Dying to Know

by TJ O'Connor

  The earrings brought me to her. But brought me where? When? No—why?

  “No. Angel, go back. Go back inside.”

  Her pace quickened along the front row of cars. At the fourth car, she stopped, looked down, and fidgeted inside her coat. She was digging for her keys. I’d told her a million times to have them ready—ready to get into safety. A key protruding from the fist can stop an attacker if thrust and slashed into his face. Angel didn’t have her keys ready. She never did.

  She shifted her raincoat and leaned forward. Her hand pointed to the door to activate the electronic lock.

  That’s when he struck.

  He lurched from the darkness before she knew he was there. He struck from behind, driving her into the car door. She staggered back. He pounced again, gripped her neck and hair, and slammed her into the doorframe—once, twice. Her body slumped.

  “Angel, no. Stop, you bastard. Stop!”

  It was no use. Rage vibrated through me—arching and churning to escape my shackles. “No, please, no. Leave her alone.”

  It was over.

  He stuffed her into the car and followed. A second later, the engine started and the car disappeared into the drizzle and darkness.

  No one saw. No one helped. No one witnessed her abduction.

  No one but me.

  “No. Please … no. Doc, help me!”

  The aurora of light swallowed me again. This time, the journey was empty. No electricity charged me. No welcome tingle of anticipation warmed me. I collapsed into a chasm of hopelessness. When the light took me, I had no desire to leave the darkness I was in—no will to escape. Perhaps it was the darkness—my darkness—that held me firm. Perhaps this was what death was for me now.

  I was lost. Hopeless. Alone.

  I’d been unable to manage doors and office files. I had little control of movements. There was nothing I controlled—nothing. Yet, I had to find a way. I had to be more than a spectator, more than an onlooker. Nothing was more important. Perhaps this is why I was back—why I never left.

  Doc told me I was only a witness, a bystander—no killing. I had to prove him wrong.

  Somewhere, sometime in the future, someone was going to take my Angel.

  nineteen

  “No.”

  “No?” I opened my eyes to Doc Gilley. He was standing behind my recliner where Hercule sat enjoying a petting. “‘No’ what?”

  He frowned, raising his eyebrows like the answer was too obvious. “I know what you’re thinking, Oliver. You can’t change it. You can’t stop it. It’ll be whatever it will be.”

  “You know where I’ve been? What I saw?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell me. Where is Angel going to be attacked? Who takes her? Tell me when.”

  He shook his head. “Slow down. I don’t know. I know what you know—perhaps a bit more. What’s important is that you were there for a reason—and it’s not to change things. Didn’t you ever see that flick? You can’t change events.”

  “Bullshit.” I sat behind my desk and studied the ceiling for answers. They were hiding elsewhere. “I also saw the movie from the forties about ghosts solving crimes. Don’t give me that crap about changing time. Nothing makes sense; my being here makes no sense.”

  “It will.”

  “Tell me what to do, Doc. Please.”

  “No. I couldn’t even if I knew. All I do know is that you cannot change what happened.”

  I caught that. “What happened? It already happened? How? I just saw Angel this morning.”

  “No, no.” Doc came to the front of the desk. His lips tightened and he looked down, gathering his thoughts. When his eyes rose to mine, his face was sad and dark. “It hasn’t happened yet. You saw it for a reason. Find the reason.”

  Oh, Christ—riddles. “What for?”

  “You saw it like a movie, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Then watch the movie. Play your role.”

  Huh? Oh, yeah. “Right. Be a detective and investigate.”

  “Yes, but don’t trust your eyes. Use your gut. Question everything—everyone.”

  “Right. Everyone’s a suspect.”

  “Everyone should be.”

  twenty

  Angel’s abduction churned terror inside me. Doc’s insistence that I couldn’t change things was damning. I had but one thought on that—bullshit. I had to try. And I could think of one way—Jeremiah Dempsey.

  When I was a young deputy a year out of the academy, I happened upon a fugitive outside of town during a routine traffic stop. It was purely accidental, mind you. He was sitting near the main post office when I rounded the corner heading his way. He tried hard—too hard—not to look at me. When he couldn’t resist any longer, he squealed his tires pulling away. I pulled him over. Jeremiah Dempsey was wanted for murder in Pennsylvania—four murders and suspected in six others. Two homicides were the Pennsylvania State cops who last tried to apprehend him. Jeremiah Dempsey vowed not to be taken without a fight and he’d already left a trail of bodies to prove it. My shotgun sticking in his left ear convinced him to fight another day. The newspapers said I’d saved lives by capturing him. No one knew how many more he would have murdered had I not stopped him.

  A serial killer only stops by capture or kill. Jeremiah wanted the latter.

  I had to stop the killer before he could strike. Whoever killed me was now after Angel. Maybe she saw more than she knows that night. Perhaps she knew something beforehand. Perhaps the killer wants to be sure.

  Jeremiah Dempsey was the answer.

  Four people could help me. First of course, was Angel, who I’d have to try to keep away from dark, rainy parking lots. And there was Bear, who was technically off my case and who these days had checkmarks in both the plus and minus columns. I could shadow Bear anytime and Angel would be even easier, so they’d be last. No, I’d start with the last two, Spence and Clemens. They were assigned my case and might trip over clues. It would be an accident, of course, but I’ll take any help I can get.

  I found them sitting in the corporate offices of the Bartalotta Industrial Storage Corporation. They were smarter than I thought. While they were supposed to be investigating my murder, they were here investigating Raymundo Salazar’s. Even those two can add one and one and get two. I guess they figured the best motive for my murder was my connection to Salazar’s. Two cases, twice as many clues. All they needed was a suspect.

  So far, there was none.

  The Bartalotta Industrial Storage Corporation, or BISCORP, was the last place Raymundo Salazar was seen alive. He worked as a security guard on the three-to-twelve shift. An hour after he left work one night, his body was found beside his car along the country road heading back to Winchester. As previously noted, there were no leads, no witnesses, and no motive.

  Just like my case.

  Oh, I should mention that BISCORP is owned by one Nicholas Bartalotta—my old pal Poor Nic.

  The facility was a huge tract of warehouses twenty miles southeast of Winchester. There were five main warehouses and a smaller, two-story corporate office building. A well-guarded, fifteen-foot chain link fence surrounded the premises. From a distance, it was often confused with a prison or jail. Of course, considering my feelings about Poor Nicholas Bartalotta, that was a reasonable conclusion.

  Clemens was sitting opposite a short, stocky man in a dark, pinstriped suit, Kirk Wallchak, Poor Nic’s operations manager. Spence was roaming around Kirk’s office pawing every knickknack and photograph like a kid in a toy store.

  To my disappointment, I arrived too late to catch the opening salvo of questions. They must have been good ones, too. Wallchak didn’t look happy and was letting Clemens have it.

  “Look, fellas, no offense, ’cause we want to cooperate,” Wallchak said.

  “Then cooperate.” Spence�
�s voice was testy and he wasn’t trying to hide it. “Now.”

  Wallchak shook his head. “We already gave statements to the other two cops.”

  “Braddock and Tucker.” Clemens wasn’t asking. “We know.”

  Spence tossed an autographed baseball to Wallchak from a collection on a wall rack. “We’re just following up. Can we see your boss?”

  “He’s out. And he said no more information without a warrant.”

  Wallchak’s desk phone rang and he picked it up. The voice was loud, but I couldn’t make out any words. Whoever it was, was chewing Wallchak’s butt. Wallchak hung up and threw a thumb at the door.

  “Sorry, interview’s over. No warrant, no cooperation. You gotta go, I have a meeting.”

  Clemens shot a glance over his shoulder to Spence who was playing with a model airplane he had taken off the bookcase. Spence dropped it back onto the shelf, fumbled with it, and broke off the propeller trying to right it on its stand.

  Spence ignored the crash landing. “Okay, Kirk, have it your way. Be seeing you with a warrant.” The two detectives didn’t wait for a reply and meandered out of Wallchak’s office.

  I stayed put.

  Wallchak waited a minute before escaping to the corner office down the hall. I, of course, was in tow. We entered without knocking past the brass plate that read, “Chief Executive Officer, Nicholas Bartalotta.”

  Kirk Wallchak was a liar.

  Nic was sitting behind a large antique desk, not quite as grandiose as the one at his home, but impressive. He looked up with a stern, unamused tightness in his face. “They gone?”

  “Yeah. They wanted to rehash the entire murder.”

  “Which one?”

  Now, that was an odd question. “How many are you involved with, Nic?”

  Wallchak paused, then said, “Salazar’s of course.”

  Nic shook his head. “Christ, anything new? What have they come up with?”

  “Nothing, I guess. They don’t know about Iggi Suarez, though. They never even asked about him.”

  “Good. But you make sure they don’t. ”

  Wallchak nodded. “The boys won’t say nothing.”

  “Keep it that way. All we need now is for somebody to find out about Salazar’s moonlighting.”

  “They won’t from us, Boss. Count on it.”

  Poor Nic turned in his plush leather chair and gazed out his window for a long time. Without turning back to Wallchak, he said, “Is there anyone else who might talk?”

  “Well, I dunno,” Wallchak muttered. “Maybe Sarah. But I think she knows better.”

  “Yes, yes, Sarah. You make sure the other boys are loyal. Leave Sarah to me.”

  Kirk Wallchak knew when to exit stage left. When he closed the door behind him, I slipped into a cozy chair opposite Poor Nic and put my feet up onto his desk.

  “So, Nicky, who’s Iggi Suarez and what’s this about Salazar moonlighting? You never told me about that when I was alive.”

  Poor Nic sat staring out the window. He sighed and looked thoughtful, as if he was contemplating Plato or a new bank heist.

  “And what are you going to do with Sarah Salazar? I’ll be watching, pal. You be nice to her.”

  He ignored me. “Stupid bastards have no idea what’s going on. None at all.”

  _____

  Downstairs outside in front of the entrance, Spence stopped and retreated two steps. His face went pale and he looked like he was having a heart attack. “Ah, shit.”

  I stopped beside him and looked out. Yup, he was having a heart attack.

  Bear Braddock sat on the hood of his car. He did not look happy. When Bear didn’t look happy, the world around him got unhappy.

  We made it two steps from the car before Bear lurched forward. He landed a right hook into Spence’s face that sent him crashing to the ground. To his credit, he didn’t make any overtures to stand up or be a hero. He lay there, stunned and dazed.

  Bear stood over him. “You son of a bitch. Carmen Delgado called me. What the hell do you think you’re doing going after Angel like that?”

  “Easy, Bear.” Clemens started forward, but Bear’s stare stopped him. “Easy, man. Let him explain.”

  I said to Bear, “Carmen’s hiding something, pal. Even Spence knows that.”

  “So,” Bear hesitated and bit his lip—his eyes seemed unsure of his words. “Carmen said … she said…”

  Clemens looked from Bear to Spence and back. “What’s with you, Bear? You okay?”

  “Yes, shut up.” Bear settled his thoughts. The buzzing in his head must have stopped. “You told the captain that Carmen said we were screwin’ around?”

  “Yeah, so?” Spence was defiant but he stayed down. “She did, Bear. Really. She brought it up.”

  “Hey, go easy, man,” Clemens said. “Let him up. This ain’t the place for this.”

  Spence rose to one knee. “Look, we have to chase every lead. You know that. Affairs are the leading cause of murder. We were asking questions. No harm, no foul.”

  “Bullshit,” Bear said. “That’s not the way Carmen sees it.”

  “I’ll fix this,” Clemens said, stepping between them. “We got a little overzealous. I’ll straighten the captain—promise.”

  “We’re trying to find a murderer.” Spence stood up, eyeing Bear for any sign of attack. “We’re on the same side, man. Relax.”

  “Are we?” Bear poked a finger at him. “I’m not so sure what side I’m on.”

  twenty-one

  Navigating when you’re dead is like watching television. If you don’t like the show, change the channel. It was, to my annoyance, also like watching without a television guide. I had to switch from place to place until I found what I wanted.

  It took me three tries to find Angel—home, the university, and finally Kelly Orchard Farms. That’s where I found her.

  Kelly’s Dig was located a half-mile deep in the farm’s original apple orchard. About a third of the orchard was cleared. The remainder of the farm was still lined with rows of overgrown trees that hovered over the hills like ranks of weary soldiers ready for battle; in a few short weeks, many of them would be slain. The actual dig site was in a small clearing made by bulldozed apple trees and brush plowed into a two-story debris pile behind the main site. At the rear of the clearing was a pile of stones and earth that was once an old barn’s foundation—this was ground zero.

  All this was surrounded by two bulldozers, a backhoe, and two large road graders—the idle reminders of the battle between history and development.

  A sleepy security guard lounged in a lawn chair in front of a portable construction trailer that sat at the far end of the site. He sat sipping coffee while he watched Angel at a worktable in front of the trailer. She was examining a pile of stones and dirt, which she photographed with a small digital camera. André Cartier hovered over her taking notes.

  “I appreciate you coming today, André,” Angel said.

  “Of course. Ernie told me about what happened at his house yesterday morning. Perhaps if I’d stayed a little longer, I would have seen something.”

  “I don’t know, André. Yesterday, I was positive about the intruder. Today, I’m not sure it ever happened—no one is. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s over.”

  André studied her for a long time. “I understand—completely. You have so much on your plate. Have you made the arrangements?”

  The arrangements would be for me.

  Her eyes dropped. “Yes, two days from now. Just a small service. The department is upset—they want a full ceremony with the police honor guard and the like.”

  “Of course they do, Angela.” André looked solemn. “But it’s your decision. Just family?”

  “Yes, just.”

  “And Detective Braddock?”

  Angel sto
pped taking photographs and looked over the camera at him. “Of course. Why?”

  “I don’t care for the way he’s hovering over you.” André was not a historian just now, but a surrogate father. “He was only Tuck’s partner, for heaven’s sake. He’s overstepping himself.”

  “Nonsense, André. They were more than partners. Bear’s been family for years—to both of us.”

  When André frowned, she changed the subject. “I’m going to finish logging these samples. Then, I want to excavate some more.”

  “Yes, of course.” André took the hint. “I’m sorry, Angela.”

  “We need to find much more of the skeletons to determine if this were a gravesite or not. So far, with the few skeletal pieces we’ve found, an argument could be made they are mere fragments from a battle and not an intentional interment at all.”

  “If there are more bones, we’ll find them.”

  Angel pointed to a stack of books and folded documents on the end of the table. “There’s an 1860s land map with property recordings in there. I found it in the town archives. It shows a structure—probably this old barn—on this site. That’s the foundation Tyler’s equipment dug up.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  She stood up and stretched. “Well, I suppose it could be an unmarked family cemetery, but I doubt it. Both the Confederate and Union armies used the main house as a headquarters at different times.”

  “Perhaps,” André said, picking up the papers, “the old barn was a field hospital.”

  “Yes, that could explain the remains. The surgeries were very brutal, as you know. They could have discarded amputations or other remains in makeshift graves. When the bulldozers unearthed the stone foundation, they might have uncovered those. Burials could be haphazard and unrecorded after the battles.”

  André nodded. “We should have a team sift the debris pile. Byrd’s men were using a backhoe when they found the bones. They could have plowed up the remaining skeletons into the pile. I’ll work the debris pile if you want to keep working the foundation here.”