Hour Game (16 page)

“I’
M DEPUTIZING YOU BOTH,” SAID
C
HIEF
W
ILLIAMS AS HE
sat eyeballing King and Michelle at their office the next day. They stared back at him, clearly stunned.

“Excuse me?” said King. “I was one of your deputies once. I have no desire to re-up, Todd.”

“I’m not giving you the option. I need you!”

“They outlawed indentured servitude a long time ago,” King shot back.

“What’s going on, Todd?” asked Michelle.

“I’m getting squeezed out by the feds, that’s what.”

“But you
wanted
their help,” exclaimed King.

“But I also didn’t want to be shoved off the case, right here in my own town. I don’t want folks to think I can’t do the job. I’m willing to work with the feds, of course, even let them jointly run the investigation with me. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them push me out of investigating my very own crime spree.”

King shook his head in bewilderment. “Todd, I think you’ve been attending too many autopsies. Why don’t you let them handle it? They’ve got the manpower and the experience. Let it be their headache.”

“There’s something to be said for pride, Sean,” rejoined Williams in an offended tone. “And you two have put in a lot of time already on this thing. You’ve got theories and ideas. Who’s to say if we work together we can’t crack this thing faster than the almighty FBI? Hell, Chip Bailey’s running around already like
he’s king of the hill. I’m just waiting for him to tell me to make him some coffee. That’ll be the day. I’ll shoot the son of a bitch first.” He looked at them pleadingly. “Come on, you two have just as much experience as any of those guys. I know together we can get this done. And remember, we live here, they don’t. We need to make Wrightsburg safe to live in again. It’s our home. Everybody’s counting on us.”

Michelle and King exchanged glances.

Michelle spoke first. “Well, it is a challenging proposition.”

“So’s hang gliding; that doesn’t mean you should do it,” King shot back.

“Come on, Sean, this case is intriguing you, you can’t deny that,” she pointed out. “You’ll be thinking about it whether you’re working on it or not. At least if we’re deputized, we can investigate with some official status. We might make more progress that way.”

“And what about our investigation firm?”

“You can still do that,” answered Williams quickly. “I’m not asking you to spend all your time on this. But what I’m willing to do is give you access to everything. You won’t have to tag along after me everywhere. You can go and talk to people and snoop around all by yourself under my badge. I’ve got the power. I can deputize anybody I damn well want to.”

“And Bailey won’t have a problem with that?” said King skeptically. “Come on, Todd, you know better.”

“So what if he gets his back up? He can’t argue with your credentials. But you just leave him to me. I’ll go to the mat on this one, even if I have to call the governor.”

“I don’t know,” said King, “this could turn out to be one big turf war nightmare, and I went through enough of those with the Service.”

Michelle punched him playfully in the arm. “Come on, what could it really hurt?”

“We could get killed by this psycho! I bet that would hurt.”

Michelle looked at Williams and winked. “I’m in.”

The police chief glanced nervously at King. “Sean?”

A long moment passed. “All right,” he finally muttered.

“Good,” Williams said in a relieved tone. He took a pair of silver badges out of his pocket, recited two sentences of official legalese swearing them in and handed them the badges. “Okay, you’re officially deputies. Now, look at this.”

He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it across to them. They read it simultaneously.

“The letter from Bobby’s killer, the Mary Martin Speck wannabe, only not,” said Michelle as she glanced up.

King read the letter aloud:
“Another one down. That makes five. It was a big one this time, but more to come. And no, I’m not Mary, no Florence Nightinghell here. The feather was just that, a feather for the featherweights that all of you are! See you soon. Not MMS.”

He looked up with a thoughtful expression. “Was there a Zodiac symbol on the envelope this letter came in?”

“No, it was clean. Like the Canney-Pembroke letter and the Hinson letter. We’ve already checked it for prints and other traces. Nothing.”

“This letter says that Battle was victim number five,” said King.

“Well, he
is
number five, Sean,” replied Williams.

“But the Pembroke-Canney letter only mentioned the death of
one
kid. Taken literally, that would make Battle only victim number four. That’s an inconsistency that’s inexplicable right now.”

Williams slapped his thigh with his hand. “See, that’s why I want you two on board. You see things, deduce things.”

“We may be entirely wrong in our deductions,” countered King.

“Or you may be exactly right,” rejoined Williams. “Another thing you need to know. Hinson wore an anklet, a gold one. It wasn’t on the body, and it didn’t turn up anywhere in her house.”

King said, “Pembroke’s ring, Canney’s St. Christopher’s medal, possibly Tyler’s belly ring and now Hinson’s anklet.”

“Maybe he wants them as souvenirs,” said Michelle, “trophies from his kills.”

“Maybe. Was there anything missing from Bobby Battle?”

“Nothing that we know of.” Williams studied King closely. “So what’s your next move?”

King pondered this for a bit. Finally, he said, “It’s time we determined once and for all if there’s any connection between the killings.”

“But, Sean, we know they were killed by the same person,” said Williams.

“No, we
don’t
know that,” said King sharply. “But that’s not what I meant anyway. I mean we have to find out if there’s some common thread among the
victims,
if somehow
they’re
connected to each other.”

“But in serial killings they aren’t,” protested Williams.

“This one might be the exception to that rule,” said King. “And while we’re doing that, we’re going to have to go back into the lion’s den.”

“Lion’s den,” said Michelle. “What’s that mean?”

“We need to go see the Battles again,” replied King.

“I think I’d rather face down Priscilla Oxley,” said Michelle. “And let me tell you if that woman calls me chickie or plaything again, it won’t be pretty.”

After Williams had left, Michelle asked King, “So what do you really expect to find out at the Battles’?”

“With luck an answer to your question of why Remmy wasn’t wearing her ring. Also the truth as to what was in Bobby’s secret drawer.”

“But all that’s connected to the burglary, not the killings.”

“Right, except Battle could have been killed because of what was in that drawer. Even if he was murdered by someone else, we need to find that someone.”

“Okay, but if one of the Battles did poison him, when we go to interview them, we’re going to be talking to a murderer at some point.”

“And the sooner we find out who, the better.”

“So if one of them did do it, who’s your money on? Eddie was with us, so is it the iron wife, the slutty daughter or the viper-tongued daughter-in-law?”

“I’ll withhold judgment for now. But if Battle’s death was simply a copycat murder with a separate motive, that still doesn’t lead us to the person who’s killed four other people and counting.”

“So you think there’ll be more victims?”

“Who knows?” He slapped her on the shoulder. “Just be careful out there.”

“You know I can look out for myself, Sean.”

“That’s not what I meant. I want you around to protect
me.
”

B
OBBY
B
ATTLE’S MURDER WAS FRONT-PAGE NEWS THROUGHOUT
the area. The headlines were made much more sensational by the fact that his death was attributed to the serial killer. What had been kept from the press and public were the thefts from each of the victims and the precise contents of the letters.

The citizens of Wrightsburg were locking their doors, cleaning their guns, setting their house alarms and scrutinizing their fellow citizens. The look in their eyes was clear: if someone like Bobby Battle could be killed in the middle of a busy hospital, no one was safe.

In that assumption they were actually correct.

The cave was set far back into the rolling hills east of Wrightsburg and on the way to Charlottesville. Its entrance was covered by fallen pines and sheets of thick ivy and other forest clutter, and there was no discernible trail leading to it. The hole in the rock was large enough to house several clans of black bear, which it had in the past. However, now there was only one occupant, and it walked on two legs, although it was no less a predator.

He sat brooding at a rough-hewn table in the center of the cave. It had been outfitted with enough supplies to make it livable for extended periods of time. The only illumination was from a battery-powered lantern. The man held up the hood that he’d worn when he had killed four people. He fingered the material
lightly. An executioner, that’s what he was, pure and simple. Yet executioners only carried out a sentence justly imposed.

He looked down at the newspaper. Staring back at him was a grainy photo of Robert Battle taken years ago. The headline read “Millionaire Businessman and Philanthropist Robert E. Lee Battle Slain in Hospital, Serial Killer Suspected.”

Serial killer! Those two words beat into his brain until he balled up the paper and hurled it away. Enraged, he grabbed the lantern and slung it against the wall, plunging himself into darkness. He stood and lumbered around the room, slamming into objects, falling down, getting back up and beating his hardened fists against the rock and dirt walls until they were numb. Finally exhausted, he slumped to the cold cave floor.

He suddenly screamed so loudly that he felt his heart would burst. Eventually, the sweat broke over his skin, his breathing grew more regular and he finally calmed. He crawled back over to a trunk set against one wall, found the latch, opened it and pulled out another lantern, an oil-burning one. He fumbled for a match in his pocket, lit the wick, turned up the light, looked around and found the newspaper. He sat down at the table once more and studied the story, his gaze averted from the grainy photo of the now dead man.

This was a setback—a major one, he had to admit—but life was full of disappointment. He’d just do what he’d always done: turn an obstacle to his full advantage. The great Bobby Battle might be dead, but there was still more to do. There were more people to be killed—no,
executed,
he quickly corrected himself.

He stared at the headline, the last part of it anyway. “Serial Killer Suspected.” This impersonator had stolen his thunder in the worst possible way. Stolen it and then blamed him for it. In a way he had to admire the bastard’s professionalism. Admire, yes; forgive, no.

He pulled out a piece of paper upon which was written, in code, a list of his victims, ones already dead and ones he’d kill in the future. He took up a pencil and wrote a question mark on the last line of the page. He’d find this impersonator before the police did, and he’d kill him. Justice demanded it.