Last Words (4 page)

Did women really do stuff like that? he wondered.

Nah. It was just a little paranoia on his part. Steffie hadn’t had one good word to say to Beck since he stopped dating her a few weeks back. He’d tried to explain to her that it wasn’t her, or anything she’d said, or anything she’d done. It just wasn’t working out, as far as he was concerned, and that’s just what he’d told her.

Steffie, this just isn’t working out.

There hadn’t been anything he could put his finger on. He just knew he didn’t feel the way he thought a man should feel about a woman he’d dated for several months. Then again, he doubted he’d ever feel that way about anyone. His track record wasn’t very good.

“Whatever,” he muttered, shaking it off. Now wasn’t the time to worry about what she was telling Vanessa. There were more important things to think about right now.

Like how to make sure what happened in Ballard and Cameron didn’t happen here in St. Dennis.

He’d call a meeting first thing in the morning, get all the officers in, part-timers included, and discuss the need to be a little more vigilant—hell, a
lot
more vigilant—until Colleen Preston’s killer was caught. And he’d see what they could do about putting together a team to search the waterfront area for any trace of Mindy Kenneher. Not that he expected to find anything, but still, it wouldn’t hurt. With the Harbor Festival behind him, he could spare a few hours to look through some of those old buildings down there near the cove. He certainly didn’t want to start a panic, but the towns were too close. What infected one could all too easily infect the others.

On his desk sat the stack of incident reports from the weekend. He thumbed through them, wishing they’d been more attentive to watching the crowd over the weekend. When a town has an open-house atmosphere like the one created by the Harbor Festival, anyone could wander in, blend in.

Even a killer.

4

Beck walked along the cobbled path that led around the cove to the harbor. The midday sun beat down on the back of his neck and he’d already undone the top two buttons on his shirt. He wished he was off duty, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of cutoff jeans. It was that kind of day.

The phones had not stopped ringing since the increasingly lurid reports of Colleen Preston’s murder began to leak, and things had just gone downhill from there. By Beck’s estimation, over the past twenty-four hours, damn near half the population of St. Dennis had called in to the station asking if a mad killer was on the loose and wondering what Beck was doing to protect them. He didn’t blame anyone for being concerned—yesterday he’d called Vanessa and reminded her to be cautious on her date with Mickey Forbes—but the only thing he could tell anyone at that point was to take sensible precautions, not to go anywhere alone, and call the station if anything or anyone seemed suspicious. What else could he say?

He’d been up most of the night and the night before, unable to sleep, unable to escape the image of Colleen Preston’s sheathed body lying on the wooden porch. The horror of it was still fresh. The echoes of her heartbroken mother’s unceasing sobs still rang in his ears. As surreal as the scene had been, what ate at Beck now was the overwhelming feeling that there was something poised out there, someplace nearby, waiting to strike again. He felt it as surely as he felt the sun beating down on him, and the worst part was that he knew he was helpless to stop it. That sense of apprehension, that feeling that the other shoe would soon drop, made him restless, and the restlessness had driven him to walk.

He’d met with his staff at seven when the shift changed so that he could talk to everyone at the same time. He’d laid out the events of the past few days, describing with as little drama as possible what he’d seen on the porch in Ballard on Sunday night.

“Everyone’s saying that girl from Cameron…” Gus Franklin, his night-shift sergeant, said.

“I don’t want to assume anything, but I don’t like coincidences,” Beck had replied.

“If it’s the same guy, there’s likely to be more,” Garland had stated quietly. When all eyes turned to him, he explained, “We had something in Boston, not like this, not wrapping the women up like this guy did. But women in their twenties, just vanishing like that. It was like the victims just disappeared from their lives, like they’d been erased. They were just…gone. They all turned up in an old warehouse, lined up side by side like dolls across the floor.”

The room had gone silent.

“I can put in a few hours down around the cove,” Hal said. “Just poke around a little. We’re close enough to Cameron that if someone had something they wanted to hide, they might think one of those old buildings down there might make a good hiding place. You got a couple of properties down there, the owners haven’t been around in years. Just sitting on them, waiting for the values to go up. At least, that’s what Ham Forbes is telling me, and he knows real estate better than anyone else in town.”

“You might want to stop at his office later on and see what he knows about the individual properties. Might be worth getting a list of who owns what,” Beck said.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Hal agreed.

“I can stop out around the old boathouse on my way home,” Lisa told them.

“While I’m on patrol this morning, I’ll check out the old church on Christian Street.” Duncan stood in the back of the room. “And there are those abandoned shacks over behind the cemetery. I can make a quick stop.”

“All good suggestions.” Beck nodded. “Just keep your eyes open. And thanks.”

He’d gone from that meeting to one with the mayor and the chair of the town’s public safety committee, both of whom wanted assurance that none of the residents of St. Dennis were in danger from whoever had killed Colleen Preston, and possibly Mandy Kenneher as well. That Beck was in no position to give such assurance did not endear him to two of the more politically powerful members of the community. The fact that Christina Pratt, the mayor, had told Beck all he needed to know about the mentality of St. Dennis’s elected officials. He’d left her office and headed out the door. If ever he’d needed to walk off a pissy attitude, it was then.

Straight ahead was Singer’s Slips, the marina owned and operated by Lisa’s husband, Todd, and next to it, his boatyard and showroom. Hot and thirsty, Beck turned off the path and took the concrete steps down to the showroom.

“Hey, Chief, how’s it going?” Jay Gannon opened the door for Beck.

“Hot.” Beck gratefully stepped into the air-conditioned comfort of the sales area.

“How ’bout a cold one, Chief?” Todd Singer stepped out of his office when he saw his wife’s boss. “Water, soda?”

“Water would be great, thanks.” Beck followed Todd into the small sitting room off to one side of the showroom.

Todd opened the refrigerator and took out two bottles of spring water. Tossing one to Beck, he asked, “So what can I show you today? We’ve got a nice special running on some used Whalers. Couple of years old, not too many hours on the motors.”

“When I have time for a boat of my own, you’re the first person I’m coming to see.” Beck sat on the arm of one of the green leather sofas and took a long drink from the bottle. “Unfortunately for both of us, that time hasn’t come yet.”

“Hey, you have to make time. Nothing more relaxing than being out on the bay early on a summer morning. Or at dusk, when the sun’s setting.” Todd grinned. “Nothing like it. I guarantee you’d love it.”

“I do love it,” Beck conceded. “But right now, I’ll have to be content to bum a seat on Hal’s cruiser from time to time.”

“Ah, now there’s a sweet boat.” Todd tilted his bottle in Beck’s direction. “I caught many a tourist eyeing that little darlin’ over the weekend. Lost track of how many people asked about her, if she was for sale.”

“You tell Hal? He might cut her loose if the price is right.”

“Not a chance.” Todd laughed. “I offered to buy that beauty myself, but the price he quoted was three times what she’s really worth. Cagey old bastard. He knows there’s nothing else like her around here.”

“Which is why the
Shady Lady
will be parked in his slip until someone is dumb enough to pay what he’s asking.” Beck took another drink.

“So if you’re not looking for a boat, what brings you down to the marina?”

“Just walking. Thinking.” He half-smiled. “Worrying.”

“Yeah, Lisa told me the killer who murdered that girl in Ballard might have killed the girl from Cameron as well.” Todd shook his head. “She said the medical examiner’s report came in, says that girl suffocated inside that wrapping. What kind of a sick bastard wraps a girl up and then lets her die like that? What was that stuff he wrapped her in, anyway?”

“Regular clear plastic wrap.”

“Like the stuff you buy in the grocery store?”

“Exactly.”

“Must have taken a lot to wrap her up. Maybe the cops over in Ballard should talk to the local stores and find out if anyone’s bought up lots of that wrap lately.”

“I imagine someone’s done that, although frankly, it’s the same type you can buy anywhere. One or two packages would have been enough. She was thin. It wouldn’t have taken much.”

“So you probably couldn’t trace it. That’s what Lisa said, too.” He played with the cap from his water bottle. “You think that girl from Cameron is dead?”

“She could be.”

“That’s what Lisa thinks, too.”

“Well, let’s not spread that one around. She may still show up alive.” Beck replied, thinking Lisa might be taking a little too much of her job home to share. He’d have to talk to her about that.

“Hey, all these years married to a cop, you don’t have to tell me what to keep to myself.” He made the gesture of zipping his lips shut. “In our house, the rule is, you don’t comment publicly until you’ve seen it on the news.”

“You follow that rule and you’ll be right every time.”

“Todd, phone,” Jay called from across the wide room.

“Chief was there anything…” Todd rose from the chair.

“No, no. Actually, I only stopped in to beg a cold drink and a few minutes of your cool air. I need to start back to the station.”

“Can I have someone drive you?” Todd offered.

“No, but thanks.” Beck rose from the arm of the chair. “Walking’s my therapy. I do most of my best thinking on my feet.”

“You oughta wait for a cooler day.”

“Should have thought of that myself.” Beck finished the water and tossed the empty plastic bottle into the recycling bin. “Thanks for the water.”

“Anytime. Want to take one with you for the road?”

“No, but thanks. I’ll walk back on the shady side of the path.”

“Good seeing you, Beck. Stop in anytime.”

“Will do, Todd. Hey, Jay, take care.” Beck waved and headed toward the door.

Beck did walk back on the shady side of the path, as far as Charles Street, where he crossed the street to stay in the shade as long as he could. His pager went off just as he’d turned onto Kelly’s Point Road. He looked at the number, which was familiar, but since he was only half a block from the station, he waited until he’d returned to his office to return the call.

“This is Chief Beck, St. Dennis PD, returning a call made from this number,” he said when a woman answered.

“Chief, I’ll get Chief Daley for you,” the woman responded. “Can you hold?”

“Yes.”

“Beck.” Warren Daley was on in a flash. “Something’s come up. I’d like you to stop over this afternoon if you could.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I’d rather not go into it on the phone.” Daley told him. “Is four o’clock okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good, good. See you then.” Daley hesitated, his voice shaky. “Beck, you’re just not gonna believe this…this damned case just keeps getting worse and worse. Just when you think you’ve seen it all….”

It was three fifty-five when a curious Beck parked behind the one-story wooden-frame building that served as the police department for the village of Ballard. Like St. Dennis, but unlike some of the surrounding towns, Ballard had opted for its own force. Several of the smallest towns, without funds to maintain their own police departments, depended on the state police. Ballard, Cameron, St. Dennis, and Hopkins, another few miles down the road, all had their own departments. And all had cruisers parked in the lot on this Tuesday afternoon. Rich Meyer’s car sat two spots down from Beck’s, and the cruiser from Hopkins apparently had arrived just moments before Beck. He could see Chief Gillespie still seated behind the wheel, talking on his cell phone. Beck delayed getting out of his car until he saw Gillespie’s door open.

“Lew!” Beck called to the other man.

“Hey, Beck.” Lew Gillespie waited at the foot of the dirt path leading to the back of the building until Beck caught up. “I see you received the summons too.”

“Any idea what’s up?”

“None. Warren just called earlier and asked me to please be here. He didn’t want to discuss it on the phone.”

“Yeah, he said that to me, too.” Beck frowned. From the little Chief Daley had said on the phone, Beck had the sinking feeling that something really big was about to play out.

“I see Meyer’s here, too.” Gillespie looked beyond Beck and added, “And there’s Ralston from Sandy Point, just pulling in behind you.”

The two men waited for the newcomer to join them.

“What’s up, gentleman?” Morris Ralston fixed a smile on his face.

“We were just wondering if you knew, Mo,” Gillespie told him.

“No clue.” He shrugged.

“Then let’s go on inside and find out.” Beck gestured toward the building.

“Amen.” Ralston slipped his fingers inside the collar of his starched white uniform shirt and gave it a tug. “Too damned hot out here anyway.”

The small Ballard police station had four rooms on the first floor, and four more in the basement. The three men were directed down the steps to a small conference room, where Warren Daley and Rich Meyer were seated at a round table awaiting the arrival of the others. Daley rose when they entered, and closed the door behind them.

“It’s just us five,” he told them, gesturing for the newcomers to take a seat.

“What’s going on, Warren?” Ralston asked. “Can we assume this has something to do with that case of yours?”

Daley nodded and reached for a pile of manila folders.

“This is Dr. Reilly’s preliminary autopsy report on Colleen Preston. Take a minute and look it over. I want you all to see what’s on the loose out there.” He passed out the folders.

For the next several minutes, the room was silent, save for the occasional sound of paper rustling. Suddenly the normally stoic Ralston growled, “God damn it, he wrapped up that poor girl alive so she’d suffocate inside that plastic hell. Jesus!”

The others made sounds of disgust and disbelief as they read on. When they’d all finished reading and solemnly closed their files, Daley said, “I’ve been a cop all my life. Been in this job thirty-five years. I’ve never had to deal with anything even remotely like this.”

He flipped open his own file and read details randomly, “Multiple insect bites cover the entire body.”

He turned the page. “Signs of repeated rape. Sodomy.”

He turned the page again. “Wrists and ankles bruised and cut showing signs of having been restrained.”

Another turn. “End of tongue severed…”

“Jesus!” Morris Ralston groaned. “She bit off the end of her tongue!”

One last turn. “Cause of death: suffocation.”

Warren Daley closed the file with a pronounced slap and it was clear to everyone in the room that he was close to losing it. His eyes brimmed with tears. “I cannot even begin to imagine what it must have been like for that beautiful little girl for however long it was that animal had her.”

He wiped away tears with the back of his hand.

“But let me tell you something about Colleen Preston.” He stood. “She did not go easy.”

He walked to the end of the table where he’d left his briefcase and brought it back to his seat.

“She never gave up. Never stopped fighting. That may be the only consolation her family has at this point.”