“I looked up Slaither but he’s not in there.” Madison smiled. “So I checked the web too. Took me a while but I finally found one entry by some freelance hack. This guy R.D.? He was Moore’s second in command at Daler. When the project collapsed, he was in charge of PR and eh… financial allocations. Apparently, he was suspected of dipping into the funds, though it was never proved. The writer claimed the Daler Corporation hushed it up but didn’t offer any real evidence.”
“Well that’s just great.”
Madison leant close to Ettrick’s ear. He noted with pleasure how her milky lambency pitted against his olive hue.
“Just cause he’s a tad dishonest don’t mean he’s stupid,” she whispered. “Let’s set a thief to catch a thief.”
“We’re not after a thief. We’re after a child killer.”
“Well, if he turns out to have killed any kids, he’s not getting into the house.” Madison began putting the rest of the dessert back in the fridge.
“I don’t care how smart he is.”
-23-
R.D. Slaither turned up next day, wearing a single-breasted jet black suit and matching sunglasses. Madison loitered by the window in her own simple black dress, lips glossy red and short hair shining. Hearing a vehicle draw up and a car door slam, she peeked round the sill and jumped back with a squeal.
“You didn’t tell me he was one of the Blues Brothers.” Her mouth shaped a glistening O.
Ettrick hung warily on the other side of the window, watching his guest walk uncertainly towards the house. R.D. Slaither was a stocky man, short with an almost military crew-cut. He removed the sunglasses and sad, sleepy pond-green eyes laughed in his oddly handsome face.
Ettrick looked down and gave a chuckle.
Two bulging Circle-K carrier bags hung like fat plastic tears from each of Slaither’s arms, the seductive outline of beer bottles moulding each sack.
Madison jerked open the front door in time to catch R.D. pressing the buzzer with his nose. He jerked his head back and the bags clinked together, an alcoholic Newton’s Cradle that threatened to swing him back down the porch steps.
“Eh… hello,” he twitched awkwardly.
Madison opened the door wider, ushering the man inside.
“You look like you’re here to get us drunk!” she laughed.
“Eh…” R.D. shrugged. “Aye…sort of.” He plunked his burden down in the hall and shook Ettrick’s hand.
“You must be detective Sinclair.” Smiling breathlessly.
“Ettrick. Yeah, that’s me.” The detective had expected some aged academic, but R.D. looked to be in his late forties and his buoyant, boyish manner projected the image of an even younger man. He wiped perspiration from his forehead with a black sleeve.
“I kind of thought … Well … If I end up working with you – and hopefully I will – I might be here quite a lot of the time … If that’s all right with you, Mrs. Sinclair?”
“Sure, it’s fine. And call me Madison.”
“The thing is, I’m quite a shy person, till you get to know me, and this is a sort of traditional Caledonian way of breaking the ice. It’s called getting pished.”
He waved at the bags.
“Circle-K didn’t have much in the way of fine wines, hope you don’t mind. I assumed you both drank since you’re a detective and you’re a detective’s wife. But I can polish them off myself. After all, I’m Scottish. It’s expected.”
Ettrick opened his mouth. Finding no more fault than reason in his guest’s deliberations he shut it again. Madison probed the plastic bags.
“Rolling Rock and Mickey’s Big Mouth?”
“I only drink out of green or brown bottles. It’s a phobia. Agricultophobia, I think it’s called. Reminds me of the rolling hills of home or something like that.” R.D. pursed his lips rationally. “Even though I grew up in Edinburgh.”
His face morphed into self-mockery. He seemed satisfied that he’d managed to say something amusing and relaxed a little.
Ettrick, casting a professional eye, was impressed. Though R.D.’s charm was being laid on with a trowel, he was making a sincere effort to be an agreeable dinner guest and that was appreciated.
Madison patted his arm, sharing her husband’s sentiment.
“I like him Ettrick. Can we keep him?”
And she led R.D., bags clinking, into the dining room.
They got drunk with a vengeance. The evening started as a functional thing, then mutated into a miniature party. Talk about the killings slowly turned to wide ranging discussion, the conversation coasting easily away from Cherry Bomb and up other alleyways of existence.
R.D. Slaither turned out to be eloquent and likeably comic. He drank like a fish and seemed to be having a fine old time. Ettrick was also enjoying himself. For a whole ten minutes he hadn’t thought about the case. He glanced over at his wife as she happily poured more drinks, delighting in the gangly elegance which perfectly complimented his own wiry build. Madison spotted Ettrick’s appreciative look and brushed at her hair self-consciously, a primed, easy laugh buzzing between her teeth.
R.D. caught the noise, his eyes browsing from one sozzled host to the other.
“You look like wee human salt and pepper shakers,” he slurred. “That’s nice.” He took a hefty swig of Rolling Rock. “I was married once, too. My wife left though.”
“It happens.” Ettrick tried to coast over the subject. He found that his conciliatory reserves got used up at work.
“Any kids?” Madison asked.
“One.” R.D. scratched his cheek. “He died a few years ago, when he was two. In a car crash.
He smiled wanly.
“I was driving.”
There was an embarrassed silence. Out in the street a vehicle’s horn sobbed twice.
“Oh,” Madison said quietly. “I’m truly sorry.”
“Is that why you’re helping us?” Ettrick was tactlessly curious, a Pavlovian response to any statement about sudden death. Besides, he had done more checking and already knew about the accident.
“You said ‘us’ instead of ‘me’. That’s nice too.” For a stuttering second a lost look slid down R.D.’s face. Then it was gone.
“I don’t want to go into how I feel about my kid’s death,” he stated, matter-of-factly. “But if I can save someone else’s child, it’ll go a long way to putting my mind at ease… know what I mean?”
He stood up to get another beer, signalling the termination of that particular topic.
“I’m sure it will.” Madison let R.D. vanish into the kitchen then scooted Ettrick a look of mortification. The detective had on his poker face. Madison touched the rim of the glass with her teeth. When the psychologist came back into the room she turned in her chair.
“Would you like to see our boy? You won’t wake him. He sleeps like a log.”
R.D. halted in mid-slope. He looked surprised then absurdly pleased.
“Yes… Thanks, I would.” He glanced at Ettrick to see if he was being too familiar.
“Y’all go ahead. I’ve seen him plenty.”
Ettrick took a long drag on his Marlboro, watching Madison and R.D. drunkenly ascending the stairs to his son’s bedroom. They got along well. That was good. Now he was ready. Now things were going to move along. He felt confident.
He decided not to mention to Madison the fact that R.D. had been speeding.
It looked like he was being punished enough.
-24-
In the days that followed, Ettrick and R.D. began digesting the smorgasbord of information the detective had put together. As partners in solving crime they discovered then accepted each other foibles comfortably. The psychologist appreciated Ettrick’s foul mouthed dryness and marvelled at his identical white t-shirt collection. The detective enjoyed R.D.’s stories about his chequered past, partly because they didn’t consist entirely of murder, rape and robbery, like everyone else he worked with.
The psychologist, it seemed, had an amusing anecdo
te tailored for every occasion. Yet, if the conversation ever touched on his wife or child, he would slide the subject adroitly under the table.
Ettrick respected his partner’s privacy. Their relationship wasn’t the kind that prompted emotional sandblasting. Besides, the detective was too engrossed with the Cherry Bomb investigation to waste time prying into his ally’s psyche.
A new enthusiasm pervaded the Sinclair household. Madison cheerfully provided Ettrick with moral support and R.D. was handed a continual supply of beer in dull-coloured bottles. In return, the new partner shared baby-minding duties to help out the exhausted parents. He would lie on the floor with seventeen month old Frankie Sinclair and make endless faces at the bemused child, allowing Ettrick and Madison to eat the occasional meal in peace. When all three were busy, Madison would give one of the local teenagers a few dollars to keep an eye on the diminutive whirlwind.
Finally R.D. suggested he help pay for a permanent babysitter. Ettrick and Madison gaped at him.
“Every time I come here there’s a different gum-chewing nymphet sprawled on the couch watching soaps. Women that age make it hard for me to concentrate.” He brushed away the Sinclair’s half-protests. “I got the very person. Besides, the wee one’s getting on my nerves.”
Ettrick and Madison knew that wasn’t true. R.D. and Frankie would sit for a solid hour playing Poke-Eye or reading Peter Pan to him.
“That’s a bit advanced for a kid his age,” Ettrick had remarked.
“All children should know the classics of Scots literature,” the psychologist retorted. “After this we’re moving on to Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.”
The Sinclairs allowed themselves to be outmanoeuvred. They figured R.D. wanted their son to have the things his own child would never enjoy and they certainly couldn’t afford a proper nanny. Touched, they accepted his help.
R.D. wasted no time. He turned up next day with Meike, a politely remote Scandinavian. She appeared supremely competent, though only the psychologist possessed the ability to make her smile.
“She’s not a patient of yours, is she?” Madison whispered.
“Certainly not!” R.D. retorted. “She’s my…eh… niece.”
Ettrick coughed loudly into his glass of Coke.
At first Madison treated Meike with veiled suspicion but Frankie seemed completely at ease with his silent sentinel and Ettrick appeared indifferent to her presence.
“She’s too boring for me and not nearly as pretty as you,” he told his scowling wife, once the Garbo-esque Meike had withdrawn to the spare room out back. “R.D.’s right. This will give us some real time together.”
“I don’t know.”
Ettrick had picked up a little psychology from his new friend.
“Look at all the extra opportunities you’ll have to paint,” he enthused.
From then on Meike drifted round the house, distant as a ghost but far more efficient.
-25-
R.D. and Ettrick smoked furiously in the study.
“The first killing is the key.” The detective said at last.
“Why?”
“It always is. Plus it’s the one where I have absolute first-hand knowledge. I was there minutes after Kim Thackery’s body was discovered. I called the back-ups. I interviewed everyone at Janet’s restaurant. It was my case.”
“You’re pretty annoyed at getting ditched.”
“You bet your ass I am. Didn’t do those fuckers at the station a helluva lot of good dumping me, did it?”
He pulled a wad of notes from under a pile of Genesee Pale Ale bottles.
“I was all over that fucking crime scene. I searched every inch of Pineda’s car. I damned near crawled round the parking lot with a magnifying glass.”
“You had a hunch this was going to be something big?”
“Hell no. I don’t get hunches. I’m just good at my job.” Ettrick looked moodily across the study desk. “Then there was a second and a third killing and I knew that bastard was gonna be my big break. I was there. When someone kills over and over, the first killing is always the key.”
“The next four breakdowns.” R.D. picked up his pocket recorder. “Did you get to the scene as quickly on any other occasion?”
“The second murder, I was too far away. After that they took me off the case and that made it even harder. Fourth and fifth, I was there within, say… an hour each time.”
“An hour?” R.D. grimaced.
“I aint the fucking Flash, for Chrissake! I moved as quick as I could. I even bought a C.B. radio so I could pick up police broadcasts in my bedroom.”
“That must do wonders for your sex life.”
Ettrick gave R.D. a withering look.
“The third kid killed, though? I was on the scene within ten minutes. Fuck… I was there before Grimm and Scharges.”
R.D. glanced sideways at the detective.
“Which one of your parents wouldn’t let you swear when you were a kid?” he asked, nonchalantly, lighting another cigarette.
“What are you talking about?” Ettrick’s beer paused on the way to his lips. “I’m an orphan.”
“Nothing,” the psychologist said sheepishly. “I saw it in a play once.”
He rewound his recorder and stood up.
“Let’s go back to the Pineda/Thackery case. You’re right; the original murder might well be the most important. If it was the first time Cherry Bomb killed, there’s a greater chance of him screwing it up. And let’s not assume it’s a he. Could be a she.”
“I know that. I’m the fucking detective.”
“Is there anything different about that killing? Something clumsy. Something Cherry Bomb might have refined once he got into the swing of things?”
“Hah! You called him ‘he’ again,” Ettrick pointed out.
“Excuse me. Are we trying to catch a mass murderer or is this the Abbott and Costello Show?”
“Sorry.” Ettrick thumbed through a report sheet. “There are a couple of major differences between the first and subsequent killings. This guy obviously knows cars, right? The department’s already investigating previous offenders working as mechanics, but shit, I figure it’s more likely he’s a talented amateur.”
“I concur.” R.D. nodded. “Mainly because I like the word.”
“So… he abducts and murders a child in the evening hours. No sign of sexual assault or brutality. He just strangles the kid.”
“That’s not the usual pattern for killings of children.”
“I know. But anyhow, he puts the corpse in the trunk of some poor bastard’s car around dawn, then screws with the vehicle. I mean, this guy’s got nerve. We’re already looking for a missing kid and he has the body laying there while he takes a stranger’s vehicle apart in a driveway, in the middle of the night! That’s a helluva stunt to pull.”
“It’s like he’s playing some kind of elaborate practical joke.”
“Yeah… it is. That mean anything to you?”
“It means our murderer’s probably one of those annoying wee shits that superglues coins to counter tops and puts Cling-Film over toilet seats. But that pales a bit beside his other bad qualities. I’ll think about it … you carry on.”
“O.K. Usual pattern. In the morning our unsuspecting drivers take off to go to work. As soon as they hit rush hour traffic, they have to stop and start, stop and start. Pretty soon the car breaks down.”
“But… Pepe Pineda’s car conked out instantly.” R.D. stopped Ettrick in mid flow. “Simpler to do. Yet the dead kid was wired to the lock mechanism. Which is more elaborate than just sticking it in the trunk, like the next victims.”
“Exactly! And here’s another interesting fact.”
“Hit me with it Frenchie,” R.D. lisped, doing a passable Bogart imitation.
“Pepe Pineda left Janet’s restaurant at the same time every Sunday morning to have breakfast at Moe’s Café up in the Farmers Market on Burnett Road.”
“Any reason why?”
“Said he liked a break from his own cooking. Now… Pineda’s place is always packed on Sunday mornings cause they do a great breakfast taco special. You ever eaten there?”
“Packed on a Sunday morning.” R.D. opened another beer. “So anyone who ate at Janet’s a lot would know Pineda’s exact schedule? Including the killer.”
“Shoot, I know what you’re thinking.” Ettrick picked up a beer of his own. “Surprise, surprise, the rest of homicide thought of that too. But Janet’s has hundreds of regulars. When you think on it, anyone who bought produce in the Farmers Market would also see Pineda every week. If they wanted to know what part of town he came from they only had to follow him home. Or, it could’ve been a lucky guess. Maybe Cherry Bomb drove down Guadalupe every day and noticed the old Mercury that was always sitting outside the restaurant was missing on Sunday mornings.”
Ettrick took a huge gulp of Miller Lite.
“It’s all ifs and could-be’s, R.D. There’s a million permutations.” He put the bottle down and wagged a detecting finger. “But Pineda’s vehicle? Like you said, that’s something different.”
“All the other cars broke down on the journey but Cherry Bomb fixed Pineda’s car so it wouldn’t start at all,” R.D. mused. “If that was his intention, then this murder would be…”
“… It would be the only time when the killer would know exactly where and when the dead child would be discovered.”
“It was his first born,” R.D. affirmed. “Too important to miss.”
Ettrick punched the air triumphantly. He loved being right.
“I knew it! He was watching, wasn’t he?”
R.D.’s face lit up.
“You were the officer on the scene, Ettrick. You might have seen him. Even spoken with him!”
“Yeah, I remember the guy, R.D. He was the one with the hockey mask and the I Kill Children button.” The detective lit a cigarette and inhaled furiously, little storm clouds writhing round his bitter words. “But there are three restaurants and six shops in the vicinity where customers had a perfect view of Pineda’s car. And two alleyways besides.”
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