by Leroy Clark
“You better call in some watchdogs,” Tiffany said. “Could be serious.”
“I’ll sleep with my gun under the pillow.” Slate grinned.
“Yeah, right, dumb ass.” Tiffany cuffed him on the back of the head. “It ain’t nothing to fool with.”
“Okay. I’ll ask the patrol guys to keep a watch out.” Slate said, but after Tiffany went off to talk to Remy, he decided to let his boss know. He was worried more for his daughter than himself, and he didn’t want to take any chances. He walked to the chief’s office. Norm Williams immediately came to his desk to listen to the message. The chief arranged to have an officer outside the house round the clock.
As soon as he had returned to his office, Remy came running in. “Nothing on Lightfoot, but guess what. The guys watching his apartment left for half an hour last night. There was a fire set in one of the dumpsters right around the corner.”
“Shit.” Tiffany exclaimed.
“Shit is right,” Slate said. “Come on, we need to get over there. One of you come with me.”
“We ought to get a search warrant,” Remy warned.
“You wanna work on that, meet us there?” Slate asked.
Tiffany and Remy looked at each other. “I’ll go,” Tiffany offered, “You see the judge. Call us.”
“See if you can get in touch with Jerry, too,” Slate told Remy.
Slate and Tiffany raced to the parking lot. Tiffany automatically went to her usual vehicle, a blue Ford, so Slate followed. Since it was her car, he didn’t follow his usual male instinct to insist on driving. He didn’t mind someone else driving any more. He’d driven for fifteen years and was sick of it, which was why he even didn’t mind riding with his race car driver partner Jerry.
When they arrived at the apartment complex, they went immediately to the manager’s office and asked her to open up Lightfoot’s apartment. When the woman began stuttering about apartment policy, Slate cut her off and told her Lightfoot was missing and they were afraid something had happened to him. The woman unhappily got the key and scowled as she led them to the apartment. As she started to unlock the door, Slate took the key and told her they would come back to the office and let her know when they were done. When she started to protest, Tiffany told her, “Honey, this is police business,” and shut the door in her face. They automatically pulled on latex gloves as they stood inside the front door and looked around.
“We touch nothing.” Slate said firmly. “We look and that’s all. I don’t want any shit coming back at us about an illegal entry.”
Slate could see through the window that the manager had been joined by the neighbor Sally Jensen. They were deep in conversation. Today Sally was wearing a bright floral sundress.
The apartment was a typical Wichita modern unit without any character. The living room, dining area and kitchen was basically one room. The floor of was covered with a cheap, dirty green carpet. The brown sofa looked at least twenty-five years old. A forest green bean bag chair with gray duct tape over the holes sat in one corner facing a small TV in the other. Two blue canvas chairs faced the sofa with a flimsy coffee table in between. There was clutter, but the apartment seemed relatively clean.
There were two bedrooms and one bath. One bedroom had a single bed, a dresser, and an end table with a lamp. The closet was empty and the bed stripped. It looked like the last tenant had moved out.
In the other room was a double bed, the covers thrown back. Drawers in the dresser were open, clothes were scattered over the floor. Textbooks and papers were piled on the desk with a computer. A suitcase had been left in the closet. It looked as though someone had grabbed a few clothes and left. Probably stuffed them in a backpack, Slate figured. The bathroom contained shampoo, soap, shaving cream, razor, but no toothbrush, toothpaste or hairbrush.
There was no evidence of a struggle, no evidence of foul play. There was nothing.
“I’d say Lightfoot left in a hurry,” Tiffany observed.
“Yeah, but was he running away because of the murder or something else?”
“Like what,” Tiffany asked.
“Maybe there was an emergency at home. Maybe he won a trip.” Slate muttered sarcastically.
“Yeah and maybe he was running away from somebody,” Tiffany added.
Suddenly Slate had an idea. He went to the phone. The message light on the answering machine was green. No new messages. He punched the play button. The first message said, “Hi, this is Kathy. I was wondering if you have the play Cowboys Two by Shepard. I need to find a copy. Call me.” The second message hit Slate like a sledgehammer. “I know where you live. I can get to you.” It was the same awful voice.
Slate and Tiffany looked at each other, stunned. Was this a joke? Had Lightfoot called himself to throw them off? Was Lightfoot being threatened by someone else involved in the murder? The number of questions continued to grow, but there were no answers.
CHAPTER 19
TIFFANY, REMY AND JERRY’S WIFE
When Slate and Tiffany came out of the apartment, the manager and Sally had left. They went to the manager’s office. No one was in sight. Slate used his cell phone to find out what Remy had learned. The judge had refused the search warrant.
When Tiffany heard this, she snarled in her colorful vocabulary, “Well, Jesus H. Christ, who the hell do you have to fuck to get a search warrant?” The manager, coming in from the back room to her desk at that moment, gasped and tripped over the wastebasket, dropping a file folder and scattering a dozen apartment leases across the floor.
Slate laughed but tried to hide it with a cough. The second bit of news, however, wasn’t so funny. He gave the manager the key, and they walked to Tiffany’s car while Slate continued his conversation with Remy. Jerry’s wife had tried to commit suicide with an overdose of sleeping pills, both Lorazepam and Pemazepam. Jerry was at the hospital with her. She had been taken to the emergency ward at the Wichita Medical Center and had her stomach pumped and was now in the psychiatric ward.
When Slate told her, Tiffany grabbed the phone to get all the details herself.
Slate and Tiffany agreed to meet Remy for lunch at the All-American Diner. It was time to regroup. Slate thought about going to the hospital to show his support for Jerry but realized Jerry would prefer to be alone.
Tiffany drove up Rock Road past the Towne East Mall while Slate expressed his frustration about Lightfoot. Suddenly he began laughing.
“What the hell’s so funny?” Tiffany asked, giving him the look of death.
“The name Lightfoot really fits this guy. He’s so light, he fucking disappears.”
“That ain’t funny.” Tiffany huffed. “You’re just like Remy. You both got the most twisted, sick sense of humor I ever saw.”
“It’s our defense mechanism. Keeps us sane.”
“Yeah, bullshit. Ain’t neither one of you sane. And this case is driving me crazy too. Lots of questions, no answers,” Tiffany punctuated her comments by blowing the horn at a slow driver in front of her.
Slate pondered the questions in his mind for a few moments while Tiffany weaved in and out and around the slower traffic. “The crime scene says to me that the killer—Lightfoot or whoever—planned the murder, chose the time and the place carefully. He’s very organized.”
Tiffany offered a dissenting opinion. “But the pipe was just something he picked up at the scene? That suggests a disorganized crime scene.”
“True, but the rope was there. Hell, there was enough rope on that pin rail in the theatre to hang a dozen people.” Slate insisted. “He planned the murder, but grabbed up the pipe in a fit of rage to mutilate the body, to take out his hate and anger for something, for some wrong Steven had done. The beating with the pipe was brutal—and smashing the face—that’s a clear indication the killer knew Steven and the sodomy with that two inch pipe suggests the relationship was sexual.”
“Do we know Lightfoot’s sexual preferences?”
“He did have a girlfriend.” Slate not
ed.
“Proves nothing.” Tiffany sneered.
“You’re right.” Slate admitted, ignoring her tone. “We’ve got to find out more about Lightfoot’s background. Find out about his family, his lifestyle, find out who knew him, who his friends are.”
“I don’t think he has any—friends.” Tiffany sneered. She leaned on the horn as an old man pulled out in front of her by the shopping center near 21st Street.
“There has to be someone at the university.”
“Kathy? The message on the phone.” Tiffany yelled, suddenly remembering, Slate hooted, “Oh, Jesus, you’re right.” His mind flashed back to the messages. One from the girl and then he remembered the voice. His energy was suddenly depleted.
Tiffany pulled into the parking lot by the All-American Diner and luckily found a spot right by the front door. They waited for a table in the back and grabbed the first one available. They had just sat down when Remy walked in.
“What was Lightfoot’s apartment like?” Remy asked as he sat down. “Any clues?”
“If the apartment is any indication, “Tiffany said, opening the menu, “Lightfoot has no personality, no taste and no money.”
Slate chuckled at Tiffany’s view of Lightfoot and went on to explain to Remy, “It’s a typical male student apartment. Used furniture. Very few personal touches. Just a place to sleep and eat.”
The waitress came over. This one was older, tired, and not really at her best that day, Slate decided. She stood by their table, pen poised on her order pad, and looked down at them with flat, uncaring eyes, “You guys know whatcha want yet?”
“I’ll have the turkey club and a Dr. Pepper,” Tiffany smiled. “Wheat toast.”
Slate turned to the waitress and gave her his best practiced smile, “Roast turkey, lettuce, tomato, mayo, no onions, and iced tea.”
“But no sign of him?” Remy asked, ignoring the waitress.
“Oh there were signs he’d been there,” Tiffany said wryly, “but they all suggested that he’d left in a hurry.”
“And what’ll you have?” the waitress asked Remy, obviously getting impatient.
“He’d like stuffed pigeon if you have it,” Tiffany laughed, “or crow. Crow would be good.”
“I’ll have pea soup and a green salad, house dressing, and iced tea.” Remy replied, not at all amused by Tiffany. He glared at her icily.”
The waitress left. She was not amused either.
“Don’t you give me the evil eye, buster,” Tiffany said, pushing Remy’s elbow off the table. “Last time we was here, you went on about them damn pigeons. I just thought I’d give you a little back.”
“Okay. Okay. Today no pigeons. I have a joke for yah.” Remy said.
Tiffany groaned. “You can’t tell a joke, Remy. You shouldn’t even try.”
“Trust me. The Chief told me this one this morning.”
“Remy, honey, I trust you with my life, you know that,” Tiffany said, patting his arm, “but not with a joke.”
Remy ignored her and launched into it. “The local Pastor was visiting the home of Sister Jones to get her support for the church’s charity drive. ‘Come in Pastor,’ said Sister Jones. ‘Have a seat on the sofa.’”
“No one would say, ‘Have a seat on the sofa.’” Tiffany interjected with a smirk. “They’d just say, ‘Have a seat.’”
“Okay, fine. Now shut up,” Remy said calmly, “but anyway the Pastor sat on the sofa and while he was sitting there he eyed a dish of peanuts on the coffee table. He took a few of the peanuts and began to eat them. After ten minutes he noticed that he had eaten nearly all the peanuts. ‘Why Sister Jones,’ said the Pastor, ‘it appears I have eaten almost all your peanuts.’ ‘That’s okay Pastor,” replied Sister Jones. ‘Now that I have lost all my teeth I only get to suck the chocolate off!’”
“Oh, that is sick.” Tiffany scrunched up her face. “You do this to me every time we eat. Talk about stuff that just turns my stomach.”
Slate loved to watch the two of them. They were like an old married couple that had learned how to push each other’s buttons and they had fun doing it.”
“You could stand to lose a little weight.” Remy said it with a straight face, but he managed to slip in a wink to Slate without Tiffany seeing it. She was too busy puffing herself up for an explosion.
“You saying I’m fat? That what you’re saying? I hope that’s not what you’re saying.”
Remy had on his innocent look. “I’m just quoting you. You said that yourself yesterday.”
“I never said I was fat,” She said fiercely, trying to kick him under the table.
Remy explained, “You said ‘I have to lose weight.’ You didn’t say I need to empty my purse, or I have to wear lighter shoes.”
“Well, I am going to eat, and I don’t want to hear nothing else coming out of you,” Tiffany huffed. “If I do, we will then discuss your thinning hair. You know what I’m saying? Huh? That bald spot that’s growing bigger and bigger on the back of your thick head.”
The insults passed back and forth for another five minutes. Slate was glad when the waitress finally arrived with lunch. For the most part they concentrated on their food. Lightfoot was heavy on Slate’s mind. He was sure the man had set the fire in the dumpster to lure the watch detail away from his apartment long enough for him to get in and out. He wanted to find out who had been on duty and get in their faces for a few minutes.
When they got back to the station after lunch, Jerry was waiting. “I think we got something on this Lightfoot,” he said with a grin. “Just had a call in from Kechi. Man went home for lunch and found his wife tied up and gagged.” He handed out copies. “This is the report. Check it out.”
“How’s Karen doing?” Tiffany asked.
“She’ll be okay,” Jerry said, looking away. “Thanks.”
Slate could tell he didn’t want to talk about it. He turned his attention to the report.
According to the account by the officer at the scene, the thirty-seven-year-old woman was approached by a man with a knife early that morning when she returned to her home at 236 Oronodaga Street about 7:30 am. Holding the knife to her neck, the man demanded money. He tied her up in the house and stole her purse with approximately ninety dollars as well as credit cards and took off with her 1999 Pontiac Grand Am. The man was described as tall with dark hair, wearing jeans and a black leather jacket.
Slate and Jerry decided to check out her story while Remy agreed to do some searching on the computer and Tiffany made phone calls. Before Slate could leave, however, Tiffany buttonholed him about getting some security for his house. Slate pooh-poohed the idea. “Look, if somebody wants to get into my house, no one can stop ‘em.”
“This is not some joker we’re talking about,” Tiffany insisted, “This is a killer. He could be anywhere. He could be at your house right now.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Slate said as he and Jerry walked away.
Tiffany ran after him and grabbed his jacket. “Look, this ain’t something to fool with.”
“I took care of it.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. I told the chief. He’s putting a man on my house twenty-four. I was just yanking your chain.”
“Typical man,” Tiffany snorted at him. “I’ll yank your you know what.”
“Do that for Remy,” Slate laughed.
“Stupid asshole.” Tiffany whiled in a huff and marched off.
Slate didn’t feel as blasé as he sounded. His insides were churning. His mind seemed thick—heavy. He was feeling fear. Not so much fear for himself but for his daughter.
As they went to the parking lot, Jerry surprised Slate by asking him to drive. “I’m tired as hell, buddy,” he said. “Didn’t get much sleep.”
They got into the car and Slate asked Jerry to pull out the map they kept in the glove compartment. Jerry gave him the map and tuned out, his face going slack and without expression. As they had driven awhile, Sla
te broached the subject that hung in the air like a heavy mist. “When did it happen?”
Jerry stared straight ahead out the window. “I woke up about two-thirty. Had to go to the bathroom. She wasn’t in bed. I found her on the kitchen floor. I think she’d been sitting at the kitchen table swallowing the pills one at a time with some hot tea. Finally she must have just passed out and fell on to the floor.”
“You have any idea why?” Slate asked as he checked the map while they sat at the light before getting on Interstate 135.
“I don’t know. No, I don’t, not really. “Jerry shook his head. “See, she’s like a light bulb; she’s either on or she’s off. If she’s happy, everything is fine. She forgets all the bad things. She sees the world through rose colored glasses. If I disagree with her or if anyone criticizes her, then we become her enemy. All she remembers are the bad things. I guess that’s why they call it a borderline personality. She keeps crossing the border into psychotic.”
“What set her off? You must have done something.” Slate said it with a grin, understanding clearly that there was not necessarily a sensible tie between action and reaction.
Jerry signed deeply. “She has this habit of leaving the dinner dishes until the next morning. So I was in the kitchen last night getting a glass of ice water, and there are bugs everywhere. I swear there was a line of 50,000 ants trailing back and forth from some of the dishes. I asked her why she couldn’t put them in the dishwasher. She started crying, picked up the dishes and threw them into the dishwasher. Just fucking tossed them. I spent half an hour cleaning up the mess and picking out the broken glass. I apologized and she sulked. I went to bed.”
Slate had been over to Jerry and Karen’s house a half dozen times in the last year. They lived in Riverside on Porter Street in a typical Kansas 40’s style house with a sagging front porch. The house belonged to Karen from a previous marriage. It had two bedrooms down, one of which was used as Jerry’s study. Karen slept in the upstairs bedroom and Jerry slept in the back downstairs bedroom. Slate thought that was strange, but Karen had explained that Jerry snored so loud she couldn’t stand it. The house had a covered front porch and a good-sized living room and dining room. The kitchen was small but had a cozy breakfast nook. Slate could picture Karen just tossing the dishes into the dishwasher. The few times he had met her she had seemed a bit wild, uninhibited.