by Spencer Kope
“It’s not a Volkswagen.”
“Yeah, well, it’s about the same size.”
“Hardly,” I shoot back. “Besides, it’s better than that death trap you call transportation, all dented up and falling apart.”
“In fairness, I’m not responsible for any of those dents. They were there when I bought the car; and I bought it cheap, probably because of the dents, but that hasn’t affected its functionality. It’s great on gas and has been mostly reliable. You see someone driving a car like that and it says something.”
“Yeah, it does.” Cupping both hands around my mouth, I yell, “Get out of the way!”
Jimmy laughs. “No. It says you’re smart with your money. You don’t strap yourself with a payment on something that goes down in value every year you own it. You avoid debt. You’re thrifty.”
“You mean cheap.”
“No, there’s a difference between cheap and thrifty. The cheap person bases his decision on cost alone and tends to be stingy; the thrifty person manages his money carefully. He doesn’t just look at cost; he looks at value, he looks at return on investment.”
“I paid cash for Gus,” I remind him. “And I got him for less than Blue Book.”
“See, that’s thrifty.”
“So how come my thrifty purchase is ten times better than your thrifty purchase?”
“You’ll want to take a right at the corner,” Jimmy says, pointing at the stop sign where I’ve turned right a thousand times before. He goes back to fiddling with the buttons and knobs on the dash.
Jimmy’s a master at changing the subject.
* * *
As we make our way past the cipher lock and into the heart of Hangar 7, we immediately notice a wall of seven-foot-high screens clustered around Betsy’s nose, completely obscuring the front of the plane. Marty is settled in a chair at the far end of the screens reading a book, but looks up and waves when he sees us enter.
Jimmy stops dead in his tracks at the sight. “Marty, what are you up to now?”
I hear Les chuckle from behind the barrier, and Marty says, “This is a restricted area, need-to-know and all that stuff. You will be summoned at the appropriate time, which will likely be—” He tilts his head to the backside of the screens and says, “How much longer you think?”
I can hear Les consulting with a third person before saying, “Maybe an hour.”
“An hour,” Marty says, tilting his head back toward us … like we couldn’t hear Les. “Maybe,” he adds.
Jimmy just shakes his head and makes for the office. Marty shoots me a half-pie grin and I can’t help returning it.
Diane lingers on the second-story balcony outside her office as we approach. She has a cup of coffee in one hand and a fistful of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts in the other, no doubt from the less-than-secret stash she keeps in her bottom drawer.
“What are they up to?” Jimmy demands, thumbing toward Betsy.
“Not a clue,” Diane replies. “They’ve been at it for hours.”
As Jimmy’s right foot lands on the bottom step and he starts to take the stairs two at a time, Diane points with a commanding index finger, saying “Conference room,” in a curt voice. She points at the room of glass with her macadamia-nut hand.
“What?” I say indignantly, touching my hand to my heart, “no Good afternoon for your favorite crime fighters?”
Her smirk twists into a half smile, which lasts but a second before crumbling away. “Conference room,” she repeats in a dry monotone.
The report from Baton Rouge PD is waiting for us. It’s thorough, and occupies more than a hundred pages, not including the dozens of photos now laid out on the long mahogany table.
The click of Diane’s heels is right behind us and she bustles into the conference room a moment later, saying, “You want to read it yourself, or do you want the abridged version?”
“Abridged,” Jimmy and I say in unison.
“I figured as much.”
She’d never admit it, but Diane loves narrating cases for us. It helps her connect to the action. Her martyr complex, however, demands that she groan, huff, or roll her eyes at least seven times a day—and she never misses a quota.
“So, let’s start down here,” she says as she moves to the far end of the table and taps the first photo with the tip of her finger. “The body was discovered in Bluebonnet Swamp on September third—”
“That’s the day after the feet showed up at Ehrlich’s,” I interrupt.
“Coroner had no estimate for time of death because the guy was refrigerated. If this is the rest of Larry Wilson, your suspect drove a thousand miles across Texas and dumped him in Louisiana for a reason.”
“Maybe he was hoping the gators would dispose of the evidence,” I offer.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“Because of this.” She picks up an eight-by-ten from the center of the table and lays it in front of us. The photo reveals the body after it was removed from the swamp and laid out on a black body bag at the edge of the water. Most of the enlarged image is focused on a letter-sized piece of paper pinned to the victim’s shirt. One word occupies the blank page, scrawled out in four large letters.
“Soon,” Jimmy reads aloud.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jimmy glances at me. “It means this was just the warm-up act. He’s got something else in mind.” Turning to Diane, he asks, “How far outside of Baton Rouge is the swamp?”
“It’s inside the city.”
“They have a swamp in the city?”
“It’s the South, brother,” I say with a drawl. “They have swamps all over the place.”
“The fact that the swamp is surrounded by city is the very reason the body was found so quickly,” Diane continues. “Even with that lucky break, we still come away almost empty-handed … but this is where it gets interesting.” She points to the next nine pictures one at a time. “Someone went to a great deal of trouble to hide the victim’s identity, cutting off the fingertips, pulling all the teeth, and peeling the skin from his face. Nice, huh?” She takes a big gulp of coffee. “That leaves DNA as our only option for identification.”
Jimmy picks up the pictures one at a time for a closer look. “I’m assuming they already collected a sample and sent it for analysis. Any idea where we stand with that?”
“Limbo,” Diane replies.
“Let me guess,” I say. “The crime lab in Louisiana is as backed up as everyone else in the country, and we’ll have to wait until the statute of limitations for murder runs out before we see any results.”
“Close,” Diane replies. “The state police crime lab is in Baton Rouge, and they’re actually really good—from what I’ve heard. The problem is they never received any DNA samples.”
Jimmy starts to say something and Diane holds up her hand. “Let me finish the story. I already called Baton Rouge PD and they’re on top of it. The two detectives working the case each thought the other had sent in the samples; simple mistake. They assured me the lab will have them by Monday—tomorrow. After that it could be weeks or even months before we see any results. The lab tech I talked to was sympathetic to our situation, but they’re just swamped.…” A spontaneous smile erupts on her face and she adds, “No pun intended.”
“Good one,” I say with a nod and a half-cocked smile.
Apparently, Jimmy doesn’t think it’s funny.
“What else?” he says without looking up.
“The coroner’s report indicates that the clean, precise cuts on the fingertips and face suggest they were removed with a very sharp object, possibly even a scalpel. Our guy was dead when they were removed, fortunately for him. As to the cause of death, it was exsanguination after his feet were lopped off. I’m guessing he bled out pretty quickly.”
She scans the collection of photos and then grabs an eight-by-ten from the end of the table and hands it to Jimmy. I crowd over his shoulder to get a look.
Jimmy squints and looks closer. “Clean cuts,” he says, “just like the feet in Tucson and El Paso.”
“Exactly,” Diane replies. “No saw marks; no hack marks like you’d get from a cleaver. Coroner says the cut was likely made by some type of industrial-grade machinery, something with a lot of force that moves swiftly.”
Jimmy studies the photo, and then works his way through the others on the table. Soon he’s leaning on one hand and rubbing his chin with the other, the way he does when he’s tossing something around in his head. “We need to go to Baton Rouge,” he finally says, glancing up at the clock on the wall. “If we leave first thing in the morn—”
“No way,” I say firmly, crossing my arms in front of me.
Jimmy looks at me. “It’s just Baton Rouge,” he says. “We’ll fly down in the morning and be back by evening.”
“Until something else comes up,” I say, “and that will lead to something else, and on and on. I’m all for chasing the leads, Jimmy, but we just … got … back.” I shrug and throw my hands up. “We can’t keep doing this. It seems like we spend more time in the air than we do on the ground.”
“It’s just this case—” Jimmy begins, but I cut him off.
“It’s always just this case or that case. I have plans with Heather tomorrow. We’re finally taking that day trip up to Mount St. Helens—you know, the one we planned to take in July? I’ve already canceled on her twice and it’s not going to happen again.”
Diane watches me silently as I speak, her eyes shifting to Jimmy, then back to me.
“I need some kind of life outside the STU,” I insist. “You need a life outside the STU. If Jane gets tired of you and throws you out you’ll end up sleeping on my couch, and that’s just one too many bachelors under the same roof.” I turn my gaze on Diane. “That goes for you too.”
“I have no intention of sleeping on your couch,” she replies quickly.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” I say, ignoring her coy little smile. “As it is, you spend way too much time here in the office—and we don’t get overtime.”
Diane and Jimmy stand like two Ionian columns, glancing back and forth at each other like guilty coconspirators. At last, Jimmy clears his throat. “How about Tuesday—the day after tomorrow?”
I don’t answer.
“That’s two days of down time—well, not counting this meeting,” he says. “That’s almost like a regular weekend for normal people.”
“After all, it’s not like the dead guy is going anywhere,” Diane says, trying to sound reassuring. She’s looking at Jimmy, but her eyes keep darting my way. “One more day won’t hurt.”
“Good point,” Jimmy says, a little too enthusiastically. He watches me a moment and then adds, “How about it, Steps? Fly out Tuesday, back the same night?”
I let him hang a minute, then nod and say, “Fine. Tuesday.”
The room is silent for a long moment. “Well,” Diane finally says, “speaking of the body…” And just like that we’re neck-deep in swamps and ice boxes and severed limbs once more. We forget about the clock on the wall and immerse ourselves in the case. Ruminations stack upon theories, and speculations become the silent wallflowers of this analytical dance.
Jimmy has his ideas, Diane has hers, and I’m playing with a few of my own, but we’re united in our belief that these are vigilante killings. There’s a purpose behind IBK’s actions and how he picks his victims. If we figure that out, we’ll be one step closer to finding him.
We’re completely absorbed in this debate—three heads pushing and pulling at one another like a three-way tug-of-war—when a swift tap-tap-tap on the window next to the open conference room door pulls us back to the present.
“Hmm-hm-hm,” Marty says, clearing his throat. “The captain requests your presence outside the cockpit.” He gives a slight bow.
“This ought to be good,” Jimmy says, tossing an eight-by-ten back onto the table.
We follow Marty back to the wall of screens, where he joins Les and some guy with a shaved head and two full sleeves of tattoos on his arms. After some banter back and forth, Les holds up his hands for silence.
“So,” he begins, “Marty and I … but mostly Marty … decided it was time to take our relationship with Betsy to the next level.”
“Oh, dear,” Diane says.
“There is a time-honored tradition among aviators, a rich and colorful history perhaps best illustrated during World War II. To that end, we conscripted Darrin here”—he gestures toward Mr. Tattoo—“to create a piece of nose art for Betsy worthy of her mission.” He nods at Marty and Darrin, and the three of them move the cloth partitions aside, revealing a stunning two-foot-by-two-foot airbrushed image on the nose of the plane, just forward of the cockpit windows.
Marty stands posed, like a magician gesturing toward his assistant after a particularly brilliant piece of magic. He’s greeted by silence.
“Is that … Betsy Ross?” Jimmy asks after an uncomfortable pause.
“Of course it is,” Marty says impatiently. “See, she’s sewing the flag.”
I don’t know what textbooks Marty and Les had when they were going to school, but my mental image of Betsy Ross is that of a gray-haired grandma huddled over her needle and thread—not a young vixen busting out of her colonial blouse.
But who am I to complain?
“That’s impressive work,” I say to Darrin, and I really mean it. The picture is rich with detail, and the name Betsy arching over the top finishes the piece in handsome fashion.
“Very nice,” Jimmy admits, giving a little clap. “Technically speaking, you just defaced government property, but I’m good with that.”
There’s nothing but silence from Diane.
She’s still studying the nose art, her eyes walking over it in random patterns as she takes in every detail. She huffs, crosses her arms with her coffee cup perched on her finger, and then huffs again. Finally she speaks: “Could you make her breasts any bigger?” She takes another sip of coffee, shakes her head, and then turns and starts back to the conference room.
She’s halfway across the hangar when Marty blurts, “Uh-huh! Yes, we could!” throwing as much indignation into the words as he can muster.
Diane keeps walking.
* * *
An hour later, Jimmy and I are driving back to Lynden when we remember the masking tape. Swinging Gus through a U-turn, I steer the Mini Cooper toward the nearest hardware store.
We ride in silence for a few minutes, each absorbed in our own thoughts. There’s something I want to run by Jimmy—partly for his opinion, but mostly because I don’t want to blindside him. He’s my partner. I’ve been searching for the right time and the right words, but they haven’t come, so I just blurt it out.
“About my trip with Heather tomorrow—”
“I really am sorry about that,” Jimmy says, cutting me off. “You’re right about this ridiculous schedule we keep. Sometimes it’s just hard—”
I stop him midsentence. “We’re good. I’m not mad.”
“Then … what about your trip?”
I look at him in the passenger seat and realize that I’m biting my lower lip. Taking a deep breath, I exhale all at once, blowing out seven words with the wind: “I’m going to tell Heather about shine.”
There it is; fast and simple.
His reaction isn’t what I expected.
“That’s your call, Steps. You know how much I like Heather, so I wouldn’t even think of trying to talk you out of it.” He suddenly grins. “What that girl sees in you I’ll never know, but you have a good thing going. She’s a rare person. Someone you can talk to when it gets rough.” He looks out the passenger window as the buildings flicker by. “It’s a big secret to carry around.” His voice is subdued, introspective. “It gets old sometimes … don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” It’s a simple affirmation, but Jimmy knows my
heart and soul are in that single word. Then I drop the next bombshell: “I’m going to marry Heather.”
“You asked her?” Jimmy practically howls, reaching over the stick shift and punching my arm repeatedly. His eyes are giant crystal marbles, and if he smiles any wider his cheekbones are going to have to contort.
“No,” I say with a chuckle, rubbing my arm, “it’s too soon. But she’s the one—sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself.”
Jimmy’s hand is on my shoulder and he’s still grinning. “Well, if you need my blessing, you have it.”
“Gee, thanks, Dad.”
He slaps the back of my head. Then his eyes suddenly go big again. “Wait till Jane hears!—and Diane! Holy crap, she’s going to come unglued.”
“Don’t you dare tell either of them, not yet.”
“My lips are sealed,” Jimmy says solemnly. He runs an imaginary zipper across his mouth, which he then locks, placing the invisible key in his pocket. With some friends, such a promise would be broken within the hour. But Jimmy and I live in a world of secrets. This one’s easy by comparison.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Belen, New Mexico—September 8, 1:30 A.M.
Concealing darkness lies upon the street.
The homes thereon are cast into shadow, with only the angles showing real depth. All else falls away into the grays and blacks of night, the intangible veil that separates the seen from the unseen, muting color, and erasing detail and contrast. Quiet reigns, for it is well beyond the witching hour.
Yet not all is still.
Some shadows move.
The opening between the door and the frame gapes wide, providing ample room for the thin blade as it scrapes across the brass strike plate. Finding the latch, the tip of the knife digs in, wiggling and prying until the bolt loosens its grip and slides free. The door groans as it swings open an inch and abruptly stops. Quiet follows … waiting … listening. At length, the soft hiss of compressed gases issues from the top hinge, and is repeated at the middle and bottom hinges.
The air suddenly tastes of oil.
As the door begins to move again, the hinges are silent. The opening widens into blackness, pressed there by a dark hand. When it comes to a stop, the house lies still. For a full minute this unmoving silence continues, as if the very night is listening for disturbances within.
