by J. L. Salter
Arnie looked over at Shane, who was monitoring closely. “Probably better have your regular doctor look at those... I mean, that injury area.” He exhaled softly. “Unless there’s any blood.”
Beth turned around discreetly and opened the sweater enough to examine her own chest. She had not realized Jeff was directly behind her. His eyes bulged slightly at the sight and he quickly averted his gaze. Beth cleared her throat and addressed Arnie again. “Looks like some bruising mainly. No broken skin, as best I can tell.”
With new gloves, Arnie turned to Shane and cleaned and dressed the gouge along his trapezius muscle. After examining the knife wound just above Shane’s right elbow, Arnie was puzzled that it wasn’t bleeding more. “Must not be as deep as it looks. It probably should be stitched, but I don’t do that. I can close it up with Steri-Strips and you’ll need to check at the ER about stitches.” Arnie shifted his attention. “Nothing to do about the busted lip unless you want that stuff that closes it up but stings like crazy. And there’s too many small cuts on your face for me to handle.” He shrugged and then peered again. “Most don’t look too deep... just keep ‘em clean and they’ll heal up. The bruises should go away after a few days... or a week. Depends on what you were hit with.”
“Felt like brass knucks, but it was mostly just his fists. But this area’s real sore.” Shane removed his broken phone and pointed to his sternum, which Arnie felt carefully and none too gently.
The pressure elicited several groans, but the medic found nothing specific. “Does it interfere with your breathing?”
“I guess not... it’s just sore. He kicked like a mule.”
“When does it hurt most sharply?”
“Only when I laugh.”
Puzzled expression from Arnie. “Probably just badly bruised.” He instructed Shane to have x-rays the next morning to check for possible hairline fractures.
Finally, with yet another pair of gloves, he got to Jeff’s right wrist. After several yelps of pain from the patient, Arnie said: “You get x-rayed tomorrow, too. I’m thinking bad sprain, but it could be fractured.” He wrapped it tightly with an elastic bandage.
They all thanked Arnie, who shrugged. All in the line of duty. But Connie kissed him and he blushed. After smiling at Beth, Connie stayed close to Arnie, who phoned the hospital to see if the ambulance carrying Kaser and Ricks had arrived. It had already covered the mile distance.
Shane, Beth, and Jeff clustered in the corporal’s work space. It looked like all three had been in a complicated car wreck.
James finally returned to his desk, which had never been surrounded by that many chairs before. He seemed slightly disoriented. “I cleared up the flashlight thing, but your other crime is a federal matter.” He shook his head at Jeff. “Sergeant Travis can’t touch it.”
Shane started to interrupt, but James shushed him. “If this guy is an ex-spook like you say, maybe the Feds will be so glad to get him they’ll forget about your friend filing a false report of a bomb threat.”
Travis cleared his throat loudly as he approached, waving two pieces of paper fresh from his printer. “Somebody said this fella killed an old lady named Ross…” He checked one of the pages. “In L.A. a few days ago.”
“Yeah, she was whacked on the head, but it was first thought to be an accident.” Jeff stood and moved closer. “One of my context searches crunched out a link to a story in the L.A. Times. Murdered on Friday, I think.”
Travis took a deep breath and adjusted his heavy belt with his free hand. “Well, it ain’t murder after all.”
“You can’t mean it was an accidental bludgeoning.” Beth’s volume was much louder than she’d intended.
The sergeant’s expression looked like he was dealing with idiots. “Paper got it wrong. Mizz Ross ain’t dead.”
“Huh?” Beth and Jeff asked in unison.
“Here, you read it.” Travis handed one of the pages to Jeff. A printout of a newspaper’s Internet article.
“Says it’s an update with corrections... posted a few hours after the one I’d read.” Jeff grinned. “So she’s not dead. Wow.”
Beth snatched that page and read it quickly. The smile nearly split her injured face. “Her housecat went next door and created enough ruckus to bring over a neighbor. Helana Harte Ross had been left for dead…and apparently looked it…but was actually still alive. Barely.”
Shane reached for the page. “Must’ve been some real fast response by 9-1-1... and some fancy work from the EMT guys.”
Arnie and Connie came over to learn what had everybody so excited. Arnie got the article from Shane. “Oh, you’d be surprised. Lots of times people look deader than a possum, but you find a light pulse and real shallow breathing. Sometimes you can get ‘em back.”
“She must be a tough ol’ bird.” Shane chuckled. “Probably a lot like Miss Lynette.”
Everyone was deeply gratified to learn that the granddaughter had actually survived the attack by Kaser. Shane couldn’t believe the pro was careless enough to leave before being certain the victim was dead.
Connie and Arnie drifted away. The others resumed their seats and kept passing the article around. It was a miracle and they could hardly believe it.
While the corporal filled out forms, some on paper and some on the newly-booted computer screens, he had the witnesses go over everything again. The way he appeared not to be listening, it seemed as though James wanted their verbal reports merely for background noise. But when he’d stop to ask questions, it was evident he’d actually retained quite a bit.
A patrolman brought over a small briefcase and what looked like a typical TV tray which held the loose evidence James had collected from the perpetrators. Sergeant Travis had just signed off on an inventory sheet.
“Is that from Ricks or Kaser?” Beth pointed.
The corporal pulled the tray close to his chair and arranged the items in two stacks. “This is from the druggie.” He indicated the much smaller pile, mainly a ratty billfold and several small plastic bags which likely held drugs. “And this is the spook’s.” Not counting the bulging briefcase on the floor, Kaser’s stack was about ten inches high. Near the top were a couple of small, hand-addressed envelopes obviously with contents, a few old-looking papers, an ammo clip, a wallet, and some keys.
“Kaser had all that with him?” Beth craned her neck.
“Most was in his SUV, which was parked across the street from the hotel.” James held up the keys. “These were in his pocket. The other patrolman pressed the emergency button to see if his car was nearby. Then he searched it.”
“Don’t you need a warrant for that?” Jeff might have been a legal librarian.
“Technicality.” James shrugged. “He’s killing people in the hotel and his car is across the street. Probable cause.”
“So what’s in that stack?” Beth reached toward it.
The corporal quickly shielded the briefcase, extra folders, and loose items. “Can’t let you near it—criminal evidence. Bagged and tagged.” Actually it was neither. “Only the lab gets to see it.”
“You guys have a lab?” Beth couldn’t hide her surprise.
James looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, actually, we tote stuff over to Nashville once a week.”
“Can you at least hold up a few pieces of evidence and just let us look?” Jeff demonstrated. “We won’t get within two feet.”
Beth clutched the officer’s elbow. “Please?”
Something about her plaintive voice, or perhaps her cuts and bruises, seemingly convinced Corporal James to relent. “Okay. But anybody touches anything and my Taser might go off by accident.”
Ignoring the contents of the briefcase, James held up each loose item, in turn. Most of it was maps, lists, and what looked like genealogical charts. When he got to the individually named folders, everyone wanted to see the one for Helana Ross. James went through it rather quickly. Beth stopped him at a discolored piece of folded paper with a sketch on one panel. From the les
s faded edges, it seemed to have been in a frame at one time. James held up the artwork of an old woman, seated, with a young girl on her lap. After they all examined the drawing, James unfolded the page twice and revealed nearly a full page of handwritten text on the verso.
Jeff looked closely. “Page eight of the Jones manuscript!” He ought to know, since he’d so thoroughly examined the first seven leaves.
With tears in her eyes, Beth hugged Jeff’s left side. “The missing page to the story!”
“We’ve got to read this.” When Jeff scooted his chair closer, he yelped from the pain in his wrist.
“Get any closer and it goes in the evidence bag... folded.” James was adamant, but he did stand up so they could hover more closely over the missing piece to the ancient story.
Shane just remembered something important. “Where’s the overni... ?”
Beth elbowed him. “Shh!” Then she stood on tiptoes and whispered. “In the trunk of my Shadow. Ricks never brought the suitcase inside ‘cause he was too busy manhandling me.”
Shane smiled down at her and whispered back: “And it’s only evidence if they get their hands on it.”
She placed a finger to his cut lips.
“What are you two doing?” James eyed them skeptically.
“Just trying to remember some details of that hanging story.” Beth gripped Jeff’s uninjured hand to keep him silent.
“Well, you gonna look this over... or not?”
All three peered as best they could, but were not able to discern much. The ink was faded nearly as badly as that on the first page had been.
“That antique handwriting is the pits.” Beth clutched Jeff’s left arm. “Did you catch anything?”
He shook his head sadly. “But I’m dead sure this piece holds most of the information we need.”
James folded that leaf and placed it on the stack. Then he held one of the two letters pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Hurry up. Can’t spend all night on show an’ tell.”
Beth squinted. “Does Ethel Slate Bier mean anything to you?”
“Slate was the real name of the dead guy in Hickman, wasn’t it?” Jeff cradled his wrist.
“Yeah. So why is his daughter or remarried widow writing to Miss Lynette?”
Jeff closed his eyes a moment. “Or his granddaughter. Can you make out the date?”
“No, but with that stamp it has to be the dark ages.” Beth shrugged.
“Two cents.” Jeff calculated. “That would be from the early forties, probably.”
Beth asked Corporal James when the evidence would be available for their examination.
“Up to the D.A. And depending on how much trouble that druggie got in... part of the case might be moved somewhere.”
“Extradited?” Jeff.
“Judges and lawyers.” James sighed heavily. “They make up all the rules.”
Shane wedged in between the other two. “Wait. You said this stuff was from Kaser. Where will his trial be?”
James took his seat again and shooed everyone back to their own chairs. Then he leaned forward and spoke in low volume. “Ex-spooks don’t get trials.” He shook his head. “At least not the kind you’d ever think of. You might call it a tribunal of sorts. But it’s closer to the old fashioned Admiral’s Mast... no juries, no rules of evidence, no press. That spook came out of nowhere and that’s where he’s headed back to.”
“So we’re never going to know what this was all about?” New tears in Beth’s eyes.
“Look, I’ll do what I can with the D.A. before the Feds get here. But no promises.”
Shane pressed ahead. “What about the letters? Maybe that Slate relative could shed some light on why Miss Lynette’s granddaughter was targeted for murder.”
The corporal was already shaking his head. “If that’s so, then it would be Exhibit A on the attempted murder charge. Sorry.”
Beth clutched the officer’s fleshy hand. “At least one person killed and another one nearly died... for something. I got kidnapped and we all got the stuffing kicked out of us... for something. And we never get to find out what it’s all about? Why this spook—or whatever he is—hired Ricks and the other thief? Why he lured Shane to the hotel?” Tears streamed down her cheeks onto James’ desktop. “We’ll never know?”
“I’m sorry, honey. I’d lose my pension if I mess with this evidence and screw up their case.”
Shane groaned. “Just let us read the two letters. You can hold on to the pages if you want.”
The corporal leaned back in his chair. “Tell you what I will do.” He looked around the squad room and lowered his voice again. “That evidence got wet being hauled around in the rain. So I’m gonna spread out a few of these papers on the conference table in there... to dry out. Just being pre-active for the Feds, you understand. I’ll station a patrolman in that room and you can stand near the table and watch ‘em dry.”
Beth hugged him awkwardly and kissed his flabby cheek.
The corporal blushed slightly. “But if you so much as touch a corner... it’s all over.” James gathered up the items and called over the tall patrolman he’d indicated. “They’ll be dry in exactly fifteen minutes, so you watch real quick.”
The corporal fudged slightly in their favor. They were allowed nearly twenty minutes to visually inspect the material.
All three were grateful for being allowed that examination of the letters and, especially, page eight of the manuscript. However, it cleared up only part of the mystery. Shane related the little bit Kaser had revealed: mainly that he was working for a female senate candidate.
When everything they knew was added together, they understood Kaser had been hired to destroy all evidence of the Slate’s family story that Matthew Vernon had actually murdered Frederick Slate and framed Sabert Smith. The 1889 Vernons had to be related to Candidate Nancy Vernon Durocher. But it made no sense that a 122-year-old murder, with the case formally closed, would be so significant to an aspiring politician. And, furthermore, Kaser’s assignment seemingly included terminating everyone who even knew about those items. That was beyond any reasonable plausibility. How could Durocher be desperate enough to hire a spook to kill people over that ancient murder? Who could possibly care after all that time?
It was also clear, finally, that Lynette Harte was connected to the entire cold case murder only by virtue of having heard the Slate tale from a new acquaintance as the actress toured mid-continent with the Harte Dramatic Company. Had Lynette not maintained correspondence with that Slate descendant over the years, it’s unlikely she would have ever appeared on Kaser’s radar at all.
Chapter Fifty
Around 11:45.
Beth exhaled heavily as she finally exited the Police Station; she and Shane paused near her car. She pointed to the combined trunk hatch, which held the overnighter and most of its contents. The diary was still in the McCabes’ vehicle. “You got any particular plans for all that stuff from the dumpster?”
“Hadn’t had much time to think about plans.” Shane scratched his head. “But it’s been with me for a long time.”
Beth lightly placed a hand on his battered mid-section. “If Sergeant Travis is right about that update, Lynette’s granddaughter—Helana—is still alive. She’s a direct descendant... maybe the only one.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“Those mementoes don’t belong up on a dusty shelf in a crowded garage or storage room.” Beth leaned into his left side.
“You’re probably thinking I should pack it all up and send it to the granddaughter.”
Beth smiled and hugged him gently.
“Well, I guess that’s where it belongs.” Shane’s eyes focused on the overnighter. “I’ve actually just been the custodian all these years.”
“The protector.” She rose up on her toes and kissed his injured cheek. “Like a valiant knight.”
“Once we send that away, there’s no trace of those dumpster divers anymore.”
B
eth closed her eyes tightly and took rapid inventory. “Except my lovely chestnut bookcase... but that doesn’t remind me of them. Only of you.”
Shane leaned over and kissed her forehead. It surely hurt his cut lips, but he didn’t appear to mind.
They got into her vehicle and Shane drove to the town square, about a mile east. After he’d parked, both looked up at the moon, finally visible after the prolonged passage of that horrible storm front.
Neither spoke for several moments.
“I keep wishing I’d stayed over at your place on Sunday night. Then Ricks wouldn’t—”
“I know.” Beth’s hand touched his knee. “But, hey, it could’ve been worse... a lot worse. At least he didn’t...” Her voice caught in her throat. Beth’s hands clutched the torn parts of her sweatshirt and nightgown, visible because the borrowed sweater was not buttoned.
When Shane’s upper body turned toward her, she could see the long bandaging on his left upper shoulder. Arnie’s handiwork. It looked like wound material for a burn victim. “Coming up there... you could’ve been killed. By either one of them.”
“Despite everything that’s truly skunk-rotten about Ricks... I don’t think he’s a killer. Not of people anyway.”
“But he sure enjoyed inflicting pain... punishment.”
“Some people do.” Shane patted her hand, still on his knee. “Ricks needs a roomful of shrinks and a long, extreme detox. ‘Course after he’s been everybody’s girlfriend for a few years in prison, he’ll be even more screwed up.”
Beth shuddered at that image. “But Kaser—or whoever he is—would’ve killed both of us.”
“Absolutely. And likely would’ve enjoyed it, for practice.” Shane hunched forward and peered at the moon again. “You know, it’s practically a miracle that we kept Kaser talking long enough. Also, he was distracted by the storm... or something. Usually a pro like that is pretty focused on the assignment.”
“Well, he did say it was the final step of his job. So maybe he just wanted to savor it.”