Alien Blues

by Lynn Hightower

  “What’d you do?”

  “Told him the only chance he had of getting that car back was to tell me everything he knew. Cooperate, I told him, and it’s more likely I’ll find the car. Don’t help me out? Then when we do find it, if we ever do, I’ll have it impounded and tied up as evidence. And I’ll see it gets caught in a program bug that’ll take a lifetime to straighten out. Next time he drives it, going to be an antique.”

  “You dirty cop, you.” David took a big swallow of coffee. “Hey, check the map, okay? Make sure there really is a Possum Head Lane. This ain’t Tennessee, you know. Makes me nervous when the nav program won’t take it.”

  “I already checked ’fore I left. Made Yeager show me on a map. I mean really—Possum Head? It’s there, though. Dead ends, Yeager said.”

  “What else he say?”

  “From the top?”

  David nodded.

  “Guy lives in a townhouse—upscale. Brawny fella, but most of it’s soft. Fisherman too, had a marlin on the wall. Anyway, he’s coming home from a fishing trip down Deer Lake, buzzing along Highway 18, kind of dozing. Car starts to slow down, and that wakes him up, and he sees this car blocking the road. Car’s pretty bashed up, so he gets out to see if he can help. Dyer’s right there by the door, flashing a badge and screaming for the guy’s access code.”

  “Screaming. That you talking, or Yeager?”

  “Yeager. Said the guy was bleeding, looked banged up and scruffy. Very excited. Dyer says, ‘I’m a police officer, this is an emergency, and I am commandeering your car.’”

  “I’ve always wanted to do that,” David said.

  “Me too. Anyway, Yeager don’t like it, and says so. Dyer grabs him and throws him against the hood. Says he’s taking the car. Says he’s following some people and they turned off ’bout a half mile down, he saw the taillights. Wanted to know if Yeager knew the area, knew where the road went.

  “Yeager says yeah, that’s Possum Head Lane. Dyer must of had the same reaction I did, but Yeager swore that’s what it was.”

  “Yeager know what’s out there?”

  “Nothing, he says. Maybe some turnoffs. Anyway, Dyer tells Yeager to get to a phone as fast as he can—pretty funny cause the guy’s on foot—and call Homicide Task Force. Ask for Detective Silver, tell him Dyer’s in trouble and heading down Possum Lane.”

  “Why me?” David asked. “Why not his own people?”

  “He’s working maverick, David. Only explanation. Our case, too.”

  “What could this have to do with Machete Man?”

  “God knows. Maybe he’s tracked him.”

  “Why not wait for backup? He’s hurt. What’s the hurry?”

  “He’s hot, David, I don’t know.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Yeager said a little after ten P.M.”

  David checked his watch. It was five forty-seven.

  “Damn.”

  SIX

  The Sky was beginning to lighten, black fading to grey. David eased the car along Possum Head Lane, looking for turnoffs they’d missed in the dark. There was no track for the car, and hadn’t been since they’d turned off Highway 18.

  “There. Look, David, stop. Told you I thought there was something.”

  A narrow dirt road snaked through a cornfield. The corn was tall and green.

  “Tire marks?” David asked.

  “Can’t tell. Tried everything else, though. Let’s follow it.”

  Yeager had been right, Possum Head Lane had dead-ended in a field. They had followed two turnoffs—one leading to an empty broken-down barn, the other petering out in front of a blackened chimney and a rubble of brick.

  Corn stalks whacked the car doors, and dew-laden leaves collected on the side mirrors and the sills of the windows. The car’s chassis scraped over weeds growing between the ruts of the turnoff.

  “This isn’t even a road,” David said. “This would flunk driveway.”

  “No wonder we missed it in the dark.”

  They went slowly—five to seven miles per hour.

  “I’m hungry,” Mel said. “You hungry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Stop a second.”

  David slowed the car. Mel helped himself to a couple of ears of corn, ripping the damp stalk and silks away.

  “Got to fight the worms for it,” Mel said.

  The corn was whitish yellow—just ripe. Bits of silk clung to the crevices between the kernels. David took a bite. The kernels popped between his teeth and juice ran down his chin. The corn was sweet and starchy.

  “More,” he said.

  They ate and drove. The corn thinned out and quit, the road leading them through overgrown pasture.

  “Hope to hell we don’t get shot in somebody’s old marijuana patch.”

  “Yeah, it hurts getting shot in the old marijuana patch.” David slowed the car. “Look at that.”

  The road stopped in front of an old farmhouse. Weeds grew thickly. David took out his handkerchief, wiping corn juice off his mouth and silks off his shirt. The corn sat uneasily on his stomach.

  The house listed to the left. The roof had holes, and the glass in the windows had been broken out years ago. The front door was boarded shut, but a window on the porch gaped open.

  Lair. That was the word that popped into David’s mind. Had Dyer been on the trail of Machete Man? David’s finger twitched. He had a sudden urge to call for backup.

  He listened, hearing nothing but the breeze stirring the weeds.

  The sky was bright now, streaked with pink and yellow. But the house was grey and ugly, weathered and forlorn. David got out of the car, leaving the door slightly ajar so it wouldn’t slam. The house had come on them too quickly. Better to have come quietly and on foot, leaving the car a half mile down the road.

  Too late now.

  Out of the corner of his eye, David saw Mel disappear into the weeds. David’s steps were loud on the porch. The wood was soft, rotten.

  He knocked, feeling like a fool.

  “Hello? Anybody?”

  David peered in the empty window frame. The inside was little more than a ravaged shell. Warped splintery sheets of plywood made up the floor. The dry wall was crumbling, sporting huge holes. A bright cardboard bucket from Kentucky Fried Chicken sat in a pile of napkins and squashed beer cans. Whoever had been there drank Miller Lite. Was Machete Man counting calories?

  David climbed in the window, catching the seam of his jeans on the sill. The wood was grungy with the withered crumbling bodies of dead insects, and David felt the sticky hairs of a spiderweb brush his face and neck.

  A breeze blew through the house. The napkins swirled, and a beer can rolled across the floor. David shivered. He looked inside the chicken bucket. Bones and skin were piled in the bottom, and he could smell the greasy meat. Someone had been there in the last few hours.

  Finger lickin’ good, Machete Man?

  David heard movement in the back of the house. He crept softly into the gloom of the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder. Weeds crowded the side windows, blocking the sun. David saw a piece of yellow cardboard and a plastic tie. The tie was red, shiny and new—the kind that came with large garbage bags. He pocketed it and headed for the back of the house.

  Mel was in the kitchen, staring at the walls. David stared too.

  The splatter of blood had fanned upward. David wondered what had caused it—a major artery spouting? A chair sat in front of the bloodstained wall. It too was covered with dried brown blotches. The floor was surprisingly clean—only a few smears, here and there. David smelled stale cigarette smoke.

  “Wonder where the body is,” Mel said.

  David took a long, slow breath. “Get on the radio. Let’s take this place apart.”

  SEVEN

  A hot shower was no substitute for sleep, but it helped. David pulled his jeans back on and rubbed a towel in his hair. He ran a hand over his chin, rasping the sandpaper stubble of beard.

  He ope
ned the bathroom door.

  “Mel? I borrow your razor?”

  “Razor?” Mel’s head appeared around the corner. “Sure.” Mel was eating something. “Borrow the comb, too. Look like you stuck your finger in a socket.”

  David wiped condensation off the mirror and squinted through the streaks while he lathered his face.

  The comb had several teeth missing and the end was broken off. David smoothed his hair back and put his shirt on. He stepped over the pile of underwear and jeans that blocked the doorway, and headed for the kitchen.

  Mel sat at the table, flipping through his mail.

  “I smell coffee,” David said. Bad coffee, he thought, but coffee.

  The kitchen was tiny. The appliances had originally been white, but were yellowish-looking now. The counters were sticky with coffee rings. A trash can next to the refrigerator overflowed with auto-hot packaged meals and beer cans. An empty ice-cream carton hung over the edge of the counter, the spoon in the bottom giving it enough ballast to keep it from slipping to the floor.

  Mel rinsed a plastic mug. Henly Garden Center was stenciled on the side. As soon as the coffee hit the mug, a tinny jingle of music sounded from the handle.

  “The Henly Garden Center will give you a green thumb! Seedlings, EPA-sanctioned fertilizer, all natural pest con—”

  David broke the handle off the mug, slopping hot coffee over the back of his hand. The music stopped.

  “Shit.”

  He opened the freezer, got a piece of ice, and rubbed it across a widening red spot on the back of his hand. Mel smeared peanut butter on a bagel and offered it to him.

  “I hate bagels.”

  “You do? Didn’t know that. If I’d known that, I’d have gone and gotten some grits.”

  “You never ate a grit in your life.”

  “David, you don’t say ‘a grit.’ They don’t come singular. Don’t open that!”

  David pulled the handle of the refrigerator. “I just want some milk for my … Christ, Mel, what happened in there?”

  “It wasn’t cooling right. ’Member I told you, it wasn’t cooling right? Stuff was going bad.”

  “I told you to get Rose to look at it, not … what did you do?”

  “Sent for a repair kit. Not just parts either, I sprung for a nano machine kit to grow the thing back together right.”

  “They sent you the wrong kit.”

  “I checked it. Said it was for the fridge, right model number and everything.”

  “Wonder what it was really for.”

  “Looks like the inside of a dishwasher to me—all those plastic prongs and stuff. See over there—like a place for silverware.”

  “But why does it smell so bad?”

  “It got meshed up with the food.”

  “Jesus, Mel, you didn’t clean it out first?”

  “Directions said I didn’t have to.”

  David slammed the refrigerator and it rocked back and forth, then steadied. “Fine, I’ll drink it black.”

  “Naw, I got these.” Mel rummaged in a drawer full of bank receipts, pencils, and small tools. “Here.” He put a few plastic packets of non-dairy creamer on the table. “Picked them up at that KP restaurant. One down the street.”

  David emptied a packet of creamer into his coffee and the liquid turned greenish brown. He put a hand in his pocket and brought out the hard plastic brush he’d found in Dyer’s car. He brushed crumbs off a spot on the table and set it down. Mel looked at it and chewed his bagel. A smear of peanut butter appeared on the left corner of his mouth.

  “What’s that?”

  David thought about the café on West Main and the taste of their coffee. On his mind particularly was the way they made blueberry muffins.

  “David? What is that?”

  “You tell me.”

  Mel picked it up. “Looks like the kind of brush comes with an electric razor. Just bigger. And the bristles are in the wrong place.”

  “Found it in Dyer’s car, between the door and the seat. Looks like it fell down the crack last night.”

  Mel gave it a second look. “Maybe it’s some kind of artist’s brush.” He turned it over in his hand. “No writing or anything on it.”

  “Let’s take it down to the precinct. Maybe somebody down there knows what it is.” David dropped it back in his pocket. “Mel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Dyer’s got to be dead, don’t you think?”

  EIGHT

  David and Mel stopped at the café on West Main, and were late to the staff meeting. Della Martinas, Pete Ridel, and Dawn Weiler, the FBI liaison, were already at the oval table in the captain’s office. An Elaki stood between the table and the wall.

  “That’s him.” Mel grabbed David’s sleeve. “The one that crashed our crime scene.”

  “Shhh.” David peeled Mel’s fingers off his wrist. “Take it easy, will you? This is a different one. Pinker in the middle—see?”

  “What’s he doing at a staff meeting?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “I ain’t working with that guy.”

  “You won’t have to. Halliday wouldn’t just spring something like this.”

  David opened the door and Mel followed him into the office.

  Dawn Weiler was talking. David nodded at her, smiling gently. Mel stood behind his chair, looking from the Elaki to the captain. Halliday frowned at him. Mel sat.

  The Elaki swayed ever so slightly back and forth. David wished it would be still.

  He tried to concentrate on what Dawn was saying. She was a slender brunette, freckles across her nose, green-eyed. Her fingers were long and bony, and she tended to wear longish skirts and tailored blouses with Peter Pan collars. She absently twisted a strand of hair around a pencil.

  “Maybe it’s just me. No. Something’s way off. This one is atypical weird.” She frowned and wrinkled her nose.

  Halliday smiled. His teeth were very white. He had high, sharp cheekbones and a thin, angular face. His hair was lank and brown, and his clothes studiously nerdy.

  “Dawn, can you get a little more specific?” Halliday glanced at the Elaki.

  Dawn Weiler blushed. “Okay. What we know. The killer is white and male. Well, big deal, most of them are. What bothers me?” She chewed the pencil eraser. “The last attack was an old lady. Caucasian. Before that—male, Oriental, early twenties. Before that—young woman, Caucasian. The other two victims—black man, fifties. White woman—forties. Absolutely no pattern whatsoever. That’s so frustrating. Even Henry Lee Lucas …”

  “It’s the same guy doing it,” Ridel interrupted. “DNA match on all sperm samples.”

  “Oh, I agree,” Weiler said. “Same guy. But he absolutely won’t type out. These killers fall in two groups.”

  The Elaki edged forward, closer to David than he liked. Mel blew air through his teeth. Dawn frowned at him.

  “First bunch,” Dawn said, “is stalkers, planners. These are the older ones, the smarter ones. Twenties, thirties. They like to control and torture—they’re sexual sadists. Then there’s the impulsive ones. Usually they kill quickly, because they feel threatened. Then they mess around with the corpse. Sometimes they cover it up, like they’re ashamed. Usually they’re younger, often live near the victim.

  “This guy we got—he stalks, gets absolute control. Then kills quickly, first blow. The victims are dead before he takes off the fingers and hands, et cetera, et cetera. That surprises me.”

  “I think for the best they are dead first.”

  Everyone looked at the Elaki.

  “Sure.” Dawn looked annoyed. “It just bugs me. I mean you add that to the incredible range of victims. And there’s no pattern to when he hits. He does the first three in a two-week period. Bizarre. Then he stops for three months! Then another, six weeks later. Usually, these things build. Start slow and work their way up. That two-week blitz—that kind of stuff usually happens when a guy is spooked and on the run. Nothing to lose.”

  �
��Maybe he was in jail during those three months,” David said.

  Della shook her head. “I’ve run the known felons, misdemeanors … only a few Iikelies and we interviewed those.”

  Dawn shrugged. “Normally I could say to you, hey, this guy is twenty-three to thirty-three years old. He probably works in a hospital, has a girlfriend, lives with his mother, et cetera. Your boy, I don’t know. I’m afraid to type him. I don’t want you looking one way, when you should be looking another.”

  “Please explain the significance of typing him. You say that twice. Type people? This is to be desirable?”

  “See,” Mel said. “There used to be this thing called a typewriter. Started out little, so they could fit on a desk, but some genius cop gets the idea to roll the perps on the platen, kind of like tattooing—you know what tattoo means?”

  “Mel, I want you to stay after the meeting,” Halliday said. He looked at the Elaki. “What Detective Burnett means …”

  David tuned Halliday out. He rubbed his eyes. This was going to be a bad one, very bad. Careers would make or break on this one. Most sociopathic killers were caught by accident, a lucky break. David wasn’t feeling lucky. And meanwhile, Machete Man was going through a lot of people.

  The phone rang and Halliday picked it up.

  “Halliday. Yeah, Mark. No, I’ve never been to one of them places. I don’t suppose you got any idea which? How about the blood? All right. You know about Dyer. You know what we’re dealing with.” Halliday hung up.

  “That brush you found, David. Came from an Elaki restaurant. They give ’em out—Elaki get crumbs embedded in their skin—”

  “Scales,” the Elaki said.

  “What?”

  “Scales. Not skin.”

  “Whyn’t you just wear a bib?” Mel said.

  “What is the bib?”

  “Oh, see …” Mel said.

  Halliday looked at him.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Mel promised.

  “Sounds like Dyer was off on something else entirely,” Della said glumly. She gnawed a blueberry muffin. David glanced through the glass walls of Halliday’s office to his own desk. The bag from the café was gone.