Gray Matter

by Shirley Kennett

  Finally galvanized into action, PJ collected her purse. “No, no, you go ahead. I’ve never even met Carolyn. I’m sure she wouldn’t want anyone but her father there. Thanks for a wonderful dinner, though.”

  He hesitated again, and then patted her arm in a way that struck her as brotherly. “I’ve really enjoyed your company, Penny. I haven’t been much in the mood for socializing since the divorce, but you’re different.”

  PJ took a deep breath. What was he going to say? What did she want him to say?

  “People say that men and women can’t really be friends,” he said, “but I think that’s wrong. I think we’ll be great friends. After all, I grew up with four sisters. If any man can relate to a woman as a friend, it’s got to be me.”

  So that was how it was going to be. A ripple of disappointment went through her, even though she wasn’t certain she wanted anything else at this time either. “You’d better be going. Your daughter’s waiting.”

  As she pulled out of his driveway, she berated herself for the way she had approached the evening. She, a professional woman, a psychologist for heaven’s sake, had been fantasizing about sex with a man who simply wanted to have a friend over for dinner. Thank goodness she hadn’t done anything brazen, like jump him on the couch. She looked down at her dress. Why hadn’t she at least worn sensible clothing and a bra? And there were condoms in her purse.

  As she drove, she mentally backed herself into a corner and forced the truth out of herself. Her confidence had been badly damaged when her ex-husband had rejected her and hopped into bed with another woman. Her new work with CHIP had begun the process of building up her professional confidence. In fact, it had pushed her to a new awareness of what she wanted to do with her life. But her sexual identity was still hurting. She had been trying to prove to herself that she was still a desirable woman.

  Apparently the jury was still out on that one.

  She tried to be cynical about it, even tried to see the humor in the situation, but it didn’t work.

  The red light on her answering machine was blinking when she got home. She changed out of her dress and into her customary T-shirt and shorts before she played the message.

  “This is Georgia, at the lab. That blood you brought in looks like a probable match with the samples from the cat’s claws and Armor’s fingernails. Where’d you get it, anyway? Illegal search, no doubt. The fingerprint guys said the outside of the tube was pretty smeared, they could only get some partials from it and most of them were yours. Next time you go after evidence, do it right, OK?”

  The news about the styptic pencil both frightened and exhilarated her. Her hunch had been right. She had no idea what to do next. After all, it was Schultz’s job to handle things from here—he’s the one who had to break the door down, or whatever it is he actually did, and make the arrest, not her. Also, she was reasonably sure that the blood match wasn’t enough. A warrant was needed to search Hampton’s trash legally, and it should have been done by an actual police officer, not a civilian employee. A defense lawyer could argue that she had compromised the evidence by not handling it properly, or that she had planted it there in the first place, since the trash can was so accessible.

  She called Schultz. He still wasn’t home. She left a message explaining what she had done and giving the results of the test, adding that they should get together in the morning and figure out a plan. Then she sat down at the kitchen table with her PowerBook and a package of Oreos. She unplugged the phone cord from the phone and plugged it into the modem receptacle on the back of the computer, then dialed up America Online. As she skipped mindlessly from movie reviews to shopping areas to chat rooms on the online service, she twisted Oreos apart methodically, licked the cream, then popped the two chocolatey halves into her mouth.

  Schultz went straight from his son’s apartment to a discount pharmacy. He wanted to see how much the prescription for his arthritis would cost. The pharmacist told him that the first medication that Doctor Minings wanted him to try, Voltaren, would be about sixty-five bucks a month. Not as bad as he had thought, but still not easy on the wallet, especially for a man facing a possible divorce settlement. Child support wasn’t exactly an issue, but he was worried about a division of assets and alimony. His had been an old-fashioned marriage; Julia hadn’t had an outside job in more than thirty years.

  In his car he had a bag of vendor’s samples which the doctor had given him, enough to last about two weeks. There were a number of medications available for osteoarthritis, and the doctor said that it would be a kind of trial-and-error to determine which worked best for him. If he hadn’t gotten significant relief using the samples after a couple of weeks, he was supposed to phone the office to try another medication. If he was bouncing around like a spring lamb, he would just fill the prescription he had been given for a six month supply of pills.

  After that, he would need to go back every six months for a blood test to make sure his liver function hadn’t been compromised before he could get a refill. During his lengthy visit at the clinic, he had also been instructed in some special leg exercises using a stretchy tube that could only be described as a rubber band from the Jolly Green Giant’s desk. As a parting piece of advice, Doctor Minings told him to lose thirty or forty pounds to take some of the stress off his knees.

  Sure. Piece of cake.

  Schultz was famished. He stopped for a couple of chili dogs, a huge plate of fries, and a regular Coke. On the drive home he was belching onions but feeling pretty good about himself. He had gone to the doctor and he had confronted his son. He thought he had earned a gold star for the day, two of them, actually. It was a two star day.

  It was still light, just barely, when he got home around seven-fifteen. Pulling into his driveway, he noticed that the lawn had a ragged appearance and the grass was at least five inches long. He thought of running the lawn mower around the front yard, but the fullness in his stomach argued against it.

  Schultz lived on Lafayette Avenue, a broad street that funneled traffic in and out of downtown during the rush hours. Fifteen years ago, the neighborhood had been in decay, one of the deteriorated pockets that ringed the downtown area. Then the architecture of the century-old three story homes caught the fancy of yuppies who moved in, first a few pioneers who were willing to risk the crime-ridden area, then more and more until the drug houses were squeezed out and families began to buy in. These days children played on the sidewalks and parents walked over to Lafayette Park a couple of blocks away pushing strollers and carrying bags of stale bread to feed the ducks. Julia had visited some homes on an interior decorating tour and taken a liking to them. When a friend of a friend was suddenly transferred out of state, he and Julia bought the man’s partially-rehabbed home for a reasonable price and lived for months with dust and noise as Julia directed the completion of the work. In spite of the disruption in their domestic environment, it had been a relatively pleasant time for them as a couple, and it had been good to see Julia so interested in something.

  Schultz had always groused that he was going to sell the place because of the stairs. The ground floor had a living room, dining room, kitchen, and powder room, plus a formal parlor that Schultz hardly ever set foot in. The second floor had three bedrooms and two baths, and there was a third floor that was set up as an apartment, with a bedroom, kitchen, and bath. There was no separate entrance to the apartment, unless the fire escape that zigzagged down the brick exterior on the driveway side of the house counted as an entrance. Schultz kept the third floor closed off so he wouldn’t have to cool or heat it unnecessarily. There were high ceilings throughout, ten or eleven feet at least, and an oak staircase that had been refinished. The basement was spacious but low-ceilinged, barely six feet. The house had been a funeral home at some time in its distant past, and there were mysterious bins and divided rooms in the basement and a detached garage out back with an extra large door.

  It always seemed to Schultz that if he was on the ground floor, he needed s
omething from the bedroom upstairs, and that if he was upstairs, he needed something from the kitchen. Now that Julia was gone from the house, it seemed ridiculously large and empty. He would be better off with a small ranch home. He told himself that every time he pulled into the driveway, and this time was no exception, but no “For Sale” sign had cropped up on his lawn yet.

  Inside, he saw the answering machine light flashing, but he used the bathroom and got himself a soda from the refrigerator before playing the messages. As he reached for the playback button, the phone rang and he picked it up on the first ring.

  “Schultz.”

  “This is Georgia, in the lab. How are you, you old fart?”

  “Living up to that title at the moment, Georgia Peach. What’s new?”

  “Did you know that Doctor Gray brought in a blood sample this afternoon?”

  Schultz sat down in a kitchen chair, stretching the phone cord, all the levity hissing out of him like air from a balloon. “No, I didn’t. Fill me in.”

  Georgia told him about the bloody styptic pencil, the smeared fingerprints, the probable match with the samples from the cat’s claws and Armor’s fingernails.

  “She say exactly where she got this?”

  “Said it was from a trash can at a suspect’s house. I figured there was more to it than that. Maybe she broke in.”

  “I’ll check with her on it. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “You won’t find her at home. I just called there and left a message with the results.”

  After getting off the phone with Georgia, Schultz switched on the lamp next to the phone. Night had come in earnest, and the small lamp cast a friendly little cone of light in the gloomy kitchen. He punched the playback button and listened to PJ’s two-part message with growing excitement. His chest and throat felt constricted and his breathing was quick and shallow.

  The truth slammed into him. If he hadn’t been sitting, he would have staggered backward. He knew that the cook was the killer, knew it, felt the golden thread thrust itself out purposefully from his own heart and mind, seeking its termination, finding, clasping, taking root in the cook’s aura as surely as if it had been Jack’s beanstalk and the cook was a fertile patch of ground.

  It was clear now how the killer had obtained information about the case, enough information to go after PJ. Schultz himself was the leak, blabbing away in the diner as though the world was innocent. He closed his eyes, fervently hoping that he had done no harm by it, that there was time to…to what? Save the maiden from the dragon?

  He shook himself and started thinking, planning what to do next, feeling the onions bubbling up on him but ignoring them. Evidence retrieved from an outdoor trash can certainly wasn’t enough for an arrest. Anyone could have disposed of the styptic pencil in the cook’s trash can just by lifting the lid. He needed more, something that would stand up in court.

  He tried to reach PJ at her home number, then her car phone, then her office. No luck. Suddenly he thought that she might have gone back to Hampton’s house for some irrational reason that would make sense only to a shrink. He phoned Dave, told him to get over to PJ’s house and if she was there, tell her to stay put. He got hold of Anita, told her to meet him a couple of blocks from Hampton’s house. Then he went to a kitchen drawer and removed a set of lock picks he hadn’t used in years.

  Too much time with your ass planted in a chair these past years, he thought. Wonder if the knack is still there.

  Things were moving, coming together now. Schultz had a feeling it could turn out to be a three star day.

  The knock on PJ’s front door startled her. It was Schultz’s knock, one quick rap, pause, three more. Thinking that he wanted to discuss the case, she took a moment to clear away the remains of the package of cookies from the table, sweeping the crumbs into her palm and emptying them into the trash can in the cabinet under the kitchen sink. She went to the door and opened it, surprised to find Dave Cassidy standing there instead of Schultz. Slightly flustered, she invited him in, wondering if all cops used that special knock or just Schultz’s team.

  “No, thanks, Doctor Gray. Schultz just told me to check in with you.”

  “You mean check up on me, don’t you?”

  Dave smiled. “Well, you know how the old guy is. He got the message about the blood match. Said to tell you good work, and he wants to talk to you some more about it in the morning.”

  “He actually said good work?”

  “Now that you mention it, no. But he did seem excited.”

  “Schultz? Excited?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Also, it would be a good idea if you stayed low until we get a handle on this and figure some way to arrest the perp. He obviously knows where you live. Not that we think there’s any immediate danger.”

  “He doesn’t know I’ve paid him a visit,” PJ said, “so most likely he thinks I’ve been scared off by his last threat.”

  Dave nodded and turned to go. “Goodnight. See you tomorrow, probably.”

  She watched him pull away from the curb, then closed the door and returned to the online chat she had been following on her computer.

  Schultz had only been waiting a couple of minutes when Anita pulled up behind him. He was parked on Long Drive about three houses down from Hampton’s. It was almost fully dark now, right around eight-thirty. Anita doused her headlights and waited. She had seen the activity on the porch next door to the target house.

  A boy, sixteen or seventeen years old, rang the bell. Moments later, the porch light came on and the door was opened by a middle-aged man wearing an undershirt and a beer belly. Behind him hovered a girl, obviously the reason for the boy’s presence. The man clapped a ponderous hand on the boy’s shoulder, partly a gesture of friendship and partly a threat. They spoke for a couple of minutes, the kid getting some variation of the “get her home on time and intact” lecture. The girl kissed her father lightly on the cheek and left arm-in-arm with her boyfriend. The door closed and the flickering blue light of television escaped through a small gap in the curtains on the front window. The boy and girl exchanged a passionate kiss in the car before driving away.

  The street was quiet. Schultz got out of his car and walked back to Anita’s. She rolled down the window to talk to him.

  “I think the house is empty,” Schultz said. “I’m going to do a little exploring around back. If the creep shows, blow your horn and get out of here.” Anita nodded. He doubted that she would actually leave. In fact, inspecting the set of her face, he knew she wouldn’t.

  He patted his gun, which he was carrying in a shoulder holster underneath a light jacket. The night was beginning to cool off, but it was still too warm and humid for a jacket. He felt damp under the arms, and figured it wasn’t going to get any better inside Hampton’s house.

  He pulled on his favorite gloves, a pair of supple deerskin ones which he had used for years, the fingertips worn thin enough for sensitive work but not thin enough to leave prints right through the material. Flexing his fingers, he walked toward Hampton’s house. He strolled casually past it as though he was out for an evening walk. At the corner, he turned and came back. This time, satisfied that no one was home, he went around the back, past the trash cans that PJ had raided earlier in the day.

  The rear door was old and loose-fitting in its frame. The lock was a joke. He probably could have gotten in by putting his shoulder to the door and pushing, but he dignified the job by picking the lock anyway. Opening the door, he slipped quickly inside and pulled it shut behind him.

  That thread, the almost psychic link between himself and the killer, was twanging like a guitar string at a Joan Baez concert. The sensation was a physical one, too, as his heart thudded and his hands clenched in the darkened room.

  This was ground zero, and he knew it.

  He was in the kitchen. The heat was oppressive. There were no windows open, and the air smelled of stew and garlic bread. There was a night light plugged in above the counter, casting a pale glo
w, not reaching to the edges of the room. He waited while his eyes adjusted to the level of light, listening for sounds of occupancy in the house. The refrigerator emitted a low hum as the compressor kicked on. There was a faucet dripping, not in the kitchen, so it must be in the bathroom. No footsteps, no bed creaking.

  No one humming.

  Removing a small flashlight from his pocket, he flicked it on and shone the fight across the floor. He was looking for any unusual spills, intentional or otherwise, which would leave a record of his passing. Once, years ago, on a similar intrusion, he had left clear footprints in flour that had been sprinkled across the floor just for the purpose of determining if someone had searched the place. The incident had never been traced to him, but the idea went into his bag of tricks, which bulged like Santa’s sack from years of such accumulations.

  There was nothing on the floor but a few dust bunnies and some sticky-looking splatters next to the sink. Schultz moved quickly across the kitchen and into the hall. The kitchen would be the last place he searched. The pattern he used was to go through all the rooms rapidly and lightly, then work his way back to the point of entrance more slowly. That way, if he had to make a fast exit, at least he had given the entire place a quick once-over.

  There were two bedrooms, a bath, a living room, and an eat-in kitchen. He ducked into the basement, but there wasn’t anything obvious there, so he didn’t waste time with it. In all his years of police work, he had never found anything important hidden in the basement of a house, not even a body buried under the floor. People tended to keep things that were important to them nearby, in the living areas of the house.

  The guest bedroom was not furnished as a bedroom. Instead, it was a storage room with a jumble of boxes, stacked almost to the ceiling. It apparently served as a pantry, too, because there were canned goods, rolls of paper towels, packages of uncooked pasta, a bin of potatoes with pale green sprouts curling out, seeking the comfort of dark, moist earth but finding only stale air. The bathroom yielded nothing; the toilet tank held only water and a used-up dispenser of blue disinfectant. The living room couch surrendered unpopped kernels of popcorn.