Final Price

by J. Gregory Smith

  “I’m more interested in what the victim has to say.” Nelson reached for his crime scene outfit.

  Chang handed Nelson the suit, gloves, and booties. He put on his own.

  “Hang on a second.” Nelson stopped Chang on the doorstep, looking on both sides of the stoop. Nelson spoke softly toward the floor. “There you are.”

  Chang hung back and watched his partner, a bloodhound on the trail.

  Nelson pointed out distinct footprints in the soil on the right side of the front stoop. “You waited here, didn’t you?” Nelson looked at the door. “Got him to open it, too, unless you’re a locksmith.”

  No scratches around the lock. A faint trail led through the dirt and to the gravel of the driveway. The indents led over to the Honda parked in the driveway. The alarm light still blinked its warning even though the owner would never drive it again.

  Chang walked over to the car and made sure he didn’t touch it or spoil the indents that encircled half the vehicle. He spotted a shoe mark on the front bumper and on the back. He called Nelson over and showed him.

  “Kicked the guy’s new car, did you? Why?” Nelson looked again. “No, you didn’t kick it, you jumped on it. Got both feet involved back here, looks like. Why?”

  Chang noticed the blinking red light again. “Very clever. I think I know how he got this guy to open the door. Do you see how the dents in the gravel are deeper leading away from the marks on the bumper?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “The killer jumped on the bumper and ran over there.” Chang pointed to the spot beside the stoop. “His tracks are all over, but not on the other side. He ran. The added force made deeper divots. He wanted to hide after he set off the alarm. See the light?”

  “That’s pretty good. So, the victim opens the door and in pops our guy, but why the marks on the front and the back?”

  “Maybe the killer had to do it a couple times before he would come out. Some of them will false-alarm even when a loud motorcycle goes by, which is why nobody pays attention to them most of the time.” Chang knew Nelson wasn’t up on the latest technology.

  Nelson shrugged. “Could be. Ready to talk to the dead?”

  CHAPTER 25

  Fame and Fortune

  Shamus’s apartment, early Monday morning

  “Okay, Gran. Once more then back to the cooler. I have to get ready for work.” Shamus brushed tears of laughter out of his eyes. He picked up the folded copy of the early edition of the Daily Post. He’d have to buy another. This Flannigan turned out better than he’d dared hope.

  He took a napkin, wiped the condensation off the urn, and straightened Gran’s picture. He could swear there was a trace of a smile on her face. Why not? He picked up the paper and read aloud.

  The Iceman Cometh

  By Patrick Flannigan

  This column has waited for a more forthcoming attitude from Delaware’s thin blue line, but the state police continue to hoard their candor. The public has suffered as a result. We are compelled to reveal what they will not. Wilmington has a serial killer in its midst.

  We can now confide to our readers that our source appears to be the killer himself. For reasons of his own, he contacted us to shed light on his motivation. He reaches us anonymously, so we do not know his identity, but we have corroborated his information and believe he is who he claims to be.

  He calls himself “The Iceman.” His message is as cryptic as it is simple. “Takers beware. They know who they are.” We don’t wish to speculate on the meaning of the warning, but we do want to ask a larger question.

  Why do the police continue the charade that our city suffers only from a statistical blip of unconnected homicides? The lead investigator, Paul Chang, refuses to discuss the issue. A background investigation uncovered that this “wily veteran” left the NYPD in disgrace following the death of real estate mogul David Topper’s daughter, Jennifer. Her body was found dumped on a public tennis court.

  Is this really the best that they can do?

  Inside sources with the state police indicate they have begun to shift additional resources to assist with the case, but the public face of the investigation would have us simply go about business as usual.

  When we know more we’ll pass it along. In the meantime…Tennis, anyone?

  “Gotta go, Gran.” The fear this column would spread got him excited, and he wanted her tucked away before it became obvious. He hoped Chang liked the write-up, though he might be a little busy. Someone must have noticed Midori was missing by now.

  CHAPTER 26

  Ashes to Ashes

  Greenville

  The small carriage house mimicked the design of the mansion. The neatly furnished interior showed restrained good taste, but Chang saw first-rate pieces wherever he looked. The living room sat just inside the foyer, to his left. Chang smelled stale cigar smoke. The lowered blinds created a dim atmosphere, but he saw the body immediately.

  Midori was slumped over sideways from a sitting position with his back against the couch. Chang couldn’t see the face clearly due to the plastic bag, but the telltale silvery tape shone in the dim light. The hair on Chang’s neck rose. He envisioned the killer gazing down on his work.

  They moved into the room, and Chang saw now that the victim wore some sort of mask over his eyes. A blindfold?

  Midori’s bathrobe hung open and showed boxer shorts and numerous quarter-sized burn marks up and down his legs and chest.

  When Nelson spoke, Chang could hear the excitement in his voice. “Those wounds still hum with pain. Smell the smoke? Killer’s got a taste for torture.”

  Chang concentrated and tried to see through the Dragon’s eyes. Should be safe. Eyes only, what do you see?

  His senses opened to absorb detail down to the stink of burned flesh and emptied bowels. When he got home, he would take a long shower to get the sensations off his body. Right now he needed to feel.

  In the foyer Chang squatted to look for footprints, but he didn’t see any on the thin rug that covered the floor. He did notice a scuff near the entrance, marked by traces of dirt. He checked upstairs and saw no sign of disturbance, same as in the kitchen.

  Chang returned to the living room. Nelson stood nearby and stared at the body.

  “It doesn’t look like he was in the kitchen or upstairs, but it’s hard to tell because the rugs are so thin.” Chang stepped near the body. The bag over Midori’s head read “Sandy’s Dry Cleaning” along with an address on Union Street in Wilmington. Below the logo and address in smaller print it said, “Warning: NOT a toy. Bag may cause suffocation.”

  Chang looked closer at the burns on the chest and legs. The killer used a huge cigar. He’d seen enough cigarette burns from domestic cases, and the ashes in the burns left little doubt. Up close, Chang could tell from the discolored circular areas that the killer had burned the face as well. He left the bag for the evidence techs to remove.

  Though the rug was too thin for footprints, he saw a couple cylinder-shaped piles of ashes that would help identify the type of cigar. He flagged them.

  Nelson gestured toward the body. “Did his work right here. Less messy than Hubbert, but this guy suffered. Tied up with the same kind of tape. Blindfolded this time.”

  “It’s worse than the Hubberts. He went berserk with the hammer, but at least it was quick.” Chang felt anger begin to simmer under the horror. “This guy died hard; the perp took his time.” He yanked on the reins and blinked away the Dragonsight.

  “Yeah. He’s gone into rigor, backs the tech’s timeframe.” Nelson got a blank look. He began to rock, and his rhythmic hum now came out as an unintelligible mumble.

  Chang tried to put himself in the killer’s skin. He knew Nelson could. Shower’s not going to be enough. Deep meditation later, a thorough cleansing.

  Nelson broke his trance and frowned at the body. “You’re sure the kitchen showed no signs of disturbance?”

  “Not that I could tell. We’ll know more when we dust it. Why?” />
  “What’s missing here?”

  Chang felt a jolt in his brain. “No food or food-related action. No bread, chips, or lemons. Where’s the signature?”

  “Exactly. Unless they find a can of soup shoved up his ass or something, this is different.” Nelson’s eyes glittered.

  Chang peered at the plastic. “Maybe the bag is the signature this time. We might be on the wrong track with food. What if it just happened to be food three times in a row?” He traced a gloved finger under the text printed on the bag. “Do you see what this says? That’s his idea of a joke. After he was done torturing him, this was the killer’s punch line.” Chang walked to the foyer.

  Nelson shuffled after him. “It’s the rituals. They’re all jokes. The Hubberts were overweight, and he stuffed bread in Maisy and made Doug eat a huge amount of Doritos. With Patel…What’s funny about a lemon? You make a face because it is sour? Why the cans of food with the Nguyens?” Nelson closed his eyes.

  “He thought it was funny.” Chang could feel traction. “Keep going.” Chang’s radio squawked, and the tech team asked if they could get started inside. He told them to come in.

  Bill and Ted swooped in and began to collect evidence. They told Chang about the tire tracks and that they’d spotted a couple of footprints in the dirt by the base of the trees. It hadn’t rained since Friday, and the techs had poured several plaster casts.

  Chang joined Nelson to look at the car again. Strange little thing. Chang knew about the new wave of eco-friendly cars that used part gas engines and part electric. He explained to Nelson, who wasn’t a car guy, about hybrids.

  Eco-friendly…Was Midori an environmentalist? He didn’t remember anything about the Hubberts that made him think environmentalists. What about the Nguyens and Mr. Patel?

  Ted stuck his scruffy head out the front door to let him know they were ready to remove the bag.

  Bill got to the point. “What a sick son of a bitch.”

  “Ted, can you lift up that mask for me?” Chang willed himself not to see tennis balls.

  “Sure.” Ted slid up the mask. Despite horrible burns on the upper face, the area under the mask was untouched. Glassy eyes stared back. Brown.

  Chang imagined the victim’s anguish sitting there blindfolded, not knowing when the next hit would come. “He had the mask on the whole time, didn’t he?” Chang forced the anger to stay down. Fogged his mind when it took over.

  “Increased the killer’s control. Can’t run if you’re blind, right? Tough to fight if you’re helpless. He’s cruel, but he’s a coward.” Nelson turned toward Bill and Ted. “Did the perp go upstairs?”

  “We don’t think so. All the prints we lifted seem to match the victim.” Bill began to pack up the evidence and his case.

  Nelson still wore his suit and gloves. “Going to check something. Be right back.” Nelson climbed the staircase.

  The techs left Chang alone with the body. He heard a whoop and “Yes!” shouted down the stairs. Nelson appeared moments later and held a fistful of plastic bags in his gloved hand.

  Nelson came down the stairs and showed Chang. “Do you see?”

  “What?”

  “Look! Dry cleaner bags. Midori’s dry cleaner bags! I found them in his trash. Check out the name on them.” Nelson spread one out and held it up for Chang to read.

  “‘Greenville Dry Cleaning: Since 1978.’ What’s so…Hey!”

  “They all say that. Of course he would use the place closest to his work. The killer brought the other one. He didn’t get inspired. He brought the Sandy’s bag on purpose.”

  Impressive. “Maybe he got lazy and grabbed what he had around his own house. Sandy’s is a big dry cleaner over on Union Street, but this could be a little break.”

  “There are no little breaks, only little investigators.” Nelson sounded giddy.

  CHAPTER 27

  Laughs Last

  Patriot Motors, Friday afternoon

  Shamus’s good mood evaporated. Almost five o’clock and no sign of his delivery. Four hours late for this dirty little brat from last Saturday. He put in a bunch of calls to her house. She lived with her parents but must have her own line or cell phone. All he got was her voice mail.

  Now it looked like it might rain. Just perfect. He would have to put the cleaned and detailed car back out on the lot because Hank had a delivery at five. Damn. He was certain he’d been stood up, but she’d have to contact him at some point. Patriot had her five-hundred-dollar deposit.

  The dealership enjoyed a good day, but he remained stuck on the sidelines. He paced the floor and waited for this princess to show up or cancel. He watched Tommy and Mark snag some juicy retiree sales.

  He fought boredom by thinking about the explosion of media coverage after the discovery of Midori and the wonderful Flannigan piece. The other news outlets finally caught on that an artist was at work. They stuck to hackneyed terminology in their headlines like “Serial Killer?” or “Psychopath on the Loose: Police Stumped by Mysterious String of Homicides,” but he supposed they didn’t know any better. If they wanted the truth, a visit to “The Blarney Stone” would do the trick.

  He saw from the articles that the police were holding back some details, but he could tell they were baffled. He culled Takers who wouldn’t be missed from the herd. Besides, he’d been careful. Not all the cops were stupid.

  What would they find? He wore gloves, changed his shoes and his cars. Even if he overlooked something and the cops managed to lift a fingerprint, he didn’t have a record. Came close to arrest in Ohio when he went through a little fire-setting phase as a kid, but he’d stuck mostly to trash cans so there hadn’t been too much fuss.

  Shamus shivered. Just the thought that thousands of people all over Delaware worried what he “might do next” gave him goose bumps.

  He covered his corkboard wall at home with newspaper articles full of nonsense about what might drive someone to “torment his victims” and what the cigar might signify. Rubbish. Midori was lying scum who only got burned when he refused to be honest. He was a better person by the time Shamus had finished with him.

  Now the sweetness of those moments soured, all because of one filthy, pierced little slut. He shouldn’t let it get to him. All part of the game, but he played by new rules.

  Shamus sneered at the sound of thunder. Rain started to fall, and Jake yelled at him to move the car so Hank could get his under cover. Shamus climbed behind the wheel of the shiny coupe. Even the scent of leather mingled with the famous new-car smell failed to lift his spirits. He lingered inside the car and watched the water bead up and roll off the freshly waxed hood.

  Back inside, Shamus saw that the only thing that was dried up was the flow of customers. The rain ran down the large showroom windows like a giant windshield. He looked away when his phone rang.

  He answered, but there was nothing on the other end. “Hello?”

  “You must be sooo pissed.” A sleepy voice finally responded. Shamus recognized Heather Cleary, and for a moment he thought maybe it had been a misunderstanding after all. Probably got another tattoo.

  “Heather, is that you? Did you want to reschedule the delivery?”

  “Not exactly.” She giggled, and Shamus realized she wasn’t sleepy, she was stoned. “I need my deposit back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I got my Beamer in the garage already. My golden German.” She giggled again.

  “You bought a different car? I thought you decided on another Honda.” Shamus wanted to pound his head against the wall. No, make that her head.

  “That’s what the other Honda guy said when I just called him to get my other money back. You aren’t allowed to yell at me like he did. He was an asshole.”

  “You put money on two other cars?”

  “No. I…put…money on…threeeeee other cars!” She laughed out loud.

  “Three other cars. Why?” His head started to buzz.

  “I went to you, then I went to Marlo and they
gave me a better price, and then I went to Lexus. I loved it, too. Then I went and saw the BMW. You know what?”

  “What?”

  “The Beamer is the Lexus of German cars, so I got it!”

  Shamus almost hung up on her when she wouldn’t stop laughing.

  “So,” she said, still giggling, “when can I get my money back?”

  “Well, Heather, normally it can take up to ten days to clear the office—”

  “Ten days, bullshit! I want it back now or my dad will sue your ass off. He’s a hot-shit lawyer. I don’t remember, what kind of ass did you have, anyway?” More laughter.

  Something tore in Shamus’s head. He should move on; after all, she charged money to his dealership. Five hundred bucks.

  The wind picked up outside, and Shamus could swear he heard that cowbell Gran rang to call him in for punishment. He saw her face outlined in the raindrops on the showroom window. The sounds of the dealership grew faint.

  He imagined wet sawdust tickling his legs, and he shivered with cold. No! This girl can be connected to me. Her deposit left a paper trail.

  He could smell the icehouse and almost expected to see his frosty breath. Shamus pulled at the back of his pants. Gran found a new way to scream at him. I can’t.

  His crotch went numb. Maybe it was possible…

  His chair now felt dry. The face melted off the window, and he could smell the Armor All on the showroom tires again.

  “You still there, ass man?”

  He tried to sound polite. “No need to get your dad involved. Tell you what. I’ll bring the money by your house first thing Monday morning. I’ll get cash and bring it myself. Quicker than a check in the mail.” He looked to see if any other salesman had heard the conversation. None had.