She'll Never Live

by Hunter Morgan

  "Well, I don't want a gold badge shaped like a star," Graham said. "But I thought I might be able to help you out in some way."

  His words immediately put her on the defense. "The way you helped me tonight at the meeting by jumping in and stating your support of me and my keeping my job". She emphasized her last words.

  He grimaced. "Just come right out and tell me how you feel, Claire."

  "Sorry. I'm a little edgy. If you were in my position, you'd be, too."

  "No need to apologize. I've always admired you for the fact that you will come out and say what you think. You're a lot like your dad in that respect."

  His comment made her smile. After Katharine Hepburn, she'd always wanted to be her dad. Until two months ago, she thought she'd been on her way.

  "Anyway, I apologize for not speaking up at the meeting." Done with his popcorn, he brushed his hands together. "It's just that in the last week, I've pissed off a lot people on the subject of how this investigation should be handled and by whom. I just thought it might be politic to keep my mouth shut tonight and keep my job."

  She didn't say anything, but the look they exchanged set them on even ground again.

  "So..." He put his hands together fingertips to fingertips. "The reason I came by was to tell you I support you and to see if you'd like some help thinking through this whole thing. I know you've been working long hours and it's got to be frustrating, seeming to get nowhere. I wondered if maybe you'd like a fresh perspective."

  Claire dropped the bag of popcorn on the end table, sliding forward to the edge of the couch. "You guys met after the town meeting, didn't you? The council. The mayor."

  He nodded.

  "They really want to fire me? It's not just gossip?"

  He frowned. "You didn't hear this from me, of course."

  "Of course."

  "They weren't so much talking of firing you as not renewing your contract. A prominent citizen is really putting the pressure on them."

  "Who?" she demanded.

  He frowned. "You know I'm not at liberty to say."

  "Isn't that discussion a little premature? My contract doesn't come up for renewal for another six months." She shot off the couch. "How dare they start talking about not renewing my contract now. Now, of all times." She opened her arms in frustration and let them fall to her sides, pacing in front of the coffee table. "What? They think I'm not trying to find this creep? They think this is easy? Do they have any idea how hard it is to find a killer who leaves no evidence behind?" She ticked off on her fingers, getting louder with each word. "No fibers, no fingerprints. Nothing in two months but one freaking umbrella!"

  "Claire—"

  "And no witnesses, of course. No one has seen a thing. It's like these women just disappear off the face of the earth. Zoop." She gestured, drawing her hand skyward. "Gone with one of Ralph's alien friends."

  "Claire," he repeated calmly. "I didn't say I agreed with them."

  "One week." She shook her finger at him and turned on the balls of her stocking feet to reverse directions. "I'd like to see any of them do my job for one week. Do they have any idea how hard it is to go to a woman's house, sit on the couch beside her, hold her hand, and tell her that we've found her daughter's body beside a dumpster??"

  "Claire—"

  "It's Morris, isn't it?" She eyed Graham. "He wants me out. You know, he never wanted to hire me to begin with. Misogynist pr—" She cut herself off. "Never hire a woman to do a man's job," she mimicked.

  "Claire, they can't get rid of you right now, not without a breach of contract lawsuit and they know it."

  "You're right." She sat down again and leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees, resting her chin in her hands. Suddenly she felt overwhelmed and surprisingly close to tears. She'd had such plans for herself in this job, in this town. How could it all be going down the toilet like this?

  "I think this man lives here," Graham said quietly. "He's one of us. We eat with him, chat with him in line at the drugstore. We sit by him in the movie theater."

  Claire lifted her head, pulling herself out of her moment of self-pity. "What makes you say that?" She was immediately intrigued because she agreed with him. Everyone else, her detectives, the townspeople, even her father thought they needed to cast a wider net, looking for suspects. But she knew they were wrong. She knew it was someone close to her, to everyone in the town.

  Then a crazy thought passed through her head. What if Graham was the killer?

  Just last night she'd been reading about a case in Indiana. The serial killer/pedophile had actually taunted local police forces by making contact with investigators—placing phone calls and even going into the police station. He had pretended to be offering help on cases of dead or missing children, just to prove he was smarter than everyone else.

  Graham had appeared at her doorstep, uninvited, late at night. He was attractive. Friendly. Claire had done her homework on the Internet and through publications made available by the FBI for law enforcement agencies. Serial killers who took victims without leaving behind a sign of struggle almost always had charm. They lulled their victims into trusting them and then struck.

  Claire looked at Graham, eyeing her Beretta in its holster on the edge of the couch. Then she almost laughed aloud. She was really losing it now. Graham Simpson a serial killer? Graham Simpson, the city councilman? The president of the chamber of commerce? Graham Simpson who dressed up each year in a Santa costume and rode on the Kiwanis's float in the town's Christmas parade?

  There was gossip around town that he didn't even like women. That he was gay and that was why he had never remarried after the death of his wife. Claire didn't know if that was true or not, though she found it unlikely. What she did know was that this man was not a serial killer.

  "What makes you say he's one of us?" she asked again quietly, sliding forward on edge of the couch. "Can I get you something to drink? Orange juice? Diet Pepsi? Gin, maybe?"

  He laughed. "No. I'm fine, thanks." He, too, slid forward a little in his chair, closing the space between them. "I think this killer is someone from around here, someone we're familiar with, because no one has seen anything. We're used to this guy. We might have seen him, seen something, and we don't even know it."

  "Kind of like not being able to find the mustard in the fridge because it's right there every time you open the door?"

  He chuckled. "Something like that."

  "Okay, he's one of us. A local, not a tourist. Not a drifter. I agree with you for just the reasons you stated." She nodded in his direction. "Now, tell me what else you think."

  "All of the women were blondes with blue eyes. Young, but not girls. I think there's someone in his life, or was someone who these women he is kidnapping remind him of."

  "Like?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. An old girlfriend? A woman who spurned him? His mother?"

  "Mother is classic in cases like this. You'd be amazed at how many ways a mother can screw up a kid's head."

  "Maybe this woman, his mother, sexually abused him."

  "He doesn't seem to be touching these women in sexual ways. He ties them up to restrain them. Gags them to keep them quiet, but I don't think it's about sex."

  "Oh, it's always about sex. Everything is, really."

  Claire didn't know why, but that struck her as funny. She liked this man. She liked the way he thought.

  "So how do you think I can catch him? Because I need to catch him, Graham, and I have to do it fast."

  "Because the state task force that's supposed to be convening is going to take over your investigation."

  "I don't even care about that." She gave a wave. "Well, I do, but for God's sake, he's going to kill again." She met his gaze. Green. His eyes were green. "And I'm afraid it will be soon."

  "I hate to say it, but I agree. Now, I think you need to go over all your notes, trying to look at them from a new angle."

  "Your angle, you mean."

  He tilted his he
ad in a cute, Clark Kent way. "If you'll let me help, I'd like to."

  He sounded so sincere. So... without any ulterior motives.

  But in Claire's line of work, she had learned not to trust anyone at face value. Not trusting anyone at all was sometimes easier. But then she had found that path to lead to a lonely life.

  "Just tell me you'll think about it," Graham prodded when she didn't respond. He got to his feet. "Give it a day or two. Roll it around in your noodle."

  Her noodle? This was Clark Kent.

  Claire rose, realizing all of sudden that she was dead on her feet. "Okay," she said, walking him to the front door. "I'll give it some thought."

  He stepped out onto the porch. "I wish you would because this is the best excuse for coming by... for calling you, I've had in the last year."

  She looked at him, frowning. "Your best excuse?"

  "I've wanted to ask you out for at least a year." He stuffed his hands in his pants' pockets, but he didn't look away. "Just too chicken."

  He laughed and she found herself laughing with him. Usually, the minute the word date came up in a conversation, she sent the would-be Romeo packing, but she couldn't bring herself to tell Graham to take a hike. He was just being way too damned cute about this.

  She cut her eyes slyly at him. "Now, wait a minute. Does that mean you're really not interested in helping me out with this case?"

  "No, no, no." He waved a hand. "I always wanted to be Sherlock Holmes, growing up. I'm actually pretty good at this kind of stuff. I always figure out who did it before the end of the book."

  She leaned on the doorjamb. "This isn't a book, Graham. It's real," she said softly. "Real women are being murdered."

  His voice reflected her tone of seriousness. "I know that, Claire. And I really do appreciate all your hard work. I know you'll catch this guy. I... I just want to help."

  "And get me to agree to go out with you?" she teased.

  "Okay, maybe that, too." He backed down the porch steps. "Think about it. I'll call you."

  "'Night."

  His wave was more of a salute. He climbed into his Volvo sedan, backed around her cruiser, and disappeared into the darkness down the long, dark driveway.

  Claire smiled to herself as she leaned on the doorjamb watching the headlights fade. So, Graham Simpson was interested in her. She didn't know why, but that tickled her. After her divorce, she'd dated a fellow state policeman, now at headquarters in Dover. He was older than she was, senior to her. No kids. No desire to have anything more from a woman than a bed partner and occasionally a sparring partner. It had been doomed from the start.

  But she'd loved Kurt. And even though she had been the one to break up with him, she still missed him. Missed him enough not to have even been slightly interested in another man in the last year.

  Until tonight when one appeared on her doorstep.

  Still smiling, she went into the house, locked the door, set the security alarm, and returned to the living room to clean up the evidence of her meal selection. Fifteen minutes later she was in bed with the lights out. She had to get some sleep or she knew she wasn't going to be able to get through this.

  But sleep didn't come easily. Not when she knew there was a man somewhere in her town preparing to kill again.

  * * *

  It was over, and the Bloodsucker was spent. He was tired and he had a nagging headache. He was hungry, too. Working his shift, then going to the town meeting, then coming back to the barn to finish here had made for a long day. Seated at the picnic table in front of Brandy, he leaned forward, letting his head fall to his hands on the rough boards. He knew he needed to get going if he was going to take care of the disposal tonight, but he wanted to rest for a minute. The women were all exhilarating, but tiring, too. That was something you never saw on TV—how tiring women could be.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking about Brandy, about her blood. He let the thought envelop him. Consume him. For him, blood was the elixir of life.

  Max whined and the Bloodsucker opened his eyes. The brown mutt pushed his cool, wet nose into his master's limp hand and the Bloodsucker smiled. "You're right, boy. No time to rest. I've got work tomorrow."

  With a sigh, he used his hands to push away from the table and climb off the bench. He gazed across the table to study Brandy in the light of the camp lantern. She looked so pale... so peaceful. Death truly did become her. More than life. In life, what had she been? A trashy, cigarette smoking, martini drinking temp in a going-nowhere job? But in death... in death, she was—tears of joy filled his eyes at the thought of it—so lovely...

  Unable to take his eyes off her, he reached for a fresh pair of latex gloves from the box on the end of the table. There was a stack of plastic drop cloths there, too. He'd use them for the transportation and then burn them along with the jumpsuit he wore and the bloody sawdust.

  It was a lot of work, the disposal and cleanup. He tugged back his long sleeve under the plastic jumpsuit sleeve and checked his watch. One in the morning. Where had the night gotten to? If he disposed of her tonight, he'd barely have time to clean up his car, get a shower and get to work on time. He bit down on his lower lip in indecision. Once they were dead, they were dumped immediately, before they began to smell, before their lovely skin began to putrefy. It was the rule. But as long as he got rid of her in twenty-four hours he'd be all right, wouldn't he? And it wasn't as if anyone around here was looking for her. Shoot, it might be days before anyone even realized she was missing. So what if she didn't show up for work? She was just a temp. Temps were no-shows all the time. Chances were, her car, left in the bar parking lot, would draw more attention than her disappearance. No one would even realize she was missing until the plates were run, her family in Jersey was contacted.

  The Bloodsucker had all the time in the world.

  Taking one last look at Brandy, he grabbed the camp lantern. "Come on, Max," he called. "We're going to bed."

  Chapter 4

  "Morning, Chief," a young, dark-haired man sweeping cigarette butts off the sidewalk greeted.

  "Morning, José." As Claire approached the diner, she put her cell phone on vibrate and hooked it onto her belt. She was waiting for a return phone call from her ex. Of course she'd been waiting a week for his return call. His child support payment was late. Again. So she'd just called him again this morning. His wife, Rochelle, said he was in the shower, but that he would call her right back. By Claire's calculation, the man either took a lot of showers these days, or they were rather long showers. That was what wife number two had said the last three times Claire had called.

  "How you making out alone, José?"

  José had lived with his grandmother on a rundown farm on the outside of town until she had died at Christmastime. He had inherited the old house they lived in, but Claire was concerned he wouldn't be able to afford the upkeep in taxes, despite working two jobs—one here at Loretta's diner cleaning, and the other at the hospital where he was a night shift janitor.

  "Good." He nodded, continuing to sweep. "I got myself a dog to keep me company."

  "Did you?" She stopped at the door.

  Through the glass José had just cleaned, she could see Seth Watkins at the cash register. He was one of those men she had to tell to take a hike at least once a week. He was also on her list of possible suspects. The good old, clean-cut football star had had a run-in with the police in Las Vegas a few years back. One involving a recording device and women unsuspectingly peeing for his entertainment. She still didn't know whether to be horrified or amused. The older she got, the less surprised she was about anything anyone did.

  "And how are your classes at the college coming?" Claire asked José, stalling for time, hoping she could somehow avoid Seth. She seriously considered borrowing the janitor's Salisbury Shorebirds ball cap and grabbing his broom. If she kept her eyes averted, maybe the urine-fetish realtor wouldn't see her.

  Fat chance. He had already spotted her and was barreling straight
for her.

  "Good, Chief. Taking economics and calculus." José looked up from beneath his ball cap with kind, dark eyes. "Nice of you to ask."

  "Well, you have a good day."

  Seth held the door open for her. She had no choice but to walk into the diner.

  "Good morning, Claire."

  She usually didn't mind people calling her by her first name, even when she was in uniform. It was a small, close-knit town, especially in the winter when the vacationers went home, the boardwalk all but closed down, and they were left with nothing but a cold, wet winter ahead and each other. However, there were some people she would have preferred to have not been on a first name basis with, ever, and Seth was one of them.

  "Good morning, Seth."

  "Looks like it's going to be another hot one," he said, slipping his knock-off designer sunglasses on.

  "Looks like it."

  "Hey, you need a pen?" He plucked one out of the breast pocket of his yellow polo.

  Claire made it a habit to never trust men who wore polo shirts with pockets.

  He waved the fluorescent pink pen in front of her nose. "Just got a new shipment in. Got my name on them, my number and such."

  She fully intended to decline, but then she thought of a photograph of evidence she had back at the station house. The third victim, Phoebe Matthews, had had one of Seth's pens in her purse when she was found dead. A lime green one. Claire didn't know how the pen might come into play with her investigation, but she knew it wouldn't hurt to have it.

  "Sure. I'd love one." She grabbed the pen and hurried past him. "Thanks. You have a great day."

  "You, too," he called after her as she let the door go and it swung shut between them.

  Inside the diner, she took a seat beside two of her officers whose breakfasts had just arrived. "Quiet night?" Claire asked. She didn't pick up a laminated menu. She already knew what she wanted.

  "Yeah, we got lucky," McCormick, the senior of the two said. He'd been on the force since just before she was hired. He was a little straight-laced for her. A little too gung-ho at times, but he was an excellent officer who had stood by her through the last eight weeks of morbid crime scenes, and as of late, a lot of finger-pointing. McCormick also had lousy luck. He'd been the first on the scene in four of the five cases attributed to the town's serial killer.