“He’s an artist, it’s amazing.”
“How technical is what he does? Is it challenging? Would it be easy to make a mistake?”
“There’s a lot to remember. I don’t know how he does it without a checklist, but I guess he’s been doing it for a long time.”
“I’d be fascinated to hear how his process works…do you think you could walk me through it sometime?”
“Well, I don’t know all that much yet. I can only observe when all my other work is done. Sometimes I’m meeting with people for most of my shift.”
“Try to see more…I’m really interested,” Dobbins said with a smile.
“Sure. I am too, I get it,” Tanner nodded.
“Good then, here’s a little something for you. Don’t spend it all in one place,” he said, handing over a fifty dollar bill.
“I won’t. Thanks,” the young man felt strange about accepting the money, but was grateful for it.
CHAPTER 30
* * *
Loose Ends
“I’m sorry, I’ll no longer be requiring your services,” Timothy Eckels said stiffly when Tanner came in to work.
The young man’s eyes grew wide. Not only had he just accepted another payment from Dr. Dobbins, but he was also genuinely fascinated with the work and eager to learn.
“But, why? I looked on the schedule…all of the drawers are full,” he commented, referring to the cold storage. “And we have back to back funerals this week.”
“No, you’re mistaken. I have back to back funerals and full drawers. You have nothing more than a check for services rendered that will be coming in the mail in two to five working days.”
“Did I do something wrong? If I did, I can stay late to fix it,” Tanner implored. “I’m not scheduled at the restaurant tonight, so I’d be able to help you get ahead on some things.”
Tim was surprised at the young man’s reaction. His expression was open and honest, and his desire to help seemed real. The mortician paused, staring thoughtfully at his young assistant.
“Why do you want to keep this job so badly?” he asked.
“First, I need the money. I mean, that’s why everyone works, right? And second, this is really interesting to me, and I might learn something that will help me with my art projects,” Tanner explained, his gaze level.
An inward shudder traveled through Tim, raising the hairs on his neck. Was the young man really admitting that he considered killing and taking trophies from his victims a form of art?
“I brought one of them with me today, if you want to see it. I thought you might like it,” he offered shyly, a deep red blush rising from his neck and reaching to the tips of his ears as he glanced down.
Tim’s mind raced. What did the young man mean? Had he brought a victim with him? Surely not. His curiosity outweighing his caution, he nodded and spoke a bit hoarsely.
“Uh, yes, I’d like to see it.”
“Really?” Tanner looked up, a half-smile quirking one corner of his mouth, as though suddenly his hope had been restored.
“Yes,” the mortician swallowed, dreading what he might see in the next few moments.
“Okay, I’ll go get it out of my car.”
“Can you manage it by yourself?” Tim’s interest was certainly piqued.
Another half-smile from Tanner.
“Yeah, it doesn’t weigh very much at all, and I’m hoping that it won’t be too messy,” he said, heading for the door, entirely unaware that his boss had paled significantly at his word choice.
“Messy?” Tim whispered, watching him go and wondering what he’d soon be seeing.
Snapping on a pair of gloves, just in case, the mortician waited for his assistant to return with his “art project,” whatever that might be. It seemed that the young man was only gone an instant, and when Tim heard Tanner’s footsteps coming effortlessly down the basement stairs, he worked his face into a mask of impassivity.
Tanner was carrying a large black plastic bag, and asked where he should put it. Tim pointed mutely to his draining table, and followed him over to it. The bag was too small to contain an entire human being, and he tried to visualize what sort of stitched-together abomination might be inside. Unconsciously holding his breath, he watched carefully as the young man set the bag down on the table, and began rolling it down from the top, revealing what was inside. He blinked, confused.
“A cat?” the mortician remarked, nonplussed.
“Isn’t he great?” Tanner gazed at the lifeless grey-furred animal with an eerie fondness.
“You do taxidermy.”
“Yep, taught myself,” was the shyly proud response.
“Your work is flawless,” the mortician mused, stepping closer and peering at the cat, who looked as though he’d been flash frozen while leaping to swipe at a toy. The fur was intact, the form was perfect, and the eyes seemed to dance with mischief.
“Thanks,” Tanner looked away, but glowed at the praise from his boss.
“Why?”
“Why what?” the young man was confused.
“Why did you choose this as your art?” Tim wasn’t put off at all, he was fascinated.
“Because animals are beautiful, and just because they die, doesn’t mean that they can’t stay beautiful. See, that’s why I want to know how to do what you do…I can make animals look like they’re still alive, and you make people look like they are. It just seems like a logical progression,” he shrugged.
Timothy examined the cat from multiple angles.
“This is really good work,” he commented, more to himself than the young man standing at the table.
He turned to stare at Tanner, and his gaze seemed far away.
“Okay,” he replied finally. “You can stay. For now.”
**
Sheriff Arlen Bemis slid onto the red pleather upholstery opposite Bradley Dobbins in the corner booth at Herb’s Diner, and the look on his face indicated that bad news might be coming.
“Did you finally get something on the mortician?” Dobbins asked, dipping a corner of buttered white toast into the yolk pooled on his plate.
“No, because he didn’t do it,” the sheriff replied, flagging a server for coffee.
“What are you talking about? Of course he did,” the veterinarian insisted through a mouthful of his breakfast.
“I’m sorry Brad, but it just didn’t play out that way. We found the pair of shoes that matched the footprints found at the scene of the Sorenson girl’s murder, and we arrested the guy.”
Dobbins stopped his attack on his food and stared at Bemis, mouth slightly agape.
“What? Who?” he demanded
“The shoes were thrown in a dumpster behind a grocery store. There’s a homeless guy who sleeps back there most nights, and when the shoes were picked up, it didn’t take a genius to notice that the guy had no shoes on. They were his size and DNA in the shoes matched his DNA. There was trace evidence of the victim’s blood on the shoes, and the guy had no alibi. It doesn’t get much clearer than that,” Arlen shrugged, taking a slug of his coffee.
“It’s gotta be a setup,” Bradley’s eyes narrowed. “Eckels is too smart. He set the guy up. He probably took the shoes, wore them to commit the crime, then threw them away near the homeless guy’s spot so they’d be found and the homeless guy would be blamed,” he theorized, his eyes taking on a desperate look.
“That theory might hold water, except for one important detail,” the sheriff replied, trying to hold on to his patience.
“What detail?” the vet demanded.
“The homeless guy’s shoes were a size nine. Eckels wears a ten and a half. There’s no way that he would have been able to cram his feet into those shoes, much less wear them on a trek through the woods.”
“Maybe he didn’t put them on until he got to the crime scene.”
Bemis shook his head.
“Nope, our tracking expert traced the path that was taken all the way back to where the perp entered the wo
ods with the victim. He had to have found her while she was walking home from school. The shoe prints were consistent.”
“Was he wearing the shoes when he left the body? Were there prints found that led away from the crime scene?”
“Yep, and the shoes were still on his feet.”
Dobbins sat back and ran a hand through his hair in frustration.
“There has to be more to this story, I just know it. And this homeless guy can’t be the one who attacked me. The person who attacked me smelled clean, like they’d taken a shower and then hugged a woman. Or killed one. I’m going to get to the bottom of this Arlen, and when I do, Eckels is going down,” he gritted his teeth.
“Leave it alone, Brad,” the sheriff said tiredly. “We’ve got our guy, and life will be a lot safer in Pellman from now on.”
“Have you tied the homeless guy to the other murders?” the veterinarian challenged.
“It’s only a matter of time.”
CHAPTER 31
* * *
The Cat and the Canary
Susannah Eckels smiled a predatory smile. The news that a suspected serial killer had been caught, while he slept behind the grocery store, had been splashed all over the morning paper, and was being talked about on the radio and in every barbershop and café all over Pellman. They’d fallen for it, even giving the killer the nickname “The Skinner,” which cracked her up. She’d set up the homeless guy as the murderer, and they’d bought it, hook, line and sinker. The clever killer had made certain that, while blood at the crime scene had been minimal, since she’d killed Abigail before taking her art materials, she’d had the foresight to smear just a tad of it on the homeless guy’s shoes. His life would probably be better in prison anyway, at least he’d have three square meals a day and access to a shower and clean clothes. Better him than her.
Pondering what she wanted to do about Tanner, whether to kill him or not, Susannah went about her day in a good mood. Not only had she fooled local law enforcement into apprehending an innocent man for her crimes, but now, they’d be relaxed, thinking that there would be no more murders, which would free her up to make more mischief in her quest for new materials.
She was sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper and her breakfast, when Tim came in and sat down across from her, his bowl of cereal in hand.
“Good morning Timmy,” she said, with a satisfied smile, before going back to reading the paper.
“Hi. Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked, leaving his spoon resting in the cereal.
“Okay.” Despite her positive mood, she was always a bit wary when Tim wanted to talk about something.
The mortician was brighter than he appeared, and missed nothing, which made it very difficult to be a serial killer living under his roof.
“I talked to Tanner yesterday…” he began, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention.
“Really? About what?” she interrupted, putting the paper down and suddenly showing an intense interest in her piece of buttered toast with strawberry jam.
“Well, he has this…hobby. He does things with animals.”
Susannah stared at him, wondering where he was going with this.
“He does taxidermy, right?” she asked.
“Yes, exactly, and he’s really good at it.”
“Okay.”
“So, I was thinking…I may have been a bit premature in saying no when you asked me about helping people with their animals.”
A gleam of interest flickered in her eyes.
“What are you saying, Timmy?” she asked, munching on her toast and hoping that what she thought he meant was actually what he meant.
“I…I think that maybe…I’d be willing to help those pet owners, and if they want to preserve the memory of their pet, I could do what Tanner does.”
“You want to learn taxidermy?” Susannah grinned, she couldn’t help herself.
“I think it’s a fitting way to pay tribute,” he blinked at her.
“I couldn’t agree more. So you’ll…take care of people’s pets then?”
“In extreme cases, where the animal is suffering, yes,” he nodded solemnly.
“Oh Timmy, that’s so sweet of you,” Susannah reached out impulsively and squeezed his hand, positively giddy.
She looked at his willingness to snuff the animation out of animals as a good start. With any luck, she’d be able to eventually introduce him to the realms in which she lived and breathed. This baby step that her husband was taking might just be the start that he needed to join her in ridding the world of overbearing, ill-mannered, abusive men. If not, perhaps he’d at least be willing to accept her hobby and help her to hide from those who would take exception to it. A “serial killer” had been apprehended, and her mild-mannered husband was taking up euthanasia and taxidermy…it was shaping up to be a banner day.
**
Susannah was still smiling when she arrived at Le Chateau for the lunch hour. Andre and the prep cooks were already hard at work, and she dovetailed into their fully functioning food production vibe as though she were merely a cog in a well-oiled machine. Tanner was working at the vet clinic today, so she wouldn’t be able to share her good news with him yet, but her rosy new outlook had her reconsidering whether or not she’d have to kill him.
The kitchen was running like a dream, and production was flawless until the General Manager came in and whispered in Andre’s ear. The Head Chef’s face fell, as though he was simultaneously disappointed and horrified. The manager and the chef both glanced at her and continued talking. A feeling of dread began to uncurl in the pit of Susannah’s stomach, so she threw herself into her tasks with renewed vigor, knowing that if she looked rattled, whatever suspicions they might have would be easier to confirm. The manager left, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief, that was unfortunately short-lived. After the lunch rush was over, Andre motioned for her to follow him into the office.
“Sit down,” he said gravely, sinking into the chair across the desk from her.
“I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office,” she attempted to joke, but it fell woefully flat. “What’s going on?”
Andre looked pained, and stared at the desk for a moment before responding.
“There’s been a complaint…” he said finally.
“A complaint? About what?” Susannah frowned. No one had ever, EVER, complained about her food.
“Do you have pets?” the Head Chef asked, inexplicably.
“What?”
“Pets. Do you have pets at home?”
She shook her head. “No, why?”
“It seems as though a dish that you prepared for one of last week’s lunches was virtually teeming with animal hair, according to the gentleman who called in the complaint,” Andre wrinkled his nose, clearly appalled at the thought.
“That’s absurd. I’m not even in contact with animals, there’s no way that could have happened, and even if it had, the garnish guys and the servers check this dishes thoroughly before they go out, they would’ve caught that.”
“That was my thought, but now we have this complaint,” Andre sighed, frowning.
“When did he complain?” Susannah tried to keep her voice from shaking with anger.
“This morning, I believe.”
“He had hair in his lunch last week and he waited until this morning to complain? Don’t you find that the least bit odd? Does he have a picture of the hair?”
“Yes, I do find it odd, but apparently he’s a busy man. I don’t believe that he has photos of the hairs,” the Chef shrugged.
“Who is this busy man?” Susannah growled.
“Ironically enough, he’s the town veterinarian,” Andre sighed, as Susannah’s blood ran cold.
“Bradley Dobbins?” she whispered, eyes narrowed.
“The very same.”
“He’s made me go out to the dining room twice recently so that he could thank me, and now he’s complaining about animal hair
in the food? How does he know that the hair didn’t fall off of him and into the food?”
“I have no idea. All I know is that we have a formerly happy customer, who is now an unhappy customer.”
“Wait a minute…there’s a reason for this. What does he want?”
“An apology. The very next time that he comes in. And he wants you to cook him a “decent” meal.”
Susannah’s blood boiled. The vet had hit her where it hurts. Say what you will about her life, her appearance, any number of things, and she could shrug it off without a second thought, but criticize about her cooking and you might just end up missing a limb or two…if you’re lucky.
“How does he presume to know that I’m the one who cooked the meal?” she asked through her teeth.
“He asked.”
“So he had enough time to ask who cooked it, but not enough time to make a complaint?”
“Some people prefer not to be confrontational. They would rather call in later than address it when they’re upset.”
“What if I don’t apologize?” Susannah bit her cheek to try to keep a lid on her temper.
“I would not advise that,” Andre sighed.
“What if I don’t apologize?” she repeated, shaking with anger.
“You’ll most likely be fired.”
“Fired?”
“Fired,” he nodded. “This is a relatively small community, and he’s already made noises about going public with the story if you don’t make it up to him.”
“Bastard,” Susannah fumed.
“Agreed. However, he is a high profile bastard, so there is some ass-kissing required here,” Andre looked at her pointedly.
“I don’t ass-kiss,” she muttered.
“You can either kiss ass once and go about your business here, or you can refuse, and try to find another Assistant Chef position in this town,” Andre replied, ever the realist. “I hate this as much as you do, Susannah, but it is the reality of being in a consumer-driven industry. An apology is in order, and you will apologize. Are we in agreement?” he raised an eyebrow.
The Quiet Type Page 15