Now Mourn the Space Cadet (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  He subsided again, then asked, "Now?"

  "No. Monday morning, if that's all right. Also, you may not want to go back there tonight. Is there someone you could stay with?"

  For just a moment he seemed almost amused, just the start of a smile flickering across his face, and then gone. "Yes," he said, "I think so."

  * * *

  Mickie stopped at Beverly's desk. "Take care of him, would you? He's had a bad time. What did the SBI say?"

  "They're on their way. Forty-five minutes, maybe."

  "All right. I've got Siegert's house key. I'm going back to meet them. When Harry calls, give him the address. And ask him please to hurry."

  Beverly looked pained, remembering what he had said about being called. Mickie said, "Just tell him it's the end of the world and he's the only one who can stop it."

  Beverly’s look said she had no intention of telling him any such thing. "He's not going to like this. You know how he feels about homicides."

  “Yeah, well, wait till he gets a load of this one.”

  CHAPTER 6

  ENTER HARRY

  He didn't need the address. One of the cruisers still had the blue light turning, and the SBI mobile lab was on the side street by the driveway. He recognized the medical examiner's car just beyond. A small crowd had gathered across the street, and was being interviewed by two uniformed officers.

  He pulled his VW Bug into one of the townhouse parking areas across from the yellow house, careful to park away from any other cars. He sat in the car for a minute or two and watched, not seeing anything grossly out of line. Of course, inside was where it really mattered. He hated botched up, careless investigations with too many people who didn't know what they were doing, all trying to look important. Well, he thought, we'll see.

  He knew he was in a bad mood. He also knew that it wasn't just because this was a vacation day and he had been called away from a pleasant day with good friends, a glass of single malt scotch and the promise of a really fine dinner. It was a homicide. Another damned homicide. And judging from the neighborhood and the house, probably a domestic affair. He got out of the car wondering if they had located the husband or boyfriend yet. It was usually one or the other.

  Detective Harry Chervenic was short and thick, in his mid-fifties, with bushy brows and thinning hair. He had once been described, though not to his face, as a tree stump with eyebrows.

  Over the years, Harry had developed a deep, accumulated disgust for the grief, the shock, the general nastiness that seemed to turn up in the wake of a killing. It wasn't the victim so much, though that could be bad enough, or even the killer. Their roles were pretty well defined. It was more the family, the friends, the lovers left behind to deal with the mess. He had listened to too much spewed venom, seen too many dull, shocked, silent faces. He had even seen a few little secret, half-concealed smiles. He had seen too many bodies covered with sheets, too many bewildered faces peering through bars, too much smug cynicism, too much hatred. He had told and been told too many lies. It had added up, year after year, and it had changed him. He had turned into someone he didn't much like—resentful, suspicious of everyone, and angry without knowing why. There had been a five-year period when he and his son never spoke, and why Karen hadn't left him he still didn't know.

  After spending most of his life on the Baltimore force, he had finally had enough of it, had arranged an early retirement, and come to Connor Beach. Here, most of the serious stuff consisted of bar fights among the summer visitors, now and then some breaking and entering, petty vandalism by bored teenagers. In the eight months he had been here, this was just the second homicide, but for Connor Beach that was abnormally high.

  He climbed out of the car, shaking his head sadly. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he attracted the damned things.

  As he walked in through the driveway gate, Mickie was coming out the kitchen door, looking harried. She came to meet him, a tight smile showing her relief. Harry stopped and watched her. "Well," he said, "you really screwed up this time, Wilder." He watched the smile leave her face and went on. "I leave town three days—three lousy days—and you come up with a homicide. Can't I trust you with anything? I'll bet you couldn't wait. Welcome back, Harry. By the way, we have a murder."

  She looked at him steadily. "Don't try to be sarcastic, Harry. You're not the type. Anyway, I'm glad you're here. You had Beverly so scared she didn't want to call you."

  He ignored that. "She said a woman was killed. Married?"

  "Yes. Her husband's at the station."

  "Good. This is wrapped up then?"

  "Afraid not. I took him there after we found the body. I didn't want him messing things up while I called it in."

  "You mean you found the body?"

  "Yeah, it was planned. I did it just to piss you off."

  He regarded her sourly. "You're right,” he said. “You're more of a wise ass than I am. So what do we have?"

  He stood quietly while she told him about her day. Toward the end, he closed his eyes, shook his head, made a small sound of disgust. "Are you telling me we have a Satanic Cult killing?"

  "Looks like it."

  "Wonderful. This is just what I need."

  They went in through the kitchen door, trying to stay out of the way, watching the crime scene specialists work their way through the room. A little gray man wearing a tired-looking suit and clear plastic gloves came out of the dining room. He saw them and came over.

  Mickie said, "Harry, this is Agent Schatz, SBI."

  Harry took Schatz's hand warmly, said, "Good to meet you. You'll be handling the investigation?"

  Schatz looked puzzled. Mickie said, "Dream on, Harry. You know Ross. It breaks his heart just to ask for technical help. The investigation is ours."

  Schatz said, "It's regulations. When the mobile lab goes to a homicide, the agent on call goes with it. Today, that's me." He nodded back toward the dining room. "Looks like she was attacked in there."

  Mickie tried to hide her surprise. "In the dining room?"

  "There's a little blood on the table. Some on the carpet. She was probably standing there, got hit and fell onto the table."

  "I didn't see any blood on the wrapping paper."

  "No, it's just on the edge of the table. Only a few drops. Also, there's a couple of drag marks on the carpet. They're faint and covered in places with somebody's footprints, but they're fresh. If you get down close to the floor, they're plain enough. They go from the table right out here to the kitchen. I figure someone hit her, then dragged her into that bedroom."

  "Anything else?"

  "Sure, lots of things. That cross on her chest is certainly blood, probably her own. We'll check to be sure. That stuff on her stomach and forehead looks like lipstick. A dark red. We found one upstairs in the bedroom, but it doesn't match. It's more of a pink."

  "So the one that made the marks is gone?"

  He shrugged. "We haven't found it yet."

  "What about the package on the table?" It was Mickie asking the questions. Harry stood back and watched.

  The little man said, "Just some sneakers and a sweat suit. All worn, not very clean."

  "How about a wallet?"

  He lifted his brows in surprise. "Yeah." He didn't ask how she had known.

  "I'd like to see the wallet."

  "Sure. It's been dusted and checked."

  "All right if we take it with us?"

  He shrugged. "You're in charge. And frankly, I don't envy you this one."

  Mickie started toward the living room, then stopped and glanced at Harry. "Sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to take over. There's a couple of things I wonder about, that’s all.”

  He nodded. "Go ahead. You're doing fine."

  The wallet was still in the box, resting on the folded sweats. She looked into the bill compartment, checked the see-through pockets, and ended with the driver's license. "Interesting." She smiled a little wickedly. "When I took his statement, he said he had twenty dollars in here. I
see a five, two ones and a condom."

  "Hard to tell what value people put on things. Maybe it's a thirteen dollar rubber."

  "He also said he was thirty-five. I didn't know men lied about their ages."

  "Men lie about lots of things. How old is he?"

  "According to his driver's license, thirty-nine. At that rate, it's going to take

  him a long time to hit forty."

  As they came back into the kitchen, the covered body of Tina Siegert was being carried out. Behind it came the medical examiner, a tall, lean, dour man with bifocals that perched low on his nose, and were looked more over than through. He nodded and said, "Chervenic, isn't it?" Glancing at Mickie, he continued, "and ... Wilder. Last time I saw you, you were having a little trouble watching an autopsy."

  "I was having a lot of trouble."

  "Yeah, you were. I hear you found this one."

  "Yes, with her husband."

  "The husband saw that? Jesus!" He paused, trying to imagine it. "So now I suppose you want me to do your job for you, and tell you everything you want to know."

  "How about the time of death?"

  He made a show of sighing, rather dramatically. "It never changes. Everybody wants to know the time of death. When was she last seen? Alive, I mean."

  "About eleven-thirty."

  "And you found her...?"

  "It was two-thirty-seven when I walked out of there."

  He considered. "Well, that seems about right. She died sometime in there."

  "You're a hell of a help."

  "All right, if you want to be picky, it was probably closer to the first time."

  "What about cause of death? That thing in her chest?"

  "Ah, now that's a weird one, isn't it? What with driving a stake through her heart, and all those symbols, you'd think we were dealing with vampires or something. If she was one, the guys at the morgue are in for a hell of a surprise when she gets up and walks out."

  “What?"

  "Well, the stake didn't go through her heart. Missed it by inches. But then most people don't know where their hearts are anyway. They think it's way out to the left—where their lungs are."

  "Are you saying that didn't kill her?"

  "Judging from the lack of bleeding at the chest wound, I'd say she'd been dead maybe fifteen minutes before that thing was stuck in her."

  "So what killed her?"

  "Nothing sensational. A blow to the back of the head. There wasn't much external bleeding, but probably a lot of damage inside. I'll be sure after the postmortem, but I don't see it changing much."

  "What about the weapon?"

  "You tell me. Something very blunt."

  "What about that little brown statue in there beside the clothes? The back is pretty flat. If it were held by the head?"

  "Yes, I suppose that would do it."

  Harry spoke for the first time. "What kind of statue?"

  "It's about eight inches high, made of some kind of hardwood. Japanese, I think. She called it Hotai. It was supposed to bring her good luck."

  * * *

  Tina Siegert had gone off in the ambulance, followed by the medical examiner. The SBI team had left with their plastic sample bags and videotape and fingerprints. The press had descended, taken their pictures, gotten statements from anyone who would talk, and departed. Even the small crowd across the street had broken up and drifted off. Harry and Mickie stood outside in the late afternoon sun, knowing their work was only beginning.

  "So," asked Harry, "now what?"

  "Now we.... Wait a minute. Why are you asking me?"

  "It's your case."

  She stared at him, too many thoughts trying to race through her mind at once. "What?"

  "It's your case. After all, you've been on the force longer than I have."

  "Don't give me that. You know damned well Ross will insist on you taking this one. It's a homicide."

  "That's why I'm giving it to you. I hate homicides, and I'm still on vacation. At least until Monday. Besides, you know the people involved. You talked to them before the crime. You found the body. Hell, you even interviewed the victim."

  "But this thing is going to be a circus."

  "I'll handle the press if you like."

  "That's not what I mean. There's going to be a lot of attention on this one. Ross will have a bird when he finds out I'm leading this."

  He frowned at that, seeming to concede the point. "Yeah, you're right. Okay, we won't tell him."

  "Harry!"

  He saw the look on her face and almost smiled. "Look, we'll work this together, just like last time. Only this time, you lead. You can't learn everything by watching."

  "And not tell Ross?"

  "He'll be happier that way. Now—you know the ground here. Who do we talk to first?"

  She was still dubious, but said, "That's easy. Kurt Brodbeck."

  * * *

  Mickie drove her beat-up blue Honda. Harry followed in the Bug, carefully kicking the sand off his shoes before getting in. It was forest green, deep and lustrous with fresh wax, highlighted by immaculate chrome. An emerald relic. Heads turned when it passed. Karen, his wife, called it his obsession, but had to admit there were worse things he could obsess over. Harry thought of it simply as caring for something beautiful.

  They found Kurt Brodbeck's house halfway down a short side street near the middle of town. It was gray with age and lack of paint, jammed into a row of similar houses. The road, no more than eighty yards long, ended several houses beyond his in a large mound of sand and a permanent barricade that kept people from driving onto the beach. Ringing the doorbell brought no results.

  "There's no car," said Mickie. "Maybe he skipped."

  Across from Brodbeck's was a house that stood out from the rest by having a fresh coat of blue-gray paint. Beside the stairs leading up to the porch, flower boxes held bunches of early-blooming pansies, giving color to a neighborhood of gray wood and sand. On the porch, an old man sat in a wicker chair, watching them. They crossed the street, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. Mickie said, "Excuse me, we're looking for Mr. Brodbeck. I believe he lives over there."

  He wore khaki pants, a plaid shirt and a matching plaid cap. Under the visor, his eyes flicked back and forth between them. "He ain't there."

  "Yes, we know. Do you know where he is?"

  A tiny smile crept into his face and eyes. "Sure."

  Mickie waited, but there was no more. "Would you tell us?"

  His glance cut over to Harry. He winked, the smile getting broader. "Sure."

  Mickie took a deep breath, deciding she'd have to ask the right questions to play this game. "Where is he?"

  "At work."

  Mickie nodded, but didn't ask the next question. When she said nothing, he asked, "You want to know where?"

  "Nutrix?"

  The smile broadened even more as he conceded her the point. "Right," he said, "one of those health food joints. Vitamins and wheat germ, all that crap. Works days during the week. Saturdays he works three to nine. Closes the place up."

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome. You the cops?"

  "Yes sir. Have you seen Mr. Brodbeck today?"

  "No, but then I don't often. There's a parking lot for a mini-mart behind his place. He always parks there. Goes in and out the back way."

  "I see."

  "The women don't, though. They just park in the front."

  "What women?"

  "Different ones. Come to think of it, I don't think I ever saw the same one twice." He almost giggled at that. "Don't say much for him, does it?"

  He looked at Harry again. "You're awful quiet. Don't you have any questions?"

  Harry looked thoughtful for a few seconds, as if he were trying to come up with something. "Sure," he said, letting the silence drag on after it.

  The old man was still chuckling as they drove away.

  CHAPTER 7

  KATHRYN

  They stopped at the station so Harry could c
heck his messages. Even in a place as small as Connor Beach, they tended to pile up after a few days. Beverly was gone, but had left a note for Mickie. 'Siegert made a call. Picked up by woman in station wagon.'

  "Well, how about that!"

  Harry had gone through the new bits of paper that had grown on his desk, arranging them in order of importance, deciding there was nothing that couldn't wait until Monday morning. "How about what?"

  She handed him the note. "Kathryn Meadows drives a green station wagon. She was on my list of people to talk to, anyway. I think this moves her up a notch."

  * * *

  Kathryn Meadows came out to meet them. She had changed from the jeans and sweatshirt into a loose, gauzy dress. She knew the earthy tones—tan highlighted by jade—made her green eyes seem even larger. Attractive, but a little light for this weather. She had pulled a light cardigan over her shoulders. She wasn't surprised to see them, and stood quietly as Mickie introduced Harry.

  "We'd like to talk to you about what you told me this morning."

  "Yes, I thought you might. Let's go around this way."

  She led them to a gravel path that went around one side of the house to a large deck at the rear. It looked out over a boggy area of rushes, and beyond that the quiet, narrow reach of the Waterway. On the far side, a thick stand of pines and hardwoods came down to the water's edge. The oaks and gum trees were just beginning to leaf out, their lighter shades contrasting with the darker green of the pines. The sun had just dropped behind the trees, throwing long shadows across the water. With the surrounding trees, no other houses were in sight. A quiet place, peaceful, a place for unwinding at the end of the day.

  They sat in nylon-covered outdoor chairs that were more comfortable than they appeared, arranged to take in the view. All they needed was a round of drinks, and they could have been three old friends waiting for dinner. But, of course, they weren't friends. She knew why they were here, and it frightened her. She tried not to show it, tried to make herself relax.

  The woman detective—what was her name? Wilder?—said, "Why did you think we'd come back?"