1 Twisted Perception Page 2

  Elliot tried to hide his smile. Beaumont, who was already busy dusting for prints, wasn’t exactly popular with the patrol officers. He was sharp—real sharp—and he had an impressive way of remembering case details, but he didn’t mind letting you know it. “He’s pretty good at what he does,” Elliot said. “Got an ID on the victim yet?”

  Conley nodded. “Name’s Lagayle Zimmerman.”

  Elliot ran the name through his memory, but it didn’t register. As he scanned the crime scene, the sounds of traffic on Peoria Avenue wafting through his senses, he noticed two people standing beside another uniformed officer. To Conley, he said, “Any of these people see anything?”

  “None that will admit to it,” Conley said.

  “You question everybody?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Some wino,” Conley said. “Hang on. I’ll get him for you.” He signaled for the officer to bring the witnesses over.

  The nervous man, who looked about forty, had long, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. A tattoo of a snake ran up his left arm. The lady reminded Elliot of his second grade school teacher. “I apologize for the wait,” he said. “My name’s Detective Elliot. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Conley introduced Bill Morton as the man who discovered the body and Ella Mae Smith as the woman who had called the police. Elliot pulled the man aside first, and after a few steps, he flipped open his notepad. “Mr. Morton, how did you happen to discover the deceased?”

  Morton gestured toward the scene. “I was coming up through here, going to the park. The Mercedes was sitting by the dumpster, all crooked-like, so I noticed it right off. When I went past, I saw someone was in the car. She didn’t look right, wasn’t moving or anything, so I thought I’d better have a look.” Morton paused and cleared his throat. “Knew she was dead when I saw all the blood.”

  Elliot made a notation. “Do you recall what time that was?”

  “I don’t know, about five thirty, I guess.”

  “Do you work around here, Mr. Morton?”

  “Nah, nothing like that, I was just out getting a little exercise.”

  Elliot tapped his notepad. Morton was wearing athletic shoes, but the rest of his attire, blue denim jeans and a western shirt, didn’t seem to confirm his explanation. “Did you see anyone else nearby?”

  “No, but I wasn’t really looking.”

  “Any other cars in the area?”

  “Not that I noticed. Except for Mrs. Smith. She pulled in across the way and stopped. She used her phone to call you guys, after I asked her to.”

  “Why do you suppose she stopped?”

  Morton shrugged and reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He lit up then tossed the match onto the tarmac. “I don’t know, Mr. Elliot. Maybe she saw something she didn’t like.”

  Elliot weighed the response. Morton wasn’t dressed for a night on the town any more than he was for jogging, but his clothes were free of bloodstains and had no rips or tears. He had no weapons on him, and none were found at the crime scene. It would be nearly impossible to inflict that kind of wound on someone without getting dirty. Of course he could have gotten rid of the weapon, but if he were the killer, why would he leave to ditch the weapon and change clothes, only to return to the scene and call the cops? It didn’t seem likely, but Elliot still got the impression Morton wasn’t being entirely truthful. “I’d like to ask you to come down to the station with us, Mr. Morton. You’re not under arrest. We just want to ask you a few more questions.”

  A streetwise look of understanding crossed Morton’s face. Elliot had seen the look before; Morton had a bit of experience with the police, knew something about their procedures. The last thing he wanted was to go downtown with a bunch of cops, but he figured he had no choice. If he refused it would indicate guilt. If he tried to turn and run, that would be probable cause. He took a draw on his cigarette. “This is exactly why people don’t want to get involved. I try to do a good deed and the first thing you know, I’m a suspect.”

  “Everyone’s a suspect, Mr. Morton.”

  “Yeah? Well, I bet you don’t take Mrs. Prissy over there.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Elliot said. “I’d haul the Pope in if I thought he was connected to the case.”

  Morton shook his head. “You probably would, at that. Yeah, sure, I’ll go answer your questions. Not like I got much choice anyway.”

  After thanking Mr. Morton, Elliot went to the other witness. “Would you mind telling me why you were in the area this morning, Mrs. Smith?”

  Ella Mae Smith smiled, and began to speak. “It’s Monday. I come down on Mondays and Wednesdays to look after Edna Jones. She gets up with the chickens, if you know what I mean. We’re both members of the Presbyterian Church. I’ve been looking in on older folks who need it for ten years now, not that I wouldn’t mind taking a break from it for awhile…taking care of this and worrying about that…but just try and get someone else to do it. Everyone wants to help, so long as they don’t have to take responsibility for it. If you want to quiet down a congregation, just ask for volunteers. And Pastor Schaffer can be quite demanding.” She paused and shook her head, then continued, “It’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Patricia Letterman, God rest her soul, tried to warn me. She did it for years, you know, until her health started to fail.”

  “I see,” Elliot said. “Could you tell me what caused you to pull up here?”

  “Well, it was that car.”

  “The Mercedes?”

  “Yes, sir. Pastor Schaffer has one just like it. Not that he’d park it there. I guess that’s what caught my attention. And that strange man lurking about, glancing up and down the sidewalk, all nervous and jittery, like a cat in a room full of dogs.”

  “You mean Mr. Morton?”

  “Yes, sir. I would’ve just driven on, because I’d figured out by then that it wasn’t Pastor Schaffer’s car. And that Morton man looked like he was about to leave, too. But then he stopped and pressed his face against the window of that car, like he was trying to get a better look at what was inside. Well, that didn’t last long. He backed away from there like he’d touched a hot stove, and I just figured he was going to take off running cause that’s what it looked like he wanted to do, but then he saw me.”

  “Why do you suppose seeing you would bother him?”

  “Well for heavens sake, hon, I don’t know. But I can tell you this, when he started toward me, I near lost myself. He scared the wits out of me. I don’t know why I showed him my cell phone. I guess I was trying to let him know that I could call for help if I needed to. But that didn’t scare him. It seemed to be what he wanted. He started nodding his head and yelling through the glass that someone was inside that car, he thought she might be dead, and would I mind calling the police. Well, let me tell you, I was more than happy to do just that.”

  “Do you remember what time you made the call?”

  “It was before six. That’s about the time I usually get here, and I was running a little early.”

  Elliot closed his notepad and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Mrs. Smith. That’ll be all for now.” He stood on the sidewalk for a moment then walked over to the Mercedes, where Beaumont was standing. “You about through here?”

  “It’s all yours,” Beaumont said. Then he surprised Elliot. He put a hand on his shoulder, and with an expression that looked almost personable he said, “You look a little rough around the edges, Elliot. What’s bothering you?”

  As if on cue, a wind kicked up, a cool and swirling breeze that carried the faint smell of pear blossoms coming from some of the few blooms that had managed to survive the up-and-down temperatures. “It’s nothing,” Elliot said, “Just a bad case of déjà vu.”

  Beaumont raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, putting his hands on his hips, an imitation John Wayne in a Park Avenue suit. “Probably not the words you were looking for, but
I think I know what you’re getting at. The Stillwater murders right? The victims had their throats cut, and as I recall, at least one of them was found like this, in the passenger seat of her car.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “That was before your time, too. I must say I’m impressed, old boy.”

  Elliot wondered how Beaumont knew so much. The Stillwater murders had happened a long time ago, seven years at least, and with no apparent connection to Tulsa. It was a stretch even for a fanatic like Beaumont. Yet he’d brought it up immediately. But Elliot’s knowledge of the events hadn’t been acquired by studying old case files, as he suspected Beaumont’s had. He’d been a little closer to the source, attending classes at Oklahoma State during the murders and reading about them in the Stillwater Gazette. “Before your time, as well,” he added.

  “That it was. Seems there was more to it though, some sort of messages. ”

  “Written in blood,” Elliot said. “And the slitting of the throats wasn’t like this, a simple cut. They had a pattern, a definite design.” Elliot’s own words sent a chill through him, but he said nothing more. How could he tell Beaumont the memory that had nearly brought him to his knees hadn’t come from Stillwater, but from a time period when he was a high school senior in Porter, Oklahoma?

  “Morning, gentlemen.”

  A team from the medical examiner’s office had arrived, and one of them, Donald Carter, had made his way over to them. “Hey, Donnie,” Elliot said.

  Beaumont gave a curt nod.

  Donald Carter slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses and said, “Some crazy weather we’re having, huh?”

  Elliot smiled and started walking toward the Mercedes while Donald Carter and Detective Beaumont followed. Less than a week ago temperatures had hovered around the high eighties, spawning a tornado that had ripped through the outskirts of town. This morning most thermometers would have to struggle to get above forty: Springtime in Oklahoma. Elliot stopped beside the open passenger door of the vehicle. “How long would you say she’s been dead?”

  Donnie stepped forward and ducked his head inside the car, for a closer look. He already had his gloves on. He pushed the skin with his finger, observing its elasticity then lifted one of her arms “Several hours. Seven or eight, if I had to guess.” He pulled his head back and stood straight. “Looks like she was killed in the driver’s seat then somehow maneuvered over to this side.”

  Elliot nodded. “A hurried attempt to throw us off. The victim was dragged over the console. I think she was killed somewhere else and brought here.” He paused, intending to stop there, but before he knew it he was verbalizing his thoughts. “I’ve got a tip-of-the-iceberg feeling about all this.”

  The look on Donald Carter’s face said he was interested, but one of his team members had called out to him. He turned and walked away.

  Beaumont muttered something that Elliot couldn’t quite make out, and then he said, “You might be onto something. There are a lot of similarities here, perhaps a little too many. You don’t suppose we have a copycat on our hands, do you?”

  “Maybe,” Elliot said. And again, what he’d only intended to think came out. “Worse yet, maybe not.”

  Beaumont arched an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t think…” He shook his head. “Christ, Elliot, some psycho could’ve run across it in an old newspaper or something.”

  Don’t do this, Kenny. We can work it out.

  “Yeah,” Elliot said. “You’re probably right.” He got some plastic bags from his car and went back to the Mercedes, where he picked up the cell phone and gathered some fibers that looked to be from duct tape. In the glove compartment, he found a book of matches from some bar. For the first time, he hoped Beaumont was right. However, when he slid the necklace off the mirror and dropped it into the bag, he again thought of Marcia Barnes, her blonde hair caked with blood, her petite body riddled with stab wounds.

  “You going to be all right?” Beaumont asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Beaumont shrugged. “What’s up with that fellow Sergeant Conley took in?”

  “His name’s Bill Morton. He found the body.”

  “You think he had something to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. He’s got a record, everything from petty burglary to exposing himself to the sisters at the cathedral over on Boulder, but nothing like this.”

  “The real cream of society,” Beaumont remarked.

  Elliot watched the medical examiner’s people remove the body.

  “How’s Molly?” Beaumont asked.

  Elliot found that curious as well. Molly worked at the district attorney’s office and she and Elliot had been dating, but he hadn’t been aware that Beaumont knew that. “She’s doing better.”

  Beaumont nodded. “I know what she’s going through. It’s tough to lose someone, especially when they’re family.”

  “Not much more we can do here,” Elliot said.

  3

  Elliot grabbed a cup of coffee and a bagel from the break room then went to his desk. Beaumont still worried him. He couldn’t figure the captain’s fondness for Beaumont. Beaumont was sharp on theory, but he was no good in the field. He’d gotten them into trouble a few weeks back. He and Elliot had tracked down a meth lab operator who’d decided to take out the competition, his brother. When the suspect reached for his weapon, Beaumont hesitated just long enough for three of the guy’s associates to come rushing out of a back bedroom. Elliot had been forced to act, killing one of the suspects and dropping another. He wound up with a short hospital stay and a reprimand for using excessive force. He didn’t mention Beaumont’s error in the report.

  Tossing the bagel, Elliot picked up the coffee and leaned back in his chair. He sat in a cubicle that served as an office in the bull pen that played host to the homicide squad. To Elliot’s left was a computer monitor, and in front of him one of the half walls lined with notes he’d stuck there. There was a five-drawer filing cabinet on his right that served not only as a storage area, but a barrier as well. When he leaned back, the action left him exposed, outside the protective mass of the filing cabinet. Beaumont sat across the aisle in an identical, mirror-imaged cubicle. He glanced over only to see Beaumont leaning back as well, staring at him with a blank look on his face.

  Elliot sipped his coffee. Within a few blocks of the department, a victim of murder had been left in the street, but Elliot’s thoughts were elsewhere. The small town of Porter was in another lifetime, but from that murky past a cold finger had reached out and touched him. He closed his eyes, conjuring images of Carmen Garcia. The sight of her in that pale yellow dress with her dark eyes sparkling had nearly taken his breath away.

  My parents are gone, Kenny. Stay with me tonight.

  Nerves crawled in Elliot’s gut at the memory. He drained his coffee and crushed the cup. He looked up to see Captain William Dombrowski leaning against the filing cabinet, staring at him. “You got a minute?”

  Elliot followed Dombrowski into his office, stopping behind the chairs in front of the desk. Dombrowski gestured for Elliot to sit while he studied him with intense gray eyes.

  “What’s on your mind, Captain?”

  Dombrowski lit a cigar then watched a stream of smoke curl toward the ceiling. “I hear you were pretty shaken up this morning.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I need my cops sharp, impartial. If you’ve got a problem, I need to know about it.”

  Elliot didn’t like what he was hearing. Dombrowski’s concern seemed way out of proportion. “I don’t have a problem. Maybe someone else does.”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve had complaints about your behavior, and they’ve all been recent. This isn’t like you. What’s going on?”

  “There’s nothing going on.”

  Dombrowski pushed back from his desk, his chair protesting from the burden of his weight. “Come on, kid. It’s me you’re talking to.”

  Elliot rubbed his temples. He and Dombrow
ski had worked a couple of cases together when they were both detectives. Dombrowski had been captain for less than six months and he was probably just as uncomfortable as Elliot was. Elliot glanced at a bookcase by the wall. Alongside an array of law books sat a hand painted ceramic mug and a plaster imprint of a small hand, things Dombrowski’s kid had made him. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” he said. “Nightmares, that sort of thing.”

  “Work related?”

  Stay with me tonight, Kenny.

  “I’m not sure. Probably not.”

  “Well, I’m a little more inclined to think that it is. You had a close call last month.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Jeez, Elliot. You were shot. There’s no shame in being shaken up over that. Maybe you should take some time off.”

  Earlier that day, Elliot would’ve jumped at the chance, but a lot had happened since then. “I don’t think that would be such a good idea right now.”

  “All right then, you tell me. If you were in my shoes, what would you do?”

  “I’d let me finish the case. You were right to call me in on this one.”

  Dombrowski puffed on his cigar, adding more smoke to the already stuffy room. “What makes you say that?”

  Elliot paused, looking for the right words. “Because nothing about it seems right.”

  Anyone else might have questioned Elliot’s answer, but not Dombrowski. He simply nodded, more of an understanding than an approval. “So, what have you got so far?”

  “Not much. But we can rule out robbery. Nothing was taken from her purse, and the jewelry was still there. The victim had a cell phone in her car. Her last call was to the Tulsa Police Department.”

  “Nine-one-one?”

  “No. A direct call.”

  “Seems odd if she knew she was in trouble.”

  Elliot nodded. “I checked with dispatch. An unusual call came in around eleven last night. I listened to the tape. It’s sketchy, but I think it might have been the victim.”