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

by Jean Rabe

  “I used to have a dog, too,” Randy had lied again. “I remember losing that dog was just terrible. It broke my heart.”

  “The vet offered some promise, called it ‘great risk and great reward,’ a surgery they could do at the veterinary school at Purdue in West Lafayette. It was going to be expensive. I don’t remember how much, but a couple thousand dollars, said it would buy Duke maybe four or five years more of life if he survived the surgery; that’s a good amount of time for a big dog, a natural lifespan. Me and Zach…I was sixteen, he was fourteen then, we didn’t have that money. Mom was sympathetic, said okay, but Dad shut it down. Said he wouldn’t’ spend thousands of dollars on an animal, especially something considered risky.”

  “What happened?” Randy put on a good sympathetic face.

  “Zach begged and begged for the money, but Dad wouldn’t relent. Zach and me called everywhere trying to find odd jobs to raise the cash, but nothing happened fast enough. Duke? He had all these seizures in our bedroom one morning in early December. Dad didn’t come in until after he’d finished setting out his sleigh. Duke was dead by then. He said surgery might not have saved the dog anyway, risky and all. But I think that the surgery might have saved Zach. See, Zach was holding Duke when he died, never got over it. That year, Dad had had these Christmas photo cards printed with Zach, Duke, and me on them. Even though Duke was dead, Dad sent the cards, said he wasn’t going to buy new ones. That made things worse with Zach, those cards. Stopped going to church with Mom, said there was no God. Said no God would let an animal suffer like that. Took over-the-counter sleeping pills after that, said otherwise he had nightmares and couldn’t sleep. Stole the pills when he didn’t have the money for them. I never snitched on him, my brother and all. I sometimes wonder if he started playing around with other drugs to forget that awful day with Duke.”

  “Do you think they smoothed things out, Zach and your dad?”

  Anthony had shaken his head. “That dog had been everything to Zach, and he never forgave our father. I know I’ve been away for years, that things can change, but not that one thing.” A pause. “But Zach would not have raised a finger against our father. Especially not after all these years. He could not have done such an awful thing. He couldn’t have because he wouldn’t have come near our father.”

  “I know that,” Randy had purred. “Zach isn’t a suspect. He gave us a rock-solid alibi. I just was asking because it told me a little bit more about your father, about him not wanting to spend money.”

  “Money was always important to him, sure.” Anthony let out a deep sigh. “Maybe too important. He did not understand the vow of poverty I took. But overall he was a good man, Detective, and he was going to spend some of his money and come to Thailand this year. I believe he’d found a tour package with a fair price.”

  “I got the impression your dad was lonely.”

  “Especially after my mom died. I couldn’t come back for the funeral, and Zach refused to go. Zach had avoided our father after that awful morning, dropped out of school at the first opportunity and took off. He wouldn’t have killed Dad, if for nothing more than he wouldn’t have been in same room with him. Zach is only going to the funeral tomorrow because of me.”

  Randy remembered Zachary claiming he and his father had patched things up, were getting along.

  Lie and lie and lie.

  Randy decided right then that he was going to go have a talk with Zachary tonight, double-check his alibi, see what kind of ride he—

  “Dad had offered to get us another dog from the shelter, I remember that. But Zach said no. So did I. Sixteen, I figured I’d be off to college in two years, so I wouldn’t be around to take care of it. That was before I discovered Buddhism. I really think Dad should have paid for the surgery. Things might have turned out differently with him and Zach…even if the dog died anyway. It would have been in the trying. Zach might have found peace.”

  Randy had nodded. “Your dad had a couple of cats. Do you know how long he had them?”

  Anthony had shaken his head. “We have cats at the temple. Beautiful, graceful creatures. I hope someone is taking care of my father’s cats. Zach can’t take them; he is allergic to cats.”

  “Yeah, we got that covered, your dad’s cats.”

  Randy played the recording one more time before pulling into the parking lot of Zachary Delaney’s rent-by-the-week apartment.

  He got out, reached to his holster and clicked the safety off the gun, then looked up at the night sky. The stars weren’t so bright in Owensboro, too much light pollution, and the air didn’t smell quite as clean.

  Dear God, let me be right.

  Twenty-Eight

  No answer at Zachary’s door, but the manager let him in the apartment; flashing a badge sometimes had the effect of waving a magic wand.

  Randy flicked on a lamp on the bureau. The place was old and beat down; the furniture scored with pits and scratches and melted spots where someone had rested cigarettes. It was one good-sized room, basically an efficiency with a tiny kitchenette and a double-bed that sagged in the middle. The place looked sad, and it smelled of mold.

  “I tried to kick him out New Year’s Day. He was more than a month behind on rent,” the manager said. “And I’d been more than easy on him. Supposed to pay every week here.” He pointed to a few boxes in a corner. “Brought him those and told him to pack up. I’d filled out eviction papers. But yesterday he handed me a wad of tens and twenties and gave me a six-pack of root beer. He paid up back rent and through the end of this month. Said he might be moving out after that. Had his eye on some place in Rockport. No matter to me what he does, we’re square.”

  “I’ll let you know when I’m done here so you can lock up.”

  “Sure thing. Hey, Zach’s not in trouble is he?”

  “I’ll stop by your office when I’m done.”

  “He didn’t rob somebody, did he? I mean, he had a stack of money, and I know he’d been fired from Plank Manor.”

  “What kind of vehicle does Zach drive?”

  The manager, who looked as beat-down as the room, paused a moment. “He had a late-model pickup, silver, a Ford, I think, with a red door. But I haven’t seen it for a couple of days. I think he must have traded it in and got a car, something with better mileage. He was also complaining about the price of gas.”

  A silver pickup could look gray in a snowstorm.

  “Thanks. I’ll stop in when I’m done.” Randy dismissively waved his hand and shut the door behind the manager so he could poke around undisturbed. There was a little ceramic Christmas tree on the desk next to the phone. It was similar to the tree he’d seen at Jacob Wallem’s, a dust catcher somebody’s aunt probably made in a craft class. Stacked next to it was a small pile of Christmas cards.

  Randy pulled out the chair, sat, turned on the desk lamp, and counted them: twenty. The card on top had been folded then smoothed back into shape. It had three snowmen on it, and a man tying a red scarf around the neck of the largest one. He opened it. The verse read: Have Yourself A Snowy Little Christmas. It was signed Sammy. No note. Randy figured that must be Samuel Reynolds. And according to the department scanner he’d listened to, Reynolds had been found next to a snowman. Randy shuddered and looked through the rest of the cards, finding the one of Conrad in the sleigh, which he turned over: no note, signed Dad; the woman in the rocker in front of a tree, opening up to see it signed Abby T; and the dangling boots in the fireplace, opening it to see the signature Jake. Some of the other cards had notes in them, just a line: Merry Christmas, Zach; Stay warm and stay in touch; Best wishes in the New Year; but half of them just had signatures.

  Twenty cards, not many compared to what the murder victims had received. Randy looked through the cards again, noting names. Zachary had gotten his kill list from the Christmas cards he’d received. But why? Money? The manager mentioned Zach had a stack of tens and twenties. Nothing had appeared stolen at any of the residences, but that didn’t mean Zach hadn�
�t found some secret stash in someone’s underwear drawer.

  Were there more victims that no one had discovered yet? People who lived alone, maybe out in the sticks and so their absence wasn’t noticed. Neighbors thought them on vacation, as had been the initial assumption with the roofer. Were there victims in other counties? In Kentucky? He recalled the Henderson report JJ had flagged, a printout of it was in the basket on the front desk. Was that death connected? It had been logged in well before Christmas. He should have read it closely before coming here.

  How long ago had Zach started killing?

  Randy was convinced it was Zachary Delaney behind the murders. It made the most sense. He was available, supposedly laid-off, and he had ties to everyone dead. The Christmas cards in this stack proved that…Conrad, Abby T, Samuel, Jacob.

  Means: Zachary had been working at Plank Manor, a physical job. He looked strong, certainly capable of strangling Conrad, Abigail, and Samuel, arranging them just so. How Jacob died was yet to be determined.

  Opportunity: Laid-off, time to kill…literally.

  Motive: Couldn’t be over a dog that died when he was fourteen. That was a dozen years ago. Had to be something that happened recently. But it likely explained why he didn’t hurt the pets; no malice toward them. So money, right? Had to be money. But Abigail didn’t appear to be particularly well off. Samuel certainly wasn’t—especially if what the monk said was true; he was having trouble staying afloat. Jacob the roofer…he looked to be comfortable with the appearance of his house, but not extravagant. Randy had taken a look in Jacob’s garage, finding a van with a considerable amount of rust on it. Conrad Delaney had done well for himself…nice house, had sold his gas station for the asking price. Zach would inherit.

  An inheritance would definitely land Zachary Delaney in a far better place than this rent-by-the-week dump.

  Randy put the cards back the way he’d found them, opened the drawer and saw a laptop—he’d go through the computer, maybe back at the office—and a small leather notebook. Opening it, he realized it was Conrad’s Christmas card address book. He got up and closed the drawer, nudged the chair against the desk. Another look around…the bathroom was small, a shower, no tub, the shower curtain moldy at the bottom. The medicine cabinet had a straight razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bottle of Advil PM all on the lower shelf. On the middle shelf sat empty bottles of Prozac and Clozardil—the first an anxiety medication, the second…who knew what, both dated October. Maybe he couldn’t afford to have them refilled since losing the job and health insurance. On the top shelf were seven unopened boxes of Advil PM 120-count. Apparently Zachary could still afford them and still had trouble sleeping.

  The closet near the bed was small and had only a few garments hanging in it…including an old, leather Indianapolis Colts jacket with holes worn on the elbows, and a nice winter coat that looked new and too large for Zachary.

  “Bingo.” Randy took the new coat out by the hangar, cursed himself for not thinking to put on gloves for any of this. He’d just been so excited. He fished around in the pockets, finding paper in one and bringing it out, hanging up the coat, which he noted was size XXL—too big for Zachary, not too big for Conrad. He was closing the door when he saw a big shopping bag on the floor, next to a pair of boots…the kind that left noticeable tread marks. The bag was from the Santa Claus store. Tugging it out with his free hand, he saw three Merry Christmas mugs in a divided box inside, all the other compartments empty.

  Three mugs.

  Piper had reported that the killer had purchased eleven.

  There were four with the victims in Spencer County. Plus these three. Seven.

  That left four more mugs unaccounted for. Four more victims yet to be discovered?

  “B-I-N-G-O and Bingo was the name-O.” He replaced the bag, making sure everything was the way he’d found it. Went to the desk and spread the pieces of paper out under the light. Receipts, one from the grocery store in Rockport.

  Folgers Coffee, classic roast: $12.78

  Friskies Savory Shred Cat Food: $18.94

  Randy remembered reading Oren’s interview with Chris Hagee, who said he saw Conrad in the grocery store the Tuesday before the party, that Conrad had coffee and cat food in his cart. Tuesday, December 26th, the date on the receipt. He’d have to ask Chris if Conrad was wearing a nice winter coat, because Randy had a strong suspicion this coat was Conrad’s.

  And that meant Zachary had taken it from Conrad’s house after December 26th. Lie and lie and lie. Zach said he saw Conrad Christmas Day and then left, hadn’t spent the night. He went back to the closet and looked at the jacket again, just to make sure. The size label definitely read XXL. Zach could wear it, but it would be big on him. The other coat was a size L, the flannel shirt hanging next to it, L. Yeah, Conrad’s coat.

  “Bingo again.”

  Randy would go back to his car, park at the edge of the lot, and wait for Zachary to show up. He’d take him in, call Oren, and then call the sheriff in Vanderburgh County. He’d ask for the chief deputy job right off the bat. He’d run for sheriff the next election.

  Smiling, Randy turned off the lights and opened the door.

  “Randy Gerald,” Zach said. He’d been standing on the other side. “The man with two first names. Nice to see you again.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Friday, January 5th

  Piper dreamed of Iraq, and swore she was plodding across a stretch of sand, heavy pack on her back, the sun turning the world into an oven that made it difficult to breathe. She woke gasping at 4 a.m. to the sound of a wheeled medicine cart. She’d slept at the hospital, on a chair in the hall outside her dad’s room. The nurse with the cart stopped to again check on her dad’s vitals. They’d been waking him every two hours to check on him, and each time—because she woke, too—they told her he was improving. How was a man supposed to heal with all the interruptions?

  She slipped inside the room.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  He looked groggy, pale, old, and exhausted. But he smiled. The nurse, however, scowled at her and made a shooing motion.

  “They’re moving you into a regular room in a couple of hours,” Piper said. “There’ll be flowers waiting. You’re loved.”

  He made a move to sit up, but she shook her head.

  “I have to go. I’ve got—”

  “A lot of things to do,” he said. His voice was hoarse, sounded like a smoker’s though she’d never known him to smoke anything. “You’ve got more things to handle than I ever tackled all at once.” The nurse handed him a cup of water to sip.

  “I’m sorry, Dad, and—”

  “Sorry nothing. Call me later and tell me how it’s going. Scoot. Catch the bastard.”

  She kissed his forehead, put on her coat, and headed for home. Piper wanted to change before going into the office and then to Conrad’s funeral. Anthony had said his brother would pick him up, so that was one less thing she had to worry about. Again, she realized that dumping the monk at her father’s had been a blessing.

  Piper radioed in to tell dispatch she was coming back to town and would be in the office soon. God, but she wanted to take the whole day off, spend it with her father. Not possible. She didn’t mind driving in the dark, liked the shine of the snow piled up on the sides of the road and the absence of other cars. She stopped herself from turning on the radio, instead talking to herself, running the clues over and over. She had a headache centered over her left eye, probably from not enough sleep, and her neck throbbed because she’d spent hours oddly curled in a less-than-comfortable chair. The fourteen miles to Rockport went by much faster this trip; and she didn’t use the flashers this time.

  She showered and dressed in her only other clean uniform—she’d have to do laundry tonight—and took a few minutes for makeup. She hadn’t bothered with any primping the past few days, but the dark circles were too pronounced and needed covering. Piper wanted to look her professional best at Conrad Delaney’s funeral
later this morning. Too, she didn’t want to appear faded in front of her deputies; most of them seemed to tolerate her, but Piper sensed she lacked their respect.

  She stared at herself in the mirror, thinking she looked haunted, and for the thousandth time she wondered if running for sheriff had been a foolish idea.

  Piper hurried back downstairs, noticing a light on in her dad’s kitchen. She peeked in the window and saw Anthony feeding Wrinkles. She almost went in the back door, to chat and share some coffee with the monk. But the pleasantries would slow her; too much to do.

  She fought the yawn as she slid into the rental and backed out of the driveway, so fast she nearly clipped a metallic blue Ford parked across the street that hadn’t been there when she pulled up. Somebody else keeping early morning hours.

  The scanner crackled with a deputy—Piper didn’t recognize the voice—reporting that he was arresting two teenagers parked in the lot of the Pioneer Village. It was a touristy spot on Fairground Drive, open daily from May to October, but in the winter it kept weekend hours. The deputy reported into dispatch that they’d been drinking, apparently fell asleep, and he was surprised that hadn’t frozen to death. “They’re mostly sober now,” he continued. “Cold as hell and cranky. I’ll get them on trespassing at least.”

  Piper figured that was a good call. A DUI charge probably wouldn’t hold up since they weren’t driving. But they could add underage drinking. When things calmed down in the county, she’d take a look at the DUI issue. Right now, the serial killer trumped everything.

  All the answers were in the Christmas cards, she’d decided sitting in the hall outside her dad’s room. The images of the cards flitted through her head, like she was in a Hallmark store browsing the racks. They held the name of who killed Conrad Delaney and Abigail Thornbridge and Samuel Reynolds and Jacob Wallem. That had to be Jacob in the chimney, killed before the others. Randy had radioed her that when the body was pulled out, the face sort of looked like a picture they had of Jacob. And if the cards held the who, they also held the why. Could she unlock the motive if she took yet one more pass through the cards?