One rainy afternoon, she calls three students up to the board to work math problems. Class, we’re having a math race. Isn’t that fun? I’m good at math, and left to myself I always get the right answers. When left to myself. Thunder booms outside and rain lashes at the windows as Mrs. Blanchette dictates problems. The other two students keep up easily, so she starts going faster. I fall behind, barely able to copy a problem without solving it before she moves on to the next.
Looking out of the corners of my eyes, I see the other two students finish and raise their hands almost simultaneously. The race is over. I still have several problems to work. I keep at it, moving the chalk slowly as tears run down my cheeks. And then the worst happens. A hot stream runs down my leg into my shoe, and the twenty-eight eyes in the classroom that are not mine watch as my shoe overflows onto the floor. I won’t go into what happens next, but it involves large quantities of hand towels from the bathroom and a trash can. I still have five weeks left of camp, so for thirty-five more days, I go to her room, look at the trash can, and feel the stares of others.
Loretta—I get a little thrill out of calling my teacher by her first name—is retired now, living in the northern suburb of Florissant in a matchbox of a house. I don’t need any sedative for Loretta. She is small enough to be overpowered and nowhere near as formidable as I remember her. I dispatch her with a quick heart stab and she goes fast. A gasp, a moan, and she crumbles to the floor. I do the cutting on Loretta’s kitchen table, one of those Formica-topped ones with gold flecks and chrome trim. I cut here and there, staying primly away from Loretta’s privates, taking instead the finger adorned by a ring that flashed so frightfully and the eyes that laughed when I was driven to wet myself. I was hoping she would do the same, but no such luck.
I leave through the back door, because I’m not happy with that street light right out in front of Loretta’s house. The less time I spend on her front porch with that orange light falling on me like pumpkin rain, the better. As I go down the steps in back, the next-door neighbor’s porch light suddenly comes on. I shrink against the wall of Loretta’s house. Have I made too much noise? Does the neighbor have supernatural hearing powers and has heard the blood gurgling in Loretta’s throat? A blur of white moves down the steps and at first I think the neighbor has thrown something like a white basketball into his yard. Then the basketball barks at me.
A man steps out on the porch to see what all the fuss is about. He glances in my direction. I am not sure if he sees me, but the dog is heading in my direction, barred from viciously attacking my ankles by a chain link fence.
My heart is pounding. This is not part of the plan.
I cringe inside some bushes. The man calls to his dog angrily, yelling at him to do his business and leave that damned cat alone. The dog pees arrogantly on the fence and reluctantly tears itself away from the blood-scented intruder. Climbing the steps in desultory fashion, the dog continues to glare at me until the man scoops it up and shuts the door.
Circling around behind the neighbor’s house, I break a window and shoot him just as he is about to make a phone call, using a gun that I bought years ago. I reported my gun stolen back in September, in preparation for a moment just like this. Details, you know.
I will have to get rid of these clothes along with my gloves, and go through my scrubbing routine, like I’m a doctor getting ready for surgery. There are ways to beat this evidence thing. It isn’t until later that I notice a small tear in my Lycra jersey, just a few threads. It must have happened when I broke the window. There is no tear in my skin, no blood, but do I know for sure about discarded skin cells? No.
Was the neighbor—I’m thinking of him now as The Busybody—about to call the police, or just calling his sweetheart for a little Friday night action? Too late to ask now. That’s unfortunate, but overall I’m pleased. One grudge settled, lots more to go.
If only I could just do that to May.
Chapter 26
FRIDAY COULDN’T COME SOON enough for Thomas. He’d declined an offer to go to the movies with Winston on the dubious excuse that he wanted to spend more time on a book report. Winston knew something was up, but by his line of questioning, it was clear that he thought Thomas had a date. In a way, he did.
A date with adventure!
He figured he’d get a ride home with Mick’s mom and ask her to drop him off at home because he had a lot of homework to do. Moms never questioned that, if it was said in a dejected tone of voice. His mother would be working late, and he’d call her at her office to check in and give the same story. Then he’d call her again later in the evening, say that his work had gone quickly, and that he was going to a late movie with Winston. She didn’t like him going to the 11:00 p.m. shows, but after hedging, she would say okay because Winston’s dad was going to be in the multiplex seeing a different movie. Also, she’d feel guilty for not being home more when there was a big case going on at work, and that would grease the wheels. In fact, he was counting on it.
His mom was treating him too much like a baby. Sure, he had more freedom than he’d had a couple of years ago, but it was too little, and it was coming too slow. It was like she wanted to keep him chained up and not let him have any fun. His mom always thought the worst was going to happen. She had a way of picking apart anything he wanted to do until some minor thing turned up that she could say no to. In the past few months, he’d really started to resent that. He could handle a lot more than she gave him credit for. And if he did get into a bad situation, he was smart enough to get out of it without any help from her. He was fourteen. In less than two years, he’d be driving. She’d probably find some way to keep him chained up then, too. He knew his mother loved him, but she just wasn’t willing to let go, to let him get out there in the real world.
Besides, bad things happened to other people, not to him.
He was jostling with Mick and some other buddies on the way out of the academy, just a little friendly shoving, when Mick said, “Hey, Tombo, your mom’s here today. Check out that retro car. That’s not yours, is it?”
Schultz’s reddish-orange Pacer sat in the parking lot, and his mother was leaning on the hood, waiting for him.
“Nah, that’s my mom’s boyfriend’s car.”
“That’s a cop’s car? He works undercover, then, right? You never told me that. An undercover cop. That is awesome.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Of all the days!
“See ya,” Mick said, and punched him in the shoulder.
“Yeah,” Thomas said, and punched him back. There was nothing left to do but make his way toward his mother. His pace slowed, his feet feeling as if they were suction cups.
“Come on, Thomas,” she said loudly. “Get the lead out.”
Groaning inwardly, he picked up his pace marginally. In too short a time, he was at the car, being clapped on the back by Schultz. Thomas tossed his backpack in the cramped rear seat of the Pacer and climbed in after it, feeling like he was diving into the deep end of the disappointment pool.
He scrunched down in the seat, which wasn’t easy to do with his knees pressed against the back of the driver’s seat. Parents who picked up their kids at the academy generally had new minivans or SUV’s, not 1979 Pacers that had no air conditioning and pulled to the side when driving, so that progress down the road was kind of a zigzag. The car was assigned to Schultz by the police department. Thomas figured the detective didn’t have a lot of influence there.
Schultz stopped for White Castles on the way home, which perked Thomas up a bit, or at least perked up his taste buds. White Castles were small, square hamburgers loaded with grilled onions and a miniscule pickle slice. He could shove an entire cheeseburger into his mouth. A double cheeseburger was two bites. Schultz got him eight doubles and an order of cheese fries. Thomas sat in the back seat, plotting ways to get out of the house, eating cheese fries and licking his fingers.
At home, the three of them ate at the kitchen table. They were soon joined by Megabite, who sat
on the fourth chair and soulfully looked into each diner’s eyes in turn until she scored bits of hamburger or melted cheese, no onions please. Thomas busied himself with his food, adding two large glasses of milk to the glop in his stomach, listening to his mother and Schultz try to discuss developments in their cases without giving away confidential details or being too graphic. If he’d been in a better mood, he would have enjoyed it, and probably plied them with questions. He noticed a box of fries sitting open and getting cold, in front of his mother.
“Mom, you going to eat those fries?”
She looked down as if she’d just discovered that the little sticks of fat were still there. “Oh, I guess not. I’m not too hungry.”
He reached over and pulled the box in front of him, searched out the little package of salt in the bottom, and sprinkled it on.
“Sweetie, don’t use the salt pack,” she said in a distracted manner.
“Too late, Mom.”
“Let the kid enjoy his food,” Schultz said, unnecessarily coming to Thomas’s defense.
“Okay, then,” she said, “just this once.”
“Thanks,” Thomas said. He didn’t think she heard him. With any luck, the two of them would have sex and fall asleep. He looked over at Schultz, trying to imagine him in bed with his mom. He liked Schultz—liked him a whole lot—but that image was just too gross. He pushed it out of mind.
Thomas got up and started clearing the table of paper plates, napkins, and the open-ended boxes the White Castles came in. The two adults were absorbed in their conversation, something about a Shower Woman. He cleared his throat.
“Mom, I have homework to do. I’ll be upstairs.” He came over and gave her a kiss on top of her head. She wrapped an arm around his waist before he could get away.
“All right. Maybe we can do something together tomorrow. At least we got to eat dinner together,” she said. She smiled at him, but the worry lines on her forehead didn’t go away.
“Sure. Goodnight, sir,” he said, nodding at Schultz. He hadn’t settled on a name to call Schultz. Maybe soon it would be Dad.
At the rate Mom’s going, I’ll be old, like twenty or something, by then.
Megabite went up the stairs with him, staying two steps in front and keeping him in his rightful place.
The evening hours crawled. Thomas thought about contacting his friend and trying to get the tunnel adventure postponed. There were other people involved, though, some of gronz_eye’s buddies. They weren’t going to switch everything around because his mom was spending the evening at home. He’d never live it down.
He couldn’t even sneak out the window and go out, like all of his buddies talked about doing and a tiny percentage of them actually did. He was on the second floor, and getting out required going past the adults. They seemed to have grown roots in the kitchen, where the back door was. He could try for the front door, but from where Mom was sitting, she’d see him go by in the hall. He ought to know, because he’d tried it before. Twice.
Maybe he could work out something with Winston, like getting Winston’s dad to come over and pick him up and then sneak out of Winston’s house. Winston’s bedroom was on the first floor. He’d have to let Winston in on it, though, and he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t pull that trick with any of his other friends, either, because their parents kept an eye on them and would check with his mom about an impromptu overnight stay.
Fuck. I haven’t got one friend who can cover for me, no questions asked.
He had to leave the house by ten thirty if he was going to make it the few blocks west on Magnolia to catch the Kingshighway bus, get off at Lindell, wait to make a connection with the Lindell bus, and end up at Washington U. by midnight. He’d plotted out the bus routes. He had exact change, and money for the cab ride back home. He’d thought of everything.
Almost everything. I didn’t plan on my adventure getting stopped before it begins.
Reluctantly, Thomas started working on his homework. The cat leaped to the desk, seemed to swerve in midair to avoid the can of soda he’d brought, and executed a perfect landing. Folding her legs, she settled in next to him in the meatloaf position. His bedroom door was open just enough for her to leave if she needed to use the facilities. Every now and then, Thomas went to the door. They were still there, talking in low tones. No doubt now that he wasn’t in the room, they were really getting into it on the homicide cases.
Don’t these guys every get romantic?
At ten the phone rang. He checked the caller ID on the phone in his room. It was his mom’s boss. A little hope started to bubble up in him, but he squashed it. It could be anything, like him asking for an update. The boss did that a lot.
The call didn’t last long. His phone showed him that the line was no longer in use. And there were footsteps on the stairs! He bent over his books and chewed on a pencil, trying for the earnest student look. There was a knock at his door, and his mom entered.
“How’re things going?” she said.
He shrugged.
“That good, eh?” She sighed. “I have some bad news. Schultz and I have to go in to work for awhile.”
He plastered a disappointed look on his face.
“I probably won’t be back for three or four hours. Would you be okay for a few hours? You can stay up and watch TV in your room.”
“I’m not a kid anymore, Mom. We agreed that you’d start giving me more room. I am fourteen, you know. Besides, I think I’ll just whip out this book report so I don’t have to worry about it over the weekend.” He tugged a paper out from under Megabite and held it up to illustrate his plight. Belatedly he saw that it was a math worksheet. She didn’t notice.
“Doc,” Schultz said from downstairs. “We gotta go. Geez, the kid’s fourteen.”
Go, Schultz!
The book report was a great idea. He’d just be in his room, working. Shit, maybe he had a future in improv. He saw the decision forming on her face and decided to reinforce it. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll lock up downstairs,” she said. “Don’t answer the door for any reason. You have my cell number.”
Sweet!
“Just go do your job, Mom,” he said.
“Thanks for being so understanding. I promise we’ll have more time together soon.”
He heard the door close downstairs. He had twenty minutes to make it to the bus stop. An eternity on kid-powered legs. Thomas wandered downstairs, found a quart of ice cream, and took it to his room to eat while he ran through his checklist.
Ten minutes later, he eased out of the back door, locked it with the key behind him, and set off jogging west on Magnolia. He sucked the satisfyingly cold air into his lungs and left behind long plumes of his breath, like a jet leaving a vapor contrail.
Chapter 27
PJ WAS ON HOMICIDE overload. A schoolteacher, Loretta Blanchette, had been stabbed and mutilated in Florissant. It might be the work of the Metro Mangler, as the media was now calling the killer. As far as the public knew, the Metro Mangler had a thing for fingers. Stabbing in the heart, which the police had held back, connected Scar Man, Shower Woman, and Loretta.
There was a second murder in Florissant, the teacher’s neighbor. Bernard Dewey was middle-aged, divorced, and had a job putting up billboard displays. And he was shot, like Frank Simmons. The Florissant police were looking into the two homicides, and she hoped they would be able to come up with something definitive to rule out the Metro Mangler. She didn’t need any more corpses to worry about.
If they were all connected, then there were two classes of murders: one personal, bloody, and focused on mutilation; the other one, impersonal shootings. Two or more killers? One killer who did it dirty when it mattered to him and clean when it didn’t?
There was a low rumble of conversation in her office, punctuated often by Schultz’s strident voice. The three of them were discussing the lack of forensic evidence. The expanded drug testing battery for Arlan had turned up ketamine. None of the other victims w
ere drugged. For murder weapons they had a total of three bullets from two different guns and one knife as evidence for five killings, plus whatever turned up from the barn, if anything. No fingerprints, no footprints, no fibers. No ripped buttons or earrings left at the scene. No discarded, bloody clothing. No skin under the victims’ fingernails. No bodily fluids other than some sperm remaining inside Shower Woman, already determined to be from her boyfriend.
Blood spatter analysis of the kitchen floor where Loretta Blanchette was murdered revealed blank spots where the killer stood as the mutilation was done. The blood fell on the killer’s feet instead of on the floor, so the blank areas should have been shoe-shaped and allowed the size of the killer’s feet to be determined. Instead, they were ovals corresponding to a men’s size 26 7E shoe. Possible, but more likely a deliberate attempt to disguise shoe size, such as plastic bags stuffed with padding and tied around the ankles.
There was one tantalizing piece of evidence from the location of Shower Woman’s chest wound. The stabbing was done with an overhand thrust, but it could be a short person using an extended arm or a taller person using a bent elbow. The killer’s projected height range was five foot two to six feet, too wide a range to be useful yet.
They were working with an extremely knowledgeable, or extremely lucky, perpetrator.
Just about every square inch of the corkboard on the wall across from PJ’s desk was covered with tacked-up timelines and photos. She struggled to make sense of it.
Start with the first link in the chain.
“Who actually thinks Arlan was killed by his brother-in-law, Frank Simmons, who was arrested for the crime?” PJ said.
No hands went up.
“That leaves us with May, June, and Fredericka, plus the possibility of a sociopathic stranger.”
“Glad you narrowed that down for us, Boss,” Anita said.
“May and June really seem to hate each other,” Dave said. “Although they try to keep everything peaches and cream on the surface, like visiting each other so often. I can’t see June killing her husband to spite May. My theory is that they killed each other’s husbands, to get back at each other for old hurts.”
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