by Mary Hughes
“Exsanguination, Detective O’Rourke. Murder by blood loss.”
“Big word for such a little guy.” I used sarcasm to cover the second jolt. Bo and past blood-draining deaths? But even if I accepted that Strongwell was tied to a bunch of deaths… “This is the city’s first murder. That’s public record.”
“Not according to my source. Perhaps the death of Napoleon Schrimpf was the first recorded murder. But paperwork does not always record the whole truth, hmm?” Fakeula’s smile was smug.
“Are you suggesting there was a cover-up? In stick-up-the-ass-honest Meiers Corners?”
“I can only tell you what my source told me.”
“And that source would be…?”
“Confidential.” The smug smile grew.
“Natch. I’m going to check this out, Drac.”
“Yes, Detective O’Rourke. I’m counting on it.” The smile broke into a grin, street light glinting off surprisingly white teeth.
“Oh, right. I just bet you are. Did your oh-so-confidential source happen to say how Strongwell was involved in these earlier ‘murders’?” I let my sarcasm carry.
He pouted. “You do not believe me.”
“Let’s just say you’re pretty quick with the accusations, but not much on details. Well, if that’s all you got…” I turned and made like I was leaving.
“Strongwell betrayed him,” Drac bleated.
“Strongwell betrayed him.” I turned slowly back. “Betrayed who?”
Fakeula blushed. I guessed he hadn’t meant to give that away. “My informant. He was charged with the safety of Meiers Corners.”
“This informant isn’t much use without a name.”
“Deep, um, something.” The harder Drac’s brain worked, the lighter the Lugosi. “Deep…deep…oh yeah! Deep Blow Job.”
My eyebrows winged into my hairline. “Deep Blow Job. Uh-huh. Sure you don’t mean Deep Throat, Drac?”
“Deep Throat, Deep Blow Job, it is the same thing, is it not?” The accent was back with added irritation.
“You never heard of Watergate?” I sighed at his blank look. “Okay, your informant was on the MC police force when these killings happened. Then what?”
“Not the police force. A more grass-roots sort of organization.”
The neighborhood watch thing again. That irritated me. How could Meiers Corners have an organized neighborhood watch without the police knowing? Without me knowing?
On the plus side, though, it meant Bo Strongwell had been telling the truth, at least about that.
“Deep Blow Job…er, Throat was in charge of the organization. Yes.” Fakeula nodded vigorously. “Strongwell had just joined. But Strongwell was eager, wanted more responsibility. More authority. So when news of the first murder came, Strongwell petitioned Deep Throat to be in charge of investigating it.”
“Wait. I thought you said Strongwell was the killer.”
“Worse, Detective O’Rourke.” Fakeula eyes kindled with relish to an almost unholy red. “When he discovered the killer’s identity, instead of stopping him, Strongwell urged the killer to commit more murders.”
Shock rendered me momentarily speechless. That didn’t sound like Bo at all. That he could kill, well, probably. But Viking-guy seemed like a man to do it with his own hands. “Why? What would he gain?”
“Gain?” Fakeula blinked, eyes fading to brown. “Gain. Well, power, I guess. Yes, power to step into a leadership position—with a Chicago crime organization!”
“Wow. Strongwell’s a leader in Chicago crime.” I nodded. Yellow flags were going up all over the place. First, Fakeula’s explanation was way too pat. Second, if Bo was that rich, what was he doing living in Meiers Corners? This wasn’t Lake Geneva or Glencoe.
But most of all, I just didn’t believe it. Bo Strongwell, Mr. Dusk-to-Dawn Patrolgod, a criminal? And not just a criminal, but a sleazy behind-the-scenes mastermind?
The problem was, I didn’t know if that was my cop sense talking or my need for Bo to be a good guy. Because if I reacted so strongly to a bad guy, what did that make me? “Explains the fancy digs. Doesn’t explain why he’s still in little Meiers Corners instead of the big city.”
“Who cares?” Creepula’s irritation was back, tenfold. “The point is, Strongwell betrayed Deep Throat’s trust.” The sly look returned. “He’ll betray you too.”
“Yeah, well…” My cop radar pinged. Incoming. Fast. I whirled.
Tall, yummy and Scandinavian loomed over us. Unfortunately this Viking had long hair, an earring and yards of black leather. Bo’s assistant manager. I cast back in my mind for a name. Thorvald.
Viking Two planted fists on admittedly delectable hips and glared at Dracula. “Causing trouble?”
Fakeula squeaked, backed away. “No sir, not me. Just leaving, actually.”
“Then scram.”
Fakeula spun, ran off.
I took off after him but he was too fast. “Wait! Dammit.” His skinny ass disappeared around the corner. I whirled on Thorvald. “I was questioning that man.”
Viking Two cocked an eyebrow at me. “It sounded more like he was telling you lies. Bo Strongwell is no traitor.”
“You’re biased. Being Bo’s partner and all.” Even though I privately agreed with Thorvald, my job was to listen to testimonies and compare them to the facts. And if there had been other blood killings, what Fakeula said lined up unfortunately quite well.
Thorvald stiffened. “What did you say?”
“Just that, as Bo’s partner, you’ve got to support him.”
He shook his head. The ash blond waves brushed his leather shoulders with a kind of shushing sound. “I’m his assistant. Not his partner.”
“And the difference is…?”
“A big one. At least to Bo. Look, I was listening before I interrupted. I don’t know the details, but something like that might have happened—only in the reverse.”
How had Thorvald been near me for that long without my cop radar kicking in? Unless he was listening two blocks away, he should have at least blipped. “Something Fakeula said had a grain of truth?”
“Yes. Bo trusted a guy to take care of a job for him, but the guy shafted him instead. Since then Bo’s been a little touchy when it comes to partners.”
Partners. I thought briefly of Captain Titus and young, energetic, enthusiastic and cerebrally unburdened. “Yeah, I get that. But that’s not Bo’s call, is it? Isn’t it up to whoever owns the apartment? Or runs the neighborhood watch?”
Thorvald stared at me blankly for a moment. “I thought you were Gretchen Johnson’s sister.”
“I am. We don’t look anything alike, but—”
“And you don’t know? How did you meet Bo, then, if not through her?”
“I don’t know what?”
He shook his blond head. “Anything, it seems. Look, I just wanted to make sure Crackula wasn’t causing any trouble for you. And to straighten out his cockeyed story. I’ll see you around.”
“But—”
Thorvald was gone. Poof. Almost like… I blinked at the empty air where he’d been. No. Couldn’t be.
I could not have just seen a man disappear in a cloud of dust.
Chapter Eleven
I resumed my tromping toward Nieman’s Bar, less belligerent this time. More doubtful. Things were not adding up.
Or rather, things were adding up in ways I didn’t like. Bo Strongwell was either betrayer or betrayed. He was accused of murder by people I didn’t trust but might have to believe. He was defended by people I trusted but didn’t believe.
Too many fingers were pointing at him. It made me uncomfortable. Strangely, it was something of a relief to be uncomfortable for something other than because he was big, muscled and tongue-dropping handsome.
On the way to Nieman’s I phoned Gretchen. I wanted to make sure she was okay, and to warn her she was living with a man who might be not just a murderer but a mass murderer.
She told me in no uncertain terms
what she thought of my suspicions. They included several anatomically correct but impossible acts. (Well, maybe only highly improbable if Strongwell were involved… Damn.)
Arriving at the bar parking lot, I got down on my hands and knees. The crime scene team had gone over the asphalt with chemicals and more, but I wanted to see for myself. Nope, not even a trace of blood.
Dusting hands on jeans, I resumed walking. What did it mean? How could Napoleon Schrimpf be almost completely drained of blood without any showing up at the scene?
Well, there were several hows. The big question was why?
Before returning to the cop shop, I decided to stop by Otto’s Bed and Breakfast Smorgasbord to check Bo’s alibi. Otto was outside, sweeping his porch. Our conversation was short. Or at least my side was.
“Hey, Otto.”
“Shame on you, Elena!” Otto stuck the butt of his broom into the porch, leaned heavily on it. He was a stereotypical innkeeper, round in the middle and pointy at both ends, like a kid’s top. He probably swept so much to balanced himself.
He shook a finger at me. “Bo Strongwell is no murderer. He was here the terrible night of Napoleon Schrimpf’s death. Patrolling for the watch, making the streets safe for honest businessmen and their guests. How could you not believe him?”
“I didn’t—”
“Bo Strongwell, a murderer.” Otto tsked, loudly. “Shame on you for even thinking of such a thing, Elena.”
“But—”
“What, you will not take the word of an honest businessman? Fine. Guiseppe Zweibach and his wife were here that night celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Bo Strongwell brought them a nice Liebfraumilch to toast to another fifty. Ask them. Or are you so mistrustful you do not even believe pensioners in their golden years?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t trust—”
“I should hope not. Well, that’s all. Say hello to the good Alice for me.”
So I had to downgrade Bo’s position on the suspect list.
When I reached the cop shop, I did a quick reconnoiter outside for any ominous Dirksasters. Seeing a clear field I hit the stairs for the detective office.
In the office I checked the files for Fakeula’s “murders”. As I remembered, the worst recorded spree was a gang of thieves who’d knocked over Randy’s Candies while KinderTagen (local daycare) was on a field trip there. Yeah, stealing candy from babies. Nothing even close to possible mass murder.
While I was hunting, I heard a grunt behind me, smelled wafting beer-cheese breath. Blatzky had, amazingly, emerged from the Can’s Festival.
“Midwest Police Monthly come yet?” He reached over my shoulder and pawed through my stack. “Hey, Sass-Cgal. ‘Interviewing for the Missionary Position’. All right!”
I slapped his mitt. “I bought it. Mine.”
“I’m senior on shift. Mine.” He snatched it, skedaddled for the john.
From whence I’d never see it again. I spun, half-rose from my chair, grabbed a corner of the magazine and launched myself backward.
The magazine came back but Blatzky came with it. We sailed into the desk. Stacks of paper and magazines went flying. Picture frames hit the floor like bullets, pencils scattered like shot.
Blatzky held on like a terrier. I tugged and twisted. He tried to stomp on my instep. I dodged, which threw me off-balance. I grabbed for the desk and missed. He scrabbled for footing and missed. We went down.
The Sass-Cgal spurted from our hands, landed splat in the mess of paper on the floor. I landed on Blatzky’s fifth vest button, aka his gut.
His breath exploded in a cloud of Milbenkäse. “Shit, O’Rourke!” He gasped a few times like a fish, then bellered, “Get off, you weigh a ton!”
“Do not.” I scrambled off, slightly miffed. Weigh a ton? Strongwell didn’t think so.
Smack me. My ego stamped valid by a murder suspect. Embarrassment made me jump to my feet.
Blatzky rolled his head to take in the mess. “Why are all these files out, anyway?”
I offered him a hand up. “Someone said there were murders here before Schrimpf.”
“Murders? Nah.” Blatzky took my hand, nearly pulled me back to the floor levering his bulk against me. “Some suspicious deaths, though.”
“When? I didn’t find anything.”
He snorted. “That’s because these files don’t go back to the twenties.”
“The twent…you mean the nineteen twenties? Flappers and the cat’s pajamas?”
“Yeah.” With a grunt, Blatzky bent over to pick up a stack of papers. “My first partner was this old guy, Heinrich. His first case. Never solved it, and I think it ate on him. He was always yakking about it.”
“Details?” I picked up pencils and pictures.
“A body was found on Main, drained of blood.”
Drained of blood.
“A week went by, then more bodies showed up, all over the city. Maybe half a dozen. A month this went on, then suddenly stopped. Never found out what was killing them, or who. Never found out why they stopped.”
“That’s weird.”
“Weird, yeah.” Blatzky dropped papers on my desk. “Heinrich went a little crazy over it, you ask me. Mumbling about monsters, creatures of the night, if you can believe it.”
“What, like Dracula?” I laughed heartily, to show I certainly did not believe such nonsense.
“Yeah. If you wanna see the case files, they’re in the basement. That is, if you can brave the man-eating dustbunnies.”
“Later, if I need to. I’m female, so I guess I’d be safe.”
“Oh. Yeah. I keep forgetting that. You’re a cop first.” Blatzky snatched my Sass-Cgal and scuttled for the john.
My mind churning, I didn’t even try to stop him. Fakeula had told the truth, again. There were killings, and they did involve exsanguination. But in the nineteen twenties? That was almost a century ago. It was impossible for Bo Strongwell to be involved. Even if he were a lot older than he looked, in nineteen-twenty he wouldn’t have been more than a pinprick in his grandpa’s condom stash.
Except…what if Bo really were some sort of ageless creature? Like Dorian Gray or a vampi…no. No effing way. There were pecans, there were cashews and then there was just plain nuts.
I needed to confront Fakeula with this information. See how he tried to explain the date discrepancy. I pulled my notebook to get his real name and address.
Stared. Vlad Dracula, Fifth and Grant.
Which was the fucking Roller-Blayd factory. I cleared my desk and hit the street.
I’d stomped about a block when a shadow slid up beside me. Between one breath and the next, my gun was out.
Bo’s big hand covered the muzzle. His thumb plugged the end.
Immediately I jerked it up. “Don’t do that.” What, did he think he was Wile E. Coyote? I shoved the XD into its holster. (A mini slide. At one time I’d used an inside holster but the advent of superlow jeans put the kibosh on that. Oh, and though a lot of detectives carried concealed, I never bothered. I mean, this was Meiers Corners. The whole town already knew I carried a gun. Dolly even knew how many bullets I had on me at any point in time.)
Bo smiled. The streetlight sparkled on his teeth, caught out a dimple. Oh, damn. It wasn’t enough that his face was straight out of Yummy Desserts Illustrated. He had to have a killer dimple too.
“What are you doing here, Strongwell? Don’t you have a real job?” I started walking, a bit more normally now.
“This is my job. Or at least, part of it. You knew that.”
“Yeah, neighborhood watch. You and your assistant Viking. Don’t see how it pays the bills, though.” I wondered for a moment what Bo’s thick blond mane would look like, as long as Thorvald’s. Thor’s hair, Bo’s face…surprisingly, it was easy to imagine Bo in battle braids and a horned helmet.
He flashed the dimple. Reading my mind? Shaking off the image, I hoofed west, toward the abandoned warehouse. Bo sauntered along next to me.
I re
membered Thor’s story about Bo’s betrayal at a partner’s hands and decided to test the waters. “Where is your partner, anyway?”
Bo’s stride caught. “Thor isn’t my partner.” His voice went flat.
Bingo. “Assistant, then. He was on the streets earlier. Neighborhood watching.”
He smoothed out. “Thor’s at the apartment.”
“Stamping rent checks and whatnot, huh?” I tucked my hands into my pockets. “And you’re here because…?”
“I was patrolling and saw you. Things are a little anxious around town since Schrimpf’s death. I thought you might want some company.”
That rang true. The pre-dawn morning was dark and overcast. Sidewalks were empty, deserted. I had to admit, his company was nice. Not that Meiers Corners was generally a dangerous place. But unless Napoleon Schrimpf sat on some plastic fangs and jacked off with a misplaced breast-pump, someone had killed him.
“So, Detective. Anything new on the case?”
My suspicions sprang online, but more out of habit than anything else. I mean, what could I tell him that Dolly probably hadn’t already related? And he seemed genuinely interested, which was nice.
Still, I made him work for it. “You have a reason for asking?” I raised one eyebrow.
He shot a brow back, conscious imitation. “Just making conversation.”
“Uh-huh.” I jammed my hands further in my pockets and tried not to be either amused or annoyed. In truth, I kind of enjoyed our sparring. “I can say I’ve heard some rumors.”
“About your case?”
“Maybe. A historical precedence.” We sauntered east, side by side. His pace matched mine, effortlessly. It was…companionable. “Know anything about exsanguination?”
“Blood loss? A bit.” He smiled slightly, like it was an in-joke. “Rather desolate downtown these days, isn’t it?”
“Avoiding the question?”
“Not at all. You’re referring to the Killer Vampire of the nineteen twenties, aren’t you? Dark out too. Dawn is six-oh-eight this morning. Less than half an hour away, but you’d never know it.”
“Patrolling from dusk to dawn. What, instead of a time clock, you have to punch a sundial?” But he was right. Not only was the sky overcast, windows were unlit. Signs were dark. Even the streetlights were yellow and dim. Despite myself, I shivered. Tried to keep up the banter, but it wasn’t so easy. “You’re what, thirty? And you heard about this decades-ago killer how?”
