Loose Ends (21 page)

But it made perfect sense.

“Are you going to help me down?” he asked.

Mary looked at the stiffened and discolored body; it had already started to decompose. At that moment she was glad she was no longer a police officer. “I can’t, Mike,” she said, “I can’t disturb the scene of the crime. But I will report it, so you can have a proper funeral.”

“I didn’t do it,” he insisted. “I didn’t commit suicide.”

“I know that Mike,” she said, “I know that you were set up.”

“I didn’t kill that little girl,” he said, crying. “I could never kill little girls. I have a little girl of my own.”

“I know Mike,” she said, “You didn’t do this, but we will find the person who did.”

She could see that his emotional state was unstable and she hesitated to interview anyone in this condition, but if he could just tell her who he spoke to that night, she might be able to put all of the pieces together.

“Mike,” she said softly. “I just came from seeing the Ryersons. You remember the Ryersons, don’t you?”

Mike sniffled. “Yes, I do,” he said, “Susan is one of the loveliest people I have ever met.”

“Yes, she is,” Mary agreed. “And she really cares about you. Mike, I want you to know that she told me about your secret, so you don’t have to be...”

“What! She told you! How could she?!?!” he screamed. “I trusted her! I trusted her!! Oh, god. My family! My parents!”

He ran around the area, his hands on his head.

“No, no, no, no!” he screamed and then disappeared.

Hank Montague entered Bradley’s office without knocking. Bradley looked up from his computer, surprised. “What can I...”

“I just got a call from Mike Strong’s wife, Wendy,” he said, “Something’s wrong. We need to get to their house immediately.”

Bradley’s initial reaction was relief. He had been trying to figure out how to work on a murder with no body and he was getting nowhere. “Did she mention what was wrong?” he asked, trying to act normal.

“No, but she sounded upset,” Hank said, “We’ll take my truck so we don’t draw any undue attention to the situation. Mike wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Bradley grabbed his phone, his revolver, his handcuffs and his jacket and followed the Mayor out of his office. “Dorothy, the Mayor and I have a meeting,” he said, “I’m not sure how long I’m going to be gone. You can reach me by phone.”

Dorothy nodded and resumed her typing.

They used the back door of City Hall and climbed into Hank’s pick-up. Bradley was a little surprised when Hank exited on to the highway rather than driving through town. “Where does Mike live?” he asked.

“Well, Wendy asked us to meet her out of town,” Hank replied smoothly. “More privacy.”

Bradley felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. There was something wrong with this situation. “How long have you known Mike?” Bradley asked, conversationally.

Hank shrugged and accelerated past a dairy truck. “For about 30 years now,” he said, “We worked together several years ago.”

“On Ryerson’s campaign, right?”

Hank turned his head and a smile slowly crept over his face. “You are a bright young man, aren’t you?” he said, “Yes, Mike and I worked together.”

“When was the last time you saw Mike,” Bradley asked.

“Oh, I believe it was the other night,” he said, stroking his fingers thoughtfully across his chin. “Yes, I believe it was Sunday night. Mike was supposed to meet me later in the evening. But he never showed up. I wonder what delayed him?”

“Did you call to find out?” Bradley asked.

Hank shook his head. “No, it was a favor I needed,” he said, “And I really didn’t want to push him.”

Hank increased the truck’s speed.

“You’re going pretty fast,” Bradley commented, watching the speedometer reach 75 miles per hour. “This road really wasn’t meant to handle that kind of speed.”

Hank shrugged. “Speed might discourage you from doing something stupid while I’m driving.”

“And why would I want to do that?” Bradley asked.

“Because we both know you are not as incompetent as I had hoped when I hired you,” he said. “Pity.”

Bradley angled himself so his back was against the door. “Why would anyone want an incompetent Police Chief?”

Hank laughed. “It’s so much easier to get away...,” he paused and then turned and smiled at Bradley, “with murder.”

Hank jerked the steering wheel and the truck swerved. Instinctively Bradley reached over to straighten the wheel. Hank grabbed Bradley’s arm. Bradley pulled back, but not before he felt the slight piercing in his forearm. “What the hell?” he shouted.

Hank’s smile grew. “Don’t worry, Chief,” he said, “It won’t kill you; it will just make you a little groggy. The killing part comes later.”

Bradley felt his body react to the drug immediately. He slumped back against the seat. He concentrated on trying to stay awake.

“You probably didn’t notice my ring,” Hank said, “I had it specially made. It carries just enough drugs on the hidden tip to put an adult to sleep. It’s really my favorite toy.”

“You killed them...all those girls,” Bradley said, his speech slurring.

“Why yes, I did,” Hank agreed pleasantly. “But they were all willing to die. They wanted me, you see.”

“So, you’re not only a bastard...you’re a sick bastard,” Bradley said.

“Oh, no, I’m a highly intelligent person,” he said, “Genius level, actually. That’s why I have the right to use those of lesser intelligence for my pleasure.”

“No one has that right,” Bradley murmured.

Hank shook his head. “Oh, Chief, don’t be naive,” he said, “Cats are smarter than mice; coyotes smarter than rabbits; humans, for the most part, smarter than cows – kill or be killed. That’s the way of the world.”

“Preying on those...weaker...is not the way of the world,” Bradley said, fighting the darkness that was enveloping him. “It’s...it’s just your...damn excuse to justify what you do.”

“Such an idealist. It’s too bad you won’t be around to see what I have in mind for our Miss O’Reilly. You might have enjoyed it - I’ve seen the way you watch her,” he said, “Such a lovely thing. She wants me too.”

“No,” Bradley groaned, he tried to lunge toward Hank but he couldn’t move his body.

Bradley’s phone rang in his shirt pocket. Hank pulled to the side of the road and retrieved it. “Well, well, our Miss O’Reilly is looking for you,” he said, “What do you think she wants?”

Hank sat back and stroked his fingers across his chin again. “If she can’t get you, she’ll call Dorothy,” he reasoned. “Dorothy will tell her that you left with me. Thank you for giving her that bit of information, Chief.

“And, if I know our over-achieving private investigator, she’ll come looking for you,” he said, “Perhaps we ought to help her find us.”

Hank looked over his shoulder and did a quick U-turn and headed back to Freeport.

Why wasn’t Bradley answering his phone?

Mary tried for the fourth time as she took the exit ramp into Freeport. “Damn it, Bradley, pick up.”

Finally she called the non-emergency number. “Dorothy,” she said, “This is Mary O’Reilly; do you know where Chief Alden is? I really need to get in touch with him.”

Mary hung up her phone with growing trepidation. Dorothy’s information that Bradley was with Hank did nothing to reassure her. Everything pointed to Hank Montague. Everything but solid evidence. She needed to find something to link Hank with the murders. Then she could call in the rest of the police force and find Bradley.

Mary pulled into a parking lot and flipped through the file she had brought to the Ryersons. Halfway through she found what she’d been looking for; the lists of names and addresses. She scanned the list; Hank Montague lived on Greenfield Rd, only a few minutes away.

She drove to the address and parked up the street between several others car, hoping that her unique car wouldn’t be immediately noticeable.

Jogging down the street, she looked around her, relieved to see that this neighborhood sat mostly empty during the day. She sprinted down Hank’s driveway and followed the narrow sidewalk into his backyard.

The house was a split-level with patio doors at the ground level. The doors were partially concealed under a second level deck. Mary looked around for an appropriate tool and found a heavy stone near the border of the garden.

Picking up the stone she walked to the door, and when she confirmed that it was locked, she hefted the stone in her hand and smashed through one of the panels closest to the knob. She knocked the excess shards onto the ground and reached in and opened the door.

The lower level hadn’t been finished. The walls were slate gray concrete and the floor, faded pink linoleum. Enough sunshine spilled in through the doors and the scattered basement windows that she didn’t need to turn on the lights.

Her steps echoed in the room and she shivered.
This place feels creepy
, she thought. She looked around. There were several closed doors that she assumed lead to the mechanics of the house and storage areas, but the rest of the room was empty. She headed towards the stairs in the far corner.

“He doesn’t like it down here.”

Mary gasped and spun around.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the woman said.

Mary had never been good at guessing ages, but she figured this woman had been about the age of her mother. She was dressed in what her mom had called a housedress, had rollers in her hair and slippers on her feet.
What cruel act of fate had resigned her to spend the eternities dressed like that
? she wondered.

“Why doesn’t he like it down here?” she asked.

The woman smiled slyly. “Because I’m down here,” she said, “And he doesn’t like it. He killed me, you know.”

Mary shook her head. “No, I didn’t know,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

The woman shrugged. “Well, if anyone was to blame, it was me,” she said easily. “He is my son after all.”

“Is he trying to kill you?” she asked, with the same calm voice as one would use when asking about your choice for dessert.

“I think he might want to kill me,” Mary revealed. “I know that he’s killed quite a few people and I would really like to stop him.”

His mother nodded and folded her hands across her chest. “Yes, he’s brought quite a few of them here to be killed,” she said, “He is a disappointment to me.

“He reminds me quite a bit of his father,” she confided. “Confidentially, I think he was nuts.”

Mary could just imagine. She glanced around the room again.

“Can you show me where he might keep some things that I can use for evidence?” she asked.

“Are you an investigator?” the woman asked with delight.

Mary nodded.

“I love Perry Mason,” the woman said, “You must be very smart.”

Mary sighed. She really didn’t have the time to coddle a chatty ghost, but if she could get her to help, she could possibly lead her quickly to some important evidence.

“Well, just like Perry, I often have to rely on helpful assistants,” she said, “I would love for you to help me.”

The woman preened. “Yes, I can be very helpful,” she agreed. “Follow me. I’ll show you where he keeps his treasures.”

They walked up the stairs and entered the main living area. An office, bathroom and bedroom lay to the left and the living room and kitchen were on the right. “This way,” his mother said, “He keeps things in his office.”

The office was meticulously neat. The books on the shelves, Mary noted, were in alphabetical order. “He’s a bit of a fanatic about order,” his mother commented.

Mary moved behind the desk and tried to open the drawers. “Locked,” she sighed.

“Oh, the key is in the file cabinet,” his mother offered.

Mary searched the cabinet and found the key. She unlocked the desk and opened the top drawer. Inside she found a brown vial. She pulled it out. “That’s his poison,” his mother said, “That’s what he uses to drug his victims.”

Mary put the vial on the top of the desk and continued to search. She pulled out a collection of odds and end, including a pair of Strawberry Shortcake ribbons. Jessica had been wearing them the day she died.

“Those are his trophies,” his mother said, leaning over the desk. “He has one of my curlers in there.”

Suddenly, his mother straightened. “I hear his truck,” she said, “He’s home. Run!”

Mary heard the garage door open and knew it was too late. She looked at the vial. “Does he always drug his victims?” she asked.

Nodding, his mother sighed, “I think he likes to make his victims helpless.”

Mary grabbed the vial and ran to the bathroom down the hall. She dumped the contents into the toilet, quickly rinsed the vial several times before filling it with water. She wiped it down, closed it and put it back in the drawer.

“He has more of it,” his mother said, “In the closet.”

“Well, let’s hope that he is as compulsive as he appears,” Mary said.

Mary locked the desk, put the key back in the file cabinet and hurried out of the room and back down the basement stairs.

“I wish I could help you, my dear,” his mother said, “But he can see me when I’m here and he always says nasty things to me.”

She disappeared into the shadows of the room. Mary turned and ran back to the patio doors. Just as she grasped the handle, she heard a gun being cocked behind her. She froze at the sound.

“Leaving so soon?” Hank asked. “I’m sure that Chief Alden and I will be sad to see you go.”

Mary let go of the handle and turned back to Hank. “What have you done to Bradley?”

“Bradley, is it?” Hank laughed. “You fancy yourself attracted to him? He’s still pining over his dead wife. You haven’t got a chance with him. But, you have a chance with me.”

He moved closer and skimmed his hand across her lips, along her jaw and rested on her neck. She shivered with revulsion. “You’re trembling because you want me,” he whispered, slowly licking his lips.

“Like I want a kick in the head,” she replied.