Dies Irae

by B. V. Lawson

  She quickly added, “I was happy for Troy to get away from here. His parents were junkies, you see. He was raised by a maternal aunt when his mother was put into an institution. And his daddy just couldn’t stay out of jail.”

  Gilbow stroked his chin, “That first-hand fear of not having an anchor made Troy turn to religion as a guiding force.” He peered around Drayco to look at Shannon’s mother. “That’s what he teaches at Parkhurst.”

  “Sounds like he turned his life around. Always wondered what happened to him. And you say it was his niece, the other girl, who was killed?”

  “Cailan and Shannon knew each other.” Drayco replied, pausing as Paul Krugh did indeed return, with a tray of glasses filled with sweet iced tea he handed out. “They were rivals for the same boy.”

  “No boy is worth that,” she said, her lips in a thin tight line.

  “Mrs. Krugh, were you aware of religious cults Shannon hooked up with? She dabbled in voodoo.”

  It was Paul Krugh who answered Drayco’s question. “That’s the demon I was telling you about. Voodoo, witchcraft, bipolar, whatever you wanta call it.”

  Mrs. Krugh shook her head. “She was a good child. The voice of an angel. We were beyond the moon when she got that scholarship. Couldn’t have afforded college for her, otherways. But I don’t think she was into any cults or nothing like that.”

  Gilbow took a loud slurp of his tea and smacked his lips. “Studies on college students and religion show it’s a substitute attachment figure. Alternate religions, alternate truths.”

  “So you think my daughter was involved in some cult, Mr. Gilbow?”

  Gilbow shrugged. “It’s possible. Her bipolar demon,” Gilbow nodded toward Paul Krugh, “Combined with her search for meaning might have led her to such.”

  Mrs. Krugh scooted forward so her heels were flat on the floor made of the Delmarva’s common yellow pine. “Whatever it was, it killed her, all the same. I don’t suppose … ”

  She looked at Drayco. “I don’t suppose they’ll be releasing her personal things soon? It’d make me feel she’s come home to stay.”

  Drayco thought of the nude photos and the strip club matches, but didn’t mention them. In fact, he was scheming a way to have them “accidentally” disappear before Shannon’s effects were returned. He said, “Hopefully, within a few weeks,” and Mrs. Krugh smiled her thanks.

  Drayco placed his own now-empty tea glass on the tray. “Mrs. Krugh, I appreciate how difficult this is, but I just have one more question. Did Shannon mention to you that she had synesthesia? It’s where someone experiences numbers, words or sounds as colors or textures, kind of a fruit bowl of senses you eat from all at once.”

  Mrs. Krugh’s jaw dropped open. “Sin-ess … well, whatever you called it, near as I recollect, she never mentioned it. Why do you ask?”

  “One of Dr. Gilbow’s students is working on a project involving people with synesthesia, and Shannon was part of it. It appears she wasn’t a synesthete, only pretended to be.”

  “Now whatever would possess her to do that?”

  “Why indeed,” Gilbow scowled. “It could have ruined everything. For my student, Reed Upperman. His dissertation is in jeopardy because of it.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. I have no idea why she’d make up such a thing. Never heard tell of it before, myself.”

  “Well,” Drayco said with a slight smile. “You’ve both been very kind,” he stood up, hoping Gilbow got the hint. Nelia, standing silently in a corner by the door, leaped into action to thank the Krughs and offer her condolences.

  Gilbow managed a curt wave to the Krughs, and once outside, didn’t waste any time with his comments. “So Troy and Beatrice Krugh were in a relationship. Did you notice she said she was pregnant when she got married? If it wasn’t Paul Krugh’s, could mean Troy Jaffray was Shannon’s biological father.”

  Drayco reluctantly agreed. “That doesn’t mean he knew, even if true. Or has anything to do with the deaths. Unless you think your good friend Troy Jaffray believed it and killed both his niece and his daughter?”

  “If he thought he’d find redemption or curry favor with God through sacrifice, perhaps. You said we were dealing with a ritualistic serial killer. One common motivation is revenge.”

  “Why revenge?”

  “For his childhood. For his absent, drug-abusing parents. He transposes the girls as alter egos for himself. Then kills them to hurt ‘his’ parents.”

  “And the synesthesia angle?”

  Gilbow stroked his chin. “I’m not sure on that point. Perhaps he sees it as deviant behavior. Or one of his parents had synesthesia. Did you or your partner, Agent Sargosian, ask him?”

  Drayco had to admit they hadn’t. But it was the same convoluted excuse a child comes up with for stealing from the cookie jar. Gilbow might be a renowned TV psychologist, but this explanation didn’t gel with what Drayco had seen of Troy Jaffray.

  That thought, and Gilbow’s unrelenting arrogance, made Drayco a little murderous himself at that moment. He had Nelia drop Gilbow off alone at the Seafood Hut. Drayco knew the owners, both of them Iraq war veterans. It would serve Gilbow right if they cut him down to a size no larger than their fried oysters. Humility on the half-shell.

  * * *

  Leaving Gilbow behind wasn’t the only reason Drayco’s outlook was improving. A trip to the Prince of Wales County Sheriff’s Office reminded him of the other occasions he’d spent time with Deputy Tyler and Sheriff Sailor—a man he’d come to respect as much as Sarg.

  His disappointment at finding Sailor unavailable, due to his court case, was tempered by seeing his office looked the same. Including the piranha-toothed fish mounted on the wall.

  Drayco waited next to Nelia’s cubicle while she checked a couple of databases on her computer. She’d taken off her service jacket temporarily to adjust the radio pouch on her duty belt. “Keeps slipping whenever I sit,” she explained.

  While she focused on the computer screen, Drayco had time to examine her arms exposed by her short-sleeve shirt. Arms that had greenish-purple marks from fading bruises in the faint shape of a hand. It made him think of the bruise on Alice the hooker.

  “There’s not much about any Jaffray in here, other than the family lived in Wachapreague. No arrests, no complaints.” She switched to a different database and tapped the keyboard. “Birth record for Troy Jaffray and one brother. Death records for his father and aunt.”

  Tara had said she felt sorry for Jaffray when she realized he’d lost his wife, brother, sister-in-law, and niece. Apparently, he’d lost his father, too, and an aunt—the one who’d raised him? Jaffray as Job grew apter all the time. Had this Job cracked, unlike his Biblical counterpart?

  Nelia looked up, with an apologetic smile. “Not much else without spending more time. And since this isn’t an official case on your part or mine … ”

  He rubbed his eyebrows. “I understand. Glad it gave me a chance to see your stomping grounds again.” Then he looked around, feeling a little wistful. “Guess I should rescue Gilbow and try to beat the storms.”

  They had no sooner returned to the car when Drayco’s cellphone rang.

  It was Sarg. “The shit hit the turbofan, junior. Gilbow must have told Onweller about your trip. He wasn’t spitting kittens, they were saber-toothed tigers. I am to tell you in no uncertain terms if you continue to persist with your investigations, he’ll follow through on his threat to have you arrested. So consider yourself duly warned.”

  “Duly noted,” Drayco replied. “Sorry to put you in the middle. Got any good news?”

  “On the murder front, no. On the arson front, no. And don’t get me started about having to deal with Senator Bankton. The man doesn’t want us questioning his wife though she’s listed as half-owner of those warehouses. If Onweller would pull his face outta his ass, he’d let you help, since you have an ‘in’ with Mrs. B.”

  “Humor me, Sarg. The date of that very first warehouse fire was July
twenty-third, right? And then the second followed on August seventeenth, the third on October sixth, and the fourth on October fifteenth.”

  Drayco heard Sarg flipping some papers. “As usual, your memory is correct. Why the interest in those dates?”

  “Senator Bankton gave money to the conducting institute on July nineteenth, Cailan was murdered August thirteenth and Shannon on October eleventh.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you the last two might be connected to the murders, if that’s where they took place. Why would our arsonist wait a few days between the murders and arsons? And what of that third warehouse fire? Please don’t tell me smarmy senator is our killer. Would make my life hell.”

  “Don’t buy a pitchfork yet. And I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’m not supposed to talk to you anymore. Direct orders.”

  “Just keep me posted.”

  “You bet,” Sarg said cheerfully.

  After Drayco hung up, he filled Nelia in on Onweller’s threat, to which she replied, “I didn’t hear any of that. Officially. La la la la.”

  When Drayco didn’t return her smile, she added, “What’s wrong?”

  “How did you get those bruises on your arm?”

  “Oh, you know, stuff happens.”

  “One of them has finger marks. Did Tim do that?”

  She gripped the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. “It’s the MS. Makes him frustrated, angry. He has to vent now and then.”

  “By attacking you?”

  “It’s nothing, Drayco. I understand how he feels. I’d want to hit something, too, if I had to deal with what he’s going through.”

  “You wouldn’t use someone else for a punching bag. Ever. So when did this happen?”

  “After that phone call he made to you.”

  When Drayco continued staring at her without saying anything, her words came out in a rush. “He had a bad day and was in a mood to accuse anybody and everybody. And he can’t control his hands that well anymore … ”

  “He accused you of infidelity.”

  She started the engine of the patrol car. “Of being in love with another man, of having an affair because Tim is half the man he used to be. Crazy talk, that’s all.”

  Drayco felt like grabbing the controls and driving up to Salisbury to give Timothy Tyler matching bruises, if not worse. “You don’t have to put up with that just because he’s got MS. Much as I hate to bring up Gilbow, he’s written a book or two on battered women maybe you should read.”

  Nelia threw the car in reverse and backed out of the lot. “In richer and poorer, in sickness and health. I made a vow, and that vow is as important to me as the oath I took when I became a deputy. And I don’t need any lectures from a man who can’t commit to anything longer than a couple of years.”

  The tension in the car was as thick as the marsh mud surrounding the Krugh’s house, making Drayco incredibly grateful when his cellphone rang again. The feeling didn’t last long. “What? Where are you? Stay put. We’ll be right there.”

  Nelia had to raise her voice as she peeled the car out heading toward the highway. “Sarg?”

  “Gilbow. He says he’s been shot.”

  As they sped in the direction of the restaurant where they’d left Gilbow, Drayco couldn’t shake feelings of guilt. For discounting the professor’s accounts of the threatening note and being followed. For leaving him alone on the shore. The man had offered his services to help and flown with Drayco, despite his fears, which took guts.

  Gilbow hadn’t sounded too injured on the phone, but they wouldn’t know until they got there. Was this attack random, linked to Cailan and Shannon, or some other force at work? Disgruntled student? Jealous colleague? Secret affair?

  He glanced at Nelia, whose demeanor seamlessly switched into fully focused cop mode, barking details to the radio dispatcher. With her strength and bulldoggedness, she would have made a damn fine attorney.

  The rest of the ride was like a continuous, empty sentence, punctuated only by the barbed, magenta popsicle sticks of the siren.

  42

  It was dark when Drayco returned to his townhome cave, but sleep was the farthest thing from his mind. He recounted the details of Gilbow’s attack, but they made less sense the more he replayed them in his mind. Gilbow went outside the restaurant, someone in a passing car took a shot at him. Seemingly unprovoked.

  The professor refused to go to the hospital since he hated doctors as much as flying. Fortunately, the bullet just nicked him, and the cut across his arm was easily covered by a trauma bandage from Nelia’s kit. After popping a couple of prescription pain meds he carried with him, he was groggy the entire flight back from the shore.

  If Gilbow’s threatening note was behind the attack, the shooter knew Gilbow was headed to the coast. He made sure he was there in advance and followed Gilbow, waiting for a chance. That was a lot of risks and variables that had to go the shooter’s way. But then, wasn’t that a carbon copy of Tara’s attack scenario?

  After spending the last two hours making phone calls, Drayco now sat staring at the information he’d jotted down. The sudden rattling from the front door’s mail slot shook him out of his reverie, and he got up to grab the mail lying on the floor. One envelope in particular caught his eye. White, nine-by-twelve.

  He carted it to the sofa, and took his usual precautions as he slit it open and pulled out a sheet of computer-generated music code. Just by looking, he knew it wasn’t a Schumann code, probably another Messiaen. He set to work. An hour and three Manhattan Specials later, he picked up the phone to call Sarg.

  “How’s gimpy Gilbow?” was the first thing Sarg said.

  “Hopefully sleeping it off. Does Onweller know yet?”

  “I decided to let him find out on his own. Gilbow couldn’t give any details?”

  “Didn’t see the driver. A silver sedan, didn’t get the plates. Very helpful.”

  “Since I assume the fair Deputy Tyler is on the case, and I doubt you’re calling about my recipe for Ceviche Verde, what’s up?”

  “Is Tara safe and sound?”

  “Last time I checked. She’s staying with us tonight and went up to her room to watch TV after supper. Like old times.” Drayco caught the wistful tinge in Sarg’s voice.

  Drayco relaxed after the news about Tara. “I got another fan letter in the mail.”

  Wistful turned to worried as Sarg asked, “What’d it say?”

  Drayco read his translation aloud, “‘TRE CORDE HAUPTSTIMME.’“

  “And that means absolutely nothing to me.”

  “Tre corde is an Italian musical term meaning three strings. Hauptstimme means main voice, or chief part. It’s used in twelve-tone music.”

  “So … three strings for the main voice? Has our note-sender turned nuttier than before?”

  “It might mean a third murder. As far as the ‘main voice’, it may be why Gilbow was attacked. I was worried it might refer to Tara.”

  “I don’t see how Tara would be the main voice. That sounds more like you, pal.”

  “Not since Onweller kicked me off the case. If anything, it would refer to him.”

  “Are you asking me to warn him? He’s already pissed at you. And within his rights to have you arrested for obstruction. Might not go far, but you’d still wind up in jail for a day or two. Until Benny Baskin bails you out.”

  Drayco sighed. “Pass it along. I’ll deal with the rest.”

  “If you ask me, and you didn’t, it’s a bad idea. Maybe you should call Baskin, Esquire, and give him a heads-up.”

  “Benny will be thrilled. But I’ll wait until I absolutely have to bother him.”

  “If you hadn’t called just now, I would have called you. Heard from the lab today. The red fibers you found at the most recent warehouse fire matched those in Cailan’s mouth. Seems the two cases I’m working are linked. Don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad thing.”

  “I think it means vengeance is best served hot.”

  S
arg’s voice sounded resigned. “Okay, I’ll warn Onweller. Not sure he deserves it. And cheer up—I’ve heard this year’s model of orange prison jumpsuit is adorable.”

  Drayco looked from the music code to the details he’d jotted down from his earlier phone conversations. The poet William Congreve was wrong. Music didn’t have charms to soothe the savage breast, it was a savage beast, an animal, a devourer of souls, sucking them in and never letting go. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising so many composers were mentally ill. Throw religious superstition into the mix and you might just get murder.

  43

  Thursday, 30 October

  Gary Zabowski was right on time. He had two coffees in hand, giving one to Drayco. “Couldn’t remember if you take it black. Last time we shared a coffee, I was shit-faced. Oh, there’s cream and sugar over there,” Gary pointed to a table.

  As he typically did, Drayco snagged an isolated booth in the small eatery hidden in the basement of the psych lab. Parkhurst ran on old money and fresh caffeine. Drayco reached for the salt shaker as Gary watched agape. “Salt?”

  Drayco took a sip, and smiled at the younger man over the brim of the cup. Gary grabbed the shaker and poured some in his own coffee and without hesitation took a big sip. He rolled it around on his tongue. “Not bad. Seems like I’ve tasted this before.”

  “I’ll get right to the point, Gary. Tara told me Cailan was afraid of her uncle, Troy Jaffray. Did you witness any reason for it?”

  Gary took another sip of coffee, took off the lid, stirred the salt around and added more. “He was overprotective. Dictator-for-a-cause. But he cared, you know? She was lucky to have him.”

  “Being afraid of displeasing someone isn’t the same as being afraid for their safety. Was she afraid he’d hurt her?”

  “She was jumpy right before we broke up. Thought it was those mystery notes she got. Or maybe Shannon. Shannon was a tornado in a skirt.”

  “Did Cailan talk to her godfather, Andrew Gilbow, about her fears?”