Exit Wounds, page 2
I give him a look: No, don’t do it, buddy.
In a half a second Whitcomb spins around and is right in the guy’s face. “You’re talking to me why?” And what’s really chilling is the calm tone. It would be less scary if he was shouting.
Neither of them moves for a brief moment, then the guy says, “I’m just saying.”
Whitcomb does not respond but I can sense his whole body tense. Vibrating, like a machine at high rpms. The worker probably outweighs Stan by twenty-five pounds but I know in my heart Stan would put him down, TKO, if not a real knockout, in minutes.
The worker walks on, not bothering to try to save face. Sometimes you just give up.
Whitcomb turns back, and, like I expected, he’s looking at me as if the encounter was my fault.
“Stan, look—”
“Oh, I’ll be looking. I’ll be looking for you, Little Hank. It’s my new hobby.”
He turns and strides toward the door, tossing a crumpled bill on the bar before stepping through outside into the cool April evening.
With a shaking hand I finish my soda.
I gesture to Larry, who’s missed the whole thing, it seems. I nod toward the door. He says a word of goodbye, I assume, to the two girls at the pool table. They ignore him even more than a moment ago, if there are degrees of ignoring.
We leave the Eagle and walk into the parking lot. The asphalt is still speckled with sand from last winter’s muscular snows and glass from the occasional break-in. Our footsteps are gritty and harsh. I look around for Whitcomb. No, he’s gone. Then I glance toward Larry, to try again to catch a clue as to whether or not he noted the bully. But I think not; it looks like he’s into his own thoughts. He can be moody. I wonder sometimes if he’s this way because all day long he investigates accidents – houses burning, people dying in car crashes, and, oh, yeah, garages squashed during tornadoes. Though it’s also possible he’s always been moody and he went into claims adjustment so he can spend his working hours outside, away from co-workers. Nature/nurture.
We’re different, Larry and me, but his company is easy. We go out for dinner a couple times a week, watch games – baseball more than football, soccer some. We’ve double-dated, though he’s never brought the same girl twice; they’re always pretty and quiet and strike me as insecure. We both like working for ourselves. And we’re both later-in-life orphans. His parents had health problems, unrelated, but they passed away around the same time. Mine? One I lost to drinking. The other to being with a drunk – a missed centerline and an oncoming tractor trailer.
Larry’s been a good guy to know. He doesn’t hesitate to do you solids. I’ll call him up and ask to borrow his car or to look for a dropped Fitbit near a bike trail when I’m stuck on Skype. And I pick up his mail and feed his goldfish when he’s out of town on a claim investigation; I’m his designated driver when he decides to have more than one or two.
We climb into our respective vehicles and caravan to the Heron Inn, one of the fancier places in town. Sarah’s a part-time hostess here. She’s pretty in a librarian sort of way. I mean, a librarian from old-time movies, black-and-white ones like my father used to watch hour after hour after hour, Mom being upstairs. She dresses conservative – high collars and longer skirts – and her hair is often held in place with pins. Glass, though they’re a rather unlibrarian red or blue. She’s tall – three inches over me – and voluptuous, and her hours at the gym are evident in her sculpted arms, thighs and tummy.
Larry and I park and walk inside and see Sarah at the hostess podium. Her eyes light up, and I’m sure mine do too.
“Hey, honey,” she says.
I wink – I’m a winking kind of guy – and kiss her on the cheek. Larry shakes her hand. It’s a funny, broad gesture, forearm pumping up and down, as if they’ve just concluded a business deal. His awkwardness rises once more, as he scans her long black skirt, white blouse and pearl necklace, then looks away.
Bashful …
Sarah Preston is blonde, slim and twenty-nine. Her passion is painting, sticking mostly to large-format acrylic abstracts. We met at a gallery in a redeveloped part of Mammoth Falls – the old warehouse district, which is less gentrified than artsy-fied (my word). I’m no connoisseur but I enjoy the creative arts and it’s fun to go to the galleries on Saturdays or Sundays and see what I can see. She and several other artists were having a show at the Fromer Gallery, one of my favorites, and I noticed her standing by herself, trying not to be embarrassed that nobody was looking at her work. I liked what I saw – the paintings and the painter. I complimented her work, saying that several reminded me of Willem de Kooning’s, which they did. That delighted her. I stayed until the show was over and the gallery was closing. I said to myself, go for it, and asked her out. The guess-he’s-not-a-killer date the next night was a lot of fun. We’ve seen each other a couple of times a week since then.
She seats a couple, and Larry and I wander into the chrome and mahogany bar and I have another Diet Coke. He has a vodka and tonic. It’s a slow night and Sarah joins us for a bit. Larry buys her a sparkling water. She thinks it’s charming. She calls him gallant, and he gives a faint laugh as this seems to put him at ease. He tells her about a video game he’s been playing, one of the online ones. I’m a geek by profession but I’m not into games, especially the first-person shooters that Larry likes. Sarah, I can tell, has no clue what he’s talking about but she’s polite and nods. I wonder if Larry talks about gaming when he tries to pick a girl up. I should tell him that’s probably not a great idea, unless, of course, you’re at Comicon and the girl you’re hitting on has purple anime hair and is wearing a Sailor Moon outfit.
Then Larry blurts, “Oh, that painting of yours? Old Woman at the Harvest?”
After I told him about her website, he would’ve looked her up. It sounds like he’s been waiting to drop into the conversation something he learned.
“You know it?” she asks, surprised.
“Yeah,” he says, gazing down at the bar. “I liked it. And I liked that sculpture too. Raven on the Beach.”
“‘Shore,’” she corrects.
He blushes and says, “Right. ‘Shore.’”
“Well, thank you, Larry.” She taps her glass against his. She tells him that working with clay doesn’t come naturally to her but she enjoyed the experiment. “It was a lark.”
Larry doesn’t get the pun – the bird thing – and Sarah nips the laugh fast, so he doesn’t feel stupid. I struggle not to smile either.
At eight, Sarah goes off shift and the three of us walk to the parking lot. I, of course, automatically scan the surroundings. Not that I expected Stan Whitcomb to follow me here, but apparently I can’t make assumptions like that anymore.
I’ll be looking for you, Little Hank. It’s my new hobby …
Larry says goodnight and starts to shake Sarah’s hand but she pulls him in for a kiss on the cheek, which surprises him. I think he might’ve gasped. He drives off and Sarah gets in my SUV – she carpooled to work, knowing we’d see each other tonight. And we head over to a new seafood place on Grand. It’s called Squids. Not the best name in the world. Not the best food either. They overcook the lobster and undercook the asparagus. But it doesn’t matter; we have fun talking and, since I’m driving, she has two big glasses of Chardonnay, which she loves.
I spend the night at her house and when I awake in the morning, I shower and dress quietly, leaving her in bed asleep, because in her case neither profession – art or food service – are pre-noon endeavors.
Unlike Sarah, I’m most productive in the mornings, and today I have to put the filigree, I call it, on two websites. They’re for clients who are my favorite kind: they have absolutely no knowledge of how to write code, so they leave all the technical stuff to me, and they have very, very large budgets.
But that will have to wait.
Because I have another errand.
The County Sheriff’s Department.
It’s nine when I walk into the functional government buildings – decked-out green-flecked walls, yellowing acoustic tile and scuffed linoleum. The main difference between here and, say, City Hall, is this receptionist – a uniformed officer – sits behind bullet-proof glass.
Lots of crazies in this world.
I get a little heebie-jeebie in the place, uneasy. The times I’ve been here before I haven’t been treated very well, like they didn’t believe me or take me seriously. But I control it and wearily explain to the sergeant or whatever her rank might be that I’m here to complain once again about Stan Whitcomb. She wearily jots notes, makes a call and nods to a bench. I sit. On the wall opposite are reward posters, including two seeking information about the young women – the ones stabbed to death in neighboring Auburn Hills. I wonder why the posters are here. It’s not like the deputies are going to say, “Goddamn, that’s right; I forgot all about those murders.” Nor would announcements here, in a dim civil servant corridor, reach a horde of good citizens, alerting them to be on the lookout for suspects.
After a five-minute wait, I end up at the desk of a uniformed minion and complain about the bullying.
“Bullying?”
In my earlier complaints – two of them – I don’t think I used that word before.
“Stan Whitcomb’s in my face all the time.”
“What’s ‘all the time’?”
“A couple of times a week.”
The young deputy – he looks to be about eighteen, though he’s probably my age – jots notes. “This was in the Eagle, sir? Had either of you been drinking?”
“He had. I hadn’t.”
“Did he physically touch you?”
What other way would there be to touch someone?
“No. But he’s in my face. I mean, inches away.”
“Were you at any time unable to leave the premises?”
I hesitate. “No.”
“Has he threatened you?”
“Not … not explicitly. But there’s this tone he has.”
“Tone.”
The deputy sits back.
I know what he’s thinking: that the office deals with real bullies: domestic abusers, child beaters, cops who’re racist and shoot unarmed civilians, kids who intimidate classmates into attempting suicide.
Somebody being “in your face” doesn’t exactly rise to that level of offense.
“Look, Officer … Deputy. This shouldn’t be happening to me. I haven’t done anything. I’m not guilty of anything. He’s got it into his head that I’m the devil incarnate. He’s making my life miserable.” My voice has risen – in pitch and volume.
“OK. I’ll give my supervisor this information.”
His clipped delivery tells me that the conversation is over.
“Thanks for your time.” I don’t try too hard to control the sarcasm, but he gives no indication that he notices. Maybe he doesn’t get it, maybe he’s just numb to irritated citizens.
Well, I’ve done all I can do. I head home to get the projects finished. After, I’ll hit the bike trail. I was planning on twenty miles. But as I drive past the Eagle Tavern I get mad again and I decide I’ll go for fifty.
* * *
Two days later, early Sunday morning, I’m sitting in my dimly lit, carefully ordered office. I haven’t seen Stan Whitcomb since the Eagle and I’m absently wondering if my complaint had some effect.
Third time’s the charm, which my father used to say all the time.
I hear the double chime from upstairs and I walk to the first floor. I open the door to find two somber people in suits – a man and a woman, both in their forties. The man is holding out an ID card. County Sheriff. Detective Terrence Stone. He’s slim and tall. He identifies himself by name. The woman is a detective too. Emily Fillmore. She has dry, blonde hair and has applied thick make-up over bumpy skin.
“Henry Larson?”
“Yes?” I’m frowning. “What’s this about?”
“Do you know a Sarah Preston?”
“I— Is she all right?”
“You do know her?”
My eyes widen. “What’s going on?”
“Do you, sir?” Detective Stone persists, but gently.
“We’ve been dating.”
I have to repeat this so they can hear. I swallow hard.
“Mr Larson,” Detective Fillmore says, her voice a bit stiffer than his. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this but Ms Preston’s been killed.”
I don’t say anything for a moment. Then: “No, there’s been a mistake. I saw her yesterday. We had lunch before her shift at work … I— No!”
Detective Stone says, “It happened last night.”
I look down. “But, no. I spoke to her, I don’t know … Seven thirty. After she got off work.”
“Yes, we saw your call on her phone – this happened about nine thirty,” Detective Fillmore explains.
“This happened? This? What?”
But before they can answer I’m spiraling to the floor, both of the detectives lunging, breaking the fall before my head cracks on the tile.
They get me more or less vertical and walk me to my living-room couch.
“No, no, no.” I lower my head into my hands and the tears flow. Fillmore has tissues in her purse and she unwraps the pack and plucks one from it. I take it and wipe my eyes and nose. “What happened?” I whisper. “Was it a robbery? Was she—”
They look at each other. Detective Stone asks, “Do you know a Lawrence Keddle?”
“Larry? He’s a friend. Sure. What— What is this?”
“Did he know Ms Preston as well?” From Detective Fillmore.
“Yes. They met through me.”
“Did either of them say anything to you about him going over to her house last night?”
“Larry? To Sarah’s? No.”
“Would he have known what time she’d be home?”
“Not really …” But then I tell them that he knew where she worked and could’ve found out her schedule. Now, my voice grows harsh. “Tell me what this is all about.”
Detective Stone says, “It appears that Mr Keddle went to see Ms Preston last night. She let him in. When she did he stabbed her but—”
“What?”
“Ms Preston fought back and got the knife away. She stabbed him several times and called 911 but, unfortunately, she expired before help got there. Mr Keddle died too.”
“Oh, Jesus, no.” I wipe at the tears.
Fillmore says, “Mr Larson, a crime scene unit went to Mr Keddle’s house. In his basement we found evidence linking him to the Auburn Hills murders. The two women who were stabbed to death. Some articles of clothing … Some other things too.” This is delivered with a softer, more reverent tone.
Meaning, I suppose, the body parts removed from the victims after they died.
“We had a DNA sample of the likely killer from the second murder but there was no match in the database. Our lab tested Mr Keddle’s DNA and it was his.”
I close my eyes briefly, breathing hard.
“Sir, can I get you some water?” Fillmore asks.
I hold up a hand.
“Do you have family in the area?” she continues.
I don’t respond. I simply stare at the floor, a stain in the shape of an hourglass on the old carpet in the entryway. I’d never noticed it before.
“Sir?” Detective Stone asks.
I blink and look up. “Family? I— My brother’s in Holcomb.”
“I think it’d be a good idea if he came over. Or you stayed with him. Are you OK to drive?”
“Yes, sure,” I whisper. “Oh, Sarah’s parents?” I say this with some hysteria in my voice. “They’re in Freeport.”
“There’re two detectives speaking to them now.”
I’m nodding. More tears, more tissues.
“I’ll call them. I should call them.”
“We’ll want to interview you some more about Mr Keddle. Just a few questions.”
“Sure, yes.” In a faint voice I say, “He was always quiet. I didn’t think anything of it. A little distant. But— Jesus.” My voice catches. “My fault.”
“What’s that, sir?” Detective Stone asks.
“This is my fault! He met her through me.”
“You can’t play the blame game,” Detective Fillmore says. “The first thing we learn in this business.”
I don’t respond.
They rise. Detective Stone says, “Give your brother a call, Mr Larson.”
“I will, yes. I’ll do it now.”
* * *
The following Wednesday I’m in the sheriff’s office once more.
No minions this time. I’m speaking to the sheriff himself. He’s a beefy guy, whose round belly swells drummingly over his taxed belt. He wears a brown uniform just like any other deputy, though he has more gingerbread on his chest and sleeve.
His name is Farrell, according to the name badge, and there’s an S in front of that, which I suppose stands for his first name, not “Sheriff.” He’s crew cut and tanned, and he’ll need a new wedding ring soon, if he keeps gaining weight. His wedding picture, on the desk, suggests the expansion has been recent and fast.
“First, Mr Larson, I’m so sorry for your loss. I understand Ms Preston was your girlfriend.”
I nod, and press a tissue into my red eyes.
“Now, this is, as you can imagine, a bit awkward. I wanted to tell you what our assessment of the situation is.”
Assessment.
Situation.
Another nod.
“I know that a few weeks ago you were, obviously, considered a person of interest in the Auburn Hills killings. Suzanne Humboldt and Karen Miller.”
“OK.” Now my eyes, which are indeed red, are cold and boring directly into his.
“We’ve been through this before, explained it to you, but I have to tell you again that at first we did have some reason to look into your whereabouts the nights they were killed. That’s why we asked you in for those interviews.”
Heebie-jeebie …
There was indeed some justification for what they’d done. It turned out that I used my ATM card about a mile from where the first victim was abducted. Every man who’d used a cash machine or credit or debit card within that mile also ended up on the lead investigator’s watch list for suspects. The list was huge but he interviewed every single one of them, and personally reviewed CCTVs in and around where Suzanne Humboldt lived and the bars and restaurants she hung out in. My face was identified in one of the bars.
