by J. D. Webb
Mack rose. "I completely understand. Just a formality to look around. I won't disturb anything."
Mrs. Williams got up and pulled another Kleenex from a box on the glass-topped coffee table. "I appreciate that, Detective. I'm going to get some tea. Take your time."
Mack watched her shuffle down the hall toward the kitchen. The teapot began to whistle.
The upstairs contained three rooms plus a bath and the master bedroom suite. The office was definitely different from the living room. Instead of whiteness, it had deep mahogany paneling and a matching desk. A four-drawer file and a gun cabinet took up one wall. An exercise bike, one with all the bells and whistles, sat in the opposite corner from the desk.
She peered through the cabinet door. Nice. Full rack of shotguns and rifles. One looked like an antique. Probably worth more than her annual salary. The bottom shelf held handguns. Three newer Glocks and one Ruger. But centered on a display stand was a Colt Walker, very old and looked to be in good condition. Wow, six figures for that one. Mack fiercely tamped down the urge to hold it, and realized her nose was pressed tightly against the glass. She dug out her hanky and rubbed the smudges off the door.
The desk smelled of wood cleaner. A flat-screen computer monitor and printer filled the top of the desk. Mack sat in the chair and was instantly jealous. No back pain and no terrible squeak when she sat down. Wonder if they'd let me get my own chair? Probably not.
She punched Start and, much more quickly than hers, a screen saver flashed. A family scene in the living room--Mom, Dad and two pre-teenage kids, all smiles. Happier times. Mack pulled up the list of programs. Nothing out of the ordinary. She clicked on the email icon.
The sign-on blinked at her. Fortunately, the logon ID was filled in automatically. CDWilliams99. Mack tried some obvious passwords but none worked. A mug on the desk hailed the White Sox 2005 World Series Win. Worth a try. White Sox didn't make it, but whitesox2005 got her in. She allowed a smile.
The most recent emails were from family and friends. Nothing to cause concern. Mack selected the sent messages--birthday wish to a sister and an answer to the package pickup at the mall were the latest. Then she looked at the trash file. Eleven messages not yet deleted. Newest was a message from the delivery company about the package pickup.
Sorry we missed you today. Your package will be at our mall address after 5 p.m. October 9.
We are happy to serve you.
Frank D. Lumis Manager
Now that was service. An email to notify you about a delivery of some sheets.
Five
Mack spent a few more minutes checking the office, finding nothing unusual, and again expressed condolences to Mrs. Williams. She headed back to her car, but hesitated before she turned the ignition key. Placing her arms on the steering wheel, she leaned forward and stared out the window. The basketball game had ended, but the pet corral still teemed with dogs and their owners. Other than the barking, the neighborhood was quiet, even peaceful.
This was her third visit to a Fleur-de-lis victim's residence, and nothing had turned up that indicated they were anything but quiet, upstanding citizens. Why were they targeted? No connection between them, at least none had surfaced, which might mean they were random. And that didn't fit the profile of a serial killer.
The case was on her mind so constantly, she'd even dreamed about it last night. The shadowy killer lurked in front of her, just out of reach. If only she could break through the barrier. She woke up when the death smell permeated the dream. Mack shook her head to get rid of the scent that usually brought bile to her throat. Concentrate. Has to be something I'm missing. One thing for sure, she was going to get to the bottom of this. No matter what it took.
She started the car and pulled out of the driveway, heading for the delivery store. Time to check out the package man.
The line at the shipping store was four deep. A stout woman with her right fist jammed into her hip and her left hand shaking a lethal finger at the clerk was scolding loudly.
"If you people left my package on the porch and it's gone, then you're responsible." She slapped the counter. "I want to see the manager. Now!"
Behind the counter, a string bean of a man who looked to be barely out of his teens, wearing a green denim apron and matching T-shirt, cleared his throat. "I am the manager. The night manager." He would clearly be no match for the customer if she wanted to get physical.
"What are you going to do about it, night manager?"
The clerk reached under the counter and pulled out some papers. "If you would fill out this complaint form, we'll investigate. I assure you it will be resolved."
The woman looked down at the papers and then back to the clerk. "You want me to fill out a form? Is that your stock answer to a complaint? Shove a form at someone to make them go away?"
The man, whose nametag read Frank, gulped noticeably and said, "That's all I can do right now, ma'am. I promise I'll follow up."
She grabbed the paper and stomped toward the door. At the entrance she turned and yelled, "You people disgust me." She stormed out into the evening. The whole place heaved a sigh of relief.
Mack was last in line, and when she reached the counter, she smiled. "Takes all kinds, doesn't it, Frank?"
He returned her smile. "Well, I know it's frustrating. I wish I could do more, but I just follow instructions."
"Yeah, don't we all?"
"How can I help you?"
"Are you Frank Lumis?" Mack flashed her badge. "I'm here on a police matter, and I need to ask some questions."
Frank threw up his hands. "Whatever it is, I didn't do it." He laughed. "I've always wanted to do that. See it in the movies all the time."
Mack frowned. "This is nothing to laugh at. We're investigating a murder."
Frank's hands went palms out. "Whoa, I was just kidding. Bad habit of mine. Yes, I'm Frank Lumis. Don't see how I can help, but I'd be glad to try."
"A man picked up a package here on October ninth, a little after five. Charles Williams. Were you here?"
"Let me get my records." Frank hurried back to the office and when he returned he placed a stack of receipts on the counter and rifled through them. "Yeah, here it is. Picked up a package shipped from a warehouse in Lemont, Ill."
"Do you happen to remember anything unusual about the pick-up?"
"Nope. Wasn't me. See, I told ya." He seemed to try to look contrite. "Sorry. Uh…looks like Dylan was clerking that night."
"Dylan?"
"Dylan Reynolds. He's the other guy who works here. This was picked up at a little after five thirty, so it would have been the end of his shift."
"So he's not here now?"
Frank checked his watch. "Probably getting ready to leave. I'll check for you." He pushed through a swinging door marked Employees Only. When he returned he was shaking his head. "Must've just missed him. Probably left while I was chatting with you."
Mack thought for a minute and on a hunch asked, "I wonder if you'd do me a favor? Would you check these names and dates for a package delivery?" Mack wrote down the two previous victims' names and dates of one to four days before they were murdered. She handed the note with one of her cards to Frank.
"Be glad to. I'll give you a call whether I find a match or not."
"Thanks, Frank. I appreciate that."
Mack left and headed for her car. She didn't get any vibes about Frank being a serial killer, but Ted Bundy was a nice guy, too. Anyway, it was worth a check.
And Frank's initials were FDL.
Six
Mack left the store and headed home to change clothes for her date. She'd been seeing Richard Felton for about nine months. Actually, he was her dentist.
Reluctant at first, Mack had finally given in to those soft bourbon-colored eyes. He was one of the few men around who completely accepted her being a cop. Lately she'd begun to notice hints of seriousness in their relationship. But, right now, she needed that like she needed another serial killer to pop up.
At her door, Mack inserted the key into the lock and twisted. When she reached to flip on the light switch, something heavy slammed into the middle of her spine, snapping her neck back. The door banged into the wall as she was propelled into the living room, then sideways onto her couch. Her purse landed next to one of the throw pillows.
"Just stay right there, Teresa." The lights came on and a pudgy man in a Bradley University jacket and blue sweat pants closed the door behind him. "We meet again." He held a shiny black pistol in his steady hand.
Mack moved to a sitting position and tried to stretch out her back.
"Ah, ah. No funny business. And let me have your weapon, please." The man's accent was definitely Southern. Mack thought Mississippi or Louisiana. Maybe Arkansas.
"Easy now, fella. It's under my coat." She began to unzip her jacket. "What do you mean, we meet again? Don't remember ever laying eyes on you before." Trying to buy time, she feigned having a stuck zipper.
"We met a while ago at The Laughing Pig. I wanted to buy you a drink. You were flat out rude. Practically broke my finger."
Mack frowned, recalling the incident. "Oh yes. I asked you nicely to remove your hand from my arm. Then, I asked you again. I never go a third time, dipstick. And when this is over I'll see you get some prison time." She still fiddled with her zipper.
The man snorted. "Was merely trying to be friendly. I've found you Northerners aren't friendly at all. Quit stalling. I'll have that gun--now! Butt first on the floor."
The man wasn't tall, maybe five-foot-eight or -nine, with a round face and chubby hands. She guessed his age at mid-thirties and his weight at around two twenty-five, so she wouldn't be able to overpower him. Besides he was at least ten feet from her, so jumping him was not an option. And any sudden move would likely get her killed. Reluctantly Mack reached inside her jacket and placed her gun on the floor at her feet.
"Good. Now shove it over here. Carefully."
She did. "Are you telling me you're doing this because I refused a drink from you?"
"Nope. Just created a challenge. You showed me your badge and I got your name. So I decided to include you in my game."
"Game?" The death smell reared its ugly head.
"Come on, officer. You're not stupid. You must have an idea who I am."
"The papers call you the Fleur-de-lis Killer. I call you a coward and a psycho."
"Oh, that hurts, Teresa. Really hurts." He laughed and motioned with the gun. "Turn over on the couch, face down and put your hands behind your back."
Mack felt a moment of defeat. If she were hogtied she'd have little or no chance to escape.
The man grabbed a throw pillow off the couch and put it in front of his gun. "I can shoot you now and no one will hear. Your choice."
Mack rolled over keeping her purse under her body, hiding it from view, and put her hands behind her back.
The man rammed his knee into her neck, forcing her head into the sofa. She choked into the cushion and heard the screech of tape being peeled from a roll. Her hands were individually wrapped, then bound together. Duct tape. Her lungs screamed for air. She needed to take a breath. The handbag catch jabbed into her chest. Is this how I'm going to die?
Finally, with a gasp of relief, she felt the leg lift from her neck. She took a swallow of air just as the man stuffed a hanky into her mouth, and wrapped more tape around her head. At least she could breathe through her nose. He ran his hands up and down her legs. She hoped he was checking for weapons.
"There. Now we can talk. Oh, sorry, I can talk. You can't." His smile revealed no humor.
Mack turned her head toward him and glared. Her eyes were blurry and she gritted her teeth against the hanky, hoping to suppress tears.
The man sat in her easy chair and used the muzzle of the gun to scratch his head. His blond-highlighted hair rippled with the motion. "You can't imagine my surprise when you showed up at the store. How did you get on to me so quickly? When the customer bell dinged, I almost went to the counter to wait on you, but Frank got there first. That was a stroke of luck. Well, you've completely messed up my plan. Just today I was working on number five. An old lady came in and mailed a package. She would've been perfect. Two males, two females, one old, one young."
Dylan Reynolds. The other clerk at the mailing store. Now we know who, but how am I going to let anyone else know?
Death smell bile leaked into her throat.
Seven
Reynolds moved around Mack's living area. He had not yet looked into the other rooms. The apartment had three rooms besides the bath. Mack shifted position, trying to get her purse moved to her left side next to the back cushion. She moved deliberately. The purse contained nail clippers, a pocket knife and a Taser. If she could just get into it. After a few agonizing minutes, the purse lay beside her hands.
"You have a nice place, Detective. Cozy and neat. I want to know where your spare weapon is. I know you have one. Nothing in here. How about the kitchen? That'd be logical."
Mack held her breath. Yes, go into the kitchen. Let me get my Taser, Dirt Bag. One of the things she hated about her apartment was that you couldn't see into the living room from the kitchen. If she got through this, she'd never complain about that again.
He hesitated at the entry to the kitchen, raising a finger in the air. "Let's take one more check to see if everything is still in place." He walked over to the couch and pulled on her duct-taped hands. "Good. Ah oh, what do we have here?" Then he picked up Mack's purse. "Didn't see this a while ago. Do we have a gun in here?" He stepped over to the easy chair and emptied her purse onto the seat. "Ah, Taser. Swiss Army knife. Glad I found them. Teresa, you carry quite an arsenal. I know you've got at least one more weapon. Let's see if we can find it."
Mack wasn't able to see around Reynolds, but he didn't mention finding the clippers. Better than nothing, if she could get them.
Reynolds aimed his gun at Mack's head. "One more thing before I go searching. Turn over and slide down on the floor."
With great effort Mack wiggled and squirmed off the couch. She thumped onto the floor butt first and tried to catch her breath. The gag was now filled with saliva. Oh, Lord, am I going to choke to death? Reynolds unrolled more duct tape and bent down. He reached for Mack's ankle. She inhaled a shuddering deep breath and kicked him in the nose. If it were possible, she would've smiled when she heard the satisfying crunch.
Reynolds reared back and grabbed his nose. "Shit! Bitch! You broke it. Oh, God!" Still holding his gun, he ran into the kitchen and returned holding a towel over his face. He walked to the couch and stood over Mack. "Should've done this before." He raised the other hand and brought the gun down toward her forehead.
When she came to, she heard Reynolds in her bedroom, rummaging through dresser drawers. She had no idea how long she'd been out. Her ankles were taped together and her head hurt with the slightest movement. Blood ran into her left eye. At least it wasn't a massive flow, just a steady trickle.
The contents of her purse still lay on the chair cushion. If she could just reach the nail clippers. Her head throbbed. Mack drew her legs up to her butt and turned onto her left side. She made several attempts before she rolled onto her knees with her forehead jammed into the carpet for balance. Blood smeared the rug as she pushed up to a kneeling position.
Now the chair was to her back. Thankful she had on jeans to protect her knees, she wobbled to turn around, and lost her balance, causing
her to fall. She had to rest several times because she couldn't get enough air by breathing through her nose. After a while she rocked back onto her heels. The chair was only about five feet away, but it seemed like ten miles. Then she noticed that no noise came from the bedroom. What was he doing? Would Reynolds suddenly appear and catch her? God, please help me. Her only chance was to get to the chair.
One final desperate effort and she was there. She twisted her arms to angle her shackled wrists over the cushion. Fumbling with stiff fingers she palmed the clippers, wriggled back and plopped down against the couch. This time the flow into her eyes was perspiration, and the sting forced them closed. The short breaths caused her to worry about hyperventilation. Oh, please let me get through this.
She sat on her hands to conceal what she had. Wrist pain was constant and now her hand hurt from being jabbed by the clippers. She eased her butt up to free her wrapped wrists and allow her to try unfolding the file. With eyes tightly closed, the blind image was easier to envision. Urgency pounded in her head. Hurry. Hurry. Why do they make these things so hard to deal with? So far, no Reynolds. The squeak of the folding doors told her he was in her closet. The thought of him going through her personal things gave her an angry burst of adrenalin.
After twice dropping the clippers, she awkwardly began to saw through the tape connecting her hands. Her arms and head ached, and her eyes stung. The number of functioning body parts was dwarfed by those on the pain list.
Then Reynolds appeared.
Eight
"Found it." Reynolds sauntered over to the easy chair, swept the purse contents onto the floor and sat. If it weren't for Mack's predicament, his appearance would have been comical. He'd stuffed tissue up his nose to stop the bleeding, and it now had an odd slant to the right. He adjusted his makeshift cork as he pointed a gun at her head.
This time it was her spare .38. But he'd only found one. Good.
"Nice feel to it, but I don't like revolvers. I prefer pistols myself." The click as he cocked the gun was way loud. "Wouldn't it be ironic to be killed by your own gun?"