by Bob Avey
A short time later, Elliot looked in the mirror, but the refection that stared back wasn’t right, though it smiled when he smiled and mimicked his every move. The reflection’s hair was black, not sandy, and he wore blue denim jeans, sunglasses, and a black leather jacket, clothes Elliot would never have worn. And he already had a few days growth of beard. It was a good disguise.
Elliot drove downtown to Club Gemini, and when he parked and climbed out of the car, a crowd of people milling around the parking lot scurried away, frightened by his sudden arrival. Before he got to the door of the club he took his hand away from the grip of the Glock, telling himself to take it easy, practice some self-restraint. He went inside, glancing at a few familiar faces in the crowd as he made his way to Metcalf’s office. Once again, Metcalf came out before Elliot got there, and going against his own warnings, Elliot immediately grabbed him, shoving him against the wall.
The man with the English accent saw what was happening and came rushing over. “Take it easy, mate. There’s no need for that.”
Rage ran through Elliot like a sickness. Holding Metcalf with one hand, he used the other to stiff arm the Englishman, stopping him in his tracks. He heard the words, “Not now, pretty boy. I’m not in the mood,” escape his lips. The Englishman quietly backed away. Elliot turned his attention back to Metcalf.
“Leave me alone,” he said.
Elliot clamped his hand around Metcalf’s throat. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t like being lied to, so I just might. The word cooperation comes to mind. It would be in your best interest to embrace it. Do you understand?”
Metcalf nodded, doing his best to stop the noises from gurgling out of his throat. Elliot reminded himself to use restraint, but Metcalf wasn’t making it easy. He couldn’t stop trembling. It was like holding a frightened puppy. Elliot breathed hard, like an animal ready to pounce. “I’m going to ask you again. The man in the pictures I showed you. You know him, don’t you?”
Metcalf didn’t want to answer, but when his eyes locked onto Elliot’s he nodded.
“I need a name,” Elliot said.
Metcalf shook his head. “Please, he’ll kill me.”
Elliot squeezed harder.
“Ralph,” he said. “He calls himself Ralph.”
“Ralph who?”
He tried to shrug. “That’s all I know. I swear.”
Elliot fought to regain his composure. “Why are you so afraid of him?”
He shook his head.
Again Elliot applied pressure to his throat. “Why?”
“He used to hang around here, but not anymore. He’s bad news, freaking crazy.”
“I need his full name.”
Metcalf closed his eyes, and when he reopened them they showed even more fear that before. “That’s all I know. But there is something different about him. James Dean. He dresses and acts like James Dean.”
At that moment, Elliot’s anger crystallized and drained, like sand from a busted hourglass. The dancer at the gentlemen’s club where Michelle Baker worked had said the same thing. She’d said someone unusual had been there the night before Michelle disappeared. She said he looked just like James Dean. “Do you know where I can find him?”
Metcalf straightened his clothes. “Try the cemetery. He’s a freaking spook if I ever saw one.”
34
It was after 9:00 p.m. when Elliot left Metcalf’s club, but he had a few stops to make before calling it a night. He’d convinced one of the clerks at Hillcrest to do a records search, and she’d come up the name and address of the nurse on duty the night Cynthia Kincaid had come in to give birth. He already had the nurse’s name from going through the logs, but he wanted to be sure, and the address and phone number were helpful. As he dialed the number, he headed in the direction of the nurse’s home. He arrived there with his luck still holding out. Christina Martin answered on the third ring. Elliot explained what he wanted and she agreed. A few minutes later, he was sitting in her living room.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Ms. Martin, and at this time of night.”
“Not a problem,” she said. “I wasn’t doing anything anyway, except for watching television. What’s this all about?”
“Just tying up a few loose ends,” Elliot said. He took a sip of the coffee she’d given him then sat it down. “You were on duty the night Cynthia Kincaid came to the hospital and gave birth to her daughter, Rachael?”
“Yes, sir. I was there all right.”
Elliot got his notepad and flipped to the correct page. “You made an entry in your log, something about not trusting Mrs. Kincaid’s statements?”
“Yes I did. You see, she didn’t give birth at Hillcrest.”
“Where did the birth occur?”
Christina Martin sat down. She’d been standing until then. “It seems she waited a little too long—not convinced it was really happening was how she put it—before she decided she’d better get herself to the hospital. Her baby was born on the way, before she got there. At least that was her story.”
Elliot jotted down the information. “What was it, exactly, that made you doubt what she said?”
Christina Martin sipped her coffee then said, “I worked in the maternity ward, Detective, and had for ten years at the time. Back then, mothers and their babies were my life. I think I would’ve known a newborn when I saw one.”
Elliot leaned forward, his attention piqued by Ms. Martin’s last statement. “So what are you trying to say?”
“That baby wasn’t born on the way to the hospital that night. She was at least twenty-four hours old, probably more than that, if the truth be known. Anyway, I knew something wasn’t right about the whole thing. That’s why I logged it in that way. You know how it is with folks filing lawsuits at the drop of a hat. I wanted it on record that I didn’t think the mother was telling the whole truth.”
“Did anything ever come of it?”
She shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of. But I didn’t stop there. I notified the Department of Human Services, too.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, something about the whole thing just didn’t feel right. Now that I think about it, maybe it was the look on Cynthia Kincaid’s face that got me going. She looked scared, like she wanted to cry out for help but was afraid to. I guess I was worried what she might do, in case she was suffering from postpartum depression, or God knows what else.”
“So your concern was for the child’s safety?”
“I was worried about both of them, the mother and the daughter.”
Elliot nodded. “I must say I’m impressed with your memory. It seems to be quite good.”
“Why do you say that?”
“More than twenty years have passed since the incident, yet you recall it as if it were yesterday.”
She laughed. “Well, I wish I could take credit for that, but I can’t. I have a friend who still works at the hospital. She called me right after you came in, told me you were asking around about it. Of course that jogged my memory.” She paused then continued, “I did worry about it for a long time, though, wondering if I should have pursued the matter further. Is that why you’re here? Did something go wrong? Did something happen?”
Elliot thought about the empty room in Cynthia Kincaid’s house where it looked as if someone had been locked away. Images of the suggestive photos he’d seen of young Rachael also ran through his head. The old photographs more than hinted at a history of sexual abuse. He could have said, Yeah, Ms. Martin, your intuitions weren’t screaming at you for nothing the night when Cynthia Kincaid and her new baby came to the hospital, but he didn’t. The way he saw it, Christina Martin had already beaten herself up enough over it through the years. She didn’t need any additional guilt hanging over her. What he said was, “Just tying up a few loose ends, Ms. Martin. You’ve been most helpful.”
Elliot walked out of Christina Martin’s house wondering about Rachael Kincaid.
He’d suspected all along that Lagayle Zimmerman was the key because she was different, didn’t fit the profile. And Rachael…well, she knew a lot more about Lagayle than she was saying. That much he was sure of as well.
When Elliot pulled into the parking lot at Casey’s, he saw a black and white patrol car driving through. He tried to act casual, turning into the first empty space he came to, but the squad car didn’t leave as it should have. Instead the driver wheeled the vehicle around and came back, heading in Elliot’s direction. Elliot didn’t know whether to stay put or get out and walk toward the building as if the cop car being there meant nothing to him. He decided on the latter, waving a friendly hello as the squad car drew near, the driver having chosen to cruise up the very lane in which he’d parked. Elliot kept walking, but as the black and white passed by, the officer’s face seemed as big as a billboard and he was staring right at Elliot, flashing a grin that said, we gotcha now, boy. But the car didn’t stop, it just kept on rolling, finally leaving the lot altogether. The disguise was working.
When Elliot walked in, Casey glanced up. “What the hell’s going on, Elliot? Squad cars have been patrolling the parking lot.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
Casey sat a beer in front of Elliot. “That’s not the whole of it. A Captain Dombrowski called, wanting to know if I’d seen you or if you had contacted me. They’re obviously looking for you.”
Elliot sipped the cold beer. “What did you tell Dombrowski?”
Casey looked hurt by that. “If I’d told him anything other than a lie, then somebody would be here, wouldn’t they?”
“Sorry. It just seemed like a question that needed asking.”
“What the hell’s going on, Elliot?”
“I’m in a jam, Casey. I’ll get it straightened out, though.”
“What are you going to do?”
Elliot didn’t want to say he didn’t know because that wasn’t completely true, and even though he wasn’t sure, he didn’t want to sound that way. “I just need a little more time,” he said.
Casey leaned forward. “Give it to me straight, son. Have you done something you shouldn’t have?”
They stared at each other for a moment, during which Elliot thought he saw a bead of sweat trickle down Casey’s forehead. “It’s all a big mix-up, Casey. I need to get some rest. Is it okay if I sleep on the sofa in your office?”
35
Elliot tried to find a comfortable spot but he couldn’t, and when he could no longer tolerate lying there, he sat up on the leather sofa and took in the darkness of Casey’s office. The liquid crystal display of the clock said it was 6:00 a.m. Casey was already there. Elliot could hear him in the bar.
Elliot took the opportunity to slip out of the office, avoiding any further discussion. Stepping outside, he walked across the parking lot until he reached the space where he’d left Sykes’s car. The morning world seemed serene and unreal, and Elliot felt even more detached from it than usual. He saw no patrol cars as he climbed into the car and drove away.
Being victims of time, the schools that Rachael Kincaid would have attended—Longfellow, Horace Mann, and Central High—were either gone or being used for something other than their original function. Elliot wondered if any of the students who’d roamed the halls of those educational palaces ever dreamed that their school would end up a hospital for Native Americans, a medium security correctional facility, or the administrative offices for a utility company. Somehow he didn’t think so. Anyway, he figured he could get the information he needed at the district administration office.
The lady behind the desk said her name was Sandra Lee. It fit her. She was attractive, not in a flirty or ostentatious way, but rather in a wholesome, motherly way.
She smiled. “Now, young man,” —She called him that even though Elliot had identified himself as a police detective— “What can I do for you?”
“I need some information,” Elliot said, “on Rachael Hannah Kincaid. I’d like to know if she got her education in Tulsa, and which schools she attended. She would have started around 1983, and my guess is she would have attended Longfellow. I’m looking for confirmation, as well as anything out of the ordinary…not that there would be, but just in case.”
“I see. Well, make yourself comfortable. This could take awhile.”
Elliot thanked Ms. Lee then asked her where he might find a cup of coffee. She gave him directions to the break room, and when he got back she was sitting at her desk, smiling, with her hands folded together.
“Any luck?” Elliot asked.
She nodded. “You were right on both accounts, about the date and the school.”
Elliot thought about Ms. Lee’s answer then asked, “Did she continue on through middle and high school?”
She smiled. “I wasn’t always in administration, Mr. Elliot. I used to teach. I would’ve been pleased to have you as a student. You’re perceptive, and that’s a rare quality in people these days. Rachael attended school through the fifth grade. However, she didn’t continue after that. Her mother decided that home schooling would be better and pulled her out.” She shook her head. “I hate to see that. I realize parents usually have good intentions, but they can’t begin to give their children the education we can. They’re doing them a huge disservice.”
Elliot stood, extending his hand for Ms. Lee to shake. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful.”
With a much clearer picture of what he had to do, Elliot drove back to Casey’s place. Along the way, he called Nick’s garage. He didn’t know if he expected anyone to answer, but someone did. Whoever it was didn’t speak, but Elliot could hear breathing. “Nick,” he said, “what’s going on?”
The breather didn’t answer.
“Why did you leave without saying anything? That makes twice you’ve done that. Come on, buddy; talk to me.”
The breathing continued for a few seconds, but no words came over the phone, only a clicking sound as the person on the other end disconnected.
Elliot pulled into the parking lot at Casey’s. He realized he was ignoring the voice inside his head that told him he should be more careful. He could only guess how long his internal alarm had been going off, but as he entered the building it began to get through. The hair on the back of his neck felt like cactus needles, and he realized his more cautious nature had been lulled to sleep by the combined forces of raw emotions and exhaustion.
Elliot slowed to a casual walk as he surveyed the area. Near the bar he saw Detective Cunningham and someone who looked like Mendez at a pool table. Elliot pleaded with his survival instinct to accept his apology for ignorance and come forward and tell him what to do next, but all it would say was, I told you so. Elliot figured tipping his hand now, letting them know he was aware of their presence, would only make matters worse and drastically cut any time he may have for evasive maneuvers. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw no other officers waiting outside of the front door. They had not staked out the building. It was just the two detectives.
When the heavyset man at the pool table turned around and started toward him—not a direct approach, but a casual slanted cantor—Elliot saw that it was indeed Detective Mendez.
Mendez, though, had a look of bewilderment on his face. He wasn’t sure if it was Elliot or not: The disguise. Elliot kept walking. The fact that they had him was obvious, rendering any resisting efforts as tantamount to lunacy, though admittedly he leaned that way at times.
Mendez called after him, “Excuse me, sir. I need to ask you some questions.”
The moment was a lifetime, those few seconds while Elliot saw the events of the murders flash before his eyes. He knew there was a killer out there and that he could not let his arrest put a grinding stop to the wheels of justice, but he also thought of Carmen and his son Wayne going on with their lives without knowing how Elliot truly felt about them. Suddenly, he knew he could not let that happen. He would get free somehow and go to Carmen, tell her he loved her more than life
, and he was sorry for the suffering he had put her through. After that, fate could take its course. It was then that Elliot’s cell phone rang. He started not to answer, but then thought better of it. He should act natural: business as usual. He waved, just a minute, to Mendez then pulled the phone, “Yeah?”
“Hey, Mister, is that you?”
“Who is this?” Elliot asked. But the small, frightened voice sounded familiar. “Wayne?”
“Ma-mom said I should call… if something happened.”
“What’s up, buddy?”
“I don’t know. Someone’s at the house. I gotta go.”
The phone went dead. Elliot moved quickly, slamming Mendez into the wall, the impact dazing him into a momentary state of incoherence. Elliot darted up the back stairs.
As anticipated, Mendez recovered quickly and Elliot could hear him coming up the stairs behind him. Elliot turned and kicked the oncoming detective in the face. The action worked well, knocking Mendez down the stairs. In almost the same fluid motion, Elliot spun around and unlocked the door to the apartment. He ran across the floor and dove through the glass of the window, rolling onto the fire escape.
When Elliot dropped to the ground, Cunningham was coming around the corner of the building. “Give it up, Elliot. If you’re innocent, it’ll all work out. Come on, pal.”
Mendez was coming down the fire escape. Elliot raised his hands as if surrendering. Cunningham smiled and holstered his weapon. But when he approached Elliot to retrieve his weapon, Elliot grabbed him and slung him into Mendez. Then Elliot turned and ran, jumping into Sykes’s car when he reached the vehicle. He jammed the key into the ignition and fired the car to life, tearing out of the parking lot in a full tilt run.
36
Elliot knew he wouldn’t get far in an identified car. Options flew through his head like distorted images in a carnival house of mirrors. He drove down Cincinnati Avenue until he reached the expressway then headed east. It was the route they would expect him to take, but he sped onto the highway nonetheless, flooring the Monte Carlo. Seconds later, a black and white unit heading west took the next exit, its lights flashing. The driver had caught sight of Elliot’s fast moving vehicle. Another one appeared in his rearview mirror, some distance behind. Desperation and regret flowed through Elliot’s veins like a torrent, and with no choices other than to keep running he mashed the accelerator pedal to the floor, burying the speedometer needle to the right.