(2012) Colder Than Death (19 page)

“Like what?”

“Pictures, photo albums, a calendar, scrapbooks, her journals. There's not as much as I thought. I re-read what she wrote. It isn't very interesting. I mean, it's interesting for me because it helps me to understand who she was, but I don't think it'll be very helpful to Cobb.”

“You never know.”

Quilla tucked her feet under her legs and spun around, leaning against the passenger door. “Something about you has been bothering me.”

I glanced at her, wondering what was coming.

“You told me why you
became
a Funeral Director,” she said. “But I don't understand why you
continue
to be one.”

“It's the only thing I know how to do.”

She rolled her eyes. “You could do a lot of things. I mean, deep down Funeral Directors are like salesmen or counselors, right?” I nodded yes. “I don't want to dump on your profession, but how you can surround yourself with so much death and sadness. Doesn't it get to you?”

“Sometimes, but it's the kind of job that desensitizes a person. See enough death and you're immune to it.”

She tilted her head and smirked. “Why would you
want
to be immune to death?”

“What I mean is...I'm immune to having feelings about death. I have to shut down and turn everything off.”

“But, Del, that's not a normal human reaction. If somebody dies it's normal to feel bad. And I don't think it's normal to want to be around dead bodies and grieving people and coffins and graves and...”

“It's all part of the job.”

“Maybe for somebody else, but not you. It's a bad environment for you to be in.”

“That's a little presumptuous, don't you think?” I wasn't sure why, but Quilla was starting to irritate me.

“Ever since you told me the story of how you tried to get your father's ashes, I've been playing it over and over in my head and I think about how you've held onto the memory of Alyssa and how you've never been married and how you don't have a girlfriend and based on everything I've learned about you, I keep thinking that, yeah, it's understandable how he got into this weird business and, yeah, he's nice-looking and smart and sensitive and he understands me which is a really hard thing to do and he's intelligent enough to know that Gretchen is a woman worth pursuing and when I put all the pieces together I look at you and I say that there's one thing missing.” She looked at me tenderly. “You don't seem very happy.”

“You sound like a psychiatrist.”

“Good. It's one of the careers I'm thinking of pursuing.”

“There's only one problem with your profile of me. You're leaving out one key factor.” She stared at me, eyebrow arched, waiting. “Did it ever occur to you that I might
like
my job? I help people get through the worst times of their lives. I make it bearable. I get a lot out of that.”

She hesitated for a moment. “If that's the case, then I feel sorry for you.”

“Why? I'm making a contribution! And...do you have any idea how many people hate their jobs?”

“Yeah. I hear my mother and stepfather whining all the time about how horrible their jobs are. But they aren't like you.
Most
people aren't like you.” Tears started to form in her eyes. “You're like Gretchen. Different. Special. You could be making a better contribution somewhere else.” She shook her head slowly. “It's such a waste.”

I was about to respond, but we had arrived at the Dankworth Police Station. I parked in front. As we walked to the front door Quilla punched me lightly on my right arm and said, “Don't mind me. I can be a real ball breaker sometimes.”

*****

Perry wasn't there. The only ones around were Greg Hoxey and Lucy Delaine, the dispatcher.

Lucy was slender, almost petite, but dressed like a fat woman, favoring loose-fitting shifts from K-Mart with patterns that were either outrageously loud or depressingly bland.

“Is himself in his office?”

She shook her head. “Perry's not back yet. He called in a few seconds ago. He'll be here in no time flat.”

“What are
you
doing here?” said Greg to Quilla, totally ignoring me.

Quilla smiled when she saw Greg. He smiled back. “To meet with Perry,” she said sweetly, trustingly. Her demeanor suggested that she might have a crush on him.

“What about?”

“My Aunt's murder case. I'm here to talk about leads and to find out how Perry's investigation is coming.”

Greg looked at me dismissively. “Why are
you
here?”

“Perry wanted me,” I said abruptly.

“Does Perry have you on the case, Greg?” Quilla asked with such sincerity that it angered me to know that Greg wasn't really on her side.

“Nah. He's doing it alone.” He rolled his eyes.

“We have information that'll blow this thing wide open.”

I cringed as the words came out of her mouth. Greg arched his left eyebrow and said, “What kind of information?”

Quilla was about to speak when I said, “Maybe you should wait to tell Perry first.” She and Greg looked at me. She with confusion, he with disapproval. “After all, he
is
the Chief and it might not be smart to supercede him. Isn't that right, Greg? You know how Perry is about controlling things.”

Greg glared at me.

“What's the difference?” said Quilla. “It's not like Perry won't tell Greg what we've found out.”

“We haven't found out anything,” I said. “All we have is a theory.”

“Greg, does Perry tell you about theories?” said Quilla.

“All the time,” said Greg. “You can tell me what you know, Quil.”

Quil
? I thought to myself.
He calls her Quil
? “But most of the crimes here in Dankworth are small time,” I said. “This is a murder case. Not only that, it's the first murder case Perry's ever had.”

“Perry tells me everything,” said Greg, his voice firm.

“Maybe so, but in this instance, I think Perry won't be too happy knowing you know something before he does. Quilla, our meeting's with Perry. That's who we'll talk to.”

Suddenly Lucy blurted, “Greg, just got a call I think you should take.”

Greg nodded. The telephone on Greg's desk rang. He picked up the receiver and said, “Dankworth Police... If you have a cat stuck in a tree you shouldn't call the Police. Call the Fire Department... ”

Quilla turned to me and between gritted teeth whispered, “Why are you giving Greg such a hard time?”

I glanced at Greg. He had turned away from us and was still on the phone. “You can't tick Perry off. He's a control freak. Perry can help you. Greg can't. Look, based on what we figured out in the car,
I
have a stake in this. I don't want to jeopardize it because you think Hoxey's your buddy.”

“He is.”

I said nothing. I wanted to tell her then and there that Greg was Perry's plant, but it wasn't the right time. I wanted to meet with Perry, give him the information we came up with and hope that it would motivate him find out who the killer is, if it wasn't too late.

The door to the police station opened and Perry sauntered in. He didn't apologize for being late, saying only, “Let's go into my office.”

Feeling protective of Quilla, I put my hand on her right shoulder and guided her behind Perry. As we walked, Greg, who was still on the phone and had cupped the receiver, said, “Perry, you want me in on this?”

There was enormous hope in his question. It was as if he wanted Perry to say a firm “Absolutely,” but Perry just shook his head and brusquely said, “No.”

“You sure, Perry?”

Perry looked at his watch, then said, “Lucy's almost due for her break. You'll have to man the phones.” He gestured to Quilla and me. “C'mon.”

Quilla looked at Greg, clearly feeling embarrassed for him because of Perry's comment. She smiled sympathetically at him. He gave her a wink. Because I was growing fond of Quilla, it killed me that she seemed to be so taken with Greg. Sooner or later she would find out that he was spying on her and her friends on Perry's behalf and she would resent him and she would have another male authority figure in her life to despise.

As I stepped into Perry's office he said, “Close the door, Del.”

I did, then I sat down in one of the two wooden chairs across from Perry's plain, metal desk. Quilla walked over to the only window in the small, cluttered office and leaned against the sill. Perry plopped his large hulk into a worn, but comfortable-looking leather chair.

Perry looked at Quilla. “Aren't you gonna sit?”

“I think better on my feet,” she snapped.

“You're not here to think,” said Perry. “You're here to tell me everything you know about Brandy Parker.”

“Before I tell you about her, we have something else to say, something better, something so important that it'll give you tons of information to go on.”

“What's she talking about, Del?”

“Brandy Parker may not be the only murder victim.”

Perry didn't move. “You don't say.”

“Quilla and I were talking and a piece of information came up about the wife of Kyle Thistle. Evidently the body was never found.”

“So?”

“How can you be sure she was murdered?”

Perry leaned forward. “Because my father was convinced of it. It's the only case he ever liked to talk about. There were two popular theories as to why the body was never found. Kyle Thistle either cut it into little pieces and scattered them in public trash cans all over the county, or he weighted down the corpse and sunk it to the bottom of Dankworth Lake.”

“Was the bottom of the lake ever checked?” asked Quilla.

“They dragged it three different times. Nothing.”

“So it's not proven that it's there,” she added.

“Back then the lake had lots of fish. Hungry fish.”

“And how did they know that the body was cut up?”

“They didn't. That was a theory that came about because of a witness who saw Kyle Thistle dropping a black plastic bag into a public can.”

“What's so bad about that?” said Quilla.

“People who live in their own homes don't drive into town and dump garbage in public cans.”

“But there's no concrete proof that what Kyle Thistle was dropping into the garbage were parts of his wife's body.”

“Right,” said Perry.

“And was it proven a hundred percent that the guy the witness saw was Kyle Thistle?” said Quilla.

He adjusted himself in his chair. “What the hell is this leading to?”

“Okay,” I said. “Kyle Thistle's wife disappeared twenty-four years ago. Brandy Parker disappeared nine years ago. And you may not even be aware of the person I'm about to mention, Perry, but... ” I caught myself. For an instant I couldn't believe that I was about to speak of Alyssa as if she were dead. “Uh...another girl disappeared fifteen years ago. Alyssa Kirkland.”

Perry wrinkled up his face. “Doesn't ring a bell. But I wasn't on the force fifteen years ago. I was in college. Was there a missing person report filed?”

“I don't know.”

“Who was she?”

“His girlfriend,” blurted Quilla. “We suspect she might be another victim of the guy who killed my Aunt and Virginia Thistle. We think there might be a pattern.”

“You think?” Perry smirked. “Where's the pattern?”

“Isn't it obvious?” said Quilla. Every eight or nine years a woman disappears and is never heard from again.”

I considered telling Perry about the letter and postcard I received from Alyssa, but decided not to mention it just yet for fear of him latching onto it and trying to use it to diffuse the theory.

“This opens up all kinds of possibilities,” said Quilla. We think it's possible that Del's girlfriend and Gretchen's mother might be like my Aunt--hidden in old mausoleums at the cemetery. Who's to say that whoever the killer is didn't hide all his victims there? In fact, if we're right about the pattern, there might even be
another
woman in the last year or two whose family
thinks
she ran away from home when she's really dead. For all we know there could even be a bigger pattern. Maybe the killer murdered a woman every five years or three or every year. There's no telling how many women could be lying in mausoleums at Elm Cross cemetery.”

Her enthusiasm was bordering on overkill. I was afraid she would turn Perry off. “Quilla, maybe we should concentrate on the
three
victims for now,” I said.

“Maybe we should concentrate on
one
victim,” said Perry. “Brandy Parker. I'm not interested in a case that was over a quarter of a century ago or a case I never even heard of.”

“Perry, I don't want to tell you how to do your job...”

“Then don't.”

“I have a gut feeling about this. Please hear me out.”

“If this gut feeling starts to get boring, I stop listening. Go ahead.”

“Alright. I guess it would help to know if you have records of missing person or runaways.”

“This year alone we've had forty-one,” Perry said.

“That many in a town the size of Dankworth?” I said, incredulously. There were roughly twenty-five thousand people who lived here.

“You'd be surprised,” Perry said. He leaned forward and pushed a couple keys on the computer on his desk. A list of names appeared on the screen. “We have husbands who go on a weekend drunk. Wives who have affairs and run off. Lonely women who live with their bossy parents and get tired of it, so they run away with a trucker. Of course, it's mainly teenagers. Kids from thirteen to nineteen are always disappearing for a weekend, a week, some for six months.” He looked at Quilla. “Any of your crowd ever take off?’

Looking embarrassed, she nodded yes, then said, “But only the ones with assholes for parents.”

Perry looked at the screen, then at Quilla. “In fact, I have two missing person complaints on
you
!” He shifted his glare to me.

“You can
call
them missing person complaints,” she snapped. “But my mother overreacted when I stayed away one weekend after my stepfather hit me. The other time I had a fight with her about sex. I stayed at my friend's house. So if most of your missing person complaints are for kids who stay away a day or two, they don't count. How many
real
calls do you get about kids who leave and never come back?”