by Cold Blood
“You think! You think!” Frank slammed his right palm on the table, rattling the dishes and silverware. He picked up the purse, bunched it in his right fist, shook it at his son. “You ain’t been thinking! That’s the problem! You been fucking up left and right. Gonna land us both in the slammer. You slice that blond bitch open under your pa’s roof and feed me that crap about Keri trying to kill me. Then I find this.” He threw the purse down on the table. It knocked over an empty glass. Trip opened his mouth. His old man pointed a finger at him. “Shut the fuck up!” Trip closed his mouth and lowered his eyes. His pa sighed and his tone softened. “I know a man’s got appetites, Sweet. Believe me I know. But you can’t let your dick head lead you around.”
His pa thought he’d raped the women, or that something sexual had happened. By the sound of his old man’s voice, that made the murders more acceptable. Trip decided not to correct him. Not until he saw where this was going.
“Are you listening, boy?”
Trip kept his eyes down. “Yeah.”
“Good. You better listen ’cause your pa knows more about this stuff than you think.”
More cryptic words from his pa. Trip looked up. Locked his eyes on his old man’s face. “Tell me. Tell me what you d… done and I’ll tell you what I d… done.” His old man averted his gaze. Stared out the window over the sink. Outside, the wind blew a bunch of leaves off the scrawny tree planted next to their trailer. Could his pa even see the tree? Maybe he could see a lot more than Trip knew. A long silence. The only sounds were the drip of the leaky sink faucet and the distant clang of a neighbor’s wind chimes. “Pa?”
His pa continued staring out the window. Picked up a steak knife smeared with butter and dotted with toast crumbs. Tapped the flat side of the blade against the edge of his plate. The clink of the knife alternated with the drip of the faucet. Clink. Drip. Clink. Drip. Clink. Drip. Clink. Drip. The clink stopped. His pa’s faraway voice again: “You ain’t ready to hear what I got to say. No sir.” He pulled his eyes from the window. Trip studied the down-turned corners of his pa’s mouth; he’d seen that expression once before.
“It’s g… got something to d… do with what happened to Snow White.” His old man’s brows wrinkled with confusion; he didn’t know Trip called her that. “What happened to Cammie.”
Frank’s eyes widened for an instant, as if he’d touched a hot pan. The corners of his mouth curled back up into their usual hard, straight line. “Maybe it does and maybe it doesn’t. Ain’t your concern. Your concern is saving your own ass. That’s my concern, too. Your ass is in jail, mine is in a nursing home. Eating baby food and smelling other people’s piss.” He picked up the steak knife again and pointed the tip at Trip. In a conspiring voice: “What’d you do, Sweet? Tell your pa so he can help you.”
Trip’s turn to look out the kitchen window. “You know what I d… did. Killed Keri. That’s it.”
“Bullshit!” His pa reached across the table, picked up the purse, threw it at him. It startled Trip. He caught it, juggled it like a hot coal, dropped it on the floor. He bent over and picked it up, set it in front of him. “How’d you do her?” asked his pa. “Why’d you do her?”
Trip’s mind was swirling like the ice cream and blood from his nightmare. He needed a story that involved rape, or at least some sex. His pa found it a reason to kill. “I f… followed her out of the bar, fucked her in the p… parking lot. She got p… pissed about something. Maybe I wasn’t m… man enough…”
That was good. His pa’s mouth hardened; no one challenged his offspring’s sexual talents.
“She s… started to walk home. I followed her in the t… t… truck. Tried to give her a ride. She flipped me off. Told me to g… get lost. Said she was gonna call the cops. Tell them it was rape. I g… got scared. Stepped on the gas. Ran her over. Kept her in the t… truck a couple of days, until I could figure out where to p… p… put her.”
His pa nodded; it was making sense so far. “What was that business with the finger?”
He paused, wondering if this part would sabotage the sex motive. Then decided it wouldn’t. “I cut it off and d… dropped it during the search.”
“To feel important again, like the time with the little girl and her necklace?”
Trip dropped his eyes and didn’t answer. Didn’t want to admit why he’d done it.
His pa continued. “Why Keri?”
“She found the p… purse. Was planning to t… t… turn me in.”
Then a hard question: “Any others?”
Trip looked down at the purse, stroked the satin. More slippery than he remembered.
“Sweet? How many others?”
Trip pushed aside the purse. Picked up a coffee cup, took a sip. Cold. Set it down. His pa slid the tequila bottle across the table. Trip took off the cap, filled a juice glass. Drank until the glass was empty. Poured another full measure, drank half of it. Held the glass between his palms as it sat on the table. The room was rocking, like the trailer was bobbing in the water. Couldn’t tell if it was the booze or his pa’s question.
“Sweet? How many?”
In a voice so low it was nearly lost in the wind chimes: “Lost c… count.”
“Dear Lord.” His pa rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. Trip wished he could see through the wrinkled skin. Was he mad or sad or shocked? He lowered his hands and folded them in front of him. Trip saw something he’d never seen before. Fear. The fun had gone out of murder for his old man. The father-son scheme was really the son’s dark project. “All run over?” his pa asked.
Trip made a quick decision. He wouldn’t tell his old man about the ranger. His pa had a respect for any man in any uniform. Saw them all in the same light as the sheriffs and marshals on his westerns. “Yeah. All r… run over.”
“All raped?”
Trip was insulted. “No. Most was w… willing at first and then changed their t… tune. Tried to run off and tell t… t… tales like that bridesmaid gal.”
His old man nodded wisely. “Women do that. Yes, they do indeed.”
“They d… do,” Trip added. “The b… b… bitches.”
“Since when? How long this been going on? How long you been keeping me in the dark?” He sounded angry and jealous of the news, like he’d found out he’d been excluded from a party held weeks earlier. Underlying both emotions was that fear again.
Trip finished the glass of tequila. Tried to pour more into the juice glass. Empty. Set the bottle down but kept his right hand wrapped around the neck and his left around the glass. They were something solid he could hang onto and hold. Everything else seemed to be bobbing and rocking. Maybe the trailer would sink and they’d both go down with it. Drowning might not be so bad after all. Not in cold water, though. Not the way those mean boys in high school had drowned. He wanted to die in warm water. Bathwater. Should he tell his pa about those boys? Another instant decision. “Started w… with high school.”
A quick intake of air by his pa. “You killed a girl in high school? Your high school? I don’t remember any girl…” His old man’s voice trailed off. A revelation that topped the earlier revelations. In an amazed voice: “You? All four of them?”
That tone angered Trip. His pa didn’t have trouble believing he’d run over women, but he doubted he could kill men. After everything he’d learned about his son, Frank still thought his boy was weak. Trip lifted the tequila bottle up and slammed it against the table, scattering glass around the kitchen and leaving a broken neck in his hand. His pa leaned back in his chair, both hands clutching the edge of the table. Trip waved the jagged neck at him. “I k… killed that p… park ranger, too. Fucking s… smashed his head in with a shovel. Is that m… man enough for you?” His pa opened his mouth; now it was Trip’s turn. “Shut the f… fuck up!” Trip bolted up from the table, knocking his chair over. He hurled the bottle neck at the window and missed. It hit the backsplash and fell into the sink. He felt his bare feet stepping on broken glass an
d he didn’t care. “I’m n… never good enough for you. Nothing I d… do is right. I can’t even k… kill to your liking.”
Frank raised both palms in the air as if he were surrendering to an armed man. “Son. Son. Sit. Calm down. Jesus Christ.” In an accommodating, condescending voice: “Of course I believe you. I’m glad you did those bastards in high school. Thought it was an accident is all. The cops said it was an accident. Slippery road and such.”
Trip smiled and folded his arms across his chest. “No sir. Was n… no accident. Fucked with their s… steering.”
A nervous smile stretched across his pa’s face. “Clever son of a bitch. That’s what you are. Did you know it would kill them? Was that the plan?”
Trip shook his head. “Wanted to m… mess them up good. Them dying was a nice added b… bonus.”
“Damn straight. They were mean shits. Good for you.” That sounded sincere to Trip’s ears. “But why the ranger, son?”
“He f… found her shoe in my t… truck while I was burying her in the woods. Couldn’t let him t… tell.”
His pa understood that, or at least pretended to. Nodded grimly. “Self-preservation. Man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.”
Trip liked that, his pa calling him a man. He puffed out his chest. Suddenly he felt the pain from the broken glass. He hung onto the counter with his right hand and picked up his left foot. Checked the bottom. Big sliver. Pulled it out. Dripped blood on the floor. “D… damn.”
“What’d you do?”
“Cut myself.”
His pa stood up. “One minute, you fool. I’ll get something for that. Got a temper worse than your pa’s.”
Frank left the kitchen. Trip kept his foot up. Watched the blood drip in neat, round dots onto the floor. The trailer wasn’t rocking and bobbing anymore, but he didn’t like seeing his own blood. He looked up. Watched the wind bend the tree outside. Listened to the chimes. Wondered if his old man was getting bandages or calling the police. His pa returned with a box of Band-Aids and Trip’s loafers tucked under his left arm. He walked over to his son, stepping over the glass and crunching it with the tip of his cane. “Careful, P… Pa.”
“I got shoes on. Got sense. Not like others in this family.” He bent down and dropped the shoes at Trip’s feet. “Wipe your soles off first, make sure there’s no more glass on them.” He stood straight, pulled a Band-Aid out of the box and started tearing the wrapper.
Trip held onto the counter, brushed the injured foot with his hand. Clean. His pa handed him a Band-Aid. Trip slapped it over the cut. Slipped his left foot into the shoe with a grimace. Lifted his right foot. Dusted it off. One shard fell to the floor. Stepped into the other loafer. He looked at the mess he’d made on the kitchen floor. Broken glass and blood. “I’ll c… clean it up, Pa.”
His pa stood next to the kitchen table. Absentmindedly picked a large triangle of glass off the plate of bacon. “What about work?”
Trip righted the tipped chair. Crouched down. Picked some glass off the floor and wiped his own blood off the linoleum with his hand. “Got p… plenty to keep me b… busy right here. Got to c… clean up this mess. Empty out the b… back of the truck.” He wanted to keep his eyes on his old man, in case he turned on him and called the cops. “I’ll go in t… t… tomorrow. They won’t care.”
His old man sat back down at the table. Picked up another piece of glass. A round piece that came from the bottom of the bottle. Looked at his son. “All these people you got rid of. I’m worried.”
Trip stood up. “Don’t be. I’m not n… nuts, Pa. Stuff happened. Won’t happen no more. I p… promise.”
“That ain’t what I’m worried about.” He set the round of glass in his left palm and held it there, as if weighing it. “How careful you been? How you been getting away with it? I can see getting away with it once, maybe twice. But to lose count. How?” His old man didn’t sound worried or horrified as much as curious. Maybe he wouldn’t turn his own son over.
“All the accidents…” Trip stopped at the word accidents. He’d never before given a formal name to his acts. Decided he liked that label. “All the accidents were at n… night on empty roads. Used the t… t… truck. Never had much d… damage to speak of. Couple of c… cracked windshields. Dinged hood. Easy enough to fix.”
His old man scratched his chin. “I remember you coming home with those. So the accidents were all out of town, during your sales calls.”
“Mostly.”
“And with the exception of those boys, you didn’t know them.”
“They were all s… strangers to me. Gals I’d just m… met.”
His pa’s eyes narrowed. “Met where?”
Trip had never met any of the people he’d run over. They were less than strangers to him; they were targets. They weren’t all women, either. Still, he had to come up with something. He could feel his pa’s eyes on him. Blurted the first place that came to his mind: “Bars.” As an afterthought, to make himself sound careful: “I made sure n… no one saw me l… l… leave with any of them.”
His pa sat for a moment, digesting this. “Smart,” he finally said. He tossed the round of glass on his breakfast plate. “You played it smart.” He pushed the plate away and got up from the table. Picked up his pack of cigarettes. “Too much excitement this morning. Gonna plop down on the couch. Catch some Gunsmoke.”
He watched him thump out of the kitchen with his cane and his smokes. His pa was trying to play it cool, but he was scared. Was he afraid of ending up in a nursing home or ending up dead? Trip couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. All he knew for sure was he had to find out what his old man was hiding so he could use it against him if he threatened to call the cops.
TWENTY-FIVE
TRIP DIDN’T KNOW a cop was already planning a visit to his house.
Murphy wanted to make sure Trip went to the reunion. Wednesday afternoon, she decided to personally deliver the party invitation. She knew from reading the newspaper stories about him that he worked out of his house when he wasn’t on the road. She figured she’d catch him at home. She was just as interested in finding his truck home. She wanted to get a copy of the treads to compare to the cast from the Moose Lake campground. She also hoped she could talk her way into Trip’s place. Get a look around. In high school, it was well known that Trip lived in a trailer court. He was the only kid who did. She flipped through the phone book at her desk and found him still residing there. His name was under his father’s. Frank Trip. Justice Trip. Each had the same phone number and address. Probably made Sweet feel better to have his own listing. At his age, he had to be uncomfortable living at home with a parent. She remembered his father well. Frank was even creepier than his son. Always staring at the female students, especially the youngest ones. Spending a lot of time cleaning the girls’ bathrooms and locker room. She closed the white pages.
Now she needed a camera to get a picture of the treads. Castro and Dubrowski, the gadget kings, had to have one. Surveillance was their specialty. Both were on the phone. She stood up and walked over to Castro’s desk. Eyeballed the mess on top of it. Didn’t see anything under the greasy lunch sacks, foam cups, newspapers and reports. He hung up.
“What do you need?”
“A camera.”
He pushed his chair away from his desk. “For what? Different cameras serve different purposes.” He bent over and pulled out his bottom desk drawer.
Murphy stepped closer and peered inside. A pile of cameras. Nikon. Panasonic. Minolta. Pentax. Polaroid. Saw a lens nearly as long as her forearm. Binoculars. Something that resembled a ballpoint pen. She pointed at it. “How about that one?”
“Not unless you’re going deep undercover. Are you going deep undercover?”
“No. Need something small and easy to use. Want to take a couple of quick ones and shove it in my purse. Get the image back ASAP.”
He fished around inside the drawer and pulled out a silver Nikon a little bigger than a deck of cards. “Digital.”
“These little babies are really sweet and easy. A no-brainer. Turn it on, point and click. No little hole to squint through.” He pushed the On button and tipped the camera so Murphy could examine the back of it. She saw what looked like a tiny television screen. “What you see on the screen is what you get. Don’t even need to focus it yourself. Does it for you.”
“Dummy proof,” she said.
“Exactly.” Castro held it up so Dubrowski was in the frame. “Here’s how you zoom in for those intimate shots.” He pushed a button marked with a T for telephoto and the small screen went in for a close-up. Dubrowski hung up his phone and looked over at them. “Smile, you ugly bastard,” Castro said. Dubrowski gave him the finger and Castro snapped a picture. “Captured for all eternity, or until you erase him from the camera’s memory.”
“Got it,” she said.
Castro pressed a button marked with a W and the image on the small screen seemed to back up, capturing Dubrowski and the empty desks around him. “Wide angle. Good for those crowd scenes. That special riot you want to remember.”
“Seems simple enough.”
He nodded toward his partner, who was back on the phone. “Even numb nuts over there could handle a camera like this.”
He handed it to her. She studied it for a few seconds, backed up, aimed it at Castro. Pushed the T for a tighter shot. The screen framed his face. She snapped a picture. “Works great,” she said. “How do you develop the pictures?”
“No film to be developed. Download to the PC.”
She frowned. “And how do I do that?”
“Tell you what. I’ll handle that part. After you take some shots, bring it back to the office. I’ll download the photos. From there I can crop it, cut it, paste it, make a print of it, send it to someone in an e-mail. Whatever you want.”
“Thanks.” She shut it off, went back to her desk, took her purse out of her desk drawer and tucked the camera inside. It fit easily. She took her jacket off her chair and slipped it on. Threw her purse strap over her shoulder. Headed for the door.