Bouncer

by Tyan Wyss

  “Someone tampered with the computer?”

  “I’ll never know. The technician stated the computer had suffered an electrical overload, similar to a lightning strike. I’ve managed to salvage many of his files, just not his notes on the Peebles case. To think I actually read some of his insights while retyping my Dad’s shorthand irks me to no end. Fool that I was, I didn’t read them thoroughly enough or have a strong enough point of reference to interpret them correctly at the time.”

  “So that file you have there is just the copy of the original you obtained from the police department?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know, Fox,” said Nick slowly, rubbing his narrow chin. “Potatoes fields, three bodies, and stray fingers. These two cases are connected, and the chief doesn’t want us to find out how or why. I need to speak with Luke Cambridge today.”

  Chapter 15

  Sunday Afternoon

  Thayne decided to drive south to where Luke was incarcerated. Lea needed the time for research, so she cheerfully suggested to Thayne she would see him later that evening.

  “Do you mind?” he asked of the coroner’s report. Nick needed to digest the results of the autopsies a little at a time since his head still pounded.

  “Not at all,” said Lea, feeling quite generous, handing him the original after making a copy for her reference. It tickled her to see him looking so pale and out of sorts. Many men believed they could handle their liquor and work as competently as they would without it, but she knew that to be an illusion. Her brother had certainly proven that.

  “Ah, Fox, you might, um, want to check the field just below the lot. I have a feeling the slipshod Monroe PD may have missed something. That is, if you’ve got some spare time. If not, we’ll check it out tomorrow morning together,” he said in a peculiar tone.

  Fox glanced up, and he gave a tiny nod. “I’ll do that,” she promised.

  As soon as Thayne had gone, Lea sat for the next two hours, searching every available source on the Internet. She printed out a few pages, distressed by what she’d read about Philemon Jenkins, almost hoping Thayne would find out something seedy about Connie’s military boyfriend. Her hopes were shattered less than thirty minutes later.

  Her cell phone jangled and Nick’s breezy voice filled the airways. “Bad news, Fox. Our Presido boy has contacted Chief Rollins. Guess what? He’s no offshore boy toy for our deceased Connie. He’s her cousin of all things. Arriving tonight to set up burial proceedings. Name’s Lieutenant Mark Bales. I spoke to him briefly on the phone, and he’s making a statement to Officer Stevens at the station as we speak. Apparently, he wasn’t even in California last week, having traveled with some fellow officers to Florida to receive some training. Alibi looks airtight, and his distress regarding his cousin sounds genuine.”

  “There goes one of our best leads,” sighed Lea.

  “He might still have some insights,” remarked Thayne, trying to be positive.

  “We can only hope since Philemon has six priors. One for grand-theft auto.”

  “Good God.”

  “Actually, God was good. Philemon’s wife was in labor and his engine blew a gasket. He hot-wired his neighbor’s Impala and drove her to the maternity ward. He was arrested ten minutes after the birth of his second son. Only served community service on that one. Neighbor was understanding but not amused.”

  Nick laughed. “Anything more incriminating than that?”

  “One DUI, one driving with a revoked license after the DUI, two trespassing, and one assault upon a neighbor’s barking dog.”

  “Hmm. I bet the trespassing ones are the most interesting, and I completely understand the dog situation. Not surprised there’s nothing more concrete than that. Our Philemon was a professional and left no tracks. I’m just pulling into the prison’s parking lot now. I’ll let you know how the interview with Luke goes.”

  He hung up abruptly. It seemed they were moving backwards instead of forwards. The wind blew briskly, and a chill had crept from the north, indicating fall was finally on its way. Since she wasn’t making any progress here, Lea decided to take Thayne’s advice and check out Chester Street and the fields nearby once again. Fox slipped into a pair of baggy jeans, her worn trainers, and a mud-brown sweatshirt with oil stains on it. She’d never figured out how to remove the spots after changing the Mazda’s oil filter. Before leaving her house, she picked up the red rubber ball retrieved from Philemon’s play with Bouncer and stuck it into her coat pocket, planning to ring the Collins doorbell one more time. Maybe she’d get lucky.

  Lea drove slowly down Chester Street, sighing at the lovely neighborhood. Wide sidewalks lined the beautifully landscaped avenue, with huge mature elm and maple trees giving the neighborhood that high-class feel only old trees can bestow. The cul-de-sac had little traffic this Monday afternoon, and only a few shorts-clad girls jumped rope in the street, politely shifting to one side as she glided her silver Mazda towards the bowl-shaped end.

  Lea strolled the wide sidewalks and studied the stately street again. The broad overhang of shady elms produced such a lovely image of peace and tranquility. Everyone’s lawns were expertly trimmed, and sparrows sang amongst the leafy branches. She noted several houses maintained both hybrid tea and floribunda rose bushes. It was conceivable Thad Fisher had been imprisoned in any of them, though she didn’t believe it likely.

  She returned to the Simms house, analyzing the lovely exterior for several minutes. The Tudor house was tastefully designed with high white stucco walls covered in the typical dark criss- cross patterns distinctive to their unique style. Its left-hand side was covered in ivy, and across the top story, the beautiful slate lines dove in dramatic lines. One particular second floor room boasted a lovely, pale stained-glass window depicting the rays of the sun slanting off a vivid peacock strutting amongst slender orchids. Mrs. Simms sure had taste, alright.

  Lea noted the rose bushes lining the pathway up to the house and adorning the wide front porch. Needing to take a closer look and hoping the elderly woman wouldn’t mind, she limped up the curling cobblestone to study the thorny plants lining the front porch. The orange-red Mr. Lincoln vied for space with its more dominant cousin, the crimson Oklahoma. Her nose puckered at the lavish scent of Perfumed Delight, while her senses appreciated the stately grace of Duet.

  Lea’s sharp eyes analyzed the thorn-incrusted stalks, any one of which could have played havoc with a man’s feet. No plant looked damaged, all blooming in perfect, heavy-blossomed radiance; the rose connoisseur’s idea of heaven. Reluctantly, she left the beautiful Simms garden and headed towards the vacant field bordered by bright police tape.

  Memory of Nick’s quiet voice reminded Lea of his request to recheck the lot and field. She awkwardly lifted her pants-clad leg over the restrictive, sticky barrier, finally succeeding in hobbling into the quiet field as she headed towards the majestic magnolia. Another smaller expanse of tape surrounded the actual murder site situated at the base of the elderly tree where Thad Fisher’s body had been discovered by Philemon Jenkins. The tree bloomed heavily, its thick white blooms stretching towards the afternoon sun.

  Lea surveyed the turned soil under the magnolia’s heavy canopy where Thad had been unearthed, the white chalk outline insulting the earth. She lurched around the vacant lot, noting that the area saw a great deal of foot traffic since it was obviously a place people let their unleashed animals roam, if the fairly frequent piles of dog droppings were any indication. A little boy on a small bike waved at her from the sidewalk. She waved back.

  She studied Mrs. Simms’ short wall, which barely topped five feet high. Anyone could have scrambled over the heavy block fence. Lea searched around, and finding an old cinderblock, dragged it to the fence and climbing atop, teetered clumsily. Now finally tall enough to gaze over the wall, she surveyed the lovely garden. The impressive greenhouse dominated the large backyard, and Lea noted how roses fought for space with camellias, azaleas, and hyacinths. Directly
hugging the inside wall where she perched, a scarlet hibiscus attracted bees, which zoomed noisily past her ears. Roses lined the house’s façade, but no more than any of the other half a dozen homes on the block.

  She hopped awkwardly off the broken block and headed towards the ten-foot high brick wall that surrounded the north side of the Collins residence. No trailing vines or disobedient shrubs dared cling to these walls. She crinkled her nose, the smell of dung still strong, but less pronounced than the previous day. A faint rustle sounded, and Lea swore she heard a faint snarling sound as if an animal protested against its boundaries.

  “Hello,” she called tentatively. The frenzied snarling increased for a second before suddenly diminishing to a low, moaning growl. She fervently searched for something high enough to elevate her short statute enough to peer over the ten-foot wall, but found nothing to accommodate her. Anyone who wanted to peer into this protected yard would need a good-sized ladder.

  Thoroughly agitated by her short height and inability to conquer her surroundings, Lea clumped back to the sidewalk and spent the next 90 minutes interviewing families from the eight houses further down the block. After accepting strong green tea from the Chun family, tasting Mrs. Borman’s apricot cake, and bouncing the Kurgan tot upon her knee, she was now even more convinced than ever that the homicide had not taken place at any of these residences, though several had Mr. Lincoln and other similar roses in their well-kept gardens. Her mind kept returning to the Collins’ fortress-like home at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  Now at nearly 6:00 p.m., the impatient sun began to melt behind the tops of the aged trees. In frustration, Lea finally stood peering over the edge of the wedge shaped lot into the rocky ravine. A short rock wall standing less than three feet high separated the vacant field and its elite neighborhood from the tangle of brush that dotted the open land. She lifted up her heavy feet, and hoisting her bottom upon the low fence, swung her legs over the crumbling stone.

  Lea half-slid, half-careened down the short incline, brambles and yellowish dry grass pulling at her walking shoes and trousers. A small sparrow the color of dust flew near her feet while a mockingbird’s endless chatter filled the afternoon air. The sky surrounded her like a ceramic Mexican bowl, not a cloud disrupting its perfect blue hue. Bees hummed near a snarled riot of wild roses, and a few wild dandelions thrust their bitter stalks towards the sinking sun.

  Lea slowly and methodically searched the area, convinced Chief Rollins’ haphazard crew must have missed something. The field bordered a dry wash enthusiastically named the Monroe River, which only filled after the winter rains. Dust puffed up from the dry dirt, revealing little but irritating her allergies. Fox had nearly given up after thirty minutes of brushing the annoying flies away and flinching at the indignant crows who circled too closely above her. She paused under a scraggly scrub oak, barely tall enough to afford decent shade. A glimmer near the dirt road separating the tract from the start of the lettuce fields owned by Agrit-Empire had her moving as quickly as her damaged leg would allow.

  Lea squatted by a pile of fresh, corrosion-free soda cans as a flock of five crows hopped in the distance cawing angrily at her disruption. Bees still hummed around the sticky sides of the empty containers, which had probably been dumped by teenagers who’d parked on the outskirts of the fields to smoke dope or make out. She was about to rise when a glob of gooey crimson caused her to start. Lea bent, and removing a long, dusty twig from the littered ground, shifted the can slightly.

  The dislodgement revealed the stained bottom of a cream soda can tarnished a faded crimson. Something niggled at the edge of her brain. Lea moved the stick again and suddenly flinched as the can tilted slightly, allowing the contents within to slide partially out of the tab opening. No amount of experience could have stopped the involuntary recoil at the ghastly sight of the bloody end of a finger protruding out of the opening. The bitter bile rose in her throat as Connie’s slender finger, still adorned by a huge diamond, slid grotesquely towards her.

  Lea stumbled backwards, her hands reaching for support as she slammed hard against an old river boulder. Dirt clods clung to its rocky side and dissolved under her trembling fingers. She leaned against it, her lungs fighting for breath and calm.

  “Thought you might prefer cream soda,” echoed Thayne’s melodious voice as she quickly punched in his number. He answered it on the second ring.

  “Where are you, Thayne?” she croaked.

  “Just pulling into Burger City. I finished my interview with Luke and visited Philemon again. He’s remembered something about the Collins house that might be a lead. I—”

  “I need you to come to Chester Street right now,” she stammered, cutting him off. “I found the finger.”

  “The what?” he asked.

  “I think I found Connie’s finger. It’s in the can.”

  “The . . . can?” he repeated.

  It was only then that she realized how ludicrous her statement sounded. “In a soda can near the lettuce fields not far from where Thad’s body was discovered.”

  His voice altered, taking on a harsh edge. “I want you to stay put, Fox, and call 911 and Chief Rollins. Don’t touch the can!”

  A wave of protest emitted from her. “No,” said Lea stubbornly. “I want you to examine it first without any interference from the police.” There was a long pause as Thayne contemplated her request.

  “All right,” he agreed slowly. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  The phone went dead in her hand. A daring crow hopped closer, and Lea backed away, searching for rocks to ward off its approach. She hurdled a fist-sized stone as hard as she could, missing the bird completely, but dispersing the flock for a while. The next fifteen minutes were spent guarding the small pile of cream soda cans from the persistent birds and battling her nausea. A wave of relief washed over her when Thayne arrived in a cloud of dust, the chrome from the highly polished car nearly blinding her.

  The fire-engine-red Mustang succeeded in dispersing the persistent crows much better than her awkward rock throwing had. Thayne appeared much recovered from his drinking bout from the night before but still managed to turn pale at the sight of the protruding, enamel-accented finger.

  “This is recent,” he said after a moment’s examination. “The soda can hasn’t dried out yet in the heat.”

  “The blood and soda are still tacky, almost as if they were dumped after the fact.” Fox stood as far removed from the pile as possible, her tacky outfit stained with dirt and perspiration.

  Thayne sat back on his haunches “I believe this pile of cans was probably deposited here early this morning or last night at the latest. The question is why?”

  “Perhaps whoever did this killing thought the area wouldn’t be examined again after Friday’s police convention? You and I both witnessed the police scouring the field fairly thoroughly as well as the Simms and Collins residences, but this area only got a cursory check. What better place to dump incriminating evidence than in a place that has already been searched?”

  Nick voiced quietly, “Perhaps, but why not use a distant trash bin?” He studied her small tight face dwarfed by the overly large glasses. “I’m inclined to believe the murderer wished us to find it.”

  “Those are serial killer tactics. I find it hard to believe that’s what this is.”

  Nick straightened. “Maybe we’re on the wrong track, and this is a serial killing and not a passion killing after all. There are three bodies now, even though one is twenty-five years old. Who knows what other vagrants or drifters might have had met a similar end out here and were just never found. They might have been deposited in the rugged foothills, and with all the coyotes and buzzards about, not much would be left after a few days.”

  “It’s not a serial killer,” asserted Lea.

  “You sound so certain.”

  “I’d stake my minimal reputation there’s only been these three killings. This isn’t random or impulsive; it’s thought-out and me
thodical and has a connection between the mayor and Ashley Peebles. The killer is very, very smart and loves taunting us. He wanted us to find the note, and now, Connie’s finger.”

  “While I’m inclined to agree with you, how would the killer know we’d search this area again?”

  “I don’t know, since the only reason I searched it was because you told me to. Did you draw something?”

  The silence was deafening. He finally said, “Yes.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  Thayne’s Adam’s apple worked as she analyzed the simple sketch. “It’s just a pile of cream soda cans.”

  Thayne gave a helpless shrug. “I need to talk to Roger.”

  Fox remained silent way too long. “You trust him?” she said finally.

  “Implicitly. Roger goes by the book. In fact, I think he probably wrote the book, but he has a heart, which is something Rollins lacks entirely. That, and tenacity. You, ah . . . wouldn’t happen to have any hidden forensics skills, would you?

  “Na, I flunked science in college. Any plastic bags in your car?”

  Nick’s head jerked, his deep brown eyes narrowing. “Just what are you suggesting, Fox?”

  “Dr. Koh works for the police department, and if we have him examine the finger, we’re following policy. Plus, he’s a friend of mine and will help us out.”

  “That’s circumventing the correct channels a bit, wouldn’t you say, Fox?”

  “Rollins is clearly not our friend, and I for one, won’t hand him this finger to later get lost in some bureaucratic shuffle while Philemon Jenkins is indicted. I swear, Thayne, if you give Steven Koh two hours, he’ll come up with something. As long as we take photos of the scene, don’t taint the evidence, and deliver it to the proper authorities, what’s wrong with that? Besides, we’ve been hired to find the killer while Roger is incapacitated. That’s all the authorization we need.”

  “So why does it feel a bit immoral to me?”

  “Immoral? I never suspected you bought into morality, Thayne. And just who states this code of morality? Is it George W. Bush, Jimmy Swaggart, my deceased father, or perhaps even Chief Rollins?