by Tim McBain
“Could I speak to the lead detectives for a moment?”
Luck, Janssen, and Donaldson gathered around. Deputy Donaldson rested his hands on his utility belt and looked attentive. Janssen regarded her with open disdain. Detective Luck, on the other hand, wouldn’t meet her eyes at all.
She considered trying to make amends for the poor wording earlier but decided against it. Donaldson would probably accept the apology in earnest. Janssen would see it as weakness. And Luck… she didn’t know how to read him at the moment. It could go either way. If he took it as insincere, she’d only dig herself deeper. Better to bulldoze forward.
“I think it would be wise to ask around among the escort community in the area, see if any of the girls have had a John recently who was… off. They usually have a pretty good read on that kind of thing, but they’re often too afraid to report it, for obvious reasons.”
Janssen scoffed.
“Escort community? Should we check their monthly newsletter?”
That was it. Darger squared her shoulders toward him and let out a slow breath.
“Actually, Detective Janssen. I had a specific question for you.”
He grinned, mouth full of coffee-stained teeth.
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
Darger leaned across the table and pulled the new forensic report closer.
“Am I reading this right… that the bleach samples for your murder weren’t submitted to the crime lab until after the second body was found?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I ask why?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
Janssen sneered, looking amused with himself.
Darger met Janssen’s cold stare. Her third-grade teacher had used that exact same line whenever a student asked Can I go to the bathroom instead of May I go to the bathroom. Darger had always thought Mrs. Horvath was just asking for one of them to piss their pants in the middle of her classroom. Darger waited, and eventually Janssen pursed his lips and answered the question.
“Look, the first girl… the stripper? We had no reason to suspect it was anything more than a working girl who crossed paths with the wrong guy. Or maybe a pissed off pimp or dealer.”
“Can we refer to the victims by name, please?”
He didn’t look at her. Instead, he glanced at Luck, and they exchanged a look. Like Darger couldn’t see them? She knew what they were thinking, too. This bitch.
“Cristal Monroe,” he said, voice thick with attitude, “was an addict and worked at a club we know sells sex on the side. What were we supposed to think?”
“I still don’t see your point. Or do you always conduct a half-assed investigation if you assume the victim was a sex worker or an addict?”
He exploded, leaping forward to shout in her face.
“Fuck you, half-assed!”
Darger took a startled step back. Donaldson and Luck moved into the gap between them, acting as a buffer.
“As far as I’m concerned, you can take your assessment or profile or whatever the hell you call it and shove it up your tight, little FBI ass.”
He wadded up the sheet of paper with the profile notes on it and tossed it on the ground as he stomped through the door.
Darger listened to the thud of his boots recede down the hallway. She’d known it would piss him off, but he had more of a hair-trigger temper than she’d expected.
“You really know how to rally the troops, Agent Darger,” Luck said, slipping past her on his way out the door.
She thought about going after him to try to apologize, but her pride wouldn’t let her.
Not willing to press the hospitality of anyone on the task force, Darger opted to walk back to her motel. It wasn’t too far, maybe three miles at most. She could use the exercise and the time to gather her thoughts. She was three blocks from the Sheriff’s office when she heard the distinct rumble of an engine slowing behind her.
Her first thought, irrational as it was, was Sierra’s recollection of the first abduction. That was what she’d noticed first, after all: the sound of the car coming up the street.
It was a split second thing, but something her training had taught her to do: orient herself to her surroundings and to the location of her weapon, should she need it. There was a brick half-wall to her right, an ornamental feature she could dive behind if she needed to. As for her weapon, it was in her holster. She could have it in-hand in seconds.
There was a whining sound that she recognized as an automatic window rolling down.
“Need a ride?”
Darger turned. It was Deputy Donaldson.
Well, if he was offering…
Turning on her boot heel, she crossed the sidewalk and climbed into the car.
“I wanted to apologize. If you took offense to anything I said during the meeting, that wasn’t my intent.”
Confusion clouded his face for a beat, then cleared.
“Oh, the country bumpkin stuff.”
She opened her mouth to explain that Luck had been the one that said ‘country folk,’ not her. But perhaps it wasn’t the time for nitpicking.
“For my part, ma’am,” Donaldson said, “I harbor no such indignation. You ask me, it’s a damn good thing to be in a jurisdiction with such a low murder rate. Who wouldn’t want that? The big city detectives can keep their so-called experience. It’s not worth the cost of doing business.”
Violet stared through the windshield, watching a line of maples go by in a blur.
“You have a point.”
“As for your presentation, I found it all quite helpful.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
Traffic was thick in downtown Athens. They joined a long line of cars waiting to turn left at an intersection, and for a while the only noise was the periodic crackle of the dispatcher over Donaldson’s radio.
“If you’re in the mood to socialize, there’s a place not far from here,” he said. “Place you can unwind a little, maybe get to know the locals.”
“Maybe some other time,” Darger said. “But thank you.”
Her head was almost throbbing now, and the thought of being in a loud bar surrounded by a bunch of cops who would sooner or later have it whispered in their ears that she was some big city FBI lady who thought she shit gold appealed to her not at all. She just wanted to get back to her motel and knock this headache out with an Advil and some sleep. Maybe a hot bath first.
Once they made it out of the downtown area, traffic lightened, and it was a short drive the rest of the way to the motel.
She slid down to the tarmac and thanked Donaldson for the ride.
“No trouble at all,” he said, and then he was gone.
Before she let herself into her room, she marched over to Loshak’s door. It was a moment before he answered, looking haggard.
“You look like shit,” she said.
“And what a delight it is to see you, too, Agent Darger.”
He left the door open and went back into his room. She followed him inside.
“I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole,” she said, realizing that it was apparently becoming a habit for her to be unintentionally insulting. “Where were you?”
“Where do you think? I was here.”
Darger pressed the back of her hand over her eye. The pressure relieved the pain in her head ever so slightly.
“The meeting, Loshak. You missed the meeting.”
“Aw shit,” he said. “Shit, I’m sorry. How’d it go?”
“Fine,” Darger said, too quickly. She scrunched her eyes up. “For the most part. I wasn’t exactly prepared, you know.”
Loshak chuckled to himself.
“Yeah, I bet you hate that.”
Her head throbbed. She was tired. And hungry. And pissed off at herself. And not in the mood for Loshak’s needling.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh nothing,” Loshak said, leaning back on the bed with his hands tucked behind his head.
“Lord, no. Absolutely not.”
“Because two can play at that game. This whole denial thing with you about being sick? You’re beyond Type A. You’re like Type Triple A Plus.”
“Yeah, and you know what Freud would have had to say about your fingernail chewing.”
Darger had the urge to hide her hands behind her back. Sierra had also picked up on it, and she hated that people noticed that about her. She made sure to never do it in front of people, but the more observant always saw the signs.
“And what would he have said about your being a stubborn perfectionist?”
“Anal fixation? Really? And just because I prefer things to be done a certain way does not make me a perfectionist.”
Darger snorted and headed for the door, which was still open.
“Where are you going?”
“To sleep.”
Chapter 24
The Elbow Room was a cop bar on Court Street in downtown Athens. It was just around the corner from the Athens City Police Department. Less than a block. And though it hosted any number of civilian patrons from night to night, the bulk of the local law enforcement workers comprised the regulars. Everyone from high-ranking members of the administration down to the freshest rookies occupied the stools at the bar nightly, and a few judges and attorneys from the area made frequent appearances as well. Its reputation as a cop bar was so strong, in fact, that deputies and underlings from jurisdictions as far away as Zaleski made the trip to Court Street a weekend ritual.
Kurt knew all of this well. He’d hung out here often for the last several years, listening to the cops tell stories, befriending them, at least so far as several considered him a drinking buddy. He felt as comfortable walking among them as he did any other group of humans. It wasn’t so hard to hide among the crowd, he knew. Any crowd.
Parking the Buick in the lot out back had come with a certain thrill, what with the severed head in the bag in the passenger seat. His whole body tingled, needle pricks rippling up and down him as the car juddered over the pot holes and found a vacant spot. When he killed the engine, the tickle intensified in the quiet, brimming over into a painful itch. He clenched his teeth, jaw muscles flexing. After a deep breath, the itch died back to a throb.
He’d zipped the duffel bag up en route and now considered trying to stow it on the floor, but it didn’t feel right, so he left it. He ran a hand over the rough texture of its material, a fingertip dragging over the interlocking zipper teeth. No electrical pulses assailed him this time. Ah well.
Yellow streetlights buzzed overhead, shining down on the chewed up blacktop and faded vinyl siding of the bar. No one stirred in the lot. No movement at all.
His fingertips found the door handle, and again, he left the strange insulation of the car, stepping out into the cold. He felt naked in the open air, the frigidity reaching right through his thin jacket and t-shirt to chill the flesh of his torso. He took a deep breath reflexively at the shock of it, and the cold sucked right down into his lungs, biting all the way down, making him shudder. It smelled like snow outside. Seemed strange for October.
His breath coiled in the air before him as he walked the concrete walk to the big wooden door, a ball of steam twisting and disappearing into empty space. He stopped shy of the door and waited, the thumping rhythm of the music inside faintly audible. It had been weird to think of the writhing mass of cops inside those walls.
After a long hesitation, he slipped into the bar and was absolved once more of the detachment. The old reality snapped back, some lost feeling restored, like waking up refreshed after being tired for so long he’d forgotten what that felt like. Even here, surrounded by cops, he found an overwhelming relief to be back among people, away from the loneliness. On another level, it was tense, of course, but he’d been here so many times. He could keep the fear in a little compartment and go through the normal routine unperturbed.
Bare brick walls and button tufted leather booth seats gave the place a rustic feel, but the warmth and lighting dominated his sensory circuits. It was hot in here, the air almost heavy with body heat. Sweaty. And the light controlled the atmosphere. Made him feel calm even with all the people flitting around. The dimly lit space seemed forever dulled to a soft focus, even when he was completely sober.
He nodded a greeting to familiar faces, collecting smiles and waves in return. Funny how that worked, he thought. He’d barely spoken to most of these people, but they must be able to call to mind memories of seeing him whilst drunk, perhaps watching at the edge of the crowd, laughing along with the stories and jokes, and that was enough. Somehow that nothing level of interaction had become a positive association, deemed him worthy of a subtle greeting. If he were a handsome man, he thought perhaps one of the lady cops or police groupies would have hit on him, even, but it hadn’t happened. For once, being ugly provided a perk. He wanted to remain mostly anonymous. Unnoticed.
He scanned the room as he advanced toward the bar, squinting to make out detail in the shadowy areas toward each far corner. A fat man with a sports jacket over his polo shirt lifted his bottle of beer at him to say hello. He was bald on top with messy hair hanging down on the back and sides. This was John Wayne Porto, the Athens detective who ran his mouth about the case on the regular, the one Kurt was hoping to see tonight. The one he would sit near. The one who, if all went well, would tell him where the investigation stood.
Kurt plucked a bill from his pocket as he neared the bar. His heart beat a little faster as he waited for the bartender’s eyes to find his, and when they did, he had to concentrate to keep his voice from wavering as he ordered a Budweiser. It was strange that ordering a beer made him more uptight than being around so many police, but seeing the detective made his adrenaline kick in or something. He remembered seeing a video about that being a poker tell. When a player has a big hand, their fingers tremble from the adrenaline.
He licked his lips. As soon as he had the drink in hand, he could disappear into the crowd and be no one again. Soon. He cleared his throat while he waited, let his eyes go a little out of focus, staring at the wall of bottles behind the bar but not really seeing them. Finally, the barkeep scooted the brew his way, and he took the glass to a table near the detective.
He sat in the part of the room where those dim lights began to give way to the shadows. He sipped his drink, looking at nothing and watching everything out of the corners of his eyes. The people roiled around him, strange hairless apes smiling and yammering at each other and clapping each other on the back, totally unaware of the Other in their presence. The still, silent figure sitting amongst all of their swirling motion, his shoulders rigid, a glass of beer sweating on the table in front of him.
There was something fun about it. Fooling all of them. Duping the very people tasked with weeding out his kind. He couldn’t help but smirk.
The bar seemed a little quiet tonight. Hushed murmurs overtaking the room in place of boisterousness. Voices all tight and small. None of the raucous cheer he usually encountered among these off-duty guys. He couldn’t decide if this was a reverent quiet or a sleepy one. Would word about the latest kill have gotten around already? He supposed so. It had been more than 12 hours since he had disposed of the bags, though it didn’t really feel like it.
As if on cue, shushes rose up from the mob and the murmurs fell off into total quiet. He swiveled his head just as the bartender turned up the volume on the biggest screen mounted over the bar. It was the Channel 4 news, the NBC affiliate out of Columbus.
The anchor’s head occupied the screen, her bleached white teeth standing out from the orange glow of her tan. And a graphic of a garbage bag appeared over her shoulder.
“In another brutal twist in the ongoing story out of Athens County, a dismembered body was discovered in a trash bag in a residential area on the south side of Athens in the early morning hours, the fourth such body in recent weeks.”
All sound seemed to fade out around
Kurt as she went on. He watched her lips move, but he heard nothing. That itchy vibration crawled over his skin again, a crackle flickering in his head like the blue beam in one of those bug zapping lamps. He sipped his beer, unable to pry his eyes from the TV screen where the camera panned across the scene. It was old footage, he realized, from Burger King. The garbage bag there, the pool of blood surrounding it on the concrete shining back more black than red. The puddle looked thick. Shiny and gummy. Like the ring of leftover ketchup drying on the plate.
He flinched, unable to contain himself. One hard jerk of the shoulders and abs that throttled his body so hard that the legs of his chair scraped audibly over the floor as it scooted a few inches back from his table.
He froze. Eyes locked on the scuffed tabletop. Back hunched like one of those rats in the live traps.
After a long, still moment, he looked around. All eyes remained glued to the TV screen. No one had noticed his flailing, or if they had, they didn’t care.
And it was now almost an out-of-body experience for him. His consciousness seeming to pull away from his person. Floating. Hovering. All sight and sound reduced to something fizzy, his mind retracting into the static of the abstract.
He swallowed, and it felt distant. Remote. Like it wasn’t real at all.
A rectangular blob in the static dissolved, and the TV news anchor appeared there, talking directly into the camera, a sober expression on her makeup-caked face. He could tell that she was stuck up just looking at her. One of those haughty, la-de-da types. His teeth ground together, and something about the sensation of his jaw muscles tightening brought him back to the moment, brought him back to his body, turned the sound back on as the camera cut to the male anchor with teeth so white they must glow in the dark. The graphic next to the anchor’s head had changed. No more garbage bag. Now it was a pot leaf. He talked about a string of robberies at local medical marijuana dispensaries.
The piece about the body was over. Good.
He took a breath, and once again his whole body tingled from head to toe, but this time it was different. More pleasant. Some orgasmic jolt of pleasure that he didn’t really understand. Was it the attention? It must be. He was the top story. The case had made the news before, but now he was number one. He was the headline. He’d made something of himself.
