by Harry Hoge
Rankin was wringing his hands.
"You say these people, Nguyen Qui Mang, Laurie Lowe and the others were poisoned. Do you know the nature of the poison?"
"Yes, the poisons are all from natural plants I grow in my arboretum."
"Can you be more specific?"
"My hobby is collecting and caring for plants that are not restricted and that can be used in medicinal and/or deadly doses."
"Such as?"
Rankin listed several plants including Cinchona ledgeriana, the cause of death for Nguyen Qui Mang.
"Do you have access to peyote in your arboretum?"
Rankin was obviously confused by the question. "As I told you earlier, I do not grow peyote because it is a restricted botanical. But I have easy access to the plant."
"From where?"
"I know a man in Arizona, Senor Alfonso Rainwater. All I need to do is make a phone call and he can deliver all the peyote I want."
Frank glanced at Aaron Fox. The detective nodded and pulled his cell phone as he stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. He was gone only a few minutes. Frank waited for his return.
"Now, Mr. Rankin, do you know who administered the poisons to the victims we've been discussing?"
"Yes, I do."
"Would you state that name please."
"Of course. I did it. I killed them all."
Gerry tried to fight unconsciousness from the time she swirled up from the fog in the back seat of the car, through being manhandled and dragged into a building and up an unending flight of stairs. She thought the top of her head would explode. Sweat poured off her, soaking her clothes and causing chills in the night air. Sickening aromas of vomit, urine and feces gagged her. She knew she had soiled herself. Her arms and legs were useless, limp anchors, impeding her motion, more a burden than an advantage. Finally her body became still. None of the sickness or pain stopped, but she was no longer moving. Despite the ache in her shoulders and back, and the throbbing in her head that weighed more than the rest of her body as it jerked forward until her chin touched her chest, she relapsed into an unreal euphoria of unconsciousness.
The room remained silent after Rankin confessed. Frank studied the comedian's face, aware that Stiles had not registered surprise and was watching him, not his client. For the first time since he had drawn up his profile for the killings, Frank doubted he had the right man. He pushed the thought away. Too many pieces of evidence pointed to Rankin. This was not the time to have second thoughts.
"All right Mr. Rankin. Let's check out the details."
"What more do you want to know?" Rankin asked.
Frank knew they had already established opportunity and could link the exotic poison in the first murder. He decided to tie in motive.
"Let's begin with Nguyen Qui Mang. He was a headliner at your club and had landed a contract in Las Vegas. Why kill him? He seemed to be a poster boy for what you told me was your main reason for running the club."
Rankin could not hide his sorrow when he thought about Nguyen. He swallowed air and clasped his hands on the table. He didn't look at Frank as he talked.
"It all goes back to when I was in Vegas...before Gus got into all that trouble and shot me." His eyes met Frank's momentarily, no more than a flitting glance before returning to his writhing hands. "That was all about drugs, you know. I was deeply involved in all that."
"All what?" Frank asked. Rankin's right hand flew into the air. Like he was waving off the importance of the details.
"You know. Buying and selling drugs. Las Vegas is a land unto itself. It makes up its own rules...an unreal world that thinks of itself above the law. Of course there are officers there that still try to enforce propriety. They were closing in. When Gus shot me, I saw an opportunity to throw the heat off me and get out from under. I capitalized on that, and if Nguyen went to Vegas, he would eventually uncover my sordid past. I couldn't risk the scandal of having that all dragged up again. So, I decided to prevent the inevitable. I murdered him and made it look like a macabre serial killing."
"And you used poison?" Frank checked his notes. "Cinchona ledgeriana."
"That's right. Cinchona bark. The poison is quinoline, a medicinal chemical when used properly. If you recall my rating system, it's a four."
"A choice that requires hours to kill, miserable hours of suffering before cardiac arrest. Why choose quinine when you had hemlock and other fast acting toxins growing in your garden? Hemlock would have been much quicker and certainly more humane."
Rankin didn't answer immediately, staring at the table, obviously in anguish. When he looked at Frank, there were tears in his eyes. "It was a horrible mistake. That's why I used peyote on the others."
This was a detail that had not appeared in the media. The string of corpses from Las Vegas to Houston had never been mentioned outside of HPD. Rankin was either guessing because of Frank's comments, or he indeed had killed those people outside the city.
"Before we move to the others, let's follow up with Nguyen Qui Mang. How did you inflict the poison?"
"We had planned a celebration at the Ha Ha House, a party to send Nguyen off with a bang. I convinced him that I had a special gift and wanted to give it to him in private. I mixed the ground up bark in a trail mix concoction and persuaded him that it was symbolic of his new adventure..." Rankin's voice broke. "We were in his apartment. He took it with a smile, trusting me as a friend. It was... it was awful."
"Then what did you do?"
"I used a pulley to hang the body over the shower head in the bathroom and cleaned up all the trace evidence, then stowed him in the trunk of my car and took him to the parking garage and dumped him."
"Why the clown suit?"
"It was Halloween. I thought it would be written off as some bizarre cult killing."
Rankin was looking at Frank, waiting. Frank stared with his most penetrating expression. Neither man spoke. After a long silence, Frank flipped through his notebook.
"You followed the same routine with Laurie Lowe?"
"Yes. She knew me from before, back in Vegas and other trips here. She got wind of Nguyen Qui Mang's death and put two and two together. She tried to blackmail me. I was desperate. I decided to make it look like a serial killing."
"Nguyen Qui Mang lived on the fourth floor," Frank stated as he studied his notes. "Laurie Lowe was killed in her motel room on the second floor." He looked at Rankin again. "I've seen you manage some remarkable feats with your disability, but it doesn't seem possible you could have completed what you've described without help. Not from your wheelchair. Who helped you?"
"I won't answer that question. I'm the only one guilty of any crime."
"Was it Gus?"
No answer.
"Buddy Bigley?"
Rankin looked at him, surprise showing on his face at the mention of the comedian's name, but he didn't say anything.
"I found Buddy Bigley in the trunk of your car this evening. It looks like the same MO as Nguyen and Lowe. Is he the one who helped you and then you needed to silence him?"
Rankin was quiet for moment and then answered, "Yes," in a hushed voice.
"Okay, Mr. Rankin, we're almost finished here. Tell me about the others you killed outside of Houston."
"They were like Lowe, people who knew about my dealings in Las Vegas and wanted to blackmail me."
Frank shut off the tape recorder and stood, beckoning to Aaron Fox. "Get a Uniform and escort Mr. Rankin to the holding cell. I'll want to talk to him again later."
Chapter 28
Frank walked out of the interrogation room to where Captain Holloman and Molly Shapiro, the ADA waited. Molly was an attractive dark-haired woman who had paid her dues and advanced to the District Attorney's office ahead of an impressive string of court victories as a public defendant. She had petitioned and received appointment as a prosecutor after one of her clients walked on an assault charge and murdered three people that same night. She had handled many menial cases in the begi
nning, everything from drunk and disorderly and shoplifting, to domestic abuse. She drew her first felony case after one year and got a quick conviction. Whether she would be assigned to this case remained to be seen, but she had been appointed to do the assessment.
"Won't wash," Holloman uttered. The ADA stood with her arms crossed, looking dour.
"We might make it stick if we can involve his brother Gus, or this Bigley as an accomplice," Frank offered.
"If he isn't guilty, how does he have so much detailed information about the scenes?" Molly asked.
Frank and Holloman looked at each other and didn't answer. Molly looked both peeved and suspicious at the slight.
"There's also the problem with a second vehicle," Frank added. "The bodies were transported in a car with a badly leaking transmission. Rankin's Mercedes doesn't have any leaks. We need to find that other car."
"Did you see the leak this evening at Rankin's house?" Holloman asked.
"Yes. There was a stain near the Mercedes and it wasn't there earlier. There has to be an accomplice."
"Could be Bigley."
"If it were, what happened to the car? Rankin doesn't drive."
"Not as far as we know, anyway."
"I'm going to see if the task force has anything new," Frank said, looking at his watch. "After that, I'll catch Gerry's second act at the Ha Ha House, then go home. It'll do Rankin good to spend the night in an uncomfortable cell while he thinks about this mess."
"Call me if you learn anything new," Holloman ordered. "Make sure either Molly or I are here for any further interrogation."
Frank nodded and headed upstairs. He stopped in the men's room, overtly to wash his face and hands. He wanted a moment to think things through.
Aaron Fox had beaten him to the work area and was already making notes on the white boards. Grisham was on the telephone.
"Any news yet from the latest crime scene?" Frank asked. Grisham pushed a pink slip from the telephone message pad across his desk as he continued listening to the party at the other end of the line. Frank picked it up, and read: MO same as other clown murders. Preliminary evaluation by Aquilla is that it's not peyote. Death occurred approximately six to seven hours prior to discovery. Scene secure, body in transport to lab.
Frank made a notation that Bigley was probably dying about the same time he and Chad had been visiting with Rankin. One more twist to put his thoughts in confusion.
"Any word from Gardner or Harrington?" Aaron Fox asked.
"Roger called in right after Gerry's first show. He said Gerry had discovered that Sheridan Barker was really Rankin's oldest daughter. He said she seemed upset, but had gone to the dressing room to rest up for the second show."
"I can understand her concern about Sheridan, but we found that out at about the same time."
Fox nodded. He crossed to a vacant desk and picked up a printout. "Olivia got this far on researching Barker's data file. Interesting in spots."
Frank scanned the report. Sheridan Barker, nee Rankin: born in Houston, Texas thirty nine years ago to Reuben and Mildred Rankin; family moved to Las Vegas when she was twelve; mother died when she was thirteen from complications due to back surgery; honor graduate from LVHS and UNLV, Forensic science and Law Enforcement, did graduate work for one year before matriculating in the Las Vegas Police Academy, graduated at the top of her class, married a fellow policeman, Harmon Barker, in Las Vegas about eight years before joining HPD. Her husband had been killed on duty one year later while trying to help a crack-head off the streets and into detox. She had asked for and received a leave of absence to recover from her loss, then came home to Houston to live with her father. Joined HPD six months later. There was nothing in the report to suggest that Sheridan Barker was anything other than a good cop.
A shout from Grisham as he slammed the telephone on its cradle startled Frank and interrupted his second reading of Olivia Stanton's report.
"I'll be a son of a junkyard dog," He shouted.
"What's got you acting like a shocked talk-show host?" Fox asked.
"That was John Magruder in Galveston. Good cop. He found a filling in one molar in the Jane Doe's mouth with an unusual mix of silver and stainless steel. Took him mucho hours to run it down, but a dentist in Seabrook, originally from Russia and now attached to NASA, identified the body."
"And?" Frank asked.
"You ain't gonna believe this one, Loo. Her name is, er... was, Marsha Meyers."
Gerry woke inside a sweating body racked with aches and pains. She kept her eyes closed, trying to identify what had happened. The last clear memory she could recall was being fidgety and gulping a glass of white wine in her dressing room at the Ha Ha House.
"Looks like our glamorous headliner is waking up." Gerry knew the voice, but couldn't place it immediately. It came to her suddenly. Mars. Her eyes flew open. Marsha Meyers sat in a white, hardwood rocking chair that Gerry had bought at a country-style restaurant in Conroe. It had been an impulse buy, but she loved it. She remembered searching to find willow-patterned, tufted cushions that set the inexpensive piece off as a beautiful, year-round decorative part of her bedroom. She scanned the room to convince herself that she was indeed in her new bedroom in the Heights, and not dreaming. When she tried to stand, she realized she was restrained, her arms wrenched behind her and trussed with sheets to a straight-back, kitchen chair that looked like the companion piece to the rocker. The restraints were not so tight as to cut into her flesh, but secure enough to prevent her from busting loose. Maybe if she were left alone for and hour or two she'd be able to wiggle out of the binding, but she knew that wasn't going to happen.
She also realized she was naked.
A movement behind her caused her to crane her neck. Gus Sullivan leaned against the wall near the bedroom door, eating fruit from a plastic cup he'd acquired from her refrigerator. His mouth, shut tight and moving in a slow circular manner as he munched the food, curled into a smile, his eyes were squinted as if he knew about things to come—secrets that would not make her happy.
"Welcome back to the living, Geraldine Gardner," Marsha snarled. "Even if the trip is only temporary."
Gerry snapped her head back to face Marsha, unable to hide her surprise at being called by her real name.
"What's the matter, you arrogant bitch? You think you're so smart I didn't know you were a cop?" She leaned forward in her chair, her arms resting on her knees. "And that brute you tried to pass off as your pimp, he had cop written all over him." She leaned back and rocked the chair with a smirk on her face. "When you've been flirting with the law in places like Vegas and LA, the small town cops here in Houston are inept, shambling buffoons."
Gerry didn't want to exchange pleasantries with this nut case, but procedure said to engage the perp in chitchat. "So? How many people have you slaughtered to satisfy your blood lust?"
The woman bristled, her nostrils flared and her eyes turned to azure marbles.
"Don't you dare deliver judgment on me, you bitch. You don't know nothin' about me. You sit there with your counterfeit morality and assume you're better than me. I've heard that crap all my life. What I do or don't do is for me to decide. I have no interest in your opinion, not about me or anything else. You're scum, hypocritical scum." She stopped rocking and crossed her arms over her chest.
"You're right, Marsha..."
"Don't call me that. My name's not Marsha, its Sheera. Sheera Rankin, officially, although I prefer my birth name, Sullivan. I'm the ignored and devoted daughter of the self-important and esteemed man about town. A selfish bastard that abandoned his family when I was only three. Five years later my mother died. I've been making my own decisions ever since."
Gerry knew if she'd been half as smart as she had thought she was, this information wouldn't have been a surprise. She visualized the picture she'd seen in Rankin's office. Or course. I focused too much on the older girl, and when I identified Sheridan, I stopped thinking. Damn! She closed her eyes. Keep her talking. Gerry
scrambled for the right question.
"I see," she grumbled, wiggling to ease the knotting muscles in her shoulders. "So you decided to revenge your misfortune. But why kill Nguyen?"
"I couldn't stand him. Daddy's such a hypocrite, using his wealth to keep the whole family in chains. At first I only intended to send him a message by annihilating his favorite son. He never recovered from not having a son of his own. I was supposed to be the male heir. He always treated me as a big disappointment. Sheridan was the favorite. He used his influence to make her a big, bad lawman, and I was expected to grovel and be grateful to be a bar-back." She glanced over Gerry's head. "And Uncle Gus, the faithful marionette. It was Gus's idea to point the finger at him. What could be more satisfying than watching such a pompous ass hauled off to death row?"
"Why Laurie Lowe?"
"Old score. She came to the Ha Ha House to interview for the gig and recognized me from Las Vegas. Threatened to expose me to Gretchen. Gretchen was the only one who didn't know I was hired in payment for the sins of the father. Poor Laurie. She was such a loser. She couldn't resist the offer of her old friend, peyote, to carry her away from her miserable existence."
"And who else did you ice to console your misunderstood childhood?"
Sheera frowned and glanced at her watch. "No more bullshit. It's nearly time for your next appearance on stage. I don't want to cut this too close. They'll be looking for you."
She stood and stretched. "Gus, bring me my medical bag."
Gerry heard movement behind her and watched Uncle Gus come into view carrying a black bag that looked like a prop from an old episode of "Gunsmoke." He handed the bag to Sheera and turned to stare at Gerry.
"What's the problem, you big freak, can't you afford a Playboy magazine?"
Gus fixed a cold stare on Gerry, and reached over and massaged her naked breast. Summoning all her energy, Gerry spat in his face. Gus drew back his hand to smack her, but Sheera intervened.
"Stop screwing around, Gus. We don't want any unnecessary trace evidence. Go sit down." Gus hesitated, looking at Gerry as though he wanted to stomp her like a worm. He reached a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped the spittle from his face. He gave Gerry a last look that told her he had no more use for her than for a bug on a window screen. He moved off to lean on the back of the rocking chair. Sheera opened the doctor's bag and peered inside.