Final Price

by J. Gregory Smith

  “You are crazy. You can’t do this.”

  “Missing the big picture here. What I am is in charge, and don’t forget it. I can do anything I want, and what I want right now is to see if you can win this little challenge. You want me to leave, right? That’s what it will take.”

  “What if I say no?” Doug spoke in a timid whisper.

  “Oh, hey, this is America, of course. You can always refuse. You’ll have to watch Maze here suffocate, but you do have a choice. What’ll it be, sport?”

  Maisy began to struggle, but Shamus rapped her several times with the bread.

  “Stop that, you. Us menfolk are talking. What do you say, Doug? Might be your house, but they’re my rules, and you don’t have long to decide.” Shamus opened the two bags and placed them on the table in front of Doug, who had the use of his hands.

  “Up to you, but the two minutes start in three, two, one, go!?” Shamus consulted his watch. Doug grabbed chips by the fistful and shoveled them into his mouth.

  “Crunch all you want; I have more.”

  Not bad. Was he going to make it?

  Early into the second bag, Doug ran into trouble. With about forty seconds to go, he lapsed into a violent coughing fit. Chip fragments spewed from his mouth in a cloud. Maisy squirmed. Shamus was glad of the tape over her mouth, because it sounded like she was trying to make some serious noise.

  Twenty seconds to go. He’d never make it. What a shame. He decided to let Doug play out the clock, in the spirit of sportsmanship.

  “Time’s up. I’m sorry. What a great effort from our champion, but it looks like he choked at the end. Too bad.” Shamus didn’t try to hide his glee. He walked over to Maisy. Doug still gasped. Her nose began to honk with increased demand for air.

  Shamus clamped a piece of the sturdy tape over both piggy little nostrils. Her struggles grew frantic.

  Wow! Shamus stepped back to watch.

  Doug roared and managed to grab a hammer from his pegboard. The table slid across the floor with each lunge like a ball and chain. His face was smeared with bright orange flavoring from the chips.

  “You look like a bad clown!” Shamus avoided the charge and danced around, just out of reach. He laughed and taunted him. Maisy’s thrashing subsided. Doug looked exhausted, but he threw the hammer at Shamus’s head. Shamus saw it and got his arms up just in time. The hammer struck his left elbow on the “funny bone” with a shock that ran up the nerve. His arm went numb, followed by an excruciating burning sensation.

  Bastard!

  Rage clouded Shamus’s vision. He picked up the hammer and felt the first connection with Doug’s head. Doug fell silent, though Shamus paid no attention and swung the hammer again, again, again.

  He snapped out of his frenzy and looked down. Gore covered the hammer and his right arm halfway up to the elbow. His clothes looked as if they’d been spray painted red.

  Maisy’s body lay crumpled at the bottom of the pipe where she’d collapsed. Shamus dropped the hammer in his paper bag and pulled the tape off her mouth. He tossed the piece aside. No more honks. Shamus took the loaf of French bread and stuck one end in her mouth and pushed it in as far as he could. She looked better now.

  He stripped off his shirt and stuffed it into the paper bag. The pants and shoes weren’t too bad, so he left them on and walked upstairs. He turned out the lights and made his way to the second-floor bedroom. He went to the bathroom and washed most of the blood off his hands and arm. He grabbed a large shirt out of the walk-in closet. Of course it didn’t fit, but he put it on anyway. The television continued to gab, and he turned off an infomercial on how to lose weight without exercise.

  He headed down the stairs and noticed he’d tracked some blood on the way up. He checked the soles of his shoes. Clean enough. No big deal, as long as he didn’t mess up the borrowed car. He wasn’t going to keep the shoes, anyway.

  He went back down to the basement, snapped on the light, and took one more look at what his power had created. After he got home, it would be hours before he could sleep.

  CHAPTER 16

  Back in the Game

  Wilmington, Tuesday morning

  Nelson picked up right away, and Chang felt his shoulders unknot.

  “I need you to get back up to Wilmington as fast as you can.”

  “I just got to Dover. What is it?”

  “Another double. Bad. You need to see this.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Off 202 in North Wilmington. Keep this quiet. We got the call half an hour ago. One of the victims is in a carpool. The driver knocked and then went through the unlocked back door. She found the victims in the basement.” Chang wanted to get Nelson in before the ME removed the bodies.

  “Can you describe the scene to me?”

  “Not over the phone. Can you come?”

  “On my way.”

  Chang watched a beat-up car circle the block for the second time, and he walked toward it. He memorized the license plate, but the car pulled to the curb and the driver’s door opened. Chang unbuttoned his jacket to clear his holster.

  At first Chang thought the man was crouching, but when he saw the white hair and bent frame he recognized the reporter. Chang never met him, but the wizened figure was a legend at the Daily Post. He could almost see the man’s troubles weigh on his stooped shoulders. Chang had his own concerns. Besides, what was he doing here?

  “You must be Flannigan.”

  “You must be Chang.”

  “Our reputations precede us. Something I can do for you?”

  “Sure. Mind if I take a look inside?” His body tilted back so he could look Chang in the face.

  “Of course I mind. Why are you here?”

  “Cover a story. Some detective.” Flannigan began to cough. He lit a cigarette. “Another double homicide. Do you think it’s a pattern?”

  “That isn’t on the wire. How’d you hear about it?” Chang stared at the man and tried to imagine him involved in the crime. He looked like he’d barely be able to lift a melon, let alone kill anyone.

  “I’ll take that as a confirmation.”

  “Once more. How did you know this was a murder scene?”

  “I told you. I’m a reporter. I got sources.” Flannigan shuffled to the edge of the crime scene line.

  Someone was going to pay for that leak. He knew this Flannigan was an un-lanced boil, but no killer. His mind returned to the scene inside the house.

  Nelson must have pushed his rattletrap car to the limit because he arrived in just thirty minutes. Chang met him at the yellow tape and logged him in under his authority. He pointed out Flannigan to the officers. “You don’t want to see me again if he gets past you.”

  The rookie looked ready to shoot the old man if he crossed the line. No doubt one of the veterans had whispered rumors about Chang into his ear. He didn’t care as long as Flannigan didn’t get through.

  Chang carried a pair of paper suits complete with booties over his arm. Nelson ducked under the yellow tape, and Chang handed an outfit to him. He put his on.

  “Are they okay with me here? Hey, you remembered my size.” Nelson donned the suit and began to sweat.

  “This is my crime scene. They don’t have a choice.” It was a temporary solution. The brass would pitch a fit, but he needed to preserve his serenity for the task at hand. He’d worry about them later.

  Chang let Nelson look at the front door and watched his old partner’s gaze trace the area around the lock. Same thing Chang did earlier. The two stepped inside, and Nelson went to work.

  Chang could smell stale fried chicken and onion rings. He pointed to the dried, bloody footprints that led to the staircase and upstairs. It was the right foot, and the prints got fainter up the stairs. Nelson made a note of it in a small, spiral-bound notebook and avoided the prints that emerged from the basement door.

  “Let’s go downstairs. The coroner estimated time of death as last night, probably before midnight.” How long could he keep Ne
lson on the scene?

  When they reached the stairs, the odors hit Chang all over again. Death had a distinct reek, one never forgotten. The brine-over-pennies smell of blood, heavy in the close basement, would take Nelson right back to detective mode.

  The wooden steps creaked under their weight. The limited view of the basement floor expanded, and Chang saw the edges of a large pool of blood, the first sneaker print pointing away from it. They reached the landing.

  About six feet from the bottom of the stairs, surrounded by the blood, lay a large shirtless man in pajama bottoms. The gore came from his shattered head. A visual ID based on the face alone would be tricky; luckily the hands were intact.

  The top of the head was completely collapsed, and Chang could make out a couple places where there was a distinct circular shape to the wounds that penetrated the skull. Chang tried to imagine what could drive someone to this level of fury.

  Nelson spoke aloud to himself. “Hammer. Got to be.”

  A second body lay slumped at the base of a pipe. A large woman handcuffed and taped to the pipe. Her cause of death was less readily apparent. Chang stared at the long loaf of bread that stuck out of her mouth.

  The sight and smells of bodies, the voided bladders and emptied bowels all came with the job. Death he understood. Anger too. Even fiery rage that clawed for an outlet. Despite the silence, this room carried the shriek of insanity. His mind skipped to a slim young girl in a tennis dress dumped on a tennis court. Jennifer Topper. Green eyes…the texture of felt…

  Chang dragged his thoughts back to the present and tried to absorb the import of what he saw. The pair of bright orange Doritos bags caught his gaze. More food. He noticed the crumbs all over the floor and saw the bits of orange powder mixed with the blood on what remained of the male victim’s face.

  Chang pointed to the floor. “Check it out.” The scrape marks from the legs of the workbench showed it had moved from under a pegboard with tools. The guy had dragged the bench by his handcuffed leg.

  “You fought. Good for you,” Nelson said. “Did you get him, too?”

  Chang looked for another source of blood spatters but saw none. He began to feel anger simmer. The order of the tools brought home the sense that these were regular folks. They weren’t dope pushers or gang bangers. What could the victims have possibly done that would warrant this degrading execution? Chang tried to picture snowy mountains but came up with a volcano.

  Nelson tugged Chang out of the way. “You’re jamming me.” Chang knew that when he got upset, Nelson picked up on it. He moved back and watched his partner. Nelson held up his hands to make a frame with his fingers and looked at the room a section at a time. Chang still needed a camera.

  “What’s this?” Nelson pointed to a strip of duct tape near the corner on the floor. It matched the tape on the female victim.

  Nelson rocked his body forward and back, forward and back. He made a low noise that sounded like a hum, but Chang knew it was a phrase repeated rapid-fire. Something he did when he wanted to block out the rest of the world.

  Nelson stopped rocking and spoke to her still form. “You were already dead before he did that bit with the French bread, weren’t you? Why’d you let him in? Did you know him? Were you friends? Why did you give him control and then fight later? Help me out.”

  Nelson took another look and whispered to Chang, “Were they out of lemons?”

  Nelson’s quip felt like an icicle in Chang’s gut. He already knew these weren’t random acts.

  They walked back to the first floor. Chang saw that Nelson’s hands shook.

  Nelson gestured to the second floor. “You go upstairs yet?”

  “Just to make sure there weren’t any other victims.”

  Nelson went up the stairs. “C’mon.”

  Chang saw by the footprints that the killer had only gone into the master bedroom. They stepped around the prints and saw the tidy room. The bed was made, but it appeared by the arrangement of the pillows and the single impression on the bedspread that one person had probably been watching television. Given the man’s state of dress, more than likely the wife either let the killer in or was overpowered.

  Chang saw the traces of blood on the floor leading into the bathroom and noted a faint crimson hue in the sink.

  Nelson whispered, “Washed your hands.”

  “He picked out a new shirt, too.” Chang saw reddish smudges leading to the closet. The neat row of shirts on hangers was disturbed by one empty hanger with a bent hook on the floor. The rest of the closet looked tidier than most clothes shops.

  “There’s something else.” Chang pointed to the dresser where a man’s watch and a money clip filled with bills sat in plain sight.

  “Bingo!” Nelson looked over to the wife’s dresser. Chang could see several rings and a gold necklace.

  “He forgot to steal anything, maybe too excited.” Chang felt a surge of satisfaction.

  “You probably need to get me out of here.”

  Chang became aware of the passage of time and the increased number of vehicles outside. Nelson had to be gone before more media showed up.

  “Yes. I might be able to clear out in a couple of hours, at least for a break. Can you meet me somewhere?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s a snack shop over in Independence Mall on 202, about a mile from here. The place is called Tea Hee. Two hours?”

  “I know the spot. I’ll see you at noon. Call if you won’t make it.” Nelson started toward his car.

  “Nelson.”

  “What?”

  Chang pointed.

  “You might want to take that off.” Chang removed his own paper suit and accepted Nelson’s. “Don’t talk to that short guy stalking the line. He’s press, not a friend.”

  “Not talking to people is my specialty.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Tea for Two

  A couple of hours later, Chang pulled into the shopping center, an exact replica of Independence Hall in Philadelphia.

  Inside there was a small line, and he spotted Nelson already seated. Chang could see Nelson drawing salt doodles on the table. After rough crime scenes he’d be apt to empty a shaker and trace patterns in the pile of crystals. Chang told him he would order first. The girl behind the counter had a pierced nose and enough earrings to set off a metal detector.

  He paid the cashier and joined Nelson.

  “Did you get the chai? I hear it’s great.” Chang took a seat.

  “I’ll have to try it sometime.”

  Chang looked at him for a moment and then asked, “Earl Grey?” Nelson tended to lose composure in front of strangers and only remember what he didn’t want. “You were cool around dead bodies, but can’t handle the pressure of a simple order?”

  “Long line, too many choices…” Nelson looked up from his salt art. “This is a hunter.”

  “I think so too. What’s with the food? Produce, lemons, bread, and chips? I don’t get it, but whoever this is he’s getting worse.” Explosive violence, intensely personal.

  “Mr. Three Percent!” the counter girl called out.

  “I think that’s me,” Nelson said.

  Chang watched Nelson shuffle back with his tea like it was an unstable explosive. He didn’t spill a drop and set the cup aside.

  “Three percent?”

  “I told the woman at the counter that with all the metal in her head she was three percent more likely to get hit by lightning.” Nelson looked back at her. “She doesn’t like me.”

  “Just hope she didn’t spit in it.”

  Nelson smoothed the salt into a thin pile. “The thefts from the first two times were cover. He was so hyped last night he forgot to steal anything. He got up close and personal. The Nguyens were close, but he shot them from behind. Must not have wanted to look in their eyes.”

  “First-time jitters?”

  “Yes. The melon was from the store. He didn’t plan to kill them. Not consciously.”

  “How so?
” This was new. Chang envied the way Nelson could wrap a killer’s mind around himself.

  “I don’t know him well yet, but he did too much planning to get the Nguyens vulnerable only to rob them. Deep down, he knew he’d kill but had to talk himself into it.”

  New to killing?

  “The second one was face to face,” Chang said, “but quick, and he used a gun. He did the lemon afterwards, when the victim couldn’t fight back.”

  “Yes. When he killed the Hubberts he had them under control like the first time, but the violence was more personal. Got his hands dirty.”

  “He took a shirt. Do you think the killings didn’t go the way he’d planned?” Chang sipped his ginseng tea. Not bad, but next time he’d bring Shu’s fresh blend and order hot water.

  “Doug fought.”

  “Yes, I thought maybe he was trying to get away and the killer caught him.” Chang watched Nelson close his eyes. He could see them move under the lids like the REM of a dreamer.

  “All the tools in their place but one. The hammer, at the bottom, in reach of someone locked to that table. Doug tried to fight. Got the hammer. Only made our guy mad.” Nelson recited the images that Chang knew flickered across his mind.

  “What about the wife and the bread?” Chang didn’t want to interrupt, but he was too curious.

  Nelson opened his eyes. “I don’t know, but it’s postmortem, like the lemon.”

  Chang pictured the scene and voiced his thought. “The piece of tape on the floor…maybe that’s what set off the husband. Is this guy sick enough to make his victim watch his own wife suffocate?”

  “If not, he will be soon.” Nelson sipped his tea and grimaced.

  “Now, what was his point with corn chips? A failed attempt to choke him? Then he used the bread to make the point on the wife? The stomach contents from the autopsy might shed some light.”

  Chang drew on a napkin to create a chart for connections and gave up. “A Vietnamese couple, single Indian, white couple. Two killed in their business, one couple in their home. Three victim sets from different cultural backgrounds. The perp knew them all. He had to. They let him get close. That’s the key.” He took a deep breath. “We already know enough to ask the real question.”