Set in Stone

by David James Warren

  Leo Fitzgerald has killed my daughter, and now, he’s trying to put the blame on me.

  You’d be restless and crabby, too.

  It’s mid-morning, and the sun casts a shadow from the dilapidated yellow house that holds my memories. The porch is sagging, an old geranium pot, discarded, laying on its side.

  The barn is weathered, the doors open, and old memories blow out. I can almost hear my father’s old felt-covered transistor radio playing the classic rock that embeds my bones, Bryan Adams singing, “Ain’t No use in Complainin’.”

  I want to ask Eve what happened to my parents. But I can’t. It would sound too strange.

  Last time I saw them, my mother served Eve pancakes in the eat-in kitchen just off the front porch.

  My dad helped me dig my Jeep out of storage after a snowstorm.

  It was good. Really, really good.

  Eve is out in the field, garbed up in her CSI attire—gloves, protective shoe covers and a jacket identifying her. She’s head of the entire department, so the underlings in the field defer to her as she checks on their progress.

  A team of twelve is exhuming five bodies, carefully, taking pictures, logging evidence, the scale of the crime scene overwhelming.

  I have too many questions to begin, so I’m watching, but turning over what I know.

  The murders started sometime after my first jump back in time, to the summer of 1997 when I stopped Ramses Vega from blowing up a third coffee shop in his political protest.

  The Jackson killer’s first victim was his own girlfriend, a cocktail waitress named Lauren Delany.

  She held a worn twenty in her grip, the eerie words, thank you for your service, written in black ink across the face of the bill. Hence, the nickname—Jackson, as in Andrew, whose face is on the twenty.

  Eve found Leo Fitzgerald’s DNA on the body, finally, and tied to him to the crime in the recent past.

  His second victim was a nurse named Gretchen Anderson. Same MO. Same twenty-dollar tip. And, she dated Fitzgerald.

  We know it’s him. We just can’t seem to get ahead of him.

  Most of the victims have been in their late teens or early twenties, all of them strangled, sexually assaulted. The most recent victim, a girl named Hollie Larue, survived his first attempt, but died during my last rewrite of history.

  And this one, apparently.

  In earlier days, Fitzgerald killed John Booker in an ambush-explosion at an abandoned house three years ago.

  And, most importantly, Fitzgerald murdered my four-year-old daughter, at least once.

  This time around, I’m not sure how she died, but the fact that Leo has deposited his kills in my backyard doesn’t bode well.

  Unfortunately, my past creates a puzzle of disjointed pieces that don’t all fit together.

  A rusty swing set squeaks in the scant morning breeze, the smell of summer in the greening, overgrown lawn, the weedy remains of a garden.

  I’m standing with my arms folded, watching the activity, my thoughts taking me through time, when Eve walks up to me.

  “Rem. You okay?”

  I look at her. She’s not the woman who held onto me at the hospital, her fears overtaking her. This Eve wears her auburn hair tied back and a grim, but clinical expression in her pretty hazel green eyes. She’s focused, the emotions from earlier in the day buried.

  “Why would he pick my parents’ home to bury these women?”

  She raises a shoulder. “But there’s something more—these remains are old, like Zeke said. Twenty or more years.”

  I shake my head. “Eve, I would have noticed if someone buried bodies in our backyard.”

  “That’s the thing. They were moved here within the last three years. After your parents moved to Florida.”

  My parents moved to Florida. Relief floods me.

  “This house doesn’t even belong to them anymore. It’s owned by the city of Waconia, slated to be demolished.”

  I don’t know why that pinches. It wasn’t like I have a full deck of happy memories here. Most of my childhood was spent mourning for my brother, Mickey, kidnapped when I was twelve.

  Still. Demolished. It feels like a keen metaphor for my life.

  “So, someone killed these women, and then, seventeen years later dug them up and moved them? How do you know?”

  She makes a face. “The bodies are in garbage bags, the bones, clothing and other epidermal remains all…well, the bodies were already decomposed when they were transferred. The graves are not large enough for entire bodies…”

  I understand what she’s getting at. “How are you determining how long they’ve been here?”

  “We’ll sample the earth around it, determine how much electrical resistivity is in the soil. In a…fresh body, the conductivity in the soil water significantly increases up to two years after burial. But, like I said, these bodies were in lawn bags, so we’re also looking at the breakdown of the plastic, and of course the make of the bag.”

  I look at her. “Do they match the profile? Are you sure these are Jackson kills?”

  She nods, then holds up a bag. It’s been numbered and labeled but as she hands it to me, I am without breath.

  A faded twenty-dollar bill marked with the tell-tale words.

  I hand it back to her, and something akin to nausea rises inside.

  Five more women.

  One thought, however, pulses in the back of my brain even as my phone vibrates in my jeans pocket.

  If these kills happened over twenty years ago, then it’s possible they didn’t start after the coffee shop bombing.

  But in my original timeline, that’s where they ended.

  You know what this means, right?

  This may not be my fault. Or at least, not entirely.

  I’m not sure why, but I don’t feel any better.

  “Thanks, Eve,” I say as I pull out my phone. “Stone here.”

  I don’t recognize the voice on the other end.

  “I expected you in my office ten minutes ago so we could prepare.”

  Not a clue. “Sorry. I was called to a scene—”

  “Save it, Stone. We have a press conference in an hour and you’d better not stand me up.”

  Press conference. And I blame my stellar investigative skills—and my history with this woman—for my quick response. “Sorry, Mayor Vega. I’m on my way.”

  “Wear a suit.”

  She hangs up, and I think I handled that pretty well, considering our past.

  But I’m still attired in my jeans and T-shirt from last night, so maybe she’s right.

  “The mayor,” Eve says, and one eyebrow lifts. “Lucky you.”

  “I guess I have a press conference today.” I remember my last one, in a not-too-distant lifetime. That time, I was giving an update on the Jackson killer, and Eve wasn’t talking to me.

  This time she gives me a kiss on the cheek as I leave. “Be the charmer I remember.”

  I don’t think I was ever a charmer, but I’ll take the kiss. I leave in her car and head back to the house, take a shower, change into a requisite suit and pull into the downtown ramp with minutes to spare.

  The downtown headquarters is located in a beautiful rose granite building constructed in 1888. I park in the ramp and take the tunnel, coming out at the center rotunda. The giant sculpture of Neptune of the Sea sits in the center of the room, under the five-story rotunda, and I rub his big toe for luck as I walk by.

  I find the mayor’s office and her assistant knocks and lets me right in.

  * * *

  The last time I met Mariana Vega in the past, I’d chased her son through uptown, tackled him and we had a little tussle. She wasn’t happy.

  It’s been twenty-four years for her, but her expression of annoyance hasn’t aged a day as she rises from the chair behind her massive black desk. Awards, plaques and pictures line her wall. Most of them feature her with various business owners around town.

  Mayor Vega wears a dark-patterned V-nec
ked wrap dress, her long brown hair up, and her dark eyes hold no quarter as she holds out her hand. “Chief Stone.”

  That’s sounds weird, right? I’m not the only one?

  I meet her hand, and the handshake is ever so brief before she drops it. “Sit.”

  I feel like her pet mastiff, so I stay standing.

  Maybe this is what Shelby means about behaving myself.

  “Suit yourself,” Vega says as she sits. She folds her hands on the desk. “You should know that you weren’t my first choice.”

  Knock me over with a stick. “I’m sure.”

  “But Chief Burke says you’re the one to fill her shoes.” She says this as if her mouth is full of bile. “We just need to make something clear if we’re going to work together.”

  I’m trying to read her. She’s put on weight with age, her cheeks rounder, her chin thicker, but she’s still a striking woman.

  The kind that you probably don’t want to get on the wrong side of, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “Stop harassing my son.”

  Great. I’m apparently still at it. And here I had this fantasy it was going to be easier.

  “Mayor Vega, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And, really, I’m not lying here, am I?

  “Please. You’ve driven by our house every single night for a week. Well, until your Porsche was torched.” She leans forward. “Which he didn’t do.”

  I remember what Shelby said about some Russian gang blowing up my beloved Porsche, but with Mariana’s words, it occurs to me that I might want to take a closer look at her son.

  “What was he in jail for again?” I raise an eyebrow even as she purses her mouth. “Oh that’s right—bombing.” I lean forward, my hands on her desk. “How did you manage this, anyway? To become mayor.”

  Eve’s in my head, Be the charmer remember. I haven’t a clue who she might be referring to.

  Vega is on her feet. “Inspector Stone—”

  “Chief,” I say and sit down. “Your son murdered twelve people,” I got that right this time. “How he is out on parole has to be a question for the ethics committee.”

  She’s wearing a face that looks similar to the time I called her and her entire city council a bunch of communists for not allowing me to build my garage addition.

  Thankfully, that’s not in her memory in this timeline. At least I don’t think so. But she’s having none of it, her voice shaking a little as she rises. “My son wasn’t convicted of the bombings, Stone, and you know it. He’s done his time. He’s a changed man, and it’s time he was free.”

  I stay seated, and keep my voice even, soft. “I don’t know who blew up my Porsche. But if Ramses did it, then you and I both know he’s dangerous. And the last place he should be is walking the streets.” I take in a deep breath. “Mariana. He bombed two coffee shops. And would have kept going—.”

  “He was innocent.” She meets my eyes, unflinching. “Someone set him up.”

  Wow, she really believes that.

  “Who?”

  “You never got the bomb-maker, did you?”

  I don’t know, but my guess is no, from her expression.

  “But you don’t care about that. You just want to put blame on the son of an immigrant.”

  I shake my head and rise. “I’m watching him.” Although, it’s probably an empty threat.

  I have bigger piranha on my plate.

  As if reading my mind, she folds her arms, looks back at me. “Tell me where we are with the Jackson murders.”

  I’m not sure what Burke had told her—or maybe me, before I took this job. But, “We found five bodies today, out in a field in Waconia. It’s not in our jurisdiction, but they all have the Jackson signature twenty-dollar bills with their remains, so…”

  She grits her teeth. “Perfect. Were there reporters there?”

  I frown. “I didn’t see any.”

  “Good. This gets out, it’ll only start a panic.”

  I’m starting to panic. “Wait—doesn’t the public know?”

  In my last timeline, we told the public. And it saved lives. Or, at least one life. Hollie Larue.

  Until, of course, it didn’t.

  Vega is looking at me like I’ve suggesting setting Vikings stadium on fire. “That’s the last thing we want to do.”

  I lean over her desk. “No, Mayor, the last thing we want is for more women to die.”

  “Which means you have to catch him, Stone. And if we give out details, we’ll have copycats starting up everywhere.”

  “We need to warn people.”

  We’re staring at each other, and probably that’s why we don’t hear her assistant knock, or the door open. Just her voice, “Madam Mayor, it’s time for the press conference.”

  She glances at the woman, nods, then looks back at me. “No press. But I do want daily updates.”

  I purse my lips, but nod, turn and head for the door. Her voice stops me.

  “So? What are you going to say?”

  I turn. “Um,” and I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about. I want to say, ‘Who’s on First,’ but she’s looking at me like I’m a child, and the strangest hint of compassion enters her eyes.

  “I know this is hard for you, Rembrandt. But you volunteered, so…” She comes around the desk and reaches for a light sweater hanging on the hook. “I know whatever you say, it will be the right thing.”

  The right thing?

  She opens the door, and somehow, I move my feet toward the door.

  “Besides, he did die saving your life.”

  Her hand pats my shoulder as we walk out of her office, and my brain is scrambling.

  Who died?

  She descends the marble staircase toward the rotunda and walks across the marble floor through to the annex of the administrative offices of the Minneapolis Police Department.

  We enter a lobby filled with wall plaques and awards and head toward a row of busts of past police chiefs. One is covered in a black cloth.

  My entire body heats up. I think I know.

  A crowd of reporters and other attendees—many of them officers in uniform—are gathered.

  A podium is set up in front, and Mayor Vega steps up to it.

  It’s then I see the picture. An oil painting leaning beside the cloth-covered bust.

  The likeness of the man who died saving my life.

  Chief of Police, John Booker.

  4

  I nail the press conference. Because like Eve said, I’m a charmer.

  Who knew, really? But I stepped up to the podium, after Mayor Vega introduced me, realizing that while I haven’t a clue how Booker died, I do know him.

  Maybe better than anyone, really.

  So, I got this, and maybe Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” is playing in my head—I almost feel supersonic as people laugh at my stories and finally clap to my words. Then they unveil the bust, and the likeness of Booker seems accurate. Sort of a craggy, old west character with pensive eyes and a grim set to his mouth, with just a tweak of a smile, who deserves merit in our history.

  Booker was the man I most wanted to be like.

  I pose for a few pictures, glad-hand people I don’t know and mingle until I finally peel off and make for the door.

  I just might nail this police chief gig.

  I’m nearly free when Mayor Vega’s voice hisses in my wake. “What the hell was that?”

  I turn, and she’s coming at me, eyes hot.

  Claws in, you cat, but I don’t say that. Instead I clear the door and duck into a nearby hallway. Although with these marble floors and walls, my guess is that any reporter with a good ear could listen in on this showdown.

  “What?” I say and really, what’s she so irked about? There was joking. Stories. I told about the time that Booker drove one of the squad cars into the lake on a chase. And the time he delivered a baby on the side of the road. (Remember? I told you that one already.)

  “Really, Stone? Not one mention of the fact he
caught a serial killer?”

  I’m just staring at her, because I have no memory of a serial killer—or Booker catching him, in my timeline.

  She cocks her head, one dark eyebrow in a frown.

  “The Grays Lake murderer. Please. Of all people, you’re the one person who I thought would want to mention that accolade.”

  My heart is thundering in my ears.

  There’s only one Grays Lake I know of…the one where my brother, Michelangelo, was discovered some, well, twenty-four years ago.

  In that timeline, the murderer was still undiscovered.

  I can’t speak and she rolls her eyes. “In fact, I would have thought it would have been the main subject of your speech.”

  “Because of my brother?” I say quietly.

  “Listen, I know you probably want to downplay it, but we both know that’s what sold all those books of yours. The kid whose brother was taken becomes a cop and works with the man who solved the case?” She raises an eyebrow.

  Right. “I just wanted people to know him like I did,” I say, trying to keep up.

  Booker, what did you do? Because remember, I got the watch from him. And my brother’s murder was one of his cold cases.

  Except, in this timeline, apparently, he’s solved it.

  That cheater. Booker is rewriting my timeline, and I don’t like it.

  “Plus, half those things didn’t even happen,” she says. “Delivered a baby? Right.”

  I shrug, because what am I going to say?

  “I’ve got my eye on you, Stone.” She turns and walks away, her heels clipping on the marble.

  I wrap a hand around my neck, kneading a stiff muscle. I need coffee.

  I find a kiosk outside and order a latte before heading back to my office, down in the police department wing. The reporters have left, and I stand for a moment in front of Booker’s bust. I can almost hear his voice. “Did you give me a good eulogy?”

  Yes, I did, boss. Yes, I did.

  I find my way back to the administrative offices. Booker’s was always number 103, and that’s where I go, bypassing a secretary, a man sitting outside the door. “This mine?” I ask before I go in. I read his name—Reagan.