Theresa Monsour (18 page)

She noticed Duncan was off the phone. She stood up. “Gotta go talk to Yo-Yo. Uh. I mean Duncan.” She was trying to stop herself from using the nickname; he'd been pretty decent to her lately. Murphy walked over to her desk. Picked up the invitation, shoved it in her pocket. Went over to his office, knocked once on the open door. He waved her in. Murphy noticed the pile of papers on his desk was getting lower; maybe he was actually getting organized.

“Our agent from the north bureau. Have a seat.” He tossed a balled-up piece of paper toward the wastebasket in the corner and made it in. He was getting better at it. She sat down on the chair across from his desk, the sweatshirt still over her arm. “What's that?” he asked. She held it up. “Cool. Where can I get one?”

She was surprised Sandeen hadn't given one to him. She threw it across the desk and he caught it. “This one's yours.”

He ran his fingers over the embroidered badge and logo. “Who made these up?”

“Sandeen,” she said. He set the shirt down on a pile of file folders, stood up and started unbuttoning his oxford. Her eyes widened. “You don't have to put it on right now.”

He pulled off the dress shirt and threw it over the back of his chair. He had a white tank undershirt. She noticed the bulge of his upper arms, the muscles of his chest. His gut was flat and hard and his waist was trim. Duncan's disheveled wardrobe masked an athletic physique. He saw her studying his body. Their eyes met. She quickly looked down and felt her face redden. She didn't see the corners of his mouth curl into a satisfied smile. He pulled the sweatshirt on over his head. Smoothed the front of it with his hands. “Thanks, Paris.”

The first time she'd ever heard him say her first name. Hearing it out of his mouth jolted her—and pleased her. She didn't know why. She shook it off. “Want to hear this theory or what?”

He sat down again and put his feet up on the desk. Knocked some papers to the floor. “Hit me with it,” he said, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head.

She started at the beginning, told him about her earliest suspicions when she saw Justice Trip plastered all over the newspapers and television, weaving a sanitized story of his life. When she told him about the dinner she and Trip had shared and her fear that he'd doctored her drink, Duncan took his feet off the desk and sat forward. Interrupted her narration. “I would have decked the bastard then and there. Sent his sorry ass straight to the county jail.”

“I thought of that,” she said. “Even if the wine tested positive for drugs, I didn't see him do it. He could have argued that in a public place like that, a bar, anyone could have dropped something into the glass.”

Duncan shook his head. “Trying to kill a cop. The dumb fuck.”

“He didn't know I was a cop. Didn't tell him that night. Saved the surprise for the next day.” She recounted their uncomfortable meeting outside the park, Trip's lame excuse as to why he was there and his reaction when he realized she was a homicide cop.

Duncan patted his chest. “You were wearing a sweatshirt like this one?” She nodded. He laughed. “That's rich. Good job, Paris.”

When she got to the part about Elvis, Duncan held up his right hand. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. No one knew about the lyrics in her purse except the Moose Lake authorities?”

“And a couple of people from the wedding party.”

“And I assume they were told to shut up about it.”

She nodded. “Correct.”

“Nowhere else—on television or in the newspapers—did anyone say Bunny Pederson had a thing for Elvis.”

“The only person who mentioned Elvis was Sweet.”

Duncan frowned. “Sweet?”

“Justice Trip's nickname in high school.”

“Yuck.”

“Yeah,” she said. “And get this. Erik Mason says the finger Trip ‘found' was in such good shape, it didn't make sense. No animal bites or insects or anything. Wasn't chewed off. It was cut off.”

Duncan picked up a pencil with his right hand and thumped the eraser end on his desk like he was tapping a drum with a stick. “Okay. Okay. Here's what we got. Stop me if I get it wrong. This weirdo salesman cruises into a small town, spots this bridesmaid stumbling home Friday night, kills her, cuts off her pinkie. Then he joins up with the search party Sunday and makes like he found the finger.”

“Yup. Then late Monday night or early Tuesday, Sweet drops the shoe while carrying the body into the woods. Ranger finds the shoe.”

“Mr. Sweetie finds Mr. Ranger and nails him. I'm on board with that. But what did your high school pal do with the body between Friday night and Monday night?”
Duncan dropped the pencil on his desk, pushed his chair back and stood up. Paced back and forth between his chair and the desk. “Do you think he held her somewhere and didn't kill her until Monday night?”

“Doubt it. Where could he have safely held a live person while still bopping around town and doing interviews? Scenario A says she was killed Friday night and he temporarily stashed the body until he found a spot he liked for burial. Under Scenario B, she was buried in that park since Friday night and he returned Monday night—after our dinner together—for some goofy reason. Maybe to bury the shoes with her.”

Duncan stopped pacing and stood behind his desk.

“I don't like Plan B. Winter told me his people searched those woods thoroughly over the weekend. Dogs and everything.”

“Scenario A wins the prize,” she said. “Of course, the autopsies Erik is doing today on both bodies could flush both theories down the toilet.”

“Another question.” Duncan sat back down, drummed his hands on top of his desk. “Motive? Does this motive fly? Pretty extreme to go out and kill someone to generate some ink for yourself.”

In a low voice, as if talking to herself: “He wouldn't find it extreme if he's killed before. Then it's taking it just one step further.”

Duncan leaned forward. “Shit. You think this isn't the first time?”

Murphy thought about it. Eighteen years later, Trip still resented her for the role she played in his beating. It took a lot of pent-up anger to hold a grudge that long. “Tell you what. Let's see what the cause of death is on the bridesmaid. See if we've had other unsolved murders with the same MO, either in the Twin Cities or small towns. He's a salesman so he travels all over the state.”

Duncan was all grins. A kid digging into a trick-or-treat bag. She threw another piece of candy into the sack: “I've got a high school reunion Saturday night.” She pulled the
invitation out of her pocket and threw it across the desk. Duncan picked it up. “Guess who else is going?” she said.

“Mr. Sweetie.” He looked ready to jump out of his chair. “Need a date?” He handed the invitation back.

Murphy was going to ask Erik, but another homicide cop might be a better idea. “Sure,” she said. “A well-armed date.”

BLOOD AND SPUMONI ice cream swirled around Trip's mind while he slept. A monstrous concoction. Pistachio green and cherry pink and vanilla topped by a red stream. All of it sprinkled with coins. Dimes and nickels and quarters and pennies. He could smell the pennies. Coppery. Or was that the blood? He woke at dawn Wednesday. Expected the odor of pennies and instead smelled bacon. Threw his legs over the side of the bed, sat on the edge of the mattress. Rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Realized he was naked. Why was he naked? He always slept in his underwear. His pa's cowboy bathrobe was on the floor next to his bed. Silhouettes of black longhorn cattle against red flannel. Why was his father's robe in his room? He struggled to sort the dream from the truth. Had he slit a woman's throat in the shower? Had his pa helped hide her in the freezer? Had they calmly collected her clothes and shoes and tossed them in the freezer with her, and then dined on chicken patties and peas? He couldn't accept it. Blamed it on the
pills. He remembered he'd taken some pills to help him fall asleep. Felt groggy from them. He stood up. His legs were weak and his head felt muffled. Stuffed with cotton balls. He feared what he would find, but he had to look. He stumbled down the hall to the back bedroom. His jeans and boxers were on the floor next to the freezer. Why? He put his hand on the freezer door. Opened it a crack. Felt a rush of cold air.

“Ask her if she wants some breakfast.” Trip turned and saw his pa standing in the doorway, his cane in his right hand and a coffee cup in his left. His old man took a sip. “Go on,” he said with a smirk. “Ask her.”

Trip slammed the freezer lid. Ran past his pa, down the hall, to the bathroom. Fell to his knees in front of the toilet and vomited. Something yellow and stringy and bitter. The room reeked of bleach. Now he remembered. After dumping her in the freezer, Trip had stripped naked so he wouldn't ruin his clothes. Returned to the bathroom. Picked up the broken radio pieces. Opened a bottle of bleach and splashed it around the stall. Poured some on the straight-edge sitting in one corner of the shower. Turned the water on and let it run. Poured bleach on the bathroom tile, pushed a towel around the floor with his bare foot. The towel was still in the bathroom; he saw it balled up in a corner, soaking wet. In the sink was his sweatshirt. He'd taken it off because it had her shave cream on it. The smell of the bleach and the sight of the sweatshirt made his head spin. He vomited again. Clawed some sheets of toilet paper off the roll. Blew his nose. Tossed the wad in the toilet. More of the night before came back to him. After cleaning up, he'd grabbed his pa's bathrobe from the door hook. Slipped it on. Retrieved the straight-edge from the shower stall, dried it off, took it back to his room and tucked it away in its box. Joined his old man in the kitchen. They ate everything they'd taken out of the freezer. Chicken patties. Peas. Tater Tots. Tuna pot pies. Even the spumoni ice cream. A gross feast, all washed down with shots of tequila. He remembered sitting at the dinner table, getting
drunk and spilling booze on the robe. They'd capped off their evening by pawing through Keri's purse and the stuff they'd emptied from her pants pockets. That's when Trip found the pills. The same ones she'd given his old man. The pills and tequila together were a mistake. He puked again. Hung his head in the bowl.

His old man had followed him into the bathroom after exchanging the coffee cup for the bottle of tequila. He walked over to his son, screwed off the cap. Held the bottle in front of Trip's face. “Take a swallow. It'll settle your gut.”

“God, no.” Trip rested his forehead on the toilet rim.

“You weren't shy about drinking it last night. Take it.”

Trip took the bottle by the neck, put it to his lips, tipped it upside down. One. Two. Three gulps. Set it down on the floor. Sat back on his heels.

“Get up.” His pa jabbed him in the side with his cane. “Damn bleach is what's making you sick. Come on. Get up and dressed. While you been snoring, I been cleaning this pigpen. Making you breakfast.” More jabbing.

Trip wrapped his fist around the end of the cane. “Stop p . . . poking me with that damn thing!” Yanked it out of his old man's hand. It clattered to the floor, knocking over the tequila.

Frank held onto the towel bar for support. His eyes narrowed and went from his cane to his son to the tequila bottle. “Pick it up, boy,” he said lowly. Trip reached for the cane. “No. The fucking bottle. It's the last of the booze.” Trip righted the tequila. A puddle of it was on the bathroom floor. He picked up the cane and handed it up to his pa without looking at him. “Sorry,” he mumbled into the toilet bowl.

His old man jerked the cane out of Trip's hand. “Get your ass up and out of here. I got eggs and oatmeal waiting for you on the table. Probably rubber by now.” He pointed to the bottle. “Give it here before you spill the rest.” Trip handed it to him. “Put some clothes on. I seen enough of your hairy backside to last two lifetimes.” He stomped out of the bathroom, cane in his right hand and tequila in his
left. Trip watched him go. For a second, wished it was his old man folded up in the freezer—cane and all—instead of Keri. He held onto the toilet rim with both hands and struggled to his feet. Swayed. Feared he was going to pass out. Gripped the edge of the sink. Hobbled to the back bedroom to retrieve his clothes. Stepped into his boxers and jeans with his back turned to the freezer. He kept wondering what she looked like all frozen, with coins on her eyes. He walked out of the room. Figured it would take a lot more liquor before he'd have the courage to open the lid and check it out. He went down the hall to his bedroom, opened his dresser drawer, took out his last clean sweatshirt. While he was pulling it over his head he noticed his suitcase empty and sitting on the floor next to the dresser. His dirty travel clothes were piled in the hamper. He didn't remember emptying the suitcase. Where was the peach purse?

His pa yelled from the kitchen: “Get your butt in here, boy!”

Trip ran his eyes around the room. No purse. Had to be with the dirty clothes. He went to the hamper, started throwing socks and shirts and boxers over his shoulders. Then he picked the basket up and tipped it upside down. Shook the clothes out. No purse. A shiver rippled through Trip's body. His pa had emptied the suitcase into the hamper while he was sleeping. Had he discovered the purse? He told himself to stay calm. The thing was probably in the pile of clothes. Needed to dig through it better.

His pa again: “What the hell you doing in there?”

Trip left the dirty clothes on the floor and headed for the kitchen. Walked in. His pa was sitting at the table. A plate of food in front of him and an ashtray with a smoking cigarette to his right. To the right of that, a syringe and needle. Every time she visited, Keri filled a bunch of syringes for his old man. She said he didn't see well enough to do it himself. Trip wondered how many prepared injections were left. When they were gone, he'd have to fill the syringes for his old man. Another nursemaid task Trip
anticipated with trepidation. “After breakfast you better make a trip to the laundry,” his pa said. He used a wedge of toast to shovel the last of his scrambled eggs into his mouth. Chewed and swallowed. Picked up the Lucky Strike. Took a long drag. Tapped some ash into the ashtray. “That mountain in your room is starting to smell as bad as your feet. Take that bleach rag in the bathroom with you. Throw it in with the whites.”

Trip sat down. Touched his plate of eggs and bowl of oatmeal with his fingertips. Both cold and hard as marble. He stood up, took the plate to the microwave, set the dish inside, put the timer on thirty seconds. Leaned against the counter while his breakfast warmed. Saw the kitchen was cleaner. The dishes he had soaking in the sink last night were washed and put away. Counter was cleared of most of the junk. Floor was still sticky, but swept. His old man was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt for a change. Not pajamas. No baseball cap. Even with his cane and crappy eyesight, he'd been able to accomplish quite a bit. “You been b . . . busy, Pa.”

His old man took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Yup.” Took another pull off his cigarette.

The microwave beeped. Trip took out the plate and set it on the table. Looked down at the bowl of oatmeal. The instant cereal was gray and congealed. Decided to skip it. Sat down. Six slices of bacon were draining on a paper towel in the middle of the table. Trip took a slice, shoved it into his mouth, chewed twice, swallowed. “You're c . . . cooking like your old self, too.” Took another piece. Tried to make peace with his old man by cracking a joke. “If I d . . . d . . . didn't know better, I'd say stuffing f . . . folks into f . . . freezers agrees with you.” Slid the second slice of bacon into his mouth.

Frank set his coffee mug down. Took one last puff off the Lucky Strike and crushed the stub into the ashtray. Took something from his lap and set it in the middle of the table. “And if I didn't know better, I'd say you killed that bridesmaid.” The peach purse, with grease stains dotting
the satin. His old man had found the bag, rifled through it while eating breakfast.

Trip's mouth hung open with the bacon inside it.

“Shut your mouth, boy. Keep chewing. I'll do the talking.”

Trip chewed twice and swallowed. Coughed. Stared at the purse and started to say something: “I think—”

“You think! You think!” Frank slammed his right palm on the table, rattling the dishes and silverware. He picked up the purse, bunched it in his right fist, shook it at his son. “You ain't been thinking! That's the problem! You been fucking up left and right. Gonna land us both in the slammer. You slice that blond bitch open under your pa's roof and feed me that crap about Keri trying to kill me. Then I find this.” He threw the purse down on the table. It knocked over an empty glass. Trip opened his mouth. His old man pointed a finger at him. “Shut the fuck up!” Trip closed his mouth and lowered his eyes. His pa sighed and his tone softened. “I know a man's got appetites, Sweet. Believe me I know. But you can't let your dick head lead you around.”

His pa thought he'd raped the women, or that something sexual had happened. By the sound of his old man's voice, that made the murders more acceptable. Trip decided not to correct him. Not until he saw where this was going.

“Are you listening, boy?”

Trip kept his eyes down. “Yeah.”

“Good. You better listen 'cause your pa knows more about this stuff than you think.”

More cryptic words from his pa. Trip looked up. Locked his eyes on his old man's face. “Tell me. Tell me what you d . . . done and I'll tell you what I d . . . done.” His old man averted his gaze. Stared out the window over the sink. Outside, the wind blew a bunch of leaves off the scrawny tree planted next to their trailer. Could his pa even see the tree? Maybe he could see a lot more than Trip knew. A long silence. The only sounds were the drip of the leaky sink faucet and the distant clang of a neighbor's wind chimes. “Pa?”

His pa continued staring out the window. Picked up a steak knife smeared with butter and dotted with toast crumbs. Tapped the flat side of the blade against the edge of his plate. The clink of the knife alternated with the drip of the faucet.
Clink. Drip. Clink. Drip. Clink. Drip. Clink. Drip
. The clink stopped. His pa's faraway voice again: “You ain't ready to hear what I got to say. No sir.” He pulled his eyes from the window. Trip studied the down-turned corners of his pa's mouth; he'd seen that expression once before.

“It's g . . . got something to d . . . do with what happened to Snow White.” His old man's brows wrinkled with confusion; he didn't know Trip called her that. “What happened to Cammie.”

Frank's eyes widened for an instant, as if he'd touched a hot pan. The corners of his mouth curled back up into their usual hard, straight line. “Maybe it does and maybe it doesn't. Ain't your concern. Your concern is saving your own ass. That's my concern, too. Your ass is in jail, mine is in a nursing home. Eating baby food and smelling other people's piss.” He picked up the steak knife again and pointed the tip at Trip. In a conspiring voice: “What'd you do, Sweet? Tell your pa so he can help you.”

Trip's turn to look out the kitchen window. “You know what I d . . . did. Killed Keri. That's it.”

“Bullshit!” His pa reached across the table, picked up the purse, threw it at him. It startled Trip. He caught it, juggled it like a hot coal, dropped it on the floor. He bent over and picked it up, set it in front of him. “How'd you do her?” asked his pa. “Why'd you do her?”

Trip's mind was swirling like the ice cream and blood from his nightmare. He needed a story that involved rape, or at least some sex. His pa found it a reason to kill. “I f . . . followed her out of the bar, fucked her in the p . . . parking lot. She got p . . . pissed about something. Maybe I wasn't m . . . man enough . . .”

That was good. His pa's mouth hardened; no one challenged his offspring's sexual talents.

“She s . . . started to walk home. I followed her in the t . . . t . . . truck. Tried to give her a ride. She flipped me off. Told me to g . . . get lost. Said she was gonna call the cops. Tell them it was rape. I g . . . got scared. Stepped on the gas. Ran her over. Kept her in the t . . . truck a couple of days, until I could figure out where to p . . . p . . . put her.”