Dead Ringer

by Annelise Ryan

  When we’re done eating, Emily offers to do the cleanup in the kitchen and Hurley offers to do the cleanup of Matthew, which will require a bath. Between the food particles, spilt juice, and the dose of dirt he somehow manages to attract every day, he’s a sticky, stinky mess.

  Finding myself in possession of a rare chunk of time with no demands on it, I head for the master bath and start filling the tub. A long, hot soak with some scented bubbles sounds wonderful, and it will give me some time to think. But then I remember that I’m pregnant, and the sort of hot bath I like to take isn’t good for the baby. I settle for a shower instead, and when I’m done, I curl up in bed and pick up the thriller I’ve had on my bedside table for the past three months. Reading for pleasure isn’t something I get to do much, and after ten minutes, it becomes clear that I’m not going to do it tonight, either. My mind won’t focus on what I’m reading, and my thoughts keep straying to the Ulrich case. After reading the same page four times, and still not knowing what it said, I put the book aside and turn out the light. I half expect to toss and turn, my mind still whirring busily, but I fall asleep almost instantly.

  * * *

  I awaken the next morning with a throbbing, full bladder and the heavy but reassuring weight of Hurley’s arm draped over my midsection. My mind is still muzzy with sleep and I try to ignore the pressure of my bladder, but it’s insistent. Then I remember my appointment with Maggie and look at the clock in panic. It’s only ten to six, and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.

  I ease Hurley’s arm off me. He mumbles and stirs, but doesn’t wake. I slip out of bed and into the bathroom, where I dress quickly and try to tame my hair into something halfway presentable. Going to bed with it still damp last night didn’t do me any favors; there are strands of hair that not only have a life of their own, but are seemingly able to defy the laws of physics.

  I give up and tiptoe out to the bedroom, hoping to sneak away without waking anyone. I realize then that I never told Hurley about my appointment with Maggie. I make my way over to my bedside stand, where I keep a notebook and pen always at the ready for those late-night calls that come in for work.

  In my efforts to tiptoe and be quiet, I manage to stub my toe on the leg of the footboard, drop the pen onto the floor, and let out a tiny yelp when one of the cats attacks my hand from under the bed when I go to pick up the pen.

  Given my clumsy attempts at stealth, it’s no surprise when I see Hurley’s eyes flutter open. “What time is it?” he asks, blinking at me standing there fully dressed.

  “Six twenty-five. I was just about to write you a note. Last night, I called Maggie Baldwin and asked her if she’d be willing to talk with me about the Ulrich case, and the only time she had was seven this morning. I forgot to tell you about it.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Hurley says, flinging back the covers and sitting on the side of the bed. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as panicked as I feel. “I’ll take notes and tell you everything she says.”

  “I might have some questions you wouldn’t think of. And I’d prefer to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. I can be ready in ten minutes.”

  “What about Matthew? Em’s got school, so she can’t take care of him,” I say, a last-ditch effort. I really don’t want Hurley to go with me. I don’t want him knowing that I’ve asked Maggie for some personal counseling time in addition to the professional consult, because I want to discuss my life and my pregnancy with her. And I need to do it without Hurley, at least for now.

  He gets up and shuffles toward the bathroom, pausing in the doorway. “If you get him up now, we’ve got time to drop him at Dom’s. Don’t worry about feeding him. Dom always has something going for breakfast.” And with that, he’s in the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

  Cursing under my breath, I step over Hoover, who is sprawled in the bedroom doorway, and head for Matthew’s room, surprised he hasn’t shown his face yet, as he’s typically an early riser. But as I enter his bedroom, I see he has stayed true to form. Not only is he awake, he has managed to dress himself, though not without first emptying every dresser drawer in his room. Clothes are strewn everywhere. His back is to me and he’s busy fidgeting with something at his waist. I can’t see what he’s doing, but I can see some of what he’s wearing, and it makes me worried about how he’s going to fare in life.

  He has on a pair of denim pants, with a pair of green-and-yellow shorts pulled on over them. For a shirt, he has opted for his Spider-Man pajama top, but he has bedecked it with crisscrossed bandoliers, which are made from underpants—Emily’s underpants, one red pair, one blue. He has thrust his head through the waistbands and one leg hole from each pair, while he has put an arm through the remaining leg hole. One pair of undies for his right arm, one pair for his left, a lot of material bunched up around his neck like a cowl. Around his waist are the cups of one of Emily’s bras, and I gather that his attempts to fasten it in front is what has him so transfixed.

  “Good morning, Matthew,” I say, making him jump. He whirls around, and I see that I am correct. “What on earth are you doing?” I say to him.

  “I’m a superhero,” he says with a smile.

  “Really?” I say with a chuckle. “Who are you supposed to be? Underwear-Man?”

  He pouts at me.

  “Why are you wearing one of Emily’s bras?”

  He spins it around so that the cups are in the front and then reaches up on top of his dresser, taking down a tiny toy truck, which he then stuffs inside one of the cups. “It’s my futility belt,” he says with an indignant thrust of his chin, like he’s daring me to say otherwise.

  “You mean . . . Never mind. I like your version better. But you need to take that stuff off. We need to go to Dom’s, and we need to hurry. Your dad and I have to be somewhere.”

  “No.”

  “Matthew, I don’t have the time or the patience to argue with you this morning. Please just do as I asked.”

  “I don’t wanna.” He folds his arms over his chest, or rather he tries to. The underwear wrapped around his upper arms limits his movements some. His lower lip protrudes, and I recognize the signs of a pending tantrum. I spin around and leave the room, heading back to my bedroom. Hurley has come out of the bathroom dressed and with his hair wetly combed into perfection, which makes my already-fuming frame of mind even hotter.

  “Your son is having one of his moments, or is about to,” I say. “And I’m not dealing with it today. There’s no reason why you need to come with me to Maggie’s. I’ll take detailed notes and share them with you later.” That said, I turn and leave the room, hurrying down the hall, down the stairs, and to the front hallway. There I grab a jacket from the closet and head for the kitchen. My purse is on the counter by the garage door and I grab it on the way. A minute later, I’m sitting in my hearse, watching the garage door rise at what feels like a snail’s pace. I half expect Hurley to appear in the garage any second, holding Matthew in his arms, but he doesn’t.

  When I can finally back out, I look toward the front door, thinking Hurley might be there, but he isn’t. I start to breathe a sigh of relief, but then realize he might simply load Matthew into his truck, take him to Dom’s, and then drive to Maggie’s office to meet me. While this isn’t the ideal way for this to play out, at least not for me, it will at least give me a chance to fill Maggie in on his possible pending arrival and ask her not to mention my personal appointment with her.

  It takes me just under thirty minutes to drive to Maggie’s office. She isn’t located in Sorenson; in fact, her office is in a neighboring town. I consider this ideal, as it lends a certain amount of privacy to my visits there, something I wouldn’t have in Sorenson. There are people in Sorenson who consider it their life’s duty to spy, observe, eavesdrop, and jump to conclusions that they can then share about town. Gossip is a highly valued commodity in Sorenson, something that tends to be true in mos
t small towns. And I was at the center of that gossip mill for a long time following the breakup of my marriage to David. I have no desire to take center stage again.

  When I arrive at the office, I see that Maggie’s car isn’t there yet. With a wary look in my rearview mirror, I say a silent prayer that she will show before Hurley does, assuming Hurley comes at all. The trip to Dom’s should make it hard for him to get here by seven. Then a thought occurs to me. Would he bring Matthew with him? And if so, would he make him take off that ridiculous outfit or let him wear it? Given that Matthew was about to have one of his meltdowns over removing the stuff, I wouldn’t put it past Hurley to just let him wear it. I wonder what Maggie will think if Hurley shows up with Matthew outfitted in his superhero underwear.

  I hear a motor behind me and breathe a sigh of relief that Maggie is here. Except she isn’t. When I look in the rearview mirror, I see the bright blue of Hurley’s pickup pull into the lot. And based on the timing, I’m certain Matthew will be in that truck, too.

  Pulling in right behind him, Maggie’s Mercedes glides in, and I mutter several words I’m glad Matthew isn’t close enough to hear.

  CHAPTER 15

  Hurley parks his truck next to my hearse and climbs out; he’s wearing a thunderous expression.

  “What the hell was that all about?” he asks me. “You couldn’t wait five minutes for us to come with you?”

  I decide to use a tactic I’ve seen him use dozens of times when he’s interrogating or interviewing people. Rather than answer his question, I hit him up with one of my own. “Did you bring Matthew in that getup he had on? I hope not.”

  “Yeah, I did. What’s the big deal? He’s a kid.”

  “Wearing underpants on his head,” I counter. “And they aren’t even his.”

  “They aren’t on his head,” Hurley grumbles, “and I don’t get why you had to make such a big deal out of this.”

  I see Maggie has parked and she’s coming toward us across the parking lot. “Can we not do this, here and now?” I say to Hurley, my voice low.

  He glares at me and, without another word, turns and proceeds to remove Matthew from his car seat. I take advantage of his momentary distraction and hurry over to Maggie. “Please don’t mention my personal appointment time with you,” I whisper. “Hurley doesn’t know and I’d rather he didn’t, for now.”

  She smiles, nods, and heads inside. After a glance at Hurley to make sure he’s managing Matthew, I follow her.

  By the time Maggie has unlocked the outer door to the building and the inner door to her office, Hurley and Matthew have caught up with us. Matthew does, indeed, still have his underwear outfit on, including his “futility belt” bra, the cups of which are now bulging with secreted items.

  Maggie, who has no kids, takes a moment to acknowledge Matthew and admire his outfit. “Oh, my,” she says with a broad grin. “Are we experimenting a little with our clothing choices?”

  “It’s his superhero outfit,” I tell her. “The bra is his futility belt.” I enunciate the word carefully to make sure she hears it and it solicits the expected chuckle. “I tried to make him take it off, but he threatened one of his tantrums.”

  “And then he had one when I tried the same thing,” Hurley says tiredly. “Had I not been in a hurry, I might have stood my ground, but as it was . . .” He trails off, shooting me a mildly reproaching look, which Maggie doesn’t miss.

  “Well, he certainly is creative,” Maggie says. “What superhero are you?”

  Maggie bends down to Matthew, who is now sitting on the floor, emptying the pockets of his “futility belt.” He removes two miniature trucks, a rubber ball, three marbles, and something I can’t quite discern. It’s dark, flat, and oddly shaped, and when I bend in for a closer look, I realize it’s a dead, desiccated frog. I consider picking it up and throwing it away, but I suspect this will trigger one of Matthew’s tantrums, and this is not the time or place.

  “I’m Frog-Man,” Matthew says.

  Maggie, realizing what the last item is, makes a face. “I see,” she says, straightening up and giving Hurley and me a wan smile.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Sometimes the cats catch things outside and bring them in the house.”

  “Not a problem,” Maggie says with a dismissive wave. “Will he be okay sitting here while we sit in my office? We can leave the door open, so we can see him, but it might be best if he didn’t hear all of what we need to discuss.”

  “He should be fine,” Hurley says. He removes a rolled-up coloring book and a small box of crayons from his jacket pocket and puts them on the floor next to Matthew. “Here you go, buddy. Draw us some pictures of Frog-Man in action.”

  “Frog-Man!” Matthew hollers, thrusting his arms in the air. Then he grabs the box of crayons and starts perusing the colors. I make a mental note to keep a close eye on him, in case he decides to color something other than the pictures in the book, like the furniture or walls in Maggie’s waiting room. Like some mini Michelangelo on steroids, Matthew has already shown a penchant for turning our walls at home into his own personal canvas.

  We settle in Maggie’s office with a view of Matthew in the waiting room, where the coloring book is keeping him well occupied. In a low voice, Hurley summarizes the case we have—where the victim was found, what we know about her, and how she was killed. When he gets to the autopsy part, he turns it over to me.

  I summarize the stabbing pattern Izzy and I discovered, and the flower petals stuffed into the wound over the heart. Maggie’s eyebrows rise at this, and when I tell her I had heard about a similar case at a forensic conference, those eyebrows drop into a frown. Hurley takes over again at this point, giving her a summary of the Ulrich case.

  “In conclusion,” Hurley tells her once he’s done, “we need to figure out who killed our victim, because while some people want to believe ours is a copycat murder, there are things about it that don’t make sense.”

  “I’ll say,” Maggie says. “The timing for one. The distance for another. Copycats do it for the attention, and if the people in the area aren’t familiar with the original case, it kind of defeats the purpose. Plus, there’s the business of the flower petals. If it is a copycat murder, your pool of suspects would be a small one, I’d imagine. Who knew about those petals?”

  “The defense did,” I tell her. “The DA who prosecuted the case seems to think the defense might have killed someone else, solely to throw doubt on Ulrich’s guilt and help with the appeals.”

  “Well, that’s possible, I suppose,” Maggie says with a doubtful smile, “but it’s a bit out there. I take it the prosecuting DA didn’t take well to the suggestion that he might have convicted an innocent man?”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Hurley says with a sigh. “The only way we’re going to give Ulrich a chance to be proven innocent is if we can find the real killer and prove he or she did this and the other murders.”

  “It’s a he,” Maggie says without hesitation. “And there is some symbolism and significance behind the wound pattern and the flowers that can help in developing a psychological profile of the killer. I can do some research to dig into it deeper, but let me tell you what I know off the top of my head.”

  Hurley takes out his notebook and pen, then says, “Go.”

  “Well, to start with, let’s look at the stabbing pattern. You have your basic triangle. A triangle that points up can represent male energy, whereas a triangle that points down tends to represent female energy. An upside-down triangle can also indicate instability.”

  Hurley snorts back a scoffing laugh and I shoot him a dirty look.

  “That doesn’t mean that female energy is unstable,” Maggie adds pointedly, giving Hurley a mildly chastising arch of one brow.

  “I didn’t say it was,” Hurley says, holding his hands up in surrender.

  Maggie and I exchange a look that makes Hurley squirm a little in his chair. He knows we know what he was thinking, and that he is now busted.


  “Please continue,” Hurley says after clearing his throat. Now he isn’t looking at either of us; his eyes are totally focused on his notebook and pen.

  “The triangle is also a universal symbol for a number of trinities,” Maggie goes on. “You have the Christian Trinity of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. That’s a theme that carries into other worship systems, such as the Egyptians, with Osiris, Isis, and Horus, or the Greco-Roman gods Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades. There is the time trinity of past, present, and future, and the human trinity of mind, body, and spirit. Depending on how existential you want to get, there are trinities like emotion, feeling, and thoughts, or love, truth, and wisdom, or creation, destruction, and preservation.”

  She pauses, takes a breath, and smiles. “I could go on for a long time. The triangle is one of the oldest symbols known to man, and a downward-pointing triangle is one of the oldest symbols of the divine power of the female. It’s an ancient symbol used in a number of cultures to represent the genitalia on a goddess.”

  “It doesn’t sound like we’re narrowing things down very much,” Hurley says with a scowl.

  Maggie shrugs. “If you’re looking for deep meaning, you could spend hours on this topic alone. However, your triangle could be something very simple and basic, an arrow that starts at the victim’s breasts and then points toward her genitalia. Then you have these yellow carnation petals stuffed into the wound over the heart. You’ve already established that the yellow carnation represents rejection and disappointment with a loved one, so that symbolism seems straightforward. Given all that, a simpler interpretation of everything is that the killer has issues with a past lover who hurt him badly, though it could also be a mother or other strong maternal influence in his life.” Maggie pauses a moment and looks at Hurley, her brow furrowing. “You said all of the victims resembled one another in their physical characteristics?”

  “They do.”

  “Then the obvious conclusion to draw from that is that whatever woman triggered this man’s homicidal tendencies also shares those physical characteristics.”