“So do you know who the killer is?” Mark cut in, his voice teetering on the edge of rage. “Or are you going to keep that to yourself, too? You think you might let me in on it before I’m six feet under?”
Stan closed his eyes. “No, Mark, I don’t know. Not yet, but I’ve managed to narrow it down a little.”
“Stan, if you don’t tell me something, so help me—”
“I will, but not on the phone, Mark. In fact, if you’re feeling up to it, I need you and Allie here. I’ll arrange a squad car to get you here.”
“Fine,” Mark said. “Whatever it takes to get this guy locked up. I don’t care who he is.”
“You might when you hear my hunches.”
Mark got quiet again.
“Look, put one of the cops there on the phone so I can set up your trip home and compare notes with those guys.”
“All right,” Mark said. “You’ll be there when we get there?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Stan said. “I’ve got a job to do.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
The highway patrolman who drove Allie and Mark back to Newpointe was fascinated with the “Fire Wife Killer” case. He grilled them—and, since he had nothing to do with the case, Allie felt that his questions were based on mere morbid curiosity. He would get a lot of great gossip out of this.
“So you got brain damage from that bullet?” he asked around the tobacco stuck in his bottom lip.
“No,” Mark said, trying to be patient. “I’m fine.”
“You think fine now. But you still gon’ be as sharp as you was before?”
“I don’t know,” Mark said. “I guess I wasn’t all that sharp before. Probably won’t be able to tell a difference.”
Allie grinned.
“I mean, you cain’t get shot in the noggin without havin’ somethin’ wrong with you afterwards.”
“He’s really fine,” Allie said. “Please, he needs to rest.”
Gratefully, Mark laid his head back on the seat and closed his eyes.
The patrolman peered at her in the rearview mirror. “I reckon you must be scared t’ death, ma’am. Dude poppin’ off them wives one by one, tryin’ t’ get t’ you. You don’t have no idea who it might be?”
“No idea,” she said.
“Some psychopath from up north. They like to come south to do their killin’. Them Jeffrey Dahmer types.”
“Dahmer didn’t come south,” Mark said.
“May have,” the patrolman said. “Maybe they just ain’t found the bodies. What kind of crazy would wanna leave a trail of dead firemen’s wives? Downright bizarre. I heard he tortured ’em first, at least the ones he killed. Fed ’em dope and made ’em drink diesel—”
“That’s not true,” Allie said hotly.
“What I heard.” The man spat into a Styrofoam cup on the seat next to him. “Don’t know why my sources at N.O.P.D. would lie. They’d know, since they’re investigatin’ the case.”
Mark’s face was turning red, the most color Allie had seen on it in days. “The only part of this case they’ve investigated had to do with me, so why don’t you just shut up and drive?”
Allie tried to suppress her grin as the patrolman muttered a benign apology, then did just what Mark suggested.
The car was quiet for a while, except for the roar of the engine, the crackle of the radio, and the occasional call that came through it.
“You okay?” Allie whispered to Mark.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Tired?”
“Yeah. Thinking about what Stan said.”
“About it being a fireman?” she whispered.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That, and the possibility that I might be close to the killer.”
She stiffened in surprise. “He said that?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Then what?”
“He said I might not like hearing who he’s narrowed it down to.”
She got quiet a moment, her mind running over the men at the station, assessing them one by one. The thought that it could be a good friend gave her chills. “You’re close to Ray, and it couldn’t be him, since Susan was one of the victims. Nick isn’t a killer. And you’re best friends with Dan, but it obviously isn’t him.”
Mark was too quiet, too pensive, and she watched his face as he struggled through the possibilities. “Mark, you don’t think it’s one of them, do you?”
“Let’s just see what Stan says,” he told her.
It was 11:30 when Allie and Mark arrived in Newpointe. Stan was waiting for them in the interrogation room with a stack of files spread out on the table in front of him. He leapt to his feet when they came in, giving Mark a once-over from the smoke-stained, bloody bandage on his head to the charred remains of his jeans and the burns visible through the holes and rips. “Mark, you look awful.”
“Thanks, man. You don’t look so hot yourself.”
“You should be in bed, if not the hospital.”
“I want this guy caught first, Stan. Then I’ll go to bed.” He sank carefully into a chair, and Allie poured him a glass of water, then took the seat next to him.
“Stan, Mark said that you’d narrowed it down,” she said. “Who are the suspects?”
Stan set both hands palm-down on the table. “I spoke to the detective at N.O.P.D. a few minutes ago, and they collected some blood samples from the carpet, the stairs, and the sidewalk. I’m about to send some of our uniforms out to bring three guys in for questioning. First thing we’re looking for, of course, is the wound. That with hair fibers and a blood sample should satisfy any jury and get us a conviction.”
“Just arrest him,” Mark said weakly. “Get him off the street. Then worry about getting a conviction. My wife has been through enough.”
Amazed, Allie looked at her husband—at the bandage on his head, at the pale cast to his skin and the burns on his legs. And he thought that she had been through enough?
“I need to ask you and Allie a few things,” Stan said, rubbing his red, fatigued eyes. “First, who did you tell where you were staying?”
“No one. Absolutely no one. Only Aunt Aggie and Celia knew.”
“I’ve already talked to them. Aunt Aggie said she did mention to some of the firemen that she had loaned you her apartment. But she didn’t say where it was. Tonight, her house was broken into. Nothing was stolen except a couple of files from her file cabinet. My guess is they were looking for an address.”
Mark leaned forward, his face intense. “Who was in the room when she told them?”
“Nick Foster, Dan Nichols, Slater Finch, Craig Barnes, Cale Larkins, Jacob Baxter, and Junior Reynolds.”
“Seven people?” Mark asked, growing angry again. “Stan, if you’d told her it was a fireman, she wouldn’t have spouted off like that. What were you thinking, keeping this information to yourself?”
Stan bristled and raised a cautionary hand. “I didn’t know for sure. Now, do you want to hear the rest or not?”
Mark took a deep breath and nodded for him to go on.
“She said a couple of them asked her where the house was, but she wouldn’t tell.”
“A couple of them? Who?”
“Dan and Craig.”
“Well, they were probably concerned. Both of them. Maybe they went out and mentioned it to someone else, who then broke into Aunt Aggie’s house and came after us. It’s not Dan—he’s my best friend. He was with Allie all night when I was in intensive care, the night Francis Bledsoe was killed. And the chief of the fire department? Give me a break. These killings have caused him a ton of problems. Why would he do something like this?”
“There’s another suspect,” Stan said. “Marty Bledsoe.”
Mark’s mouth fell open, and Allie gasped. “Stan, you can’t be serious,” she said. “His own wife was a victim.”
“But his account of her murder is suspicious,” Stan said. “He didn’t see or hear anything, didn’t feel her body jolting whe
n it was hit. Don’t you find that odd?”
“Why would he kill the mother of his twins?” Mark asked. “Stan, think. It doesn’t make sense. None of these guys could have done it!”
“I’ve checked everybody’s whereabouts for each murder,” Stan went on. “Around the time of Martha’s murder, Dan was out jogging, and no one can confirm it. Marty and Craig both showed up at the parade late. When Jamie was killed, no one’s sure where Craig was, and Dan claims he was home alone—no one can confirm that—and Marty was supposedly at home, but since Francis isn’t here to confirm it, we can only take his word for it. We aren’t sure who was at the funerals when, so we can’t say if any of them could have left or come late after shooting Susan.”
“What did you do? Ask them all for alibis?”
“No. I asked for an account of who was on duty during each emergency, and where they were if they were off duty. I told them the prosecutor might need to call some of them as witnesses. No one questioned it. Once I had their answers, I tried to confirm them.”
Allie still looked disturbed. “Stan, what about the night Francis was killed? Dan was at the hospital with me that night.”
“Allie, are you sure that Dan didn’t leave at any time during the night that he stayed with you? Even for a couple of hours?”
“Positive. Both Jill and I were there. He didn’t leave.”
“Didn’t you sleep at all?”
“Well, yeah. But not deeply. I would have known if he’d left for that amount of time.” But even as she spoke, a memory seemed to come back to her.
Mark saw the change on her face.
“What?” he asked.
She looked at Mark, shaking her head. “He didn’t do it,” she said. “He’s not a killer. But I was just thinking—one time when I woke up, he was coming back from somewhere, and he told Jill he’d been outside the door in the hallway, reading. Jill and I had both been sleeping. I didn’t think anything of it, just went back to sleep.”
“And you don’t know how long he’d been gone?”
“Not long.”
“How do you know, if you were asleep?”
She thought about it for a long moment. “Well, if it was him, why didn’t he just kill me then? Why would he sit up with me all night? It doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it sure doesn’t,” Mark said. “I trusted him with my wife. He wouldn’t have hurt Allie, or me for that matter. But neither would Craig or Marty.”
“Mark, Allie, remember the night that we set up the stakeout in your house, hoping to lure the killer?”
“Yes,” Allie said. “You said Craig Barnes showed up, that he was worried and was checking on me.”
“Right. But he parked his car down the street, and he was wearing his bunkers, like he’d just come from a fire. Only I just did a check on emergency calls for that night, and there wasn’t a fire within two hours of his showing up there.”
Mark and Allie stared at him in disbelief.
“On the same night, Dan Nichols was caught sneaking around your shop with a crowbar in his hand, and there was evidence that someone had tried to break in there. Both men thought Allie was inside.”
“Okay, but Dan was on duty when I got shot at the airport,” Mark said. “He was on the clock. He couldn’t have just left. And Craig was running both Midtown and Eastside. He couldn’t have left town, either.”
“Yet no one knows where Craig or Dan were at that time. Craig claimed he was at the other station, but no one at either station saw him during that time. At least, not that they can remember, and I have to leave some room for error since these have been hard days and people aren’t thinking that clearly. But no one could find Dan, either. He came in some time later, all sweaty, and claimed he’d been out jogging.”
“That’s possible. He jogs every day,” Mark said.
“But isn’t it a coincidence that he did it right at the time when he’d need an alibi? And I can’t find anyone who saw him.”
“Well, what about tonight? Wasn’t he working tonight?”
“He was, but he left early. And I sent someone to bring him in for questioning, but he wasn’t home. At this hour of morning, where would he be?”
“What about Craig?”
“Not home, either, and not at either station. And Marty’s not home, either. His parents live in Metairie, though, so I’ve sent some men to see if he’s there.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I were.”
Mark looked as if he was going to be sick, and Allie’s eyes filled with tears. Finally, he rubbed his face. “All right, there’s one easy way to tell. The killer has a gunshot wound in his arm or shoulder.”
“It’s none of them, Stan,” Allie said. “You’re wasting your time, and meanwhile, the killer may be going after someone else.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
At first, the banging was part of his dream, a whop, whop, whop of a fireman’s ax, chopping at wet, smoldering wood…
Then the dream was gone, and Dan shifted in his bed. The whop, whop, whop was coming from the other room, and he raised himself up and looked at the clock. Midnight.
Only then did he realize that someone was banging on his door. Feeling as if he’d just slept off a three-day drunk, he slid out of bed, pulled on the jeans he’d dropped on the floor beside his bed when he’d fallen into it, grabbed a sweater and pulled it on, and stumbled to the door.
“Who is it?” he called through the door.
“Police. Open up!”
Frowning and squinting in the lamplight, he unlatched the door and pulled it open. The two cops standing there were old friends—he’d played football with both of them in high school. “Chad, Vern—what in Sam Hill—do you know what time it is?”
“Why didn’t you open the door earlier?” Vern asked him.
“I was asleep. I’ve been on duty for days and haven’t slept much. I haven’t caught up yet. How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to think you weren’t home.”
“Have you been here all night?” Chad asked with a tone of suspicion.
“Well, yeah. Since about seven or so. I was working but I cut my hand—”
Chad and Vern exchanged eloquent looks.
“So they let me come home. What?” Dan asked. “What’s going on?”
“We came by earlier and you weren’t home.”
“When?”
“About an hour and a half ago.”
“No way. I was here. I was sleeping. Didn’t you see my car? Anyway, what did you want?”
“We have to take you in for questioning,” Vern said. “Stan needs to see you.”
Dan stared at them for a moment, groggily assessing their faces. “Am I under arrest for something?”
“No. We just need to question you about some things.”
“What things?”
Vern stepped into the house and looked around. “We also have a warrant to search your house and your car.”
“Search—for what?” His eyes followed Vern as he walked from room to room. “Chad, what’s going on? Has there been another murder or something?”
“Not a murder, but another attempt.”
“Another—who was it?”
“Allie Branning.”
“What—how is she?”
Chad looked at him suspiciously. “She’s fine. They’re both okay.”
Dan paused for a breathless moment. “And they think I did it?”
“They’re not jumping to conclusions of any kind, Dan. We just want to ask you some questions.”
“Fine. Then ask. Why do you have to search my house and car?”
“Do you have an objection? Something to hide?”
“No!” he yelled. “Search all you want. I have nothing to hide. I just don’t understand why you’d think it was me. I’ve been at the station for the past several days, practically nonstop, except for when I was at the hospital with Mark and Allie. How could I be out killing people?”
&nbs
p; Vern looked down at the bloody bandage on Dan’s hand. “What’s wrong with your hand, Dan?”
“I told you, I hurt it at the station tonight. Cut it on some glass. That’s why I called Cale in to replace me.”
Chad looked at Vern, again exchanging silent observations. “Dan, would you mind taking off your sweater?”
“My sweater? What for?”
“Just take it off.”
Agitated, Dan pulled the sweater off, wondering what in the world they were looking for.
“No wound,” Chad said with a note of relief.
“Okay, but remember,” Vern said, “people have been known to get overconfident about where and how they wounded someone. It was dark, and his adrenaline was pulsing, and he could have gotten it way wrong.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Wounded?” Dan asked. “You think I did it, don’t you? You think I’ve been killing those women. You can’t be serious!”
“You’re not the only one we’re questioning, Dan. You can put your shirt back on now and calm down.”
Dan pulled the sweater over his head, shaken and sweating now. “I want to call my lawyer.”
The phone woke Jill on the first ring, for she hadn’t been sleeping well. She had been too worried about Mark and Allie, and her dreams all night had been plagued with shadows chasing her, chasing Allie, chasing Mark, chasing Martha and Jamie and Susan and Frances.
She lifted up on one elbow and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Jill, it’s Dan Nichols. I need a lawyer.”
“Dan, what’s wrong?”
“Vern Hargis and Chad Avery are here to take me into the police station for questioning, but they have a warrant to search my house and car. Jill, I think they’re trying to pin these murders on me.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Tell me about it. Can you meet me at the station?”
“I’ll be there,” Jill said, already getting out of bed. “And Dan, don’t say anything at all until I get there, okay?”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Private Justice Page 27
