Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

  Sighing, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Room number 5 looked more like a cheap motel: stained carpet, Formica nightstand, lamp with a red bulb, double bed with a chipped and rusted brass frame, mirror on the ceiling … There was a lump beneath the flowered spread, snakelike locks of dark hair on the pillow.

  “Excuse me?” Ray called.

  The lump didn’t move. A bottle next to the lamp stand told him why. A fifth of gin, nearly empty. Ray gently pulled the spread back and found a woman. She was in her twenties, probably quite pretty once but now appeared grim, wrinkled, used. Her eyes were ringed by dark circles, her breath coming out in toxic puffs. She mumbled something, kicked, as if fending off some unseen attacker, then began to snore.

  This was turning out to be a waste of time and money, Ray thought as he left the room. With only two doors left, he began to wonder if Fanny would see fit to refund his money. No. Not Fanny. She’d laugh and tell him about her policy of no guarantees, no refunds.

  He knocked on room 6 and was already turning to try 7 when a voice in the former responded.

  “Come in.” It was female, pleasant, inviting.

  Ray opened the door and was met by a blonde. She was young—eighteen, sixteen?—with a toned but skinny figure. Behind her was a waterbed decked in black silk sheets. The soft strains of Mozart rose from a miniature CD player. An array of candles, a bouquet of fake flowers, and the aroma of incense completed the fantasy. Wearing only a black negligee, she approached Ray with a wicked smile. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she purred.

  “Is that right? What’s your name?”

  “Honey,” she replied sensuously. Draping her arms around his neck, she pressed her chest against him and giggled. “But you can call me whatever you want to, Lover.”

  “How about witness?”

  She blinked at him, then, “If that’s what turns you on, Baby.”

  Ray peeled out of her embrace and submitted his ID.

  Honey’s countenance fell. “What do you want?” she sighed, sinking onto the bed. She suddenly seemed exhausted, her face heavy with clownish makeup. “You gonna bust me?” She paused to swear, then lifted both wrists to him, ready for handcuffs.

  “I just want to talk to you.”

  This drew another curse. “Either bust me or hop in and let’s do it,” she said patting the bed. “Otherwise, leave me alone. I had a long night, mister. You wanna talk, you go see a shrink. I ain’t in the mood.”

  “Know this guy?” Ray asked, offering the sketch.

  Honey glanced at the picture, frowning. “Should I?”

  “He might have been in here a couple of days back.”

  She took the sketch and studied it. “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “He wasn’t one of my johns, but …” She lifted the sketch to eye level and squinted at it. “I don’t know, I might have seen him in the hall.”

  “Whose john was he?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “He was probably wearing a suit. About six foot, brown hair …”

  “I said I don’t know. Maybe I saw him. That’s the best I can do.”

  Ray folded the sketch and put it into his pocket. “Thanks.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Who?”

  “That man? He rob somebody or something?”

  Ray shook his head. “No.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “How old are you?”

  Honey told him where to go.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Thought you said you weren’t gonna bust me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then it’s none of your business. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get some sleep before rush hour.”

  “Rush hour?”

  “That’s what we call Sunday afternoon. Saturday night we’re booked solid. Then there’s a lull on Sunday morning. The clients are all sleeping off their hangovers, some of them are going to chapel service to confess their sins. Then just after noon, when the headaches and the praying are past, things pick up again.” She shrugged, as if the mystery of the pattern eluded her.

  “Humor me,” Ray prodded, watching her eyes. Thanks to the eyeliner, lipstick, and rouge, Honey could have passed for a college kid. But her eyes … they betrayed her youth.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How old are you? I promise I won’t arrest you. I’m just interested.”

  She glared at him. “Eighteen.”

  “No. Really.”

  “Seventeen?”

  “The truth.”

  “Okay, fifteen and three months. Satisfied?”

  Ray shook his head at her. “What are you doing up here?”

  The question drew laughter. “What’s it look like I’m doing?” She stood, swayed her hips back and forth provocatively, then fell back onto the bed. “Lotta men, not many women.”

  “You know what I mean. Where’s home?”

  Her face grew stern, jaw clenched, eyes flashing with either anger or fear. “This is home.” As she said this, her lower lip quivered.

  “What about your parents?”

  She got up and threw on a robe. “I need some sleep before rush hour.”

  Ray considered pushing the issue, finding out where Honey belonged, why she had run away, encouraging her to contact her parents—doing the concerned public servant bit. And it wouldn’t have been without genuine concern. But this wasn’t the time. Honey didn’t seem to be comfortable discussing the subject. He dug a card out of his parka. “Listen, I work in Barrow. It’s long distance, but if you ever need to talk …” He offered it to her, but she was studying the floor. Placing it on the nightstand, he added, “Call collect. I’ll accept the charges.”

  With that, he returned to the hall and knocked on door 7. “Don’t bother,” Honey said from behind him. She was peering out a four-inch opening in the door like a frightened child who wanted help but couldn’t bring herself to trust a stranger. “She’s not there.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Ray could feel Honey watching him as he went back to the reception area. Fanny glanced at him as he passed through. “Have a good time?”

  He ignored this, still wondering if there was something he could do to help Honey out of what had to be a bleak, hopeless existence. He found Billy Bob in the bar, playing pool. The bouncer was slumped across three chairs along the wall, asleep, his beard and hair caked with dried blood. His nose was already purple.

  “Ready?”

  Billy Bob set the cue down. “How’d it go?” he asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

  Ray frowned and shrugged back at him. “One girl might have seen Weinhart … maybe. Nothing firm.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “Same place as always,” Ray lamented. “Square one.”

  “What now?”

  “Back to Davis, I guess. I still need to take a look at Driscoll. Not that it will help.”

  They donned their gear and were at the door when Ray thought of something.

  “You go ahead.”

  “Huh?”

  “Go start your truck. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Okay.” The cowboy reluctantly set off to attend to the chore.

  Ray trotted back up the stairs to face Fanny. “I need to ask Honey one more thing.”

  “Fine,” Fanny grunted. “That’ll be fifty dollars.”

  “Come on, just one question. It’ll only take a minute.”

  Fanny looked up at him thoughtfully. After sucking her cigarette, she grunted, “Twenty-five dollars.”

  “One question,” Ray implored. “And I don’t have any more cash.”

  Fanny’s lower lip hung down forming a pouty expression. “Poor baby.”

  “Fanny!”

  “Gotta credit card?”

  “A what?”

  She pulled a credit card device out of the desk. “We take VISA, MasterCard and Discover. No American Express.”

  Ray dug out his
wallet, handed over a MasterCard. “This is highway robbery.”

  “Ain’t it though,” Fanny grinned as she ran the card. “There you go. Seven minutes, thirty seconds.”

  “Thanks …” Ray grumbled. He hurried down the hall to Honey’s door. “Honey?” He knocked hard.

  In a moment the door creaked open. When Honey saw him, she groaned. “You’re not gonna badger me are you? I’m not going back there. I won’t. I’d rather die than go back there.”

  “Back where?”

  “Juneau.” It sounded like a derogatory term.

  “No. I just thought of something else I needed to ask you. Have you ever heard the name Salome?”

  “Sure. I know her.”

  “Her? Who is she?”

  “That’s her room,” Honey replied, pointing at number 7. “But she’s not there right now. She only shows up a few times a month. Sometimes not that often.”

  “Was she here two days ago?”

  “Uh … I think so.”

  “Could she have seen the man I was asking about?”

  Honey thought this over. “Maybe. She’s not here much, but when she is, she serves a lot of customers.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “‘Cause she looks like a beauty queen. She’s older than me. Got more … you know. And she’s Native.”

  “So?”

  “So the guys up here really dig that. When she’s here, her card’s full.”

  “She was here a couple of days ago, when this man,” Ray patted his pocket, “would have been in?”

  Honey nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Any idea where I can find her?”

  “Huh-uh. Fanny doesn’t even know where Salome lives. She just shows up when she pleases, disappears the same way. I don’t think she does it for the money.”

  “Why would she do it then?”

  Honey shrugged. “Kicks, I guess. Can I get some sleep now?”

  “Sure. Thanks for your help.” When the door was shut, Ray tried the knob on room 7. It was locked. He wondered if Fanny could open it. Probably. But there was no telling what it would cost him. Returning to the entry room, he found her on the phone.

  “You bet. Okay. Right …”

  When she hung up, he said, “Room seven is locked. Do you think you could—”

  Fanny looked at him without seeing him and swore. “He’s coming!”

  “Who? Who’s coming?”

  She ignored him, disappearing down the hall. Ray considered going after her, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. The chances of finding anything of value in Salome’s room were scant. Although, what were the odds of finding a woman on the Slope named Salome in the first place?

  On the way to the Explorer, he chewed over the coincidence and the remote possibility that Maniilaq wasn’t all hot air. When he climbed inside the Ford, Billy Bob was on the phone. The deputy sat listening for a full minute before exclaiming, “Hot diggety dog!”

  After he hung up, Ray looked at him expectantly. “Well, what is it?”

  Bunny teeth protruded from a big down-home smile. “That was Mr. Reynolds. They caught him.”

  “Caught who?”

  “The killer. They caught the killer!”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE WIND WAS still gusting, but intermittently now. Low clouds were rolling in from the north. A ghostly band of hazy colors reached up from the dark gray horizon: green, purple, dull red. The Northern Lights.

  In the penetrating glare of the Explorer’s high beams, the landscape looked pristine, virginal, a fair maiden sleeping breathlessly beneath a fleecy blanket of whitest white.

  Ray failed to notice any of it, his mind distracted by the revelation that the case had reportedly been closed.

  “Are they sure it’s him?”

  Billy Bob shrugged at this, as he had done in response to most of Ray’s questions. “I told you all I know. They caught the guy tryin’ to make off with yer snow mo-bile. And when they brought ‘em back to camp, he confessed.”

  “He confessed … just like that?”

  “I guess. How’s a killer supposed to confess?”

  “If I had just shot and slashed a couple of people, and sabotaged a police officer’s vehicle, I wouldn’t hang around waiting to be caught. And I wouldn’t spill my guts just because somebody saw me messing with a snow machine. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “‘Course it don’t. Killin’ never makes good sense. Sometimes killers is crazy. Sometimes they’re angry. Sometimes they’re greedy. Sometimes they’re clever as they come. Sometimes they’re dumb as a post. But what they done don’t hardly never make no sense.”

  “Don’t … hardly … never …?” Ray repeated, trying to untangle the sentence.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re an expert on the inner workings of the violent criminal mind because …? You took psych in college? You conducted exhaustive research on the subject? You worked homicide somewhere?”

  Billy Bob shook his head. “TV,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  “TV?”

  “I watch a lot of them detective show reruns: ‘NYPD Blue,’ ‘Murder One,’ ‘Homicide: Life on the Street’”

  Ray laughed at this. “Oh, no wonder then.”

  “Don’t laugh. Some of ‘em are very realistic.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Most of the killers are too big-headed to think they’ll ever get caught. They hang around, kinda thumbin’ their nose at the law. Till they make a mistake and wind up behind bars.” He shifted gears, turning into the Davis facility, then added, “Ain’t no such thing as the perfect murder.”

  “Is that right?” Ray rolled his eyes at this. Investigation by cliché police drama techniques.

  “And the bad guys almost always return to the scene of the crime.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Billy Bob parked the Explorer in front of the main building and killed the engine. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You should be happy,” the deputy told him with a smile. “The case is closed and now ya can go back to yer sweetie.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  They climbed out and Ray waited as Billy Bob plugged in the Ford. It was still cold, maybe 50 below zero, but with the wind starting to relent, it seemed almost pleasant.

  After discarding their gear in the mudroom, they squeaked their way to the security office, a trail of dirty puddles accompanying them. Reynolds was on the phone. He smiled and waved them to a seat. Leeland was at his desk, cellular glued to his ear.

  “Yes, sir. About forty-five minutes ago,” Reynolds was saying. “Yes, sir. Yes, I’ll be sure to tell him.”

  “He was hunched over the snow machine when I got there,” Leeland was telling someone. “Trying to steal parts, I think. Anyway, I yelled at him, told him to get away from it, and he started running. I pursued on foot and tackled him about, oh, maybe fifty feet from the machine. He confessed on the ride back in.”

  Ray tried to imagine the scene. The killer is stripping the snow machine. A security guard shows up, spooks him, and the guy runs. Runs? Why run? Why not put a bullet through the security guard’s heart too? Make a hat trick out of it. But the underlying question was why a murderer who had already killed two men in a unique, stylized fashion would be out in foul weather ravaging a dead Polaris? And then, without any coercion, he decides to admit to a double murder? Yeah, right. And what did Leeland consider coercion? Ray decided that he would probably find it within himself to confess all manner of imaginary sins if properly motivated by Mr. Musclepig.

  Reynolds hung up his phone first. “That was Houston,” he declared with a grin. “They’re so happy we caught our man—so relieved it wasn’t a Davis employee—they’re doing somersaults. We cleared this up just in the nick of time. With the weather starting to clear, the VIPs can fly in tomorrow morning, minus one gosh awful mess.”

  “What about the authorities from Anchorage?”

>   “They’re hoping to make it up by this evening, but it doesn’t matter. We caught the guy.” He stood and pumped his fist in the air.

  “Where is he?” Ray asked.

  A whoop from Leeland, who had just hung up the phone, drew their attention. “That was the Anchorage Daily News. Right before that, I did an interview with the Seattle Times.”

  “Next thing you know,” Reynolds said, “‘Hard Copy’ will be up here doing a feature.”

  “How did the media find out?” Ray asked.

  “Houston put out a flash press release,” Reynolds informed him. “The phones have been ringing off the hooks ever since.”

  Leeland’s cellular buzzed, as if on cue. He answered it and began relaying the details of the capture to yet another reporter.

  “All this in forty-five minutes?” Ray wondered.

  “Good news travels fast,” Reynolds replied.

  “Where is he?” “Who?”

  “The alleged murderer.”

  “Alleged? …” Reynolds chuckled at this. “I like that … alleged … Sounds fair and just, but we got this guy dead-bang.”

  “Is that right?”

  “We told you he confessed.”

  “I’d like to see him.”

  “He’s in the storage closet.”

  Ray squinted at him. “The storage closet?”

  “We don’t have a jail. When we turn him over to you and the deputy, you can escort him back to the sheriff’s office in Deadhorse and lock him up.”

  Reynolds set off down the hall, never looking back to see if they were following.

  “You read him his rights?”

  “Of course. It was a citizen’s arrest, but still …”

  “And you informed him of the right to have a lawyer present?”

  “He didn’t want one.”

  “How’d you take the confession? Written, recorded …? Did he sign anything?”

  Reynolds swore at this. “Leeland asked the scumbag if he did it. The scumbag said yes. I asked the scumbag if he did it. The scumbag said yes. That’s confession times two.”

  After fishing a key ring from his pocket, Reynolds unlocked a door marked JANITORIAL. The small room was lined with shelves bearing various cleaning supplies and chemicals. In front of the shelves was an office chair into which a Native man had been bound with ropes. A rectangle of gray duct tape had been fastened over his mouth. Wide, almond-shaped eyes stared at them. The man was obviously terrified. His right cheek was swollen with broken blood vessels. A ragged gash ran crookedly down his forehead.