Time of Death (23 page)

“It looks like June Merrett really was in Kansas City at the time of her husband’s death,” Anita said. “She was at a dinner meeting with other attendees of the workshop on Saturday night. What we didn’t know was that the restaurant made some menu changes that weekend. Brand new menus were used starting Sunday. The old menus were collected and set aside after their last use. June’s fingerprint is on one of the old menus.”

“Couldn’t it have been left there on some other occasion?”

“The print was found on one of those plastic-coated inserts with the Chef’s Special. That particular insert was new, and was only in place in the menus last Friday and Saturday nights.”

“Good work, Anita. You stuck with it and it paid off.”

“Well, I owe a lot to a K.C. cop named Ziegler. He did the legwork. I just kept after him.”

“Schultz isn’t going to be happy about this,” PJ said. “I think he was hoping to pin all this on June.”

“Yeah, he already shit a brick. Of course that alibi only holds for Arlan’s murder. June’s still up for grabs on the other murders.”

Dave joined them and was brought up to speed. “Where does that leave us with the look-alike’s murder?” he asked. “June didn’t have to hire anybody to impersonate her.”

“You’ve been looking at it from the angle of faking alibis,” PJ said. “Suppose June had a lover or even a secret admirer. The admirer might kill Arlan in order to take his place in June’s heart and home. If June then rejected him, the admirer might lash out at a surrogate—poor Marilee, whose death was a way to vent anger without actually destroying the object of his love.”

Anita and Dave both stared at her for a moment, then spoke together: “Naaah.”

“Hey, why not? I spent a whole thirty seconds coming up with that idea. It could even be a lesbian admirer.”

“You’re heading off the deep end, Boss,” Anita said. “I’ve been wondering if we’re going around in circles on these suspects because we should be focusing on strangers instead, like that I-70 Killer case.”

“I haven’t ignored stranger killings,” PJ said. “I just can’t get anywhere with the idea.”

“So what have you got?”

PJ retrieved a rolled-up map of the city that was leaning against the wall and spread it across the desk.

“Arlan’s body was found here,” PJ pointed to a blue dot downtown on the riverfront. “But he was killed north of the city, here in St. Ann.” There was a blood red dot about fourteen miles northwest of downtown.

“Marilee Baines was killed in the Bevo area, five miles southwest of downtown. Frank was killed in the central west city on Lindell,” she said, pointing to a red dot about five miles west of downtown. “Loretta Blanchette and her neighbor Bernard Dewey were killed in Florissant, thirteen miles north of downtown.”

“I guess you’ve tried drawing all kinds of patterns,” Dave said.

“Yes. Too bad they don’t form a big arrow or something,” PJ said, referring to the area in which a killer operates—his home territory. PJ drew circles around the three city dots representing the homes of Marilee and Frank, and the riverfront where Arlan’s body was found. Then she drew a line between the two county sites. “So it’s two zones, one in the county, and one in the city. Residence and work, or the other way around.”

PJ was warming to the stranger idea. “The biggest problem is how the killer selected these victims. Three of them seem closely related. Arlan, Frank, and Marilee. But Loretta and her neighbor have nothing to do with the first three.”

“Nothing that we know of so far,” Anita said. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t connected in the mind of a single person.”

PJ nodded. “Agreed. Then consider the specifics of the deaths. Three heart killings, two mechanical shootings. Three men, two women. All of the victims are white. There’s been no evidence of rape.”

“No evidence to speak of at all,” Anita said. “How about the killer being a member of law enforcement who knows what to avoid?”

“I noticed that idea was being tossed around in the media this past weekend, along with various reports of severed body parts turning up.”

“We had to follow up on that body parts thing,” Dave said. “Turns out it was chicken bones wrapped in clay and dipped in taco sauce. Some kids started it as a joke and now it’s all over the city. An elderly woman had some in her mailbox and fainted. Somebody’s going to have a heart attack if it keeps up.”

“Did you find out who started it?”

“For once, we actually did. A kid ratted out his buddies on the original occurrence. But it’s spread like waistlines at Thanksgiving dinner. Calls are coming in by the dozens. We’re telling ’em that if the fingers smell like food, it’s probably nothing to worry about, but take them to the nearest station anyway.”

“The Case of the Missing Chicken Fingers,” PJ said. “Maybe we should hire Colonel Sanders.”

Anita guffawed, shattering the Tinkerbell-like illusion of her appearance. “Good one, Boss. But that idea of the killer being one of us is seriously creepy.”

“Does it have to be a stranger for this comfort zone idea to work?” Dave said, tapping on the circle drawn on the map. “Fredericka lives in that city zone.” He drew his finger along the line between St. Ann and Florissant. “And she also has an apartment she rented in the county zone for a future real estate project. That’s residence and work.”

“Can we bring her in for questioning?” PJ said. “I’d like to get her out of her home environment and turn up the heat.”

“Sure,” Dave said with a grin. “I’m sure she’ll come if I ask nicely.”

S
CHULTZ CHECKED IN WITH
the Florissant police on the murder of the teacher and her neighbor. There had been two developments in the case.

Bernard Dewey died in his living room, wearing a robe and slippers. He’d pulled a phone into his lap and was about to make a call, but died with that intent. A window was broken and the shooter took aim through the hole. It was a low window, and there was nothing about the trajectory that refined the height range of the shooter. No footprints were found, but a piece of broken glass on the ground had captured a few black fibers. They were identified as a Lycra blend in common use for bicycling jerseys and other sportswear. No blood, no torn skin fragments.

The second thing to come to light was that Loretta Blanchette volunteered with parolees in a day-release program, tutoring several of them to get their high school certificates. Once a teacher, always a teacher. Two of the parolees hadn’t reported in on the day of the murder, and were still missing. Interviews with other parolees confirmed that there had been some talk about how Miss B must have a lot of money because she dressed nice and drove a nice car. It wasn’t a big leap from there to the two ex-cons interrogating Miss B to get money that wasn’t there to give, getting disgusted that there was no treasure trove in the old lady’s house, and killing her. The neighbor was just collateral damage when he happened to see them, or maybe they’d invaded next door looking for money.

Schultz had a hard time connecting the ex-con story with the fiber evidence. Ex-cons prancing around in cycling outfits? Maybe, but no clothing had been reported stolen nearby. And even if they couldn’t find the stash of money they’d hoped for in Miss B’s house, they would have taken anything that could be converted to cash. A modest amount of gold jewelry was in plain sight in the bedroom, and a laptop computer sat on a table in the living room. Still, enough doubt was raised that he couldn’t put the killings firmly in the Metro Mangler column.

All that was percolating around in his mind as he drove to the Simmons home on Lindell. He wanted to have a conversation with the maid and see how big the stars were in her eyes about changing careers and becoming an interior designer. Or whether the stars were really dollar signs.

The marble columns and immense entrance doors gave Schultz the impression that the home was a fortress, not so much to repel enemies but to contain secrets.

The object of his interest opened the door. She was trim, early thirties, wearing black slacks and a plain white blouse. She was also wearing rubberized blue gloves that came nearly to her elbows and a jacket to protect her clothing. The jacket was damp in places, and she had cobwebs in her hair. Schultz displayed his badge and identified himself.

“Missus May is resting. She’s not seeing anyone today. You can contact her attorney, Jack Nordman. Do you need his phone number?”

“No reason to disturb Missus May. It’s you I’m here to see.” Schultz had already planted half his bulk over the threshold, so that even the heavy oak door would have trouble budging him.

She frowned and took a step backward, as most people would if Schultz moved into their personal space, and that was the opening he needed.

“Now then, where can we talk?” He plied her with a soothing smile.

“I am rather busy.” She held up her blue gloves.

“Only take a minute. Or we can talk downtown, if you’d prefer.”

“All right.” She stripped off the gloves and jacket and dropped them on the floor of the foyer. “Follow me.”

“Doing some heavy cleaning today?” he said, as she led him through hallways of gleaming tile.

“You might say that. I was working on the children’s playroom.”

“How are the kids doing?”

She stopped and turned around. “Do you have children, Detective Schultz?”

Schultz blinked. He had a son whose face was beginning to fade from memory, permanently overwritten by an image of a gruesome death. And he also had Thomas.

“One son.”

She nodded crisply. “Then you know what it’s like to be a parent. I could count on one hand the number of hours Missus May has spent with her children since their father died. I think the only time she was really there for them was when she was birthing them. And even for that, she was knocked out.”

“So you don’t approve.”

“I had a daughter. She would have been fourteen. Leukemia. It was us against the world. Her father was killed in Desert Storm, and we have no living relatives.”

“I’m sorry.”

She gave him a brittle smile. “It’s just that some people don’t value what they have. Or I should say they value the wrong things.”

By now they’d reached a small kitchen. Mary Beth offered him bottled water and took one herself. He accepted more out of courtesy than thirst.

“Let’s talk about Frank and May,” he said. “Did you think they had a solid marriage?”

She hesitated. “On Frank’s part, I’d say yes. May’s an opportunist. If she had an affair, there would have to be some advantage to it, some leverage she could get. But there was no other man as far as I know.”

He noticed that it hadn’t taken her long to drop the “Missus May” routine. A lack of respect had certainly taken root.

“At the time of Frank’s death, you were in the house, correct?”

“That’s in my statement, Detective. What is it that you really came here to ask?”

So much for my subtle approach.

“Did you let anyone into the house that day?”

“No.”

“Or turn off the alarm system so that someone could get in unnoticed?”

“No. I was here when Frank was shot.” She pointed to the counter where they were sitting. “I’d had a couple beers and gotten drowsy. I was up late the night before, reading a new design book. I put my head down for a bit, and the next thing I knew, there were cops in the house.”

He studied her face. There was defensiveness in it, especially in her eyes and the furrows in her forehead, but no deceit.

“So tell me about this design business of yours,” he said.

“It’s something I’ve wanted to do since I was a girl. It started out as a kind of escape, I guess. My mom and dad fought a lot, and sometimes he hit her when he was drunk. I’d go in my room and lock the door. She told me to do that, just in case he decided he needed another punching bag.”

She sat in silence for a minute, and he let her replay her memories. “I got a dollhouse for my sixth birthday. Pink and white and full of little chairs and tables. There was even a bathtub. I’d block out the noise outside my room and just move those little pieces of furniture around. Kept me sane, I think. So in a weird way I want to be an interior designer in honor of my mother. I’ve got some savings, and I’ve already taken some courses toward my degree.”

Schultz had seen people motivated by stranger things before. He may not be able to wrap his brain around the motivation, but he intuitively knew that Mary Beth wouldn’t do anything to taint her dream, like take blood money to betray her employer.

There was nothing here for him. He chatted awhile with her, shook her hand, and wished her well with her business.

Out in his car, he phoned PJ. He listened to the speculation concerning Fredericka, and learned that Dave was bringing her in within the hour for questioning.

One door closes, another opens.

P
J SAT NERVOUSLY IN
the waiting room belonging to the principal of Jamison Academy. There was something about waiting to see the principal that brought back her own childish indiscretions. She found herself watching the clock, waiting for the bell to ring in the hopes that Kevin Archibald, the principal, would be tied up until school was over.

She’d gotten the summons while waiting to interview Fredericka Chase.
Mr. Archibald would like to see you immediately concerning your son.
Not words that a mother wanted to hear, least of all when the mother had several homicides hanging over her head. She’d dropped what she was doing and taken a cab, wondering why the principal wouldn’t give her an explanation on the phone.

His office door opened. “Come in, Dr. Gray,” he said.

Trying to remember that she was the parent and not the student being summoned into the inner sanctum, she followed the voice and was ushered into an office designed to impress. Wood paneling, a desk that went on forever, tasteful groupings of chairs, the deep tones of the Oriental rug, heavy brass lamps with green glass shades, the only touch of modernity a twenty-one-inch flat panel monitor so thin it looked like it could be rolled up as a window shade.

Mr. Archibald, whom she had only spoken to on the phone up until now, took a seat in a massive leather chair behind the desk, and waved her into a smaller version that faced him.