Deadly Burial

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Deadly Burial Page 15

by Jon Richter


  But whatever – the point is, without him, I was completely off the rails. My back had started playing up but I hadn’t yet started overdoing the Vicodin, so it was mainly just booze and coke, but I was hitting it harder than anyone. If memory serves I was feuding with Terry Gallows back then, and he was the heel and I was the babyface, so we weren’t really supposed to be drinking together, so we skipped the bars and went straight to a strip joint. We found some seedy fucking dive out of town, and started sloshing the cash around, and telling everyone we were these big-time wrestlers, and the girls all lapped it up, while the bar lapped up our money. I remember we picked a fight with some fucking hillbillies who just wanted to keep to themselves, and the bouncers threw them out, because we were spending so much green in there.

  At some point that night we ended up back at this shitty trailer park with some woman. I can’t even remember if she was one of the strippers or just a hooker we picked up later or what, but either way she said we could do whatever we wanted, and so we did, and it was getting pretty freaky. We were all snorting so much coke her trailer must have looked like a fucking snowstorm had blown through it. Terry had his gun with him, and I decided it would be a good idea to stick that in her, and suddenly she wasn’t up for it no more, and I was angry because I’d spent like five hundred bucks on this bitch, and no Terry I don’t think it’s time for me to go to fucking bed, thank you very much. He tried to manhandle me out of there and I decked him, just landed a big uppercut on him and knocked him clean out. That meant it was just me and her, and suddenly she was a lot less uppity, because her gallant protector was laying out cold across her fucking dining table. And that’s when it happened. She said I was ‘disgusting’, and it just brought all those memories flooding back, about my stepmom and the things she’d done to me, and the things she’d said, and how I’d felt about myself back then. I thought I’d come so far since, that I was this better person, that I’d surpassed my past, you know? So to be reminded of it, in that nasty little trailer, by some slut that had probably fucked twenty different guys already that week… to find out that even she could see it, could see that under my disguise I was still dirty, unclean…

  I should probably talk here about my views on women, because I’m coming across as some big misogynist. I suppose that, at that time, I was. I only ever thought of women as this extension of my own feelings, like they were just there to hold a light up to whichever mood I was in that day. A lot of them seemed to be interested in me, and I thought that that was because I was the champ, and I was special. But I was also this big fraud. Because I wasn’t the champ. Vic Valiant was the champ. Little Victor Schultz was still this abused kid, this loser, this big joke. And I could see it behind their eyes sometimes, this disappointment, this realisation that the big hunky wrestler was really just a little nerdy kid from Tampa. So I either hated them for seeing through my disguise, or I hated them for not seeing through it, for being so easy and stupid.

  I was never happy with any of them. Except you, Tanya… we had some good times, even though it was all built on lies. Deceit is the only constant I’ve ever had in my life.

  Anyways, back in Minneapolis, in that awful fucking trailer park, I decked the girl too. Just socked her in the face, right there on her bed. I didn’t rape her or anything, I swear. I just left them both, out cold, and got in my car and drove for miles, and woke up the next morning in the middle of a fucking field.

  When I turned up that night for the show Terry tried to strangle me. Lance fired him and promoted Arn Adams to feud with me instead.

  Now that guy was a real piece of work.

  Thursday

  He pressed the fast-forward button and watched the patrons of Rumours zip around the bar at a comical speed. It was strange how speeding up footage of people made them resemble insects, their accelerated actions seeming somehow more insignificant, more meaningless. They guzzled pints and shots at the bar before scurrying through the double doors and down to the arena, or re-emerged in small groups that quickly scuttled out of shot. Back and forth, like ants.

  There. He pressed rewind, then play. A man emerged from the door that led from the bar to the VIP area, dressed in a black unitard and tight silver pants replete with tassels. His feet were encased in thick boots, also silver, as were the elbow pads on his exposed arms. His face was painted the same gaudy hue, with a dark V daubed under each eye, along with a single trickling tear, as though he already knew what was about to happen to him, and was grieving. His thick mane of dark hair hung wetly down his back. He shook hands politely with a few fans before heading through the double doors, through which a flickering light show could now be seen. Sigurdsson imagined music blaring, remembering that Vic Valiant made his entrance to Van Halen’s Jump. He imagined Thomas Horan twisting the dials in his sound booth. He imagined the fans cheering, wondering what shape Valiant was going to be in.

  He rewound and watched the wrestler’s entrance again and again several times, eventually pausing on a shot of him smiling as he reached to high-five a fan’s outstretched palm. His overall look was one of dated glamour, of faded glory and a life better suited to hot days on the American east coast. But despite the poor quality of the CCTV footage, somehow the large man’s lopsided, toothy grin exuded a certain magnetism. The charisma that had helped to earn him a career in the wrestling industry. A charm that Schultz had evidently relied upon all his life, but that had ultimately failed to spare him from an excruciating demise.

  Sigurdsson stretched and yawned, still groggy at this early hour and feeling pain of his own, particularly the throbbing ache in his hand, and in the side of his head where Dixon had struck him. He tried to focus again on the screen, but knew that he was getting nowhere. It was almost a welcome distraction when his phone rang, until he looked at the caller ID and saw that it was DCI Wells.

  ‘Hello sir?’

  ‘What the hell happened yesterday, Sigurdsson?’ his senior officer snarled.

  ‘You mean me nearly being hacked to death?’

  ‘No, I mean the complete shambles of an arrest you pulled off last night… it’s made the front pages of the regional news, for God’s sake! When I’m running a poxy little murder investigation on an island in the middle of nowhere, I shouldn’t be waking up to headlines saying “Wrestler’s Death Becomes Media Circus”!’

  Sigurdsson was silent as Wells continued his rant.

  ‘Didn’t it occur to you that there might be a more opportune time to pick up your man? Such as, perhaps, not in front of a live crowd and a bunch of local reporters?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t make the connection to Penman until late in the day, following a search of Dixon’s premises.’

  ‘Who’s Dixon?’

  ‘The man that tried to kill me two nights ago. I left you a message about it.’

  ‘Right, well, yes, well done on surviving that one. I just can’t believe you couldn’t have handled this… more discreetly. Remember, I sent you there to rein in that incompetent woman, not to make things worse!’

  Sigurdsson gritted his teeth.

  ‘Sir, I have thus far found Inspector Mason to be very competent, as well as committed and passionate about her work.’ He thought about her frustrated silence in the car the previous evening as they had thundered towards the nightclub. ‘I am happy to offer my assistance here but this remains her case, and I am confident we will make progress.’

  ‘And what progress have you made so far, Sigurdsson? Give me a status report. Is Penman in the frame for the poisoning?’

  Sigurdsson inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to gather his composure.

  ‘No sir. We believe he was involved with the supply of steroids to some of the wrestlers. We believe that Valiant was using the drugs regularly, injecting backstage directly before competing. We believe that somehow the contents of his syringe were switched for the poison on the night of his death. But we have no motive for Penman as the killer.’

  ‘A
nd this Dixon, who attacked you – was it him?’

  Sigurdsson paused once again, before giving what he knew was an unsatisfactory answer.

  ‘We don’t know, sir.’

  Now it was his superior’s turn to exhale heavily. His tone dripped with restrained anger when he finally responded.

  ‘Sigurdsson, I need this thing shutting down very quickly. Might I suggest that this dead man, this steroid freak who attacked you in your sleep with a sword, can be considered your prime suspect as of this moment? If you can’t get anywhere by tomorrow, we’re going with him as the killer. Understand?’

  Sigurdsson felt his teeth grinding once again.

  ‘You’ve been very clear, sir. I understand completely that the politics are a very big issue for you. Now if you don’t mind, I have some actual police work to do.’

  He hung up, trembling with rage.

  ‘Was that Wells?’

  Mason was hovering in the doorway behind him. He turned around, sighing.

  ‘Yes. He wants us to just pin it on Dixon. He says our sideshow last night made the local press.’

  He could see her jaw tense defiantly.

  ‘And he asked for your views on me, did he?’

  Sigurdsson wondered how much she had heard.

  ‘Look, we both know he’s completely unprofessional. You shouldn’t take it –’

  ‘Forget it. I just came to tell you that Penman’s solicitor will be here by ten.’

  With that she turned and stalked out of the little archive room, back towards her office.

  Sigurdsson sighed again, turning back helplessly to the monitor. He needed to shut it all out – Wells and his politicking, Mason’s feelings, the image of Dixon striding murderously towards him with blood dripping from his teeth, like a dog crunching through the body of a fresh kill.

  helpless little rabbits

  Just a tiny clue, something to spark his mind into life, something obvious they were missing.

  He pressed play again, his mind wandering through the details of the case like a child lost in Salvation’s sprawling woods.

  There was little activity in the bar as Valiant’s match started.

  Adams was still missing, and had lied about his reason for being here… why?

  Schultz had presumably begun to have his episode in the ring, as several people burst through the double doors and beckoned others down from their seats at the bar. Did they realise at the time that they were watching a man die?

  Dixon had sold drugs to Schultz, and had tried to kill Sigurdsson. Surely these were linked, and Dixon was therefore the likely perpetrator?

  The screen showed a mass exodus from the nightclub into the bar as the fans were ushered out so that Schultz could be treated. The paramedics had presumably used a different entrance, but their efforts were doomed from the start.

  Dixon had bought his supply from someone he called ‘Boss’.

  Or… The Boss.

  Sigurdsson clicked stop, and almost sprinted from the archive room.

  ‘I have an idea,’ he said breathlessly as he barged into Mason’s corner office. ‘I need to ask Penman something.’

  He grabbed her arm and almost dragged her towards the cells. Penman was sitting on the bed, looking sullen and dishevelled.

  ‘Is Roger here?’ he asked, referring to his solicitor.

  ‘Soon,’ Sigurdsson replied, trying to contain his excitement at his hunch. ‘First I just need to ask you one question.’

  Penman scowled.

  ‘I’ve already told you, I’m not discussing anything without my legal counsel.’

  ‘The answer to this question may mean we don’t need to detain you any further.’

  Mason looked at him in consternation. Penman’s frown deepened, before he eventually made a dismissive gesture.

  ‘Oh, whatever, this whole thing is already an utter shambles. Ask away, detective.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who wrestles under the name “The Boss”?’

  Mason continued to stare at him, but her eyes widened as she understood his idea. Penman looked confused.

  ‘Well yes, of course – I mean, he retired years ago, but some of the lads still call Bill by his wrestling name: he used to be “The Boss” Billy Wheeler.’

  *

  Their sirens were switched off as they sped towards Wheeler’s hotel, not wanting to give away their presence. He was staying in the same nondescript place as David Zheng… but Sigurdsson had a nagging suspicion that their new suspect had already joined Arn Adams in exile.

  Penman had been apoplectic when they released him, threatening to sue for harassment and to make a formal complaint to their commanding officer. Mason had still been reluctant to let him go, but they simply had no reason to keep him in custody. They had even managed to find a mention of Bill Wheeler on the internet, validating the nickname under which he had briefly wrestled.

  Dixon’s diary suggested that Wheeler was the man selling steroids to some of the AAW roster. So he could also be responsible for switching the contents of the lethal syringe.

  But why? If he was making a living selling illegal bodybuilding supplements, why would he want to murder one of his clients?

  When they arrived, Giggs and Mitchell went to the rear of the hotel in case Wheeler somehow managed to flee via the staff entrance. Mason and Sigurdsson entered, finding the same jaded receptionist at the desk. They had called ahead to explain their reason for visiting, and to ask which room Wheeler was renting for the week. The girl had readied a keycard for them, and handed it to Mason in silence, working her chewing gum around her mouth as they thanked her and marched past. They ascended the stairs, this time to room 208, which Sigurdsson couldn’t help noticing was exactly double the previous room number.

  ‘Police,’ Mason shouted as she knocked on the door. ‘Open up, Bill, we need to talk to you.’

  There was no response. After trying several more times, Mason swiped the card in the lock, a little light flashed green and they streamed inside.

  Wheeler was not in the room. Neither was his suitcase, or any other possessions. The only evidence that the room had been occupied at all was the hastily-made bed and lingering smell of sweat.

  ‘Shit,’ Mason spat. ‘How did he know?’

  ‘Penman must have said something to him before he went back on stage last night. Maybe he found out about Dixon’s death and suspected we were on to him.’

  She nodded, seamlessly shifting into command mode and speaking into her radio.

  ‘Mitchell, any sign of him down there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Okay. Can we find out where he lives, and get the local constabulary to station someone at his house? And we need to talk to his wife, assuming he has one, find out when he last spoke to her, what he said, where she thinks he is. We’ll just do a quick search to finish up here.’

  They didn’t expect to find anything, but checked the tiny bathroom, the wardrobe and both bins anyway. Then Mason got down on all fours to check under the bed, and gave a triumphant ‘aha!’ as she pulled out a bottle labelled ‘Clenbuterol’ with one pill still rattling around inside it.

  ‘Doesn’t prove anything though,’ she muttered as her smile faded. ‘We need more than this to prove that he was dealing.’

  ‘And we don’t know whether Wheeler or Dixon was selling to Valiant,’ Sigurdsson replied. ‘And we still don’t know why either would want him dead.’

  ‘Shit,’ she cursed again, hammering her fist against the wardrobe. ‘Two suspects missing and one dead… Wells isn’t going to find it very difficult to sack me after this.’

  ‘Look, Carin, I’ll tell Wells –’

  ‘Oh please. I get the impression he doesn’t trust you either, even if you are his little spy.’

  Now it was Sigurdsson’s turn to drive his fist into the wood.

  ‘Mason, I’m no one’s spy, all right?’ he shouted furiously. ‘I like working wit
h you, but you’re so wrapped up in yourself and your insecurities that it’s becoming impossible!’ He rose angrily to his feet. ‘Look, I’m going for a walk to clear my head. Just… call me if you find anything, all right?’

  He turned and stalked out of the room.

  *

  He’d quickly realised how stupid he’d been to storm off; he had no transport and didn’t even have a key to access the police station. In the end he had walked back there, hoping they’d arrive before him. His anger had dissipated with each step in the crisp, cool air. Mason… sometimes she seemed to warm to him, but the next minute she would revert to accusing him of being Wells’ lapdog. But had he gone too far with his outburst?

  He shook his head, trying to drive her from his mind and focus on the figures that whizzed around before him in grainy monochrome. As he’d hoped, they had already arrived back at the station when he got there, and had let him head straight to the archive room to spool through the CCTV footage once again. He’d barely said a word to her and just headed straight there to shut himself away. He knew he was behaving like a lovesick teenager. Yes, she was very good-looking. Yes, he was attracted by her strength, and by the kind heart hidden within her tough, tomboy exterior. Yes, she was clearly being mistreated by that idiot Wells, and he felt an urge to help her. But she was a colleague, a fellow police officer investigating a murder. And so far, in five days of investigation, the biggest step forward they’d taken had been when one of their suspects had tried to kill him.

  He glanced at his watch. It was 18:12. Perhaps he should swallow his pride and go and ask Mason for an update. He could apologise for his flare-up, blame it on the stresses of the case. He could –

  ‘Are you all right?’ came her voice from the doorway. He spun around, surprised.

 

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