A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  —and, forever, the skeleton key, turning in the lock.

  11:22 P.M. Sensitized so acutely to the sound, Charles heard the lock snap, heard the doorknob turn. With his eyes on the door, he saw it begin to open. Containing the plastic dropcloth, the roll of tape, the rubber gloves, and the revolver, the airline bag had been placed close beside him, ready to his hand.

  As the door of the chamber opened to its full width and the familiar figure materialized in the darkened hallway, Charles drew a deep breath and picked up the airline bag. The bag was heavy. Unreasonably heavy, considering its contents.

  11:25 P.M. Charles could feel the shift: substance gone, sensation both consumed and consuming, each running wild, a manic kaleidoscope, time and space locked together, convulsed, the essence of it all.

  In the chamber’s dim light she was pale and still, the ultimate aesthetic verity, everything and nothing, the second resolution, his first and final statement: death serving art. From this moment of liberation would flow fame incarnate. His name would be repeated: Charles, Charles, Charles.

  She had been arranged in the classic pose, principal to the composition. The plastic sheeting had been spread beside the bed, on the far side. Her purse was there, too, and her clothing, everything in readiness, checklist complete. There were, after all, temporal necessities. Even a sculpture required filaments.

  As he bent over her, he heard the camera’s soft whir.

  Charles. Charles. Charles.

  11:40 P.M. According to plan, so carefully calculated, Charles had first taken her keys from her purse. Leaving her in the chamber, he’d gone downstairs, gotten her car, driven it into the garage, closed the garage door. They’d wrapped her in the plastic, carried her down to the garage, laid her on the floor beside the car. The light inside the garage was dim, so that her face beneath the plastic was only suggested, not defined. With great difficulty, he’d removed the bulb from the trunk’s interior light. So that now, effortlessly, he could lift his plastic-wrapped burden, balance it on his right hip, lever it into the trunk. The only light came from small, high windows set into the garage door. Beneath the plastic, her face would be invisible.

  12:10 A.M. This was the spot, earlier in the day, that he’d encountered the tramp and the dog, two derelicts. And just beyond, around the next curve, was the place he’d chosen: a thick, higher-than-head-height tangle of undergrowth and low-growing shrubs and trees.

  With headlights switched off, the Mercedes was moving slowly ahead, lurching on the uneven, rutted road. The night was heavily overcast, without starlight or moonlight. The rain had stopped, but the cold, raw wind was—

  The rain.

  Mud.

  The instant he got out of the car, the instant his feet touched the ground, mud would cling to his shoes: thick, incriminating mud. At the police lab, scientists could match the mud on his shoes to this particular soil.

  Ahead, he saw the spot, the low-growing tangle only dimly defined against the geometric shapes of the stables.

  He could continue, drive past, then switch on the headlights when he reached the park’s main drive. He could drive out to the ocean. He could turn left, drive down the coast. Between Pacifica and Half Moon Bay he remembered small, unsupervised beaches where surfers gathered, where couples with picnic baskets clambered down steep footpaths from the narrow, winding two-lane road to the beaches below. There were small turnouts beside the road. He could park in one of the turnouts, check the angle of the cliffside. A moment to stop the car, lights out, brake set, engine switched off. Carefully, calmly, he would—

  No.

  A passing motorist’s headlights could impale him, a lone clifftop figure against the night sky. If they couldn’t identify him, they would certainly remember the car.

  He braked, switched off the engine, took the keys from the ignition, swung open the door. Shoes could be cleaned. Shoes could be thrown away.

  He was at the trunk, fitting the key into the trunk lock. The rubber gloves—surgical gloves—were causing difficulty. But now, suddenly, the trunk deck flew up. In the stillness, the thunk of the deck against its stop was thunderous. His heart was hammering, blood pounding in his ears. From the close-by underbrush came the sharp, sudden sound of scurrying: an animal, frightened, running away. Was its heart hammering, too?

  THURSDAY FEBRUARY 15

  8:15 A.M. AS CONSCIOUSNESS came clear and sleep faded, Granville Foster realized that he’d been dreaming of Miss Ames, his fourth-grade teacher. At certain times, in certain places, he dreamed of Miss Ames. She was a small, fat, excitable woman who had once cried in class. The day report cards came out, just before summer vacation, she’d asked him to stay after class. She looked sad, he remembered; her mouth had been puckered and her eyes misted. She told him that he would be repeating the fourth grade. She was sorry. She’d wanted to tell his mother first, but their telephone had been disconnected, and there hadn’t been time to write a note.

  He’d repeated the sixth grade, too. By that time, most of the boys in his class and some of the girls were calling him “dummy.” On the school bus, during those long, terrible rides, he wanted to sit on the backseat, so no one would notice him. Instead, the driver made him sit on the floor beside him. He would be protected, the driver said. Mr. Pass was the driver, with tattooed arms and a missing finger. But everyone could see him at the front of the bus, and make faces at him. And at home, if he went out of the house, boys followed him, hooting and hollering. Day after day, he’d had to fight them—or run. One day three of them had cornered him in a vacant lot. There was a FOR SALE sign lying in the dirt: a square piece of metal attached to a long wooden stake. Crying so hard he could hardly see, he’d picked up the sign. Then, eyes closed, he began blindly swinging it. He’d felt something solid, heard a cry. When he’d opened his eyes, there was blood on the sign.

  When he’d gotten home, Ezzard Wise was waiting for him. In the tiny foothill town of Potter’s Bend, there were three policemen. Ezzard Wise was the biggest—and the meanest. While Officer Wise talked, Granville’s mother had cried. What could she do? she’d wailed. On welfare, no husband, four children—him and three other children, all smaller, all smarter.

  All “normal.”

  It was his last clear memory of childhood. He never really knew how it had happened, that he’d lived in other houses, with other families. All he could ever clearly remember was his dog Chum running beside the car when they’d driven him away, only the third time he’d ever been in a car.

  But his mother had written to him, and twice she’d come to see him. Both times she’d brought cookies. And she’d sent him birthday presents, too—presents, and a birthday cake.

  At the thought of the cookies and the cake, Granville realized that his stomach had begun to growl. Had the thought of food made his stomach growl? Or had he been hungry first? Sometimes he thought about it, what made him hungry.

  Beside him, Chum was stirring.

  Every dog he ever had he named Chum, after his first dog. It was still so sad, to think of Chum, the first Chum, running beside the car, tongue hanging out so far, while they were driving him away in the car.

  But that Chum was small. This Chum was big.

  Beneath the plastic sheeting, a dropcloth, really, that he’d taken from a construction site, Chum was getting to his feet. Careful to drain the water away from them, Granville pulled the plastic sheeting aside. Adjusting his cap, from army surplus, he looked up into the sky. Even though the sky was gray, all gray, with no sun, he knew that the time must be about eight in the morning. Or nine. Maybe nine. Once he’d had a watch, but he couldn’t remember what happened to it.

  He got out of the sleeping bag, stretched, and moved away several yards, toward the riding stable. Because it had been raining yesterday, food would be scarce in the trash containers along the park’s main drive. And if he didn’t go with Chum, getting to the containers before the garbage truck, then Chum would go off himself, looking for food. And if that happened, then
Chum could disappear. Forever disappear.

  Granville was unbuttoning his overcoat and beginning to unbutton his pants, looking both ways up and down the narrow dirt road, when he realized that Chum had found something in a tangle of underbrush. He could always tell when Chum found something special, the way Chum’s head and shoulders were close to the ground, with his rump high and his tail carried low, not wagging, cautious.

  With his pants half unbuttoned, Granville moved to come up behind Chum. Once Chum had found a snake and had stood like that, head and tail low. Snakes made Granville’s heart hammer and his throat go dry. Even small snakes scared him. So he’d learned to stay behind Chum, who was burrowing a little farther into the underbrush now. With his feet planted close behind Chum’s rear paws, Granville leaned cautiously forward, using both hands to part the branches.

  He saw two bare legs, very white against the moist black dirt and the brown leaves. And then he saw the rest of her: a woman, blond, lying with her head jammed into the fork of a small, stunted tree. The dirt smudged her face; the dead leaves were tangled in her hair.

  As he quickly straightened, letting the branches come together, he put a hand on Chum’s collar. With his face turned away, avoiding the sight of small patches of white flesh visible through the branches and the foliage, Granville realized that, yes, his heart was hammering. If the still white body had been a snake, alive, he couldn’t feel worse, couldn’t suddenly feel any more hollow inside, empty, violently trembling, almost sick.

  But, still, he knew what he must do.

  After he pulled Chum away, and then tied the dog to a tree, taking no chances, he must put his things in his pack, with the plastic sheeting outside, because it was wet. Then they’d go down to the main drive, just down the slope, and check the cans, because of the garbage trucks. And then, right on his way, they’d go by the boathouse, which would just be opening and sometimes had leftover food.

  And then he’d go around Stow Lake until he came to the culvert where Tim Welch slept when the weather was bad. It had rained last night, so Tim was probably there, in the culvert.

  And if Tim was there, he’d tell Tim about the dead blond lady in the underbrush, about fifty yards from where he’d slept last night, maybe only twenty yards. He was never sure about distance, or feet, or yards.

  He would tell Tim about the lady, and he’d do what Tim told him to do. Because Tim read books, and knew languages, and spoke like teachers spoke. The good teachers. Miss Ames, and the other good teachers. Even though they’d kept him back.

  10:05 A.M. Canelli braked the cruiser to a stop, took the microphone from its hook, keyed the microphone, and called Central Dispatch.

  “This is Inspectors Fifty-three,” he said, “responding to that nine ten in Golden Gate Park. Have you got the information?”

  “Negative. Nine ten, you say?” It was a woman’s voice, clear and concise, a voice Canelli didn’t recognize. Yesterday, over coffee, he’d heard that a new dispatcher, female, still in her twenties, looked like a hot number. With five or six dispatchers on duty, and considering that he was talking to a strange female, it was odds on that she was the hot new number.

  He lowered his voice, for a more masculine projection. “That’s affirmative.”

  “When was that reported, do you know?” Yes, there was a certain lilt to the voice, a certain nonprofessional warmth. Had she heard of him?

  “About an hour ago, I think. What I want to know is—”

  “Stand by, please.”

  Canelli released the TRANSMIT button and sighed. If she was new on the job, then she was learning early the arrogant little one-up tricks of the dispatcher’s trade.

  “Inspectors Fifty-three?” It was a male voice: Joe Fields.

  “Fifty-three.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “That nine ten in Golden Gate Park. Is that south of the polo field?”

  “That’s affirmative. About three hundred feet from the riding stables. Two units are on the scene. What’s your position?”

  “I’m on JFK, the main drive. Near the duck pond.”

  “You want to hold your position? I’ll have one of the units swing by for you.”

  “Well, I can—”

  “Just hold your position, Inspector.” Fields was elaborately condescending, score another one-up point for Dispatch. “I’ll have someone come for you.”

  10:20 A.M. About to take another step, Canelli stopped short, his right foot an inch above the muddy earth of the narrow dirt road. Angry with himself, he drew back, shook his head, sharply sucked at his teeth. The body was lying a few feet away in a large clump of brambles. The thicket was entirely surrounded by muddy ground that would take perfect impressions. Already he could have compromised vital evidence. Sometimes it seemed to Canelli that he would never quite get it right.

  Two black-and-white units were at the scene. They were about fifty feet apart, equidistant from the crime scene. Underbrush grew thick on either side of the narrow dirt track, so the two black-and-whites made a natural barricade against the curious. And, yes, even though the weather was gray and cold, and the area was far from the park user’s beaten track, there were already gawkers, doubtless attracted by the two patrol cars.

  Taking another step backward, Canelli beckoned Jerry Kennealy to walk with him to his unmarked car. Kennealy and Canelli had gone through the academy together, five years ago. Canelli had graduated twenty-first out of forty-seven; Kennealy had graduated third. Sometimes Canelli suspected that Kennealy, a spit-and-polish man who was still in uniform, might be jealous of Canelli’s promotion to the Inspector’s Bureau and then to Homicide. Since Canelli himself had been puzzled by the promotions, he could sympathize with Kennealy’s discomfort.

  At his cruiser, Canelli took out his spiral-bound notebook. Then he began a search for his ballpoint pen.

  “Here—” Kennealy said, clicking a pen and offering it to Canelli. Kennealy’s expression was long-suffering.

  “Thanks, Jerry. Listen, can I borrow this? I seem to’ve—”

  “Keep it,” Kennealy answered shortly. “I’ve got more.”

  “Well, Jeez—” Canelli looked at the pen. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Please.”

  “Okay—” Canelli placed his open notebook on the hood of his car, dated a page, noted the time. He frowned momentarily, as if something important had slipped his mind. Finally he shrugged, then said, “So what’s it look like?”

  “Have you called a lieutenant yet?”

  “No. I wanted to talk to you first—you guys, on the scene. Anything?”

  “Not much.” With his squared-off chin, Kennealy indicated the scene of the homicide. “I gather it was phoned in anonymously about nine-thirty—an hour ago. Dispatch said they couldn’t keep the informant on the line. We got here in the area maybe five minutes after we got the call. But it took us awhile to locate the victim. Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

  With the pen poised, Canelli asked, “Who was the dispatcher?”

  “Susan Wallace. She’s that new one.”

  “The sexy one?”

  Kennealy lifted his chin. His clear blue eyes were remote as he said, “I haven’t seen her.”

  “If she’s the new one, then that’s her—the sexy one.”

  Lips pursed, Kennealy chose not to respond. Even though the weather was cold and raw, Kennealy wasn’t wearing a jacket. His uniform shirt, Canelli noticed, was pressed to knife creases.

  “So you were first on the scene,” Canelli said.

  Standing at parade rest, Kennealy nodded. “Right.”

  “Okay—” Canelli wrote in the notebook. “So what happened when you got here?”

  “Well—” Kennealy pointed to his right, down a slope in the opposite direction from the body. “We came in there, from the main drive. It’s a loop, you know. A one-way loop. Both ends stop at the main drive. It took us three times, driving real slow, before we spotted the body. As soon as we saw it, we pulled back, put in
the call. Christ, this is the second body this year in the park. And it’s only February.”

  “Has anyone come forward? Any witnesses?” As he spoke, Canelli looked at the half-dozen onlookers. Had one of them discovered the body and made the anonymous call?

  “Nobody.”

  Canelli nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Okay, I’ll call for a lieutenant. How about if your guys talk to the gawkers, see what they say?”

  “Shall I get addresses?”

  Canelli considered. It was Lieutenant Friedman’s theory that onlookers were more cooperative if they weren’t asked for their addresses. Lieutenant Hastings wasn’t so sure.

  “Maybe just get the names, not their addresses—not unless they’ve got something.” Canelli looked at the other man anxiously. “Okay?”

  Kennealy shrugged. “Whatever you say.” Abruptly he turned away. Sensing Kennealy’s irritated impatience, Canelli sighed. Then he opened the door of his cruiser, switched on the radio, spoke into the microphone. Moments later he was talking to Lieutenant Friedman. Because it was radio, not the telephone, Canelli spoke cryptically, verifying that, yes, there was a nude body, female, no suspects, no opportunity to determine the probable cause of death because of the terrain.

  “Okay,” Friedman said, “I’ll make the calls. Lieutenant Hastings is in the field. I’ll see if I can find him. Otherwise, I’ll come myself. Have you got enough personnel on the scene?”

  “So far, no problem, Lieutenant. It’s real—you know—woodsy, here. Limited access, except for this little dirt road. There’re four of us. So I’d say no problem.”

  “Okay. I’ll turn out the troops.”

  12:40 P.M. As Hastings locked the door of his cruiser and turned toward the line of cars crowded into the dirt track, he felt the first rain from a storm system that had turned the western sky a dark, leaden gray. According to the twelve o’clock news, rain would be heavy during the afternoon and evening, with possible clearing later. Tomorrow would be unsettled, the announcer had said, with more rain due the following day. In Marin and Sonoma counties, flood watches had been posted.