Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  The medical examiner’s voice crackled in his ear. “Scott—where are you?”

  “On my way home—how about you?”

  “I’m at Phillipe’s. Enjoying my sweet little niece’s wedding reception.”

  Simpson sounds like he’s had a couple of drinks. “Good for you—give the lovely couple my best wishes for a long and happy life.”

  “I’ve already done that.” A pause. “Scott—would you do me a big favor?

  “Maybe.” Parris grinned in the darkness. “If it don’t have anything to do with lending you money.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d come over to Phillipe’s. Right now.”

  “Tell me what for.”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  Silly old goat. “Why can’t you tell me what this is all—”

  “Park on the south side, next to the kitchen entrance. But don’t come inside—walk around back, to the patio. I’ll be waiting for you.” The telephone connection went dead.

  The chief of police did a tight U-turn on the newly wet street, popped a couple of antacid tablets between his teeth, swore he’d retire before this time next year. If I win the lottery.

  3

  Scene of the Crime

  The long strings of multicolored lanterns cast a bizarre tint of unreality onto the restaurant patio, where a large red-and-white table umbrella sheltered the remains from the rain. Scott Parris could not shake the absurd, nagging conviction that this ugly display had been staged for his benefit. It would turn out to be a setup for one of the medical examiner’s tasteless jokes. Any second now, the woman in the black dress and pearls would sit up, smile at him, wipe the tomato paste off her face. Doc Simpson and Phillipe and the bearded guy he didn’t recognize would start laughing their heads off. “April Fool,” they’d say. “We sure had you going there!” But the first of day April was gone with the melted snows that swelled the roaring stream.

  He took a few steps away from the small gathering, dialed dispatch on his cell phone. After appropriate orders had been barked out, the Granite Creek chief of police approached the umbrella, knelt on one knee. This had been a handsome, upper-class woman. The pearls would be the real thing. Another real thing was the small hole in her forehead. The lead bullet had expanded, so the exit wound would be at least an inch wide. He knew this because a yard away was a half-dollar-size fragment of skull, shiny with a smear of brain tissue, a long hank of dark hair attached to a flap of scalp. He braced a hand on his knee, got to his feet with a grunt. “Give me the short version.”

  Dr. Simpson shrugged under his rented tux. “The brief account is the only one I know. I’m inside, enjoying the reception. Phillipe comes over, gives me a nudge and a look. I follow him down the hall, through the kitchen, out the side door by the Dumpster. He tells me something horrible has happened, brings me around here.” He pointed his chin at the body. “I find this lady. Just like you see her. She’s dead, of course.” Simpson continued in a professional monotone, as if he were talking to his microcassette recorder. “The lesion on the forehead has the appearance a small-caliber entry wound. Probably a hollow point, from the damage evident at the exit.” Anticipating the question forming on the policeman’s lips, the medical examiner jerked his head to indicate the second diner. “There was only one other person on the patio. A Mr. Dinko. He’s a dentist.”

  “Orthodontist.” The man stepped forward. “And the name is Blinkoe. Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe.”

  The experienced policeman calibrated the witness in a single glance. About five-eleven, 180 pounds, a good fifty-five years old. Probably closer to sixty. Nearsighted, judging by the thick spectacles. The man’s outstanding physical feature was a forked beard. “What happened here, Mr. Blinkoe?”

  “Doctor Blinkoe, if you please.”

  Parris tried again. “What happened here, Dr. Blinkoe?”

  The man swelled with a deep breath. “Because the wedding reception had booked the main dining room, the lady and myself were dining on the patio. She was seated there.” He pointed at the table nearest the corpse’s feet. “I was just over there, at the table by that garish blue flower pot.” Oblivious to the light rain, he looked up at the dark sky, as if he saw something there.

  “Did you know the victim?”

  Blinkoe glanced at the corpse, shook his head.

  Parris crossed his fingers, hoped for a yes. “You happen to get a look at the shooter?”

  “Sadly, I did not.”

  It had been too much to hope for, but the policeman felt a surge of heartburn.

  As if hoping to please the public servant, Blinkoe added quickly, “But I did hear the gunshot.”

  Well that’s something. And something is better than nothing. “Just a single shot?”

  “Yes. It was merely a little pop.” The witness pointed toward the river. “And it came from directly behind me. From across the stream, I should think.”

  Parris stared at the tangle of brush on the opposite bank. It made sense. A hundred assassins could hide in that small, dense forest. Fifty yards beyond the thicket was a little-used county road where the shooter could have parked his car.

  Blinkoe continued. “As chance would have it, I happened to be looking directly at the lady when I heard the shot—and saw the bullet wound appear in her head. For a moment, she merely stared”—he goggled his eyes to imitate the victim’s blank expression—“then she toppled out of the chair. Kerplop.” He made what was evidently intended to be a ker-plopping gesture with his hand. “I was quite startled, of course—one never expects to see such a terrible thing. I immediately took cover behind the big flowerpot by my table. When I was convinced there would be no second shot, I approached the body and placed my finger on the lady’s neck, just under the jaw. There was not the least hint of a carotid pulse. Having determined that the victim was dead, I entered the restaurant and summoned Phillipe.”

  The owner of the business nodded. “As soon as I was informed about the incident, I came to see for myself.” He stared in amazement at the corpse. “There she was—exactly as Dr. Blinkoe had reported. By remarkable good fortune, the county medical examiner was inside, a guest at his niece’s wedding reception.” He made a slight bow to Dr. Simpson. “Naturally, I requested that he come outside at once and examine the body.” He added hastily: “If there had been any sign of life, I would have summoned an ambulance. But sadly, there was no need. I conferred with Dr. Simpson, and we thought it advisable to be discreet.” He glanced at the series of large windows that framed the ongoing celebration inside, added unnecessarily: “The wedding party has not been informed about this tragedy.” He looked hopefully at the chief of police. “After all, what good would it do to disturb my happy guests with such terrible news?”

  Straining to hold his temper, Parris addressed his remark to the surviving diner. “Do you recall what time it was when you witnessed the shooting?”

  Manfred Blinkoe shrugged. “I did not look at my watch. But I would estimate that the poor woman was shot—oh, about twenty-five minutes before your arrival.”

  Twenty-five minutes! Parris ground his teeth. “Someone should have dialed 911 immediately.”

  Phillipe recoiled as if he had been struck by a snake. “But the woman was dead—what good would that have done?”

  The professional lawman did not expect much from citizens whose experience was limited to running high-priced restaurants or fixing smiles that still had some personality. But the county medical examiner should have known better. “If one of you had called the emergency number right away, told us somebody had been shot on the patio, the department would have had uniforms all over the area within three minutes flat. We would’ve stood a fair chance of nailing the shooter. By now, the guy has had time to drive halfway to Durango. Or Leadville. Or Gunnison.”

  The M.E. withered under this attack.

  Feeling mildly sorry for the old man, Parris turned his cold stare on Phillipe. “Here’s the deal.” He pointed a sausage
of a finger at the man’s chest. “You go inside and tell your guests that nobody leaves the joint.”

  Deeply wounded by the deliberately crude characterization of his four-star establishment, Phillipe gave the gastronomic Neanderthal a look of utmost disdain and pity.

  Parris barely restrained himself from grabbing the businessman by the collar and shaking his teeth loose. “Do it right now. Or I will.”

  The restaurateur retreated with an inaudible mutter that suggested Parris’s parents had never enjoyed the benefits of matrimony.

  Dr. Simpson sidled up to his friend. “I’m sorry, Scott. I should’ve made the emergency call.” He tried to grin. “Guess I may’ve had two or three martinis too many. And even when I’m sober, my old brain don’t function like it did twenty years ago.”

  Parris patted the M.E.’s stooped shoulder. “Sorry if I snapped at you guys. A murder in my jurisdiction kinda puts my teeth on edge.”

  Feeling at least partially absolved of his sin of omission, Simpson turned his attention to the corpse. After shaking his head at what had been a lovely woman, he covered the body with a vinyl tablecloth. Only the lady’s feet protruded, and her left arm.

  The chief of police was staring at the fingers on the dead woman’s hand. There was no wedding band. But there was a pale white circle on the tanned skin where one might have recently been.

  The orthodontist cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

  One of the woman’s red high heels had slipped off when she fell from her chair. Parris was mesmerized by the exposed foot. “Yeah?”

  “I am, needless to say, not an expert in murders and such.” Annoyed that the policeman did not look at him, the witness unconsciously clenched his fists. “But if you will indulge me, I believe there is a distinct possibility that you may not have considered.”

  “Consider yourself indulged.” Just under her big toe, there was a dime-size hole in the silk stocking. I wonder if she knew about that.

  Blinkoe raised his voice. “I believe the bullet was intended for me.”

  As he turned his head to glare at the witness, Parris almost jerked his neck out of joint. “Why do you believe that?”

  “Well, for one thing—the shot came from behind me.”

  “Yeah. I remember you said that. Is that the only reason?”

  There was a hesitation. “I have a very strong feeling that I am the person who was supposed to die tonight.”

  He has a feeling. Great. “Look, I understand you’ve been through a traumatic experience, but—”

  “I doubt that you understand anything about what I’ve been through.” The man’s eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets; the startling effect was magnified by the thick spectacle lenses. “Have you ever been shot at?”

  The former Chicago cop felt the bad memories come flooding back. “Yes, I have.” More than once.

  Blinkoe blinked. “Oh—well yes, I suppose you would have been. In the line of duty and all that.” He flicked a tiny piece of wet lint off his cuff. “That is one thing. But let me tell you, sir—it is not the same when you are dining at your favorite restaurant.”

  Scott Parris’s blue eyes twinkled. “Yeah. I can see how that’s enough to put a man off his feed. But the point is, you weren’t hit.” He glanced again at the corpse’s bare foot. “It was this lady that got shot dead.”

  Blinkoe shook his head. “Nevertheless, I am virtually certain that the unfortunate woman was not the murderer’s intended target.”

  “Dr. Blinkoe, take it from me. Any guy who can place a slug dead center in his target’s forehead—even from just on the other side of the stream—is an expert marksman. If he’d had the bead on you, you’d be stone cold dead.” He pointed at the corpse. “And I’d be talking to this lady about what happened when you got popped.”

  The witness assumed a stubborn expression. “I think I may have moved just as he fired the shot.”

  “Then the slug must’ve passed pretty close to you.”

  “Well, yes—I suppose it would have.”

  “Did you get nicked?”

  “Well, no. Of course not.”

  “Did you hear a chunk of lead go zipping by?”

  “I did not.” Blinkoe bristled at this hardheaded cop. “But I tell you—that bullet was meant for me!”

  Parris glanced at his wristwatch, wondered when the first GCPD unit would arrive. “Dr. Blinkoe, can you think of anyone who hates you enough to shoot you?” Aside from me.

  Blinkoe struggled to return the lawman’s bold stare. “Every man has his enemies—I suppose I have my share.”

  “Okay. So give me a name—and a motive.”

  The supposed victim finally averted his gaze. “I am not prepared to speculate on such matters.”

  Why does my only witness to a homicide have to be a nutcase? The policeman managed to retain a thin veneer of civility. “Then what do you want from me?”

  Blinkoe canted his head, stared intently at the starless sky—as if the answer might be concealed in that dark space beneath the heavens. “I don’t know. Protection, I suppose.”

  Parris closed his eyes, gently massaged the lids with his fingertips. “Witnessing a killing at close range is a nasty experience. Makes a man stop and consider his mortality.” Makes some of ’em downright goofy. “But I expect you’ll feel a lot better after a good night’s sleep.”

  “Thank you for this halfhearted attempt to cheer me up. But what if you are wrong?” Blinkoe glared at a Chinese lantern as if he could not fathom what on earth the vulgar contraption was. “What if the murderer strangles me in my sleep? Runs me through with a rapier? Poisons my morning tea?”

  Parris’s patience had fallen below the quarter-tank mark. “Then you’ll be dead.”

  The citizen scowled at the public servant. “I beg your pardon?”

  Regretting his unprofessional retort, the weary chief of police made a final attempt to get through to this stubborn man. “Dr. Blinkoe, if you won’t tell me anything specific about who might’ve taken a shot at you—or why someone might want you dead—there’s nothing much I can do.” But what am I gonna do with this guy? Like most “eureka” moments, this one seemed to come from nowhere. Parris proceeded with a wary caution. “Maybe you’d feel more comfortable having someone else look into it.” He managed to look quite sympathetic. “Someone not connected with the police department.”

  Blinkoe’s expression was an unhappy mix of bald-faced astonishment and acute pain. “You don’t mean like a—a gumshoe?”

  Parris maintained an earnest expression. “Nowadays, we call ’em private investigative consultants. PICs for short.”

  “PICs—really?” Blinkoe pulled at the left cusp of his beard. “I suppose it is not a totally absurd notion.” He gave the cop a hopeful look. “Could you recommend a private investigative whatever—a PIC—who is both highly capable and very discreet?”

  “Well, let me think about it.” Granite Creek’s top cop tilted his head back, pretended to consider a bushel of gumshoe-fruit hanging on a massive willow tree. Eventually, he nodded as if he had shaken the right one loose. “Yeah. I believe I know just the guy.”

  Anticipating such an outcome, Blinkoe had produced a small leather-bound notebook and a gold-plated fountain pen. “Please give me his name.”

  Cocked and loaded, Scott Parris gave him both barrels. A name. A telephone number.

  The orthodontist jotted the information onto a blank page. “Taking on the services of a PIC seems a rather drastic course of action.” He stowed the notebook and pen in his shirt pocket. “I will have to give it some thought.”

  Parris stared at the dead woman’s big toe. The obscene little hole in her stocking was beginning to annoy him. Please, please, let some of my uniforms show up.

  Blue and red lights flashing, the first black-and-white pulled into Phillipe’s parking lot, screeched to a rocking halt. It was, as might be expected, the dependable Captain Leggett. Parris was on his way to meet his second in command wh
en he heard a sound.

  “Hsssst.”

  He turned. “Who’s there?”

  A head appeared just above a mulberry bush. “Just Old Willie, the groundskeeper.”

  The chief of police smiled at the scarecrow-man who emerged.

  “Old Willie” was worthy of his nickname. Tattered gray overalls hung on the aged man’s skinny frame. He was hunched forward, walked with a cane. He removed a long-stemmed pipe from a mouth that bristled with untrimmed whiskers, stuck it into the pocket of the OshKosh B’Gosh bib, offered a skeletal hand to the lawman.

  Parris shook the bony paw, stole a sideways glance at the squad car, where Leggett was closing the door. “So you work for Phillipe?”

  “For almost three months, now.” Willie chuckled. “But I wouldn’t exactly call it work. I mostly potter around. Mow the grass once a week, keep the weeds from taking over the place.” He tapped the cane against Parris’s boot toe. “I knew you’d be getting around to asking me sooner or later, so I thought I should let you know right now—I heard that shot.”

  Parris forgot about Leggett. “Where were you?”

  He pointed the knobby cane. “Sitting up yonder in my rocking chair, right in front of the storage building where we keep all the gardening equipment and fertilizer.”

  Parris squinted in the darkness, could barely make out a peak-roofed, slab-walled shed that was almost hidden in a cluster of willows.

  Anticipating the next question, the old man said: “That Phillipe is an okay fella; he lets me bunk in there. After I’m through with my chores, I kinda settle in for the night. Sometimes I listen to my battery radio, other times I go for a walk down by the creek. But this evening, the radio was fulla static and it looked like rain, so I came outside to watch the thunderstorm build up over the mountains. When the shot was fired—I was smoking my pipe.” Having reminded himself of this small pleasure, he retrieved the device from his pocket and restarted it with a kitchen match.