All Fall Down (16 page)

M
elanie reviewed her list of possible victims. In the past week she had spoken to thirty next of kin. None of those deaths had jumped out at her as being suspicious. Next up was Joshua Reynolds. Burned to death in his bed back in January. After reading the obit, she had contacted the fire department. The autopsy showed the man's blood alcohol level had been sky-high. Apparently, he lit up a smoke, then passed out. The guy had a history of smoking in bed and had started fires that way before.

This time luck had not been with him. His cigarette had dropped into a filled wastebasket. The entire place had gone up, Reynolds with it.

He had been survived by a wife and two kids. Luckily, when the accident occurred, they had been staying the weekend at Mrs. Reynolds's mother's in Asheville.

A trip into the department's computer provided the wife's current address and phone number—Melanie punched it in. After four rings, a woman answered. “Good morning,” Melanie said cheerfully. “Is this the residence of Mrs. Joshua Reynolds?”

The woman hesitated. “It is,” she said finally. “May I help you?”

“Is this Rita Reynolds?”

“Who's calling, please?” Her tone had gone from marginally warm to positively frigid.

Melanie crossed her fingers. As Bobby had pointed out earlier that day, if the chief got wind of what she was doing, of how she was misrepresenting herself, he would have her badge. “The America Sweepstakes Award Center, ma'am. Is this Mrs. Joshua Reynolds?”

“Yes,” she said. “If you're selling something, I'm not—”

“I'm glad I was able to locate you,” Melanie plowed on. “Your husband is one of our grand-prize win—”

“Who is this?”

“I told you, I'm with—”

“Who are you really with? The insurance company again?”

Her voice rose. Melanie heard children in the background. And a dog barking. She glanced at her watch. The Reynolds' kids, arriving home from school.

“I told you,” the woman said. “I had nothing to do with his death. Though I can't say I mourn his passing. Good day.”

The line went dead. Excited, Melanie quickly dialed again. When the woman picked up, Melanie said, “I'm a police officer, Mrs. Reynolds. My name's Officer May and I'm looking into the possibility that your husband was murdered.”

“I talked to you people already!” the woman cried. “I answered a million of your questions. I took a lie detector test, and I've still got no house because the insurance won't pay off.”

“Mrs. Reynolds—”

“I didn't kill him, all right? Now, leave me alone!”

“Wait! Please, don't hang up! I'm not accusing you of anything. And if what I'm investigating turns out to be true, your insurance will pay off.”

When the woman didn't slam down the phone, Melanie said a silent thank-you. She suspected she didn't have much time and got right to the point. “Was your husband…did he abuse you?”

The woman sucked in a sharp breath. “What kind of question… Why do you want to know that? Can't you people just leave me alone?”

“Please, Mrs. Reynolds, I know this must be difficult for you, but if you could just answer the question.”

For a long moment the line was dead between them. Then Melanie heard a soft, snuffling noise and realized the woman was crying. “You want to know what difficult is?” she asked, voice cracking. “Not your question, not by a long shot. Living with Joshua, now
that
was difficult. Living with his drinking. With his rages and his cruelty. Difficult was—” A sob swallowed her words.

Melanie waited for the woman to compose herself, working to suppress her jubilation. “Mrs. Reynolds,” she asked softly, “did your husband hit you?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Okay? Why so interested now that he's dead? When he was alive, nobody gave a damn.”

That's where she was wrong. When he was alive, somebody had cared. Cared enough to commit murder.

She had her fourth.

“I'm investigating the possibility that your husband's death may be linked to the deaths of several other men like him.”

“Linked? I don't understand.”

The children's squeals grew louder; it sounded as if the dog was going nuts. “I'm sorry,” Melanie said, “but I can't tell you any more right now. Rest assured, however, if your husband was murdered, we'll see that justice is done.”

The woman laughed, the sound sharp, bitter. “Justice was done, Officer May. My children laugh now. I can go to sleep without wondering if I'm going to wake up in the morning. The world's better off without him, and so am I.”

“Mrs. Reynolds—”

“No. I thank God every day that he's gone. And if he was murdered, I guess it's not God who I need to be thanking. My children are home now and I need to be with them. Good day, Officer.”

For the second time, the woman hung up on her. Only this time, Melanie didn't phone her back. She sat, receiver still to her ear, the woman's words ringing in her head.

“I thank God every day that he's gone…my children laugh now…I can go to sleep without wondering if I'm going to wake up in the morning.”

Melanie dropped the phone into its cradle, her thoughts racing jackrabbit-like, from bits and snatches of conversations she'd had during the course of her investigation to memories of her own childhood. How many times had she and her sisters prayed for God to swoop down from heaven and take their father while
he slept? How many times must the mates of Thomas Weiss, Samson Gold, Jim McMillian and Joshua Reynolds have prayed for the same thing?

And their prayers had been answered. Their lives were better now.

On impulse, Melanie jumped up and crossed to her files. She yanked open the bottom drawer and began thumbing through them, stopping when she came to
Weiss, Thomas.
Mr. Bee Sting, the one who had, in a way, set her on this course.

She pulled the folder and went back to her desk. She retrieved the phone number and dialed. It rang a half a dozen times with no answer. Melanie drummed her fingers against the desktop, a sense of urgency pressing at her. She remembered that Donna had worked nights, tending bar at Weiss's Blue Bayou restaurant. She should be home.

Pick up, Donna. I have to talk to you. Pick up, dammit.

She did then, sounding out of breath.

“Donna,” Melanie said, “I've gotten you at a bad time. I'm sorry.”

“Not at all. I was running and just got back. Who's this?”

“Melanie May, Whistlestop police. I was calling to see how you were doing.”

“Can you hold a second?” Melanie said she could and heard a rustling on the other end, then the sound of a door being opened and slamming shut. A moment later Donna returned to the phone. “Sorry about that, I had to get a bottle of water. I was dying here.”

“Better now?”

“Much. You were saying?”

“I haven't talked to you since Thomas's funeral, and I wondered how you were doing?”

“That's so sweet of you.” She laughed. “Actually, I'm doing great. I'm back in school, finally pursuing my dream of being a veterinarian. And I'm in therapy.”

“You are? In therapy?”

“I'm never going to make a mistake like Thomas again. I'm in therapy to make sure I don't. Whatever loose screw caused me to hitch up with that creep is being tightened.”

Melanie laughed with her. She had liked Donna Wells right off, even bruised and scared silly. She liked her even more now. “I'm glad to hear that, Donna. I'm happy for you.”

The woman lowered her voice to a reverent whisper. “I look at it this way, Melanie, God reached down from heaven to personally help me. He offered me a miracle in the form of those bees.”

Her words took Melanie aback. Their sentiment was so close to the one expressed by Joshua Reynolds's wife, Rita. “And you believe that?”

“I do, with all my heart. So how could I
not
be profoundly changed after that? How could I not give thanks by turning my life around?”

Melanie agreed that she couldn't. Before she rang off, Donna thanked her again for all she had tried to do for her. “I know that your hands were tied by the system,” she said. “It wasn't your fault.”

 

Then whose fault was it? Melanie wondered hours later for what seemed like the thousandth time. She
was a part of the law enforcement system, the same system that was supposed to protect the weak and uphold the law. Sometimes, however, it seemed to her that the two ran at cross-purposes and that in upholding the one, the other was left exposed rather than protected.

Melanie pulled into a parking place in front of Casey's preschool and cut her engine. In the time that had passed since her conversation with Donna, she had vacillated between elation at having accomplished her mission and doubt about whether she was doing the right thing.

Men were dead. But the women and children they had left behind were better off. Happier and healthier. Children like Casey. Children like she and her sisters had been. Women like her sister Mia. Their lives made good by the illegal action of another. Or, as some of them believed, by God's just hand.

Melanie threw open the car door and climbed out. She saw Casey in the playground, climbing on the jungle gym with a couple of his friends. She crossed to the gate and stood watching her son play.

Casey spotted her and waved. She waved back, and he started across the playground, running full-tilt toward her. She could leave well enough alone. And men would continue to die. And the world would be a safer place.

Or would it? The law kept order. It protected her. And Casey. It protected the poorest citizen to the richest. Sure, the system was flawed. But the world was more so.

No one had the right to take the law into their own hands. No one had the right to play God.

She hooked her fingers around the chain-link fence, smiling as her son neared her, feeling at peace for the first time in hours. She knew what she had to do.

M
elanie decided that nothing would do but a face-to-face visit with Connor Parks. She had accessed his address through the Department of Motor Vehicles, easy to do with his name and the make of his vehicle, and sought him out. She armed herself with a file detailing her theory, supported by the data she had accumulated so far. Melanie hoped he would listen to her. Worst-case scenario, she would leave the file—whether he wanted it or not.

She found him home, bent under the hood of an old Corvette. It was red with white dimples and a white leather interior. From the looks of it, he had rescued it from somebody's shed or barn, where it had been left to deteriorate.

He'd gone shirtless, exposing a muscular back marred by a series of brutal-looking scars. Though the day was overcast, his skin was damp and shiny with sweat. She let her gaze follow the line of moisture that ran down his spine, disappearing under the waistband of his jeans.

“Parks,” she said.

He didn't emerge from under the hood. “Sweetpants. You finally decided you couldn't live without me.”

She arched an eyebrow, refusing to be amused. “In classic dream interpretation, the car is a symbol of the self. Do you see yourself as a broken-down hot rod, Parks? A once-cherry speedster in need of rehabilitation?”

He held out a hand. “Hand me the torque wrench, will you?”

“I would if I knew what that was.”

“Funny-looking thing. Long shaft, little head.”

“You talking about one of the tools in the box, Parks? Or the one in your pants?”

He nearly choked on his laughter. But it did the trick—he emerged from under the hood. “You're a pithy little thing, aren't you?”

“And you're an irritating cowboy.”

He smiled at her words, as if he considered them high praise. “If you're not here for my bod, you must want something else from me.”

“I need your help with a case.”

“The Andersen case?”

“Nope.”

He selected the tool from the box at his feet and disappeared under the hood once more. “How's that going?” he asked.

“It's not. No leads since the witness couldn't positively ID Jenkins.”

He made a sound of disgust. “Have they done anything with my profile?”

“Questioned hookers weeks ago. Came up with nothing.”

“Probably rounded them up like cattle, put them in
interrogation rooms under hot lights and expected them to share. Assholes.”

“Basically.” She cocked her head, studying the curve of his backside, deciding that as male backsides went, his was damn nice. She smiled. “Could I actually talk to your face? Not that this view's unpleasant.”

He grunted, though she suspected he'd enjoyed the compliment. “You'll have to wait. There's a pitcher of cold water in the fridge. Help yourself.”

She glanced at the house, a small clapboard, painted white with dark green shutters. It looked homey, she thought. Comfortable.

“All right,” she murmured, though she went more out of curiosity than thirst.

She strolled up the walk and let herself in through the side door. It dumped her into his bright but very basic kitchen.

As promised, she found a pitcher of water in the refrigerator. She took a glass from the drying rack by the sink, filled it, then returned the water to the fridge.

His house was neat and completely without frills. No framed family photos adorned the walls or windowsills, no vases of flowers graced the tabletops or children's art the refrigerator door.

She wandered to the door that led to the living room and peeked through. She found that room as orderly—and as spartan—as the kitchen. With two exceptions—the first being a grouping of framed photos on the end table, the second a large bulletin board hung on the windowless wall across from the couch.

She set her water on the counter and went in for a
closer look. The board was crowded with newspaper clippings, notes that he'd apparently scribbled to himself and crime-scene photos. She scanned the items, noting the dates, realizing with a sense of shock that some of them were over five years old.

“You couldn't help yourself, could you?”

Melanie spun around, embarrassed. He stood in the door, wiping the grease from his hands with an old towel. “Was this a test?”

He didn't answer and, uncomfortable under his intent gaze, she turned back to the bulletin board. “What's this all about?”

“An unsolved crime. There's one in the bathroom and the bedroom, too.”

“Different crimes?”

“No, the same one.”

His answer surprised her and she turned and looked at him. He shifted his gaze. “You came to talk to me about a case?”

“Yes.” She closed the distance between them and handed him the file. “I believe there's a serial killer operating in the Charlotte/Mecklenburg area. He's targeting batterers and abusers, men who have for one reason or another gone unpunished.”

While she talked, Connor scanned the file's contents. “I discovered his existence when I read about Jim McMillian's death in the
Observer.
Just a couple of weeks before, a man I brought in for beating up his girlfriend died suddenly. The circumstances were freakish and…it seemed too much of a coincidence for me to ignore. So I did some digging.”

“I see that,” he murmured. “Is the CMPD involved?”

“No. No one is.”

He looked up. “No one?”

“Just me.”

“And that's why you're here? You figure if you can get Connor Parks, world-famous profiler, to hitch up to your wagon, you'll have it made? Respect, cooperation and then some?”

“Something like that.”

“You haven't heard? I'm on forced leave, I can't help you.” He held the file out. “I'm the last person you want tagging along, May. I'm a walking disaster.”

Instead of taking the file, she slipped her hands into her pockets. “I don't believe that. I believe you're better than just about anybody out there. And if you see the pattern, I'll have a case.”

“Sweetpants, you're letting your imagination run away with you.”

“Are you referring to my belief in your abilities or my theory?”

He didn't smile. “Take the file, I can't help you.”

“Keep it. They're copies.” She started toward the kitchen. “I know I'm right about this. And I'm going to find someone who thinks so, too.”

He followed her to the kitchen and the door. “Trust me, May, there are plenty of real killers out there. You don't have to dig them up, they hit you in the face with their handiwork.”

“Not this one,” she countered. “This one's cunning. Smarter than the rest. Patient.” She met his gaze evenly. “This one thinks he's doing God's work.”