"Sure, just let me know. By the way, we may have some questions for you, just some loose ends to tie up. Can you stop in at District Five tomorrow? Or I can come to you if you prefer."
"That would be nice. You can never park at District Five."
"It's a pain, I know. Any time in particular?"
Arrangements made, Anna and Lia watched the detective head for the parking lot with his capering dark shadow.
"That's a nice young man," Anna observed.
"Are we talking a little cougar action here?"
"Not a bad idea, but I suspect he might have a different agenda."
"Oh, really?"
~ ~ ~
There are rules to getting away with murder.
Rule Number One: You can't confide in anyone. Nobody. Not ever. Secrets are ticking time bombs. It's hard to keep a secret, but when it's your secret, you have every reason to keep it. Even with his mistakes, Harris should have gotten away with murder after two mistrials. Then a witness came forward. She claimed Harris bragged about killing his wife. A not-very-credible witness, as it turned out, but it gave the prosecution the chance to correct the mistakes they made in the first two trials. Then they nailed him the third time around.
Talking is tempting fate. That's my mantra. I don't like keeping secrets, and sometimes the pressure builds and I sit quietly and meditate. I repeat 100, 1,000 times, "Talking is tempting fate," while I close my eyes and imagine the color orange to remind myself how ghastly it looks on me.
Rule Number Two: Never kill when you are angry. You make mistakes when you're angry, the biggest mistake being the desire for violence. Violence leaves behind evidence of violence, the biggest piece of evidence being that the death was, in fact, murder and not an accident or natural causes.
Rule Number Three: Make it look like something else. An accident, suicide, a health condition, anything but murder. You can't be convicted for a crime if no one knows one occurred.
Rule Number Four: Plan, plan, plan. Rehearse, rehearse, rehearse. You have to review and practice your plan enough to find all the holes, and there are always holes. It has to be second nature because the mind often blanks when stressed. You've got to be programmed in case fear strikes. When your mind blanks, you've got to go on auto-pilot.
Rule Number Five: Never repeat yourself. Don't kill two husbands, two bosses, or two landlords. Never kill two people the same way. Repeating creates patterns and patterns create suspicion. Avoid connections between victims because connections will eventually form a net with you in it.
Rule Number Six: If you can't have an alibi, don't have a motive, at least not an obvious one. Cops know nobody has an alibi when they are at home in bed at night, but they don't care unless they think you had a reason to kill your victim. So if you think someone might become a target, don't engage in conflict with them.
Rule Number Seven: Keep still. Once you set everything in motion, do nothing that was not part of the original plan. People who scramble to protect themselves only wind up drawing attention to the thing they want to hide.
Rule Number Eight: Avoid casting suspicion on anyone else if you can help it. It's bad karma. Unless the person is really, truly, odious.
Rule Number Nine: No Souvenirs. Souvenirs are evidence. You never know when evidence will surface. Keep your memories and nothing else.
Chapter 3
Tuesday, May 10
Peter rang the bell for Lia's half of a two-family at 10:00 a.m. as planned. Lia unlatched the screen door only to have it shoved open to the sound of excited whimpering. Paws landed on her thighs.
"Viola!" She knelt down for frantic puppy kisses. "Aw, sweetie, I missed you." She looked up at Peter. "Thanks for bringing her."
"Do you want me to hang onto her or should I unclip her?"
"Let her go, sure." By this time, Honey and Chewy were sniffing Viola and barking. The trio ran off to the back of the house for a canine reunion.
"Can I get you anything? I've got green tea, herbal, filtered water, or I could juice up some carrots and celery for you."
"No Pepsi? Isn't it illegal to be that healthy?"
"Cherry Coke is a deep dark secret in my life, Detective, but I only get one a month."
"That's even worse, having a disciplined vice."
"Better cuff me then. A month of jail food should rehabilitate me. Would tap water make you feel better? Or I could toss some high-fructose corn syrup into the tea for you."
"Sweet tea would be nice if you have any made up, otherwise, any kind of water it is."
Lia brought out two glasses of green tea and a squeeze bottle. "I was kidding about the corn syrup. I make simple syrup out of dehydrated cane juice because granulated sugar won't dissolve in cold liquid. This way you can make it how you like."
Peter shook his head. "I've never met anyone who actually went to this much trouble with their diet."
"I'm an artist, Detective. Artists can't afford health insurance. The cheapest and most reliable way to take care of yourself is with food. Call me up next time you can't sleep and I'll bore you right into a coma about it.
"Have a seat." Lia gestured to a mission style sofa with floral tapestry upholstery. A colorful hodgepodge of pillows cushioned the wood arms. She settled into a straight-backed oak chair rescued from a defunct elementary school. The dogs returned from their confab. Honey lay at Lia's feet and Viola jumped up on the sofa next to Peter. Chewy gave the detective a considering look.
"Careful," Lia said. "If Chewy wants petting, he'll head-bump your hand, usually the one that already has something in it. It's been known to cause accidents."
"Thanks for the warning. You seem to be doing much better than you were two days ago."
"Painting helps. It's my cure-all."
Peter nodded at a pair of canvases, one a close up of a Magnolia blossom, the other an Iris. "Those yours? They're beautiful."
"Thanks. I'm doing okay now, but it comes and goes. It also helps that I've been grieving my relationship with Luthor for a couple months now, off and on. Mostly, I'm just angry. I find it so much easier to function when I'm angry than when I'm grieving."
"I thought you just broke up?" He gave her a questioning look.
"That was the third time. The first time was in March. But he would wear me down and I'd take him back. And in my head I'd be trying to figure out a way to put more distance between us."
"That sounds pretty sad."
"It was. So what can I do for you today, Detective? You mentioned loose ends."
"There are just a few things we need to clarify. Do you mind if I record this?" Lia shook her head as Peter pulled out a small digital recorder and set it up.
"It's obvious from what you already said that Luthor was very upset Saturday. Did he have a history of suicidal moods or behaviors? Any family history of suicide that you know of?"
"Not that I saw or knew about. I always thought he was more the histrionic type. You know, swears he can't live without you, but a bit too narcissistic to ever actually do anything about it. He reminded me of a guy I knew in high school. Danny was having a fight with his girlfriend, picked up a steak knife and threatened to kill himself. Then he stabbed himself with it by accident while he was waving it around. He came to on the floor, wondering what happened. I could see Luthor doing something like that, getting caught up in his drama when he had people around and hurting himself by mistake. I can't see him getting morose and killing himself while he was alone. This was a kick in the teeth, and I don't understand it."
"Huh."
"You know what I don't get? Luthor loved an audience. He knew I'd be coming to the park. Why didn't he wait until I was there so he could stage a grand scene? Not that I wanted to be part of it."
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"I don't, Detective. It just doesn't register."
"We're trying to figure out where the gun came from. His parents said they never knew him to have anything to do with guns."
"Me neither. There are some gun nuts
who come up to the park. Terry, he puts the NRA to shame and Jose has a concealed carry permit because sometimes he runs his dogs before daylight. But I never heard Luthor in any conversations with them about guns. You might want to ask them, though.
"Another thing. Luthor was fussy about his looks. I would have expected him to pick a means that wouldn't mess him up like that. He would go around wearing clothes that looked like he slept in them, but it was all very affected. It was carefully put together, and the clothes were expensive. He valued his image. I can't see him planning a suicide without considering how he would look afterwards. I know that sounds cynical, but that's the way he was."
"Did you notice the gun at the time?"
"Oh, no. I saw all the blood, and it freaked me out so much I don't remember anything until Jim found me. I don't know how I got back up to that picnic table."
"When was the last time you spoke with Luthor?"
"It was just before 1:00 a.m. I remember telling you he called me the "C" word. I hung up the phone then, and unplugged it. He might have tried my cell, but I misplaced it, so I don't know."
Peter's look sharpened at this. "How long has it been missing?"
Lia frowned. "I'm not sure. I know I used it Thursday in the studio. I usually toss it into my tote bag and it floats around in there. I might have seen it after that, but I can't say for sure. Why do you want to know about my phone?"
"It probably has nothing to do with anything, but I like to follow up on anything that's unusual."
"Oh," Lia laughed. "That's not unusual, my phone hides from me all the time."
Peter changed subjects. "I'd like to talk to some more people about Luthor's state of mind. Can you give me a list of his friends? People he would have confided in? Someone he might have talked to Saturday night?"
Lia considered. "I honestly can't think of anyone. Luthor was the sort to be highly dependent on a woman until the relationship ended, then he'd never talk to her again and he'd start with another one. She'd be the focus of all his needs. He had tons of buddies and acquaintances, I can't name them all. But they wouldn't be confidants. You'd be better checking the places he hung out. People always knew who he was."
"And where was that?"
"The dog park, of course. There were two bars he liked, the Comet and Northside Tavern. Sometimes Sidewinders coffee shop. That's about it."
"This Jose and Terry you mentioned before, how would I find them?"
"That's easy. Any morning at the park, before 8:00 a.m. Anything else you want to know?"
"Just one last thing. We know you and he were having problems. Did Luthor have cause to be upset about anything else? Any problems with work or money, any problems with other people besides yourself?"
"Luthor didn't care much about work except to get enough to scrape by. He made a big deal about struggling with his book, but I finally realized that was a pose. Did you ever see the movie Sliding Doors?"
"Gwenyth Paltrow?"
"That's it. The movie where she's supporting her writer boyfriend, and he's cheating on her, and she doesn't know it. Anyway, he's having a beer with his best friend and his friend asks him when the book is going to be done, and the boyfriend says something like 'I'm a writer, I'll never finish the bloody book.' Luthor was like that. When I started getting fed up with him, I kept flashing to that scene. That movie's probably the biggest reason why I never let him move in with me."
"So what was this book about?"
"It kept changing. First it was just a murder mystery, but recently he decided to introduce an alternate world scenario."
"Alternate world?"
"He went all Fringe. You know, the show on Fox? Doppelgangers from another dimension? He figured the doubles could commit the perfect crime. He thought it would be an original twist on the police procedural genre."
"Ouch." Peter winced. "Money problems?"
"He was always broke, but it wasn't like he was losing money to a bookie or anything. He paid rent, bought a few beers, and that was about it."
"What about conflicts with other people?"
"Not that I know of."
"That's enough for now. I'll let you know if I need anything else. Thanks for your help." Peter packed up and started for the door. He leashed Viola and headed out to his Blazer. Lia watched him through the screen door, wondering.
~ ~ ~
The gun, would it boil down to that? She'd used an old Luger of her father's. Never registered, untraceable; it had been picked up at a gun show more than 30 years ago, before Hinkley shot Brady and changed everything. She referred to it as her "weapon of last resort." She knew how to shoot. She didn't like the idea of all the blood. But how often do you get a target ripe for a suicide scenario?
Shooting Luthor had been easy, like a fish in a barrel. She' been expecting the blow-back, so she'd worn a paper painter's jumpsuit, rubber gloves and booties, stuffed her hair under a ball cap. She'd spray painted the jumpsuit navy blue so it could pass for sweats in the dark.
She'd known what Lia would do. Luthor would call and call and finally she'd get fed up and disconnect the phone. She'd done it twice before. All she'd had to do was wait until Lia's cell started ringing, that would mean her land line was unplugged.
The cell started ringing at 1:03 a.m. He'd let it ring until he got voicemail and then called again. She ignored the phone, as if she were Lia. She assembled her gear while it continued to ring, then disconnected his current call attempt and sent him a text in Lia's terse style.
"Talk Park 230"
"Yes Yes Yes"
"C U There"
She'd sat a quarter mile from the dog park in the entry to MacFarlan Woods, waited for him to drive by, then followed him into the parking lot. She'd been sure to park far enough away to avoid any splatter. He was waiting in the car when she walked up, confusion on his face at seeing her. Still, he popped open the passenger side door when she knocked on the window.
She leaned in, her hand in her pocket, gun in hand.
Luthor started to speak, "What are you . . ."
She'd rehearsed it to get it right, whipping her hand out of her pocket, safety off, finger on the trigger, jamming the gun against his temple before he could blink. It had to be jammed against the temple, it had to be a contact wound, it had to be the right temple. It would have been easier from the driver's side, she could have just held the gun out of her pocket, below the car window, but that would have been a tip-off, being shot in the left temple. So she had to do it this way. Jam the gun against his right temple and get the shot off before he could flinch and spoil the trajectory.
The kick wasn't bad, but the splatter was more than she expected. Some flew in her face and she didn't like that. She changed into a second pair of gloves. Then the second shot, holding his hand on the gun so he would get gun shot residue on it, carefully aiming the gun through the open driver side window, sending the bullet up the hill away from the first shot. She retrieved the second shell, then began the unpleasant task of rooting through his clothes for the phone so she could delete the text messages.
When she was done, she pulled a plastic garbage bag out of her other pocket. She stripped off the jumpsuit, booties, cap and gloves and dumped them in the bag. Next she wiped off her face with a towelette she had in the pocket of the shorts she was wearing under the jumpsuit. She tied off the bag and placed it in the passenger side floorboard of her car. The whole process took five minutes, at most. A month of planning, a week of preparation, for those few seconds when she could rid the world of someone who Just Didn't Get It.
Back home, her dog sniffed her and whuffed, knowing the smell of blood and gun powder did not belong on his mistress. She'd tucked the bag in her reach-in freezer so it wouldn't tempt the dog, then taken a very long, hot shower. She cleaned the drain and sanitized it with bleach. A bit much, but you couldn't be too careful. This operation had been risky enough without leaving DNA around her bathroom.
There were enough loose ends. Lia's phone. Disposing
of her clothes. Luthor's phone records. The second bullet, which might be found fifty years from now by a hobbyist with a metal detector.
Terry might be a problem. He'd seen the gun when she gave him some old camping equipment. She'd taken it along on her last camping trip and had left it with her gear by accident. That was years ago. He probably did not remember. If he did, he knew enough about guns that he might remember the make and model. One of those risks you had to deal with. Better not to do anything at all about that. She had been of the opinion that her mornings would be ever so much more peaceful without having to listen to him blast liberals and recite odes to Sarah Palin. He'd been on her list as eventually needing removal, but now was not the time. It was too soon. Too soon.
If she just held tight, everything should be okay. None of her removals had been discovered yet. As long as they continued to believe it was suicide, no one was likely to turn over any rocks looking for evidence.
Best to do nothing about Terry for now. Still, she'd come up with a plan.
~ ~ ~
Peter made plans as he and Viola walked towards his Chevy Blazer. He needed to pull Luthor's phone from his personal effects. He needed to review the contact list and call records, any text messages. That would help the time-line and maybe give him some leads. He needed to spend some time at the places Lia mentioned, talking to people. Maybe call Brent in to help with the legwork. Would it be worth it to review Luthor's manuscript? First books tended to be autobiographical. Maybe he revealed something there.
Luthor's parents were having his body transported to Buffalo. It might not hurt to ask a local to go to the funeral, see who came. He didn't think Lia was going. From his conversation with the Morriseys, he didn't think she'd be welcome.
Another visit to Luthor's apartment was in order. Somewhere in there there had to be an explanation why a man unfamiliar with guns, who was intent on dying, would shoot himself with his non-dominant hand.
A Shot in the Bark (A Dog Park Mystery) Page 3