I walked to the desk and dialed Maggie’s number again. She should be up and getting ready for work. On the fourth ring, a man’s voice answered, “Miss Holmes’ residence.”
A man? With Maggie? I guessed that explained why she didn’t answer her phone last night. My mind couldn’t create an image of someone taking Maggie Holmes to bed. On the other hand, if there was anything Harry and Lori had taught me, it was the world was full of all kinds of people.
I shook myself to get back to business. “May I speak to Maggie, please? It’s important.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Bob Norris.”
“Well, hello, Mr. Norris. You seem to be popping up every time someone dies lately.”
“What are you talking about? Who is this?”
“Detective Sergeant Morten. When was the last time you talked to Miss Holmes?”
Panic rose inside me. “Where is she?”
“Right here . . . but she’s dead. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
My fingers tried to bury themselves in the plastic of the receiver. “Thanks, asshole, for being so sensitive about it. Are you going to tell me how she . . . died . . . or do I have to read it in the papers?”
“You’re asking me questions? Wrong. I’ll do the asking. Let me repeat . . . When did you last talk to Miss Holmes?”
“About two weeks ago.”
“Did she say anything about having problems, maybe a stalker or something?”
“No.” I dropped into the desk chair, rubbing my forehead to clear the shock from my stressed brain.
“Did she have enemies? Anyone who might want to kill her?”
“God! She’s been murdered! How?”
“Shot. She was found in bed with one hand on the phone. No forcible entry either. How did you know the victim?”
“She was my wife’s secretary . . . Ah, Morten, has her apartment been ransacked, torn up, anything out of order?”
“Not a thing. Should there be?”
Think fast, Big Mouth! Why the hell are you asking him of all people? “Because she was very tidy . . . a neat-freak. That’s why Eileen depended on her. If there is . . . anything that looks messy . . . I just thought you might want to look there for clues.”
“You’re being helpful. Why don’t I believe that? Let’s make this official. You will make a statement . . . about everything you know about the victim and your last meeting, conversation, whatever. Is that clear enough?”
“Morten, this woman . . . was a friend. All right? You just told me she was found shot to death in her apartment. Now, Pig, you want a statement, you come to my place or get a warrant and drag me to yours!” I slammed the phone down before he could reply.
For long minutes I sat with my elbows braced on the desk, my face buried in my hands. Lori wasn’t home to talk to. Harry was sleeping off his beer . . . and Lori hadn’t been there last night to remind him of his pills. I couldn’t handle waking him in the middle of a battle with some Viet Cong. My own mental battles were bad enough.
Why? Obvious, Norris. Eileen . . . then Maggie . . . now you are in to some deep shit!
Looking at the files on the coffee table reminded me of my challenge to Morten. I felt like a coward shoving them back in the box and carrying it to the closet. If this was evidence in a murder, the police needed to see it. Eventually. But not Morten. I had to know what information was in those print-outs first.
How was I going to do that? Who would help me? After enough crap had been piled on top of the container, I let my gaze roam the closet. On the shelf at eye-level, I found a box labeled “East High,” That box ended up on the desk.
I didn’t know squat about computers. I even gave my grades and other paperwork to the secretary of the Fine Arts Department. She entered my stuff for me. I intended to take a summer semester in something called “Digital Animation,” a computer art course. Logically, it would fulfill my mandatory continuing education and move me into the computer age. Two summers in a row I had registered and canceled. To me, art meant sketching, chalks, pastels, oils . . . not goddamn computers.
In the middle of the junk crammed in the box, I found the East High Faculty directory for the past year. Remembering the secretary as a classic gossip, I skipped her. Under Technology/Practical Sciences I found the heading “Computers.” Seeing it listed with “Home Economics” and “Industrial Technology” made me cringe. That was about as far from Fine Arts as the human mind could get.
My finger stopped on the name “Donaldson, Edward.” Tall, muscular, athletic, what the females in the student body and staff called a “hunk.” Unmarried, too, and nothing like a stereo-typical computer geek. We shared the same lunch period last year. He told damn good jokes and enjoyed playing poker against his computer. He also got a kick out of trying to teach me how to do both and my predictable failure. This project might interest him. Anyway, I hoped it would. After four rings, his answering machine kicked in. Why did I expect a teacher to be up early during summer vacation? I left a message.
A crash sounded in Harry’s room, followed by a garbled shout and distinct curses. He was up. This waking-dream battle lasted a bit longer than the other episodes, forty-five minutes. I kept checking my watch as I tried once again to read that novel from the safety of the couch.
Finally, the shouts and thumping stopped. Minutes dragged by. I could imagine him rubbing his aching head and looking around at his trashed room. The silence was broken by the flap of Harry’s slippers on the wood floor as he headed to the kitchen. Tap water ran. He emerged through the doorway, holding a glass of water in his shaking hand. I studied the torn man calmly sitting down at the dining table. Perspiration showed on his scarred face. His sleeveless t-shirt stuck to his chest and back.
For the first time I saw the stump of his left arm. Always before he wore long-sleeved shirts with that sleeve pinned up. The military doctors had sliced off the arm just below the shoulder joint. Deep scars ran up from the puckered flesh, disappearing under the t-shirt. On second thought, surgeons knives hadn’t done all that. I decided they probably tried their best to line up the pieces of a puzzle. It hadn’t quite worked.
Harry looked at me over the glass as he took a swallow of water. “What’s the matter? Never seen a man in boxer shorts before?”
“You forgot to take your pills again.”
“Did I sound bad?”
“Maybe a little worse than normal.”
“Why are you up so early? We came in pretty late last night . . . I think.”
“Yeah, well. My brain wouldn’t shut down.” I filled him in on Maggie’s message on the answering machine, my discovery of the computer garbage, and Morten’s news.
“Where’d you put the print-outs?”
“Box in the closet. I didn’t want it out if the asshole comes for me.”
“Let me see ‘em.”
I started to laugh, but he cocked an eyebrow that told me to get my butt in gear. Digging through that closet was getting to be a habit. I left the junk on the floor, opened the box where it was, and pulled out the print-outs, still all neatly fan-folded together. Remaining at the table, Harry took the folder from me.
“Gonna leave that crap there for us to stumble over?”
“No. When you get done, I’ll put it all right back where I had it, on top of the box to hide it!”
“You need a housekeeper, Norris!”
“There’s you or Lori. Who would you appoint?”
He shrugged and turned to expertly examine the print-outs.
“You can make any sense out of it?”
“Besides your wife’s notes? Naw. I need a computer . . . and the disc that matches these pages.”
I went back to the box and rummaged around. My fingers slid over thin, hard plastic. I held it up. “What do you think?”
“Bingo!”
“So, how do you know about this computer shit?”
He dropped back in his chair, one finger playing with the edges of th
e print-outs, his eyes staring at nothing. “Went to City College on the G.I. Bill. A piece of paper says I learned something . . . an associate degree in office management.”
“You’re kidding!” I regretted the words the minute they slid from my mouth. I had known the man for two years, but never bothered to really know him.
He shrugged again then closed the file in front of him.
“I didn’t mean it that way, Harry. I just . . . Well, why are you working in a convenience store?”
“Hiring the handicapped ain’t a priority in the business world. Scarred . . . and maimed people make everyone nervous. That’s not good for business. So . . . do you know where we can borrow a computer?”
“Maybe I can just buy one . . . if my father-in-law left me enough money.”
The phone rang. I grabbed it up.
“Hi, there!” Lori spoke before I could even say anything.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I just dropped Henry at Ashland Steel. I’m beat and I need a shower and some sleep. Did you hear about Charles?”
My heart dropped into my stomach. I couldn’t handle one more murder this morning. “No, I haven’t talked to the hospital.”
A horn blared in the background. “Up yours!” Lori shouted. “Sorry, I’m not used to talking on the phone and driving a tank with one hand. Henry was out and about most of the night, pretty good for a man his age. I kept dozing off.”
“You were going to tell me about Chucky.”
“Charles, remember? Well, he ran away from the hospital. Skipped out without anybody seeing him. Nobody knows where he’s at.”
“You’re kiddin’ me! When?”
“Hospital called Henry about an hour ago. Said he left between three and four. They had to search the entire place before notifying the party responsible for him, or his bill more likely. And that was Henry. But . . . he’s not pissed. Ain’t that strange? He put on a show that he cared so damn much. He didn’t even act surprised.”
The old man probably blamed me for Chucky’s behavior, since he blamed me for everything else. It was a wonder he hadn’t called with one of his I-told-you-so messages. “If Henry was up all night, he probably put his brain on auto-pilot and could give a shit about anybody else.”
“Your father-in-law is weird, Bob. Know where I took him last night?” Horn honking. “Damn! Can’t throw him the finger! Where was I . . . Geesh, I’m so tired, I’m getting dopey. Oh, yeah. The Pink Horn. He called it the Gentleman’s Club. And he had the balls to ask me to go in with him.”
Henry and Lori. Now, that was tough to imagine. “What kind of a place is it, a strip joint?”
“That I wouldn’t have minded . . . but . . . ah, did you know Henry’s gay?”
The phone dropped from my hand. I fumbled it like a slippery fish.
“What’s going on?” Harry insisted.
“Shut up!” I recovered and tried to sound in control. “Well, ah, no, that is not something I knew. Never crossed my mind . . . even.” Motion picture visions in my mind rolled right along with my stomach. At that moment I hated my vivid artist’s imagination! “Not that I’m prejudiced—”
“Maybe not prejudiced, but you don’t like it around you, right?”
“Henry’s business is his business, Lori. And you didn’t sound so thrilled about the Pink Horn.”
“You sitting, Bob? A friend of mine works there, a gay guy. He’s big, well-built, works out with weights—”
“I get the picture!”
“He’s suited to the Pink Horn, ‘cause the clients are in to S and M, the heavy S and M, if you get my meaning.”
“I know what S and M is! I am an adult male!”
“That so, Mr. Smart Aleck. Well, the adult males partying in that joint like their pain with their pleasure, bad pain. Think you’re man enough for that scene, I’ll take you there myself!”
“Ha, ha! Very funny. And no thanks.”
“Aw, I’m too beat, anyway . . . Get it? Beat?” When he didn’t laugh, she gave him the raspberries over the phone. “No sense of humor, Norris, no matter what Henry says! I’ll be home in about ten minutes. Think I could park this thing in the garage?”
“No other tenants that I’ve seen. Enough room. But, Harry and I won’t be here. We’re going to buy a computer.”
* * *
That afternoon, Harry completed plugging in the wires and hesitated just a moment to admire the most expensive, most powerful computer Business Express sold. The plastic-encased brain and its companion printer took up the top of my precious desk. Harry had picked up an adapter so we could use the existing phone line to access the Internet.
The man’s whole personality changed as he sat down in the desk chair and began familiarizing himself with programs, whatever that meant. He sat with his shoulders back as he confidently tapped keys and manipulated the plastic lump called a mouse. Control! This was something he had the power to control, instead of complying with the demands of others, even my demands.
For a moment I cringed that I had fallen into that world of manipulative people, but quickly squelched the idea. Harry had made the choice to help me. He didn’t have to be here, whereas I did. I was driven. I would do whatever it took to find out who had destroyed a vital part of my life and why. I frowned at Harry with the realization he had taken on my cause. Maybe because he didn’t have anything better to do.
“Harry?”
“Yeah?” he mumbled.
“Why are you doing this, I mean all this?”
He hesitated, but didn’t look at me. “Tired of senseless bullshit that hurts innocent people.” He tapped at keys, pushed the mouse, leaned back and stared at the changing screen. “In my nightmares . . . well, I live it over, I think, ‘cause I want to change what happened. It never works. Here . . .” his hand indicated the entire room. “. . . maybe I can keep your sorry ass from getting killed. Then again maybe I can’t, but at least I can try. Right?”
“You and Lori aren’t very reassuring, you know that? She thinks the street will kill me. You think I’m going to piss somebody off as I get too close.”
“What do I know? You’re college-educated and teacher. I’m just a leach on society . . . well, that’s what my ol’ lady told me a while back.”
Screeches and beeps sounded from the computer. “What’s that?”
He grinned up at me. “I just got into a public access bulletin board, and now . . .” He leaned toward the screen. “. . . I’ll find Bison Insurance.”
“What! I thought you were going to just look at Eileen’s disc.”
“What good will that do, if there’s no data to compare it to?”
I cocked my head at him. “How should I know? I’m just a college-educated jerk. You’re the computer geek!”
A grin spread over his lips, as he tapped at keys. “A jerk and a geek, huh? And both crazy as hell. That’s Lori’s opinion, anyway.”
I glanced at my watch. She had wanted me to get her up at two. Henry had a four o’clock appointment.
Harry slid Eileen’s disc into the computer. He scrolled the files named by number, focused on one, and clicked the mouse. “Access Denied” appeared on the screen.
“Damn!” He slapped the side of the monitor.
“So you can’t get into it?”
“Could take me hours, or even days. She used some access code.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you.” His expression was not pleased. “Maggie told me about it. I found it in my car, but, ah, well I gave it to Maggie then burned it.”
“Save me from an education if it makes somebody as dumb as you!”
“Ha, Ha! An education is supposed to teach you how to think, not what to think! My mind just happens to focus on images, instead of orderly things, god dammit! Just give me a minute.” I closed my eyes to block out his disgusted expression, as much as to play back that night I gave the code to Maggie. “Got it! B-N-6-1-5!” He started to tap. “Wait! Maggie intended to change it, for safety
’s sake.”
“Great! Then she got herself dead!” The fingers of his only hand punched keys a little harder.
Deflated, I noticed it was time to get Lori up. I called through her door. No answer. Still nothing to my knock, so I opened the door. She lay in a sprawl on the bed, naked and softly snoring, a fly circling inches from her childlike, sleeping face. Feeling like a voyeur, I looked over her exposed curves and creamy skin. How could any woman want to sell something so beautiful? To eat, to survive, College Man! I remembered the three thousand she had taken off Alabama. When is it enough? Maybe when someone learns they can do something else . . . like Harry and the computer? So what could Lori learn to do? And why is it any of your business, Norris? Because you changed her options, Idiot! Now what?
My groin began to ache. I rubbed my hand across my eyes and yelled “Lori! God dammit! It’s time to get up!”
Startled and immediately on the defensive, she rolled, grabbing sheets and bedspread to cover herself. I left the room.
Harry’s concentration had him hunched forward.
“Any luck?”
“No. How about you?”
“What’d you mean?”
“Were you just looking or touching?”
“Looking. Period! That’s all I will do and you know it!”
“Frustrating as hell, ain’t it? ‘Cause that’s all I’m getting done here. I need to know Maggie’s change.”
“No way to break into the file? I mean, I’ve heard about computer hackers—”
“I didn’t say I was a friggin’ genius, Bob!”
“Coffee made?” Lori asked.
We both turned to find her in t-shirt and tight jeans, her fingers buried in her sleep-tousled hair.
“No, ah—” I stuttered.
“Why don’t you make us all some?” Harry casually turned back to his computer screen.
I watched her walk toward the kitchen. She turned on the TV in passing. A moment later I heard one of those “News we’re working on . . .” announcements followed by “Margaret Holmes, a single woman living alone, is an another murder victim in the growing list of criminal deaths plaguing this city. Apparently the burglar shot her three times while she lay sleeping in her bed. Also add to the list, an unidentified male pulled from the Missouri River. The man appears to be in his late sixties and was wearing a chauffeur’s uniform. More details at five.”
To Find a Killer Page 11