Sand City Murders (42 page)

“I remember you saying that.”

“It is by no means a certainty however. I may have made many small jumps, but who can say? It is all about awareness.”

“Well, if anyone can say, it would be you. You are aware, right?”

“Not always, a small jump, or change in a timeline will not necessarily manifest itself immediately. It may take hours or days to realize something else has rippled through a particular timeline.” Fynn smiled. “Where one timeline ends and another begins is impossible to say. It’s not like a switch that turns on or off.”

The jetty seemed to be submerging more quickly than I anticipated. Some of the boulders were now awash by incoming waves. “The tide is coming in faster than I thought. We’d better head back.”

“I’d like to make it to the very end, to that blinking light.” Fynn pointed.

“The buoy? It shouldn’t be underwater like that, not yet anyhow... better go back.”

“Surely you’re not going to let an old man like me beat you to the end, eh?” Fynn grinned and leapt to the next rock with unexpected prowess. It was wet but his bare feet held firm. A smile spread across my face and I leapt beside him. But Fynn was gone as I landed, clamoring to another boulder further out. A wave hit with a big slap against the rocks and sent a splash some ten feet in the air. I was nearly covered by a wall of water. We were going to get soaked. Fynn started laughing, so did I. He jumped again and I followed. Suddenly being wet didn’t matter in the least. I made it to the end of the jetty before Fynn and touched the buoy; he was only a few seconds behind me though. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he let me win on purpose.

I promised to pick up Fynn early the next morning from his hotel. He was most insistent on talking to Lorraine, or Elaine again. Apparently there was something in her story that didn’t sit well with him. It was possible that Elaine had actually made a deal with Mortimer… a way to save her own skin but at the sacrifice of her sister. I was still trying to figure out if it was Elaine or Lorraine. I couldn’t completely accept that Fynn was right about this, despite the earrings.

chapter 27

dead ringers

I arrived at the Blue Dunes Hotel early, probably just before eight and we set off to Garysville again. Fynn and I both had a feeling of dread. Elaine or Lorraine was not the easiest person to talk to. I pulled into the sandy driveway slowly, my tires crunched against shells and pebbles. We eased up to the cluster of tiny one room shacks. The double cottage in the back was all boarded up, the garage door was closed too. I had a bad feeling that something was amiss. Fynn probably saw it on my expression.

“What’s wrong, Patrick?”

“Something… it doesn’t look the same. It doesn’t look right.” I quickly got out and checked the doors and windows. Everything was locked up tight. “I’ll try calling.” I had her number on my cell. It started ringing. A man’s voice picked up. I recognized it immediately. It was Durbin.

“What are you doing on this phone?” I asked.

“I should ask the same question,” he answered. “You just called a dead woman’s phone.”

“What?”

“Is the chief inspector with you?”

“Who, Fynn?”

“No, Arantez.”

I was glad to hear some sarcasm there and handed my phone to Fynn.

“Yes… Detective Durbin, how are—” He cut himself short to listen. “Yes… yes… alright. Immediately.”

“What?” I asked.

“To your Spooky Park. There’s been another murder.”

“What?” I ran around to the driver’s side, hopped in and took off out of the driveway. “What did Durbin say?”

“Another woman has been killed. He’s waiting for us at the scene.”

“Who?”

“I fear the worst.”

“But how?”

“I know nothing more yet.”

“It’s her… it’s Lorraine, isn’t it?”

“It cannot be Lorraine.” Fynn glanced over at me. “I believe it is Elaine.”

“Did you do this?”

“Do what?” Fynn eyed me. “You’re not saying I killed someone again?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Did you change the timeline? When you jumped out of Partners… or maybe all that hopping around on the jetty?” I asked, somewhat alarmed.

“No, impossible. I only traveled forward.”

“What do you mean?”

“I did not back-jump. I did nothing to change the present.”

“So, it’s this Mortimer guy again?”

“I don’t think it has to do with me traveling.”

There was no fast way back to the Village anymore. Traffic was crazy bad already. I chose Route 16A and hoped to catch a back road to the Village. It took us almost half an hour. We pulled into a scene of considerable confusion. There were police cars, ambulances and even a fire truck; lots of flashing lights and radio chatter, and quite a few gawking tourists. A uniform stopped us at the main road that had been barricaded. I rolled down my window.

“Hey Jardel… who’s this guy with you?”

I stared at Officer Allen, slightly puzzled. “It’s Inspector Fynn.”

Allen peered into the car. “Oh sorry, didn’t recognize you, sir. Go on through. Park over there on the left.”

I pulled up at the bottom of the hill, and up to Sand City’s only phone booth, the one painted blue, just at the Village Green. A slate path circled the whole park, and a few others led up the hill the main lawn. Why it was named Spooky Park is still something of a controversy. It’s official name is Central Park, as it stood more or less in the center of the Village. The actual name
Spooky
came from two dubious sources: its close proximity to a large and ancient cemetery, or to the infamous raccoon that prowled there, or did in the 1960s. Apparently he lived in an old elm tree all those years ago and would stalk the grounds every night, scaring anyone he’d run across. The locals named him Spooky. And any Raccoon that took up the same residence was also so named. I think I did a story on it once…

Durbin greeted us at the police tape. “Jardel, Inspector Fynn,” he acknowledged our arrival grimly and led us into the park. There were crime unit techs swarming all over the place, probably called in from the county or the state. They were unpacking equipment and carrying steel boxes filled with bags and tags, swabs, masks and gloves, and little numbered yellow markers. There was no way Durbin could not ask for help after so many killings.

I’m not sure I could make sense of what I was seeing at first. We walked by some high hedges and came upon the Egg, Lorraine Luis’ sculpture. It was about eight or nine feet in diameter, and about five feet high, rounded and roughly oblong, and along the top I saw a woman’s body draped across rather artfully. Clearly, she had been posed. She was on her back. Her head was tilted to one side facing away from us, her neck arched severely, and one leg was propped up with a bent knee. Her other leg was crossed underneath, straight, and it tapered to her foot en pointe, just like a ballerina’s. One of her arms dangled towards the lawn with an open palm, the other was draped across her forehead. She was barefoot as well. We walked closer. I could see she was dressed in a white gauss skirt, maybe thigh-length, and a white midriff top. It seemed to have a red speckled pattern on one side. For the time she was frozen in this pose.

Durbin broke the silence: “Spotted this morning, early... Annabel from the library... She called in the nine-one-one… paramedics at first…”

“How did she die?” I asked.

“The preliminary says blunt force trauma, somebody hit her hard, and more than once.”

“She’s barefoot,” I commented. “Just like her sister…”

“What the hell are you talking about, Jardel?”

“Like the girl in Wright’s Park.”

“Wright’s Park? Where?”

I glanced at Durbin. He didn’t seem to understand what I was saying. “The Jane Doe at Sunset Park.”

“Oh her… yeah, only this ain’t no
girl
.”

We walked up to the body and he showed me her face. It was an older woman, closer to sixty than twenty. I recognized her as Lorraine.

“She’s different than the others. A different MO.”

“The others?” I asked.

“Your freaking
Barefoot Killer
,” Durbin said with no amount of pleasure.

I had a hard time believing that
Barefoot Killer
actually flew as a headline. I couldn’t imagine Eleanor ever agreeing to it. “Was the killer barefoot?” she’d doubtless ask.

“Just like the other victims though… the shoes are over here,” Durbin said.

“The shoes?”

“Yeah, a pair of women’s high heels, like at the first two crime scenes… and at the swamp.”

I glanced over at Fynn. He looked back, equally perplexed. Durbin led us over to a yellow marker. A pair of women’s silver high heels had been placed carefully together on the grass.

“Different color this time.”

“You mean different than Lucinda?”

“Yeah… and not her shoes… we checked. These are the same size too... seven and a half.”

“Weird.”

“This one we got an ID for. Found her handbag, wallet, cell phone, cash, cards, all untouched,” Durbin said. “Lorraine Luis, Garysville, age fifty-seven. I already checked the DMV records. There’s no doubt it’s her.” He paused to glance at me. “Oh yeah, you going to explain to me why you called this woman’s phone before?”

“I know her,” I said.

“You know her?”

“I did an interview last week… this is hers.”

“What’s hers?”

“The sculpture. She made it back in the mid seventies.”

“No shit?” Durbin remarked. “That might be something.”

“It seems like the killer is making a statement,” Fynn commented. He had said nothing up till now. I looked over at him and I’m sure he looked confused. “It is a statement of anger, I would suppose… Placing her on the very sculpture that she created.” Fynn made a face. “There are other differences, notably, this victim is easily identified, the other’s have not been.”

A thin man came jogging up the hill, seemingly out of nowhere and shook my hand. “Hey Patrick, just wanted to say thanks.”

“Sure… for what?”
Did I know this guy?

“For filling in when I was on vacation. I’m gone for two weeks and sure enough two murders…”

I looked over at Durbin.

“Patrick, this is Nick Powell, our forensic photographer.”

“Oh right, nice to meet you.”

“Well, I guess I owe you one... or two… I’ll put in a good word to the chief.”

“The chief?”

“Arantez.” Powell gave me a quick smile and headed off down the hill. “I’m going to see him now.”

“Still waiting on Hackney?” I asked Durbin.

“Who?”

“The coroner.”

“No, he’s disappeared… on vacation, I guess… or maybe he’s finally retired. County’s sending in somebody else. Probably stuck in traffic.”

“So, Inspector Fynn, what does our expert say about this one?” Durbin asked.

“Very little I’m afraid. I’m quite perplexed by this murder.”

“It doesn’t fit the pattern, does it?”

“No… yet there was something in the other cases… One other older woman found killed in my previous investigation. So, perhaps, this may be related. It may be part of the killer’s routine. Several young girls and then an older woman...”

“Sick shit.”

“A question, if I may, Detective Durbin.”

“Sure…”

“Where was her handbag found?”

“In the bushes over there.” He pointed.

“Was there blood on it?”

“Yes.”

“I see…”

“And?” Durbin asked impatiently.

“There are some things that seem immediately apparent to me.”

“Such as?” Durbin asked.

“Firstly, she was lured here, probably by a telephone call.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“A policeman’s hunch.” Fynn smiled and walked to the nearby park bench a few yards away. He examined it closely. “The victim sat here waiting for someone. That is to say, not in the middle… she left room for someone else to sit, to join her.” Fynn took out his telescopic pointer from his pocket and then carefully examined the bench. He pointed. “Blood spatter, you see it? Likely she was killed right here by a very hard blow and perhaps unawares. The killer may have come up behind her, there from those hedges… This part of the bench is clear from blood. This is where she sat, and I suppose her handbag was tucked to one side, along the edge. There is a gap in the splatter here as well.” Fynn pointed again, then walked over to a trash can. He rummaged through. “Ah, and here… a coffee cup in this receptacle. It looks rather fresh, and with a trace of lipstick on the rim.” He fished it out with his wooden pointer. “I’m quite sure you’ll find that it is hers.” He looked further. “I see some shoe prints here…surely a woman’s shoe, but not high heels… so she was likely not barefoot at the start. And it’s a chilly morning. Not a morning to go without shoes, eh?”

“Okay, but how does that tell you she was lured here— and by telephone?”

“I suppose it could be an email or a regular letter… but I am guessing she expected to meet someone in particular, someone she knew.”

“Why?”

“The lipstick for one. And her dress. It’s rather nice… not formal, but she wanted to look her best. I will say she knew her assailant, or that she expected to meet someone she knew rather well. To me it rules out everything but a telephone call. An email or a letter is rather impersonal. A telephone call best suits this scenario.”

“How about a text message?”

“This too, I suppose…”

Durbin called over some techs to bag and tag Fynn’s discovery. “I’ll run her phone records,” he said, thinking aloud. “What else is different this time?”

“Perhaps we can ask a better question: what is the same?”

“The shoe prints and the cane,” Durbin said and led us to a muddy patch of ground off the path. They were tagged with two yellow markers. Clearly evident were the same shoe prints and the mark of a cane. “I’m wondering about what’s different... We found her cell phone this time.”

“Hmm,” Fynn made a noncommittal noise. “There is much to consider here. Both the shoe prints and the cane are most important to my mind. The shoe prints, because they are found at each crime scene.”

“Not in the swamp,” Durbin countered.