Blown Away (7 page)

Chicago
November 1967

“These are dice, honey,” Gerald Thompson said, shaking his fire-engine hair out of his eyes. “We roll them to see how many spaces we move our game pieces.” He handed the ivory-colored cubes to Emily, who squealed happily. Alexandra Thompson laughed and took them away before her two-year-old decided they were gum balls. Emily's pink cheeks blew up like little basketballs, followed by caterwauling and bouncing around in her high chair.

“Princess hates to lose,” Gerald said. “She was born to play games.”

“Good thing in this family,” Alexandra said, moving his pewter race car seven spaces while he cheered Emily with funny faces. “Speaking of losing, you just landed on Boardwalk.” She slapped her hands to her cheeks in fake astonishment. “And it contains two of my hotels.”

“Gloat while you can, woman,” Gerald grumbled, forking over half his Monopoly dollars. “I've got four on Park Place. Land there and you're bankrupt.”

“What a terrible example to set for our precious girl, thinking her mother can't handle money,” Alexandra replied, licking a finger and slowly running it down her husband's cheek. “Perhaps you'd take my IOU instead?”

Gerald arched an eyebrow. “Sure. If you provide sufficient collateral.”

Alexandra smiled, rubbing her bare toes on his. “I've got plenty of assets for you to examine. Just as soon as Emily falls asleep—”

Gerald jumped to his feet and snatched his daughter. “Bedtime!” he announced to the startled child, rushing her to the pink-and-blue nursery and tucking her in with favorite doll and blanky. “The Three Little Pigs kicked the Big Bad Wolf's ass and lived happily ever after,” he said. “The End.” He heard Alexandra laugh from the master bedroom. He never tired of that tinkling sound. “Sorry the story isn't longer, Princess,” he whispered, kissing her cheeks and forehead, then turning on her Donald Duck night-light. “But your mama needs some very personal banking.”

Monday, 8
P.M
.
Fifty-eight hours till Emily's birthday

The patrol proved uneventful, and Emily headed home. She started thinking of Jack, Mama, and Daddy on the way, and became so emotional she pulled over twice to sob. The SWAT cop following her didn't jump out the second time to check.

The emotions also triggered an inexplicable longing to play her board games. So she locked the car in her garage, checked in with the driveway team, and thanked her understanding escort. She showered and changed, gobbled down some leftover deep-dish pizza, then descended the padded stairs to her cold, dry basement, debating whether she really wanted to open the boxes again after so many years.

“Yes,” she said to no one there.

She lifted the blanket covering them and flapped off ten years of dust. She cleared her parents' old game table of detergent and dryer sheets, then picked up the Monopoly box, thrilling at the familiar rattle of parts. She walked it to the table, unfolded the game board, and centered it on the green felt Daddy glued to the tabletop so many years ago. She withdrew property cards, dice, and pewter-colored game pieces from their cardboard cradles, arrayed the ersatz money, doled out property from B&O to Boardwalk, set out little green houses and larger red hotels.

“Whoops! A job worth doing is worth doing well!” she said, turning back to the stairs. Daddy liked to slip such life lessons into playtime, certain his little Princess wouldn't pick up on his clever moral turnips. She saw through it but never let on. Her girlfriends thought his lessons were sweet and wanted to hear what he came up with each week.

She returned with a soup spoon and carton of French vanilla ice cream. She pulled a card chair to the table, kicked off her shoes, engaged her rich imagination, and began.

“What shall we play today?” Emily asked, carefully studying Mama's narrow face. A bit more drawn than yesterday. Insomnia? Bedsores? Back spasms from the merciless tag team of bed and wheelchair? She'd talk to the charge nurse, see what she thought. Then arrange for the hairstylist to visit. Emily tripled the woman's usual fee to do them both in Mama's nursing home room. Their shared hour of snipping and curlers let them both escape to their giggly days at the bathroom sink of the family bungalow. “Operation? Do you want to play Operation?”

Blink-blink.

“No, huh? How about I Spy?”

Blink-blink.

“Clue?”

Blink-blink.

“Timebomb?”

Blink.

“Maybe next time,” Emily said, grinning. As physical games were behind Mama forever, she was pleased to see her play along with the dark humor. “Monopoly?”

Long pause.

Blink…

Yes…

Emily found herself blinking tears as she rolled in the warm memory. She loved games, having learned in diapers the addictive joy of bouncing dice and shuffling cards. Not from brothers or sisters, as she was an only child, but from her parents. Every Saturday night they crowded around the wobbly game table to argue about rules, form alliances, plot strategies, and eat French vanilla. She adored the ritual. When Mama asked how she wanted to celebrate her tenth birthday—Pony ride? Bowling? Pizza?—she'd squealed, “Game party!” She pecked out the invitations on the family typewriter, colored them with her Crayolas—the cool sixty-four pack with built-in sharpener—pasted on construction-paper cakes and candles, and delivered them at school the next day. Three dozen classmates arrived two Saturdays later and spent her birthday playing Operation, Monopoly, Duck Duck Goose, Boggle, Clue, Chutes and Ladders, I Spy, and Timebomb. But the magic of game playing came to a horrifying end just ten years later.

“Emily?” the caller had said.

“Speaking,” Emily shouted over the high-volume Black Sabbath, impatient to go out. She was finishing her junior year at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and friends were taking her out for her twentieth birthday.

“It's Goldie Abrams. Your parents' next-door neighbor.”

“Oh right!” Emily said, kicking the dorm room door shut. Mrs. Abrams had been her favorite neighbor when she was growing up. At the Sweet Sixteen party Emily's parents threw, the regally dressed woman had told the wide-eyed teen that “since you're a woman now, call me Goldie instead of Mrs. Abrams.” Emily had always cherished that. “How are you, Goldie?”

“Can you come home? Right now?”

Emily clutched the phone, eyes widening. “Why?”

“They…there's been an accident. Your folks. Police are here. You need to come home.”

Emily made the two-hour drive in eighty-six minutes, abandoning her thirdhand Mustang at a fire hydrant. Goldie intercepted her. “Your father so missed you being home for this milestone birthday,” she said, “that he rounded up the neighbors for an impromptu party.” Mama would take home movies so when Emily came home for the summer, she could see everyone eating, waving, and singing “Happy Birthday!” They hung streamers in the family room, strolled to the corner store for extra film and French vanilla ice cream. They invited the Polish owner to stop by after closing—he agreed happily—then headed back. A pickup truck jumped the curb right in front of the bungalow, drove over them, and took off. “I heard screams and ran outside,” Goldie choked. “The streetlight's out, and I couldn't get the license. No one did. Mr. Czerwinski chased him but couldn't catch up.” She shuddered. “I'm so sorry to have to tell you, darling, but your father's dead. Mama's in the hospital. We'll take you right now….”

The doctors pronounced Mama “lucky.” Emily found the word obscene. With a crushed spine, Mama couldn't walk or talk, move head or limb, scratch her feet, or lick her thumb. She could breathe, blink, take nutrition through one tube and release it out another. That was as good as it would get.

Emily buried Daddy three days later—Mama couldn't attend her own husband's funeral—then welded rebar around her heart so she could attend to Mama's needs without mushing out. She moved home and talked Northern Illinois University into accepting her credits. She spent her senior year commuting to DeKalb—an hour west of Chicago via the same Interstate 88 that ran through Naperville—and taking care of Mama. First at the hospital, then at the nursing home when the insurance company decided she'd never get any better.

From seven to nine every night, they discussed the news of the day—Mama's brain was unaffected, she just couldn't move or speak—decided Daddy could eat as much French vanilla as he liked without getting fat, otherwise what's a heaven for, and played a game from the Thompson Family Game and Ice Cream Festival, Mama blinking instructions and Emily moving game pieces. One blink meant yes, two blinks no. Mama had tried “semaphoring”—five blinks for
E
, thirteen for
M
, nine for
I
, and so on—but her eyelid muscles went spastic around
G
. So daughter asked yes-and-no questions, and mother answered one blink or two. When Alexandra Thompson's heart gave out, two weeks short of her daughter's graduation, Emily packed the games away for what she assumed would be forever.

Then she married Jack and moved to his hometown, Naperville, in the western suburbs. She watched the storage carton segue from cellar to basement and found herself longing to at least see the games again. She wouldn't play—too many dreadful memories in those game pieces—but the colorful boxes perked up her spirits on lousy days. Jack built a shelf large enough to display the games, and she spread them out so she could eye them when doing laundry. When Jack died, she covered them with a tattered old army blanket and never looked again.

Till tonight.

She reengaged her imagination and patted Mama's hair into place. “Which game piece do you want?” she asked, feeling a little ridiculous talking to thin air. The muse, however, demanded it. “The Scottish terrier?”

Blink.

Yes.

Emily set Mama's favorite game piece on GO—“collect $200.00 salary as you pass”—and picked up her own favorite, a cowboy riding a bucking horse. She eased into the chair, yipping when her back touched the cold brown metal. She doled out $1,500 in Monopoly money, rolled snake eyes for herself and a six for Mama. “You always win the first toss,” she complained. She thought she saw Mama smile. But that was impossible, as this entire conversation was ersatz. Sighing, she nibbled some French vanilla, put the carton on the dryer, and tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tapped the Scottie dog to Oriental Avenue. “One hundred dollars,” she announced. “Want to buy it?”

Blink.

Emily paid the bank, slid the baby-blue card to Mama's side, rolled herself a twelve. Electric Company, a $150 utility. She laid her money down….

“You don't have to worry, you know,” Emily said an hour later as she galloped toward Free Parking. “We'll get this Unsub long before he hurts me.” She froze above New York Avenue. “Oh my God,” she whispered as Mama vanished. “That's it!” Her knee caught the table as she leapt, raining game pieces, hotels, and Chance cards. She sprinted for the phone, pacing as it rang. Finally, she heard, “This is Branch.”

“I know what the message is!” Emily shouted. “I know!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The crime scenes!” she answered. “I know what the killer's telling us! Come over and—”

“Slow down,” Branch interrupted. “Compose your thoughts.”

Emily took a deep breath. “The Unsub left us messages. At the cemetery and the house. I know what they mean. I can't explain over the phone. You've gotta see it.”

A chair leg scraped. “All right. I'll shake loose for awhile.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Should I call Marty, have him meet us? This involves Lucy, too.”

“Right here, Ossifer,” Benedetti said, cutting in with an affectionate twist on “Officer.” “Or should I say ‘defective' now that you've been promoted?”

“Hi,” Emily said, startled. “What are you doing on Branch's phone?”

“We're in his office, writing case notes. I heard it was you and conferenced in.”

“Can you come over?”

“We're leaving now.”

“Terrific,” Emily said.

“You want Rayford to tag along? I'd like to hear that goat thing again—”

“See you in fifteen, Commander,” she said. She uprighted the table, recentered the Monopoly board, and grouped the six pewter game pieces inside Community Chest. She piled the property cards on Go To Jail, picked houses off the concrete floor, and rinsed the hotel that had landed in the ice cream. She walked to the game shelf and lifted a much smaller box, put it on the table next to the Monopoly board, then sagged against the clothes dryer, spent.

Monday, 9
P.M
.
Fifty-seven hours till Emily's birthday

The ringing phone startled Emily from her doze. She glanced at her watch—twenty minutes since she'd telephoned. It took six to drive here with lights and siren, twelve without.
Where are you?
she wondered, picking up the ivory handset.

“Where are you, Emily?” Branch demanded. “We've been knocking for a couple minutes. The driveway guys are ready to kick the door.”

Emily groaned, slapped her head. “I didn't hear you. I fell asleep in the basement. Be right up.”

“So Rip Van Winkle isn't a fable,” Benedetti said, clomping inside.

Emily looked away, embarrassed. “I'll put on coffee.”

“No time,” Branch said. His face edges were soft with weariness. “Half of patrol called in sick. We're still trying to cover the midnight shift. Show us what you've got.”

Emily led them downstairs, held up the smaller box. “This is it.”

“Is what?” Branch asked.

“Duck Duck Goose,” Emily said, rattling it. “The board game.” She looked for a big “aha!” but saw only “huh?”

“I don't get it,” Branch said.

“It's a board game,” she repeated, feeling foolish. “And so is…uh…well…”

“Spit it out already,” Benedetti groaned.

“So are the murders.”

Branch's eyebrows jumped.

“Remember that shock I had under the Porsche?” Emily continued, words spilling fast now. “When I saw Jack's name on the tombstone? The harder I tried to figure it out, the worse it…ow!” She kicked the stray red hotel toward the water heater, mentally cursing the pain in her foot. “Getting away from it these last few hours let my mind sort things out. Those crime scenes were staged all right, Branch. The killer set them up as games.”

Branch looked at her doubtfully.

Emily refused to retreat. “If you don't think I can support my theory, gentlemen, you're wrong.”

“Good,” Branch said. “I'd hate to be here for nothing.” He drummed his fingers on his chest, pointed to the smaller box. “If I understand what you're saying, this Duck Duck Goose game represents the decapitated birds on the Riverwalk.”

“Along with the heads in my mailbox, right,” Emily said. She grabbed the pewter tokens from the Monopoly board. “And these represent Lucille Crawford's murder.”

“The game pieces?” Benedetti said.

Emily nodded. “My Monopoly game has six of them. Boot. Wheelbarrow. Race car. Flatiron. Cowboy riding a horse. And a dog.” Anger fizzed as she recalled the Scottie's squashed face. “Each represents a separate part of Lucy's murder scene.”

Branch unfolded a chair. “The race car represents the wrecked Porsche? That sort of thing?”

Emily nodded, handing him the car. Branch remarked that both game piece and Porsche were the same shade of silver, handed it to Benedetti. “What's next?” he asked.

“The boot,” she said, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. “This is like the one we found in the weeds.”

Branch stroked his chin. “We never did come up with a good explanation for that, did we, Marty?”

“We knew the boot wasn't Lucy's because she wore shoes,” Benedetti agreed, hopping up on the dryer. His weight made the sheet metal boom. “Having no bootlace was even more puzzling.”

Emily cocked her head.

“The boot didn't have one, remember?” Benedetti said. “Nobody disposes of a boot but keeps the lace. It's got to mean something—”

“It does!” Emily said, waving her game piece. “This doesn't have one, either!” She gave it to Benedetti. “The rest is identical too—pull-up loop in back, rounded toe, horizontal treads.”

“Instead of the more common lugged sole,” Branch said, his expression interested. “OK, race car and boot make two matching points. What's the third?”

“The dead puppy,” Benedetti ventured. “It was relatively fresh, wasn't it? Not the usual dried-out roadkill?”

Emily nodded, tossed the piece at her boss. “Look carefully at the breed.”

“It's a Scottish terrier. Just like our dead pooch!” Branch noted. He fingered the paintbrush face, handed it to Benedetti. “That's three. What about the wheelbarrow?”

Emily wobbled her hand to indicate this is a stretch. “The Porsche was stolen. Another way of putting that is—”

Benedetti snapped his fingers, craggy face lighting up with understanding. “What I said back at the cemetery.
Wheels borrowed
. Wheelbarrow!”

“Exactly.”

“Wheels borrowed, wheelbarrow,” Branch repeated. “A little iffy. Marty?”

“I buy it.”

“Me, too. What's left?”

“Flatiron,” Benedetti said, surveying the table from his perch.

“And the horse,” Emily sighed, bouncing them in her cupped hand. “I know these fit, but I can't say how. A flatiron. A cowboy on a horse. Flatiron, cowboy riding a horse. Flatiron, cowboy, horse—”

“Iron horse,” a familiar voice said from the staircase.

Emily jumped, whirling toward the short blue apparition.

“You left the front door ajar,” Cross said. “You need to be careful with that.”

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear this cockamamie idea of yours.”

Emily flushed. “It's not cockamamie,” she said. “I just can't prove it yet.”

Cross regarded her, then shifted his gaze to Branch. “I worked out the personnel changes. See if they make sense to you.” He handed over a sheaf of papers. “Hello, Marty. How's it going?”

“Shit, Ken, I think I know how Custer felt with all those Indians,” Benedetti said. “What's that about an iron horse?”

Cross leaned against the bumpy concrete wall, still perfectly uniformed but looking even blearier than Branch. “Iron horse. It's an archaic term for a railroad.”

“The EJ&E tracks!” Emily said.

“Yes. Flatiron plus horse equals iron horse. Accounting for your last two game pieces.”

Branch blew out his breath. “Which also means the Unsub is tying his murders to Emily's games specifically.”

“How do we know they're hers?” Cross asked. “Why not just games in general?”

Branch waved at the table. “The Monopoly set my kids play with at home contains nine game pieces. These six plus a thimble, a top hat, and a bag of money.”

Emily scratched her head. “I dropped those down a heating vent when I was a kid. So my folks and I always played with six game pieces. The Unsub has to be using my games.”

Cross nodded, convinced. “How many games do you have, Detective?”

“Eight,” Emily said, pointing to the shelf. “Operation, Monopoly, Duck Duck Goose, Boggle, Clue, Chutes and Ladders, I Spy, and Timebomb.”

“We're only on two,” Benedetti said. “There's a lot more blood coming our way.”

Branch looked even more glum. “I'll tell CSI to dust for prints, see if he touched anything.”

“Sure he did. And I've got a bridge to sell you,” Benedetti snorted. “Any idea how this bozo knew the games were in the basement?”

Emily shook her head. “I always lock the house when I leave. I've never been burglarized.”

“Maybe you leave a window open,” Benedetti suggested. “Upstairs. Those big trees around your house, he could have climbed up while you were at work.”

She considered that. “I do leave my bedroom window cracked year-round. I like fresh air. As for finding evidence the Unsub was here, though, my cleaning lady is very thorough.”

“Do you use a service?” Benedetti asked.

“No. One woman. She has a key. I've used her for years. I trust her.”

Branch scribbled notes. “Maybe she's got helpers you don't know about. Or saw something that'll give us a lead. I'll kick her to the top of the interview list.”

Emily turned to Benedetti. “Speaking of evidence, there's no way that dog died accidentally.”

“I'll get it autopsied,” Benedetti agreed. “The asshole probably snapped her neck and left her for us to find. Can't wait to return the favor.”

They traded ideas for a few minutes, and then Cross caught Emily's eye. “Detective, you've had a long, draining day. But it'll be impossible to cover the midnight shift without you. Would you volunteer—”

“Jesus Christ, Ken!” Benedetti sputtered, jumping off the dryer. “You think that's smart? Sending Emily out with that bastard on the loose?”

Cross looked at him. “I don't like it, either. But there's 140,000 citizens to protect and no officers to—”

“Let me send some deputies to fill—”

“Already asked the sheriff, but the flu's affecting your people, too.”

“Call the goddamn State Police—”

“I can use the overtime, Chief,” Emily interrupted, touched at Marty's concern, but not about to let the Unsub dictate the terms of her existence. She looked at Branch, who was watching the interplay with faint amusement. “I'll be safe enough for tonight, don't you think?”

Branch thought about it, nodded. “Serial killers are obsessed with foreplay. He'll let the suspense build a few days before delivering the next game.”

“Then I'll see you at midnight, Chief.”

Cross looked relieved, then reapplied his poker face. “Thank you, Detective. I'll show myself out.” He headed up the stairs.

“Goddamn you, Halfass,” Benedetti muttered. “Putting Emily in harm's way like it's nothing.”

Branch patted his shoulder. “You've done it yourself, pal. The public's welfare comes first.”

“Yeah. But I don't have to like it.” Benedetti stretched. “You warned everyone to keep this police-card connection to themselves, right?”

“Yeah,” Branch said. “But it's already the buzz at the station. It'll make TV the first time a reporter buys his favorite cop a drink.” His expression turned conspiratorial. “Only four of us know about these games, however. Any objection to keeping it that way?”

“Fine by me,” Benedetti said. “Just be careful. The politicians will scalp you if they find out you kept them out of the loop.”

Branch snorted. “Speaking of politicians, I need to hit the john.”

“Meet you at the car.”

Emily turned to Benedetti when they reached the driveway. “I appreciate your concern for my safety, Commander,” she said, with extra emphasis on his rank. “But I'm perfectly capable of deciding whether to work an extra shift.”

Benedetti winced. “I wasn't being sexist, Emily.”

“Yes, you were.”

He shook his head. “You probably see it that way. But it's more that I like you and don't want to see any harm come to you unnecessarily.”

Emily considered that. “If harm becomes necessary, though?”

“Hey, take the bullet with my blessings,” he insisted. “Absolutely! No problem!”

She laughed. “In that case, I'm glad you said what you did…Marty.”

Benedetti grinned. “As long as I'm around, Ossifer, you're never gonna wind up like that deer. See you on the street.”

Branch reappeared and they sped away. Emily watched till their taillights disappeared, then headed inside to prepare for the long night ahead.