by D P Lyle
“This where you store evidence, I take it,” Ray said.
Munson nodded. “Not that we ever really have any. It’s empty most of the time.”
“Unless someone like Billy Wayne shows up,” Pancake said.
“True,” Clark said.
Back into the hallway. Past an interrogation room and to a door at the end. Clark pushed through it. Ray and Pancake followed. The lockup. Three cells, the doors to each standing open. Two were unoccupied; the other revealed a man lying on his side, twisted into a sheet.
“Angus,” Clark said. “Didn’t the chief tell you it was time to mosey on home?”
The man disentangled his legs and swung to a seated position. His hair looked like an explosion, his eyes red, his face creased with bedsheet imprints. “What time is it?”
“Time to go.”
He fastened on a pair of sandals and stood. Not easily. Swaying. He gained his balance and forked his fingers through his hair. “Okay, okay, I can tell when I’m not welcome.” He gave a toothy smile and nodded to Ray as he staggered past. “See you guys this evening, I suspect.” And he was gone.
“Angus Whitehead,” Clark said. “He spends more time here than I do.”
“And he gets breakfast in bed,” Pancake said.
Clark nodded. “Peter does feed him well.”
“I meant to ask earlier,” Ray said. “Who does your autopsies?”
“Adrian McGill. He’s the pathologist over at the hospital.”
“So you don’t farm them out?” Pancake asked.
“Most of the small towns around here do, but we’re lucky. McGill worked for more than a decade down in Dade County. At the coroner’s office. So, he knows his stuff.”
“Why’d he come here?” Ray asked.
“His wife,” Clark said. “She hated the big city. Traffic, crime, noise. Wanted to come here. A slower pace of life. And truth be told, McGill was ready. Wanted to return to hospital work. So he runs the hospital lab. And does autopsies for us.”
“Which is like never,” Munson added.
“I take it he’d be the one that handled all the evidence from Billy Wayne’s killings?”
“He did,” Munson said. “Did the autopsies. Collected the DNA and sent samples up to the folks in Jacksonville.”
“They did the work on that,” Clark said. “We aren’t that sophisticated.”
“Makes sense,” Ray said. “Running a DNA lab isn’t an inexpensive proposition.”
Munson nodded. “Way beyond our budget.”
“So, he retained all the evidence over at the hospital?”
Clark shook his head. “Not long term. Just until he finished his report and sent things up north. Everything then came back over here for storage. We kept it all until Billy Wayne was sentenced, then dumped it.”
“Wouldn’t be much need for it after that,” Pancake said. He gave Ray a glance.
They finished the tour. Ray thanked them both for their time. “No problem,” Clark said. “You need anything else, just give us a shout.”
“Will do.”
Clark headed to his office while Munson walked Ray and Pancake out. Once on the sidewalk out front, Ray looked up and down the street.
“This is a nice town,” Ray said. “I like it. Pleasant. Most folks we’ve met seem happy.”
“It’s a great place.” Munson scratched an ear. “’Course, I’m biased. I grew up here.” He smiled. “Let me ask you something.”
“Fire away.”
“I meant to ask earlier, but it slipped my mind. Were you guys cops before doing the P.I. thing?”
Ray shook his head. “Pancake was a bum.” He looked at Pancake and smiled. “Mostly hung around my son’s bar.”
“Nice place to hang,” Pancake said. “Good food, better drinks, and you should see the chicks that motor in and out.” He opened his palms. “I’ve hung out at worse bars.”
Munson laughed. “Sounds like my kind of place.” He looked at Ray. “And you?”
“I was military for quite a few years.”
“What branch?”
“Marines.”
“Not to mention special forces, intelligence, that sort of thing,” Pancake said.
“Oh?”
“Let’s just say I did a lot of crap I can’t talk about.”
“What led you to the P.I. world?”
“Needed to make a living,” Ray said with a smile.
“I hear you.” Munson shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked slightly on his heels. He looked up the street, gaze unfocused. “I’ve been considering doing the same thing.”
“Really?”
“Well, like you heard, this job don’t pay all that much.”
“A common problem,” Pancake said. “Especially in small towns.”
Munson looked back at him. “But I can never pull the trigger on that deal. First off, I’m not sure I’d have the patience for it. But mostly I’d be abandoning Chief Morgan.” A quick nod. “And he’s a great boss. Better guy.”
“Seemed that way,” Ray said.
“And Frank. I wouldn’t leave unless he went with me, and that ain’t going to happen.”
“He likes the low pay?” Ray asked, smiling.
“Loves the job, for sure.” He sighed. “Maybe he would’ve a few years ago, but since Sara’s death, he hasn’t been all that ambitious.”
“What do you mean?”
Munson glanced back toward the station’s entry door. “Not sure I can put it in words.” He looked down toward his feet as if considering what to say. “It’s just that her death took the wind out of his sails. Hasn’t recovered yet.” Another glance up the street. “Not sure he ever will.” A slight headshake. “I guess Frank and I’ll be here until they carry us out on our shields.” He smiled. “Being a P.I. is a good dream, though.”
“Not much of a dream,” Pancake said. “Mostly it’s boring and tedious.”
Ray laughed. “Punctuated by moments of terror.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“THANKS FOR TALKING with us,” Nicole said.
Peter offered a thin smile. “If I said I had some reservations about reliving everything, I wouldn’t be lying.”
We were in his office. Nicole and I sat facing him across his desk. He sank into a worn fake-leather swivel chair, Charlaine standing beside him.
“We understand,” Nicole said. “If at any time you want to call a halt to this or want us to leave, just say so.”
Peter shifted in his chair. “So, how does this all work?”
“We want to ask a few questions. Sort of preliminary things, and to make sure you’re comfortable with our questions. Then, if that works out, we’ll put together a script of sorts and bring in a film crew and do a real interview. Is that okay?”
Peter gave a half nod. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell us about you and Loretta. How you met, when you were married? Those kinds of things.” She glanced at Charlaine. “We want to get to know her. And each of you, too.”
Peter leaned his elbows on the desktop, his chin resting on his clasped hands. “We met when we were ten. Nothing special. At that age she was just a girl.” He smiled. “It was a couple of more years before I found girls interesting.” Now, he opened his hands, palms up. “It was at her birthday party. She had pigtails and a missing front tooth.”
“Sounds attractive,” I said with a smile.
He smiled, looked away as if thinking of something. “Not then. But later, when we were thirteen, she somehow became beautiful.”
“That’s how it usually happens,” I said.
“She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.” He rubbed the side of his nose. “And I thought that every day of her life.”
“She was,” Charlaine said. “And the best sister anyone could have.”
Nicole nodded. “From the pictures I’ve seen of her, you two look a lot alike.”
Charlaine smiled. “Many people thought we were twins. But she was
nearly a year older.”
I looked back at Peter. “When did you and Loretta get married?”
“When we turned eighteen.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Right down there by the marina. It’s where everyone around here gets married, it seems. I was working for my dad. He opened the bakery and ran it until he got sick. I took over then. Loretta began working here even before we got married.” He glanced toward the window. His eyes moistened. “Mom and Dad loved her.” He looked back at us. “Everyone did.”
Charlaine laid a hand on his shoulder, gave a quick squeeze.
“Tell us about that night,” Nicole said. “When you discovered Loretta.”
Another deep breath, and a slow exhale through puffed-out cheeks. “Worst day of my life. Nothing else was even close. Not even burying my parents.” He pressed a knuckle into the corner of one eye. “I was at an Elk’s meeting. In Panama City. Got home late.” He stared down at the desktop. “I almost didn’t go. It’d been a busy day and I was tired, but I’m the treasurer and was set to deliver our annual financial report. But for that, I might not have gone.” He sniffed. “Things might’ve worked out differently.”
“When you got home, did anything seem out of place?” I asked. “When you first got there?”
“Actually, yes. There were no lights on. Usually we left a lamp on in the living room. But everything was dark. My first thought was that maybe the bulb had burned out. Or maybe she forgot to turn it on.” He picked up a paper clip, examined it, and laid it aside. “I figured she was already asleep so I went to the kitchen and had a bowl of ice cream.” He smiled. “She always gave me grief about that.” He sighed. “Then I went to our room. And found her.”
“What did you see?” I asked.
“The room was dark, of course. But I immediately knew something was wrong. She wasn’t under the covers. The comforter was on the floor and she was laying on the sheets. Then, I saw the ropes.” He shook his head. “It was so odd, I couldn’t make sense of it. It seemed like I stood there forever, trying to sort it out.” Another sigh. “When I touched her shoulder, trying to wake her, it felt cold. That’s when I knew.”
“What did you do then?” I asked.
“I shook her. Called her name. Considered trying CPR, but I knew she was gone. I flicked on the light. That’s when I saw the bruises around her neck. I called the police.”
“Was anything disturbed?” Nicole asked. “Out of place or anything like that?”
He shook his head. “Not really. Frank Clark was there in a few minutes. Then Munson and Chief Morgan. They found the back door was unlocked. Which also made no sense. Loretta always kept things locked when I wasn’t there.” He looked past us, focusing on nothing. “I figured she forgot. But, later, I learned Billy Wayne was pretty good at finding his way inside houses.”
“Peter called me,” Charlaine said. “He was distraught. No, more than that. I thought he was …” She hesitated. “I don’t know what I thought. He couldn’t talk. Babbling and gasping, and—well, I came right over.” She again squeezed his shoulder. “He was outside. Sitting on the front stoop. Staring at the sky.” Her face screwed down as if holding back tears. “It was awful.”
“I can only imagine,” Nicole said.
“He managed to get the story out.” She looked down at him. “I wanted to go inside. See for myself. Not that I didn’t believe him, but I felt she needed me.” She sniffed. “Sounds silly, I know.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Nicole said. “It makes perfect sense.”
Charlaine nodded, face scrunched even more tightly. “But, Peter wouldn’t let me.”
“I didn’t want her seeing her sister like that. And have to live with that image.” Peter reached up and patted the hand on his shoulder. “Truth is, Charlaine was my rock. Without her being there, I would’ve really lost it.” He shook his head. “More so than I did.”
“You were my rock,” Charlaine said.
“Sounds like you two were close,” I said.
“All three of us were,” Charlaine said. “When I lost my husband—cancer—Peter and Sara were right by my side.”
Family tragedies. Every family has them. Some more than others. I flashed on when I lost my mom. Worst day ever. And looking at Peter and Charlaine, I saw the same anguish on their faces. Hell, I felt it filling the room. My chest hurt.
“You and your sister were tight?” Nicole asked.
“We were,” Charlaine said. “I think being less than a year apart had a lot to do with it. The way our birthdays worked out, we started school together. Same grade all the way through. She was always the oldest in our class, and I was the youngest.” She sighed. “She took care of me.”
Peter nodded. “She took care of both of us. It was her nature.”
“When did you learn that Loretta’s murder was connected to the others?” I asked.
“Maybe two or three weeks,” Peter said. “I forget exactly. Chief Morgan called me and said the crime lab up in Jacksonville had made the connection. Stunned doesn’t quite cover it. I mean, a serial killer? Here in Pine Key? In my own home?” He looked at me. “You know, you see this stuff on TV. Read about it in the paper. But you never think something like this would come into your own life.”
Isn’t that the truth? Bad things always happen to someone else. Usually far away. More like a movie or a novel. Not real. When such tragedies drop in your lap, it’s always a shock. My impression was that Peter was still struggling with that. He looked like an injured soul. And they say time heals all. What a lie.
“But it did,” Peter continued. “And nothing’s been right since that night.” He glanced up at Charlaine. “But we’re working on it.” He gave a weak smile.
“We are,” she said.
“When did you step in and help with the bakery?” I asked her.
“Immediately. Wasn’t even a question.”
Peter nodded. “That’s true. Sold her business right then and there.”
“My husband and I owned a motel just up the street here. The Piney Woods. I ran it after his death, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore. So, I sold it and I’ve been here ever since.”
“Couldn’t have kept this place afloat without her,” Peter said. “Not even sure I could’ve kept myself afloat. Especially early on. I was a mess. We both were, but somehow we managed.”
“It always comes back to family, doesn’t it?” I said.
“Sure does.” Another glance toward Charlaine. “Charlaine is so much like Loretta. Same graciousness. Same pleasant way of handling the customers.”
Tears welled in Charlaine’s eyes, but she remained silent.
Peter folded his hands before him on the desk. “It’s funny, I have to remind myself sometimes that she’s not Loretta.” He sighed. “I even make the mistake of calling her Loretta sometimes. Even after all these years.”
Charlaine sniffed back tears. “It’s true. He does.” She wiped the back of her hand across her nose. “And the truth is, I like that. In an odd way, it keeps her alive.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“HOW’D IT GO today?” Chief Charlie Morgan asked Clark and Munson over his desk.
Clark shrugged. Munson shrugged.
“Nothing unusual?” Morgan asked.
“I showed them the crime scenes.” Munson glanced at Clark. “Stopped by your place briefly. Hope that’s okay.”
Morgan nodded. “Sure.”
“I mean, we didn’t go inside or anything, but I went through each of the scenes with them. Told them what we found. How we handled them. That sort of thing.”
Morgan nodded.
“They seem curious about any of them?” Clark asked. “Ask any questions that seemed out of place?”
“No,” Munson said. “Not really. Why?”
“I don’t know. It just always gives me pause when someone comes along later and looks into what we do.”
“We did it by the book,” Munson said. “Like always.”
“I know,”
Clark said. “But no investigation’s perfect. I’d hate for them to second-guess us.”
“You mean like Tommy Lee Kovac?” Morgan said.
Clark nodded. “Except Tommy Lee’s a moron. These guys don’t impress me as that.”
“Didn’t seem that way to me, either,” Munson said. “But we don’t really know them. They could simply be the digging-dirt-on-a-wayward-spouse type.”
“They aren’t,” Clark said. “They’re the real thing.”
“And you know this how?” Munson asked.
“I looked into them,” Clark said. “On the internet. Called a guy I know in Pensacola. With the PD up there. He says Ray Longly is smart and tough. Said he handled a lot of complex cases. Bank and insurance fraud, embezzling, even took on Victor Borkov’s empire.” He shrugged. “And won.”
“I heard about that,” Munson said. “Big shoot-out. Right?”
Clark nodded. “Yep. Anyway, all I’m saying is that I’m not sure how I feel about a couple of hotshot P.I.s sniffing around.”
Morgan stared at him. “My impression, from my talk with Jake and Nicole, was that all they wanted was to get a feel for how all this affected the community. I didn’t sense anything else.”
“And that’s probably the case,” Clark said. “I just never liked anyone looking over my shoulder.”
“Anyway,” Munson continued. “They seemed—I guess the word is concerned. More interested in the victims and the families than Billy Wayne.”
Morgan stacked several loose pages on his desk as he studied Clark. “You okay?”
Clark gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sure. Why?”
“Thought maybe reliving all this might be difficult. Dredging up old memories. Opening old wounds.”
“There’s some truth to that,” Clark said. “But, I’m doing okay.” He looked past Morgan, toward the window that faced Main Street, not focused on anything as far as Morgan could tell. “It’s not like I don’t think about it every day anyway.”
