Theresa Monsour (26 page)

“Not if the deaths were spread out over the years.”

“You're scaring me here, lady. Have you got someone in mind? Some evidence?”

“I don't have spit yet. Just some wild ideas.”

“You gonna pull those old cases? Look for a pattern?” He sounded excited.

“I'm not at that stage yet. I don't want to sound any alarms until I have more. Keep this call off the record, okay, Marty?”

“Sure thing. That is fucking scary, man. If it's true.” He paused. Murphy expected him to say it couldn't possibly be true. Instead: “Let me know if you want some help going over those records.”

 

SHE pulled on some jeans and a sweatshirt and a pair of wool socks. She always found the best part about working at home was wearing rags while sounding professional over the phone. She went down to the galley, put a filter and coffee in the coffeepot basket. Poured in some water. Turned on the pot. She opened the door to the dock and scanned the expanse of gray boards. No newspaper. She was about to shut the door when she noticed a neatly folded paper in front of the door, right under her nose.

“They finally hit the mark,” she said. She bent over and picked it up. Took it inside and slapped it on the kitchen table. She went over to the pot and poured herself a cup of coffee. Sat down and unfolded the newspaper. The cell phone rang on the counter. She got up and retrieved it. Sat down and answered it. “Yeah.”

“Detective Murphy? Sergeant Vern Gilbert. Eau Claire County Sheriff's Office.” He sounded like an older officer.

“Great. Thanks for calling back.” She pushed the kitchen chair away from the table and put her feet up on another chair.

“This your home number? Hope I didn't drag you out of bed.”

“No. No. Sitting down with my coffee and the paper. Speaking of the newspaper, that's what inspired me to call you. I saw something online in the
Leader-Telegram
about this unsolved hit-and-run. Went to your website.”

“Hard case. The wife still lives in the area. Supermarket cashier. It's been a struggle for her. She almost lost the house. He didn't have life insurance of course. She says the toughest part is not knowing who did it. Wondering if it was a neighbor. Makes her look twice at everybody going through the checkout line.”

“Sounds like you guys have done a good job of staying in touch with her. That's something.”

“Your heart goes out. You know how it is. Anyways, you've seen enough I'm sure.”

“Yeah. Seen enough is right.”

“Anyways, you got something for us?”

“Maybe,” she said. She paused, not knowing how much to tell him. An older cop might not buy into it, might write her off as flakey.

He sensed her hesitation. “Didn't you pick up on that tone of desperation from our website? We'll take anything. The case is colder than shit.”

She felt sorry for him, and for the widow. “Fine. I'm gonna spill my guts on this thing, but you've got to keep it quiet. It's this wild theory I'm playing with and maybe if I
lay it all out for you, it'll shake something loose in your mind.”

“Let 'er rip,” he said. “Both barrels.”

“Remember that Justice Trip? The one who found the little girl's necklace?” He didn't answer; only silence on his end of the phone. Murphy wondered if they'd been disconnected. “Hello? Sergeant? You still there?”

“Fuck,” he said. “I knew it. That spooky son of a bitch.”

She pulled her feet off the kitchen chair and sat straighter. Held the phone tighter. “You were looking at him for this?”

“Damn right I was. Nothing to base it on but my gut and a cracked windshield.”

“That sounds more than a little intriguing. You show me yours and I'll show you mine.”

He laughed. “I've fallen for that one before. I'm a sucker. Anyways, here goes. This tall, spooky goof rolls into town, gets dragged into a volunteer search party. And I mean dragged. Whines like a big baby the whole time. I remember it well. ‘It's t . . . too h . . . hot. Corn's t . . . too high. There's t . . . t . . . too many b . . . b . . . bugs.' He stutters you know.”

“I noticed,” Murphy said. She took a sip of coffee.

“Anyways, he lucks out and finds the kid's jewelry while he's bending over to tie his shoelaces. The media makes a big deal out of it. Makes him into Superman, and he eats it up. Somebody even gives him a fucking trophy. Wish somebody would give me a fucking trophy. In the middle of the circus, we get this hit-and-run. Then I notice. The hero has got a crack in his windshield that wasn't there the day before. I ask him about it. One of his dumb-ass fans, one of our local do-gooders, says, ‘Oh, no. That's been there all along.' Stands up for the joker. Gets some others to say the same thing. One even gives me some bullshit about spending most of the night with him, showing him the town. I know that's a lie. The goof is not a social butterfly.”

“They all cover for him?” She bumped off her coffee and stood up to pour another cup.

“I don't even know if they realized what they were doing. They were all swept up in the excitement. The reporters and cameras bopping all over town. I think they didn't want anything to mess it up.”

“Are you shittin' me?”

“I shit you not. Swear to God. You gotta love that citizen involvement. Anyways, I talk to the sheriff and he tells me to forget it. Says the big guy can't be our man if all these people saw the crack there before, and if he's got an alibi for that night. Plus he didn't have dick on his record. I let it go, but reluctantly. My gut says he was involved.”

She stood at the counter and refilled her cup. Took it back to the table and sat down again. “I think your gut is right on.”

“Anyways, your turn. Show me yours, and don't be shy about it.”

She took a sip of coffee. “You been reading the papers on this Moose Lake deal?”

“Yeah. Noticed the big hero jumped in again. Found the gal's finger. Guess once you get a taste of fame, you gotta come back for more. Anyways, they find the rest of her yet? I haven't been keeping up with it.”

“They found her body in the state park up there.”

“Too bad. Cause of death?”

“Looks like she got hit by a truck.”

A long pause, then: “The hero?”

“That's what I'm thinking.” She downed her second cup of coffee and stood up. Went over to the counter with the cup and poured a third. She was wired and she didn't know if it was the caffeine or the conversation. Regardless, she didn't mind the feeling.

“Wait a minute here,” he said. “Are you thinking he hit her and then fixed it so he'd find the finger? So he could be Superman all over again? Get another fifteen minutes?”

She leaned her back against the counter with the cup in her hand. “Yup.” She knew he'd have the most trouble wrapping his mind around that part of it.

“On purpose? So you're thinking he hit her on purpose?”

“Yeah.” She sipped. Set the cup down. Walked back and forth in front of the counter with the cell phone pressed to her ear.

“That is one hell of a theory. Man.” He paused and then said, “If that's the case, it really makes me wonder . . .” His voice trailed off.

She stopped pacing and picked up the cup again. “Wonder if he did your victim on purpose?”

“Yeah.” Another brief silence while the idea sunk in, and then anger. “Bastard. Sick son of a bitch. Are you looking at him for any others?”

“Possibly. I've got some ideas. A buddy at Public Safety is ready to help me sift through old cases.”

“If there's anything I can do on the Wisconsin end, let me know. Pulling records. Making calls. Whatever. I want a piece of this. I'd love to hang that spooky Superman by his fucking cape.”

SPOOKY SUPERMAN PASSED out facedown on the front room floor Thursday night and woke Friday morning with a hangover. He raised his head and saw all the boxes and shirts around him and briefly wondered why they were there. When it came back to him, he groaned and set his head back down on the rug with a thud. “Fuck,” he muttered into the carpet. He smelled that urine smell again in the rug and rolled over onto his back. Stared up at the ceiling. Noticed some water stains. Something was in his right pants pocket, jabbing his leg. He reached down and slid his hand inside. His straight-edge razor. He'd used it to open the boxes. At least he'd remembered to close it before shoving it in his pants. He pulled his hand out and threw his forearm over his eyes. He heard his old man bumping around the kitchen with his cane. Heard him talking. Trip's body stiffened. Was there someone else in the trailer? Had Paris Murphy come back to arrest him? He held his breath and listened. No. His pa was on the phone. He rolled back onto his stomach, cocked his head toward the kitchen and strained to hear the words.

“No. I ain't seen her since she left our place Tuesday.” His pa stopped talking, apparently listening to someone on the other end. Then: “That's what she told us, too. Yeah. Yeah. That's right. Sorry. Don't know his name.” Another pause. “Don't know that neither. My guess is he picked her up 'cause her car is still parked in front of her trailer.” A break again and then something that, at least for the moment, restored Trip's faith in his pa's loyalty: “I seen him hanging around her place before. Short, round fellow. Big ears. Walks with a limp.” He laughed. “That's a good one. I don't know what he sees in her neither.” He stopped talking, listened again. Finally: “That's all I know. Sorry can't be more help. Guess you'll have to get by without her this weekend.”

Trip heard his father hang up the phone. He crawled to his feet. His head was pounding. He lifted his right hand and pressed his palm against his forehead, as if that could stop the thumping. It didn't. He weaved around the obstacle course of boxes and packaged shirts. Walked into the kitchen. His old man was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee and an ashtray in front of him and a cigarette between his fingers. To his right was a spent insulin syringe and needle. Trip saw a Band-Aid on his pa's left brow. That's where a package had cut him; Trip was hoping that memory from the night before was part of a bad dream. His old man looked up at Trip. “That was a fucking close one.” He tipped his head toward the phone on the kitchen wall. “Know who that was?” Trip shrugged his shoulders. “Take a fucking guess.” He took a drag off his Lucky Strike.

“Keri's w . . . work?”

He exhaled. “Damn straight. They're short. They want her to pull some extra shifts this weekend. They know we were her last stop Tuesday, and they know we live down the street from her. Guess who saved your ass?” Trip opened his mouth to answer but his old man didn't give him a chance. “Your pa, that's who.” He picked up his coffee and took a sip.

Trip crossed the kitchen floor, took a mug down from the cupboard. Recognized it as the one Paris Murphy had sipped tea from. He shuddered and put it back, took a different one. Poured himself a cup of coffee. Noticed the pot on the counter was already half empty. His old man had been up awhile. Would have had plenty of time to call the cops. What did they call it?
Senior abuse
. His old man could have reported him for
senior abuse
. Did he? Would the police be knocking before he finished his coffee? Trip took a sip and stared at his pa.

“Why you looking at me like that?” asked his old man. “You got no call to look at me like that. I saved your hairy backside.”

Trip took another sip. The coffee was strong and bitter and burned. Tasted like it had been cooking on the warmer for hours. He dumped the rest of it down the drain and set the cup in the sink. “Like what? How am I l . . . looking at you?”

“Like a dog that's been kicked for doing nothing.”

Trip leaned his back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “I ain't l . . . looking at you any which way. You're n . . . nuts.”

“Oh,
I'm
nuts. That's funny coming from you.” His pa raised his left hand and touched the Band-Aid with his fingertips. “How's your throwing arm this morning? Huh, son?”

Trip lowered his eyes. “I'm s . . . sorry about that. Didn't m . . . mean to get all w . . . wild and drunk like that. Was b . . . bummed out over g . . . g . . . getting fired.”

His old man tapped a tube of ash into the ashtray. “I'm bummed out, too.” He put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled. Exhaled as he continued. “Don't see me throwing stuff all over the house. Throwing shit at you. Speaking of which, why don't you clean up that mess you made during that fit of yours? Do something with those goddamn shirts.”

Trip looked up. “We could divide them up. Each get half.”

His pa took a long pull and blew smoke in his son's direction. “What am I gonna do with all those shirts? I don't hardly leave the house. Far as you're concerned, ninety-nine percent of them shirts don't fit your monkey arms.”

Trip cracked a small smile. “How about a garage s . . . sale? Buy one, g . . . g . . . get one f . . . free?”

His old man crushed the stub of his cigarette in the ashtray. “Brilliant idea,” he said dryly. “First off, how many folks in this trailer park have cause to wear dress shirts? Hmmm? How many of them got suit-and-tie jobs? Not too damn many. Otherwise they wouldn't be living in this dump.”

“I l . . . live here and I got a s . . . suit-and-tie job.”

“Past tense. You
had
a suit-and-tie job.” His pa bumped off the remainder of his coffee. “Secondly, do you think it's a good thing to have folks coming by the trailer? Sneaking around and peeking around? You forget what we got in the back bedroom? We got to keep a low profile. Garage sale. Jesus H. Christ.” His pa snickered. “How s . . . s . . . s . . .stupid can you g . . . g . . . get?”

Trip's jaw tightened. The echoes of school-yard taunts filled his head. He couldn't believe his own pa had made fun of his stutter. He'd never done that before, at least not to Trip's face. He'd always told him it didn't matter and that anybody who teased him was trash. They'd get theirs, he told Trip.
What goes around comes around
. How often had he heard that from his old man when he was growing up? Didn't it mean anything anymore? Had it ever meant anything?

His pa got up from the table, turned his back on Trip and started to cross the kitchen floor. Trip took two steps toward him. “Don't t . . . turn your b . . . back on me, old man. Don't call me s . . . s . . . stupid neither.”

His pa turned and glared at him.

Trip continued. “You g . . . got balls making fun of the way I talk. You c . . . could of g . . . got me help when I was a little k . . . kid and you didn't. The way I talk is your f . . . fault.”

“So now it comes out. You blame me.” He rested his left hand on the cane and with his right pointed a finger at Trip as if he were correcting a child. “I told you before. It runs in the family. Ain't my doing. Ain't nothing to be done about it.”

“That's a l . . . lie. You're lying. Who s . . . s . . . stuttered in our family? Who?”

“Your sister.” A grin stretched across his old man's face. “Of course, she did manage to fix it towards the end of her life. So maybe there is hope.”

Trip's mouth dropped open. “End of her l . . . l . . . life?”

“As long as we're unloading, I might as well tell you. She's dead.”

“My sister? My sister is d . . . dead? I never g . . . got to know her and she's dead?”

“You got to know her, all right. Know her and then some.” His pa smiled a sick smile. “Like I got to know her.”

Trip stepped backward until he felt the counter behind him. He needed to touch something solid because he sensed the rest of his world was dissolving. “What are you s . . . saying, old m . . . man?”

His pa's eyes narrowed. “You know damn well what I'm saying.”

Trip's face whitened. “No.” He pressed his back harder against the kitchen counter.

“Yeah, you do.” His pa took a step toward him. “Like you, I have appetites. Only difference is I like to keep it in the family. That's why your bitch ma run off.” Frank rested both hands on the handle of his cane. His posture and voice took on that of a kindly old storyteller, but the tale he recounted was horrific and real. “Your ma knew what was going on in your sister's bedroom, but she didn't say nothing. How could she? Shit. Mary was my daughter, too. I could do what I wanted. But when you were born, that was the last straw. Anna was praying for another girl and she got you. Said she didn't want to live under the same roof with another Trip male. Not even her own son. She
couldn't stand the sight of you. She packed up Mary and took off. No loss. Wasn't much of a wife anyway. Couldn't cook worth a damn. Lousy in the sack.” He smiled. “Not like Mary.”

Trip's fists tightened at his sides. “You slept with your own d . . . daughter. My poor sister. How could you? Sick b . . . bastard.”

“You're one to talk. Let me tell you something, boy. Anna only left because she was afraid you were going to hit on Mary, too.” His pa paused to let that sink in. “As it turns out, she was right.”

What was his old man saying? Suddenly it hit him like a punch in the gut. Trip realized who he'd slept with more than twenty years ago. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and folded onto the floor. Slowly. A giant melting down to a midget. “I d . . . didn't know. I wouldn't have d . . . done it if I knew.” He wished he would lose his mind. Pass out. Black out. Anything to banish the image from his mind. His body tangled with hers.

His old man stepped closer. Jabbed him once in the side with the tip of his cane. “That's right, boy. We're both sick bastards.” Frank stood over him. The storyteller kept weaving his tale. “I didn't know what she was up to when she come back after all those years with that made-up name. Cammie Lammont. Stupid name. Those fancy clothes. Thought maybe she wanted to get a look at her little brother. Reconnect with family. She asked me to keep my mouth shut about the past and I told her I would. Figured I owed her that much.”

Trip curled up into a ball on his side. Shielded his face with his arms. He didn't want to look at his pa anymore, but he continued listening to his old man's voice. The story wasn't over.

“Then one night we're working at the shop, the two of us. She's got Elvis cranked so loud on the tape player I can't hear myself think. ‘Viva Las Vegas.' She's bopping and swaying those hips of hers. Teasing hips. I turn it down and tell her to knock it off. One last customer might come
in. She stops dancing. Gives me this weird look. Goes to the door. Locks it. Walks back to the register where I'm going over the receipts. I'm in the middle of counting the quarters when she tells me. Says it ever so casual, like she's telling me we run out of snow globes and backscratchers and we have to reorder. She's sleeping with you. You. Her brother.”

There. His pa said it out loud: Trip had slept with his sister. Hearing his old man say it jolted him. Forced him to uncurl his body. He wiped his eyes with his shaking hands and crawled to his feet. Turned his back on his father and clutched the edge of the kitchen sink, afraid he would fold again. He wished that he could puke. Wished that the single act of vomiting would somehow send the filth of his teenage sin down the kitchen drain. He heard the neighbor's wind chimes tinkling. He stared out the window. The scrawny tree was being buffeted by the breeze, losing the last of its leaves. He longed to be one of those leaves. A dead thing floating away on the wind. His pa kept talking.

“I can't look at her I'm so mad. I look at this handful of silver in my fist. She keeps jabbering. Says she's gonna walk home. Gonna tell you she's your sister. Then she's gonna grab her suitcase and leave. Mess up your life the way I messed up hers. She walks to the door, unlocks it and walks out.”

Trip bent his head down. Stared into the sink. Stained and dirty. Like the ceiling. Like his life. “You d . . . did it? Those quarters they f . . . found next to her. Your quarters from the t . . . t . . . till.”

“Bet your ass.”

“All these years I h . . . had an idea in my h . . . head of who did it. The ones who r . . . ran her over, I thought they were mean t . . . teenagers. Mean kids from around t . . . t . . . town. Jealous k . . . kids.”

“Jealousy killed her all right,” his pa said. His voice was so low it was almost lost in the wind chimes. “Not the kind you imagined. Was your pa's jealousy.”

Trip raised his eyes to the window. One leaf left on the scrawny tree. Another gust of wind and it was gone. He turned to face his old man. They stood a foot apart. He asked in a voice barely above a whisper: “You mean you didn't k . . . kill Cammie to p . . . p . . . protect me?”

His old man's brows went up. “What?” He paused for a moment, confused. Then he threw his head back and laughed. “Son. Son. You a piece of work. Protect you? Hell no. I was jealous. Mary finally come back and she's sleeping with you instead of me.” Frank turned his back to his son and headed toward the front room.