Before Another Dies (10 page)

“It seems a horrible way to die.”

“I don't know of many good ways,” West said. “The thing about breaking someone's neck is that it is an intimate act. If it's premeditated, the murderer has to plan on laying his hands on the victim and committing an act of violence. A gun allows distance. Most stabbings are done in the heat of the moment. Poisoning allows for distance in space and time. One has to be really angry or really nuts to kill with his bare hands.”

“Are you sure it's a he?”

“As sure as I can be without the autopsy reports. The bruising on Lopez's jaw indicates a large hand and wide fingers. It also takes a good bit of strength to snap a neck. Even the way this one was done.”

“How do you mean?”

“It looks professional. It doesn't look like something done in rage.”

“Professional? There are professional neck breakers?”

“Some military personnel learn how to kill with their bare hands.” He paused as if considering that thought. “I visited with the Lopez family. They're estranged. His wife, Julia, hasn't seen her former husband for two years. The address on the license was from when they were still married. She kicked him out. Said he was getting too weird for her and the children.”

I was interested in the details, but other questions were insisting on being voiced. “Fritzy told me that you thought her husband had been murdered.”

“That's one reason I'm telling you all this, Mayor. Mr. Fritz was murdered in the same fashion as Mr. Lopez. We found him sitting in the pilot's seat—a Cessna Caravan. Apparently he had been working on the plane when he was killed.”

I didn't know what a Cessna Caravan was, but my mind still created a picture of a lifeless Jim Fritz sitting behind the controls of a plane. “It's horrible; horrible and ironic.”

“How is it ironic?”

“Just yesterday I told a reporter that we average only two murders a year in Santa Rita, and now we have two in a row.”

“Two in a row and probably done by the same man.” He worked his lips a little, then added, “The connections bother me. One murder takes place in front of city hall; the other happens to the husband of a city hall employee.”

That had occurred to me but I had pressed it to the back of my mind—too many things competing for my brain cells. “You're saying that I should be careful.”

“Yes, and that you should be observant. For all we know, it may be a city employee.”

I started to object, but caught myself. Madness could strike anyone in any profession; just because they worked for my city didn't make them saints. “I assume you're doing some kind of background checks.”

“I've asked the city manager to review employee files. We're looking for someone who might have received specialized military training.”

“But a nonmilitary person could have done this.”

“That's true, but we look where we can and take whatever clues we find. You know me, I like to be thorough.”

I did know him. I had been on the receiving end of his thoroughness last year. “You'll keep me posted?”

“As much as I can.” He stood. I joined him.

“I'm helping Fritzy with the arrangements. When will . . . I mean, will the . . .” So much for being the great communicator.

“I've asked the coroner to light a fire under his medical examiners. Since this may be a serial killing, I want things pushed to the forefront. Mr. Fritz's body should be available for burial by the end of the week. I don't think you can pull together a funeral much sooner than that.”

I walked him to the door and opened it. To my relief, Tess and Jon were gone. Floyd, however, was still standing behind his desk. He held the business end of the phone in his hand. I shot him a quizzical glance.

“It's a Betty somebody, and she wants to talk to you. She said it's urgent.”

“I need a few minutes to myself, Floyd. Take a message and . . . Who did you say it was?”

“All I got was the first name.”

“Betty.” I said the name out loud. It hit me—the perfume lady. Fritzy's neighbor. I stepped to Floyd's desk and reached for the phone. “This is Mayor Glenn.”

“Oh, Mayor, I'm so glad I reached you. It's Judith.” She stopped and took a couple of deep breaths.

“What about Fritzy, Betty?”

“I just went in the bathroom. I had to . . . you know—”

“What has happened?”

“She's gone. I came out of the bathroom and she was gone. And she took her purse . . . and I looked for her car and it's gone, too.”

chapter 12

W
here would she go?” West asked. We were in his city-issued Ford sedan. It was four years old, and if it were Chief Webb sitting behind the wheel instead of West, I'd be hearing about unreasonable budget constraints. It was a small thing but worthy of note.

“How should I know?” I snapped. I took a deep breath. “Sorry. It's been a rough couple of days. I don't know where she would go.”

“Family nearby? Friends?”

“She has no family. I'm sure she has friends, but I don't know who they are any more than I know who your friends are.”

“Okay,” he said, his eyes fixed ahead. “For now I'm headed to her house. Maybe she just took a drive around the block. How well do you know this Betty person?”

“I don't. She lives next door to Fritzy. Fritzy seemed comfortable with her. Why?”

“Did she strike you as someone who might panic over nothing? I mean, if Mrs. Fritz is watering her tomatoes in the backyard, would Betty think to look?”

“I don't know her, but my first impression was that she is a sweet little old lady who isn't fully aware of all that goes on around her.”

“So this could be nothing.”

“We still have to check it out.”

“That's what we're doing.”

The police radio in West's car came to life. The first thing West did before leaving my office was to call dispatch and ask that a patrol car be sent to Fritzy's house. The officer was already there, and the news wasn't good. He had searched the property and drove around the neighborhood but there was no sign of Fritzy. West radioed his thanks.

“No news there. Since her car is missing we have to assume she drove off, but where? Where would you go?”

“Excuse me?”

“You lost a husband to murder. If you were Mrs. Fritz, where would you go?”

I had to think about that. “I remember being very confused the first few days. My emotions were all over the place, and it was hard for me to focus. Thankfully, I had help from my family. Peter's parents were great, too. But that doesn't help.” I didn't want to think of those days. I spent too many months and years trying to focus on the good times before
that day
. Instinctively, I resisted anything that forced me to relive the worst days of my life. But I did it anyway. I recalled the phone call, the searing pain of the news, the fog that filled my brain, the calls I made that night, the place in the kitchen where I collapsed under the irresistible weight of grief.

I once read an article by a psychologist who said the human mind cannot distinguish between reality and fiction. It's the reason we jump in a scary movie. We know the scenes on the screen aren't real; we even know that they're two-dimensional representations of actors and events, but when the gun goes off, or the monster charges, we jump anyway. I told myself that Peter's death was many years ago, and I was just trying to recall an interesting detail. My guts still twisted into a knot.

“I'm sorry,” West said. Apparently I was more transparent than I realized. “I shouldn't put you through this. I just thought you might have an idea.”

“I do,” I said a moment later. “The day after I heard about Peter's murder, I had an almost overwhelming desire to drive to LA and stand at the scene where he died. It made no sense, but the desire was there, and it kept growing. My mother talked me out of it, but I doubt she would have been able to if Peter had been killed outside of town instead of LA.”

I looked at West and could tell that his mind had just found fourth gear. “It makes sense. It's like those people who lose a son or daughter in an auto accident and cover the site with flowers, pictures, and toys.” His head gave a little nod. “She's gone to the airport.”

“I think so,” I said.

“Then that's where we're going.”

We had been on the surface streets, working our way toward Fritzy's house, but West made a command decision. He pressed the accelerator and steered toward the freeway. Five minutes later we were scooting down the wide ribbon of the 101.

Ten minutes later I saw the signs to the Willis Jackson airport. I doubted West needed any signs. Minutes chugged by, and I spent the time praying I was right. Most people work through their grief in a normal pattern; some lose their minds. I was praying for the former and fearing the latter. Back on the surface streets, West pushed through traffic, passing when it was safe and tailgating when he couldn't pass. He was making me nervous.

He pulled up behind a Chevy pickup with what looked like a good ol' boy behind the wheel. Bright spots appeared then disappeared on the tailgate of the truck. West was flashing his lights. The driver gave a wave that lacked some fingers. West mumbled something, reached down to a red plastic globe just under his police radio, and set it on the dashboard. A moment later, red light poured through the windshield. A half second after that, West reached for a switch on the radio, and I heard the blare of the police siren.

The truck shot to the curb and began to slow. I caught a glimpse of the driver. His eyes were wide and his face seemed to have drained of color.

“You enjoyed that, didn't you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just trying to get to the airport.” He glanced at me and grinned.

Jim Fritz's shop was on the north side of the small airport. This was a municipal airport, owned by the city and used by recreational and business fliers. Unlike a large commercial airport Willis Jackson Field has only two short runways, a single tower, and a small terminal. No airlines landed here, nothing larger than a business jet. West steered the car through the parking lot toward a metal building a hundred yards north of the terminal. FRITZ AIRCRAFT SERVICES was painted in fading red letters on one side. That was our goal.

West switched off the red light and pulled to the curb in front of the building, stopping in a no-parking zone. As I began to open my door, I heard him give our location over the radio. He slipped from his seat and started for the entrance door. By the time I made my exit, he was already trying the doorknob.

“Locked. This way.” He pushed by me, rounded the building, and opened the chain-link gate that was meant to keep outsiders out. I saw an open silver hasp lock dangling on the gate. I followed West, who was moving faster than my pump-clad feet would allow. I saw him disappear around the runway side of the building. I rounded the same corner four steps behind him.

She was there. Standing in front of one of two open bays, Fritzy was a frail statue. She wore the same dress I had seen her wear on Monday. Her hands clasped before her, just below the waist. A small beige purse hung from those hands like a frozen pendulum. West approached slowly. So did I. As I drew near I could see what was in the open bay. A white, single engine plane stood as if waiting for someone to call it back to life. It was one of those planes with the wings over the fuselage. Its cowling was open, revealing the engine—the same engine Jim Fritz had been working on the night he was killed. A yellow ribbon barricade ran from the doorjambs and across the open bay door.

“Mrs. Fritz?” West said. “Are you all right?”

Fritzy said nothing. I expected to see tears coursing down her checks but her eyes were dry. They were also empty.

“Mrs. Fritz, you shouldn't be here,” West said. He spoke with authority cushioned with kindness.

I brushed past him and stood next to Fritzy. I looked into the bay. When the aircraft was towed in the day before, or whenever it arrived, it was just a simple plane. That's all that most would see, but I knew Fritzy saw something different. It was the place her husband of decades had died—had been killed. I put my arm around her.

“He was alone,” Fritzy said. “I was at home asleep when he died. He was here, by himself, no one to talk to, no one to hold his hand.”

“Mrs. Fritz,” West began. “It wouldn't matter—”

I cut him off with a wave of my hand. He was still thinking with facts, Fritzy had moved beyond that.

“Did you know that we still held hands? When we went shopping, or even when we were just walking down the street, he'd reach for my hand.”

The tears were building. I wanted to do the stupid thing and say, “There, there, it's all right,” but I caught myself. I knew better.

She continued. “Jim used to say that when a couple stopped holding hands there was trouble brewing.”

I gave her shoulder a squeeze. “He was a wise man, that husband of yours.”

“I wish I could have been here for him. I know it wouldn't have made any difference, but I still wish it. I wish it with all my heart. This hurts so much.” A sob escaped.

I bit my lip.

“I know,” I whispered. The whisper was unintentional. I wanted to sound strong, to show that life continues on after tragedy. I wanted her to see me, Madison Glenn, mayor of Santa Rita, widowed by violence but still a whole, strong, resolute person. What a sham. I was a papier-mâché battleship pretending to sail the high seas. At the moment I was nothing more than a paper cup in a hurricane.

She looked at me. There was understanding in her eyes. She unclasped her hands and put an arm around my waist. Together we stared at the Cessna, the open engine that had been the last thing Jim had touched, and the cockpit where his body had been found. Fritzy made no attempt to cross the flimsy barricade. She was close enough.