by Lourey, Jess
“Can’t help it.”
“Johnny, I—”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.” I did love him. He loved me. The phone wasn’t the place to forge that territory is all. “I need to go. My mom is out late, and she might call. I’d like the line to be free.”
“All right.” I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “Mom and I are flying back in six days. I’ll see you then?”
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” I meant it. We hung up, and I tried to get back into Sam and Diane’s playful banter but couldn’t. Where was my mom?
I moved to the secondhand laptop computer—a gift from her church group—that she kept in her kitchen to look up recipes. I intended to follow up on the profile Mrs. Berns and I had created. I logged onto E-adore. I had one message:
I’d love to meet tomorrow, but I don’t drink coffee. How about I take you out to an early dinner at Tammy’s Tavern on Highway 23? Sharpie Trevino
Eighteen
Thursday, December 20
It was a little after midnight when Mom finally arrived home, claiming she was exhausted but with a mysterious smile on her face. She said she’d been playing bridge with a new group of friends and that they were a little wilder than her regular group. These ladies didn’t have Auxiliary on Wednesdays, for one, and they didn’t mind a little nip every now and again. After making sure she hadn’t been drinking and driving (“For gosh sakes, I just had a sip!”) and admonishing her to leave a phone number where she could be reached in the future, I stumbled off to bed, too tired to stay upset.
I was puffy-eyed and cranky for the fourth day of PI class. Kent tossed me a long look when I came in but didn’t say anything. I settled into my seat and watched the rest of the students move around the room, arranging their jackets on the back of the chairs, going to the front to speak with Mr. Denny, settling in. No one appeared to be sporting a wooden leg, which made me unreasonably crabbier.
Mr. Denny focused on situation assessment, including personal safety, pre-surveillance research, and surveillance tactics. The personal safety information was basic and not nearly as effective as what I was learning in my self-defense classes, but I was fascinated by what he called tachypsychia. He explained that it was a human response to extreme stress which resulted in tunnel vision and a sense that time is either slowing down or speeding up, depending on your own personal make-up. Either way, it can screw you if you’re fighting for your life. The best way to stay in the moment and save yourself, according to Mr. Denny, was to build your muscle memory of basic self-defense moves and to practice combat breathing. The latter, when explained, sounded just like deep breathing to me, but I wasn’t the expert. I hoped I wouldn’t need to use the information in any case.
With 30 minutes left in class, he ended his lecture by asking for questions. There were none. He nodded his head as if expecting this, then walked around to the front of his desk and leaned against it, arms crossed. “In that case, who wants to learn about serial killers?”
I sat up in my chair. He had our complete attention.
“When I worked homicide in Minneapolis, I had the displeasure of being on the FBI task force assigned to catch the Weepy-Voiced Killer. Anyone remember him?”
Both Kent and Leo nodded. “It was the ’80s, right? The guy called after each murder to confess anonymously,” Leo said. “Sounded like he was crying each time.”
“Correct.” Mr. Denny glanced out the window into the steely winter morning. “Most serial killers possess an innate ability to keep their crimes a secret. Then there’s the outliers, the ones who feel the need to confess. There’s the Zodiac Killer, the Lipstick Killer, the Happy Face Killer. Some, like the Lipstick Killer and the Weepy-Voiced Killer, beg the police to catch them. Others, like the Zodiac and Happy Face Killers, communicate to gloat. Our Candy Cane Killer has not made contact with the outside world about his killings, but he does express many of the other standard traits of killers. Take out a pen and paper.”
Mr. Denny gave us an overview of the gruesome world of serial killing in the 25 minutes remaining. According to him, most serial killers murder for psychological gratification. They’re most often males in their late 20s or early 30s and from a working class or lower middle-class background. Frequently, they were victims of abuse as children. Some, but not all, of them exhibit psychopathy or sociopathy, both of which are usually demonstrated as a lack of empathy or remorse, and selfishness. Psychopaths are methodical, often successful, and can blend into society, working normal jobs and, in many cases, maintaining a normal home life including a wife and kids. Sociopaths, on the other hand, are usually more reckless and have difficulty forming relationships. “Because psychopaths have taught themselves to wear a mask of sanity,” Mr. Denny said, “they are the most difficult to catch. They blend in with society and can be considered quite charming.”
I shivered. “The Candy Cane Killer only murders in the winter. He’s a psychopath?”
“Most likely. None of his victims have shown signs of sexual abuse, so we know he isn’t a hedonistic serial killer or a power serial killer. That leaves two other kinds: visionary, those who kill because they hear voices telling them to, or mission-oriented, the killer who thinks he’s making the world better through his actions.” My head was swirling with information. None of it helped to pinpoint the killer, but it did result in me updating the motivations for the killings, which could come in handy in the online dating research Mrs. Berns and I had undertaken. By the time I stepped out of the classroom, I had shaken off my lack-of-sleep funk, both scared and excited by the thought of today’s mission: observe David, potential serial killer, from a safe distance. I picked up Mrs. Berns on my way to the Fatted Caf in River Grove.
The twenty-minute drive northwest of my mom’s took us past snow-drifted fields and the occasional wind-seared tree. This was the part of the state where you could watch your dog run away for three days, according to the joke. After a bit of small talk, including Mrs. Berns telling me that my mom was teaching her how to crochet and she liked it (officially making Paynesville the most boring town on the planet), she got to the guts of the day. “What’s the plan?”
“We go into the shop, order some coffee, find a seat, and watch for a man fitting David’s description to enter at the appointed time.”
“In that case, I brought you this.” She yanked a blonde wig out of her purse. I almost drove off the road when I saw it. “I borrowed your mom’s car and drove to the costume store in St. Cloud. You don’t want him to confuse you with brunette Veronica.”
“I don’t want him to think I’m an inside-out Dolly Parton, either. I’m not wearing that.”
“I thought you’d say that. That’s why I brought this.” She yanked another mass of hair out of her purse.
I didn’t want to look, but the sleek black bob caught my eye. It had sharp-cut bangs and was very Louise Brooks. I yanked my eyes back onto the road. “You could have put it into a bag. It’s got a gum wrapper stuck in it.”
“Thought you’d love it. I’ll wear the blonde one, then.”
I shook my head as I pulled into the coffee shop’s parking lot. “We’re going to the Fatted Caf, not Mardi Gras. We can’t both wear a wig.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll pull my hat on over it. I’ll appear very tasteful.”
I was doubtful. That misgiving was exacerbated after she yanked a makeup kit out of her bottomless purse and started applying blue eye shadow. Ten minutes later, after she’d caked on her makeup and pulled on her hat, she looked more like Madame, the puppet from Solid Gold, than tasteful, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I, however, felt kinda sexy spy-lady in my wig. I hated to admit it, but I also felt a tiny bit like a real PI going undercover.
“Ready,” she said.
“Please, after you.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Do you think the French accent is a little much?” I asked, getting out of the car.
She glared at me
over the roof of the Toyota, her cheeks bright with blusher. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
“Fine.” I held the front door for her and then led the way to the counter. The rich smell of roasted coffee and fresh-baked rolls was heavenly. It reminded me of the Fortune Café back in Battle Lake, a charming coffee shop, restaurant, and all around hang-out owned by my friends, Sid and Nancy. God, I missed them and their normalcy right about now.
The Fatted Caf was packed with the lunch crowd, but it seemed to be mostly a takeaway joint. Three of the seven tables were open. I was surprised at how few stares we garnered. Was everyone here sight-impaired, or just polite?
“What do you want?” I asked Mrs. Berns when we reached the counter.
“Black coffee with a shot of Bailey’s.”
The barista appeared concerned, but I translated. “Two mochas, please, one soy and one regular. Medium. We’ll take a couple of those chocolate chip scones as well.” I reached into my purse for my second-to-last twenty. I had a credit card, too, but I didn’t want to bust into that. Credit was a slippery slope.
I was getting my change when Mrs. Berns tugged on my sleeve. “Ver-oay ere-they,” she said.
“Hold on. I’m paying.”
“Ver-oay ere-they!”
I pocketed my change and gave Mrs. Berns my full attention. “Are you stroking?”
She’d tugged a large swath of plastic blonde tresses in front of her face, her eyes gazing demurely through the hair at one of the occupied tables. A blue-eyed blonde guy in his late 30s or early 40s was drinking a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper. When the door opened, he’d glance up before returning to his paper. “David?” I whispered. I needn’t have bothered. The Billie Holiday pouring out of the speakers contained each conversation in a pocket.
She nodded. “I ink-thay o-say.”
“I preferred the French accent to pig Latin, and I’m not sure why you’re hiding behind your hair. He doesn’t know us.”
“Humph.” She pulled back her locks and reached for the coffee and scones we’d just been handed. She took a deep gulp and smiled with satisfaction. “Perfect. Now come on.”
We threaded our way through a pack of people waiting for their to-go food and sat at the open table next to David. He was shorter than his profile had promised, and a little thicker around the middle. His face was incredibly average, hard to pick out of a crowd or to find a feature to comment on. If he were a car, I’d always lose him in the parking lot. “Lovely day,” Mrs. Berns said to him.
He glanced over, startled. He smiled a slow, open grin. “Yes, ma’am. It is.”
I didn’t know what to make of the Southern accent. It sounded authentic, far more appropriate than Mrs. Berns’ French one. I tipped my head when he said hello to me. “You’re not from around here?” I asked.
“Nope. Moved here five years ago from Alabama. The only thing I miss is the weather.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If you don’t mind me saying, you two don’t look like you’re from around here either.”
I snorted, and Mrs. Berns kicked me from under the table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My sister and I have lived in the area our whole lives.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see who she was referring to when I realized it was me. I kicked her back. “She doesn’t mean we’ve lived in River Grove our whole lives,” I said. “We’re actually from Paynesville, just passing through on our way to Fargo. Do you travel a lot?”
He folded his paper to give us his full attention. “I’m afraid not. Moved up here from Alabama with my wife. She passed away two years ago. Cancer. I haven’t had the heart to do much other than go to work and go home. Not until recently, anyways.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. He shrugged in that way that people do when they have no answer but don’t want to be rude. I suddenly felt like a jerk for wasting his time.
“What is it you do?” Mrs. Berns asked.
He smiled again. “Dentist. One of two in town.”
I restrained myself from making a face. I realized dentistry was an honorable profession, but still, spending your day cleaning people’s mouths? Gross. “So, do you have big Christmas plans?”
“Thought I’d volunteer at the local shelter. That’s what I did last year. Gives me a rush to hand out food.”
Mrs. Berns reached over and pinched him, hard. He pulled back, his expression one of shock. “What was that for?”
“Just checkin’ if you were real. Come on, Thelma. We’ve got that meeting to get to.”
“Like I said, I’m so sorry,” I told him, as she strode out the front door, stuffing what was left of our scones into our paper sack. “I hope you have a happy holiday season.”
He gave a polite nod but overall looked bewildered. I couldn’t blame him one bit.
“Really?” I asked, once I was outside. “You have to pinch the widower? And since when am I Thelma?”
“You know the rules. I’m always Louise. As to the first question, I wasn’t buying a thing he said.”
“You’re not serious.” I unlocked my car door and slid over to unlock hers. “A dead wife? That couldn’t have all been a lie. Could it?”
“You don’t live as long as I have without recognizing a pile of horseshit when you see it.”
“Serial killer-level horseshit?”
“Naw. Trying-to-get-laid-level buffalo chips. Bet it works, too.”
I went over the entire interaction in my head. Even on replay he struck me as genuine. Just to be safe, we drove out of the parking lot and across the street and waited. David left 20 minutes later, a ski cap on his head and a disappointed expression on his face. He got into a late-model silver Buick Enclave. We followed him down the main drag, took a left on Ivy Street, and watched as he pulled into the “Reserved for Dentist” space in the lot next to the Dr. David Fleece Dentistry Office. I crossed him off my mental suspect list at the same time I slid off my wig. This trip had been a waste of time, minus the delicious coffee and scones, and we now had a funeral to attend.
Mrs. Berns and I made it to St. Augustine Church only moments before the service began. The parking lot was crowded, including a CNN van and two local news vans. We hurried past them and into the church, choosing one of the last seats in the rear pew of the crowded chapel. Natalie’s family all spoke, sharing funny stories of her as a child, reminiscing on her dreams, speaking in trembling voices about how much they would miss her. The most painful moment was when her mom rose, walked over to her daughter’s casket, and sang “Amazing Grace” in a voice so raw and pure that it sounded like crystal shattering. She paused at the end of her song, her dry eyes sadder than a thousand tears.
“She was my baby. I carried her, I nursed her, I put band-aids on her knees when she fell. I went with her to buy her first formal dress, I curled her hair for prom, and I had a dream of watching her get married someday. Her father and I loved her every second of her life, and I hope she finds peace in God’s arms, because there will never be peace for me again on this earth.”
The church was silent. The smell of incense and hothouse funeral flowers hung in the air. Mrs. Garcia’s husband rushed to her side. He was a small man, but he nearly carried her back to her seat. Her tears started then. It must have taken immense self-control to hold herself together long enough to pay tribute to her daughter. Her wracking sobs set off the rest of us. Even Mrs. Berns cried, which made her makeup run and somehow added to the effect of the wig she hadn’t yet removed.
She and I didn’t follow the hearse and mourners to the cemetery, though my mom did. It felt too intimate. Sixth grade was a long time ago, and I didn’t want to take space from her closest friends and family. Or, as Mrs. Berns pointed out, I was a coward who didn’t want to visit the same cemetery where my dad was buried. Both reasons were equally true, and they all led back to the same path: Mrs. Berns and me heading to an early dinner with Sharpie Trevino, a heightened sense of resolve in our hearts.
Nineteen
“Don’t stare.”
“That’s what staring’s for.”
She had a point. Sharpie Trevino had hopped up and stared hopefully at me and Mrs. Berns upon our arrival but sat down, disappointed, when we removed our winter caps and scarves to reveal short black and long blonde hair. We’d gotten a good look at him, though. From head on, he was as peculiar a creature as I’d ever laid eyes on. He stood only a few inches taller than me but weighed about the same. I’d put him in his 50s, maybe a little younger for the lack of gray in his wildly spiky, dark brown hair. Judging by his coloring and features, I’d also venture a guess he was of Italian and hamster descent, heavy on the hamster. The only thing he was missing was a jogging wheel and a set of whiskers.
“Still,” I said. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.” Big words for Cagney and Lacey, back in their wigs and trying to blend in at Tammy’s Tavern, a classic Midwest bar-restaurant. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and stuffed animals and bug-eyed fish decorated the top third of all the walls. In the far corner, a gas fireplace gave off a soothing glow underneath the watchful eyes of a 12-point buck. Despite the flickering candles at every table, the bar-restaurant was dim, and an unexpected hazy winter storm was blowing in, making it preternaturally dark outside.
The hostess led us to a table about fifteen feet over from Sharpie Trevino, who continued to jump up every time the front door opened. Mrs. Berns couldn’t drag her stare off of him. “He’s got creepy ginkgo biloba eyes.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means he’s got something to hide, that’s what.” She turned her attention to the laminated menu. “Are you ordering deep fried mushrooms? If you are, I want some.”
