GODWALKER

by Unknown

“‘Cause there’s two fucking hotels in this shitwater burg, you know? So that there’s a fifty-fifty chance, not an ‘interesting coincidence.’”

  “Whatever you say, old timer.”

  “Look, can you at least tell us when this happened?” Leslie asked. Roberta started to shake her head, so Leslie continued. “It was today, right? I know there wasn’t any of this in the morning when we left, so it happened while we were in your jail, right?”

  “We haven’t fixed a time of death,” Roberta said, but she unwillingly knew that what Leslie said made sense.

  “Forget it son,” Kate said. “Sherlock Holmes here has us pegged for it, even if it doesn’t make sense. Hey, we’re from out of town, we’re blacks, we must be criminals, right?”

  “Look,” Roberta said, now seriously annoyed, “It’s none of your business, ‘kay? I mean, there’s nothing to see. Might as well move on.”

  “We’re going,” Fred said. “I suppose we’ll find out what happened when we get blamed for it.”

  Roberta just shook her head and scowled at their backs as they went towards their rooms.

  “I dibs first shower,” Leslie said, opening the door ahead of his mother.

  “Okay hon,” she said, absentmindedly, looking at Fred. He stood in the hall in front of her room, not meeting her gaze.

  “You okay?” she asked him.

  “Uh… yeah, I suppose,” he said. He didn’t make a move to leave.

  “Well, I guess I’ma get cleaned up,” she said. He nodded, but still didn’t turn to go.

  “Fred, you wanna… I dunno, go get dinner after this?”

  He nodded. “Good. That’ll be good.”

  Another pause.

  “Fred. Are you okay?”

  Silently, he shook his head.

  “I guess not,” he said. “Uh… being back… I mean, being in a cell again, it kind of…” he shrugged.

  “You’re not going back,” Kate said. “They got nothing on us.” They both knew, or thought they knew, how little that mattered. Still, Fred nodded.

  “Look, I saw a Steak and Shake west of the highway. You want to go there for dinner?”

  “I do like their shakes,” he said. She nodded.

  “Okay, we’ll drive together.”

  “Okay.”

  She stepped out into the hall and hugged him.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered to him.

  “I cannot go back. Ever. I can’t,” he said in return.

  * * *

  At the police station, Dr. Nicole Cortez had brought a big bag of McDonald’s cheeseburgers along with her preliminary autopsy findings. As she spoke, her hands were busy with ketchup packets. She would grab each one in her right hand and shake it a few times until one end bulged. Then she’d tear the other edge and squeeze out every drop into the center of a white paper napkin in the middle of the conference room table. She didn’t look as she did this, nor even think about it. When she’d emptied five packets, she started picking up french fries, dipping them, and eating them just as mechanically.

  “It’s weird,” she said. “It’s very, very weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “Well, the cause of death is kind of baffling.”

  “You’re kiddin’ me!” Phil King paused to tongue a half-chewed hamburger wad into his left cheek so he could talk around it. “I’ll give you a hint. He died when his face got blown off.”

  Cortez scowled at him. “At first I thought that the facial injury was an exit wound too, but it can’t be: There’s no entry wound in the back of the head.”

  Walter Stelke frowned, pulling at his lower lip. “So what did it?”

  “That’s what’s so hard to say. I’m starting to wonder if that injury wasn’t postmortem. Or maybe done after he was sedated or tasered or something. There’s so little blood spattered around—if someone was doing that to your face, you’d struggle, right? But all the blood fell straight. It just poured out the wound until his heart stopped pumping.”

  “You’re sure he wasn’t shot?”

  “Well, I won’t be sure until I do the full autopsy, but the wound on his face did not come from a gunshot. There’s no gunpowder burns on the flesh, and again, no splash.”

  “So where did the wound come from, then?” Phil had finished his second cheeseburger and reached for his diet coke.

  “Well, it looks like a very clean cut. Very. Like you’d get from a surgical bonesaw. But again, no spattering, which argues for a postmortem injury. But if it was postmortem, the killer was on a tight timetable, because the body was still flexible when we got there. The blood hadn’t even finished pooling in his feet. And if the killer did butcher the body after, I’d love to know where. There aren’t any drag marks in the carpet, so the killer either carried the body to the chair or the victim sat down under his own power. If the killer had carried him, you’d have blood everywhere, so I’m guessing he died in the chair and was mangled there too.”

  “Damn,” King said, reaching for a french fry.

  “What about the gun found on the scene?” Walter asked quietly.

  “All kinds of interesting stuff with the gun too,” Nicole said, reaching for her second sandwich. “A lot of it doesn’t add up, but it’s interesting. The gun was modified for a silencer, for one thing.”

  “Oh really? Gee, now didn’t someone get shot with a silenced pistol just this morning?”

  “Uh huh. In fact, we found the silencer under the bed. Also, the gun was recently fired. There were three empty cartridges in the cylinder, and some very nice prints on the handle. There were also prints on all the cartridges. Specifically, the prints on the cartridges belonged to the victim—so he’s the one who loaded the gun. Some of his prints are on the barrel and handle too. But there’s no powder burns on his hands—meaning he loaded it, but someone else fired it.”

  “Did that gun put the bullet in the bathroom?”

  “Nuh uh,” Phil said, and Nicole spoke at the same time.

  “No, the pistol was a .38 special. The slug in the bathroom was significantly larger.”

  “I think I can speak t’ that,” Phil said, then swallowed. “Hamilton wasn’t the only one to look outside. There’s a lady from Minnesota who made a statement to me. Wanna hear it?”

  “Sure.”

  “All right. She heard the first two bangs and looked out the window in time to see a big white vehicle—like a van or a truck or something—tearassin’ down the parking lot with a guy clinging to the side.”

  “No fooling?”

  “That’s what she said. The guy fell off and the white truck ran away. She ran out her room to see if the guy was hurt or needed help, but he wasn’t in the parking lot. Then she heard another bang, looked, and saw the guy waving a gun out the window.”

  “Out the window of number ten?”

  “Uh huh. He fired again, into the air, while she was watching, and she ran back into the building. She heard another shot after that.”

  “So this is probably the same guy that Hamilton saw? The guy in the bloody shirt?”

  Phil shrugged.

  “Let’s recap,” Walter said, pinching the bridge of his nose and giving a gentle burp. “Shirt guy and the victim are in room ten. Someone—probably the shirt guy—kills the victim, then mangles the body. Then someone else—the van man—shoots through the window, lodging the bullet in bathroom.”

  “We found the second shot, too,” Phil said. “It hit the exterior wall of the motel and lodged in the bricks.”

  “Right. So van man shoots twice. Then shirt guy… what, jumps out the window?”

  “It would explain how glass got broken on both sides,” Nicole said.

  “Shirt guy jumps out the window and grabs on the side of the van. Van man shakes him off. Why doesn’t he just shoot him?”

  “Doesn’t want to kill him?” the coroner suggested.

  “Out of ammo, maybe?” contributed Phil King.

  “Hm. Van man drives off. Shirt g
uy jumps back into the hotel room after being knocked off a moving vehicle.”

  “So we’re looking for someone tough,” King muttered.

  “Shirt guy grabs the victim’s gun, leans out the window and fires three times.”

  “Probably firing at van man.”

  “I don’t think so,” Walt said. “Shirt guy is tough, but even a tough guy is going to be shook after being knocked off a truck and jumping through a window twice. No, by the time he’s got the gun, van man is long gone.”

  “Don’t forget the silencer,” Nicole said.

  “Yeah… now, we’re sure this is the victim’s gun, right?”

  “Pretty sure. His prints are on the bullets, remember.”

  “Maybe he hadn’t put the silencer on it, maybe it fell out during the struggle. Probably doesn’t matter.”

  “Wait, I thought you said the guy with the silencer was probably Kimble’s killer. You think the morning’s killer is the afternoon’s victim?”

  All three were silent for a moment.

  “That would make things pretty damn tricky,” Walt said. “Maybe victim and shirt guy are in it together. They have some kind of falling out and shirt guy snaps.”

  “You’d have to be pretty crazy to do what he did to that other guy’s face.”

  “So who’s van man then? Who are the two of them hiding from?”

  “Maybe van man and the victim double crossed shirt guy?”

  “And all this begs the question: Why would it take three people to kill one small town exterminator in downstate Missouri?”

  “Let’s get back to the timetable,” Nicole said. “Shirt guy fires three shots. Then what?”

  “Flees the scene, presumably.”

  “No one saw him go,” King replied.

  “‘Course not. They were all hiding in their rooms because… aw shit, because of the gunshots. Your Minnesota woman said he fired into the air, right?”

  “That’s what she thought.”

  “He wasn’t shooting at anyone. He was trying to scare people away so no one would see him go. That’s why he left the piece behind. Did we find any luggage in the room?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who was it registered to?”

  King flipped through his notes. “Someone named Kim Franklin.” He frowned. “So where was she when these guys were shooting up her hotel room?”

  “In the van, maybe?”

  Nicole cleared her throat. “Kim is a man’s name too. I knew a guy named Kim in med school.”

  “So we’re back at square one. Assuming Kim is shirt guy, he fires out the window to clear the area, grabs his suitcases, jumps out the window a third time, gets in his car and drives away.”

  “Unless Kim is the victim.”

  “Who may be Kimble’s killer.” Walt grimaced. “It’s starting to sound like some kind of big metaphysical conspiracy,” he muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  There was a knock at his office door.

  “C’mon in,” the police chief said. It was Luther Washington. He looked back and forth between Nicole and Phil.

  “Is this a bad time, sir?”

  “Naw, we’re just trying to piece all this…” Walter struggled for a word to sum up ‘all this’ but couldn’t find one, so he just said “…together.”

  “Well, I, uh, had something to maybe contribute.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Luther cleared his throat. “Well, before I got the call to the Kimble residence this morning, I took a statement from Fred Mundy about Seth Dobbs.”

  “Who’s Seth Dobbs?” Nicole asked.

  “The Sleepy Teepee bill jumper,” Phil said.

  “Oh, the blood on the chair by the window, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well, Mundy gave me his card,” Luther said, handing it to the chief.

  “Extraordinary Investigations, huh?”

  Luther shrugged.

  “Basically, Mundy said the guy was acting suspicious. Nothing he could put his finger on, just responding strangely to questions and, you know, behaving funny.”

  “You think he’s maybe one of our killers?”

  “What you mean ‘one of’?”

  “Never mind… the idea isn’t really fully cooked yet. So you think this Dobbs character could be part of it?”

  “Well, if Mundy is part of it, maybe Dobbs is too. He is another suspicious out of town guy in a hotel room.”

  “I guess. Hm. Well, thanks Luther…”

  “There’s something else. Sir.” Walt waited. Luther cleared his throat, flicked his eyes between the two silent others in the room and said “I’d like you to release Joe Kimble into my custody, sir.”

  There was silence. Then Phil King said “What the hell for?”

  Luther turned to him and made a tight little face. “Look man, Joe’s my friend. He didn’t do this.”

  “He may be your friend, but right now he’s a prime suspect,” the chief said, tilting his head to the side.

  “Aw, c’mon,” Luther said. “No murders in this town for, for how many years, and then two in one day? What are the odds that it’s not the same guy? Joe for sure didn’t do that second guy, and he didn’t kill his old man either. He…” Luther sighed. “You didn’t see him. I mean, right after. He was like, like a zombie. Not like he’d gotten away with anything. Like he just couldn’t believe it. I mean, he was astonished. And then when he saw those other folks, the ones he thought did it? I never seen him so mad. He was not faking that. I’ve known him since we were, like, twelve years old. Joe Kimble may have had his fights with his dad, but he was never killing mad. And even if he was, he wouldn’t do it like that, not so smart and… cold.”

  Walter Stelke drummed his fingers on his desktop.

  “You know, Luther, I gotta say I didn’t get a guilty feeling off him either. But I can’t spring a capital suspect just on a feeling. Until I have a better scenario, the safe thing to do is keep him in jail.”

  “You know he didn’t do it.”

  “I don’t think he did it. I don’t know anything.”

  Luther shook his head. “You’re letting an innocent man rot in jail, with everyone thinking he killed his own daddy.”

  “Calm down there, Luther,” King said.

  “Naw, he’s right,” Walter said. “You’re probably right, Luther. I’m probably doing just that. For your friend’s sake, I really hope I am.” His left hand went to his mouth, pulling the corners together briefly while his eyes got distant. “But consider this, Luther. If Joe didn’t do it, anyone who’s got a motive to kill his dad might have a motive to come after him next. If that’s the case, he’s probably safest right where he is.”

  * * *

  Jolene had gotten a big bag of ice at the gas station, and her whole body shivered as she gritted her teeth and kept her left hand shoved deep in it. The van had a good heater, but not good enough to keep the back area warm on an autumn night, with her freezing her hand and knowing that thing was out there somewhere.

  She thought about going to a hospital, but not seriously. They’d want to know how it had happened, and that would connect her to the hotel room. The cops were probably picking it over already. She’d have to change her appearance—not too much of a problem. But first she’d have to take care of her hand.

  She pulled it out of the ice and poked at it gingerly. It was mostly numb, with the sensation of a dull ache in towards the bone. Not fun, but better than the fiery pain that had come before.

  Jolene was no doctor, but doing close combat training she’d seen her share of wrist injuries. She didn’t think anything was broken. More likely the tendons were out and the little round bones at the base of the hand were shifted. It was just a question of getting them back into place and keeping them there.

  At the gas station, she’d thought about getting herself some liquor, to dull the pain a little, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It didn’t seem wise to lower he
r guard.

  She took another glance at the fetal compass. Still holding steady. She’d stuck on a dab of tape so she could make sure it was pointing the same way. She gave herself permission to hope that Kimble had settled for the night.

  With a deep breath, Jolene wrapped her left arm around the seat, hugging it the chair from behind. With her right hand she grabbed her wrist. Another deep breath—she wanted to do this quick, before the sensation returned too much. Then she tightened her right hand and pulled out hard, compressing her bicep against the seat and stretching her forearm.

  The pain was sudden, intense, and even through the dulling ice it was sharp. She bit her lip and felt bones shift beneath her fingers. Her breath rushed out as she relaxed.

  Her left hand was throbbing, and the ache went up her bones all they way to the shoulder, but the worst was over. At least, the worst she was going to do to herself. Slowly, monotonously cursing under her breath, she pulled out a roll of athletic tape and began the awkward process of bandaging a hand without assistance. Half the roll later, her hand was mostly immobilized.

  She gave herself another look at the compass. Still the same direction. Another deep breath.

  There were disposable contact lenses in the glove compartment, colored a light, cloudy blue—not the fake Paul Newman blue of a lot of colored lenses, these were a color no one would think was bogus. There was disposable dye too, enough to turn her dishwater brown hair into a light, brassy red. She’d wear it up and strap her tits down with an ace bandage, and hope that standing next to Carl had made her look shorter than she really was. Her GRU trainers had instructed her in body language tricks that were supposed to make her look smaller, but she didn’t have a lot of faith in that kind of psychological bullshit. In her experience, going from being a sturdy brunette with a big rack to being a flat-chested redhead was enough to disorient most people.

  She could use the wash-in dye at a truckstop a few towns up the road. She could eat there too, pull the van over in an unlit corner and spend the night. Come back to Kimble’s town in the morning as a different woman.

  Before she did anything else though, she started loading some guns.

  * * *