Suggestion of Death

by Susan P. Baker

  At the library, Jim veered toward Frieda, who stood behind the checkout counter.

  “Doing more research?” she asked. She wore a light blue short-sleeved blouse tucked into a gathered skirt. A country girl look except for kinky hair that flared around her head.

  “Wish I could tell you what it’s about.” Jim waited until the last person in line was gone. “Frieda, I got the job.”

  Her face softened. “Congratulations.” She reached out and patted his hand. “I guess that means I’m going to lose you. Just when we were really getting to know each other, too.”

  “I’ll be leaving no later than the first of August.”

  “That all? That’s mighty quick.” She cocked her head. “Is it a good position? Is it what you wanted?”

  “It’s what I’m meant to do.” He squeezed her arm. In such a short time, she’d become like a mother to him. “The interview I went on first would have been just a job to me. This one—well, I felt like I was home.”

  “I’m glad then,” she said. “I’ll miss you. The kids will miss you.” She perched her glasses on her nose and pulled a computer-generated calendar with big squares for each day toward her. “Wait a minute. August first. Our summer reading program will be over by then.”

  “Yes, barely.”

  “The kids have really taken a liking to you. I think it’s the different voices you use for each of the characters.”

  Jim laughed. “I’m a frustrated actor. Listen, I really gotta run.”

  “See you later.” She pushed the calendar back under the lip of the counter and sat on a stool as he hurried upstairs.

  When he was seated before the computer, Jim pulled out his notepad with the list of names. He made his notes next to the ones he had called the night before; having left the piece of paper Wannamaker had given him in his desk for safe-keeping. Not knowing when to start, whether any of the deaths—for he assumed all five men were dead—were before or after Flores’s, Jim decided to begin with Flores and work his way forward. If he didn’t find the others, he could always go back.

  The Internet sure made a difference in researching news articles. He could still remember the hours of rolling spool after spool of microfilm through a machine that was like a crate, and how bad it was on the eyes and the neck as he’d hunched over searching article after article. Computers could be tiring as well, but mostly easier on the body.

  He plugged in the approximate date Olivia said her father had died and scanned through news articles until he came to a headline that said FIREBALL ON HILLSIDE-ONE CAR ACCIDENT. On his mental scoreboard, he chalked up a second strike under fiery one-car accidents. Not very creative of the perpetrator or perpetrators, but effective, so far.

  Just as Olivia had said, the article confirmed that Tomas “Tom” Flores lost control of his truck, missed a curve, rolled down a hill, and the truck was burning when witnesses arrived. Didn’t that only happen in the movies? It was too late to pull him out by the time the witnesses got there. The accident occurred at approximately eleven at night on a poorly lit, curvy section of the farm-to-market road.

  It sounded unreal. A vehicle didn’t just burst into flames, but someone could have helped it along. He went into the restroom and splashed water on his face before taking up the next name. Quiet reading in a cool room made him sleepy.

  Backtracking, he began reviewing articles for July through September. Nothing in July, but at the end of the previous August, there was a succinct article about Quincy Clark. His car was found in the river—with him in it. Police concluded he’d lost control of the car. It had rolled down the hillside, turning over two or three times, knocking him out, and splashed down in the river whereupon Quincy Clark drowned.

  After studying the articles for a few minutes, Jim realized there was a time pattern also. One death approximately every quarter. Quincy Clark the previous August, Tomas Flores on the first of November. Oliver Klein in March, Albert Johnson on May 15th. Approximately every three months a man died. Was that by design? Could be the killer or killers were getting braver. There could have been others earlier and further apart. That would be one reason no one noticed before now.

  Except for Noel. But did the police? There were a lot of one-car accidents and head-on collisions in the Hill Country because of road conditions—two-lane roads, deer coming out at dusk, crazy teen-aged drivers—but come on. No one else noticed? Really?

  Even him. Why hadn’t he seen it? Because he hadn’t regularly gotten a paper for months. But no one else did either. Maybe an accidental death every three months out in the country is just not enough to concern anyone. The car accidents weren’t the only deaths of men. They weren’t even the only accidental deaths of men. Men also weren’t the only ones to die in highway accidents. Could it be coincidence? Could his conclusions be as absurd, insane, and preposterous as his suspicions about Patty? Perhaps there was only a pattern because he fit it into one. But once again, he couldn’t ditch the feeling it was more than coincidence.

  He had one more name to go: Frederic Winkleman. He was almost afraid of what he would find. Okay, honestly, he was afraid.

  It was near lunchtime, and his stomach had rumbled a couple of times. His eyes were past tired from staring at the blue and white screens. The top of his head felt like a cinder block sat on it, the weight causing his neck muscles to contract. He was ready for a break. Still, he went through the previous July. Nothing.

  Thinking that somehow he’d missed it, Jim ran it again. June, May, April of the previous year. There were a lot of dead people, but not Winkleman. So much for the quarterly murder theory. His stomach pleaded with him. He persisted. March. Nothing. February. Nothing. January. Nothing. Thinking that perhaps he was going too quickly, Jim went through them again. He drew a blank.

  Okay, so it wasn’t a sound theory. Then again, maybe Winkleman hadn’t died in town. Maybe he’d moved to a neighboring county. It was possible. His child support probably went through the Attorney General’s office as most everyone’s did. The local clerk kept the files and worked with the AG. Noel would have still seen that he’d died when the Suggestion of Death showed up in the court’s file.

  A sharp pain drilled into his skull right above his eyes. Smears of dark spots floated in front of him, and his eyes continued to burn. His neck and back ached from hunching over the computer, which now that he thought about it wasn’t that much better than the microfilm machine after all. His stomach made even bigger demands. But he forced himself to stay. He made a deal with himself. If he couldn’t find Winkleman in the three previous years, he’d go to lunch and return to the library later in the afternoon after a break.

  Going back to the year before last, he took a deep breath and began reviewing pages of news articles again. He found nothing in December. Nothing in November. Nothing in October or for months before that, then finally, in June, two years ago, there it was.

  MAN KILLED IN TRAFFIC MISHAP

  An accident Tuesday night may be the target of a grand jury investigation, police said, after finding Frederic Winkleman dead at the scene.

  Angeles police Officer Ivan Denholt discovered the driver of the car in which Winkleman was a passenger was Winkleman’s ex-wife, Elizabeth “Bitsy” Wink (formerly Winkleman). The couple had only been divorced two weeks.

  Blood rushed in Jim’s ears. A fist squeezed his stomach and wrung it out like a wet pair of socks. He slapped his forehead. That was it! Not absurd. Not insane. Not preposterous. How many Winks or derivatives of a name like that could there be in a small town? He re-read the paragraph.

  Officer Ivan Denholt, two years ago. Now Sergeant Ivan Denholt. No wonder the guy was interested in what Jim was doing. He already suspected Bitsy and was looking for support for his case. They both had the same idea, but neither man wanted to be the first to espouse his theory. Jim would have had—could still have—an ally if he’d trust Denholt. He finished reading and making notes. It seems that Bitsy Wink, who was seriously injured, had been taken
by ambulance to County Memorial Hospital where she was in critical condition. Witnesses reported she ran a stop sign, causing her car to be directly in the path of an 18-wheeler driven by Alan Steele. Steele refused to talk to the newspaper, but police reports said that Steele had the right of way.

  They had two kids. Two kids that she more than likely thought were better off now that their father was dead. No doubt that statement could have originated with her, not Judge Lopez.

  If Noel had worked for the county for a while, he would have known about what happened to Winkleman. And working in the district clerk’s office, he would have naturally become suspicious when payers died regularly. Noel could have gone to Denholt, but he didn’t. He went to Jim for some reason. And now Jim knew why Noel seemed scared to death that someone would see them talking.

  Noel probably had been sitting on it for quite a while, not knowing what to do. Jim happened to come along, asking questions, and presented Noel with the ideal opportunity to pass the buck—or at least the names on his list of suspicious deaths. But either Noel had somehow already given himself away, or somebody saw them, and that was the end of Noel.

  A whispered voice said, “Find what you’re looking for?”

  A shiver tickled Jim’s neck, and he lurched forward, hitting his knee on the side of the desk. “Jesus Christ!”

  Frieda stood beside him. His focus must have been pretty intense when he didn’t even see someone walking up on him. He switched off the monitor and turned in his chair, wondering whether she’d read the article over his shoulder.

  He stood and stretched. “This is killing my eyes, not to mention my neck and back.”

  “Maybe someday we’ll get better chairs and larger monitors.”

  Was there a reason she was up there where people only went for research, or...no, just because she was female didn’t make her part of a deep, dark plot. He trusted her. He wished she’d disappear back downstairs, but she had been good to him, was Ethan’s sister, and really, a dear lady.

  “Did you have lunch? I have half a sandwich with your name on it.”

  Now he really felt guilty. “Thanks, Frieda. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got to get this done. I’ve got a million other things to deal with. Some other time.”

  “Okay, but if you change your mind, come on down.”

  As soon as she left, Jim went to the restroom and splashed water on his face before hurrying back and settling back in. Bitsy Wink had to be central to what was going on. It had all started with her ex-husband’s death. Though it didn’t seem to fit into the same category with the others—the other deaths were single vehicle accidents. As far as he could find, though, Wink’s was the first alleged accidental death of a man who was an ex-husband.

  Bitsy Wink’s ex was dead. Bitsy Wink founded WiNGS. Bitsy Wink was now president of WiNGS. Other fathers were dying at regular intervals. Bitsy Wink founded WiNGS to organize women to kill their ex-husbands. She had gotten away with it, and so could they. He knew he was right.

  The following day’s news reported that further investigation revealed the driver of the eighteen-wheeler had no stop sign and didn’t see the Wink car until it was too late. He claimed it was as though the driver of the car deliberately pulled in front of his truck.

  Jim re-read that last sentence, as though the driver of the car deliberately pulled in front of his truck. Who in their right mind would risk their own life in order to take out someone they hated? Someone not in their right mind.

  Further, the article said the driver of the car had to have run a stop sign. Police were unable to interview the driver of the car, Bitsy Wink, who was also seriously injured in the accident. She was taken to County Memorial Hospital where she was still in serious condition at the time the paper went to press.

  Ordinarily, Jim would have thought the driver of the eighteen-wheeler was just trying to deny liability. It was far-fetched that Bitsy, the bailiff of Judge Lopez’s court, could be involved in running a stop sign so that an eighteen-wheeler would hit the side of the car where her ex-husband sat. But he’d begun to see her as a mad woman. Another shiver ran across Jim’s neck, leaving a trail of hair standing up behind it.

  Bitsy Wink. God almighty. She must have really hated her ex-husband to risk her own life to kill him. She would have to be truly insane. She would have to be deranged to set herself up to be injured, perhaps killed. She had to know it took a long time for a big truck like that to come to a stop. He didn’t want to think about it, much less dwell on it. He went back and printed the original article and the follow-up, placing them in his file.

  But he knew he was right. He was dealing with a crazy person, possibly a psychopath.

  In another follow-up article on the next day, Bitsy Wink had regained consciousness and made a statement. She and Mr. Winkleman, who were divorced, were on their way back from dinner. They were attempting reconciliation but had gotten into an argument.

  She was driving because Fred had too many drinks at dinner. It was nighttime, and the road was not well lit. They were in the middle of an argument when she entered the intersection and heard the truck’s horn. It was too late to avoid the accident. She never saw the stop sign.

  Police were continuing their investigation.

  She could have been so involved in arguing with her husband that she drove right through the stop sign. She could have. Lots of people at one time or another have been involved in a conversation and missed their exit or made some other stupid move. So it was a plausible explanation under the circumstances of the time. It was only now, in light of everything he knew, that Jim concluded that she could have, but she wasn’t. She was a lying murderess.

  He searched further for more follow-ups. An article said the grand jury had been impaneled by the request of both the judge and the sheriff since she was a county employee. Within two weeks, Bitsy had been no-billed by the grand jury. No finding of probable cause to indict her for the death of her ex-husband. Bitsy would be back at work as soon as the doctor gave her a written okay.

  Yeah, right, and in a position to influence other women.

  Jim sat back and stared at the last article. So Bitsy Wink had gotten away with murder. That was how he saw it. That was how Noel must have seen it. Something had snapped in the woman’s mind. She had formulated the perfect crime and had gotten away with it. Since then, she had taken it upon herself to organize the WiNGS group to help other women. Boy, was she helping other women. He printed the articles and went downstairs to take Frieda up on the sandwich. Afterward he would have to decide what to do with the information.

  Chapter Nineteen

  He needed to talk to someone about the whole WiNGS thing. Sergeant Denholt would be the most likely candidate, but Pat was the first on the list. He might discover more the next time he was at the library, but right now he had other business to attend to. Stuffing the photocopied papers between the pages of his notebook, he exited through the back door, the bright light making him squint. He found a pay phone next to the drive-up book drop and called Pat’s cell again.

  “Where in the hell have you been?” he yelled when she answered. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Whoa! What’s up with you?” Her voice was low and consoling. “You had lunch yet?”

  “Not really.” He checked his watch. Way after one. His head felt like someone had struck him with a hatchet between his eyebrows. “You?”

  “No. Where are you?”

  “The library.” He’d only been outside a few minutes and already he’d broken a sweat.

  “Okay. Meet me at Wendy’s. I’ll be there in about five minutes.”

  “We could go to my place.” A little privacy would be good, especially if he was going to confront her.

  “No way. Meet me at Wendy’s in five minutes.” She hung up.

  What a strange reaction. Where was the loving wife he’d left only days before?

  He’d parked in the back of the library, on the sloping parking lot on the other side of the a
lley that was added a few years earlier so people would have a drive-up book drop. He liked parking back there. His parking brake hadn’t worked in months. He always looked for a space where neither the front nor back of his old Mustang faced downhill. He didn’t trust his old car to stay in gear.

  Women with children preferred the front lot centered on a huge sculpture closer to the front entrance. Lampposts illuminated the area at night, and the kids liked to climb on the statue. When he came out, next to his was another vintage Mustang but in much better shape. He would have remembered the Mustang if it had been there earlier, but he didn’t. There was no one in it. He felt dumb for thinking there might be. If someone were going to threaten him in some way, they wouldn’t do it in the middle of the day. And they wouldn’t do it in a Mustang; it would be a van or a truck. He was growing paranoid. No, he was way past paranoid.

  He glanced through the windshields of the other cars in the lot. The two vans were too far away to contain anyone who wished him harm. They probably belonged to families. He was becoming mentally deranged. Satisfied he was safe, Jim locked his research in the car and walked down the slope to Wendy’s less than half a block away. He needed to work out the stiffness that had settled in his limbs from hovering over the computer.

  Wendy's parking lot and interior were packed with mothers and small, loud, whiny children. Not his first choice for lunch, cluttered and dirty, as most fast food restaurants were around lunchtime in the summer. The odor of frying fat was so strong he could almost see grease clouds hanging in the air. He stood in line and ordered when he didn’t see Patty. He had come right down. It was less than a five-minute walk, all downhill, so she was likely to get there after him.