by Rick Murcer
Exiting the family room, Ginny went to the kitchen, pulled open the refrigerator, and popped open a cold beer. She sat at one of the padded barstools and contemplated further. Multiple suspects were only part of the problem. Forensics wasn’t doing so well either. There should have been more biological material to work with at the scene. Whoever killed Lance had spent some serious time on the body, maybe they’d even had sex but, for some odd reason, there wasn’t any secretion evidence of that—just her educated guess. There were no skin epithelia, hair, or follicle, or skin under the fingernails, no saliva—at least they had found none to date— apart from the victim's. Weird as hell . . . and never mind the damn snake. She’d never seen Ben pull his gun so fast. With one shot, he’d blown the black and red reptile to kingdom come. She was a big animal lover, only she hated anything that slithered. Those belly jocks could all go straight to hell in her opinion. But the question still remained: why was it there?
She took another long draw from the can. They’d already gone over Lance’s cell phone record and came up empty. There were several calls to one pay-as-you-go, and a couple more to known numbers, but nothing had panned out yet. They went to his usual haunts and talked to some of his former girlfriends and got squat. They did have one lead from one of the security cameras at Big Louie’s, his favorite bar. It showed him leaving with a blond who walked very slowly, but it could have been one of a hundred women. No one seemed to recognize her, not even the bouncers.
“Imagine that, no concrete leads,” she muttered.
Police work was always so glamorized on the boob tube, but in reality, you had to get lucky while working your ass off. She reached back with her left hand and touched her backside. God knew hers could use a little working off.
The only thing they had going for them was the medallion stuck in Lance’s mouth. The meaning wasn't exactly clear, but it could be the symbol for a cult of sun worshippers, a marijuana leaf, or Aphrodite. Her vote was for the MJ leaf. If it belonged to one of the others, they might have a serious problem. It was made with relatively expensive aluminum alloy, was gold-plated, and had to be special ordered. The problem was that it could be purchased from about twenty places on the Internet. It would take patience to run down those records and it could have been sold to any one of a thousand people in the area, or elsewhere, over an indefinite amount of time.
Draining the beer, Ginny slid off her slacks and tossed them in the laundry room as she headed for the bedroom. The fan was thumping methodically as usual and there was something else. A smell, her husband’s scent. The man was a freaking gas machine.
Ginny finished undressing, climbed into bed without turning on the light, and reached over to kiss him good night. His chilled arm caused her hand to jerk away. She jumped out of bed. She tripped over something on the floor, catching her balance as a sharp pain ran up her right shoulder. She ignored it and fumbled for the light switch, panic acting as her guide.
The ceiling light flooded the room. She stared at the scene on her bed and froze. Even a grisly veteran of hundreds of murder investigations like her can be shocked. Carl lay on the comforter, his arms crossed on his chest just above where the hilt of the corkscrew protruded. The streaked, dried blood covered his nude body from head to foot, barely covering the same spider-web pattern she’d seen decorating Lance Morgan, including the faint salt lines.
As Ginny screamed, the glint of the medallion caught her eye. She screamed again as she dropped to her knees, fighting the nausea and lightheadedness. A flash later, she lost her late dinner on the dark blue carpet. Breathing hard, she struggled to her feet, glanced at the bed again, heaved again, and then rushed to her phone on the table. She suddenly grew dizzy, lost her balance and landed on her knees a second time. Then she dropped the phone just long enough to free a wail borne of pure disbelief and agony. Finally she took control, at least enough to dial 9-1-1.
As she waited for an answer, tears streaming, Ginny Krantz was struck with the irony of her early thought. She’d been right. Kure Beach had a real problem.
CHAPTER-16
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Manny raised his knee toward his chest, felt a tiny twinge of pain, then continued to tie his black cross trainer before plopping his foot back on the floor. The small echo ricocheting from the sound made him smile. He stared at the other shoe, tied it, and repeated the process he’d managed with the first. That sound caused the grin to grow wider still. Two shoes on the floor meant two feet on the ground. That meant he was walking out of Lansing Memorial Hospital—today. They would insist on throwing him in one of those ancient wheelchairs that had been around since the Civil War and, for a change, he wouldn’t argue. Anything to get his fanny out of here and back into the real world.
Running his hand through his hair, he reflected on what he had been able to do while lying in the bed. Josh had brought in some case files, including one for the mysterious cyanide woman who claimed he’d done something to her, then killed herself. Chloe would have kicked his ass had she known. He’d asked for them anyway. Even with all of the visitors, he found time to read—and think.
The cyanide woman’s file was remarkable thin. No match for her fingerprints, no DNA match, no ID. Nothing. They had pictures of the scene in the hospital and one of the security cameras saw her walk through the door in full uniform. She must have stolen it, yet no uniforms were reported missing by the staff. Josh said they were still digging, so he’d wait. He had no choice. Still, when someone says you did something to them and they wanted to kill you, it prompted questions that needed answers.
And what of Garity’s file? Josh wanted Manny’s review and first impressions on his murder. He’d gone over Garity’s file a dozen times, staring at his attacker’s death in photos and reports, comparing them to the man’s life from his FBI personnel file.
Manny stared at the floor. He wanted to hate him, to take satisfaction that Garity was dead, and that he’d gotten what he deserved. But, oddly, he hadn’t gone there . . . much. His profession had taught him about human nature. He was convinced that people did abnormal things out of what they perceived as normal. In the end, did that make them so much different than the rest of the human race? Didn’t we all want what we wanted? Weren’t we all slaves to our motives? His real concern was with just that: Garity's motives.
After reviewing the file, he was at a loss for what had truly happened in the homicide of Michael Garity. Almost. Two bullet holes in the back of Garity's head ruled out any natural causes, but had he just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Gambling debt? Some form of ritual killing? He glanced at the other file, Lance Morgan’s. How about the fact that Garity was found in the same general area that Lance Morgan’s killer had decided to go to work? That was probably a coincidence but, at this point, he couldn’t overlook anything. Besides, he didn’t believe in coincidence.
He did want to see the rest of the toxicology report because there was one thing he noticed that no one had yet addressed: the small puncture wound just below Garity's right eye. It looked out of place. He’d talk to Alex and Dean about it when the instance was right.
The file on Morgan was the last one he’d received from Josh and, because it was the newest crime, it had the least amount of information. But there was enough there for Manny to suspect they had a true problem in North Carolina, that the killer wasn’t done. The murder was far too detailed to think this was a onetime shot. To take the time this killer had taken meant pure enjoyment or a tremendous sense of revenge. By the position of the body, its nudity, and the careful stitching around the mouth showcasing the medallion, Manny was sure there was some sort of intimate connection between Morgan and his killer—or at least, the killer’s perception of intimacy. That, with the relative ease in which the unsub got in and out with no detection, made him believe that Morgan knew the killer.
Manny threw off thoughts of any case, even Garity’s or the would-be guard who had tried to kill him, for now. There was time for that tomorrow or next w
eek. He was getting out and, by God, that was a miracle worth celebrating.
He glanced at the colorful wall calendar displaying bright-red tulips and purple lilacs that he swore he could smell, and the large green circle around April 1. It marked the fifty-fifth day he'd been tied to a hospital bed and, for him, that was about fifty-four and one half too many. April 1. More irony to digest. Leaving this place on April Fool’s Day seemed to fit with how his life had unwound the last three years. But he was still alive and he was being released from the hospital after fifty-five long days. He glanced around to make sure he was alone.
“Happy dance it is,” he said out loud.
The next second, he shuffled his feet and swung his arms back and forth, then spun in a circle like some cartoon character. He stopped, put a hand on the bed, and then touched the virtually-healed incision on his chest. The pain was minor and he guessed another dance could wait but he’d gotten one in, by God! It was worth it!
He stood and put his Detroit Tiger’s windbreaker over his shoulders as he looked into the mirror. The jacket sagged ever so slightly. He’d lost a little weight, and the dark circles under his eyes confirmed it. But his hair wasn’t gray, he still had muscle tone, and his blue eyes were still his.
“Three out of four ain’t bad,” he said, zipping the jacket halfway up.
Turning away from the mirror, he was startled to see one of the three most important women in his life standing in the doorway, wearing a smile that said she’d been there long enough.
He did a double-take, not from surprise, but from how she looked. She was wearing a low-cut, emerald blouse and a skirt that was a little shorter than usual. Her eyes were sparkling, setting off the color of her outfit. Chloe’s red hair seemed a little longer and her lips a little redder. She’d always been hot to him so he could already feel Mr. Mojo rising. No woman should look that good. She entertained the type of look that other men turned to stare at, even if their woman was beside them . . . and she was his wife.
“Nice little move there. I didn’t know you could wiggle like that,” said Chloe.
“Ahh, well, we’ve not had the opportunity to go to a disco or anything,” he said, not hiding the sheepish smile.
“We’ll have to do that. And what are ya staring at? Never seen a hot Irish lass before?”
“Oh, I’ve seen one or two, but not like you. Is it getting warm in here?”
She moved across the room at just the right speed, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was the joining of a woman and her man, and Manny knew the difference. Without thinking, he put his hands on her backside and pulled her closer.
“Why, Agent Williams, whatever do you have in mind?”
“I think I heard that line in San Juan,” whispered Manny.
“Yeah, well, you need to refresh my memory on what happens next. We were rather rudely interrupted. I’m still waiting for you to finish what you promised, and soon.”
“Damn it. I can’t leave you two alone for a minute without you playing grab-ass and kissy-face. You’d think you were newlyweds or some shit.”
They turned to the door and Sophie stood, legs apart, hands on her hips, wearing the biggest smile Manny had seen from her in years.
“Here’s fifty bucks. Leave and come back in fifteen minutes,” said Chloe. “I want to make sure he’s ready for action.”
“I could use the money for a new pair of shoes except I’d bet that’s not a good idea. I heard the nurses record stuff that happens in the rooms and put it out on the Internet. Something about real-life porn. Not that I’ve ever seen any of it, mind you, but let’s not take a chance. Not to mention the scarring a potential sighting by Jen might do to the poor child. Good thing she’s down in the truck, waiting to drive you home.”
“Since when did you worry about affecting Jen’s psyche?” asked Manny.
“Hey. There’s a difference between teaching her things that only a woman like me can and thinking about your dad having sex in a hospital room and then having the whole world be able to see it. Even I get that,” said Sophie.
“She may have a point,” giggled Chloe. “We’ll have to get this party started in a more secluded place. Do you think there’d be room in the back of your SUV?”
“That’s the spirit . . . uh, wait . . . you mean on the way home? Oh, hell no. That ain’t going to happen.” The look on Sophie’s face made Manny laugh.
“I think she just April Fooled you, Sophie.”
Rolling her eyes, Sophie crossed her arms. “What the hell is this, high school? Besides, you can’t trust a horny woman. I do know a little about that.”
“Wait. Who said I was fooling?” asked Chloe, her laugh giving her away.
“Umm. Okay then. So how about those Tigers? I think they can win it all.”
“Cute, Williams. Trying to change the subject doesn’t change the subject. We’ll let you off the hook, for now,” said Chloe, pinching Manny’s butt cheek.
“Fair enough. Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough and don’t want to see another hospital bed for another hundred years.”
Grabbing his duffel bag, he headed for the door, took a right, and reached the elevators with Chloe and Sophie on each side of him. He remembered the wheelchair requirement and decided he’d ignore it. He wanted out and he sure as heaven was not going to have one more moment of delay. Not one.
They reached the ground floor, swung to the right, and burst into the sunlight.
April weather in Michigan was a gamble at best. But today was one of those beautiful spring days that lingered in your memory. In fact, it was almost warm. Manny stood, breathing deeply, eyes closed.
“Hey Dad. Awesome-like day, huh?”
He opened his eyes just as Jen reached him. He dropped the bag and held her. He fought tears and wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because they’d gone through more than their share of unholy crap since Louise had died. He tossed that idea away. This was just pure relief at being able to hold her again like this. Period.
“I missed you too, Old Man,” she whispered.
“Old man?” he held her at arm’s length, then glanced at Sophie. “Spending too much time with Aunt Plastic again?”
“Well, we did take Chloe shopping. Pretty hot outfit. Yes?”
“Great. Two of you I can hold my own against. Three of you and I’m screwed, aren’t I?”
“Oh, I’d say you’re gonna need some alone time,” agreed Sophie.
“I’m driving,” Jen said and turned to run back to the vehicle, kicking Manny’s bag in her excitement. The contents spilled over the sidewalk, among them the FBI case files.
“You’re shitting me. You’ve been reading case files while recovering from a near-death stabbing? Incredible,” said Sophie.
“Manfred Robert Williams, you are a workaholic,” said Chloe, giving him the evil eye of disapproval. “You’re lucky you’re hurt, don’t ya know. I could make it worse, much worse.”
“Hey. I know it looks weird. I was bored and Josh took me up on my offer to take a look. It kept me from going completely nuts.”
Just then, a black FBI unit pulled into the circle behind Manny’s red Explorer. Josh, Alex, and Dean got out in synchronized timing and joined the group. Manny couldn’t help watching him, dressed in his yellow-paisley shirt and matching bell bottoms, as he sought Sophie’s face. It seemed Dean’s infatuation had grown into something far more. The fact that Sophie was returning a similar look confirmed Manny’s suspicions. He would have liked to have seen how they’d gotten from worship to relationship. But he supposed Sophie would tell him eventually.
“Hey. Good to see you out in the sunlight,” said Alex, grinning.
“It is,” said Dean, moving his eyes from Sophie for only a brief second.
“More than good,” agreed Josh, first nodding, then shaking his hand, then hugging him like they were lost brothers.
“I thought you three were still in North Carolina,” said Manny after th
e greetings had ended.
“We were until three hours ago. It’s gotten crazy.”
“How?” Manny felt a twinge of excitement. “Does it have anything to do with the files you gave me?”
“One of them. We went down to see what we could find out about Garity, which wasn’t a whole hell of a lot. But there are still some angles we can dig into. Anyway, we had dinner with the captain of New Hanover’s police department. He’s the one who sent me the info on that bizarre murder of the rich kid.”
“Lance Morgan?”
“That’s the one. Anyway, he thought it was an isolated murder, until this morning.”
“A second male victim?” asked Manny.
Josh nodded. “I guess it wasn’t much of a stretch that there would be another. The captain was hoping otherwise, obviously. The second victim was the lead detective’s husband.”
“Oh, that just ain’t right. Retaliation?” said Sophie.
Chloe swore. “So we’ve been called in?”
Glancing at the bright sun, Josh turned back to his unit. "They have requested the BAU’s assistance, yes.”
“I’m not leaving Manny. You told me to take all of the time that we needed. I’m taking you at your word,” said Chloe, her Irish lilt at full volume and her face wearing that look that Manny didn't want to be on the wrong side of.
“And I would never go back on that promise—”
“But you need us to go to Wilmington, right?” asked Sophie.
“I didn’t make that same promise to the rest of you so, yeah, we’re going back. We’re better as a complete team, and even I get that some things are more important,” said Josh.
Manny scanned the faces in the circle—minus Jen, who had already climbed behind the wheel—and felt his excitement grow. This is what he did. Who he was. He belonged in the middle of crimes like this. Besides, the doctors said he’d be as good as new in a week or so. “When are you leaving?” he asked.
