by D P Lyle
“Whatever you say, officer. We must go prepare for this evening anyway.”
He gave them a half bow, turned, and pushed his way through the reporters, ignoring their questions. Blue Eyes shuffled along behind him.
A reporter approached, but before he could ask a question, Sam fixed him with a cold stare. “Don’t even think about it.” He backed away.
“Is this guy for real?” Lisa asked, nodding toward the departing Reverend Billy.
“Afraid so. Nathan says he can be real trouble.”
“I see you and Mister GQ are on a first name basis. What’s the deal?”
“There is no deal,” Sam scowled.
“Just asking.” Lisa held up her hands, palms out, in a defensive posture. “He is rather easy on the eye though.”
“True.” Sam flashed on their brief kiss, then her dream. “I’d better get to the office.”
When she entered the office, Thelma was on the phone but held up one finger. Sam hung her jacket on the corner coat rack as Thelma finished her conversation.
“That’s right. About a mile north of town...Seven, I think...No problem.” She dropped the phone in its cradle. “That’s the third call in the past twenty minutes. Everybody wants to know where Reverend Billy is preaching tonight. They must think we’re the Chamber of Commerce.”
Most people in Mercer’s Corner knew that Thelma was THE source for information. If she didn’t know it, it didn’t exist. And Thelma relished the role, even if she did complain from time to time.
“Where’s he putting on his show tonight?”
“Up near Dry Creek Road. Are you going?”
“I wouldn’t dream of missing the good Reverend,” Sam said sarcastically. “Any messages?”
“Oh. I almost forgot. Cat Roberts called. Said you could talk with Walter anytime.”
“Great. I’ll head right over. Let me have the evidence room keys. I promised Ralph Klingler I’d bring the knife over for him to do some wound comparisons. Meant to do it yesterday, but never got the time.” Forgot, she said to herself.
“Here you go.” Thelma tossed the keys to Sam.
Sam unlocked the door and flipped on the lights. She slid Garrett’s evidence box off the shelf and shuffled through the contents.
“Jesus F. Christ! Thelma!”
Thelma appeared in the doorway. “What?”
“The knife. It’s not here.”
“What?”
“Not here.”
Thelma looked into the box. “I don’t believe it.”
“Where’s Charlie?” Sam stormed out of the room. “Get somebody over here to change the lock on that door,” she shot over her shoulder. “Have them put a couple of dead bolts on the damn thing and lock the Goddamn keys in Charlie’s safe.”
Chapter 22
After talking with Charlie and calling Ralph Klingler, informing both that the knife had once again grown wings and escaped, Sam drove to Mercer Community Hospital. She entered the ICU, trying to ignore the cacophony of smells that greeted her, and walked to the nurse’s station, where Rosalie Meyer sat. Rosalie looked up as she approached.
“Morning, Sam. You here to see Walter?”
“Yeah. How’s he doing?”
“Amazingly well, all things considered. Dr. Roberts did a hell of a job, as usual. Go on in. He’s in number three.”
Sam stood at the door to Walter’s cubicle. He looked nothing like the Walter Limpke she knew. He didn’t look like a murderer either. Thin, pale, sickly, he appeared to have been sick for years, not hours.
He lay in bed, his head slightly elevated. A plastic tube filled with a material that looked like used coffee grounds, protruded from his nose and hung over the side of the bed, where it emptied into a bag that held three inches of the same black-flecked liquid. Two IV poles, each decorated with several bags of fluids, stood like sentinels on either side of the bed. The wall-mounted cardiac monitor above his head emitted a steady beep.
His eyelids fluttered, then as if they hoisted the weight of the world, lifted sluggishly. Glassy eyes peered from beneath the droopy lids, scanned right, and then left, unfocused, before locking on Sam.
“Hello, Walter. How you doing?” Sam asked.
“Been better.” His voice was lifeless, raspy. He cleared his throat, then swallowed, wincing in pain. “I feel like one of your punching bags.” He smiled weakly, then hiccoughed, grimacing.
“I hate to bother you right now, but I need to ask a few questions. OK?”
“I have a few thousands questions I’d like to ask, too. But, I wouldn’t know who to ask.”
“Such as?”
“About...last night. Was it last night? I’ve lost all sense of time.”
“Night before. What happened?”
“I don’t know. I was dreaming. At least, I thought I was. It was like a nightmare. Only more real. I woke up and there was...Roberto.” He sobbed, clutching his abdomen, trembling against the pain.
“It’s OK, Walter. Tell me about the dream. Before...Roberto.”
“It was bizarre. I don’t remember much. There were colors. Bright colors. Unnatural. Not like anything I’ve ever seen.”
Sam’s skin prickled, hairs standing erect like cactus spines. Her dream had been colorful. Unnaturally colorful.
“Can you describe them?” she asked.
“I only remember flashes. Like the road was silver, the sky orange, and Roberto’s trailer...I remember now...was bright red. Like a light. It was so bright it hurt, but I couldn’t look away. I wanted to...but I couldn’t.”
The Garrett/reptile’s eyes in her dream were red. Bright, flashing red. The prickly feeling crept up her back.
“Let’s start at the beginning. What happened first?”
He told her of going to bed and awakening in a swirl of scintillating hues. How he fought the compulsion to leave his bed, his house. But, he could not resist and entered a world of colors within colors. Chaotic swirls and incomprehensible images and Roberto’s trailer, emitting a seductive red beacon. Then, as if he had “dropped out of a dream” he was standing before Roberto.
“Do you remember seeing Roberto alive?”
“No.”
“Did you kill Roberto?”
“I don’t know. I must have. I had the knife.”
“Did you stab yourself, Walter?”
His lips trembled, then he softly said, “Yes.”
He lifted his eyes to hers and she saw a mixture of confusion and sorrow and fear. She wanted to hug him, tell him everything was OK, that she understood. But that was impossible. Everything was not OK and she didn’t understand. Besides, his descriptions echoed her dream, thickening her own fears. Was she going crazy like Walter obviously had?
“Why?”
“Why? You saw him. What I did to him. I don’t know how or why, but I know I did it. I can’t live with that image of Roberto and of...” His voice trailed off as if afraid to continue.
“Roger and Miriam Hargrove?”
“Yes.” Again he sobbed, clutching his belly. “That must have been me, too.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Only colors. And the same red light. And Miriam’s face.” He swallowed back tears. “Why did this happen? Am I going crazy? I must be. To do that, someone would have to be.”
“I don’t know, Walter. Not much makes sense right now. I need to ask you something else.”
“Yes?”
“Did you know Richard Earl Garrett? I mean before the trial. Did you ever meet him?”
“No. Why would I know someone like...someone like him?” He looked up, horror etching his face. “Or me?”
“Walter, I don’t know why you did what you did. But, trust me, you and Richard Earl Garrett are miles apart.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s true.” Sam debated asking the next question, but knew she had to. For herself. “This is going to sound bizarre, but in your dream, among all the colors and other things, did you see Garrett
? Or perhaps sense his presence? Anything strange like that?”
“No. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Are you going to arrest me, Sam?”
“Probably have to at some point. But not now. You worry about getting better. Charlie and I’ll try to figure out the rest. OK?”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll stop by later. If you think of anything else in the meantime, let the nurses know and they’ll call me.”
She turned to leave.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Does my wife know? About what I did?”
“Not yet. But, you know she will. There are enough reporters in this town right now to hold a convention. Not much gets by them.”
“Would you tell her? I’d rather it came from you, than them...or me.”
“Sure.”
“This will kill her.”
“Don’t underestimate her. She’s tougher than you think.”
*
Sam walked into the ICU waiting area, where Margo perched on the edge of her chair, nervously fiddling with the strap of her purse. Her legs folded beneath the chair, feet cocked as a sprinter coiled for the starter’s gun. Sam sensed that if the phone rang or a door slammed, she would explode from her chair and fly out of the room. Margo looked up and smiled weakly.
“The nurses told me you were with him. Is he OK?” she asked.
“Doctor Roberts says so.” Sam sat down next to her. Margo looked as bad as Walter, pale, frail, puffy eyed.
“Good.” Her fingers continued their dance along the purse strap. Her eyes dropped. “Did Walter...kill Roberto?” she asked softly.
“He thinks so.”
“Thinks so?”
“He’s not sure. He doesn’t remember.”
“And you? What do you think?”
“The evidence suggests so, but there are a lot of unanswered questions.”
“Did you arrest him?”
“No.”
“Thank God.” She exhaled the words.
“Margo, right now Walter needs to rest and get over his injuries. Whether he’s charged with these crimes or not, only time will tell.”
“Crimes?”
“Roger and Miriam. He may have been involved.”
“Oh, God. I never imagined...I never...” Her voice trailed off. “How could he have done...this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s ill. Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Let me and Charlie see what we can uncover.”
“Walter’s a good man,” she said, as much a question as a statement.
“Yes, Margo. He is.”
Margo collapsed into tears. Sam hugged her, letting her release her pain.
After consoling Margo, Sam walked to her Jeep. Images from her dream replayed in her mind. Colors, Nathan, Garrett.
Maybe she was going crazy, too.
Maybe Nita Stillwater was right and some beast had crawled out of a cave and was doing this.
Maybe Garrett was Satan or Beelzebub or whoever he was today.
Maybe this town was paying for its sins.
*
Walter Limpke was alone. More alone than he had ever been. The ICU was busy. Doctors making rounds and nurses hurrying by his cubicle as they tended other patients. His assigned nurse, Rosa, checking his vital signs and adjusted his IVs. Yet, Walter felt as though he were on a deserted island.
Images from the past two nights tumbled in his head, each vying for attention, none making sense. At times, he convinced himself that he had done nothing and that all this was merely and dream. That he would awaken at home in bed with Margo at his side. But, each time a pain racked him or he looked down at his bandaged belly, the truth shattered all those wishes.
Who was he?
The Walter Limpke that gave to charity and worked tirelessly on community projects? The man who had been faithful to his wife for three decades? The one who extended credit to the credit-less, not really expecting to be paid?
Or, was he the Walter Limpke who killed and mutilated three people? The one who had a madman’s nightmares? The one who lay here because of wounds inflicted by his own hand?
Which one was he? Or, was he both? Was he some modern day Jekyll and Hyde? Two personalities wrestling over the same soul? And, which would win?
He clutched his abdomen as his sobs sent waves of burning pain through him. He wished he were dead.
“Walter?”
He looked up to see Margo standing in the doorway to his cubicle, apprehension cutting lines in her face.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
He turned his head toward the wall, his eyes searching for something to fix to, anything but Margo’s face. She skirted the bed and stepped into his field of vision, bending to align her eyes with his.
“What is it, honey?” she asked, placing a soft hand on his arm.
Despair and grief and fear poured from him, causing him to sob uncontrollably. He clutched his stomach against the burning pain.
She brushed her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead. “It will be OK,” she said softly.
That’s just like Margo, he thought. Always there for him. Always worried more about him than herself.
Like a decade ago when they went through a rough period with the hardware store, nearly losing it. But, Margo jumped in, shepherded the finances, worked long hours when two employees had to be let go, and somehow kept things afloat.
Like five years ago, when he had that scare with chest pains that turned out to be an ulcer. Margo calmed him, drove him to the hospital, and stayed at his side through the two days of tests that followed.
Or, like two nights ago when she comforted him with soup and understanding. She deserved better than this, than him.
“Will it?” he asked.
“Yes.” She took his hand and placed it against her face. “Whatever happens, I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
He nuzzled her hand, staining it with his tears. “I don’t deserve you.”
She smiled at him. “Yes, you do.”
Another fit of sobbing racked him.
“We’ll get through this,” she said. “You’re a good man, Walter. You always have been.”
Chapter 23
After Sam apologized for dropping by unexpectedly, Noreen Waters invited her into her rambling four bedroom ranch style home, the largest in Mercer’s Corner, and ushered her into the impeccably decorated living room. She offered Sam banana bread, no thanks, and coffee, sure, black. While Noreen retreated to the kitchen for the coffee, Sam looked around the room. It had changed little, if any, since she had sat on the same sofa two months ago and informed Noreen and Harry Waters that their only child Tommy had been murdered and mutilated by Richard Earl Garrett.
A silver framed picture of Tommy grinned at Sam from the fireplace mantle. His innocent, freckled face offered no clue to the horror that lay ahead for him. Even a casual observer would know Tommy was Noreen’s son. They possessed the same dark hair, delicate nose, and off-center smile. Of course, Noreen Waters had not smiled in months.
These are good people, Sam thought. Harry Waters, the president of the local bank, and Noreen seemed always to be involved in projects that bettered the community. Harry had donated a large chunk of the money needed for the new high school gymnasium and his bank had floated a sweetheart loan for the balance. Noreen spearheaded drug prevention programs for the local schools, chaired the annual Fourth of July Frontier Days celebration, and immersed herself in one community project after another. For tragedy to have visited this family was beyond unfair.
Noreen placed the coffee and a stack of napkins on the coffee table before Sam and sat in a blue wing-backed chair facing her. Sam lifted the cup carefully, sipped the coffee, and then returned it to the saucer. The fine china pinged softly. To Sam, Noreen seemed as delicate as the cup and she wondered how the woman could have weathered this nightmare without cracking. Noreen folded her thin legs bene
ath the chair and laced her spidery fingers together in her lap. Though she could ill afford it, she seemed to have lost ten to fifteen pounds over the past two months.
“How can I help you?” Noreen asked.
“I have a couple of follow up questions for our investigation,” Sam lied. This had little to do with the investigation. This was for her own peace of mind.
“I thought the investigation was over now that that animal has been convicted.”
“The formal sentencing hasn’t taken place yet, as you know. I need to tie up a few loose ends. Make sure Garrett gets the death penalty.”
“God, I hope so.” Her soft brown eyes, dulled by pain, peered at Sam from a chalky face. “I know that’s awful. Asking God to sentence someone to death.” She smiled nervously. “But, I can’t believe he is one of God’s creatures. He can’t be human.”
“I know.” Sam shook her head.
“Your job must be very hard for you, Sam,” Noreen said. “Dealing with criminals and murders.” She swallowed hard. “People like Garrett.”
Sam couldn’t believe this woman was concerned about how Sam felt. After everything she had been through, was going through. Just weeks after burying her only child.
“Sometimes,” Sam said. “But, nothing like what you and the other parents have had to endure.”
Guilt gnawed at her. For accepting this poor woman’s sympathy, for invading her mourning, and for prying into her life and that of her dead child. Yet, she must. Something was happening to her, to Walter. Maybe even to Garrett. Something she didn’t understand. It was a sad fact that in homicide investigations the victims usually told the tale. Dead or alive, they were invariably the holder of the secrets. Prying into their lives, regardless of how sordid or how innocent, uncovered the truth. And right now, she needed truth and rationality.
“Before Tommy was murdered, did his behavior change in any way? Anything unusual?”
“No. He was excited by the new school year. He always enjoyed school. He made good grades and had lots of friends.”
“He didn’t seem anxious or depressed?”
“No.”
“Did he express any fears of people or strangers?”