Death Notice

by Lolli Powell

  “I agree.” Jen couldn’t help but laugh. She leaned against the side of Vic’s cruiser. “I understand you were behind us when the accident occurred?”

  “Not directly behind,” Holiday said. “Two cars back.”

  “Did you witness the accident itself?”

  “Not the actual impact,” he said. “My view was blocked for that. But I saw the car approaching and heard the noise. Then I saw that poor man go flying, and the car take off with you after them. Of course, I didn’t know at the time it was you.”

  Jen looked around, but she didn’t see any red vehicles parked nearby.

  “What happened to the red car that was between us?”

  “It took off,” Holiday said. “I was kind of surprised at that. Most people stick around at a bad accident—out of curiosity, if for no other reason.”

  “What kind of car was it?” Vic said.

  “A Corvette.” Holiday looked back at Jen. “It looked like the one I told you about the other day. I doubt that it was the same one, but it was the same model.”

  “Did you see the driver or get a license number?”

  “I’m afraid not. I think there was just the driver in the car, no one else, but I’m not even sure of that.”

  “Well, thank you for stopping, Mr. Holiday.” Jen smiled at the man. “You’re turning out to be one of the department’s best witnesses.”

  Holiday cringed and shook his head.

  “If it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I think this is about all the witnessing I care to do.”

  As Jen walked back to Trish and Sergeant Veasey, she hoped for his sake that Carter Holiday didn’t have to witness any more of the sort of thing he’d seen this week. He seemed to be handling the shocks pretty well, but she could see the strain around his eyes. A brutalized body and a violent hit-skip were more than most citizens saw in a lifetime.

  “I guess we should get going,” she said to Trish, “if we want to get our reports done before morning.”

  CHAPTER 30

  They were in the detective section working on their reports when the communications desk officer notified her that the chief was in his office and wanted to see her. Now.

  “This ought to be fun,” she said after hanging up the phone. “The chief’s here, and he wants to see me.”

  “I suppose I’ll be next,” Trish said. “Good luck.”

  Police administration was housed in a large room, the center occupied by two desks belonging to the secretary and the administrative assistant. The sides of the room had been walled off into separate offices for the captains. The conference room where the Task Force had met occupied the corner on the right, while the left corner—the one with the windows—was the chief’s office. Jen had learned from a management class she’d taken a few years before that the outer corner was the position of power. The door to Buchan’s position of power stood open, the only sound the muted transmissions coming from the police radio on the secretary’s desk.

  Stanley Buchan’s arms were propped on his desk, his face in his hands, the bald spot at the top of his head shining in the light.

  “Come in, Dillon,” he said without looking up, his voice tired.

  Jen walked across the office to his desk and sat in the chair in front of it. She watched him as he sat there, the picture of a man worn down by the strain of leadership, her feelings alternating between amusement and loathing. She had seen this particular act before. Most of the department had at one time or another. She wondered if he practiced in front of a mirror to get it right. She glanced at the clock on the wall. He usually allowed thirty seconds for this part of the routine, thirty seconds of silence from God intended to strike fear into the heart of the transgressor.

  He went thirty-five. Pretty good, Jen thought. Maybe he's been practicing.

  “Would you care to explain what happened tonight?” He took his hands from his face and folded them on the desk. He stared at her without blinking, his face a mask of disapproval.

  She stared back for a few seconds before answering. It always amused her to give him a taste of his own medicine. It always ticked him off when she did.

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware of it,” she said, “but we’ve established a possible connection between the murder victims and The Factory. In case you’re not familiar with it, The Factory is a club located in the Forest Park Mall.”

  She saw him stiffen at the implication that he didn’t know the latest developments in the case and that he didn’t know the names of all the businesses in his city.

  “Tonight Officers Peters and I went there to get a feel for the place. After we left, we witnessed a hit-skip. The victim is not expected to live. Officer Peters stayed with him, and I gave chase. The hit-skip vehicle was struck by a train at Jackson and Jericho. The passenger, a sixteen-year old girl, was badly injured and might not live. The driver, a seventeen-year old male, was intoxicated or on some kind of drugs and received only minor injuries.”

  “I assume you were in your own vehicle. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Explain to me again just why you were on this detail.”

  “As I said, we’ve established a possible connection between The Factory and the murder victims. The latest victim, Victoria Kaufmann, had gone there with a friend the night she was killed, and we’ve since discovered that the county’s victim was a regular. Officer Peters and I were there to scope the place, see if anyone showed an unusual interest in two single women.”

  “Did they?”

  “Not that we noticed, no.”

  “How much had you had to drink, Detective Dillon?”

  He had added her title to her name, and that was always a bad sign.

  “Nothing, sir. I stuck to Pepsi.”

  “What about Officer Peters?”

  “I believe she had Seven-Up.”

  He stared at her for half a minute, skepticism written all over his face. Finally, realizing it was getting him nowhere, he shook his head and stood up. Jen waited while he paced the width of the office, rubbing his temples, and shaking his head, as if he were trying to get himself under control before he spoke. She had seen this act before, too. Still, she felt herself tensing. It had been a bitch of a night, and pressure from this egotistical despot was the last thing she needed.

  “Dillon, I’m going to tell you what our problem is.” He glared at her. “And, make no mistake, it is our problem. I’m getting sick and tired of taking the heat for all the so-called professional officers I’ve got working for me. I don’t need the aggravation.”

  Then maybe you should resign, Jen thought, but was smart enough not to say.

  He stepped behind the desk and leaned his hands on it, his eyes blazing. He apparently expected a response. Jen simply looked at him, waiting.

  “I’ve already received a call from Lesley Barnes, attorney-at-law. He’s been retained jointly by the parents of the two young people in question. They want your ass, Dillon. Any reason you can think of why I shouldn’t give it to them?”

  “One very good one, as I see it.”

  Jen fought to keep her mounting anger under control. She was close to tears, too close, and she’d be damned if she’d let Buchan see her like that.

  “The young man in question hit a man with his car tonight. He probably killed him, but he didn’t stop to find out. The last I heard that’s a pretty serious offense.”

  “Don’t get cute, Dillon!” Buchan snapped. “Can you prove that those kids left the scene intentionally? That’s the real question, isn’t it? Because Mr. Barnes has advised me that his client simply had an accident, that he was preparing to stop when he saw your car barreling down on him, and he panicked. He didn’t know you were a police officer. He was scared.”

  “That’s bull! He was accelerating before I even started moving.

  “That sounds real good, Dillon, but can you prove it?”

  “There was a witness other than Officer Peters and myself. From what I�
�ve heard already, he was convinced the driver meant to leave the scene.”

  “I certainly hope you’re right.” Stanley Buchan sighed. “Because the bottom line is it looks like you and the department are going to be right smack dab in the middle of the biggest bunch of crap anyone has seen in a while. We’re talking civil suit at best and criminal negligence at worst.”

  “This is just great!” Jen could feel her fragile control slipping. “Anybody can go out and kill a man with his car, and if I—or any ordinary citizen, for that matter—try to keep him from getting away, we’re the bad guys! Christ, I feel as bad as I’ve felt in a long time about what happened to that girl! I won’t forget her face—ever! But what else could I have done? Tell me that!”

  Stanley Buchan looked at her, and for a few moments, Jen thought she saw understanding and agreement there. There was nothing else she could have done, and Buchan knew it.

  But the moment passed. This was the real world, and in the real world, what was right wasn’t always as important as what was expedient. And messy lawsuits were simply not expedient for Stanley Buchan’s life plan. Not, Jen thought, that I blame him. They’re not expedient for mine either.

  “Get out of here, Dillon. Finish your report and go home. The law department will be getting with you.”

  He turned his back, picked up the phone, and started punching buttons. Jen stared at his back for a few seconds, then got up.

  Trish was getting up from the desk as Jen returned to her report. She’d just been summoned to Buchan’s office.

  “Bad?” she said.

  “The usual,” Jen said, a weak smile on her face.

  Trish squeezed her arm. “Don’t let him get to you,” she said. “You did what you had to do.”

  Jen nodded. Suddenly she was tired, very tired, and what she wanted more than anything else in the world was to call Will Anderson and ask him to hold her. Tight. She sat down at her desk and stared at the telephone, debating with herself.

  No, she finally decided, not tonight. She was down and defenseless. It wouldn’t take much for her to slip into the role of the helpless little woman who needed big strong arms around her. While she knew Will’s arms were definitely big and strong, and he would be more than glad to put them around her, she couldn’t let herself start their relationship—if they were going to have one—that way. As much as she wanted to be held by him, she was going to go home like a big girl, lock the door, and lose herself in sleep. Maybe, if she were lucky, when she woke she would find it all had been nothing more than a bad dream.

  But before she did that, she had another stop to make. Like most cops who had once worked the street, she had a few friends who worked night shift at the hospital’s emergency room. She was pretty sure they’d be willing to draw her blood and have it tested for alcohol and drugs, legal and otherwise. If it was never needed, no one had to know, but if the lawsuit Buchan saw coming did materialize—well, it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.

  CHAPTER 31

  In the east, he saw the faintest hint of the dawn that wasn’t far from breaking. The birds were rustling in the trees, mumbling chirps to one another as they stirred with the coming day. So far no lights had gone on in any of the houses around him, but he knew it wouldn’t be long. Until it was full light, though, no one could see him, concealed as he was in the bushes.

  He should have been tired. The wait had been longer than he’d thought it would be when he went out earlier. Father had told him that things didn’t always go according to plan, and tonight was proof of that. He’d considered canceling and getting her another night, but he knew he couldn’t wait. He’d been looking forward to this hunt for too long, and the anticipation kept him from getting sleepy. Instead, his nerves were stretched tight and his senses attuned to the slightest stimulation. He suspected she would be the best so far. After all, weren’t good things worth waiting for?

  It was almost time. He’d been watching when she’d come out and walked toward her car. He’d sped up and made it to her neighborhood well ahead of her, but she would be arriving any minute now. He went over his plan again. Wait till she had parked and locked her car, and when she opened the door, move fast. She was more dangerous than the others. He would need to strike quickly and incapacitate her so she could not fight back.

  Headlights struck the wall of the elementary school across the street as a car turned the corner and came toward his location. He ducked back into the shadow of the bushes and held his breath. It was her.

  She pulled to the curb and got out, carefully checking to make sure her doors were locked. She straightened and tugged at her short skirt to adjust it. He felt himself becoming aroused as he looked at her exposed thighs and hated himself for it. He would show her tonight. He would show all of them that they couldn’t tease him with their bodies.

  He waited in the shadows until she had her key in the lock of her front door, then he moved swiftly and silently. Just as she turned the key and began to push open the door, he struck, hitting her on the head with his heavy metal flashlight. She let out a small yelp of pain and staggered into the foyer.

  He moved inside quickly, slamming the front door shut behind him. She had left a light burning in the living room, and he kept a careful watch on her. He had been careful not to put all his strength behind the blow. She had not gone down but seemed only stunned, holding onto the hall table and shaking her head. He grabbed her purse where he knew she probably kept her gun and tossed it on the floor behind him.

  As he reached for her hands, she regained some control. There was a heavy brass candlestick on the table. She grabbed it and swung it clumsily at his head, her balance still off. He ducked, at the same time slamming the flashlight hard into her face. She fell like a helpless rag doll, unconscious, on the floor. He looked down at her with contempt. It had been much easier than he’d expected.

  She was heavy in her unconsciousness, but he half-dragged, half-carried her, to the bed where he undressed her. Turning her onto her stomach, he looped the pre-cut strings of utility rope he’d brought with him around her wrists and ankles, then tied her spread-eagled to her four-poster bed. Her pillowcases and sheets were red satin, befitting the slut that she was. He pulled a case off a pillow and over her head, tying it with a black ribbon.

  He stood back, surveying the scene, making sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything. All seemed in order. She was secured and at his mercy—mercy that he would not grant until the end. He backed up and sat down in the comfortable chair in the corner across from her bed. There was nothing to do but wait. When she was conscious, he would begin.

  CHAPTER 32

  Brandon woke Jen the following morning to tell her he was leaving for school. She kissed him goodbye, then called the hospital to check on the condition of the hit-and-run victim and the sixteen-year-old girl. Both were still hanging on, their conditions unchanged. She was not expected at the building till noon, so she set the alarm for ten-thirty and drifted back off to sleep.

  It seemed only minutes had passed before the alarm went off. Fighting her way out of a deep sleep, Jen wondered how ten-thirty had come so soon. Rolling over, eyes still closed, she punched the button down, but the ungodly noise continued. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and looked at the clock. It was nine-twenty. She was hearing the doorbell, not the alarm clock.

  She swung her feet out of bed and reached for her robe. Whoever was at her door was leaning on the bell now, ringing and then ringing again without pausing for even a full second. She heard the person begin pounding on the door as she tied the robe around her, and her concern began to grow.

  Will stood at the door. She had never imagined his face could look so pale and strange. She was shocked to see his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He grabbed her, holding her tight against his body, and she could feel him trembling.

  “Thank God,” he mumbled into her hair. “Thank God.”

  “Will, what’s wrong?” She pulled away with difficulty and looked into his face. “Brando
n? Has something happened to Brandon?” She could hear the beginnings of hysteria in her voice and fought to control herself.

  “No, baby, no, Brandon’s fine.” Will pulled her to him again and stroked her hair. “He’s fine. Thank God, so are you.”

  “Will, what is wrong?” She pulled away again, staring at him in bewilderment, still groggy from sleep. “What is it?”

  “It’s Trish.” He swallowed hard. “We just got the word. That maniac got Trish last night. She’s dead, Jen.”

  As she stared at Will, his news sinking in, a kaleidoscope of scenes, stark and gruesome, flashed through her mind. She saw them again, Carla and Vicki, saw them from all the angles, in all the details. Only Trish’s face was superimposed on the bodies. She pressed her hands to her eyes to try to blot out the scenes. The room and the world grew cold as she realized that he had been out there last night after all. She began to shake and heard someone whimper, then realized it was herself.

  She must have blacked out for a moment because she found herself being laid gently on the couch. Will squeezed onto it beside her, holding her tightly while she sobbed out her grief and fear. After a long time, she quieted, and they lay there, holding each other. She felt warm and safe and remembered her thoughts of the night before.

  She stirred first. Sitting up, she rubbed her hands across her now dry eyes.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “I don’t know much.” He sat up. “A detective named Jack Grove called it in around five till nine. I was in Lonnie’s office when he took the call. I didn’t stick around to hear any more.”

  He stroked her tear-dampened hair back from her face, his eyes playing over her as if he couldn’t get enough of the sight.

  “I had to make sure you were all right,” he whispered. “The thought that you might not be…”

  He swallowed and didn’t finish the sentence. Pulling her to him, he buried his face in her hair.