Bad Karma (20 page)

He started laughing as he thought about how much this bothered him.
Goddamit
, he told himself,
you used to be a cop. What the hell’s happened to you? Believing in this bullshit?

The thing was he knew it wasn’t bullshit. How could it be with all those years Charlie Winters had invaded his dreams? Even if he could come up with an explanation for that, how could he ignore the time he shot out of his body and floated above it, watching as Winters tortured him by his broken fingers, twisting harder with that nutcracker until those fingers ripped off, then his body, now free, turning on Winters with that knife…

Shannon stood silently for several minutes. Slowly the muscles along his jaw relaxed. He closed his eyes and repeated silently to himself for several minutes that if he could leave his body once he’d be able to leave it again, and that he wouldn’t allow any harm to come to Susan or himself.

His cell phone rang, interrupting him. He felt calmer though, his affirmations working better than cigarettes or shots of Black Bush ever did. He answered the phone and it was Mark Daniels letting him know he had gotten his message the other night. “I owe you one for letting me be there when you go through that condo,” Daniels said, his voice cheery. “What time do you want to do it?”

“How’s nine this morning?”

“Works for me.”

“I’ll pick you up at the station at eight-thirty, we’ll go over the crime scene photos, then –”

“Wait a minute! What’s this shit about crime scene photos?”

“You were going to check that for me, right?”

“Yeah, well, I’m still waiting on word from my captain.”

“You should probably get his word soon,” Shannon said. “At least if you want to be there when I go through that condo.”

“What the fuck you pulling on me?”

“Nothing, except I expect this to be more of a two-way street with us. It’s not going to be just me doing you favors.”

“You just doing me favors?” Daniels sputtered out, nearly choking on his words. “How about me checking on that girl at the True Light cult for you?”

“You did talk to a girl there,” Shannon said. “If you’d actually seen her instead of only talking over an intercom we’d know whether that girl was Melissa Cousins. As it is, neither of us has a clue who you talked to.” There was dead silence on the other end, then Shannon heard some ragged breathing as if Daniels were trying hard to compose himself. Shannon asked, “Do you want me to stop by at eight-thirty or not?”

“Yes, stop by,” Daniels said before hanging up.

Shannon checked his watch. He still had fifteen minutes before he needed to stop by Devens’ office. He found a bench facing the Flatirons, sat down and tried to sort out his thoughts. The downtown mall was beginning to show more life as tourists and locals geared up for the weekend. More rollerbladers decked out in spandex skated by, as did more bicyclists, and more couples whose rubbernecking clearly marked them as being from out of town. A guy wearing a suit and tie and a rubber Dick Cheney mask strolled by with a Capuchin monkey on his shoulder. The monkey was also dressed up in a little suit and tie. Shannon guessed that the monkey was supposed to be George W. Bush. He had to admit it was clever, but not too smart. Even at that hour he could tell it was going to be another hot day. It wasn’t going to be too comfortable for either of them dressed up like that. He felt sorry for the monkey.

***

Devens peered curiously at Shannon. “What happened to you?” he asked.

“An accident.”

“An accident? Not due to our investigation?”

“No, a different matter.” Shannon paused while he rubbed his jaw and looked over at one of the Navajo storytellers in Devens’ collection. He had a weird impression that the mother and three children in the clay piece of pottery were also giving him their rapt attention. “Maybe you can help me out with something? I’d like to find whatever I can about a property here in Boulder. I’m pretty sure it was purchased within the last two years.”

“I think I can do that for you.”

Shannon gave him True Light’s address, and Devens screwed up his face as if he were trying to remember something about it. “That’s by Baseline Reservoir, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Devens nodded. “I remember it. Some religious group built a kind of fortress out there, right? I’ll check the records and let you know what I find.” He went back to his desk, got out a set of keys and tossed them to Shannon. “I danced my ass off in court to get you access to that condo,” Devens said. “Did a few Gene Kelly moves, absolutely dazzled them with my soft shoe. My basic argument being that my client—through you as a proxy—has the basic right to access his property in order to defend it. The DA tried to argue that his rights were superseded by the police’s need to be able to conduct a thorough investigation. Fortunately I had found an appellate court decision from 1986 which supported my argument. You should’ve seen the look on the DA and the police representative’s face when the judge announced his decision.” He leaned against his desk and cracked his neck using both hands in a chiropractic-type adjustment. “You were going to tell me about Wichita,” he said.

“There’s a remote chance that Linda Gibson’s parents are involved with the murders,” Shannon said. “The Wichita police are investigating it.”

Devens raised his brows at Shannon. “No way you leave it at that. I want details, my friend.”

“Sorry,” Shannon said. “This falls under what we talked about before about me not providing any dirt on the two victims. If the Gibsons were involved, we’ll know soon.”

Devens looked like he wanted to argue, but he resisted and instead told Shannon that he could respect that. He offered his hand, met the firmness of Shannon’s own grip. “Keep me informed,” Devens said somewhat curtly. “If you hit any more roadblocks that I can help with, let me know.”

Shannon nodded and told him he would. When he got back onto Pearl Street, he took out Les Hasherford’s phone number and tried to decide whether it was too early to call him. Finally, he decided somewhat glibly that if Hasherford were truly a psychic then he’d be expecting the call. He dialed the number. After eight rings Hasherford picked up. The psychic’s breathing was labored and he spoke in a soft, almost melodic voice that at times sounded more like he was humming than talking. He agreed to meet at one and gave Shannon his address in Nederland, a small mountain town about fifteen miles west of Boulder. Before hanging up, Hasherford warned Shannon that he had never tried anything like this before, but that Shannon should bring articles of clothing from both of the deceased and he would see what he could do.

Shannon checked the time, saw he was going to be late meeting Daniels, and headed back to the Boulderado Hotel to pick up his car.

Chapter 12

Shannon was five minutes late arriving at the Boulder Police Station and Daniels kept him waiting another twenty. When Daniels did appear, he carried a thick folder under his arm. His face remained expressionless and his manner frigid as he gave Shannon a dead-eyed stare.

“Anything else you care to extort from me?” he asked. Shannon ignored him and instead told him that Gibson was being investigated by the Wichita police for sexually abusing his daughters. That warmed Daniels up a bit. At least it chipped away some of the frost.

“I had those same vibes when I met them,” he said. “Both of them smelled wrong. Especially the mother. I was wondering if you’d pick up on that also. How’d you convince the Wichita police to take this on?”

“I got lucky,” Shannon said, then he gave Daniels a full rundown of his trip to Wichita, including the conversations he had with Eric Wilson and Detective Don Chase, and the later one he had with their chief.

“So they’re also looking into Gibson being involved with the murders,” Daniels said, his voice barely guttural.

“Not just him. The mother also.”

“I’ll call their captain later and put more pressure on him, make sure he doesn’t let this slide. I’ll have the DA call also.” He looked hesitantly at Shannon. “What do you think? Could they’ve done that to their daughter themselves, or paid someone to?”

“They had to’ve been worried about the sexual abuse being exposed,” Shannon said. “And the mother’s not playing with a full deck.”

“Yeah, but to kill their own daughter?”

“It’s possible. I’ve seen worse.”

“Yeah, I know, but still… what’s your gut saying?”

Shannon shook his head. “I don’t think they had anything to do with the murders. But at least if the police dig hard enough they’ll find something to send Gibson away for sexually abusing his daughters. It’s not enough, but it’s something.”

“Yeah, I agree about it not being enough,” Daniels said. “When I think about what that girl went through it makes me sick. Raped by her dad for years, then when she finally has a chance to make a life for herself, she’s butchered like a side of beef.” He sighed heavily, pushed a hand through his hair. “Alright, let me show you the crime scene photos. I just hope this doesn’t fuck up the case.”

Shannon knew there was no chance of that. As a licensed private investigator he could be shown all of their confidential police reports involving the murders without it effecting a future trial. But he also knew the reason for Daniels’ reluctance. The beating the Boulder police had been taking in public opinion was brutal and he knew the last thing they wanted was for it to be reported that they enlisted the aid of a private investigator to bail them out. As he followed Daniels through the station, the police lieutenant walked stiffly, making sure Shannon could tell how much of an imposition this was for him.

“I’m not looking to get my name in the papers,” Shannon told him.

Daniels turned back and raised an eyebrow at him.

“If I find out who’s responsible for these murders I’m deferring to you and the Boulder Police Department. I don’t care about getting my name out there, and I don’t want the publicity.”

“That’s up to you,” Daniels said gruffly, but a weight seemed to roll off his shoulders. He showed a bemused smile as he asked why Shannon didn’t want the free advertising the publicity would bring.

“I’m thinking this might be the last investigation I take on,” Shannon said.

That caught Daniels by surprise. “Because of the beating you took? It doesn’t look too bad right now.”

“Yeah, it could’ve been worse. No teeth knocked out or broken bones at least. But I have my better half to think about. Five years ago the two of us went through a lot back in Boston, and I don’t want to put her through anything more.”

Daniels considered Shannon through narrow red-rimmed eyes. After a while he shook his head. “You ain’t quitting,” he said. “This work’s in your blood.”

Shannon laughed at that. “You’re the second cop the past week who’s told me that. Fuck, I’ll get a transfusion if I have to.”

“Yeah, I doubt that would do any good.” Daniels opened the door to an interrogation room and waited for Shannon to lead the way in. After Shannon took a seat at the table, Daniels removed a stack of photos from the folder he was carrying and tossed them onto the table.

The photos showed the full savagery of the murders. Several taken from different angles showed Linda Gibson lying naked face down in the living room with the back of her head bashed in and red dots of blood spotting her body like freckles. A trail of blood smudges could be seen leading from her body to the bedroom. From the frontal pictures taken at the morgue, the left side of her face had been caved in and her eye knocked out of its socket. The photos of Taylor Carver were worse, his head nothing more than a bloody pulp. His body lay in a fetal position inside the bedroom about five feet from the door. He was also naked, his skin a pale bluish white in contrast to the red blood streaks across his body. Splatters of blood speckled the bedroom walls and small bone fragments littered the floor. A sheet lay crumpled on the floor next to Carver’s body. It looked as if it had been dipped in red paint.

Shannon looked away from the photos, asked, “Was only Carver’s blood found in the bedroom?”

“Nope. We found both of theirs on the walls and carpet. Mostly only her blood in the hallway and living room, but we did find some drops of his.”

“Any blood from a third party?”

Daniels shook his head.

“What about her eye?”

“What about it?”

Holding his annoyance in check, he asked whether it had been found.

Daniels showed a grim smile. “The perps didn’t take it as a trophy, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was found under the bed.”

Shannon looked again at the photos taken from inside the bedroom. Other than Carver’s dead body and the gore splattered across the carpeting and walls, the room looked untouched. A large flat panel TV could be seen hanging opposite the bed, along with what looked like expensive stereo equipment next to it. “Anything stolen from the apartment?” he asked.

“Not that we can tell.”

“Do you mind showing me the medical examiner’s report?”

Daniels hesitated for a moment, but fished the report out of the folder and handed it to Shannon. He read through it quickly. Carver had been struck over thirty times with a blunt instrument, at least ten times in the head, the rest along his torso. Linda was hit once on the left side of her face with enough force to kill her, and four times on the back of her skull.

“So what’s your theory?” Daniels asked, his face once again a hard granite mask.

“A baseball bat was used?”

Reluctantly, Daniels nodded.

“Did you find it?”

“Nope. Probably in a landfill somewhere. Assuming only one bat was used.”

Shannon’s expression was impassive as he again studied the photos of Taylor Carver lying in a fetal position and Linda Gibson face down with her arms stretched out by her side.

“One person did this,” he said. “The killer attacked Carver first. Linda probably tried to stop him and he struck her near fatally on the side of the face. Must’ve thought he either knocked her out or killed her and went back to beating Carver. At some point she crawled away, and when he realized she was missing he found her halfway across the living room floor and finished her off with those four blows to the back of her head. He then went back to the bedroom and used the sheet to wipe the blood off his bat.”

“It could’ve been that way,” Daniels admitted. “Also could’ve been more than one killer.”

“Any indication that Linda was sexually assaulted? Or Carver, for that matter?”

Daniels made a face. “No indication with Carver. That’s a hard question to answer about Gibson. It appears they were interrupted in the middle of intercourse. There was a lot of bruising around her vaginal area, but it could’ve been caused by Carver. The only semen found on her came from him. There were no bruises on her wrists or ankles to suggest she was forcefully restrained.”

“While it’s possible more than one person was involved, I’d bet money against it. This looks like pure blind rage. Someone broke in there to get Carver, and Linda had the bad luck of being there with him. If there were two or more people involved, whoever followed Linda when she crawled out of the bedroom would have to be one sadistic cold-hearted sonofabitch to let her go on as long as she did, and I don’t see any evidence that there was an intention to torture either of them. This was brutal, but it was more to kill than to inflict pain.”

Daniels stifled a yawn, shook his head. “Yeah, well, I’m not convinced of that either,” he said. “It could’ve been as you said. It could’ve also been a couple of pervs trying to make it look like something it wasn’t. And who the fuck knows, this could still turn out to be nothing more than a thrill kill. Or maybe someone sending a message. As far as I’m concerned, until I get more information anything’s possible.”

“About someone sending a message, if you found a drug connection then I’d believe it, but without it, what’s the message?”

Daniels stared blankly at Shannon, then muttered under his breath asking how the fuck would he know. He abruptly collected the photos and shoved them back in his folder. He didn’t seem in any mood to talk as they made their way out of the interrogation room and through the station, and Shannon was too deep in his own thoughts to bother trying. They ended up driving separately to the dead students’ condo, Shannon in his late model Chevy Corsica, Daniels in his city issued Buick Century. Different scenarios buzzed through Shannon’s mind as he drove, and while he couldn’t disagree with Daniels’ assertion that it could’ve been some other way than what Shannon had described, none of the other scenarios made sense to him. His gut kept telling him that the murders were committed by a single person. That the person had a vendetta against Carver, and Gibson was killed only because she had been caught in the crossfire. He thought about Eli’s observation from a few days ago that at some level he knew the murders were committed by a single person. He would have to try to figure out what his subconscious had picked up on.

Daniels still wasn’t speaking as they parked and made their way to the condo. He stood grinding his teeth, watching while Shannon unlocked the deadbolt and removed the padlock from the door. Stepping inside, Shannon saw that the trail of the red smudges along the living room carpet were in fact handprints. From the blood splattering, he guessed that the killer had stood to the side of Linda Gibson when he smashed her skull in. He looked away from the blood-stained carpeting and surveyed the rest of the room. There was a matching cream colored leather sofa and loveseat not too far away from where Linda had been killed, both showing a spray of red dots. The book case, end tables and dining room table in the room were all walnut and expensive looking.

“Higher end furniture than I’d expect from college students,” Shannon said.

“Yeah, nicer stuff than I have in my own home,” Daniels agreed. “I checked the money transfers and deposits that were made to Linda’s bank account. Nothing unusual, at least nothing to explain this.” He paused, rubbing a thick hand across his jaw. “Maybe her parents were paying her cash under the table to keep quiet about the sexual abuse,” he offered without much conviction.

Shannon scanned the book case. It was filled with volumes by Kafka, Shaw, Nietzche, Camus and Sartre. He picked up a copy of
Being and Nothingness
by Sartre and flipped through it and found Carver’s name scribbled on an inside page before putting it back on the shelf.

“Anything show up when you looked at Carver’s bank account?”

“Nothing. None of this stuff was bought with credit cards, at least not with any cards they had on them.”

“Linda use one of her parents’ cards?”

“She didn’t have any in her pocketbook.” He scowled as he glared at the blood stains on the carpet. “I’ll put a call in and try to find out. I might have to subpoena their credit card records.”

Shannon shrugged his shoulders. “If they did pay cash for all this stuff and for what was in Carver’s mom’s home…”

“Yeah, I know,” Daniels said. “Points to drugs. I’m telling you, we found nothing tying them to drug activity.”

“Then how’d they get all this money? Either of them have a job outside of Carver’s teacher’s assistants position?”

“Not that we’ve been able to find.” He half-laughed, half-scowled. “Maybe they robbed a bank or something.”

Daniels looked like he wanted to punch someone. Not necessarily Shannon, but someone. At that moment he could’ve easily been mistaken for his old partner, Joe DiGrazia. The thought of that brought a slight smile to Shannon.

“What the fuck’s so funny?” Daniels demanded.

“Nothing. I’m going to check the rest of the apartment.”

Shannon followed the blood trail to the bedroom with Daniels close at his heel. As with the living room, the gore had been cleaned up, but the blood stains on the carpeting, along with the splattering on the walls and furniture, were left alone. Carver must’ve bled out most of what he had in him. The stain where his body had been found ran almost four feet, and had saturated the carpet to the point where after three months it still gave the impression that it would feel damp to the touch. Shannon scanned the blood patterns on the walls and furniture and tried to visualize where Carver and the killer were standing when the attack happened. There was a light spray of blood halfway up the wall to his left, the rest closer to the baseboards and the bottom sections of the furniture. The first blow must’ve sent Carver to the ground.

He moved away from the blood stain. Opposite the bed was the flat panel TV he had seen in the crime scene photos. It looked expensive, as did the stereo components underneath it. Speakers were mounted close to the ceiling in each corner of the room and two additional ones on opposite sides of the TV set. The brand name was something German that he had never heard of. Like everything else in the room they looked expensive, and he would’ve given odds that they were worth more than his car. The CD collection was mostly heavy metal and grunge rock. He opened the CD player and saw that the last thing they were listening to was Nirvana.