by David Bishop
“Scrote, as in he’s a dick?”
“Ah, the Brit and the Yank are communicating. Even at her age, the victim was an active woman, played pickleball and golf regularly. The neighbors and the other women in her lunch club described her as a smart woman. We’ve been told she kept thousands in cash in the house, but no money was found other than the routine amounts most women carry in their purses. If true, she could have been killed for the cash. No jewelry or other favorite targets of burglars was missing, so a wide-ranging robbery was pretty much ruled out. That takes us back to the supposed cash or leaves us with no robbery at all.”
Jack shook his head. “What kind of person would kill an elderly, defenseless woman with such ferocity?”
“Now let’s not be backsliding, Jacki my man. I already told ya, a scrote is the kind of person that would do it. The kind we plan to castrate—a word with the same meaning on either side of the pond.”
“A word that makes all men flinch. So, how did the serial killer label get put on these deaths? The FBI defines a serial killer as someone who has killed three or more with a certain cooling period between victims. The methods of killing, and the manner of staging the scenes are often consistent. Serial murders commonly include some sexual overtones. According to my reading of the files, the serial killer label seems to have been added after murder number two, and before this most recent third—not counting Phelps. Do I have all this correct?”
Ann leaned back on her side of the booth. “Far as you went, yeah. We do have three murders, and the intervening cooling periods are there. Beyond that, this killer, assuming its one guy and I think it is, has not followed your script. The media has used the term serial killer more often than the sheriff’s office. The governor has used the label several times. The victims are all elderly women from one retirement community, sooo, if we got ourselves a serial killer it appears he hates elderly women, but doesn’t have an Oedipus complex … to the extent I understand all the angles of Oedipus.”
Ann swirled her cocktail glass and drank from it. “Don’t seem like serial killings at all. No common stagings and, like you said, no sex involving the victims. There may have been a sex element with the most recent woman killed out at the water reserve—but even that’s iffy. The third vic, not counting Phelps, might not be connected to the others.”
Jack moved his mouth as if he were about to speak, but didn’t.
A waiter with short legs brought their first course, lobster bisque, and left.
Jack leaned forward. “I haven’t yet carefully read the file on the most recent killing. All I know, or think I know, is the victim was an elderly female and a member of the same ladies lunch club as the first two homicide victims and Phelps.”
“All correct.”
Jack settled his spoon in his bowl. “I’d like to talk about the day of celebration angle mentioned in the files on the first two. Before leaving DC, I had my secretary look into that. It appears every damn day is set aside to recognize something or other, most days several items.”
“Our latest murder, the one we just discussed for which you haven’t yet read the murder book, was on National Steak and Knobber Day.”
Jack squinted.
“I’ll explain later.” Ann smiled. “Today is the seventeenth of March. So, unfortunately, it’s too late for us to recognize the celebratory event of the fourteenth.” She passed her tongue across narrowly parted lips.
Jack watched her tongue stutter over a dry spot. “I agree.”
“With what are you agreeing? That I’ll explain later, or that it’s too late for us to celebrate the event for the fourteenth?”
“I don’t know.”
Ann’s tongue wet the corners of her mouth. “Shall we return to the case?”
Jack looked down and shook his head. “I didn’t know we’d left the case. … I suppose every murder does, tangentially, link with the corresponding national day. What we don’t know is whether this celebration stuff means anything on these cases. Tell me what this Steak and Knobber Day is all about.”
Ann explained its meaning. “The hook of the celebration days came up after the second murder. That was before the Phelps death which brought you in from DC. Since then, these items of recognition, which make the dates of death noteworthy, may have stimulated more bother than their investigative value.”
“I guess we’ll find out. For now, it’s something we don’t know, but should.”
“Speaking of things we don’t know but should, please explain the linkage between the death of the Phelps woman and Governor Lennox … are they old lovers or something?” Ann looked at Jack, her eyebrows raised.
“I don’t keep up on the scuttlebutt about politicians so I’ve heard nothing about Governor Lennox and old lovers.”
Ann smiled. “I was being facetious. The governor was long married, but his wife died a few years ago. A massive tumor in her brain, a glioma. I think they’re pretty much death sentences. No cure. Six months, give or take. They’d been married something like twenty-five years. … Now it’s your turn: what connects Governor Lennox to Mary Alice Phelps?”
“My orders are to simply explain the governor is concerned with all crimes against all Floridians. … I know its politician-gibberish but that’s my marching orders. If it’s determined that Phelps was murdered, I have no doubt your question will be answered. For now, we’re operating under the governor’s order … sorry. How did the celebration day angle come to be seen as relevant?”
“I’m not sure it’s ever been seen as relevant. The dispatcher at the sheriff’s office has a fun calendar that identifies the recognition item for each day. She’s the one who first made the point when she noticed the inventory sheets from the scenes matched up with the items on her calendar for those days.”
Two members of the wait staff brought their meals. They had ordered the same entrée: sesame crusted salmon with lemongrass sauce. The waiter refilled their water glasses and left.
Jack picked up his fork. “And?”
“I talked to the vic’s friends in the lunch club. Several said the second victim regularly chewed gum, but she wasn’t into bubble gum. Her thing was spearmint flavored gum. Her neighbors told us they weren’t aware of the vic’s grandchildren visiting recently—and claimed they would’ve known. When I got back to the station I went through the file on the first murder. The inventory sheet on the contents of the refrigerator included an uncut fruitcake. Sergeant CC Wilmer rechecked the dispatcher’s calendar to again confirm her date of death was National Fruitcake Toss Day.”
“Coincidence?”
“Possibly. Still, it does raise the question of whether or not the killer placed the fruitcake in the first victim’s refrigerator. Similarly, did the perp put the bowl of bubble gum on a table in the home of the second victim? If so, do these days of recognition connect with the perp in some twisted way? Do these left-there items constitute the perp’s bizarre non-sexual stagings? We’re holding that tidbit to identify anyone who steps up and confesses.”
“Okay, Lieut … Ann, let’s assume it’s a solid truth with respect to murders one and two. But, from what you just told me, there’s nothing physical at this most recent scene definitively linking to Steak and Knobber Day.”
“Other than CC’s guesstimation that an act of fellatio was in play when the scrote used his icepick. But, if the vic rolled down her driver’s window, the pick could have been inserted into her left ear from outside the car. Her blouse was unbuttoned to the waist. Maybe that was her enticement while he was at the car window, or the perp could’ve unbuttoned her blouse after he killed her.”
“Okay. If we presume the killer sees these days of recognition as meaningful, what could that meaning be?”
Ann raised her eyebrows. “Your guess is as good as mine. I think it’s all a load of codswallop.”
“Ah. At last a British slang of which I’m familiar. Now, what about the Phelps death? Your Sheriff Jackson has declared Phelps as accidental death, whil
e the governor insists we’re talking murder. What day of recognition fell on the date of Phelps’ death? Tagging onto that answer: was anything left in the Phelps home that links to something being commemorated on that date?”
“Excellent questions.” Ann settled her fork on her plate, tines down with her knife beside it, the blade facing the fork, and moved the plate toward the center of the table. “If Phelps was a murder, and if these days of recognition have any significance, the connection you referred to could still be on display, unrecognized, in the Phelps home. Truth is, the sheriff’s office was just becoming aware of this day of recognition angle when they were called to the Phelps scene. If the recognition item for that day was there, it could have gone unnoticed.”
“Could be.”
The waiter came to the table, saw Ann’s utensils signaling she was finished eating, and removed her plate.
“How was Phelps discovered?”
“A neighbor, Norma Taylor, noticed Phelps’ bedroom light was on late and knew Phelps usually went to bed earlier. Taylor went out her backdoor and walked over. The two women have keys to each other’s homes, but Ms. Taylor thought she would look from the back before entering Phelps home. There was no fence between their lots. She saw Phelps in her spa, went in, confirmed Phelps was dead and called the sheriff’s office. An investigator went to the Phelps scene and saw it as an accidental death. In fairness, apparently, all the trappings for that finding were there. Still, the reading of the Phelps scene could be all cocked up and it’s another murder. The sheriff’s office wrote it up as accidental and nothin’ more’s been done.”
“What’s the status on the Phelps home at the moment?” Jack took his last bite and nudged his plate toward the end of the table. “Is it preserved as a crime scene or, God forbid, have relatives moved in to live there?”
“So far, no relatives of Phelps have been found.”
“So far, I doubt much of an effort’s been made to do anything on Phelps.”
Ann sipped her water and pursed her lips. “That’s pretty much true. I arrived in the evening three days ago. I spent the first day wading into murders one and two, my official reason for being here. Then murder three occurred out at the waterfowl reserve. The sheriff has one qualified investigator and had three murders—if the governor’s right, four. The sheriff likely felt relief with the conclusion that Phelps was an accident.
“The FDLE largely exists to aid the locals with investigations of a kind they don’t regularly encounter. Assistance from our department may have occurred routinely even if the governor hadn’t put his foot in the middle of it, but he did. If Phelps ends up a homicide, and that’s a big if, the governor’s insistence preserved the crime scene.”
“After the governor got you involved, did you dig into the Phelps scene?”
“After I digested the scenes at the first two murders, the governor called to say he was sending you down. The order was for me to protect the scene, but to not otherwise proceed until you arrived. I filled the time until you got here further familiarizing myself with the first two homicides, and the recent woman killed with an icepick. The second morning, I stopped at Phelps. I was there maybe five minutes when I got the call to hold steady until you arrived, so I left. From what I saw in those couple minutes, it looked like the accidental death CC wrote up. The two pictures in the sheriff’s file showed the radio in the water, but when I got there it was out of the spa and on the deck. ”
“What about the investigator for the sheriff’s office, CC Wilmer? Does he know what he’s doing?”
“CC? Sure. I’ve known him for around five years. He was once an investigator, same as me, with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. CC has more homicide experience than is common in the offices of most county sheriffs. Back then, he tired of being sent hither and yon to help with cases all over the state. I do that now, and can tell you it’s often a drag. CC dealt with that running around for over ten years. He kept his eyes open, and when the boards showed an opening here for a staff investigator, CC applied and took it. He’s happy without the constant traveling. He’s one of the good guys. The sheriff knows he’s lucky to have him.”
Jack nodded. “Conway told me you’d know if the ladies lunch club is still holding their weekly luncheons.”
“I don’t know. At the risk of sounding morbid, it’d give them something to talk about other than … whatever it is they talk about when none of them have been murdered.”
“What’s your calendar look like for the morning?”
“Subject to you, Detective McCall. My superiors told me I’m to play ‘me and my shadow’ with you being ‘me’ and me being your ‘shadow.’ I think they want a conduit—me—so they know everything the governor’s handpicked big gun—you—is up to.”
“I get it. Particularly, with them not knowing what makes the Phelps woman so important to the governor. Of course, they could investigate that point, but it might be tacky for a local sheriff to slide aside a series of murders and assign his limited resources to an investigation of his governor.”
Ann smiled. “To say the least.”
Ten minutes later they waved off the dessert choices and ordered coffees. The work talk was done. They casually drifted back into the somewhat date-half until they walked out. Jack accompanied Ann to her car and stood close.
She put the flat of her left hand on his chest. “You’re a dishy fella, Mr. McCall, but for tonight, I’d prefer we not let the date-half step over the line.”
Jack smiled, moved back slightly, and offered his hand. “Professional-half, good night.”
She grasped his hand firmly, leaving her other hand on his chest. “Maybe we should schedule a full-date night.”
“Pretty soon, if you want my opinion.”
She patted his chest twice, then got into her car.
Jack watched her drive out of the lot, walked over, got into his car, and opened his cellphone.
Ann was about to turn onto the interstate when her cellphone rang. She put it to her ear. “Hello.”
“Hello, Ann. It’s Jack McCall. Just wanted you to know I think you’re a bit of alright … did I use that British phrase correctly? I just looked it up on my smart phone.”
“How did we ever exist without them? Was there something else you wanted?”
“I just looked up March fourteenth. Steak and Knobber Day is what you said. We met after March fourteenth, so I’d like to request a variance for a delayed celebration. I mean that seems only fair, doesn’t it?”
“Mr. McCall. I’ll grant you a temporary stay. For anything further, I think we should at least wait until we’ve kissed. When that’ll happen, me being the shy bird I am, I’ll leave up to you.”
“I didn’t notice a lot of shyness at our table tonight. Frankly, I liked that. And, thank you, Your Honor, for the temporary stay.”
“Good night, Jack. … Jack … are you still with me?” Ann heard a grunt. “Do you know what today’s day of celebration is?”
“No. Tell me.”
“National Awkward Moment Day.”
Jack let out a raucous laugh. “Seems fitting.”
“Aah, I think we handled it well enough. In the event we go forward with celebrating Steak and Knobber Day, from a point of fairness, we should first have a slice of fruitcake and chew some bubble gum. Just to show we’ve equally recognized all these special days.”
“Absolutely. We’ll constitute a joint taskforce of two and carry out research with respect to the clues left at the crime scenes.”
“Good night, Jack.”
“Wait. Before you hang up I have something to ask you.”
“Yes?”
“Would you have dinner with me next year on March fourteenth?”
“Very funny, Mr. McCall.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“If our relationship develops that slowly, it’d be a no. If the implied ‘us’ develops really well, we just might celebrate early. … Good night, Mr. McCall.”
/> 6
At seven in thet morning, Jack saw Max and Nora walking toward him. He was seated in the eating area inside the Embassy Suites at a table near a running stream. It provided some cover for a secure conversation. The large skylight above showed the day was clear with the morning sun in full service. The weather report had forecast light afternoon sprinkles.
Despite being in his late sixties with a modest paunch, Max stood erect and strode confidently.
Jack already had his breakfast. Max and Nora were carrying theirs. “Good morning, guys.”
Max and Nora slid their trays onto his table and sat across from him.
“Thanks for waiting up for me last night. I got the impression neither of you saw anything in the updated files on the Fruitcake and Bubble Gum Murders that changed what we knew before. However, the file we hadn’t seen, the Steak and Knobber Murder, allowed us to get acquainted with the most recent killing. I got up early and looked over all of them before coming down to breakfast.”
Max scooted his chair in close and began smearing cream cheese on one side of his onion bagel. “Thanks for the drink last night.”
“My pleasure.”
Nora tore open a packet of sweetener and turned to Max. “What was that Irish toast you gave when our drinks came?”
“Thirst is a shameless curse. Here’s to a shameful cure.”
“I like that.”
“Feel free to use it dearie. Many have before you.” Max raised his coffee cup. “Did anything come from your closer look this morning at the file on the Knobber killing? What’s your thoughts on the connection, if any, between the murders and these darn fool days of recognition?”
Jack squinted. “It could be a most unusual, non-sexual staging by the killer. A tease—‘here it is, you dumb coppers. Can’t you see it?’ This killer, assuming he’s one dude, is thinking he’s smarter than the fuzz.”
Nora bit off the end of a piece of crisp bacon. “Or we’re seeing something that isn’t there. Murders always occur on a given day and every day is a day for celebrating something.”