by A W Hartoin
“Did they get the murderer?”
“I think so, but that’s not the point. How many murders have you worked on in the last year?”
Wallace started gnawing on my hand, giving me a reason to avoid Virginia’s piercing gaze. “I don’t know. A couple, maybe.”
“Ace says you’re involved with getting information from that serial killer.”
“Blankenship is technically a mass murderer,” I said, like that made some sort of difference. Blankenship probably was a serial killer, but it did me no good to admit that.
“So the police and your father think you’re good at getting in their heads.”
I looked at her, anger zipping through my chest. “My father says I have to do things for the family and I usually do it. It’s not because it’s a good time.”
Virginia relaxed. “I forgot. You’re young. Most things aren’t a good time, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t worth doing. According to Ace, Hal was like family to him, so that means he’s like family to you. Dr. Capshaw is waiting for your call.”
With that, Virginia stuck the number to the railing and glided away without a care, leaving me with a murder I didn’t want.
“Fine,” I called after her and then I snatched up the number. I’d call Capshaw, but that didn’t mean anything. It was just a call. To be polite.
I climbed the stairs considerably slower than I went down them. Wallace was slobbering all over my hand and Aaron stood at the top of the stairs, holding his phone out.
“Call,” he said. “Then tacos.”
“I’ll do it, but I’m not happy about it.”
Aaron shrugged. He couldn’t have cared less. Tacos were the priority.
I handed Aaron the pug and sat on the old tufted fainting couch that sat across from the bathroom.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m returning a call from Dr. Capshaw. This is Mercy Watts.”
“Miss Watts!” boomed a voice that made my ear ring. “Glad you called.”
I held the phone six inches from my ear. “Why exactly is that?”
“What?” he asked.
Great. I put the microphone closer to my lips. “Why is that?”
“Randolph Bennett says you’re interested in the Harold Reiner case.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I’m told he has no family and his emergency contact says you’re my girl,” boomed Capshaw. Between him and the Harleys, I’d be deaf before the weekend.
“Who’s his emergency contact?” I asked.
He shuffled some papers. “Robert Babinski.”
Raptor’s grandpa. Great.
“Okay. What have you got?” I asked, not really caring. This wasn’t my problem.
“Mr. Reiner was three times the legal limit at the time of death.”
“Holy crap. I was with him and he didn’t seem that bad.”
“Well, he may not have been as impaired as someone like myself. I rarely drink more than a glass of red wine and Mr. Reiner was a heavy drinker. I believe he was suffering from cirrhosis of the liver and possibly Hep C. I won’t know until I open him up and get the tox screen back.”
“How can you tell then?”
“Abdomen is distended. His skin is yellowed and his ankles and feet are swollen. He was 5’ 10” and wearing a size thirteen shoe.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t notice the skin.” Some nurse I am. I suck.
“How well did you know him?” asked Dr. Capshaw.
“I met him at The Rack and Ruin last night.”
“That explains it. Dark bar. Strobe lights. He could’ve been orange and you wouldn’t have seen it. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“So Hal was fairly impaired and sick to boot. Anything else?”
“Bennett said you thought he ingested a large amount of Isradipine. I think you’re probably right, but I need the tox screen to be certain. It wasn’t an accident or a natural death.”
Or peaceful, if Dr. Capshaw knew his business. Hal had a shoe-sized bruise on the back of his calf and a large bruise on his right buttock. The doc thought he’d been kicked and landed on his rear. He also took a blow to the back of the head. It was an odd shape and one Dr. Capshaw couldn’t immediately identify.
“So not a bat or a pipe?” I asked.
“No, definitely not. Bennett tells me nothing was disturbed in the room.”
“So they brought the weapon with them.”
“I’d say so. It’s a rounded rectangle with a sharp little point on one side that made a hole in the victim’s scalp. There’s another notch on the other end. I worked in Rapid City for over twenty years and I’ve never seen this before. People usually grab what’s handy. Like you said, bats or pipes. I’ve seen skillets, chairs, fireplace pokers, lamps and the like, but this is something different.”
“Was the blow enough to kill him?” I asked, getting sick to my stomach.
“X-ray says no. He had some intracranial bleeding, but it wasn’t significant. It may have knocked him unconscious or just stunned him.”
“Just the one blow?”
“Yep. Just one.”
I rubbed my eyes and lay down on the couch. “They got eighty-five pills down his throat. He had to be out.”
“If you’re right about the number, I’d say that’s correct.”
“Hal was on his rear when they hit him?” My mind kept coming back to that, but I didn’t know why. It was important though.
“Yes. Why?”
“I don’t know. I have to think about it.” Or not. This was not my problem. Bennett could deal with it.
Dr. Capshaw cleared his throat, making me wince. My protective six inches wasn’t nearly enough. “That’s all until I get inside and I’ve got a floater to deal with first.”
“Lucky you,” I said with a wince.
“Drownings are the worst and this one isn’t fresh. Hey. Say hello to your dad for me.”
Is there anyone Dad doesn’t know?
“Have you worked together?”
“Oh yeah. That serial killer. 1989. What was his name?” he asked.
Wallace jumped at the side of the couch, trying to get on. Not going to happen with her dinky legs.
“I have no clue,” I said, sitting up and giving Wallace a lift. She flopped over on my lap and instantly snored.
“Dwayne something. Oh, it’ll come to me. We had two vics in The Hills. Your dad came up. How many did he catch in St. Louis?”
“Beats me,” I said. “I’ve got to go.”
“Of course. Of course. Prostitutes,” boomed Dr. Capshaw.
I looked at the phone. “What?”
“He was murdering prostitutes on his routes. The guy was a trucker. Hell of a case. Six cities. Maybe twenty vics. Hell of a case. You should go over the file. I’m sure your dad has it. He was old school.”
Murdered prostitutes. That’s a hard pass.
“I’ll do that.”
“I’ll call you when I get the autopsy done.”
“Thanks.”
We hung up and I wanted to get right back in the tub, letting myself sink below the water and wash off Hal’s death and every other death. I hadn’t realized Hal had been attacked viciously beforehand. I’d assumed or rather I wanted to believe he was passed out when the pills went down his throat. That he was none the wiser, but Hal knew he was being murdered. He had to.
“Tacos?” asked Aaron.
Bark.
“Fine. We’ll get tacos, but after that, I’m taking another bath.”
Aaron stared at me.
“I’m serious,” I said. “Don’t call my dad or Morty.”
My partner turned and trotted down the stairs. He knew something I didn’t yet understand. He didn’t have to call Morty or Dad. Family always knows and it never lets go.
“Where’s my truck?” I spun in a circle in the mostly empty parking lot.
“Sean took it,” said Aaron.
Breathe. Just Breathe.
“Who is Sean?”
“Barbecue guy. Tacos?”
“Some barbecue guy has my truck?” I asked.
“Yeah. Tacos.”
“I want my truck. Where is it?”
“Sturgis,” said Aaron.
“Is he going to give it back?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s his vehicle?”
Aaron shrugged.
“So this Sean just came out here and got my truck for no reason?” I asked.
“He likes trucks.”
Aaron was up to something, but I couldn’t tell what. I could barely tell that he was breathing. Sean had nicely left the Flea for Aaron to ride. I’d agreed to tacos. To Aaron, that was written in blood and bacon fat.
So we went and I paid for those tacos by riding on the back of Aaron’s Flea for forty minutes. That was thirty-eight minutes too long. I think it shook my ovaries loose. The Flea needed ten tune-ups or a date with a large trash compactor. It didn’t help that Aaron smelled of sausages and liquid smoke. I would’ve said he’d taken a bath in it, but he wasn’t that fond of baths.
We rolled through the hills, irritating everyone we came in contact with. Fifty miles an hour wasn’t making anyone happy. We had a line of thirty bikes behind us. Aaron didn’t notice. He talked incessantly about barbecue at some joint called Bad Boys Meat Factory. That sounded sleazy and not at all tasty to me, but Aaron was way into it. I could barely hear him and only caught random words like fat pad and intestines. Gag.
We finally rolled up to Cheyenne Crossing when my nausea was at full bore. At five o’clock, it was packed with bikes and one black Volvo. Talk about out of place. But the Volvo wasn’t the only odd duck. Aaron decided to wear a WWII army helmet instead of a real bike helmet and I was carrying Wallace in a backpack. We parked and Aaron let Wallace out. She immediately started lunging at a yorkie riding up in a sidecar. I had to pin her to the ground so Aaron could clip her leash on.
“Are they here?” I asked.
“Maybe,” said Aaron.
“Even if they aren’t, we’re eating. It smells delicious.”
The wind kicked up and brought me even better smells, a hint of spice, grilling meat, and the tang of cold beer. The building was a rusty red surrounded by picnic tables with wide umbrellas. Every seat was taken by smiling bikers, eating and laughing. Aaron led the way inside through a screened-in porch filled with rockers to a door with no label on it. I thought we were going the wrong way since nobody was in there, but it turned out to be the entrance to the Stage Stop Café and country store.
A rather frazzled waitress greeted us, smiling until she saw Wallace wrapping her leash around my legs. “You can’t bring that dog in here. Sorry.”
“Oh, come on, Patricia!” called out Big Mike. He leaned over around the edge of a pony wall and waved. “About time, Mercy. Where have you been?”
“I took a bath,” I said.
“Women. Always with the cleanliness. Come on back. We’re all here,” said Robert.
Raptor was definitely there. I could sense the anger.
“You’ll have to take the dog outside,” said Patricia.
Grandad came out from around the corner and dimpled at Patricia, who smiled back reflexively. The old charmer. “She’s a therapy dog. You can let therapy dogs in.”
She bit her lip and said, “If she’s a therapy dog, where’s her little jacket?”
They looked at me.
“Er…I forgot it. Sorry,” I said.
“What kind of therapy dog is she?” asked Patricia, giving me the once-over.
“I have anxiety.”
She looked down at Wallace, who decided that was the perfect moment to bite my ankle. “I bet she helps a lot with your anxiety.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I bet,” said Patricia, squatting. “You are so cute. Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good girl? Wait a minute. Is this Wallace the Wonder Pug?”
My mouth fell open. Grandad and his cronies burst out laughing.
“It is. Oh. My. God. You are even cuter in person.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “She’s Wallace, but a wonder pug? I don’t think so.”
Patricia stood up and showed me a trending video on Instagram. Wallace the Wonder Pug giving my boot the death roll at the creek. But that wasn’t the only video. There were videos of her chasing me through traffic and narrowly avoiding getting flattened. Wallace biting me and trying to pee on me. Wallace was a star. She had her own twitter account and 60,000 people following her.
“Unbelievable,” I said to Wallace. “You’re famous.”
Bark.
“Stands to reason. If Kim Kardashian can do it, why not you?”
Bark. Bark.
Patricia picked up Wallace and canoodled the pug. “You are so soft and fluffy. I’m going to give you your own taco. Yes, I am. Does she like salsa?”
“She likes dog food.”
Patricia took off with Wallace, muttering about how dogs of Wallace’s stature couldn’t possibly eat plain old kibble. I rolled my eyes and followed Grandad to the back where they’d pushed three tables together. Dad would’ve loved the place. Wood paneling covered the walls, making it warm and cozy. There were plastic tablecloths and hard booths that were undoubtedly more comfortable than they looked.
I pulled up a chair next to Janet and Raptor glared at me. “So now your dog’s famous. Do you do it on purpose? I have to know.”
“She’s not my dog. And yes. The goal of my life has been to make the dog that loves to pee on my feet famous.”
Janet laughed. “Wallace the Wonder Pug. That’s adorable.”
“Yeah, she’s something,” I said. “Let’s order. I’m starving.”
“What really took you so long?” asked Robert with anticipation. “You weren’t taking a bath that whole time.”
“You underestimate my bath-taking ability. So the Indian taco, huh?”
Janet scooted closer to me. “Did you get the cause of death?”
“Nope.”
Patricia came out sans Wallace and gave us menus.
“Ace says these things happen pretty fast with you and your father,” said Robert.
“He does, does he? Should I get the big taco or the small one?” I asked.
“Have you talked to the medical examiner?” asked Big Mike, his big shoulders tense, but I was unmoved.
“I’m not driving. I guess I can get a beer.”
“Mercy,” said Grandad. “You’re avoiding the question.”
I gave him the stink eye and he leaned back, startled. I’d been practicing Aunt Miriam’s icy disdain and I guess I was getting good at it.
I handed Patricia my menu and ordered the small taco, no onions, and an iced tea.
“Mercy,” he said. “We want to know what you know.”
“Right back at you,” I said.
They got all shifty-eyed.
“But we told you we don’t know anything,” said Robert.
I took a long drink of water and turned the stink eye on him, causing him to blink like he had pink eye. “Put it this way, I don’t believe you. Grandad, you should know that it’s impossible to investigate with uncooperative witnesses.”
“We’re not witnesses,” said Big Mike.
“I say you are.”
That quieted them down quick. Patricia finished taking our orders. It wasn’t tough. Indian tacos all around. She brought our drinks and I sipped in silence. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so peaceful. I was free to eat, not chase people, and it was their fault. They didn’t want to help? Fan-freaking-tastic. My vacation just got a whole lot better.
As soon as I thought that, it all went to crap. I really should discipline my mind better.
Grandad pushed his phone across the table.
“If that’s my dad, forget it,” I said.
“It’s an Evite,” he said.
“From Dad? Weird.”
“It’s from The Girls.”
I picked up the
phone and read the invitation. My heart sank. The Girls were doing a memorial for Lester at the Forest Park boathouse. They’d bought a boat and were dedicating it to Lester and his wife, Mary. He’d proposed to her in one of those boats and loved to spend lazy Sundays floating around.
They’d told me this was happening, but I’d forgotten. A familiar weight pressed down on me. Lester and his murder had slipped from my mind. That couldn’t happen. I couldn’t forget. Chuck and I were the only ones still working on his case. Technically, it was still active, but without a new lead, it was going nowhere.
“What’s wrong?” asked Grandad. “I thought you liked the idea.”
“I do.”
Janet asked what was up and Grandad told her about the memorial. Everyone knew about the murder, but they couldn’t understand how it could’ve happened in the Bled Mansion, of all places.
“It was a shock,” I said. “Their security has always been so good.”
Grandad gave me a funny look.
“What?”
He squeezed his lemon dry and thought for a moment. “Security has been good since Tommy took over.”
“That kid’s a genius,” said Robert and Raptor scowled. I guess Dad was on her list, too.
“It was an accident,” said Janet. “I mean, those robbers getting in.”
I watched Grandad’s face. Something was going on behind those pale blue eyes, but it wasn’t about Lester or Hal.
“What did you mean by since Tommy took over’?” I asked.
“Just that The Girls haven’t had an issue,” he said.
“And before?”
Grandad gave me information I never imagined he had. Back when he was still a cop, there were break-ins at the Bled Mansion, Prie Dieu, and Josiah’s house. That was before The Girls gave the house to my mom. Grandad responded to both Josiah’s house and the mansion break-ins. Prie Dieu was out in the country and The Girls requested him on that case, too. The houses were empty on all three occasions like somebody had been waiting for the right moment. They were at different times of day. The mansion happened in the morning when The Girls were at the cathedral. Prie Dieu was in the evening after the tour groups left and the caretaker was off. Josiah’s house happened when he was out flying. No fingerprints. Nothing was taken. No evidence whatsoever. The cases went nowhere, much like Lester’s murder.
