Stress Fracture: Book One in the Dub Walker Series Page 3

  They used a passkey and found this.”

  “Mrs. Cohen hear anything?” I asked. “After the TV went off? His defensive wounds show he put up a hell of a battle.”

  Scotty shook his head. “Said she might have heard a thump. Wasn’t sure of the time or where it came from. She did say that she often took Xanax for sleep and had had a couple of glasses of wine that night. She must have been zonked.”

  “She must have been in a coma.” I refilled my coffee cup. It was starting to grow on me. I’d forgotten how good bad coffee could be. “Any other neighbors hear anything?”

  “Nada.”

  “Where’s the video? I’d like to look at it.”

  “Over at Forensic Sciences.”

  “Anything else?”

  Scotty shook his head.

  “And the second murder?” I moved to better view the photos in the next panel.

  “The victim was William ‘Skip’ Allison. Big player politically in the local gay community. Murdered July third in his apartment out toward Madison. Upstairs unit of a fourplex. Had a lover. Billy Holcomb. Exact opposite of Skip. Muscular, surly, big on tattoos. In Atlanta at time of murder. At a party with about twenty witnesses. Allison was shot with a 9 mm. Probably rigged with some kind of sound suppresser.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

  “The lab boys think that some markings on the slug and the tattoo pattern suggest that.”

  One of the photos was a close-up of the entry wound on the left side of Allison’s head. Just above and in front of the ear. A minor miracle the following trauma had spared that area of the skull. Condensed but sparse stippling collared the round, clean wound. The degree of spread was consistent with a near-contact wound, while the paucity of tattooing suggested that the muzzle was farther away. Conclusion? Could mean that a sound suppressor narrowed the spread while partially containing the burned and unburned powder that followed the bullet. Not strong evidence, but intriguing.

  I massaged the tightening muscles of my neck, last night’s dream and the scene at Mike’s settling in. “Looks like our boy didn’t stop with a clean kill.”

  Scotty shook his head. “No defensive wounds, so everything you see is postmortem.”

  “What’d he use?”

  “First, one of those decorative wooden rolling pins. The blows were so violent the wood shattered, so he grabbed a brass table lamp. It was dented and bent from the force of the attack. Drummond thinks Allison was struck a hundred or more times.”

  My jaw tightened. “Like Mike.” I drained my coffee cup and tossed it into the corner trash can. “Anything else?”

  “A couple of smeared partial bloody shoe prints on the carpet. Poor substrate, so a sole pattern ID wasn’t possible.”

  “You guys about caught up?” T-Tommy came through the door.

  “Mostly,” I said. “I’d like to see the first two scenes.”

  “Allison’s has been cleaned. Turned back over to the owner. I think Petersen’s might still be intact.”

  “It’ll help if I see both.”

  CHAPTER 7

  MONDAY 11:13 A.M.

  IPUSHED THROUGH THE GLASS ENTRY DOORS OF THE RUSSEL ERSKINE. Once the grande dame of the city, it had faltered when the center of commerce moved from downtown out to the various malls. Occupancy fell, and in 1983 it was converted into a subsidized senior apartment building. The sign above the columned entryway still identified it as the HOTEL RUSSEL ERSKINE. I hadn’t been inside since I was a kid and now saw that the lobby had been restored to its original 1930s look. Spectacular. Clean and fresh with large square floor tiles and bright white walls with gray trim. A massive chandelier and marble staircase with gilded railings gave it the appearance of an old Hollywood movie set.

  An attractive, middle-aged woman in tan slacks and a white silk blouse greeted us. T-Tommy introduced property manager Wilma Foster to me and then explained to her that we needed to see Carl Petersen’s apartment again. Once the elevator door hissed shut and the car jerked to life, she said, “This has shaken up folks around here. Everyone loved Mr. Petersen. He was an important part of our little community.”

  “I heard he was a bit cantankerous,” I said.

  She looked at me and smiled. “A bit. But in a sweet way. He organized a book group. They met every Wednesday night. It was very popular. About thirty people showed up each week.”

  “Has his place been cleaned yet?” I asked.

  She sighed. “I can’t bring myself to do it. I haven’t even been inside since …”

  “I understand.”

  “Besides, it’ll be a while before we can put it on the market. Things like this tend to spook potential renters.”

  The upstairs, as neat and clean as the lobby, smelled of fresh paint and new carpeting. At Apartment 506, Wilma keyed the door and pushed it open. It whooshed across the carpet. Needed trimming. Wilma didn’t seem to notice. She took a step back without even a glimpse inside. “Just lock the door when you’re done.” She headed back toward the elevator.

  I looked up and down the hallway. Nothing but room doors, wall sconces, and a red EXIT sign near one end. Probably the stairwell. Petersen’s door looked like all the others. Killer knew exactly where he was going. Nothing random here.

  T-Tommy went inside. I hesitated near the door. Where the killer had stood. Planning his entry. Was he scared? excited? Maybe a few second thoughts? Did he know Petersen was asleep? Did he have a key? If so, from where? Did he work the lock? Sweating, looking over his shoulder, fearful another resident might surprise him?

  I stepped into the living room. Sealed for two weeks, it had gathered a host of musty odors. Nothing seemed out of place. No sign of a struggle. I moved past the sofa, a magazine-laden coffee table—Scientific American, National Geographic, and Aviation Week, that I could see—and into the small kitchen-dining area. Except for the thin layer of dust, everything appeared normal. As if the occupant might return at any minute from an extended vacation. Not going to happen. Not now, not ever.

  The bedroom was another story. It smelled of violence, death, and old blood. Some of the many repulsive sensations that lived in my brain. Smells and sights and sounds that too often returned years later when least expected, dredging up memories:

  The man who lost grip of his sanity, shot his wife, and then himself. Found four days later, inside their sunbaked, double-wide trailer, the stench of their rotting corpses so thick I could taste it. That had been in Sarasota, Florida.

  The two floaters found a week after they were bound, gagged, and dumped in the swamp for not paying a debt to a New Orleans thug. Nibbled on by gators and turtles and fish. I had helped recover the corpses from the murky water. The feel of their bloated, mushy flesh as it slid across my fingers. Nothing feels like that.

  The child that had been—

  Not that one. I reined in my memories.

  The bed where Carl Petersen had died was now only a frame; the mattress and box spring off to the crime lab for analysis. A section of the carpet had also been removed, leaving a concrete rectangle, haloed by dark splotches of dried blood. I saw a void pattern to the left of the bed. Where the killer had stood. Impact spatters peppered the wall near the head of the bed. Cast-off streaks painted the ceiling. Both by-products of the violence visited on Petersen. Just like Mike’s.

  Two bats rested in the corner, each dusted with fingerprint powder. The closet door stood open. Petersen’s clothes hung perfectly spaced in a military fashion. Just what you would expect from an engineer. Two regimented rows of cup hooks dangled an array of caps from the ceiling. Atlanta Braves, New York Yankees, and several from various bait shops and garages. I then returned to the kitchen and inspected the bloodstains on the refrigerator and cabinet handles.

  Leaning against the counter, I attempted to visualize how things went down. A criminal leaves behind not only physical clues—fingerprints, blood, semen, hair, fibers, all that crime lab stuff—but also fragments of his personality. Not alway
s easy to read, and probably not overly accurate, these clues often reflect motivation. And understanding the motivation, the why, is what most often leads to the who.

  Some cops and profilers claim to have a sixth sense, able to smell a crime, reconstruct it psychically. Bullshit. A good investigator keeps his eyes and mind open. Lets the evidence tell the story. Uses what he sees to draw his conclusions. Nothing prescient about it.

  That’s not to say I didn’t create mental images of the crime. How it unfolded, what the killer was likely thinking, why he did certain things. But that wasn’t psychic or clairvoyant or any other type of voodoo. It was simply experience and common sense.

  For me, these images sometimes came after days of studying the evidence. Piece after piece dovetailing until only one conclusion was possible. At other times, the images appeared suddenly, triggered by something at the scene. The position of the body, a piece of furniture out of place, a crumpled cigarette pack, a tiny drop of blood. It could be something so striking that it immediately changed my view of things or so subtle that it pricked a tiny hole in my brain. Just large enough to allow an image inside, where it expanded and deepened, until it became complete.

  The image I formed now was of Petersen, home alone, watching the baseball game, and then, exhausted, drifting into a sound sleep, totally unaware until it was too late. The killer, carefully manipulating the lock and easing the door open. In the quiet darkness, its gentle scraping against the carpet must have sounded like a train sliding to a halt. Once in the bedroom, he would have stood quietly over the old man, listening to his breathing. How long? Did he take time to relish the moment or strike quickly for fear that Petersen would wake up? According to what Scotty had said, his first blow glanced off Petersen’s shoulder. The next two shattered the old man’s arm and fingers as he defended himself. Finally, the killing blow to the frail forehead. Petersen never had a chance.

  Then the killer strolled to the kitchen for milk and cookies.

  True sociopathic behavior. Also the behavior of someone who knew his victim. Knew there was little danger of someone showing up unexpectedly. Knew he had time.

  “How do you read it?” T-Tommy asked.

  “Not the most accessible place I’ve ever seen. Close quarters and no easy escape route. Ballsy fucking move.”

  “Or stone crazy.”

  “That, too. His neighbor … the old lady … she lives in 508. Right?”

  T-Tommy nodded.

  “Hard to believe she didn’t hear more than a thump.”

  T-Tommy locked up, and we rode the elevator down. Back in the lobby, I noticed the two security cameras that covered most of the expansive lobby area. I didn’t see Wilma but found her in her office. The door was open, so I stuck my head inside. “Got a couple of questions, if you don’t mind?”

  She slipped off a pair of gold-rimmed half-glasses and looked up. “Sure.”

  “Are the entry doors locked at night?”

  “They are now.” She sighed. “I wish they had been that night. But we really had no reason to. This is a very safe place.” She glanced toward T-Tommy and then back to me. “Or was. Everything’s locked now. And we have a security guard.”

  “On that night, no one was in the lobby?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  CHAPTER 8

  MONDAY 11:31 A.M.

  GULF COAST TELEMARKETING WAS THE PRODUCT OF A NASTY divorce. Owner, Wanda Fisher, had dumped her loser husband after he humped his secretary and, with the money the courts handed her, started Gulf Coast. It began painfully small in a rented house, but over the next six years grew into a multimillion-dollar business that occupied eight thousand square feet, two-thirds of a wooden office building that sat just off Memorial Parkway a few miles south of downtown. Noreen’s Flowers filled the other third. Most of Gulf Coast’s footage was divided into rows of cubicles, where shifts of telemarketers took care of business.

  Brian Kurtz sat in one of the cubicles and tapped the keyboard of his computer, completing yet another order form. The vague headache that had nagged him all morning now settled into a steady throb behind his eyes. In the past three hours, he had made fifty calls and closed eleven sales. Five for Mr. Foam Carpet Cleaning, four for Top Coat Painting, and two for Thompson’s Pest Control. Not a bad morning. He knew none of his coworkers could equal that. They never did.

  He decided to make one more call before taking his lunch break. He adjusted his headset and dialed the next number on his list. Four rings. Five. Six. Seven.

  “Yeah.” The voice was gruff, impatient.

  “Mr. Kushner?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Brian Kurtz.”

  “I don’t know any Brian Kurtz. What do you want?”

  “I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Foam Carpet Cleaning. We’re having our annual summer—”

  “I don’t need any goddamn carpet cleaning asshole bothering me. Why don’t you shitheads leave people alone?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Brian felt his jaw tighten. “If there’s a better time to call, I can—”

  “Listen, asshole, why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

  Brian ground his teeth together. “No, Mr. Kushner, why don’t you fuck yourself?” He disconnected the call.

  “Brian?”

  He swiveled in his chair and faced Wanda Fisher. Great. Just fucking great.

  “Can I see you in my office?” Not waiting for his response, she spun and headed down the hallway.

  He sat for a minute. Fuck her. Spouting orders as if she was the fucking queen or something. If she wanted to talk to him, she could do it right here. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm his growing anger. Helped some. He stood and walked toward Wanda’s office. Inside, he sat in one of the straight-back chairs that faced her desk. She shuffled through a stack of pages on her desk before looking up at him.

  “Want to tell me what that was all about?” she asked.

  “Some jerk.”

  “We call them customers.”

  “Not this one. He was abusive and arrogant.”

  “Brian, we’ve discussed this before. Last week, to be exact.” Her reading glasses perched near the end of her nose, and she peered over them at him. “You know some people can be a bit testy when we call. You’re supposed to be polite regardless of what they say. You promised you would after our last talk.”

  Talk? It was more like a finger-wagging lecture. She, in her expensive suit, with her perfect makeup and hair, sitting here talking down to him. He wondered what she’d do if he crawled across her desk and smashed her perfect little face.

  “I don’t have to put up with someone calling me names or cursing at me,” he said.

  Wanda sighed. “I’ve received more complaints.” She picked up the stack of papers. “A dozen more.”

  “From who?”

  “Customers who’ve said you were short and rude. Even abusive.”

  “Give me their names, and I’ll call and apologize.”

  “I don’t think that will help.” She tugged off the glasses, dropped them on her desk, and massaged one temple. “Brian, you know I like you. Know I think you’re a good worker. But I can’t have this. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Temporarily. I want you to see Dr. Hublein. When he clears you, I’ll see if I can take you back.”

  “Take me back? You’re firing me?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Let’s call it a leave of absence. Just until you get things under control.”

  His jaw muscles ached. His teeth ached. His head pounded. “I see Dr. Hublein all the time. Once a week. He says everything’s fine.”

  “Is everything fine?”

  “Of course. Just because I don’t like to be abused by some jerk on the phone doesn’t mean I have a problem.”

  “I’ll give Dr. Hublein a call.”

  He moved forward to the edge of his seat. He noticed she leaned back a bit. You better be afraid, bitch. “Why do you want to make trouble f
or me?”

  She tapped the eraser of a pencil on her desktop. “Didn’t I give you this job when no one else would? I’ve tried to help, and I will continue to do so. But lately … the past couple of months … you’ve become increasingly … difficult.” She waved the pencil toward the papers on her desk. “These complaints … and other concerns from your coworkers.”

  “Just great. Those losers are getting me fired.”

  “No, Brian, I’m letting you go … temporarily … because of your behavior. Not theirs.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll talk with Dr. Hublein, you go see him, and maybe he can help.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s just the way it has to be. Once Dr. Hublein assures me that everything is okay, we’ll talk about you coming back. Until then, you’ll have to leave.”

  CHAPTER 9

  MONDAY 11:45 A.M.

  BUDDY GUY WAILED “FIVE LONG YEARS” FROM THE PORSCHE’S CD as T-Tommy and I traveled west along University Drive toward the small town of Madison. Sitting on the western flank of Huntsville, Madison was once a major shipping portal for King Cotton. Back then it was called Madison Station and consisted of little more than a commercial stop on the Memphis-Charleston Railroad. Now it was a thriving community of forty thousand.

  I hung a left at Wall Triana Highway, another mile, and then right into the Madison Oaks Apartments complex. A couple of twists and turns through the parking area, and I settled the Porsche into a slot, facing the fourplex the late William “Skip” Allison had called home. Tan clapboard with brown trim, two upper, two lower, Allison’s was unit B, upper right.

  Getting a look inside didn’t go as smoothly as it had at the Erskine.