Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  Jason Tucker, Lisa’s stalker. Jason Tucker, the guy I almost beat to death in front of Lisa’s house.

  “Five years ago Jason Tucker was convicted of attempted murder and stalking starlet Lisa Montgomery,” the reporter continued. “He was sentenced to twelve years and has been serving his time at Folsom State Prison. Somehow—and the authorities haven’t told us yet, but somehow—he was released by mistake three weeks ago.”

  “By mistake!” I howled. “How the hell did that happen?”

  A close-up of the up-and-coming cute blond came back on the TV. “Jason Tucker was an unsuccessful actor, with a history of stalking, and our sources inside the police department tell us they are convinced he’s the Gravesnatcher.”

  Hillary put down her yellow pad full of names of potential suspects. “I guess that’s that.”

  “I guess so.”

  Suddenly the front door burst open. I spun, expecting to see an overeager member of the press corps, instead I found Detective Piccolo and two uniformed cops.

  “Freeze,” Piccolo said. “Up against the wall and spread ’em.”

  “I can’t freeze and get up against the wall at the same time.”

  “Then let me clarify.” He grabbed me, threw me against the wall. “Now spread ’em.”

  “You can’t do that,” Hillary said.

  “It’s all right, Hillary. Detective Piccolo is still obviously under the effects of drugs from his injuries.”

  “The only drug I’m on is dopamine. The body produces it when the brain is happy. And my brain is ecstatic because I’ve got you.”

  “So I haven’t called the Captain back. Don’t make a federal case out of it.”

  “Oh, I’ve got you for a lot more than losing at phone tag. I’ve got you for the big one. Kidnapping and murder.”

  Hillary said, “That sounds more like the big two.”

  I said, “It sounds like horse shit to me.”

  Piccolo said, “You’re working with the Gravesnatcher, and I can prove it!” Piccolo started reading me my rights.

  “Hillary,” I said, as Piccolo droned on. “Call Victor and tell him what happened.” Victor was my attorney.

  “He’s on vacation. Israel, I think, or Istanbul. ‘Is’ something.”

  “Then call his brother, Joel.”

  “Joel went with him. Islamabad, maybe.”

  “Just call somebody.”

  Piccolo: “Do you understand these rights as I’ve read them?”

  “I wasn’t really listening,” Hillary said.

  “He was talking to me, Hillary, and yes, I understand them,” I said. He cuffed me. “You know, Detective, I’ve got a back door so we can avoid the electronic vultures outside.”

  A malevolent smirk warped his face. “Why would I want to do that?”

  Piccolo dragged me out the door and down the stairs toward the phalanx of reporters. It took the press a beat or two to realize what was happening; then they were the maggots and I was the corpse.

  The up-and-coming cute blond from Channel 4: “Officer, why are you arresting Gideon Kincaid?”

  Piccolo gave the cameras a stern, authoritarian look. “We believe Mr. Kincaid is in cahoots with the Gravesnatcher.”

  Cahoots?

  The gone-to-seed comb-over from 9: “And your name, officer?”

  “Detective Irving Piccolo.”

  Stacy was going out with a guy named Irving?

  The bounced-from-one-station-to-another silver- haired old pro, now on 7: “The same Detective Piccolo that was wounded at Magic Land?”

  “Brutally shot, thanks to the nefarious scheming of Gideon Kincaid and his cohort, the Gravesnatcher.”

  Nefarious? Cohort? Where did he get these words?

  The ambitious I’ll-do-anything-to-get-to-the-network redhead from 2: “Have you found any of the ransom money?”

  “Not yet, but we will. And I promise you all one thing: Gideon Kincaid will pay for his malfeasance.”

  “Pay for it?” I finally said, fed up. “I can’t even spell it.”

  I’ve logged hundreds of hours sitting in interrogation rooms, but this was the first time I was the guy handcuffed to the chair. I didn’t like it.

  Piccolo paced back and forth as he lobbed questions at me. “When did you first meet the Gravesnatcher?”

  “I’m not going to answer any questions until I see a lawyer.”

  “So you admit you’re guilty.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “There’s no use denying it. We’ve got proof.”

  “You can’t have proof.”

  “How about your Visa card number? It was given to the operator at the mail order house to buy the dog collar that killed David Hunter.”

  “What?”

  “And it was delivered to your P.O. Box in Santa Monica.”

  “I don’t have a P.O. Box in Santa Monica.”

  “And you don’t know the Gravesnatcher. Come on, Gideon, confess now and it’ll go a lot easier on you.”

  “Do you know how easy it is to get someone’s credit card number? How easy it is to open a P.O. Box in someone else’s name? The Gravesnatcher’s framing me, any idiot can see that.”

  “I’m not any idiot.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  Mary Rocket limped through the door.

  “Hey, Cap,” Piccolo said, “I think he’s about ready to crack.”

  “I think you’re the one that’s cracked,” she said. “Uncuff him.”

  “But he’s a kidnapper and a murderer.”

  “I told you to check out the P.O. Box lead before you brought him in. I told you any idiot knows how easy it is to open a box in someone else’s name. But did you?”

  “Er, no.”

  “So I did. The box was opened two weeks ago. The only piece of mail that ever came in was the package from Doggieworld.”

  “That doesn’t prove Gideon didn’t open the box.”

  “Maybe not. But why open a P.O. Box just to receive an item you’re afraid the cops may be able to trace and use your real name?”

  “Well ...”

  “And I called Doggieworld. Luckily they record all phone orders in case of discrepancy, and they’re based in L.A, so we got a copy of the conversation.” She took a small tape recorder out of her jacket pocket, snapped it on.

  “Thanks for calling Doggieworld. This is Chandra. How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to order a collar. From your catalog.”

  “Name please?”

  “Gideon Kincaid.”

  “Bullshit,” I squawked. “That’s him, the Gravesnatcher, I recognize his voice.” Indeed, it was the deep, slightly condescending voice I was getting more and more used to hearing. A voice that sounded nothing like mine.

  “Address?”

  “P.O. Box 342, Colorado Boulevard, Santa Monica, California. 90401.”

  “Item number, please?”

  “B614. It’s for my new puppy. I’m trying to decide what to call him. Maybe you can help.”

  “I will if I can.”

  “Which do you like better: Barry, David or Lisa?”

  “Barry Winslow, David Hunter, Lisa Montgomery,” I said.

  “He’s having this conversation for our benefit. He knew he was being recorded. Knew we’d track down the tape.”

  On tape, a confused Chandra said:

  “But Barry and David are male names. Lisa’s a female.”

  “I think society worries too much about male/female labels. How about Gideon? You like that name?”

  “Isn’t that your name?”

  “Yeah, I was thinking about naming the dog after me. No?”

  “It does seem a little ... self-absorbed.”

  “You know, you’re right. I think I’ll scratch the names off my list. Kill all four of them.”

  “Then what are you going to name your dog?”

  “How about ... Chandra?”

  A giggle. “One of my personal favorites.”

  “S
o be it.”

  Mary Rocket’s finger mashed the OFF button. “The FBI can run a voice print on Gideon and one on the tape, but I can tell you right now what they’re going to say: That’s not Gideon’s voice.”

  Piccolo grasped for straws. “That doesn’t mean he’s not collaborating with him.”

  “No, but I’m going with my guts on this one,” Mary Rocket said to Piccolo. “Gideon’s clean. Goodbye, Detective Piccolo. And next time, when I tell you to check something before making an arrest, do it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” A humbled Piccolo started out, but not before shooting me an ‘I’m not through with you yet’ look.

  “Oh, and one more thing, Detective. I was talking to Colleen over at Channel 4, asking her where she got her information about the Magic Land shooting, and your name came up.”

  “I never talked to her.”

  “She claims you did. Claims you were so upset about Gideon Kincaid blowing the ransom and getting you shot that you had to talk to someone.”

  Remember what I said earlier about being able to tell when people are lying? The different clues like sweat on the lip, halting answers, contraction of a pupil, picking a cuticle? Well, sweat sprouted on Piccolo’s upper lip and his pupils disappeared.

  “Well, I don’t ... I mean, I hardly know ... Sure I’ve talked to her. But I don’t think I mentioned Magic Land. At least not anything we weren’t supposed to talk about.”

  “You weren’t supposed to talk about anything.”

  “Right. Well, I won’t talk to her again,” he said picking a cuticle. “And I’ll make sure no one else does, either.” He scurried out of there.

  “He’s lying,” I said.

  “I know. I’ll take care of it. Right now I’m more worried about you. You may not be working with the Gravesnatcher, but you’re not very forthcoming. You were supposed to call me as soon as you left Lisa Montgomery’s house.”

  “My cell phone was dead.”

  “Then when you got to your office.”

  “I tried. As soon as I walked in I reached for the phone to call you, but before I could dial, Piccolo popped out of the woodwork with his butterfly net.”

  She eyed me skeptically but bought it. “So, what happened with Lisa?”

  “Tit for tat, Captain. First tell me about Jason Tucker.”

  She got mad just thinking about it. “Some bureaucrat got his red tape wrapped around his brain and released Jason Tucker instead of Jerry Turner.”

  “Three weeks ago and we’re just finding out?”

  “They claim they called us just after it happened.”

  “Who’d they talk to?”

  “They don’t remember.”

  “How convenient.”

  “You want my opinion?” she said. “They didn’t talk to anybody. They’ve been keeping this quiet until they could figure out how to save their asses. Hell, if we hadn’t called to make sure Tucker was still in jail we might never have found out.”

  “Are you sure Jason Tucker is the Gravesnatcher?”

  “The stars are sure lining up. He’s got a grudge against you and Lisa. And since he was an actor the connection to Winslow or Hunter seems natural. We’re searching all their files looking for his name. This Doggieworld tape may help. I’ve asked for Jason Tucker’s police interview tapes to be pulled from the archive. With any luck we can match the two voices.”

  The tape reminded me of something. “We may be able to do better than that.”

  “Really, what?”

  “We may be able to actually see him in action.”

  The Stuff Frozen

  Dreams Are Made Of

  “Here he comes now.”

  Barak Obama stepped out of a corridor and walked down the row of liquid nitrogen storage tanks. He wore surgical gloves and carried a small cooler in his right hand.

  “Still wearing the Obama mask,” Mary Rocket said. “Just like Magic Land.”

  Mary Rocket and I were in Beverly Hills. In the Beverly Hills police station, to be exact. Sitting in a lush conference room—to be more exact—watching a copy of a CryoZy Laboratory surveillance tape.

  Beverly Hills has its own police department. With relatively little crime and enough money for all the new high tech toys, cops from all over California lined up twenty deep for every available opening on the BHPD. Judging by the detective standing in front of us, Peter Burke, they choose the tall, handsome guys with broad shoulders, square jaws and piercing blue eyes. Movie star looks. Nothing but the best for the BHPD. Burke walked us through his investigation.

  “CryoZy Labs has an elaborate security system. Alarm tape on all the windows. Front door is reinforced steel, triple locked. Motion detectors crisscross the entryway. And, as you can see, a video camera guards the vault. Look at the time stamp: he first appeared at eleven twenty-three p.m., but the alarm didn’t go off until eleven thirty-seven.”

  “He must’ve gotten in during business hours,” I said.

  “Hidden in a closet or something, and come out after everyone was gone.”

  “That’s right. Then he stole the sperm, walked into the lobby, used a hammer to break the plate glass window, and disappeared into the night.”

  Mary Rocket shook her head. “All the security in the world won’t help you if the perp’s already inside.”

  “We think it was the computer room. There was a crushed box in a storage area behind the main frame. Looks like he was sitting on it while waiting for everyone to clear out. On the floor we found a cotton fiber, one that matches the cotton on disposable surgical boots. Check out his feet.”

  Mary Rocket nodded. “He’s got surgical booties over his shoes.”

  “We also found a fiber in front of tank six.”

  On screen, Barak Obama stopped in front of tank six.

  “There are ten tanks total, each five feet high.” He opened a wedge-shaped drawer on the side of the tank. After searching for a moment or two, his left hand reached in and started withdrawing thin, four inch long, white plastic vials. He took eight of them.

  “They’re called cryovials,” Burke said. “There are between eight and ten thousand cryovials in each tank. The tanks are kept at 193 degrees below zero.”

  Why’s he taking so many of them?” Mary Rocket asked.

  “There’s no guarantee that a woman will get pregnant the first time she uses the sperm, so she asks for extra donations. Hudson King made eight deposits.”

  I asked, “How’d he know where to find Lisa’s cryovial?”

  “He accessed a terminal in the computer room, left Lisa Montgomery’s file on the screen.”

  Obama opened up the cooler, put the cryovials inside. Burke froze the frame. “As you can see, he wore gloves, so we got no prints. Aside from the cotton fibers, we found no forensic evidence. However … see his hair sticking out from behind the Obama mask? Long and brown, tied in a pony tail.”

  “That’s how Jason Tucker wore his hair,” I said.

  The tape showed us something else, I was sure of it. I felt this tugging at my brain again, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “It looks like Tucker is our man,” Mary Rocket said. “Our best shot to catch him is the next ransom drop. When is it, Gideon?”

  “Noon, tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  This is where it got tricky. Lying to the Captain could backfire big time and I could make Piccolo’s day and wind up in jail. Plus, if someone in the police department was working with the Gravesnatcher, and I told Mary Rocket that the drop had been switched to the zoo, there was a chance the Gravesnatcher would hear about it and not show up. Besides, I really felt I had the best chance catching this SOB alone, so I said: “The Hollywood Bowl.”

  “The Hollywood Bowl? You’re sure?”

  Uh oh, did she know something I didn’t think she knew? “Yeah, I’m sure, why?”

  “Well, the Bowl’s practically deserted at noon on a weekday. So it’s not nearly as risky a place as Magic Land for us to plan an o
peration. This is good. Very good,” Mary Rocket said.

  “Gideon, you go about your business, make sure the ransom is put together, act like you’re doing everything the Gravesnatcher wants. I’m going to huddle up with SWAT and come up with a plan. Thanks for all your help, Detective Burke. Gideon, I’ll call you later.” And with that, an excited Mary Rocket limped out of the conference room.

  I turned back to the TV monitor. “Detective Burke, would it be all right if I kept a copy of this DVD?”

  “Sure, take this one. I’ve got the master locked up safe and sound.”

  “Thank you.” I focused on the frozen image of Obama. There was a clue there; I knew it. What the hell was it?

  A Promise Is A Promise

  And Must Be Kept

  Roy stared at the bedroom TV. A cute blond reporter stood in front of City Hall, the microphone with an NBC logo gripped firmly in her manicured hand. “Police sources have just confirmed that they have new evidence tying escaped convict Jason Tucker to the Gravesnatcher investigation.” A picture of Tucker flashed on the screen. The reporter continued, “If you see this man or know of his whereabouts, please contact the LAPD immediately. Police caution that he is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous.”

  Good, Roy thought. They must’ve looked at the surveillance tapes from the sperm bank. The wig was a great idea.

  He was also conflicted. Happy the cops had taken the Jason Tucker bait. Sad he wasn’t getting credit for the ingenious crimes. Oh, well, his day would come.

  With a flick of the remote, Roy extinguished the broadcast, then went to work digging through the stack of magazines on the floor of his closet. He was looking for a particular issue, one of his favorites. He found it and hurried into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  In the mirror’s reflection, Roy saw the movie poster he’d tacked to the back of the bathroom door. Forgetting the magazine for a moment, his eyes caressed the poster. A waif lay curled among rumpled sheets. She was young, innocent looking, and yet incredibly sexy. A bare leg stuck out the bottom, a languid arm draped out the side. She had long brown hair, a trusting look in her huge hazel eyes, and a provocative smile on her slightly parted lips. Her name was Tiffany Granger. She had actually been nineteen when she was cast in the movie but the character she played was sixteen. The title of the movie was Jailbait. On the top left of the poster her name was printed: Tiffany Granger. On the top right of the poster was the name of her co-star: Roy Cooper.