The Pied Piper of Death (9 page)

Rocco and Lyon left the milling scene and walked up a winding path that meandered through the grounds toward the main house. Imitation gas lamps were placed periodically along the walk and cast a defused glow across the path.

“What are you going to do about jurisdiction on this case?” Lyon asked his friend. “Are you going to let the state police handle it?”

“Norby's panting for it. He loves a homicide with what he thinks is going to be a fast closure. He really gets off on ‘cases closed' statistics.”

“As a town, rather than incorporated city, Murphysville has the option of turning a complicated criminal matter over to the state police and stepping aside,” Lyon said.

“And if I let the state have the case, what do you think Norbert would do?”

“I think he'd arrest Loyce Swan before your car reached the end of the lane. Not only is he convinced that she's guilty, but he knows that the newspapers will have a field day with the story. The circumstantial evidence against her is strong.”

“The chances are she probably knocked him off,” Rocco said.

Lyon stopped in the center of the path and looked back at the cottage a moment before speaking. “I don't think she did, Rocco.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Lyon. Husbands and wives do frequently kill each other. It's part of that ‘until death do us part' thing. Find me an alibi, another suspect, or even a hint of a different scenario. Give me
something
to battle Norbert with,” the chief concluded in near exasperation.

“I have a strong gut feeling.”

“You won't believe what Norbert is going to say to that one. Jurisdiction or not, he'll go to the state attorney general for a warrant.”

“I can imagine, but I still don't believe Loyce killed her husband.”

“Intuition?”

“Something like that,” Lyon answered.

Lyon's intuitive, “something like that” gut feeling had once saved Rocco's life. The large police chief looked obliquely at his friend a moment as the former Ranger captain recalled a humid day years ago in a country far away. He remembered a young intelligence officer predicting an enemy assault without the benefit of hard evidence. His estimate then, as now, was based on a subconscious assimilation of evidence and personalities and could not be articulated. It had worked then and saved lives, and later the same feelings had worked in another murder case. “I'll go along with you,” Rocco said.

They were startled by a pistol shot. Rocco reacted first, crouching and drawing his revolver in one fluid movement.

“It's from down there,” Rocco pointed toward the gatekeeper's cottage.

A voice shattered the night. “Get the bitch!” was the command shouted by Captain Norbert. “She'll try for the wall. Stop her!”

Rocco holstered his pistol. “Oh my God, what in the hell is he doing now?” He began to trot down the path toward the cottage.

Lyon heard the shouts of men as they searched the grounds. In the distance toward the wall he saw the bob of lights as men with flashlights searched the brush.

He saw her running up the lawn toward him. She ran with an athletic grace, both arms pumping, but her breath was coming in gasps. She didn't see him until nearly the last moment.

She looked up, but it was too late and they collided. His arms went around her to keep her from falling.

“He's … he's going to arrest me.… He's going to arrest me for murder if he doesn't kill me first,” Loyce said as she buried her head in Lyon's shoulder.

Captain Norbert, followed by his two corporals, strode toward them. The bantam state police officer nodded to the trooper on his right, who immediately snapped handcuffs on Loyce's wrist.

“She's my collar,” Rocco said. “Unlock her.”

“You taking her in?” the state police officer demanded.

“She's going into protective custody with the Wentworths until the grand jury sits.”

“No way, big man,” Norbert snapped. “She ran from state police custody so she takes a fall on a fugitive and resisting arrest charge. First thing tomorrow, the state's attorney gets the case for a murder one warrant.”

“You can't do that, Norby,” Rocco said.

“Watch me,” Norbert answered. “And I can. You know it's legal.”

F
IVE

The intertwined young people looked frightened until Paula recognized the intruders. “Oh, my God!” she said to her companion. “It's Daddy's baby-sitters.”

Chuck rolled over and stuck his head under a pillow. “I knew your father was protective,” he said. “But if these guys shoot me I'm going to be pissed.”

“I think we have a problem,” Paula said to the security guards as she pulled a sheet over her exposed body.

Barry smirked. “You sure do, kiddo. I recognize your playmate as one of them agitators. Your dad wouldn't care if we lean on him a little.”

“You broke into my room,” Paula retorted.

“We thought someone had busted in,” Harry stuttered.

Paula shook her head. “Obviously he was invited.”

Harry looked at Barry with appreciation. He recognized a survivor when he saw one, and he certainly needed one now. “You got any ideas?”

“I think the little lady's in deep trouble,” Barry said.

“You have got to be kidding,” Paula said.

The security guard ignored her. “I don't think this little eighteen-year-old girl wants Daddy to know she's entertaining guys in her bedroom, much less scumbags who just came from protesting the Terrible Tommy. I think Daddy would take that bad. Real bad.”

“Oh, so that's the way it's going to be,” the young woman said.

“I say we keep it quiet, Harry,” the second security guard said. “We keep our mouths shut and she says nothing.”

Harry nodded. “You got a point.”

Paula sighed. “Bastards.”

Lyon once saw Rocco hit a brigadier general prior to an infantry attack. The general's order had been dangerous and ill thought-out: He'd used rank as an excuse and refused to listen to any argument for cancellation. Rocco's protests had been ignored and the possibility of his company's complete destruction had forced the young officer to confront the general officer. The blow had been delivered, the attack had been canceled, and ultimately the event became one of those military events that were ordered never to have occurred.

Rocco's feelings were building into that same mood tonight, although this time they were directed at Peyton Piper. Peyton's actions would have appeared innocuous enough if it hadn't been for his remarks to departing guests. Both men stood on the stoop before Bridgeway's large door as the few remaining guests departed. Peyton kissed, shook hands, or otherwise personally acknowledged each departing couple. Before they were escorted to their cars, Rocco required personal identification and made notes of their home and business addresses.

It was Peyton's remarks that lit the fuse of the police chief's temper. The factory owner's stage whispers concerning bureaucrats and small-town police enraged Rocco. Markham Swan's death was relegated to something between a tragic accident and a domestic squabble. The rush to disassociate anyone at Bridgeway or the Piper Corporation from the incident had already begun. By morning, the pressure on the media to follow this line would be immense.

Lyon knew that Peyton's annoyance with Rocco was exacerbated because Congressman Candlin had decided that he could make no political answer concerning the senate nomination until an indictment was handed down in the killing and the publicity had died down.

Captain Norbert was oblivious to any political nuances that did not affect his crime closure statistics. He was unconcerned with the identity of guests, ignorant of political problems, and jubilant over a possible indictment of Loyce Swan. After her recapture he had gallantly escorted her to his cruiser for the short trip to the barracks.

The last guest's departure signaled an orgy of cleanup. A hoard of uniformed waiters along with other catering personnel descended for their attack on the party's detritus. Lyon, Peyton, and Rocco stood by the living room door watching the frenzied activity.

“How well did you know the deceased?” Rocco asked their host.

Peyton shrugged. He seemed suddenly tired and his mantle of social exuberance appeared to have fled. “Not well enough in the beginning and far too well in the end,” he replied. “I knew the guy was a swordsman in college, but most men outgrow that type of thing. Naturally I had reviewed his professional qualifications, which seemed adequate. I never dreamed that he had personal problems that would intrude here at Bridgeway.”

“You sound as if hiring him was a mistake?” Rocco prompted.

“It was,” Peyton replied. “The man turned out to be a lecher who took complete advantage of my hospitality and employement.”

“Be more specific,” Rocco said. His questions gradually hardened as his tone firmed.

“He annoyed my wife and probably my daughter. There have also been several complaints from female employees. The man was incorrigible in that arena.”

“The sexual arena?”

“That is precisely what I mean.”

“And yet you had him living on the estate?” Rocco pressed.

“I invited him to live in the cottage on a temporary basis. It seemed logical at the time since that house was vacant and his primary research materials were here. It seemed convenient and practical. That was before I knew of his reputation.”

“Exactly what happened?” Rocco pressed.

“He made a pass at my wife, isn't that enough?”

“And then?”

“I intended to fire him tomorrow morning and have him escorted off the estate by security personnel.”

“But you never had a chance to do that?”

“It would seem that someone else beat me to it. I understand from Captain Norbert that the wife was the culprit. Not that I blame her.”

“Where were you during the murder?” Rocco asked.

“I was in the library with Senator Wentworth and Congressman Candlin,” Peyton replied. “Isn't that right, Bea?”

Bea came out of the library to join them during Peyton's last remark. “Most of the time. There were a few minutes about the time of the murder when you and Roger Candlin were outside the house.”

“Yes, of course,” Peyton said. “We did leave for a few minutes to get some fresh air. But I was with Roger during our short walk.”

“Bullshit!” a voice yelled from the balcony.

They all looked up at Chuck Fraxer standing with Paula on the balcony outside her bedroom.

Peyton pointed an angry finger at them. “How in the hell did he get in here?”

“While I was breaking into this dump I saw you down by the gate cottage,” Chuck Fraxer yelled down to them. “Alone.”

“I was by myself for only a few moments until Roger came back,” Peyton said.

“Exactly where did Roger Candlin go when he left you?” Rocco asked.

“Good God, Rocco. I don't know. You don't ask a U.S. congressman about his bowels.” As Barry Nevins appeared on the balcony near Chuck Fraxer, Peyton pointed a finger at the security guard. “Arrest that man for trespassing!” he yelled. “I want him prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

“For what, Daddy?” Paula asked. “I invited him in.”

Peyton flushed and for a moment seemed about to yell at his daughter, but regained control before he spoke. “Then escort that man out of here,” Peyton commanded. “Get him off Bridgeway property. Now!”

“I'm going with him, Daddy. If your goons so much as touch a hair on Chuck's head I will run away,” Paula said.

Once again Peyton seemed about to respond, but merely turned away. “Let her go as far as the gates,” Peyton told the two guards. “Then throw that idiot off the premises.”

“How about a tour of the place, Mr. Piper?” Rocco asked. He looked down at his small notebook. “I would like to speak with several people.”

“You don't seem as convinced as Captain Norbert that Loyce Swan killed her husband,” Peyton said.

Rocco shrugged. “You never can tell. Things often turn out differently than you expect.”

“Is this absolutely necessary?”

“It is,” Rocco responded in a tone that did not brook further comment.

“I'd like to go with you two,” Bea said. Peyton recovered a vestige of his social tools and offered her his arm.

Lyon waited until the others left and he was alone in the living room. The last vacuum cleaner had been turned off and trundled away. The caterers were loading the remainder of their equipment into a van parked at the kitchen entrance.

Peyton had taken Rocco and Bea to the far wing of the house. He walked into the kitchen, where a single light over the restaurant-size stove cast a cold light across the shadowed room. Racks of pots and other utensils hung gleaming from ceiling racks, their shining surfaces reflecting shards of light off the stainless steel refrigerator doors and other bright surfaces. Even the thick chopping blocks in the center of the room had oiled tops that sparkled cleanliness. The quiet was a strange juxtaposition to the frantic activity the room had exhibited earlier.

“Roll me over in the clover, turn me over, and do it again,” two drunken voices sang.

Lyon distinguished an off-key baritone and a slurred soprano.

The baritone took the lead. “Oh, this is number two and I've got her by the shoe.”

“Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again,” the feminine voice answered.

Some of the hired help were draining the whiskey glasses, was Lyon's thought.

“This is number eight and I have her by the gate,” the duet continued.

“What the hell,” Lyon wondered aloud as he searched for the voices.

“Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again,” the female voice added again.

He found them in the butler's pantry. Katherine Piper sat at a table which was ordinarily used for polishing silverware. She had a nearly full pint bottle of Absolut vodka in front of her, which she poured into a water tumbler half-filled with orange juice.