The Dead of Winter (A Piper Blackwell Mystery Book 1)

by Jean Rabe

  And here, a virtual stranger—a Buddhist monk, Anthony Delaney—was helping her, had helped her father, hopefully had saved his life just by being in the house and calling for an ambulance. And this stranger was comforting her when he’d just lost his own father…to a serial killer. Piper suddenly realized that when she’d picked Anthony up at the airport she never gave him the customary and polite, “I’m sorry for your loss.” They were hollow words anyway because everyone said them and didn’t really mean them. But she should have said something. Should still say something, but not now. Above that, she should call the State in the morning and together get the man who killed Conrad Delaney…and Abigail Thornbridge, Samuel Reynolds, and Jacob Wallem.

  She’d stopped crying. The sounds of the emergency department swirled around her. A woman nearby talking on her cell phone, annoyed that she hadn’t gotten to see a doctor yet when her “ankle was swollen like a softball.”

  My father’s heart attack trumps your ankle.

  The cell phone in her pocket buzzed, muted because it was next to her driving gloves. Not important, she decided, someone from the department wondering about Paul Blackwell because they couldn’t wonder to her about it on the scanner.

  Anthony whispered something soft and musical in a foreign language, maybe a prayer in Thai; it was no doubt an effortless language to him after all these years. The alien words sounded nice and became a susurrus that had a calming effect. She focused on them and the irritated woman with the swollen ankle drifted to the background.

  Get a grip on this.

  Piper thought back to New Year’s Eve, sitting at the table in her father’s kitchen before she took the call about the first murder. Though he’d looked faded, he’d seemed happy, talking about her starting the next day as “head honcho of the Spencer County Sheriff’s Department.” He was proud of her. Piper hadn’t the heart to tell him then that she wasn’t sure it was right for her. She’d embraced the campaign because it distracted him from the cancer and treatments. But she honestly hadn’t expected to win. Over her head, and committed to four years.

  But isn’t that what she’d initially committed to the Army? Four years. It had turned out better than she’d expected. Maybe she needed to embrace this job like she had the MP school. Piper wasn’t anxious about the sheriff’s testing she’d have to take come April. If she’d managed the rigors of Army training, successfully completed every downrange assignment her unit tackled, and if she could keep her head and keep control of the department during the terrors of this CCK thing, she could damn well pass that test.

  Piper wanted her father around to see her do it.

  Get a grip.

  She pulled her hands back and stood, shifted her weight from one foot to the other and took off her coat; the waiting room was so warm she’d started to sweat. How long had she been sitting there?

  “Thanks, Anthony, for being here and—”

  “I do not need your thanks.” He stood up next to her, took her coat and gently laid it on the chair next to him. “It was an honor to help.”

  “You have my thanks anyway,” she returned, offering him a hint of a smile. She started to say something else, but a short woman in blue scrubs came over, pulling down her mask.

  She had broad shoulders, a broad face and wide-set charcoal eyes, gray hair at the temples; the rest of her hair was bunched up under something that looked like a shower cap.

  “Dr. Kilduff,” she said, thrusting out a hand. “Your father is going to be all right.”

  Piper let out a breath she’d been holding. “Can I—”

  “They’re admitting him, to an ICU bed, so it’ll be several minutes. Check with the desk to get a room number.”

  “How bad—”

  The doctor seemed to anticipate all the questions. “A heart attack is always serious, but there are degrees. And as that goes, this certainly wasn’t major. Otherwise the ambulance crew would have stabilized him and taken him to Evansville. Your father said he has no history of heart problems, but he’s been receiving chemotherapy, a second round. Some forms of chemo are hard on the heart, and it might have triggered it, or at least helped along a problem that had been simmering. We’ll forward our records to his oncologist in case that drug regimen needs to change. We’re going to give him a beta blocker because there was a myocardial infarction at the root, maybe an ACE inhibitor, but I don’t think there’s any congestive heart failure involved. I won’t have all the blood work back for a while, and I want to see that before I start prescribing. We did a 2D echo, and though the flow looks good, there is some blockage. Tomorrow mid-afternoon I’ve scheduled a percutaneous coronary intervention—”

  Piper took in more of the doctor’s words, but she didn’t understand them, shoving them in a mental drawer until Dr. Kilduff started using layman speak.

  “—it’s nonsurgical, going up through the leg. We’ll inflate the balloon to compress the plaque. We might put in a stent. It’s a common procedure. We can do it here. He’ll do fine.” After a moment she said, “Relax.”

  Piper hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath again. “When will you know how long he’ll be—”

  “It’s hard to say how many days he’ll be here. Extremely variable. Depends on how he responds, and we have to fine-tune the dosage of medicines. We’ll flush his arteries, make sure there’s no bleeding, so I’ll want him here four or five days at least. He’s going to overnight in the ICU before we move him to a regular room. Maybe he can go home Tuesday. We’ll see.” The doctor put her hands in her pockets. “We’ll take good care of him, Sheriff, I promise. I’ll have an ICU nurse come get you.”

  Anthony tugged her back to the waiting room, where she made another bowl with her hands.

  Twenty-Five

  “Any word on Paul?” It was Oren, calling Randy on his cell. Both were still at their respective crime scenes.

  It was 5 p.m., and Randy had just watched Jacob Wallem—at least he was pretty sure it was Jacob Wallem—extricated from the chimney, put in a large black bag, and taken out of the house. The coroner, who had brought two assistants and came in wearing an impressive facemask, hadn’t said much more than a dozen words, including, “I’d say he’s been in there two weeks, maybe a little longer.”

  Jacob Wallem definitely had been killed before Christmas. Days and days before Abigail and Conrad. Was he the first victim? Were there more out there?

  All the windows open, the stink was still strong.

  “Hey, Randy…you there?”

  “Sorry, Oren. The body’s out of here. Coroner’s headed your way next. The boss called a half hour ago, said Paul’s in an ICU bed, that they’re going to do some sort of procedure tomorrow. He’ll be there a few days at least, maybe a week. She also said he probably would have died if Anthony Delaney hadn’t been with him. Apparently she hadn’t known what to do with Conrad’s Buddhist monk son, and had dropped him in Paul’s lap.”

  Oren made a hmmphing sound. “You gonna go see him?”

  “Paul?” Randy thought about that a moment. “Yeah, I checked with the hospital…they took him to Booneville of all places, so it must not have been too serious. If I get there by nine I’m good and can get in. But it’s ICU, so the visit will be short. So, yeah, I’m going over when I’ve finished some stuff here and back at the office.” He was about ready to disconnect when he added, “Buck there with you? Good. The Christmas cards you bagged from your scene, ask Buck to take them to the office now—before he heads home. And that he’s to wait for me if I’m not there. You and me can connect tomorrow, share what we’ve found.” Randy figured Buck was about ready to clock out for the day, usually railed against working overtime no matter what was going down. He wanted to talk to him. “I’m heading to the office in a little bit. Marsh and me have fingerprints, about two dozen evidence bags to send off to the lab, some stuff I’m taking back with me. Got some guys going door to door asking about Wallem and any visitors they might have noticed. I’ll lock this up in a few
and be back at it later tomorrow.”

  “The first funeral’s tomorrow.”

  “First of four,” Randy said. Conrad, Abigail, Samuel, and Jacob. He’d already loaded his kit and video equipment in the trunk. “Don’t know if I’ll make it to Conrad’s funeral. Have to talk to the boss about that. Got some things not sitting right I got to dig into.”

  “Hell, nothing’s sitting right.” Randy heard Oren whisper something else, about “twenty-fucking-three.”

  Marsh started closing the windows.

  Randy had a bag with Jacob’s Christmas cards in one hand and an animal carrier with a three-legged blind beagle in the other.

  He stopped at the grocery store and bought a sack of dog food, two plastic bowls, and a couple of kitchen towels. He’d found the dog’s leash hanging on a hook by the back door.

  Randy couldn’t have dogs in his apartment, and didn’t especially like them, would have dropped this one off at the shelter, but one of the “things not sitting right” was the victims’ pets. Studies showed that a lot of serial killers started out being cruel to animals. The CCK appeared to be the opposite, though he hadn’t left enough food down for the beagle. Or maybe he just figured it wouldn’t have taken so long to find Jacob’s body.

  Jacob’s neighbors had assumed he was on vacation, said his parents—who’d years ago moved to South Carolina—usually booked a cruise between Christmas and New Year’s because of the discount rates. They thought maybe Jacob had gone with them, because he had in previous years. Randy had learned from the Rockport police that a worker at the animal shelter had called a few days ago, saying Jacob had missed a couple of volunteer shifts and she was worried; he hadn’t been answering his phone. She did not file a missing person’s report. It wasn’t clear if the Rockport police had pursued it, but it didn’t look like they had.

  Randy walked the beagle around the edge of the parking lot at the sheriff’s department and watched as it squatted against the tire of a silver Sonata. Then he tugged the dog inside and set up the crate in his office, filled the plastic bowls with food and water, and spread the kitchen towels out on the floor for it to nest on. There had been a dog bed at Wallem’s, a comfortable-looking one. But Randy knew it would reek because of the body. Hell, the dog stank and needed a bath, had picked up the eau de corpse rot fragrance. It seemed to get around pretty well for being blind, though it did bump into a few things before it found the food.

  “You got a dog?” Teegan was on shift and she leaned in the doorway.

  “It’s temporary. Her name’s Merry.”

  “Belonged to one of the dead guys, huh? Didn’t want to take it to the shelter? Don’t blame you, it’s overcrowded, that old thing’d get the needle for sure.”

  “I don’t know if it’s old. It’s just—”

  “Not adoptable. And it stinks.” She smacked her gum and did a hair flip. Randy thought she was a Goth-embracing teenager trapped in a forty-year-old body. “Heard anything new on Paul?”

  He shook his head. “But I’m going over there in an hour or so. Buck come in yet?”

  “Nah, but he and JJ are on their way in to and drop off some evidence bags. Christ, this is awful stuff, eh? I got a call from an Indianapolis Star reporter when I came on. She’s coming down with a photographer tomorrow for the Delaney funeral. Bet there’ll be more. The Evansville Courier will be next, you think? I can see the headlines: Slay Bells in Spencer County. Nobody from the local rag has called us that I know of, but Joe stopped in to look at the blotter. Oh, and Chris Hagee came by with a box of big antique bells, apologized for not getting them back yesterday. I could’ve sworn I smelled pot on him.” A pause. “Not that I know what pot smells like. Have fun with the Star tomorrow.”

  Randy shuddered. Media to deal with on top of this. Really? But that might be a good thing. He wanted to solve this personally, be the brilliant detective to uncover the sick son of a bitch, use it as a jumping off point to something better…to a sheriff’s posting somewhere, if not here. Media attention, his name in the first paragraph; that ought to boost his career. If he could somehow solve it by the morning, he’d make sure he was at the funeral so he could talk to the press.

  “Hey, Randy, do you think—” The phone buzzed in the other room and Teegan waggled her fingers and disappeared.

  A radio played softly; rarely could Teegan deal with silence. It was some country station. Randy barely tolerated country music. The dog started crunching. He looked over the top of his desk and saw its tail was wagging wildly while it ate.

  “And what the hell am I going to do with you?” he mused. “A bath tomorrow, definitely. But after that?” He’d keep the three-legged beagle here for a while; if anybody raised a fuss he’d call the dog a piece of evidence…because in a way she was. Why did the CCK take steps to make sure his victims’ pets had food and water? Why care about dogs and cats when you were throttling their owners? It couldn’t be a statement that the killer thought the owners abusive, because it appeared that Abigail Thornbridge, Conrad Delaney, and Jacob Wallem had taken fine care of their pets. Wallem had bought top-of-the-line dog food, according to the price sticker Randy saw on the empty bag, and had volunteered at the shelter and with some beagle rescue group. Oren said there was no evidence Samuel Reynolds had any pet. So the pets weren’t a connection…and yet pets were somehow connected to the killer. Because he liked them? Probably more than he liked people.

  He dumped Wallem’s Christmas cards on his desk; he’d put them with Conrad’s and Abigail’s cards later, see what names matched. There…Conrad in his sleigh. He flipped it over.

  Jacob, Somehow that new roof you put on has cut my heating bill…and it’s beautiful to boot! Very pleased with your work. I can remember when you and Anthony used to play Cowboys and Indians in the backyard. Time goes too fast. I’ve got some other things around here I’d like fixed up, my bathroom redone. I want one of those fancy bathtubs put in, the walk-in kind. There’s some sales on them coming up. I intend to stay here until they drag me out in a box, so I want the house accessible. Those bathtubs are expensive, but cheaper than an assisted living place. My knees are starting to really bother me. But you don’t need to hear about my old-man woes. You need to hear MERRY CHRISTMAS from me. Thanks again for your good work. Regards, Conrad

  He found the card Abigail had sent Wallem, too, the design of a woman in a rocker in front of a Christmas tree. A shiver went down Randy’s spine. A very sick bastard had posed the old woman just like her card.

  Jake, So happy you’ve been coming to church again. God is good! Young man like you, it’s a great place to meet single women, and there are more than a few in the congregation. I can introduce you if you’d like. Sally’s granddaughter is pretty and still without a fellow. Otherwise, I’ll mind my business. I talked to Conrad the other day, and he’s apple pie pleased I gave him your name and number. He didn’t know you had your own business, said he gave you a couple of jobs. I should have you do a little more work for me after the worst of winter passes. I’m going to move to one of those retirement villages in Tennessee, where the weather is kinder and there’s more music. This old house will sell better with a little fixing. I’ll give you a call. All my best to you and Merry. Love, Abby T

  No card from Samuel Reynolds to Wallem. Maybe they didn’t know each other. But the killer clearly knew all of them. The relationship of the killer to these people…that’s what he needed to discover if he was going to beat the State to the solution. Damn, but he wanted to clear this on his own. Media attention was coming…Chief Deputy Randy Gerald.

  Randy pounded his fist on the desk and the beagle stopped crunching.

  “It’s okay, Merry,” he said. Randy felt sorry for her, and hoped Oren could place the dog somewhere. “Really, it’s okay.” After a moment, the dog went back to eating.

  He leafed through the cards, seeing no other senders’ names jump out that matched the ones in the other room addressed to Conrad and Abigail. He’d look at those all again,
just to be sure. A lot of the cards to Wallem were basically photographs, pictures of pets or children with pets, flipping them over and reading the notes and guessing they were from other people involved with the shelter.

  “Teegan…how old is the coffee?” he hollered. Maybe he’d take a Thermos full when he headed out.

  “Probably goes back three or four months.” That was Buck Hannoh’s voice. He came into Randy’s office, sat opposite the desk and plopped the bag filled with Samuel Reynolds’ Christmas cards in front of him. “Oren said you wanted these now, couldn’t wait for the morning. Said you wanted to talk to me. What’s up? I’m in a hurry to get home.”

  Buck had been a police officer in Santa Claus before Paul Blackwell took him into the sheriff’s department a half-dozen years back. The sheriff’s department paid a little better, and always there were local cops trying to get on. He was good looking, like a roguish young Harrison Ford complete with the Indiana Jones stubble, and his wife, a real estate agent, was a stunner. Randy and his on-again off-again girlfriend had played miniature golf with them in the summer. Buck smiled, his teeth so shiny Randy figured he’d had them professionally whitened.

  “Earth to Randy. Oren said you wanted to see me. What’s up?”

  Randy stacked the cards he’d been looking at, tugged open a drawer and pulled out a notepad he’d scribbled on earlier. He didn’t say anything, letting the diffused strains of someone singing about an old pickup truck filter in. The dog had finished eating and was slurping at the water now. He’d have to walk her again.

  Nervous people needed conversation, he knew from experience, and Buck was fidgeting. Randy thought maybe he should have discussed this Buck business with Oren, who was the chief deputy after all. Maybe should have said something to Piper, too. Maybe. He could justify not reporting this to her easily enough…didn’t want to disturb her while she was at her father’s bedside. Yeah, he was being considerate that way.