Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

  “I know she’s my most profitable girl. If she worked full-time, I’d be rich enough to retire and move someplace warm.”

  “Why doesn’t she work full-time?” Ray asked. He was getting irritated. Fanny was either totally disinterested or reluctant to cooperate. Whichever, trying to elicit answers was like fishing for grayling with a heavy spinner.

  “No idea.”

  “Does she live in Deadhorse?”

  “Not sure.”

  “You don’t know where she lives?”

  “Nope.”

  “Does she drive? Does she fly in here? Does she get around by snow machine, by dogsled?”

  “No idea.” Fanny turned another page, took a long sip from her tumbler.

  Ray resisted the urge to curse at her. “How can you hire someone and not know anything about them?”

  Fanny looked up at him, smoke shooting from the corner of her mouth. “Easy. Just don’t ask no questions. I’m not nosy by nature. Not like you.”

  Billy Bob came trotting up the stairs. His cheeks had color again, the recovery probably spurred by his retreat into the cold.

  “I called Reynolds,” he informed Ray. “He said he’d contact Anchorage and notify yer captain in Barrow.”

  “Good,” Ray muttered, only half meaning it. He tried to imagine the captain’s reaction to the news that yet another murder had been committed on the Slope. There weren’t that many people up here in the first place. That three were now dead and that Ray, the cop in residence, had been present while two of the slayings had been carried out was something of a disgrace. Or at least, the captain would probably see it that way. Instead of closing the case before the city police and FBI showed up, Ray was acting as a chronicler, watching impotently as a killing spree ran its course, succeeding only at keeping an accurate death toll.

  Returning his attention to Fanny, he asked, “What can you tell me about Honey?”

  “Whattya mean?”

  Ray took a deep breath, determined not to lose his patience. “How long did she work here?”

  Fanny’s face wrinkled, contorted, ultimately settling on a pensive expression. “‘Bout … three months.”

  “Her next of kin will have to be contacted. Do you happen to know who that would …”

  “No idea.” Fanny lit a fresh smoke from the waning butt and began scrutinizing the classified ads as if they held the secrets of the universe.

  “Any idea who might want her dead?”

  This drew a shrug. “A john she ticked off. Maybe her past caught up with her.”

  “What past?”

  “Don’t know. But most a my girls is runnin’ from some-thin’.”

  Ray pulled the sketches out and set them on the newspaper, directly in Fanny’s view.

  Leaning back from them, she said, “You already shown me that one.” A thin, chapped finger tapped at Weinhart’s face.

  “You’ve never seen him?”

  “Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “Don’t ring no bells.”

  “You think he might have been in here before?”

  “Possible.”

  “Could he have seen Salome?”

  “Possible.”

  “But you can’t say for sure?”

  “Nope.” She pushed the pictures away and began scanning the garage sale listings.

  Important stuff, Ray thought, miscellaneous junk being hocked in Anchorage a full week earlier.

  A trio of men came stumbling up the stairs behind them, laughing, making crude comments about what they planned to do with Fanny’s girls.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Fanny said, finishing off her tequila. “I got me some customers.”

  The men weaved forward, eyeing Ray and Billy Bob before presenting Fanny with a wad of bills.

  “How’re you boys doing this fine day?” Fanny asked them, counting the money.

  “Good,” one grunted.

  “Yeah,” another answered stupidly.

  “Fixin’ to be doin’ a whole lot better,” the third slurred. They all busted out laughing.

  “Come on,” Ray said, nodding toward the stairs. Billy Bob fell into step with him.

  “What about Honey?” Fanny called.

  “Don’t touch anything. Lock the door,” Ray instructed, already descending the steps.

  “What about the stain?” Fanny asked, her voice finally evidencing concern.

  “A girl, a teenager, was just murdered,” Ray mumbled. “And all that woman can think about is the carpet.”

  The blood began draining from Billy Bob’s face. After swallowing hard, he asked, “Think she done it?”

  “Fanny? I doubt it.”

  The deputy swore softly, bunny teeth hidden beneath his upper lip. “We ain’t never gonna figure this out, are we?”

  “Why do you say that?” Ray asked sarcastically. “Just because we don’t have any suspects, no evidence, no clues …”

  “We got bodies,” he pointed out.

  “And we’ve got a possible link.”

  “A what?”

  They reached the bottom of the stairwell and Ray paused to explain. “Honey said Weinhart might have been in to visit Salome the day he was killed.”

  “Salome?”

  “One of Fanny’s … employees.”

  “So?”

  “So, if that was the case, two of our three victims, Honey and Weinhart, were at Fanny’s.”

  “So?”

  “If we can place Driscoll here, that’ll mean—”

  “What? What’ll it mean?”

  Ray shrugged. “It’ll mean … I don’t know. But it’ll be a link, something to tie the three together. Which is more than we’ve managed so far.” He pushed the roll bar on the door and stepped into the tavern. Ten feet away, the bouncer was leaning back in a chair, holding a bottle of Coors to his bruised face like an ice pack. He eyed them, said something under his breath, but didn’t rise. Apparently two less than positive encounters had taught the dimwit a lesson.

  Moving across the room, Ray addressed the bartender. “How’s it goin’?”

  “We don’t serve klooches.”

  “Yeah. I know.” He offered his badge.

  The man swore at it, scowling. He was big. Not quite as large as the bouncer, but impressively muscular. A weightlifter. A long, jagged scar had been etched into his jaw line. A tattoo of a cobra decorated his forearm, completing the tough-guy image. Given the choice, Ray wanted to be the man’s friend, not his enemy.

  “We’re investigating a murder,” Ray tried.

  The man sniffed at this, his focus aimed at the tumblers he was drying and stacking.

  “Murder?” a voice asked from down the bar. It came from a rail-thin man encased in a filthy down parka. He had a beard that reached almost to his waist. Squinting at them, his head wavering back and forth as if he were aboard a ship in rough seas, he repeated, “Murder?”

  Ray turned away from the drunk and presented the sketches to the bartender. “Ever see these two faces?”

  Two sleepy eyes glanced dispassionately at the portraits. “You ain’t the sheriff, are you?”

  “No. I’m with the Barrow PD.”

  “Then I don’t have to talk to you.” With that, he walked down the bar to refill a patron’s glass with Wild Turkey.

  When he returned, Billy Bob said, “I’m with the sheriff’s department here in Deadhorse.” He lifted his ID, but the bartender had his back to them.

  Ray retrieved his sketches and started for the kitchen. The bartender was occupied with customers, the bouncer offering his advice to a couple of pool players.

  Behind a set of double swinging doors, they found a tiny galley: single stove, microwave, a stainless steel sink piled high with dirty glasses and saucers, consumer-sized dishwasher unit, a stack of overflowing garbage sacks near a windowless door.

  A man was standing at the sink. Hunched over the steaming faucet, he was attending to the dish
es with gloved hands and a scrubber pad. Each movement was deliberate, either lethargic or careful, Ray couldn’t decide. But even from the back, it was obviously the Native they had seen earlier, wearing the same apron, same shirt, sporting the same long, oily hair, with the same short, stocky frame.

  “Excuse me?” Ray said. When this drew no response, he tried an Inupiaq greeting.

  The man turned slowly and looked at them with innocent, almost childlike eyes.

  “What the … He ain’t no Ezkeemo,” Billy Bob exclaimed. “What is he?”

  “Down’s,” Ray answered.

  “Huh?”

  “Down’s Syndrome.” Ray smiled at the man. “How’s it going?”

  The large, mongoloid eyes grew wide and the man grinned at them lopsidedly.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Randy.” The word came out in a deep baritone grunt, without inflection.

  “Hi, Randy. I’m Officer Attla.”

  “Policeman?” Randy asked, excitedly.

  Ray nodded, still smiling. He showed Randy his identification.

  “This a real badge?” he chuckled.

  “It sure is.”

  “Where’s your gun?”

  “I don’t have it with me today, Randy.”

  His face sunk, lips forming an exaggerated frown. “I like guns.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes,” he answered, jaw extended unnaturally. “Cowboys all got guns.”

  “You a cowboy, Randy?” Billy Bob asked.

  Randy began to breath rapidly. Discarding his rubber gloves, he hurried over to a storage shelf and produced a mock-Stetson. It was stained, the brim creased as if it had been stepped on repeatedly. Randy put it on and turned a slow circle, proudly modeling his hat. It was too small for his large head, held on by a draw string.

  “Nice,” Ray said politely.

  “But I don’t got a gun,” Randy explained.

  “Or a horse,” Billy Bob said. “Good cowboy needs a horse.”

  Randy began to hyperventilate again. Twirling around, he reached for a mop, straddled it and announced, “Gotta horse.”

  “So you do,” Ray observed. “Listen, Randy, we’re conducting an investigation. Do you know what that is?”

  His face drooped, lower lip quivering, as if he were about to cry. “No.”

  “It’s okay,” Ray consoled. “It just means that someone did something wrong and we’re trying to find him.”

  “Randy do something wrong?” he asked, clearly frightened.

  “No, no,” Ray said, parting his shoulder. “But maybe you can help us. Would you like to help the police?”

  Randy was panting, head nodding. Then he looked at the sink. “What about the dishes?”

  “This will only take a second,” Ray assured him. He pulled out the sketches. “Have you ever seen either of these men, Randy?”

  His eyes darted from one picture to the other, to Ray, to Billy Bob, back to the pictures. “Are they bad men?”

  No, just dead men, Ray thought. “No, Randy. Someone did something bad to them.”

  This seemed to confuse him. “I seen him,” he said, patting one of the sketches with the palm of his hand.

  “Where did you see him?” Ray prodded. “Can you remember?”

  “I seen him going to Miss Fanny’s.”

  Ray glanced at Billy Bob, eyebrows raised. “What about this other guy?”

  “I didn’t see him. But …”

  “But what?”

  “He looks mean. I don’t want him to hurt me.”

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you, Randy,” Ray said. On the heels of that statement he was struck by the fact that Driscoll had been killed around the time they were seeking to question him. Honey had been killed just minutes after her conversation with Ray. Were they placing Randy in danger merely by speaking with him?

  “Thanks, Randy,” Ray told him, offering his hand. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “I’m a police helper?”

  “You betcha, partner,” Billy Bob drawled.

  “Now I get back to work, before I get in trouble.” He leaned his “horse” against the wall, returned the hat to its place on the shelf, and waddled to the sink. After pulling on the gloves, he took up where he had left off, wiping the plates and glasses with slow, meticulous motions.

  Back in the bar, Billy Bob asked, “Was that the link you was lookin’ fer?”

  Ray shrugged. “Maybe. Honey said she thought Weinhart had been here. The key word being thought. She wasn’t positive. Now we’ve got Randy placing Driscoll here. Question is, can we trust Randy? Is he reliable?”

  It was the deputy’s turn to shrug.

  The roadhouse was filling up, workers from the surrounding camps congregating, like moths to a flame, at the only legal outlet of alcoholic beverages and female companionship within several hundred miles. It was something of an oasis, Ray decided as he surveyed the faces.

  They walked to the bar and Ray ordered two Cokes. He had to repeat the order twice to be heard above the rising din. The bartender responded with a scowl and seemed poised to remind them that he wasn’t required to serve klooches. Instead, he stepped to the fountain and began to fill two glasses with carbonated cola.

  A new song erupted from the juke box, a country rock tune that seemed to shake the walls.

  After the bartender brought their drinks and shot them a parting glare of disapproval, Ray told Billy Bob, “See if you can get their attention.”

  “Get whose attention?” he asked, guzzling his pop.

  Ray motioned to the room. There were a dozen or so men huddled around the dart board, and the pool tables on the other side of the room were crowded now “Maybe someone here can help us. Get their attention, we’ll pass the sketches around.”

  Billy Bob looked at him as if he were out of his mind. “Huh?”

  “Get their attention.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Can you whistle?”

  “Yeah. But … Are you sure we want ever-body lookin’ at us? There’s enough guys here to kick our rear ends all the way to Austin.”

  “I think we proved ourselves in that last encounter with the bouncer.”

  “You think? What if all we did was make ‘em mad?”

  “We’re cops,” Ray reminded him. “We have an investigation to conduct. We can’t be put off by the possibility of personal injury.” It was a hokey line and Ray failed to deliver it with a straight face.

  “Why not?”

  “Why not what?”

  “Why cain’t we be put off by the possibility of personal injury? I don’t like pain.”

  “Just get their attention.”

  Billy Bob sighed. Finally, he stood and put his index fingers up to his bunny teeth. After a deep breath, and another look of protestation, he blew.

  Despite the thundering music and the rising cacophony of laughter and loud, drunken conversation, the whistle produced immediate results. Heads turned, bodies swiveled, faces looked up from the billiard tables. Someone silenced the juke box and the bar became ominously quiet. All eyes were on Ray and Billy Bob.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “HI,” RAY TRIED in a friendly tone. “Officer Attla, Barrow PD.” He waved his badge at the sea of beards and leathery cheeks. From across the room, the bouncer gave him the finger and muttered something profane, Ray was sure.

  “One of Fanny’s girls was murdered today,” he explained. The faces softened slightly, a few evidencing an expression that bordered on genuine concern. And why not? Ray thought. Losing one of your playthings was serious business.

  “Who was it?” someone asked.

  “Honey.”

  A gruff voice cursed. It was joined by a chorus of swearing. Apparently Honey had been well liked.

  “What do you want from us?” one of the pool players asked.

  “We need you to take a look at these pictures,” Ray answered, lifting the sketches. “Tell us if you recognize either of these me
n.” He handed them to a guy at the bar.

  “You think one of ‘em killed her?” a dart thrower asked with a sneer.

  “Actually they’re …” Billy Bob started.

  Ray stopped him with an elbow to the ribs. “We don’t know who killed her,” he said, hoping to skirt the issue. To the deputy, he whispered, “Maybe if these guys think the faces represent possible suspects, they’ll be more interested in IDing them.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Take a look,” Ray said, projecting his voice. “See if the faces are familiar. Okay?”

  Heads nodded, and the sketches began to circulate. Five minutes later, the pictures had filtered through the room and been placed back on the bar. No one was able—or willing?— to ID either Weinhart or Driscoll. No one remembered seeing them at the roadhouse. One man thought he had seen Weinhart walking down main street with a rifle and a bottle of Jim Beam two weeks earlier. The same man also mistook Ray for Nanook of the North, Billy Bob for Barney Fife, and was unable to stand due to serious intoxication. Another guy remarked that Driscoll looked a little like his brother-in-law and that given the chance, he would beat his brother-in-law senseless for being such a jerk to his sister.

  “So much for that idea,” Ray sighed at the sketches.

  “What about him?”

  Ray followed Billy Bob’s gaze across the room. “The bouncer?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t look at them pictures yet. And he’d know sure as anybody whether ‘er not these two fellers been in here.”

  “Why don’t you go ask him?”

  “Huh-uh. Elvin’s yer buddy.”

  “Yeah … we’re buddies all right,” Ray grumbled. He studied the man with a sense of trepidation: legs the size of Ray’s waist, arms as thick as tree branches, grotesquely wide shoulders, a face bearing ragged battle scars from countless brawls, including Ray’s boot to the nose, and eyes that seemed to emit fire. “That guy is the personification of the word mean.”

  “Meaner than a road lizard,” Billy Bob agreed. “But we’re cops. We can’t let the risk of personal injury stand in the way of an investigation.”

  Ray swore at this. “You’re coming too,” he demanded. Taking the sketches, he started across the room, his mind racing to form a plan of attack—or at least a plan of retreat, a strategy for survival. Old Elvin wouldn’t fall for the sucker kick routine or the 8-ball ambush twice. This time, if they came to blows, Ray and his sidekick Poncho would be reduced to whale fodder.