by D P Lyle
“You’re something, all right,” Clark said. Then to us, “This is Angus Whitehead. The one Chief Morgan was talking about earlier. He drinks. A lot. Don’t you, Angus?”
Angus’ eyebrows bounced. “Ever’ chance I get.”
“And he ends up here sleeping it off most nights,” Clark continued. “And some days.”
Angus directed a quick nod to Nicole and me, then to Clark, and said, “I’ll be out of here before too long.”
“You better be. The chief’s wandering around somewhere. And you’re still on his list from last week.”
Angus shrugged. “Weren’t my fault.” He gave a brief wave and weaved done the hall.
“Angus was involved in a ruckus last week,” Clark said. “Over on The Boardwalk. A misunderstanding with a couple of tourists. They apparently didn’t appreciate his inability to walk straight.”
“He seemed harmless,” Nicole said.
“He is. Just annoying.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RAY STOOD AT the curb in front of Frank Clark’s home. A small red brick structure, white trim, dark green front door. Several oak trees shaded the well-kept lawn. It and the entire neighborhood, like the other two they had visited, felt peaceful, normal. No hint of the violence that had visited.
Terry Munson hiked one hip on the trunk of his car, jacket flapping open, revealing his service piece, holstered beneath his left arm.
“This here’s the reason I was reluctant to talk with you guys.”
“Why so?” Ray asked.
“Look, the chief said this—what you guys are doing—could be a good thing. A final healing of sorts. Let everyone tell their stories. Flush the demons is the way he put it.”
“You don’t see it that way?”
“Some, I guess. For the town. But this whole ordeal nearly killed Frank. Sure, he soldiered on. Stayed on the job, did what he could. But, his head wasn’t in it. He’d tear up at a moment’s notice. Drank too much. His pain was contagious. We all felt it.”
“He seems to have recovered,” Ray said.
“Mostly, I guess. But he’s different.”
“In what way?”
“Just not the same old Frank.” Munson slid off the fender and took a couple of steps toward the house, out onto the grass. He stared at nothing for a good half a minute. “You’d have to know him to see it, but he’s not the same guy.” He turned back to Ray. “I don’t want him to go through that again. Relive all that.” He shook his head. “This time he might not make it back.”
“Don’t you think he lives with it every day anyway?” Pancake asked.
“Sure, he does. I can feel it. Like his pain is radioactive and sending out waves. But thinking about it and talking about it’s two different things.” He released a deep sigh. “I don’t want him to suffer any more damage.”
“You two are close, I take it,” Ray said.
“We grew up together. Like brothers. Lived on the same street. Just a block from right here. Known each other since forever.” He looked back at the house. “It’s been a difficult few years.”
“He and his wife were also close, I hear,” Pancake said.
Munson shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “Sure were. Ever since Sara moved here. We were in the seventh grade. They were inseparable.” He shook his head. “We all were.”
“You knew her well, then,” Ray said.
He nodded. “Sara was one of the kindest and sweetest people you’d ever want to know. Even as kids, she was one of the guys. A tomboy of sorts. Frank and I dragged her into our mischief. She never batted an eye.” He smiled. “Truth is, she took the rap for us more than once.”
“Childhood friends’ll do that,” Pancake said.
“She sure did.” He jerked his head toward the house. “Can’t tell you how many times we cooked steaks or ribs or whatever on the grill out back. Drank beer. Laughed. Those were good times.”
“Tell us about the scene here,” Ray said.
“It’d been a busy night. More so than usual, for sure. A fight broke out on The Boardwalk, then we nabbed a trio of shoplifters. Three young girls. Sixteen, I think. From Mexico Beach. Up here for the day. Snatched a bunch of clothes, jewelry, that kind of thing. We, Frank and I, herded them over to the station. Then, a couple of cars tangled on the bridge, so I left to handle that. Frank came out later to help. The traffic was awful. Hard to get the tow trucks in there to drag the cars out of the way. About the time we got back to the station, the parents arrived so we packed the girls off. In big trouble. The parents weren’t happy. Anyway, we finished all the paperwork and Frank headed home. Ten thirty or thereabouts. That’s when he found Sara.”
“What happened then?”
“He called and me and Charlie came over. Frank was collapsed on the living room floor. On his knees. Crying uncontrollably.”
“Understandable.”
“Sara was in bed. Tied to the frame. Obviously strangled.”
“Did you immediately think it was Billy Wayne’s work?”
“Absolutely. There’d already been two killings here that had been connected to him. This one had all his signatures. The ropes, the strangulation. So, yeah, we knew it was Billy Wayne.” He removed one hand from his pocket and scratched an ear. “’Course that was later proven by the DNA, but we knew from minute one.”
“Was Frank able to help you guys work the scene?”
“Not even close. He, of course, wanted to. But that’s Frank. Charlie essentially ordered him to go outside. Sit on the stoop and let Charlie and me do the work. Didn’t want him to see her that way. ’Course, he had, but he was still in shock. So we bagged everything up—the bedsheets, the ropes—and dusted for prints. An ambulance picked up Sara, took her over to the hospital morgue. I took Frank to my place. He stayed in the spare room that night. No way I would let him sleep in his house alone.” He shook his head. “Next day the FBI came in and took over. Of course, the next night Billy Wayne struck again. Up in Defuniak Springs. So, the FBI crew headed that way pretty quickly.”
“The knots?” Pancake asked. “Was the rope tied the same way in each of the cases here?”
Munson nodded. “Sure were. They were pretty standard. That’s what the FBI guys said.” He shrugged. “I don’t know much about knots. Just what I learned in Cub Scouts.” He smiled. “But I know the FBI lab looked at the ropes and the knots in every case. I heard that they determined everything was the same. Consistent.” He looked at Pancake. “Good question.”
Pancake nodded. “Just thought of it. But it’ll make a good visual for the documentary.”
“I suspect so,” Munson said.
“Let me ask you,” Ray said. “I understand no one ever saw Billy Wayne around here. Is that right?”
“That’s correct. We talked to everyone in town. Literally, it seemed. Nothing. Like he was a ghost.” He looked up toward the sky, then said, “Actually, a couple of folks said that they might’ve seen him. One sighting at Woody’s, the other at a truck stop out on the highway. But neither ever worked out. The security camera at the truck stop did show a guy about Billy Wayne’s size, but we found him.” He smiled. “Fairly easily. He worked in the diner there. So, in actuality, no one ever saw Billy Wayne.”
“Why do you think he came back?” Pancake asked. “All the other killings were sort of one and done. But here, Pine Key, he returned.”
“He probably felt safe here. Found us to be an easy hunting ground.”
“Any signs of forced entry?” Ray waved a hand to Clark’s house.
“No. And in Sara’s case, that would be unusual. I know she was security conscious.”
“Did they have an alarm system?” Pancake asked.
Munson shook his head. “The irony is that Frank had scheduled an installation. But that was a couple of weeks away when Billy Wayne arrived.” He glanced at the house. “Too bad. It just might have saved Sara. So, no alarm system. Apparently, the back door was unlocked. We think he came in that way.”
“But no evidence of that for sure?”
“The door wasn’t damaged. No broken windows or anything like that. We found the door unlocked when we worked the scene. So, that looks like the most likely explanation.”
Ray scanned the house one last time. Amazing how murder scenes can seem so normal after all the dust settles. He turned to Munson. “Thanks for showing us around and talking with us.”
Munson gave a quick nod. “I just hope it doesn’t come back to bite us. Frank, anyway.”
“We’re not here to pressure him. More to give him an opportunity to tell his story.”
Munson sighed. “Let’s head back to the station. See how he and your son got along.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NICOLE AND I finished our chat with Frank Clark and escaped “the box.” That’s what it felt like. There seemed to be more air in Chief Morgan’s office where we now sat, having coffee with him and Clark. Ray, Pancake, and Munson returned.
“How’d it go with the mayor?” Munson asked Morgan.
“The usual. Woman can be stubborn.” He smiled. “But I got you guys a raise.”
“Really?” Clark asked.
“Not much, but it’s something.”
“What about the new patrol car?” Munson asked.
“That’s a no go. Said the city simply didn’t have the money.”
I think that’s the main woe of many smaller towns. Not enough money to go around. Small tax base and mounting expenses. Not to mention the many mouths to feed: police, schools, parks, infrastructure maintenance, city hall, and all the beneath-the-radar costs of running a town. And here in Pine Key, the marina and The Boardwalk, which were surely city property. All that made a new car a luxury the town couldn’t afford.
Nicole apparently felt otherwise.
“We might be able to help you there,” she said. All eyes turned her way. “I can’t promise anything but I’ll talk with my uncle. His budgets always have padding.” She smiled. “All Hollywood budgets do. Since we’re here asking for your help and disrupting your work, a car seems a reasonable fee for that.”
“You can do that?” Morgan asked.
She shrugged. “Maybe. Again, no promises, but let me see what I can do.”
How does she do that? Keep coming up with amazingly simple ideas. Well, simple if you have a Hollywood budget in your pocket. Where the price of a car, a big deal to the city of Pine Key, was simply a line item for a production company or studio. Especially one the size and weight of Regency Global Productions. Oscars and Emmys will thicken your bottom line.
But, with that single promise, or possibility, she had just hooked the entire Pine Key police department. Probably the mayor and city council, too. It was written all over Chief Morgan’s face. Not that he and Clark and Munson hadn’t been helpful, and welcoming, but this would go a long way toward cementing that relationship.
I caught Ray’s eye. He raised an eyebrow and gave a half smile.
“I can’t even imagine you’d do that,” Morgan said. “It’s a very kind offer.”
“If we can pull it off, it’ll be our pleasure,” Nicole said.
After a moment of almost stunned silence, Morgan nodded. “Anything we can do to help you right now?”
“Maybe show us around your department,” Pancake said. “Sort of give us a feel for how you guys work.”
Morgan glanced at Clark, who then said, “Glad to.”
Munson nodded his agreement.
“I think we’ll leave you guys to that,” I said. “Nicole and I are going to head over and have a talk with Peter Swift.”
“Sounds good,” Ray said.
“Bring me something,” Pancake said.
Of course.
Nicole laughed. “What would you like?”
“Something big. And sweet.”
Now, Morgan laughed. “Peter has a bunch of stuff that’ll fill that bill.”
And we were off.
The aromas that greeted us when we entered Swift’s Bakery were intense. Rich and buttery. Pancake might not be the only one getting something big and sweet. Behind the counter stood a woman who looked eerily like the photos I had seen of Loretta Swift, Billy Wayne’s first victim here in Pine Key. Had to be Charlaine Anders, Loretta’s sister.
She looked up and smiled. “Morning.”
“Smells great in here,” Nicole said.
“We just finished a fresh batch of croissants.”
The door that connected to the kitchen swung open as Peter backed through, maneuvering a large metal tray filled with fat golden-brown croissants and other pastries.
“Hello,” he said. He placed the tray on the counter and wiped his hands on the dark blue apron he wore. He nodded to the woman. “This is Charlaine. Loretta’s sister.”
Charlaine smiled over the counter. “It’s a pleasure.”
“I see the resemblance,” I said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As it was meant to be.”
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” Nicole said.
She gave a brief nod. “Thanks.” She picked up a hand towel and wiped the top of the pastry case. “Can I get you something?”
“Maybe later.”
“I think they’re here to talk with me,” Peter said.
“Oh?” Charlaine said.
“Actually, both of you,” I said. “If you’re willing.”
“I assume its about that film you’re working on?”
“That’s right.”
Charlaine looked confused. “What film?”
Nicole explained what we were doing. The slant of the documentary. How we wanted to tell their story, the town’s story, not Billy Wayne’s.
The lie lived on.
Or was it a lie? The deeper we got into this the more I understood why Uncle Charles might see this as a serious project. We were looking for a killer, Uncle Charles for a moneymaker. I had to admit I was buying into it. Or was I trying to convince myself that a partial truth saved a lie from being so manipulative? Regardless, the further down this road we moved, the more this documentary seemed real. Tangible. And, in the end, a good thing for this community.
Peter nodded, wiped his hands on the towel again. “I’d heard about it but didn’t really understand it all.” He smiled. “I was skeptical, but, now that you’ve explained it, I like it. Everything else I’ve seen on him has made him into some sort of hero. Like he was just a misguided guy and not a killer.”
“That’s why we’re doing this project,” Nicole said. “It seems that every serial killer becomes a cult hero. Makes no sense but it’s true. I think a lot of it’s that the public doesn’t really know what happened. Thinks it’s like a movie or something. And they have no idea what the collateral damage is.” She waved a hand toward the pair. “How it affects the survivors.”
“It’s the late morning lull,” Charlaine said. “It’ll be a little while before the lunch crowd shows up.” She turned toward Peter, laid a hand on his arm. “I’ll get Whitney to man the counter.” She looked at us. “Whitney’s our baker.” She nodded toward the glass display case and the pastries inside. “She’s responsible for most of this.” She nodded toward Peter. “Of course, Peter taught her everything she knows.”
“From the smell,” Nicole said, “you taught her well.”
“Why don’t you take them in back?” Charlaine said to Peter. “I’ll be along in a minute.”
Peter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay.”
Even though he had bought into the idea, I could sense his reluctance to revisit the past. Dig into feelings long smoothed over. Somewhat. Can’t say I blamed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“THIS HERE’S WHERE Frank and I hang out,” Munson said. “When we ain’t out doing real police work.”
Ray looked around the room. Small, two desks, facing each other from opposite sides of the room. One held neat stacks of papers, the other undisciplined piles.
Muns
on nodded toward the disordered one. “That’s Frank’s.” He gave a short laugh. “Not the neatest creature on the planet.”
“Works for me,” Clark added.
“Felix and Oscar,” Pancake said.
Munson nodded. “We are the odd couple for sure. Been that way forever. You should’ve seen his locker at school. And out at the field house when we played ball together. I swear to God small creatures lived in there.”
“Neat freaks make me crazy,” Clark said. He glanced at Munson. “But Terry knows not to mess with my stuff.”
“Couldn’t find anything in there anyway,” Munson said. “Not to mention catching some deadly disease.”
Clark smiled. “Terry hung one of those hazmat signs above my desk one day. I think he was trying to tell me something.”
Munson raised a shoulder. “Simply warning others to steer clear.”
Ray studied the two men. No doubt they were close. As advertised. Able to give and take the mutual needling. Ray found himself liking each of them. Sure, Munson might be a little too much of a pretty boy for his liking, but he seemed okay. Clark, on the other hand, was a guy’s guy. No doubt. Closer to Ray’s temperament.
Of course, Clark might be a killer so that mitigated things. Though he seemed relaxed, not trying to hide anything, his dark eyes were hard to read. Was it simply his cop’s deadpan, or something deeper, more malignant?
Ray glanced at Pancake. “Pancake can be a little disordered, too.”
Pancake shrugged. “There’s a method to the madness.”
“Exactly,” Clark said. He nodded toward the door. “Come on. Let’s do the tour.”
Ray and Pancake followed Clark and Munson down a hallway. On the left were two more offices, and to the right a breakroom/kitchen affair. Coffeepot, stacks of paper cups, a microwave, open cabinets filled with bags of coffee, crackers, cookies, and rolls of paper towels. Everything the staff needed to make it through the day. Or night.
Just beyond that, a storage area. Munson pushed open the door and they stepped inside. Along one wall a metal rack held office supplies—bundles of typing paper, boxes of staples and tape, a bag of rubber bands, smaller boxes of ballpoint pens. An old computer collected dust. At the far end, a gray metal locker, like you’d find in any schoolhouse, nestled against the wall. A piece of white tape with EVIDENCE printed in black block letters slashed across the front. An unfastened padlock hung from the loop. Not exactly secure.
