Murder Comes by Mail

by A. H. Gabhart

  “Typical patterns.” Whitt made a sound of disgust and shook his head. “Save me from amateur detectives, but I guess I’d better hear it all. Go on.”

  “He thought Jackson was trying to get my attention with the murders. That perhaps Jackson might be hoping in some sick way that I’d catch him and stop him since it appeared the killer was getting personal with me.”

  “You didn’t tell him about the killer’s letters to you, did you?” Whitt’s voice was strained as he leaned forward again and glared at Michael.

  “I didn’t tell him anything.” Michael kept his voice level. “He was the one doing the talking.”

  “Hmph.” Whitt sat back in the chair. “Sounds like the doc was chock-full of information. I don’t remember him being that talkative to us, do you, Chekowski?” Whitt glanced at his assistant.

  “No, sir. He claimed to be extremely busy and offered to reserve an appointment for us the next day.”

  Michael tamped down on the urge to smile as he recalled Colson’s analysis of Whitt. Rude and arrogant fit. You didn’t need to be a psychologist to figure that out.

  “The twerp.” Whitt snorted. “I told him he’d make time to talk to us right then. He did, but he clammed up. Claimed doctor-patient confidentiality. Then he calls you up and spills his guts. When was it you talked to him?”

  “This afternoon. Right before Hank showed up with the pictures.” Michael pointed toward the envelope.

  “He tell you anything other than his half-baked theories?” Whitt asked.

  “Mostly he asked questions about how it felt to save a murderer.”

  “Cheered you right up, I guess,” Chekowski said.

  “He’s probably writing a book.” Whitt rubbed his hand across his eyes. The man looked tired. “Everybody wants to read books about pretty girls getting killed. If they were out there seeing those dead girls, they wouldn’t want to read about it, would they, Chekowski?”

  “No sir.”

  Whitt took a drink of coffee and got back on track. He stared across the desk at Michael. “Anything else you need to tell us?”

  “There is one more thing. Dr. Colson said Kim Barbour had called him to see if he could help her locate Jackson to do an interview. She knew Jackson had left the hospital. It was his opinion that Ms. Barbour would have agreed to meet Jackson if he contacted her. I stressed the importance of him reporting their conversation to you right away, which he said he would. That he knew the rules.”

  “Make a note to call this shrink, Chekowski.” Whitt took another gulp of his coffee, sat back, and began twirling the pen again. “Okay, Deputy, let’s see if I’ve got this straight. You got home at 3:45, got the heebie-jeebies, didn’t find anything amiss in the house, listened to your messages, and hit the sack. Right?”

  “After I fed Jasper.”

  “Jasper?”

  “My dog.”

  “Right, the dog. You said your friend left messages about not meeting you. She show?”

  “Late, but she came.”

  “Close friend?” Whitt’s eyebrows went up as he started twirling the pen again.

  Michael wanted to tell him it was none of his business, but decided to get it over with. “Alexandria Sheridan, the niece of Reece Sheridan, a lawyer here in town. I’ve known her since we were kids.”

  Whitt ruminated on that a moment as though he wanted to ask more about Michael’s late-night trip, but instead he got back to business. “Okay. So you get up this morning, can’t find any clean shorts, and throw some clothes in the washer before you come to work. Right?”

  “Pretty close.”

  “And then?” The pen slipped out of his hands and dropped on the desk with a clatter. He picked it up and began tapping the end on the metal desk.

  “I pulled the clothes out of the washer to put in the dryer and noticed something shiny down in the bottom of the washer. It was the earring.”

  “Did you recognize it?”

  “I knew it matched the one in the victim’s ear, if that’s what you mean.”

  “So why didn’t you call the department?” Whitt asked.

  “I already told you that I did, but you weren’t in. I left a message. Then I heard the news about Kim Barbour, and Hank comes in with the pictures. The earring didn’t seem to be first priority after that.”

  “You better let me prioritize the information and determine what’s important and what’s not.”

  “There it is.” Michael pointed at the plastic bag holding the earring. “Prioritize away.”

  Whitt’s lips turned up in a small smile. “Your doors locked now, Deputy?”

  “Locked, but nobody would be close enough to hear if a window was smashed.”

  Whitt stood up. “At least you can feel comfortable. I don’t think this miscreant offs guys. Just females.”

  “I don’t think we can be sure what Jackson might do,” Michael said.

  Whitt picked up the plastic bag containing the teddy bear earring. “Except get personal with you.” Whitt settled his eyes on Michael. “I can agree with the doctor on that.”

  “What do you mean, Detective?”

  “I mean that if you have any special women in your life, it could be you should send them off to Atlanta or wherever with little Rebecca and her mama.”

  “I didn’t know Hope and barely knew this reporter.”

  Whitt glanced at the envelope that contained the pictures and the letter to Michael. “Maybe not, but this sweetheart would still be drawing breath right now if she hadn’t interviewed the hero of Hidden Springs. We both know that, don’t we, Deputy Keane?”

  20

  “We’ll catch him.” Chekowski touched Michael’s arm before she followed Whitt out the door.

  At the sight of her sympathetic smile, a nightmare image of her face in one of the killer’s pictures flashed through Michael’s head. Who knew what Jackson would do next? He listened to their footsteps going out of the building and actually considered calling Dr. Colson to see if he could guess the killer’s next move to give them an edge. But Colson didn’t really know anything. He was just guessing too. Michael would do better finding out if Alex had come up with an expert for him to call. She hadn’t called, but maybe she’d left him a message.

  An icy feeling gripped his heart. Jackson could have listened to his messages when he planted the earring, and if so, he’d know about Alex. Whitt’s warning echoed in his ears. All the women Michael knew and loved might be in danger.

  Names started flashing through his head as he clicked off the coffeepot, turned out the lights, and locked the office door. Alex. Karen. Betty Jean. Aunt Lindy.

  Michael couldn’t bear the thought of any of them being in danger because of him. He fingered the butt of his gun as he walked toward the back door, his footsteps ringing in the empty silence of the courthouse. If Jackson appeared in front of him right then, he could shoot him without hesitation. What kind of hero was that?

  A very frightened hero. That was what. He could put his own life on the line if he had to, had done so before in the line of duty, but he wasn’t ready to shove his loved ones out there on the firing line. He didn’t even want them close enough to worry about a stray bullet. And now this murderer might have any one of them directly in his sights.

  Panic gripped Michael as he stepped out onto the street. He glanced around as if the killer might be in the shadows behind the courthouse. Then he wished he really was there. That was better than thinking about him stalking Alex on the streets of Washington, DC, or watching Karen’s house over on Madison Drive.

  Michael crammed a lid on his panic and paid attention to what was around him. The sun had already slid out of sight behind the First Christian Church on the corner of Main and Church Street. Crickets called to each other out on the courthouse lawn, and a mockingbird was singing a goodnight melody. A few cars passed by out in front of the courthouse, but back here, the road was empty.

  Michael’s car was the only one left in the parking lot. Hidden Spr
ings had closed down for the night. As Michael pulled out of the parking lot, he noticed Hank’s van behind the newspaper office. The Hidden Springs Gazette was due out the next day, and it looked as if Hank intended to get the news out in spite of everything. Michael slowed as he went past the newspaper office. He wondered if Hank was writing headlines about Jackson giving Rebecca Ann the pictures.

  He pressed on the gas and went on down the street. He couldn’t worry about tomorrow’s headlines. He needed to find a way to build a wall around his own loved ones. He figured Betty Jean was safe enough. As safe as Chekowski anyway. There wasn’t any reason for Michael to upend her Bunco party. Even a deranged killer like Jackson would have to think twice before taking on a houseful of women. He’d check with her later after the party broke up.

  Next he made himself think about the message Karen left on his machine. Not her name, so Jackson might not know who she was. The man couldn’t very well go around asking folks in Hidden Springs about Michael’s friends. People might recognize him from last week’s issue of the Gazette. Then again, Rebecca Ann hadn’t been sure the man she saw was Jackson. Could somebody be helping Jackson? That didn’t seem probable, but it was best not to take anything for granted. Michael would drive by Karen’s house on the way home.

  Then there was Alex. Alex had said her first name, which meant Jackson could have found her phone number in Michael’s phone book. The area code would let him know Alex was in Washington, DC, but exactly where might not be easy. Still, he did have the number. He might call her, somehow involve her, if she wasn’t warned.

  Michael pulled over and dug his phone out of his pocket, relieved to see the battery still showed some green. He’d forgotten to charge it up. Not the first time. Betty Jean kept telling him that someday he was going to have to embrace the modern world of technology, but out at the lake, the cell phone barely got a signal, which made using it there nearly impossible. That didn’t bother him. There were times he liked being unconnected. Now was not one of them. He wanted to hear Alex’s voice. To know she was all right.

  He did hear her voice. Recorded. Saying she was busy. When wasn’t she busy?

  The phone beeped in his ear and Michael left his message. “Alex, it’s me. Don’t answer any number you don’t know. None. Call me when you get home no matter what time. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll be on the road, heading up there, and how would it look for Hidden Springs’ finest to crash your trial? No joke. Call me.”

  Henry Hardesty braked his car to a stop beside Michael’s car and Henry’s wife, Bertie, rolled down her window. “Henry wants to know if anything’s wrong, Michael. You’re usually gone by this time of the day.”

  “Just running late tonight.” Michael got out of his car to talk to them. “But thanks for asking.”

  Henry had been retired for years, but when Michael was growing up, he was a city policeman and a familiar sight, checking the parking meters or directing traffic at school events. Now he patrolled Main Street a couple of times every night to make sure the town was quiet. Bertie rode shotgun. In the summer, they always ended up at the Dairy Bar for an ice cream cone before heading home.

  The ice cream cones were rounding out Bertie’s face, but Henry was as skinny as ever, the skin drawn tightly over his high cheekbones. He shot a look at Michael with as much of a smile as ever showed on his face. “I’m here to help if I can.”

  “I know.” Michael smiled back at him. “You see anything out of the way on your rounds tonight?”

  “Nope. Town’s all tucked in for bed and that’s where me and the missus is headed. After the ice cream.”

  “No strange cars or anything?” Michael asked.

  “Nope. Bertie waved at every one of them, knew where most of them were headed.”

  Bertie’s round cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. “Now, Henry, you make me sound like an old busybody.”

  “Nope. Just a girl in the know.” Henry shifted his car into drive. “We’d better move along, Michael. Dark’s coming on fast and the Dairy Bar might close up on us.”

  Michael waved as they pulled away. Bertie waved back, but Henry kept his eyes straight ahead as he rolled on toward the stoplight. It was Bertie’s job to wave, his to drive. The old man couldn’t see so well anymore. Some townsfolk said Bertie rode with him to tell him when the stoplights were red, but so far he’d managed not to hit anybody.

  Michael watched the taillights disappear before he got back into his cruiser. Karen was always telling him he couldn’t personally see to the safety of the whole town any more than she could follow her church members around to make sure they didn’t fall into some sinful situation. That a person couldn’t play God. That position was already taken. Rather capably.

  Karen was always sensible. Calm and sensible. Then again, Karen might not be all that calm when he warned her about Jackson.

  He certainly wasn’t feeling very calm and sensible himself. Especially when he thought about the one woman Jackson would know for sure was connected to him after reading the story in the Gazette. Aunt Lindy.

  She had an old friend who lived in Boston. He started up the car. Maybe he could convince her it was a good time for a visit.

  But a few minutes later when he stepped into her kitchen and suggested Boston, Aunt Lindy stared at him as though he’d suggested she book a flight to the moon.

  “Whatever are you talking about, Michael? I’m not going to Boston.” She gave him a puzzled frown. “I have things to do here. You know school starts in a few weeks. Have you forgotten that?”

  “You could retire.”

  Aunt Lindy looked totally perplexed by his words. “I could have retired for the last ten years, but I did not retire. I do not plan to retire this year. The Lord willing, I aim to introduce a whole group of new students to the necessity and wonder of math. Even if, from all indications, the classes coming up appear to be the worst bunch of prospects in all my teaching years.”

  If Michael’s panic hadn’t been boiling under the lid he had shoved down on it, he might have smiled. In the forty-plus years that Aunt Lindy had been teaching math at Hidden Springs High, she had never claimed a good bunch of prospective learners at the beginning of a school year. Not even when he was in the group. Maybe especially not then.

  Aunt Lindy sipped a neat spoonful of tomato soup and broke off a bit of the grilled cheese sandwich she was having for supper. She had insisted on fixing Michael the same when he showed up while she was heating the soup.

  “This can just be a snack,” she said when he told her not to bother. “Eating alone all the time gets old. Food’s better shared.”

  So he sat down across from her and ate. His stomach grabbed at it eagerly, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since morning.

  Aunt Lindy was still frowning. She didn’t like things she couldn’t figure out. “Exactly why are you suggesting I visit Martha right now?”

  “You need a break? The weather should be nice up there, not as hot as here? Martha would love to see you?”

  Aunt Lindy’s frown got deeper. “Why don’t you try the truth, Michael?”

  Michael finished off his sandwich, sat back in his chair, and studied Aunt Lindy. She was a thin, spry little woman who didn’t worry with makeup or fancy hairstyles. Being pretty took more than cosmetics, she liked to say, and she hadn’t worried about being pretty since she was thirteen. But nobody ever really noticed the wrinkles in her skin or the nose that was a bit too large for the rest of her features. They just got swallowed up in her eyes that seemed able to see everything there was to see about you.

  To Michael she was bossy, demanding, hard to please, and the bedrock of his existence. It was impossible to hide anything from her. She knew him too well.

  Not that she tried to smother him. She never had. But she was the reason he had settled into place here in Hidden Springs. She didn’t demand it. Told him to go wherever he was happy. He had gone, lived in the big city for a few years, wasn’t happy, and came home. Was happy, or at l
east most of the time before Tuesday last when he grabbed Jackson back from the edge.

  Nobody could be happy living a nightmare, no matter the scene around him.

  Aunt Lindy ate the last of her sandwich and brushed her lips with a cloth napkin. She refused to buy paper napkins. She believed in certain standards a person should live by, and convenience didn’t figure into those standards. She fixed her gaze on Michael. “It’s the jumper, isn’t it?”

  So he told her the whole thing, starting with the girl in the Abundant Hope Church and ending with Rebecca Ann opening the package that contained the pictures of Kim Barbour. He didn’t leave out anything. Not even the earring. She needed to know the danger was real and present.

  She listened without interrupting once, which had to be a first. When Michael ran out of words, she blinked her eyes and set her mouth. “I understand why you are concerned, but I’m still not going to Boston. However, I will hunt up your father’s revolver to keep by the bed to make you feel better about me being alone here.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel much better.” Michael leaned toward her and tried to think of words to convince her.

  “Don’t act as if I’m not capable of using it to protect myself if the occasion arises. You surely remember when we had that rat invasion before I got Grimalkin.” Her eyes narrowed on Michael as if daring him to deny she was a crack shot. At the sound of her name, the gray-and-white cat suddenly appeared from who knows where to glare at Michael too.

  Michael refused to be intimidated. “That was years ago.”

  “Some things a person doesn’t forget how to do. My hand is still steady.” Aunt Lindy held her hand out over the table. There wasn’t the slightest tremor.

  “Rats and people are not the same. When faced with someone out to do you harm, you need more than steady hands.”

  “Are you questioning my nerve, Michael?” She looked as if that thought amused her.

  Michael backed down with a sigh. “Just don’t shoot me if I show up in the middle of the night.”

  “Now you’re questioning my good sense.” She did smile this time as she leaned down to stroke Grimalkin once, head to tail. The cat, pacified by her touch, sat down and began licking a paw to wash her face.