Hour Game (3 page)

C
HIEF
W
ILLIAMS STOPPED BY THE OFFICES OF
K
ING &
M
AXWELL
located in a two-story brick townhouse in the heart of the small yet posh Wrightsburg downtown. The offices had housed King’s law practice before he’d taken down his legal shingle. The chief sat with his hat in his lap, eyes puffy and features strained as he filled in King and Michelle on the grisly double homicide.

“I left the police force in Norfolk so I wouldn’t have to deal with this sort of crap,” Williams began. “My ex-wife got me to move here for the peace and quiet. Damn, was that woman wrong! No wonder we got divorced.”

King handed him a cup of coffee and then sat down across from him, while Michelle remained perched on the edge of a leather couch. “Wait’ll the papers get hold of this one. And poor Sylvia. She’d just finished the autopsy on that girl, and then she had to do two more.”

“Who were they?” asked King.

“Students at Wrightsburg High School: Steve Canney and Janice Pembroke. She was shot in the back; he took it full in the face. Buckshot. When I opened that car door, it cost me my breakfast. Hell, I’ll be seeing them in my sleep for months.”

“No witnesses?”

“Not that we know of. It was a rainy night. Theirs were the only tire tracks up there.”

Michelle perked up. “Right, it was raining. So if you didn’t
see any tire tracks, the killer must have walked up to the car. You didn’t find any traces of that?”

“Most everything was washed away. There was an inch of bloody water on the floor of the car. Steve Canney was one of the most popular kids in school, football star and everything.”

“And the girl?” asked Michelle.

Williams hesitated. “Janice Pembroke had a reputation with the boys.”

“As being… accessible?” asked King.

“Yes.”

“Was anything taken? Could it have been a robbery?”

“Not likely, although two things were missing: a cheap ring Pembroke usually wore and Canney’s St. Christopher’s medal. We don’t know if the killer took them or not.”

“You said Sylvia finished the autopsies. I’m assuming you attended them.”

Williams looked embarrassed. “I had a little problem halfway through Jane Doe’s post, and I got tied up while she was doing the other autopsies. I’m waiting on Sylvia’s reports,” he added hastily. “We don’t have an official homicide detective on the force, so I figured coming here and picking your brain wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Any clues?” asked Michelle.

“Not from the first killing. And we haven’t identified her yet either, though we were able to fingerprint her and we’re running those. We had a computerized facial composite done too, which we’re circulating.”

“Any reason to believe the killings are connected?” asked Michelle.

Williams shook his head. “Pembroke and Canney will probably turn out to be some love triangle thing. Kids these days will kill you in a second and think nothing of it. All the crap on TV they watch.”

King and Michelle exchanged glances and then he said, “In the first killing either the murderer lured the woman into the
woods or forced her to go with him. Or he killed her elsewhere and then carried her into the woods.”

Michelle nodded. “If the latter, a strong man, then. With the killing of the teenagers the person might have followed them there or been waiting on the bluff.”

“Well, that area is well known as a make-out place, if they still even call it that,” said Williams. “Both victims were naked. That’s why I’m thinking it was maybe some boy Pembroke dumped or a kid who was jealous of Canney. The Jane Doe in the woods will be the harder one to crack. That’s where I’m going to need your help.”

King looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “The watch in the first murder, did you
really
notice it, Todd?”

“Well, it seemed a little bulky for the girl.”

“Sylvia said the arm the watch was on was deliberately braced up.”

“She can’t know that for sure.”

“I saw that the watch was set to one o’clock,” continued King.

“Right, but it had stopped, or the stem was pulled out.”

King glanced at Michelle. “Did you notice the make of the watch?”

Williams looked at him curiously. “Make of the watch?”

“It was a Zodiac watch: circle with crosshairs.”

Williams almost spilled his coffee. “Zodiac!”

King nodded. “It was also a man’s watch. I think the killer put it on the woman.”

“Zodiac,” repeated Williams. “Are you saying…?”

“The original Zodiac serial killer operated in 1968 and 1969 in the Bay Area, San Fran and Vallejo,” answered King. “I think
that
Zodiac would be a little long in the tooth. But there have been at least two Zodiac copycat killers, one in New York and another in Kobe, Japan. The San Fran Zodiac wore a black executioner’s hood emblazoned with white crosshairs in a circle, the same symbol that’s on the Zodiac watch. He also left a watch on his last victim, a cabdriver, if I recall correctly, although it wasn’t
a Zodiac. However, the man suspected of being the Zodiac in San Francisco owned a Zodiac watch. They believe that’s where he got the idea for the crosshairs-in-a-circle logo he wore that earned him his nickname. The case has never been solved.”

Williams hunched forward in his chair. “Look, this is all really speculation on your part, and quite a stretch at that.”

Michelle glanced at her partner. “Sean, do you really think it’s a copycat killer?”

King shrugged. “If two people copied the original, who’s to say a third person couldn’t? The San Francisco Zodiac wrote to the newspapers in code—one that was finally broken. The coded letters revealed that the killer was motivated by a short story titled ‘The Most Dangerous Game.’ It’s a story about hunting humans.”

“A game about hunting humans?” Michelle said slowly.

King asked, “Did either of the bodies in the car have a watch on?”

Williams frowned. “Wait a minute, Sean, like I said, they’re totally different killings. Shotguns and, well, I still don’t know how Jane Doe died, but it wasn’t by buckshot, that’s for damn sure.”

“But what about the watches?”

“Okay, both the kids had watches on. So what? Is that a crime?”

“And you didn’t notice if they were Zodiacs?”

“No, I didn’t. But then I didn’t notice it on the Jane Doe either.” He paused and considered something. “Although Canney’s arm
was
sort of leaning against the dash.”

“Sort of braced up, you mean?”

“Maybe,” Williams said warily. “But he got hit with a shotgun blast. No telling how that would have blown him back.”

“Were both watches running?”

“No.”

“What was the time on Pembroke’s watch?”

“Two.”

“Two exactly?”

“I think so.”

“And Canney’s watch?”

Williams pulled out his notebook and turned some pages until he found it. “Three,” he said nervously.

“Had the watch been hit by the buckshot?”

“I’m not sure,” replied Williams. “I guess Sylvia can tell us that.”

“The girl’s?”

“Looks like a piece of glass from the windshield hit it.”

“Yet her watch read two and Canney’s three,” said Michelle. “If the girl’s watch stopped at two when she was killed by the shotgun blast, how could the boy’s have stopped at three without being struck by anything?”

Williams continued to be defensive. “Come on, except for this watch business, which isn’t all that convincing, I don’t see any connection at all.”

Michelle shook her head stubbornly. “First killing was number one, Janice Pembroke’s was number two and Steve Canney was victim number three. That
can’t
be coincidental.”

“You really need to see if the watches on Steve Canney and Janice Pembroke were Zodiacs,” King told Williams with a sense of urgency in his voice.

Williams used his cell phone to make some calls. When he finished, the police chief looked confused.

“The watch found on Pembroke was hers, a Casio. Her mother confirmed it was the one her daughter wore. But Canney’s father told me that his son didn’t wear a watch. I checked with one of my deputies. The watch found on Canney was a Timex.”

King’s brow furrowed. “So no Zodiac watch, but Canney’s was possibly planted by the killer, as it probably was in the first killing. As I recall, the San Fran Zodiac also committed a lovers’ lane killing. Most or all of his killings were also near bodies of water or places named after water.”

“The bluff Canney and Pembroke were killed on overlooks Cardinal Lake,” said Williams grudgingly.

“And Jane Doe wasn’t that far from the lake,” said Michelle. “You just had to go over the crest of the hill she was on, and there’s a cove right there.”

“What I would do, Todd,” said King, “is start working the Zodiac watch connection. The killer had to get the watch from somewhere.”

Williams was looking down at his hands, his brow furrowed.

“What is it?” asked Michelle.

“We found a dog collar on the floorboard of Canney’s car. We just assumed it belonged to Canney. But his father just told me that they don’t own a dog.”

“Could it have been Pembroke’s?” asked King, but Williams shook his head.

They all sat there puzzling this over when the office phone rang. King went to answer it and returned with a pleased expression. “That was Harry Carrick, retired state supreme court justice, now country lawyer. He’s got a client accused of some serious things, and he wants our help. He didn’t say who or what.”

Williams rose and cleared his throat. “Uh, that would be Junior Deaver.”

“Junior Deaver?” said King.

“Yep. He was doing some work for the Battles. It’s out of my jurisdiction. Junior’s in the county lockup right now.”

“What’d he do?” asked King.

“You’ll have to ask Harry about that.” He went to the door. “I’m calling the state police in too. They’ve got real homicide detectives.”

“You might want to think about involving the FBI as well,” said Michelle. “If this is a serial killer, VICAP can do a profile,” she added, referring to the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program.

“Never thought I’d have to fill out a VICAP form in Wrightsburg.”

“They’ve simplified the paperwork a lot,” she added helpfully.

After the chief left, Michelle turned to King. “I feel sorry for him.”

“We’ll do what we can to help.”

She sat back. “So who’re Junior Deaver and the Battles?”

“Junior’s a good old boy who’s lived here all his life. On the wrong side of the tracks, you could say. The Battles are a different story. They’re the wealthiest family by far around here. They’re everything you’d expect to find in a good old southern family.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning they’re, well, charming, quirky… you know, slightly eccentric.”

“You mean crazy,” said Michelle.

“Well—”

“Every family’s crazy,” Michelle interrupted. “Some just show it more than others.”

“I think you’ll find the Battles are right at the top of the list in that regard.”

H
ARRY
L
EE
C
ARRICK LIVED ON A LARGE ESTATE ON THE
eastern edge of Wrightsburg. As they drove over, King filled in Michelle on the jurist-turned-practicing-attorney.

“He was a lawyer here years ago and then went on the local circuit court and then on to the state supreme court for the last two decades. In fact, he swore me into the Virginia State Bar. His family goes back about three hundred years in the commonwealth. You know,
those
Lees. He’s well over seventy but sharper than ever. After he left the bench, he came back here, settled down at the family estate.”

“You said Junior was from the wrong side of the tracks.”

“Let’s say he’s occasionally strayed on the other side of the law. But from what I’ve heard he hasn’t been in any trouble for a long time.”

“Apparently until now.”

They passed a set of wrought-iron gates emblazoned with the letter
C.

Michelle looked around at the expansive grounds. “Nice place.”

“Harry’s done well for himself and his family certainly had money.”

“Married?”

“His wife died when she was young. He never remarried and doesn’t have any children. In fact, he’s the last of the Carricks as far as I know.”

They caught a glimpse of a large brick home with white columns nestled among all the mature trees. Yet King turned away from the direction of the main house and drove down a narrow gravel road, stopping in front of a small clapboard structure painted white.

“What’s this?” asked Michelle.

“The opulent law offices of Harry Lee Carrick, Esquire.”

They knocked on the door and a pleasant-sounding voice called out, “Come in.”

The man rose from behind the large wooden desk, his hand outstretched. Harry Carrick was about five-nine and slender, with fine silver hair and a ruddy complexion. He was dressed in gray slacks, a blue blazer, a white button-down shirt and a red-and-white-striped tie. His eyes were more the color of periwinkle than true blue, Michelle decided, and were also pleasingly impish. His eyebrows were thick and the same color as the hair. His grip was firm and his melodious southern accent as smoothly enveloping as three fingers of your favorite libation and an easy chair in which to enjoy it. His energy and manner were that of a man easily twenty years younger. In short, he was the Hollywood version of what a judge should look like.

Harry said to Michelle, “I was wondering when Sean would get around to bringing you to see me. So I felt compelled to take matters into my own hands, you see.”

He led them to chairs in one corner of the small room. Stout bookcases lined most of the wall space. The furniture all looked to be antique and well used. Cigar smoke hovered in the air like miniature cumuli, and Michelle spotted an old Remington typewriter on one side table, although there was also a PC and laser printer on Harry’s magnificently carved desk.

“I’ve altogether given in to the efficiencies of the modern age,” he said, his alert eyes observing her wandering gaze. “I resisted computers until the last possible moment and then threw myself wholeheartedly into their embrace. I reserve the Remington for correspondence with certain friends of advancing years who’d
consider it positively disgraceful to receive a missive on anything but monogrammed bond paper graced with the touch of the manual typewriter keys, or else my own personal scrawl, which unfortunately grows ever more indecipherable. Growing old is so darn unappealing until you consider the alternative. I’d recommend always staying young and beautiful, like you, Michelle.”

Michelle smiled. Harry
was
quite the gentleman, and a charmer.

He insisted on making them tea and served it in delicately worn china cups with matching saucers. Then he settled down between them.

“Junior Deaver,” prompted King.

“And the Battles,” said Harry.

“Sounds like an odd couple,” remarked Michelle.

“The oddest,” agreed Harry. “Bobby Battle was brilliant and as tough as nails. He made his fortune through his own sweat and brains. His wife, Remmy, is as fine a lady as I know. And she’s made of steel too. She’d have to be, being married to Bobby.”

Michelle looked at him curiously. “You said ‘was.’ Is Bobby Battle deceased?”

“No, but he suffered a massive stroke recently. Not too long before the incident Junior is accused of, in fact. Not sure of his recovery prospects just yet.”

“Is that the whole family, Bobby and Remmy?” asked Michelle.

“No, there’s a son, Edward Lee Battle, though everybody calls him Eddie. He’s about forty. Bobby’s full name is Robert E. Lee Battle. We aren’t related. Lee was a given name for him, quite common in these parts, as I’m sure you can understand. There was another son, Bobby Jr., Eddie’s twin. He died of cancer when he was a teenager.”

“Then there’s Eddie’s wife, Dorothea. And Eddie’s younger sister, Savannah,” added King. “She just finished up college, I understand.”

“You said Eddie’s about forty and yet Savannah just graduated from college?” asked Michelle.

Harry said, “Well, Savannah was somewhat of a surprise. Remmy was over forty when that little bundle of joy arrived. Ironically, Remmy and Bobby were separated for some time before Savannah was born, and looked headed toward divorce.”

“What was the problem?” asked King.

“Remmy caught him with another woman, a prostitute. It wasn’t the first time; Bobby had an appalling affinity for those types. That was all hushed up back then. I really thought that was going to be the last straw, but then they patched things up.”

“A baby will do that for you,” said King.

“Do they all live together?” asked Michelle.

Harry shook his head. “Bobby, Remmy and Savannah live in the big house. Eddie and Dorothea live next door in what was the estate’s carriage house, but which is now a separate piece of property. I’ve heard rumors that Savannah may move away.”

“I imagine some of her trust fund is due upon her college graduation,” said King.

“And probably none too soon for her,” said Harry.

“I take it she doesn’t get along with her parents?” said Michelle.

“Let’s put it this way: Bobby was very much an absent father, and she and Remmy are both strong, independent women, meaning they don’t agree on much.”

“What do Eddie and Dorothea do?” asked Michelle.

Harry answered. “Eddie’s a professional artist and avid Civil War reenactor. Dorothea has her own real estate firm and does quite well.” Harry gave Michelle a mischievous grin. “Folks in the Battles’ social circle change domestic partners at an alarming rate and thus are often in the market for new and ever more luxurious housing. While good to Dorothea’s pocketbook, it must give the woman fits remembering who’s with whom on a day-to-day basis.”

“Sounds a little like Peyton Place,” said Michelle.

“Oh, we left Peyton Place in the dust years ago,” said Harry.

“And now we come to Junior,” added King.

Harry put down his teacup and reached for a file on his desk. “Junior was doing some construction work for the Battles. Specifically, work in Remmy’s bedroom closet. He’s good; he’s even done some work for me here, and for lots of people in the area.”

“And the crime he’s accused of?” asked King.

“Burglary. There was a hidden cupboard in Remmy’s closet where she kept jewelry, cash and other valuables. It was burglarized and the contents emptied. And there was also a secret cache in Bobby’s closet that was broken into. About two hundred thousand dollars’ worth, I understand, including, unfortunately, Remmy’s wedding ring,” said Harry. As he gazed through the file, he added, “And hell hath no fury like a woman shorn of her wedding ring.”

“And they suspect Junior because he was doing work there?” asked Michelle.

“Well, a certain amount of evidence seems to pin him to the crime.”

“Like what?” asked King.

Harry ticked the points off on his fingers. “The burglar accessed the house through a third-story window. The window was forced and a tool mark was left as well as a bit of metal from the tool that was matched to a crowbar owned by Junior. He also owns a ladder that would reach that window. In addition they found shards of glass in the cuffs of a pair of his pants. They can’t definitively match the glass found to the window at the Battles’, but it’s similar. Both are tinted.”

“You said he forced the window,” said King. “Where’d the glass come from?”

“Part of the window broke when it was forced. I suppose the theory is, he got the shards when climbing through the opening. Next we have shoe prints found on the hardwood floor in Remmy’s bedroom. They match a pair of boots found at Junior’s.
There was some building material found on the floor of Remmy’s closet: drywall powder, cement, wood dust, the sort of thing Junior would have had on his shoes, considering the line of work he’s in. There was also some soil found there that has been matched to the ground outside of Junior’s home. Similar evidence was also found in Bobby’s bedroom and closet.”

“So they maintained separate sleeping quarters?” asked Michelle.

Harry raised a single thick eyebrow. “Knowledge that I’m sure Remmy would have preferred to keep private.”

“Okay, that’s all incriminating but still circumstantial,” said King.

“Well, there’s yet another piece of evidence. Or I suppose I should say two pieces. A glove print and a fingerprint that match Junior’s.”

“A glove print?” said Michelle.

“It was a leather glove,” answered Harry, “and those have definitive lines and such just like a fingerprint, or so they tell me.”

“But if he was wearing gloves, how did one of his prints show up?” asked King.

“Presumably, it had a hole in one of the fingers. And Junior owns such a glove.”

King stared at Harry. “What’s Junior’s story?”

“Junior declares his innocence vigorously. He was working by himself until the early morning hours at a new house he’s building for him and his family over in Albemarle County. He saw no one and no one saw him. So there goes any alibi.”

“When was the burglary discovered?” asked King.

“Remmy found it around five in the morning after she got home from the hospital. She was in her bedroom around eight the night before, and there were people in the house until around eleven or so. So the crime probably took place between, say, midnight and four.”

“Clearly within the hours Junior says he was working alone on the house.”

“And yet with all that,” said Michelle, “you think he’s innocent, don’t you?”

Harry met her gaze. “I’ve represented people who were guilty before; that comes with the territory. As a judge I’ve seen the culpable go free and the innocent occasionally locked up, and I’ve usually been powerless to do anything about it. Now, with Junior my firm belief is that he didn’t commit this crime for one simple reason: the poor fellow would no more know what to do with two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cash, bearer bonds and jewels than I would trying to row my way to an Olympic silver medal in women’s fours and coxswain.”

Michelle looked surprised because while in college she’d done that very thing.

“Yes, my dear,” said Harry apologetically, “I researched you. I hope you don’t mind.” He patted her hand and continued. “Junior’s being an incompetent thief is clearly established. Case in point: years ago he stole some truck batteries from a local auto repair shop, only he didn’t bother to take them out of the bed of his truck when he went to that very same auto repair shop to have his truck worked on. That little blunder cost him six months in jail and demonstrates his lack of skill in the felony business.”

“Well, maybe he’s gotten better over the years,” said King.

“He’s doing the best he’s ever done with his contracting business. His wife makes good money. They’re building a new house in Albemarle. Why attempt a burglary at the Battles’?”

“Maybe with the new house they needed some extra cash. But if he didn’t do it, someone is trying hard to implicate him. Why?” said King.

Harry was ready for that query. “He was working there, so he’d be suspected. The person could have gotten his tools, shoes, pants and gloves from the trailer home Junior and his family are living in now. It’s in the middle of nowhere, and there’s often no one there.” He added, “Although the fingerprint is the most troubling. It would take an experienced person to forge that.”

“What’s his family like?” asked Michelle.

“Three children, the oldest around twelve. His wife is Lulu Oxley.”

“Lulu Oxley?” repeated Michelle.

“She’s the manager at a gentleman’s club called the Aphrodisiac. Actually, she told me she now also owns a piece of the business.”

“You’re kidding,” said Michelle. “The Aphrodisiac?”

“I’ve heard it’s actually quite nice inside—you know, not just a sleazy bar with topless dancers.” Harry added quickly, “Though I’ve never been there, of course.”

“That’s right,” said King.

Michelle looked at him. “Please don’t tell me
you’ve
been there.”

He hesitated, looked uncomfortable and then said, “It was just one time. A bachelor’s party for a friend.”

“Uh-huh,” said Michelle.

King sat forward. “Okay, maybe Junior didn’t mastermind the thing, but what if someone else did? That person knew Junior had access to the Battles’ mansion and enlists him to do it. The physical evidence
is
pretty damning, Harry.”

Harry was not deterred. “There
is
evidence against him.
Too
much, in fact!”

King didn’t look convinced. “Okay, what do you want us to do?”

“Talk to Junior. Get his story. Visit the Battles.”

“All right, suppose we check it all out and nothing pops?”

“Then I’ll talk to Junior. If he still maintains his innocence, I really have no choice but to move forward. However, if the commonwealth offers a reasonable plea deal, well, I’ll have to address it with Junior. He’s been in jail before; he has no desire to return.”

He handed King a file with all the particulars. They shook on it, and Harry turned to Michelle and took her hand. “And I have to say that finally meeting this charming young woman was well worth any price you might charge.”