Wedding Day of Murder

by Vanessa Gray Bartal

  She whirled with a smile. If she was alarmed to see her daughter’s boyfriend emerge from her bedroom, she didn’t show it. In that regard, he was glad to see her instead of her father. “Oh, Jason. Hello. Have you been in there all night? Better run before Mom and her boyfriend get home. They won’t like that. House rules.”

  “No, Lacy’s surgery. Remember?” He made a halfhearted motion toward Lacy’s room.

  “Oh, right. How did that go? Did she give you a run for your money?”

  “She always does,” he said. “The anesthesia was interesting.”

  She chuckled. “I have the same problem, I’m afraid. Must be the hair.” Absently, she touched the ends of her hair. The color was an exact match for Lacy’s; he found that oddly disturbing.

  “I have to go to work. The doctor said Lacy needs to swish with water every few hours, and she’ll need her gauze changed. The medicine is in the bathroom. I didn’t want her to wake up and take it half asleep. She hasn’t eaten except for some chocolate.”

  “Jason, she’ll be fine,” Frannie said, returning her attention to the flowers again. “Lacy’s hardy, like me. We bounce back and have a high pain threshold. It’s Riley I’m worried about. I sent her home for a nap. Shopping didn’t used to wear her out this way.” Her pretty face changed to a worried frown. It was odd for him to see a face so like Lacy’s on someone else. Lacy’s look was unique. She didn’t look like anyone else he knew--except her mother. He wasn’t sure why that should disturb him. Frannie had aged well and was still attractive, all good indicators that Lacy would do the same. Maybe it bothered him because Lacy and her mother were so different. Lacy was genuine and deep. She cared about people, sometimes too much. Frannie was…he wasn’t sure exactly what Frannie was, but it wasn’t Lacy.

  “Call if you need anything and I’ll come back,” he said. He was hovering like an idiot. Was something wrong with his instincts that they were shouting at him not to leave Lacy in the care of her mother?

  Frannie looked up at him as if wondering the same thing. After a few blinks of what might have been annoyance, she smiled. “Lacy’s lucky to have someone so caring. You can go, she’ll be fine.”

  “All right,” he agreed at last. What choice did he have? She was the mother, and he had to work. Maybe his issues with Frannie had less to do with her and more to do with his own mother. How many times as a kid had he been sick with no one to take care of him? Lacy was surrounded by a loving family. Frannie was right; she would be fine.

  “What’s up?” he asked Arroyo as he arrived on the scene. Absently he noted that his men were contained to the back of the building. Business at the Stakely building went on without a care. Lacy would be happy about that, and he made a mental note to tell her when she was herself again.

  Arroyo motioned him aside, away from the uniforms who were scanning the area, searching for minutia. Just a few months ago he had been one of them. He tried not to glance with longing as they painstakingly made their way around the lot. Flat-footing it was often boring and lacked glory, but also lacked responsibility. Oh, how he missed the freedom of clocking in and out without a care. Now the job was always with him. The only time he found relief was when he was with Lacy. He didn’t need an expert to tell him that having one outlet in the form of his girlfriend was too much pressure for a fledgling relationship, but he saw no immediate fix for that. He didn’t warm up to people easily, and he had no time for hobbies right now. There was a reason so many cops burned out and divorced. Arroyo started to speak, and he set all other thoughts aside.

  “The vic was a journalist.”

  “We’re calling him a vic now?” Jason said. That morning he had been a random dead body, possibly an overdose.

  “Name’s Carl Whethers. He had a jab wound in the thigh. We’re waiting on the tox screen, but it doesn’t look good. No history of drugs, no tobacco, not even a drinker. It’s like he was Mormon or something.” He glanced apologetically at Jason. His refusal to partake in alcohol was a major source of amusement to his fellow officers. Behind his back, they called him Brigham Young, though he wasn’t a Mormon and had no idea what they believed.

  “Diabetic?” Jason tried. An insulin-dependent diabetic would have a valid reason for needle marks.

  “Doesn’t appear so,” Arroyo said. “Looks like a normal, healthy guy with a puncture.”

  “Not good,” Jason said.

  “Yeah, I’ve done the preliminaries here. Junky Joe the ‘security guard’ was obviously my first suspect, but his sister verified his alibi. Lucky for him he happened to stay home last night and not go prowling.”

  Jason said nothing. Part of being a good cop was setting personal feelings aside. He liked Joe and wouldn’t have considered him a suspect. Not only had he given up drugs a while ago, but he was far too frail to lift a guy into a dumpster without help.

  “I’ve searched into the guy’s background some, and he has no priors, no record. He seemed to be an up and up journo, and he seemed to feel he was on to something here. That’s where you come in. We’ve got this scene pretty well tied up, but we just found out from his employer that he’d rented a trailer. No one’s been there yet. After that, I’m going to need your help with the interviews.”

  Jason nodded and surveyed the scene once more before he left. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Arroyo was shoving him off, but that didn’t make sense. Why would he call him in only to shut him out? Perhaps Lacy’s dislike of the man was coloring his judgment. He hoped not. He drove to his house and retrieved his gun from the lockbox in his closet. Now that he no longer wore a uniform, he had no need to carry his gun every day. He missed the comforting weight of it on his hip. He still shuttled it back and forth to work so that it was nearby in case he needed it, and he wore it occasionally, but it wasn’t the same. Jason was a creature of habit and routine; he enjoyed the daily rituals that made him feel secure and in charge of his surroundings. Putting on his uniform, vest, badge, and gun had been a good way to prepare for his workday. Now his uniform consisted of khakis and a tie. What did that prepare him for? Bureaucracy.

  He slipped on the shoulder holster, switched to his work vehicle, and set off again.

  Carl Whethers’ tiny camper was parked on a vast piece of land. Jason would need to track down the landowner and see if he’d had any contact with the victim. Most likely, Carl had been an unwelcome squatter, but Jason needed to make sure. Even the most casual, innocuous contact could be important in a murder investigation. He knocked on the door, his hand on his gun. While it was unlikely that the killer was lingering inside the trailer and would answer the door, a cautious cop was a live cop. No one answered. He retrieved a crowbar from his SUV and popped the door.

  The camper smelled musty and stale, exactly like a small, enclosed space that was rarely used. The door opened into a living room. Jason made short work of tossing the couch. After his search, he put it back together, unable to stomach the untidiness. There was a small table and chair, but the cushion didn’t come off the chair. He searched two cupboards and then he was in the kitchen.

  A can of tuna had been consumed without the benefit of a bowl. The empty can and fork sat forlornly in the sink. Jason grimaced and turned away, sickened by the smell as much as the sight. He would rather deal with dead bodies than messes. How did people live this way? He would prefer to take a kidney punch than to ever leave a dirty can in the sink. There were only a few cupboards in the kitchen, stocked mostly with dry goods and nonperishables. Except for an apple on the counter, the camper was lacking in any fresh food.

  For a moment, he pushed aside the job and took in his surroundings. Jason had been camping twice as a kid—once with some guys from the football team, and once with the boy scouts. He had loved it, but had never felt the need to get away when he was working the beat. Now that he was a detective, things were different. He needed a mental break. He wanted to take Lacy, but the image of her sleeping in a tent wouldn’t form. Maybe a camper was the perfect compromise,
although he would have to investigate the safety devices on the stove. Lacy and open flames didn’t mix.

  He shook his head, pushing aside the thoughts about camping. His ability to compartmentalize was an invaluable asset. The job was different from his life. He needed it that way for his sanity. Putting his cop hat back on, he moved on to the bedroom and stopped short. Lacy’s face stared back at him from the camper’s wall.

  She was everywhere; her face covered the wall from top to bottom. He recognized himself in a few of the pictures. The last picture was taken yesterday sometime during their run. His fingers were wound in Lacy’s hair and he was smiling; Lacy looked like she was gasping in pain. An initial review of the pictures seemed to suggest that they were in chronological order, beginning sometime in high school. The first picture was of Lacy in a new band uniform. Though his memories of her from that time were vague, he did know that the band got new uniforms their senior year because the football team had gotten new uniforms, too.

  After that, the pictures were like a timeline of Lacy’s metamorphosis. In the first picture, she was chubby, awkward, with frizzy hair, oversized glasses that turned dark in the sun, and a retainer. She also had a large, purple goose egg on the side of her forehead. As the timeline progressed, she slimmed down, the glasses and retainer disappeared, and the frizz in her hair made way for smooth, glossy waves. The only common factor was the bruises. There was one in almost every picture, though the location moved from place to place. If he weren’t in shock, he would have found that amusing. He recognized Kimber from a couple of the college pictures, along with an Asian kid he presumed to be Andy.

  He studied the pictures for a long time and sat on the bed, dropping his head to his hands. This was not good. Lacy was the first person on the scene, the first person to find the body, and now her pictures were on the dead guy’s wall. Objectively, that made her the prime suspect. His head jerked up as a new thought occurred. He could hide them. He was the first person on the scene; no one had to know about the pictures of Lacy. Her name didn’t have to be mentioned. What was the point, anyway? Jason knew she wasn’t the murderer. For a moment, he let himself believe that he would do it. The vision of himself ripping down the pictures and tossing them away relieved a little of his pressing anxiety. He wouldn’t do it, though. He couldn’t stomach bad cops. Even though he knew Lacy wasn’t guilty, destroying evidence was wrong; it went against everything he believed. He would include the photos and have faith that the system would work as it should. The truth would out, and Lacy would be off the hook.

  Besides, even though she wasn’t the killer, she was still somehow involved in this case. Why else was her picture plastered on a dead man’s wall? That question disturbed him more that the thought of her being falsely accused. What was going on?

  He stood and took pictures of the wall to preserve the scene as he’d found it. He snapped a half dozen pictures of each room in the camper, pulling out drawers and opening cupboards to show their contents, and then he removed the pictures and bagged them, marking them with the date and time for evidence. When that was finished, he drove back to the office. The protesters sat in the lobby singing Simon and Garfunkel songs, led by the intrepid, dread-locked female. Her voice rose loudest among those assembled, off-key and singing almost all the wrong words. Jason refrained from telling her that it wasn’t, “a Pikachu, Mrs. Robinson,” just like he refrained from requesting the “Sound of Silence.” He eased past them, ignoring them when they snorted and squealed. He locked his gun in his desk drawer, deposited the pictures in the evidence room, and went to find Arroyo.

  He found him in the break room, shooting the breeze with the mayor whose feet were propped casually on a table. Jason stopped short in the entryway, disconcerted by the scene. It wasn’t just that the mayor had no jurisdiction here. He was in charge of the town, but the sheriff’s office covered the entire county. No, the off-putting feeling came more from the conspiratorial air between the two men. The mayor caught sight of Jason and dropped his feet. Arroyo saw him and stood upright.

  “Find anything?” Arroyo asked.

  “It’ll be in my report,” Jason said, making the snap decision not to draw the pictures to their attention. Just because he had to come clean over their existence didn’t mean he had to do it now. To put such information out there now might lead them down a wrong trail. Jason wanted to make sure they were on the right scent before he released the hounds.

  “I guess I’d better get going,” the mayor said. “I trust you boys will keep me informed of any developments.” He left without waiting for a goodbye. Jason waited until he was gone to speak.

  “What was that about?”

  Arroyo gave him the look, the one that said he was the senior officer and Jason’s impertinence bordered on insubordination. Jason didn’t back down. The mayor was shady, as Jason learned when he set some thugs after Lacy awhile back. He didn’t want to share information with a man he didn’t trust. At last, Arroyo smiled and leaned against the table again. “Ah, you know the mayor. Anytime the breeze is blowing, his gums are flapping. He likes to think he has a hand in what goes on here, and the sheriff allows it so long as he doesn’t actually interfere. Politics.”

  “Hmm,” Jason said, not sure he was convinced.

  “Anyway, I need you to help with the interviews. We’ve been saving the best for last.”

  Uh-oh. Arroyo’s gleeful tone didn’t bode well. If there was one universal code among cops, it was to always make the younger guy suffer as much as possible. They didn’t have much in the way of job perks, but seniority was one. The greatest day in Jason’s career occurred when he attained enough seniority to make a rookie clean up a drunk’s puke from the back of his patrol car. Of course the guy didn’t clean it right and Jason had to redo it, but still. He had pulled rank, and it had been fantastic. Arroyo had that look now, the one that said Jason was in for it big time.

  “I take it we’re interviewing the protesters now,” Jason said.

  “We’ve been through most of them,” Arroyo said. “They’re not a cohesive group. None of them had much to say about our vic. Of course, we still haven’t talked to the leader.”

  Jason groaned. “You wouldn’t.”

  “She’s waiting for you in interview one,” Arroyo said. He reached in his pocket and tossed Jason a small container of mentholated rub. “Here’s a gift. Smear some under your nose; it’s been a long time since Janis Joplin had a shower.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Jason said. He opened the container and smeared a glob of the rub over his lip.

  “Just trying to be a mentor and give you lots of detecting experience,” Arroyo said. “Let me know how it goes. I’m going to stay in here and be thankful for deodorant.”

  Jason tossed the container onto the table and left the room, dreaming of the day when he would be the one to lord his status over a deserving underling.

  The woman sat in the room, swaying back and forth with her hands held aloft. Jason glanced at Arroyo’s notes and found them lacking. The woman identified herself as “Rain,” but that was likely an alias. He sat silently across from her, observing while her eyes were closed. He supposed she might be considered attractive in an earthy kind of way. She was petite and pale with brown hair and a smattering of freckles over her nose. The mass of dreadlocks overwhelmed her figure and even though the eucalyptus smell under his nose was strong, it wasn’t strong enough to combat her stench. He could have handled body odor, but her hair smelled like dirt, and her clothes smelled like incense. Combined, it was like having a front row seat at Woodstock.

  “Your name is Rain,” he said to get the ball rolling. This was a volunteer interview. For now, she wasn’t a suspect, so he needed to be friendly and hope for her cooperation.

  “What are names? Badges of Western oppression,” she volunteered before he could answer. “I don’t need labels to define me.”

  “I’ve found names to be a helpful form of identification,” he said. “People will alway
s find some way to identify each other, don’t you think? Otherwise things would get confusing. Personally, I prefer ‘Jason’ to ‘guy with dark hair.’”

  She stared at him, humorless.

  “What I’m trying to say is that I would appreciate knowing your real name,” he continued.

  “Rain is the name I’ve chosen with which to define myself for this season in time,” she said.

  What would next season be, he wondered. Drought? Monsoon? “Okay,” he drawled. “Let’s get started. How long have you known Carl Whethers?”

  “Who?”

  If he didn’t already know that the hamster in her mind’s wheel was running on empty, he might have thought she was joking. “The dead man, one of your protesters. The one in the green canvas coat. He had a mustache.” He kept going because her face registered no recognition.

  “I called him ‘Forest,’” she said when he finished.

  “Because of the green coat?” Jason guessed.

  “No.”

  His eyes dropped to his paper, searching for something, anything to help. When this was over, he vowed never to complain about trying to communicate with Lacy. “How long did you know the man you called ‘Forest?’”

  “What day is it?” she asked. “Saturday?”

  “Tuesday,” he said.

  “Since Saturday,” she said.

  “You knew him three days and didn’t find it odd that he wanted to come here with you for a protest? Or was it his idea?”

  “We don’t own our ideas,” she said. “If I speak a thought into existence, then it belongs to all of us.”

  He was fairly certain that her thoughts didn’t belong to him, but he was still trying to keep things friendly, so he didn’t comment. “Are you telling me that you don’t remember whose idea it was to leave the capital and come here yesterday?”

  “I’m telling you that it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but who we are in this moment.”