1 Twisted Perception

by Bob Avey

  “You’re not the first cop to leave the force with an unsolved case,” Elliot said. “It’s obvious you put a lot of work into it. You did the best you could.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot coming from a fellow police officer.” He paused and scratched his head. “I probably shouldn’t even bring this up, but there was one other suspect.”

  Elliot nodded. “Go on.”

  “Well, first off, my list has an order to it, from most likely to least likely. To be honest, I don’t even know why I put this guy on the list. I guess there was just something about him I didn’t like.”

  “There must have been a reason, other than your not liking the guy.”

  Malone nodded. “He was always hanging around the clubs off campus. By the time I figured out what he was up to it was too late.”

  “What exactly was he doing?”

  “Selling drugs,” Malone said. “He was into exotic stuff, like ecstasy.”

  “Did you ever bring him in for questioning?”

  Malone shook his head. “I never got the chance. He went and got himself killed. Ran head-on into a tree.”

  Elliot wasn’t exactly sure why he asked the next question. It just sort of came out. “Do you suppose the crash could have been intentional?”

  Malone gave Elliot a curious look. “No,” he said. “That’s one part I am sure about. The skid marks, impact of the crash, the car’s direction, all indicated accident. I’ve seen my share of twisted metal. Nobody planned that one.”

  Elliot thought for a moment, the names of suspects and victims running through his head. “What was the suspect’s name?” he asked.

  Malone flipped through his notes. “I’ve got it here somewhere. Yeah, here it is. Segal, his name was Segal. Larry J. Segal.”

  Elliot felt the blood run from his head. My boy’s been gone a long time, Mr. Elliot. Lagayle Zimmerman had just jumped back into the picture. “Who identified the body?”

  “Wasn’t much left to identify. We didn’t even know who to contact, so we called the university. They gave us the name of his mother. She came out. She wasn’t much help but she did recognize some of the jewelry. Based on her testimony, and the fact that it was his car, we made our decision.” He paused then continued, “What’s left of the car is still collecting weeds down at Palechek’s Salvage, if you want to have a look at it. I’ve got some errands to run, and I’ll be going in that direction anyway. I can show you, if you want.”

  Elliot followed Malone and his old pickup truck down Perkins Road to Palechek’s Salvage Yard. Malone led Elliot through a maze of rusted metal to the rear of the yard, where the burned out remains of a 1982 Oldsmobile Cutlass occupied a piece of ground. “There she sits,” he said.

  Elliot walked around the car, taking his time, trying to visualize the collision. He stopped near the front on the passenger side. “Looks like the major portion of the impact occurred here,” he said.

  Malone nodded. “That’s what we figured, too. Then it caught fire.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Elliot said, “Maybe Larry Segal didn’t plan the crash. Maybe he just took advantage of an opportunity.”

  Malone shook his head. “I’m not sure I follow what you’re saying.”

  “Let’s just say you might want to check and see if you had any unsolved missing persons reports during that time. I don’t know whose charred body you pulled out of this car, Mr. Malone, but it wasn’t Larry Segal’s. He’s dead all right, but he died in Tulsa. We’ve got his body lying on a slab in the morgue.”

  15

  Elliot met Dombrowski at a restaurant on Elm Street in Broken Arrow. The captain lived on the east side of south Tulsa, so it wasn’t out of his way. He’d called Elliot on his cell phone while Elliot was on his way home and still on the highway, halfway between Stillwater and Tulsa and asked to meet him there. Elliot didn’t mind. A lot had happened and he wanted to give the captain an update anyway. By the time Dombrowski got there, he’d been off work for a couple of hours and he came in casual, wearing a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt and a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. Elliot wasn’t used to seeing the captain dressed that way, and he had to admit it made him feel more at ease and relaxed around him. Elliot tore open a couple of sugar packets and dumped them into his coffee, then added cream. Watching this, Dombrowski shook his head. He’d always told Elliot if he didn’t like coffee black then he didn’t like coffee. Elliot thought he was probably right.

  Dombrowski forced a smile. He looked tense. “So how did it go in Stillwater?” He asked.

  Elliot sipped his coffee then sat the cup down and spread the color printouts across the table. He’d dropped by the office before coming to the restaurant and picked up the photograph of Michelle Baker. He laid it on the table as well, a perfect match.

  Dombrowski showed his disgust. He studied the layout for a moment then nodded. “I still don’t see the connection to Lagayle Zimmerman though.”

  Elliot and Dombrowski sat in silence for a moment, sipping their coffee and staring at one another like a couple of gamecocks in a standoff. Elliot finally broke the tension and spoke. “You might change your mind after you hear what else I found.”

  Dombrowski raised his eyebrows. “Let’s have it.”

  “Larry Segal, also know as Lagayle Zimmerman, was in Stillwater during the murders that took place there.”

  Dombrowski considered that then said, “That’s interesting all right, but it doesn’t really mean anything.”

  “It gets better. Segal was dealing drugs. He was also a suspect in the murders.”

  “So what happened?”

  “According to the officer in charge of the investigation, Segal was involved in an automobile accident, ran himself into a tree and burned to death in Stillwater five years ago.”

  Dombrowski’s face went blank.

  Elliot waited a moment, allowing Dombrowski time to think about what he’d said before he continued. “Kind of puts a new spin on things, doesn’t it?”

  Dombrowski looked preoccupied, as if he was thinking through the information, sorting it out. “Yeah,” he said.

  A notion went through Elliot’s mind, one he didn’t intend to verbalize, but somehow it busted out anyway. “By the way,” he said. “You can call off the dogs now.”

  Dombrowski’s startled appearance indicated he couldn’t believe it either. He studied Elliot, as if he were a new recruit he’d just met. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Elliot shook his head. The waitress appeared, making her rounds, and Elliot waited until she’d filled their coffee cups and went on to the next table. “Just thinking out loud I guess.”

  Dombrowski sipped his coffee, watching as Elliot again doctored his. “So,” he said. “What’s Segal’s connection to all of this?”

  Elliot sat his cup on the table. “My guess is he and the killer go way back, old friends if you will.”

  “Are you saying they worked together?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Just acquaintances. Segal probably had his suspicions but nothing ever fell into place until a couple of nights ago.”

  Dombrowski grinned. “I read this book once where there were two killers. One serial killer with a definite MO, and one who followed him around, cleaning up afterward, like a guardian angel. It’s an interesting theory. But I’m not sure it’s a good one. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no psychologist, but I know a little about the behavior patterns of serial killers. And they don’t typically step outside their MO.”

  “I know that,” Elliot said. “But this one’s different. I guess he forgot to read the psych books, and doesn’t know how to act.”

  “Come on. I admit there appears to be some kind of connection, but there has to be another explanation. Besides, I thought we’d agreed Harrison Zimmerman was our prime suspect for the murder of his wife.”

  “I know how it looks,” Elliot said, “but Zimmerman has money and money has connections. He didn’t get where he is by being ignorant. He would’v
e hired a pro, someone with enough experience to make it look like an accident or a robbery gone bad. He certainly wouldn’t have them leave the body in his own backyard, making it look like he had something to do with it. And then there’s the phone call Lagayle made. She didn’t say ‘someone is trying to kill me.’ She said ‘I know who the killer is.’ It didn’t sound like she was talking about her own killer. Someone she knew surprised her. I’d say whoever that was also killed her. Zimmerman wanted his wife out of the way, but he didn’t kill her. Someone beat him to it. Lagayle Zimmerman wasn’t killed for who she was. She was killed for what she knew—the identity of the killer.”

  Elliot paused, wanting to tell Dombrowski no one wished all of this were only in his mind more than he did. “It’s not the first time he’s done something like this,” he continued. “He killed Johnnie Alexander, and Johnnie did nothing more than be at the wrong place at the right time. It could’ve been me in the car with Marcia that night.”

  Dombrowski leaned back in his chair. “Pardon me for changing the subject, but about this guy who tried to run you down earlier. Do you have any idea what might have instigated such a thing?”

  “My guess is he was trying to kill me,” Elliot said. “And you didn’t change the subject at all, Captain.”

  “What are you trying to say, that the killer was driving the car and tried to take you out?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  “Because he doesn’t like what I’m doing.”

  “And what exactly are you doing?”

  Elliot sipped his coffee. Dombrowski was acting strangely. He suspected the captain’s conversation with Molly Preston, coupled with what Beaumont had been telling him, was working overtime on his mind. “My job, Captain.”

  Dombrowski paused briefly then continued. “I’m sorry, Elliot. But it seems you were the only one who saw this person, and the only one to witness the car chase.”

  Elliot couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but then it dawned on him. “What you mean is, your boy didn’t see it.”

  “Why don’t you just go ahead and say what’s on your mind, Elliot.”

  Elliot took the napkin from his lap and threw it on the booth cushion, then stood and pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “Your boy’s been following me around, Captain. He even got to the Starlight Club before I did. That’s why he didn’t see anything. I guess he got a little ahead of himself. With the department being in a crunch to get things done, it looks to me like Detective Beaumont could spend his time a little more wisely.”

  “So now you’re trying to tell me how to run the department?”

  Elliot took a step toward Dombrowski then stopped himself. “Maybe somebody should,” he said. After that he turned and walked away. He pushed through the door, stepped outside, and found his car. He didn’t wait around to let Dombrowski catch up with him. He was too angry. He had to put distance between them.

  A few blocks down the road, Elliot grabbed his cell phone and called Molly. She didn’t answer. He left a message then pressed harder on the accelerator pedal. He was hot. Perhaps it was lack of sleep, or stress, but whatever the cause, anger boiled inside of him. He needed to find Beaumont. He knew what he was up to, so he knew where to look. He visited a few bars and a few beers later, he caught up with him at a place called Daddy’s, a club housed in a run-down structure that had once been a convenience store. As if it were an expression of the owner’s heart, light-blocking paint as black as asphalt covered the glass of the expansive windows. The door had been painted too.

  Elliot pushed through the door and stepped inside, having to fight the smile that tried to form on his lips when he spotted Beaumont, standing near the back of the room beside a cigarette machine. Elliot figured he’d been seen as well, but Beaumont was doing a good job of keeping his expression in check. A small thing for which to be thankful, but little things count in bad situations. Elliot showed the bouncer his badge and continued on.

  Elliot had worked vice for a year before moving to homicide but out of the four people who surrounded Beaumont, he recognized only one: Gordon Tremain. Gordy, when it came to menacing behavior, was like a small dog, more of an irritation than a threat. But he had a way with punks, getting them to do his work for him. As for the other three, one appeared to be another no-threat, a boyish kid for this area, while the second one could go either way. But the last one, a skinny guy with hollow eyes and one hand tucked inside the vest area of a black overcoat, had Elliot’s attention.

  Elliot stopped at the bar and ordered a beer, then walked over, stopping just behind Could-Be. He took a drink then smiled. “Gordy, my man.”

  Gordy looked as if he might drop to the floor in the clutches of a convulsive fit. “Bury me on a bed of roses,” he said.

  Elliot kept Hollow-Eyes in visual range. “It’s good to see you too, Mr. Tremain. But I thought we had an understanding. You’re not to deal anymore.”

  Gordy’s head twitched. “Wa…word on the street is you bought the ticket, man, else I wouldn’t be here, honest.”

  Elliot figured Gordy must’ve heard of his taking a bullet. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. But as soon as he got the words out, an uneasy feeling crawled along his spine. Perhaps it was something about the way Gordon Tremain was behaving, or just his imagination, but Elliot suspected the situation had already begun to deteriorate before his arrival, and was now poised on the brink of disaster. Holding true to form, Could-Be pulled a knife, a butterfly that in his hands looked as if it’d do more harm to the user than its intended recipient. It was not a convincing move, just a miscalculated show of hardware. Elliot grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted until the weapon fell from his hand, hitting the floor. But Could-Be’s action was only a prelude to the real problem, and from the corner of his eye Elliot saw Hollow-Eyes pull his hand from beneath the black overcoat. Years of learned reflex took over. Elliot un-holstered the Glock and fired.

  16

  A deliberate silence rolled over the crowd as Hollow-Eyes slid to the floor, leaving a bloody trail along the wall. He wouldn’t die, but he’d probably wish he could. Elliot had managed to pull the shot. Could-Be made another move for the knife and Elliot swung around, bringing the Glock to rest on the bridge of the man’s nose. “Time to face the truth,” he said, pressing the gun harder into his forehead. “And the truth is I don’t have all that much to lose anymore, and this kind of dying just doesn’t scare me.”

  Could-Be held his head still but rolled questioning eyes toward Gordy. Gordy scooped up the knife and shuffled over to Hollow-Eyes, taking the gun from beside his accomplice. He edged back, placed the weapons on the table, and backed away. Could-Be’s legs wilted and he slumped into a chair.

  Beaumont stood frozen in shock, his eyes as big as baseballs.

  Elliot held his badge over his head, high in the air for people to see. “Your bust,” he said.

  Beaumont blinked and swallowed. “You’re crazy. I can’t be a party to this.”

  “Too late. You already are.”

  He shook his head.

  Elliot glanced at the weapons on the table. “I could give the gun back to your nervous friend here and fade back into the night.”

  Beaumont took a step forward. “No,” he said. “But I can’t take the heat for this.”

  “Then we walk.”

  “We can’t just leave. A man’s been shot.”

  “Your bust then.”

  Beaumont put his hand to his head as if to reach in and pull out the right decision. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Still holding his unfinished beer, Elliot asked the bartender to call for some medical help then he holstered the Glock and took Beaumont by the arm, walking him outside. They kept going, neither of them speaking until they were well away from the club. Elliot stopped abruptly and grabbed Beaumont by the lapel, backing him into a wall. He searched him until he found what he wa
s looking for, a bag of white powder. He pulled it from Beaumont’s pocket and held it to his face. “You weren’t busting. You were selling.”

  Beaumont’s eyes widened. “You can’t prove that. You can’t prove a thing.”

  “Maybe not,” Elliot said.

  “What about Dombrowski?”

  “Maybe I won’t tell him. It’s not my style. But I need a little cooperation. Besides, he thinks the world of you. It’d kill him if he knew you were dirty.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  Elliot backed away, releasing his hold on Beaumont. He actually felt sorry for him. Holding the beer in front of him he said, “Even small monkeys have sharp teeth, Beaumont. But big nasty ones like you’re dealing will drag a person down, leaving them in the gutter.” He tossed the bag of cocaine to the ground at Beaumont’s feet. “You’re in over your head, kid. I know Gordon Tremain. He plays for keeps. The situation was out of control back there, and I just saved your ass.”

  Beaumont bent over and picked up the cocaine, sticking it inside his pocket. “What would you know about it anyway?”

  “Probably nothing,” Elliot said, “except for watching my mother slowly kill herself with a needle. It got so she couldn’t do anything for herself, always depending on me. Then she didn’t wake up at all one morning. It took me three days to get up enough courage to go out and tell someone what had happened. I was nine years old.”

  “Well, maybe that explains it then,” Beaumont said. “You know what they say about boys without fathers.”