“You’re like a damn fish out of water without a body to poke at. I’m not hanging everything on a damn boot print. I’m tucking it away. It could belong to the killer, and that’s good news for your skinny buddy in the hoodie.”
The porch was dark. Wilcox stood at the screen door and looked around. “From here I can see both ends of Dewar and nobody can see me, not even the Tantabaums, unless they’re on their front porch. And where did they find the Tantabaums, doctor?”
“There’s a porch light, genius. There goes that theory,” Petty scoffed.
“Well, what do we have here? No lightbulb, Dr. Petty.”
“You are strange. Do you always talk your way through crime scenes?”
“Yes I do, but mostly to myself.” He opened the screen door and felt wood molding. “I never know what’s going to trigger things. Like this hole in the wood. Appears the screen door latch pulled out the eye. Could be something.”
“Miss Middleton and Miss Tantabaum were remote viewers,” Petty said as Wilcox inspected the door jam. “They could have been the targets.”
“I know you don’t have this skill set, but my gut tells me Middleton was the target. The Tantabaum sisters were collateral damage.” Wilcox tore off the crime tape and tried the knob. “Place is locked up. This is gonna take a minute.”
“You reached that conclusion from a boot print, the view from the porch, a missing bulb, and a broken screen door latch?”
“Pretty much.” Wilcox stuck a paperclip in the lock and wiggled it. “Crime scenes are my corpses, Victoria. Do I question you when you lift an eyelid or look in an ear?”
“Good parallel, I guess.” He called me Victoria …
“Most killers take care of the big things. It’s the little things that get them caught.”
“Tell me you’re not picking that lock.”
Wilcox smiled. “I’m inspecting the keyhole with a paperclip.” The knob popped and door opened an inch.
“Breaking and entering is illegal, Tony. This is a controlled crime scene and private property. Are you seriously going inside?”
“I’ve been warned, Officer Petty. I agree. Both of us should not risk felony charges for the unlawful entry of a residence. My defense is that the door was open. I’m good with that. I suggest you head back and sit in the car. Call me if someone comes. I’m going inside.”
“That still makes me an accessory. I’d be just as guilty.”
Headlights turned onto Dewar. Wilcox wrapped an arm around Petty’s waist, lifted her off the ground, and swung her into the foyer as he closed the door behind. “Don’t breathe.” Lights accelerated down Dewar and disappeared. Petty held onto his neck, their lips inches apart and bodies fused. He lowered her. She clung. They waited in silence for several minutes.
He reached for his gun and he whispered; “Now we are not alone.”
Twenty-Eight
“What is worse than evil? The inability to hear it.”
C.J. Weber
*
“What’re yawl doin’ here?” The crusty words echoed through the cold house. Wilcox nudged Petty outside the line of fire and raised his gun looking for the shadow that went with the question. Petty hiked her dress and reached for her Glock.
“Put your gun away, Detective Wilcox. You’re the one trespassing, not me.”
“Yeah?” He cocked it sending the metallic click into the mix. “If you know my name, you also know I’ll shoot first and ask questions later. You got one chance to identify yourself.”
Petty took her Glock off safety. Two guns are always better than one.
The table lamp popped on and lit the face of the man on the Okmulgee County Medical Examiner’s website—but the haggard, bowlegged body with it was a surprise. Dr. Benjamin Proust looked more like a retired rodeo cowboy than a forensic pathologist. He raised his hands as a jester of good faith. “You don’t need to shoot me, not now anyway.”
Wilcox kept his gun up. “What’re you doin’ here, Proust?”
“Something told me you and Dr. Petty might come to Dewar tonight. Didn’t make sense to drive all the way from Memphis in the morning and sit in a room with me and the sheriff looking at paper. Sheriff said nothing about you two wanting to visit the crime scene. That was odd.”
“So you thought you’d wait for us in the dark?” Wilcox pushed.
“You got here before me,” Proust said. “Those were my lights out front. Saw your car. Tennessee government plates were a giveaway. I scooted up the alley and got here in under a minute. Came through the kitchen—no tape or locks.” He smiled and looked away. “Guess you two got a little sidetracked in the foyer.” He smiled.
“Wasn’t anything happening in the foyer, Proust.” Bet you’re not gonna tell me your timing is because you’re a psychic. You kept that secret for a lifetime. Wilcox’s eyes darted around the room. “Elda got any security cameras?”
“Nope. Elda didn’t believe in technology. She thought the government watched her through the TV.” He pointed at the camera in the ceiling corner, the one Wilcox saw. “FBI put that one up there after the killings. You can shoot me if you want. I’m tired and going to sit down, now.”
Petty pushed by Wilcox. “I’m Victoria Petty.” Proust’s eyes perused her like a doting father. He held her small hand as they sat next to each other on Elda’ living room sofa.
Wilcox eased into the room like a cat looking for a dog. “Is that camera working?”
“Don’t know.” He turned to Petty. “I read about your work in Dallas and recent Memphis appointment. You’re an accomplished medical examiner, young lady.” He caught Wilcox opening the curtain with a finger. “We don’t get many visitors out this way. Henryetta’s not the most exciting place to be.”
“I don’t know about that. I would enjoy a peaceful rural setting like this one day,” Petty said.
“It has benefits.” He cupped his vein riddle hands on his boney lap. His website bio said he just turned seventy. He looked eighty. His dark skin had a yellow tinge only a doctor would notice—kidney failure. The facial emaciation revealed more than the aging process. By the end of the conversation, Petty would know his medical condition.
“We get a couple homicides a year here, mostly family disputes. Farm accidents keep me busy. And we get our fair share of suicides, of course. People struggling to make ends meet give up from time to time.” He looked at the ceiling and a hundred miles away. “They lose the will to live.” He snapped out of it and said, “Strokes and heart attacks are the number one killer.”
“I suppose the Dewar homicides were a shock to the community,” Petty said.
Proust eyed Wilcox’s back. “Devastating,” he said as he rubbed his legs like he wanted to get off the school bus. “You two can walk around if you like. I’ll turn on what lights there are.”
Wilcox stayed at the window as he spoke. “Give us an overview on these homicides.”
“Not much to add to the police reports online. No secrets here. This case was big news, caught the attention of the national media for a while.”
“And it was covered one time in the Henryetta newspaper,” Wilcox said. “Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
“The Daily Herald covered it one time? I didn’t know that. I don’t’ read a newspaper anymore. I get my news online now, when I have the time.”
“What happened here, Dr. Proust?” Petty asked.
He closed his eyes and reflected. “It was terrible. Elda Middleton was my friend.” He spoke as if baring witness before his God. “The Tantabaum sisters were my friends, too. I found Elda in this room. She was sitting in the chair over there.”
Proust stared at the empty chair like she was still there. “Elda wore a teal nightgown, pink robe, and pink slippers. She’d been dead seven hours. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she just nodded off in her chair. But she was strangled unmercifully.”
“Strangled how?” Wilcox asked.
“A hand.”
“One hand?”
&n
bsp; “Yes. Her killer was left handed, too. The thumb crushed her thyroid cartilage. Four fingers embedded in the back of her neck and crushed vertebrae. I got DNA, but no matches.”
“What other trauma did you observe?” Petty asked.
“Bruising. Inferior aspect of ribcage,” he said as if he was dictating in his autopsy room. “Intense abdominal pressure. I believe Elda was picked up from behind and carried into the living room. The pressure was enough to cause her to black out. Then she was strangled. I pray she was not awake for that terrible experience.”
“Was her body moved?” Petty asked.
“No. She was strangled in that chair.”
“What about the college kids?” Wilcox asked.
“Same, but strangled in their beds. Both were strangled, but by different people.”
“There were two?” Wilcox turned in surprise.
“Yes. The other was right-handed, a much smaller grip. He sat on the two college students and strangled them with two hands, not one.”
“You get defensive wounds, any DNA?” Wilcox asked. “College boys would fight.”
“There were defensive wounds. The right-handed killer took the fingers of his victims,” Proust said. “Wire cutters. Guess he knew enough forensics.”
Wilcox turned back to the curtain and opened it an inch. Dewar felt emptier than when they arrived. The sky was spitting and Proust left Wilcox with more questions. Dr. Petty could be watching a sad movie, or be elbow deep in a thoracic cavity eating a ham sandwich. Her face stayed the same, serene and confident. Wilcox had to admire her professionalism. Even her choice of wording was always precise and targeted. He knew she was working up to the Keller autopsies.
“Tell us about the Tantabaum sisters, Dr. Proust. What did the forensics tell you?”
“They were killed by the lefty. Both necks crushed by one large hand. He left their fingers. The Tantabaum sisters were in their late seventies, Elda eighty-two. None of these ladies presented a challenge. They died quietly and quickly.”
“What’s the motive here, Proust?” Wilcox asked. “Why were all these people killed?” The answer would shape the next series of questions. Did he know? If he did, would he tell the truth or dance? Either way, Wilcox would tighten the screws. Proust was not leaving Dewar Avenue without telling him something useful.
“I really do not know. I’m sure the sheriff can give you more tomorrow. I can tell you it was not a home invasion or burglary. Nothing was taken from either property. There were no family fortunes to leave behind, and no descendants to leave anything to. Both properties were willed to the county—charity. There were no pending lawsuits, conflicts, or squabbles.”
“Okay. Great. Thanks for the report,” Wilcox scoffed. “It’s time to cut the bullshit, Proust.”
His tired eyes found Petty’s. He was an old man with no more fight. In a way Petty felt sorry for the doctor she had just met—if he had been bad, she knew there was a time when he had been good. Petty also knew his medical problem—her diagnostic skills were impeccable. Proust had no more reason to lie, but Wilcox would not see. If anything, Proust would tell them everything so he could die with a modicum of honor.
“Detective Wilcox, please stop.” Petty had the tone Wilcox would test one time.
“We don’t have time to foxtrot to the answers,” he seethed. “We need answers.”
Proust’s eyes stayed on Petty’s. He bit his lower lip and swallowed hard. “I’m dying.”
“I know. Pancreatic cancer,” she whispered.
“Very good, doctor.” Proust smiled like the senior physician praising the student. “I’ve known a while. Like my patients, I too have been in denial for a while. That’s over now. I have maybe a month.”
“I’m sorry,” Petty said.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said.
A flash of lightning outed the lamp. Wilcox turned and saw the tiny, red dot blink. The ceiling device was connected. They were being monitored. The lamp flickered back on.
“We really don’t have a lot of time. What can’t you do anymore?” Wilcox pressed.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” His hands trembled. “I don’t know what is right anymore. I don’t know who to trust. I don’t know what is going to happen next.”
“Killing remote viewers, is that what’s out of control?” Wilcox asked. Proust sunk into the sofa like he finished running his last marathon. Petty leaned in and felt his pulse. His heart rate was increasing.
“We cannot help if you don’t talk to us,” Petty said. “It is easy. You can trust us. We only want the killing to stop.” Wilcox watched from the curtains.
“They asked me to go to Stringtown in 2009,” Proust said. “They told me it was damage control.” He rested his hand on his heart. “It was Alma and Arnold Keller.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Someone killed them. It was awful. It was wrong. They were my friends, too.”
“Who sent you to Stringtown?” Wilcox asked.
“Alfred Baldwin. He wasn’t the Attorney General in 2009. He was the DIA. His people located the Kellers five years after they left the program—Gondola Wish. Alma and Arnold wanted out. They wanted their life back. Elda Middleton was their friend. She insisted they leave at night. Elda instructed them to find a small town. They may get away. Alfred did not want to lose any of the assets.”
“Why did Baldwin call you in on the Stringtown homicides? Why didn’t the Atoka County Coroner handle them?” Petty asked.
“Because I am one of them—I am a remote viewer. I joined Gondola Wish, a precursor to the Stargate Project.”
“Why are remote viewers being terminated? And why are you still alive?” Wilcox dug.
“I left the program in 1985. I signed non-disclosure agreements and contracted with the government for off-site continuance. They paid for my medical school.”
“They paid your medical school,” Wilcox scoffed. “Why?”
“They wanted me to stay involved. They sent me money every month. All I they asked is I watch Elda and Ruby, and be available for an occasional assignment.”
“Did you watch Alma and Arnold Keller, too?” Petty asked.
“No. I never went to Stringtown. I don’t know who had them.”
“How does a Henryetta Medical Examiner work Stringtown homicides?”
“Alfred called me in 2009. He asked me to go to Atoka County, outside Stringtown, the second week of October. They had a hotel room for me. I checked in and watched TV a couple days thinking it was another waste of time. Then I got the call. Alfred said there’s a crime scene they wanted me work for the federal government, but low key.”
“Did you tell them Atoka County had their own medical examiner?”
“Of course. I told Alfred it was outside my legal jurisdiction—I had to be invited by the Atoka County M.E. Alfred said he was out of town. The investigation was mine, and the FBI would keep a very low profile. Alfred said Alma and Arnold Keller were killed. He said it was a horrific crime we needed to get to the bottom of it—someone was hunting remote viewers. Alfred said it had to stay in the family, so I went.”
“Didn’t you find any of it suspicious, Proust?” Wilcox asked, scratching his head.
“Yes. Scheduled into a hotel in advance, sitting and waiting, and then there’s a double homicide with chilling overtones. I guess I still believed in my government. I thought the Kellers were in danger and we were unable to protect them.”
“Why would Alma and Arnold be in danger?” Petty asked.
“Psychic-weaponry has the attention of governments around the world. Whoever harnesses it will be a powerful force. People with true psychic gifts are rare. Alma and Arnold Keller were the most gifted psychics I’ve ever known and observed. I was certain one day their powers would put them in danger. Others would want to control.”
“What did Baldwin want you to do in Stringtown?”
“He wanted the details of their deaths kept quiet. I was told to call the Atoka County Sheriff and
offer my services. I was to say I was nearby. Since the Atoka County ME was unavailable, Sheriff Bennet jumped at the chance for help.”
“Do you know who killed Alma and Arnold Keller?” Wilcox asked.
Proust glared at the detective. “No. I do not know.”
“Is Alfred Baldwin your primary contact for the terminated Stargate project?”
“He’s the only contact. I was with him in D.C. two nights ago. It is why I’m here talking to you tonight, that and my cancer. Suddenly things make more sense to me.”
“Explain that comment,” Wilcox said.
Proust dropped his head. “I knew Alfred was going to do it. I’m a remote viewer. I know things before they happen. I did nothing to stop it.”
“What are you talking about?” Wilcox asked.
“At his brownstone in D.C., he shot a man by the fireplace. Shot him in the head.”
“My God, you saw the U.S. Attorney General kill someone?” Petty gasped.
“Yes. A Russian spy. He infiltrated Stargate in 1993. Our government knew from the start. They used him to mislead the Russians on the progress of our psychic-weaponry program.”
“So it was time to eliminate a mole,” Wilcox muttered. “Happens all the time.”
“Dr. Richard Tanner had become an unacceptable risk. He is responsible for many deaths. Now, most of the remote viewers are dead. Tanner’s termination order came from the top.”
“My God! I’ve known Richard Tanner since medical school. He’s an accomplished geneticist with a prestigious practice at Vanderbilt.”
“He was a home grown Russian spy, a serious danger to our country,” Proust said. “He may have been involved in the termination of the Kellers and others in the Memphis area.”
“We have nineteen names. We know there are twenty-three remote viewers. Can you give us the four missing names,” Wilcox asked.
“Me, Mr. Baldwin, Dr. Swenson, and …”
Wilcox threw up his hand. “Quiet. Someone’s here.” A motor grumbled outside. He opened the curtain a sliver. The late model sedan from the Sterick sat out front, the lights off. The moon was white on the wet roof, the steaming hood, and the flat brimmed hat. The man in the long coat stood at the passenger door watching the house.
Evil Like Me Page 20