Mr. Sandman: A Thrilling Novel

by Lyle Howard

  Lance sipped slowly and methodically as he watched Toby continue to poke at the charred fingers with the tip of his pencil. “So if it’s not spontaneous combustion, what do you think it could be?”

  Toby leaned back and put the eraser end of the pencil into his mouth, rolling it between his lips like a cigar. “You’re saying all the victims did was stroke the animal’s fur before they erupted into flames?”

  Lance nodded. “According to all the witnesses, that’s all that happened. First, it was a dog a week ago, and now a cat.”

  Toby scratched at his opened collar. “Have you checked with the people at Animal Control?”

  “It’ll be my first stop in the morning.” Toby tapped the rubber eraser against his bottom teeth.

  “The towels in both cages were analyzed?”

  “Soaked in plain water … H20.”

  Toby looked down at the incinerated hand. “Damn.”

  “So what do you think?”

  Toby pouted. “We deal only in certitudes here, Cutter. I don’t want to make any rash speculations. Something must have gotten onto the victim’s skin and somehow ignited.” He stared upward at the ceiling, absorbed in his own supposi­tions. “The wet towel has to mean something, too.”

  Lance pointed at the lifeless hand. “So, what’s your first option?”

  Toby lifted the bag off the desk and walked it over to a tiny refrigerator he had sitting on an end table next to a coffee maker. He opened the door and slipped the bag next to a two-day-old egg salad sandwich his wife had made that he somehow forgot to eat. “I want to run a scraping from the hand through a gas chromatograph to check for any residue from foreign chemicals. I’ll bet we find something that shouldn’t be there.”

  Lance sat up excitedly. “Alright, now we’re getting somewhere!”

  Toby shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We don’t have a gas chromatograph here. Not many police departments do. It’s a very expensive piece of equipment.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  Toby squeezed back into the chair behind his desk. “I’m saying that I’ll have to send the specimen to Los Angeles for analysis. I’d send it to New York, but I’m afraid they would lose it.”

  Lance couldn’t hide his disappointment. “So how long is this going to … “

  His sentence was interrupted by the ringing of the phone on Toby’s desk. As Toby walked back to answer it, he continued to explain his thoughts aloud. “If I can get the sample out in the express mail within the next hour,” he said, looking at his wristwatch, “I should have the results in two or three days, tops. The head of forensics in L.A. is an old convention buddy of mine. I think I can pull in a marker for you.”

  Toby picked up the receiver and nodded a few times before handing the phone across the desk to Lance. “It’s for you.”

  Toby watched as Lance’s eyes grew deadly serious the moment he put the receiver up to his ear. Then, just as the setting sun gives way to the oppressive night, a darkening gloom enveloped Lance’s face. Toby clasped his fingers together and leaned forward pensively, waiting to be told whatever bad news Lance was hearing. “Is Brad going to be okay?” Toby heard Lance ask. “Will he be up to answering questions? What room is he in?” Lance motioned for Toby to hand him his pencil. “Room 314 … got it.”

  Toby could see Lance’s hand trembling as he jotted down the number on a piece of scrap paper. “No, I’ll talk to him in the morning,” Lance continued, “let him get a good night’s rest … if he can.”

  Toby could see the true concern in Lance’s unique eyes. It was a sight he didn’t observe too often in this building.

  “Beep me if there’s any change in his condition. I’ll leave it on all night,” Lance instructed. “Okay, I’ll see you there tomorrow,” Lance said, finishing his conversation and hand­ing the receiver back to Toby.

  “What’s the matter?” Toby asked.

  “There’s been a third incident.”

  Toby was flabbergasted. “You’re kidding me? While we’ve been sitting here talking?”

  Lance shook his head. “No, about an hour ago.”

  “Same everything? The pet carrier and all?”

  Lance nodded. “Only this time, I know the victim.”

  Toby covered his mouth. “Oh, my God.”

  “It was the fiancé of a firefighter I used to work with.”

  “Male or female?” Toby inquired.

  “The victim was a female. I can’t believe it! I was just with the poor guy … not two hours ago!” Lance hung his face in his hands. “I was there when he left the station to meet her at their new apartment on the beach.”

  “Miami Beach?” Toby asked.

  Lance nodded.

  “That means they’ll be bringing the body here. She’ll probably be on my list by the morning, no doubt.”

  Lance tilted his head back and tried to contain his sorrow. “I can’t believe it! An hour after Brad left the station, the woman he was planning to spend the rest of his life with bursts into flames and then takes a swan dive off the seventh floor!”

  Toby had to struggle to block out the emotion of the moment. “Did your friend see it all happen?”

  Lance frowned. “I don’t know; they took him to South Broward Medical Center.”

  “With burns?”

  “They said a concussion.”

  “A concussion? From what?” Toby asked.

  Lance held up his palms. “Hey, I don’t know. Nothing makes any sense now. All I know is that we’ve got to stop this before it turns into an epidemic.”

  Toby agreed. “I’ll get that specimen out right away,” he said, stepping out from behind his desk. “Will you call me if you need anything else?”

  Lance stood up, but his legs were wobbly. “I will.”

  Toby held out his hand. “Do me a favor and call me tomorrow if the firefighter or anyone at Animal Control can shed any light onto this. If I’m not here, call me at home … please, don’t hesitate.”

  Lance reached out his hand and shook Toby’s warmly. “You’re a good man, Toby.”

  Toby held up his finger to his mouth. “Keep your voice down, Cutter. Someone on my staff might hear you.”

  SEVEN

  Lance leaned against the frame of the door like it was the only thing preventing him from collapsing. It wasn’t the tedious drive back to Fort Lauderdale that had exhausted him; it was more likely his constant mental rehashing of the afternoon’s events. Even though all the gory details were still very nebulous, they persisted to haunt Lance as he had weaved his way in and out of the rush-hour traffic on Interstate 95. Dinner with Julie could be just the prescription he would need to rid his mind of the nagging thoughts.

  When he had first pulled up to his old residence, the house looked the same. Perhaps the lawn could have used a mowing and the cherry hedges a trimming back, but all in all, Julie appeared to be keeping up with the landscaping. That sur­prised Lance; after all, the yard had always been his responsibility.

  “Yo Lance!” a weary voice called from over the nearby fence.

  Lance turned and waved to Harry Kaplan, the widower living next door. “Hey, Harry, what’s happening?” Lance answered, cordially.

  Kaplan pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped the perspiration off his leather-skinned forehead. “Same old, same old, I guess. I sure wish this heat would let up, though.”

  Lance looked beyond Harry to the western horizon where the sun was setting in wondrous hues of pink, orange and purple. “What does it mean when the sky’s on fire like that, Harry?”

  Harry Kaplan had been a meteorologist for the National Weather Service in Coral Gables for thirty-six years before his retirement a year ago. While he was enjoying his leisure time, Lance could sense that the old man still yearned for something more. There was a sadness in Harry’s eyes that was born out of discontentment. After thirty-six years in the same position, at the same desk, in the same office, all Harry had ever asked for was a small bit o
f recognition for a job well done. The fact was: Harry had never strived for advancement. He was a classic underachiever, before any hotshot sociolo­gists ever had attached the fancy label to his idiosyncrasy. He spent his eight-hour days shuffling his charts and papers and eating his brown-bag lunches alone at his dimly lit desk.

  Two days after Harry retired, his supervisor placed a note on his vacant desk informing him that no vacations would be allowed during the peak season of hurricane development. Not a soul in the department was aware that Harry had retired. He was a nonentity, like a threadbare piece of furniture that was always there. No one ever knows how it gets there, it was just always there.

  Now Harry was ordained to spend his days taking care of his property and sitting on his front porch waiting for the mailman to arrive so that he would have someone to talk to.

  When word got to Harry that Lance had moved out of the house, he was crushed. Not because it meant the dissolution of a household, but because Lance was one of the few people that would indulge an old man in an honest conversation without constantly checking their watches. Even though there was something different about Lance that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, Harry really relished his company.

  The old man looked back over his shoulder and contem­plated the early evening sky’s stunning tones. “The Farmer’s Almanac said that we’re due for a big one this month. Maybe this sky is kind of a warning. I’ve never seen colors quite like that.”

  Lance looked at Harry skeptically. “You’re a scientist, Harry. You don’t believe in the Farmer’s Almanac, do you?”

  Harry leaned forward against the chain-link fence and cocked his head backward to catch what little breeze there was against his sweating neck. “I grew up on a farm in Idaho. They trust that book like it was the Bible, I can promise you that.”

  Lance rapped his fist gently on the front door. “So you really believed it?”

  Harry shrugged indifferently. “Well, I’m not going out and spending ten grand on storm shutters if that’s what you mean.”

  Lance knocked harder on the front door. It had been months since he had been here and when he’d left, the doorbell wasn’t working and it still wasn’t. “There hasn’t been a big hurricane here since when, ‘65?”

  Harry nodded. “Betsy.” He wiped his brow again which was suddenly sweaty at the mere mention of that brutal storm’s name. “Now that was a huge one. I’d hate to think of what would happen today if another storm like that ever came ashore here. You’d have these flimsy new houses scattered like matchsticks all over the place. This place would look like World War II.” He shuddered as though an invisible hand had slipped an ice cube down the back of his shirt. “I hate even thinking about it.”

  Lance considered the gruesome scenario, too, but from perspective of the massive rescue and relief effort that would be involved. “I bet it would be awful.”

  Harry pointed in Lance’s direction. “Not trying to change the subject, but are you just visiting?”

  Lance wiggled his hand in a maybe-yes, maybe-no ges­ture. “We’ll see.”

  The front door finally cracked open revealing Julie stand­ing in one of the most fetching outfits Lance could ever remember. Harry whistled like a twenty-year-old construc­tion worker when he caught a glimpse of her. “Good luck!”

  Lance winked at the old man and shot him a thumbs-up as he stepped inside.

  As Lance’s eyes wandered down the length of Julie’s swiveling backside, his mind suddenly forgot about its state of fatigue. He felt rejuvenated again. Julie was wearing a red, low-cut number that hugged her slender figure the way a man overboard would hug a piece of driftwood. Her long red hair smelled as clean as baby powder, and even from ten feet away, Lance wished he could lose himself in its delicate fragrance. Julie stopped when she reached the sofa.

  Everything inside was as Lance had last seen it. There wasn’t a picture or a piece of bric-a-brac that had been thrown out or moved. Even the tattered old recliner that he loved to watch the Monday night football games in was still there. He was confident that she would have given it to the Salvation Army after he had walked out. She had always hated it and wanted to get rid of it even before they broke up. He walked over to the old chair and ran his hand over the towel he always draped over the backrest. “I can’t believe that you didn’t throw this out.”

  Julie turned and licked her full ruby-painted lips. It was the first time that Lance noticed she was holding a glass of wine. “I can’t believe you didn’t take it with you,” she answered.

  “I was in a hurry.”

  She took a sip from her glass and turned away to stare blindly through a set of sliding glass doors into the well-manicured backyard. “Yes, you were.”

  Sensing the sudden tension in the room, Lance decided that he would try a different strategy. “You look beautiful, Julie. I really mean it. You went all-out.” He tried to smile sincerely. “Very nice, I love the dress.”

  Julie took another long swig emptying the glass. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same for you.”

  Lance looked down and suddenly realized that he hadn’t changed out of his uniform. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know where my mind went to this afternoon. You’re absolutely right, I look like a slob.”

  Julie strolled over to the dining room table where a clay thermos was keeping the wine chilled. She poured herself another glass without offering any to her guest. Lance was quick to observe that the bottle was almost empty. “So what are you planning on doing about it?”

  “Do you want me to go to my apartment and change?” he asked obligingly. “I will, if you want me to. Really, it’s no problem at all.”

  Julie pulled a chair away from the head of the glass-topped table and plopped herself down like her rear end was suddenly magnetized to the chair. It was obvious that she was well on her way to becoming a falling-down drunk.

  “Maybe I should make you some coffee,” Lance offered. Julie set the wine glass down, nearly missing the table in the process. “I don’t want any stupid coffee,” she said, her words beginning to slur. “I just want to know why you thought it wasn’t necessary to change out of your uniform before taking me to dinner.”

  Lance grabbed the wine glass and the cooler off of the table and took them into the kitchen. He placed the cooler in the refrigerator and emptied the glass into the sink. “I think you’ve had enough to drink for one night, Julie.”

  Julie put her elbow up on the table and rested her head in her palm. “You’re wrong,” she giggled.

  Lance came back into the room, pulling out a chair and sitting across from her. “I’m not wrong; you’ve had enough for one night.”

  Julie let her mouth droop open. “I beg to differ with you, Lancelot. I’ve had enough for at least a week. That’s my second bottle.”

  Lance shook his head with disappointment. “No wonder it took you so long to answer the door.”

  Julie’s eyelids hung down like they were made of cement. “I heard you knocking, but I had to find the damned thing first.”

  Lance leaned over and ran his hand through her silky red tresses. “I’ve never seen you this way, pumpkin. What’s the matter?”

  Julie’s mouth wrinkled sadly and then began to quiver. “Why didn’t you tell me about Crystal and Brandon when you called from the coroner’s office?”

  “I told you before, Toby is not the coroner.”

  Julie slammed her hand down on the table, making the glass top rattle on its base. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Lance took a deep breath. “I thought it would be better if I told you in person.”

  Julie sniffled. “Manny Garcia called and told me. I can’t believe it.”

  Lance reached out and held Julie’s hand and rubbed the back of it gently. “At least Brandon will be all right. That’s something to be grateful for, isn’t it?”

  Julie pulled her hand away and rubbed it under her nose. “No one should have to die like that. Not even Crystal.”

&nb
sp; Lance got up and walked into the bathroom, returning a few seconds later with a handful of tissues. He handed them to Julie and she nodded appreciatively.

  “What did you mean when you said not even Crystal?”

  “Did I say that?”

  Lance was now afraid that it might have been just the wine talking.

  “You did. You said that no one should die like that, not even Crystal.”

  Julie took one of the tissues and wiped below her eyes. “It’s just that no one really cared for Crystal, that’s all. She was a spoiled little rich bitch. None of us at the station ever saw what Brandon saw in her.”

  “Do you think anyone could have disliked her enough to want her dead?”

  Julie sniffled into the tissue and then looked up at Lance quizzically. “What are you saying? That someone might have killed her deliberately?”

  Lance tapped his fingers on the table top. “When the first case came in, I thought we might have had just some weird phenomenon of nature that had taken place. But then when the second cremation occurred, I pretty much had to rule out old Mother Nature as the culprit. And now, well, I’ve got to cover all of the bases.”

  As though her brain was suddenly fighting off the effects of the alcohol, Julie straightened up in her chair and struggled for sobriety. “What would Crystal Barnes have in common with the banker and the old woman?”

  Lance scratched at his head. “Good question and some­thing that I’ve got to find out.”

  Julie began to shake her feet excitedly. “Do you think that maybe the first two deaths were just a set-up to draw attention away from the killer’s real target?”

  Lance smirked. It was obvious that the wine still had a strong foothold in the thinking center of Julie’s brain. “I think you’ve been reading too many detective novels. You’re seeing conspiracies everywhere.”

  Julie swiped at an errant hair that had fallen across her face. “What, you don’t think that Crystal could have been the real reason those other people were killed? She comes from one of the wealthiest families in Miami! Her father is loaded!”