fine, but we don’t know about her sister—Miss Daphne Poynter. The EMTs are doing their best to keep her alive.”
Familiar with the drill, Parris guessed correctly that vital signs were being taken while critical information was provided via microwave link to the physician on duty at Snyder Memorial ER, who was telling the techs what to do before they started rolling to the hospital. The longtime cop imagined fluids being administered via an IV, possibly even whole blood.
Officer Alicia Martin continued to address Parris’s left ear. “Patsy apparently arrived with her sister about an hour ago. The woman in the Bronco arrived much later, but only a minute or so before an incident that led to the dual assault. From what I understand, she came for a prearranged visit with Patsy.”
Parris and Martin shot a questioning look at Moon, who nodded. “Patsy and Miss Whysper had a meeting set up for this evening.”
Her supposition thus confirmed, Officer Martin picked up her narrative with renewed confidence. “According to a neighbor, the woman who arrived in the Bronco knocked on Patsy’s door and was invited inside. Immediately after that, the porch light was turned off. It was apparently Patsy’s sister who opened the door to the woman in the SUV.”
“How do we know that?” Parris snapped.
Martin’s face stiffened at this discourteous response, but she maintained her professional tone. “Because—at the time, Patsy was away on an errand to the supermarket. She returned home a couple of minutes before you and Charlie showed up.”
“Uh … sorry, Martin.” The cop with the sunburned face managed to blush. “Tell me more about the neighbor.”
“According to the witness—a Mrs. Buxton, whose residence is directly across the street—” Martin pointed again “—immediately after the Bronco pulled into the Poynter driveway, another motorist showed up in a pickup. The pickup slowed, as if the driver was taking a look at the woman who’d gotten out of the Bronco.”
Parris’s inquiry was gentler this time. “Did the neighbor get a look at the pickup driver?”
“No sir.” Officer Martin paused to gasp a breath of noxious air. “It’s seems likely that the driver of the pickup had followed the Bronco here. Anyway, the pickup kept on going, but made a U-turn at the end of the block and returned to park the vehicle in front of the Poynter driveway. A woman, presumably the one who’d arrived in the SUV—it was fairly dark with the porch light out—anyway, she came out of the house and exchanged words with the pickup driver. The neighbor believes that she was requesting that he not block the Poynter driveway.” Suffering somewhat from smoke inhalation, Martin paused to cough, then inhaled another breath of polluted air—and resumed her report. “The pickup stayed put and the woman walked up to the passenger side of the cab and out of sight of Mrs. Buxton—who then heard a ‘popping sound’ that might have been a gunshot, but it wasn’t very loud and she couldn’t see anyone. Things were quiet for a minute or so before the pickup pulled away as if nothing important had happened. But before the vehicle was out of sight, the SUV in the Poynter driveway burst into flames. The witness immediately called 911 and—” For the second time in a minute, her narrative was interrupted—but this time, not by Chief of Police Parris.
<
br /> THE OLD PRO OFFERS A PROFESSIONAL OPINION
Officer Martin was upstaged by the sudden appearance of Doc Simpson, whose cherubic countenance fairly glowed with good-natured cheerfulness. After tipping his felt hat at Martin and darting a friendly glance at Moon, the medical examiner directed his remarks to the ranking police official. “Would you be interested in a preliminary finding?”
“You know I would,” Scott Parris said. “So what’ve you got?”
“First of all, the victim in the burned-out vehicle appears to be a female.” He paused, knowing that his attentive audience was waiting for the significant revelation. The medical examiner coughed, then dabbed at his pink lips with a spotless white-linen handkerchief. “I cannot be certain until I have completed a detailed examination of the remains, but I am willing to go out on a spindly limb and speculate that the cause of death was asphyxiation.”
Parris was not surprised. “Smoke inhalation, eh?”
“I rather think not.” The ME shook his head. “Unless I am mistaken—and I very rarely am—this is an instance of asphyxiation by strangulation.”
The chief of police allowed himself a mild scowl. “How’n hell could you already know that?”
Gratified by this hoped-for response, Doc Simpson recited his carefully prepared and memorized oration in a deliberately annoying pedantic manner: “Unless this is the most unusual suicide that I have ever encountered, it would appear that a particularly nefarious malefactor has looped a length of wire around the victim’s neck—and twisted the ends of the wire with the intent of severely interfering with pulmonary function.”
“Wire?” Parris’s jaw dropped. “Like for baling hay?”
Simpson shook his head at this farmhand conjecture. “The assailant used insulated wire. Solid copper, fourteen-gauge I think.” The prideful performer allowed himself the merest hint of a self-satisfied smile. “Which is approximately 1.6 millimeters in diameter at a temperature of sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit.”
The old clown’s really enjoying himself. “Electrical wire, huh?”
“Certainly.” As if attempting to recall a significant detail, the ME paused. “I believe that fourteen-gauge is good for about fifteen amps, but I do not make a practice of staying current on electrical codes. Before replacing that outdated ceiling light fixture in your rumpus room—I refer to the one centered over your handsome pool table—you would be well advised to check the wire rating with a licensed electrician.” He added, in an apologetic tone, “At this preliminary stage of my investigation, I am unable to specify either the chemical composition or original color of the heavily charred insulation on the hank of strangulation wire.” With this pronouncement, the elfin man strode away to join his admiring assistants—chuckling happily as he went.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
HOW DID SCOTT PARRIS REACT TO DOC SIMPSON’S PERFORMANCE?
Darkly, it would seem—like a cop who has had it right up to here with the irascible Dr. Wiseacre medical examiner.
Exchanging knowing glances, Charlie Moon and Officer Alicia Martin shared similar thoughts, the general gist of which was: Scott is plenty ticked off and about to say something unseemly about Doc Simpson.
Not so. During the ME’s recitation, the chief of police had ruminated. Now, Scott Parris watched the dapper man’s departure without muttering or even thinking an expletive. A manful effort to control his temper? No. He could not spare the brainpower required to produce a satisfactory insult. The overworked public servant was applying his entire intellect to a sober analysis of the hard facts surrounding the homicide. This process took more than a few heartbeats, but he eventually concluded that what had occurred was obvious enough. Before launching into his explanation of what’d happened in Patsy Poynter’s driveway, Parris filled in Officer Martin on the highlights of recent events—starting off with the recent arrival in town of one Miss Louella Smithson, aka Miss Susan Whysper.
Chief Parris’s intelligent subordinate listened intently to this revelation. Alicia Martin was particularly interested to learn that Miss Smithson/Whysper believed that she was hot on the trail of an anonymous cop killer known to the FBI as the “Cowboy Assassin,” which gun for hire had presumably been dispatched to Granite Creek by purse snatcher LeRoy Hooten’s mother. There was no need for Parris to mention that the obvious targets of Cowboy’s get-even mission were himself and Charlie Moon.
Officer Martin, who taught Youth Sunday School at the Granite Creek First Methodist Church, offered up a heartfelt prayer: Please, God—give me a shot at this killer before he lines up Scott or Charlie in the crosshairs!
A laudable supplication. The answer was … no.
Following his introductory preamble for Martin’s benefit, Scott Parris commenced to sum up his thoughts about the recent altercation at 250 Second Street: “Okay, here’s how I see things playing out at Patsy’s house. This so-called Cowboy Assassin hits town and one way or another, he’s already found out that Miss Smithson is on his trail. While Cowboy is driving around our fair city in his pickup, he spots her old Bronco chugging along and follows the unwary lady in hopes of cornering her in some quiet spot. They end up here at Patsy’s place—where the bad guy deliberately boxes her SUV in by blocking the driveway. Shortly after she’s admitted to the Poynter residence by Patsy’s sister, Miss Smithson notices the pickup. She comes outside and asks the guy to move it. They exchange angry words. At some point, push comes to shove and Cowboy strangles Miss Smithson with a piece of electrical wire.” Which don’t explain the possible gunshot the witness says she heard, but that was probably bogus anyway. “Patsy’s sister witnesses the murder from the doorway, so Cowboy goes inside with the intention of killing her too and he might have—”
“The sister suffered a serious head injury,” Officer Martin offered. “She’s alive, but just barely.”
Like Daisy Perika, Scott Parris hated being interrupted. Where was I? A frown helped him recollect. Oh, right. “After the perp assaults Patsy’s sister, he comes back outside. Not wanting to leave a strangled corpse in the driveway, he puts Miss Smithson’s remains into her Bronco. Then he pops the cap off the gas tank, stuffs something flammable into the spout—maybe a handkerchief—flicks his cigarette lighter, and touches a flame to the improvised wick. Cowboy drives away in his pickup before the Bronco goes off like a Roman candle.” Parris glanced apprehensively at his deputy. Charlie always manages to find something wrong with my notions.
“It fits,” Charlie Moon said. Sort of. Like a pair of new boots that’re a half size too small. He fixed a hard gaze on Martin. “Did the witness across the street actually see the pickup driver go inside Patsy’s house—or come out of it?”
“We haven’t had time for a detailed interview yet, Charlie—but I don’t think she did.” Officer Martin shot a quick glance at her boss. “But like I said, the porch light was turned out right after Miss Smithson went inside.” Martin took a moment to review Parris’s grisly scenario. “After things got quiet, I doubt that Mrs. Buxton was paying much attention. A man in dark clothing could’ve gone into the house to assault Patsy’s sister without being noticed by our eyewitness.”
A grateful Scott Parris nodded his approval. Martin is a first-rate cop.
Moon stared at the scorched SUV. Scott’s theory must be pretty close to how it went down. Committing two murderous assaults, concealing one of the bodies in a parked car and setting it afire—that did seem quite a lot to accomplish in a minute or so, but probably not for a seasoned professional who knew what he was doing. Even so … I wonder why he’d want to burn Miss Whysper’s corpse. But the longtime lawman knew that even ordinary folks do some very strange things when stressed out. There was no telling what an edgy assassin might do in a pinch; even old pros occasionally lose their cool. It could’ve gone down that way, I guess. But Deputy Moon was not entirely convinced.
“This ain’t getting us nowhere fast,” Scott Parris announced obliquely. “What we need to do is find that pickup before this C
owboy strangler is a hundred miles from Granite Creek in any direction.” He suddenly felt wobbly and somewhat light-headed. Must be low blood sugar. The long, difficult day had finally caught up with the overweight lawman, who was dithering uncertainly in that gray borderland between middle-aged and over the hill. To steady himself, Parris leaned against Alicia Martin’s GCPD black-and-white, its blue-and-red emergency lights illuminating his ruddy face with cyclic pulses alternately suggesting blood and bruises. “Officer Martin, put out a statewide alert on the pickup—”
“Already done, sir.” He looks a little shaky. She coughed again, then inhaled a deep breath of not-so-smoky air. “Problem is, the witness didn’t get a very good look at the suspect vehicle. It was too dark to see what color the truck was, and Mrs. Buxton doesn’t know how big it was, much less one make of pickup from another. This Cowboy character could’ve been driving a pint-size Toyota or a Ford F-250. And our witness never even thought of looking at the plate.”
Running out of steam, Parris managed a weak grin. “Thank you, Officer Martin—for making my day.”
However diluted, a dose of comic relief was just what she needed. Alicia Martin’s smoke-smudged face returned a bright, pretty smile. “Just part of the job, sir.”
The Old Gray Wolf Page 23