Eating Crow (The Birdman Series Book 1)

by Hayton, Lee

  “I think you should do his next,” Victoria said, nodding at Haggerty’s office. “We’re out of here.”

  #

  Whenever he logged onto his laptop, Malcolm felt like checking over his shoulder in case someone was looking. Somebody was looking, always. But they were there courtesy of a piece of software the state had insultingly charged him the grand total of $29.00 to install.

  Like the monitoring bracelet they’d forced him to wear for the first six months out of prison, they told him the charge was optional. But it wasn’t. Not when the alternative was going back to prison.

  Malcolm had now lived more years as an adult ex-prisoner than he had pre-prison. Another three years and his probation period would be over. If they didn’t fit him up for something in the meantime.

  He heaved himself forward to peer at the screen. There was a layer of dust and grease on it. He’d get around to wiping it down—one day—but the foggy blur of the images was due to the low quality of his internet connection rather than dirt. It tapped out at a speed more akin to dial-up than broadband, but that was life when he’d pleaded guilty to a crime. Even one he was innocent of.

  The screen lurched apathetically, and another layer of quality enhanced the photos. Malcolm saw what he was after, the black mink offcuts. A whole supermarket bag full, all for only thirty-five dollars. Half an hour on the auction to go, so he could afford to postpone putting a bid on. The field looked to be clear so far, and who wants to encourage competition by declaring their hand early?

  Ironic, given his computer restrictions, that the bulk of his business was conducted online. Not teddy bear restoration, not anymore. God knows Malcolm didn’t need the hassle. The money would’ve been nice, though.

  In the listing was a damaged limited-edition Steiff bear. He immediately clicked away from it, heartbeat pulsating in his throat. Back in the day, he could’ve bought that for double the asking price, then turned it around for a hundred times more with some discreet patching. Using tiny, careful stitches in catgut after applying charcoal in ever decreasing amounts to simulate the exact amount of wear.

  Thousands, it would’ve bought in. Enough for Malcolm to sit back worry-free for a month or so. Instead, he was bidding on offcuts to make furry ears for adult costumes.

  Brand new costumes.

  Not anything that grateful hands would press against tiny chests when they were ill. Or keep in a hope chest to pass down to their children, knowing the joy it would bring because that had once been their joy.

  If his hands were stronger, he could’ve turned to woodwork. Certainly, Malcolm knew the ins and outs of hand-crafted toys better than anyone else in this detestable uncultured town. When he’d left school, he should have moved out to Portland and got in front of the hipster movement. Instead, he’d stayed in his hometown. A place where every glance his way carried years’ worth of hatred and prejudice.

  In Portland, they would have understood that a grown man can turn a playful hobby into a serious career. That it’s possible to fall in love with the minutia of a task and transform it into art.

  But he’d gotten sex-mad California instead. Crime and poverty. Where the only aspirations were acting, and porn was just as good as Hollywood. The populace didn’t take their minds out of the gutter for long enough to consider that people had other motivations. Even though those same sex-mad idiots were his customers, he still didn’t hold any love for them.

  Cuddlies.

  That was his market. Grown men and women who had to dress like stuffed toys to get it on. Like someone took his childhood hopes and thrust them through a twisted, disturbing mirror to Wonderland. Not so wonderful, when you got down to it.

  Malcolm leaned forward and typed his bid in. Typed in his maximum and held his finger above the black enter key. Was he too early?

  The screen rolled again, and he pressed the button. If he lost the connection now, he’d lose the whole bid, and it wouldn’t be for the first time. There’d been that supply of hand -painted teak noses—something Malcolm hadn’t seen for years and may never again. Gone.

  Not that he would have wasted those beauties on the crap he sold now. They would have joined his collection of objects kept just for himself. He safely stored them in a small locked box inside the bottom drawer of a dresser in his wardrobe. A secret treasure trove holding his covert pleasures.

  The screen flickered, then glowed back into life. Done. He’d got it. The minor thrill of victory faded as he thought of its purpose. If he didn’t need to earn a living, Malcolm would stop this working tomorrow.

  There was a knock on the back door, and he glowered at it. Any decent human being paying a visit would be at the front door. Kids, no doubt. Wanting to draw him out to view their latest handiwork. Well, they could wait.

  He shut the laptop down and walked into the laundry. The washer and dryer had been installed when the laundromat became an exercise in horror. Another severed tie between him and the community. The white of the washing machine discolored to orange at the base. Water damage leading to rust. No matter how much he’d scrubbed it wouldn’t come out. If it stopped working, he couldn’t afford to replace it. The wages of sin weren’t nearly as high as his Sunday school teacher led child Malcolm to believe.

  A window on the side of the laundry gave him a narrow view of the back of the house. There was no one visible. Whoever had drawn the short straw to knock had fled back into his hiding place.

  Malcolm waited for a few minutes. He let his eyes focus far away, looking only for movement. After a while, there it was. A rustling noise at the back of his property. His own damn land bought and paid for. Kids had no respect.

  Another rustle and a blond boy crept out of the long grass, a brown mutt springing forward at his side. Malcolm didn’t bother with the mower back there. He only had a push mower, and he’d cut his foot on a piece of metal the last time he’d tried. Well, shit. He didn’t bother to keep up his own appearance, why the hell would he waste time on his house? The dog worried him. Were they throwing shit at the house?

  The boy was bent at the waist. As though someone bent to only four-foot-high was harder to see than someone standing five feet tall. God how he hated kids. Especially the popular ones. No doubt this lad was popular. The losers didn’t get invited out on raiding parties.

  When the boy was only a few yards from the door, Malcolm moved. Despite his size, he was still light on his feet. A childhood spent running away had endowed him with one physical skill. He reached the back door, threw it open, and roared.

  The boy was a yard away. He straightened, eyes widening and mouth dropping open. When Malcolm moved a step outside, the boy turned and ran, tripping, down on one knee, stumbling back to his feet and howling.

  Howling with laughter, Malcolm realized a minute too late. His cheeks filled with blood, broadcasting his shame to the world. He’d given the boy exactly what he wanted. Fucking kids.

  When he turned to go back inside, he saw the new spray cans. Didn’t even bother to take their rubbish with them, the cunts. He’d only just painted over the last obscenity. With an undercoat so it didn’t quite cover it over, but that was all the paint he had. Paint was expensive. God knew how these boys afforded it.

  Added to his wall, KILLER, on one side. BIRDMAN on the other.

  Malcolm smiled. Fuck them. If they wanted to label him something, then killer was a better choice than most.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “We can’t just hand over our user details,” the forum owner protested angrily. If his voice grew more strident, the phone receiver would crack. “We have privacy settings in our terms and conditions that we’re obliged to abide by.”

  Victoria picked at a small scab in the corner of her eye. She’d rubbed away her phantom twitch so often, a real problem had developed. “It’s not all your user details. Just the people involved in a small subsection of your chat. And it’s only during the time’s we’ve requested.”

  After tracking back the IP address for
Miranda’s computer, it had been a quick search from the forensic team to pinpoint the username she’d logged in by. They could follow her conversation just fine. It was the rest of the users causing them concern.

  Victoria put her hand over the phone mic. “Are you sure we can’t just drive down there. I’m sure in person he’d be more co-operative.”

  “It’s a six-hour drive. There’s no way I’m going that far on spec,” Edwards said. A reasonable answer, but Victoria felt irritated beyond the reach of reasonable.

  “Look, we’ve already submitted the paperwork into the DA’s office to get a warrant,” she explained again. “There are young girls’ lives in danger here. In a few hours, you’ll be compelled to turn the names over. All we want is to hurry it up.”

  All that depended on their electronic warrant being approved. Given the scant evidence to back it up, there was no guarantee.

  “I’m not going to turn over our user’s private details just on your say-so. How do I even know you’re a real police detective?”

  Victoria sighed. “Because Detective Edwards has given you his badge number. It only takes a moment to call through to our Police Department to check.”

  “What’s your badge number?”

  She handed the phone back to Edwards, shaking her head. He’d started off the call, but she’d soon grown frustrated listening in and had taken it over by brute force. That had gone swimmingly well.

  “Detective Collins is a consultant on this case so isn’t a permanent member of staff,” Edwards explained again, patiently. “I’ve given you mine, so if you just take the time to call—”

  “This is a scam, and I’m not having it. You want those names then you personally deliver that warrant and you can have them.”

  Victoria closed her eyes to stop her head exploding. “Why doesn’t anyone care that teenage girls are getting slaughtered?”

  “It was a long shot,” Edwards said, hanging up his end of the phone. “You know how tech companies are about their client’s privacy.”

  She didn’t. Technology and Victoria had never intersected in a big way with any case she’d worked on before.

  “So, where to next?”

  “Well.” Edwards pulled out his notebook. “We have the address for Mrs. Mancini, and it’s in a gated community. I’d say we drop by there and have a chat.”

  Victoria grabbed her jacket and tagged along behind Edwards. After a short drive, they had to park out on the street. Ironically in front of a “No Parking” sign for good measure. Mrs. Mancini lived in a crowded neighborhood, and the gates to her complex were safely locked and pass coded.

  “Come on, come on.” Edwards shifted from foot to foot as they waited for a response to their buzzer. “Don’t they have anyone lose the combination?”

  “This is the setup to make sure they don’t do it twice,” Victoria responded. It was only mid-morning, but her body ached for a peaceful nap to recoup her energy. “Here we go.”

  The pedestrian gate to the side of the main entrance buzzed and Edwards pulled it open. “After you.”

  Inside, there was a short walk to the main office which was empty. Victoria put her finger on the bell mounted center of the front desk and kept it there.

  “What?” A harried-looking woman emerged from the gloom of the back office. Her forehead was creased with lines of annoyance. “Lost your keys?”

  There were only twenty units in the complex that Victoria could see. Did the woman really think they were tenants?

  Edwards leaned on the counter and gave her a wide smile. “We don’t actually live here.” He gave her a lingering glance up and down and then smiled wider. “Although I’m starting to see the attraction, Glenda.” He read the name off a badge on her chest.

  Glenda giggled, and Victoria picked at her scab again to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

  “We’re actually following up on one of your residents,” he said, pushing his badge across the counter. Glenda’s eyes widened with excitement, and her eyebrows shot up.

  “Have they done something bad?” she whispered, hopeful.

  “We’re not sure,” Edwards whispered back. “That’s where we need your help. Do you want to help us, Glenda?”

  Glenda nodded. “I always like to help the police in any way I can.”

  “You have a resident with a surname of Mancini. Is that right?”

  Another nod as Glenda tapped on her computer keys. “Here she is.” She swiveled the screen to face them, face openly eager. “Unit 16.”

  The register listed her as Iris Mancini and Victoria couldn’t think if she’d known her first name before. Surely it would’ve been on one of the legal documents?

  “I can take you around to her unit if you like.”

  Edwards put his hand on top of Glenda’s. “That’s okay. What we’re after is an idea of when she does and doesn’t leave the property. Do you keep those sorts of records on your residents?”

  “There’s CCTV,” Glenda said slowly. Victoria groaned inwardly. The last thing her gritty eyes wanted to do was look at a small screen for a couple of hours, noting down times. “And her key-card registers each time she swipes in and out of the driveway. Just a moment.”

  She turned the screen back, looking bereft when it meant moving her hand away from Edwards’. After a few quick clicks of the keys, she swerved the screen around to face them again.

  Although it was a good thing not everyone had such strict rules as the computer forum, Victoria made a mental note to never move in here.

  “Are these all the times she’s been in and out with her car?” Edwards clarified.

  “That, or anyone she’s lent it to. Guests and such.”

  He noted them down in his diary for the dates in question, but even a quick scan told Victoria all she needed to know. Mrs. Mancini barely left the property. Once a week, early on a Friday morning. Probably to do a weekly shop for supplies. Apart from that, the car must spend its life tucked up in her carport.

  “What about the gate we were buzzed in through?” Victoria said. “Does that have any tracking?”

  Glenda nodded. “It does, but everyone has the same passcode, so it won’t tell you anything. As I said, there’s the CCTV.” She pursed her lips. “Although that’s pointed at the driveway, and around the residences. Not on the gate. You may be able to see people walking toward it?”

  The rise in her voice at the end of the sentence told Victoria the answer was, “Probably not.”

  “You have been so helpful, Glenda,” Edwards said. He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it over, letting her tug it twice before he released it earned another giggle. “That’s got my direct line on it, so keep it safe. You call if you think of anything we may need to know.”

  “Is it the murders?” Glenda asked, leaning forward. “It’s his mother, isn’t it? The Birdman I mean. Has she got something to do with the latest murders?”

  “I couldn’t possibly reveal that information to you,” Edwards said, nodding his head vigorously. Victoria could have kissed him. “So if you were to tell anybody, it didn’t come from me, okay?”

  #

  “Mrs. Walsham, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Victoria said. They’d traveled to Miranda Walsham’s dorm room to do another canvas. The crime scene technicians had been all over it, but they were stalled until their warrants came through, so were trying to get a feel for the victims. They hadn’t expected to run into Miranda’s mother.

  Mrs. Walsham looked a great deal older than Victoria remember. Her blond hair showed an inch of dark roots, spotted with strands of white. Her mouth was half open, and the skin had deep lines radiating out from it. Her eyes were blackened as though she’d been in a fight. Having lost her own battles with sleep for many years, Victoria could sympathize.

  She sat on her daughter’s bed, hands crossed loosely in her lap, staring at the far wall. Tears ran down her face in a steady flow, but she made no motions to indicate she was aware of them; didn’t move to wipe th
em away. When they crossed the threshold, she remained fixed in position, as though she hadn’t heard. Victoria leaned over and touched her lightly on the shoulder. After a minute, Mrs. Walsham slowly turned her head to look.

  “I don’t know if you remember me,” Victoria began. She held out her hand even though she didn’t anticipate a response. “I took your daughter’s statement when she was assaulted a year or so ago. She was a lovely young woman.”

  “I remember,” Mrs. Walsham whispered. Her voice was thick with phlegm, and she coughed to clear it. After a moment of staring at Victoria’s outstretched hand, she took it. Squeezed it once then dropped it. Her skin felt paper thin, and her hand was colder than the temperate morning indicated.

  “Is there anything we can help you with?”

  Victoria waited, then took a step back and looked at Edwards. He seemed more nonplussed by the situation than she did.

  There was the ghost of a smile on Mrs. Walsham’s face. “This is the bit where I’m meant to crack some sad sort of joke, isn’t it?” She looked up and looked at Victoria. “Or when I get to say something dramatic like ‘make sure you get the bastard’ or ‘you can’t bring my daughter back,’ right? I watch all the cop shows.”

  She stood and fumbled in her purse. For a shocked moment, Victoria thought she was searching for a gun, but then Mrs. Walsham pulled out a tissue and wiped her face dry. Blew into it then just tossed it back into her bag.

  “I remember you,” she said again. “When Miranda was scared out of her mind, and nobody believed her, you were the one who sat her down and made her retract her statement word by word.” There was the bright glint of hatred in her eye. “You shouldn’t even have been talking to her without a guardian present, but you didn’t let that stop you. When that bracelet turned up in her locker, I was scared she was going to be murdered every time she left the house. She cried when I told her to go back into the police station and tell them. She begged me not to make her go. Miranda was more terrified of you than she ever was of him.”