Punish the Deed (8 page)

Fifteen

Lucinda opened the front door of her apartment and heard the pounding of cat paws galloping through the kitchen in her direction. Chester meowed and rubbed against her shins. She crouched down to greet her gray tabby, scratching the spot that he loved so well on the back of his neck. When it felt too good to keep standing, Chester plopped on the floor and rolled on his back, displaying the white belly that now needed attention. Lucinda stroked on it while he stretched and purred out his appreciation.

Lucinda stood and Chester dashed over to his food dish and gazed up at her with avid expectation. Lucinda reached into a cabinet and pulled out a tin of tuna feast. Chester performed figure eights as he waited for her to open the can. His manic movements brought on an unsettling surge of vertigo. She’d learned the hard way to hold perfectly still and not look down when Chester –performed these gyrations. If she moved, the vertigo took hold. When she first lost her eye, the dizziness was so intense it drove her down to her knees. Now it was merely unsettling, but still she tried to avoid the sickening sensation whenever she could.

She breathed in deeply and it passed. It stirred up her feelings of gratitude for the monocular vision therapy she’d received. Without it, her recovery from a moment of physical disorientation would not be as automatic or as complete. She bent down and plopped two spoonfuls in her cat’s dish.

“Good grief, Chester, you act like you’re starving. You still have half a bowl of dried food. If you were really that hungry, you would have eaten that all up.”

She laughed at the half-growl, half-purr noise that rose from his throat while he chewed. She walked down the hall to her bedroom shaking her head. After slipping on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, she came out to the living room where the answering machine blinked at her.

She played back her messages. There was a reminder of her pre-op visit for the scheduled plastic surgery for her lip reconstruction, a whiny message from her sister chastising her for not calling, and a lot of other stuff she really didn’t care about. But there was one that mattered – it was from Charley, the nine-year-old girl whose life she’d barely managed to save the year before during an investigation into the death of the child’s mother. The bond that grew between them took Lucinda by surprise. She didn’t think she’d ever develop deep feelings for someone else’s daughter but she sincerely loved that little girl.

“Hi, Lucy. This is Charley. I just wanted to say hi! I miss you. Call me soon, please. Just to talk. I love you.”

It was too late now to return the call but Lucinda made a note to remind herself to do so. She poured a glass of one of her new favorites, an Australian red blended wine from Peace Vineyards. She stretched out in her recliner and sipped on it while she reviewed the case in her head. She had eliminated more suspects than she still had on her list to interview. That worried her but she reminded herself that scratching people off the list of possibilities was progress. She’d talk to the five remaining tomorrow and maybe Ted would get more names from the Communities in Schools staff he visited. And maybe she’d get a hit back from the national crime database. Maybe.

Lucinda had a bad feeling about this case. The usual suspects were all eliminated. The second tier of less likely prospects was under review but none held clear promise.

The crime scene felt like a repeat offender. The post-mortem broken fingers seemed like a signature. Had she already spoken to this sociopathic killer and not seen behind his mask? Was it someone who hadn’t and wouldn’t cross her radar? Was she going to let someone get away with murder? With a brutal, savage murder? “No,” she said out loud. “Absolutely not.”

She was tired and sleep came easy. But it didn’t stay with her long. At four o’clock, she was up again, getting dressed to return to the front line.

When she got into the office, she found two hits from the crime database – a pair of unsolved cases in the region where the weapon in the beating deaths appeared to be a baseball bat or something similar. But that was where the similarity ended. Both victims were men. One was homeless. The other lived out in the boonies in a sagging farmhouse with no running water or central-heating system.

She checked for criminal records on her list of five potential suspects and nearly shouted out her excitement when she found that Mickey Justin had an extensive record with multiple counts of domestic violence and assault. Her excitement was short-lived, though. A further search led her to more pertinent information. Cops had arrested Justin on yet another assault charge two days before Fleming’s death. He was still in county lock-up, unable to make bail.
Damn!

She checked on where the remaining four lived and worked and mapped out a plan for talking to each one of them. She saved Timmy Seifert until last. She didn’t want to talk to him at work where, with his professional standing, he might feel in control. She’d save him until after school and approach him at his home. As she pulled out of the Justice Complex parking lot, a silver Honda slipped into the road behind her.

It was close to lunchtime when she finished up her fourth visit. She had learned nothing new – she was hoping that one of the parents would lead her to others that needed to be investigated. But no luck there. She moved all four of the people she interviewed to her mental “very unlikely” list.

She remembered that she needed to talk to Charley but that would have to wait until later – Charley would be at school now. She called the office of her surgeon, Dr. Rambo Burns, and cancelled the visit scheduled for that afternoon as well as the surgical procedure planned for Friday. She used the intensity and unknown duration of her current homicide investigation to put off their attempts to get her to reschedule.

She called Ted next and arranged a quick meet for a lunch-on-the-run where she could get the contact information for the two parents and a teacher that had come up in Ted’s interviews that morning. Lucinda was gratified to find out that another staff member had corroborated Melanie’s tale of Timmy Seifert’s aspirations and paranoia. After gobbling down a burger and fries, she was off again to talk to potential suspects. By the end of the school day, the only viable name remaining was Timmy Seifert.

On the drive over, she didn’t notice that halfway to her destination the silver Honda peeled off and was no longer following her. She parked on the street in front of a well-maintained Craftsman bungalow. The paint was fresh, the grass manicured, the shrubbery neatly trimmed, the flowerbeds mulched and free of weeds. She stepped on to a broad front porch complete with intricate wooden railings and four rocking chairs, sitting side by side, facing out to the front yard.

The woman who opened the solid wood door appeared to be close to sixty. Her light brown hair was streaked with gray and she had pronounced laugh lines beside her eyes and around her mouth.
Too old to be Seifert’s wife.

“May I help you?” the woman asked.

“I’m Lucinda Pierce, homicide,” she said as she flipped open her badge. “I’m looking for Timmy Seifert.”

“Why do you want Timmy?”

“Then I do have the right place?” Lucinda asked.

“Yes, he does live here in my house. I’m his mother,” she answered. “But what do you want with my Timmy?”

He still lives with his mother. That could explain his insecurity
. “There was a woman killed at the school district office building and we’re talking to a lot of school district employees.”

“He’s not in any trouble, then?”

“No, ma’am, I just want to ask him a few questions.”

An older face surrounded by a halo of bright white hair peered around the corner of the door. “Dora, make sure this is not a trick to get a false confession. You know, like on those shows we’ve seen on the television.” She turned her face to look straight at Lucinda. “I’m not just talking about those TV dramas, mind you. We’ve seen those shows about real cases, too. I know what you all are capable of. So don’t even think about pulling any fast ones, here.”

“Oh, Mother, look at her,” Dora said.

Oh, good grief. He lives with his mother
and
his grandmother?

“With a face like that,” Timmy’s mother said, “she couldn’t possibly tell a lie and get away with it.”

Lucinda rolled her eyes. She’d heard at lot of comments about her face over the years since the accident, but this was a first.

“You’re right, Dora. Where are our manners? Open the door and invite the poor woman inside.”

Dora lifted the latch that held the screen door shut and opened it. “So sorry, Lieutenant. Yes, please do come in. I’m Dora Seifert and this is my mother, Ruth Perchase. Come right this way.”

Lucinda started to follow Dora but was stopped when Ruth grabbed her arm. “Does it still hurt?” she asked as she peered at the scars.

“No, ma’am, not at all.”

“Those lips? They don’t hurt? They look awful painful.”

“No, ma’am, not at all,” Lucinda repeated calmly but inside she was screaming –
nothing is worse than pity
.

“Mother, please,” Ruth said. “Let the poor woman come in here and sit down.” She directed Lucinda to a wooden chair with an upholstered seat and back. “You wait right here; I’ll go get Timmy. He’s in the kitchen doing prep for dinner. He always does that when he first gets home. He says it calms him after a day at school surrounded by teenagers.”

For a moment, Lucinda and Ruth waited quietly. Then Ruth asked, “You’re not married, are you?”

“No, ma”am, I’m not.”

“I can sure see why.”

Lucinda bit her tongue and forced her facial features not to react.

“Now, our Timmy, he’s not married either. The woman who marries him will get to live right here,” she said to Lucinda with a wink.

“Grandma, cut that out,” said a male voice from the doorway.

Lucinda looked over in the direction of the sound and saw a lanky man with blonde flyaway hair wearing a red and white checked apron with a white ruffled edge tied around his waist. He walked into the room then stopped and his jaw dropped as he focused his gaze on Lucinda’s face.

Lucinda barely noticed. She was too busy ogling Timmy’s apron and wondering why he was surprised that anyone would question his sexual preference.

Dora came through the doorway and flicked a tea towel at her son’s arm. “Don’t stare, Timmy. It’s not polite.”

Timmy stammered, “Sorry,” then followed Lucinda’s gaze to the apron and his face reddened. He untied it as quickly as he could and tossed it on to an empty chair. “There,” he said, brushing his palms across one another. “Now, what can I do for you? Mother said you had some questions.”

Lucinda listened patiently as he ranted and raved about his discrimination at the hands of the Board of Directors. When she asked him about Shari Fleming, he prattled on and on about her sainthood here on earth and the lofty position she must now hold in heaven. Lucinda was so bored with his droning that she wished he would go back to staring rudely at her face.
Or maybe Grandma will jump in with an inappropriate question.
When Lucinda asked about anyone who might want to harm Shari Fleming, she heard instead a litany of all the people who loved her and why.

Finally, they got to the question about his whereabouts on the night of the murder. Timmy hardly said a word. His mother and grandmother raved on and on about the dinner he’d made that night. Then about the snacks he prepared for their bridge party and how he always kept the trays full of food and their glasses full of drink. Then they’d all watched the news and a half-hour of some talk show that they just had to tell her about in excruciating detail.

With relief, Lucinda finally rose to her feet and handed Timmy a business card.

“Oh, you’re not going to stay for dinner?” Dora asked.

“No. I can’t. But thank you very much.”

“Officer, you have to eat,” Ruth said. “Tell her, Timmy. Tell her to stay,” she said to her grandson, then turned back to Lucinda. “Timmy really wants you to stay. He’ll make something special.”