by Rich Foster
“Mmm…Harry!” She reached up and drew him closer for a kiss. “How was your meeting?”
Harry glanced at the small bloody splotch left on the ceiling by one mosquito and momentarily thought of the wall in Oliver’s clinic.
“It ended unhappily.”
“A lot of things do with you.”
Harry said nothing.
“Are we going to end unhappily Harry? Are you going to make me cry?”
“Not a chance. We’re not going to end.” Harry stretched out beside her and took her in his arms. She snuggled her cheek against his chest. After a couple minutes Paula asked,
“So what happened?”
“The guy I went to see shot himself.”
Paula sat up. “That is so weird! I was making Death in the Afternoon cocktails after you left!”
She almost looks like the ditzy blonde stereotype. I love her anyway, he thought. “What’s in it?”
“A jigger of absinth and champagne until it turns milky. Hemingway loved them, said you should have three or four.”
“I’ll take a pass, a scotch rocks will do.”
Harry slipped free and went over to the sideboard where he poured, then returned to Paula. The ice tinkled against the glass as he sipped. Slowly he told Paula about his meeting with Dr. Oliver and about his interview with Sheriff Gaines. The re-telling helped to still a small voice that said he brought about Oliver’s death, but other than a vague regret about wasted life in an otherwise empty universe he sensed no feelings of guilt. To Harry, the look in Oliver’s eyes when he asked for his photos had little to do with fear of discovery and everything to do with primordial lust.
“Alison Albright brought out the evil in those around her.”
“Do you really believe in good and evil, Harry?”
“Yes. The same way there is light and dark. I don’t know that I would call it a war of spirits, but there is something real and tangible and evil that dwells among us.”
Chapter 24
Sheriff Gaines buzzed for Pat Egan.
A minute later he came in.
“Where are we at Pat?”
Gaines thought, He looks tired. Too many late nights and young kids at home.
“No doubt the doctor shot himself. Grim’s fingerprints were on the gun, the clip and the arms of the desk chair but we found overlays left by Oliver crossing almost all of them.”
“Did you go through his house?”
“Only a quick once over. The only odd thing was a photograph of a girl who looked a lot like Alison Albright. It was rather grainy as though enlarged from a low quality picture. The caption read Carole Marcotti.”
“That would be Carole Albright, Alison’s mother. Oliver probably enlarged it from the high school yearbook. She had Alsison with another guy, but they both took the Albright name when she married the second time.”
Egan blew out air. “How do these sicko's get by with it?”
“With what?”
“Living among us unnoticed?”
“Everyone has secrets, Pat. Anything else I should know?”
“I chased down the lead Harry gave us about the patients. Kerri Kershaw changed doctors a year ago. And the Stanton woman is old news.”
“Any particular reason for the Kershaw move?”
“The mother said Dr. Oliver dropped out of their insurance company’s preferred provider network. She offered no professional complaints.”
Egan leafed through his notes, to make sure he covered the salient points.
Gaines interrupted his thoughts, “How about Hank Stanton? What is your gut instinct there?”
“He’s a loser. But even a loser would be smart enough to move on if he murdered someone. I think he’s innocent.”
“We have two other woman dead over the two years previous to her death, and they all have a disturbingly similar appearance.”
“The Stantons didn’t move here until the winter of '91. That was long after the Jane Doe turned up. If these cases are related it is not through him.”
“You still have him in custody?”
“Yes. We’re holding him as a material witness. If only to keep him sober enough to talk.”
“Kick him lose. We don’t have grounds to hold him. I doubt he would be difficult to find if something turns up.”
“What if he runs?”
“That would be good to know. Check up occasionally to see he stays in town.”
Egan left, after which Gaines stared at his wall and stroked his mustache. The death of three girls in sequential years was troubling. Gaines abandoned the wall and picked up a file lying on his desk. He laid out the morgue photo of the Jane Doe, Alison Albright’s senior portrait, and a blow-up of Judy Stanton’s drivers license. The similarity in appearance made his misgivings worse.
He picked up a second file. Inside the manila folder was the report on the abduction of Keri Kershaw and a snapshot taken to document her injuries. To Gaines’s eye she and the other victims could be sisters if not separated by two decades.
Gaines wondered, Grim was the first to suggest a connection through the doctor. If all the cases are connected, that means a serial killer, but if so, where the hell had he or she been for the past twenty years?
*
In his Edison Building office, Harry's thoughts were much the same. There’s no shortage of suspects, but as for evidence I am no closer than when I started. He mulled this over while his fingers hunted and pecked across his computer keyboard, as he worked on a report he hoped would result in Parks paying his bill. It was unlikely he would find anyone who saw Alison after that night, unless he discovered the killer, but he found enough people with reasons to kill Alison that Parks would be lost among them. The result from his perspective would be the same; she was the problem, not J. Travis Parks.
He summed up his findings about Alison Albright, then printed the document, and called Parks for an appointment.
“You find anyone to clear me?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you about it when I get there. What time are you free?”
“I have a fundraiser at noon and my afternoon is packed. I could see you at eleven.”
Harry glanced at his watch. “I can make it.”
Paula arrived as he hung up.
“You’re late,” Harry said in a false English accent.
Paula sashayed toward him in an exaggerated vamp’s walk. “Better to come late than to have never come!”
“Hardly one of your shortcomings.”
“Shortcomings? Me?” she asked with feigned dismay. “And if coming is not one, then what are my shortcomings?”
Harry kissed her. “I forget. I’ll think about it on my way to Beaumont.”
“You should ask Barton to fly you over. The radio reported that a semi crashed. Traffic is backed up for miles until they clear the road.”
Harry figured the ‘miles’ mentioned was hyperbole but it was a good suggestion anyway.
Barton answered on the second ring. He was having a late breakfast at the Rebel Cafe.
“I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
“Make it ten, my vegetarian omelet just came up.”
Harry put his report for Parks into a glossy folder, in an attempt to lend it greater dignity. Then he printed out a bill to bring the account up to date. He suspected it would be his final one. Parks cared little about who killed Alison as long as no one thought it was him.
Harry picked up Dirk who was already out front. He slid into the pickup in an easy, sinuous movement. Dirk never seemed to rush.
“What’s happening?”
“Going to see my client. There was an accident on the pass. Paula thought your plane was a convenient answer.”
“She figures the odds of me flying into a mountain are less than those of you driving off one. I think she wants to keep you healthy.”
“The woman is sick in love with me.”
“Probably me, too!” said Dirk.
“You should be so lucky!”
They were silent, near the airport Harry spoke.
“Oliver said Dave Barnes was seeing Carole, whom he freely interchanged with Alison in his mind. If he saw them together it was before the party weekend. But Barnes never let on that they were close.”
“Maybe they weren’t. Maybe he was just a dude with privileges?”
“But she hit up everyone she slept with for money. What did Dave Barnes have at eighteen?”
“Maybe charm. Women love charm, haven’t you noticed that about me?” Dirk made a cheesy grin, all teeth and gums.
“No,” Harry said and then fell in with Dirk's laughter.
A short time later Barton was at the end of the strip doing his check list and engine run up prior to take off. He looked to starboard and port watching the blur of the propeller tips, then pushed the throttle forward. The plane lunged against the wheel brakes, until Barton released them and they rolled rapidly forward. The ground thumped under their wheels until Dirk eased the stick back and the plane's nose aimed for the sky. Soon all they could hear was the drone of the engine.
To their left, summer play was in full swing on the lake, the surface crisscrossed by wakes. They banked toward the east and Harry could see the smoke from the forest fires was gone. The hills above the eastern shore were a blackened waste, but fortunately the fire was out.
The plane climbed in a broad sweeping circle over Red Lake as they gained enough altitude to clear the mountains when they turned south. Barton leveled out. The town passed below, then Harry picked out the highway as it meandered up the mountains toward the pass. Patches of summer snow remained on the highest and most shaded parts of the peaks, but not like the snow fields that would survive on into the next winter on the higher peaks of the Lazarus Range behind them.
Soon they spotted a cluster of flashing red lights. From both sides a colorful snake of cars traced the backup on the road.
“Think God feels like this?”
“Like what?”
“Looking down on us scurrying around like ants, believing what we are doing is important?”
“If he’s looking down, he’s laughing his ass off that he made such a stupid animal.”
“Barton, my friend, you are in danger of becoming a cynic.”
“Too late. Got there twenty or thirty years ago.”
He moved the throttle and the engines dropped in noise. He let the air speed drop and lost altitude. In the distance out on the flat land Harry spotted Beaumont through the summer haze.
Barton called the control tower and was told to land from the east on runway 29er. They flew east, banked south and then came onto final. The landing gear thunked into place and the nose dipped at the drag. Barton lightly brought the nose back up as they steadily dropped into Beaumont. Then with a gentle bounce they were down.
“You need company?” Barton asked as they taxied to the private plane facilities.
“No, why?”
“There’s a woman in flight services I talked to a while back. I thought I’d see if I could buy her lunch.”
“No problem, I’ll be awhile.”
Harry took a taxi into town. At five to eleven he was waiting outside Travis Parks inner office. The campaign was developing. The election was months away, yet when one watched the flow one might think it were on for the morrow.
A pretty brunette asked, “Can I get you anything?”
“A margarita would be nice.”
She giggled, “If only. I can give you coffee or water.”
“Neither.”
“Mr. Parks shouldn’t be long.”
At eleven twenty Harry was still waiting. He walked over to the brunette’s desk. “Could you call your boss and tell him to forget it, I’ll just send my report over to Tanya Talbot at Channel 13. It should make a good lead.”
The girl had no idea what that meant, but was clever enough to sense it might be bad. She picked up the phone. As she hung up she said, “He can see you now.”
“I’ll bet.”
She began to rise, but he waved her off and opened the office door himself.
Whoever Parks was talking to either left by the rear door, Parks was on the phone, or he simply wanted to make him cool his heels.”
“Sorry for the delay.”
“No, you’re not or you wouldn’t do it. “
“Kind of testy aren’t you?”
“I had an appointment. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“You don’t seem to care if you get paid.”
“About as much as you don’t care what goes to the press.”
Harry dropped a large manila envelope on the desktop. “My report and invoice.” I don’t like the man, on the other hand I’m not paid to like him.
Parks drew the papers out and skimmed through them. Harry studied the campaign posters that decorated the walls.
“And you think I should pay for this?” Parks suddenly asked.
“That’s up to you. I dug up enough to insulate you. If the media runs the story you can show the girl was a liar and a blackmailer and that a dozen other people might want her dead. End of story! If you stiff me I might do an exclusive interview that stresses the fact that despite my formidable investigative skills, you were the last one seen with sweet, young, Alison Albright.”
Parks snorted, “You're a son-of-a-bitch, but you can pick up a check from my campaign treasurer on your way out.”
“Thanks. If I find out anything else I’ll let you know.”
“You do that.”
Ten minutes later a check in his pocket and he was looking for a cab on Main Street. None were in sight so he slipped into the Harmon House Restaurant for lunch. He ordered a Philly cheese steak sandwich and a side salad. While he waited he called for a cab. One would be out front in fifteen minutes.
The food came. It was unmemorable, as was the waitress. Harry wondered how the place stayed in business. He left a tip on the theory her life might actually suck which would explain her attitude. Some people needed all the help they can get.
He found his cab waiting out front. A woman with a half dozen bags was haranguing the driver, insistent that she was there first and therefore he was obligated to drive her. Harry opened the back door while she shouted through the passenger window.
“My name’s Grim.”
The driver nodded. He rolled the electric window up in front of the woman’s face and pulled away from the curb.
“Where to, Buddy?”
“Golden Oaks Convalescent Home.”
The driver dropped him out front. On the verandah, people marked time in the shade. Harry cut across the lawn to Todd Whittier’s building. He could not recall the room number but figured he would recognize it. In room 136, Whittier was engaged in a postprandial nap, his head tilted back against his easy chair, his mouth agape. The lower lip curled over his toothless gum, a half denture set lay on the side table.
Harry looked at the photos on the dresser. A young man in uniform looked seriously at the camera lens, a smiling girl of twenty something at his side. He studied the old man in the chair for vestiges of the one in the photograph but it lay buried under wrinkles, age spots, and thinning hair. Harry coughed in an attempt to rouse him. Whittier’s eyes fluttered. He looked around confused. After a moment he muttered, “I gotta get out of here.”
“Sheriff Whittier?”
“Who are you?”
“Harry Grim.”
Whittier hacked up some phlegm, spat into a yellowed handkerchief, and slipped his false teeth in. “Never heard of you.”
“Lot of people say that.”
The old man let out a cackle of laughter. “That’s a good one, son. You’re sharp.”
“I wanted to ask you about Martin Hoffman.”
“Who?”
“Man who killed three woman forty years ago in Red Lake.”
“Never had a mass murderer in Red Lake. Least not until that s.o.b killed those church folk in Mason Forks a couple years back.”
&nbs
p; “Hoffman was executed in 1985 for three killings, each one year apart.”
Whittier’s face scrunched up, his nose twitched, he hacked up another lugie and said, “Yeah, I remember him. Weaselly sort of guy. Helped fit him with a necktie.”
Whittier put one hand over his head and jerked an imaginary rope. He let his head drop.
Harry ignored the theatrics. “We have something similar up there today. Three dead women in sequential years, but this was twenty years ago, not forty.”
“Kind of hard for it to be Hoffman.” Whittier said, stating the obvious.
Harry tried a new point of attack. “How did you get on to Hoffman?”
Whittier closed his eyes and rested his face in his hand while he thought. A minute later he began to softly snore. Harry nudged Whittier’s elbow off the arm of easy chair. His head bounced and the eyes snapped awake. He picked up where he dozed off. Without skipping a beat Whittier answered, “Call it cop intuition. Hoffman was violent. Beat his wife senseless one time. I should have brought him in after the first murder but it looked like a robbery. His wife gave him an alibi the next year but she was a liar and frightened of him beside. When the third one went down, I made sure he took the fall.”
Whittier’s tone and manner troubled Harry. He wasn’t sure he had understood Whittier. To clarify he asked, “What was the evidence against Hoffman?”
“Not much until I found his shirt with the last girl’s blood on it. The jury figured if he was good for one killing, he was good for all.”
“Where did you find the shirt?”
Whittier’s smile grew crafty. “You know how it is, sometimes you have to help justice along.”
Harry now understood what the man was saying. But he pressed the point.
“You arranged for that bit of evidence, huh?” He raised his eyebrows impishly.
A twinkle danced in the old man’s cold blue eyes. “You bet. And it sent that son of a bitch to the gallows!”
Harry silently cursed the old man, He couldn’t prove it, not yet, but he figured, Whittier indirectly helped a serial killer go free and an innocent man to hang. Wittier nodded off again. Harry left the room. As he walked down the hall he thought, The unanswered question is, did the killer return to Red Lake in the early 90’s? And of greater contemporary concern, was the killer the same person who grabbed Kerri Kershaw?
