At the Stroke of Madness (43 page)

Thursday, September 18

“Y
ou don’t have to fix breakfast for me, Mr. Racine,” Maggie said, but her mouth was already watering from the aroma of hash browns and sausage sizzling in one skillet while Luc prepared another with scrambled eggs.

“No, no, I want to. God! I miss this.” He splashed some milk and fresh ground pepper into the scrambled eggs, stirring and flipping with the expertise of a short-order cook. “I don’t get to do this anymore. I don’t trust myself to shut off the stove.” He glanced back at her. “I’m only telling you so you’ll keep an eye on things and make sure that I don’t leave something on. Would you do that, please?”

He kept his back to her. Maggie knew it was not an easy thing for him to ask. She wondered if that was the real reason he wouldn’t let her call Julia. Did his daughter know that he was deteriorating?

“Sure. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Nope. Got the table all set.” He looked around. “Maybe some orange juice. I noticed your friend brought some last night.” He opened one cupboard door, then another and one more before grabbing two glasses to hand to her. This time he couldn’t hide the slight flush of embarrassment. “I think he likes you.”

“What?”

“The professor, he likes you.”

This time she felt a slight flush. She found the juice and poured. “We’re working on a case together. That’s all.”

“What? You don’t like him?” He glanced at her over his shoulder.

“No, I didn’t say that. It’s just that I guess I haven’t thought about him that way.”

“Why not? He’s a handsome young man. I noticed you’re unattached.”

“I don’t know why not. I’m just…I’m not…” She realized that she sounded like some tongue-tied teenager. She wasn’t sure why she thought she needed to explain it to him. “I’m not looking right now. My divorce was just finalized. I’m not ready to start another relationship.”

“Oh, okay.” He glanced back at her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stick my nose in your business.” He started cleaning the counter. “I like you. You remind me of Julia. I guess I miss her.”

“I was thinking about that, Mr. Racine. I think—”

“I wish you’d call me Luc.”

“Okay, but I was thinking maybe you should call Julia. I think she would like to know. Actually, I’d feel better if she knew.”

He was putting away what he didn’t use, sliding the egg carton back into the refrigerator and wrapping up the leftover sausage.

Maggie stopped him. “Where did you get this?” She pointed to the sausage he rolled tight into the white butcher-block paper.

“This? It’s scrapple. I think they call it that because it’s made from pork scraps,” he said, misunderstanding what she meant and unwrapping the sausage to show her. “My wife was from Philadelphia. That’s where they have the best. This stuff always reminds me of her. Partly why I named my best buddy Scrapple.” He glanced down at the dog who, as if on cue, sat up to beg for a piece of his namesake. “Can’t find it around here, though.” Luc continued wrapping the sausage. “Last winter I had Steve Earlman make it for me out of some pork shoulder. He did a pretty good job, too. I think you’ll like it.”

Maggie wondered if Luc knew they had found Steve at the quarry. He had been to the site enough times he may have heard the rumors. Maybe he couldn’t remember. Once again, she was reminded of that white paper that kept showing up. What was she missing?

“Luc, what did they do with the butcher shop when Steve passed away? Didn’t he have any sons or daughters to keep the shop open?”

He scooped up hash browns, sausage and scrambled eggs, dividing the bounty between their two plates. It looked wonderful and she followed him to the table, bringing their juice.

“No, Steve never married. A nice guy, too.” He pulled out a chair for her, waiting for her to get comfortable before he took his place. “It was sad to see the shop close. I remember hearing that someone bought all the equipment at the estate sale. I thought maybe whoever it was would keep the shop open or start a new one, but I guess not.”

“Do you remember who bought all the equipment?”

Luc stared at her, his forehead furrowed in thought, the frustration playing in his eyes. “I should know that.”

“It’s okay if you can’t remember. I was just curious.”

“No, I should know. It was somebody I know.”

Maggie’s cell phone started ringing from the other room and Scrapple, who had taken his begging place under the table, now began to bark.

“Scrapple, that’s enough. Hush.”

“Excuse me. I need to get that,” Maggie said as she hunted for her jacket, following the sound of the ringing. Finally. “Maggie O’Dell.”

“O’Dell, it’s Watermeier. I’m at Hubbard Park, the West Peak. We found something. I think you’ll want to see this.”

Thursday, September 18

“Y
ou don’t have to fix breakfast for me, Mr. Racine,” Maggie said, but her mouth was already watering from the aroma of hash browns and sausage sizzling in one skillet while Luc prepared another with scrambled eggs.

“No, no, I want to. God! I miss this.” He splashed some milk and fresh ground pepper into the scrambled eggs, stirring and flipping with the expertise of a short-order cook. “I don’t get to do this anymore. I don’t trust myself to shut off the stove.” He glanced back at her. “I’m only telling you so you’ll keep an eye on things and make sure that I don’t leave something on. Would you do that, please?”

He kept his back to her. Maggie knew it was not an easy thing for him to ask. She wondered if that was the real reason he wouldn’t let her call Julia. Did his daughter know that he was deteriorating?

“Sure. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Nope. Got the table all set.” He looked around. “Maybe some orange juice. I noticed your friend brought some last night.” He opened one cupboard door, then another and one more before grabbing two glasses to hand to her. This time he couldn’t hide the slight flush of embarrassment. “I think he likes you.”

“What?”

“The professor, he likes you.”

This time she felt a slight flush. She found the juice and poured. “We’re working on a case together. That’s all.”

“What? You don’t like him?” He glanced at her over his shoulder.

“No, I didn’t say that. It’s just that I guess I haven’t thought about him that way.”

“Why not? He’s a handsome young man. I noticed you’re unattached.”

“I don’t know why not. I’m just…I’m not…” She realized that she sounded like some tongue-tied teenager. She wasn’t sure why she thought she needed to explain it to him. “I’m not looking right now. My divorce was just finalized. I’m not ready to start another relationship.”

“Oh, okay.” He glanced back at her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stick my nose in your business.” He started cleaning the counter. “I like you. You remind me of Julia. I guess I miss her.”

“I was thinking about that, Mr. Racine. I think—”

“I wish you’d call me Luc.”

“Okay, but I was thinking maybe you should call Julia. I think she would like to know. Actually, I’d feel better if she knew.”

He was putting away what he didn’t use, sliding the egg carton back into the refrigerator and wrapping up the leftover sausage.

Maggie stopped him. “Where did you get this?” She pointed to the sausage he rolled tight into the white butcher-block paper.

“This? It’s scrapple. I think they call it that because it’s made from pork scraps,” he said, misunderstanding what she meant and unwrapping the sausage to show her. “My wife was from Philadelphia. That’s where they have the best. This stuff always reminds me of her. Partly why I named my best buddy Scrapple.” He glanced down at the dog who, as if on cue, sat up to beg for a piece of his namesake. “Can’t find it around here, though.” Luc continued wrapping the sausage. “Last winter I had Steve Earlman make it for me out of some pork shoulder. He did a pretty good job, too. I think you’ll like it.”

Maggie wondered if Luc knew they had found Steve at the quarry. He had been to the site enough times he may have heard the rumors. Maybe he couldn’t remember. Once again, she was reminded of that white paper that kept showing up. What was she missing?

“Luc, what did they do with the butcher shop when Steve passed away? Didn’t he have any sons or daughters to keep the shop open?”

He scooped up hash browns, sausage and scrambled eggs, dividing the bounty between their two plates. It looked wonderful and she followed him to the table, bringing their juice.

“No, Steve never married. A nice guy, too.” He pulled out a chair for her, waiting for her to get comfortable before he took his place. “It was sad to see the shop close. I remember hearing that someone bought all the equipment at the estate sale. I thought maybe whoever it was would keep the shop open or start a new one, but I guess not.”

“Do you remember who bought all the equipment?”

Luc stared at her, his forehead furrowed in thought, the frustration playing in his eyes. “I should know that.”

“It’s okay if you can’t remember. I was just curious.”

“No, I should know. It was somebody I know.”

Maggie’s cell phone started ringing from the other room and Scrapple, who had taken his begging place under the table, now began to bark.

“Scrapple, that’s enough. Hush.”

“Excuse me. I need to get that,” Maggie said as she hunted for her jacket, following the sound of the ringing. Finally. “Maggie O’Dell.”

“O’Dell, it’s Watermeier. I’m at Hubbard Park, the West Peak. We found something. I think you’ll want to see this.”

A
dam Bonzado pulled the Polaroids from his shirt pocket. He took another long, studied look, then slipped them back into the pocket. It probably wasn’t a good idea to have the photos out while he rummaged the shelves of the local hardware store.

He was trying to get Maggie O’Dell off his mind. It didn’t help matters that he still felt like a complete bonehead. First the soup incident and then waking her and Racine up last night. Not only waking them up but scaring them. Although Maggie didn’t look that scared behind the barrel of her Smith & Wesson. He smiled at the memory. He liked that she could take care of herself. He didn’t like having her almost blow off his head, though.

Sometimes he worried that his mother was right. That he spent too much time with skeletons and not enough time with real people. His students, according to his mother, didn’t count.

“Why can’t you go out like normal boys,” his mother usually began her lecture that included something about dating nice girls. “You don’t even go to a ball game with your brothers anymore.”

But he liked his work. Why should he have to make excuses about that? And besides, most women were immediately turned off when they learned what he did for a living. No, the truth was he hadn’t wanted anyone else after Kate. He buried himself in his work instead. It took his mind off that empty void.

So here he was again, burying himself in work to get his mind off Maggie O’Dell. What better way to do that than at a hardware store armed with a handful of Polaroids and a mission to add to his tools-of-death list.

Dr. Stolz had given him Polaroids of the victims’ head wounds, all administered to the back top of the skull. Even the young man’s skull Adam had in the lab, as well as the one he had plucked from the boiling pot at Luc Racine’s, seemed to have been dealt similar deathblows.

He went down the aisle of hand tools, searching, paying close attention to the end of each tool. Ball-peen hammer, no. Bolt cutter, no. Then there were pliers. Adam scratched his jaw, always amazed at the assortment. You had your long-nose locking pliers, jaw, diagonal, duckbill, slip joint, Arc joint, groove joint.

Jesus! Forget pliers.

Drive sockets: metric or standard. Screwdrivers: Phillips, slotted or torx. Wrenches: crescent, adjustable or pipe. The bolt clamp looked promising or maybe even the steel bar clamp. Woodworker’s vise, no. Level, no.

“Hey, a mini hacksaw,” he said, picking up the contraption. “For all those hard-to-reach joints when you’re in the middle of dismembering a body.”

“Can I help you, sir?” A clerk appeared at the end of the aisle.

Adam immediately put the mini hacksaw back as if he had been caught. He wondered if the clerk had heard him. The kid looked like he spent more time down in his family’s basement rec room than in his dad’s garage. In fact, he looked like he belonged in an electronics department, selling Game Boys and DVD players, not drills or circular saws, let alone hand tools.

“Is there something in particular you’re looking for, sir?”

“Yeah, but it’s one of those things that I’ll know when I see it. You know what I mean?”

The clerk stared at him. No, he didn’t know what he meant. “Like for a special project or something?”

Adam smiled. He wondered what the kid would do if he told him about his tools-of-death list. Or better yet, if he showed him the Polaroids and asked him to help find the tool that cracked open the skull and left that triangle mark. Instead, he said, “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Okay, then. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Adam started down the next aisle. This one was full of bars. Yes, this was more like it. There were pry bars of every shape and size. Some of forged steel construction, others with black oxide coating to prevent rust. He read the labels below each: “easy, comfortable rubber grip” and “lowprofile claw for more leverage.” There was one called a “gorilla bar.” Another, the “wonder bar.” An I-beam, a double-end nail puller, a gooseneck and a wrecking bar. This was crazy.

Then he saw it. The angle looked right. The size looked right. He slipped out the Polaroids again for a quick glance. Yes, this was it. The end of the double-end nail-pulling pry bar looked like the impressions left in the skulls.

Adam picked up the pry bar and turned it in his hands, examining it at every angle and getting the feel of it. It weighed more than it looked. He tried to hold it the way he imagined the killer had held it up over his head. He tried to imagine how he would swing it. It wouldn’t require much force. A bit of a twist and the heavy, hooked end could crack a skull quite nicely.

He lifted it higher, getting ready to reenact a deathblow swing when he noticed the clerk at the end of the aisle. And he was watching. This time he looked…oh, perhaps
concerned
was an understatement.

“I think I found what I was looking for,” Adam said, bringing the tool back down without any more fanfare. “And it’s even on sale.” He pointed to the tag, smiled and retreated down the other end of the aisle.

He waited in the checkout line, tapping the pry bar into the palm of his hand. Suddenly, it occurred to him that this pry bar was exactly like the one he kept in his El Camino.