“McGrady hasn’t been on this long enough to be fair,” I said. “You’re calling in some help a little quick here.”
“Long enough for me to know this case won’t be closed anytime this century if he’s allowed to continue alone.”
“You don’t have another detective to pair with him?”
“Caseloads are maxed. Besides, most of my people don’t like working with him.”
“And you called me,” I said.
“You owe me.”
I wanted to argue, but in truth I could not. I owed him.
“And the incidents, as you say?”
“Yeah, nasty stuff, Clancy. A couple of joggers were murdered. So far McGrady’s investigation has produced no viable suspects. Nothing by way of a motive either. Think you can do some work on this and help out?”
“I’ll check into it. You break the news to McGrady that I’m on board. He’ll be thrilled.”
“Yeah. He’ll be doin’ cartwheels,” he said. “And keep me posted on your progress.”
“You assume.”
“It’s why I called you.”
Chapter 4
I opened my eyes and realized I had been dreaming. An interesting dream that took me back several years, back to my hometown, back to my mother’s house. Way back.
I was in Clancyville sitting at my mother’s kitchen table, looking up the word precocious. She was at the sink, washing dishes with her back to me. Sarah Jones, my mother’s best friend, confidant, and housekeeper, was standing to Mama’s left drying each dish my mother handed her after completing an extremely thorough washing of that particular item.
“You doin’ homework?” my mother said to me without turning around.
“No, ma’am.”
“You reading one of those Sherlock Holmes’ fanciful tales again?”
“No, ma’am,” I said a bit louder.
Sarah was drying each cleaned dish and moving deftly about the kitchen, finding the place where the dish was housed. She made no sound when she moved. She knew our house as well as her own. I used to tell folks that I had two mothers.
“Well, Clancy, you seem to be studying something. Are you trying to solve some ridiculous mystery?”
I looked up from the dictionary and was more than slightly agitated with my mother’s barrage of questions.
“No!” I said in a voice still louder, a voice that seemed to be yelling in my dream.
That was when I awakened and opened my eyes.
“No or know?” Rogers said to me.
“Beg your pardon?”
“You said ‘no’ or ‘know’. Something negative or some philosophical mantra?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I said to her.
“You yelled out. I assumed you were likely asleep since you were not answering me when I addressed you.”
“Oh,” I said. “I was dreaming.”
“Nightmare?”
“Close second.”
“Explain.”
“Dreaming about my mother.”
“So, you yelled out no, a negative interjection. I assumed it to be an emphatic negative exclamation,” she said with confidence in her computerized voice, “as opposed to the verb that is not generally used as an interjection.”
“I was looking up the definition of a word in a dictionary and she was pestering me.”
“Even in your dreams. This is too funny.”
“Funny for you, maybe.”
“What was the word?”
“It was a dream.”
“No, honey, the word you were searching for in the dictionary.”
“Not important,” I said.
“A close-second nightmare, and you say not important?”
“Precocious,” I said reluctantly.
“It means matured beyond normal for one’s age,” she informed.
“I know what it means.”
“It literally means to cook before,” she added. “From the Latin.”
“I didn’t need to know that.”
“Knowledge is power, love. Why were you looking up that word?”
“It was a dream.”
“What does that mean?”
“No rhyme or reason for it. Just some segment which my brain chose to place in my subconscious for some unknown reason.”
“Nothing else.”
“Zilch.”
“I have a theory.”
“I bet you do,” I said.
“How old were you in the dream?”
“I have no idea.”
“Yeah, you do. Little girl or grown woman?”
“I was young. No age given in the dream. Felt like a pre-teen.”
“Ah, ha. Fits my idea. Someone called you precocious and you were looking for the definition to see if it fit.”
“Most likely I would have wanted to know if they had insulted me or not.”
“If you were eleven or twelve you should have known the word,” she said.
“It was a dream. There is no logic in a dream.”
“The logic could be implicit.”
“You are over your head here. Computers have no concept of a dream.”
“I have data. I have illustrations. I have Sigmund at my beck and call. But, yes, you are correct. I have no experience in your dream world. And yet, some of what I have read about dreams might be informative here.”
“I shudder at your forthcoming psychoanalysis.”
“Tsk, tsk. Merely an observation.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Speaking of waiting, I found a police file that had a penciled-in marginal notation that strongly suggests that Mister Jaz Connell might have come to our fair city via a small town in eastern North Carolina.”
“Some cop’s speculation no doubt. And the name of the town?”
“Moyock, a small town straight down Highway One sixty-eight.”
“I’ve heard of it. How small is it?”
“Thirty-eight hundred folks, give or take some new babies, puppies and kittens.”
“Cute. A notation in the margin, you say?”
“Yeah. Might be something, might be nothing.”
“And your dubious nature is engaged…why?” I said.
“I called the local authorities in Moyock and they had no record of anyone named Jaz or Jasper Connell.”
“Could’ve been on the down-low, hiding out with some buddies.”
“A likelihood I will allow you. But no official record of this man in Moyock.”
“Maybe he used an alias while he was there.”
“And maybe that cop’s notation was nothing more than a planned getaway by the one who scribbled the name Moyock on the form – some rendezvous with his or her mistress on the sly,” she said.
“Your fastidiousness is appreciated,” I said. Her insight into human nature was also alarming and accurate.
“And well it should be. You depend upon me because I am dependable. And now back to the previous point of our discussion. I am wondering about that revealing dream of yours. My diagnosis is that your subconscious is still wondering if you have remained precocious after all these years.”
“For crying out loud,” I said. “Is this your not-so-clever way of suggesting that I have regressed?”
“Suggesting? No, dearie. I am merely offering the notion that you are wondering if you are still ahead of the competition.”
“Is this your Sigmund Freud routine?”
“I believe it to be what some would call a Freudian slip,” Rogers said.
“I didn’t say or slip anything,” I defended myself. My defense sounded weak even to me.
“You told me the essence of your dream.”
“I told you that my mother was getting on my nerves while I was looking up a word in the dictionary.”
“Precisely. A Freudian slip is something that reveals a person’s unconscious motives, wishes, or attitudes. It is an inadvertent mistake in speech or writing or dreaming, I might add.”
�
�And the assumed revelation you received?”
“The adversarial relationship between a mother and her precocious daughter continues.”
“I’m not sharing any more dreams with you,” I said and walked to the kitchen to brew some coffee. While it brewed, I thought some more about that first case that Sam and I had shared. It was either that or ponder that stupid dream.
Chapter 5
I called the Norfolk Police dispatch and found that McGrady was doing some leg work at Barraud Park just over from Tidewater Drive. I crammed my new best, non-talkative friend into my small vehicle and headed for a rendezvous with the dour Mr. McGrady.
I found Bill McGrady sitting in one of the ball field’s dugouts, looking at his note pad. It was late October and baseball was finished for the kids’ leagues in the city.
“Whatta you want?” McGrady said in his all-too-familiar surliness as Sam and I approached.
His greeting dismissed any questions as to whether he would remember me. Despite my reputation, I never go looking for trouble. It seeks me out, or so it seems.
I had been away from police work for a few years, but certain things stuck with me. One was the fact that for whatever his reasons, McGrady never liked me. There’s no accounting for taste.
We had never worked together, but for some reason I had crossed him the wrong way at some juncture. Either that or he simply did not like females or female cops, or that I was alive and breathing on planet earth. Maybe it was my colorful red hair. Whatever. Go figure.
“Wineski call you?”
“Yeah, he called.”
“So, you know why I’m here.”
“I know what he said. I don’t need your help.”
I ignored his opinion.
“What do you know?” I asked, hoping to avoid further unnecessary unpleasantries.
He spotted Sam approaching us from first base.
“He with you?”
“He is.”
“Don’t want a dog around.”
“Appropriate enough. We come as a set. You get to not like both us simultaneously.”
“You don’t know me,” he snarled.
“I know a few things.”
“Whattaya think you know?”
“You don’t like me.”
“Got that right.”
“Easy leap to you not liking dogs.”
“What leap?” McGrady said a little confused.
“I like this dog. You don’t like me. Conclusion, you don’t like this dog. From there, well, one can assume that other dogs strike you in a similar fashion. Goes to character.”
“You’re a smart-mouth, Evans. You know that?”
“I’ve been called worse. Tell me what you’ve got on your investigation so far.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You can take that up with Wineski. In the meantime, either you can tell me what you know, or I can do my own investigating. Either way, Wineski asked me to help. Use me or not.”
“I choose not.”
“Fair enough,” I said and walked towards the outfield. Sam followed me as if on instinct. He could tell when he was not well received. There had been no head-pat or pleasant greeting from McGrady. It was an easy call for the dog. He was probably used to certain people-types not liking him. Sam and I shared an insight into humanity.
I found one of the crime scenes taped off near centerfield close to the edge of the woods. I retrieved the latex gloves I carried and pulled them on as I approached the grove of trees that formed an archway between the outfield and Lafayette River which flowed on the other side of the small grove of pines. One of the joggers had been stabbed three times in the back. Rogers had printed out the official police reports on the two incidents. She was handy that way. I didn’t bother asking the official personnel in downtown Norfolk for the reports. That would’ve taken until Christmas of some future year for them to comply.
I heard some sticks crack behind me.
“This was the second murder,” McGrady said as he waddled towards me. The aging detective was at least forty pounds overweight. I had no idea his actual age, but I figured he was a good deal north of sixty. What little hair he had was gray. The color matched his well-worn suit. His black tie was full of greasy spots and suggested that he had tied it in the dark without benefit of a mirror or memory. Despite his bitterness towards me, I felt some pity for him. And for the suit coat that was at least one size too small. It had been a long time since that middle button on the coat had been fastened to the matching buttonhole.
“Crime scene reveal anything to you?” I said as I approached his kneeling position.
I was endeavoring to be civil since it appeared that he was at least willing to discuss his point of view on what had happened at this crime scene. Despite what my mother thinks, I am not that difficult to get along with when folks meet me half-way. Most days.
He looked up from the ground and appeared startled at my question. I noticed he was not wearing disposable gloves.
“Surprise attack. Jogger never saw whoever. Probably hiding behind a tree.”
“Techs find anything?”
“Lotta blood or so they said.”
“And the other crime scene?” I said.
“Not far. Over that way,” he said and pointed to what could have been an extension of leftfield or an excessively deep third base.
“Near the tree line?”
“Yeah. Close enough for the killer to drag the body through the woods down close to the river.”
“Also stabbed in the back,” I said.
“Yeah,” he grunted.
I turned to see where Sam was. He had moved off from the actual crime scene area and was sniffing around some pines.
“You find anything?” I called to Sam.
“I bet he doesn’t talk much,” McGrady said and chuckled to himself.
“Communicative silence,” I said.
“What the hell is that?”
“Spoken words are not the sole manner of genuine communication.”
“You wanna know why I don’t like you?” McGrady said, priming himself to continue his next word of discouragement for me.
“Not really.”
Sam barked and I walked over. He had his nose embedded in the deep indentions on the ground behind a tall white pine. The pine was large enough in circumference for a normal-sized person to hide behind. Normal-sized person defined as not more than twenty pounds overweight.
“You find something?” I said to Sam as he continued his sniffing expedition.
He barked softly once. I took that for a yes.
I felt the indentions of the pine needles at the base of the tree. I pressed down a little but felt nothing.
“What did you find here?” I said to Sam.
He barked again. I say barked. Sounded more than a grunt, but I was not yet aware of dogs grunting. I watched him put his nose back into one of the indentions of the pine needles to the right of where I was kneeling. He then pushed some pine needles and some soil aside. He moved back and woofed softly in my direction. I took that as an invitation to take a closer look.
I gently separated some remaining pine needles from their natural cluster. A shiny object revealed itself as I spread the needles further away from the dirt. It appeared to be a fake stone of some sort. Likely made of hard plastic, it had a shiny resilience and was probably used as a decoration for some item.
McGrady sauntered over.
“Whattaya doing over here?”
“Sam found this in one of the two indentions, these slight crevices here, in the pine needles,” I said as I held the cheap, sparkling stone about eye level for him to see.
He reached for the faux gem and I quickly pulled it back from his grasp. His angry eyes met mine. I knew he had no idea why I pulled the object away from him.
“Gloves,” I said.
He spit some nonverbal diatribes about my character as he pulled out his gloves and put them on. I dropped the stone into his now-g
loved hand.
“And what the hell is this?”
“Well, it might be a clue, Bill. Go figure, huh? Clue at a crime scene. Novel revelation, I am certain.”
“It might be a piece of crap,” he said and raised his arm to throw the sparkling plastic away.
Sam lunged at him with such speed that I was amazed that a dog of his size could move that quickly, that instinctively. Sam caught his wrist in his mouth to stop him from throwing the fake gem. With the force of Sam’s lunge and McGrady’s reaction of fearful surprise, the pudgy police detective fell against a pine tree. He was dazed, to say the least.
“Get him off me!” he yelled.
Fear was evident. He probably thought that Sam had attacked him.
“Give me the fake gem, first,” I said.
McGrady dropped the small object into my gloved hand. Sam released his grip.
“He could’ve taken my arm off.”
“Probably.”
“You see why I don’t like dogs. Never know what they’ll do. Unprovoked attacks.”
“You provoked.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You started to throw away the only clue you’ve had.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know what I saw. And I know that this piece of crap, as you refer to it, is worth checking out. Never dismiss a possibility, Bill.”
“I’d dismiss you if I could,” he said and walked away. “I’m going to see a doctor. Dog probably has rabies,” he said as he angrily removed the torn latex glove.
“You might roll up your sleeves first.”
He stopped and turned back towards me as he tore off the other glove. “What the hell for?”
“I doubt if Sam broke the skin on your wrist.”
“He tore my glove and it hurts like hell,” he said. He slid his coat sleeve up enough to unbutton his shirt sleeve. He moved the shirt sleeve back to view the damaged area.
I joined him to view the near-fatal injury. I could see the teeth marks on his wrist. There was no broken skin. No blood. No rabies. He would live another day. I tried to hide my disappointment that no blood was evident.
“I’d rethink that rabies-thing,” I said. “I’m no doctor, but I suspect the dog has to break the skin before he could pass rabies onto you. They’ll laugh you out of the medical office.”
Jewel of a Murderer Page 4