The Trophy Exchange (A Lucinda Pierce Mystery)

by Fanning, Diane

  She peered into the mirror to check the damage that the revolver butt had done to her face but there was not enough light to see. She felt around for a washcloth, dampened it under the faucet and dabbed cold water on her injury.

  She returned to her bedside and clicked the switch on the light on the nightstand. Nothing there, either. Her hands roamed up to the lampshade and over it. The light bulb was gone.

  Deprived of light, Julie lost all concept of time over the next few days. She tried to create her own definition of the passing of time by counting off the occasions when Terry entered the room and forced himself on her. Then, she lost count.

  The only time she saw light was when Terry opened the door and entered the room. One evening he arrived with a box in his hand. He set it atop the dresser and sat down beside her on the bed. “Do you have any idea what’s going on, baby?”

  “No, Terry, I don’t.”

  “Let me see if I can explain it to you. You see, we’ve got some problems. Problem number one,” he said sticking out his index finger, “ is I’m sick of you and don’t want you around any more. You cramp my style. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “I can leave, Terry.”

  “I understand that, but that doesn’t solve problem number two,” he said stretching out another finger by the first. “You’ve wanted to be pregnant for a long time. Isn’t that right?”

  Julie nodded her head.

  “Speak up girl. Answer me when I talk to you.”

  “Yes, Terry.”

  “Good. Now, where were we? Oh yes, problem number three,” he said sticking out another finger. “I never have and never will want any kids. You remember that part, don’t you, baby?”

  “Yes, Terry.”

  “Now, you see, that’s our dilemma. I don’t want you around, you want to be pregnant, and I don’t want kids. How do we resolve all of that? How can all three of these facts live peacefully in the same universe? I thought about that for a long, long time. And I found the solution. First, I’ll get you pregnant. Then you’ll have what you want, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Terry, but why does it have to be like this?”

  “Oh baby, I was thinking of you. I read somewhere that a woman is more likely to get pregnant, if she lies flat after doing it – if she doesn’t get up and move around. So, I’m just helping you get pregnant, baby.”

  “I don’t need to get pregnant, Terry.”

  “Oh, yes you do. See, that’s part of my plan. I want to give you what you want. Then when I’ve taken care of that, I’ll kill you. You get to be pregnant and I get to have no kids and get rid of you, too. Isn’t that brilliant?”

  “Terry. You can’t be serious. Just let me out of here and we’ll forget about this whole thing. I don’t need to get pregnant. I don’t need to have a baby. Please, Terry.”

  “As much as I love to hear you beg, baby, it’s just too late for that. I’ve already made up my mind, and that’s what’s going to happen. Now, there are a few things you can influence. One thing, I haven’t yet decided exactly when you should die. Do I kill you as soon as I find out you’re pregnant? Or do I wait a little while? Watch your belly grow? That might be the nice thing to do. Then you get the full experience of pregnancy before you die.”

  “Terry, just let me go.”

  “No, baby, as I told you, that is not an option. But, if you don’t make a nuisance of yourself, I’ll let you live for a little while. You know what my other concern is, baby?”

  “No, Terry.”

  “I don’t know how I should kill you. If you behave, I could take this gun and shoot you straight in the head. You die. The baby dies. It would all be quick and pretty painless.”

  Julie closed her eyes shook her head back and forth. “No. No. No. No.”

  Terry squeezed her chin between his thumb and his index finger. “Stop! Hold your face still. If you don’t behave then I’ll try an experiment. I’ll time how long it takes me to beat you to death with a baseball bat.”

  Julie froze in place, struggling to conceal the trembling she felt inside.

  “Now, baby, it’s time to head into the bathroom and use that home pregnancy test I picked up today.”

  “But I can’t see at all in the bathroom, Terry.”

  He rose from the bed. “Just a minute.” He left the bedroom and returned in seconds with the light bulb in his hand. He went to the bathroom felt around for the socket and screwed it in. He flipped the switch. “Light’s on now. Let’s get on with it.”

  Julie went to the room. She didn’t know what to pray for – she wanted a baby but she didn’t want to die. She sat on the toilet and wetted the stick with her urine. The results were positive.

  “Hot damn, baby. You’re pregnant. Your dream’s come true. You crawl back into bed now. I’m too tired to kill anybody tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. I’ve got nine months to play with. We’ll see.”

  After she climbed back under the covers, he turned off the bathroom light, unscrewed the bulb and left the room.

  She lay in bed for hours yearning for the blissful escape of sleep but couldn’t find it. Her mind raced through solutions to her dire situation. Each scenario she explored ended with her death.

  Finally, she could not bear to do nothing any longer. She had to try. It’s better to die trying, she resolved and laughed a hollow laugh. How many movies used that line? First, she had to get through the door.

  She got up and grasped the knob and turned it. To her amazement, it was not locked. She pulled it all the way open, raced back to bed and took refuge under the covers. She waited with a thudding heart but didn’t hear a sound.

  She rose again, stripped a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her body. She took one timid step into the hallway and then another. She walked to the top of the stairs where she stopped and listened again. Not a sound.

  She’s eased down half a flight. She crouched and peered into the living room. Terry slept on the sofa. An open pizza box sat on the coffee table. Beer cans were scattered all around him. She slipped down the stairs.

  She knew she should leave but was drawn to his side. She stood and looked at his face – so soft, so sweet in sleep. Absent-mindedly, she flipped the lid of the pizza box shut. His gun was no longer concealed. She picked it up off the coffee table and hefted its weight in her hand. She raised it and pointed it at his face. She moved closer. She aimed at him again.

  She dropped the blanket off her shoulders and moved in right beside him. She slid the barrel between his parted lips. His eyes flew open. She pulled the trigger. His bloody tissues splattered on the front of her naked body. Each little drop of Terry burned like hot embers searing her skin.

  Her first thought was that she had to make it look like a suicide. She picked up a piece of paper Terry’d been using, flipped it over and scratched out a note: “I am a sorry son of a bitch.” In her disheveled state of mind, she abandoned that plan setting the gun down across the room.

  She went upstairs and stepped into the shower where she washed Terry off her skin. She padded on wet feet to the guest bedroom and slipped into a pair of her husband’s shorts and one of his Tshirts. She grabbed the keys off the top of the dresser and went downstairs into the garage. She started the engine, exited and drove to the interstate, pointing her car toward Baltimore.

  Both detective and suspect felt depleted by the time the story reached its end. Julie signed a waiver abdicating her right to an extradition hearing. Lucinda took her into custody, loaded her into the back seat of a car. Before they left the parking lot, Julie curled up and fell asleep. A grateful Lucinda reveled in the silence and peace of the long drive home. Lucinda felt no satisfaction at bringing this fugitive to justice. But there was one more on her radar and she anticipated his capture with delight.

  Twenty-One

  By the time Lucinda got home that night, it was nearly 2 a.m. She felt nasty but was too tired for a shower. She shed her clothes, set her clock for 6 a.m. and slid into bed.
Four hours later, she slammed the snooze alarm on the top of the clock. The next time it sounded, she poured herself out of bed and headed for the shower. “Four hours of sleep is not enough,” she moaned.

  She grumbled as she piled into her car for the drive over to Leesville. She didn’t quite feel half human. As she pulled up to the victim’s home, she spotted the investigator from the sheriff’s department sitting on the front porch steps inside of the yellow police tape. He rested his arms on his knees and his tie dangled between his legs.

  While she parked, he stood up, ducked under the tape and stepped out to greet her. “Lieutenant Pierce,” he said sticking out his hand. “Sergeant Tunney. What the hell happened to you?”

  She grasped his hand. This routine is getting so old. I’m so tired of meeting new people. Particularly other cops. We walk around like we have a God-given right to question everybody about everything. No wonder so many of us have marital problems. “Domestic violence call.”

  “Shit. They’re the worst.”

  Lucinda nodded. She was pretty tired of that exchange, too. She thought about never using the domestic violence line again, but it certainly was an effective conversation stopper.

  “Before we go inside, let me show you where we think he got in. Remember the picture of the window screen?” he said referring to the pictures he’d already sent Lucinda of the crime scene.

  “Yes,” Lucinda said.

  “It was sitting right here in these bushes. And it had knife scratches on the metal edges. The sash on this window was closed but it wasn’t locked. We figured he came through here while she was still at work and laid in wait for her inside the house.”

  Lucinda scanned an eye over the neighboring houses. They were all small pre-Second World War bungalows crowded close together. “Nobody saw anything?” she asked.

  “It’s a working-class neighborhood, Lieutenant, mostly lower tier white-collar folks, but decent law-abiding ones for the most part. Sure we get called out for a drunken fight in some backyard or another on a holiday weekend. But aside from that and the occasional domestic violence call . . . Oh, sorry about that.”

  Lucinda shook her head and shrugged.

  “Well, anyway, if somebody was sniffing around here during working hours, there probably wouldn’t have been anyone at home to see them.”

  They walked to the front of the house, eased themselves under the yellow tape and went inside. “She used to live here with her husband, but they separated about eighteen months ago and she was here alone. We found her right here,” he said pointing to a spot on the living-room floor. “Her feet set about here,” he pointed, “and what was left of her head was up here where the bloodstain is.”

  “Was she wearing any jewelry?”

  “Still had her wedding band on. And she had a gold chain with a pretty blue stone on it. Her earrings didn’t match, though. Well, one did match her necklace. It was the same blue stone – one of those that don’t hang down at all. They just stick in the ear, you know what I mean? The earring in the other ear was hooped.”

  “Was it silver?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucinda reached into her pocket and pulled out a photo from the Riverton crime scene. “Did it look like this one?”

  “Sure did. The damage to the face looks the same, too.”

  “One of those silver hoop earrings is missing from a homicide scene in Riverton.”

  “Is the Riverton murder connected to yours?” Sergeant Tunney asked.

  “It’s beginning to look that way.”

  “And our scene’s connected to Riverton?”

  “That’s very possible.”

  “Do we have a serial here?” Tunney asked.

  Lucinda saw a flash of excitement in his eyes that she didn’t trust. Here’s a man who would love to be in the center of media attention, she thought. “I’m looking into that, Sergeant. But I need you to keep that to yourself for a while. We don’t want it leaking out to the media yet.”

  “Sure,” he said, “sure.” But the look in his eyes told Lucinda that this was a future source of a leak. And she probably didn’t have much time before that leak became a flood of reporters.

  Before heading back to the office, Lucinda stopped by the Spencer home. She had a few questions for Evan. Before she could ring the doorbell, Charley opened the front door. “You’re the police lady, right?”

  “Yes, I’m Lieutenant Pierce.”

  A devilish merriment danced across Charley’s face. “Let me see your ID, please.”

  Lucinda smiled, pulled out her badge and identification card and squatted down to Charley’s eye level.

  Charley grinned. “That’s you, all right. Do you need to be tall to be a police lady?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Good. I don’t think I’ll be tall, but I would like to be a police.”

  Finding your mother’s dead body does that to a kid, Lucinda thought. She forced a smile to remain on her face. “You would?”

  “Yeah. Do you need to shoot a gun good?”

  “It certainly helps.”

  “Well, I’m not big enough yet anyway. I can learn the gun stuff later.”

  “You’ve got plenty of time, Charley. Are you doing okay?”

  Charley shrugged. “I’m all right,” she said but the quiver of her bottom lip betrayed her lie.

  Lucinda wanted to wrap her arms around her and take away all the hurt, suck it out and spit it away as if it were venom from a snake bite. This child awakened the shadowed side of Lucinda’s heart, the part she thought was dead and gone. But instead of embracing her, she kept her hands at her side and asked, “How about Ruby?”

  “She’s just a baby. She cries a lot. She cries herself to sleep every night. I don’t.”

  “You don’t cry?”

  “Not every night. Sometimes. But don’t tell my dad.”

  “I won’t. I promise. Is your dad here?”

  “Yes. He’s in the kitchen.” A dark look passed over Charley’s face. “He’s busy,” she said and pursed her lips. “Come on, I’ll show you.” Lucinda followed Charley down the hall. When they reached the doorway, Charley said, “Dad, the police lady is here.”

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said. “Charley, you go on up to your room. The officer here and I need to talk.”

  “But, Dad . . .”

  “No buts. Go up to your room, now.”

  Charley sighed and stomped out of the kitchen, down the hall and up the stairs making as much noise as possible as she ascended the steps.

  “Tough on her,” Lucinda said.

  “You know that first-hand, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He looked at her waiting for elaboration. Lucinda felt an urge to tell him about her experience, but remembered he was a suspect and said no more.

  “Have a seat at the kitchen table. I’ll fix you a cup of coffee but I’m really busy. If you don’t mind, I’ll keep working while we talk.” He slid a mug in front of her. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black is fine.”

  Piles of frames and a stack of newspapers buried a length of the kitchen counter. He wrapped a sheet of newspaper around a frame, sealed it with a strip of masking tape and put it in a box on the floor at his feet. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “Are those pictures of your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you packing them all away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is that, Dr Spencer?”

  “As you said, Lieutenant, it’s tough on the girls. They don’t need these memories around. They need to forget.”

  “Forget their mother?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucinda arched one eyebrow.

  He saw the look and said, “You don’t have any children, do you?”

  “No.”

  “So don’t pass judgment on my parenting.” He picked up another frame and wrapped it. “Why are you here?”

  “I’ve got a few
questions.”

  “Fine. Ask them.”

  She pulled out her notepad and flipped the cover. “Where were you on Sunday, March 27, of last year?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, Dr Spencer. I am very serious.”

  “That was more than a year and a half ago. You expect me to remember where I was?”

  “Do you have any idea about what you would have been doing that afternoon or have you conveniently forgotten, Dr Spencer?”

  “Conveniently? You’re out of your mind, Lieutenant.”

  “You have no idea what you were doing that Sunday?”

  “If it was a Sunday, I was either here or out doing something with my wife and the girls. Wait. That’s my mother’s birthday. I believe we went over to her house and took her out to dinner.”

  “What about earlier that day?”

  “I don’t know. It was just another Sunday. Why?”

  “Do you recall where you were on Friday, October 7, of last year?”

  “That was a year ago, Lieutenant.” He glared at her.

  She stared back.

  “If it was a Friday, most likely I was at work,” Evan said.

  “How about Saturday, February 25, of this year?”

  “I think I may have been in Bangladesh.”

  Lucinda flipped through her notes. “No, Doctor. You returned from Bangladesh the Tuesday before that.”

  “If it was a Saturday, then I suppose I was at home. I doubt I left the house. I’m always beat after one of those trips.”

  “What about Thursday, August 27? Where were you then?”

  “If I was in town, I’m sure I was working.”

  “Monday, September 25?”

  “Working, I guess. Why, Lieutenant? What do these dates mean?”

  “Can you recall your activities on Wednesday, September 27?”

  “These dates are just a few days ago?”

  “So, can you be specific, Dr. Spencer? Times, places, et cetera.”

  “Certainly, Lieutenant. I got Charley ready for school. I drove Ruby to preschool and went into the office. I saw my first patient at nine thirty. At twelve thirty, I went to lunch.”