The Rainy Day Killer

by Michael J. McCann

  “I’d say we have a damned good and sufficient reason, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m just saying,” Griffin said.

  Del nodded and walked into the church.

  A green car turned into the parking lot. As they watched, an elderly couple got out. As they were smoothing their clothing and shutting their doors, a Grand Cherokee turned into the lot and parked next to them. A white van followed. Hank and Griffin watched a family pile out of the van. A young woman in a long flowered dress began to organize three small children while her husband, obviously uncomfortable in a safari jacket and black jeans, looked on.

  “I’m going inside to grab a pew,” Griffin said. He patted Hank on the arm. “Looks like it’s show time for you, big guy.”

  Alone in the church doorway, Hank watched the mother fuss with her children, tucking in shirts and finger-combing hair.

  A light rain began to fall.

  A man got out of the Grand Cherokee and began removing equipment from the back. It was the videographer, Hank realized, a small, nondescript individual in his mid-thirties. He wore a neat blue suit and his head was shaved bald. As he lugged his equipment bag and tripod across the parking lot, he turned around, walking backward, and looked up at the sky. He pulled a gray tweed driving cap from his bag and clapped it over his head, then turned back and chose a spot on the lawn to dump his stuff.

  Watching him set up his tripod, obviously intending to film the impending arrival of the bride, Hank hoped that Karen wouldn’t attack him, too.

  As the family approached the church, walking briskly to get out of the drizzle, the smallest child, a little girl in a bright yellow dress, broke away from her mother, ran up the stairs, and landed in front of Hank with a joyful little hop.

  “Hi! I’m Amanda!”

  Hank smiled uncomfortably. “Hi, Amanda. Friends of the bride or the groom?”

  “I dunno. What’s your name?”

  “My name’s Hank. That’s a nice dress you’re wearing, Amanda.”

  “It was Lisa’s but it’s mine, now. I’m three years old. How old are you?”

  One hundred, Hank thought, noting with dismay that the videographer was filming the encounter, holding an umbrella above his head with his free hand to protect his equipment.

  Thankfully, Amanda’s mother was coming up the stairs with another girl in tow. Lisa, no doubt.

  Hank smiled at her, trying to put more conviction into it. “Friends of the bride or the groom?”

  43

  Saturday, June 1: afternoon

  Meanwhile, at the ranch house, Nelson P. Wister worked his camera from a safe distance as Karen walked out the front door and embraced Darryl, looking very handsome in his black tuxedo.

  “You look lovely, Little Kay,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Speak for yourself. You look like a million bucks.”

  “Check out the ride.” He stepped aside and held out his hand.

  Parked in the courtyard, engine idling, ready to convey her to the Paradise United Methodist Church, was a Baltic blue 1959 Ford Thunderbird convertible, as spotless and perfect as the day it rolled off the assembly line, with a flawless blue-and-white interior, power seats, power windows, and automatic transmission. In deference to the inclement weather, the top was up.

  “A Square Bird,” she said, staring. “He actually did it. He got me a Square Bird.”

  “He did,” Darryl agreed. “Let’s go get you married, darlin’.”

  In the middle of a convoy that included Lane and Bill Alexander, a collection of Sandy’s aunts and uncles, Molly Archer, Nelson P. Wister in his white van, and the sheriff’s office cruiser bringing up the rear, Darryl and Karen made the drive down Jackson River Road, windshield wipers beating rhythmically.

  “I’m very proud of you,” Darryl said.

  “Thanks.”

  As they crossed the bridge over the river, Karen cleared her throat. “I’m not going to have kids, Darryl.”

  He stared out the windshield, guiding the Square Bird around the bend past the Petticoat Junction gas bar. “I understand.”

  “I’m sorry. You probably wanted nieces and nephews to play with and buy presents for and all that stuff.”

  Darryl shook his head. “Rebecca’s got nieces and nephews. They’re more than enough. Little monsters.”

  “I know her psychiatrist said your kids should be safe, and I’m so glad to hear that, Darryl. You have no idea. But I’m still scared. Maybe the odds are worse for daughters of schizophrenics or something, I don’t know. I just can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

  He frowned over at her. “You don’t owe nobody nothing. Understand? You paid your dues after she went away, trying to be a mother to Bradley and Jimmy Bob. You did your best. For God’s sake, Kay, live your own life. Be your own woman. Don’t say you’re sorry, ever again.”

  “Aye-firmative.” She gave him a crooked smile, trying to mean it.

  “That’s better.”

  At the church, she fretted in the passenger seat as Darryl followed his instructions from Lane, waiting until everyone else had parked and entered the church before rolling over to the spot closest to the entrance that had been left vacant for him.

  Over his shoulder he saw the sheriff’s office cruiser pull up to the curb.

  He shut off the engine. “You okay?”

  “Let’s do this thing.” She watched him get out, walk around the front of the car, and open the passenger door for her.

  She slid out and took a moment to collect herself. She had her bouquet of flowers. Her gown was on properly, and zipped all the way up in back. Her shoes fit. She’d turned her cell phone over to Lane just before leaving the ranch, as promised. She’d covered off the something old, new, borrowed, and blue thing with the old Thunderbird, a pearl necklace borrowed from Lane, a blue garter on her left thigh and, most importantly, the new SIG Sauer P-290 on her right ankle under her gown. She knew where she was supposed to stand and what she was supposed to say.

  She pictured Sandy’s face, smiling at her, and confirmed for the millionth time that she loved him completely and had made the right decision. She’d gotten past the incident with the photographer, who was now snapping shots of her from the lawn next to the videographer, who looked like another insufferable creep.

  Darryl was right here, holding out his arm, a perfect, incredible stand-in for her father who was watching, hopefully, from somewhere peaceful as she went ahead and did this thing she thought she’d never, in a million years, do.

  She slipped her hand through his arm and let him guide her across the lawn, up the stairs past the lenses, and through the doors into the Paradise United Methodist Church.

  44

  Saturday, June 1: afternoon

  The ceremony, Hank thought, had gone very well. The church was nearly filled to capacity, a testament to the reach of the Alexanders, who seemed to have invited most of the town. He and Del had initially followed Lane’s instructions to the letter, asking each arrival if they were friends of the bride or the groom. Before long, however, the groom’s side of the church was packed and the bride’s side was a yawning expanse of empty pews, so they abandoned her insistence on tradition and filled up the other side with the latecomers.

  He and Del paid close attention to unaccompanied men, of which there were ultimately three. Only one, however, was of the approximate age and body type of the Rainy Day Killer. Hank kept an eye on him during the ceremony. The man sat quietly, head up, singing when everyone else sang and praying when everyone else prayed, maintaining an alert, interested expression throughout.

  Hank was astonished at how beautiful Karen looked in her wedding gown, clutching her bouquet with a shell-shocked expression as Darryl escorted her down the aisle. The contrast between this woman and the hard-assed, foul-mouthed homicide detective he loved so much brought a fond smile to his face.

  They’d written their own vows, which were simple and filled with meaning. The minister, the Reverend James R. Tench, was hu
morous and personable. The flower girl and ring boy, children of Lane’s nephew, were sweet and stole everyone’s attention. Bolingbroke, clowning around, pretended to drop Karen’s ring before handing it to Sandy, drawing chuckles from everyone except Lane, who rolled her eyes and shook her head. When the minister finished his business and Sandy took Karen into his arms, their kiss was long and single-minded, and Hank doubted they heard the clapping and catcalls that accompanied it.

  The videographer had set up his camera and tripod at the back to film the ceremony, and as the newlywed couple were introduced to the congregation by the minister, Hank noticed out of the corner of his eye that he’d removed his camera from the tripod and was holding it on his shoulder, apparently intending to precede them out of the church. Hank made a mental note to get a copy of the video later, although it appeared as though the Rainy Day Killer had wisely chosen to avoid the ceremony altogether.

  It took forever for the church to empty, as everyone inched forward toward the receiving line squeezed into the nave to avoid the drizzle outside, but eventually cars began to work their way out of the parking lot. Reverend Tench slipped into his little cubbyhole to remove his vestments and sneak a quick cigarette. The videographer disappeared.

  Lane and Wister began calling out directions to the wedding party regarding arrangements for the shooting of the official wedding portraits. Originally planned for the gazebo Brad had built next to the barbecue pit, the photos were now being taken in a spot inside the barn he’d set up this morning.

  Hank and Del found Griffin outside in the parking lot, sharing an umbrella with a middle-aged woman who seemed to have a lot to say to him. As Hank approached, Griffin looked relieved to be rescued. He shook the woman’s hand and hurried out from under her umbrella.

  “Mrs. Tooley, the head librarian in town. It seems she recognized me from the jacket cover photo of my latest book.”

  “A fan,” Hank said.

  “Yeah. What can I say? I promised to stop by the library before I leave.”

  “You have fans?” Del asked, puzzled.

  Griffin rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask.”

  Hank unlocked the Cadillac with the remote fob. “Want to ride with us?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Inside the car, as Hank started the engine, Griffin leaned forward from the back seat. “There was only one possible that I could see. The guy sitting two rows behind me on the left side, first seat in.”

  “We saw him,” Del said.

  “Turns out he’s Sandy’s friend,” Hank said. “They held up the receiving line getting re-acquainted. Pissed off everyone behind him, but cleared him as someone I might have needed to shoot.”

  “So he didn’t show.”

  Hank put the Cadillac in gear. “Not that I could see. Let’s check with this guy before we go.” He rolled forward and pulled up behind the sheriff’s office cruiser. Leaving the engine running, Hank got out and rapped on the driver’s side window, pressing his badge against the glass.

  The deputy buzzed down the window and nodded politely. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Any sign of our fugitive out here?”

  The deputy shook his head. “Not a thing. Dead as dirt the whole time, sir.”

  “You going to stick with her back to the Alexander ranch?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “And you’re it?”

  “I’m it,” he said.

  “This guy called me this morning on my cell,” Hank said. “He’s been doing that because I was the lead investigator on the two homicides he committed in my city. He said he’d followed Stainer here and intended to make her his next victim. He sent me a photo of her taken in town this morning, so I believe him. He’s looking for the ultimate challenge, and as far as he’s concerned, this is it. Are you up for it, Deputy?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “You don’t look like you are, Deputy. You don’t look like you take this whole thing very seriously. Your eyes look like you were dozing. Were you dozing, Deputy?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Chief Crull told you to humor us and go through the motions, did he?”

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “What’s your name, Deputy?”

  “Preston, sir. Sheriff’s Deputy Steven Preston.”

  “Listen up, Deputy Preston. This guy captures women just like Karen Stainer in broad daylight on days just like this one, when people are preoccupied with getting out of the rain and not paying much attention to their surroundings. He holds them for three or four days in a remote location, an abandoned building, and rapes them repeatedly. He strangles them to the point of unconsciousness, rapes them again, revives them, and then does it again. They’re naked, drugged, injured, violated, humiliated, and terrified. When he’s finished with them, he strangles them to death, cuts off their breasts and genitalia, then dumps them naked on a river bank or in a fountain. He feels nothing but contempt for people wearing uniforms like you and for homicide investigators like me. He believes he’s smarter, faster, and infinitely more courageous than we are. Is he right, Deputy? Are we just a bunch of dull, slow-footed morons who haven’t a clue and couldn’t catch him if he stood in front of us with his hands held out, asking to be cuffed?”

  Preston swallowed. “No sir.”

  Hank stared at him for a long moment. “Time to man up, Deputy Preston.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Hank put his badge back in his pocket and walked back to the Cadillac. He slammed the door, shifted into Drive, and accelerated around the cruiser and down the street.

  “So?” Del said.

  “He didn’t see anything except the insides of his eyelids,” Hank ground out, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

  “Christ,” Del said.

  “I suppose it’s too far outside their experience,” Griffin said. “I didn’t get the sense that they were stupid people, just unable to believe something like this could come up here into their county. They’ve handled murders before, but the conventional kind with a body and a dumb-ass husband or drinking buddy or whatever with the murder weapon stashed under the front seat of his car.”

  “If you say so,” Del said.

  Hank kept his mouth shut, trying to clear the anger from his mind as he drove. He knew that anger would sap his focus and concentration when he needed it the most. In a situation like this, when upset or deeply disturbed by something, he often forced himself into mental routines that had originally been ingrained in his mind as a patrol officer. He’d taught himself to focus intently on doors and windows, locks and bolts, garbage bags and cardboard cartons while on foot patrol, noting every detail, every sight and sound and smell, until the anger or depression or fear had been compartmentalized somewhere at the back of his brain where it wouldn’t interfere with his ability to do his job. Another trick was to note and memorize license plates. It was something he usually did mechanically, out of habit, but sometimes he reached for it deliberately as a technique to push away emotion and focus his mind.

  As he negotiated the narrow streets toward Jackson River Road, he locked onto every license plate he could see. It was possible the Rainy Day Killer was driving a vehicle with Maryland tags, so he watched for those in particular, but it was more likely he’d switched to Virginia plates at some point, so he looked at them all, committing the numbers to memory.

  By the time he turned off the highway onto Pleasant Mountain Road, his anger had resolved into cold determination.

  45

  Saturday, June 1: late afternoon

  After returning to the ranch, Hank dutifully participated in the photo session orchestrated by Nelson P. Wister. By then, his mood had eased up enough that he was able to appreciate more fully the job Brad had done renovating the barn for the Alexanders.

  It was a large structure that had originally been used to store dry feed and hay. It was in excellent condition, with large, solid timbers, sturdy walls, wooden flooring, and a hay loft. Brad had insu
lated the walls and covered them with more barn board. He converted the area under the loft on one side into a galley-style kitchen, and turned grain bins on the other side into booths for private seating. The loft, accessed by a metal winding staircase from a salvage yard in Roanoke, now featured a separate lounge area and bar. The main floor space was filled with round tables that would seat one hundred and twenty people. At the back of the barn, he’d built a false wall to mask the area the Alexanders had earmarked for the washrooms, and it was in front of this false wall that he’d set up a tableau for the photograph session. The centerpiece of the tableau was a beautiful antique cutter, the kind of sleigh pulled by a single horse in winter. Bill had purchased the cutter from Lane’s brother-in-law, Stuart Porter, a local antiques dealer. Arranged around it were other items from Porter’s shop, including a wagon wheel, a church pew, a buffalo robe, and an assortment of collectibles intended to recreate a nineteenth-century rural look and feel.

  Behind the false wall and next to the entrance to the washrooms was a set of double doors that led outside. Beyond them, several vehicles belonging to Porter, the catering crew, and others were parked behind the barn.

  When Hank walked in, Wister had already convinced Sandy and Karen to pose in the cutter. As he stood next to Bill Alexander, he was relieved to see that Karen’s smile was genuine. She looked happy. He watched her squeeze Sandy’s hand affectionately and laugh as he said something to her.

  “This is Stuy Porter,” Bill said, indicating a short, white-haired man standing next to him. He wore a navy suit, a white shirt open at the neck, and black cap-toe shoes polished to a high shine. “Stuy, meet Lieutenant Hank Donaghue.”

  Stuy shook Hank’s hand. “Lieutenant, is it?” he said with a distinct British accent, giving the rank the English pronunciation ‘lef-tenant.’ “In the army, are we?”

  “Hank’s a homicide detective in Maryland,” Bill said. “He’s Karen’s commanding officer.”

  “Homicide? You don’t say. Brilliant.”

  “Stuy’s married to Lane’s sister, Petra. She’s around here somewhere. You’re originally from Stamford, England, aren’t you, Stuy? Near London?”