Death Trance

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “What happened?” he demanded, lumbering into us. “I heard someone yelling.”

  “It's Chris…” I gasped.

  Saying nothing, he pushed past us, hurried into Chris's apartment. We crossed the hall, where Toni fumbled for the key to Liz's apartment and somehow got us in there.

  I went on automatic, picked up the phone, and dialed 911, said, “I need to report a murder.”

  The trained voice on the other end was calm, cool, asked a series of questions, like was I hurt or was I in danger, was there a weapon present? And I blathered no, no, no. We'd just stopped by someone's apartment and the door was open and she was in the kitchen with her neck cut and, Jesus, there was blood everywhere. When the dispatcher asked me to confirm the address, I said I didn't know, we were in one apartment, had discovered the body across the hall but I didn't know where we were, somewhere in south Minneapolis, I thought. Shit, I couldn't even remember the name of the street.

  The woman on the other end said to calm down, it didn't matter, they had already traced the phone, help was on the way, don't worry. The police and an ambulance would be there within minutes.

  “Ambulance?” I said. “It's too late. There's blood everywhere. She's already dead.”

  I hung up, turned around. As I did so, the door to Liz's apartment was hurled open. John stood there, his face long and red.

  “I called the police,” I said to him.

  He looked at me, his eyes completely blank. “Someone killed her.”

  I nodded.

  “Lots of blood.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  A couple of cops were the first to arrive, soon followed by an ambulance with two medics. John greeted them all silently in the vestibule, pointed the way, then followed them zombielike.

  Toni and I sat on the old couch in Liz's place, held hands, and listened to all the commotion. There were radios crackling, people running, voices barking orders. Within minutes the place was swarming with officials—more cops, some plainclothes detectives. Neighbors, too. Out front the whole street sparkled with red lights, and I got up, glanced out, saw clumps of people gathered on the sidewalk, looking, muttering, whispering, and shaking their heads. Yes, someone had died in their midst. Horribly so.

  Toni and I were at first barraged with questions—what happened, when, did we see anyone, notice anything? Then, naturally, the cops busied themselves with roping off the place, getting it ready for a crime detection squad that would study, test, and examine.

  I was back on the couch again, sitting next to Toni, when I heard heavy steps and a familiar voice out in the hall.

  A cop said, “They're in there.”

  “Okay. I'll be right with them. Let me take a look first.”

  It was Detective Jenkins, I recognized his voice, knew his step. He faded into the commotion in Chris's apartment, then a couple of minutes later I heard him again, telling someone what to do, what he wanted. Then he walked through the open door of Liz's apartment. Big and broad, face flat with seriousness, he wore the same wrinkled brown sport coat and a shirt without a tie. He headed for an old armchair on Toni's right.

  “What happened?” he said, seating himself, rubbing his face.

  It was as much a question as an order and, my voice shaky, I said, “We were coming to talk to her. We wanted to show her some pictures. Her door was unlocked, and so we went in and… and found her there, in the kitchen.”

  Toni's eyes were puffy and wet with tears, and she cleared her throat, said, “She was the one who told us she saw Liz the night before she died—it was Chris who said Liz had another boyfriend.”

  I bowed my head, stared down at the dingy green carpet. Would any of this have happened if we hadn't pushed things? Would Chris still be alive if we hadn't cornered her? We should have just left her alone with her books, not asked her any questions, not gone out to the river, either.

  Jenkins scratched the back of his neck. “What did you want to talk to her about? What's this about pictures? What pictures?”

  I glanced at Toni; she nodded. Of course we had to tell him.

  “We followed Tyler,” I said. “There was another Dragon meeting.”

  “Dammit.” Jenkins shook his head in disgust. “I thought I told you to stay away from him, I thought I made that clear.”

  Toni's anger flared and, her voice full of sarcasm, she blurted, “Someone had to investigate my sister's death.”

  He glared at Toni, said, “I'm doing as much as I can,” then turned back to me, simply saying, “Go on.”

  I did. I told him how we wanted to try to get a picture of a few of the gang members, how we wanted to see if Chris could recognize any of them. Eventually Toni spoke, telling about her camera and telephoto lens, and the trip out to the St. Croix River.

  Flushed red with anger, Jenkins took it all in, then said, “Let's see these pictures.”

  Toni lifted the red and white envelope from her purse and handed it to Jenkins, who pulled out the pictures and went through a half dozen or so. Toni and I sat in silence.

  “At first glance, I have to say that this murder across the hall doesn't resemble the other ones—there's nothing cultish or ritualistic about it. But these pictures will be helpful,” said Jenkins, studying one photo in particular. “Can I keep them awhile?”

  I didn't see why not. I looked at Toni, who was nodding very slightly. If we'd spurred the police into investigating Liz's death further, if these photos might actually help now in regard to Chris's murder, then good. They could keep the pictures as long as needed.

  “Sure,” I said.

  He quickly folded up the envelope, negatives and all, stuffed it into his sport coat pocket, and said, “I'll get our lab to make copies from the negs.”

  I stared at him, figured he knew best, muttered, “Oh.”

  “Don't worry, I'll get ’em all back to you tomorrow or the day after.” Jenkins ran a hand over the top of his head. “Okay, now tell me about coming over here—when you got here, what you saw, if you heard anything. I want it all.”

  “It was a little after nine, I guess. Like maybe quarter after. We picked up the pictures right at nine at the photo place in Calhoun Square… and then we came straight over here.” I bowed my head, shook it. “We parked out front, came up to the building. Chris said she was almost always home at night, and her lights were on, so we rang the bell out front.”

  “But no one answered?”

  “Right,” said Toni.

  “And then?”

  As he sat there, Jenkins lifted his left arm. As he lifted his arm, his sleeve came back. As his sleeve came back, I caught sight of a large silvery thing on his left wrist. It was thick and metal, and I thought, Is that a large watch, an oversized one? My eyes focused on the band on his wrist, I watched Jenkins massage his head again, and my heart tightened and seemed to gasp.

  “And then?” repeated Jenkins, putting his left arm back in his lap.

  I could barely respond. “Then… then she didn't answer and so Toni used Liz's key to let us in.” I was staring at his arm, but whatever he was wearing was covered up by the sleeve of his sport coat. “And then we knocked on her door and…”

  I was gawking, couldn't speak. Holy shit, was that the same watch we'd seen on one of the Dragons—the guy we'd photographed, the one who was kind of heavy just like Lieutenant Jenkins?

  I glanced to my right. Toni was staring at me, obviously wondering what was wrong. What could I say? I turned away from her, got up, started pacing, steering myself behind Jenkins. I had to get another look at what he was wearing on his wrist.

  Toni picked up where I left off, saying, “Then we tried the door and it was unlocked. We opened it and…” As she spoke, she was eyeing me. “And called out for her, but there was no answer.”

  “Did you hear anything?” asked Jenkins. “Any noises? The sound of anyone running out the back?”

  Toni shook her head. “Nothing.”

  As he sat there, Jenkins touched the back
of his left hand. Just a little higher, I thought. Just scratch up a bit. Push back the sport coat, expose whatever it is you're wearing on your wrist.

  “That's when you went into the kitchen?” he asked.

  Toni nodded. “Right.”

  Standing behind Jenkins, I looked over at Toni and my eyes widened. I touched my wrist, then pointed to his. A wave of puzzlement washed over her face, and Jenkins turned around, stared at me.

  On impulse, I looked back at Jenkins and asked, “You don't know what time it is, do you?”

  “Sure.” He reached into his pants and pulled out a small silver pocket watch, said, “Nine-fifty.”

  I frowned, not seeing at all what I wanted to see. A pocket watch?

  I said, “Nice watch.”

  “Thanks, it was my dad's—he worked on the Burlington-Northern.”

  Unable to stop myself, I asked, “But what's that on your wrist?”

  Jenkins smiled proudly, lifted his left arm, pushed back his sleeve. “This? Something I picked up in Arizona a long time ago.”

  I froze. That was it. The exact same piece we'd photographed. But it wasn't a watch, after all. No, it was a Navajo bracelet or some such southwestern piece. A big silver thing. Massive. There were two little pieces of turquoise on each side, then on top there was a big, flat round piece, a face of the same stone, polished and shimmering. From a distance it could be mistaken for an oversized Soviet watch, but up close it was a beautiful turquoise-and-silver bracelet. Obviously, I didn't need the photo to identify it. I was certain.

  I managed to mutter, “Oh.”

  I glanced at Toni who was staring at the thing, unable to speak, or move even. My mind careened ahead. I wanted to grab Jenkins's arm, shake it, and point to the silver bracelet, and demand to know exactly what he'd been doing down there by the St. Croix. But I knew. This meant that he was one of them, a Dragon, didn't it?

  Toni was pale, full of thoughts but empty of words. What should we do? Tell him we had that picture of him standing there in the woods, chest naked, face masked, wrist exposed? A horrid thought punched me. We didn't have any of the photos. No negatives, either. We had none of them. How could I have been so stupid? I'd just given them all to him. Jenkins had them now. The whole envelope, negatives and all, stuffed right into the pocket of that old brown sport coat.

  We had to leave. Now. Before I said something, before Toni did, before we put ourselves in as much danger as we had put Chris.

  I looked at Toni, started for her, said, “Toni, you don't look so good. Are you going to be sick again?”

  “But—”

  Before she could say any more, I hurried to her side, took her by the arm, interjected, “Come on. You'll be all right.”

  Then she got it, and she rose and I held her and things happened fast, the two of us walking briskly, then charging toward the kitchen, me the whole time muttering to her to keep quiet, we couldn't expose our knowledge, not yet. I held her like she was going to vomit, and we darted into the kitchen, up to the white ceramic sink, where I turned on the faucet full blast and huddled right up next to her so that Jenkins couldn't hear.

  Toni pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh, my God. Did you see that, did you? He's a Dragon!”

  “Yeah.” What were we going to do? “Toni, you've got to get sick,” I whispered. “We've got to get out of here.”

  She nodded. I could see the panic in her face, the fear that was now taking her over, driving her, and she bent into the sink, stuck a finger into her throat. She jammed it way in, wiggled it around, and her body tightened like one big muscle. She sobbed, groaned, and heaved.

  I patted her on the back, said loudly, “You're okay. Everything's all right.”

  It came up, a big wave of something all biley. I rubbed her back, stroked her, as it came up, this fearful purge that emerged so easily. So easily that I wondered if she was indeed forcing it or if it was coming on its own.

  A voice from the kitchen doorway said, “Want me to get one of the medics?”

  It was Jenkins. Standing, staring, a look of concern on that nondescript face. A murderer? Was it he who had killed Liz as well as Chris? I didn't like being cornered here in the kitchen, him blocking the only escape, controlling our fates.

  I managed to say, “I need to take her home.”

  He nodded, a big gruff kind of guy with a southwestern bracelet. It didn't make any difference if he was or wasn't a real Dragon. I hated him. He'd been leading us along, asking for our trust, pooh-poohing our worries.

  Toni was still bent over the sink, her back to Jenkins, shaking with fear and anger as if it were hopeless. Maybe it was. Maybe there'd never be a way to prove it. Or maybe we'd be wiped out by the Dragons, too. Toni and me.

  “It's going to be okay. That's it, everything's going to be all right.” I massaged her back, wanted to fold my arms around her. Instead I turned to Jenkins, said, “Can we finish this tomorrow?”

  He stood in the doorway, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, and said, “Sure.”

  But he didn't move. He just stood there, staring at Toni, then looking at me. He pushed back his sport coat, scratched his chest, and that's when I saw the gun. Hanging there in a holster. A lightning bolt of fear zapped me: Maybe he wasn't alone in all this. Maybe there were a number of Dragons in the police force.

  I grabbed Toni, wrapped one arm around her waist, and we started toward the kitchen door. Jenkins finally jumped aside, opening the way.

  “Are you sure you don't want a medic?” he asked.

  “No!”

  Toni was moving fast, I was struggling to keep up with her, to keep my arms around her as if I were really supporting her. We whooshed out of the kitchen, down the short hall, into the living room, and toward the door. Then suddenly Toni stopped.

  “My purse!”

  I left her by the door, said, “I'll get it.”

  I hurried over to the couch, grabbed the small brown leather bag. Liz's keys, too, which were on one of the cushions. I snatched everything up, returned to Toni, and took her by the elbow and escorted her out. We rushed through the hallway, which was still bustling with police officers and detectives and now photographers, too. We went flying through them, out the vestibule, out the door, down the steps, to my car. When we were some twenty feet away, we broke into a run and darted around the squad cars now filling the street. There were people everywhere, gawkers and gossipers, and there were flashing lights, too. Red and yellow lights squawking and blinking maniacally. I opened the passenger door for Toni, hurried around, got in behind the wheel, rammed my keys into the ignition.

  As I brought my car to a charging start, I looked up at the redbrick apartment building where Liz had lived and Chris had died, and there he was. Jenkins. He was standing in the big front window of Liz's apartment, staring down at us, following our every move. A spasm of fear rippled through me, and I froze.

  Toni was leaning against the dash, head in hands, and she said, “Just go, just get out of here. Go!”

  I tromped on the accelerator.

  Chapter 21

  We raced out of there. I had to swerve around a couple of cop cars. I nearly ran over some kid who was rushing across the street to see what all the excitement was about. But within seconds we were down the street and around the corner.

  “I can't believe it,” muttered Toni. “It was him. That bracelet or whatever—it was the same one. That was Jenkins out there with the Dragons.”

  “I know.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror, saw a pair of headlights swing around the corner after us. Dear God, were we being followed? Did Jenkins know we knew, and so someone was after us now to guarantee our silence in the same manner that Chris's had been assured? Quite possibly. It was a large car—I could tell by the width of the headlights—and a fast one, too, rapidly gaining on us.

  Or was I being paranoid? At the next corner I turned right, then sped on to keep our distance at a maximum. But the other car didn't turn, just zoomed by. W
hich meant we were safe, for now. I slowed to a reasonable speed.

  “Alex,” said Toni, looking across the dark car to me, “what are we going to do? I mean, what in hell is Jenkins doing?”

  “I don't know. I suppose he could be undercover, but you'd think he'd have said something, certainly by now, certainly after tonight. I mean, wouldn't he tell us if they had something like a sting operation going on?”

  “I guess. How can we find out?”

  “I don't know.”

  “There's got to be some way, someone to ask!” she shouted in frustration.

  “Yeah, but…”

  That was all I could say. Yeah, but… who? Certainly not the police. Not yet, anyway. We couldn't go to them about Jenkins and his involvement with the Dragons because what if there were more Dragons in the police? Simply, we didn't know who to trust among them. My God. Trying to make sense of it, I drove slowly through the dark neighborhoods of south Minneapolis. Liz and Chris both murdered by someone, a lieutenant on the city police force?

  “If Jenkins is really one of them, a Dragon, I mean,” I speculated, “it's no wonder he didn't seem to be doing anything—he wasn't.”

  “Yeah, and no wonder he kept trying to get us to believe Liz killed herself.” Toni took a deep breath, followed by a long sigh. “He just wanted us to stop asking questions and go away. Not now, though. No way.”

  “Thank God you didn't let any of this drop.”

  “I couldn't. I never believed she committed suicide.”

  It all made sense. The police detective who was eager to call it a suicide because that would eliminate totally and completely any hunt for a killer. The detective who was eager to be rid of the curious and persistent sister, namely Toni.

  In view of all that we'd stirred up, Toni and I had to be very careful now. If Chris had been murdered for information she might have possessed, we could be killed for information we were aggressively seeking. Although we lacked any hard facts, we could still be just as great a threat as Chris, so I checked behind us a couple of more times and I took a rather indirect route across Lyndale, then across Hennepin and back to my apartment. When I parked in front of my building, I glanced around, saw no one lurking by any cars or trees, could detect no stranger hanging about in the depths of the night.