Sand City Murders

by MK Alexander

  Another clue came to light about a week later: fibers were found, probably from a white handkerchief. It’s likely that the victim had been gagged. And she had a bruised shoulder, an injury which must have occurred shortly before time of death, according to the medical examiner; maybe from a fall or a struggle.

  I was driving down Long Neck Road when I saw flashing blues in my rearview. I pulled to the side as soon as I could. A dark gray Charger pulled up along side. The tinted window went down. It was Durbin.

  “Jardel, I’m glad I caught you. I got something, but you can’t print it.”

  “Great, thanks. So why are you telling me?”

  Durbin grinned. “Better you than Leaning.”

  “Okay.”

  “Something strange came back from the medical examiner… the Jane Doe at Sunset.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “Freezer burn.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Coroner said she was frozen after death, then thawed out.”

  “Holy crap. Did you tell Inspector Fynn about this?”

  “No… You think I should?” Durbin gave me his squinty grin. Police humor.

  “Absolutely not.” I laughed.

  “Well I’m on my way down to Willard and Sons… see what they say.”

  “The funeral parlor?”

  “Yeah, Don Pagor’s friend, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh yeah, who’s your buddy over at Fish City?”

  “Eddie?”

  “Plays bass, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Don’t they have a big freezer down there?”

  I’m pretty sure that was a rhetorical question.

  Durbin was under some pressure to clear up the Sunset Park homicide before the season hit with full force. Some of the blame fell on Inspector Fynn as well, but there was nothing either man could do. There was no formal ID, no suspects, nothing… at least there were no more bodies. Most people believed that old Doc Samuels had just tripped down his stairs. The crazy notion that the Jane Doe was indeed the inspector’s wife from another dimension was never mentioned again. Not by me, certainly not by Durbin; and even Fynn himself hardly uttered another word more about it. This was now a cold case, a non-story. At least until Friday night, late, when I ran into our stringer in the office.

  “Evan, I haven’t seen you in ages… What are you working on this week?”

  “Eleanor put me on the stable story.” He glanced back with one eye.

  “What’s that?”

  “They’re talking about getting the old stable up and running again. Ready for the season. They’re petitioning the Chamber of Commerce. Pony rides, sunset tours, even a bridle path along the bluffs, or North Hollow.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, they’ve already done a lot of renovation up there. But there’s a lot more to do. The place shut down like forty years ago or something.”

  “Never knew that.” A thought struck me. “Bridle path, you were saying?”

  “Yeah well, that’ll never fly with the COC. All that horse crap, all over the bike path.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They run parallel up there. You know, the old horse trail became the new bike path.”

  “Really?” Somehow this reminded me of something. It dragged up a memory I’d rather not have had: bridle path... Lorraine Luis…”

  “Hey, where you going?” Evan asked, astonished.

  I was out the door without a word. I saved them for my cell phone. “Durbin? Hey, it’s me. Where’s Inspector Fynn?”

  “I don’t know, at the station, I guess. Why? What’s up?” He had the correct instinct, but I thought it best not to confirm it. “Not much, just need to chat with him… Where are you?”

  “Oldham… visiting my mom.”

  “Sorry to interrupt. Hope she’s good... Um, anything new?”

  “On the murders? Nada… Catch you later, Jardel.”

  I hopped in my Saab and made for Chambers Street, the police station. Sergeant Manuel acknowledged my entrance with a nod.

  “Inspector in?”

  Another nod.

  I found Fynn behind Arantez’s desk with his feet up. He was reading something with his back turned to me.

  “Inspector, sorry to barge in… Did your wife like to ride horses?” I blurted.

  “Lorraine?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, she was not particularly fond of horses.”

  “Well, I think I found a clue. But… it’s from... from the other timeline. The first one,” I said and tried really hard not to sound patronizing.

  “Yes?”

  “I remember reading that Loraine disappeared from the bridle path.”

  He gave me a look. “Where is this path?”

  “On the bluffs, only now it’s the bike path. The stable shut down years ago.”

  “We can go and see?”

  “Now? It’s dark.”

  “Tomorrow morning then. I’ll meet you early.”

  ***

  The best way to check the bike path was on a bicycle. Actually, it was the only way. I couldn’t quite imagine Fynn on a skateboard. The path stretched some twenty-seven miles, rolling over dunes and snaking through the salt marsh, along the bluffs and by the bay, and never twice intersecting a real road. It was like a quarter scale model. A very narrow strip of blacktop with orange lines, no passing zones, crosswalks, miniature traffic signs and all the rest. I was surprised there were no toll booths yet.

  Skateboards and skating, inline or otherwise, were generally discouraged, but in the off-season, that never mattered. Come Memorial Day though, the bike patrol would be out in force and they’d give you a ticket. That seemed stupid to me… here you had the smoothest surface on the planet and they’d only let bikes on it, make that bikes and joggers. Pedestrians to the right, in the green zone, bikes on the left. Every year there’d be somebody petitioning to open up the path to skaters, but it was always turned down. This time of year, the off-season, there was an almost circus-like atmosphere. The blacktop accommodated every kind of travel. Strollers, skaters, boarders, kids hauling wagons, segways, even a unicycle or two. Spring was way more festive. On really nice days, enterprising locals set up right on the path: a face painter, a fortune teller, jewelry stalls, an ice cream truck… I half-expected a juggler or two might be wandering by. Summer was strict and way more subdued, all these activities were deemed illegal. Anything motorized was expressly forbidden and generally frowned upon, even in the off-season.

  Fynn arrived so early he woke me. It was Saturday morning. I heard the hollow sound of my spiral staircase when he tromped up. He tapped against the sliders. At least he had the sense to bring a cup of coffee with him. And I thought I smelled spicy home fries. Then, I listened hard and heard a bit of activity from below.

  “Where’d you get this coffee?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “The Depot Cafe is open?”

  “Apparently.”

  Fynn was right. I could smell the home fries cooking, onions and all. It was way better than fish sticks and a lot closer. The cafe was empty but Tom was at the grill. I poked my head in. He gave me a big good morning and we chatted briefly about our respective winter survival techniques. Next door, the bike rental shop wasn’t open, even though it was Saturday. It was just too early. Luckily, I had an old bicycle to lend Fynn. I gave him the better one and took my spare that was a little short on brakes and abundant with rust.

  Fynn donned his tweed flat cap and we set off from Bayview, and headed north towards the bluffs. It was foggy and misty that morning, like a giant cloud had descended from the sky. You could tell it was going to be hot nonetheless. The sun was just overhead, relentlessly shining… burning its way through to the raw earth.

  “I’m not really sure what you hope to find,” I said to Fynn as we started pedaling.

  “Nor do I exactly.”

  “It’s been a month already.”

 
“Yes, too long… I do not have high hopes,” Fynn said quietly

  “Any footprints or shoe prints are long since washed away.”

  “I agree. Perhaps we’ll get lucky. Find an article of clothing or some other small trace?”

  I didn’t share his optimism. The bike path was surprisingly crowded, well, maybe not surprising. It was proving to be a beautiful Saturday as the fog gradually lifted. We cycled past lots of familiar faces. Of course, Shirley girl was among the first. It was hard to go anywhere in Sand City without running across her, though running is certainly not the right word, and her might be too gender specific. Oddly I had never got a good look at her face. It was always under a broad brimmed hat of one kind or another, oversized sunglasses and a fairly heavy layer of make-up. Nonetheless, Shirley was best known as the Walking Lady, and today, on the bike path no less. She always set an incredible pace, surely fast enough to rival any olympic walker. And she was a dresser, really, the words get-up actually apply. Name your holiday and Shirley had it covered: Red, white and blue on the fourth, a fast moving flag. A green hooded Santa’s elf come December. Bunny ears sticking out of her straw hat around Easter. Halloween might bring any costume, a ghost, a ghoul or a tasteful pumpkin outfit. Today, Shirley was decked out all in white with a big floppy hat. She smiled and waved as always and sped along her way. Oh Shirley… either a fitness nut who refused to jog, or a psycho off her meds… a Sand City fixture, but a constantly moving one at that.

  I called out to other people I knew, sometimes with just a wave or a smile. Sometimes I stopped to chat, introducing Inspector Fynn unnecessarily. Miriam was out strolling, walking, floating down the tarmac. It was enough of a shock to see her away from her reception desk at all, stranger still that she pretended she didn’t know me when I called out a hello. Okay, well, she was hotly engaged in conversation… and with Lucinda. She didn’t say hello either.

  Not much later, Melissa passed by towing Madison, her daughter, in the back of a bike stroller. Mel was perfect as usual, dressed in black lycra shorts and a sporty top. She had white sneakers and red socks, which seemed to match her helmet exactly, not to mention her very cool mirrored racing shades. We all stopped for a quick hello.

  Madison poked her head out of the bike stroller. “Mommy says we’re looking for something.”

  “What’s that, cutie-pie?” I asked innocently.

  “Daddy’s hat.”

  “Really now?” I replied and looked up at Melissa with a smile. “What kind of hat? A pirate’s hat?”

  “No silly.” Madison giggled.

  “One of those stupid little hipster hats,” Melissa said, then whispered, “I’m not really looking that hard for it.”

  We were back on our bikes when a pretty dark girl jogged past, and for a moment I was convinced it was Jo-Anne, the missing Jo-Anne. She ran by at a good speed, wearing a yellow headband and earbuds. She gave no glimmer of recognition and was gone before I could definitely tell who she was. Fynn sensed my distress.

  “Someone you know?” he asked.

  “I guess not.”

  “Is there a place where this path runs from east to west?” the inspector asked.

  “Um, two places, up here and down by the salt marsh. Why, is that important?”

  “Let us try this first.”

  “It’s right near Agony Grind.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Agony Grind… that’s a marathon term. There’s a bad hill there. It’s murder on runners. And at the bottom there’s a big bump. Hit it too fast and you’ll go flying…”

  “Libra lapsus?” Fynn asked.

  Free fall on a bike? What was he saying? Is that even possible?

  We travelled down the steep hill more slowly, cautiously, brakes squealing, and found a place where the new bike track departed from the old bridle path. Now it was a shortcut for hikers. Our bicycles were pretty much useless in the deep sand. We both looked around carefully. Fynn saw it first, a shiny glint deeply embedded in the foliage. I saw it too in the prickly rose hips, a bicycle abandoned in the bushes. You could tell it was old school, skinny tires and a big heavy frame, a chain guard, chrome fenders and an old fashioned saddle. It looked brand new but it wasn’t, it couldn’t be. I grabbed my camera and waded into the prickles for a better shot. My clothes stuck to the thorns.

  “Maybe I can trace this, track it down on the internet… find out when this bike was made,” I volunteered.

  “By all means,” Fynn replied.

  “We’ll have to show this to Durbin,” I said, and decided to leave it exactly as we’d found it.

  “I agree completely.”

  “But what will he make of it?”

  “I suppose it will be quite baffling to the good detective… however, a forensics report may reveal more.”

  “Forensics?”

  “Perhaps some trace evidence, or fingerprints even? How far away are we from the Sunset Park?”

  “Top of that hill.” I pointed up the steep dune. “A mile, maybe less.”

  “And the main road?”

  “Right over there,” I said and pointed to my left. “You can see it… Oakview Terrace.”

  “This is not the right place to jump. The terrain is too high and the direction is all wrong,” Fynn started muttering.

  I wasn’t sure what he was going on about and called Durbin on my cell. He joked about waiting for the bike patrol, but in the end promised to send a team to check it out. I was a bit distracted. “What were you saying?”

  “The location, the elevation, it would be nearly impossible to jump to this Sunset Park. No, I am beginning to conclude that she was brought to the present and then the body was moved... the location, the dryness of her clothes, the positioning on the bench…” Fynn considered silently, then spoke again. “This crime is quite different from the others. There is something here that straddles both the past and the present.”

  “The present?”

  “Perhaps he was interrupted that fateful morning.”

  “Who by?”

  “A jogger… a milkman, your friend Shirley perhaps?”

  “A milkman? What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing in particular… Last week’s headline in your paper, yes?” Fynn paused, some concern crossed his face. “Ah, but I fear my adversary has enlisted an accomplice.” He gave me a dark look.

  “Who?”

  “Who indeed? If I had to guess, I would say someone you know, someone close to you.”

  “Someone on a bicycle?” I tried to joke.

  “It would not be the first time.”

  “Wait, are you saying he used this bicycle?”

  “It’s entirely possible. I’ve mentioned that with most jumps, a bit of physical distance must be traveled, so long as it is timed correctly. The most successful jumps are usually north to south, in terms of the mechanics.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s dreadful to contemplate, but my adversary seems to be able to travel with much more precision than I. Perhaps he is better at mathematics… or, he has learned something that I have not.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

  “Surely you remember our lesson on libra lapsus? Calculating the vectors and velocities is key. This tells me something important. In each case the victim was found very close to where they originally disappeared. This tells me that my adversary is very precise with his ability to jump. I doubt I could be this exact.”

  I looked at him, not understanding at all.

  “Boxtop Beach was specifically chosen. It is perfectly suited for traveling because of the direction it faces: north to south. It makes it an easy place to jump to. And North Hollow is perfect for the same reason. And both places are exactly at sea level.” He paused. “Ah, but Sunset Park? This does not fit the pattern. It is an impossible place to jump to, much too high… And there is something missing I think.”

  “Missing?”

  “From the crime scene.”

 
“What?”

  “Think, Patrick…”

  “Cell phone?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “Most of all, there is no mark left by a cane.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “It seems to be an important omission.”

  “Why?”

  “Its curious mark was present at the first two crimes, but not at Sunset Park.”

  “What about the shoe prints?”

  “Yes… this has me baffled as well. Clearly a jump from the bench. It is either an abortive libra lapsus or a bit of twisted humor. I think no one could have jumped there.”

  “I’m sure Durbin told you about the coroner’s report,” I said and decided not to use the word corpsicle.

  “Yes, he mentioned this to me but it seems impossible that she was frozen for thirty-six years.”

  “What if you stole this bicycle?”

  “Hmm?” Fynn replied vaguely.

  “What if you went back to the past and stole the bike… Would that be enough to prevent the murder?”

  “That’s a thought.”

  “Would it fix it?”

  “For a time.”

  “For a time?”

  “Temporarily, I would say.”

  “Who’s doing this again?”

  “As I said, an old adversary.”

  “I remember... some guy named Mortimer. That’s all you can tell me?”

  “I can say a great deal more, but this is enough for the moment.” Fynn climbed back onto his bicycle. “It is very much like a game of chess, except it is played in three dimensions which makes it a bit more complicated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On a normal chessboard, you know the bishop may move against you at a particular angle… or the knight will strike from any number of places. But to think in three dimensions, this is more difficult. You must also keep in mind all the moves which can be made from below you, or from above you.”

  “As in the past and the future.”

  “Exactly this. I think we are now playing the game of cat and mouse… And we must remain the cat.”