The Rainy Day Killer

by Michael J. McCann

  “Who the hell is this guy?” Karen demanded of Lane.

  “He comes highly recommended,” Lane replied. “He has a studio in Roanoke.”

  “Do you know him? Have you met him before?”

  “No, but his reputation’s wonderful.”

  Karen eyed him. “Did anybody check your ID coming in here, pal?”

  In response, the photographer put his little finger in the corner of his mouth, pulled it up to simulate a smile, and raised the camera, squeezing off several more shots.

  “What is this guy,” Karen groused, “a fucking mute?”

  Molly choked, spraying a mouthful of wine across her salad.

  “Karen!” Lane stared, horrified. “I’m sorry,” she said, turning to Louise Tench, the minister’s daughter. “She’s under so much pressure.”

  Rebecca and Beatrice, whom Lane had also invited to the lunch, knew better. They looked at each other and hid smiles beneath their napkins.

  At that moment, one of those chance interactions took place that might pass unnoticed by someone not sensitive to such things but that acted as a trigger for Karen. Turning away from her, the photographer lowered his camera, looked at her, and fluttered his eyelids in contempt.

  In an instant, Karen was out of her seat and behind him. She grabbed his right wrist and shook it violently, sending the camera bouncing across the table onto Molly’s plate. She twisted his right hand behind his back and forced him over the table, then grabbed his left wrist and doubled it back over the right one.

  “Don’t move, asshole,” she hissed in his ear, removing a plastic locking strap from the pocket of her blazer and securing his wrists tightly behind his back.

  Lane was on her feet, shrieking. Louise Tench, the minister’s daughter, had dropped from her chair and rolled under the table. Rebecca covered her mouth with her hand, staring. Beatrice watched, eyes wide, mouth open, while Molly calmly picked the camera out of her salad and held it aloft with her thumb and index finger, pinkie extended, while salad dressing dripped from the lens.

  “Are you insane?” the photographer shouted, suddenly finding his voice. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re hurting me!”

  “Let’s see what you got, pal.” Karen ran her left hand over his body while pressing her right hand into the small of his back to hold him down. “Let’s see now, keys,” she threw them on the table, “gum, change,” on the table, “ah-ha, wallet.” She fished it out of his pocket and straightened, pressing her knee against his buttock to hold him in place while she opened the wallet.

  “Thought you could waltz right in, huh?” Karen pulled out a credit card. “Nelson P. Wister. How the hell’d you come up with that one?”

  “It’s my name! I was born with it, you idiot!”

  “Sure you were.” She pulled out a Virginia driver’s license with his photo on it. It was in the name of Nelson P. Wister, with a Roanoke address. She looked at a Roanoke public library card with his name on it, a Wister Photography business card, an AAA card with his name on it, a Roanoke Quik Lube courtesy card with his name and three holes punched out of it, and a Virginia Wedding Photojournalist Association membership card with his name on it. When she found the condom in a side pocket, she reluctantly accepted the fact that she’d made a mistake.

  She picked up the knife from beside Louise Tench’s plate and slit the locking strap, freeing Nelson P. Wister’s wrists. She pulled him up by the shirt collar and brushed at pieces of lettuce clinging to the front of his shirt.

  “Sorry, pal. Honest mistake.”

  “Mistake? Are you insane? I’ll sue your ass! You idiot!”

  “Calm down. I’m a police detective. We’re looking for a homicide suspect. You came off the wrong way, pal.”

  “Detective? Homicide? I’ll sue your department’s ass, too. My camera!” He pushed away from Karen and hurried around the table to grab his camera from Molly. “It’s ruined. How am I supposed to work now?”

  “Come on, buddy,” Molly said. “You’ve got at least two others in your bag over there. Use one of them.”

  “Lane,” Karen said, “reason with him.”

  Lane, who had thankfully stopped shouting, was staring at Karen with her hands pressed to her cheeks. “What just happened? What did you just do?”

  “Look, I’m real sorry, Lane. I really am. Stuff’s going on, and I kind of blew my top. I didn’t mean to. Can we just say sorry and move along?”

  “I’m out of here,” Wister said, grabbing his bag from the corner of the room and shoving the ruined camera into it. “I’m gone.”

  “Please,” Lane said. “Please don’t leave.”

  “Oh, I’m leaving, all right.”

  “Nelson,” Karen said, stepping toward him. “Look, I’m real sorry. I apologize. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “You certainly will. In court.”

  “No no, you meathead. I can make it up to you. Wait a sec.” She grabbed her handbag from under the table, making eye contact with Louise Tench while she was down there and motioning for her to come back out, and pulled out a business card from her wallet.

  “This is the card of a real important magazine editor,” Karen said, extending the card. “Donata Parker? Mid-Atlantic Monthly? She told me to give it to you. She said she’s interested in seeing your work from the wedding and maybe would use a couple shots if they’re any good. Are you any good?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Wister looked at Lane. “Is she kidding me?”

  “Please listen to her,” Lane begged. “She’s an important police detective from Maryland. If she says this woman’s a friend, then she’s a friend. Please. Please stay.”

  Wister hesitated, then glared at Karen and pointed at the table. “Don’t come any closer. Put it down.”

  Karen put the business card down on the table and moved back a step.

  Wister picked it up and looked it over.

  “The magazine sells all over the damned place,” Karen said. “Baltimore, D.C., Philadelphia, Raleigh-Durham. Great exposure for you, huh?”

  “This is bullshit,” Wister said, dubiously. “You’re bullshitting me.”

  “No, I’m not. I had drinks with her a couple weeks ago, her and Brooke Wilson, a city councilor. Donata gave me the card and told me to make sure to give it to you. She’s interested.”

  “Please say you’ll stay,” Lane said. “I’ll replace your camera and make sure to add a bonus to your payment.”

  “I’ll replace the camera, Lane,” Karen said.

  “If I call her,” Wister said, holding up the card between his index and middle fingers, “and I give her your name, she’s going to know what the hell I’m talking about?”

  “Of course. Call her. Mention my name.”

  “Oh, I’ll mention your name, all right. And she’d better know what I’m talking about.”

  “Then you’ll stay?” Lane asked, hopefully.

  Wister slung his bag over his shoulder. “If this is legit,” he waggled the card between his fingers, “I’ll stick around. In any case, I’ve got enough shots of lunch, don’t you think?”

  They watched him stalk out of the dining room on silent, sneakered feet.

  Molly grinned at Karen and put a hand to her throat in a choking gesture.

  “I need a drink,” Karen said. “And not this pissy grape juice shit. Vodka. Straight.”

  Lane stared at her for a moment, then nodded.

  “I’ll have one with you,” she said, “along with an explanation.”

  42

  Saturday, June 1: afternoon

  The photographer made his call and stuck around. At 1:45 p.m. he pushed his way into Sandy’s room and shot him buttoning up his black tuxedo jacket and running a comb through his hair, then followed him downstairs, where he took photographs of him at the front entry with Hank and Del, now also wearing their tuxes. Having heard of Wister’s altercation with Karen, they were very careful to be tolerant of his wordless stage directions and overall
intrusiveness, while exchanging knowing smirks behind his back.

  Bill Alexander came in and announced to everyone that the best man had arrived. Hank followed Sandy and Del outside. The sky was overcast, and low-hanging clouds trailed large, dark streamers through the tops of the trees, but for the moment the drizzle had stopped. Hank was introduced to a tall, skinny redhead in yet another black tuxedo.

  “This is John Bolingbroke,” Sandy said. “He’s not bad, for a journalist.”

  Hank shook his hand. “You publish the local paper, Sandy said.”

  “Publish, edit, write the odd feature, take classified ads over the phone, and handle some of the artwork, including photos.” Bolingbroke eyed Wister with distaste as he circled around them, squeezing off shots.

  “This is Del Stainer, from Houston,” Sandy said. “Karen’s brother.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Del shook hands. “You guys covering this bash for the paper?”

  “Oh yeah.” Bolingbroke ran his eyes around the circle. “You’re all cops, right? If my reporter asks you questions, please don’t give her the ‘no comment’ thing, okay, just out of habit? Try to feed her some juicy stuff on this guy. There’ll be something in it for you later if you do.”

  “Hey, wait a sec, I’m no cop,” Del protested. “Do I look like a cop to you?”

  “No, come to think of it,” Bolingbroke said, “although you could be undercover.”

  “When I go undercover, man, it ain’t those kind of covers.”

  “Del does vintage auto restoration,” Sandy explained. “If you’re nice to him, he might be able to hook you up with that ’67 Shelby you always dreamed about.”

  “I know one,” Del said promptly, “but it needs a hell of a lot of work.”

  “We should talk about it,” Bolingbroke said. “Later.”

  “John and I go way back,” Sandy said. “Best buddies in high school. Camera club and the yearbook club, all that stuff. Went to UVA together. He took over the university paper and I was the late-night DJ on the radio. Great times.”

  “How’d you end up turning into a Feeb, Sandy? I still haven’t figured that one out.”

  “Guess I zigged right when I should have zagged left.”

  Bolingbroke laughed, but his mind was obviously elsewhere. He turned to the photographer, who was still taking pictures. “Nelson? Nelson? Hello?”

  Wister lowered the camera, frowning.

  “Can you give us a few minutes? Maybe take someone else’s picture inside?”

  “He already tried that,” Del said. “It didn’t go so well.”

  Wister made a bit of a production out of putting his lens cap on and slinging the camera over his shoulder. Shaking his head, he wandered off across the courtyard toward the barn.

  “I got copies of a bulletin on a serial killer from Maryland,” Bolingbroke said. “Do you gentlemen know anything about it? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  Hank gave him a basic description of the Rainy Day Killer and his activities, and explained in general terms their reasons to believe he’d followed them here from Glendale.

  “Are we in some kind of danger?” Bolingbroke asked, alarmed.

  “The way I understand it,” Del interjected, “this guy doesn’t rape and murder male redheaded news guys, so I think you’re relatively safe.”

  “He’s shown absolutely no use of firearms in any of his previous offenses,” Sandy said quickly. “The threat is specific to Karen, and it would involve finding her alone and abducting her, using a stun gun and some kind of sedative like midazolam. No one else is in any danger, John. The idea is to carry on with the day as planned and make sure Karen’s never alone.”

  “Can I quote you on this?”

  “We’d prefer that you keep things general right now,” Hank said, “and concentrate on public awareness of this guy’s face and behavior. The details can wait until later.”

  Bill Alexander stepped outside and joined them. “Hank, according to Lane’s timetable, you and Delbert need to leave for the church now. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.” Hank looked at Sandy. “Break a leg.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hank and Del walked across the courtyard, avoiding the puddles. Hank unlocked the Cadillac with the fob and got in behind the wheel. Del slid into the front passenger seat. As Hank was fastening his seat belt, Del rolled toward Hank and moved the edge of his tuxedo jacket, revealing a handgun in a clip-on holster fastened to his belt on his right hip.

  “Just so you know,” Del said.

  “Jesus, Del. Why didn’t you tell me you were carrying?”

  “I just did.” Del straightened and fastened his seat belt. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the non-resident permit with me, and I stopped into the sheriff’s office in town when I got in yesterday to let them know about it. It’s all copasetic.”

  “We need to let them handle this,” Hank said, starting the engine. “We can’t go flying off the handle.”

  “Hey, man, I never fly off the handle. And I carry it whenever I travel. Some of the places I go car hunting, you can’t be too careful. Don’t worry about it, okay? I may not be a cop, but I’m a Stainer. Daddy taught me how to shoot just like Darryl, Karen, and Brad. Besides, you don’t expect me to believe you’re not packing too, do you?”

  Hank shook his head. Stainers. Sighing, he slowly lifted his right trouser cuff. Strapped to his lower leg, on top of his over-the-calf black silk hose, was the SIG Sauer P-225 he’d purchased on his last visit to Virginia.

  “What’d I tell you?” Del said. “Little Kay’s going to be covered six ways to Sunday.”

  At the end of the driveway they passed a parked cruiser. The sheriff’s deputy eyeballed them silently. Del gave him a friendly wave without receiving a response.

  Hank retraced his route from yesterday, driving back down Pleasant Mountain Road to the t-intersection at the Jackson River Road, then turned south. It was a beautiful drive despite the poor weather, along a two-lane highway with virtually no shoulders on either side. They were hemmed in on the right by overhanging trees and a rising bank that continued all the way up to the top of a sixteen-hundred-foot mountain peak they couldn’t see because of the low clouds. On the left, the land sloped down to the river.

  “Where’d you go to school, Del?”

  “A&M. I’m an Aggie.”

  Hank nodded, watching the highway. “What’d you take?”

  “Mechanical engineering. Paid my way through by working part-time at an auto body shop in Bryan. The real fun, though, was philosophy. Most of my electives were philosophy and logic courses.”

  “Really!” Hank glanced over at him.

  “Yep.”

  “So where do you stand? Philosophically speaking?”

  “I’m a pragmatist, Hank. Only way to fly.”

  Hank laughed. “I hear that.”

  Del shifted, watching the trees suddenly close in on either side as the road began to bend. “I’m glad Karen and Sandy are going ahead with it. Married life will be good for her.”

  “I think so, too.” Hank drove around another bend, and they emerged from the trees and crossed a bridge. On the other side, they passed a gas bar and a sign that told them they’d reached Clearwater Falls. Hank started watching for Wallace Street, his right-hand turn that would take them to the Paradise United Methodist Church.

  “Is she doing okay?” Del asked, glancing over at him. “Is she happy there, Hank?”

  “I think so,” Hank said. “She’s a hell of a detective.”

  “She’d have to be. She’s a Stainer.”

  Hank slowed and turned onto Wallace, which was so obscured by trees he’d thought at first it was someone’s driveway. “She has a relentlessness and tenacity about her that’s unparalleled. I don’t know anybody, and I mean anybody, I’d rather walk onto a crime scene with than your sister. When it gets tough, I know she’s got my back. Sometimes she takes too many risks, and I worry about that, but I know she
can handle herself better than anyone else wearing a badge.”

  “She told me you’re her guardian angel. That true?”

  Hank glanced at him. “She said that?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I suppose it’s true.”

  “The family appreciates it that you’re looking out for her.”

  “Glad to.” Hank braked as they reached the parking lot beside the church. “Looks like we’re here.”

  Getting out of the car, Hank glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes past two o’clock. There were a few other vehicles in the parking lot, but no marked cruisers. The guests would soon be arriving, and Hank had expected to see more of a police presence already. They walked across a patch of lawn and found Griffin waiting for them at the top of the stairs leading into the church.

  Hank introduced Del. As the two men shook hands, he looked up and down the street. “Where’s the sheriff?”

  Griffin shook his head. “Otherwise occupied. Was there a car at the ranch house?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid that’s the extent of their contribution. They’ll follow her in and park out here. It’s the best we could do.”

  “What about the staties?”

  Griffin shook his head. “Marie-Louise is inside, talking to Special Agent Barnett, so at least the Bureau has supplied a body, but that’s it, Hank. Crull just isn’t taking it seriously. I talked to him this morning, and he said the state police laughed at him. They contacted the task force, and the prevailing wisdom is that the UNSUB’s still in Glendale. They’re following up on some quote unquote very hot leads. Looks like we’re it.”

  “You told them about the phone call and the photo?”

  “I did. They don’t buy it. They think we’re wrong and he’s still in Maryland.”

  “Damn it,” Hank said.

  “We can handle it ourselves,” Del said.

  Griffin looked at him for a long moment. “I hope so.” He glanced back into the church. “I should remind everyone that, according to Virginia Code 18.2-283, it’s a Class 4 misdemeanor in this state to carry a gun into a place of worship during a religious ceremony without having good and sufficient reason for doing so.”