1 Twisted Perception

by Bob Avey

  In contrast with the rest of the house, which was filled with dark, polished furniture, this room was empty. As Elliot stepped into the void, however, he realized it wasn’t completely bare. There was a mattress lying on the floor, and a faded poster depicting the movie East of Eden tacked to the wall. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw that a few broken toys littered the floor beside the mattress. “What is this place?” he asked.

  Cynthia Kincaid did not answer, and she had not come into the room, but stood trembling outside the doorway.

  Seeing nothing else of interest except rays of sunlight coming through a busted window shade, Elliot turned to leave, but as he walked across the room one of the floorboards popped loose beneath his stride. He knelt down to examine it and when he pulled the board free he saw that something was hidden there. It was a child’s jewelry box. When he picked it up, he found that it was also a music box that played a tune once opened, and though it was a pleasant melody—“When You Wish Upon A Star”—it sent a shiver up his spine. The box contained a diamond and emerald necklace with matching earrings, and a tube of red lipstick.

  The jewelry reminded Elliot of Rachael, though he couldn’t recall seeing her wear it. Something like that would be reserved for special occasions. He remembered what Cynthia Kincaid had said about abuse and a vision of Rachael lying across her bed with the necklace draped around her throat struck Elliot. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be out of that room. He walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Elliot didn’t see Cynthia Kincaid, but the smell of fresh furniture polish that filled the air conjured up images of her sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs knitting another lace doily. He found her in one of the bedrooms sitting on the bed and flipping through the pages of a photo album. She looked up when he came into the room, and the expression on her face said she was ready for a stopping point, a way to finally get off the mad ride that had been all too much her own doing. Elliot sat on the bed next to her.

  She smiled. “Musty aren’t they? Reminds me of wet cardboard.” She pointed to a snapshot of herself with Rachael.

  “How old was she then?” Elliot asked.

  Cynthia didn’t answer, but kept turning the pages, stopping occasionally to explain a particular shot. There were only a few shots of Cynthia alone, and even fewer of her with Rachael. Most of the pictures featured Papa Kincaid and Rachael, and in those shots Rachael wore jewelry, a diamond and emerald necklace with matching earrings and her lips were painted a deep shade of red.

  Elliot pointed to one of the pictures of Rachael. “Is that a birthmark on her cheek?”

  “Oh, no,” Cynthia said. “Terrance wore a ring, a god-awful looking thing.” She clinched her hand into a fist. “He hit Rachael, hit her hard.”

  Elliot put his hand on the shoulder of the reminiscing mother, then got up and walked out of the room. He wasn’t sure why, but he went into the kitchen, stopping by the window which was above the sink. It overlooked the backyard. Elliot had seen enough in the photo albums to understand that Papa Terrance Kincaid had not played the ordinary role of fatherhood. He hadn’t squashed the cushion of a recliner, reading the paper while the family pet chewed his slippers. Judging from what he’d seen, Elliot suspected Papa Terrance spent most of his time in the kitchen, drinking sour mash whiskey from a coffee mug while his wife sat quietly, hoping to avoid confrontation, and young Rachael tried to remain anonymous, hoping Papa wouldn’t get drunk enough this time or, if he did, that he’d have other ways to entertain himself.

  Elliot opened the cabinet beneath the sink and squatted to look inside. In a cleared space of its own, separated from the plastic tub of cleaners and brushes, sat a half bottle of whiskey and an aged, cracked ceramic mug. There had been no happiness here. In a place and time where there should have been a house full of laughter, there was only pain, laced with the sounds of scared children huddled in their own very different bedroom corners.

  Elliot stood and looked through the window into the backyard. It looked old and unused. Metal lawn chairs, the old style that rock on curved tubular frames and leave faded paint marks on the clothing of anyone brave enough to sit in them, occupied the cracked concrete patio. In the center of the yard, a stone birdbath full of stagnant water stood silent sentry. Beyond that was a broken brick barbecue pit. A chain-link fence surrounded all of this, but what caught Elliot’s attention was an area in the corner of the yard where an old oak tree shaded a patch of grass closed off by a black wrought-iron fence—a fence within a fence. Inside the protected area, which was better maintained than the rest of the yard, were flowers and what looked to be a headstone.

  Elliot heard a sound and turned to see that Cynthia Kincaid had come into the kitchen. “Tell me something, Mrs. Kincaid. Is that a grave in your backyard?”

  Cynthia gathered a few dishes from the kitchen table and put them in the sink. “Yes. We had a dog, a wonderful collie. She was only with us for a precious few years. Such a beautiful girl.” Cynthia paused and began to cry. “Terrance buried her out there like yesterday’s garbage, wouldn’t even let us mark it. ‘That would be foolish,’ he said. We did, though, Rachael and I, after he was gone. We made it look like it ought to, like a graveyard.”

  “Take me out there,” Elliot said. “I want to see it.”

  Cynthia shook her head and mumbled something, but did as she was asked, mechanically leading Elliot to the back door and opening it.

  Elliot pushed open the screen door and stepped down to the patio. He paused then strode to the enclosed area while Mrs. Kincaid, still mumbling, slowly followed as if pulled along on a leash against her will. The hinges of the tall black gate complained as Elliot pulled the gate open and stepped inside the small enclave. The air seemed thick and depraved, and Elliot had a feeling the small patch of earth inside the wrought-iron fence was less than sacred. In fact, he suspected it was a place of dark sin. The small headstone had no markings other than the birth and death dates: April 23, 1977—June 15, 1988.

  “Eleven years is a pretty good life span for a dog,” Elliot said. “How did your collie die?”

  Cynthia Kincaid looked pale and shook visibly. “Terrance,” she said. “Terrance killed her.” Tears formed in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks in large drops. “I don’t think he meant to. He lost control. He hit her. He hit her with that god-awful ring.” She paused, staring at the grave. “Things were never the same after that. What little we had went into the ground that night.”

  Elliot pulled his cell phone and called the department. From behind him, he heard Cynthia Kincaid say, “Oh, dear God.”

  ~~~

  The backyard of Cynthia Kincaid’s house had become a center of interest, with curious neighbors gathering at the fence to point and whisper. Elliot and Detective Beaumont stood a few feet away from the grave, giving the workers ample room, but staying close enough to observe. Pieces of the dismantled wrought-iron fence lay in a jagged pile while the excavation team dug away the cover of dirt, and as two of the crew members lifted a small pile of bones from the pit an uneasy quiet came over the crowd. One of the onlookers screamed, and a lady, Mrs. Eagon, Elliot thought, fell to her knees while her husband knelt by her side, frantically waving a handkerchief close to her face.

  Finally, Eddie York looked up from the bones and shook his head. “These aren’t dog bones, Detective. They’re human, probably the remains of a child.”

  Elliot uttered a silent prayer, and while a buzzing array of voices spread through the crowd, he led Cynthia Kincaid away from the homemade cemetery plot and over to one of the uniformed officers. What he had to do next, he didn’t want to do. “Cynthia Kincaid,” he said, “I’m placing you under arrest for suspicion of murder.” He clamped the cuffs around her wrists, and read her rights. Afterward he looked into her eyes. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  She leaned close, and into Elliot’s ear she whispered, “You don’t know him, not like you think you do.”

  27

&n
bsp; The air hung lifeless over the area without so much as a leaf moving on a tree, but it matched Elliot’s mood as he turned away from the disturbed earth where the child had been buried. A hand holding his arm interrupted his exit. It was Beaumont.

  “You look like hell, Detective.”

  Elliot instinctively reached for his face to feel the beard that must have grown there, for he had not shaved lately, and as he rubbed the stubby growth the thought of his obsession snaked through his mind like a serpent through murky water. The case had taken over. It owned him, controlling his actions with deliberate influence like an evil and possessive spouse. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll drop by the house and clean up.”

  Beaumont nodded then asked, “What happened here? Did the lady kill her kid?”

  Elliot studied the crew still working in Cynthia Kincaid’s yard. “No, I don’t think so. That’s not the way it happened.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t think so? Why the hell did you arrest her?”

  “There’s no one else around. Besides, I think she knows what happened.”

  A confused look came over Beaumont’s face. “How in blazes did you stumble on to this, anyway?”

  “The person we found in his car in Porter? This was his last known address.”

  Beaumont shook his head. “You’ve uncovered some darned unusual things lately, I’ll give you that much. But I don’t understand how any of it relates to the killings here in Tulsa that we’re supposed to be investigating.”

  Elliot wasn’t surprised Beaumont didn’t understand. He didn’t have all the facts. But to Elliot, the relation was as clear as day. But he no longer trusted Detective Beaumont—and the captain, well, he wasn’t ready to understand. So Elliot held back, an ace up his sleeve. “It all ties together,” he said.

  “Well, I certainly don’t see how.”

  Elliot turned away. “It’ll all make sense when I’m through.”

  “Wait a minute, what’s your next step?”

  “I need to check some records.”

  “What kind of records?”

  “Birth records,” Elliot said, climbing into his car before Beaumont could ask any more questions. As he drove away his mood was uneasy and he felt as though Dombrowski was in the car with him, breathing down his neck.

  Elliot went to the county offices, and when he arrived he parked and went inside. Sure, he could’ve just gone back to his office and logged onto the Internet to find what he needed, but he’d always preferred face-to-face meetings and real-life records over getting lost in virtual hallways. Anyway, it wasn’t long until he had the information he was after. On April 23, 1977, Rachael Hannah Kincaid, also known as Rachael Johnson was born in St. John’s Hospital, eleven months after her parents, Terrance and Cynthia, were married. Just to be sure, Elliot checked the records under both names, going back one year before the marriage and forward ten years after. He found nothing. The records appeared to support the idea that Rachael was an only child.

  Elliot made a few copies and left. He was on his way to St. John’s when his phone rang; it was Detective John Cunningham, back from vacation. Elliot and Cunningham had become detectives at the same time. They were also friends. Cunningham sounded nervous, speaking quietly like he feared someone might overhear him. “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Not far from Woodward Park,” Elliot said, “on 21st Street. Why?”

  “Pull over, we need to talk.”

  “I’m not in the mood for games, Cunningham. What’s going on?”

  “It’s no game. I only wish it were.”

  Elliot turned into a strip mall, parking between a pickup truck and a van. “All right, I’m off the road. What’s up?”

  “Dombrowski called me in this morning, asking a lot of questions. Like what did I know about you, and had I noticed any change in your habits.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Well I don’t know much, do I? Anyway there’s more. Dombrowski sent me and Beaumont out to investigate a murder. We just got back.”

  “A murder?”

  “That’s right. Some waitress from a dive called Fuzzy’s over on 61st. Twenty-two years old, one hundred twenty pounds, blonde hair, blue eyes. Sound familiar?”

  “Yeah. Sounds like our man struck again.”

  “There’s more. Dombrowski had us take some pictures and show them around the bar. Pictures of you, Elliot. Several people remembered seeing you in there that night. Some even remembered you talking to the waitress, the victim.”

  “Yeah, I was there a couple of nights ago. So what?”

  “The body was found in an empty building two or three blocks away, some sort of bloody message written on the wall. We also found a knife.”

  “That’s different,” Elliot said. “The killer doesn’t usually leave the weapon behind.”

  “Maybe so, but that’s what we found. And your fingerprints are all over it”

  “My fingerprints?”

  “That’s right.”

  Cunningham’s words hit Elliot like a sledgehammer. His mind raced for answers, but when he snagged onto the only obvious solution he didn’t like what came to the surface. “What did the knife look like?”

  “Like expensive cutlery, about ten inches long, with a smooth black handle.”

  “No,” Elliot mumbled.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Elliot said. But as he watched rain striking the surface of the parking lot, a disturbing notion began to make its way into his thoughts. He wondered if he drove to Nick Brazleton’s garage and looked inside his toolbox, would the knife he’d seen still be there, or was it the same one Beaumont and Cunningham had found beside the latest victim? The thought of Nick being somehow involved had crossed his mind on several occasions, but he’d managed to push it aside. He could no longer do that.

  The phone grew heavy in Elliot’s hand, and his thoughts began to scatter as if a gust of wind had entered his head, throwing his senses across the landscape. He didn’t want to be on the wrong side of the law, but he couldn’t see the sense of turning himself in either. Dombrowski had evidence against him, and it would take time for the captain to get to the bottom of things and figure out he was innocent. Time was a luxury he couldn’t afford. The pattern of the murders indicated the killer had a habit of lying low for awhile, not resurfacing again for as much as a year after each murder. If he disappeared into the woodwork now, their chances of catching him would be nearly nonexistent. And Elliot would look like a much better prospect. He didn’t understand it all yet, but he was getting close. He couldn’t just let the killer slip away. He gripped the phone. “What should I do?” he asked.

  Cunningham took awhile to answer, “How the hell should I know?”

  “Surely you don’t buy into this, think I’m guilty? It’s a setup, Cunningham.”

  “I don’t know what to think. Anyway, I called, didn’t I?” The phone went dead, severing the line just as a black and white patrol car pulled into the parking lot. Elliot sank down in the seat, hiding his head. Had Cunningham called just to get his location? Somehow he didn’t think so, but he held his breath anyway, praying as the squad car drew near that he wouldn’t be discovered. The car pulled alongside and stopped. Elliot’s heart pounded. He felt like a teenager who’d just stolen his first car. A few minutes later, he thought he heard the car beside him start rolling again, though he wasn’t sure. It felt like he’d been there, crouched down in the seat, for hours. Finally he couldn’t wait any longer. He slowly brought his head up and peeked over the steering wheel. The police car was gone. But this was just a precursor of things to come. They would be looking for him, which brought up an interesting question. How was he going to continue his investigation with the entire Tulsa police force breathing down his neck?

  The wind picked up, flinging rain against the window as if it were being sprayed at the car through a high-pressure hose. Elliot sat motionless in the front seat, staring through the blurry window. What h
e was contemplating was pure insanity, yet the more he turned the idea over in his mind the stronger his compulsion to remain free became. He thought about calling Dombrowski to explain his situation, though he dismissed the idea as quickly as it formed. The captain wouldn’t understand. And even if he did, what could he do?

  Elliot pulled onto the roadway and somewhere in the back of his mind the details of his plan began to form. He was tired, worn down from worry and lack of sleep. He needed to find a place where he could rest, lie low for awhile, and do some serious thinking. He had to take care of a few things, though, before he could do any of that. First of all, he needed some cash and banks were out of the question. It was Saturday afternoon and they’d be closed until Monday. He could find an ATM, but that would leave a trail. Then again, if Cunningham could be trusted, they probably didn’t know that he knew they were looking for him. Since they wouldn’t expect him to be on the run, they wouldn’t yet be doing things like checking credit card and ATM usage. He decided to chance it, pulling into the first convenience store he came to and drawing out a few hundred bucks. With that done, he drove toward town. He decided to pay his new friend, Bernie Sykes, a visit.

  Sykes wasn’t in his office, but Elliot found him in a small apartment upstairs in the same building. Sykes didn’t look happy to see him. Elliot guessed a cop should get used to that, and for the most part he had, but he couldn’t help wishing someone would smile when they saw him coming.

  Sykes stood by the door, holding it open and looking like he’d just been shot. “What the hell do you want?”

  He didn’t offer to get out of the way, but Elliot pushed him aside and went in anyway. The apartment wasn’t much; just a one-room efficiency with an unmade bed in one corner and an old mohair couch in the other. A stack of magazines brought the television up to eye level for anyone sitting on the couch, and beside the bed a turned-up wooden crate served as a nightstand. A coffee mug sat atop it. “Nice place,” Elliot said.