Sand City Murders

by MK Alexander

  My mind was drifting again. Suzy got my attention by gently squeezing my hand. I finally replied to her question. “...I don’t know, pretty busy these days.”

  “Busy on what?”

  I looked at her and wondered if she was really interested. “There’s the Brand Wars vote coming up, the Saint Alban’s thing… Plus, we have to start getting ready for the season.”

  “Already?”

  “The Summer Preview issue…. the Treasure Hunt… you know, stuff like that.”

  “Are you doing that night life thing this year?” Suzy asked.

  “Yup... I’ll put you on the list.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled sweetly and put another draft up on the counter.

  That was probably one too many for me. I drank it anyway, said my good nights, and more or less stumbled back to my apartment. It was a dark night, a rain squall let loose and I still had a couple of hundred yards to go. I pulled up my hood and picked up the pace. Home was close. I lived on the second floor of the Depot building, an odd place that actually might have been a train station at some point in history. I never did the research, but I do know that there was a railroad terminus in the days of yore. No sign of tracks anymore.

  The downstairs was closed up for the season, for now. Half the building was a bike rental shop and the other half, a small cafe. Wasn’t exactly eat and run, but eat and ride was close enough. My car was safely parked in the far corner of a gravel lot under a willow tree. I dashed around back and up the wrought iron staircase. The steps made a hollow sound every time I ran up or down, almost musical. It spiraled up steeply onto a very small deck that could fit two or three people at most. On my way to the glass sliding doors, I heard a terrible scuffling noise, something was bounding across the shingles. Oh, it was Zachary, my cat. He had clambered up the nearby pine tree and now skidded across the rooftop to the deck. He jumped and started winding between my feet. The rain had stopped already.

  “Well, look who’s back?” I picked him up; he seemed drier than he should be. “I hope you weren’t hiding under the car again, you stupid cat,” I admonished him. Zachary was a stray I had adopted almost a year ago. He was completely white, or there a-bouts, maybe with a little beige and brown. I guessed he was mostly siamese, especially by the way he meowed. “I’ll bring you home a cup of chowder from Partners one of these nights… that would be a nice birthday present, right?”

  My apartment is admittedly a strange place. The first moment the rental agent showed it to me I wrote the check, first, last and security. Not only because the price was right, the place was right. It was a year round rental first off, not always an easy thing to find in Sand City. Other people might not have seen it the same way. And at the time, I didn’t quite understand that this place, like every place in town was held hostage by the seasons. For now it was quiet and cold. Soon enough though, it would be the opposite, that is, loud and hot. Add the word very to that.

  Back to quiet and cold. Downstairs is the Depot Cafe, abandoned to the winter months. It wouldn’t open for awhile, a seasonal place that served breakfast, lunch and dinner. Somehow the noise was a comfort to me, as if I could just stroll downstairs and say hi to everyone. Not so much in the winter. Tom, the owner slash chef, made tasty home fries, and it was not a bad way to wake up on a summer morning… I could just slip down my staircase and order up a big breakfast and coffee. I even swung a couple shifts as a waiter once in a while for some extra cash.

  One aspect of my place became immediately apparent; its proximity to the town’s fire siren. And what I mean is, right outside my door, or maybe a block away. A foghorn sound, a klaxon, wake-the-dead loud. I jumped out of my skin anytime it went off. Every other district in Sand City had one too, and on a still night you could hear them echoing each other, conversing just a few seconds out of sync… First was Bayview, deafening. Next in line you could hear the one at Cedar Bluffs, and finally, way off in the distance, almost from another planet, came the Dunes answering the call… It struck me that this was an archaic practice of the SCFD… Sirens? What’s the point really? Doesn’t everyone have a cell phone by now? If it was an air-raid, maybe then I’d understand…

  Two blasts meant a police call, one meant an ambulance, the full out siren was an actual fire. I wasn’t the guy to chase these things down… all in due time… I’d get the news soon enough and get called to the scene if absolutely necessary. Besides, cub reporter Joey enjoyed that much more than me. Oh yeah, and there was the noon whistle too. That sounded the same and just as loud. I never slept that late.

  Zachary and I jumped inside through the sliders, the only entrance and also the kitchen door, and now that I think of it, my only window aside from the skylights. Upstairs is basically one giant room, an attic with a pitched ceiling, rafters you might call them, all done up in tongue and groove paneling, and I suspected real tongue and groove, not some crappy veneer. The ceiling had to be twenty feet high at its peak. Along the south side there were two big skylights, the only windows in the place really. They opened and closed by way of a long metal stick that was a hand crank. The roof angled down to the walls which were only about three feet high, so there was a fair amount of unusable space, though room enough to put some bookshelves, a futon and a desk. No place for a plasma display.

  At the back, off to one side was a long narrow bathroom. I had roughly divided the main area into a living room, a bedroom, and a small office. I’ll admit, I banged my head on the low end of the roof more than once. Only one of the walls was not three feet high. It ran through the center, right up to the peak of the building. I guess a TV could go there, but where would I put the futon?

  The tempest started again. I could hear the wind picking up. At first, just single drops hit the roof randomly, tentatively. Then a few more. It was just like someone was slowly turning a dial till it became a steady downpour. It really let loose. I could hear the rain bouncing off the thin layer of shingles and the skylights. It was up close and personal. There was little between me and the storm that filled the room with a kind of rhythmic static, but I was dry and cozy. I was getting warm under the blankets. It was hard to feel any better than this.

  Zachary might have agreed had he found any food in his dish. He was persistent and I felt obliging tonight. I got up again and dumped out half a can of food into his bowl. He ate happily, cleaned his paws, then curled up on the bed. I never really thought about whether Suzy had a drinking problem… still, another DWI? That was the last thought for the night, for me. I have no idea what ran through Zachary’s mind. We were both asleep in minutes.

  chapter 5

  the meeting

  Ten o’clock the next morning, Tuesday, maybe more like ten fifteen, I had a meeting with Detective Durbin and Chief Leo Arantez; the latter, an even-tempered guy who’s been heading up the Sand City Police force for the last twenty years at least. I’m not entirely sure whether he was appointed to the job or had to run for office. I don’t recall ever seeing any election signs hammered into people’s lawns. And by now, I suppose he was near to retirement. He had a face full of jowls. No doubt Durbin would take over someday soon… Deputy Durbin… I doubt that I’d ever call him that... But Chief Arantez had always been nice to me, respectful, and pretty much gave me unfettered access to anything I ever needed. All those years of compiling the weekly police blotter for the Chronicle had paid off, I guess.

  Durbin was waiting outside the modest but modern station on Chambers Street. It was low key, a contemporary design with slate blue shingles and tall narrow windows. It could just as easily have been a post office or a community center. The rain was gone and the day was nice, if not a bit chilly. A few puffy clouds were rolling by.

  “Morning, Patrick,” he greeted me and snubbed out a cigarette on the curb. Durbin looked at me with a guilty expression. “Just sneaking a smoke… Glad you showed up.” The detective was a pretty casual dresser for a cop, never jeans, always trousers, but spring might find him wearing a colorful wool sweater
and a sports coat, like today.

  “Morning… Um, yeah, why am I here exactly?”

  “Something new on the case… and the chief wants it under wraps for now.”

  “Great.”

  “Might be right about a serial killer. We’ve got some outside help.”

  “What?” I asked to both his statements. “Call in the feds?”

  “You’ll see…” Durbin opened the door and ushered me through the glass entrance.

  “What about the car? Did you find it yet?”

  “No, but you still owe me a ten spot.” Durbin gave me his squinty grin. “I’ll tell you inside.”

  We nodded to the desk sergeant, Officer Manuel, and walked straight through the open door into the chief’s office. Arantez rose at once with a smile on his face and an outstretched hand. He was in uniform as usual. “Patrick, glad you could join us this morning.” He glanced over to his left. There was a man sitting there. He seemed familiar to me. “I’d like you to meet Detective Chief Inspector Tractus Fynn, from Amsterdam. Just arrived this morning.”

  The man rose from his chair and gave me a long look. He took a short step towards me, held out his hand and grasped mine in a vice grip. His eyes also locked onto me. He was maddeningly familiar.

  “Pleasure to know you, Mr Jardel.” A big smile came to his face. I wasn’t sure why.

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” I studied this man closely. Somehow I knew him but couldn’t think how, or from where. He was rather short and barrel chested, but dressed impeccably in a perfectly tailored suit. He was certainly not flabby, but sturdy I would say, and remarkably fit. He wore a tie, surely a bow tie, but its edges were so neatly tucked beneath the collar of his shirt, that it didn’t look like a tie at a all, just a swathe of colorful fabric under his chin.

  I guessed him to be in his late sixties and his face wore the years well. There was a dignity in his expression, a kindness too, and a certain sadness behind his dark eyes. Still, they gleamed with life and curiosity, and there was something in his bearing that exuded authority. The inspector had a full head of hair, very straight, slicked back with alternating thin streaks of dark gray and white, mostly silver on the sides. It seemed rather long for a man of his age, tucked behind his ears, and it lay just below his collar. It was an expensive haircut by the look of it.

  “You seem very familiar to me. I’m sure we’ve met before,” I said. Wait. Was this the same guy in Partners last night?

  “I can’t think how this is possible. I’ve probably never been to America before. Do you travel abroad?”

  “Not lately.”

  “Well, I have that sort of face. People tell me this all the time.” He laughed easily.

  Chief Arantez also chuckled. “Funny, Patrick, I said the exact same thing just five minutes ago… I was sure I’d met the inspector before.”

  Fynn glanced at us both and smiled. Arantez’s tone changed to something more serious. “We asked you in this morning because we need your help.”

  “My help? Oh, you mean my silence.”

  “It’s nothing like that.” Arantez frowned unconsciously. “We’re going to fill you in here, but we also need you to hold back on a few details. Let’s call them temporarily off the record.”

  “Okay, I can live with that. Off the record for now.”

  “For now? And not for always?” the inspector asked.

  “I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep.”

  “Chief Inspector Fynn has come over from Holland,” Arantez began. “It seems he’s been working with Interpol on a very similar case for the last few months. Same MO, same victim profiles. And… he’s got some new information.”

  I turned to the inspector. “How did you find out about this so quickly?”

  “Quickly? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “We only found the body yesterday.”

  “Ah yes, but this came to my attention just after the first girl was killed.” He gave me a hard look, clearly not used to people asking him questions. “The new killing only adds to the tragedy.”

  There was a long pause. Chief Arantez spoke up, “Inspector, maybe you can fill us in?”

  Fynn rose from his seat again carrying a thick wad of paper. He unfolded what I understood to be a map and pinned it onto the cork board. “We’ve been following at least seven killings over the past year,” he began. “Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Belgium, France and the English coast. Here in Ystad… the first.” He pointed to what was probably Sweden. “On the Borkum Island… Esbjerg, in Denmark… Larvik, Norway… and other locations…”

  “What, is this like an international serial killer?”

  “I never thought of it that way.” He turned to give me a quick glance. It wasn’t exactly hostile but there was an edge to it.

  I was listening to the inspector’s accent: British, yet not. There was something eastern European about it— very hard to pin down. And I was usually good at that... I could tell if you were from North Jersey just by how you pronounced the word water as wadder. He had a clear voice, though a bit gravelly. The inspector continued, “All the victims are women in their early to mid-twenties, all have blond hair, all are athletic and considerably attractive….and the actual cause of death in each case has not been established.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if possessed with extreme patience.

  “How is that possible?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “No cause of death…”

  “Yes, a peculiar aspect to these crimes. Of course we’ve ruled out all the usual things such as blunt force trauma, asphyxiation, strangulation and poison.”

  “Have you identified any of the victims?”

  Chief Inspector Fynn swung around and gave me a once over. An odd expression came to his face. “Such a question. No one has been identified… and this is perhaps the most peculiar thing about our case. In this day and age, it seems almost an impossibility.” Inspector Fynn moved back to his chair and sat with a slightly audible sigh. “There is one other curious facet…” he said and let the comment linger. “I’ve come to call it the geographical clue. It seems that all these locations have a long history of disappearances.”

  “Which means what exactly?” I asked.

  “An inordinate number of people have gone missing from these areas. Some of the reports go back to the nineteen seventies.”

  “Are you saying it’s a generational thing? A generational serial killer?”

  “I do not wish to speculate, but I do wonder if your town has such a history.”

  “Hmm…” Chief Arantez considered. “You’d have to go back a lot of years to find a missing persons case around these parts.”

  “It may be the killer has crossed to your side of the ocean,” Fynn said.

  “The coastal killer?”

  The inspector glared at me again. Clearly, I was not getting off on the right foot with this guy.

  The chief turned to Durbin. “Dick, what do we have so far on our end?”

  Detective Durbin squirmed in his seat. “Not a whole lot yet. We ran the prints on both our victims. Nothing in the system. No missing persons either. We’re running DNA, and dental records, but I’m not holding out high hopes.” He paused. “Forensics finished their preliminary report on our second victim, Jane Doe number two. No trace evidence. The only weird thing was her clothes. They couldn’t track the manufacturer. One of the tech boys theorizes she was wearing her mom’s or her grandma’s jogging suit.” Durbin took a breath and looked at me for some unknown reason. “We did trace the key found on yesterday’s victim. Belongs to a muscle car, circa nineteen seventy-four, a Pontiac Le Mans or a T-37. Kind of a tough car to hide in this town. We should spot it soon enough.”

  “This is the first important clue we have,” Inspector Fynn said with some excitement. “Other than the clothes they wore, all the other victims had no personal effects, not even jewelry. There is the idea that the killer is deliberately trying to thwart efforts at identification.” />
  “What about shoes?” I asked.

  The inspector looked at me as if I were an insect or something, but also gave me a friendly smile. “No shoes. Every victim was barefoot.”

  I glanced at Durbin and grinned. Wasn’t such a bad headline after all.

  “How about fingerprints, DNA on your side of the pond, Inspector Fynn?” Chief Arantez asked.

  “As I’ve said, none of the victims have been identified. And none of them correspond to any missing persons.” Fynn turned to face Durbin. “What about your coroner’s report?”

  “Cause of death undetermined. Time of death: approximately four a.m.”

  “Wait, what time?” I asked.

  “Somewhere between three thirty and four.”

  I pulled out my old tide chart. “Hmm.”

  “What?” Durbin asked.

  I tossed the pamphlet down onto the chief’s desk. “Low tide.”

  “So?”

  “So, the footprints… they couldn’t have just been washed away.”

  Inspector Fynn took some interest in our conversation. “I’m not sure I follow this.”

  I turned to him. “We found footprints that just stopped, like the tide washed them clean, only the water didn’t come up that high until much later.”

  “May I see these footprints? You have photographs?”

  I turned to Durbin. He gave me a noncommittal shrug. I had made copies of the crime scene photos, probably not my best idea. I glanced over to the chief expecting an angry reaction but got none. I reached into my satchel and took out the printouts. Inspector Fynn looked them over carefully.

  “Ah, these are Italian shoes…”

  “How can you tell?”

  “The curve here, and the heel… Who else could design such a beautiful shoe?” Fynn paused to study the photo in detail. “And these circular marks?”

  “A cane maybe,” Durbin said. “Found at both scenes.”

  “Well, if it is a cane, the perpetrator didn’t rely on it to stand. It’s too shallow. He didn’t lean on it with any amount of force or weight….” Inspector Fynn speculated out loud and it was hard to disagree with that conclusion. “I would very much like to visit the latest crime scene.”