Murder Comes by Mail

by A. H. Gabhart

  Michael looked at the little notebook without a word.

  Hank dropped it back in his pocket. “Off the record then.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling that he might unless Whitt’s some kind of miracle detective.” Simply saying the words sent a sick chill through Michael. “This Jackson is slick.”

  Hank frowned as he fingered the top of his notebook. “That’s the part about all this that doesn’t fit. I didn’t get that picture at all of Jackson out on the bridge. He seemed more like a mess-up of the first order. You think he has multiple personalities?”

  “Who knows? Maybe you can ask that doctor up at Eagleton General.”

  “That’s an idea.” Hank pulled out the notebook again and jotted down a couple of words. “Some of those shrinks like seeing their names in the paper. Free advertisement.” He looked up at Michael. “Anything else?”

  “Nope.” He certainly wasn’t going to tell the editor about the earring in his pocket. Whitt was the one he had to tell. Not Hank.

  “Then I guess it’s to work for both of us. But remember—” Hank pointed his pencil at Michael—“you promise to let me know if something else happens.”

  “You’ll know.” Michael was relieved when Hank headed on up the hall toward the front doors.

  In the office, the mail, unopened, was neatly stacked on the corner of Betty Jean’s desk. It was probably the first time in the three years they’d been working together that she’d followed his orders explicitly.

  She looked up from the computer. “Did you call that Dr. Colson?”

  “Not yet. I told you I’d call him when I got here.”

  “Fine.” She pointed at him. “But don’t try leaving here until you call him. He’s driving me bananas.”

  “Maybe he needs new patients.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Sorry.” Michael meant it. It was no time to make jokes. “I’ll call him as soon as we look at the mail. Where’s the sheriff?”

  “Grandma Potter’s got pneumonia. He went over to the nursing home to check on her. Said he might not be in at all, that there wasn’t anything he could do about this other stuff anyway. That he was sure you could handle whatever came up.” Betty Jean’s eyes narrowed on him. “Of course he hasn’t seen you this morning. You okay?”

  “Not enough sleep.” Michael sat down in his chair.

  “I hope she looks better than you do today.”

  “She always looks better than I do.”

  “Oh, to be an Alexandria.” Betty Jean sighed a little.

  “She’s not married either.”

  “Not because no one has ever asked her, I’ll bet.” Betty Jean barely hesitated before asking, “Have you?”

  Michael pretended not to understand. “What? Been married?”

  “Stop trying to avoid the question. Have you asked her?”

  “It’s none of your business, but as a matter of fact, Alex said I did when I was fourteen or fifteen. I don’t remember it.”

  “Not since then?”

  “No, Betty Jean. Not since then.” Michael tried to change the subject. “Let’s get at this mail.”

  “Chicken.” Betty Jean made a face at him as she picked up her letter opener, gingerly slit open the only manila envelope. A brochure about a weapon seminar spilled out. After she got past that envelope, she moved quickly through the routine letters. When she had opened the last one, she heaved a sigh of relief and pushed away from her desk. “I need a break. I’m going outside and smoke a cigarette.”

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “Okay, so I’ll go watch Stella smoke hers. The law says I can have a break.” The phone rang before she got to the door. She didn’t slow down as she looked back at him. “Your turn.”

  Michael picked up the phone and tried to listen patiently as Madeline Sanders complained that Lester had used his lights and siren to pull her over.

  “There was absolutely no need for him to use his siren. None at all,” she said. “Made me feel like some sort of criminal. I stopped as soon as I saw his lights, even though I couldn’t have been going much over the speed limit. You need to do something about him.”

  The woman’s words were only a small distraction, like a fly buzzing his head while he was crawling through a rattlesnake pit. He should have called Whitt as soon as he saw the earring instead of just pulling the door of his house shut and locking it. Whitt might want to send a team down to take fingerprints or look for footprints. In a way he was concealing evidence, but evidence of what? That Jackson had been in his house? That Jackson had planted the earring in his clothes? That had happened. The evidence was in his pocket. But why?

  In his ear Madeline Sanders had paused as she waited for some kind of confirmation her complaint had been noted. He jumped into the silence before she could start through her tirade again and promised to talk to Lester.

  He hung up and immediately forgot about Madeline Sanders. He had to tell Whitt about the earring, and now with Betty Jean out of the office was a good time. Once he got that over with, he would try to reach Dr. Colson to see what he wanted. Michael reached for the phone, but before he could pick it up, it rang.

  Bill Lassiter was out in his front yard over on Elm Street, waving a gun around and threatening to shoot his neighbor’s cocker spaniel. Michael slammed down the phone. Bill was in his eighties and hadn’t been exactly in his right mind for the last year, but most of the time it was just a matter of taking him home when he got lost downtown.

  He found Betty Jean talking to Stella in the county clerk’s office. “Call Sarah Jane at the bank.”

  “Oh dear, has old Bill gone out without his trousers again?” Stella gave Michael an up-and-down look that said she might like seeing Michael without his.

  “Nope. He’s found his gun.”

  “Loaded?” Betty Jean asked.

  “I guess I’ll find out.” Michael headed out the door.

  “Don’t you go out there and get shot, Michael,” Betty Jean called after him. “Not until you call that doctor.”

  On Elm Street, Bill Lassiter staggered around his yard, waving the gun first at one target and then another. A fluffy blond cocker scooted around behind a hedge between the yards, stopping at every break in the bushes to bark at the old man. The dog’s owner, Guy Crimshaw, kept popping out his front door to call the dog, then popping back inside when Bill swung the gun his way.

  The crisis had caught Guy in nothing but a pair of jogging shorts, which was pretty much a joke since Guy had never been jogging in his life. His large round belly was glistening with sweat as he stuck his head out the door to call his dog. “Here, Baby. Come to Daddy.”

  Michael could hear a siren wailing on Main Street and figured Betty Jean must have called Lester to back him up. Sometimes she had a mean streak. Michael wondered how hard it would be to cut the wires to Lester’s siren.

  Of course, he might not have to worry about it. Old Bill might decide he was a better target than a yapping dog that wouldn’t sit still long enough for him to sight down the gun barrel.

  “How you doing, Bill?” Michael called from the edge of the yard as if the old fellow was sitting in his chair on the porch. All around him, Michael could sense people watching out doors and windows as Bill swung around to focus on him. The old man was tall and so skinny that he must be forgetting to eat. His green shirt hung off his shoulders and flapped loosely around him, and a creased old belt gathered his pants around his waist. A few months back, before he forgot everything, he had enjoyed telling folks he was half the man he used to be. Literally. This morning, he was wearing one houseshoe, and Michael guessed at his problem with the dog.

  “Ornery dog ate my shoe,” the old man said. Behind him, Guy Crimshaw scurried off his porch to grab his dog.

  Bill heard him and started to swing his gun that way. Just then Lester pulled up, siren screaming and lights twirling, and Bill forgot about the dog. “What’s he doing out here? Don’t he know folks can’t think straight with all
that noise going on?”

  “Oh, you know Lester.” Michael kept his voice low and calm. “He likes being a deputy.”

  “That boy never did have much sense.” The old man spat on the ground.

  “Could be you’re right.” Michael stepped up beside Bill and put his arm around the old man’s shoulders. “You look tired. Let me take that for you.”

  The old man stared at the gun in his hand as if he’d never seen it. “Now where did that come from?” He looked up at Michael. “You didn’t give it to me, did you?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll hold it for you.” Michael took the gun out of his hand. “Let’s go look for your shoe.”

  The old man glanced down at his feet. “Well, look at that. I have lost one of my shoes now, haven’t I?”

  Sarah Jane screeched her car to a halt right behind Lester. She jumped out and ran toward her father and Michael. “I’m so sorry.” She looked close to tears. “I had no idea he still had that.”

  “I’ll put it in your car so you can put it somewhere safe.”

  “Right. Thank you. I’ll make sure Dad doesn’t get it again.” She moved up beside her father and raised her voice. “Are you okay, Dad?”

  Michael unloaded the gun before he laid it in the floorboard of Sarah Jane’s car. He stared at the two bullets in his hand and pulled in a deep breath of hot summer air, glad he could still feel the breeze against his face. Old Bill might not even remember how to pull the trigger, but then again, he might.

  Michael pulled in another breath and dropped the bullets into his pocket. That made him remember the teddy bear earring. He’d have to deal with that, but first he had to handle the chaotic scene in front of him. Lester had cut his siren, but his flashing lights were drawing people out of their houses to see what was going on. Guy Crimshaw yanked a yellow T-shirt down over his belly as he bore down on Michael. At least he’d left the dog inside.

  “Aren’t you going to arrest him, Deputy?” Guy’s face was a splotchy red. Beads of sweat rolled down his nose.

  “I don’t think I need to do that.” Michael held a hand out toward Guy to try to calm him down.

  “But he could have killed somebody.”

  “He didn’t.” Michael looked back over to where Sarah Jane had her arm around her father, leading him back in the house. “He’s just an old man.”

  “Who’s lost his mind.”

  “He has forgotten a lot of things.” Michael settled his eyes on Guy. “How long have you two been neighbors?”

  “We moved here seventeen years ago.” Guy jerked up the bottom of his T-shirt to wipe off his face. “Okay, so maybe I don’t want him to go to jail, but something needs to be done. For his own safety.”

  “I’ll talk to Sarah Jane.”

  “You didn’t give him the gun back, did you?”

  “No, of course not. You don’t have to worry about that.” Michael kept his voice low-key. “But you might try to keep your dog in your yard. I’m guessing it must have grabbed Bill’s houseshoe and that’s what got Bill upset.”

  “Baby does like chewing up shoes.” Guy found a dry strip on his shirttail and wiped his face off again. The splotches were fading. “Can’t you tell Lester to turn off those lights, for heaven’s sake?”

  Michael motioned to Lester, who was coming toward them, to kill the lights. He turned back reluctantly to his car. Guy was still talking. “I didn’t mean to jump on you, Mike. But I was watching television, and they flashed this special report on there about that cute little news girl on WKKT and then I hear a gun go off outside.”

  “What about her?”

  “You haven’t heard? Somebody shot her dead.”

  Michael had to push out the next question. “What was her name?”

  “Kim something. You know, that one who came out here and did that hero interview with you.”

  16

  Hank Leland slammed on his brakes and screeched to a stop beside Michael’s cruiser. “Did I miss something?”

  “Just old Bill Lassiter trying to shoot the dog next door.”

  “Glad I missed that. I’m not quite ready to get shot on the trail of a story.” Hank got a funny look on his face. “You hear about Kim Barbour?”

  “Guy Crimshaw told me a few minutes ago. Said the report came across the television. What do you know?” Michael hadn’t really wrapped his mind around what Kim Barbour being dead might mean. He needed to see the report for himself. To know more about how she died.

  “Just that she was shot.” Hank hesitated. “You don’t think it has anything to do with this other?”

  Michael wanted to believe it didn’t, but a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was making that hard. “I don’t know.”

  “This is not fun anymore, Michael. I like a good story, but I never wanted to be the media contact for a psycho.” Hank ran a hand through his thinning hair.

  Michael kept his eyes steady on the editor. “Then don’t print it.”

  “I can’t sit on a story like that. I’m a newspaperman. It’s my job to report the news whether I like the news or not.” He gripped the steering wheel and barely seemed to notice when Michael turned away to get in his cruiser.

  All the way back to the office, Michael tried to think of reasons the reporter’s death couldn’t be related to Hope’s. Psychos had patterns. What could connect a young kid like Hope with an up-and-coming reporter? He didn’t like the only answer that came to mind. Michael Keane as hero of the day was taking a steep nose dive. And the teddy bear earring burned against his leg in his pocket.

  No special delivery envelope was waiting at the office. Betty Jean turned pale when he told her about the reporter, but she only said Dr. Colson had called again. And Detective Whitt.

  Michael called Whitt first, but couldn’t get through to him or Chekowski. The murder of an attractive TV reporter no doubt had the entire homicide department on its ear and out digging for suspects. He hung up and dialed the doctor. A receptionist said Dr. Colson had left the hospital, but she gave Michael the doctor’s digital pager number.

  Michael dialed the pager number, entered the office number, and sat back to wait. Betty Jean was clicking the keys on her computer, but Michael didn’t bother to make any pretense of working. He studied the door into the hall and thought about going to Alaska. It was one of those things he planned to do someday. Maybe he should let someday be now. The fishing was probably good this time of the year. Aunt Lindy would be so busy getting ready for the start of school she’d hardly notice he was gone, and as for Alex, he might as well be in Alaska already. Maybe if he disappeared from the scene, so would Jackson.

  Dr. Colson didn’t think so when he called a few minutes later. The doctor bombarded him with questions. Had he heard from Jackson? Did he know the dead girl? How had he felt when he saw the pictures? Did he feel guilty?

  Michael was beginning to wonder if the man planned to bill him for a counseling session. At last Michael interrupted the doctor’s questions to bluntly ask, “Why did you call me?”

  “As you reminded me when you came to the hospital, it’s my duty to help the law enforcement officials as much as possible whenever something tragic happens that involves a patient I’ve treated.”

  “It’s not my case. You need to talk to Detective Whitt with the Eagleton Police Department.”

  “I did speak with the detective previously, and I must admit I found him to be not only arrogant, but extremely rude. His obsessive need to control everything around him made any kind of open communication impossible.” A note of irritation slipped into the doctor’s voice as his complaints about Whitt picked up speed. “I would have suggested therapy, but I didn’t feel he’d be amenable to the idea. Nor was he ready to listen to any theories I would have been more than willing to explore with him in regard to Mr. Jackson. That was a shame since we are all on the same team.”

  “Theories? What sort of theories?” Michael picked up a pencil in case he wanted to jot down a note about what the do
ctor said.

  “First off, that Jackson may not be following an archetypal pattern with his victims.”

  “Victims?” Michael drew a dark box on the paper in front of him.

  “Surely you’ve heard about Kim Barbour.”

  “I heard, but nothing to prove connection with the other murder.”

  “You’re avoiding reality, Michael.”

  For some reason Michael didn’t like the doctor using his first name, but he didn’t know why. Everybody used first names anymore. “Okay, Doctor. What is reality?”

  “Reality.” The doctor sounded impatient with Michael’s question. “I fear answering that might take longer than either one of us has, but you of all people as a policeman surely know that facts must be faced. Jackson killed the first girl and found a way to inform you of the deed, or so I surmise. I think it was your local editor who may have mentioned something about a picture in the mail when I spoke with him yesterday. Whatever it was, that was a warning. Perhaps even a plea for you to find him and stop him as he had planned to stop himself by jumping from the bridge. Then when you didn’t catch him, he moved on to more desperate means to get your attention, targeting someone he knows you know.”

  “I didn’t know Kim Barbour.” Michael pressed the pencil lead so hard against the paper, it broke.

  “Perhaps not intimately, but he may have seen her interviewing you on the news. What you have to remember is that Jackson is mentally ill. He is operating on a whole different level than a sane person. A killing level.”

  “So if he’s trying to get my attention for whatever sick reason by murdering these girls, then if I vacate the scene, perhaps he’ll lose his incentive to kill.” Michael could almost feel the cool wind of Alaska on his face. Maybe he could take Jasper with him and they could hole up in a cabin in the northern backwoods and learn to dogsled.

  “You’re selling our Mr. Jackson short. He wouldn’t quit. He’d become more focused on his intent.”

  “Focused?’

  Betty Jean looked up at the sound of Michael’s voice and said something, but Michael was concentrating on the doctor’s words. She turned back to her computer.