Stress Fracture: Book One in the Dub Walker Series

by D P Lyle

  Hands shot skyward and waved for attention. Shouted questions came from every direction. Luther pointed toward Blaine Markland.

  “What evidence do you have linking these murders, and how many victims were there in all?”

  “We believe last night’s homicide is related to at least one other case and possibly to a third. I can’t disclose details of the evidence without compromising our investigation.”

  Markland jumped in again. “What time did last night’s murder occur?”

  “Between 10:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m.” Luther pointed to a stumpy, balding reporter from nearby Decatur. I recognized him but couldn’t recall his name.

  “Regarding the other two murders … who were the victims, and when and where did those take place?”

  “Mr. Carl Petersen was killed on June twenty-fifth at the Russel Erskine and Mr. William Allison on July third at his apartment out near Madison.”

  Now Luther nodded to Claire.

  “I have a question for Mr. Walker.” Before Luther could say anything, she went on. “Is it your opinion that these murders are the work of a serial killer?”

  Luther hesitated a beat and then waved me forward. “Most of you know Dub Walker. Probably read some of his books. Know that he’s an expert in killings of this type. Know that he helped with the investigation that apprehended Billy Wayne Packwood a couple of years ago.”

  Luther stepped aside, and I moved up to the bank of microphones. “That’s an excellent question, Ms. McBride.” Mr. Walker? Ms. McBride? It was all I could do to keep from smiling. “The definition of a serial killer depends on who you’re asking. Usually it is someone who kills three or more people at different places and at different times with a cooling-off period in between. We know the guy we’re after has murdered two people. The evidence suggests he was also responsible for the death of Carl Petersen. If so, he would fit the definition.”

  Claire didn’t hesitate. “Were you brought into the investigation because of your friendship with Sheriff Savage or because of your expertise with serial killers?”

  “Probably a bit of both.”

  Luther moved forward, and I stepped back. He started to point to another reporter, but Claire was now in full bulldog mode.

  “My sources tell me that the bodies of Mr. Petersen and Mr. Allison were badly mutilated,” she said. “Was this also the case with Sheriff Savage?”

  Luther glanced back toward me. Busted. “I have no comment on that at this time.”

  Questions came from all directions.

  “Is it true, these were gang-related killings?”

  “Do you think there will be more murders?”

  Luther raised his hand. “That’s all the questions we have time for. When we have more information, we’ll let you know. Thank you.” He headed back into the building. I motioned to Claire that I’d be right back and then followed him inside.

  Luther chewed my ass for telling Claire about the mutilations, saying that I should have cleared it with him. He was right, but I countered that Claire could be an asset. So could the public if sufficiently aroused. I reminded him of what I had said earlier. Fear is a powerful motivator, and if the citizens knew the truth about the killings, they’d not only lock their homes a little more tightly, but also would pay attention to anything and everything. Could yield useful info. Or, as Luther pointed out, could crank up the wackos. The ones who confessed to everything. The ones who were sure the next-door neighbor was the killer because he never mowed his lawn. Too busy scouting future victims. Or kept his curtains drawn so no one would see him chopping up bodies. The public’s imagination had no restraints.

  T-Tommy did step in on my side, but drew only a grunt and a scowl from Luther. I apologized and promised not to step out of bounds again.

  I went back outside and found Claire finishing her wrap-up shots. Positioned so the courthouse was in the background, she spoke directly into the camera. I waited until she was done and then asked Jeffrey about the tape from Mike’s place this morning.

  “I’ll have it edited and burned on a disc in a couple of hours,” he said. “I’ll give it to Claire.”

  “Thanks.” I looked at Claire. “How about a drink later? Sammy’s?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Got my report on the six o’clock broadcast. I could make seven thirty. How’s that?”

  “See you there.”

  CHAPTER 20

  MONDAY 7:23 P.M.

  SAMMY’S BLUES ’N’ Q WAS A HUNTSVILLE INSTITUTION AND A POPULAR local hangout. It had fed “Q” to just about everyone who visited the Rocket City. Scientists from all corners of the world, astronauts, senators, congressmen, even a president or two. Tom Hanks and Ron Howard dropped in while filming Apollo 13.

  The weather-worn wooden structure with its tin roof and chipped, curled, and faded red paint could use some work, but patrons didn’t care. Sammy’s wasn’t about aesthetics. It was about food and music. A rusted stovepipe chimney pumped the smoky aroma of ribs, brisket, and hot links—three of Sammy’s specialties—several blocks in every direction, and the moaning sounds of the blues wafted through its open windows.

  The spring-loaded front door snapped closed behind me when I entered. As usual, most of the thirty tables inside and the two dozen more on the screened-in addition Sammy had added a year ago were filled. On the small corner stage, Colin Dogget, a local blues man, scratched out his own brand of Delta blues on a National Dobro. Behind him a Gibson acoustic, a Les Paul, a road-worn Fender Stratocaster, and cigar-box Lowebow guitar, hand made up in Memphis by John Lowe himself, leaned on stands, awaiting their turn. The Lowebow was a gift to Colin from local blues legend Dave Gallaher. I often sat in with Colin, and when I did, I loved to play the Lowebow. Nothing quite like it.

  Colin nodded to me and then to the empty chair onstage next to him. Wanted me to sit in. I nodded and mouthed, “Maybe later.”

  Besides being a temple to barbecue and the blues, Sammy’s was also a cathedral to Crimson Tide football. The glasses, napkins, and tablecloths sported the school logo. Signed photos of former players covered the walls. Names like Namath, Stabler, Jordan, Neighbors, and Musso. A who’s who of Alabama football. One wall was reserved for photos of the national championship teams. All thirteen of them. Behind the bar were dozens of photos of Bear Bryant. Houndstooth hat and all.

  I grabbed a bar stool directly under the watchful eye of the Bear. Didn’t have to order. Sammy Lange, the owner, poured my usual. Blanton’s bourbon, neat.

  Maybe seventy, no one really knew, Sammy was wiry tough, mostly bald, and without a doubt one of the finest people I’d ever known. Give you his last dime and never ask anything in return. He swiped a towel across the bar and then slung it over his shoulder, where he always kept it. Said it made looking for it a whole lot easier.

  Sammy rested his forearms on the bar. “Can’t believe this happened to Mike. It’s been all over.” He nodded toward the ceiling-mounted TV behind him. “I saw that press conference.”

  “Sorry you found out that way,” I said. “I should’ve called.”

  “I suspect you’ve had your hands full today.”

  “Still, I should’ve.”

  “He killed those other folks, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was Mike … uh … damaged … like the others?”

  I nodded.

  “This is one messed-up rock we live on. Shit like this … someone like Mike … makes you wonder.” He scratched his ear. “You going to get this guy?”

  “Going to try to help.”

  Sammy’s head cook, Willie Tucker, a huge black man wearing an undersized T-shirt beneath a sauce-stained apron, came out from the kitchen. He plopped a plate with a pair of hot links on it in front of me. “Something for you to gnaw on.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “Smells great.”

  “Made ‘em up special my ownself.” Willie flashed his big grin. “These here got lots of pork, a smidge of crushed apple, and the tiniest little bit of cayen
ne. Should do you up just right.” He turned and lumbered back toward the kitchen.

  “Only needs one thing.” I pulled my bottle of Tabasco from my jacket pocket and splattered the links. They were fork-tender and wonderfully rich. Willie was no doubt a genius.

  Sammy propped an elbow on the bar, chin on his fist. “You up for a game today?” He always found a way to lighten the mood. Made me laugh when I didn’t feel like it or at least feel better about things for a bit. The game? He and I had a trivia thing going. Always trying to stump each other. I was good. Sammy was better.

  “Sure.”

  Sammy swiped the bar. “What state capitals begin with the same letter as the state name?”

  “Honolulu, Hawaii. Indianapolis, Indiana. Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.” I hesitated, letting Sammy think I didn’t know the last one, and then said, “And Dover, Delaware.”

  He laughed. “Thought I had you.”

  “So we’re doing state stuff today, huh? How about … name the three states that were independent nations before joining the union.”

  Sammy shook his head. His way of saying no-brainer. “Hawaii, California, and, of course, the Republic of Texas.”

  I glanced at my watch. 7:45.

  “You got somewhere to be?” Sammy asked.

  “Supposed to meet Claire McBride here. If she didn’t get tied up.”

  “She didn’t.” Sammy nodded toward the door.

  I swiveled toward the entrance. Claire blew through the door and marched toward us. She wore tan slacks, a black silk shirt, and a matching sweater tied loosely around her neck. Her red hair, tied in sort of a ponytail arrangement, wagged in her wake.

  “Sorry I’m late.” She slid onto the stool next to me.

  “What can I get you?” Sammy asked.

  “Dewar’s. Rocks.”

  Sammy poured her drink and slid it across the bar. “How about I have Willie whip up some pulled-pork sandwiches for you guys?”

  “That’d be great,” Claire said. “I’m starving.”

  I pushed the links toward her. “Start on these. They’re really good today.”

  “Did you put that pepper crap on them?”

  “Don’t bad-mouth the juice of life.”

  “I swear, you’re going to pop a gut vessel and bleed to death someday.”

  “You have such a pleasant manner about you.”

  She tossed me a frown. “I’ll wait for the pork. Save my stomach from the ravages of hell.”

  I took another bite of the link. “Don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Heartburn? Had it. Didn’t like it.” She removed a disc from her purse and handed it to me. “Jeffrey edited out all the reporter stuff and burned a DVD for you. He said he got everyone there this morning. Also all the cars for two blocks in both directions, including the license plates.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get this to the task force tomorrow.” I slipped the disc into my jacket pocket.

  “Hope it helps.” She took a pull from her Scotch. “Anything new?”

  “I can tell you that ViCAP turned up squat. Two violent postmortem beatings in the past six months. A Florida man did his wife, and a mother drowned and beat a six-month-old in Massachusetts. Both in custody.”

  “That’s not much.” She turned her palm up and gave me a come-on motion with her fingers. “Gimme.”

  “Give you what?”

  “The rest. The good stuff.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Dub, don’t sandbag me. You know. I know you know. And I know where you live.”

  “Do you sweet talk everyone this way?”

  “I’ll work on my people skills later.” Again with the come-on move. “Let’s have it.”

  “I already got my butt chewed for telling about the corpses.”

  “Good, you’re not a virgin. Work with me here.”

  “You didn’t hear it from me.”

  She gave me a don’t-state-the-obvious look. Claire knew the game and knew how to protect a source. That’s how she always got the scoop on other reporters. She’d hound you, maybe even harass you, but she’d never expose you.

  “Two of the crime scenes are absolutely linked, and it’s very likely that the third is, too.”

  “Ballistics?”

  I nodded.

  “Anyone else know this?”

  “Not yet. As far as I know.”

  “Love scoops.” She scribbled a few notes.

  Willie appeared, carrying two plates. “Here you go. Pulled-pork sandwiches and coleslaw. My, my.”

  I splashed Tabasco on my sandwich. To her credit, Claire didn’t say a word.

  We ate in silence until she broke it. “I’d like to do a live interview with you tomorrow. On the six o’clock? Is that possible?”

  “Why?”

  “Credibility. It’s one thing to report the news like some talking head. Quite another to get it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “At least you didn’t say horse’s ass.”

  “You already know that.”

  I smiled. “You really do need to work on your people skills.”

  “I hear that a lot.”

  “Why not T-Tommy or Scotty Simpson? They’re running the case.”

  “Because you’re a local hero. After the Packwood case and all those books. You’re a goddamn media darling.”

  Good grief. “I’ll check with Sheriff Randall, but I’d suspect it’ll work.”

  “Give me a call tomorrow as soon as you know, and I’ll set it up.”

  CHAPTER 21

  MONDAY ll:03 P.M.

  RESTLESSNESS DROVE BRIAN THROUGH A RIGOROUS TWO-HOUR workout. Didn’t help. He drank four beers. Didn’t help. He took a long hot shower. Didn’t help, either. Now he sat on the sofa, naked except for the towel draped across his lap, and stared at the TV. He had it tuned to the news, sound muted. He didn’t really give a shit what was happening out there in the world.

  The phone rang. When he answered, the man said, “Unfortunate incident today.”

  “How did …?” Brian didn’t finish the question. He realized that whoever this was, he knew things. Seemed to know everything. Which meant he knew about the vagrant. “More so for him.”

  “Very true.” A soft laugh. “Too bad about your job. Getting fired can’t be fun.”

  “Dr. Hublein will get it back for me. It’s part of my treatment, and he hates to fail.”

  “Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. It doesn’t matter.”

  “To you, maybe. I have rent to pay.”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll work out.”

  “Glad you’re so confident.”

  “Have you decided on Kushner yet?”

  Brian couldn’t hide his quick intake of breath.

  The man laughed. “It’s okay. I agree. He’s an arrogant prick and deserves what he gets.”

  “How do you know?”

  “What did he call you? An asshole?”

  This was too much. How could he know of a conversation that was only hours old? Unless he had Brian’s work phone tapped. He looked around. Maybe his apartment, too.

  “Leave me alone,” Brian said.

  “I can’t do that. You need me.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  The voice hesitated for a moment. “You don’t believe doors unlock themselves, do you? Or that a gun magically appears? Did you think you were just lucky?”

  Brian hated this guy. Hated that he knew so much. That he planned everything down to the smallest detail. That he provided weapons and opened doors. That he acted so goddamn superior, as if Brian couldn’t function on his own.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “We’ve been through this.”

  “Humor me.”

  “I believe in what you’re doing. It’s a worthy cause. That’s why.”

  “Glad you agree, but we both know I can do this without you.”

  He laughed. “I think not. You fucked up the first time. Almost let that old man get the best of you.”r />
  “He paid.”

  “Still, it could have gone badly, and that would have been it. There would’ve been no Allison, no Savage. None of those yet to come. You have so much left to do.” Brian said nothing, so the man continued. “It won’t be long. The feelings are rising again, aren’t they?”

  That was true. The rumblings in his gut had churned all day. It had started with all that crap with Wanda and then became white-hot when he was attacked by that piece of street trash. Then he had to endure that fancy ER doc and the cab driver with the death-rattle cough. Not to mention his puny-ass coworkers. The snakes in his belly were definitely aroused. “What if I don’t give in? What if I ignore them?”

  “They’re too strong.”

  “So am I.”

  “Yes … you are. But this need is stronger.”

  “You don’t know. You couldn’t know.”

  “Really? It comes in fiery waves? Consumes all reason? Can’t be controlled or bargained with? Can only be … what’s the word? … attenuated?. That about cover it?”

  Fuck him. Yet, Brian couldn’t avoid the truth of his words. The rage was all-consuming. He could wrestle with it, occasionally hold it at bay, but ultimately, it would win. It always won.

  The voice continued. “I know what you’re going through. I know what you need. I know how to help you.”

  Brian sighed. Fatigue pulled at him. He slipped off the chair, sat on the floor, and leaned against the desk. A shiver rippled through him, and he pulled his knees against his chest.

  “I still want to know why. What’s in it for you?”

  “All in due time.” The man said nothing for a few seconds, but Brian could hear his breathing, slow, steady, calm. Then he said, “Do you want Kushner?”

  “Yes.”

  “The information you need is on the way. Read through it, and I’ll get back to you.” The line went dead.

  Brian waited a couple of minutes and then checked his e-mail. As expected, a message from an anonymous sender. He opened it and read through the information on the screen before him.