by Vernon Rush
Nate set him up. "You really an airplane pilot?" he winked.
"Naw," Jack chuckled. "Not any more than you are a professor."
"Oh, I am," Nate said very arrogantly. "Dr. Castle."
Jack sprayed his coffee. "Doctor? This is Alcoholics Anonymous, not Narcotics Anonymous. Seriously, what’s your name?"
"Dr. Nathaniel Castle," Nate insisted.
"Nat? or Nate? Or the entire first name? Your pick. It’s not fair to everyone else if you go by first and last," reminded Jack.
"Nate," he conceded. To his surprise, he felt the slightest bit of respect for the request to remain anonymous. Previously, he found these little suggestions tedious. If he had come to the meetings for long-term sobriety, maybe the actual program would apply to him.
"Glad to meet you, Nate. Welcome."
Nate smiled. "Thank you, I think. Why is it I get the feeling you don't completely mean that?"
"What I think of you," said Jack, "is none of your business."
That was one of the AA slogans. Nate bristled. He realized that AA worked; it was just that he didn't like the way they did things. He often thought he would do a better job if he had the time and inclination to re-design the entire program.
"You know, I don't know how much time you have off of the juice, 'Jack said. "You might be careful about stopping cold without medical supervision. You don’t look so good."
"I'm fine," Nate said, not entirely sure. "Thank you for the advice."
The room filled up in chairs that were set up in rows. Nate half listened to the share. He didn't introduce himself as a newcomer and he didn't collect any phone numbers, all the things they suggested a person do. He would just sit through one meeting at a time and not drink in between. Rules were not for him. However, he did like the gratitude he felt for having gotten some sleep. It was a mercy enough for him that, despite having only slept maybe an hour and a half, he had awakened refreshed, as though from a sound sleep. Nonetheless, he would hit a wall shortly. By about 11 a.m., right as he was going to have to show up for lecture one, his brain would be screaming for a nap.
His hands were still shaky as he held his phone, watching for alerts, messages from Daria, instead of listening to the meeting. Though the obsession to drink lifted as soon as he crossed over the threshold of the meeting room, his heart was only half in it. He had the latest dead woman, Yvonne Winters, on the brain and she was impatient for him to get going.
***
Nate’s attention came out of a nose dive when his nemesis, Jack the clerk, took his turn to share. He was a big guy, tall, large framed, who barely fit in his chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and massaged the bridge of nose, literally bracing himself against the emotional liturgy he was about to regale them with.
"It’s been a tough week, tough week. Some of you know that I deal with some heinous stuff in my regular job and I don’t know, it’s getting to me."
Nate furrowed his brows incredulously. At the Quickie Mart? Are you kidding us? He thought. Carding is a tough racket. But then Nate started adding him up. Clearly a frustrated man. In his estimation, Jack was not accepting life on life’s terms as the twelve steppers would say, and Nate’s guess was Jack didn’t think clerking at a convenience store was where he was supposed to be.
"There's another meeting here tomorrow. Just don't drink in between," Jack said.
***
Even in the face of his best laid plans to get an early-for-him jump on the morning class, Nate was taken off course. Daria McCarroll texted him that the police had discovered what appeared to be the killer's car in a warren amid a grove of trees. The tape was visible from the main road.
Nate had planned to go back to his place after the meeting and his entire body was primed for rest. He cursed this development only because it happened at a most inconvenient time. The scene was only a three-minute drive away. He would tip his proverbial hat. He would get acquainted with the people working on the case and maybe get an earful about the murder itself.
Nate drove what Daria called a roller skate: A micro car. As a self-centered alcoholic, he felt ridiculous getting in and out of it, and driving it. He was humiliated by all aspects of using the car because he was a tall guy and it was a silly, small car. The only one that he could afford since so much of his income had gone to feed the monkey on his back. His salvation was that in the progressive, artsy town of Frederick, he was applauded for driving it. That made it tolerable. Never mind that it was lucky for him he had a license at all. The downside to it was the car made it impossible to slip in and out of places, particularly crime scenes, inconspicuously. The car was so distracting that it took the focus off of the important stuff and onto him.
He pulled up to the cluster of people inspecting the find. There was what was supposedly the murderer's car, surrounded by cop cars and what had to be a detective's car, which could be categorized as either way ultra-cool or clunker. There was no middle ground. He didn’t recognize a single person on the job, so that meant no one would know him. His stomach roiled. The hard candy only calmed his gut for a moment. I might be ducking into the bushes shortly, he thought, which would probably get him arrested. In a case like this, they would handcuff first and ask questions later. He breathed through his nose until he was steady.
From where he was, he observed the alleged murderer's car, letting all the thoughts that it inspired fly through his head. Judgment, observation, criticism, jokes even, flowed freely. That the car was a rusted out sedan meant so many things to him. A symbol of older values, older conventions. Statement of the obvious though it might be, this car put the killer at odds with modern society. It was both a sign of thrift and disposability. Serial killers had inferiority complexes coupled with narcissism. The car also symbolized how little the killer valued himself. Then he thought of something, so finally he spoke up.
"Who's in charge here?" he asked, walking closer, carefully as to not to disturb too much. He extended his hand out to the person who came forward.
"I am," replied a man with a baldness sided by tufts the color of his suit. "Det. Dan Klein. Oh hey, you are Dr. Nathaniel Castle, aren't you?" He stumbled over the crime scene to shake Nate’s hand. "I read your book. ‘Historical Evidence.’ That is a great title, ‘cause you’re a history teacher, right? You worked this case, didn’t you?"
Nate was bowled over. He believed he was meeting the only other person besides himself who'd read the book he felt compelled to write after the first two murders. "My field is in forensic psychology, but yes, I do teach a history class."
Nate was unceremoniously interrupted by a car dramatically pulling off the road, slightly ahead of the scene. When he saw who it was, Nate thought there was no way this could be happening again. It was Jack from the meeting, from the Quickie Mart. "Well," Dan answered. "That's the lead detective. He is in charge."
"I have got to be hallucinating." Nate took another deep breath.
"Hello?" Jack squinted incredulously, honing right in on Nate and looking as though he was going to eat him. There was no trace of camaraderie from the morning for being two alcoholics in recovery.
"He's a P.I.," Dan informed Jack. "He has worked the previous murders on this case."
"Det. Klein, I can tell you this man is not a P.I. He claims to be a college professor but I have serious doubts about that." Jack looked directly into Nate’s eyes, seething. "What the hell are you doing at our crime scene? How did you know about it?"
"Like he said, I work the Coworker murders—" replied Nate.
"You work them?" The detective was incredulous.
Nate opened up his moleskin notebook and attempted to make notes but was interrupted by a furious outburst.
Jack slapped the pen out of his hand. "I swear to God, you are following me!"
Nate laughed nervously. At first, he found it funny but it crossed his mind they might arrest him. "I was here first, both times," he began quietly, but Jack shook his head. Nate started to get insulted. If he had b
een a white guy at the scene, would Jack have this issue? He didn’t know. "Careful. Your disease of self-centeredness is showing."
"I want to see your credentials. Now," Jack demanded.
Nate pulled out his wallet. Under the circumstances, he didn't begrudge the request.
Jack examined them and handed them back. "What the fuck are you here for? Who called you and told you we were here?"
"No one had to call me. I saw this from the road and recognized it for what it was," Nate lied. "I have an interest in the case. I worked on the previous murders five years ago, with the detectives who had it at the time."
Jack's words were measured, tempered by his rage. "Those detectives don't have the case anymore. Neither of them is with the Frederick PD anymore. This is my case now and I don't want you here."
Nate's eyes narrowed. "You don't even know me."
"I do know you," Jack corrected adamantly. "I do. This may be a sleepy little town but this is not five years ago. And we do things differently."
"Better tell the killer that," Nate counseled solemnly, "because he is still killing the way he always did."
He got in his car and quickly jotted down all the observations swarming in his head before he lost them. The car had been ditched with virtually no effort to hide it. Serial killers were people who, at one time, were disassociated from society and who imposed themselves among people by making the whole world their crime scene. They were exhibitionists, voyeurs, and fetishists, all rolled into one. The placement of this car was no slip-up. It was not done in haste or out of desperation. The killer had placed this car so he could both show off and watch at the same time. In Nate's estimation, the discovery of the car was an acknowledgment that the killer craved. And even though it was found, chances were still really good the killer would come back to the scene, even after the car was hauled to a lab and no longer there. In addition to a trophy, one of the few physical relics of the crime was the location itself and Nate would bet that the killer would come re-experience the crime by revisiting the scene.
Jack tapped the window.
Nate lowered it.
"I told you to leave," Jack said. "I am about this close to hauling your ass in for willful trespass and obstruction of justice and whatever else I can think of. Leave now."
Nate spoke patiently. "I'm leaving," he said. "See you tomorrow at the Sunrise."
CHAPTER 4
A Psychological Insight
The money Nate would have spent on a flask by now was available for him to buy himself a late breakfast at the Creamery. He sat at a booth instead of his usual counter because he felt weak and was whipped from his morning and a lecture without benefit of alcohol. He debated on the OJ; it would boost him but he wasn't sure how his body would negotiate the acid. Sweet tea was tremendous medicine but it aggravated his stomach too. Everything was a gamble at this point. The distance to the bathroom was too great and it was through the kitchen besides. Nate did not want to throw up on a Creamery table top. It would get around town for sure. The news would find Jack Wilcox for sure. Detective Jack Wilcox.
He breathed purposefully, trying to regain himself and the solution came to him. He opted for a huge glass of water and sweetened it with six packets of sugar. His fingers trembled as he struggled to tear the paper off the sugar. On a good day, he could rip them all at once, but the shakes reduced him to wrestling with the tabs, one by one. Finally, he poured them into the drink and with a trembling grasp, stirred the elixir. He sipped.
The iciness cooled and soothed his insides and momentarily revitalized his brain. He had taxed it about all he could that morning. A mild, oily sweat pooled below his eyes and atop his forehead. He casually removed it with a folded paper napkin from the bin that sat on the table. He felt sickly but not as bad as the day before.
He just started swallowing the small ice chunks so they cooled his gut. He was still in peril of lurching at any time. He dined slowly, cautiously, on white toast and scrambled eggs. He called Daria, though he knew she would be working.
"I have five minutes." Daria sounded perturbed. "Why are you not with the cops?"
"Got kicked off. Tell you later. Listen, we talked about you having an in at Weston & Hale. Can we act on it? I'd like to know something about the girl and the environment."
"Got it," Daria answered. "But gotta go."
Nate plugged in his ear buds, streaming Appalachian tunes, and cracked his notebook from page one and re-read his notes on old murders. The reports of Yvonne Winters's murder didn't disclose much in the way she was killed. The first two lawyers, like Yvonne, were found outside, one in the rough of a golf course and the other in Cunningham Falls park outside Frederick. Each murder, though further out from Frederick proper than the most recent one, got closer and let hidden than the one before. Nate suspected that as the murders progressed, if the killer wasn't caught, they would soon be finding bodies on the steps of the police department. Part of that 'Hidden in Plain Sight' element.
***
Jack Wilcox barged in the Creamery, sat across from Nate, and yanked the ear buds from Nate's ears. The sounds of dulcimers faintly could be heard from them. "Who are you?" he asked finally. "And what the heck are you listening to?"
Nate smiled at the detective’s frenzy. "Mountain music."
Jack shook his head. "How come I've lived here all my life, never seen you before? A young woman is murdered and boom, I see you more than I saw my ex-wife? Why is that?"
"Do you want the 12 Step spin, the Providence spin, or the pragmatic answer? Were you hoping to undo things once you know? It's not supernatural, detective. In this instance, you went out of your way to find me," Nate noted coolly, studying him for any motives not immediate apparent.
"It's a small town and you have an obvious car. Can't miss it."
"No, you can't. So what did you come here to tell me?" Nate asked.
"Ask you," Jack said, and shut his eyes to weather the humility. He muttered, "Goddamn it."
Nate waited. He could see the detective needed his help and was humbling himself to ask.
"According to the notes on the last two," Jack began, "you suggested that the killer was the lawnmower guy or 'of a similar profile.' He lived alone. Was socially awkward. Worked steadily at a kind of nowhere job. That describes many of us, more or less."
Nate concurred. "Cobbsmith had some friends, just no sexual ones. He had a nowhere job but one that totally met his needs. So was he a CEO? No. But he lived within his means. From my vantage, he took care of himself and didn't struggle in that regard. In fact, it's all about him, so he was socially parsimonious so that he didn't have to attend to anyone's needs but his own."
"A narcissist," Jack added.
"Yes," Nate agreed. "He had an idea of the right way to do things and the wrong way to do things and people got in the way of that. The fewer people with whom he was intimate, the less the possibility to challenge that."
"But you say he had friends?" Jack rebutted.
"On a very superficial level. Sports bar buddies. He had got his social fix by watching and being seen. Nothing more than that." Nate’s own words struck a painful chord with himself. "Very much the way a drunk in a bar does."
"Why did he kill?" Jack asked.
Nate breathed through his nose. "Something in his victims aggravated the impetus behind his very compartmentalized life. They challenged him. One of the vics, O’Halloran, who was by all reports a huge asshole, screamed at him. The neighbors said they could hear the tirade all the way down the street. Cobbsmith just stood there and took it. There was nothing about his response—except for the fact that he later put O’Halloran through a chipper and used him as mulch—that indicated not only he was unbalanced, that he was even pissed. He killed people of affluence, like our killer."
"Only they aren't," Jack answered quickly.
Nate smiled and agreed. "Only they aren't. They are people with jobs some might consider prestigious."
Jack continued, "Our vics a
re working class young women who busted their asses to do better. Cobbsmith's people were silver spoon obnoxious types who had cushy positions."
Nate nodded. "A distinction."
Jack was still lost. "So what? Our killer is an average Joe, probably went through some shit but not like the worst in the world, is self-sufficient, has a superficial social life, and has a bitch against society he only acts out on by killing?"
"In both cases, the killer is not a thrill killer but a righteous one. He is giving the vics what he thinks they deserve. Our killer here is saying our victims were in positions perhaps he should have?"
"But not a higher up who thinks these vics were beneath him?" Jack countered.
"The killer is most definitely arrogant. No, I think he is definitely working class, perhaps under employed. From what I glean about Yvonne Winters, she was a great workhorse but not particularly brilliant."
"You're actually right about that. The feedback I got about her was very reliable but not rainmaker material," Jack replied, a touch of surprise in his voice.
For a moment, Nate believed he and the detective had moved past the abrupt way they had created a relationship. "There you go," he said. "I think our killer feels slighted. He thinks life did better by inferiors than by him."
"I think you're right on," Jack replied, his voice rattled with a new tension, an anger that had waned since he sat down but was now back again. "What bothers me is that I have been doing extensive digging, talking to people at her job. What I want to know is how do you know so much?"
"Detective, let me give you a psychological insight. No matter where you go in this world, there are only a couple of types of people. I'm a little like a mechanic. I see a few things; they lead me in a certain direction. Do I know for certain I am right? No. The best way to be right is to allow that I might be wrong." Nate smiled.
The detective shook his head. "Okay, you lost me there."
"I've been doing this for a while. I did my digging way before I ever got on this case," said Nate.
