Time of Death

by Shirley Kennett

  The easy thing to do would be to turn away from this work. Set up a private practice or join a clinic. Or go back to marketing.

  She watched Schultz sop up syrup with the last bite of his pancake, and then swirl his finger around the plate, picking up the dregs. He licked his fingers.

  Man saves a fortune on napkins.

  Months ago, it would have bothered her. She would have had to stifle the urge to fix him, to try to make him more like her conception of the proper husband. Is that what had happened with her ex-husband Stephen?

  I fixed him up nicely but the Other Woman got the benefit of it, and a baby, too.

  She turned her thoughts loose and let them run down well-trodden paths of guilt and regret and anger.

  Would I miss crime solving? Yes. The victims and survivors are counting on me, a little cog in the whole justice machine. I’ve caught the Blue bug, even without a badge.

  She pushed the consulting idea aside. There was work to be done right here under her nose, never mind across the Atlantic. “How’s the search for the pickup truck coming?”

  Schultz snapped his syrupy fingers. “I was supposed to call Anita half an hour ago.”

  PJ stuffed her mouth with a bite of pancake to keep from saying anything when he wrapped his big, sticky hand around her wall phone. Anita answered right away, and he punched the speakerphone button.

  “You’re on the air.”

  “We got it,” she said.

  “That’s terrific,” PJ said. “Is the truck out of the water yet?”

  “No. I thought they’d just send the divers in, but the Army Corps of Engineers had this gadget they wanted to use. It’s a boat-towed metal detector that picks up iron and steel. All I know is it’s bright yellow and looks like a missile.”

  “Boys with toys,” PJ said.

  “Exactly. They fiddled with that thing for almost two hours, and then found the truck right where I told them to look.”

  “How did you know where to look?” Schultz said.

  “Tire tracks about a mile from where Arlan’s body was found. Somebody burned rubber, heading straight down for the river. I gotta go. They’re about ready to pull it out of the water. I’ll call you when the VIN trace comes back.”

  “Good work, Anita. Keep us informed,” PJ said. Schultz hung up.

  “I hate to bring this up,” PJ said, “but how do we know that’s the truck that the killer used? Somebody else could have dumped a truck in the river for any number of reasons.”

  “We don’t know. The Vehicle Identification Number will tell us who owns that truck, and where that person lives. We go over there, bust in, and see if anybody looks guilty.”

  “With a warrant, I hope,”

  Schultz rolled his eyes. “You know, I wish you hadn’t taken that training session on warrants. I preferred you barefoot and ignorant.”

  “I preferred you not speaking to me. What are the chances of that truck giving us any useful information?”

  “You mean besides the VIN?”

  “The victim’s blood.”

  “Oh. I wouldn’t count on that, even if the truck was soaked in Arlan’s blood. The river water will wash it away. Even if there was a trace amount of blood somewhere, water degrades the DNA. DNA samples are supposed to be air dried and stored frozen in paper bags. Old Man River doesn’t handle things that way.”

  “Fingerprints, then?”

  “Even less chance. Fingerprints are ninety-nine percent water. The rest is salts from sweat and a little oil. Latent prints literally wash away.”

  PJ sighed. The truck wasn’t going to be the breakthrough she was hoping for. The only useful item might be an address based on the VIN, and that could easily be phony.

  “Don’t give up yet,” Schultz said. “Fibers or hair might be trapped in some tight spot where the water couldn’t dislodge it. And there could be other evidence. A knife in the glove box would be nice. The blade could be matched to the wounds.”

  “Ooh, hair and fibers,” PJ said. “CSI St. Louis.”

  “That stuff’s important. Jurors watch CSI, too. They expect all that crap.”

  “I’ll bet when the prosecution doesn’t trot it out, jurors feel like the case isn’t strong, even if that feeling is subconscious.”

  “You’d have a winning bet. Detectives and techs are collecting more evidence, too, because more can be done with it. Storage areas are ready to pop. Got any room in your basement you’d like to rent out?”

  “Not for the kind of material you’re thinking about.” She thought about Arlan’s body parts taking up residence next to her washer and dryer. PJ’s cellphone rang. It was Jasmine Singer.

  “We have more to discuss,” Jasmine said. “When can you be in Hannibal?”

  “Can’t we do this by phone?” PJ said.

  “No.”

  She looked at her watch. “All right, I can make it by one this afternoon.”

  Jasmine hung up with a decisive click.

  “That woman’s getting to me,” PJ said. “But I can’t wait to hear what she has to say.”

  “Why don’t we leave now, then?” Schultz said.

  “Lilly is coming over to pick up Thomas in twenty minutes. The boys are going to a movie this afternoon, then back to her house.”

  “And that keeps us from leaving because?”

  “Because we’ll be all alone in the house.”

  “Oh.”

  She came around the table, stood between his legs, and wrapped her hands around his neck. She pulled close to him and kissed the top of his head tenderly. His face was buried in her breasts, and his hands clasped her hips and then began exploring.

  She pulled away.

  “Hey, come back here. I was having a good time.”

  “Me, too, but Thomas is going to come roaring through the kitchen in about fifteen minutes, wanting to know when his movie starts and probably wanting to borrow money.”

  “That gives us ten minutes.”

  “Why settle for that when we can have two hours?” She rubbed her hand between his legs, feeling the stirring inside his clothing.

  “Keep doing that, and we’ll be all done in two minutes.”

  PJ was planning to use the drive time to Hannibal to have a Relationship Talk with Schultz, when he was trapped and couldn’t get away for a couple of hours. It didn’t seem like the right time, though. Their lovemaking had been languid and mellow, and that time was an island in a turbulent sea of grim events. She didn’t want to spoil the afterglow with questions, so they rode in silence.

  Could be I don’t want to hear the answers.

  She hadn’t taken the route along the Mississippi. Gray clouds hung in pendulous layers and ahead of her, she could see a dark haze that meant rain was falling. The temperature held in the mid-thirties but the roads would be icy by nightfall. It was hard to believe that above those gloomy clouds the sun was shining. PJ switched on her headlights and glanced at Schultz, who was watching the scenery so intently he could have been counting telephone poles. He was wearing his neutral face, the one he fell into when he was alone. In every line of that face, PJ could see his deep concern for the murder victims in his cases. The vulnerable people, the ones who died frightened, helpless, and in pain. The face reflected in the passenger’s window was marked with those deaths, the whole collection of them he’d dealt with in his career as a homicide detective.

  It was the way her face would be, years from now. She suddenly realized that Schultz must do the same thing she did: replay the scenes in his mind, reconstructing a victim’s last hours or minutes, bearing witness to what the killer did on behalf of humanity. Hers was facilitated by her scenarios. His came from within. On the deepest level of their being, she and Schultz were the same.

  She reached over and squeezed his hand. “I love you,” she said for the first time.

  The guard at Riverview Elder Care asked for Schultz’s gun, pointing to the prominently displayed Absolutely No Weapons Permitted sign on the front doo
r. Schultz showed his badge and then ignored the man. PJ reminded herself not to take him with her the next time she went to see an ambassador.

  The marble lobby and leather chairs held no charms for PJ this time. The solarium was empty and dim, with rain pounding on its expansive skylights. Rhonda had the look of a woman who needs to eat more bran, and Jasmine’s luxurious office seemed pretentious.

  Jasmine got down to business right away.

  “Detective Schultz, I don’t recall inviting you. You’ll have to wait in reception.” Her finger went for the intercom button to summon Rhonda.

  “You don’t need Rhonda,” PJ said. “He’s staying, or we’re both going.”

  Jasmine’s finger stopped in midair. Her mouth looked for a moment like she’d sucked on a lemon. Then a smile took the place of the sour face. “You’re welcome to stay, Detective. Didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot. Your presence merely took me by surprise.”

  Schultz tipped an imaginary hat. “No sweat. I often get that response.”

  Jasmine shifted her chair to marginalize Schultz.

  She sees me as sympathetic. Or she doesn’t like men. Or doesn’t like this man.

  With Schultz taking the snub unusually well, PJ didn’t waste any time. She could be as direct as Jasmine.

  “In our last conversation, you implied that there was more to April’s story than you were willing to tell me,” PJ said. “So let’s have it. If you’re just going to claim ‘family secrets’ again, this will be a short visit.”

  Ignoring the jab, Jasmine tented her hands beneath her chin and began to talk. “I believe we left off at the point where I said that April was conceived as a result of rape. My sister Virginia was sexually abused by our father, Marshall Crane. There had been an incestuous relationship, first with me as the older sister, and then with Virginia, who was nine years younger than I. Father had a thing for being a virgin buster, to be crude about it. He moved on when a girl got stale for him. Unfortunately, Virginia got pregnant before he lost interest in her. I think she was sixteen when April was born, or just turned seventeen. Virginia had a sweetheart, a young man of modest means whose biggest virtue was that to the day he died, he believed April was his daughter.”

  “Henry Winter and the shotgun wedding,” PJ said.

  “Yes. Virginia had sex with Henry when she was already six weeks pregnant. She did love him, but she was also a practical woman. He thought the baby was born a little early.”

  “So Virginia has her baby under the bonds of matrimony. I presume Marshall left her alone after that.”

  “Of course. She was stale goods, remember?”

  Schultz snorted in disgust. Jasmine flicked her eyes in his direction, but only for a moment.

  A family where pride and social status trumps the welfare of its children. The burden of protecting the secret fell to May. No wonder she lied to me about having an older sister.

  “April was a difficult child from the beginning, but her parents adored her and made excuses for her odd behavior.”

  “Odd in what way?” PJ asked.

  “Many ways. Even before schizophrenia took over April’s life, she had violent tendencies and zero impulse control. I told you about Elissa Nevers’s death. I omitted the murder before that.”

  “Let me take a wild guess. Marshall went after fresh flesh.”

  “How right you are. April was abused once, that we knew of, at age fourteen. She didn’t get pregnant, thank God for little favors. After that, April was bent on revenge. I believe some of Marshall’s pieces were never found.”

  “And the family covered this up.”

  “Yes. The story was that Marshall died in a dreadful accident overseas. Exploring in New Guinea and never came home. There was some kernel of truth in it. At least he had traveled there the year before. No one was very fond of Marshall, not even his wife,” Jasmine said. Raising her eyebrows, she said, “Especially his wife Caroline. She’s the one who bribed the police to accept the overseas disappearance story.”

  At the mention of bribery and police in the same sentence, Schultz spoke up. “Do you know who was involved in that? Wrongs can still be righted.”

  “Believe me, Detective, it’s something that doesn’t need to be stirred up.”

  “But—” he said.

  Jasmine rode right over his voice. “Caroline set up a trust fund for her murderous granddaughter, fifty million dollars, supposedly. I guess it was her way of atoning for what her wretched husband had done. April came into her trust fund when she turned eighteen, and being the paranoid person that she was, immediately divided the money and established different methods of accessing it. Did I mention she was too smart for her own good? I’ve cut off three different paths to that money, but only accounted for a measly ten million or so. April has a lot of money at her disposal. She could easily hire someone to kill for her, but she wants to do it herself.”

  “So Marshall’s murder bore similarities to Arlan’s?” PJ asked. “You mentioned pieces?”

  “From what I’ve been able to find out about it, yes. If you look at family photos, Arlan has an uncanny resemblance to Marshall. They could have been father and son.”

  That’s why so much planning went into Arlan’s death. She was killing her abuser all over again.

  “Frank Simmons’s death showed no reenactment of revenge,” PJ said.

  “If I had to hazard a guess on that one, I’d say April was trying, probably still is, to frame her sisters,” Jasmine said. “If that doesn’t work, I don’t know what she’ll do. She’s a loose cannon.”

  PJ and Schultz looked at each other, knowing they were thinking the same thing: Shower Woman, hired to cast doubt on June’s alibi, and then killed for her efforts. Lights were coming on in PJ’s mind, illuminating the dark motives for the string of murders.

  Arlan Merrett spent four days with April, and in her mind, he was Marshall all over again. What a living hell that must have been for him.

  “April’s lashing out at her sisters,” PJ said, “because they lived a comfortable, unfettered life, while she rotted away in storage.”

  Schultz was nodding. “You do realize, Ms. Singer, that you’re in grave danger? I imagine you’re next on April’s to-do list.”

  There was a sudden change in Jasmine’s attitude. She’d been her usual imperious self, accustomed to having her wishes materialize into reality. At the mention that she was a prime target, the shell she lived in was crushed, and inside there was a frightened woman. In seconds, Jasmine’s eyes overflowed and tears charted a path through her makeup.

  I could almost feel sorry for her. She’s just reaping what she sowed thirty years ago.

  Jasmine pulled a tissue from a box on her desk, dabbed at her eyes, and pursued the drops on her cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was almost back to normal.

  “I worried that someday this might happen,” Jasmine said. “It was the price I paid for preserving the family name. It was my burden, and after me, it would be May’s. Although I had thought that April would have an unfortunate drug overdose before May had to take up the mantle.”

  “So May knows nothing about this?”

  “No, other than what she heard and experienced as a child, before April’s ‘riding accident.’ May definitely believes her older sister is dead.”

  PJ had heard enough. Jasmine was self-centered enough to believe that she was the one who’d paid a price. What about April, who should have gone on trial for the first murder she committed, of the man who raped her? What about all the people April had killed since that time? She would never have served a day in prison after her first murder. A high-powered attorney would have gotten her time in a treatment facility, which she surely needed. Excellent treatment might have alleviated April’s rage and lessened the effect of her schizophrenia. Or not. At least she would never have had the chance to kill again, and again.

  “I think we need to get going,” PJ said. “There’s a lot to do, based on what you told us. I would s
uggest hiring a lot of extra security, Jasmine, and notifying the police here.”

  I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long.

  “I have a couple of questions before we go,” Schultz said. “What connection would April have to the murders of Loretta Blanchette, Bernard Dewey, and the Royalviews?”

  Jasmine considered. “Blanchette was a teacher April had at summer camp. I remember the name because my sister got an unflattering report about April’s performance at the camp. The rest, I don’t know.”

  “Why are you telling us all this if your motivation for years has been to protect your family’s secrets?” Schultz said. “With a pedophile and a serial killer as ornaments on the family tree, I doubt that you’re going to be in demand for teas, golf dates, and charity events. May and June are going to experience the fallout, too.”

  Jasmine fastened her eyes on her desktop and didn’t speak for a long time, long enough for Schultz to start fidgeting in his chair.

  “I would like to say that I’m unburdening my soul in the face of death, Detective. But it’s nothing so lofty,” Jasmine said. “The fact is that our roles are reversed now, April and I. She’s free and I’m trapped in this facility. I don’t dare leave. She’s probably out there now, waiting for her chance and gloating. And that pisses me off; after all I did for her.”

  Chapter 50

  FROM MY VANTAGE POINT twenty feet above ground in a majestic old oak, its arms spread wide to embrace me and my purpose, I see Dr. Gray and Detective Schultz leave. Snow falls gently on their bare heads, in Schultz’s case, literally bare, and gives them crowns of six-sided stars. Snow dusts their shoulders as they walk to Dr. Gray’s new car. Even the obscene redness of the car is muted by the floating snow, as though Mother Nature is embarrassed by the Freudian display. You’d think a psychologist would pick up on that, but it must be true that the plumber’s faucets always leak.

  They take the time to brush the snow off the car, passing the scraper from one to the other, in a long reach across the windshield that reminds me of Michelangelo’s painting on the roof of the Sistine Chapel, the one where God reaches out his hand to Adam. Since Adam is naked and equipped, he would have to be Schultz. That leaves Dr. Gray as God. As I watch, they shift into being those characters and back again.