A Carnival of Killing

by Glenn Ickler

  “That was quick,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you for another five minutes or so.”

  “I didn’t bother with underwear,” she said. “Just threw on my running suit and a jacket.”

  This was good news. When we got home, she could take off her minimal garments as quickly as she’d put them on. But, just as I was fantasizing her slipping out of the running pants, the pressure from the car’s shoulder harness reminded me that maybe this wouldn’t be a good night for reckless passion.

  Martha was sniffing. “You smell like perfume. You’ve been with a woman.”

  “Oh, God, have I ever,” I said. “Just take me home, feed me some chicken soup and I’ll tell you the whole story before you read it in the paper.” Well, almost the whole story.

  She nodded. “You’re carrying your sport coat. Why aren’t you wearing it?”

  “That’s part of the story. I got nicked a tiny bit by a bullet.”

  “A bullet!” she yelled. “Why the hell aren’t you in the hospital?”

  “It’s just a little-bitty flesh wound and the EMT took care of it. Let’s go get that chicken soup.”

  In the dark interior of the car, I could sense, rather than see, that she was frowning. “Sorry,” she said. “Hospital first, then chicken soup and true confessions.” She turned right at the next corner and we were on our way to Regions.

  While we sat in the emergency room waiting for me to be examined, I asked Martha why she was home so early. She said the parties to the lawsuit had used the delayed starting time to settle the case without going to trial. “We were on the road home within an hour,” she said. “Sara was missing her kids and, like I said, I was lonesome for Sherlock Holmes.”

  “But not for me?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell you how lonesome I was for you after I hear about the woman you were with and why you were with her.”

  “It was all in the line of duty. You’ll hear all about it right after the chicken soup.” At that point, a nurse named Jackie summoned me into a cubicle, where she removed the EMT’s blood-stained bandage and told me how lucky I was that the bullet had grazed my shoulder blade and hadn’t gone deeper. She swabbed on another layer of liquid fire and applied a fresh bandage.

  “Check with your primary care physician in a couple of days,” Nurse Jackie said. “We want to make sure that nasty thing doesn’t get infected, don’t we?”

  “Yes, we do,” I said. I wanted to tell her that I’d check with my doctor immediately after that heavy nether world frost I mentioned earlier, but I didn’t have time for the discussion that such a statement would precipitate.

  The chicken soup came out of a can, but it warmed the belly and comforted the brain. Martha watched in silence while I emptied the bowl and polished off half a stack of saltines. It’s amazing what running after a gun-toting brunette in red boots will do for your appetite. When I finished, I put the bowl on the floor for Sherlock’s perusal. He sniffed the residue and walked away without giving it so much as one lick.

  “I didn’t think it was that bad,” I said, watching the cat’s rear end disappear into the living room.

  “He only eats homemade leftovers,” Martha said. “We’re spoiling him.”

  “What do you mean we? There weren’t any homemade leftovers in this apartment until you moved in.”

  “Maybe I’m spoiling both of you. Anyway, it’s now storytelling time, and it had better not spoil my feelings of sympathy.”

  To make sure that it didn’t, I recited almost verbatim what I’d written for the paper. I stuck unswervingly to the main story line, taking care not to wander off into such unimportant side bars as Kitty’s dropped pantaloons, the pussycat paintings in her pubic curls, or poor Mitch’s pulled off pants.

  “Amazing,” Martha said when I’d finished. “What you haven’t told me is how you happened to be in that fancy hotel room with that woman.”

  I’d been working on an answer to that question while slurping my soup because I didn’t want Martha to know about my original plan to lure Kitty into my—our—bedroom. “She talked about this fabulous room during dinner, and I thought it would be the perfect place to confront her about the boots,” I said. “You know, quizzing her in private as opposed to maybe making a scene in the restaurant. So I asked her to take me up to see it.”

  “It never occurred to you that she might be the one who killed that Klondike Kate?”

  “That had occurred to me. What hadn’t was that she might be packing a gun. Her previous weapon of choice was a garrote.”

  “You never learn, do you? How many times have you been shot now?”

  I counted on my fingers. “I think this makes three.”

  “Plus a stabbing, a solid whack on your thick skull and a couple of kicks down there,” Martha said, pointing at my crotch.

  “All in day’s work.”

  “Oh, right. And how many other reporters at the Daily Dispatch have gotten themselves shot, stabbed and nearly emasculated?”

  “Hey, I was hurt but I was never nearly emasculated.”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  “Okay, so maybe I’m not as careful as some people,” I said. “But Al’s been stabbed and whacked a couple of times, too.”

  “Which puts him in the same loony tunes league as you,” Martha said. “And that reminds me, Al was coming out of this apartment when I got home. What was he doing here at that time of the night?”

  Oops! I shouldn’t have mentioned Al. My creative mind went into high gear. “He came here to give me the picture I showed to Kitty,” I said. “And he stayed here waiting for me to call in case I needed him after I talked to Kitty. I did in fact call him right after the shooting, and he got to the hotel in time to take some shots of Angela bending over that Carlson character.”

  “That should make Don happy.”

  “I hope so. I’m going to be late into the office tomorrow, or I should say today, because I’ve been ordered to see Brownie first thing in the morning.”

  “Then we’d better put you to bed right now so you’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the interview,” Martha said.

  “I thought you’d never get to that,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. This sent a streak of lightning through my right shoulder and I quickly lowered that arm.

  “I see we’re also putting you right to sleep,” she said. “Come on, wounded warrior, it’s almost two o’clock.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Seeing Red

  Next morning Martha drove me to the restaurant parking lot so I could retrieve my car. Holding the scraper in my left hand, I cleaned a thick layer of frost off all the windows, coaxed the engine to life and drove to the police station. On the way, I called Don O’Rourke on my cell phone and told him I’d be late because of a hot date with Detective Brown. Don said he was expecting a hot story as soon as I finished talking to Brownie. I agreed that we needed something hot because the temperature had dipped below zero again. Nine degrees below, to be exact.

  I found something extremely hot in the police station. Its name was Detective Curtis Brown. I was ushered into his office by a sergeant and hadn’t even said good morning when Brownie pointed to a straight-backed wooden chair and spat out the word, “Sit.” His face, which was always tinted with red, glowed with a rosier than normal hue.

  I sat and said, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, my ass,” Brownie said. “You’ve done it again, haven’t you?”

  “Done what again?” I asked.

  “Turned a murder suspect loose.”

  “I wasn’t sure she was a suspect until she pulled a gun on me.”

  “But you must have thought she might be or you wouldn’t have had your tape recorder running.”

  “True.”

  “Did it ever occur to you to discuss your suspicions with me before going off on another one of your wild-ass goose chases?” Brownie asked.

  “Actually, no,” I said. “I was chasing a story, not a
wild-ass goose. And I was going to pass on whatever I found out.”

  “How generous of you. And now, because all you ever think of is your goddamn story, we have an armed murder suspect on the run to God knows where.”

  “How far can she run? Last seen she was wearing nothing but pantaloons and a bra, which would seem to draw attention anywhere she stopped. Also, she left her purse in the hotel room so she doesn’t have her money or her credit cards. When she runs out of gas, you’ve got her.”

  Brownie’s face turned a deeper red. “Oh, it’s that simple is it? Well, she must have had a Visa card stashed in her car because she bought gas with it at a self-service station at 1:15 a.m. today.”

  “Where’d she buy it?” I asked.

  “No comment on that.”

  “Was she still wearing the bra and pantaloons?”

  “How the hell would I know? I told you it was self-service. Nobody saw her.”

  “Must have been cold, pumping gas in her undies.”

  “I’ll give her my sympathy the minute we bring her in. Which leads to my next question. Did she say anything to you that would give us a clue to where she might go?”

  “All I know is that she came here from Madison, Wisconsin. She might go where she’s got family.”

  “Makes sense,” Brownie said. “We’ll alert police in that area. Now how about giving me that tape you showed to Reilly?”

  “Promise to give it back?”

  “I promise to subpoena it and throw your ass in jail for concealing evidence if you don’t hand it to me right this fucking minute.”

  Brownie’s face had turned from scarlet to burgundy. Not wishing to be the cause of a cerebral hemorrhage, I fished the tape out of my coat pocket and handed it to him. As he put it on his desk, the redness began to fade.

  “You can go now,” he said.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got a question for you,” I said.

  “You’ve got a hell of a nerve to even suggest that I answer a question.”

  “I’m a reporter, remember? I want to know if you’ve found out what kind of an affair Lee-Ann was carrying on with Carlson.”

  Brownie folded his arms across his chest and stared at me. I stared back. We held each other’s gaze for a good thirty seconds before he sighed and said, “We haven’t talked to him yet, but you’ll probably wish you wrote for a tabloid instead of a family newspaper after you hear the story.”

  “Lee-Ann had a very active love life,” I said. “I guess Kitty was right when she said she’d screw anything that wore pants.”

  “Including red ones, but she got more than a screwing from those.”

  “Will you be talking to Carlson today?”

  “Probably. Depends on his condition. Now get the hell out of here.” He waved toward the door and I accepted his gracious invitation.

  “She had what painted where?” This was Al’s reaction to my description of Kitty Catalano’s lower body art work. My follow story was in and we were eating ham-and-Swiss sandwiches in the Daily Dispatch lunchroom.

  “You heard me,” I said. “She had a pussy painted on her pussy. Like I told her, I envy the artist.”

  “God, I wish I’d been there to get a shot of that.”

  “Maybe she’ll pose for you in the city jail.”

  “Oh, baby, I’d lock onto that.”

  “What if cameras were barred?”

  “I could take pictures with a cell phone.”

  We finished lunch and I returned to my desk to find a message from Toni Erickson. I punched in the number. “I read in the paper that you got shot,” she said when she heard my voice. “I was wondering if you’re okay.”

  “The bullet just nicked my shoulder,” I said. “I’m fine. Ted Carlson got hit worse than I did, but he’s going to be okay, too.” I’d checked with the hospital earlier and learned that his condition was “good.”

  “I was shocked when I read that Kitty told you she killed Lee-Ann and tried to kill me,” Toni said. “I thought for sure that it was Ted.”

  “Why’d you think that?”

  “I kind of suspected that he was the one who was banging Lee-Ann, so there was a good chance that he was the baby’s father. And he always seemed to be running around in his old Vulcan costume whenever something awful happened.”

  “Carlson wasn’t the only possible father,” I said. “I figured it was Ed St. Claire when he took off.”

  “Oh, yeah, there were a lot of possible fathers,” Toni said. “She let it be known around the office that she’d laid half the guys in last year’s Vulcan Krewe.”

  “Maybe she was stretching things a bit. With the exception of St. Claire, the married guys in that Krewe told me they barely knew her. Now you’re telling me that they knew her bare?”

  “Like a reporter would get true confessions from a bunch of married men. I think the only thing she was stretching was their … well, you know what I mean.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, now you know who tried to strangle you.”

  “I still can’t believe it. Kitty was like one of us, even if she never performed.”

  “Jealousy and hatred can cause people to do unbelievable things,” I said. “I’m just glad you and Carlson are still alive.”

  “And you,” Toni said. “You could have been killed, too.”

  I’d been trying not to think about that. The bullet had struck almost a shoulder’s width from my head, and I have broad shoulders, but it was still too damn close. “Lucky for Ted and me she’s a lousy shot,” I said. “Thanks for the call.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “If I can ever do anything for you, let me know.” The tone indicated that “anything” went beyond comforting me with mere words.

  “I’ve got your phone number,” I said. “Thanks again.”

  I sat for a moment, replaying the conversation. Toni had just painted quite a different picture of Lee-Ann than she had when I’d asked for a comment the day after the body was found. Back then, she had described Lee-Ann as “one of the sweetest people” she’d ever met. Now she was reporting that Lee-Ann had been carrying on a wildly promiscuous sex life and bragging about it. Come to think of it, Toni did say in the original interview that Lee-Ann liked to party. I guess you had to know Toni’s definition of “party” to fully understand that statement.

  Later that afternoon I also got calls of concern from Esperanza de LaTrille and Hillary Howard. Both indicated that they’d be available if I ever needed “anything at all.” Apparently I’d made quite a hit with the Klondike Kate population. Good to know if Martha ever dumped me.

  The last call of the day came from Detective Curtis Brown, who seemed to be in a much mellower mood. He had interviewed Ted Carlson, who had provided some details of his affair with the late Lee-Ann.

  “He told us that he and Ms. Nordquist had been having a couple of nooners a week in her apartment,” Brownie said. “Her little girl had afternoon kindergarten and Carlson would pop in as soon as the kid left for school. He said he gave Ms. Nordquist the usual bullshit about his wife not understanding him and she ate it up. He said that right after he told her he was thinking of leaving his wife, Ms. Nordquist announced that she was pregnant.”

  “What did he do when he heard that?” I asked.

  “He said he tried to get her to have an abortion, but she refused,” Brownie said. “He told us he was actually relieved when she got killed, but then he got scared when the pregnancy was discovered and we identified his DNA. Figured we’d see that as a motive, which we did.”

  “Well, he stayed true to form anyway. Angela told me she was hiding him because he said he loved her and was leaving his wife for her.”

  “His wife might take care of that problem by leaving him. We talked to her this morning and she didn’t sound very sympathetic. Said she knew he’d been hanging around with the Klondike Kates and was getting something from somebody on the side. Mr. Carlson told us he had a thing for well-padded women, and I’d guess the wife don’t weigh much ove
r a hundred pounds. You didn’t hear me say that when you write your next story, by the way.”

  In deference to Ted Carlson’s oft-betrayed wife, I agreed to omit that juicy morsel from my report. I thanked Brownie, he gave me the standard “have a good day,” and I went to work writing the next installment of the killing of Klondike Kate. As I finished the story, I wondered where Kitty Catalano was and what she might be wearing.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  No Big Deal

  My questions about Kitty were answered early Friday morning. I had just stepped out of the shower and was carefully patting the area around my bandaged shoulder with a towel when I heard the phone ring. Martha answered and yelled for me to come. “It’s Don O’Rourke,” she said, handing me the receiver.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got another body laying out in the cold,” I said.

  “No, but the cops have got the person who left the previous body there,” Don said. “Call your buddy Brown and get the story. He won’t talk to anybody else.”

  Apparently Brownie had forgiven me for sending Kitty off to the races. I punched in his secret number and got the customary greeting. “Homicidebrown.”

  “Dailydispatchmitchell,” I said. “I hear the nasty bounder is no longer bounding.”

  “Caught her in Denver, Colorado, last night,” he said. “She was on her way to see a cousin who dances in a strip club out there.”

  “So how’d they catch her?”

  “A Denver cop stopped her because one headlight was out.”

  “No shit?” I said.

  “No shit,” he said. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “I told her that she should get that headlight fixed just a couple of hours before she shot me. She said it was no big deal.”

  “It was a big enough deal for the Denver cop. When he asked for her license, she said she’d left it home. He thought it was odd that she wasn’t wearing a jacket over her short-sleeved blouse, and then he noticed that she had a blanket wrapped around her lap, which he also thought was kind of strange. When he went back to his squad car to call in for a check on her Minnesota plates, she started to drive away. He’d already called for backup and she hit the second squad head-on when she turned the wrong way on a one-way street. Busted the other headlight along with the grill and radiator on her nice, shiny Beemer.”