by Cold Blood
They left the room, Murphy heading for her post and Duncan aiming for the food. A table filled with memorabilia caught her eye on the way. She picked up a framed eight-by-ten photo of Denny and his three buddies. The same picture they’d used on the memorial page in the yearbook. Arms around each other. They should be here, she thought. She set it down with an even stronger resolve to nail Trip.
“Paris. Where’s Jack?”
She turned to see who was behind her. Father Leo, the priest who’d taught religion at the school for years and who officiated at her wedding. She smiled. “How’s retirement treating you?” She extended her right hand. He took it in both of his. She’d run into him several times over the years and to her eyes, he never aged. He had the same thick gray hair. Same wire-rimmed glasses. Same tall, lean figure.
He laughed. “What retirement? The archdiocese has got me running from one parish to the other. Teaching was more relaxing.”
“The priest shortage?”
He nodded and released her hand. “Back to my original question. Where’s Jack?”
She hesitated and then answered. “We’re split.”
“Again?”
“This time for good.”
“Want to talk?”
“Nothing to say.”
“Bull.” He pointed to his collar. “If this is the problem, I’ll take it off. Meet you for beer.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
“I’m shuffling between St. Luke’s and Immaculate Heart of Mary. Hearing confessions and saying a few masses. Call either rectory.”
She saw Duncan coming toward her; he was talking on his cell phone. He looked excited. “Gotta go,” she said, touching the priest’s arm.
Duncan pulled her back into the side room. “Interesting development.” He shoved his cell phone back in his pants pocket. “That was Bergen. A home health-care nurse is missing. Keri Ingmar. Her employer just called it in. Last time they heard from her was Tuesday. She was supposed to check in Friday, see if they needed help for the weekend.”
“So?”
“The last patient she visited was Frank Trip.”
“Shit,” she breathed. In her mind’s eye, she saw Frank’s hand resting on the white lid. “The freezer.”
“Say again?”
“Remember that visit I made to their trailer? Last stop on the grand tour was a back bedroom with this huge chest freezer.”
“You think Nurse Ingmar is cooling her heels in the freezer?”
“Maybe. Sweet’s father was pulling some kind of crap while I was there. Egging Sweet on. Tormenting him. Taking his time showing me the place when it was obvious Sweet wanted me out of there. We get to this bedroom and Frank puts his hand on the freezer lid. I thought Sweet was going to have a heart attack.”
“Pappy didn’t actually open it?”
“No. I don’t know if he really intended to open it. I think he was rattling Sweet’s cage. Definitely some weird shit going on between father and son. I bolted before they sucked me into their family feud. Planned to get in there with a search warrant after the reunion. Figured we’d find a dope stash in the freezer since Sweet was a pothead in high school. At most, maybe some stolen money. Never thought of a body. Too bizarre.”
“The thing was big enough to hold a body?”
“Hell yeah. Three bodies.”
Duncan pulled his cell phone out again. “We’ve got to get into that trailer.”
Murphy spotted Trip coming up from the basement. “I see Sweet.” He started taking the stairs to the second floor, his jacket draped over his right arm. “I’m going to follow him. You stay down here, in case he gets past me.”
Duncan nodded while holding the cell phone to his ear.
She let a few people get ahead of her on the stairs. She didn’t want him to see her yet. She got to the top of the stairs and saw Trip go into the coatroom at the end of the hall. She ducked into the women’s rest room off the hallway so he wouldn’t see her. She stood on the other side of the door. Figured she’d give him a couple of minutes to hang up his jacket and go back downstairs. She waited. Opened the bathroom door. Ran her eyes up and down the hall. Saw Trip’s back; he was headed back downstairs. He was hanging on to the rails. He was drunk. Good. She ran into the coatroom. Scanned the racks lining the walls. Saw his gray suede hanging toward the end of a rack. She looked behind her; no one was coming in. She stepped over to her own coat, took out her gloves and pulled them on. Went over to Trip’s jacket. Slipped her right hand into the left pocket. Nothing. Slipped her hand into his right pocket. Felt something. A bottle. She pulled it out, read the label and gasped. The patient’s name: “Ingmar, Keri M.”
He killed her, Murphy thought. He killed her and took her pills. She looked at the prescription. “Prilosec.” Common acid reducer. Half the people in the office were on it. She opened the jar and spilled some pills into her gloved hand. Saw more than the purple capsules. Couple of Valium. Tylenol with codeine. Some capsules she didn’t recognize. Some scored white pills she recognized immediately. Rohypnol. She counted them. Six. Was this his entire supply or did he have more on him? She dumped all the pills back in the jar, screwed the cap on. Slipped it back in his pocket. She wanted to arrest him with Ingmar’s prescription in his possession.
She heard music coming from downstairs. Pulled off the gloves and slipped them into her purse. Headed for the steps. She’d take a spin with Duncan. Then take a turn around the dance floor with a drunken murderer. Let him know what she knew. Get him to spill his guts. If he didn’t, she’d still slap the cuffs on him.
WATCHING her glide across the wood floor. Her black hair shining in the dim room like it had a light source all its own. Seeing her smile at her boyfriend. Her handsome, golden boyfriend. Knowing she was happy and having a good time. It all freshened his hate for Paris Murphy. Reminded him of the time he was doing a sales demonstration and splashed cleaning solution on a scab. It burned his hand down to the bone. This reunion was the same thing. Solvent poured on an old wound. Making it worse was the setting. A party crowded with her old friends. His old enemies. Most of them had aged well. The men still had their hair. The women, their figures. One person from their class had died since they graduated. Breast cancer. He heard a knot of women talking about it in low, reverent voices. He recognized the dead woman’s name. She’d been a class officer and a volleyball player. It wasn’t as good as hearing about a former cheerleader or football player dying, but it still gave him a twinge of joy. He was sure any misery that any of them had suffered over the years was a fraction of what he had tolerated in his hellish years at St. Brice’s. Their fucking school. It had never been his school. Never. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall and waited for an opportunity. Every so often he uncrossed his arms and slipped his right hand into his pants pocket. Felt the pills resting alongside the straight-edge.
WHILE they danced, Murphy told Duncan about finding the pill bottle. “Perfect,” he said. He guided her around the floor during the old-fashioned waltz. “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof. At the same time, he monitored Trip. Didn’t like what he saw. “The way he’s glaring at you. He’s gonna burn a hole right through you. Careful around him. Homicidal maniac.”
“I know,” she said.
“Sure it was that fight? It was high school, for God’s sake. Wasn’t even your fault.”
“I think he’s been stewing over it all these years, imagining I played some big role in the whole deal.”
“Must have been quite a beating.” He lifted her right hand over her head and spun her around once.
“It was bad enough that he killed those boys over it,” she said as she finished the turn and returned her right hand to the palm of his left hand. She felt awkward doing the move with the purse over her shoulder.
Both his hands slid down to her waist and hers went to rest on his shoulders. “How sure are you of that?”
“My gut and the Flintstones coffee mug tell me I’m r
ight,” she said. “I need something to back it up.”
“Forensic stuff after all these years? Hard to come by.”
“I was hoping for something a little easier,” she said.
“A confession?”
She nodded. The music stopped. They stood and clapped. Found themselves standing in front of the nearly empty punch bowl at the end of the banquet table. Duncan turned around, picked up a glass and ladled some of the dregs of the red drink into it. Handed it to her. She sipped. So sugary it made her shudder, but she was thirsty. “You wore me out.”
He poured a glass for himself. “You kept up. Very light on your feet.” He gulped it. Set the empty glass on the table. The music started up again.
Murphy took another sip of punch. “Where’s my other dance partner?” She stepped away from the table and looked across the room at where Trip had been standing. He was gone. “Shit.”
Duncan ran his eyes around the room. “How’d we lose someone that big? Where’d he go?”
“His jacket,” she said.
Duncan ran for the stairs. “I’ll check the coatroom.”
Murphy turned around and went back to the table to set her glass down. Saw Trip standing on the other side of the punch bowl in the narrow space between the back wall and the table. His right hand was over the punch. He was about to drop something into it. Only a glass or two left in the bowl and Murphy figured Trip was counting on her and Duncan drinking it. Murphy grabbed his right hand, digging her nails into his flesh. Put her open left palm underneath to catch the pills.
“Drop it,” she said in a low voice. In the background, the band was playing “Unchained Melody.”
He grimaced but didn’t move. “Drop what? I g… got nothing.”
At that moment, she figured she hated him even more than he hated her. “You’ve got a fistful of dope,” she said. “Drop it.”
He yanked his hand out of hers and dropped the pills on the floor. “Fuck you, b… bitch,” he growled. With both hands, he grabbed the edge of the table and flipped it toward her, sending the bowl and glasses and platters of food crashing onto the wood floor. Murphy stumbled backward to avoid getting hit. She felt herself bumping into other people. Heard gasps and screams from horrified dancers. The other end of the room didn’t know what was going on. The band kept playing. Other partygoers continued dancing.
Trip dashed through the first opening he could find behind the table. The kitchen door. Murphy pulled out her gun and dropped her purse on the floor. She hopped around the table and the spilled food and broken plates and ran after him. Trip knocked over a young woman in a white apron and tipped an empty bread rack on its side to block Murphy’s path. She jumped over it, slid on the kitchen floor but regained her balance. Trip pushed the back door open and ran outside. She was on his heels. As she clattered down the steps she heard another set of feet running behind her. She looked over her right shoulder and saw Duncan at her back. She wondered why his gun wasn’t drawn.
The three running figures were illuminated by yard lights as they cut across the leaf-covered lawn. The drizzle had turned into a hard rain. Steam poured from the detectives’ mouths as they hollered and ran.
Murphy: “He’s going over the fence.”
Duncan: “The fuck he is.” In two strides, Duncan passed Murphy. “Stop, you dumb fuck,” Duncan yelled. “I’m a cop.”
Trip had his right leg over the fence and was about to throw the left one over when he saw Duncan racing toward him. He hesitated for an instant and then tried to pick up his left leg. The pant cuff was caught on the bottom of the fence. He reached down and pulled; it wouldn’t budge. He thrust his right hand into his right pants pocket and pulled out the straight-edge. Opened it and reached down to slice his pant leg free. Too late. Duncan was almost on top of him. Trip straightened up, cranked his right arm back and took a swing. Duncan tried to dodge the blade, but it caught him on the chin and he stumbled backward. A shot rang out. Trip dropped the knife with a howl and clutched his left shoulder with his right hand. He saw Murphy bearing down on him, her gun raised. “Don’t move!” she yelled. Trip pulled his left leg as hard as he could. The cuff ripped off. He threw his leg over the fence and ran down the alley, his right hand clutching his left shoulder.
Murphy shoved her gun into the waistband of her skirt and climbed over the fence. She landed on the other side, pulled her gun out. Duncan was right behind her. She eyed his face when he landed on the other side of the fence. Blood was oozing from his chin. They ran after Trip. By the glow cast from a streetlight, they saw him turn right when he hit the end of the alley. “His truck,” she said.
“I’m getting my wheels,” Duncan said, and ran ahead of her. At the end of the alley he took a left on the side street and ran toward Summit. He dug his keys out of his right pants pocket while he went and pulled his cell phone out of his left pocket. Called for backup while dripping blood down the front of his shirt.
Murphy got to the end of the alley and took a right. Followed Trip down the side street. She squinted through the rain and the night as she ran. She couldn’t see Trip ahead of her. She looked for his truck at the end of the block. Gone. “Damn,” she muttered. She stopped at the corner and looked up and down the side street. Up and down the street that crossed it. Nothing. She turned and jogged back toward Summit. She wanted to catch Duncan to tell him to call for backup. As she ran, she rubbed her arms and pushed the wet hair off her face. She was soaked and cold. Her sweater and skirt were matted against her like a second skin. She got to Summit and scanned the street. An empty space between the Range Rover and the Mercedes. Duncan’s Cadillac was gone.
She heard the squeal of tires. It had to be Duncan. She scanned the side street. Didn’t see anything. Then Trip’s truck came rumbling out of the alley, took a mad left onto the side street and headed for Summit. She stepped into the middle of the road to stop him. He kept coming. She raised her gun. He kept coming. She dove between two sedans parked on the side street and jumped on the trunk hood of one. Dropping to one knee, she aimed for Trip through the cab window on the passenger’s side. As the truck roared by, she pulled the trigger. She heard the crackle of shattering glass but couldn’t tell if she’d hit Trip. The truck kept heading for Summit. It would take Trip downtown. To the highways. To freedom.
As the truck rolled into the intersection, a black bullet shot down Summit and broadsided the driver’s side. The thunder of metal slamming into metal. A hubcap rolled down Summit toward the reception house and another wobbled down the side street past Murphy. “Axel!” Murphy slid off the car trunk, shoved her gun in her waistband and ran to the intersection. Broken glass and bits of metal crunched under her shoes. She heard sirens in the distance and her own voice drowning them out. “Axel!”
She ran to the Cadillac. The front of the car was crumpled and the windshield was shattered. She tried to open the driver’s door. Locked or jammed. She pulled with both hands and yanked it open. Duncan was lying back in the seat. He was wearing his seat belt; it saved his life.
His eyes opened. “Sorry I’m late.”
She reached inside and wrapped her right hand around his left. She eyed his body but was afraid to touch him. “Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere.” He laughed. “Ouch. My poor Caddy.”
“Don’t move,” she said. His eyes started to close. “Axel. No. Don’t. Stay with me. Talk to me. Where were you? You dropped out of the sky.”
His eyes fluttered but stayed open. “Drove to the end of the block and took a U-turn. I heard rubber burning. Figured he was coming out of the side street. Gunned it when I saw him.”
“Why? We would have caught up with him.”
“Couldn’t risk a chase. The way he used his truck like a weapon, he could’ve taken out a bunch of people.”
“You never drew your gun.”
“Not a fair fight. He didn’t have a gun.” His eyes started to close again.
She squeezed his hand. “Axel. Stay with me.”
Two squads pulled up. Then a third, followed by a fire rig and two paramedic units. She stepped aside so the paramedics could work on Duncan. She ran over to Trip’s truck. The driver’s side was punched in. Paramedics were crawling all over the cab. “How bad is it?” she yelled to one leaning in the driver’s side. She looked past him into the truck. Didn’t see evidence that airbags had gone off. She figured Trip had been in so many accidents, he’d stopped replacing the bags or disengaged them. “Is he conscious?” She had to know if he killed Denny and his friends. Wanted to ask how many others he’d murdered. “I’m a cop. Can I talk to him?”
The paramedic pulled his head out of the cab. “You the shooter?” She nodded. “Between that and the crash, he’s gone.”
She didn’t know why she asked her next question: “Which finished him?”
“ME will have to sort that one out.” He ducked his head back inside.
Another paramedic, a woman, came around to the cab from the back of the truck. She was shaking her head. “Never seen anything like it.”
The impact of the collision had caused Trip’s truck to jettison half its load. Curled up in the middle of Summit Avenue—amid a pile of cowboy linen and bloody towels and packaged dress shirts and Elvis memorabilia—were two bodies. A partially frozen old man. A frozen middle-aged woman. The man was clothed and had a sheet wrapped around his neck. The woman was nude. She had a plastic bag and duct tape wrapped around her neck and coins embedded in her eyes. A dime in one and a nickel in the other.
THIRTY-EIGHT
SEARCHING FOR THE perfect surface, Murphy turned the pumpkin around and around on her kitchen table. She stepped back, pointed to a flat spot. “How about here?”
Sitting at the table, Duncan pulled the pumpkin toward him. “Fine.” He raised the small serrated knife to stab the top and start carving. He had to use his left hand; his right arm was in a sling.
“Wait,” she said.