“Thanks, Henry,” Dana said. She watched the students continue to drift away from the center of campus, off into the evening. “You—”
“Oh wait,” Trooper Maize interrupted. “Here we go.” He sounded proud of himself. “Bingo. So, I’ve got a picture of Sonia Taylor tagged on Facebook . . . yep, that looks like her . . . it’s at a bar in Plattsburgh. O’Sullivan’s. She’s behind the bar — looks like she works there.”
“Great,” said Dana. “Send that picture to my phone, okay?”
“You got it.”
“And, Trooper, let’s keep manpower on hand, looking for witnesses. I don’t care who’s lighting off M80s from their back porch.”
“I’ll run that up the flagpole.”
She thanked him again and hung up. Hamill was looking down at her with a glint in his eye.
“Let’s go to the bar,” Dana said.
CHAPTER FOUR / Cops Can’t Drink
O’Sullivan’s was loud and crammed with a happy hour crowd. The thumping music sounded like it was playing through blown speakers. Dozens of students were packed into the small space. The heat was blasting; the air felt hot and muggy enough to chew. Not that you would want to. Dana could smell the sweat beneath the stale beer and perfume.
Heads turned to Dana and Hamill. The crowd parted as they walked over to the bar. A tall man served frothy beer from the tap. Dana waved a hand and caught his attention.
The man walked over, wiping his hands on a towel, a look of concern on his face. Presumably the bartender. Dana lifted up her badge hanging from her neck and then held out her phone, the Facebook picture on the screen.
“Sonia Taylor,” she shouted above the din. “She work here?”
The bartender’s eyes lingered on Dana and her badge before he looked at the image. He shook his head, no. “Not for a couple months.”
“Couple months? When, exactly?”
His eyes came back to Dana, wary and suspicious. She saw one of them had a faded color. More gray than blue, like the other one. “Why? Something happen?”
“Can you just tell me when she last worked here?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. End of summer, I guess. So, late August. Then I guess she went back to school.” He shrugged, and passed his chary gaze back and forth between the cops.
“Can you turn the music off, for a minute, please?” Dana asked.
“Man, things are pretty crazy in here right now . . .”
The detectives both glared at him.
“Okay,” the bartender held up his hands. “Okay.” He walked away. Dana looked around. It seemed every square inch of the place was covered with bar paraphernalia — framed photos of happily drinking people, dollar bills with best wishes scrawled in pen, cutout cartoon characters — Foghorn Leghorn, Wile E. Coyote — sports pennants, framed mirrors with beer brand decals, and shamrocks. Shamrocks were nice, but they were also the symbol for the Aryan Brotherhood, a ruthless gang both inside and out of federal and state prisons. Maybe that was why, just beside one, several biohazard stickers were plastered to the wall.
When the bartender finally killed the music, there were groans and catcalls. Dana jumped up on the bar. All eyes were on her. Someone whistled.
“Excuse me,” she said, looking from face to face.
Dana cleared her throat and spoke loud enough for her voice to carry — when she needed to, she had what Hamill called a helluva set of pipes. “I’m with the state police. We’re looking for a young woman who goes to school here. Sonia Taylor. She used to work in this bar. Anyone know her? Seen her today? Or recently?”
Uneasiness had fallen over the young patrons. No more whistles or calls. Most were somber, others grinned nervously. At the back of the room, she noticed a man with a pompadour haircut and a stylish beard. Something about his demeanor was different from the others.
“Anyone?” Dana said again, keeping her eyes on the guy in the back. He slowly raised his hand in the air, and heads began to turn his way.
Dana climbed down from the bar. She looked at Hamill, who jerked his head, indicating that they head over.
As they pushed through the students, murmuring began, turning into questions. “What’s going on? Did something happen? Who are they talking about?” Finally, the bartender said, “So, can I turn the music back on, guys?” Dana ignored him, but out of the corner of her eye saw Hamill give a thumbs up. A second later, the music was thumping again. Dana passed by the pool table where a trio of players gave them a wide berth.
The atmosphere in the room had become heavy; even with the music back on, the Friday evening excitement had suddenly burned off.
He was sitting alone. She took the seat across from him. Hamill remained standing at the end of the table, providing a sort of cover.
Dana extended a hand across the table. The man tentatively took it. “Detective Dana Gates,” she said. “And you?”
“Wayland Kimball.”
“Wayland?”
The man smiled wanly, withdrawing his hand. “That’s what I’m working with. I’ve come to accept it.”
“Go to school here?”
“I did. Actually I’m an adjunct professor.”
“Really?” Dana asked. There was a pitcher of reddish beer, half gone, a pint glass in front of Wayland, mostly empty. There was also a leather-bound notebook. Dana eyed the notebook.
“Yeah,” Wayland said, looking uncomfortable. “Really.”
“What do you teach?”
“Social Psychology,” he said.
Dana looked at Hamill, who raised his eyebrows. “That’s great,” said Dana. “So, you know Sonia Taylor?”
He swallowed, and nodded. He seemed simultaneously smug and anxious.
“You know her from class, then?”
He nodded again.
“You alright, Mr Kimball? You’re not saying much.”
“Not really.”
“Not really . . . you mean you’re not alright?”
“Did something happen to her?”
“Do you think something happened to her?”
Wayland flinched, looking hurt. “Why are you guys acting like this? Did I offend you somehow?”
Dana could see the adrenaline start to churn; Wayland’s neck and face went red. Dana glanced at his hair. Coiffed. Piled at least four inches high off his forehead. The beard was well grown in, no signs of gray. Dana bet he was good with the ladies. She felt a twinge of something inside; she realized she was perturbed by Wayland, and she didn’t know why. She sat back and looked at Hamill.
“Hey, man.” Hamill grabbed the nearly empty pitcher and held it aloft. “What is it?”
“Octoberfest,” Wayland said dourly.
“Octoberfest,” Hamill said, and turned a lopsided grin on Dana. “Refill?”
Dana sniffed, sat back, and nodded. She was coming on too strong; Hamill was giving her a moment to recalibrate, but also to keep Wayland guessing.
“One Budweiser coming right up,” Hamill said, and winked. “God Bless America.” The pitcher sloshed in his grip as he headed for the bar.
Dana watched him go and then waved at the three pool players who quickly turned back to their game. Finally she looked across the table at Wayland again.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You haven’t done anything — you’re right.”
Wayland was watching her closely. He seemed uncertain. Then again, maybe he was sizing her up. The police world had gotten more progressive over the years, but female detectives still threw people off. With her short hair and pea coat, she wasn’t sure whether she blended in or drew more attention to her gender. But she’d stopped caring about that years ago.
“Sonia was found,” Dana said. “She’s dead.”
She studied Wayland’s reaction. Wayland looked back for a moment, then his eyes seemed to lose focus. He stared off for a few seconds. Then his gaze returned. He was upset, that was clear.
“What happened?”
“Did you know her very well? Was s
he a good student? What can you tell me about her?”
His eyes were still bright with anger, but his chin wobbled. He looked like he was ready to either throw a punch or start crying.
“She was a good student.”
“Yeah? Shows up on time, that sort of thing? Any unexcused absences?”
“This is college. We don’t make a distinction.”
Dana nodded. “Okay. Did you notice she hadn’t been in class?”
“It’s a one-day-a-week course. She wasn’t there today. I noticed.”
“Know her in any other way?”
“What do you mean?”
“Outside of academics, personal friends, anything like that.”
Wayland acted insulted. “No. That would be inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate to have a friendship?”
“You know what I mean, and I know what you mean.”
Dana turned her hands palms up. “I don’t mean anything. I’m just asking if you knew her outside of class.”
Wayland’s jaw twitched. The bar had gradually resumed the normal din. There was a sudden crack of pool balls as one of the players broke a fresh rack. “Yeah, well, she was in a study.”
“A study? What do you mean?”
“To monitor performance anxiety by way of psychic testing.” He took a deep breath and his eyelids fluttered closed for a moment.
Dana was momentarily dumbfounded. “To do what now?”
Wayland opened his eyes. “It’s not what you think.” He shook his head, slightly. “It’s placebo. It’s not real. The main aim of the study was to observe how people react when they think they’re being evaluated for psychic activity.”
She leaned back again, trying to make sense of it.
“We examined how people react under stress,” he said. “When they know they’re being evaluated, or hoping to achieve something, get a good result.”
“Like taking a test.”
“Right. Or, like now.”
“Fair enough. So, is that what you call a blind study? They don’t know you’re really looking at them for something else?”
“Correct,” Wayland said. “The subjects don’t know if they are the experimental arm of the study, or the control.”
“Okay . . .” College had been a long time ago for her.
“Look at it this way. There’s a study. Ostensibly, it is to test for psychic capabilities. Really what it’s looking at is how people react when they’re being evaluated. Their performance anxiety.”
“You mean stage fright?”
He was getting a hold of himself. He leaned forward, poking the laminated tabletop with his finger. “Whether getting up in front of class for an oral presentation, about to have sex, or run a marathon, or play clarinet for an audience, people get anxiety. The idea was they would get the same type of anxiety if they thought they were being evaluated for psychic abilities.”
“But you weren’t actually looking for psychic ability,” Dana said.
“Now you get it. I was looking at how subjects responded to a challenge, to an intense evaluation. The psychic part was arbitrary. They would have to ‘perform’ as potential psychics, and prove or disprove that possibility. It’s called the subject-expectancy effect. How nervous did someone get if they thought they were being tested for ESP? Why do we get nervous at expectations – even if we’re not being evaluated for what we think? What is happening in the mind-body that triggers the fight-or-flight response? Why do we perceive a threat when we’re being closely evaluated, or scrutinized? So, again, I was looking at their performance anxiety.”
“And Sonia Taylor was a test subject. And when was this?”
“Beginning of the semester.”
“And when was the last class she attended?”
“Last week. The class is on Fridays.”
“How did she do in the study?”
“Huh?”
Dana spread her hands. “You know, did she get anxious like you expected? What did you find?”
Wayland was silent for a moment, drawing inward again. “She actually showed low anxiety levels. She was calm.”
“All around, what did you make of her? Happy person? Depressed? Anything?”
A sharp look from Wayland. “Hey, who isn’t depressed.”
Hamill returned. He had the pitcher of beer in one hand, and he was carrying a small tray with three full shot glasses. Standing there with the music reverberating, wearing his suit and tie underneath a gray parka, he suddenly struck Dana as absurd. A broad smile stretched over his face.
Hamill made his eyes big. “You drink shots in college, right?”
Wayland looked back and forth between the two detectives. “I’m sorry but I don’t understand. Aren’t you guys . . . on duty?”
Hamill lost his smile and set down the shot glasses and the pitcher, beer slopping onto the table. He leaned across Wayland and grabbed a napkin out of the dispenser, avoiding the arc-welding intensity of Dana’s stare. “Damn, man, listen to the party pooper.” He wiped the booze off his hands.
* * *
Dana and Hamill went outside, into a gathering of smokers on the sidewalk. They parted for the detectives, Dana offering courteous smiles. Some of the young men and women smiled back, that same thin-lipped grin that said, Yeah, we’re college kids having a good time, but we see you and we know. Life is shitty. So here’s a little sympathetic smile. And I’ll nod my head just slightly. As if I get it.
Who could say? Maybe they did know something. Everybody knew something, Dana thought. It was just a matter of whether or not what they knew was useful.
Hamill sparked his own cigarette and shivered in the cold. Dana looked down the street. There were two other bars in this section of town, right on the main drag. There was a coffee shop, a Laundromat, and a furniture warehouse all on the block. Further down was the DMV, a building replete with pillars and parapets. There was a wrought-iron gate along the sidewalk out in front. Someone, presumably a student, stood there looking at their phone.
“He’s got a strong alibi,” Dana said. “He was teaching class this afternoon for almost four hours, had two meetings, and then he came here.”
“Not just a dead end,” said Hamill. “I bet if we talked more about that study, keep pressing, we’ll find something. We could bring him in.”
“Maybe.”
“Couple more drinks, then he’ll slip and tell us about showing Sonia Taylor his psychic powers after class.”
Hamill hopped from one foot to the other to keep warm. Dana felt surprisingly cozy in her coat. Her partner was the one with the full-winter parka.
Maybe it’s that extra layer of marital fat, she thought. The fifteen pounds she’d put on in the past decade. She looked at Hamill. Hamill was single, no kids, all bone and gristle. Those cigarettes charged his metabolism.
“You weren’t really going to drink those shots?” she asked. “I mean? Rob? What the fuck?”
“Jesus, you could’ve taken my head off with that look you gave me,” Hamill defended himself, “I mean, maybe play along next time instead of storming off, getting all uptight. Let the guy think we’re renegades, I don’t know. Anyway, the bartender served them up. I didn’t ask for shots, for Chrissakes.”
“He offered you drinks?”
Hamill shrugged, smoked. “Yeah, I don’t know, whatever. Maybe he wasn’t too bright.
“I didn’t storm off; I went and looked at what he had for employment records.”
“The bartender? One-eye McMurty?”
“Is that what that was? One of his eyes was . . . ?”
“Dead, yeah. That shit can happen. Remember Mark Buford? His dad had a dead eye, from hockey. Took a stick right in the face.”
Dana listened but watched the dark figure standing by the wrought-iron fence. He seemed to be looking back at them now. It was hard to be sure, but even when you couldn’t see someone’s face, sometimes you could just feel their eyes on you.
“Hang on,” she said.
She started walking in that direction, casually as she could. She pulled out her phone and pretended to poke at the screen. The figure turned and walked away.
“Hey!” Dana called as she got a little closer. “Hey, excuse me. Detective Gates.”
She hopped off the curb, cut between two parked cars, and trotted across the street. The guy broke into a run.
Dana started running, too, still calling, “Hey! Hey, whoa! New York State Police; stop!” She reached the opposite side of the road and leapt onto the sidewalk. She heard Hamill curse under his breath. His footsteps pounded behind her.
Dana sprinted up the sidewalk. At the other end, the subject took a turn, and picked up speed. He was going to outrun them, Dana thought.
She got to the end of the block and made the turn, and saw him cross the road further ahead. She was already out of breath. The subject passed a Chinese restaurant and then made a right. He was gaining distance. Dana made the same right a few seconds later and just caught a glimpse of him making yet another turn.
She kept up her pace. Down the lane, her footfalls echoing among the dark buildings, her blood singing in her ears, breathing hard. Her mind was focused only on the chase.
The road fed into a more industrial part of town, where train tracks passed an abandoned paper mill. A lone gas station-convenience store combo sprawled on the corner, throwing yellow light from beneath an awning. Dana turned into that parking lot now, her lungs burning, legs shaking, as she watched the subject cross the tracks, further away than ever. He threw a look over his shoulder — just the blur of a face — and then jumped onto a chain-link fence on the other side of the tracks. He scaled it easily and dropped down on the other side.
He paused, looking across at Dana, who had stopped near the gas pumps. He crouched there, an obscure figure in the night. Dana tried to make out his features but the light was bad, and she was too far away. Her eyesight was sharp, but it wasn’t enough.
He stood fully upright, turned, and disappeared into the underbrush beyond the fence.
CHAPTER FIVE / The Girl on the Stairs
DARK KILLS a gripping detective thriller full of suspense Page 3
