Pretty Girl Gone

by David Housewright

  “Lynn Peyer—”

  “Lynn Peyer.” Monteleone spoke the name like it was an obscenity.

  “She, for one, thinks Jack actually killed her.”

  Monteleone rose quickly to her feet.

  “That’s a lie. An absolute lie. A damnable lie.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Monteleone slowly sat down.

  “I just am,” she said.

  A few minutes later—after Monteleone decided she had more important things to do than speak to a muckraker like me—I was back on the road. Driving alone, I lapsed into a freeway fantasy. I had a fast car, plenty of money, and no encumbrances. I could go where I pleased, go where I’ve never been before, and do things I’ve never done. There was nothing holding me to the road I was traveling except a sense of duty, of responsibility, that I couldn’t even define. Turn off at the next exit, I told myself. Or the next one. Or the one after that. Just turn off . . .

  A dozen exits later I was approaching Victoria. I was still way above the speed limit, but promised myself I’d slow down before I reached the city limits.

  “No way I’m going to let that cowgirl give me a ticket,” I said aloud.

  What the hell, you’ll probably never see her again, my inner voice reminded me. Considering your relationship with Nina, that’s probably for the best.

  My plan hadn’t changed. I would find Josie Bloom in the hope that I could persuade him to tell me what he knew about the night Elizabeth was killed. I didn’t expect much to come of it. “Oh, what did we do?” The line still hung in the air, demanding explanation. Only it could mean anything. From a chronic alcoholic? Absolutely anything.

  Still, I’d love to get a long look at the case files. Maybe there was something there besides the unsubstantiated allegation that Elizabeth was killed by roaming transients. Something that would categorically clear Governor Barrett. Only I’d have to give Mallinger something in return, and I had nothing to swap.

  The Bureau of Criminal Apprehension? That was just something to annoy Dr. Peterson and the boys. I had no intention of bringing official attention to Elizabeth’s murder and subsequently to John Allen Barrett.

  Which brought me back to Lindsey’s elusive e-mailer.

  “We’re gonna have to do something about him,” I said aloud.

  I had been driving with both hands on the steering wheel in the ten and two positions, just as I had been trained. I took my right hand off the wheel only long enough to switch the radio to the classic rock station.

  In that moment, the Audi lurched hard to the right.

  Blowout, I told myself.

  I gripped the wheel with both hands and twisted it to the left to compensate and removed my foot from the accelerator.

  Only it didn’t feel like a blowout.

  A loud, high-pitched grinding sound added to my confusion.

  The car edged closer to the shoulder and the ditch beyond.

  I tried to pull it back.

  It was like leaning against a moving wall.

  A big blue wall.

  A truck.

  A pickup truck with a plow blade.

  The plow blade was digging into my car just below the door handle, leaning against the Audi, pushing it toward the ditch.

  I saw the truck, but not the driver. The driver was too high in the cab.

  Doesn’t he know I’m here?

  I leaned on the horn and screamed at the truck to stop.

  It didn’t stop.

  I downshifted and hit the brakes hard.

  I felt the antilock braking system shuddering under my boot.

  The pickup slowed as I slowed.

  It wouldn’t let me go.

  I downshifted again and punched the accelerator. The Audi pitched forward. The pickup did the same.

  I went for a matchup—wheel to wheel, bumper to bumper, trading paint as my father would say—my one chance.

  Only I didn’t have a chance.

  If it had been another car, I would have been able to outdrive it. It wasn’t.

  The Audi was 53 inches high, 73 inches wide, and 159 inches long. The truck was at least 80 inches high, 80 inches wide, and 247 inches long. They did not match up wheel to wheel, bumper to bumper.

  The Audi weighed approximately 2,650 pounds. The truck was four times that heavy. I had four cylinders and 225 horsepower. The truck was a V-8, maybe a V-10 with over 300 horses.

  The numbers were not on my side.

  I cranked the steering wheel to the left just the same, slamming into the truck.

  The pickup rocked, but stayed its course.

  I kept leaning against it, even as my fear grew that soon the front tire would fold, sending the Audi spinning into the ditch or under the truck.

  Be afraid, be very afraid, my inner voice said.

  Dialogue from SF movies I didn’t need.

  It was quickly replaced by something else, something inexplicable that I would noodle over for weeks to come—advice my father had once given me.

  Never bet on professional boxing or amateur figure skating.

  The truck had too much advantage. It was going to shove me into the ditch, probably roll me over. A bad thing, high-speed rollovers.

  I knew of only one way to escape it.

  I swung the steering wheel to the right.

  The Audi flew off the highway at sixty-three miles an hour.

  For an instant, I was airborne, the car soaring above the roadside ditch.

  There was nothing for me to do except wait for impact. It seemed to be a long time in coming, long enough anyway for my inner voice to announce, You love this car.

  The Audi splashed into the snow.

  I felt the unyielding pressure of the seat harness on my shoulder and across my stomach, keeping me from leaping through the windshield.

  The car skidded forward, losing speed rapidly as it plowed through the deep drifts. It reminded me of diving into a pool. The snow eased the Audi to a stop the way water slows a diver.

  I bounced back against the bucket seat even as I gripped the steering wheel, still anticipating the sudden, excruciating jolt of collision. When I finally realized that the Audi was no longer moving, I leaned back against the seat, marveling that my air bags hadn’t deployed. The engine had stalled, but the radio was working. Leslie Gore. “It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To.” I switched it off. An eerie silence enveloped the car. I sat there shaking for a full thirty seconds. I reminded myself to breathe. It took a few moments until I remembered how.

  The nose of my car was now buried in snow; the silver hood and windshield were splattered with it. I was grateful for it. Grateful that it had snowed the evening before, grateful for all the snowfalls that had come before that one, and grateful for the snowplows that had pushed the snow off the highway into the ditch.

  I glanced out my side window. I could see only the rooftops of the vehicles that passed me on the highway, oblivious to my predicament. I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. All those driving lessons that my father, that my skills instructor at the academy had given me—“We never covered this,” I said aloud.

  It didn’t take long before my warm breath fogged the windows. I powered down the driver’s-side window, letting clean, clear frozen air into the car. After a few deep breaths, I found my cell phone, dialed 911, and explained where I was.

  “I need the police and a tow truck,” I told the operator.

  “Are you the driver of the vehicle?”

  “Yes,” I said, identifying myself.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Was anyone else hurt?”

  “No. There’s just me.”

  “Police cars and an ambulance have already been dispatched. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “I’ll recall the ambulance, then.”

  “What do you mean police have already been dispatched?”

  “Someone witnessed the accident and call
ed it in a few minutes ago.”

  “Who?”

  “The caller refused to give his name. He said he didn’t want to get involved.”

  The light bars on two police cars flashed above me. The cars halted. Doors were opened and slammed shut. Someone shouted something at someone else. Danny Mallinger appeared on the rim of the roadside ditch. During my duel with the truck I had crossed into her jurisdiction. I gave her a wave. How embarrassing. She plunged into the snow and plowed toward me. I told the 911 operator that the police had arrived and thanked her. The operator told me to have a nice day.

  I deactivated my cell phone and jammed it back into my pocket just as Mallinger arrived at my door.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “There’s an ambulance on the way.”

  “I’ve already canceled it.”

  “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

  “Help me out of the car.”

  I unlocked the door and tried to force it open, but it wouldn’t budge. Mallinger frantically cleared the snow that was jammed against it. Finally, with her pulling and me pushing the door, we made an opening. She told me to be careful as she helped me from the car. I felt steady on my feet, but let her hold my arm just the same.

  The second officer was now at the side of the car—a man even younger than Mallinger. Mallinger looked beyond him, following the long furrow the Audi had dug into the snow from where it left the highway to where it had settled.

  “Going a little fast, were we?”

  “I was under the speed limit,” I told her. “Someone ran me off the highway. He did it deliberately. Just look at my car. Oh, my God. Look at my car.”

  The second officer was squatting next to the Audi, running his gloved fingers over a series of two-foot-wide grooves cut deep into the metal from the center of the car door to the rocker panels and all the way to the back bumper, the bumper nearly torn off. Most of the paint had been chipped and scraped off, replaced in a few instances with streaks of blue.

  “Look at my car!”

  “What hit him?” Mallinger asked the officer.

  “Just look at my Audi.”

  “What hit you?” Mallinger asked me.

  “A truck. A pickup. My car. I just bought it.”

  “What kind of pickup truck?”

  “Blue. With a plow blade. I was a little too busy to get make and model.”

  “A blue pickup truck,” said the young officer. “By the height of the grooves, I’d say it was a heavy-duty model. A lot of farmers with that kind of vehicle.”

  “Andy,” Mallinger said, drawing out the name. “Andy?”

  Andy wasn’t listening. He pulled a plastic bag from the pocket of his bulky coat and a pair of tweezers. He began prying blue paint chips off my Audi and dropping them into the bag.

  “Andy, what are you doing?”

  Andy seemed surprised that Mallinger would ask such a question.

  “Collecting evidence,” he said.

  “Evidence?”

  “Paint samples for the PDQ.”

  “Don’t waste time.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” I interrupted. “PDQ?”

  “Paint Data Query,” Andy said, obviously pleased to demonstrate his knowledge. “It’s a database of paint samples. The FBI and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police set it up about ten years ago. We send in an unknown paint chip and the lab will determine make, model, and year of the vehicle. We’ll run that information through the DMV.”

  “Andy, the odds of getting a hit—it’s a waste of time,” Mallinger insisted.

  “No, it’s not. I have a girlfriend who works for one of the labs that collects paint samples for PDQ and she says—”

  “Andy.” Mallinger sighed impatiently and turned to me. “He’s new.”

  “Hell with that.” I looked directly into Andy’s green eyes. “You collect all the paint samples you want. You get the sonuvabitch that wrecked my car and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Mallinger looked skyward and frowned.

  “I need this,” she muttered. “I really need this.”

  It took over an hour for a wrecker to get my Audi back on the highway. I warned the operator not to damage the car. He told me they could always wait until the spring thaw before trying to get it out of the ditch. I reminded him that it was a $45,000 car. He said, not anymore. I told him he wasn’t very funny. Mallinger suggested I wait in her cruiser while they worked. I insisted on watching from the shoulder of the highway where I could get a better look. I cringed, closed my eyes, and more than once held my breath as the Audi was yanked, dragged, and generally muscled onto the pavement. I realized it was just a car, but still . . .

  I thanked Mallinger for her help and arranged to get a copy of the accident report for my insurance company. Man, were they going to love this. Afterward, I accompanied the tow truck driver to the garage. They put the Audi on a hoist and determined that there had been no damage to the undercarriage. After reattaching the bumper and engineering a temporary fix of the rear lights and filters—there was a lot of duct tape involved—they pronounced the car drivable as long as I didn’t drive it too hard. They told me they’d be happy to fix the Audi “as good as new,” but I would have to wait a good long time for parts. That didn’t seem like an option to me. I paid with a credit card, thanked everyone, and drove off.

  I still held to my plan, although it had been pushed back over four hours. Using my map and the address I had gleaned from the Internet, I found Josiah Bloom’s place across from the Nicholas County Fairgrounds. There were no other houses in the vicinity and I wondered why it had been built there. Nor was there a garage, only a strip of asphalt next to the house. The strip was empty.

  I knocked on the door and waited. After a few moments I knocked again. I tried the latch. The door was unlocked. I gave it a gentle shove and it swung open. I called Bloom’s name several times. No answer. I stepped inside and was immediately seized by a sense of dread so deep inside me that it felt I had been born with it.

  “Mr. Bloom?”

  All the shades were drawn, turning the bright winter sunlight into gray shadows. I moved through a tiny living room filled with furniture that didn’t match. There was a TV and a VCR. A long screwdriver had been jammed into the mouth of the tape machine—the sight made me consider returning to the Audi for my gun. Instead, I crossed into the dining room beyond. Through an open door on my right I saw a bathroom. To my left was a small arch and what looked like a kitchen.

  “Mr. Bloom?”

  I smelled something I couldn’t place. It reminded me of cat urine, but what was that sweet smell mixed with it? It seemed to come from the kitchen, and smelling it did something to my body. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rising, felt my lungs fight for air. Perspiration welled up under my arms and on my forehead and I swore I could hear—actually hear—the beating of my heart as I drifted toward the kitchen. I found a switch and flicked the light on.

  Half of Josiah Bloom’s body was in a chair, the rest slumped over a small wooden table. A puddle of rich, red blood nearly covered the table and dripped into another, much larger puddle on the pale yellow linoleum floor. I gagged when I first saw the small entry hole surrounded by burned and unburned gunpowder in his right temple. I gagged again when I discovered that the bottom left side of Bloom’s head was gone, that his blood, bone, teeth, and brain were splattered on the kitchen wall, cabinets, and floor.

  My gag reflex kicked in and I ran to the bathroom. I found the toilet, hovered above it, my body shuddering, until the gagging finally subsided. I took pride in not vomiting—the first time I came across a dead body I had. I rinsed my mouth and splashed cold water on my face. Contaminating a crime scene, oh this is so smart, my inner voice told me. Wouldn’t they be proud of you back at the St. Paul Police Department? Oh, wouldn’t they, though?

  “Suicide,” I told my reflection in the mirror. “I drove him to suicide.”

  Get over
yourself, my private voice replied.

  “Why then?”

  The smell of cat urine was far greater in the bathroom and I began to look for the source. Did Josie keep cats? I found two large plastic buckets, one filled with empty cough medicine bottles and the other with batteries. The bathtub was hideously stained.

  “Well, that might be a reason,” I said aloud.

  I forced myself back into the kitchen and examined Bloom’s wound. Next I searched for the gun. I found it in an unlikely location—Bloom’s hand. I looked at it for a long time. Then back at the entry wound.

  “Danny isn’t going to like this,” I said aloud before I called 911.

  11

  I gave my statement twice, first to Mallinger, then to the medical examiner, a local doctor who moonlighted for the county. Mallinger had made sure that no one entered the kitchen before the ME arrived, including herself.

  “An apparent suicide,” the ME announced. “However, there are some inconsistencies. For one, we have a footprint and some smearing in the blood on the floor.” He held up his camera for us to see. “I have several shots of it.”

  “That was me,” said I. To prove it, I showed them the tip of my boot, now stained red. “Sorry.”

  The ME took a photograph of my boot. Apparently he was a oneman forensics department.

  “What else did you do?” he asked.

  “I used the bathroom.”

  The ME had a disgusted look on his face. Mallinger nodded her head in understanding. She looked like she wanted to vomit herself.

  We were outside, standing next to Mallinger’s cruiser. She was pale and I noticed her breath was coming hard. Other officers hung about waiting for instructions, but Mallinger waved them back. I suspected that she had never seen as messy a crime scene before. Unfortunately, I was about to make it worse.

  “It wasn’t suicide,” I told the ME.

  “Yeah, it was,” the ME said.

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Since CSI everyone’s a criminologist,” the ME told Mallinger.

  “Bag his hand, the hand holding the gun,” I insisted. “Bag Bloom’s hand so it won’t rub against anything when you transport the body and test it for gunshot residue.”