by Kieran York
I mused over my notes, then said, “Okay, we’ve checked out all the possible places Pixy could have learned her skill as a mime. Or received busker training.”
Summer added, “Clown schools, circus schools, groups. Nothing.”
Rachel asked, “If you like I’ll send it through the data bank. But so far we’ve had no hits on a missing person with her description or prints anywhere.”
“For some reason, she wasn’t reported missing. There are runaway kids everywhere. And she might have dropped out of sight a dozen years ago.”
With a brusque sigh, Summer said, “I don’t know why a name makes any difference. It isn’t like most cases, where you explore the people from their past to find the killer. I doubt anyone sent a killer after her. What would the reason be? What in a past decade would suddenly make someone want to harm her?”
I countered, “But there is a chance. We know from the autopsy, and from knowing her, that she could have been harmed. She had facial and obviously head trauma that caused her disability and her disfigurement. Suppose it was a battery, a spouse physically shattered her face and head. Causing the disfigurement on the side of her face, and traumatic brain injury. Now, he or she thinks Pixy might bring charges for having harmed her. Maybe the perp just now discovered her.”
“According to the report,” Rachel said as she looked back at the autopsy information, “the injury is probably a decade old, at least. I agree with Summer, why would someone want her killed after all this time? I think we have our killer. I just don’t see anyone else.”
Summer added, “Besides, anyone seeing her would know she could never testify. They would realize her condition was too disabling.” Summer stood. “We know exactly who did it. Ryder and his moron pal did it. Or at least Ryder did the killing.”
“Okay,” the volume of my voice strengthened. “Let’s just say I want to investigate her past because I want her to have a name.”
“Take it easy,” Summer sat back in her chair. “Relax.”
“I talked with Lefty yesterday. He was reminiscing. He told me about how Pixy was terrified of heights. So, if she studied to be an acrobat, the chances are she wouldn’t possibly have been able to walk a high wire, or to do any flying through the air. That excludes acrobatics if she had a fear of heights. Pixy freaked out when she was on an elevated rock formation. But maybe that was due to a fall she’d taken.”
Rachel opened a window in her computer. “She wasn’t in a mime, juggling, or acrobatic classes/school anywhere in the United States.”
I closed my eyes. “Of course!” Sitting up quickly, I sputtered, “She could have been a gymnast. Small stature, she could do what is equivalent to a routine that gymnasts do.”
“I did check all gymnastic schools,” Rachel said. “I came up with nothing. No one missing.”
“The woman Lacey Cross or Inge knows everything,” I exclaimed. “Let’s all spend the morning doing searches for all gymnasts with any of those three names.”
As we each began checking there was quiet. Then Rachel gasped. She screamed, “A hit.” She read, “Holy…”
“What?” Summer quizzed.
“You two aren’t going to believe this. Olympics fifteen years ago. The silver medalist was a fourteen-year old American girl named Lacey Wyatt. The bronze medal went to a teammate named Dyan Cross.”
Summer had keyed in Dyan Cross, while my fingers flew to find Lacey Wyatt.
Summer confirmed, “Dyan Cross is from Boca Raton. She was seventeen at the time she won the bronze medal. Still lives in Boca, and is married to a man name Ron Inge.”
After staring into the screen for a moment, I turned it around for Rachel and Summer. “This is Pixy. Lacey Wyatt.” The photo showed a joyous young woman, child really. Hers was the same facial effervescence as Pixy displayed. Her hair was pulled back and into a twist. My mind backed up fifteen years to see a child with intelligent eyes, and optimism.
We were silent, transfixed. I batted tears so that my eyes would stay dry. Yet, one tear escaped and slid over my cheek.
Rachel pulled up the address of Ron and Dyan Inge. “Are you both going?” she asked.
Summer declined. “Naw, I want to get out there and continue tailing Ryder Hodges. I don’t want to miss an opportunity to have his ass sitting on death row. This is a job for Trev.”
“Do you want to come, Rach?” I invited.
“I need to stay put. Central command might get information. I’m better here. The directions,” she said as she handed me the paper.
Taking it, I felt as though I needed to rush – to find the story. But there was also a part of me that didn’t want to know. I wanted to hang on to the young woman named Pixy.
Driving south, I made it to Boca in a little over half an hour. Boca Raton is filled with affluent people living in plush homes. Workers affiliated with high-tech companies select the community. Dyan Cross Inge lived in a luxury community with Spanish styled homes and beach-front properties.
When a woman I guessed to be in her early to mid-thirties answered the door, I knew immediately it was Dyan. She was small, and just as Lefty had described her. He’d inferred she was hoity-toity and business-like.
After introducing myself, I asked her if she was acquainted with a former Olympian named Lacey Wyatt. She immediately told me I’d better come in. “Please have a seat, Miss Trevar. I am Dyan. Lacey and I were friends. I heard about Pixy last week. I’m so sad to hear about the terrible brutality that took her life.” Her pause gave her time to look away. “Yes, Lacey was the person known as Pixy.”
“I’m investigating the murder. I want to see the perpetrator in caught.”
“She didn’t deserve this.” Her eyes clouded as tears appeared.
“No, she didn’t.” I watched as Dyan wiped her eyes. I asked, “Why the cover-up?”
She pretended not to know what I meant. When silence scorched her vocal chords, she answered slowly, “There was no cover-up.”
“Of course, there was. You went to the trouble of using fake names for both the salvage company documents where you bought The Ghost, and for the records on the boat.”
“I didn’t want anyone bothering her. I secured the boat, a place where she could live. She showed me an eviction notice. When she took me aboard that old boat, I had been preparing to find Lacey a nice little home. But she hugged the side of the boat’s cabin. She truly loved living there. I purchased it. I provided clothing and necessities for her. She wanted to stay the way she was – as Pixy. Seeing her in such a state was difficult. But it was the way she wanted it.”
“Do you think she knew what she wanted?”
“Being a star athlete, then diminished. Well, I wouldn’t have wanted publicity for me, and I doubted Lacey would have wanted it. It was unwanted notoriety, and I shielded her from it. She was a silver medalist, and then to find her so debilitated was tragic.”
“Do you know how she came to be in a debilitated state?” I asked. In all the years of watching for facial clues, I had never seen anyone’s guilt as apparent. She wanted to hide something. Her shoulders sagged. Her hands folded, and then clasped tightly.
Her voice quaked, and her way of speaking was stilted. “We had finished up with tumbling sequences. We’d worked together on the bars, done our floor exercises. She had the best coordination I’d ever seen. Endurance, flexibility, and agility. She was a true champion.” Dyan’s pause allowed her time to look away. “She took a tumble from the balancing beam. She was never the same.”
“She fell from the balance beam? I’d like the details.”
“Yes. It was an accident. She had a wobbly dismount.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Inge, but I’m sensing there was much more to it.”
“The story goes so far back.” Her hands were shaking. “My mother was our coach. Lacey had been abandoned, and had been in foster care. My mother saw the potential for what a brilliant gymnast she could be. She was. Although I was four years older, we trained together. We
were like sisters.”
“What was the situation when the accident happened?” My inquiry was making her more distressed and nervous by the moment. Her fingers scraped through her hair with sharp jerky motions. Her eyes batted. My voice was insistent. “I’m wanting to understand how it happened.”
Her mouth finally opened as she grabbed for air through her quick breaths. “I haven’t talked about this in years. It’s too upsetting. We were in training for the Olympics. In our prior competition, I had come in third, and she was second – then three years later, Lacey had developed into an even finer gymnast. I was nearly twenty, and there was a major event coming up. I knew Lacey would manage to make the cut. I wasn’t certain I would.”
She suddenly broke down, tears began dripping from her eyes. Her legs had been crossed and she had been nervously swinging her foot. It stilled. Her body shook with her sobs.
I quickly said, “I’m sorry for bringing up difficult memories. While investigating the crime, and it has been difficult for my investigators to get the full picture. And we need that.”
Pain was pressing her. Her face had a pinched expression. “I’ve never told anyone about that day. The day she fell.”
I stood, walked to her chair, and leaned down. “You’ve got to tell someone. I need to know.”
“Yes, I’ve got to say what happened. There’s no one else I can tell. Have I got your word you’ll never tell anyone?”
“Look, Dyan, I tell my partners everything. Our company pledges confidentiality. I’m an attorney. I can agree to give you client/attorney privilege. I promise you, it won’t go beyond us.”
“I was a jealous, silly girl. Lacey’s skill made her my mother’s favorite. I knew I would never be better than Lacey at the thing my mother judged us on. The balance beam was one of Lacey’s best routines. And most dangerous. I was told to spot Lacey as she did a very difficult dismount. There were just the two of us at practice. I stood there, as if I was going to spot her. When she was in the air, I realized one of her legs was out of synchronization. She was going to miss, and must be caught to avoid an accident.”
“She fell?”
Her voice became hysterical. “I didn’t want for her to be seriously hurt, or killed. I just wanted for her to twist her ankle, something minor. But something that would keep her from the Olympics competition. At twenty, I knew that would probably be my final chance to win. And I would have a shot of it, if Lacey just hurt her leg, or arm, something minor. But as she went down, she tried to pull out, she went off to the side. When she landed, it was a hard landing on face, her head.”
“You allowed her to fall, so that you could win?” I swallowed my gasp.
“Yes. Yes. I killed her. She didn’t just die when she was murdered weeks ago. She died when I allowed her to die because I didn’t spot her properly. Protectively. Because she was never whole again.”
I corrected, “Dyan, years ago she didn’t die. She became a different person. And she was a wonderful person.” I held the sobbing woman in my arms. “I knew her, the entire area knew her. And loved her.”
“I loved her, but something poisoned me. Regaining my mother’s respect. She favored Lacey. The thrill of winning meant my mother might love me best. I’m so embarrassed. So sad.”
I patted her shoulder. “I think Pixy would have forgiven you.”
“You won’t say anything?”
“No, it won’t go public.”
“I have a family. It would devastate them.”
Glancing across the room to the photo on the wall, I saw Dyan, her husband, and a girl and boy, probably six and eight-years of age. “Your family?” I asked, pointing to the wall.
“My husband. And my son is named Wyatt, and my daughter is named Lacey.”
“You named them after Pixy?”
“Yes, perhaps so that I would remember what a terrible thing I did. Maybe seeing them each day, saying their names, is my penance.”
“You made one split-second decision. The decision was to hurt her. Not to kill her. A vicious, cold-hearted murderer killed her. He wanted to kill her. That was his goal. What you did was not good. But it wasn’t your intention to kill her. You can’t allow that to be your life’s guilt. Your judgment was deficient. Now you’ve got to add in the good things you done with your life. You medaled in competition. You have a family. And in your heart, you know you did something wrong, but not murderously so. Now you can teach our youth to keep the perspective of winning. Honorably. You can do that, Dyan.”
“Lacey was so kind that she often hid her silver medal, so that I wouldn’t feel badly about having a bronze. She helped me be better.”
“Do you know where she put the medal? Perhaps at her services it could be displayed.”
“It was taken from her. One day I visited her and she acted out that someone stole it.” Dyan gazed up at the ceiling. “About costs, for a service, please let me know and I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s being taken care of. Perhaps you might want to contribute money for some kind of memorial we’re trying to get. I can let you know.”
“The funeral and internment costs are being paid?”
“She was loved by those folks in Palm. And many of the bars where she busked and hung out are having a special night dedicated to her.”
“Please find the person responsible for her murder.” She clutched my arm. “Please.”
“I promise, I’m going to try. And I’ll never give up.”
I was aware that Dyan Cross Inge had issued her own justice. Had paid her own price. I hoped she would forgive herself.
My mind continued to playback the word winning. For a damned medal. And all that medal brought with it.
When I called Rachel, she told me Summer was still doing surveillance. We were all invested heavily in these cases. Trying not to make any critical mistakes was heavy on my mind. Because Summer wouldn’t be back until dinnertime, I held off on the news about Pixy – Lacey Wyatt, winner of a silver medal.
Before leaving Boca, I walked a shell-flecked beach. It just seemed right. Hearing Dyan’s confession stirred a strong emotion. Forgiveness wasn’t my greatest quality. I’d worked with too many dirtballs. They acted repentant, and were no such thing. But a few of them, I’d believed the contrition would stand. It hadn’t. Fewer yet, but some were truly sorry.
Rachel texted me with a message to drop by Portilla’s Handbags. Aubrey Portilla wanted to speak with me. Within the next half hour, I was walking into Portilla’s. Aubrey came around the counter. “Do as I say,” she sternly commanded. When she went back behind the register, her arms were folded and her expression was dour, and angry.
“Yes?” I questioned.
“Look around. In the southwest corner, you’ll see a largish cognac-colored leather tote shoulder bag. Examine it for a moment, then bring it to the register.
I feigned looking for a handbag. When I found it, I gave it a cursory check. I then placed it on the counter. “I’ll take this one,” I commented with a shrug.
“Give me your charge card?” She politely smiled.
I placed my plastic on the counter. She ran it through. Handing it back to me, with the receipt, she nodded. As she put the handbag into her elegant shopping bag, she said, “I think you’ll like this one. I rather have learned what women want.”
Glancing at the receipt, I argued, “You’ve made a mistake. It was twelve-hundred dollars and you only charged twelve dollars.”
“It isn’t a mistake. It’s a store gift. You made me realize my parents and grandparents fought to get to this country. To be part of this country. I can do a small thing to fight crime when I see it.”
“Thank you.”
I walked to my car, started the engine, and felt some happiness. The woman did what was right to assist in helping enforcement fight for justice. She gave me the handbag that I would have selected for myself. When I arrived at the marina, I unlatched the bag. I ran my fingers on the inside and felt the flash memory stick. I k
new what file the thumb drive had captured.
I entered the office, Rachel looked up from her desk. “You look pleased.”
“Somewhat. Yes.” I handed her the flash memory drive. “I wanted you to see it first. It may not be crystal clear. If it isn’t, I trust you to see how much definition you can bring out. I don’t trust this case to Forensics. Greased palms. John Hodges can hand someone a life-changing bribe. We’ll clean it up ourselves, duplicate it, then hand the original over to Tom.”
“I’ll get the flash memory stick’s file clean,” she vowed. With a sigh, she quizzed, “Beryl, you don’t trust anyone now, do you?” Her eyebrows shot up as she questioned.
“Not too many. Can you call with the results?”
“Will do immediately. Where you going?’
“Out searching. By the way, where’s Summer?”
“Still tailing Ryder.”
“Have her call me when she checks in.”
I knew that the Team was more resolved than ever to solve this case. And the thumb drive would assuredly help. I hoped the file would conclusively prove that Ryder alone, or Ryder and his chum, had murdered Pixy.
I spent the next couple hours doing a bio of Ryder Hodges. I interviewed some of the people Summer had talked with about Ryder. Scooping out information, one spoonful at a time, was my contribution to the investigation. One former classmate of Ryder’s told me that Ryder had eluded to a crime he’d committed in Fort Lauderdale. Ryder confessed, or actually bragged that he had strangled a woman. He said the woman had threatened to take him to court. He killed her. That had been a warning for others that might want to snitch on him. Ryder boasted of his crime.
As the afternoon continued, I became more convinced that Ryder was not in any way mentally impaired. He wasn’t mentally insane. He was evil. He was spoiled. He enjoyed control, and exerting fear. The consummate bully. I didn’t think any credentialed psychiatrist would find him insane. But the defense would find hundreds of shrinks to say he was. Top dollar. He might, I surmised, slip the death penalty net by faking.
In any confrontation, it was paramount that I know this killer. I went back over every fact that we had discovered. His strong points, yes certainly, he was an amazing actor. He was smart enough to see all the escape routes. His weaknesses were his own belief that he had no weakness. His haughtiness and self-confidence. In crime fighting, I’d come to understand that courage often comes from a drug. In Ryder’s case, he’d stayed off drugs because of athletic drug testing. But his temper could easily impair him. I was counting on every break we could get.
