Текст книги "Brain Dead"

Автор книги: Eileen Dreyer

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Timmie sucked in a steadying breath. "Yeah. Sit down."

Twenty minutes later Micklind had all the information Timmie had, and Timmie learned that Alex hadn't been at the funeral because he'd been in interrogation, the cops had just searched Jason's motel room and come up with nothing of import but Timmie's phone number, and they were still waiting for phone records to see who else he might have called while he'd been in town. Timmie had also suggested they carry certain pictures to the motel and see if Jason had been seen in the company of any of the SSS. They'd been right. Jason's death had been no chance.

"And you're sure there wasn't any kind of history on the names I gave you?" she asked Micklind.

"Nothing more than traffic violations and the disorderly conduct we hit Dr. Adkins with when she tried to run over Vic's girlfriend once. One suspicious loitering, but that wasn't much."

"Suspicious loitering?" Timmie echoed. "Who, Cindy?"

"No. Ellen Mayfield."

"Ellen? Against who? Why the hell would Ellen loiter, suspiciously or otherwise?"

Micklind threw his hands up. "It didn't rate a big note in the file. I don't see it as practice for the big one, you know?"

"But you'll check."

"I'll check," he assured her. "Give us more time and we might be able to pull down work histories and stuff, but not tonight."

Murphy resettled in his chair, as antsy as Timmie. "Ms. Leary believes that whoever's doing this probably has a pattern already, or they wouldn't be this effective. Any way we could fire up VICAP or NCIC to see if there's a matching pattern anywhere?"

VICAP. Timmie almost leaped straight to her feet. "Oh, shit."

Micklind damn near reached for his gun. "Problem?"

But she was grinning. "You don't need to go through the computers. Conrad already did it for me."

Now both men were paying attention. "He did?" Murphy asked. "What did he come up with?"

"Nothing that made sense when I read through it before. But I have the printout at my house. We can look at it again."

A uniform tapped on Micklind's open door and leaned in. "Sarge, that nurse is in interrogation one for you."

Micklind scowled and climbed ponderously to his feet. "We only have one interrogation room, Bradley."

Bradley didn't smile. "Yes, Sarge."

"And here," he said, lifting the brown bag. "Have this bottle dusted ASAP. Carefully, Bradley."

"Yes, Sarge." He accepted the bag as if it held the grail and proceeded with it from the room.

Micklind shook his head at the young officer and then turned back to Timmie and Murphy, who were also on their feet. "We finally got the time to interview the unit nurses. Did you know the hospital already fired two of them?"

"Something I plan to help rectify," Timmie vowed.

Another uniform leaned in. "Those phone records are coming in."

Timmie almost sat back down. Micklind gave her one of his almost visible smiles. "You were going to check patterns you might recognize better than I would. I'll call if I find anything interesting here. All right?"

She glowered. "It'll have to be, won't it?"

Micklind pulled his jacket off his chair and slipped into it. "Oh, just for curiosity's sake, didn't you say that Chicago cop's name was John Dunn? I couldn't find a record of him anywhere. You sure he was a Chicago cop?"

Oh, good. Frustration and shame. "My mistake," Timmie admitted. "Evidently it wasn't Dunn. It was Skorcezy with a 'z'. Sergeant John Stanislaus Skorcezy, born in Chicago 1959, badge number 23548. He has a social security number, too, but I can't remember it. Cindy said he died in her arms."

Out of habit, Micklind jotted as Timmie talked. "You sure he was a sergeant?" he asked. "His badge number's wrong."

Timmie shrugged. "That's what Cindy gave me. But then Cindy also said she dated my fireman."

This time both of the men stared at her.

"Probably gave me his patrol badge," Micklind finally said. "Those are the only badges with five numbers."

Timmie raised her eyes. "Which meant he was probably a patrolman."

"I don't want to keep this nurse waiting. I may dig a little more later. Thanks for coming in."

"And you'll keep me apprised," Timmie said.

Micklind did smile this time. "Yes, ma'am, I will."

* * *

The last place Timmie wanted to return to tonight was her house. That was where she went, though, Murphy in tow. This time she didn't bother to turn on the lights. Only the fluorescent in the kitchen, which was plenty of light to find her mail. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten about the list of mercy killing cases Conrad had sent. She also wasn't all that sure it would help. But any port in a storm.

Besides, she hated having to wait for Micklind to chew his information before spitting it out. She was close; she could feel it. And trauma nurses were not paid for their patience. So she did one more thing.

Without bothering to ask Murphy, she grabbed the phone and dialed information for the number to the Red Roof Inn.

"Red Roof Inn, how may I direct your call?" the nasal, asthmatic operator asked in a rush.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Timmie said, greeting her in her best let's-both-solve-a-big-problem voice. "You had a guest there by the name of Jason Parker?"

Pause. "Maybe."

Timmie smiled. "I'm Mrs. Parker. His wife. I wanted to ask about his bill."

"Oh, ma'am... oh, I..."

"I know what happened," she said mournfully. "It's only been today that the police were finally able to tell me where he was staying. I... well, they gave me his effects, but I've been concerned about his bill. Jason simply never left a bill unpaid."

"Well, there was his credit card..."

"Which the company probably froze at his death. I thought if you didn't mind I'd just come by and settle it for you. For... Jason."

"Why, uh, thank you. We had to charge him till today, you know. And I'm sure... I don't mean to..."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Timmie said.

"Those bills always list any phone number that's called and charged to the room," she explained to Murphy as she hung up the phone. When he didn't move, she frowned at him. "Somebody knew Jason was coming to my house. And Jason didn't know anybody in town but me. Don't you think that's a problem worth exploring?"

"The police are looking at the same information right now."

She stopped him with a look. "These are my friends. And once upon a time, Jason was my husband. I need to know."

Murphy just turned for the door. Grabbing the brown manila envelope that had been sitting beneath her toaster, Timmie followed. "I'll read this on the way over."

She tried her best to read by the overhead light, but Murphy's driving made her nauseated. Besides, Conrad's printer must have shared shelf space with the first Fortran computer. The information he'd sent her had been printed on what looked for all the world like disappearing ink.

By the time they pulled into the parking lot, she'd only made it through three cases, and not one of them helped. Supermen syndromes all, with possible suspects the authorities simply hadn't been able to nail yet. All men.

The motel desk clerk was fifty-five and counting on the lottery to save her. Until then, she moved as little as possible and thought even less.

"I'm not sure..." she hesitated at Timmie's repeated request, fingers twined in stringy yellow hair. "Jo talked to you before."

"I understand," Timmie commiserated, pulling out her wallet and flipping out driver's license, credit card, and the only picture she had left of the family she'd once had. She'd almost cut Jason out of the pose, leaving just her and Megs, but Meghan would have noticed. Now she was glad she hadn't. "Did you get the chance to meet my husband?" she asked in her best grief-stricken voice.

"Yeah."

Timmie nodded and pushed forward her identification. "You see?" she said. "My name is Timothy Ann Leary-Parker. Here's my ID, and my picture with my husband and daughter."

"I'm still not sure I should allow you to do this. It could be illegal... Timothy?"

Timmie came very close to grabbing the woman by the shirt. "You're not sure that your company would want their bill paid? I'm a little confused. Why not?"

That stumped her.

Murphy leaned over Timmie's shoulder and peered at the picture on her license. "Good grief, what color is that?"

Timmie squinted herself. "Uh, sunrise orange. It was all the rage at USC that summer."

He just shook his head. "Your name really is Leary-Parker."

Timmie scowled at him. "Well, yeah. If you'll remember, I did my best to introduce myself that way. But since nobody listens, I just gave up. So I'm back to just Timmie Leary."

Didn't it just figure that that was what finally brought the clerk to life. "Leary?" she asked, brightening in that all-too-familiar way. "You aren't Joe Leary's daughter, are you?"

Timmie brightened right back. "Why, yes. You know him?"

The woman laughed like a seal. "You kiddin'? I seen him down at the RiverRat Tavern all the time. He used ta sing and shit. 'I will go and I will go, and I will go now to Englishfree.'"

Well, that was an interpretation Timmie hadn't heard before.

"That's it exactly," she agreed.

Another laugh, and Timmie had the bill in her hand along with the printout of phone numbers and dirty movies Jason had rented while waiting to see his daughter.

"I don't suppose you know—"

"If there was any women here with him?" The woman shook her head. "No."

Timmie blinked. "How'd you know I was going to ask that?"

She got another seal bark. "You kiddin'? The only question I get more'n that is 'Where's the condom machine, honey?'"

Timmie was proud of herself. She at least waited until she got back to the car before she read the bill. She didn't even notice Murphy start the car and back out of the lot. She was too focused on the long list of numbers in her hand.

His parents, his parents, his accountant, his lawyer. Even after all this time, Timmie knew that damn number by heart. St. Louis old money making the link with Los Angeles greed and seeing her straight to the streets.

She knew which numbers she didn't want to see on the list. And she didn't. Ellen's wasn't there. Neither was Barb's, Mattie's, Alex's, or Cindy's. But there was one number she saw more than once.

She got to the end and read it again. It still didn't make sense.

"I need to call Meghan," she said. "Can we—?"

Then she looked up to see that they were already in the parking lot of the Puckett Independent. The car engine was off and Murphy was lighting a cigarette one-handed as he scanned Conrad's computer printout.

"We going in?" she asked.

"In a second. Sherilee doesn't like smoke in there. What'd you find?"

She looked back down at her list. "Me. I'm the culprit again."

Murphy didn't bother to look over. "No kidding. You wanna just head over to the station now, or are you going to make a run for it?"

Timmie looked back at the list. At the dates and times. "I wasn't at the house when he called. I couldn't have been. But he told his mother he'd talked to me."

"Who else could he have talked to?"

"Exactly."

And then, she began counting backward from today and tried to remember just what had been going on at about four-thirty in the afternoon.

"Oh, my..." Timmie sat up straighten Counted again so she didn't get it wrong. Laughed, because it was the only thing she could think to do. "No, that can't be right."

"What?"

Timmie stared at the corrugated metal wall of the building, with its oak and brass nameplate pulled from the original brick Victorian presses when they'd moved to escape the '93 flood. She looked over at Murphy, but he had his nose in that printout. It didn't matter. She had the answer she didn't want, and she still didn't want it.

Next to her, Murphy abruptly stiffened. "Bingo."

Timmie didn't hear him. She was trying to decide who to call first, Gladys or Barb. She was wondering how she could get information more quickly than Micklind. She was wondering how she was going to feel about this when the truth finally sank in.

"I bet you know who it is," Murphy said suddenly.

Timmie looked over to see that avid gleam in his eye and nodded, still trying her damnedest to believe it. "I do."

"Me, too."

Finally, Timmie heard him. "I know," she said, and began to believe it.

Even so, Murphy pointed to the tenth case Conrad had copied for her. A possible angel of death stalking the halls of a VA hospital in Joliet, Illinois. "Ring a bell?" he asked.

* * *

Murphy did not want to be put on hold. Not when he had dynamite in his hand. Nitro. Plutonium. It was so damn easy. So obvious, according to his cohort in crime, who was even now finishing a call to her mother-in-law.

All Murphy could do was wait for Micklind to get his ass back out of that interrogation room that was going to prove useless, and get on the damn phone.

"What?" Micklind asked by way of greeting.

Murphy stubbed out the cigarette he'd brought in anyway and leaned over his printout. "That nurse Gladys still down there?"

"Yeah. She couldn't tell me much."

"Well, ask her this. Ask her how Ellen's husband died."

"What?"

"Ask her how Ellen's husband died. Trust me."

Micklind grunted and put Murphy back on hold. Next to him, Timmie was smiling and discussing green flies and chameleons, which Murphy figured meant she was talking to her daughter. He should call his. When this was over. When he decided what to do. After he'd had his meaningless sex with Leary and recovered his breath.

He lit another cigarette while he waited. He thought how refreshing a stiff drink would be right now. How he'd never really celebrated an exclusive story without at least a bottle of something flammable, if not combustible. He sucked hard on the cigarette and focused on winning instead.

"Murphy?" It was Micklind, and he sounded downright stunned. "Guess what I found out?"

Murphy smiled like a pirate. "Her husband was killed in the line of duty in Chicago."

It sounded like Micklind was smoking, too. Might as well. This was even better than good sex. "This Gladys apologized for the mix-up. She said she always got those two mixed up, since they were so much alike and they were both widows. How'd you figure it out?"

"Leary figured out from a phone bill that her husband had been conversing with someone at her house when she wasn't home. There's only one other person who was definitely in the house at four-thirty P.M. two days before Jason Parker's death, when he made his last call. I also got some great information for you—"

"Actually, so did I. That's what took me so long. I got the information on that Cindy's husband's death. Turns out he didn't."

"Didn't what? Die?"

"Die? He didn't even exist. There was no such cop as John Skorcezy. Hell, there wasn't even a man from Chicago named John Skorcezy. I went ahead and asked right after you left. The information just came up."

"Actually," Murphy said, "there might not have been a John Skorcezy, but there was a Stanislaus Skorcezy. He was the first patient to die in a series of fifteen murders that took place almost four years ago in Joliet, Illinois. They had a suspect, but failed to indict for lack of evidence."

"Don't tell me. Cindy Dunn."

"Not exactly. Cindy Skorcezy. Stanislaus's daughter."

Silence. "She was a nurse at her father's hospital?"

"She was a nurse. Just not there."

"Jesus." Murphy waited, but it took Micklind a minute to catch his breath. Murphy didn't blame him. "We're waiting for the AFIS results on those prints, but I bet it's a clean match. Does Timmie know where this Cindy might be?"

"Hey, Leary," Murphy said. "Can you find Cindy? Micklind wants to talk to her."

Timmie was just hanging up the phone. "Cindy told Meghan not to tell me her daddy had called. Said it was going to be a surprise for me." She shook her head, her eyes tight and troubled. "She was at work. Let me check."

She dialed, greeted, waited.

"...how long does she have left for lunch... no, I'm not going to insult her again, Ellen. I'm going to apologize. Is that okay?"

"I think the suspect is working her shift at the hospital," Murphy interpreted for the cop. "She is, however, on lunch break."

Micklind snorted. "It's damn near nine. You'd think she was a cop."

Murphy was grinning when he caught the sudden consternation in Timmie's voice. "What do you mean they can't find him?" She was suddenly on point, bristling with annoyance and impatience. "Thanks, Ellen. I'll call them right now."

"Problems?" he asked when she hung up.

"My father." She punched buttons as if they needed punishment. "He's wandered off the floor. They wonder if I wouldn't come in and help them look for him. I don't think I'm paying all this money to have them misplace him, for God's sake."

"He's not in any danger, is he?"

"No. He has an electric alert anklet that will sound like a dive Klaxon if he so much as wanders into the regular hospital. He's probably hiding in some old woman's closet pretending her husband is due home... Hello?"

That call took three minutes, four monosyllabic responses, and one promise. By the time Timmie hung up the phone, Murphy was on his feet, both phone bill and printout in hand. "Need a ride?"

She scowled. "Yes. What is Micklind going to do about Cindy?" That gave her pause. She stopped, laughed an odd, mirthless bark of surprise, shook her head. "My God. Cindy."

"He'll pick her up at work. Which probably means you should go in the back door when you go see your dad. I'll drop you off and take this over to Micklind. Call me there when you need a ride."

She kept shaking her head. "Cindy. And here we thought she was all talk."

Murphy dropped her off at the Restcrest entrance and headed back out of the campus again. It was a pretty night, if you liked winter. The sky was clear and black and brisk, with a few stars peeking past the city lights and the moon hanging parchment yellow over the hospital. Everything held still in the darkness beyond the orange glow of the parking lot lights.

Murphy had just hit his blinker to turn left off the southern exit of the hospital when he noticed the car that had stopped at the sign. Must be an out-of-towner, was his first thought. Missourians tended to consider stop signs as suggestions rather than orders. As long as they hit their lowest gear and at least pulled their foot off the gas, they considered themselves to be making a legal stop. Which was why this guy looked so odd sitting there.

Maybe he was trying to see past the stand of trees at the edge of the lane. Whatever it was, something was confusing this poor white-haired guy sitting there in his sedan.

White hair.

Throwing his car into neutral and yanking on the brake, Murphy leaned forward to get a better look. He hit his high beams and watched them glint off that singular mane. Murphy saw the guy look around, as if seeking something. He saw, to his astonishment, that he was in his pajamas.

And he knew without a doubt who it was.

Restcrest was mounting an indoor search party, and somehow Joe Leary had made a clean break as far as the nearest auto. Now that he had it, though, he had obviously forgotten what to do with it.

Murphy climbed out of the car as quickly as possible and headed for the sedan.

"Joe? Joe, you okay?"

He hadn't gotten as far as figuring out what he was going to do with him. He just knew that this poor old geezer was shaking like a malaria patient and getting alarmingly blue around the lips. And he was singing... what? It was familiar.

"Joe, remember me? My name's Murphy." He leaned a hand against the door. "I think maybe you need to come with me, bud."

"Magic Bus." That was what it was. Murphy wanted to laugh. Joe Leary was sitting in a stolen car at nine at night in his pj's singing "Magic Bus," and there wasn't anybody around to witness it.

"'Hey, Joe,'" he crooned, trying to get the guy's attention and thinking that it was the wrong song. "How the hell'd you get here?"

Murphy was leaning over far enough to see that Joe was barefoot. Joe turned, saw Murphy, and then looked up. Murphy was already bent over to get hold of Joe's arm. By the time he heard what Joe saw, he was too off-balance to protect himself. Murphy spun around in time to catch the impression of wood grain.

Oh, hell, was all he could think of as the bat cracked against his head and sent him slamming against the car. What a stupid jerk to fall for that one. And then the gravel bit into his cheek and he felt his legs go numb.