“Alone?” Lucinda asked.
“Yes, alone. I do that often, Lieutenant.”
“Where?”
“I stopped by Mom’s Deli and got a sandwich and cream soda to go. I walked over to the park on Ressler Street ate my lunch there.”
“Okay. Did anyone in the park see you – anyone who could verify that you were there?”
“I didn’t talk to anybody in the park. I have no idea if anyone saw me.”
“And then?”
“By two, I was back in the office seeing patients.”
“Then?”
“I picked up Ruby at preschool, got home at five minutes past five, sent Kara home and fixed dinner for the girls.”
“Who’s Kara?”
“My babysitter. She stays with Charley weekdays after school and stays with both the girls when I need her on evenings and weekends.”
“Kara who?”
“I really don’t want you harassing her. Her husband is already questioning the wisdom of her coming over here in the first place. You bother her, and I might end up without a sitter.”
“I need her last name, Dr Spencer.”
“Lieutenant, you’ve given me every indication that you care about my daughters. If that’s true, why would you want to risk taking another important woman out of their lives?”
“You know, when you dodge my questions, you sound like a man who doesn’t want his wife’s killer found. I wonder why that would be?”
He slammed the frame in his hand down on the counter. The loud cracking noise of breaking glass surprised them both. “I’m sorry. I can’t deal with this right now. Would you please leave, Lieutenant.”
“Sure, no problem.” She pushed up out of the chair. “But I will be back, Dr Spencer. You can count on that.”
Twenty-Two
“Psst! Psst!”
On the bottom step of the Spencer porch, Lucinda turned toward the sound. Peering around the corner was the small face of Charley Spencer. She motioned with one hand. “Come here. Come here.”
Lucinda stepped on the grass and Charley disappeared around the corner. When Lucinda reached the spot where Charley last stood, she spotted the girl again by the lattice-framed door beneath the porch.
“Come here. Come here,” Charley said and ducked inside.
Lucinda followed her to the doorway. She looked in and saw Charley sitting in the dirt, her legs stretched out in front of her. Charley patted the spot on the ground next to her and said, “Sit here. Right here, next to me.”
“In there again?”
“Yes, please. I need someone to talk to.”
I bet you do, little girl. Lucinda crawled in and sat down beside her. Charley patted on the back of Lucinda’s hand and sat quietly.
“What you want to talk about, Charley?”
The small dark-brown eyes gazed intently at Lucinda. “Can I touch your face?”
For a second, Lucinda was stunned. No one had ever asked her that before.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Charley stammered. “I shouldn’ta . . .”
“No, no. It’s okay, Charley. You surprised me. That’s all. Sure, you can touch my face.”
Charley got up on her knees. Her small serious face moved so close that Lucinda could smell her sweet, toothpaste breath. With tiny feathery touches, Charley explored the rippled skin. “Does it hurt?”
“No, Charley. Not anymore.”
“Good. It had to hurt real bad when it happened.”
“It sure did.”
“Do you have an ugly eyeball?”
“I don’t have an eyeball on that side at all, Charley.”
“Can I see?”
The lump in Lucinda’s throat grew larger. “Sure, Charley.”
Gentle fingers flipped up the patch. “Oh, poor baby,” Charley cooed.
Lucinda fought back the tears. Charley must’ve heard that phrase from her mother a hundred times.
Charley sat back down in the dirt and wiggled her hand into Lucinda’s and squeezed. Lucinda squeezed back.
“Do you need a friend?” Charley asked.
“I could always use a friend, Charley.”
“I need a friend, too. Can we be friends?”
“We are friends, Charley. I never let anyone but my doctor touch my face before.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I can’t talk to my dad.”
“Have you tried?”
“Yeah. But he just tells me I have to forget. I can’t forget. I keep seeing Mommy on the floor.”
The mental snapshot of her own mother lying dead on the stairs swam through Lucinda’s mind. “Maybe if you talk about it, it would help.”
“I wanted to talk to my gramma but she and daddy had a fight and she left.”
“I’m sorry, Charley.”
“I didn’t understand what they were talking about but my gramma thought I should talk to you.”
“She did?”
“Uh huh.” Charley reached into her pocket and pulled out a dirty folded piece of paper. “Look. But don’t tell my dad, okay?”
“Okay, I won’t.” Lucinda unfolded the paper. It was a creased photo of Kathleen Spencer holding an infant.
“See. That’s me when I was a baby. If Daddy knew I had it, he’d take it away.”
“He would?”
“Yes. Daddy put away all of Mommy’s pictures. I hid this one. Daddy says pictures of my mommy are bad for me. But this one makes me feel good.”
“Why is that, Charley?”
“Because when I close my eyes, I always see my mommy on the floor all hurt. I look at this,” she said pointing to the picture, “and it makes that bad picture go away.” Charley started to sob.
Lucinda wrapped an arm around the little girl’s shoulder and pulled her to her side.
“Ruby’s too little, I can’t talk to her. All my friends ask questions. They want to know what my mommy looked like when I found her. They get mad when I don’t tell them. They don’t know what it’s like.”
“I do, Charley,” Lucinda said.
Charley pulled back and looked at her. “You do?”
“Yes, Charley, I do. I really do.”
“Your mommy’s dead, too?”
“Yes, Charley, my mommy died when I was a bit older than you.”
“Did a bad man kill her?”
Lucinda almost said it was her father who did the killing but did not want to lay that burden on Charley yet. She simply said, “Yes.”
“Did you see her dead?”
“Yes, Charley, I did.”
Charley threw her arms around Lucinda’s neck. Lucinda wrapped her arms around Charley. Charley sobbed. Quiet tears ran down one side of Lucinda’s face. After a couple of minutes, Charley sniffled and pulled back. She placed two fingers on the tracks of Lucinda’s tears. “Did they find the man who hurt her?”
“Yes, they did.”
“Did they put him in jail?”
“No. He was dead, too.”
“Will you kill the bad man who hurt my mommy?”
“No, Charley, but I will put him in jail for a long time. I promise you I will.”
Charley threw her arms back around Lucinda’s neck and hugged. Lucinda returned the hug. She hoped and prayed, for Charley’s sake, that the bad man wasn’t her father.
Twenty-Three
Lucinda headed straight back to the station. After dropping off files and photos at her desk, she walked through an open door into the office of the Homicide captain. She wanted to take over the conference room to spread out the photos and documents on Kathleen Spencer and all of the potentially related cases. The captain had to give his approval before she could commandeer the space.
His red brush-cut hair bristled as she detailed the new developments in the case. He listened intently, his beefy index finger and his thumb resting on opposite corners of his mouth as she spoke. When she finished, they sat motionless and silent for a moment. He shifted his hand, pushing up on the
nose-piece of his glasses with his index finger. He twisted his neck making his red, white and blue tie bob. Lucinda stifled the urge to salute the stars and stripes as they swayed on his chest.
“Pierce, with all of these jurisdictions involved, we need to form a task force.”
Lucinda grimaced.
“I know you don’t play well with others but you know when a case is this far-reaching it is a necessity.”
“Give me a month, sir.”
“No way, Pierce. One week.” He stabbed his desktop with his index finger. “We’ll wrap it up in seven days or we pull in the investigators from each jurisdiction.”
“Captain, I don’t mind those detectives – it’s the Feebs. You know they’ll muscle their way in.”
“FBI or no FBI, I’ll put you in charge of the task force, Pierce.”
“You know that doesn’t matter with the Feebs. They take over everything and kick us all aside. At least until they blow it, then they hand us all the blame.”
He pointed an index finger into her face. “You looking for glory, Pierce?”
“Captain, that’s not fair. I’ve never been a glory hound, you know that. And now with this,” she said gesturing to her face, “I avoid cameras at all costs.”
“Then what’s the problem, Pierce?”
“You know how they are, sir. They suck up all your files, all your evidence and even when it’s over they keep it all hidden in a dark closet somewhere. They let nothing out. They fight every Freedom of Information request like their lives depended on it. And the public out there – the regular folks who pay our salary – are wondering what we’re hiding. Wondering if we got the right guy. Wondering if they can sleep easy at night.”
“Okay, Pierce, but I still can’t give you more than a week. And if one of the other departments call demanding a task force, I might not be able give you that long.”
Damn, damn, damn, shit, shit, shit, banged through Lucinda’s head as she gathered up stacks of photos and files and carried them down to the conference room. She rolled whiteboards and chalk boards out of the long narrow closet and scattered them around the room. She set up easels with pads, set out markers, chalk. She’d started mounting photos when Ted entered the room.
“What did you find out at the doctor’s office yesterday?” she asked.
“Not much.”
“He was here for all the murders?”
“All but Kathleen’s, yes.”
“Available?”
“So far, it looks that way.”
“Hot damn.”
“I’m still not convinced Evan Spencer’s our guy.”
“Fine. But with no DNA and no fingerprints the only other suspect we have is named unknown right now. And that’s no help at all. I’ve got the room for the duration. Help me get this stuff up.”
“The duration?” Ted asked grabbing a handful of photographs.
“To the bitter end or until the Feebs jerk it all out of our hands.”
“Is the captain forming a task force?”
“Not yet.”
“When?”
“A week.”
“You think we can solve this in a week?”
“I asked for a month but didn’t get it. We’ve got to get as much done as we can before then. We’ve got to plan what to release and what to hold back when the connections to the other crimes wiggle out to the press. We need to reveal as much as we safely can to the public before the Feebs come in and shut down the lines of communication. We need the press as an ally for as long as possible. Use one of those pads to timeline Spencer’s whereabouts, okay?”
“Sure.”
Lucinda stood in front of another pad on an easel and filled in the information for each murder they knew about so far. The chart had four columns: one for the day and date, the second for location, the third for the piece of jewelry left at the scene, the fourth for the missing item. When she finished, she stepped back and looked it over.
Lucinda compared her chart to the timeline Ted had prepared detailing Evan Spencer’s whereabouts on all the pertinent dates. Everything fit.
Ted and Lucinda worked side by side without much conversation, organizing and reorganizing photos into logical sequences and inter-related fact groups. They made to-do lists, reworked their lists and defined priorities. When they were done it was after ten o’clock at night.
“Whew! Ready for a fresh start in the morning?” Lucinda asked.
“I’ll have to clear it with my watch commander.”
“Nope. Captain’s already taken care of that. You’re mine for the duration.”
Ted looked at her face and saw none of the damage. He saw only the eager, happy face of his eighteen-year-old sweetheart the day she left for college. “Mine for the duration” echoed in his ears. Why hadn’t we made that commitment on that day – made it and stuck with it?
Lucinda saw the longing in his eyes and mis-read it as pity. She turned away. “Go home, Ted. Go home and get some rest.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow, Lucinda.” He slipped out of the door and forced himself to walk down the hall. His regrets felt like shackles around his ankles.
Twenty-Four
He peered through the crack in the curtain at the window on the far side of the living room. He saw a man, a woman and a young girl bustling in and out of his line of vision. The girl reappeared in the room dragging a small pink suitcase on wheels. The woman bent down to the girl and gave her a kiss.
The man and the girl made their way to the front door, opened it and left the home. Now the woman was alone. He sidled around the back of the house to the window of her bedroom. He settled in the bushes to wait. It took a while but soon he had his reward – the unmistakable sound of the shower running in the bathroom. He ran a cutting blade down one side and across the bottom edge of the screen. He reached in, pushed up on the sash and slid the window up. He stepped through the hole in the screen and into the room. He moved quickly into position behind the bedroom door. He pulled the rope out of his pocket and held it in his hands.
When he heard the shrieking protests of the pipes as the woman turned the water off, he tensed. He heard the glass door of the shower slide open and shut. He imagined her wrapping the towel around her naked, wet body and wiping herself dry. What would she wear after her shower? he wondered. Would she wear a comfy T-shirt and a soft pair of flannel boxers? Or would she slide into a sexy silk and lace nightgown?
He didn’t know what to expect but he knew she would be here soon. It was all he could do to keep his breathing even. His body quivered as he heard bare feet on the wooden floor of the hallway. She was only steps away. She stopped and turned and went up the hall. He heard the door of the refrigerator whoosh open, the clink of a glass, the splashing of water.
Her footsteps came back down the hall. He listened to the distinctive sound of damp feet slapping on wood. Then she took one step on to the carpet in the bedroom doorway. He waited until she took one more step. That quick and easy motion seemed to last an eternity. He launched himself from behind the door and wrapped the rope around her throat.
The glass flew into the air. Water fell on both of their heads. The glass hit the carpet and rolled. She, like all the others, clawed back in the direction of his face, but her hands slid off the smooth plastic of his goggles and her nails dug impotently into his thickly gloved hands. His gaze roamed around the room until they landed on the red digital numbers of the alarm clock beside the bed. He smiled. 06:07 winked and rolled to 06:08.
Soon, she went limp. He held on tight, closing his eyes, breathing deeply, feeling the life slip out of her body. 06:09.
In the center of his body, a bright light pulsed, radiating warmth and brilliance to every inch of his skin. 06:10.
He felt as if he glowed. He was powerful, invincible, fulfilled. 06:11.
But it’s not the same – not the same as Kathleen. 06:12.
He lowered her body to the floor. She wore only a terry cloth robe. The sash had fallen open
in the struggle exposing the nakedness beneath. He pulled it together and retied the sash to keep it in place. He stretched her out neatly.
He walked down the hall and into the kitchen. He took a glass from an open shelf, pulled a pitcher from the refrigerator, poured a glass of water and drank it. He smacked his lips when he finished.
He picked up a heavy iron skillet off a hook on the wall. He paused for a moment to savor the last time he’d used a skillet. He liked the feel of it in his hand. He liked the impact of it when he struck. He carried it back down the hall. After breaking all the bones of her face, he replaced his working gloves with a pair of latex gloves. He pulled a lapis lazuli gold earring out of his pocket. He slid the post into her right ear lobe.
He stood and examined his handiwork. It was a pleasure but nowhere near as intense as the killing of Kathleen. Why can’t it be the same? Why doesn’t it measure up? How many times do I have to try in order to feel that way again?
His eyes raked over her body. No jewelry? That’s right, she was in the shower. He walked across the hall to the bathroom. There, on a shelf, he found a pair of earrings, a watch, a bracelet and a heavy ring. Its carved silver leaves embraced a large oval of black onyx. Perfect, he thought. As he slid it into his pocket, he heard a key slide into the front-door lock. He stepped back into the shadow of the bedroom. He heard running feet.
“Mommy, Mommy. I forgot Mr. Wiggly. Mommy, Mommy?” The little girl raced down the hall. From out of nowhere, the skillet slammed into her head knocking her off her feet and down to the floor. She whimpered as she fell.
The killer squatted down next to her body. She reached her tiny hand up and grabbed at him in desperation. Her nails sunk into the latex and scratched the skin on the back of his hand. In anger, he slammed a skillet down on her head again smashing her skull open like a discarded Jack-o-Lantern.
He heard more footsteps at the front door. “Darla, Darla? Emily forgot her stuffed bunny. We had to come back and get it. Can you think of anything else she might have forgotten? Darla? Emily? Oh my God!”
His feet flew down the hall. Once again, the skillet flashed out of the doorway of Darla’s bedroom. It smashed into the man’s face breaking the bridge of his nose. He fell to the ground. Before he could recover from the stunning blow, the killer flipped him over, jammed his knees into his back, wrapped the rope around his throat and pulled tight. He pressed down hard on his newest victim’s back. The man pushed up with his hands.
The Trophy Exchange (A Lucinda Pierce Mystery) Page 12