The Doomsday Girl

by Dave Stanton

Pullman took a plastic bag from his coat pocket and began rolling a smoke. It took him less than ten seconds to finish, and the result looked almost as perfect as a store bought cigarette. He lit up and dragged deeply, then spit a stray piece of tobacco into the air.

  “The globalists, my friend. Who are they, you want to know? Top politicians and businesspeople, intellectuals, the richest people in the world. A secret society of them, going back hundreds of years, plotting to fuck over the common man, and I mean fuck us over, as in eliminate us until they shrink the world population small enough to where they can rule it.” He drank off his beer, but his eyes never left mine.

  “I see that look on your face,” he said. “I’ve seen it a lot. You know what it’s called? Cognitive dissonance. It happens when people are presented with cold, hard facts that are too upsetting to accept. So they create rationales to negate the truth.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Hey, don’t feel bad about it. It doesn’t mean you’re a dumbass. It just means you’re uneducated.”

  “Thanks for the insight. Back to Jeff—”

  “Let me give you a perfect example: World Trade Center Seven. It was a smaller building a hundred yards away from the Twin Towers. No planes ran into WTC Seven. But it collapsed just the same, in the exact way it would if it was professionally demolished. Our government claimed debris from the Twin Towers caused a fire in WTC Seven, which caused its frame to weaken and collapse. But leading engineering and architecture experts say there’s no way a fire could have caused the building to fall that way. So what happened? Here’s a clue: The CIA had an undercover office in WTC Seven, where they stored all sorts of secret and classified documents. They were all destroyed.”

  “And?”

  “Within two years, we invade Iraq, under the false premise that they possessed weapons of mass destruction. Thousands die, Vice President Dick-head Cheney makes millions off Halliburton stock, and with the rise of ISIS, the world is now a far more dangerous place. Think it’s coincidence?”

  I looked at my watch. “You said Jeff had money. Do you know where he got it?”

  “Hell, boy, he earned it. He ran a business.”

  “Did he have any other income source?”

  “Not that I ever knew.”

  “Okay. Did the police interview you after Jeff died, Mr. Pullman?”

  For a moment he stared at me, face ablaze, then the fervor left his eyes. He made a scoffing sound and shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “But I don’t think I was much use to them.”

  “Where were you the night Jeff Jordan was murdered?”

  “Right here, all night with my family. Just like I told the Cedar City cops.”

  We sat in silence for a long moment. Then he chugged his beer and said, “I’ll get Randy to drive you back to your car.”

  “No need,” I said. “I’ll walk.”

  ******

  I made it back to my truck quickly and began down the dirt road toward the highway. What conclusions had I drawn from my conversation with Elias Pullman? First, I saw no indication he knew more about Jeff Jordan’s murder than he’d confided. But I also wondered about the potential of a man whose extremist views dictated a lifestyle I could only describe as freakish. While Jeff Jordan subscribed to much of what Pullman prophesized, Jordan seemed to be seeking a balance of sorts. Just because Jordan lived in a remote location, didn’t trust our financial system, and sought to reduce his dependence on public utilities, I didn’t view him as crazy. Elias Pullman, on the other hand, seemed completely unhinged. I was certain he could explain away even the most obvious realities to justify his beliefs. Could a person like him justify murder?

  I steered around a deep rut and saw the paved road up ahead. Elias Pullman was no doubt well-armed, and his cigarette-rolling prowess was something that could have been learned in prison. Could he be a murderer? I couldn’t eliminate him as a suspect, but the fact that he’d not run, but remained nearby, made it extremely unlikely. He may have been crazy and paranoid, but I didn’t think he was stupid.

  Right before I reached the highway, my cell rang. I looked at the screen and recognized Cody Gibbons’ number.

  “What’s happening, Cody?”

  “Dirty double-crossin’ Dan,” he said. It was the nickname he’d assigned me for life. Something about a woman in a bar during a long night of drinking many years ago.

  “I’m southbound, old buddy. Heading to Vegas. Remember my daughter I told you about?”

  “Your daughter?” I asked, eyebrows raised. “You mean the one you haven’t met?”

  “Yeah, but that’s old news. We had a long talk recently, and I’m going to visit her.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “I called Betty Lou from high school and got her number. Abbey is a criminal justice major at UNLV. Can you believe that?”

  “From you, sure.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Criminal justice runs in your veins. She must have inherited it.”

  “Oh. Goddammit, you’re probably right. Anyway, I’d like to introduce you to her, being that you’re in the trade and all. Aren’t you nearby?”

  “I’m in Cedar City, working on that case you sent my way. It’s in southern Utah.”

  “So, what, you’re two or three hours away? Take care of business, then get your ass to Vegas. I’m gonna be there for about a week.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Hey, Dirt, it’s my daughter. It means a lot to me.”

  “Okay, buddy.”

  “Call me and let me know,” he said.

  We hung up, and I shook my head as I drove through the murky twilight. The idea of Cody as a parent would take some getting used to. Cody had never mentioned wanting kids, and I wondered what was going on in his brain when he contacted the daughter he’d never met. Maybe guilt, or maybe it was just an impulsive thing. Whatever the case, it came out of left field, but that’s how Cody was. I smiled as I recalled some of his past exploits, but I also felt an undercurrent of concern for my friend. I hoped this development would be a positive one for him, but given his inclinations, anything could happen.

  The sky was dark when I rolled to a stop in Melanie’s driveway. The solitary light above the front door flickered weakly through the cold mist, as if it were a candle flame that might die at any moment. I parked and turned the doorknob, but it was locked. I rang the doorbell and waited, then knocked loudly. I jabbed the doorbell again, listening to it through the small glass windows next to the door.

  I kept ringing the bell for five minutes, wondering if she was taking a shower, or perhaps listening to music through headphones. An inch of snow had built on the ground. I stood with my hands in my coat pockets. “You got to be kidding,” I said, and pushed the doorbell once more. Another couple minutes went by until I heard a noise inside and the door opened. Melanie had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, I fell asleep. I’m not feeling that great.”

  “Are you just tired?” I said, closing the door behind us.

  “Maybe. Were you out there long?”

  “No.”

  “I’m a little dizzy. I think I’ll lie down again.”

  I followed her into the family room. She sat on the couch, then lay on her back with her knees bent. She rested one hand on her forehead.

  “Have you had enough water? You might be dehydrated.”

  “I drank a bottle when you dropped me off.”

  “How about food?” I asked. “Have you had anything to eat?”

  “I’m not hungry. Could you turn the light off, please?”

  “Sure.” I took a long look at her, then hit the switch and left the room.

  For the next hour I methodically searched the house, looking for Jeff Jordan’s cellphone, or anything else that might help me. I started in Melanie’s bedroom and spent some time poking through the boxes in the closet, hoping to spot paperwork related to how Jeff came to possess a
million in gold and probably more than that in gemstones. Finding nothing, I moved from room to room, looking under couches and in drawers and cupboards and behind furniture. The longer I searched, the more I felt that the intruders must have taken the phone. They would have been foolish not to, because it likely contained text messages and phone numbers, if not actual e-mails, that would reveal where and how Jeff got his mysterious treasure. And this information, I was reasonably certain, would lead to who robbed and killed him.

  Or maybe I was assigning the killers too much credit; maybe they didn’t bother with his phone. Only the most professional criminals do a decent job covering their tracks. Most crooks make an effort, but in a hurry and under stress, they leave key evidence. I tended to think Jeff Jordan’s murderers fell in the latter category; the mutilation seemed an act of rage, or psychosis. These weren’t the kind of men that were disciplined.

  I finished searching and found nothing. The only room I hadn’t covered was the family room, and when I went in, Melanie was still asleep on the couch.

  Sighing, I went into the den and pulled the lever hidden in the desk drawer. When the bookcase swung open, I went into the cement-walled basement and grabbed a can. Then I proceeded to prepare dinner for myself, the pasta in red sauce splattering in the microwave.

  I was hoping Melanie would wake and join me, because I wanted to search the family room, and also ask if she could provide Jeff’s email login and password. If so, I could access his email on my PC.

  I’d just finished eating when I heard moans from the family room.

  “Melanie?” I switched on the light.

  She sat with her head in her hands. “I have a migraine. I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “I’ll get you some aspirin.”

  “I took some earlier. It’s not doing anything.” She stood abruptly. Her face was colorless and dotted with perspiration. She rushed past me to the hall bathroom and I heard her retching. I followed her and stood in the doorway. After a minute she collapsed next to the commode and curled into the fetal position.

  “I’m taking you to the emergency room,” I said.

  ******

  The road to the highway was coated in white, but my truck didn’t falter, and I drove aggressively until I power slid onto the pavement. Then I kicked it up a notch, flooring it and bringing it up to eighty on the long straight. It was an unsafe speed on a dark, snowy road, but Melanie was weeping in pain, her body hunched over in my passenger seat.

  I made it to the medical facility on Main Street in fifteen minutes, and they took her into a room promptly. I stood outside the room, speaking to the emergency room physician, a middle-aged woman in green scrubs.

  “Six weeks ago she was hit on the head, and spent four weeks in a coma in a Las Vegas hospital,” I said. “They said she’d recovered, but she’s been having some issues, and now this.”

  “We’ll give her an intravenous pain killer and keep an eye on her. That’s our standard treatment for a severe migraine.”

  “How long will you keep her here?”

  “At least ninety minutes. The pain killer might make her drowsy. You’ll need to contact her primary care doctor tomorrow.”

  “I’m taking her to the hospital in Vegas first thing in the morning.”

  I left the building and stood under the awning in the stark light. It was no longer snowing and the night had become colder. A few cars drove by, their tires crunching and slipping on slush that had turned to ice. I blew into my hands then poked at my phone until I found the number for Melanie’s parents.

  “Hello?” Walter McDermott said.

  “Mr. McDermott, Dan Reno. Is your wife there?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Put me on the speaker, please. I’d like to speak to you both.”

  “Hold on,” he said, followed by muted voices and scuffling sounds. Then Lillian McDermott spoke.

  “Yes, Mr. Reno, what is it?”

  “I’m at the emergency clinic in Cedar City. Melanie had a migraine and she’s being treated now.”

  “A migraine? Is that the doctor’s diagnosis?”

  “For the time being. But I can tell you, Melanie is not ready to be on her own. Her behavior is erratic and she needs someone watching over her. She should also be near doctors who understand what she’s been through. I’m taking her to the hospital in Vegas in the morning.”

  “You really feel this is necessary?” Lillian said.

  “I’m not a neurologist, but I goddamn know when someone’s not right.”

  “You don’t need to swear in front of me.”

  “Listen, I can’t work this case and be Melanie’s caretaker at the same time.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Catch a morning flight to Vegas. I want you to stay with Melanie until my work is done.”

  “You mean, until you find Mia?” Walter said.

  “That, and deal with Jeff’s killers.”

  “Deal with?”

  “We need to think about this,” Lillian said. “In the meantime, I’m paying you for your time, so please make sure Melanie is safe.”

  “Call me back tonight,” I said.

  We hung up, and I went back into the clinic waiting room, then spun on my heels and walked out to my truck. I drove past the storefronts, which were now mostly closed and dark, and gunned it onto the highway and back toward Melanie’s house.

  Peering through my windshield at the deserted two-lane, my eyes felt red and tired. It was nine o’clock, and my day had started early. This was typically the time I’d be sitting in my house having a drink with Candi, while she toked off her Sherlock Holmes pipe. Pleasantly buzzed, we’d relax and enjoy our time together, like a normal couple. Often we’d have sex in the evening, sometimes not even making it to the bedroom. It was during this time that I never allowed myself to think about work. I locked the sordid ugliness away behind a wall, temporarily rendering it not part of my life. Over time, this had become easier to do.

  But tonight I was still on the clock, and I reminded myself to not complain, because I hadn’t worked for weeks. If I couldn’t tolerate occasional long hours and late nights, I could always seek a regular forty-hour job, maybe even as a detective at South Lake Tahoe or Douglas County PD. Those opportunities had been there for me, but I’d never seriously considered being a cop. The structure, the rules, the politics, those were headaches for others. As for the challenges of my job, at least they were varied, and allowed me some “freedom of expression,” as Cody called it.

  When I arrived at Melanie’s house, I saw we’d left the lights on. No surprise there, I’d been in a hurry to get her to the clinic. It bothered me to see her in such pain, and I wondered if this was just my natural response to a woman in distress, or if it was heightened because she was starting to grow on me. She was pretty and definitely smart, despite her mental issues. She was also vulnerable, but I sensed she possessed an underlying toughness. As for her nude body, I couldn’t deny my physical reaction, but Candi was everything to me, a once in a lifetime find. I would never risk that.

  I went through the front door and into the family room. Sitting on the couch, I imagined Jeff Jordan watching television while Melanie prepared dinner. Did he have his phone with him, maybe texting or checking e-mails or playing video games? If so, the intruders could have grabbed it as soon as they entered the room.

  I looked around for the remote control, thinking to turn on the television, maybe recreate the scene. But it wasn’t on the coffee table, nor did I see it on the entertainment center. My hand reached between the leather cushions, then I stood, staring at the couch. I removed the center cushion and sure enough, found the remote. Then I removed the cushions to either side and ran my fingers in the spaces between the frame and the upholstery. The cracks were narrow, but my fingertip hit something solid. I jammed my fingers in deeper, and something was definitely there, but I couldn’t see it. Pushing hard with both hands, I heard a muted thump as an object fell to
the carpet. I dead-lifted the couch, tilting it back until I saw it laying there. A Samsung smartphone.

  “Bingo,” I said, grabbing the phone and lowering the couch. It was a lucky break. The battery was dead, but it used the same power cord as mine. I went into the kitchen and plugged it in. Two minutes later it came to life.

  The device was encrypted and required a password. Most people view this as a hindrance and choose passwords that are easy to enter. I tapped four zeros, then four ones, four twos, and after I reached four sixes it locked me out. I rebooted and started again with four sevens. Lucky sevens unlocked the device.

  I sat at Melanie’s dining table and looked over the icons on the home screen. Then I tapped the Gmail tab and began reading through Jeff Jordan’s email history. It didn’t take long to conclude that he used email solely for his contracting business. He only sent five or six messages per day, and they were a mixture of job quotations, instructions to sub-contractors, and purchase orders sent to construction material wholesalers. In twenty minutes I scanned almost two months of activity and saw nothing that made me pause.

  Next I opened the text message application. There were more than twenty conversation strings. Except for one, they were all identified by a first and last name, which meant the individuals were in Jeff’s address book. The sole exception was a string titled by a number sequence beginning with a zero. I opened it and saw a total of three incoming messages and Jeff’s response to each.

  November 13, 8:45 p.m. Zero #: eta 11-16 pola

  November 13, 8:48 p.m. Jeff’s response: let me know exactly when and where

  November 14, 2:12 p.m. Zero #: scheduled dock is 5:15am

  November 14, 2:14 p.m. Jeff’s response: exactly where?

  November 14, 3:30 p.m. Zero #: berth 207. park on street 6am. I’ll call you

  November 14, 3:32 p.m. Jeff’s response: got it. will wait for you

  I spent another ten minutes looking over the other conversation threads on Jeff’s phone, and saw nothing suspicious. I stood, then sat again and reread the zero number thread. Mid-November, roughly two weeks before Jeff was shot. An early morning meeting with an unknown person. A dock, a berth: boating terms, but berth suggested larger vessels. And pola—what was that?