“Most people aren’t dumb enough to haul a dead body around in daylight. My guy brought Heenan here in the middle of the night. He had to know this area to navigate it in the dark.”
Lia ticked off points on her fingers. “So he was strong, he was local, and he didn’t drive to Indiana since he didn’t think of I-74. He was a mutant chemical zombie, a night watchman, a Bengal, or your basic blue collar muscle guy. Are you getting any other ideas about him?”
“I’m thinking he was twenty-five to forty.”
“Why?”
“Statistics aren’t always reliable but the sweet spot for homicide offenders is between twenty-five and thirty.”
“You hear more and more about young killers these days.”
“If you’re not talking gang-banger executions, younger guys who kill, it’s usually an impulse. It’s violent and messy. We don’t see that here. No signs of violence on the remains—”
“That you can see.”
“Pretty slim that you stab or shoot someone and don’t hit bone. No blood in the house, or they would have handled the case differently.”
“He was killed elsewhere.”
Peter retrieved the bottle and took another swallow, draining it. He screwed the cap back on and returned it to his pocket. “You’re a heck of a devil’s advocate.”
“I do my best.”
“Heenan died in his Elvis suit after performing for a bunch of kids at a party. If I had just spent two hours entertaining children, I wouldn’t be wandering the streets in my Elvis costume. I’d head straight for a shower to wash off whatever sugary goo was sticking to me. I’d want a change of clothes.”
“A mugger?”
“A garden variety mugger wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to hide the body, and I doubt he grabbed Heenan on the street outside a kiddie party. There would have been witnesses, parents picking up kids.”
“A carjacking, then.”
“If Heenan’s killer hijacked the car to joyride or commit a crime, he would have dumped it at any one of a hundred high-volume parking lots in the city. The employee lots on Pill Hill are perfect. People come and go from the hospital at all hours. Plenty of buses, going all over the city. He’d have an easy way home. We would have found Heenan in the trunk of his car.”
“Not a mugger or a car-jacking. How do you think it happened?”
“I think he was laying in wait at Heenan’s house.”
“And?”
“The killer knew Heenan was leaving town. He timed the attack and planted the car at the airport so everyone would think he left on schedule. Then he used Heenan’s ticket. Question is whether he used the ticket to disappear because something went wrong, or if he used it to mislead everyone and snuck back into town. Either way, it was weeks before anyone started looking.”
“How could he use the ticket?” Lia asked.
“Airlines didn’t require identification back then. If you had a ticket, you could board.”
“Then he knew Heenan, he was a planner and he was an adult.”
“He went to a lot of trouble. That means he had a purpose.”
“What kind of purpose?”
“No clue. Why would anyone kill a third-rate magician?”
Day 12
Wednesday, May 1, 2019
The Mill Creek Alliance was one of several organizations making its home in the rectory of Northside’s decommissioned Saint Patrick’s Church. The front door opened to a wide hall featuring kitchen cabinets and a coffee bar stocked with exotic herbal teas. Pale art faded into the walls.
In a room on the left, a man in baggy pants led a group of women through a tai chi form. Beyond an open door on the right, a frizzy-haired woman in soothing colors frowned at a laptop. A desktop fountain gurgled somewhere in the room.
Peter poked his head in the office, knocked on the jamb.
“Mill Creek Alliance?”
The woman looked up, the reflection on her glasses giving her an empty-eyed, Little Orphan Annie look. “End of the hall, turn right. You’ll see the stairs.”
The steps creaked as he ascended, which was likely why Bruce Koehler met him on the landing.
“That’s some advance warning system you have,” Peter said.
“It works for us. Come on back.”
Bruce led him to an office cluttered with maps and literature, and much more comfortable than the determinedly tranquil decor of the first floor.
“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m fine. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
Peter sat on an old, sturdy couch, one he imagined to be the site of many naps.
“I was surprised to hear from you. Last time I saw you, you said your attachment to our find was temporary.”
“The National Enquirer changed that. How did they get your name?”
Bruce frowned. “Shame about the article. I supposed the person who sent them the photos gave it to them.”
You old pirate. I bet my pension it was you. “You have any idea who that was?”
Bruce made a mistake liars often made, holding eye contact a beat too long while resisting the urge to look away.
Yep, you were the source.
“I’m sure it wasn’t Terry or Steve.”
Smart, because I wouldn’t believe you.
“Lot of young folks on that trip. Impossible to monitor all of them.”
Peter sighed, deliberately. “Water under the tree.”
“Literally. How can I help you today?”
“We believe Heenan’s killer knew the creek.”
“A reasonable assumption. I can’t see a man with a body in the trunk of his car getting a sudden urge to pull over behind Bengal’s field.”
“Everyone says you know Mill Creek better than anyone.”
Bruce shrugged. “I don’t know about better. Maybe longer. What would you like to know?”
“I wonder if you ran into our man on the creek.”
Bruce leaned forward, eyes lit with interest. “You don’t say?”
“Andrew Heenan went missing in 1987.”
Bruce shook his head. “Before my time. I started exploring the creek in the nineties.”
“We think he might have been hanging around.”
“Returning to the scene of the crime? Interesting thought.”
“Can you think of anyone from back then? He would have been strong enough to move a body—”
“Down that gully and across the creek? Quite a feat, even when the water is low.”
“Exactly.”
“I met plenty of people on the creek. I rarely got their names. I suppose some of them were strong enough, but there’s no one who sticks out. I can’t even remember their faces.”
“What about your old timers? Any of them around in the eighties?”
Bruce rubbed his chin, thinking. “I can check the rosters, but I doubt I’ll find anything. Terry was in Alaska back then, and Dick—Dick Brewer, you met him—was in the Army, career military. He retired here and started his business.” Commodore rubbing his chin, thinking. “2004, 2005?”
“He put in his full twenty?”
“I’m sure he did. No pension if you leave early, at least back then. I understand that’s changing. Steve Reams grew up here. I imagine he was in better shape thirty years ago.”
“You think Steve might have done this?”
“No, I think Steve was working for the sewer district in the eighties and he was probably fit enough back then to haul a dead body. That’s what you asked. I also think he’s constitutionally incapable of killing.”
“He doesn’t seem like the type, does he?”
“I may have seen your guy, but I can’t think of anyone who registered on my creep-o-meter. I think it’s a real long shot that your guy is still around.”
“You have a creep-o-meter?”
“Every paddler who saw Deliverance has a creep-o-meter.”
The X-files theme drifted over from the phone on Lia’s drafting table
, signaling a call from Bailey. Peter had set the ring tone as a joke. She’d left it because it served its purpose.
“What’s up?”
“Promise not to shoot the messenger?”
Gypsy’s teeth sank into Lia’s foot, an increasingly common occurrence. She picked up Susan’s scarf, dangled it to distract the little demon. “Will I want to?”
“You might. But you’ll hear about this anyway.”
“Someone put naked pictures of me on the internet?”
“Not you. Peter.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“At least he’s not naked. Susan posted her first video. I’m texting you a link.”
“Do I want to see this?”
“Probably not.”
“Hang on.” Lia checked her messages and found the YouTube link. “I’ve got it.”
“Call me back after you watch it.”
Lia followed the link to a video clip with the white “play” arrow covering Susan’s mouth. She tapped the arrow, and tiny Susan spoke.
“Welcome to the premiere episode of Susan’s Snippets. I’m Susan Sweeney coming to you from Cincinnati, here to share with you the happenings of one of America’s most intriguing cities. Today, nothing is more fascinating than the discovery on Cincinnati’s Mill Creek, of a long-buried skeleton rumored to be the bones of Elvis Presley himself.”
Susan displayed a copy of the National Enquirer with the grisly cover photo.
“Heading the investigation into this mystery is Detective Peter Dourson of the Cincinnati Police Department.”
The scene switched to a clip of Peter standing in front of District Five. Peter did not appear to be aware of the camera.
“Few people know that Peter grew up next door to me in Cave City, Kentucky. We’ve been friends since we were in diapers. He’s smart, he’s dedicated, and girls, he’s single. I bet he’ll figure out how the King ended up on the muddy banks of an open sewer in no time.”
Lia paused the video and called Bailey. She did not wait for Bailey to speak.
“Tell me again about the Wicca Rule of Three.”
“Energy is an amped-up metaphysical boomerang. Whatever you put out, positive or negative, comes back to you, multiplied by three.”
“Is there a loophole that allows me to murder Susan as a public service?”
“Nope. You can kill her, but you won’t enjoy the fallout. Do I have to talk you down off a ledge?”
Lia sighed. “I’d like to throw something but I value my stuff too much to break any of it because of her.”
“There you go. Peter will probably get a few propositions out of it.”
“I can’t imagine he’ll like that any better than I do.”
“I wonder why she didn’t say they were engaged.”
“A failed engagement? Being a loser doesn’t suit her brand.”
“Love and light, Lia, love and light.”
Grizzled veteran detective Sam Robertson entered Peter’s office, wreathed in the seductive aroma of hot pork in all its manifestations. He set the extra-large Buddy Deluxe pizza on the edge of Peter’s desk, swiped the five-dollar bill waiting there, then curled his hand in the universal “gimme” sign. Cynth and Brent opened their wallets.
Peter flipped up the lid of the box. His hand hovered over the steaming pie when his extension rang. That same hand detoured to the receiver while his tastebuds mourned the first bite of hot-from-the-oven pizza.
Cynth slapped a bill on his desk. “Five dollars says it’s a fake tip.”
Brent laid a five on top of hers. “Nutcase confession.”
Sam grabbed a slice. “I’m in. Psychic.”
They could joke. They got a floorshow while his lunch turned into cement. Peter shook his head as he raised the receiver. “Dourson speaking.”
Susan’s voice, sweet as cotton candy. “My, don’t you sound professional.”
“Hold a minute.” He punched the hold button, swiping bills off his desk. “Ex-fiancée. I win.”
“Hey! You can’t do that. You weren’t in on the bet,” Robertson said.
“My office, my rules. Scram.”
Nobody moved.
Robertson said, “We paid, we get to play.”
Peter gave Brent a pointed look.
“I’m not leaving when you’re about to have such an entertaining phone call.”
“Asshat.”
Cynth folded her arms. “They stay, I stay.”
Peter turned his back and took Susan’s call off hold. “Sorry, I wasn’t alone.”
“I guess I won’t be mad, then.”
“I’m busy, Susan.”
Susan huffed. “I just called to let you know I posted my first video.”
“I saw it. I’m not amused.”
“I know you said you wouldn’t interview with me—”
“Not happening. Not in this world. Not in the next.”
“I can help. People tell me things.”
Peter closed his eyes and imagined banging his head on the desk. He knew better than to let her hear him sigh. “If, as a public-spirited citizen, you care to share information relevant to this case you are welcome to call the homicide unit, and they will take a report.”
“Why must you make it so hard? Why won’t you talk to me?”
“I’m assuming this is police business, because otherwise you shouldn’t be on this line. We have a procedure. Homicide processes all tips about Andrew Heenan.”
“I’m on this line, Peter Dourson, because you don’t have the courtesy to give me your cell phone number.”
“You’re on this line because you couldn’t wheedle my number out of Abby.”
“I should call your captain and tell him you’re discriminating against a member of the press for personal reasons.”
“If she considers you a member of the press, which I doubt, she’ll say you’re welcome to attend press conferences like everyone else. If she sees your arrest report, she’ll be more likely to think you’re a stalker and ban you. Goodbye, Susan.”
As Peter lowered the receiver to the cradle, the words, “You’re positively evil, Peter Dourson” sputtered from the handset. He reached for his abandoned slice. The cheese, thank God, retained heat, pulling in strings as he lifted it from the box.
Brent tossed the crust of the slice he’d consumed while Peter was on the phone. “Rude, Dourson, after she was kind enough to pimp you out to the ladies of Cincinnati.”
Robertson snickered.
“Brent, You’re such an ass,” Cynth said. “She did that to cause trouble with Lia.”
Peter continued to chew, then swallowed. “Lia’s not like that.”
“Every woman is like that,” Robertson said.
Peter stood in front of Heenan’s Clifton Hills home, a Tudor style, half-timbered bungalow with mullioned windows, a steeply pitched slate roof, and fieldstone masonry covered with ivy that was likely well-established when Andrew lived there.
The property featured neat brick walkways and a spreading oak in the front yard. Pansies spilled from concrete urns while lilac bushes scented the air. The Tudor influence was strong on the quiet street, with no two houses alike. Peter suspected the original residents would not have stood for it.
Nice house. Way above a cop’s salary. That was the Gaslight district: one mile and a world away from the street crimes that plagued Northside. Hard to imagine anything bad happening here, though Peter knew better.
Lia found the combination of academia, culture, and discreet old money stuffy, with ladies who never left the house without their face on, filling their days with charity obligations and their evenings hosting dinner parties enlivened with elevated conversation.
Susan would adopt the wardrobe and mannerisms. After a suitable period, she’d deny she’d ever heard of Cave City.
The Johnsons took possession of the house seven months after Heenan died. How had that happened? If someone had power of attorney to sell the house, why didn’t they follow up with
the missing person case? So far, the current owners were his best bet for finding a thread to pull that might take him somewhere. He wondered if they knew their house was connected with the Enquirer article, and how long they’d be able to maintain their privacy.
No one answered the bell. No sound of activity inside. He scribbled a note on a business card and stuck it in the door, then scanned the street for signs of life.
A woman wearing a broad-brimmed hat and espadrilles knelt on a rubber pad, tending a bed of iris next door. Peter thought about the ancient T-shirts and stained jeans Bailey wore for her gardening jobs. This woman was no laborer. The owner, then, who’d occupied the house a dozen years according to property records. She wouldn’t have known Andrew, but he had to start somewhere.
Peter called out as he approached. The woman looked up with an expression of polite inquiry. She was attractive, as any woman in this neighborhood would be. If she didn’t come by it naturally, she’d patronize the pricier salons on the east side of town to get the desired effect. In her case, the mandatory matron bob had been given a discreet boost to maintain a rich mink brown.
Her gardening clothes—and likely the tools scattered on the grass—came from L.L. Bean. Peter knew because he’d sent the same shirt to his mother for Christmas. But his mother didn’t muck around with weeds when she wore it.
Peter handed her a business card. “Detective Dourson, from District Five.”
“You must be here about poor Mr. Heenan. I’m Donna Merrill.” She removed a glove and held out a manicured hand to shake. “I’ve been expecting someone since I saw the story on Channel 7. That was you in the interview, wasn’t it?”
“You knew Andrew Heenan?”
“Oh, my, yes. This was my grandmother’s house. My husband and I moved in after she went into assisted living, but you don’t care about that. I was six when he went missing. I overheard my grandparents talking about it. It fascinated me, a magician disappearing like one of his rabbits. So sad he’s been dead all this time.”
Peter pulled out his notebook and flipped through the most recent items. “Your grandmother is Peggy Redfern? She made the missing person report?”
Swamp Monster Page 11
