Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2)

by Max Allan Collins

  Daughter and father took their time, but nothing of any apparent import presented itself.

  Krista sent Officer Cortez, who was posted at the wrought-iron stairs off Main, to get some convenience store coffee, half a dozen cups for her father, Booker and herself, and in anticipation of the CSI team. Then the two Larsons took Cortez’s place on the street and waited for her return, or for the forensics investigators to arrive, whichever came first.

  Dawn was threatening to beat everybody here, but then a silver Ford Expedition drew up in front of the Corner Stop. The vehicle bore a state seal with the words ILLINOIS CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATORS over it on the rear side windows.

  Eli Wallace, a medium-size African American with a thick black mustache and a gruff manner he didn’t exactly mean, was in charge of the three-person team. He was in his forties and his associates, a woman, a man, both in their midthirties, were casually attired. They looked alert for having been called upon at an hour like this, though neither seemed happy about it, clearly used to such indignities.

  Her father and Eli knew each other well, the CSI having worked across the river in Dubuque before coming to Illinois for “better bennies.” They shook hands and Krista came over and filled the CSI in. She knew him a little from the reunion murders last year.

  Eli said, “Doesn’t sound like too appalling a crime scene.”

  “Well, it does have a corpse in it,” Krista said. “But no blood, no bodily fluids. Booties strictly optional. Still, with the place gone over the way it was, you should probably check everything for prints.”

  “You think?” he said with a sigh. “Course, we will. But we did the same at the Davies apartment and came up bupkis. I can see why you’re thinking murder, though. That suicide seemed hinky, the place being turned upside down like that. What, a guy getting ready to hang himself goes looking for something he mislaid? Unless maybe it was a rope.”

  “Now it’s twice,” her father said, “that the scene has been upended.”

  Eli nodded, disgust mingling with skepticism.

  Working out of the back of the Expedition, the CSIs got their blue jumpsuits on over their civvies, then snugged on blue rubber gloves and gathered their gear.

  Krista and her father were off to one side, watching. Cortez arrived with the coffee and distributed it. The Larsons drank theirs on the street.

  Eli came over. “Thanks for organizing the coffee, Keith, Chief Larson. Uh, you two aren’t really needed now.”

  Krista said, “Like to get your read first.”

  The CSI shrugged and headed up the wrought-iron stairs, the back of his blue uniform bearing bold CRIME SCENE TECHNICIAN lettering.

  Krista turned to her father and said, “You can probably head home if you like, Pop. Everything’s in control here.”

  “Same is true of you. Nothing for the chief to do here, really. Eli can call you later.”

  “Well . . . I want to stick around awhile and see how this plays out.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  But they knew they weren’t really welcome at the crime scene at this point, and also knew the CSIs would be processing the apartment for many hours. Krista was about to suggest again that she and her father head home when Eli came clanking down the steps in his blue jumpsuit and blue rubber gloves.

  Eli had a humorless smirk going. “That’s an interesting corpse you small-town folks have for me.”

  Her father said, “We aim to please.”

  “Looks like another apparent heart attack.”

  Krista said, “Key words being ‘looks like’ and ‘apparent.’”

  Eli said, “I would tend to agree. I’m not a medical examiner, so take it for what it’s worth . . . which might not be much . . .”

  “Come on, Eli,” her father said. “Since when were you shy with your opinions?”

  The CSI looked at them, one at a time. “You suspect poisoning?”

  They nodded.

  “I can see that,” he said. “Now, I’m no forensics pathologist . . .”

  Her dad grinned. “You gonna list everything you’re not, Eli?”

  “. . . but there are hard-to-detect drugs out there that can look just like heart attacks. I’m sure that’s not news to you.”

  Krista said, “It isn’t. But you may have noticed we aren’t forensics pathologists, either. So feel free to school us.”

  The CSI sighed. “Okay. The best candidates are poisons that break down into elements that occur naturally. Two that come to mind are potassium chloride and succinylcholine—sux for short. Potassium chloride triggers extreme heart arrhythmias and simulates a heart attack. Sux causes asphyxiation and paralysis—which makes for one horrible, painful death.”

  Krista glanced at her father, then said, “Consistent with Donna’s contorted expression.”

  Eli continued: “Sux is a neuromuscular paralytic, causing muscular paralysis—all the muscles, including those needed for such minor details as breathing.”

  “Death,” her dad said, “by asphyxia.”

  Eli squinted. “And the really nasty thing?”

  Krista said, “Isn’t that nasty enough?”

  “You’d think,” Eli said. “But no. The victim is wide awake while suffocating, because sux does all that good stuff . . . with zero sedative effects.”

  Krista, frowning, asked, “This sux . . . it’s used in lethal injection, right?”

  “It is. One of the drugs making up a common cocktail in one method of that style of execution.”

  Her dad asked, “Can it be taken orally? The Davies autopsy didn’t indicate any injection sites.”

  Eli smirked humorlessly. “Which is a real problem, if this is the rabbit hole you two choose to go down. Sux has to be injected. It’s a fast worker, a minute or under. Enzymes in the body start breaking the drug down instantly.”

  Krista, frowning, said, “It must be injected?”

  Eli thought about that. “Well . . . in very limited doses it can be a pain medication. I think I’ve heard of it being used for really severe low back pain, for instance. I suppose an overdose of those meds could be administered orally.”

  “It would,” her father said, arching an eyebrow, “make the pain go away.”

  With a shudder, Krista said, “In a minute or so.”

  “Not really,” Eli said. “A minute to start breaking down in the body. Death takes up to five.”

  “Wide awake,” her father said.

  The CSI gave them a salute of goodbye, turned and went back up the stairs to join his team.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Larsons were back home. They found Rebecca in the den, curled up sleeping on the two-seater sofa, and Brian the same in the comfy chair. The TV was on, but frozen at a menu. Her father used the remote and the menu went away.

  His shrug said to her, Let them sleep.

  Her shrug said to him, Why not?

  And they each went off to their respective rooms to sleep a few hours, alone.

  TWENTY

  With the Music Fest now just a day away—and every hotel, motel, and B and B in and around the Galena area already at, or near, capacity—the downtown sidewalks all but swarmed with visitors. The beer garden alongside Gobbie’s Sports Pub & Eatery on North Main overflowed with tourists noshing appetizers, making beers disappear, and enjoying the warm, mildly breezy early June midafternoon.

  Toward the back of the expansive flagstone patio, with its planters and brick oven, Keith Larson was in the midst of a private meeting in public with Rod Penniston and Steve Pike. Seated under a huge gray umbrella on big black, white-cushioned comfy chairs, the trio was having tall glasses of the sports bar’s “famous” Long Island iced tea.

  All three had broken out their sunglasses and summer shorts, and the two musicians wore different versions of the two HOT ROD & THE PISTONS ROCKIN’ REUNION T-shirts already being sold at gift shops around town, destined for their festival merch table with Pistons CDs and eight-by-ten photos, which the band would be signing after their s
how Friday night.

  Keith, in a pale blue tee that said nothing at all, tossed his sunglasses on the table and looked at Rod, who got the message. Eye contact was desirable. Even necessary. Rod pitched his glasses on the table, too, and Steve—if a little slow on the uptake—finally followed suit.

  Keith’s eyes traveled from Rod to Steve and back again. “I’m not arguing that you cancel the appearance. We’re way past that.”

  “Good,” Rod said. “Glad we agree on that much, anyway.”

  Keith all but envied Rod his poise and those good looks that seemed nearly untouched by passing years, the slender frame, the trim mustache, the handsome, almost Apache-like angles of his face.

  “We don’t really know,” silver-haired Steve said, “whether these deaths are murder for sure, do we?”

  “That’s true,” Keith admitted. “Unfortunately true. If Donna’s death had been ruled a homicide, the state police would either have taken over, or we’d have a major case assistance team helping out.”

  Rod said, “If you’re so sure it’s poisoning by this drug, uh . . . what is it?”

  “Succinylcholine. Sux, they call it. It’s almost impossible to trace in an autopsy.”

  The keyboard player winced. “Even when that’s what they’re lookin’ for?”

  “Even then.” Keith shrugged. “The only known test for sux is considered invalid by the FBI. And the crime lab at Rockford has declared the cause of death asphyxia . . . but what caused Donna to suffocate remains undetermined. Plus, no needle injection marks were found, which is the usual indicator with sux poisoning.”

  Steve, looking a little shell-shocked, said, “Is this that ‘perfect murder’ you hear so much about . . .”

  “Maybe not,” Keith said. “The killer has to have access to sux, and that isn’t exactly over-the-counter medication. So if a suspect with a path to the stuff—a medical professional, say, since it’s used in anesthesiology—was seen going into, or coming out of, Donna’s apartment? Well, a good circumstantial case for murder might be made.”

  Rod frowned in thought. “Has to be a medical professional to get the stuff?”

  “That’s usually the case,” Keith said, “and that includes veterinarians. But it’s also sometimes prescribed to patients with severe pain, in particular low back pain. If somewhat rarely.”

  Steve, frowning (but not in thought), asked, “Do you have a suspect with access to this sucky shit?”

  Keith shook his head. “Not yet. Hanging around you guys at rehearsals isn’t the only thing I’ve been doing with myself.”

  With the Corner Stop temporarily closed, the Pistons were back to being a literal garage band again, practicing at the Penniston home. That’s where Phil Deeson had been staying, throwing himself into the reunion and keeping his grief to himself.

  Keith went on: “I’ve spent most of my time looking for witnesses who might’ve seen someone go up and into Donna’s apartment, and/or out again. Like tenants in apartments with a view on the Corner Bar and that outside stairway. Also, Donna’s regulars, as well as the regulars at the Log Cabin.”

  The Log Cabin was a nearby steakhouse and bar, popular with locals and tourists alike.

  Rod asked, “Any luck?”

  “Not so far. It’s a slow go. I’m alone on this, with the state cops taking a pass, and the local PD tied up with their everyday responsibilities, plus getting ready for a music festival you might have heard about.”

  Rod said, “Rings a bell.”

  Keith heaved a sigh. “And Krista has been in one meeting after another. So I haven’t accomplished anything much, except expending shoe leather.”

  A waitress in a black Gobbie’s T-shirt brought a second round. They sipped in silence for a while.

  Then Rod said, “I don’t see any reason to cancel the reunion concert, or any of the gigs coming up after that. These are public events. The murders, if that’s what they are, happened in private, right?”

  “Right,” Keith said. “And I am not suggesting you cancel. I’m not convinced being in public makes you safe, though, since we have a devolving subject, and—”

  “Devolving?” Steve asked, sitting forward. “What do you mean by that?”

  “The first murder . . . and I do call these murders, because I’m convinced that’s what they are . . . took place last year, at Arnolds Park. But the next two, here in Galena, were only a week apart. Both of the two later killings involved the apartments of the victims getting searched afterward, in a frantic manner. So. We have a carefully planned murder followed by a frenzied follow-up.”

  “Devolving,” Rod said quietly.

  “The frequency of the acts is accelerating, with the nature of the crimes an odd combination of cold calculation and heated impulse.”

  Steve, making a face, said, “Fancy way to say flipping out.”

  “No argument.”

  Rod said, “So what can we do about that? Who’s to say canceling would even give us a shot at stopping this madness?”

  Keith held his palms up and out. “Guys, I’m not saying cancel. Haven’t I made that clear? But I am saying that I’m running out of time to find the guilty party before you go onstage in front of hundreds, even thousands of potential suspects. Help me narrow that down. In advance.”

  Rod and Steve exchanged glances, then the keyboard player, speaking for both of them, said to Keith, “How do we do that?”

  “Surely you’ve been racking your brains over who might have it in for you guys?”

  Steve said, “Somebody with a grudge, you mean.”

  “Grudge doesn’t cut it,” Rod said irritably. “You don’t kill over a grudge.”

  “A psychopath might,” Keith said. “Something trivial to you may have seemed immense to whoever this is, and only grown in importance in his or her mind over the years. An insult, a snub, a broken promise . . . or, more likely, a sexual indiscretion. A one-night stand that was nothing to you, and everything to some young girl.”

  Keith dropped that last in, in a way as calculated as the killer’s sux poisonings. He wanted to give these two a chance to indignantly deny having any underage sexual activities with the groupies who’d followed them in the heyday of the Pistons.

  But neither musician said anything. Nor did they look at each other, or at Keith . . . rather past him.

  He did not let them off the hook. He allowed what he’d said, what he’d suggested, to linger in the air.

  Finally, Rod said, “Come on, Keith! You were around in those days. You didn’t see anything like that.”

  “I was around in the early days. It got a little wild, I recall. But I wasn’t there when you toured as a national band. When you were on a rock ‘n’ roll pedestal. I don’t know what went on behind the scenes, in those glory days. But what I hear is that you had a lot of camp followers. Female ones.”

  Rod said, “We were young, too.”

  “Not underage, though.”

  Rod’s eyes flashed. “Is that what you think this is about?”

  “I don’t know what it’s about. That’s what I’m asking you to try to help me figure out.”

  Rod rather sullenly shrugged his acceptance of that, and then so did the rather more clueless Steve.

  Keith went on: “A good number of women, now middle-aged, were at the Grape last weekend. When they were young, a lot of ’em were fans. Fans who went to your shows. When you looked out at the faces of those women, did it bring to mind the faces of the girls they’d been? Did memories come rushing back? Some of them maybe things you aren’t proud of?”

  Rod, almost mad, was holding it back. “We did a lot of embarrassing things in those days. Things I’m sure neither of us is proud of. But we were no better than most, no worse than some.”

  Steve, shaking his head, forehead tight, said, “We weren’t a druggie band, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

  Did the drummer think this was still about him dealing weed at the Tick Tock?

  Keith said, “Not what
I’m talking about.”

  “But we did,” Steve said, with an exaggerated shrug, “put away a hell of a lot of booze. Rod here says a lot of embarrassing things went down back then. What did we do exactly? I didn’t remember the morning after, let alone now, after all these years!”

  Rod sat forward a little. “Steve is right. And if this is some crazy person who felt slighted because we didn’t sign an autograph or something, how are we supposed to dig that up out of memories?”

  Keith didn’t say anything for a while. He sipped his Long Island iced tea.

  Then, slowly, softly, he said, “If there is something you haven’t told me about—something really bad, even if it’s more than just ‘embarrassing’ . . . you need to tell me. This is not the time to hold back.”

  Neither said anything to that.

  Keith let some air out, got up, tossed a twenty on the table, and said, “That should cover me and the tip . . . See you at load-in tomorrow.”

  Making his way on foot up the street, intending to catch Franklin and cut over to the PD, Keith almost missed a certain face and form on the opposite side of the street, moving south against a slow tide of tourists heading to the final cluster of shops and boutiques before North Main turned residential.

  Keith picked his moment—the vehicular traffic was almost as heavy as the pedestrian variety—and jaywalked over to the old friend. Or maybe adversary was the better way to put it.

  “Rory, old buddy,” Keith said, falling in alongside someone he’d known since fourth grade.

  Rory Michaels had wanted to be a biker when he grew up, and he had made it, even if no bike was in sight at the moment. The other thing Rory had accomplished in his years on the planet was going into the army, where he’d been in the ordnance corps, till his dishonorable discharge. Today he was five feet five of gristle and white beard in a blue-and-white do-rag, a denim “cut” (a jacket with the sleeves snipped off), a camouflage T-shirt, ragged blue jeans, and motorcycle boots. His arms were arrayed with jailhouse tattoos.

  “Lars, old man,” Rory said, yellow teeth flashing in the gray/white nest of beard. His face was one big smile, except for his almost black eyes, which danced with something that wasn’t delight. “Somebody said you was in Galena.”