Cleanup on Aisle Six

by Daniel Stallings

  “Isn’t it a little early for anatomical humor, Rick?”

  “I gave you the outline of a square weapon with rounded corners, and you give us something thin and cylindrical.” The doctor snorted. “If you’re expecting the results to match, then you need to get glasses, Tony.”

  “It was a lead, Rick. I had to check it out.”

  Dr. Reynolds grumbled. “It wasn’t a good lead, Tony.”

  “Well, the kid said—”

  “Kid? What kid?”

  Detective Hughes could kick himself for that little slip. “Just some kid we interviewed last night. He told us that Oscar carried a cane, and that it should have been at the crime scene. The widow confirmed this. We found the cane in Oscar’s house. Thought we would take a closer look.”

  “Hmph. And I suppose this kid is an expert of forensics? Where did he study? Let’s see his qualifications.”

  “Lay off, Rick. I know you’re annoyed.”

  Dr. Reynolds groused to himself for a moment. “All right … All right … I’m just bothered when people don’t take my evidence seriously. The cane could not be the murder weapon in any way. Too fragile. Too thin. Too round. If someone hit Oscar with that, we’d find wood splinters in the wound. In my professional opinion, the cane was left behind when he went to the store.”

  “Wouldn’t he need it to walk?”

  “Nope. I didn’t see anything wrong with his legs or back that would prompt him to use it. Probably used it for show.”

  “What about the rest of the autopsy?”

  Dr. Reynolds cleared his throat. The annoyed bite finally worked out of his voice. “I’ll save the jargon for the final report. Cause of death was that head wound. No doubt about it. Someone bashed his brains in. Oscar had a thin skull. In fact, the bruise covered up a more sinister problem. When that sugar bag hit him, it caused bleeding on the surface of the brain under the skull. Subdural hematoma. Probably would have killed him anyway. But someone definitely wasn’t taking any chances and hit him. His skull was so thin that it cracked like an egg.”

  “Charming.” The sarcasm was thick in the detective’s throat. “Anything else?”

  “Only wounds I saw were the skull fracture and the bruise. No defensive wounds. I don’t think Oscar knew what happened to him until it was too late. The first blow to the head was enough to scramble his thoughts for a moment.” Detective Hughes heard papers shuffling on the other end. “Heart was good. Stomach was a bit ulcerous, but nothing too bad. He definitely had a meal shortly before he died. The food was pretty intact in his system. Liver wasn’t pretty. All that rich food and booze, you know? Other than that, he was pretty normal. We’ll do some tests on his blood, but I don’t really think we’ll find anything out of the ordinary. I’ll let you know if any bogeyman pops up.”

  “Let’s get back to the major wound. Any changes there?”

  “I still say it was a square weapon with rounded corners. But we did find some interesting particulate matter. Thick gray plastic and a piece of what might have been a liquid crystal display screen.”

  “In the wound?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “So what are we talking about? Someone smashed his skull with a cell phone?”

  Dr. Reynolds snorted with laughter. “If they did, it would need to be a cell phone from the eighties. I was going with a tablet computer. Though I’m not sure if someone could wield one of those efficiently enough to kill someone. I want something with a handle.”

  Adam paused in the doorway to his superior’s cubicle, wearing a wicked grin and holding up an evidence bag. “Found this stuffed into the toilet in the men’s restroom at the store,” he said quietly.

  Detective Hughes eyed the contents, felt a smile spread across his face, and said into the receiver, “What about those handheld scanners they use in supermarkets?”

  Dr. Reynolds sounded intrigued. “That’ll work.”

  In the cold daylight, the Lindstrom house stood proud and pristine, not a flower out of line, nor a speck on its soul. There wasn’t a whisper of the tragedy in those clean gray walls. Detective Hughes knew this was not a house of mourning. He could see that in the sidewalks empty of family, friends, and well-wishers. The house felt … relieved.

  The detective rapped sharply on the front door. Jason pried it open. A faded sweatshirt, gray like the house, engulfed his thin frame, the sleeves so long that they covered his knuckles. He looked like a little kid trying to wear his dad’s clothes. He peered over his glasses.

  “Oh,” he said, “it’s you. More third degree?”

  Detective Hughes held his poker face, but inside he scowled. “Yes, it is. Is Mrs. Lindstrom home?”

  “Nope. Staci from across the street swept her up a few hours ago for a widow’s breakfast and retail therapy.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “God knows when they’ll get back.”

  “Then more time to talk to you.”

  Detective Hughes had to muscle his way inside the house. He could feel the waves of distrust ebbing off the young man. The detective settled in one of the club chairs. Jason perched himself on the arm of the sofa, his body tense and his eyes darting around the living room checking for escape routes.

  “Now then, Mr. Lindstrom, do you have anything to add to your statement from last night?”

  “Is that the polite way of asking if I want to change my story? The answer is no. I’ve told you everything I know about what happened last night.”

  Except for the cause of his wet feet. Detective Hughes kept that question tucked away for now. He wanted to pump as much information out of this hostile witness as possible. “And earlier that day? Anything of interest?”

  “Nope. We stayed home. Dad seemed preoccupied, but he had a lot of work lately.”

  “Let’s go back to Saturday. What happened?”

  “Boring stuff. Errands. Paperwork. Dad hid in his office most of the day.”

  “What about Friday?”

  A smile, sly as his father’s, spread across Jason’s colorless face. “So the stories are getting out, I see.”

  “Care to enlighten me, Mr. Lindstrom?”

  Jason slid off the arm of the couch, smushed himself into the seat, and propped a skinny leg across his knee. He pretzeled his arms behind his head. “Dad resigned from The Shorewood Gazette on Friday afternoon. He told us at dinner. From what he hinted at, the resignation really pissed off his editor, Frank Dixon. Maybe even mad enough to leave a certain nasty package on our doorstep.” There was a sadistic glow in those amber eyes.

  Detective Hughes pulled his eyebrows together in a frown. Frank Dixon had been at Esther’s Family Grocery last night. Buying “party supplies,” he said. He never mentioned Oscar’s resignation. “What package?”

  “Someone dumped a package on our doorstep early Friday afternoon. Not through mail. I never saw what was inside it. Kathryn opened it, showed Dad, and threw it away. You need to ask her what it was. But Dad scowled at it. Reminded me of the times kids dropped bags of dog crap on our porch.” He leaned forward, his eyes bright. “I just remembered! Dad took a note out of the box. He never showed it to me, but he kept it. Might be in his office.”

  Detective Hughes tabled the package issue for the moment. “So your father resigned from the paper, did he? Odd decision to make in this economy. Especially if he was the sole breadwinner.”

  Jason snorted. He flopped back against the couch and drummed his fingers on the white leather arm. “You think The Gazette paid Dad enough to hold his interest? Dad wrote for them because he wanted a forum, an audience to listen to him. But he hated the way they edited his work. And he wanted to reach more people. That’s why we started the blog, Tough Bite to Swallow. Now he could reach millions.” He flicked a hand, tried to keep his tone casual. But there were ripples of resentment in his tone, a sudden tension in his jaw. Especially on the word “we.”

  The detective’s eyes skimmed over the showroom pieces collected in the living room. “Then where does his money co
me from?”

  “Royalties. Dad was a foodie his whole life. Went to culinary school, worked in restaurants, traveled the globe.” Again, the ripples of resentment. “When he was twenty-six, he published a book of his adventures called Full Plate. First of the Plate saga. To this day, it’s one of the most celebrated books in the food world. Chefs all over the world have a copy on their shelves. Wait one second …”

  Jason jumped out of his seat, spry and catlike. He padded to the ebony bookcases flanking the fireplace. Long fingers lingered on the spine of a book. A minute or two passed. Then he pulled it off the shelf, flipped it over, frowned at the jacket photo, and handed it to Detective Hughes.

  The detective allowed his eyebrows to rise. The photo came from an era before the weight piled on, the jaundice settled in, and the scowls weighed down the lips. A fresh, clean-shaven face with bold features, a summer glow, a wide, friendly smile, and an ambitious spark in his amber-brown eyes. The face of youth, health, and success—which meant middle age had been damn cruel to Oscar Lindstrom.

  Detective Hughes flicked his gaze to Jason. There were the same bold features, but the skin was like chalk, the eyes, dead, dull, cowered behind glasses, and the small mouth must have found smiling foreign and uncomfortable. Total misery. A face like a haunted house—shuttered, silent, maybe a flicker or two quickly smothered. The son was a ghost of his father.

  Jason snatched back the book. He fingered the pages as if too scared to turn them. “Full Plate is my favorite. I’ve read it so many times. Dreaming about—” He stopped, clearing his throat. “Dad … Dad was a different writer back then. Full of hope. He encouraged his readers to expand their tastes, get out of their comfort zones, explore the world. He wanted everyone to absorb the thousands of cultures, cuisines, and stories out there.” Jason let the book fall open to a well-read page. “‘The world is too big for one adventure.’” He delivered the quote like a eulogy.

  Detective Hughes stroked his jawline. “But I take it that sentiment didn’t last for long?”

  Jason turned away, slipped the book back on the shelf, polished his glasses with his sweatshirt, rubbed his long sleeves as if he wanted to scratch his arms. His mouth twitched. Stalling. Chewing over his words.

  “Empty Plate, the second book, came out shortly after I was born,” he said, hedging the direct question. He caressed the other two books in the set but did not remove them. “Dad met Mom on his first book tour, and they traveled together. They got married in Singapore. Later, Mom died giving birth to me.” His words bore sharp edges. His shoulders tensed. “Then the book was published. Not as loved as the first one. Empty Plate was just that—Dad emptying his plate of global cuisine and world travel. Much more somber and … and final than his first book. His fans could sense that he was settling down. End of the Oscar Lindstrom, food explorer, era. He never stepped out of the country again.”

  Jason sank onto the arm of the couch again, twisting the bottom of his sweatshirt in his hands. Detective Hughes had to wonder why the kid wore it when it clearly didn’t fit him. “Is that the end of the saga?”

  Jason shook his head, keeping dull eyes locked on his hands. “Dad … He became obsessed with perfection. Has been my whole life. He liked to say ‘perfection can be perfected.’ When I was in high school, Dad claimed to travel the country researching for his next book. He never did. He cheated and used his memories and his research. He called the book Fill My Plate.” He rolled his eyes skyward. “You should have seen the publicity for this thing. Touting it as the great comeback for Oscar Lindstrom. Huge pre-sales.” His voice rose in a farce of a jacket blurb. “‘One man’s nationwide search for the perfect dish.’ Spoiler alert: He doesn’t find it. Dad sounded bitter and frustrated throughout the book. He mutated from foodie to food critic. And not an impartial one. That’s when he started making racial and ethnic slights against restaurants and chefs. Subtle ones. Like he was angry at the world he used to embrace. So he took a sour shot at every culture.” He sighed. “It’s been getting worse ever since. Dad was a monster.”

  A thorough recital, Detective Hughes noted. But the information was too easily given, an open book performance. There were undercurrents here. Secrets stuffed away like shut-ins. He tapped his finger against his leg, his dark eyes lasered on Oscar’s son. He liked to let his suspects stew for a minute during interrogations. To gauge mood or temperament, to check for hesitation or evasion, to learn if the suspect or witness held something back. It worked on that boy, Liam. He had wriggled in his seat like a snake ready to shed. There was still a secret there.

  And it was working right now. Already there were bouncing knees, wringing hands, eyes darting to the clock, to the door, back to the clock. When Jason opened his mouth, Detective Hughes cut him off. “So would you say your father had enemies?”

  Jason’s glasses magnified the flicker of scorn in his eyes. “Try reading the reviews on his blog. He was responsible for more restaurant closures than the health department. Anyone he shut down hated his guts.” Then he flashed a knowing smile. “You want a good suspect? Look up Bauer. That place got a smear campaign with a couple of violent trimmings. Tasty, huh?”

  Bauer. Detective Hughes knew the place. It had been connected to something that made the seasoned cop’s blood boil. Hate crimes.

  “What about his ex-wife? Your first stepmom?”

  “I never really knew her. She sent me away to a private boarding school for a few years. All I know is that the marriage didn’t last long. Divorce. Not like they loved each other or anything.” Jason snorted. “Dad cheated on his wives. All the time. I bet he thought it was a secret. But I found out. Go look up 413 Helen Street. You’ll learn something.”

  Again, openhanded with the information. Jason loved throwing his dad under a parade of buses. Detective Hughes stroked his jaw. “And what about the current Mrs. Lindstrom? What do you think of her?”

  Jason’s dry white cheeks glowed salmon pink. His fingers curled around the edge of his sweatshirt. His voice was raw, husky. “Kathryn wouldn’t hurt someone like that.”

  Ah, so that’s where the land lay. Boy loved his young, beautiful stepmom. Complicated home life. “And what about you? How did you feel about your father?”

  Jason tensed. Muscles pulled against his neck like ropes. His fists trembled. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply.”

  “It’s a simple question, Mr. Lindstrom. How did you feel about him?”

  “That has nothing to do with—”

  Detective Hughes dived in anyway. It was time to turn the thumbscrews. Hard. “It seems like there was no love lost between you two.”

  Jason’s cheeks blazed scarlet. He jerked one of his long sleeves up. Detective Hughes tensed, expecting to dodge an assault. Jason slammed his exposed arm on the arm of the couch. His amber eyes glowed like brush fire. His voice, high and angry, cracked like glass. “Would you love a father who did THIS to you?”

  Burn scars. Old ones and newer ones pooling together across pale skin. Like he had been dipped in acid. These scars on the surface were healing, but the scars on Jason’s soul cut down to the bone. Detective Hughes kept his face neutral, but his gaze continued to trace the terrible damage. “What did he do?”

  “Oh no, I’m not going there. Let me keep some secrets, Sherlock.” Jason yanked the sleeve down, hiding his shame from the world again. “I hated Dad, okay? And he hated me. He made me feel stupid and worthless and ugly. He abused me, torturing me for his own pleasure. I am so happy he’s dead. I hope hell has enough room for his bloated ego.”

  “And you didn’t try to escape? To live your own life?”

  Jason’s voice grew dark, murderous. “I couldn’t. He trapped me. He had me trapped my whole life. I couldn’t fight him. Honestly, you shouldn’t even look for his killer, because that person is a saint to me. Saved my life.”

  “It’s my job, Mr. Lindstrom. And I think you’ll find that killers don’t care who gets hurt when it comes to protecting themselves
.”

  Jason just sat there, glaring at the detective, dark and fuming like a distant thunderhead.

  Detective Hughes leveled his buckeye-hard eyes with Jason’s. “I think you did try to escape, Mr. Lindstrom. A desperate attempt on the night your father was killed.”

  “I have no idea—”

  “Something that would explain your curiously wet feet that night.”

  Jason’s rage-red cheeks darkened to purple. He snarled. “Get out. I’m calling our lawyer. After the shit my dad said about people, you can BET he had a team of attorneys that would make the Supreme Court wince.”

  The witness was spent. It would take a cannonball of evidence to break through the stone walls, barbed wire, and machine guns Jason built around himself. Detective Hughes made the usual official murmurs and stood when the front door opened. Kathryn crossed the threshold, bringing the soft scent of violets into the house. Worry puckered her pretty face.

  Detective Hughes turned his scrutiny to her. “Ah, Mrs. Lindstrom. I was hoping to have a word with you.”

  Kathryn jolted at his deep, smooth voice. “Oh … Detective … I didn’t know you were here already. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you.”

  “Your stepson informed me of your whereabouts.”

  She nodded absently. “Yes, Detective, Staci, my neighbor, told me the strangest thing about Oscar. I think it’s important that you talk to her.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she saw Oscar in the house last night. All night. He never went to that grocery store.”

  CHAPTER 8

  An Awkward Alibi

  Crime scene tape. The flimsiest bulletproof wall.

  Li grazed the gaudy yellow-and-black ribbon with his fingertips. It cut off the double doors of Esther’s Family Grocery. Great way to start a Monday afternoon at work.

  “Store’s closed,” Leo said, making Li jump. The manager sat in a cloth folding chair tucked next to the doors and out of sight from the parking lot. A copy of Maxim lay open on his knee. His tone was sour, and he didn’t look at his employee. “I’m here to let those of you without phones know the situation. Police in charge. Then we’ll need special cleaners to come and deal with the blood. With all these blood-borne diseases, we can’t be too careful. Probably lose a ton of our stock too. Who knows if we’ll get the store opened again?” His voice grew ragged from annoyance. “Why couldn’t that man have a nice, quiet death instead? Like a heart attack or something.”