by Lee Driver
“What’s up?” Dagger asked when they were a safe distance from Sheila.
“Another victim. You won’t believe this.”
As they walked the stretch of road, Dagger noticed techs clustered around a fire truck. Padre continued one hundred feet past the fire truck to a smoking tangle of metal. Rooted nearby was Sergeant Flynn, whose trench coat had added a few more wrinkles.
Dagger observed the body being loaded onto the gurney and studied the rubble lying on its side, a front fender of the motorcycle lay near the body undamaged. “What a waste.”
Padre jammed his fists into his pockets. “Every death is a waste.”
“I’m talking about the Fat Boy. That Harley’s so new I can smell the paint from here.”
Marty scoffed at the comment and yelled, “Well, it ain’t new no more.”
They walked back to where Marty stood as Dagger asked Padre, “Where’s the professor?”
“Things were starting to get to him. Said he had to take a breather.” Padre started walking toward the fire truck as a snorkel was slowly being raised.
Dagger found it curious that the fire truck was a distance from the motorcycle. Even though the fire had been extinguished, he would think they would want to stay close in case something flared up.
“What’s with the fire truck?”
Padre tugged at Dagger’s shirt and pointed skyward. With a chuckle, Dagger complied, slowly lifting his head almost expecting some squirrel sacrificed and hanging from a limb. But then he saw the head of a man impaled on a thin wayward stump jutting vertically from a larger limb. He removed his sunglasses and slowly walked in a circle, getting a view from all angles. It was a large head, he guessed the owner had to have been at least two hundred and fifty pounds. His forehead reached back beyond his hairline, long thinning hair matted with a dark, red substance. The eyes were wide, pupils staring skyward, mouth gaping. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
He tugged on his earring as he dropped his gaze to the two men. “Guy’s got his head in the clouds.”
Marty scoffed again. “Don’t you take anything seriously?”
Dagger chewed on one arm of his sunglasses and glared at the cop. “Yes I do. I take seriously the fact that your boy seems to know an awful lot about these cases. And exactly where was he last night?”
“Now wait a minute.” Marty’s blaring voice caused heads to turn.
“Did he have any scratches on him? Blood?”
Marty opened his mouth to retaliate, but snapped his jaws shut and stared at his feet.
Curious, Dagger jerked his gaze to Padre. “He did, didn’t he.”
“He said he cut his hand on a glass,” Padre explained. He placed a hand on each of their shoulders, a ring announcer giving last minute instructions. “Just keep your voices down. Marty checked the professor out thoroughly.”
Dagger shoved his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and jammed his fist onto his waist, his gaze drifting back to the trees. There was one sick bastard running around and it wouldn’t be the first time a killer had the support of a cop. “What does the M.E. say?”
Motioning toward the portly green pear, Padre said, “Gretchen examined the, uh, rest of the body. She decided to call Luther in on this one. Not that she doesn’t trust herself. She just feels it needs two opinions.”
Dagger looked at the disheveled cop. Marty was shuffling his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, avoiding Dagger’s eyes.
“Who found it?” Dagger asked, nodding his head toward the branches overhead.
Padre and Marty exchanged glances. Finally Padre admitted, “The professor actually. Gretchen at first thought the deceased was the victim of a hit and run and the other vehicle was riding around with the guy’s head as a hood ornament. But the professor doubted it and started walking the street, trying to re-enact the scene. Then he stopped right here, I looked up,” Padre lifted his face, “and voilá.”
Dagger tossed another accusing glare at Marty.
“Believe me, I know what you’re thinking,” Marty piped up. “Two years ago I had the same doubts. But I would stake my career on Professor Sherlock. He knows what he’s talking about. These cases are tearing him up. He doesn’t sleep much,” Marty added. “Keeps having nightmares. And, for the record, I did find a broken glass in the bathroom wastebasket.”
Dagger watched as a lanky black man, close-cropped hair, rushed down the street from the parking lot. Luther had arrived. Known as “Doogie” behind his back because of his youthful appearance, Luther was pushing retirement age.
“Luther’s going to be awhile with this one.” Padre motioned for the two men to follow him back to where their cars were parked.
The three men strolled toward the wooden horses. Dagger still had his doubts about Sherlock but he had to consider other options. “Okay, how about satanic sacrifices, witchcraft. Any new cults in town, Padre?”
“That was one of the first thoughts that popped into my mind.” Padre lit a cigarette and flicked the match on the damp asphalt. “I’d almost prefer some flesh and bone guy clothed in a satanic cape to what Sherlock is suggesting. Can’t for the life of me get into this shapeshifter theory.”
“Press would have a field day with either one.” Marty noticed the surge of reporters behind the wooden horses as they approached.
“You need a scapegoat, someone to throw off the press.” Dagger slowed his pace, wanting to finish their discussion before they were within earshot of the press. “I think you should arrest J.D. for Lisa’s murder.”
Padre stopped in mid-stride. “What?”
“Let J.D. know what’s up. It’s a way to calm the press and more important, let the killer think we aren’t on to him.”
Marty jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “What about this latest homicide?”
“Hit and run,” Dagger said with a shrug. “Gruesome as it may be. You just have to make sure you threaten every cop and tech with suspension if they talk to anyone about what they saw here today.”
“What’s going on? Who are these men?” Sheila smothered them with questions once they reached the wooden horses.
“Hit and run. I told you before,” Padre replied.
“Then why all these cops? And what leads have you had on the Lisa Cambridge case?”
“BACK OFF!” Dagger yelled. “Since when are you covering traffic accidents? Daddy demote you?”
“Fuck you!” Sheila yelled back, slapping her notepad across his arm. She turned on one spiked heel and stormed off.
“She’s one we’ll have to watch,” Padre said.
“Anyone taking a picture of the onlookers?” Dagger whispered as his eyes searched the crowd.
“Yes, one of the supposed reporters with a camera is a cop,” Padre whispered back. They were now within full earshot of the press and onlookers, so Padre changed the subject. “How’s Einstein feeling?”
Dagger said, “Sara’s at the vet with him now.”
A face in the crowd, shadowed by mirrored sunglasses, turned toward Dagger at the mention of Sara’s name. A thin smile formed across his face.
CHAPTER 14
October 10, 10:16 a.m.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Sara caressed
Einstein, holding him close to her as he clung tightly to her arm. “The doctor just took a little blood. There was no need for you to nip at her like that.” Einstein stared at her with one yellow-ringed eye. “And to screech out ‘bad doctor, bad doctor,’ was not very nice of you.” She smiled at the macaw. Five years old and he acted like a mischievous child. But since macaws could live to be one hundred, Einstein was basically still a bratty kid.
The Pinehurst Animal Clinic was tucked in an alcove of trees surrounded by vacant land destined for development. Moe’s Yard used to sit here, a junk yard where you could find anything from parts for a ‘65 Mustang to an old time juke box. Moe died two years ago. No relatives. No will. It didn’t take long for the state, county, and city to claim the property. The city won.
Pin
ehurst had one aviary doctor on staff. Although the main parking lot and entrance were in the front, the entrance to Doctor Mia Wong’s office was in the back. The birds were less agitated if they didn’t have to deal with cats, dogs, ferrets, raccoons, and sometimes even pigs.
Doctor Wong was fascinated with Einstein, especially his ability to remember things that had happened on past visits. She always said she has never seen a more intelligent macaw. Of course, this always made Dagger beam.
She agreed with Sara that something was frightening Einstein. Dr. Wong took a stool and blood sample, though, to rule out anything more serious. In the meantime, she gave Sara some medicine to put into Einstein’s water, more like a sedative. Sara was hesitant to give Einstein drugs but if it would do him more good than harm, especially with what was happening, she was all for it.
Sara had parked the truck in the farthest section of the lot so the truck could be shaded by trees. She immediately noticed two seedy characters leaning against a red pick-up truck also parked in the shade. It had a red cap pocked with rust and several dents in the fenders. They didn’t have any animals with them and she doubted any legitimate pet owner would leave his pet alone in the clinic.
Not even noon yet and each guy had a can of beer in his hand. Their dark uniforms were stained with grease and sweat. Their names were sewn above the pockets. They were repairmen or maybe mechanics. Two-day growth of stubble on their faces, early twenties, probably still out since last night.
She fumbled with her keys while she made a quick assessment of her own clothing…stretch pants and a thigh-length sweater over a long-sleeved blouse, collar turned up. Not much skin showing yet these guys had lust in their eyes and the scent of it in their sweat. The quarts of beer they had consumed since God knows what time had raised their already high levels of testosterone.
“What a gorgeous bird,” one of her admirers said.
Einstein lifted one foot and made a hacking noise.
The two men laughed. “A damn attack parrot to boot. Don’t that beat all?” The larger of the two men flung his empty beer can over his shoulder where it bounced off the roof of the truck and clammered to the ground. They were each over two hundred pounds, wrestler size.
Sara unlocked the door and rolled the window down part way. “Stay here and be quiet, Einstein,” she whispered, setting her purse on the floor. Once she closed the door, Einstein clamped onto the door handle and climbed up so he could see out.
The two men swaggered over, separating so she had no escape route. “Lookie lookie here, Ted.”
They were close enough that Sara could read the names on their pockets. Ted’s friend, the talker, was Carl, who looked like he had been in one too many bar fights. His face sported a jagged scar just below his left eye. Bruisers came to mind when she looked at each of them with their wide heads that seemed to sprout right from their shoulders, no necks. They could probably have decent toned bodies if they didn’t pollute them with the liquor. She imagined they lived at fast food restaurants, too.
“Have a problem?” Sara asked.
“Oh, yeah.” Carl the brawler rubbed his crotch. “I got one big problem I think you can help me with.”
A loud rumble echoed from the side drive as Dagger and his Harley came into view. It didn’t take long for him to figure out what was happening. He killed the engine and climbed off.
“What’s going on, boys?” He smiled a knowing smile, more of a smirk, at the two lugs.
Ted snapped open a switchblade. “Back off. This is our party.”
Setting the side stand, Dagger looked over his shoulder at the back entrance. Too early for lunch so he doubted anyone would be emerging from the back door any time soon. Dagger held his hands up in mock surrender. “No problem. I just want to watch.” He grinned, a wide, amused grin, as he lowered his sunglasses and looked at Sara. “Going to need any help, Sweetie?”
Sara assessed the men slowly from head to toe. “I don’t think so,” she finally said.
The two wrestlers looked at each other and laughed, examined her five-foot-six-inch frame, and chuckled again.
“You better think twice, guys,” Dagger said, plopping his sunglasses back on his nose, pulling a can of Pepsi from the cooler on the back of his bike, and settling back on his Harley. He took a swig of pop and marveled how Sara could be an absolute basket case in a crowded mall but put her one-on-one where she had to defend herself and she was a she-cat. He propped his feet on the handlebars, leaned against the back rest, arms crossed, and mumbled mainly to himself, “Let the fun begin.”
“Me first.” Ted made a step toward Sara and was met with a quick kick to the groin. He let out a groan and dropped to one knee.
Carl waved his knife at her and motioned toward their vehicle. “Get in the truck.”
“I don’t think so,” Sara replied, circling around the gasping Ted who was struggling to stand. Carl hadn’t counted on Sara being so swift. She made a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn and was all legs as she kicked the knife from his hand with one foot and planted a kick under his chin with the other, sending him sprawling against a tree.
Carl recovered and grabbed a handful of Sara’s hair and yanked. He wrapped a beefy arm around her waist and tried dragging her to his vehicle when she slipped from his grasp like some fish, a trick she had learned practicing Tai Chi with Dagger. She was all arms and legs again, pummeling his out-of-condition body. She finished him off by planting a kick to his fresh scar and flinging him twenty yards where his body literally flew over the cap of the red truck.
By now Ted was scrambling to get back to his truck.
Dagger applauded, slow and deliberate. “I warned you boys to think twice.”
A figure parked in a Chevy Nova along the east side of the building watched in shock and amazement at the scene taking place in the back lot. He was concealed behind a dumpster.
“Such power,” he whispered. “How does she do it? Throw a body that size twenty yards? Who and what are you, Sara?” He pulled down his mirrored sunglasses and eyed Dagger. He hadn’t quite figured out who Dagger was yet. A cop? Undercover? Homicide? Why was he at the crime scene? Arriving on his big Harley, his tall, muscular body. He hated guys who acted as if they were God’s gift to society, not to mention women. Probably ex-military, fuckin’ Navy Seal, CIA, I-know-everything mother fucker. Even that one reporter, what was her name? Sheila, yeah, was clinging to him like some pathetic whiner. He hated women who whined. There had been so many whiners he had silenced. Just a couple nights ago he had picked up one in a Chicago bar.
The moon had loomed over the trees as he loomed over her. She was in the throes of passion when the energy surged through him, changed his eyes. Her pleadings were so pathetic. But she couldn’t scream, not with his hands wrapped tightly around her neck, crushing her larynx.
There was very little in the Chicago papers the next day. Just another dead slut. So many of them in the bars, hanging on guys, flirting, wearing revealing clothing, then trying to act like they aren’t that kind of girl when they take you home.
And guys, the ones like Dagger, who think society can’t survive without their skills or their brains, and women can’t survive without him. He’s killed many like him, crushed them, had them begging for mercy. Dagger. DAMN. That was the person Sara was communicating with the first night he had heard the voices. It didn’t look like Dagger left Sara’s side too often. Were they married? Lovers? Is that why the blond reporter was clinging to him? Jealousy maybe, of the young, exotic beauty?
He watched as Dagger lowered the hydraulic lift on the back of the truck and loaded his big-ass Harley onto it. Dagger strapped the cycle in and then hoisted himself easily over the side. “Goddam showoff,” the man muttered. His fingers gripped the upholstered seat as he watched Dagger cup Sara’s face in his hands, smile at her, probably telling her how well she handled those jerks. She smiled at him, a loving, trusting smile. What the hell were they to each other? He obviously knew her skills. Did they
know he existed? He didn’t like being in the dark, not knowing the answers. He had to separate them. He had to get rid of Dagger.
By noon Chief John Wozniak held a press conference at which time it was announced that John “J.D.” Draper had been arrested for the murder of Officer Lisa Cambridge. He was being held without bond in the county jail. Chief Wozniak answered only a few questions stating simply it had been a crime of passion. No details of how the body was found were released, nor were details about this morning’s supposed hit-and-run.
J.D. understood his role in the game and would receive full pay during his time away from work. He was housed in an isolated room on the top floor at Headquarters instead of a cell. It was an executive suite reserved for visiting dignitaries and even had its own gym and kitchen. He was given a computer and case files Lisa had worked on to see if he could compile a list of people with a grudge and determine if any had been released from prison recently. Doc Abrams promised to bring Max by for a visit. She thought it would do the dog good to see a familiar face.
Sitting behind his desk, Chief Wozniak stared at the reports in front of him, then at Professor Sherlock, Sergeant Marty Flynn, and finally, Sergeant Martinez.
Several strands of red hair drifted onto Wozniak’s forehead and he brushed it back with a freckled hand. “I don’t believe I am sitting here half-believing what is in these reports.” He stared at Padre. “Can you honestly tell me you have exhausted all conceivable avenues? Escaped convicts? Local serial killers? Cultists?” Turning his gaze to Marty and Sherlock, the chief said, “You come into my town with some fairy tale story and expect me to swallow it?” His gaze swung back to Padre. “And you believe this shit?”
Padre looked over at his two companions, the shade of gray that hadn’t left Sherlock’s face since they found the motorcyclist’s head, the near-retirement Marty Flynn who could have taken early retirement at any time but was supporting Sherlock like a follower of a religious fanatic.