7 Die For Me

by Karen Rose

  “We were happy you came to work here, Sophie,” Ted said, serious as well. “You have great respect for my grandfather’s work. I know you don’t believe it, but so do I.”

  “Yes, Ted, I do believe that. That was part of my epiphany.”

  He looked through the glass where the last of the children was getting on a yellow bus. “I didn’t know you spoke Norwegian. It’s not one of the languages on your résumé.”

  That’s all he would say on the subject, she realized. They’d just go on. “I don’t. But then, neither do they.” She chuckled. “I only know Norwegian cuss words because my gran used to say them. I think that’s all she picked up from my grandfather.”

  Ted’s eyes popped wide. “You used Norwegian cuss words with children?”

  “Good God, no.” She was miffed that he even considered it. “I speak a little Danish and some Dutch. The rest was pure Swedish Chef.” Her lips quirked. “Bork-bork-bork.”

  Ted looked both relieved and touched. “We might make a thespian out of you yet, Sophie Johannsen.” He walked away. “Don’t forget, you’re Joan at noon.”

  “That armor is still too heavy,” she called back after him, but with considerably less rancor than before. She headed for the washroom to get the makeup off her face before she broke out in hives. That was not how she wanted to be seen by Vito tonight.

  She shivered, despite the sweat trickling down her back from the heavy costume. Vito had certainly made good on his word, more than once during the night. There was a big difference between making love and fucking like minks. She imagined it would be even better if she ever were to actually fall in love. She considered asking Uncle Harry, then laughed out loud picturing the horror on his face.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  Still smiling, Sophie stopped next to the old man who’d been studying the photos of Ted the First in the front lobby, hunched over his cane. “Yes, sir?”

  “I overheard part of your tour. It was fascinating. Do you do private tours also?”

  There was something in his eyes that bothered her. Horny old bastard, trying to pick me up. Eyes narrowing, her fist tightened on the battle-ax handle. “How private?”

  He looked confused, then shocked. “Oh, my. No, no, no. I live at a retirement home where the diversions are often boring, so I’ve taken it on myself to become something of the social coordinator. I was wondering if we could schedule a tour.”

  Sophie laughed in embarrassed relief. “Of course, I’d be glad to. I know how bored my gran gets with nothing to do all day.”

  “Your grandmother is certainly welcome to join us.”

  Sophie’s smile dimmed. “Thank you, but no. She’s not well enough to come on a tour. You can reserve a time with the girl behind the desk.”

  He frowned. “The one dressed in black? She looks a bit dangerous.”

  “Patty Ann goes goth on Wednesdays. Kind of her own tribute to Wednesday Addams. She’s really quite nice. She’ll be happy to set you up with a tour. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get this makeup off my face or I’ll bloat up like Pugsly.”

  He watched her go, his eyes noting every fluid step she took. He’d known her for months, but he’d never really seen her until today. He’d never even suspected the magnetism she’d possessed until he’d seen her like this—a six-foot-tall blonde swinging a two-handed battle-ax over her head, green eyes flashing like some mythical Valkyrie. She’d held the small crowd of children and their teachers in thrall for over an hour.

  And me, as well. Forget about the models on the website. He’d found his new queen. Van Zandt would be ecstatic. And Dr. Sophie Johannsen would no longer be a loose end. It was so cool when he could kill two birds with one stone.

  Wednesday, January 17, 11:30 A.M.

  Barbara Mulrine, librarian and Claire’s former boss, slid an envelope across the counter. “This is the original of the resignation letter we received from Claire Reynolds.”

  Marcy Wiggs nodded. She was about Claire’s age and seemed to be taking the news of Claire’s death harder than her fifty-something, pragmatic boss. “We had to request it from the main office since she was out of our system for more than a year.” Marcy’s lip trembled. “That poor sweet girl. She wasn’t even thirty.”

  From the corner of his eye Vito watched Barbara roll her eyes and was instantly more interested in the older woman’s take. He opened the envelope and looked inside. The letter was printed on ordinary paper and he suspected they’d get nothing of value in terms of prints, but still he asked. “Can you get me a list of anyone who’s handled this?”

  “I can try,” Barbara said while Marcy sighed.

  “We all feel so terrible that this happened. We should have suspected something at the time, should have made a phone call, but . . .”

  Vito slid the envelope in his folder. “But?”

  “But nothing,” Barbara said sharply. “You shouldn’t have suspected anything, Marcy. And Claire was not a sweet girl. You’re just saying that now because she’s dead.” She looked at Vito, vexed. “People always remember the dead as better than they were, especially when they get murdered. And when they’re murdered and have a handicap . . . well, you might as well call the Pope and request a canonization.”

  Marcy’s lips thinned, but she said nothing.

  Vito looked from one woman to the other. “So Claire was not a nice person?”

  Marcy looked up out of the corner of her eye petulantly and Barbara blew out a sigh of frustration. “No, not really. When we got her resignation letter, we had a party.”

  “Barbara,” Marcy hissed.

  “Well, we did. He’s going to ask around and anybody’ll tell him it’s true.” Barbara looked back at Vito. “The party part and the not-nice part.”

  “What did she do that wasn’t nice?”

  “It was just her attitude,” Barbara answered wearily. “We wanted to like her, all of us did. But she was abrupt and rude. I’ve worked here for over twenty years. I’ve had employees with all kinds of abilities and disabilities. Claire wasn’t nasty because she was an amputee. She was nasty because she liked to be.”

  “Was she into drugs or alcohol?”

  Barbara looked appalled. “Not that I ever saw. Claire’s body was her temple. No, this was more a sense of entitlement. She’d come in late, leave early. Her work was always done, but only what I asked and nothing more. This was just a job for her.”

  “She was a writer,” Marcy said. “She was working on her novel.”

  “She was always working on that laptop,” Barbara agreed. “Her novel was about a paraolympian, semiautobiographical I guess.”

  Marcy sighed. “Except that the protagonist was nice. Barbara’s right, Detective. Claire wasn’t that nice. Maybe I just wanted her to be.”

  Vito frowned. “You say she had a laptop?”

  The women looked at each other. “Yeah,” Barbara said. “A nice new one.”

  Marcy bit her lip. “She got the new one about a month before she . . . died.”

  “Her parents didn’t find a laptop,” Vito said. “They said she didn’t have one.”

  Barbara made a face at that. “There were lots of things Claire didn’t tell her parents, Detective Ciccotelli.”

  “Like?” Vito asked, but he thought he knew.

  Marcy pursed her lips again. “Now, we weren’t judgmental, but—”

  “Claire was a lesbian,” Barbara broke in, matter-of-factly.

  “Her parents wouldn’t have approved?”

  Barbara shook her head. “No. They were very conservative.”

  “I see. Well, did she mention a partner or a girlfriend?”

  “No, but there was this photograph,” Barbara said. “In the paper. It was a picture taken at one of the gay pride marches—Claire in a lip-lock with another woman. Claire got really upset. Figured her folks would see it and all hell would break loose and they’d stop paying her rent. She called the paper and complained.” She grimaced. “And now you’re going t
o ask me which paper it was, and I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Was it a local community paper, or big like the Philly Inquirer?”

  “I’m thinking a local paper,” Marcy said uncertainly.

  Barbara sighed. “I was thinking a big one. I’m sorry, Detective.”

  “Don’t be. You’ve been a lot of help. If you remember anything else, please call me.”

  Wednesday, January 17, 12:30 P.M.

  Vito stopped his truck in front of the courthouse and Nick jumped in. “Well?”

  Nick tugged at his tie. “It’s done. I was the last witness for the prosecution. Lopez wanted me to go last to paint the picture of the murdered girl so that the final thing the jury would remember that it wasn’t just the drugs, but that a girl had died at their hands.”

  “Sounds like a good strategy. I know you have your issues with Lopez, but she’s a damn good DA. Sometimes you have to deal with a demon to bring down the devil. It’s not pretty, but it’s the big picture that counts. I hope the girl’s parents understood that.”

  Nick pulled his palms down his face wearily. “Actually, they were the ones to tell me that very thing. I was ready to apologize for Lopez pleading their daughter’s killer down to manslaughter so she could get the drug dealer, and they said that the way Lopez handled it, both men would pay and the dope dealer would never touch anyone else’s child. They were very grateful.” He sighed. “And I felt about an inch tall. I owe Maggy Lopez an apology.”

  “I’d just be happy to have her work this case. After we nail this sonofabitch, that is.”

  ”Speaking of,” Nick said, “where are we going?”

  “To tell Bill Melville’s parents that he’s dead. You get to tell them.”

  “Gee thanks, Chick.”

  “Hey, I told the Bellamys. It’s only fair—” His cell buzzed. “It’s Liz,” he told Nick. He listened, then sighed. “We’re on our way.” Vito turned his truck around.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Not to the Melvilles’,” Vito said grimly. “We’re going back to Winchester’s field.”

  “Number ten?”

  “Number ten.”

  Wednesday, January 17, 1:15 P.M.

  Jen was already at the scene, coordinating. She walked over to Vito and Nick when they got out of the truck. “The officer on guard got the APB on the F150 and realized he’d stopped a truck just like it this morning. When he ran the plates, he saw the name the guy gave matched, but when he called the phone number listed for the address, it didn’t match. He drove down this road until he saw the tire tracks in the snow.” She pointed down at an opaque bag lying in the gully. “He saw that and called it in.”

  “He knows we’re on to him,” Nick said. “Damn, I was hoping we’d have more time.”

  Vito was shoving his feet into his boots. “Well, we don’t. You check it out yet, Jen?”

  “It’s a man.” She started down the slope. “I haven’t opened the bag. He ain’t pretty.”

  The sight that greeted them at the bottom of the slope would linger in Vito’s mind for a long, long time. The plastic had pulled taut over the man’s face, so that it appeared he was straining to break free. The opacity of the bag clouded everything but the man’s mouth which yawned grotesquely, as if frozen in a scream that no one would hear.

  “Hell,” Nick whispered.

  Vito shuddered out a breath. “Yeah.” He crouched by the body and did a quick visual. The body was not wrapped in a single bag, but two. “One bag for the head and torso, another for the feet and legs. Tied together.” He pulled at the knot with gloved fingers. “Simple knot. You want me to open him up?”

  Jen crouched on the other side of the body with a knife and carefully sliced the plastic next to the knot so that the bags separated, but the knot itself was preserved. She then sliced up the front of the bag and drew a breath. “Grab an edge, Chick.”

  Together they pulled the plastic apart and Vito had to swallow back bile. “Oh my God.” He dropped the plastic back down and turned his face away.

  “Branded,” Nick said.

  “And hanged,” Jen added. “Look at the ligature marks on his throat.”

  Vito looked down. Jen still held her side of the plastic, exposing the left side of the victim’s body and face where the left cheek bore a brand of the letter T. Steeling himself, he pulled his side of the plastic back all the away, exposing the right side.

  “His hand,” was all he could mutter. Or the lack thereof.

  “Oh, my . . . Oh . . .” Jen sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth.

  “Shit.” Nick lurched to his feet. “What the fuck is with this guy?”

  Vito pursed his lips and glanced down the length of the bag, knowing it would get worse. “Cut the lower bag away, Jen. All the way down to his feet.”

  She did, and then she and Vito stood up, each holding a piece of the plastic in one hand. “He cut off his foot, too,” she said quietly.

  “Right hand, left foot.” Vito carefully lowered the bag. “It means something.”

  She nodded. “Just like E. Munch means something.”

  Sonny Holloman, Jen’s photographer, came skidding down the slope. “Hell.”

  “Yeah, we got that,” she said wearily. “Get him from all angles, Sonny.”

  For a few minutes the only sound was the clicking of Sonny’s shutter.

  Jen turned her gaze to the dead man’s face. “Vito, I know this guy. I know I do.”

  Vito squinted, concentrating. “So do I. Shit. It’s right there, on the edge of my mind.”

  Sonny lowered his camera. “Shit,” he repeated hollowly. “Sanders Sewer Service. It’s the Sanders kid. The oldest one, who stood at the end looking miserable.”

  Jen’s eyes widened with the horrified realization she was looking at someone she knew. “You’re right.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Nick said but Jen shushed him.

  “Let me think. Sid Sanders’s sewer service sucks septic systems—”

  “Spankin’ spotless,” Vito and Sonny said together, grimly.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Nick demanded.

  “You didn’t grow up around here,” Vito said, “so you wouldn’t know. This guy was in a commercial.”

  Jen shook her head. “Not just any commercial. This was a . . .”

  “Pop culture phenomenon,” Vito supplied. “Nick, didn’t you have a commercial that was so bad that everybody in your town knew it, remembered it?”

  “Made fun of it?” Sonny added.

  “Yeah. We had Crazy Phil who sold cars like a hillbilly auctioneer on crack.” Nick frowned. “Turns out he was on crack. So this guy is your Crazy Phil?”

  “No, this guy had the bad fortune to be Crazy Phil’s son,” Vito said. “Sanders had a septic cleaning service and wanted to advertise, but was too cheap to hire models.”

  “So he lined up all six of his sons.” Jen sighed. “They had to say the slogan and pretend to be happy about it. I always felt sorry for them. Especially the oldest one. He was a really cute guy and could’ve had any girl he wanted except for that stupid commercial . . . wait. This guy isn’t old enough to be the oldest Sanders kid. The oldest one’s our age. He’s got to be one of the younger kids.”

  “Well, they all did look alike,” Sonny said. “Like the Osmonds.” He looked down, pity etched into his face. “Six Sanders sons. Sid really went in for the alliteration.”

  “Did you actually know these kids?” Nick asked and Jen shook her head.

  “Hell, no. A lot of people on the outskirts had septic systems. Sid Sanders made a lot of money. They lived in the pricey district, and the boys went to prep schools and everything. The Sanders slogan became this huge deal and people were seeing how fast they could say it. Young, old, in restaurants and the grocery store . . .”

  “Especially at keg parties,” Sonny said, then shrugged. “Hey, I got an older brother who was in a fraternity at the
time. I just listened to the war stories afterward.”

  “I wonder if our guy knew this was one of the Sanders kids,” Nick said thoughtfully. “I mean, would he have killed him and left him out here if he thought he’d be so easily recognized? It took the three of you less than ten minutes to ID him.”

  Jen’s eyes gleamed. “So E. Munch may be an out-of-towner.”

  Vito sighed. “At least we know where to go to notify this guy’s folks.”

  Nick met his eyes. “What about the brand? And the hand and foot?”

  Vito nodded. Sophie would know what it meant. “I know where to go for that, too.”

  Wednesday, January 17, 2:30 P.M.

  Sid Sanders sat holding his wife’s hand. “You’re sure?” Sid asked hoarsely.

  “We’ll need you to make a formal ID, but we’re pretty sure,” Vito murmured.

  “We know this is difficult,” Nick added quietly, “but we need to see his computer.”

  Sid shook his head. “It’s not here.”

  His wife lifted her face. “He probably hocked his computer a long time ago.”

  Her voice was bleak, but underneath Vito also heard guilt. “Why?” Purposely he looked around the lavish living room. “Did he need money?”

  Sid’s jaw tightened. “We’d cut him off. Gregory was an addict. Booze, drugs, gambling. We helped him as long as we could, got him out of more scrapes than we should’ve. Finally we had to cut him loose. It was the worst day of our lives. Until today.”

  “So where was he living?” Nick asked.

  “He had a girlfriend,” Mrs. Sanders murmured. “She threw him out too, but called me a month ago to say she’d taken him in until he could dry himself out. She didn’t want us to worry.”

  Vito noted her name on his pad. “So you liked his girlfriend?”

  Mrs. Sanders’s eyes filled. “We still do. Jill would have made a good daughter-in-law, and even though we were sad when she broke it off, we knew it was the best thing for her. Gregory was pulling her down.”

  “We gave that boy everything, but he always wanted more.” Sid closed his eyes. “Now he’s got nothing.”

  Wednesday, January 17, 3:25 P.M.