Now Mourn the Space Cadet (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  * * *

  Ryan was nine years old, and afraid. He wasn’t quite sure what it was he should fear, but not being able to picture it only made it worse. Something bad would happen. He didn't know what form it would take, but he had broken the rules—several of them—and he knew retribution was coming as well as he knew anything.

  He checked his watch—a birthday gift from his grandparents—and saw it was 3:15, the time he normally came home from school. He would call Frank while his mother was fixing supper, find out if anything had happened at school that day, or if any homework had been assigned. As he imagined this, he almost thought he might get away with it. Oh, please God, just this once. I'll never do it again. I swear I won't!

  Besides, it was Darryl's fault. He's the one who had found the car. He's the one who made it sound so cool, so much fun. A real car, not a kid's toy. And they could spend the whole day there. Who'd want to go to school when he had a chance to do that? And it was Darryl who'd gotten bored with playing movie chase scenes and Indianapolis 500, Darryl who had started throwing chunks of concrete at the windshield. He would never have done that if Darryl hadn't dared him to.

  He slipped into the house as quietly as he could, stood quietly listening. Yes, he could hear his mother doing something in the kitchen, heard the fridge door being closed. He slid his backpack off and slithered toward his room. Maybe, just maybe.

  From the corner of his eye he saw his mother coming through the kitchen door. He said, "Hi, Mom," and kept going. Her voice stopped him. He turned slowly, not wanting to look up at her, knowing he had to. He saw her eyes narrow, her mouth pinch shut with controlled anger, and knew that she knew. She always knew. How did she always know?

  "Ryan, where were you today?"

  He looked down at nothing, his eyes blurring. He felt a wave of heat flood his face, could hear the blood rushing through his ears, could feel his small body shrinking even smaller.

  "You're teacher called me. Where were you?"

  What could he say?

  "I want an answer, young man!"

  He felt tears rising, hated them, tried to stop them, and shouted, "It was Darryl's fault!"

  That was followed by a long, very heavy silence. Finally, he looked up at his mother—and knew immediately that it was the wrong answer.

  * * *

  Mickie went home with fewer misgivings than had Ryan. She was pretty sure her mother wasn't even there. Even so, she checked the area before she got out of the car, watching for anyone hanging around, or skulking in the bushes, then kicked herself for doing it. She was nearly to her apartment door before she realized the lights were on. Damn! Watch for what isn't there, and miss what is.

  She moved to the living room window, peered through the curtains. Sofa, table and chairs, the lamp. Just furniture. No one hiding behind the front door, waiting for her to come in. There were corners, though, that she couldn't see. She moved stealthily to the kitchen window, took a quick look—and relaxed, her breath coming out in a long sigh. Again she kicked herself for being overly cautious. It was Paul, his back to her, a towel over one shoulder, doing something at the stove.

  She let herself in, being deliberately noisy, and pretended surprise when he stuck his head around the corner. Damned if she'd tell him she'd been peeking in through her own windows.

  He said, "Hi. Hungry?"

  The pungent aromas of the kitchen reached her, smells of garlic and olive oil and spices. They triggered the juices and made her instantly ravenous. "Do I have time for a shower?"

  "Sure. I haven't put the pasta on yet. How long?"

  "Fifteen minutes."

  "Right. Half an hour. I know you."

  She didn't argue. It hadn't been one of her better days. Another murder, and not a step nearer to a solution. She had really thought she had something with those books at the library. It was a good idea—it should have worked out. Thank you once again, Cosmic Jester. On top of that, she had probably managed to piss off Harry. After a day like this, she needed a long, hot shower. And a drink and a good meal, and later.... She ran one hand gingerly along the ribs of her left side, pressing experimentally. Well, later would just have to take care of itself.

  With her blouse off, she removed the bandage and examined the stitched wound in her side. It was ugly and would leave a scar, but it seemed to be healing well.

  As she showered, feeling the spray of hot water washing off the lather of suds, she practiced her mental imaging, picturing the disappointments and all the irksome little downers of the day being rinsed off and down and away. There went the fiasco at the library. Then Harry and the puzzles he put to her slid down the drain. While she was at it, she included Morris and his attitude, though she couldn't remember seeing him the past two days. But away he went anyway. She put the back of her head directly into the heated pulse of the water, and stood there until she felt the muscles of her back and neck begin to loosen. She stepped out feeling clean in a lot of ways.

  When she came into the kitchen, Paul was still at the stove. Coming up beside him, she saw him giving a stir to a skillet of slowly bubbling cream sauce. On another burner, the pasta rolled in its boiling water.

  "What are we having?" she asked.

  He handed her a glass of white wine. "Scallops Alfredo. Focaccia with olive oil, pepper and just a bit of Parmesan. And, of course, wine. Would you like a salad?"

  She knew from past experience what that question meant. Paul wasn't big on salads. They would have salad if she made it.

  "No, thanks. I had a salad for lunch."

  "Good choice. It leaves room for real food."

  He turned toward her, put his arms carefully around her waist, asked, "How's the rib?"

  "Better." She moved close to him. They kissed. She said, "I suppose you're just here to protect me again."

  He let her go, turned off the fire under the sauce, and said, "Oh, get over yourself, lady. I just don't like eating good meals alone, that's all. And besides, you —", he turned back to her, drew her close, let his hands slide down as far as they'd go, "—have the cutest bottom of anyone I know. Did I ever tell you that?"

  "A vaguely familiar lie."

  "Besides, I don't like sleeping on the couch."

  She kissed him, then pushed him away. "Don't let the pasta get overdone. I'm hungry."

  He kept his eyes on her. "So am I. It's been a while."

  "I mean for scallops."

  "Oh, those. Okay, the focaccia's heating in the oven. You get that out, while I put the rest together."

  They remained at the table after dinner, talking about things that made no difference, enjoying being together. The bottle of wine was considerably emptier, and flakes of focaccia littered the tablecloth. The plates had been stacked to one side to leave room for elbows. The food and wine had left a lazy glow. Mickie finished what was in her glass.

  "I like that wine. Is it one I had here?"

  "Can't you tell?"

  "I never remember. I just buy whatever has an impressive label."

  "That's what I thought. No, I brought this. It's what guys do. They bring the wine."

  "Is that...." Her voice trailed off, an odd, puzzled look coming to her face.

  Paul looked concerned. "You all right?"

  "Huh? Oh, yeah. It's just...."

  "Just what?"

  She shook it off. "Nothing really. Just a feeling."

  "Maybe you should lie down for a while. I'll clean this up and get some coffee started."

  "No, it's not that. When we were out there in the dunes this morning, I had a feeling I had missed something, something that should have been obvious. And I just felt it again. Really strange. Like deja vu."

  "You get like this often?"

  She laughed. "It must be Harry's bad influence. Look, you go sit in the living room, and I'll clean up here."

  "Damn right! The cook shouldn't have to clean up." He got up, started toward the door, then stopped, looking back. "You're sure you're all right?"

 
"Of course I am. Get out of here."

  She measured coffee and water enough for two mugs, got it started, and began clearing off the table. As she rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher, she tried to recapture that uneasy feeling of something flitting in the shadows, just at the edge of vision, something there, but just beyond the light. But it was gone. Maybe later.

  CHAPTER 20

  REVERSAL

  When Ross was nervous, he didn't drum his fingers, or hum, or rock back and forth in his chair. He sat very still, as he was doing now, only his eyes moving to take in the three in front of him. Even the chain of paper clips, which he usually built and dismantled as an energy outlet, was forgotten. He was well beyond that.

  Mickie was describing the scene where Kurt was found. Morris was listening without seeming to. He looked tired. Harry seemed to be thinking about something else. Ross broke in impatiently, something he seldom did. "Was there anything different this time? Anything significant?"

  "Yes, sir. The symbols were different. There was no cross on his chest, and the pentagram was upside down."

  Ross shook his head in disgust. "What's all this bullshit about symbols? Harry, I thought you said this wasn't satanic cult."

  "It's not."

  "Then those symbols are just there to lead us down the rosy path?"

  "Probably.”

  “Then why do we give a damn about them?”

  Harry didn't answer. Mickie did, a little snappishly. "I think the symbols do mean something to the person who's using them."

  "And do we have one damned clue as to what that is, Detective Wilder?"

  Glaring out the window, she answered, "No, sir."

  "Right. What about real evidence? Anything from the SBI on the first crime?"

  Harry answered. "The only fingerprints found were from Frank Siegert and the victim. Hers were on the base of the murder weapon, but around the top, where you'd grab it to use as a club, it was all smudged. The blood drops in the dining room were all of the victim's type. There weren't any surprises."

  "And no leads." Ross picked up his paper clip chain, began running it through his fingers like a set of worry beads. "The DA wants to bring in the SBI to run the investigation."

  Harry said, "A little late for that."

  "And what does that mean? You think we should have handed it to them at the beginning?"

  Easy does it, thought Harry. We're getting very defensive. "No," he answered, "not necessarily. Their big advantage is they have a lot of manpower, but that's not a lot of good at this point."

  "Yeah, well, the City Council is with the DA on this."

  "They want someone to blame," said Harry, "in case it goes bad. They’re nervous."

  "Well, they're not alone in that. I don't like politicians telling me how to do my job, but they're getting very loud about it. I don't know how long I can hold them off."

  "We'll get this one," said Mickie.

  "Then you'd better be quick about it. Do we have anything going for us?"

  "One thing," said Harry. "We have a very busy killer. Tina Siegert on Saturday, Kurt Brodbeck probably on Sunday. We're not sure of the time, but probably Sunday night. Then Mickie on Monday. Since then, nothing."

  Both Mickie and Morris looked over at him sharply. Ross dropped his chain. "Wait a minute," he said, "are you saying we have a serial killer?" He considered it. "It could be. Maybe the symbols make sense that way. Is that what you mean?"

  Morris said, "I've never heard of a serial who killed that often. Usually, there's several weeks between killings."

  "Right," said Harry. "I think these were done for a more practical reason. The point is, he tried to get Mickie—and bungled it."

  There was a short silence in which the three men all glanced at Mickie, trying not to be too obvious about it.

  Morris said, "Unfinished business."

  Harry said, "We've been real busy hunting this guy. So maybe now he’s hunting us.”

  “You think so?” asked Morris.

  Mickie said, “When I went home Tuesday night, I measured the handle of my broom. It’s thirty-six inches. The pointed stick in Mrs. Siegert was just about a foot long. The one in Brodbeck was probably the same. That leaves one more.”

  “Hell,” put in Morris, “there’s a world full of broomsticks.”

  Ross watched Mickie, wondering how he could say what he wanted to without sending her into orbit. He didn’t get the chance. She saw him watching her, read his expression, and guessed what was behind it. “Don’t say it,” she said. “Somebody tried to put one of those things into me, and I’ll be damned if I’ll go hide in the closet.”

  “You’re a target,” said Ross.

  “No, Sir. I’m a police officer. I want this son-of-a-bitch!”

  The knock and the door opening stopped any reply Ross may have made. Beverly looked in, said, “Pardon me, Sir. Thought you’d want to know. Brodbeck’s car’s been found.”

  * * *

  They parked at the turnaround by the dunes, then walked back to where Reynolds was waiting for them by the side of the road. As they approached him, Mickie marveled again at the crispness of his uniform, wondering how anyone could spend so much time in a cruiser and still be wrinkle-free. His face showed more creases than his clothes.

  Reynolds pointed to a faint track that left the main road. It wound over toward the foundations of what was once going to be a hotel. "It was the access road the construction crews used. It's pretty much covered with sand now, but you can still make it out. Right down there —", he pointed toward a large opening in the gray, concrete walls, "—that's where the garage was going to be. The car's in there."

  As they walked toward the ruins, Harry said, "They didn't get much done." Nowhere did the walls rise more than ten feet from the sand. In some places the sand had drifted up to nearly hide them.

  "Just the foundations," said Mickie. "They got a lot of flak about messing up the environment."

  "Notice anything?" asked Harry.

  "Yeah," answered Mickie, "there's no tracks. It was brought here before the last rain, and that was Monday morning. Which means Sunday night."

  They walked through the opening Reynolds had indicated, and found themselves in a large, roofless area. Here and there the walls were discolored from exposure. The floor was covered with drifted sand. Another officer, a youngster by Harry's standards, stood near the red car, watching them as they approached.

  It was parked in a corner where it wasn't likely to be seen, and it was a mess. The windshield was smashed in several places, the web of cracks making it opaque. Both headlights were broken. Chunks of concrete littered the hood.

  Harry said, "Kids did a number on it." To the young officer he said, "Have you checked the inside yet?"

  The man gave him a look that said, ‘Don't be simple’, then said aloud, "No, Sir."

  "Good," said Harry. "There's hope, yet."

  Both windows were down. Tiny shards of glass glistened on the seats.

  Mickie bent low to peer inside. "I don't suppose there's a chance of getting any prints."

  "Not with those kids climbing all over it."

  "We could get lucky."

  "No. It's not a matter of luck. Somebody's thinking. Doing things for a reason. He's not about to leave prints. Ask yourself this: Why was the car put here? I'll give you a hint: it's the same reason Kurt's body was covered with sand."

  She considered, then said, "To keep it from being found—at least for a while."

  "Right. That way, we couldn't be sure when he was killed. If his foot hadn't come uncovered, he might still be out there. As it is, the M.E. couldn't give us even an approximate time of death."

  "Which, in effect, gives everyone an alibi."

  "All we know is sometime between seven o'clock Sunday evening and sometime Monday morning. If it hadn't rained, we couldn't pin it down that close."

  Driving back to the station, Harry broke the silence by asking, "You still pissed?"


  Mickie glanced at him, surprised by the question. "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about being stalked. How do you feel about it?"

  "How do you think I feel?"

  "Angry and scared, if you've got any sense."

  Mickie turned her head away from him, looking out the side window. Almost to herself, she said, "That's pretty close."

  "It's okay to feel that way. Just don't take it out on the people around you. We're the good guys."

  "Have I been?"

  He didn't answer directly, but said, "Take it out on the bad guy. Get him."

  After Harry pulled into his parking spot, he noticed Mickie still sitting, making no move to open the door. A very small smile played about her lips.

  "What's you're problem?" he asked.

  "I've been thinking about what you said."

  "That's a change. What in particular?"

  "About all this nutty stuff having a practical reason."

  "I never said all."

  "Well, some of it then. We found Tina shortly after she was killed. If we'd known she'd been shot, we could have run residue tests on the suspects to see if they’d recently fired a gun. But we didn't know."

  Harry smiled, seeing where she was going. "We didn't because the wound had been disguised. By the time we knew better, it was too late."

  "And the stake through the heart makes sense."

  "Very good,” he said. “Now, what about the one in Brodbeck? The car and the body were hidden. It took three days to find him, and that was by luck. So why hide the fact that he was shot? If he was shot."

  Mickie said, "Okay, there's still a few bugs to work out."

  "And if Tina Siegert was killed by Hotai, why shoot her at all?"

  She made a face at him. "I don't know. I'll ask the murderer when we catch him."

  "Think about it."

  She said nothing for several minutes. Then: "All right, it was premeditated. The killer brought the gun. But let's say he was close to her emotionally. He wanted to shoot her from in front, then put the stake in, but couldn't look her in the face while he did it. So he hits her with the statue, just to put her out. He doesn't know he's already killed her."