The Drifting Gloom (Maddy Wimsey Book 2)

by J. R. Rain

  “Sergeant,” I say, “this man died within the past two hours. I’m reasonably sure whoever killed him punctured the carotid artery and watched him bleed out. Mr. Gibson doesn’t appear to have been gagged, so there’s a good chance he’d have been screaming. Can you please have some of your officers check nearby apartments and get statements?”

  “Sure.” Stedman gestures at the corpse. “You sure he wasn’t like drugged or something?”

  “Reasonably. Cuts and bruises on his wrists tell me he struggled to free himself, but it doesn’t necessarily prove that happened during his death.”

  “You got it.” The sergeant nods at me and hurries outside, calling over a few patrol officers.

  Rick walks in from the back hall. “One window in the bedroom, broken from the outside. Looks like some footprints, but I doubt they’re going to be useful. Too much grass in the way. Though, from the size, our killer’s a big dude.”

  “Hmm.” I lean closer to Mr. Gibson, shining the Maglite on his shoulders and chest, catching a hint of finger-shaped bruises. “Big enough to drag this guy around?”

  “Maybe.” Rick pokes his head into the kitchen for a moment before orbiting the living room. “The blood tossed on the walls is an interesting touch.” He approaches the couch, shining his Maglite on the otherwise white wall, streaked with red. “Kinda looks like a message, but I’m not sure what the killer wanted to say.” He takes a step back, but spots something and crouches.

  “What’cha got?” I ask.

  He reaches under the couch and draws out a plastic cup with his pinky finger, one of those humungous ones from a fast food place with Star Wars characters on it. “Blood inside it.”

  “Think he used this to throw it on the walls?”

  “Would be my guess. Question is… why?”

  “All the blood’s splashed in places the victim would’ve been able to see from where he’s positioned.” I point my flashlight beam around the walls. “Torture. Emotional torture…”

  “Sick bastard,” mutters Rick.

  Sergeant Stedman walks back in. “A few neighbors heard screaming, but two thought this guy had a movie on, and the one next door said he screams a lot.”

  Both my eyebrows go up. “Screams a lot?”

  “Yeah. Something about video games. Smashes shit around all the time while telling the game exactly what he thinks about it.”

  “Maybe I’m picturing this wrong,” says Rick, “but screaming ‘you cheating piece of bleep’ at the TV sounds a whole lot different from ‘please don’t kill me.’”

  I glance around at the walls, wondering how people could tune out the terrified shouting of a dying man like some inconvenience they couldn’t be bothered with. Did they crank their TV to drown him out or simply roll their eyes and disregard it?

  “Doesn’t look like anything was stolen,” says Rick. “Guy came in the window, took his time with the kill, and went on his merry way.”

  “Almost like a hit.” Sergeant Stedman raises both eyebrows.

  “Maybe our Burger King manager was in some kind of trouble.” I grab my cell phone. Time to wake up the forensics people. Well… they’re probably not asleep yet. Since we don’t have our department car with us, it’ll fall on them to take all the pictures. Our camera’s in the trunk of the sedan back at the station.

  Rick exhales hard, lips fluttering. “Who knows? Maybe the rivalry with McDonald’s is heating up.”

  Stedman chuckles, but I give Rick the flat eyebrows.

  Snickering, Rick heads for the door, muttering, “Be right back. Got a camera in the Expy.”

  I shake my head, sigh, and call it in. The sooner CSI gets here, the better.

  Chapter Seven

  Standard Procedure

  Tuesday Morning – July 11, 2017

  The night’s a blur. Feels like one moment I’m standing on the sidewalk outside Mr. Gibson’s apartment, then I blink and I’m in the car with Rick, staring at an egg sandwich.

  I vaguely remember going home, falling into my pillow, and trudging back out the door. I think Caius said something about he’d give the garden a check for water. Apparently, Rick also overslept and didn’t eat before leaving home.

  So, we stopped for breakfast. And coffee.

  Our victim’s only living relative is a brother by the name of John, who works as an architect downtown at a small firm. Neither of us say much on the ride since we’re absorbed entirely by food and coffee. By the time we pull in and park, most of the crumbs are off my clothes. I don’t have my partner’s tolerance for inhaling boiling substances, so my coffee’s still about a third full.

  Rick and I badge our way past the reception desk. A slender young woman named Eve with dark skin and long, straight hair emerges from an interior door after a short wait, and happily leads us down the hall. Either she’s a high school intern or she got out of university a week ago. Or I’m starting to feel old as dirt.

  My hair drapes over my eyes as if disagreeing.

  With a smile, I tuck it back behind my ears.

  “Mr. Gibson works in here,” says Eve, opening half of a set of white double doors.

  A huge, open room behind the door bustles with the activity of about twenty people. The far wall is all windows, and huge drawing tables line up in rows around square columns. Men and women across the age spectrum work at the desks, cluster by a water cooler, or walk back and forth with bundles of paper or rolled-up tubes of bigger papers.

  “Which one’s John Gibson?” asks Rick.

  Eve points out a skinny twentysomething in a white button-down shirt and black slacks, sitting at a drawing desk by the window. The table’s so big he looks like a small boy at his father’s workstation. As soon as I see him, I rule him out as a suspect. Way too thin to have possibly overpowered Benjamin. That, and his body language is completely natural for being at work on a Tuesday. Someone who recently murdered their brother wouldn’t be so at ease. Though, I am moderately inclined to distrust anyone who appears wide awake and almost chipper this early on a work day. Surely he’s not that upbeat early on a Monday morning. If so, that’s a true sign of dark demonic influence.

  He glances up from a collection of lines and intricate shapes as we approach. Once it becomes obvious we’re stopping at his desk, his demeanor changes―instant nervous. Normally, that would set off a red flag, but we haven’t introduced ourselves as police yet, so I’m temporarily chalking his reaction up to extreme social anxiety. He strikes me as that type.

  “Mr. Gibson?” I ask.

  “Y-yes,” he says. “I’m a little busy right now. Maybe Patricia can help you with whatever it is you need? Are you a client?”

  “No.” Rick holds up his badge. “We’re with Olympia P.D., Mr. Gibson. Is there somewhere we can talk with a bit more privacy?”

  “Police?” He stares at us, wide-eyed and clueless. His glasses slide down a rather generous, pointy nose.

  I’m sure this guy writes the day of the week on his underwear, and probably can’t imagine why we’d have any interest in him.

  “Yes,” I say. “It would be best if we could go somewhere quiet.”

  “Umm. All right.” John caps a pen. “Umm. Sorry. One moment. These are Rapidographs. Very delicate. Will it take long? I don’t want to let the ink dry out in them if I can help it. They need to be cleaned after each use.”

  “We won’t take up much of your time,” I say, eyeing the pens. Wow… this guy is old school. Don’t they use computers for this stuff now?

  John caps two more pens, stands them up in sockets at the top of the drawing table, and hops off his stool. “All right. This way.”

  We follow him across the open studio to a group of three small conference rooms at the end with frosted glass walls. All are empty, and he seems stuck for a moment trying to figure out which one to go for. I spare him the mental quandary and enter the rightmost one. John follows, still glancing back and forth between us with an expression of abject bewilderment.

  Rick
pulls a chair out for him. “You may want to sit down, Mr. Gibson. I’m afraid we have bad news for you.”

  “Oh dear… is it about that parking ticket?” John pushes his glasses up after taking a seat.

  “I’m afraid not,” I say in the most sympathetic voice I can manage on four hours of sleep. “John, your brother Benjamin was killed last night.”

  He stares at me for a long moment before shifting his gaze to Rick, then back to me. His lip twitches, and he pulls his hands off the table into his lap, fiddling with his fingers.

  “We’re very sorry for your loss,” adds Rick.

  “Killed?” asks John in a voice barely over a whisper. “Who would want to kill Ben? He never hurt anyone. Well, almost never.”

  “Almost?” asks Rick.

  His fidgeting worsens. “It’s been a while. I used to have, umm, issues at school, and he’d look out for me. There hasn’t been any fighting for years though, unless you count him hitting his PlayStation.”

  “He hit the machine?” asks Rick. “Aren’t those things expensive?”

  John looks up with a note of fear in his eyes. “I mean the controller. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be deceptive.”

  I exchange a glance with Rick, and we also sit down to stop giving off ‘interrogation’ vibes.

  “It’s all right,” I say. “My partner and I will do everything we can to find the person who did this.”

  “What happened?” asks John. “How did Ben…?” He bows his head, no longer able to look at us.

  “He was attacked in his apartment last night.”

  John manages a weak nod.

  “Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt your brother?” asks Rick.

  “No, not really.” John scratches at his leg, still not making eye contact.

  “The attack had a certain vindictive quality that makes me wonder if the killer had a personal reason to want to hurt him. Did he have any business deals that could’ve gone sour? Romantic rivals, gang affiliations, anything like that?”

  “No. Ben didn’t get involved with anything like that. He didn’t look like it, but he’s as big a nerd as I am.” John lets out a sad laugh. “Okay, maybe not quite as big. He did prefer the PlayStation to the PC. I’m more of a PC guy.” He finally looks up at us, his cheeks awash with tears. “He’s―I mean he was gay, if that matters.”

  “Does it?” ask Rick. “Did anyone give him static about that? There are plenty of idiots in the world.”

  “He didn’t tell many people. I don’t think anyone who worked with him knew. But, you know, his job isn’t like here. My brother always said managing a fast-food restaurant is like herding cats. Most of his employees are still in high school. They won’t even listen to their parents, so he has no chance at all of controlling them.”

  “Did Benjamin have a boyfriend?” I ask.

  “No. He broke up with his boyfriend over a year ago, and he’d been upset about it ever since. As far as I know, he never tried to see anyone else.” John sniffles into his hands. “I’m glad our parents are gone… they wouldn’t be able to handle his death.”

  “I’m so sorry for your―”

  Before I can finish, John springs out of his chair and begins sobbing on my shoulder. Rick lunges to his feet, ready to grab the guy, but relaxes once he realizes John just got emotional and isn’t trying to attack me.

  I do the only thing I can do at a moment like this, and try my best to comfort him. My hair, interestingly, hangs over his head, sheltering him.

  ***

  After he composed himself, John Gibson spent the next almost-hour talking about his brother. Amid mostly reminiscence, we did pick up some potentially useful information. Benjamin still worked at the same Burger King that gave him his first job as a high school student, promoted to manager five years ago. John spent a good while going on about how his brother never studied and barely did homework, yet passed his classes with decent grades. I’m getting the feeling that Benjamin had been smart like his brother, but also afflicted with a severe case of laziness.

  So, a big-time slacker who spent 98% of his time indoors, either at home or work, isn’t the sort of guy who makes many enemies. Then again, Parrish had a case a few years ago involving a murder triggered by events in an online roleplaying game… Maybe I shouldn’t rule that out just yet. However, with little else to go on, we’re starting with the only thing we have at the moment: the ex-boyfriend, Cameron Wells.

  “What about drugs?” I ask, on the ride. “Could he have been dealing? Ben seems like a slacker from hell, but not a stupid guy. High pay for little effort might have appealed to him.”

  Rick twists his hands on the wheel, thinking as we roll up behind a dented minivan at a red light. “Depends on how much of his brother John’s dread of authority he inherited. That poor guy thought he’d get in trouble for confusing smashing controllers with smashing the main box.”

  “One rule follower in a family doesn’t mean they’re all that way.”

  “Got any thoughts yet? Think it might’ve been a hit man for the fast-food franchise wars?” He chuckles.

  “Now you’re starting to sound like some midnight radio conspiracy wingnut.” I shake my head, not quite able to laugh. “And nah… the drug thing doesn’t fit. Drug deals gone south usually involve guns. I wonder if someone targeted him over his sexuality. This was…”

  “Vicious,” says Rick, all mirth gone. “The killer wanted him to suffer, draw it out. Wanted him to know he was going to die and couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

  I shiver, absentmindedly putting a hand to the right side of my neck. “The blood on the walls.”

  “Splashing it to taunt him.” Rick accelerates when the light changes. “Brother John thought he kept pretty closeted in public, so if he was killed over being gay, it’s probably someone he would’ve had contact with in a social setting where he would’ve let that guard down.”

  “But he didn’t go out to gay bars at all, according to the brother. Work, video games, sleep, over and over.”

  “Right.” Rick swings into the left lane to go around a slow compact. “Might as well send our vic’s info to Narcotics and see if he comes up on any of their records, but I’m not going to hold my breath. Unless something pans out with this former boyfriend, I’m thinking we might be looking at a serial killer with no real connection to our vic.”

  “Ugh.” I wipe my hand around onto my face and rub the bridge of my nose. “Bite your tongue.”

  Rick’s quiet for a few minutes of driving before he glances at me. “Think Parrish’ll trade our serial killer for the exploding clowns?”

  “In a heartbeat, but you’re not seriously thinking of punting it?”

  “Nah. Just trying to fill the silence.”

  “Turn missed. Recalculating. Turn left in two-hundred-forty feet onto… road,” says the Garmin, evidently failing to find the street name.

  “Oh, blow it out your ass,” mutters Rick.

  I snicker.

  We go around the block again and pull into the parking lot of a small, trendy bar in the northeast part of downtown Olympia. The sign over the door is so stylized I can’t tell if it’s ‘The Verve’ or ‘The Verge’ or ‘The Veggie.’

  A handful of people occupy small tables on a slightly elevated strip of floor around the outside of a room with a raw wood motif. I guess the place is part bistro or some such thing, not purely a drinking establishment.

  Rick heads for the bar on the other side of the middle section of open floor with a few standing-height tables, no chairs. Since John mentioned the ex-boyfriend tended bar, sounds like a good place to start. I follow.

  The man behind the bar appears to be in his later twenties or early thirties with short brown hair and a goatee. He’s about Rick’s height, but thin and pleasant looking in a purple button-down shirt and grey vest. My flannel and jeans are probably a bit mundane for the place. It’s kinda got that young-and-moneyed vibe going.

  “Can I get you
anything?” asks the bartender when we arrive in front of him.

  “Cameron Wells?” asks Rick.

  “Yes, that’s me. Do I know you?”

  We hold up our IDs.

  “I’m Detective Santiago, this is my partner Detective Wimsey.” Rick flips his badge closed and pockets it. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions about Benjamin Gibson.”

  “Oh, Ben?” Cameron leans both hands on the bar and lets out a long sigh. “I haven’t really spoken with him in about six months. I can’t imagine he’s gotten involved in anything the police would care about.”

  “How would you characterize your relationship with him?” I ask.

  “He’s a sweet guy, but he’s so unmotivated. We were good together. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any drive to chase his dreams. I loved him, but couldn’t see any future with someone who’s content flipping burgers for the rest of his life.”

  “So you and Benjamin were once romantically involved?” asks Rick in a neutral tone.

  “Yes.” Cameron nods, smiling. “We parted ways on friendly terms about a year ago. Really, just one of those things. We both knew it would never work.”

  The guy’s not radiating any of the usual signs of being evasive, at least nothing I’m reading off him, so I ask, “We heard that he hadn’t met anyone else. Perhaps his feelings were a lot deeper than you thought?”

  “Oh, that’s probably what most people would think, isn’t it?” Cameron gestures at a shelf of glasses behind him. “Are you sure I can’t get you some water or iced tea? Coffee? And, no… I’m sure it’s more that Ben didn’t have any real desire to pull himself away from his PlayStation. He’s like the Pablo Picasso of lazy.”

  “So we’ve heard.” Rick nods. “Soda water would be fine, thank you.”

  Cameron fills two glasses with soda water and sets them in front of us before adding a wedge of lime to each. “Do you mind if I ask what’s got the police asking about Ben? He barely managed to do his own laundry. I can’t picture him being inspired enough to break the law.”