Dies Irae

by B. V. Lawson

  Sarg always had to walk faster than Drayco to keep up, but this time he beat him by two seconds. “You work here, Elvis?”

  Elvis Loomis straightened up so fast, he dropped the trimmer in mid-buzz. Cursing, he bent over and picked it up. “My other gig laid me off. Said it was budget cuts. You and me know the truth. They think I’m a killer. Who knows? Maybe I am. Don’t know what I’m doing or where I am half the time.”

  Sarg pressed him, “Do you know Shannon Krugh? She’s a friend of Happy’s and works in this bowling alley.”

  “I know her through Happy, sure. She put in a good word for me. S’how I got this here job. Don’t pay a lot.”

  “When did you get laid off?”

  “Two days ago. Right after you showed up at Campus Security. Coinkydink? Don’t think so. Thanks for that, by the way.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it when we saw you this morning, Mr. Loomis?”

  “None of your damn business. Want to know if my navel’s pierced, too? All the same importance, ain’t it? Meaning shit.”

  Drayco suspected it had more to do with how high Elvis was. Sarg seemed to agree, asking, “Why don’t you tell us about those recreational pharmaceuticals that keep you from knowing where you are half the time. Bought any Rohypnol lately, sir?”

  “Ro hip what?”

  Drayco said, “Roofies.”

  Elvis dropped the weed trimmer again and cursed some more. “Why didn’t you say so? That stuff ain’t worth it. Hell, if I want to feel drunk, I’ll buy beer. Much cheaper. And if I want the runs, I’ll get me some prune juice.”

  “What about giving roofies to someone else, say Happy, Shannon or Cailan?”

  “I may not be a college boy, but I got brains to keep my yap shut. You wouldn’t believe me if I said yay or nay. So why bother?”

  Elvis tugged on the weed trimmer’s starter cord and winked at them over the deafening buzz of the motor, as he attacked a clump of sad-looking turf. Elvis wasn’t using any ear protection. If he kept that up, it wouldn’t be long before he’d go deaf from that noise, close to 100 dB. So long to his beloved opera. Drayco was sorry he no longer kept disposable earplugs in his car to give to him.

  They hurried into the car to close the doors and shut out the buzzing. Now that they could hear each other, Sarg said, “Shannon’s a lane mechanic? There are days I feel like a fossil.”

  “A cash-starved lane mechanic.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Might make her more vulnerable to bribes or selling drugs. We need to get the name of her doctor. She may have more than one, getting extra prescription meds she sells to students. Seroquel, or Suzie-Q, is a bipolar drug popular with cocaine and meth addicts. Fights the comedown.”

  “I can search Virginia’s PDMP for controlled substance abuse.”

  “Last time I checked, Seroquel wasn’t on the list.”

  “And why, pray tell, did you check that? Something I should know?”

  “A case I consulted on.”

  “Is NoDoz on there?”

  Drayco laughed, as he watched several sparrows circling around one of the few large trees on the street. He said, “If NoDoz and caffeine show up on that list, I’ll be one of the first arrests.”

  19

  Drayco was a workaholic to the core, a trait that had chased off a few lady friends. But for once, he was grateful to have the afternoon off, thanks to Sarg’s court case. He wasn’t as grateful for Sarg’s news that Onweller wanted to meet with both of them at Quantico tomorrow morning.

  Why was it so hard to work with Sarg again? Those early days seemed a long time ago, when they paired up after Drayco’s former partner died in an accident and Sarg’s retired. Then later applying for and being accepted into the BAU together.

  Getting in had been Sarg’s career-long goal. When Drayco made it in after only four years as an agent, Sarg defended his qualifications to those who’d grumbled about the influence of Drayco’s father. Not that it mattered. He’d worked hard, paid his dues. And words weren’t sticks or stones. Make that redwoods or boulders.

  He got up to make a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich, thought better of it, and grabbed the Manhattan Special he’d set beside the pile of mail he hadn’t bothered opening. Especially the one on top, the rent overdue for the office he kept downtown. The few high-profile clients, the law enforcement agencies he’d consulted for, paid reasonably well. But those recent Cape Unity cases were pro bono, and work was unpredictable.

  He could just see giving up the office and meeting potential clients at the local coffee shop. Yes, Mr. Drayco, my son was murdered, the police haven’t found a motive, I need your help, and no, I don’t want any whip on my caramel macchiato.

  He grabbed the remote to turn on the TV and flipped through channels, stopping on a local newscast that made him sit up straight. Andrew Gilbow was being interviewed about the “cold case” of the poor murdered Parkhurst student, who the reporter had learned was Gilbow’s goddaughter. Drayco turned up the volume.

  “It’s not often I’m asked to offer my forensic psychology services on something so personal. When the FBI asked me to help, I was happy to do whatever I can.”

  Yeah, right. Not the FBI as a whole had asked, just Gilbow’s pal, Onweller.

  The reporter asked if they had new leads and were close to solving the case.

  “I’m sure the detectives are … trying their best. The success rate with such cases is low. Cailan was a special girl. She deserves justice.” Either Gilbow was a good actor or genuinely upset because Drayco hadn’t heard his voice break before. On the other hand, he implied Sarg, Drayco, and the MPD were no better than Keystone Cops. Typical.

  The story cut to the reporter interviewing Parkhurst President George Thackeray, who said, “We feel this was an isolated incident. The other members of our student body have nothing to worry about,” then tilted his head at an empathetic angle to add, “Our hearts go out to this unfortunate student and her loved ones.”

  Drayco turned the TV off when the news moved on to another story and stretched out on the sofa, his legs propped on the table. Despite the NoDoz, he felt the fog of sleep roll in and surrendered to it.

  It didn’t take long this time for the nightmares to kick in. The colors and shapes of the various sounds in the room served as a backdrop for the action in front of him he was too paralyzed to stop. Sarg and Drayco and the young MPD officer were back in the abandoned building. The officer’s informant thought he’d seen the kidnapped woman here, but not recently. It was a lead, possible clues, nothing more, so they split up.

  But the warehouse wasn’t empty. The late afternoon light through the broken windows was dim, but Sarg had ignored a room as he rushed past. A mistake that proved to be deadly. A dark shape emerged from that room and then everything happened at lightning speed.

  In the wake of the firestorm, the officer—the son of a city councilman—lay dead, Sarg shot, and the suspect severely wounded by Drayco. He could have shot to kill. One bullet right through the forehead, something he’d nailed many times on the range. Some grumbled he should have. But then the suspect couldn’t tell them where the kidnapped woman was being held before he died.

  In the background, a noise grew more insistent by each second. He focused on one color in his mind and used that to pull himself out of the paralysis. Someone was knocking on the door. He slapped his face several times, and feeling mostly awake, he headed to the front. There on the step stood Nelia Tyler.

  “A woman I met at the conference offered to drop me off.” She hastened to add, “So I could pick up that bag with the souvenirs.”

  “Is she waiting for you outside?”

  “I told her to pick me up on her way back.”

  Drayco pointed to a table near the door. “There’s your bag.”

  “So it is. Guess I should have told Martha to wait.”

  Nelia stood in place for a moment, then walked over to take a peek inside the bag. “Looks like everything is still th
ere.”

  “Cat burglars don’t find any challenge in pilfering goods already in our possession.”

  “Lucky for me you don’t have a snow-globe fetish.”

  They looked at each other, Drayco not recovered from his nightmare enough to pretend away his discomfort, Nelia looking equally uncertain. Her eyes widened when she looked at the coat rack that sported a red negligee hanging on a peg. Drayco grabbed it and folded it up in his pocket. Darcie had left it behind, and he’d hung it up there last night as a reminder to return it next time.

  Nelia’s cheeks were the same color as the negligee. Drayco apologized, “Sorry about that.”

  She smiled slightly. “Looks like your house is Grand Central Station when it comes to items left behind by women.”

  Drayco rubbed his neck. “My life is a lot more boring than you think.”

  “I ran into Darcie Squier in Cape Unity last week. She was quick to mention you and she were seeing each other.”

  “Seeing? That sounds like a couple of blind people who just got corneal transplants.”

  She laughed. “I figured she might be embellishing things a bit.”

  Drayco waved her inside. “Come on in. I can give you the ten-cent tour.”

  She smiled. “As long as it takes less than an hour.”

  He decided not to take her upstairs where the bedrooms were, which meant the ten-cent tour only took five minutes. She put her hands on her hips and nodded with approval. “Low maintenance, no clutter. My kind of decorating. The couch could use a few pillows.”

  He stifled a grin as Sarg’s words echoed back to him, What is it with women and pillows?, then led Nelia to the front corner of his home, saving the best for last. “And this is my pride and joy.” He put a hand on the piano, centered in a room intended for a den, with rough stone walls and bookshelves on either side of a small fireplace.

  “It’s a beauty, all right.” She scanned his face. “But since you seem tired, I’ll take a rain check on a private recital.”

  He got a beer and handed it to her as she slid onto the sofa. To make room for her drink, he picked up the mail from the table and carried it to the kitchen counter. One letter that wasn’t a bill stood out, and he brought it with him. A white nine-by-twelve envelope.

  “Your winning lottery notice?” Nelia tipped back the beer as he admired how she was one of those rare women who could chug a beer and still look like she’d walked out of charm school.

  “Official documents don’t usually come without a return address.” He slit it open and angled it so the standard-sized sheet of printer paper inside slid out on its own. Then he picked up the edges of the paper between his fingernails to avoid obscuring the sender’s prints. If this were like the other notes, there wouldn’t be any.

  Holding it up to the light, he looked for watermarks. As with Cailan’s note, it was the type of mass-produced printer paper found over the country. If they had a suspect, they could match the paper to his printer. Color printers left secret embedded serial number and manufacturing codes. And black-and-white printers left unique patterns caused by the rotating drum in the toner cartridge, like a fingerprint. The only printer he’d seen at the homes of any of their suspects was Gary’s.

  His expression must have alarmed her, for she hopped up to get a good look at the letter. “A music score? Isn’t that the type of letter your murder victim received?”

  Drayco retrieved his copy of Cailan’s letter and compared the two. They were indeed similar, with the same software-generated music staves containing a simple harmonized melody. As with Cailan’s music puzzle, no key or time signature. He placed the letter on the table, got the Schumann book he’d used for Cailan’s letter and studied the music wheel.

  “Is there an embedded code with this one, too?”

  “I can make a phrase using the cipher-wheel. I’m just not sure it’s what the sender intended. It spells out CODA OR DA CAPO.”

  “Coda means the end of something, doesn’t it?”

  “It signals the end of a movement or an entire piece. Da capo literally means ‘from the head,’ but in music it’s an instruction to repeat the previous section. It’s usually abbreviated D.C.”

  “Cailan was sent letters before she was murdered. Do you think … would someone be targeting you? I’d hate to see you get shot like on your first trip to Cape Unity.” Her voice was light, teasing. She placed a hand on his arm, and he wasn’t sure she was aware she was doing it.

  He passed the paper over so she could get a better look. “I’m more concerned it means someone else is in danger. Sarg’s daughter, for instance, or another of Cailan’s friends. ‘Da capo’ sounds like someone’s planning a repeat performance.”

  “You think they sent this to you instead of the Park Police or MPD because of your background?”

  “I don’t know. Regardless of who sent it, I’d say the message is ‘catch me if you can.’”

  Nelia pointed to a curious drawing at the bottom of the paper. “What does that mean?”

  The small figure depicted a man sitting cross-legged wearing antlers on his head and holding something circle-shaped in one hand. “I don’t know. It wasn’t on Cailan’s note.”

  “Your life may be boring, but your cases aren’t.” Nelia grinned, adding, “When I leave the big city tomorrow, guess I’ll have to content myself with the Eastern Shore’s exciting world of convenience store thefts and public drunkenness.”

  “You’re leaving so soon?” He’d hoped they might have more time. To catch up.

  “The Sheriff’s budget could only afford part of the conference.” She didn’t explain, but Drayco knew the county board kept cutting the Sheriff Department’s funds. They might never get back the deputy position that got axed two years ago.

  Nelia’s cellphone chirped, and she pulled it out of her pocket to read the text. “My ride is outside.” Once more she stood by the front door, the picture of indecision until she stuck out her hand.

  He shook it, like one professional to another and tried not to hold on too long. Being around Nelia was like sitting on a piano bench with his three-year-old legs swinging over the edge, as he picked out “Traffic Cop” on the keyboard.

  She was smiling as she made for the door. Then she stopped dead, whirled around and grabbed her souvenir bag. “Almost forgot what I came for,” and waved as she let herself out.

  Drayco closed his eyes for a moment. His timing had never been good when it came to long-term relationships with women. Why should this be any different? She was off limits with a very sick husband and a loyalty streak a mile wide.

  He really should call Sarg and let him know about the note. But he’d promised to give Cailan’s laptop computer to Sarg in the morning, and this might be his last chance.

  After spending an hour on the laptop, he guessed Cailan must have received the computer shortly before her death. At first, he didn’t find signs of her presence. Then he found a folder Shannon must have overlooked. It was labeled “CJ.” It included websites bookmarked for pepper spray, self-defense tips, how to handle stalkers, the occult, and a fortune-telling site.

  Drayco clicked on the occult site. It was a page on voodoo, a topic she likely would have researched, thanks to those dolls. He also looked at the fortune-telling site, which led to saved results from a quiz. He got a lump in his throat when he read Cailan’s results, “Something wonderful waits for you right around the corner.”

  The Great God of the Internet coupled with pseudoscience crap had struck again. With so many people lulled into believing everything they found on the Web, he expected computer shrines to pop up in homes soon. Worship the new Oracle of Dell-phi.

  Then he came across a bookmarked page on abortion clinics. Ah, Cailan. Was Gary the father? Liam? Or some other man whose identity she’d tried to hide like she had with Liam?

  Maybe young people had similar problems decades ago. But instant access to all this info—recipes for drug cocktails, sites selling pepper spray, rape statis
tics, conspiracy theories—was making them less happy and more paranoid. It was hard to tell if increasing rates of teenage depression were cause or effect.

  There were no signs Gary used the computer, and the only trace of Shannon was a research paper for a philosophy class. He made a copy of the paper on a memory card.

  Drayco’s finger hovered over the power switch, briefly harboring the idea of researching excuses to get out of Gilbow’s party tomorrow night. He wasn’t sure which he least looked forward to—the party or the meeting with Onweller. Perhaps Sarg could find a reason to enjoy himself at Gilbow’s bash if they served Rumaki or calamari tapas. Even that didn’t appeal to Drayco.

  Too bad Nelia couldn’t have stayed longer. Or gone to the party. Did she still have that taxiway-blue dress and high heels that set off those shapely legs usually hidden under deputy-brown slacks? Disgusted with himself, he flipped the power switch to “off.”

  20

  Wednesday, 22 October

  Drayco was early to his morning appointment with Onweller, but there were no signs of Sarg. Knowing how Onweller valued punctuality, Drayco headed on in. He’d just taken his seat when Sarg opened the door and explained his delay with one word, “Traffic,” then laid a report on Onweller’s desk and sank in the chair next to Drayco.

  “All right then,” Onweller was suddenly all business. “What’s this new music puzzle that came to you, Drayco?” Upon being handed the letter, he adjusted his glasses on his nose and took a hard look. “You compared it to the other one?”

  “Very similar, down to the paper, printer, evenness and darkness of the toner.” Drayco explained what he thought it meant, both translated and musically.

  “Adds a new wrinkle to the proceedings. I’d decided we wouldn’t need your services any longer since you figured out the first code.”

  Sarg moved around in his seat. “That would be premature. We’re continuing to get new leads.”

  Onweller picked up the report Sarg had placed on the desk and flipped through it, reading Sarg’s latest bulleted list. “Almost all of the suspects here, Shannon Krugh, Gary Zabowski, Liam Futino, Elvis Loomis, fit the love-gone-wrong scenario. You have an outlier motive, Elvis Loomis and religion?”