Thomas Prescott Superpack (9 page)

Chapter 14

I pulled up to Conner’s nondescript apartment complex. Conner opened the bottom floor apartment door as I was approaching and said, “Caitlin just called. I guess I owe you an apology.”

“You can take me out to dinner some time.”

Conner followed me into the living room where Lacy was listening to SportsCenter. I sat down on the arm of the tan love seat and put my hand on her shoulder, “You all right kiddo?”

She ran her hands over Baxter’s small back. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t have been if you’d told me the truth. Thanks for keeping me in the dark. Really, I’m not being sarcastic. I can’t believe it. That poor girl.”

Not any poor girl. Jennifer Peppers had been Lacy’s beloved art teacher at Temple. Lacy had been the one to introduce us. I’d hoped this information would have surfaced by this juncture. I brushed a couple strands of hair off Lacy’s cheek and said, “It wasn’t just any girl, it was JP.”

Lacy gasped for air. “No. Not Jennifer. Oh, my God. Jen.”

Conner’s voice shot in from the side of the room, “
Who’s JP?”

I relayed the deceased’s relationship to both Lacy and myself and Conner said, “He’s gunning for you, Thomas.”

No, he was axing for me. Except I was still in one piece and I couldn’t say that much for Jennifer. I didn’t like where my thought process was headed and said, “I think you should get out of town for a while Lace. Go visit some friends in Washington.”

Conner and I met eyes. He seconded, “That’s not a bad idea Lacy.”

Through a fit of sniffing she said, “I’m not going anywhere. The gallery opening is less than two weeks away and I still have a million things to do. I’m not going to let MS, my blindness, or some chump dictate how I live.”

I wouldn’t exactly refer to a man who just hacked some girl to bits and more probably than not, raped her senseless, as a chump. I thought it was in Lacy’s best interest to jump ship for a couple weeks but a large chunk of me was proud of her for standing her ground.

Conner motioned for the kitchen. He turned the faucet on and whispered, “Why don’t you call up a couple of your students and see if they want to do some extra credit.”

Why didn’t I think of that? In January, I’d been offered a job teaching a course at one of the local universities (seeing as how I was convalescing in a wheelchair and wouldn’t be chasing any criminals any time soon). There were five or six guys from my class who would die for any form of police work, even if it was as arbitrary as a stakeout.

Conner and I walked back into the living room and Lacy said, “Extra credit, huh? How about Caleb?”

Lacy’s hearing had more than made up for her lack of eyesight. Conner asked, “
Who’s Caleb?

I decided to leave before the fireworks and kissed Lacy good-bye.

Caitlin only lived a short mile from Conner and by the time I found a radio station not on a commercial break, I was turning onto her street.

Caitlin lived in a cookie cutter stucco house in a neighborhood that hadn’t existed this time last year. The only thing distinguishing each house from the next was the systematic bump of the last two digits in the address. I think you had to petition the Home Owner’s Association if you wanted to open a window. I crept down the brightly lit side street, 1238, 1240, 1242, 1244, ah, 1246.

I put the Range Rover in park and felt my cell phone vibrate in my hip pocket. I withdrew the phone and saw it was the good doctor. I flipped the phone open, “Yes, honey.”

“Honey? Oh, okay. I just wanted to call and tell you that I’m home. They’re taking the body to the Penobscot County Morgue. I tried to tell them this was connected to the
Eight in October
murders but they laughed it off.”

“I don’t think we need an autopsy to tell us the cause of death.”

“I still can’t believe this. I’m really sorry, Thomas.”

“Yeah, I’m numb. I need to get some sleep and deal with this in the morning.”

After a slight pause she said, “If you want to stay at Alex’s that’s okay with me.”

Thanks, but you forgot to sign my permission slip.
I didn’t like her checking up on me and said, “Are you sure? I guess I’ll just crash at Alex’s then. Although it seems all her guestrooms are under renovation and I’m gonna have to shack up with her.”

“Doesn’t she have any couches you could sleep on?” She only seemed slightly annoyed.

I ambled out of the car and started up Caitlin’s drive. “She said all her couches were contaminated.”

“Contaminated? With what?”

“Caterpillars.”

“Caterpillars? I don’t know how to tell you this Thomas, but I think she’s just trying to get you into bed. Hey, can you hold on one sec, someone’s at my door.”

Caitlin opened the door, put the phone up to her mouth, and said, “You’re a dick.”

I walked past her, noticing the pair of plaid boxers and extra-large Supersonics tee she was wearing were both once possessions of mine. I walked into her compact kitchen, grabbed a bowl from the synthetic oak cabinet, and snagged the box of Lucky Charms (my Lucky Charms) from atop the fridge.

From the corner of my eye I could see Caitlin smirking and no doubt getting all warm and fuzzy. Men hate when women come into their house and act like they own the place. Women on the other hand, find the act a smidgen beneath a marriage proposal. I had the distinct impression Caitlin’s ovaries were huddled together in her fallopian tube watching my every move like an episode of
Sex in the City
.

Damage control. I asked platonically, “Do you mind if I have a bowl of cereal?”

“Yes.”

Damn, a trap. “Well, I’m having one anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” She’d been sitting on the back of a blue leather couch and fell back disappearing from view.

I ate two bowls of cereal and read the Sunday comics. I laughed out loud at FoxTrot and Zits, and both times Caitlin’s head popped up like a periscope. I rinsed my bowl and put it in the dishwasher (I was a guest remember), then walked into the downstairs bathroom. There was a small closet where Caitlin kept extra towels. I felt around the top shelf with my hand until my fingers found the edge of a Ziploc bag. The bag contained two disposable razors, a small can of shaving cream, a toothbrush, and a small tube of Aquafresh.

I stashed the kit and walked out of the bathroom. Caitlin patted the seat next to her and I wasn’t interested in the repercussions if I sat on the floor. She said I looked tense and asked if I wanted a massage. I don’t think anyone in the history of the world has ever turned down a massage and I wasn’t going to be the first.

Chapter 15

Caitlin had fallen asleep on the couch while I was returning the favor and I’d taken the liberty of stealing her bed. I’m still confused as to how I woke up with my hand wrapped firmly around her waist. She must have snuck in bed at some point and I guess old habits die hard, especially subconscious ones.

Caitlin squirmed, then turned and faced me. Our faces were inches from each other and I’m not sure who initiated it, but next thing I knew, Caitlin’s tongue was tickling my small intestines.

It was a routine I knew well and one I enjoyed thoroughly. I slipped the Supersonics tee over Caitlin’s head, exposing her perfect breasts. She reached for my boxer briefs and the reality of the situation hit me. I took a deep breath and said, “We can’t. This would only complicate things for the both of us.”

She nodded her head in agreement but I could tell she was bruised by my chastity. The both of us laid there basking in the awkward moment, similar to the dust particles dancing within the brilliant morning rays, when the phone rang. Caitlin plucked the phone off the bedside table and said, “Dr. Dodds.”

I decided to make my getaway. I picked my clothes off the floor and snuck into the bathroom. I elected against a shower and washed my face with Caitlin’s Clinique bar, then threw on my same duds from the night before.

Caitlin’s stick of deodorant was sitting on the counter and I did a quick swipe under each arm. The perfume soap and baby powder deodorant created an overpowering feminine smell and I checked my pants to make sure my testicles hadn’t slipped into my socks. Everything intact, I walked out of the bathroom, only to have the phone rammed to my chest by Caitlin.

She murmured, “Director Mangrove.”

I covered the phone, “How does he know I’m here?”

“I told him.” She sniffed, “Did you put my deodorant on?”

I pleaded the fifth and put the phone up to my ear, “Prescott.”

“Sorry to hear about Jennifer. She was a nice girl.”

“Yes, she was.”

“And I guess I owe you an apology. You’re going to be getting quite a few of those in the next couple days.”

“I’ll put a check next to your name.”

“Good. The boys are on their way as we speak.”

By
the boys
I assumed he meant my friends Gleason and Gregory. “Sorry Charles, I’m flying solo on this one.”

“What’s it going to take for you to help us out?”

I could have asked for three or four men to watch over Lacy, but the last thing I wanted was two FBI goons eating all my food and hitting on my sister. I had a thought and said, “For starters, you can come to my sister’s gallery opening and buy a painting.”

“That it?”

‘That’s it.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

Charles was an altogether good guy and the two of us probably would have been friends if he wasn’t in charge of the most corrupt group of guys this side of Leavenworth. I thought of something else and said, “Also, I want Conner Dodds on the task force and I want him to have FBI status.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

The word, “Yes,” wasn’t in the FBI’s vocabulary.
That shouldn’t be a problem
was the closest you would ever get out of them. It left some wiggle room if they ever flaked, which they did frequently.

We did
the who, what, when, and where, and I hung up.

I recounted the events to Caitlin. We were to meet the rest of the task force at the Federal Building in downtown Bangor, at nine. She was on another planet and I said, “You okay?”

Her eyes darted around the room and came to rest around my left knee. She said, “I’ll be all right. We good?”

I tilted her head, kissed her lightly on the lips, and left the room. I wasn’t sure if I kissed her to satisfy my own anxieties or hers. It was my own version of
that shouldn’t be a problem.

Caitlin showered and I ate Lucky Charms until the box was empty. I heard the newspaper thud against Caitlin’s stoop and read the clock, 8:08 A.M.

A little late for the paper wasn’t it?

Caitlin, like everyone else, had subscribed to the Waterville Tribune after the
events of last year. The paper was now third in circulation only to the
Bangor Daily News
and the
Portland Press-Herald
.

I plopped down on the second of
three porch steps, slipped the paper from its light blue plastic sheathing, and read
the front-page headline. It was fortunate I was sitting down because my knees
would have buckled had I not been. In 72-point font, plastered across the front
page was the headline:

Maine Frame-Woman Found Maimed on Anniversary of Killings

Story by Alex Tooms

I started in on the article:

Jennifer Peppers’ mangled corpse was discovered in the home of Thomas Prescott (Yes, the same Thomas Prescott from the infamous murders of exactly one year ago) at exactly 11:37 P.M. last night. The body was found in much the same fashion as the women from last October’s massacre.

The victim’s, Jennifer Peppers (Prescott’s ex-fiancée), ragged mortal remains were dismantled and her eyes removed, prompting Bangor Chief Medical Examiner, Dr. Caitlin Dodds, to credit the MAINEiac, Tristen Grayer, with the slaying. The only recognizable difference between the Jennifer Peppers murder and the murders of a year ago was the fact the
victim’s eyes were present at the crime scene.

Thomas Prescott was quoted as saying, “He wants us to know Jennifer watched her own death, watched her own life be taken from her.”

The big question is: If they’re crediting Tristen Grayer with the murder, then just who was the John Doe from a year ago?

How in the hell did Alex get wind of that kind of information? Lacy said Alex had been with her the entire time washing Baxter. Oh shit, the tape recorder. But how?

As I was pondering this, Caitlin emerged onto the porch dressed from head to toe in tan, an umbrella outfit covering homicide detective, medical examiner, and task force member.

She asked, “Did you call Conner?”

“I forgot.” I stood, handed the paper to her, and said, “You better sit down.”

I walked inside and called Conner. He thought I was kidding about the FBI status part, making me swear on my life. He said he’d be at the Federal Building at nine and I ran into the downstairs bathroom, did a quick brush and met Caitlin on the top step of her porch.

She was sitting cross-legged and looked up in horror, “We haven’t even notified the parents and that bitch has the audacity to print the victim’s name. And how the hell did she quote you on the eyes.” She looked at me skeptically.

“I didn’t tell her anything, I swear.” I crossed my heart.

I hadn’t thought about Jennifer’s parents. They lived in Jersey and Jennifer Peppers wasn’t exactly the rarest of names. Still, it was unethical from a journalist’s position to use names when they are yet to be disclosed. I made a mental note to give Ms. Tooms a truckload of shit the next time I saw her.

I filled in Caitlin about the tape recorder and she said, “But it was off when you put it in your pocket. I saw the tape stop spinning.”

We put the article on the back burner and Caitlin asked, “Should we take separate cars?”

Of course we should take separate cars. I wouldn’t not take separate cars if my brakes were out. I said mildly, “I think that might be best.”

We retired to our respective cars and I checked the dash clock, it was almost eight-thirty. I pulled my cell phone out and made the dreaded call to Jennifer’s father. I tried to keep it short and sweet, but it was closer to long and sour. I ended with the standard, “If there’s anything you need, anything at all—,” spiel and recused myself in order to, “Find, apprehend, and cut the balls off the man who did this to her.”

Next, I dialed Caleb Barstow. After four or five rings, a groggy voice answered, “Someone better be dead.”

“Someone is.”

This grabbed his attention. “You serious, professor?”

“You get the
Waterville Tribune
?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

I told him to snag the paper, then heard him fumble out of bed and a door open. He came back on, “No fuckin way. This happened at your crib?”

“Yep. I need your help with something.”

“Name it.”

“I want you to keep an eye on my sister for the next couple days. Watch her from afar. Stake her out basically. You might have to miss some classes.”

“I don’t go to class anyway.”

I laughed and gave him stakeout instructions.

I entered downtown Bangor and pulled into the massive U.S. Federal Building parking lot. The closest FBI field office was located in Boston, which has jurisdiction over Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Vermont, and Rhode Island. In a case such as this, an adjunct task force office is stationed in the nearest US Federal Building for the duration of the investigation.

The Federal Building was a large red brick structure built when imaginative architecture was frowned upon. In the state of Maine, the building fell under the classification “skyscraper,” because at an outlandish height of twelve stories, it was the tallest building in the area, and possibly the state.

I was on time for once, which meant I had twenty minutes to kill. I pulled
Eight in October
out of the utility compartment and flipped once again to the dedication page. I slowly read the eight women’s names one by one. As I did this, the theory I’d been trying to tie together for the last year, ultimately came full circle. It was like getting hit with a frying pan, falling and hitting a light switch, which in turn spotlights the bacteria growing on the frying pan is penicillin. Or something to that degree.

I was going over the finer points when Conner pulled up next to me in his jet-black Camaro. I was surprised to see he was clad in slacks and a black button down, sans tie. Stepping out of the car, I said, “You’re gonna need to get a suit if you want to fit in with these fruitdicks.”

He smiled. “I’ve got an appointment with a tailor at noon.”

The two of us walked into the edifice and stopped at the front desk to retrieve our ID badges. We each took our respective badge and it appeared someone at the Bureau had a sense of humor.

I showed my picture to Conner and after a healthy knee slap he said, “Is that the mug shot from your BUI?”

It most certainly was the mug shot from my Boating
Under the Influence arrest. Look out Nick Nolte, you have some competition. I clipped the photo to my breast pocket and led Conner into one of the four elevator shafts. I pushed the button for the eighth floor, but the elevator didn’t respond.

Conner wisely slipped his ID badge off his shirt, inserted it in the slot beneath the numerals, and the elevator creaked to life.

After scanning his card twice more, Conner and I entered a large conference room. The room was roughly the size of a third grade classroom, only instead of twenty desks there was one giant one, and instead of third graders there were FBI agents, aka, kindergartners.

Caitlin Dodds, Wade Gleason, and Todd Gregory each had a coffee mug in hand, an attaché case on the table in front of them, and stood when Conner and I entered. Gleason was first to make his way around the large mahogany table and we did what he called
knuckles.

He said, “I guess I owe you dinner.”

“How ‘bout dinner and I never pay taxes again.”

He chuckled, “I’ll see what I can do.” His eyes fell to my breast pocket and he roared back in laughter. Gleason wiped the badge clean of his saliva with the cuff of his shirt and said, “Hey, at least they got your good side.”

Interesting, I was a detective at heart and either Gleason should be thanking the Academy or he was innocent of said crime. I looked at Gregory making his way around the table. Todd Gregory’s sense of humor topped out with a good Ziggy, so he wasn’t suspect. By default the guilty party was Charles Mangrove. I tucked this information in a file marked
Revenge-See Good Fun
and while I was there retrieved the file for Tristen Grayer marked
Revenge-See Pain and Suffering
.

Gleason moved on to Conner and Gregory stepped into the batter’s box. Gregory extended his hand and said, “Well Prescott, I guess I owe you dinner as well.”

Dinner with Todd Gregory sounded about as much fun as a vasectomy, but we were all being cordial here and I said, “Thanksgiving is right around the corner, why don’t you tell Momma Gregory to set an extra spot at the table.”

He flashed his annoyingly perfect smile and I wondered if I could knock all thirty-two of his teeth out with one punch. Caitlin came next. If the two of us were playing charades the card would have read
Professional Gauche
. We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries and no one would have guessed the two of us woke up in the same bed.