Harm none argi-1

by M. R. Sellars

  “What about Seattle?”

  “Nothing,” Ben added. “If he already grabbed a kid, either it hasn’t been reported, or it happened somewhere in between here and Seattle. I’ve got a coupl’a guys workin’ on compilin’ a list right now, but that’s gonna take some time.”

  “Dammit! There has to be something.” My pace was quickening as my patience began showing wear. “There’s something there, and I’m too blind to see it.”

  “You can’t blame yourself, Rowan,” Felicity chimed.

  “Why not?” I shot back as I came to a halt and motioned to Ben and Deckert. “They’re taking me at my word on all of this. They’ve got cops all over the place watching schools all day. What if I’m wrong? What if this bastard doesn’t try to grab a kid after all? What if he kills a waitress from the local pancake house? Or a secretary? Or anyone else for that matter…Then it’s MY fault because I was wrong.”

  The room fell hushed as my diatribe ended, and the three of them watched me in concerned silence. After a long moment, the quiet was ushered from the room by the raspy sound of Detective Deckert clearing his throat.

  “Do you think you’re wrong?” he asked simply.

  I allowed his words to fade softly away before bringing my gaze up to meet their faces. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Then stop kickin’ yourself in the ass,” Ben ordered. “It’s not gonna help us figure out who this sicko is.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if anything is,” I whispered.

  “If it weren’t for you, we’d have never made the Seattle connection,” he continued. “It’s not like this asshole has been leavin’ behind a lot of clues. Trust me, even I don’t believe I’m about to say this, but right now your dreams or nightmares, or whatever the hell you call ‘em, are the best leads we’ve got. So far, you’re two for two, and that’s a damned good average in my book.”

  “But the dreams aren’t just ‘Bam, here’s the answer’, Ben,” I objected. “The clues are obscure and symbolic. Like the Seattle thing. I had that dream days ago, and it was about rain. I didn’t make the connection until I got a package from a client that’s based in Seattle, and it triggered the thought. I still don’t know what the other ones mean.”

  “So maybe you just need to relax,” Deckert volunteered.

  “Could be.” I leaned against the doorframe and let out a long sigh. “That would probably help.”

  “I don’t mean to push, especially on that note, but you mentioned somethin’ about money on the phone earlier,” Ben queried. “Any idea what it means yet?”

  “No, not yet… And there’s a perfect example of what I mean about the clues being obscure. What I saw in the dream wasn’t actually money, it was a tarot card.”

  “You mean like those fortune teller cards,” Deckert intoned.

  “Exactly.” I pushed away from the doorway and retrieved a tarot deck from the top drawer of the buffet then seated myself back at the table. “This deck belonged to my mother,” I told them as I unwrapped the square of white silk that encompassed them. “Neither Felicity nor I have ever been really into tarot, so I had to look some of this up. Ariel, on the other hand, was fascinated with it. In my dream, we were sitting at a table, and she was reading the cards for me…but not really FOR me, more like TO me.”

  “I don’t believe I’m asking this,” Ben spoke this time, “but what did she tell you?”

  “Nothing really.” I fanned the deck of seventy-two oversized cards before us and began carefully choosing those that had appeared in the dream. “I think this one represents the killer.”

  As they watched, I placed the Knight of Cups face up in the center of the table.

  “Why’s that?” Deckert asked.

  “Whenever Ariel read tarot,” I explained, “she used a method know as the Celtic Cross. The variation of the style she followed requires that the reader choose a card called a significator to represent the person being read for. This was the card she chose in the dream.”

  “So what does that tell us?”

  “If you follow the assigned, or divinatory as it’s called, meaning of the card, then it would represent a young man with light hair and eyes.”

  “Not exactly a specific description is it,” Ben ventured rhetorically.

  “She continued with this card.” I reached out and placed The Devil over the significator card. “As you would expect, this card can signify violence and black magick. In this position of the Celtic Cross, the card represents the general atmosphere surrounding the subject.” I placed The Tower across the two cards. “Next, the sixteenth card of the Major Arcana, representing an overthrow of existing ways of life, imprisonment, even death. This position shows the forces that oppose the subject of the reading.”

  “It represents us,” Felicity whispered softly.

  “That’s my guess,” I agreed. “Anyway, that’s where the reading stopped. Suddenly everything changed, and I witnessed her being murdered by a shadowy figure once again.”

  “Excuse me if I appear stupid,” Ben puzzled, “but where in the hell did ya’ get money outta that?”

  “From this card,” I answered and tossed the Seven of Pentacles face up onto the pile. “Seventh card of the suit of Pentacles, sometimes called coins. The money card. A little girl appeared in the dream and handed it to me… It recurred several times in the next nightmare as well. That’s why I think it’s important.”

  “You still just don’t know why,” Deckert volunteered.

  “Exactly.”

  At that moment, the wall clock executed its assigned task and announced the time with a loud bong. The singularity of the tone signified that it was half past the hour. The black metal hands imperceptibly rotated around its ornamental face and showed the time to be 4:30 P.M.

  “Sheesh, I didn’t realize it was gettin’ this late,” Ben announced after glancing over his shoulder at the timepiece. “I still have to get by the bank and hit the ATM.”

  The bank.

  Mentally, I turned the piece of the imaginary jigsaw puzzle in my ethereal hands. Its curved, interlocking fingers instantly took on a familiar shape, matching obviously with its mate. I pressed the fragment downward and watched it slip snugly in where it belonged.

  “That’s it,” I whispered.

  “What’s it?” Felicity asked. “Are you okay, Rowan?”

  “The bank,” I spoke more audibly. “Money. The bank. The killer works at a bank.” I turned quickly to Ben and Deckert. “The four victims. Did they go to the same bank?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben answered. “But I doubt it. They all lived in different parts of the city.”

  “I don’t know either,” Deckert admitted. “But we can find out. Ben’s probably right though. Even if they did use the same bank, that doesn’t mean they used the same branch.”

  “Let’s check it anyway,” I told them adamantly. “It has to be the connection. It just has to be.”

  Material leftovers from the lives of the four women resided within catalogued and labeled plastic bags-purses and wallets that, until the deaths of these women, had been sacred repositories of their ordinary, extraordinary, and personal items. Purses that husbands and boyfriends refused to violate, taking them instead to their loved one held at arms length and waiting patiently for her to pull that which he sought from its depths. Purses, the contents of which had now been heartlessly fondled, inspected, dusted, and inventoried by the hands of complete strangers.

  These tangible remnants, once owned by the four women, now lay neatly upon the surface of the conference table at the Major Case Squad command post. “Bagged and tagged” as Ben would often say. Dispassionately “bagged and tagged” and now waiting for Ben, Deckert, and myself to join the ranks of the prying strangers.

  “I wouldn’t bother with any credit cards,” I volunteered as they began rummaging through the contents of the clear plastic bags. “It’s going to be a checking or savings account. Something that would get them into the bank where he co
uld see them.”

  “Here’s one,” Deckert announced and tossed a worn, blue leather checkbook on the table in front of me. “It’s Ariel Tanner’s.”

  I reached for the checkbook and hesitated noticeably when he volunteered the identity of its former owner. I don’t think either of them noticed, as Ben was still searching through a bag, and Deckert had turned his attention to the next one in line. I took a deep breath in through my nose and then let it out slowly through my mouth, forcing myself to relax. Only then did I pick up the checkbook and flip open the cover.

  The checks were a simple mottled tan, a line of text boasting the fact that they had been printed on recycled paper. Across the upper left corner, ARIEL R. TANNER was imprinted in bold black letters, her address and phone number followed beneath in slightly smaller type. Just above the memo line was a shadowy, stylized logo of a domed building bisected by a line of sturdy type.

  “Capitol Bank of Missouri,” I read aloud.

  “Same here,” Ben echoed, peering up from the checkbook he was holding, then added, “Ellen Gray.”

  My heart started to race. Thus far, two of the four women had used the same bank. While there were several branch offices throughout the metropolitan area, it was easily possible they had both visited the same one at some point in time. My theory with regard to the last two nightmares was being proven true.

  “This is it,” I exclaimed. “I was right. This is the connection.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Deckert interrupted, a sagging frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Community Bank of Overmoor.” He waved the grey vinyl-covered checkbook at me. “Karen Barnes.”

  “Westview Federal Savings,” Ben recited in a dejected tone. “Darla Radcliffe… Sorry, Rowan… It was a hell of a try though.”

  My rising bubble of elation had been abruptly punctured by Detective Deckert, and as I began dropping back toward earth, Ben ripped a mile wide tear in the fabric that sent me crashing. There were three different banks between the four victims. I didn’t understand. That piece of the puzzle had fit in so perfectly. I couldn’t be wrong.

  “Can I see those?” I asked tonelessly as I dropped into a chair.

  The two solemn detectives quietly slid the checkbooks across the table to me. I reached out and picked up the first one. I opened the pebbly-surfaced grey vinyl to reveal the happily colored pastel checks imprinted with the names RICHARD H. BARNES and KAREN L. BARNES. The dark black logo for the Community Bank of Overmoor stood out in hard contrast against the dusty blue background, wordlessly telling me I was wrong.

  I sat holding the rectangular booklet of smooth paper and grainy plastic. Something simply didn’t feel right. I ran my fingers over the checks, tracing the lines imprinted on their faces. They were crisp and clean. The cover felt stiff and new, unsullied by repeated use. I could even detect a faint chemical odor, like that of vinyl upholstery. On a hunch, I flipped open the register occupying the other half of the checkbook and pored over the first line.

  “This is a new account,” I voiced immediately, turning the register to them. “Look at this. According to the starting balance, it was opened less than a month ago.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Deckert muttered as he stared at the date.

  “I’m willing to bet they had an account at Capitol Bank,” I volunteered.

  “I’ll call the husband,” he stated, taking the checkbook from my outstretched hand.

  The call was short and bittersweet. While I was glad that I didn’t have to be the one charged with calling the dead woman’s husband, at the same time, I felt for him.

  “You were right,” Deckert affirmed as he dropped the handset back into its cradle. “They closed their account at Capitol earlier this month.”

  “I hate to rain on your parade, guys, but this account isn’t new.” Ben had been reviewing Darla Radcliffe’s checkbook once again and now waved it at us as we turned our attention to him. “Look at the date code next to ‘er name. She opened this account over four years ago.”

  I wasn’t going to give up. Three of the victims had used the same bank, and it had to be the connection. This was the clue that was going to identify the killer; I was sure of it. The fact that the fourth victim had conducted her business with a different bank couldn’t be allowed to dispel my theory.

  My mind raced, briefly touching upon each of the catalogued facts it held and lingering momentarily on the ones that triggered a thought. Two of the victims were single, one separated, and one married. Ariel Tanner was single, and she was killed in her apartment. Karen Barnes was married, and she was killed in the park. Ellen Gray was separated, living alone. She was killed in her home. Darla Radcliffe was single, and she was killed in her apartment.

  “He didn’t want to chance a confrontation,” I muttered thoughtfully to myself.

  “What’s that?” Deckert looked up at the sound of my voice.

  “Just thinking out loud,” I told him. “One of the victims was married, one separated, and the other two were single, right?”

  “Yeah,” Ben chimed. “So?”

  “So Karen Barnes was killed outside of her home where she would most likely be away from her husband,” I continued. I wasn’t even sure what I was driving at myself, but voicing it seemed to be helping my thoughts take on a recognizable shape. “The other three were killed in their homes.”

  “Go on,” Deckert seemed intrigued.

  “Well, if I’m right, and the killer does work at a bank, then he would have access to information about the victims, and he would know their marital status.”

  “So you figure he used that info to avoid being interrupted by someone who could kick his ass,” Deckert submitted.

  “Yeah, I guess something like that.”

  “While that makes sense,” Ben agreed, “it still doesn’t wash, ‘cause we just established that Darla Radcliffe didn’t use the same bank as the other three.”

  A fact, at the same time both obvious and insignificant passed quickly through my mind. Mentally, I stopped and flipped backwards through the imaginary file. “Darla Radcliffe had a roommate, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” Ben answered, absently snapping open his notebook and paging through it. “Butler. Wendy Butler. They both worked for the same airline. She wasn’t home though. She was fillin’ in on a flight for…” His words trailed off as the pieces started falling into place.

  “…Her roommate,” I completed the sentence. “Wendy Butler has an account at Capitol Bank. She was supposed to be victim number four.” I tossed the last comment out on the table and waited silently for a reaction.

  “She’s stayin’ with her parents,” Ben stated, as Deckert dialed the phone, glancing over at the proffered notebook for the number.

  No other words had been spoken since my remark, and in the stillness of the room, I could hear the faint buzz from the handset as the phone rang at the other end. After a few brief seconds that pretended to encompass lifetimes, I detected a click followed by a distant voice.

  “Miz Butler, this is Detective Carl Deckert with the Major Case Squad…” He spoke into the mouthpiece while Ben and I listened patiently, “…I’m fine, thank you…Listen, I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you a question…”

  Just as he had done earlier in the call to Karen Barnes’ husband, Detective Deckert came quickly to the point. A repeated apology and a “goodbye” later, he settled the handset back on its base. His gaze had remained on me from the moment he had asked the woman where she did her banking. It still hadn’t wavered.

  “Bingo,” he affirmed. “Wendy Butler has had an account with Capitol Bank for about two years.”

  “See if you can find out who we need ta’ contact for employee records,” Ben told him hurriedly. “I’ll see about a warrant just in case we need it.”

  Deckert nodded and reached for the phone once again. His hand stopped midway in the air, and we all turned with a start as the door to the small conference room swung open and
another detective poked his head in.

  “Storm, Deckert,” he spoke urgently, “we just got a call from the Sherman police chief. They’ve got a seven-year-old girl that never made it home from school.”

  CHAPTER 20

  How the hell did this happen?!” Ben was saying. “Did they have their heads up their asses or somethin’?!”

  We were no longer cloistered away in the small conference room, and his angry voice pierced through the veil of noisy activity going on around us. It was a certainty that the other members of the Major Case Squad heard him, but they continued about their assigned duties with no perceptible hesitation.

  Deckert, somewhat calmer than Ben, pressed the other detective, “Did anyone actually see the kid get snatched?”

  “No,” he answered. “At least no one that they’ve talked to. They’re searching the area right now, but it doesn’t look very promising…They found her book bag, but that’s about it.”

  “Dammit, they shoulda been expecting somethin’ like this! We told them…” Ben continued his semi-contained explosion, “What did they give us on the kid? What’s ‘er name?”

  “You’re not gonna believe it when I tell you,” the other officer returned. “It’s kind of a strange coincidence.”

  “Ariel,” I announced flatly from behind them. “The little girl’s name is Ariel.”

  “Yeah, weird isn’t it? He looked past Ben and Deckert at me. “How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “Anyway,” he continued, “she’s seven years old, just started the second grade. Shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, and she was last seen wearing a blue dress. Denim, the mother said.”

  “Just a second.” Ben looked quickly at his watch. “You said she never made it home from school. When was she reported missin’?”

  “According to the call, she got out of school at around three-forty and should have been home by four. The mother went looking and couldn’t find her, so she called it in at a quarter after.”