A Thorn Among the Lilies

by Michael Hiebert

  “It was only two people.”

  “Only two. Thank Christ.”

  She looked at her feet, then at the wall of legal books. “All right, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “It will. We’ve gone down this road before. But I have to reprimand you when you do it. It’s part of my job.”

  Leah couldn’t help but smile. She looked down as she did, so the police chief wouldn’t see it.

  “So, now that you have two victims, tell me more ’bout their similar attributes,” Ethan said. “Anythin’ in common there?”

  Leah had cross-references for all of the information in both her and Detective Truitt’s reports.

  “They say it’s a pretty good chance that the same gun was used in both killings,” she told Ethan.

  Ethan interlaced his fingers and put them behind his head while leaning back. His chair gave out a loud squeak.

  “And this is the old Beretta, right?” he asked. “Trouble with looking for guns is that you’re in the Land of Guns. Everyone down here owns at least one. Some people own ten. People round here like exercisin’ their constitutional rights.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you’ve got yourself someone who likes old guns. What else did you find out?”

  “Not much. Everything was the same. Definitely the same killer. Almost the exact same MO. Two of the tire tracks came up with forty percent matches. Problem is, both Ford and Chevy use that same tire.”

  “And of course,” Ethan said, “just like the gun, you live in the Land of Chevy and Ford pickups.”

  “Right. And to make matters worse, actual dates for the vehicles couldn’t be established. As far as shoe imprints go, the experts said it was near on impossible to give anything exact.”

  “Hair?”

  “Long, full, and blond. When I was first shown a picture of the crime scene in Graysville, I thought it was our girl.”

  “How tall are the two victims?”

  “One is five eight, the other five nine.”

  “And when they did the autopsy? What did they find?”

  “Near-fatal levels of alcohol, and traces of Rohypnol, same thing they found in our vic.”

  “So our killer likes blondes. And judging by what we’ve seen, he tends to prey on the loners.”

  “Maybe they are easier to catch?”

  “Maybe. You said Truitt mentioned he thought this Jane Doe—what’s her name?”

  “Faith Abilene.”

  “Right. Faith Abilene. You mentioned he thought she might be a streetwalker?”

  “That’s his theory,” Leah said.

  “That would certainly make her an easy target.”

  Leah’s head was swimming. “Yeah, it certainly would.”

  “And there was no sign of sexual contact with either victim?”

  “None. That’s the part that gets me.”

  “It doesn’t mean the murders weren’t sexually motivated, though,” Ethan said. “Remember that. Killing and sex are both about power.”

  “I know, Ethan.” She sighed.

  The fan above them slowly turned, the way it always had as far back as Leah could remember. Both she and Ethan sat there a moment lost in thought. The fan kept turning.

  “He’s gonna do it again,” Ethan said.

  No shit, Sherlock. “I know.”

  “It will be sooner than two and a half months. Serial killers almost always accelerate their rate of murders. They start to crave the excitement.”

  “So we’re under the gun, so to speak.”

  “So to speak.”

  “I honestly think he’s trying to get our attention,” Leah said.

  “Could be. He probably has a hard-on for cops. The crazy part for him is, he’s damn well gonna get his attention. And it ain’t gonna be the kind of attention he likes. Let me tell you that.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “Do you think we need to look for anyone else?” Dewey asked me.

  “I think we should, just to be sure,” I said. “At least one or two more.”

  We were riding our bikes, turning down Hunter Road from Cottonwood Lane. It was Thursday after school and we had both decided Isaac Swenson was the serial killer my mother was looking for.

  “Who should we try now?” Dewey asked as we raced down Hunter Road.

  “I don’t know, but before we do anything, we need notebooks. So one problem at a time.” We rode up onto the sidewalk and pulled to a stop in front of Mr. Harrison’s five-and-dime. We leaned our bikes against the window.

  The bus ride home from school had been dreadful. It was always awful, but today it had been particularly annoying because of this big kid who I swear looked like he was in his twenties (I am sure he shaved) wouldn’t let anyone sit on any of the seats beside, behind, or in front of him. His name was Scott and, behind his back, everyone called him Snot.

  Finally, the bus driver yelled at him and Scott let people sit in the seats. Me and Dewey took the ones in front of him, which was a mistake because he wound up kicking the bottom of it all the way home. I decided from now on I was also going to call him Snot behind his back, too.

  At least we had a few days off now for Christmas. We wouldn’t be going back for a week, until after New Year’s. That made me happy.

  “Who should we try next?” Dewey asked as we entered the store.

  The notebooks were behind the till, so we had to ask for them. Mr. Harrison kept all the small things behind the till. I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like they were expensive. They were fifty cents each.

  We walked in and got in line behind a guy delivering three boxes to Mr. Harrison. Mr. Harrison had his reading glasses on and was signing for them.

  Dewey grabbed my arm in what felt like a panic and yanked me down one of the aisles. It actually hurt my arm where he grabbed and pulled.

  “What the hell, Dewey? What’s wrong with you?”

  He spoke in a whisper. “Wasn’t Mr. Harrison getting three boxes delivered when we bought our first notebooks?”

  My pulse quickened. “You’re right. And we came straight from getting home from the bus to here, so the time would be the same.”

  We went outside and stood by our bikes, occasionally casting subtle glances into the store.

  “Are we watching Mr. Harrison now?” Dewey asked.

  “I reckon we are.”

  “We have no notebooks,” Dewey pointed out. “We need new ones. Maybe AppleSmart’s has ’em.”

  “No, I don’t want to leave and miss anything. Write on the back pages of the notes we took for Isaac Swenson.”

  Inside the store, Mr. Harrison finished signing and the delivery guy came out of the store as Mr. Harrison set the three boxes exactly where he’d set the three he received on Tuesday when we bought our first notebooks. Then he went through the store, aisle by aisle, tidying things. “He started with aisle seven, just like he did before,” I said.

  “I can’t believe Mr. Harrison’s a serial killer,” Dewey said.

  “We don’t know that yet. He’s still got a long way to go before he beats out Isaac Swenson.”

  We watched for another fifteen minutes. Mr. Harrison finished tidying shelves and swept, exactly like we’d seen him do a hundred times. He started with aisle one just like always. And when he was finished, he went back behind the counter, picked up a book, and started reading. We’d seen him do that way more than a few times, too.

  “This is getting freaky,” I whispered to Dewey.

  “Yeah,” Dewey said, although he didn’t sound as excited.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I got a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “I need to use the toilet.”

  “Great,” I said. Truth was, I did, too. I thought about this. “Okay, well, it looks like Mr. Harrison will be reading a while. I think the closest public toilet is at Fast Gas. Why don’t we head down there and we can take turns with one of us standin’ sentry while the other
one goes inside?”

  “What do you mean ‘standin’ sentry’?” Dewey asked.

  “Looking for anything weird. People following patterns.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “At least then we’re not just wastin’ our time goin’ to the toilet.”

  “That makes sense.”

  When we got to Fast Gas, the only person on shift was a twenty-year-old guy with bad acne, messed-up hair, and the most reflective braces I’ve ever seen. The good part was I don’t think he minded us using his restroom at all. I was worried we’d need to drive in and get gas or something.

  Dewey went to the toilet first while I kept an eye on Main Street. I was very careful to not act suspicious. Dewey worried me. He wasn’t so great at not acting suspicious.

  Turned out my worries were for a good reason.

  “What y’all doin’?” I heard the guy with the braces ask Dewey while I was in the restroom. I kept repeating to myself: Please don’t tell him the truth. Please don’t tell him the truth.

  Then, of course, Dewey told him the truth. “We’re tryin’ to help the Alvin Police Department. We’re lookin’ for people who live with the same sort of pattern every day.”

  I quickly finished up as fast as I could and came out, heading straight toward them. “What Dewey here means is that we have a school project to do involvin’ patterns in people’s lives, and we have all of Christmas break to do it and we thought we’d get a jump on things and start right away.”

  “So how are the police involved?”

  I laughed. “They aren’t. But we might be usin’ the patterns in class to make fake victim and perpetrator sheets and try to learn forensic psychology.” I was pulling every bit of everything I could remember out of the television show Criminal Activity. It’s a show I’m not supposed to watch, but my mother isn’t always home to tell me I can’t.

  “You boys got homework over Christmas break and y’all startin’ it on day one? Who does that?”

  I shrugged. “I s’pose we’re just keen on gettin’ a good grade is all.”

  There was a pause, during which I guessed the attendant thought over what we had just told him, wondering who to believe. Then he said, “You know, come to think of it, my days follow a pattern. Pretty much exactly the same every day.”

  Dewey flipped to a new page in his notebook. “Tell me about it.”

  I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t believe he was doing this.

  “Well, I get up to the sound of my alarm clock at seven o’clock. By then my cat will be calling me for food. So I give her some. By the way, my name is Earl Sims.” He stuck out his hand.

  Dewey ignored his hand, and asked, “What kind of cat and what kind of food?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anythin’?” I asked. Earl Sims’s hand still stayed there, waiting for Dewey.

  “You know,” Earl Sims said, “when a man offers his name, you should acknowledge it and, the very least, return your name, preferably with a handshake. You just did the rudest thing I’ve ever seen anybody do in a conversation.” Then he turned to me. “And you shouldn’t go round saying hell. You’re too young to cuss.”

  “Oh,” Dewey stammered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m Dewey.” He finally shook Earl’s hand.

  “And I’m Abe.” Me and Earl shook hands.

  “Now you,” Earl said to me, “you have a nice grip on you.” Then, turning his focus back to Dewey, Earl said, “Anyway, my cat is named Weapon One. She’s a big Persian that I love to death.”

  “I see,” said Dewey.

  I don’t at all, I wanted to say. How does this tie in to our pattern discussion?

  My gaze wandered to the old gas pumps that looked like they’d been standing where they were for near on a hundred years. This serial killer wasn’t like the one I watched from time to time on Criminal Activity. This serial killer was much different. Much, much, much, much different. According to my mother, this serial killer tried to comfort his victims before he killed them. She wouldn’t tell me how the victims were comforted, just that they were.

  I had already asked my mother if either of the two victims had been wearing gold neck chains when they found them. Those could’ve easily been taken by the killer and been the motive for the whole thing. But my mother had little regard toward this theory. She always did that to my theories. It was so annoying.

  It still all made no sense to me. I wished I had my mother’s background in police work. I was almost sure I was on the brink of sorting this one out, even without her years of knowledge.

  The first body had been found washed up in Willet Park in the lake. Well, actually that was the second body. My mother just hadn’t known about the first body yet. It had been found in an abandoned mine in Graysville just outside of Birmingham. According to my mother, the perp (which I knew was short for perpetrator) never made any mistakes. She didn’t think the killer kept any mementos like a lot of the perps on Criminal Activity did; he didn’t talk to anyone about his killings; he just led a normal life—well, as normal as you could after watching someone die—and waited two months or so before doing it all again with a new victim.

  Dewey had finally finished his ridiculous line of questioning with Earl Sims.

  “Okay,” I said, “thank you for being so patient with us, Mr. Sims. We really do appreciate it.”

  “Ah, you guys were a nice distraction from my day-to-day routine, which by the way involves getting up at the same time every morning, putting on nothing but a pair of sweats, eating a full bowl of Corn Flakes, working out on my treadmill for about thirty-five minutes, showerin’, dressin’ for the day, and headin’ out the door to my job.

  “Once I get here, from about nine to ten, I play a game on the computer called Slither.”

  Me and Dewey shared a knowing nod. We knew Slither. It is on my mom’s computer at the police station. In the game you have to keep a snake from hitting any obstacles or itself and the whole while, the snake is growing longer. It’s annoyingly addictive.

  The clerk continued. “I play that, oh, well, that depends on how late the boss is. Then I print out all outstanding reports from this here keypad. If I am going to start on a new job, I enter it manually. If I’m already on a job, I check the computer for any updates that may have been called in from other gas stations or even the public.”

  I looked over at the bright green letters on the dark green background. “Sounds complicated.”

  “It’s really not.”

  “Anything else you do?” Dewey asks.

  “I make a list of people who need questionin’ and put it into my pocket. I then check the magazine on my Smith & Wesson 3904 and make sure it’s completely loaded.”

  “How many bullets does it take?” Dewey asked.

  “Eight, but you can throw one in the pipe if you’d rather have nine.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means I’m not ’bout to explain the concept of firearms to you two.”

  “So you bring your gun to work?”

  “Hell’s right I do. You know how many freaks out there stop to get gas or to take a leak?”

  Both me and Dewey shook our heads, and said, “No,” at the same time.

  “Well, I’m not sure of the exact number. But it’s a lot. I just live by the credo ‘Better late than never. And even better if you’re armed to the teeth.’ I know it don’t rhyme, but it works for me. Anyway, let’s talk some other time. I’ve got to make it look like I at least tried to get some work done today.”

  “Okay,” Dewey said, happy as a clam. We wheeled to the road side and Dewey stopped and waved over his head. “Thanks again!”

  Earl completely ignored him. God, Dewey could be so weird sometimes.

  We had already started very quickly to fill our pads with lists of different people around town and what they did at certain times of the day. We only wrote down the significant stuff, like eating lunch or going to a certain store. Things like heading to the
toilet didn’t seem to me to be worth listing. It’s hard to control those types of things.

  All of this turned out to be hard work with just the two of us, especially on account of we were on bicycles and most of the other folk were in cars, but we started to discover disturbing patterns right away. Our suspect list would grow to eight people by our third day. I figured we’d wait a few more days—maybe even a week—until we had a good list of suspects before presenting our findings to my mother.

  “So,” Dewey said as we moved on. “I guess we can safely write off Earl Sims,” he told me happily.

  “What the hell are you talkin’ ’bout?” I asked him. “He’s one of the weirdest people I’ve ever met and I even got a ‘serial killer’ vibe off him, if there is such a thing.”

  “I reckon he was fine folk,” Dewey said. “Very gracious and understanding.”

  “Maybe he’s addicted to killing?” I asked out loud even though the question was directed more at myself than anyone else. The more I thought about it the more that answer was stuck in my head.

  “Who?” Dewey asked.

  “Our serial killer.”

  “Oh, I thought you meant Earl.”

  “I just may have.”

  “I reckon you’re the crazy one,” Dewey said.

  “Listen, I’m sort of exhausted. Earl Sims sapped the life outta me. Any chance you’d disagree if I said we should ride home and take a little nap before quittin’ for the day?”

  “Nah, that’s fine. Maybe I could do some myself while you’re sleepin’.”

  Oh, dear baby Jesus up in heaven. “Please promise me you won’t, Dewey?” I asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Because these people take things weirdly, and they’re used to two people comin’ to their door for church reasons and that. If you go by yourself, you’ll immediately make them defensive.”

  Dewey hung his head. “I guess you’re right. Okay, I will wait until you’re done. In the meantime, maybe I’ll go and create some more inventions.”