by Curry, Edna
Dead Man’s Image
By Edna Curry
Lacey Summer’s Mystery #2
Dead Man’s Image
By Edna Curry
Copyright 2001 by Edna Curry
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This is a work of fiction. All names in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the author, except for short excerpts for reviews.
Credits:
Cover by Bev Haynes
Chapter 1
Paul Menns entered the crowded truck stop for a bite to eat and coffee. A delicious mixture of food aromas met his nose, and the warmth of the cafe felt wonderful after working outdoors in the chilly spring air. He sat down at the counter, wrapped his long legs around the base of the stool and placed his order.
Picking up the Minneapolis Star-Tribune from the end of the counter, he scanned the headlines, then turned to the Metro section. For a long, confused moment, Paul thought he was looking at his reflection. That looks like me. What is my picture doing in the paper? Then he read the caption through bleary eyes and realized it was a computer image, not a photo. It was someone the police were looking for --a sketch made from an eyewitness's description of a murder suspect. What the hell?
Reading further, Paul discovered a body had been found upriver. The unidentified dead man was white, about thirty-five, six feet tall, a hundred and ninety pounds, brown eyes and hair, and had no ID, scars or tattoos. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he reached up to rub them. Jeez, the description of the dead guy sounds even more like me. This is weird.
A creepy feeling slid up his back and he wondered if others in the room would notice how much he looked like the guy in the paper. He didn't like this at all. The waitress set his plate of toast in front of him and refilled his coffee cup. Now he imagined she was looking at him strangely. Or was he the one who was acting strange?
He pulled his cap down farther over his eyes and stared at the picture as he downed the toast without tasting it. The more he looked at the paper, the more sure he became that the sketch was a picture of him. The cops thought he was a murderer! Who in the hell was he supposed to have killed? And who was this woman who had described him? Did he know her? He gulped the rest of his coffee and pushed his cup away.
His first instinct was to go to the sheriff's office and tell the sheriff he was nuts, that he hadn't killed anyone, so there couldn't be any evidence against him.
On the other hand, the sheriff had this eyewitness. If she stuck to her story, he'd end up in jail for a while. He couldn't be off the road very long or his trucking business would be ruined.
He wondered how he could find out who the dead guy was. Getting an idea, he paid his bill and went out to the pay phone in the café entrance. After finding the police department's number, he dialed it, then looked in the newspaper again for the name in the article's byline.
When a woman answered, he said, “This is Johnson, again, from the Tribune. Have you identified yesterday's murder victim yet?”
“Yes, sir, we have. It's Paul Menns, of Canton, Minnesota.”
Paul almost dropped the phone. He swallowed, and tried to keep his voice even. He couldn't have heard her correctly. “Can you spell that name for me, please?”
She did, and he closed his eyes against the welling shock and disbelief. Good Grief, I'm supposed to be dead! He brought himself back to attention when the woman said impatiently, “Will there be anything else, sir?”
He thought fast, then stammered, “Uh, yes. Was that a positive ID? I mean, uh, who identified the body?”
“A Mrs. Anderson called first thing this morning. She's the manager of the apartment house where Mr. Menns lived in Canton. She claims to have known him well.”
“Thanks.” Paul hung up with trembling fingers. His own landlady had identified that body as his. How could that be? He hardly ever saw Mrs. Anderson, of course, but surely she knew him well enough to know this other guy wasn't him. She must have seen the sketch in the paper and come forward. Hadn't she seen him in her building just a couple hours ago? Or heard his truck when he drove away? This is so mixed up. How can I be the murderer and the dead guy, too?
Paul felt a headache coming on as he tried to sort it all out. He needed help with this. And he certainly couldn't go to the cops. He didn't trust those guys at all. They'd probably believe the damn birdwatcher lady instead of him.
He picked up the phone book again and looked up private investigators. Not much choice. The yellow pages covered several small towns in the area, but listed only one private investigator.
***
Standing at the window of her home office, sipping hot coffee, Lacey stared out over the Minnesota lake surrounded by tall evergreens. Sunshine sparkled off the blue water and a breeze stirred up enough waves to slap the shore. They made her little fishing boat bounce where she'd tied it at her dock. Living here in the woods a few miles from town isolated her, but she loved it.
The phone rang and she went quickly back to her desk. She steeled herself not to pick it up on the first ring, not wanting to appear too anxious. “Summers' Investigations.”
“Let me talk to the investigator.”
“Speaking.” Why did people always assume she was only the receptionist?
“You are? A woman investigator?” The deep voice at the other end of the line registered surprise and dismay.
Great, she finally got a possible client and he was a male chauvinist. She reminded herself that she hadn't had any cases except snooping on a couple of cheating husbands for weeks. She was broke and needed the business. That was the trouble with working in a small town like Landers. They were great to live in, but the money wasn't always so hot.
Trying her best to keep the irritation out of her voice, she said, “That's right. I'm Lacey Summers, a licensed private investigator. How can I help you?”
“I'm Paul Menns. I want to hire you to investigate something for me.”
“What kind of something?”
He was silent a moment, then said, “The sheriff had my picture in the paper this morning. Maybe you saw it? The guy that woman saw dumping the body by the St. Croix?”
“The Trib?” Lacey glanced at the morning paper still lying on her desk where she'd been reading it. Everybody had been talking about the murder at the Flame when she'd stopped for coffee yesterday and again this morning when the computer image of the suspect had been printed.
“Yeah, that's it.”
Over the telephone, Lacey could hear the noise of people talking in the background, as in a restaurant or bar. Maybe the guy was drunk. He wasn't making much sense.
Yesterday an eyewitness had claimed to have seen the guy who dumped the body by the river and described him for the police artist. A nice looking guy too, if the image of the suspect was accurate. In Lacey's experience, it usually came pretty close.
Then this morning, the scuttlebutt at the Flame claimed the woman had seen the victim, not the murderer. She'd described the dead guy for the artist. What a hoot. They didn't need the artist, they could have just gone down to the morgue and taken a picture of him. 'Course that wasn't in the paper, they'd figured that out after the article in the paper had been written. So, how could he be talking to her on the phone?
She swallowed. “The artist's image? I thought that picture was of the dead guy?” Had the Flame's gossip been wrong? Wouldn't be the first time if it was, of course.
“Yeah. Well, as some guy said, the reports of my death have been exaggerated.”
“Samuel Clemens,” Lacey said automatica
lly, trying to take in what he'd said.
“Really? I thought it was Mark Twain.”
“Same guy. You mean the Sheriff misidentified the body? Then who's the dead guy? Does he really look like you?”
“How would I know? That's what I want you to find out.” His voice sounded doubtful that she could do it. “I don't dare go home 'til I know it's safe.”
“Why not, for Pete's sake? All you have to do is show them you're not dead. That they ID'd the body wrong.”
His laugh rang harshly over the wire. “Yeah, right!”
Something didn't add up here and her heartbeat sped up in excitement. She really loved puzzles and this sounded like an interesting one. She asked cautiously, “What makes you think Sheriff Ben has identified the body as you?”
“I just called the sheriff's office, and asked if they'd identified it yet. They gave me my own name. If I go to him, he'll slap me in a cell for murder.”
“Why would he do that?”
“You aren't listening, lady. That woman gave him a description of the guy she says dumped the body. Just 'cause the dead guy looks like me isn't going to stop him from arresting me. He'll still think I killed the guy, whoever he is.”
Caution lowered her voice. “Could this dead guy be anyone you know? Do you have any idea of what's going on here?”
He barked, “Hell, no! I just got in. I never heard of the guy 'til I saw the sketch in the paper a while ago.”
Lacey jerked the phone away from her ear. Why would the sheriff think he killed a guy he didn't know? Must be more to it than that. “Got in?”
“I'm an over-the-road trucker. I just got back from a run to the East Coast.” He lowered his voice. “The weird thing is, I really do look like that sketch. So the dead guy must look like me, too.”
Lacey's thoughts whirled. “Oh.”
“So, will you take my case?”
“I'd like to talk to you in person before I decide. Where are you?”
“At a truck stop, but I'm leaving here. Everyone's reading the paper and someone might have recognized me as the guy in it. I'll meet you at a fast-food place just over the Wisconsin border.” He gave her directions. “I'll be at the last booth, back by the rest rooms.”
“I know the place. Okay, fine. I'll be there in about thirty minutes,” she said, and hung up.
She went to the little half-bath off her office, then glanced in the mirror to see if she looked at least presentable. Picking up her hairbrush, she ran it through her short hair, brushing it back. It fell neatly into place, thanks to a good cut that was her one concession to fashion. Touching up her lips with a natural lipstick, she sighed and let her primping go at that.
A guy accused of murder wasn't going to be too fussy about her looks anyway. He'd be thinking about saving his own neck. The blue slacks and sweatshirt she wore were enough for the warm May day.
She grabbed her navy leather purse. Then on impulse, she picked up the paper, tore out the story of the murder, folded it and tucked it into her purse. Dashing out to her little red Chevy, she drove the three miles into Landers in record time.
***
Paul tucked the newspaper under his arm and left the truck stop. He glanced toward his freshly washed silver box semi sitting in a long row of semis out in back as he walked quickly across the parking lot.
If the police had his name, they would soon be checking out his apartment and vehicles, investigating his “death.” When they didn't find his truck, they'd probably think the murderer took it. Then the sheriff would probably put out an APB on it. Damn! He wouldn't be able to go back out on the road. Or even go back to his apartment house and claim his car.
He didn't want to be asked why he looked like the dead man or questioned as a suspect for murder. Neither sounded like a good option, especially with this migraine headache. He certainly couldn't run his business from a jail cell. The fast food place where he'd told the PI he'd meet her was just a couple of blocks down the highway. Far enough so that if they found his truck, they wouldn't immediately find him.
The bright, sunny day seemed incongruous against the black cloud of fear and tension that filled him. With long strides, he covered the distance to the meeting place quickly. He bought a cola, then sat in the back booth as he'd said he would and waited for her to arrive.
Why did the only PI available have to be a woman? Was she any good? Not that he had any prejudice against women, of course, but he'd feel a lot better if he had a burly man by his side against the sheriff right now.
Damn, would that PI ever show up? Maybe she'd chickened out when she'd thought more about his weird story. He wouldn't blame her if she did. He could hardly believe it himself.
***
Lacey respected Sheriff Ben's opinions and she definitely wanted his version of this story before she stuck her neck out by taking on this odd case. Paul would have to wait a bit.
Ben's office was right on the way to the burger place where Paul Menns had asked her to meet him.
She and Sheriff Ben were old friends, though he'd gotten huffy when she'd accused him of being involved in her Uncle Henry's death a couple of years ago. After all, Uncle Henry had been Ben's card-playing buddy for years, and she couldn't expect him to be happy about her suspicions. She'd made up with him after they'd found the real murderer, but a certain coolness and wariness remained between them.
But most of the time they got along okay. Ben even sent her a client now and then. Of course, the fact that she was the only PI for miles around might have something to do with his generosity.
Ben wouldn't always talk, but occasionally she could trade on their long-time friendship for information she needed. She'd read the Trib's version of this story, heard the coffee shop version, and now the supposedly dead guy's version. Where was the truth?
It was mid-morning on a weekday, so there were only a few cars on Canton’s main street. The old brick courthouse sat in the center of the main square, and various small retail businesses and offices sat in a square around it, sort of like secret service guys ringing the president.
A block off that square, Lacey pulled up at the white frame building that served as the sheriff's office and the county jail. Canton didn't get much crime. Anyone sentenced for more than a few months was sent to one of the state prisons.
The building's interior was plain, but furnished in natural-finish oak. They hadn't been stingy with the taxpayer's money. She waved at the dispatcher who was on the phone and walked on back to Ben's office.
Sheriff Ben was sitting back in his swivel chair with his feet up on his desk. He had a jelly doughnut in one hand and a newspaper in the other, folded open to the same story Lacey had been reading earlier. Ben was in his late forties, a tall, thin man with a long hawk-like nose. He was usually good-humored, and always fair. He glanced up and greeted her with a wide grin.
She perched on the corner of his desk and met his gray eyes. “Morning, Ben. I hear that article you're reading is now outdated. What's up?”
He frowned. “Lacey, you know better than to pump me.”
She gave him her most disarming smile. “It's all over town already, Ben.”
“I suppose that's true.”
“I hear you got two phone tips as soon as the paper came out with this sketch this morning.”
“Yeah.” Ben looked away ruefully. “First was from the coroner. He said both this woman and I were nuts. The guy in the computer image is the dead guy, not the perp.”
Lacey grinned. “That was the scuttlebutt at the Flame this morning. Hadn't you seen the body yourself?”
“Sure. But I just had a general description of the perp from the birdwatcher. I didn't realize that she saw the dead guy instead from that.”
Lacey nodded. “And the second tip identified him as Paul Menns?”
Ben grunted. “So you heard that already, too. Is nothing secret around here?”
“You know how it is in a small town, Ben.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He sighed
and drank his coffee. “Second was the woman over in Canton who owns the Anderson Apartments on the south side. She was sure the guy in the paper was a man renting one of her apartments there, Paul Menns. I went over and picked her up. She wasn't too happy about the idea of going to the morgue, but she ID'd the guy there all right.”
Lacey's eyes narrowed. “She had no doubt it was him?”
Ben laughed and finished off his doughnut. “No. She claimed she knew him well enough. He's lived there a couple of years now.”
“You've released that information already? Don't you have to wait to notify his next of kin?”
Ben shrugged. “His landlady says he told her that he doesn't have any relatives. She keeps that info on her renters in case they skip without paying. I checked it out and couldn't find any either.”
Lacey chewed her lip and stared out the window. Something didn't add up here. She couldn't tell the sheriff she'd just talked to a guy who said he was Paul Menns. Either he was lying about who he was, or someone else who looked a lot like him was in the morgue.
The guy on the phone had sounded sincere enough. Not evasive like she'd expect if he were lying. This case was so weird, like nothing she'd come across in the several years that she'd been an investigator. Before opening her own office, she'd worked for a firm in Minneapolis for a couple of years. If this Paul Menns had killed a guy, wouldn't he have worked out an alibi of some kind? “Is this guy anybody we know?”
“Was, Lacey. Past tense. As in 'he's dead'. In the morgue with a couple of slugs in him.”
“So you said,” she said, glancing back at him in disbelief. “Go on.”
“What's your interest in this case?” Ben eyed her suspiciously. He got up to refill his Styrofoam cup with coffee.
Oh, oh, he's going to get suspicious and clam up on me. “Just curious, Ben. Sounds interesting, and I wondered what was fact and what was just gossip,” she hedged.
