by G. M. Ford
“What’s this?” he demanded.
“We’re very sorry for the intrusion,” Corso said.
Vincent Gabriel’s expression suggested they were about to get sorrier.
“And who might you be?”
Again, Corso handed over his press credential. Unlike his wife, Vincent Gabriel read every word. Front and back. “Corso, huh?” he said. “You’re the one who’s been writing the Himes story for the Sun.”
“Yes. I am.”
“The one used to be with the New York Times.”
“That’s me,” Corso said.
Gabriel waited, as if affording Corso an opportunity to defend himself.
Instead, Corso inclined his head and said, “This is my associate, Meg Dougherty.”
Vincent gave her a curt nod. “I’ve got ninety-five guests inside, Mr. Corso. So, real quick here, you better tell me what is it you find so damned important that it requires interrupting my daughter’s wedding reception.”
“The Himes story,” Corso said.
Gabriel stiffened, then reached over and set his champagne on a glass-topped table.
“And what might that awful mess have to do with me?”
“We’ve come across a piece of information that”—Corso chose his words carefully—“that suggests it might be possible the real killer is a security guard.”
“What piece of information might that be?”
Without naming the Aviator Hotel, Corso told him the kids’ story. The locked gate, the taggers. The van. The supposed guy in uniform.
“You’re here on the word of vandals?” His tone carried an understood “you idiot.”
“No, sir,” Dougherty piped up. “We’re here because we took what the kids told us and ran with it.”
“Ran with it how?”
“We divided up the murders and canvassed the neighborhoods where the bodies were found.” She gave him the blow-by-blow. Halfway through, he checked his watch and interrupted. “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“Only three security companies had clients in the immediate neighborhoods of where all eleven bodies were found,” she said.
“Reliable, Metro Link, and you—Silver Shield,” Corso added.
Vincent Gabriel made a disbelieving face. “I’ll bet you could canvass any three square commercial blocks in the Pacific Northwest and get much the same result. Reliable, Metro, and Silver Shield are the three biggest players in this part of the country.”
“Then Corso called down to where this whole thing with the kids started,” Dougherty said.
“The guy who says the only key other than his belongs to his security company,” Corso prompted.
“And where the kids swear the guy had a key to the gate.”
“And he’s a Silver Shield customer?”
“Yessir,” Corso and Dougherty said in unison. For the first time, Vincent Gabriel’s tanned face showed concern.
“Interesting,” he said, picking up his champagne glass. “Tell you what. You two come down to the office on Monday morning and we’ll see if—”
Corso interrupted him. “That could be too late, Mr. Gabriel. Have you read the paper today?”
“What? No…with all the—”
“He killed another young woman yesterday afternoon,” Dougherty said.
“The killings are getting closer together,” Corso added. “It’s only three days since the last one.”
Gabriel’s complexion lost some of its glow. “You can’t expect me to—”
Before he could finish, the door connecting the solarium to the house swung open. The bride, looking internally radiant in that way in which only brides are capable.
She looked like her mother. Same height. Same hair. Same frank green eyes. Her gown trailed across the terra-cotta tile floor to Vincent’s side.
“Is everything all right?” she asked her father.
He patted her arm and assured her that everything was just peachy.
“Well, then, come on,” she pleaded. “The Lunquists want a picture with us.” She tried to tug him along by the forearm, but he stood his ground.
“Tell them I’ll be in in a minute.”
When she started to protest, he put a finger delicately on her lips. “Just a minute, Princess,” he said softly. “Tell them I’ll be right there.”
She kissed him on the cheek, leaving a silver-pink signature on his face, shot Corso and Dougherty a quizzical look, and flounced out the way she’d come. Her father watched her cross the room and close the door behind herself. He stood for a moment staring at the air in her wake, as if she’d left a vapor trail.
“I can’t imagine losing her,” he said.
“Most people can’t imagine it even after it happens,” Corso said. “Something in them refuses to believe it’s possible to outlive a child.”
“I don’t know what I’d do,” he said. “What I’d get out of bed for in the morning.” He waved his arm around the room. “You get to a point in life where you’ve got everything you thought you wanted and when you think about losing a child or a wife…it’s like all of a sudden you realize none of it really means a damn thing to you. That only the people in your life are worth a goddamn thing. All the rest of this…” His voice got husky as it trailed off. “I have to go,” he said almost apologetically, as if suddenly embarrassed and overwhelmed by the magnitude of his blessings. “I can’t—”
“One minute,” Corso said. “Give me one minute.”
As Vincent started for the door, Corso kept on talking to his back. “The FBI profile of this guy says he’s a white male, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. A loner. The kind of guy who eats lunch by himself and has a hard time getting along with his fellow workers. Bad interpersonal skills. Single, but probably lives in a dependent relationship with a woman—maybe a sister or a cousin, something like that. Maybe has a history of petty crimes. Fires, assaults, things like that. He may have some sort of strict religious background. The Bureau thought there was a ceremonial element to the way the bodies were left. And, if the kids are to be believed, he drives a primer-gray Dodge van, with quarter-moon bubble windows in the back.”
Vincent Gabriel had stopped with his hand on the door handle. When he turned back toward Corso, his face was like concrete. “That’s it?” he asked tentatively.
“He’s probably had some stressor in his life lately. Something that’s set him off on another murder spree,” Corso added.
Gabriel blew air through his pursed lips and then ran a hand through his hair.
“Sound like anybody who might work for you?” Dougherty asked.
Vincent Gabriel shrugged. “Could be,” he said in a low voice. “Not what he drives or anything…but I might—” He stopped himself. “I’m not usually involved in the day-to-day operations.” He shrugged. “Tell you the truth, most of the time, I couldn’t tell you who works for me and who doesn’t, let alone what they drive.”
“But…,” Corso pressed.
“But lately…the local office…had…” He searched for the right phrase. “They had a really weird scene.”
“Weird how?”
Gabriel stared at his patent-leather shoes and nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Guy that’s worked for us for years. I get a call from his supervisor. Says the guy’s been getting increasingly weird lately. Says he’s concerned…” He looked up at Corso. “You know—the guy’s a gun nut. What with all the workplace violence…the supervisor thinks this guy might be dangerous or something. So he calls me.”
“This guy have any unusual stressors in his life lately?” Corso asked. “Something that could push him over the edge?”
“Yeah, the guy I’m thinking of…he has,” Gabriel said. “Two, in fact.”
He absentmindedly touched the lipstick on his cheek and then looked from Dougherty to Corso, as if pleading for absolution. “His mother died a month or so back and then…two weeks ago”—he looked up at the twirling fans—“I fired him
.”
“What for?” Dougherty asked.
Vincent Gabriel took a deep breath. He looked tubercular. “Threatening to kill another employee.” He spread his big hands. “He was completely out of it,” he said. “He kept claiming the guy was stealing from his locker.”
“Any chance he was right?”
“We don’t have lockers.”
Chapter 26
Saturday, September 22
11:02 P.M. Day 6 of 6
“Got no damn use for no preacher,” Himes said to the sergeant. “Don’t be bringin’ his sorry ass in here.”
“You sure, Walter? I seen him bring comfort to a lotta men.”
Himes laughed. “He doan come in here to comfort the likes of me. He comes in so’s he can comfort the likes of you-all. So’s you can go home tonight, have dinner wid the Mrs. tellin’ yourself there’s some kinda difference between the killin’ you-all do and the kind they say I done.”
The sergeant folded his arms and looked over at Smitty. “Walter’s got a point there,” he said to the other man. “Not a whole lotta difference…not from Walter’s end anyway, is there?”
“No, sir,” said the younger man. “I guess there isn’t.”
11:04 P.M. Day 6 of 6
The windows stood as dark and gray as tombstones. 1279 Arlen Avenue South sat a hundred yards back from the road. Junkyard to the north. Five acres of halogen-lit mini-storage to the south. At the back oozed the Duwamish River. Could have been a small farm at one time. Might have owned one whole side of the block, way back when. Probably sold off the street front to make ends meet. Nothing left now but a drive-way easement and a narrow strip of ground along an acrid river.
From the end of the muddy drive, a single yellow porch light revealed a peeling two-story facade cowering beneath a stand of mossy oaks. The clapboard siding now forming a shallow V as the structure sagged inexorably downward. In the distance a siren wailed its plaintive song. Closer, a junkyard dog picked up the note and rolled it into a long miserable howl.
“That’s gotta be it,” Corso said.
“What are we doing here, anyway?” Dougherty asked.
“I’ve got to be sure.”
“What? You think he’s going to have a sign or something?”
“I’d settle for a van with bubble windows.”
“You’re nuts.”
Corso shrugged. “All we’ve got so far is a big maybe. I want to be sure.”
He gave the Chevy some gas. Rolled past the driveway and parked in front of the junkyard, between a battered flatbed truck and an orange VW beetle. He killed the engine and the lights. Grabbed the door handle. “Come on,” he said.
“What if he shows up while we’re walking down his driveway?”
“Then we claim to be broken down and stupid. We saw a light and were looking for help.”
“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” Dougherty whispered.
“Come on. The driveway’s empty. Let’s just poke around a little.”
“What if he’s parked behind the house?”
“If it’s a van, we hot-foot it out of there and call the cops.”
“No way.”
“Okay,” he said. “Wait in the car…I’ll be right back.”
She grabbed him by the elbow. “You’re not leaving me out here alone,” she said.
“Come on, then.”
“I hate you.”
“Take a number.”
She punched him in the arm. Hard. “You go first,” she hissed through her teeth.
Corso pointed to the grass-covered berm running between the worn tire ruts. “Up here.”
The ditches on either side of the drive were a forest of dead dandelions, the unmowed summer stalks standing stiff and still in the unnatural light as Corso and Dougherty edged their way up the driveway toward the house.
As they came abreast of the house, it became obvious that no vehicle was present. Corso felt his breathing become deeper and more regular. Despite feeling like his throat was full of dirt, he managed to swallow a couple of times.
The end of the drive was worn in a circle. A well-trodden path led from the circle to the back door. To the right, what had once been a long outbuilding running across the back of the property now lay collapsed upon itself. Fallen to the left, with its walls and roofs fanned out along the ground like playing cards. At the far end, the tines of a rusted hay rake lay like the rib cage of some ancient metal beast.
The weed-covered backyard sported a pile of partially burned furniture. Corso walked over to the pile. Probed it with his toe. In the dim light, he could make out the soot-covered remains of a brass bed. A partially burned mattress and box spring, their floral prints scorched in some places, melted in others. Blankets and bedclothes. A couple of lamps and shades. Smashed picture frames. An end table, maybe two. A charred collection of old women’s clothes and under-things. All piled together in a smelly heap. Corso reached gingerly into the pile, pulled aside the pieces of a broken picture frame, and extracted the picture between his fingers. Turned it over. A color rendition of Christ expelling the moneylenders from the temple. Carefully, he put the picture back on the pile.
He dusted his palms together as he crossed the lawn to the back door. Grabbed the handle on the screen door. The rusted spring shrieked as Corso pulled open the door. In the junkyard, a trio of dogs began to bark. Corso rapped on the door with his knuckles.
“Hello,” he called tentatively.
The door swung inward.
“Did you…,” Dougherty sputtered.
He raised a hand. Scout’s honor. “I just knocked. It opened on its own.”
“Hello,” he sang again.
She read the gleam in his eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”
He elbowed the door open. Poked his head in. “Anybody home?” he called.
Silence. Corso turned a dull red as he stepped across the threshold. Dougherty poked her head in the door. She could see past the room they were in, up the hall and into what must be the living room. Everything was a familiar red. “Darkroom bulbs,” she whispered.
They were in the kitchen. The room smelled of rancid milk and decay. The old-fashioned sink was piled high with dirty dishes. The counters awash in paper plates, takeout containers and empty beer cans. Rainier Lite mostly.
Corso started forward. She grabbed him by the belt, but he kept moving, towing her over the threshold and through the kitchen into what probably had been the dining room. A window on the left had been covered from the inside. Rough-sawn plywood had been nailed over the opening, the edges dented and split from the force of the hammer blows. To the right of the window, a gun case sat catty-corner. Full. Maybe a dozen weapons. All chained together through the trigger guards. From among the shotguns and deer rifles poked the priapic banana clip of an AK-47.
Corso moved forward. Peeked into the living room. Thrift-shop furniture along the perimeter. Knicknacks on the shelves. A rag rug on the floor. Big color portrait of Jesus—blond-haired and blue-eyed—over the mantel. Everything shipshape. Same red bulb burning overhead. Same window treatment. Half-inch plywood and ten-penny nails.
“Let’s get out of here,” Dougherty whispered.
Corso headed toward the stairs. “Let’s have a look upstairs.” Before she could protest, he said, “A quick cruise upstairs and then we’ll be gone.” He held out his hand. Dougherty released her grip on his belt and laced her fingers through his.
The stairs popped and groaned as they climbed, moving quickly now, like children running home after dark. No plywood over the windows up here. Tattered curtains over old-fashioned shades.
One bedroom on either side of the second-floor landing. Two rooms of some kind down the hall. Corso opened the door on the right. Hit the lights. Regular bulb. The room was bare. Completely empty, right down to the pine boards covering the floor. He pulled Dougherty across the planks, pulled open the interior door. Found the light switch to the right of the door. A bathroom. Similarly empty.
Spotless and smelling of chlorine bleach.
Still pulling Dougherty along by the hand, he retraced his steps across the room, crossed the landing, and pulled open the opposite door. About half the size of the master bedroom across the hall, the room was military spare. A single bed along one wall was made to a precision seldom seen in civilian circles. Shoes stood in a perfect line in the mouth of the closet, where each hanger was precisely equidistant from its mates. The walls were bare except for a single marine corps poster: “The Free, the Proud, the Brave.”
Dougherty balked in the doorway, so Corso let go of her hand and crossed to the bookcase. What must have been every issue of Soldier of Fortune ever printed. Gun manuals. Police Digest. Guns and Ammo. Police manuals. The NRA newsletter. “A regular Charlton Heston,” Corso said under his breath.
“What?” Dougherty said from the doorway. Corso didn’t answer. Just moved from the bookcase to the dresser.
The top of the dresser was arranged with the same precision. A silver comb and brush set perfectly aligned. A candy dish full of change. Pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters, each in its own little space. Exactly in the center of the coins sat a brass skeleton key. Six huge bullets, fifty-caliber at least, stood like teeth along the back edge. At the right, half a dozen condoms, stretched out straight and neat in red foil packs.
“Corso,” Dougherty hissed from the doorway. “Come on.”
He nodded and returned to her side. She followed him down the hall. Another bathroom. Same precise arrangement. Bright, gleaming fixtures. Towels so neat the bathroom looked like one in a motel. Corso pulled open the medicine cabinet. Lined up like little soldiers stood a dozen or so pill bottles. Corso scanned the labels: Risperdal, Zyprexa, Haloperidol, Clozapine, Olanzapine, Sertindol. “What’s all that?” Dougherty whispered.
“Antipsychotic medication,” Corso said.
Back on the landing, they skirted the stairwell to the door of the remaining room. Locked. Corso shook the knob. Then stepped back and lowered his shoulder.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, wagging a fist in his face.
Instead of arguing, Corso turned and jogged back to the furnished bedroom. Dougherty stood transfixed. He reappeared a few seconds later with an old fashioned brass key in his hand. He put the key in the lock, turned it one way—nothing—then the other, and the lock snapped. He pushed the door open. The room was dark. Over Corso’s shoulder, Dougherty could see a plywood-covered window.