The Impaler sm-2

by Gregory Funaro

  He took a deep breath and concentrated on the pressure behind his eyes; envisioned it as a bright red ball and kept shooting it from his forehead until he felt the tension in his face relax. By the time he reached the crime scene about fifteen minutes later he felt much better. The baseball field was located in a more rural area of town—at the north end of a small, secluded park—and Markham arrived to find the Cary police already waiting for him.

  “Thank you, Schaap,” he whispered, and parked behind the patrol car. He slipped his case files into a small duffel bag and stepped out in tandem with the policeman—was about to reach for his ID, but the policeman waved him on without a word.

  Markham nodded and headed down the steep embankment to the baseball field. When he reached home plate, he removed a flashlight from his bag and made his way across the pitcher’s mound to the outfield. After a few seconds of searching he found the marker he’d left there earlier that afternoon: an old bike reflector placed on the exact spot where Randall Donovan had been discovered impaled. The hole had been filled in, the crime scene tape gone for a couple of days now. And to make things worse it had rained on Monday, leaving nothing to indicate that only five days ago poor Randall Donovan had played center field with a stake up his ass.

  Markham rifled through his bag and removed a large compass, charged the glow-in-the-dark coordinates with his flashlight, and then cut off the light. Turning slowly in place over the posthole, he allowed his eyes time to adjust to the dark. He settled on west, then stood for a long time gazing out over the field. The sky was clear, the moon an almost perfect half—not the same, of course, as it had been for Donovan, but he wasn’t sure if its position had changed also. He had an inkling it had but would need to check that out later.

  His eyes played back and forth between the moon and the jagged silhouette of trees on the horizon. He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a bath towel he’d taken from his temporary apartment, balled it up behind his head, and lay down in the grass. Maintaining his direction west, he approximated Donovan’s line of sight and stared up at the sky. The scene was breathtaking—reminded him of a Lite-Brite set he used to have as a child. He let his eyes wander back to the moon and saw that the stars were slightly washed out around its perimeter. With a crescent moon, he thought, the stars would’ve been clearer.

  “Of course,” he whispered. “Makes sense if you want to replicate the Ottoman symbol for Islam in the sky. But you can’t replicate the symbol exactly; can’t get the star inside the crescent. Would you accept that, Vlad?”

  He scanned the sky for a long time and let his eyes wander from the crescent moon to the stars. He didn’t recognize any of the constellations except the Big Dipper. That would be something he’d have to check out on the Internet, too. Maybe a constellation associated with Vlad. But how many were there? The voice in his head began taunting him with signs from the zodiac, but he quickly stifled it and allowed the stars to enfold him in their sparkly blanket of igno-rance—of junior high school science projects and that astronomy class he’d always wished he’d taken at UConn.

  Donovan’s glasses and the sight lines of the other vic-tims—they couldn’t have been looking at the crescent moon.

  Well, what about the star? You need a star to complete the symbol for Islam.

  But which one? There are thousands of them!

  Markham scanned the sky and felt his brain beginning to squirm; felt the pressure building up again behind his eyes. He closed them and focused on his breathing, on emptying his mind into the sounds of the night and the orangey speckles burned on the backs of his eyelids. His muscles began to relax—a sinking sensation, as if he were suddenly lying on a bed of warm sand. The day was catching up to him, and soon his thoughts drifted to his wife, to the afternoon they drove up to Rhode Island and the night they made love for the first time on the beach at Bonnet Shores. Afterwards, gazing up at the stars, Michelle pointed out the constellation Cassiopeia. Cassiopeia, she said, was one she could always find.

  “A good sailor can always find his way home by the North Star,” she told him.

  Markham smiled at the memory of how he tried to impress her with his knowledge of Greek mythology, explaining that Cassiopeia was a vain queen who boasted that she was more beautiful than the goddess Hera herself. Michelle didn’t buy it; said that anybody who’d seen Clash of the Titans would know that. Markham laughed, and the two of them traded parts humming the movie’s cheesy music.

  Laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. Not like that, anyway. Like someone else. Who was that guy lying on the beach? And who was this guy lying here in center field? Not the same people, but still, both of them strangers.

  Markham took a deep breath and looked for Cassiopeia. He couldn’t find her and located the North Star instead. He closed his eyes—the sound of the waves battering the shores of his mind. He heard Michelle ask him if he liked the name Cassie. He had said he did, and added: “If we ever have a daughter we’ll name her Cassie. Short for Cassiopeia, okay?” Michelle agreed, and he told her he loved her. She said she loved him, too; and there under the stars they fell asleep.

  Cassie, Markham said to himself. Our daughter’s name shall be Cassie.

  Then, a heavy blink, a sensation of falling forward, and Markham awoke with a start. For a moment he expected to hear the ocean—didn’t know where he was or how much time had passed until he looked at his watch.

  1:37 a.m.

  Michelle was gone, and he was back on the baseball field. He’d been out for over an hour. So unreal. So unlike him. He needed to get back to his apartment; needed to get some sleep. By the time he got back to the Resident Agency, the FBI lab’s preliminary test results on Rodriguez should be waiting for him. He was glad he didn’t have to be there for that; the kid had been in the ground for almost two months.

  Markham yawned and stretched, was about to gather up his things, when suddenly he stopped. The stars. They looked different somehow—the moon a bit lower on the horizon and farther to his right.

  A good sailor can always find his way home by the North Star.

  Markham saw that it had not changed its position, but the surrounding stars had.

  Slightly.

  That’s because the North Star is a pole star. Polaris is its official name. Position remains constant throughout the night, while the others appear to revolve around it.

  Then it hit him.

  Depending on the time Vlad dropped off his victims, the stars would have looked different. Whatever he wanted them to look at might have changed position—might have actually traveled across the sky from east to west.

  Markham flicked on his flashlight and took out the Rodriguez and Guerrera file from his duffel bag. He flipped immediately to the copy of the initial police report.

  The patrolman, he read, discovered them outside the cemetery around 1:50 a.m. Was called to the scene on a report that “a gang of youths” had been observed on the premises after hours.

  That had helped boost the original MS-13 angle, but Markham wondered now if the report was even true; wondered if maybe the killer hadn’t tipped off the police himself to send them on a wild-goose chase.

  Markham scanned the police report again. He knew from his earlier trip to the cemetery that it closed at dusk. Most likely, to be safe, the killer would have waited until well after dark. For the sake of argument, the actual window in which Rodriguez and Guerrera were dropped off could’ve been anywhere between 7 p.m. and 1:30 a.m. The window for Donovan was bigger. The groundskeeper found him around 5:30 a.m.

  Markham stood up, charged the numbers on his compass, and turned toward the east. He slowly arched his head from the horizon, glancing from the stars to his compass until it carried him westward into Donovan’s line of sight. Whatever it was the killer wanted his victims to see could have followed this general path, and in his mind he cut a thick swath of stars with a centerline due east and west.

  But how thick should he make it? There w
as no way now to get the exact angles of the victims’ sight lines. But gazing out over the eastern horizon he suddenly realized it would be better to work from the Hispanics’ point of view. Donovan was looking almost directly overhead—a wider field of vision, too many stars to choose from. But Rodriguez and Guerrera? The angle was much shorter. Practically straight ahead.

  Yes, he thought. Whatever Rodriguez and Guerrera were supposed to look at would have had a much narrower visual field through which to pass.

  But even if you get the angles correct, how the hell are you going to find the right star? That is, if the victims were supposed to look at a star to begin with?

  Markham didn’t have an answer. And it was too late to go to the cemetery. The window for what the Hispanics were supposed to look at had passed. Besides, he needed to get to sleep; needed to have a clear head in the morning if he was going to be dealing with latitudes and longitudes and coordinates and who knows what else. He’d most likely have to consult with an astronomy professor, too; might be able to get on the Internet and figure out for himself what stars could have passed over the eastern horizon between—

  Sleep on it, he heard Gates say, and Markham quickly gathered his things and hurried across the field, up the embankment, and into his TrailBlazer.

  The drive back to his temporary government digs seemed to take forever. But only when he pulled into the parking lot did he realize that, despite the jumble of thoughts swirling in his head, the pressure behind his eyes had not returned.

  Chapter 10

  Cindy Smith lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. She felt tired but at the same time wound up, her mind replaying over and over again her little chat with George Kiernan.

  Her performance had gone well for the most part, Kier-nan said, but he still felt her “Out, out, damned spot!” speech was pushed. Told her to just relax, to come onstage with a fuller emotional prep and just “do her doings.” Cindy understood that Kiernan wanted her to stop playing it so crazy and just try to wash the imaginary blood from her hands. But the young actress also understood why he’d pulled her aside after rehearsal instead of giving her his notes with the rest of the cast.

  And that’s what bothered her.

  It wasn’t anything George Kiernan said or did—he was just trying to help, was well aware that every other woman in the department was gunning for his lead actress to fail. Someone had even written “egocentric bitch?” next to Cindy’s name when the cast list went up a month and a half earlier. Kiernan himself took it down and replaced it with a clean copy. Then he sent out a message via the electronic callboard saying that kind of thing “showed a small mind and weak character,” and warned that if he ever caught a student committing such a reprehensible act again, he would personally see to it that he or she was thrown out of the department.

  Cindy pretended to shrug it all off; even wrote “egocentric bitch?” as her Facebook status. But the comment and the ongoing mystery of who wrote it—as well as all the catty whispering that she knew was going on behind her back—still bothered her. And as she watched the bright yellow numbers on her bedside clock roll over to 2:00, the young actress suddenly felt lonelier than ever.

  True, she had begun to feel distant from her friends toward the end of last year, when she was still a sophomore and the plays for the following season were officially announced. Lady Macbeth was the part over which every girl in the department was salivating, and Cindy worked her ass off to get it. She rehearsed all of Lady Macbeth’s speeches over the summer between her morning job at the day care center and her evening job waitressing at Chili’s. She kept rehearsing into the fall, too, and by the time auditions came around the following spring, the seasoned junior blew away her competition—made sure to leave no room for her classmates to bitch that she got the role only because “Kiernan wanted to bang her.”

  Tall and thin with jet-black hair and full, round lips, Cindy Smith thought herself an attractive woman, yes, but nothing special really. She’d had only one boyfriend in high school and dated him all through her freshmen year at Har-riot—until she found out he was cheating on her with a sorority girl because, as he said, “she wasn’t giving him enough attention.”

  Now didn’t that just scream of fucking irony!

  In the end, however, she was happy to break it off. She knew deep down that they had little in common, him being a jock and her being a “theatre dork.” And although a year and a half later she was self-aware enough to see the cliché in it all, the betrayal still hurt enough for her to keep the young men in the department at arm’s length—especially the egomaniac playing Macbeth.

  The prick’s name was Bradley Cox, a second-year senior who wouldn’t be graduating any time soon, and who only got the lead because the competition among the men was so slim. “Big Fish, Small Pond Syndrome,” her mother called it.

  Cindy thought Bradley Cox was a cliché just like her ex-boyfriend—the big-man-on-campus type who prided himself on banging every girl in the department. The kind of guy who had it easy in college, but whose lack of talent and overall mediocrity would hit him hard in the real world. Would probably end up working for his father’s construction firm, Cindy was willing to bet. Bradley had asked Cindy out at the beginning of the fall semester—told her she looked like Angelina Jolie and said he’d like to make her dinner at his apartment. Cindy politely declined, then did so a second time a week later at a cast party, upon which an inebriated Cox called her a “stuck-up whore” and said he wouldn’t fuck her with George Kiernan’s dick.

  He left her alone after that, hardly said two words to her all year. However, she did catch him sneering at one of his buddies during the first read-through of Macbeth, to which Cindy had come with all her lines memorized. She got her revenge two weeks later, secretly, when Kiernan pulled her aside and said, “You know, Cindy, the title of the play is Macbeth, but yours is the performance people are going to remember.”

  She had really appreciated that, but at the same time didn’t like the special treatment she always got from Kiernan.

  Like her private little note session tonight.

  Cindy flicked on her bedside light, and when her eyes ad- justed, she tiptoed over to her desk, making sure to avoid the creaky floorboard at the corner of the bed so as not to wake her mother downstairs.

  Cindy was born and raised in Greenville and still lived at home. She wasn’t proud of it—living with her mother, that is—but knew that it would all pay off when she moved to New York City to pursue her acting career. She’d already saved up almost four thousand dollars in her three years of working at Chili’s. She paid for school through scholarships and her work-study job in the box office and hadn’t had to ask for a dime from her asshole father, either. She hadn’t even talked to the son of a bitch since Christmas, now that she thought of it; and although the piece-of-junk Pontiac Sunfire he’d thrown her on her sixteenth birthday was about to shit the bed, she’d rather walk to school than be the first to call.

  Cindy’s father, an auto mechanic, ended up marrying the woman with whom he’d been cheating on Cindy’s mother and bought a house out in neighboring Winterville. Still not far enough away, Cindy thought—shit, even California wouldn’t be far enough away. The divorce went down when Cindy was in junior high school, when one day her mother came home from work crying and started throwing her father’s things out on the front lawn. Then her father came home and smacked his wife a couple of good ones for embarrassing him in front of the neighbors. Didn’t matter if he was guilty or not, he said; a good wife don’t go selling out her husband no matter what he done.

  Cindy saw it all, and the ensuing divorce hit her as hard as if her father had smacked her a couple of good ones, too. But like everything else, Cindy quickly learned to see the bigger picture. That was one of her “gifts,” her mother always said; her maturity, her ability to rise above things. Cindy could tell that her mother was happier without the son of a bitch—had to admit that she was happier without him hanging around, too�
�and decided that it was best if she had as little to do with her father as possible.

  Besides, he’d never shown much interest in her anyway.

  Cindy turned on her computer—an old eMachine that took forever and made a weird clicking sound when it booted—and once she was on the Internet, out of habit she first checked her Facebook page. It was the usual stuff: a message from her best friend (who, unfortunately, went to State) and a couple of drunken posts along the lines of, “Whassup, you egocentric bitch?” from friends who had just returned from partying downtown. But only after Cindy minimized her Facebook page and saw the Google search results was she willing to admit to herself the real reason why she’d gotten out of bed.

  She had googled the name “Edmund Lambert”—only a few thousand hits, most of which were links to general ancestry or genealogy pages. Nothing that Cindy could tie directly to the handsome ex-soldier who kept to himself in the scene shop.

  Yeah, all the girls in the theatre department kind of had a thing for Lambert. But at the same time they were intimidated by him, and thought it strange how he didn’t smile back when they batted their eyelashes and flashed their pearly whites at him. And really, only that slut Amy Pratt had made a play for him—came right out and said she’d give him a blow job in the light booth, to which Lambert replied, “No thank you, Amy.” Amy told the girls about it in the dressing room the previous semester; said Lambert didn’t even blush, didn’t even flinch, but just looked her straight in the eye until she walked away. “Guy’s weird,” she said. “Looks you dead in the eye, all blank and creepy like he’s looking through you. Fucking Hitchcock movie, if you ask me.”

  Lambert had looked at Cindy that way, too. But unlike Amy Pratt, Cindy actually liked it; liked the way he held her gaze to the point where she thought she could feel his steel- blue eyes licking the back of her retinas. Oh yeah, looks wise, Edmund Lambert was beyond dreamy—tall and muscular with dark brown hair and straight white teeth. But more than that, Cindy liked him because she could tell he was a thinker, could tell he had depth—the most genuine, no-bullshit guy in the department. Wouldn’t even give a chick like Amy Pratt the time of day.