Fact or Fiction_A Sam Prichard Mystery

by David Archer

  Marcy nodded. “Yeah, I remember that now. Funny how you forget things like that, isn’t it? A woman, a woman—I’ll talk to Crystal, and we’ll see about putting together a list for you. Probably won’t be ready before tomorrow, though.”

  “I’d really appreciate it,” Sam said. “It will mean a lot of work, but at least it would give me someplace to start looking.”

  “No problem,” Marcy said. “Anything I can do to help, I’m willing.”

  She got up and headed back into the kitchen, and Sam finished his coffee. He got up and went to the register, but Crystal told him not to worry about it. “Somebody else already paid for your coffee, Mr. Prichard. You have a great day.”

  Sam looked around at the other people who were smiling and nodding in his direction, then gave a wave and walked out the door. They seemed like a nice bunch of folks, but Sam couldn’t help wondering if one of them actually knew exactly who the murderer might be.

  He got back into the Ridgeline and started up, but then he decided to go back to Millie’s house one more time. It was only a couple of minutes’ drive from Jim’s, but this time he looked around as he drove along the street. As far as he could tell, there was no one paying any attention to him at all, but he wouldn’t have bet his life on it.

  He parked on the street in front of the house again and then reached into the console and withdrew his pistol. He snapped its holster onto his belt and stepped out of the truck, carefully looking around once more before approaching the house. He fished the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the front door, then looked carefully inside before stepping across the threshold and closing it behind him.

  The house still felt spooky to him, but he didn’t see or hear anything unusual. He walked past the bloodied chair and into the kitchen, then set aside to make sure he was out of the line of sight from the big living room window. He crouched down a bit and poked his head slightly out into the doorway so that he could look through that window himself.

  He stayed there for several minutes, until his hip began to complain about the position, but there was no sign of anyone approaching the house. He stretched into a standing position again, balancing on his good leg for a moment to let his hip relax, then turned and looked around the kitchen one more time. He didn’t expect to find anything new, but it was something to do while waiting for the pain to let up a bit.

  There wasn’t anything new to see, so he turned back toward the living room. He was limping as he crossed it, and a sharp twinge made him wish he had brought his cane. He stopped in the middle of the room and shifted his weight to the other leg again, instinctively leaning out and putting a hand on the back of one of the chairs to balance himself.

  He stood there for a moment and then let go of the chair, but a whiff of something unusual made him stand where he was. The odor seemed slightly familiar, and he sniffed the air, trying to find its source. After a second he lifted his hand to his face, and that’s when he realized that the odor was coming from his palm. He sniffed again and realized that what he was smelling was the scent of a pine cleaner.

  Sam rubbed his fingers together and realized that his hand was greasy. He reached out with his other hand and touched the chair, and it came away greasy as well.

  He stepped around that chair to get to the other one, the one Millie had died in, and felt the back of it. There was no greasy feeling, and the pine cleaner aroma was only coming from the other chair. He stood there for a couple of minutes, wondering why in the world someone would have sprayed pine cleaner on one chair but not on the other. He filed it away as an interesting side note on this already unusual case and turned toward the door once again.

  Sam heard the sound of breaking glass a split second before he heard the gunshot, and then he registered pain on his left arm. Instinctively, he dropped to the floor and snatched the Glock from its holster, then rolled across the floor until he was beside its back wall. Carefully, he raised his head slightly to look through the shattered window, but he saw nothing.

  This is a dumb place to be when someone is trying to shoot me, he thought. Quickly, he rose to a crouch and hurried across the room until he was just beside the broken window, then leaned his head out for just a second to try to look around. There was no one in sight, but there were so many trees in every direction that he could easily be in somebody’s crosshairs already.

  Carefully, trying not to expose himself to the unknown shooter, Sam looked down at his arm. Blood was slowly running down the outer side of his upper arm, and he tugged at his sleeve enough to see that the bullet had apparently just grazed him. He had been lucky, he knew. A split-second earlier, before he turned toward the door, that bullet would probably have struck him in the center of his back.

  He considered trying to make a run for the truck, but that would put him right out in plain sight. If he remained where he was, however, all the shooter had to do was start punching bullets through the wall. The house was an old frame structure, and Sam knew that the flimsy walls wouldn’t offer any true protection. He crawled on all fours until he got to the door that led into the hallway going back to Ross’s room, then jumped up and hurried as quickly as his bad hip allowed. He stepped into Ross’s old bedroom and leaned against the wall, then took out his phone.

  He found Detective Moore’s number in his recent call list and tapped it twice. The phone dialed the number automatically, and Sam was delighted when the detective answered on the first ring.

  “It’s Sam Prichard,” he said quickly. “I’m in Millie Cameron’s old house, and someone just took a shot at me through the window.”

  “Holy crap,” Moore said, “are you okay?”

  “Yeah, the bullet just grazed my arm. The problem is that I can’t see the shooter, so I’m kind of trapped. Got anybody out my way?”

  “Dale Miller is out there somewhere,” Moore said. “You stay put—I’m sending him your way now.”

  The phone went dead, and Sam put it back into his pocket, then listened intently for any sign that someone was trying to enter the house. It was less than a minute later when he heard a siren, and only forty seconds after that when a squad car screeched to a halt behind his truck.

  “Mr. Prichard?” Sam looked out and down the hall to see a deputy standing in the yard. “Mr. Prichard, I’m Deputy Miller from the sheriff’s office. Are you all right?”

  15

  “Yeah,” Sam yelled. “Watch yourself. Somebody in the woods fired a shot through that window.” He stepped into the hallway and moved slowly along it until he got back to the living room, then crouched again as he ran past the window to the front door. He popped up long enough to look through the door window and then yanked the door open.

  “Doesn’t seem to be anyone out here now,” the deputy said, and Sam leaned around the doorpost for a second. No shots rang out, and a few seconds later he stepped out and shook hands with Deputy Miller.

  “I appreciate you coming,” Sam said. “I think the siren must’ve scared the shooter off.”

  “Hey, that’s what we’re here for,” Miller said. “Johnny says to tell you he’s on the way and to do your best not to get shot. He doesn’t want to have to do the paperwork.”

  “Well, I promise you I’ll do my best to save him from having to fill it all out.” A sound from down the street caught his ear, and Sam turned to see a couple of men standing in the street and staring in their direction. “Looks like we’ve drawn a lot of attention. Maybe the shot made enough noise that somebody actually got a look at whoever was leaving in a hurry.”

  Miller looked around. “I’ll stay here with you for the moment,” he said. “When Johnny and the others get here, I’ll go talk to those folks and see if they saw or heard anything that might help.”

  Another siren could be heard coming from a distance, and it was only a couple of minutes before another deputy arrived. Miller, whose insignia said he was a sergeant, told the new arrival to go and interview the men in the street.

  Detective Moore showed
up ten minutes later with Sheriff Jim McCollum right behind him, and two more deputies and an ambulance arrived just after them. Sam explained what had happened while a paramedic wrapped a bandage around his arm, and one of the deputies went into the house and found where the slug had lodged in the doorpost. Using a knife and a pair of needle-nose pliers, he was able to retrieve it.

  “It’s mangled,” McCollum said, “but from the size of it I’d say we’re looking at a 9 mm. That’s a popular round with a lot of the hunters around here; they buy these little carbines that look like miniature assault rifles and then wonder why the deer they shoot run off into the woods. I will say they’re accurate little suckers, though. If the shooter was any good with it at all, you’d probably be dead.”

  “I almost was,” Sam said. “The shot came just as I was turning away from where I’ve been standing for a minute or more. If I had moved a split second later, that would’ve hit me center mass.”

  “Johnny’s told me who you are,” the sheriff said. “We’re going to find out who did this, because I’m not having a national freaking hero killed in my county.”

  “I appreciate that,” Sam said with a grin. “I suspect if we find out who took a shot at me, we’ll also find the person who murdered Millie Cameron and Daisy Willis.”

  “About that,” Moore said, “I got a call from Havelock about five minutes before you called me. He said there’s no doubt in his mind that both women were killed in the exact same manner, and the injuries appear to be inflicted by the same weapon based on the types and shapes of the fractures in their skulls. He’s willing to state that he’s more than ninety percent certain both women were murdered by the same perpetrator. Oh, and he said the weapon is a heavy metal object with a rounded end about the size of a golf ball. Mrs. Cameron had over fifty impacts to her skull, and Daisy had a few more than that. The ironic thing is that any one of the blows would have almost certainly been fatal, he said.”

  “Well, that shoots down the theory that Ross beat his mother to death with his fists,” Sam said, “and if somebody like Havelock thinks it’s the same killer, then it probably is.”

  “I agree,” said Sheriff McCollum. “Johnny explained to me over the weekend about what you’re trying to do, and I’m going to back you. I wasn’t around here when this case happened, but from everything Johnny has told me it sounds like that poor man was hustled. I might not have been sheriff at the time, but that looks bad for my office.”

  Sam smiled at him. “Sheriff, I certainly appreciate your support. In the meanwhile, though, we’ve got a killer on the loose.” He turned back to Moore. “I don’t suppose you got anything back on the hat yet, did you?”

  “No, not yet,” Moore replied. “That lab is pretty quick, though, so I expect we’ll hear something shortly.”

  “That would be good. We may not learn much, but every little bit helps.” The paramedic finished with Sam’s arm, and then he and Moore walked over to the Ridgeline. Sam opened the door and sat down in the driver’s seat but left it open so they could talk. The sheriff was busy supervising his deputies, sending them in different directions to interview potential witnesses, and into the woods to look for footprints or shell casings.

  “I figured out how the killer knew I was going to be here,” Sam said. “Debbie Jenkins called her friend Marcy Elimon after I left her last week and told her I was coming down here to start looking around. Marcy told some people at the diner, and the word probably just spread all over town from that. I’m guessing the killer heard about it and must have figured I’d want to come by the house. All she had to do then was sit out there in the woods and watch. Probably just wanted to see who I was, but when she saw me talking to Daisy, she must’ve started worrying about whether Daisy knew anything that might lead back to her.”

  “Makes sense,” Moore said. “And you’re right—there’s a joke in Thompsonville that whatever Marcy knows, everybody knows. She’s been working there for years, and I think it’s more about being the local gossip queen that it is about her paycheck. If she said the sun turned blue, half the people in this town would swear they could see it.”

  Sam nodded. “She and Crystal are going to try to make a list of the people they told,” he said, “and I’ll try to talk to as many as I can. It might not help, but at this point I’ll take any leads I can get.”

  “Sure you want to stick around? I mean, you got enough evidence already to clear Ross Cameron, but now it looks like the killer has taken a personal interest in you. This might not be the safest place for you to hang out.”

  Sam gave him an evil grin. “I’ve been a target before,” he said. “I look at it this way. If the killer is trying to come after me, I’m going to do everything I can to make it as difficult for her as it can be. But at least, while she’s trying to get me, it might keep her from hurting anyone else.”

  Moore grinned, but he shook his head. “Man, you got some brass ones. I doubt I could be that cocky after someone took a shot at me like this.”

  “Like I said,” Sam replied, “this ain’t my first rodeo. And just for the record, it’s not the first time I’ve dealt with a female serial killer. Believe me, they can be even more deadly and ruthless than men.”

  Moore started to speak, but his phone rang at that moment. He pulled it out of the holder on his belt and glanced at it, then answered it quickly on speaker.

  “Detective Moore,” he said, holding it out so Sam could hear as well.

  “Hey, Johnny, this is Jay down at the lab. I found a couple things I thought you’d want to know right away.”

  “Thanks, Jay,” Moore said, “I really appreciate it. What have you got?”

  “Well, first,” Jay continued, “you were right in suspecting that those are bloodstains on it, because they are. They’re also pretty old, which you also suspected. I can’t give you an exact age, but based on RNA decomposition testing, I can tell you they are definitely more than two years old, and probably more than five.”

  Johnny looked at Sam and nodded. “Okay, that helps some. What else?”

  “Well, it’s about those hairs you saw. We put them under the microscope and got quite a surprise. Those aren’t human hairs at all—they’re the kind of synthetic fibers used in cheap wigs.”

  Both Moore and Sam lowered their eyebrows. “Fake hair?” Moore asked. “They weren’t real?”

  “Nope. Polyester fibers, basically plastic that’s been strung out into fine strands and made to look like hair. Whoever wore this hat didn’t want anyone seeing whatever hair they naturally have on their heads.”

  “Okay, got that. Was there anything else?” Moore asked.

  Jay hesitated. “Well, maybe, but I don’t know if it’ll be any help. The hat still had a tag in it, tucked in under the lining. The print was really badly faded on it, but we put it under a camera and used the computers to enhance it. This hat was made by Johnson Millinery out of Bloomington, and there was a style number. The company went out of business fifteen years ago, but I punched it into the internet and found out that this type of hat was actually made for a specific customer, a direct sales company that sent workers door-to-door selling cosmetics. The name of the company was Olde Naturelle, but they went out of business just about the same time Johnson did. From what I found out, the only way to get one of these hats new was to sign up to be one of their distributors. The hat and the feather were actually part of their company logo.”

  Moore frowned and shrugged. “If the company is out of business,” he said, “then it probably doesn’t help much, and if the person who had it was into selling cosmetics, then a wig might have been just part of her vanity. You know, there are a lot of women who wear wigs just because it’s easier to keep them styled.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jay said. “Anyway, that’s what we got. If we come up with anything else, I’ll let you know, but I don’t know what other tests to run on it.”

  Moore thanked him and ended the call, shoving the phone back into its holster. “Would
have been nice if it was real hair,” he said. “At least we might have had some DNA to compare to when we finally come up with a suspect.”

  One side of Sam’s mouth twisted downward. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m actually more interested in this direct sales company. If they went out of business around fifteen years ago, there might be some way to find out who around here might have been working for them. I’ll have my wife see what she can find out about that and let you know.”

  Sam looked around for a moment at where deputies were examining the scene. “Can I get someone to board up that window?” he asked. “Probably shouldn’t leave it open like that.”

  Moore looked at the sky and then turned back to Sam. “Doesn’t really look like rain,” he said. “I’ll call Bob Hankey, he’s a local handyman. Probably won’t get out here until tomorrow morning, but with the reputation this place has for being haunted, nobody’s going to climb in the window tonight. Get with me tomorrow afternoon sometime, and I’ll have the bill ready for you.”

  Sam nodded. “Sounds good,” he said. “Let me know if anything else comes up.”

  “Ha!” Moore said. “The way this case is going, you’ll be the one to let me know. Keep your head low, Sam Prichard. I don’t want to see anything happen to it, or to the rest of you either.”

  Sam chuckled and closed his door, then started up the Ridgeline and made a U-turn. As he headed off down the street, he saw Moore grinning at him.

  Sam watched carefully along the sides of the street until he got back out to the highway, then relaxed a bit. It was always possible the killer would be waiting along the side of the road somewhere, but it’s a lot harder to hit someone in a moving vehicle than most people would think. He set the cruise control so he could relax his leg and took out his phone.

  “Hey, babe,” Indie said when she answered his call. “How’s it going?”

  Sam glanced down at the torn sleeve and the bandage over his left bicep and mentally cringed. “It’s going,” he said. “I went out and talked to Gary Burgess—he’s the guy Ross used to work for, who told me that the whole town knew we were coming back here. Debbie called her friend Marcy, the one at the diner in Thompsonville, and I guess she was talking about it there all day Friday. That tells me how the killer must have gotten the idea of watching the house. I’m sure she figured I’d want to at least check it out.”