by Todd Ritter
She scrolled through the options until she came to a listing for chloroform.
“Look at this,” she said. “One-stop shopping.”
A few lines below the chloroform was a listing for formaldehyde. Kat clicked once more and was offered a plethora of amounts, ranging from ten milliliters to one liter.
“One or two orders from a site like that and you could amass a pretty good supply,” she said. “Not to mention picking up some chloroform on the side.”
“Especially,” Tony added, “if you’re ordering from different places at the same time.”
“Contact these companies,” Nick said. “All of them. Subpoena their records. Get their order information. If anyone sent anything to Perry Hollow, I want to know about it.”
“Do you think it’ll help?” Kat asked.
A voice from the doorway piped up. “I think I can be of help.”
All three of them turned from Kat’s computer to the office door, where Henry Goll stood. A cardboard box filled his arms.
“I found this outside my door this morning,” he said. “It’s from whoever murdered George Winnick.”
“How do you know?” Kat asked.
Entering the office, Henry placed the box on her desk before thrusting his hands deep inside it. When he pulled them out, Kat saw that he was holding the smallest fax machine she had ever seen.
Henry placed the fax machine gently on the chief’s desk. Removed from its box, it resembled a regular fax machine, only flatter, more narrow, and with a futuristic sheen. A panel of buttons ran along the front and a slot at the top allowed the faxes to roll out. A small tray for paper sat at the bottom.
“Where’s the cord?” Kat asked.
“It’s portable,” Henry said. “And wireless. It works like a cell phone. You can send a fax from anywhere to anywhere, no cords required.”
The three other people in the room looked at him quizzically, wondering how he knew this. The reason was simple—he had read about the device in The New York Times a month earlier. It was one of those puff pieces—half article, half advertisement—that every newspaper had been reduced to. People who owned one gushed about how fantastic it was to send and receive actual paper faxes on the beach in the Seychelles and in the far reaches of the Andes.
The machine fascinated Chief Campbell, who knelt until she was eye level with the front panel.
“I had no idea they made these. Technology sure is something.”
“I think it’s a little excessive.”
That was spoken by the man standing next to Kat. Henry recognized him from the previous night at the funeral home.
“Nick,” Kat told the stranger, “this is Henry Goll. He’s the one who found George Winnick’s death notice. And Henry, this is Nick Donnelly. He’s with—”
“The state police,” Henry said.
Nick Donnelly tried to laugh it off but failed. “Is it really that obvious?”
“And this,” Kat said, “is Trooper Tony Vasquez.”
Henry shook the hand of Trooper Vasquez, whose muscles were as large as his own. Gesturing to his uniform, the trooper said, “I really am that obvious.”
As they spoke, Nick produced a handkerchief and used it to lift the fax machine. Tilting it gently, he examined the sides and the bottom.
“There used to be a serial number on it,” he said. “Someone did a good job of removing it.”
He let everyone see the oblong metal tag attached to the bottom of the machine. Of the dozen numbers printed on it, only the outer two were visible. The rest had been scratched out.
Placing the machine on the desk again, Nick turned it on. It started quickly and silently, so unlike the fax machine Henry used at work. Still using the handkerchief, Nick slid the empty paper tray out of the bottom.
“I need some paper,” he said. “Let’s see if it really was delivered by a killer.”
Kat handed him a blank sheet, which Nick deposited into the tray. The chief then grabbed a folder off her desk and pulled out another piece of paper. Henry saw a single sentence neatly typed across its length. A few glimpsed key words—George Winnick, Perry Hollow, March 14—told him all he needed to know. Kat was holding the death notice Henry had discovered the day before.
All of them trailed her out of her office and to the dispatcher’s desk at the end of the hall.
“I need your help, Lou,” Kat said. “You’re better at faxing than I am.”
The dispatcher shuffled to a fax machine in the corner. It was much larger than the one sitting on the chief’s desk and at least a decade older. When the machine was turned on, it responded with an elderly hum.
Kat handed Lou the paper and pointed to the upper left corner. “Send it to that number.”
“Where will it go?”
“Hopefully,” Kat said, “to my office.”
A nervous hush fell over the group as the dispatcher punched in the number and pressed send.
Five seconds passed.
Then ten.
Finally, they heard it—a subtle whirring that emanated from Kat’s office. It was followed by a click as paper was moved into place. After that came more whirring as the fax was being printed.
Henry led the pack back to the office and was first to the door. He immediately looked to the desk, where the fax machine sat. And sliding out of it was a lone page that bore a lone sentence.
George Winnick, 67, of Perry Hollow, Pa., died at
10:45 P.M. on March 14.
Confirming the origins of the fax machine set off a flurry of activity that Henry observed from the doorway. Nick Donnelly immediately picked up the machine, put it back in its box, and thrust the whole package into Trooper Vasquez’s open arms.
“Take this to Rudy,” he ordered. “Tell him to dust it, scan it, and find out where the hell it came from.”
As the trooper fled the room, Nick and Kat turned to Henry. The lieutenant’s gaze was especially intense, zeroing in on Henry’s scar and tracing its path across his face.
“Where did you find this again?” he asked.
“I already told you,” Henry said. “Outside my door. This morning.”
“Does anyone else know about it?” It was Chief Campbell this time, matching Nick in intensity.
“No. I brought it directly here.”
“Why do you think the killer would give it to you?” Nick asked.
Henry shrugged. “For the same reason he faxed me a death notice—he’s playing a game.”
“Do you know much about that?”
“I used to be a reporter,” Henry said. “I’ve seen my share of crime. And I’ve heard all the legends about killers sending things to newspapers. Son of Sam. The Zodiac Killer.”
“And you think George Winnick’s killer is following suit?”
“That’s my best guess.”
“But he didn’t send this fax machine to the newspaper,” Kat said. “He sent it to you, Henry. Right to your doorstep. Which means—”
The killer knew where he lived. Henry had already come up with that chilling thought on his own.
“And the death notice,” Kat continued. “That wasn’t sent to the newsroom. It was faxed to your office.”
Henry knew what was coming next, and he didn’t want to hear it.
Kat said it anyway. “Maybe police protection is in order. I’m concerned about your safety.”
“I’m not,” Henry said.
He was a private man. He didn’t want that privacy shattered by a bunch of cops, even if they were trying to keep him safe. Yes, the events of the past two days left him feeling scared. But the idea of constantly being watched and monitored frightened him even more.
“There’s nothing to suggest I’m being targeted,” he said. “It’s not like I was sent a death notice with my name on it.”
“Not yet,” Kat replied.
“Even if that happens, I can take care of myself.”
Henry sensed a presence at his back as he spoke. At first, he thought it wa
s his imagination running at full gallop. All of Kat’s talk about madmen and unseen threats would make anyone paranoid. But when he turned around, he saw there was indeed someone standing just behind him. It was a deputy, his pudgy frame slumped with exhaustion.
“Sorry to interrupt, Chief,” he said.
Henry was grateful for it, especially since Kat’s attention turned from him to the deputy in her doorway.
“What is it, Carl?”
“I found something in those old police records.”
“What?”
“A fourteen-year-old was charged with animal cruelty twenty years ago. Apparently, he killed two cats with a baseball bat before skinning them.”
“Sounds like a swell kid,” Kat said, her face blanching. “Does he still live here?”
The deputy nodded.
“Then what’s his name?”
“Chief,” he said, “it’s Lucas Hatcher.”
THIRTEEN
If Perry Hollow had possessed tracks, Lucas Hatcher would have lived on the wrong side of them. The Hatcher residence, like every house on the block, was a reminder of the town’s not-too-distant past. Gentrification had yet to reach the neighborhood. All the homes remained the way they had been after Perry Mill’s closure—a shambles.
Stepping onto the front porch, Kat saw the shotgun hole was still there, offering a glimpse of rotting plywood beyond it. Knowing the Hatchers as well as she did, Kat suspected years would pass before it was patched.
Lucas’s mother met her at the door. A reed-thin woman in a flannel nightgown, she rolled her bloodshot eyes when she saw Kat’s uniform.
“Is this about the shotgun?” she asked. “He was only out here ’cause I told him to be.”
Kat assured Mrs. Hatcher that wasn’t the reason for the visit. “Is Lucas home now?”
“He’s at work.”
That surprised Kat. Lucas never struck her as the type of guy who would be gainfully employed.
“And where’s that?”
“Oak Knoll Cemetery.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll look for him there.”
Located on the western end of town, the cemetery was as old as Perry Hollow itself and served as the final resting place for most of its residents. If you spent your life in town, chances were you’d spend death there as well. Kat’s parents were buried there, as well as her grandparents. And she suspected that when the time came, it would be her resting place, too.
As she steered the Crown Vic into the cemetery’s gravel parking lot, Nick eyed the wrought-iron gate that loomed over the entrance
“This is where Lucas Hatcher works?”
“So his mother tells me.”
The cemetery was abandoned at that hour. No other vehicles were in the parking lot, and when passing through the gate, Kat saw no one, heard no one. The only noise was the crunch of their footsteps and the wind-rattled branches of the trees that gave the cemetery its name. But when she and Nick reached the center of the graveyard, another sound emerged—a muted rumble that came from a distant corner.
“I suspect that’s him,” Kat said.
After rounding a marble crypt, she caught sight of Lucas Hatcher. He was manning a small excavator, which dug up ragged chunks of brown snow. Seeing Kat, he stopped digging and hopped off the machine.
“You again,” he said.
“Yep. Me again.”
Before the previous night, the last time Kat and Lucas had talked was during his arrest for armed robbery three years earlier. His target was the town’s only liquor store, and he had done everything right. Sunglasses, hat, and wig to disguise his appearance. Platform boots to disguise his height. He dismantled the surveillance cameras, avoided the obviously marked large bills, and made sure the owner didn’t have a gun of his own. He would have made a clean getaway if it hadn’t been for his mother. In an act of ironic timing, she entered the store during the holdup to buy a six-pack and recognized his voice.
“I see you’re gainfully employed,” Kat said. “How’d you land this gig?”
“The warden put in a good word.”
“That was nice of him. Guess you made a big impression. How’s the pay?”
In truth, Kat was asking if he made enough money that he could avoid committing armed robbery again. Lucas knew it, too, and sneered his answer.
“I do well enough.”
Despite the cold, his face was flushed, making his massive birthmark less visible. But Kat could still see it, a large blob on the right side of his face.
“Who’s the suit?” he asked, looking past Kat to Nick Donnelly.
“A colleague. He’s going to observe while I talk to you.”
“About what?”
“George Winnick. Did you know him?”
Lucas shook his head.
“Did you know where he lived?” Kat persisted.
“No. But I know where he’ll be living soon.”
Lucas gestured to the hole he was creating. Since her arrival, Kat hadn’t thought about why he was in the cemetery that morning. But now the answer was clear. He was digging George Winnick’s grave.
“Where were you between ten and eleven Sunday night?”
“You don’t think I killed him, do you?”
Kat truly didn’t know what to think. She stared at Lucas’s eyes, at his hands, at the conspicuous birthmark. He fit the rough profile Cassie Lieberfarb had come up with. He was strong enough. He was mean enough. But was he capable of murder?
“Maybe,” she said. “I won’t know until you tell me where you were.”
“I was at the Jigsaw. I’m there every night.”
The Jigsaw, a bar on the lower end of Main Street, was a remnant from the days of the Perry Mill. Workers used to crowd the place after their shifts, drinking beer and complaining about their bosses. Now it was home to most of the town’s drunks. Kat easily pictured Lucas sitting at the bar, downing a mug of beer the size of a football while glaring at all who entered.
“Can anyone else confirm that?”
“The bartender. He could tell you.”
Kat had already decided to ask him. And until she did, there was nothing left to ask Lucas. She edged away from the fresh grave, gesturing for Nick to follow. But before she left, she offered a few words of advice to Lucas Hatcher.
“You’ll be seeing me again real soon. Until then, don’t try to pull anything like you did last night.”
“What if I do?”
“Trust me, Lucas,” Kat said. “You don’t want to piss me off.”
From the outside, the Jigsaw looked like a dingy hole-in-the-wall. The only color on its exterior came from a neon sign hanging above the door. In the shape of a circular saw, its lights blinked to make it look like it was in motion.
“Do you buy Lucas’s story?” Nick asked as they passed beneath the sign.
“Chuck will tell us soon enough.”
“Do you think he would cover for Lucas?”
Kat shook her head. “He’s not that type.”
When she entered the bar, a bell over the door started to chime. That was soon joined by another ring, but of the cell phone variety. Nick touched his jacket, feeling the vibration of the phone inside it.
“It’s probably Rudy or Vasquez,” he said, stepping back outside. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Kat headed inside, where the bar’s interior failed to be much of an improvement over the exterior. Sepia-toned photographs of Perry Mill and its blank-faced workers covered the walls. The other patrons at the bar—all two of them—looked just as weary and lost. They could have stepped directly out of one of the photographs.
A bartender waited to hit them up with another round. His name was Chuck Budman, and his barrel gut and tattooed forearms made him look like one tough customer. But Kat, who had known him all her life, frequently saw his soft side. He ran a toy drive every Christmas and volunteered monthly with Meals on Wheels. A Vietnam veteran, he rode his Harley to Washington, D.C., every Memorial Day.
&
nbsp; When he saw Kat, a friendly smile appeared above his ZZ Top beard.
“A bit early to be drinking, ain’t it, Chief?”
“Even though I could use one, that’s not what I’m here for.”
“It’s about George, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Kat said. “And about one of your regulars.”
“You think someone from Perry Hollow had something to do with his murder?”
“Maybe. That someone would be Lucas Hatcher. He said he was here the night George was killed. Is that true?”
On the bar behind Chuck was a small television turned to CNN, where a perky anchorwoman talked away. Kat normally would have ignored it, but that day she heard something that caught her attention—her own name.
“Chuck, turn that up.”
The bartender raised the volume, catching the anchorwoman in mid-spiel.
“Chief Campbell confirmed the presence of the coffin, but declined to give any more details.”
“Smack me with a chainsaw,” Chuck said. “Your name was just on TV.”
As was news of George Winnick’s murder. On national television. Kat checked the clock over the bar—a slab of pine outfitted with hands and numbers—and saw it was eleven. Her prediction of national exposure was an hour early.
“Now what about Lucas?” Chuck Budman asked after lowering the TV’s volume.
“Was he here Sunday night?”
The bartender chewed over the question like a cow did cud. “He was here. He’s here every night.”
So Lucas wasn’t lying about that, which was good for him, bad for Kat and the investigation. Still, his presence alone didn’t guarantee innocence. There was still the matter of when he was at the bar. According to Alma Winnick, George checked the barn at about ten thirty. He was probably abducted soon after that. The fax sent to Henry claimed George would be dead by ten forty-five. That meant Lucas could have done all that and still made it to the bar a little after eleven.
“Do you remember when he showed up?” Kat asked.
“Actually, I do,” Chuck said. “I was looking at the clock when the bell over the door rang. It was about ten thirty.”
“Are you sure?”
Chuck pointed to the clock. “That’s what the clock said. The clock don’t lie and neither do I.”
