04.Final Edge v5 Page 26

"Who's there?"

  No one answered.

  "Is there someone there?" she said, louder this time, reminded of the convent church, the finger in the holy water. This felt like dej vu!

  Nothing, no answer.

  "Damn you, who is there?"

  A young black woman stepped from behind the stacks, asking, "Are you talking to me?"

  "I'm being stalked," Meredyth told the stranger. "Did you see anyone else in here?"

  "Not by me, lady."

  "Did you see anyone else in the stacks?"

  She replied, "There was a woman bumped me going down the aisle, but no guy, no."

  Meredyth pulled out the photo of Lauralie Blodgett that she had ripped from The Lady yearbook and kept in her purse. "Is this the woman you saw? The one who bumped you?"

  The young black woman squinted and bit her upper lip. "You saying you're being stalked by another woman?"

  "Was it her? Is it her?"

  "It was...it is."

  "Then she's here." Meredyth pulled her .38 Smith and Wesson from her purse, and the black woman put her hands out, backing off until she reached the door and backed through it. Ignoring the black woman's outcry from the other side of the door, Meredyth inched down the aisle of the stacks, going deeper into the archives, searching for Lauralie Blodgett, recalling her and Lucas's theory that this woman killed her own mother. She would have no compunction in killing Meredyth if given the opportunity.

  Behind her, Meredyth heard the trampling of courthouse security guards tumbling over one another in an effort to get to the bottom steps and through the door and at Meredyth. She realized that she could be shot dead before any explanation of her identity or her brandishing a gun could be made. Perhaps Lauralie had even planned it this way, but how? How did she know she'd be here?

  She heard the clickity-clack of a set of high heels just ahead of her. She wheeled and leaped into the next lane of stacks, coming eye-to-eye with a terrified file clerk who dropped her handful of files and fled. Beyond the clerk, she saw an emergency door exit slowly closing.

  She raced for the door and was about to snatch it open when from behind her, she heard the order, "Freeze! Drop the gun and freeze, now!"

  It was a male voice, one of the security guards.

  A second guard came at her from another direction, his gun also pointed, saying, "You've got two guns pointed at you! Do as you're told, Dr. Sanger."

  She knew the man by name. "Roy, you know who I am. You know I'm not some lunatic. She was here. She went through that door. Let me catch her before she gets away."

  "Who was here?" asked Roy Purdue.

  The other guard shouted, "Drop the gun, lady! Now!"

  She did so, sighing heavily. Roy poked his head through the exit door and stared outside for a moment as his partner picked up Meredyth's weapon. "Nobody out there. Dr. Sanger," Roy informed her.

  "The .38 is registered. I carry a weapon for self-defense and would only use it in self-defense."

  "We'll just let the police handle it from here, lady," said the guard she didn't know. Reading his name tag, she replied, "Listen, Lewis, I'm a forensic police shrink, and I'm being stalked."

  "Police are on their way, Dr. Sanger," replied Roy. "This is a matter you'll have to resolve with them. Maybe you should call your lawyer, Dr. Sanger."

  "I'll do that." She plunged a hand into her purse for the cell phone, and Lewis crouched, aimed, and shouted, "Freeze!"

  "Damn it, I'm going for my cell phone."

  "Forget it!" shouted a red-faced Lewis, snatching her purse from her. He now had her gun tucked into his belt, and her purse dangling from one hand, his gun still trained on her. "Cuff her, Roy," Lewis said shakily.

  "That won't be necessary, Lewis. We just escort her to the door. Put the gun down, Lewis."

  "What?"

  "She's unarmed now, Lewis, and cooperative, so back off!"

  "Give me my phone back. I'll call my boss, Chief Lincoln," she pleaded.

  "Let's all go upstairs, Dr. Sanger. Greet the officers when they arrive," suggested Roy. "We can turn your things over to them."

  Meredyth pulled away and walked briskly ahead of Roy and his friend through the stacks and back to the microfiche machine she'd been working on when she saw some-thing strange. Someone had ordered a hard copy of the record she'd come for. The paper copy lay in the tray, taunting her.

  "She was here...she did this," said Meredyth, realizing how mad she must seem to these two courthouse guards. "I didn't order a copy of the record be made. She did. It's her way of telling me how close she can get any time she wants."

  "Let's go upstairs, Dr. Sanger," replied Roy in his softest, kindest tone.

  "It also means she's still in the building, still lurking in the shadows down here. We've got to do a search of this entire area, Roy!"

  "No, Dr. Sanger, we're done here," declared Roy. "We're taking you upstairs, so please, come along."

  She defiantly snatched the copy of the record of Lauralie's adoption as they led her through the door and to the stairwell. "She may have left fingerprints on the machine."

  Neither security guard was listening now. They silently led her up to ground level.

  The security guards turned Meredyth over to two uniformed policemen who had rushed through the courthouse security checkpoint, guns drawn. Meredyth's gun was turned over to the police, and one of them proceeded to handcuff her as she protested. "I'm a forensic psychiatrist! With the Three-one! I'm a shrink, a cop shrink. Check my ID."

  Meredyth saw that people she had known for a decade, from the newsstand guy to lawyers and bailiffs and judges, all staring in disbelief. A crowd had gathered, mostly made up of civilians who populated the courtrooms in cases ranging from traffic tickets to murder trials. But among them, Meredyth caught a glimpse of Lauralie Blodgett stepping away, a smile on her face.

  "It's her!" Meredyth shouted. "Stop that woman! It's her!"

  But Meredyth was led out to a waiting police cruiser, its strobe lights flashing, and outside she had to face yet another crowd. The arrest was humiliating, and she was pleased when finally she could duck into the cruiser and be out of view behind the tinted windows. The handcuffs bit into her wrist, and when the officers climbed into the car, she pleaded with them to take off the cuffs, telling them to call Captain Gordon Lincoln at the 31st Precinct, again telling them who she was, adding, "What happened in the courthouse...it was all a big mis—"

  "—misunderstanding," the two cops piped in, in unison.

  "Yes ma'am, ahhh, Doctor," said the driver. "Frank, you want to call the Three-one and bother Gordo Lincoln with this, or you want to book the lady?" They had driven off the courthouse sidewalk where the cruiser had parked, blocking the front stairs to the courthouse main entrance.

  "I'm the forensic psychiatrist who's working closely with Lieutenant Lucas Stonecoat on the P.O. murder case, the one all over the news."

  "The Post-it Ripper case, you?" The two officers stared at one another, and then the driver stared at her through his rearview mirror. "You really got Police ID on you, Doc?"

  "Yeah, but my hands are in cuffs and I can't get at my purse."

  The driver pulled over some blocks away.

  "What the hell're we doing, Tony?" asked the cop in the passenger seat.

  "Check her ID, Frank."

  "I have a permit for the gun," she told them. "I'm the police shrink at the Three-one," she nervously repeated.

  "Wait, whoa up, Doc. Are you saying that you're the one who's gotten all those body parts by mail—the eyeballs and the hand?" he asked as Frank pulled open the back door and rifled through her purse for identification.

  "It's her all right, Tony. Dr. M. Sanger, Ph.D., M.D., Houston PD Forensic Psychiatry, Civilian Personnel. What now?"

  "Call Lincoln." Tony adjusted his uniform tie.

  "No...no, call Lieutenant Lucas Stonecoat, please. He'll verify I am who I say I am."

  "Hmmm...think we've established that much. Tell you what, Do
c. How would it be if we dropped you at the Three-one and we all call it a day? I'll talk to security at the courthouse; not likely to be any charges."

  "Sounds like a sound plan," she agreed. "Thank you, thank you both."

  "Don't mention it." said Frank, a half-kidding, nervous tension to his voice, "not to anyone!"

  "Sounds to me like you've been under a great deal of stress here lately, Doc," replied Tony from the wheel as they pulled away, going now toward the 31st Precinct.

  "Yeah, we've heard all about the eyes, the teeth, the head, and all the other stuff this nutcase has been mailing you," agreed Frank. "It's no wonder you're having a bad day."

  Meredyth fell silent, deciding it was her only defense.

  "No reason to involve a precinct captain in all this...." Tony nudged Frank as he spoke.

  "Huh? Nah, nah, no reason I can think of, no."

  The two, Frank and Tony, began talking quietly to one another. "Stonecoat...isn't that the guy—"

  "—yeah, the guy who broke the Mootry murder case."

  "Broke that computer Internet assassination network?"

  "Famous guy...Native Texan, right?"

  "No, Native American...Cherokee, I think."

  Meredyth shut them out, struggling now with puzzling questions alighting and seeping into her brain: How did Lauralie know I'd be at the courthouse? When did she begin to follow me? From what location? The condo, the precinct? Or had she slyly gotten the information from Candice, my soon-to-be- "fired" secretary, as no doubt Byron had?

  Or worse still, had Lauralie somehow learned of Byron Priestly's connection to her, simply following him to the courthouse? And if she followed him to the courthouse, was Byron too in danger?

  If so, Byron, needed a heads-up. She must notify him. "Can I get my cell phone back?" she asked Frank.

  "What?"

  "My purse, phone, and gun."

  "Well, ma'am, ahhh, Doctor, sure... but since we're almost there—"

  Tony finished for Frank. "Soon as we turn you over to this Detective Stonecoat."

  "Heard a lot about him," said Frank. "Settle a bet for us. He's a Cherokee tracker, isn't he? Wasn't he a one-time Texas Ranger?"

  "No, Lucas wasn't in the Rangers."

  "But he was a vet, right? Nam?" asked Tony.

  "And he's Choctaw or Chickasaw then, if he's not Cherokee."

  "What's difference between a Chickasaw and a Cherokee?" asked Tony.

  "Don't know," replied Frank. "Maybe the difference is their totems."

  'Totems?"

  "You know, spirit guides, all that. One tribe follows the fox, another the hawk, turtle, hare, squirrel." Frank pointed out a side street, and Tony turned down it.

  "Squirrel?" Tony laughed. "No, no...it's all along family bloodlines who's in charge, who's the chief of one tribe, and who's the chief of another... family ties, so to speak. Not so different from tribes in Afghanistan or Africa or the mafia even."

  "Sounds right, Frank, but totems are important too, I'll bet. What do you think, Dr. Sanger?"

  "I think I want my phone."

  CHAPTER 14

  LUCAS STONECOAT’S MORNING hadn't been near so eventful as Meredyth's. Before he got the call from the squad car transporting her to the precinct, he had met with a retired investigator who had worked the Yolanda Sims case. Detective Maurice Remo was haunted by the case, still angry at how it was handled by the original investigating team. Remo had taken it over when it had first come downstairs to him in the Cold Room. At the time, Remo was in charge of the Cold Case files. Disgusted by what he found in the file—or rather what he failed to find—he had, in 1957, launched his own investigation. A young detective at the time, he was now in his early seventies.

  Lucas had telephoned Remo on a hunch after seeing his name on a routing sheet, expecting to be told by whoever answered the phone that Remo was long dead. All the other detectives on the case had long since passed away. But Maurice Remo answered his own phone and was very much alive.

  Lucas told Remo, "Your notes on the Yolanda Sims 1956 murder case are not in the file. I only stumbled on your name when I was leafing through the routing sheet."

  "I started my own murder book on the case," Remo explained over the phone.

  "We don't have any record of a second volume."

  "No way you could have, Detective Stone—what is it?"

  "Stonecoat, sir."

  "I worked the case on my own time. My captain and everyone else was convinced it was a guy caught for a string of murders, but Sims's killing was never proven to be connected. Even so, I was told to let it be. We had several higher-profile cases in-house at the time I could devote my time to, you understand?"

  "Missing and dead white people, you mean?" Lucas rocked in his chair, certain that the old man would slam his phone down at the remark as soon as it slipped from Lucas.

  "Yeah, something like that." He was still on the line.

  "So...you did what?" Lucas rocked forward, planting his elbows on his desk.

  'Took my report on the case with me when I left."

  "You took it home on your retirement?"

  "I would take it out from time to time. Try to convince myself her killer was a guy who fried for seven other child killings around the same time. They called him the Dumpster Killer. Can you guess why?"

  "Yeah, I can. So you have all your notes on the case—"

  "—here to home, my kitchen cupboard."

  "Really?"

  "Damn thing's a constant reminder. Points a finger at me every damn day I open that cupboard. My albatross."

  "Would you care to share this cursed bird with someone?" Lucas asked.

  "You mean you? I've read about you in the papers from time to time. I understand you're the man who got the HPD to join the computer revolution, that you got all the Cold Cases on-line, and now they're shared by every precinct and jurisdiction in the state."

  "In the country now, sir, and with the FBI's VICAP program."

  "Excellent."

  "May I come over there and have a look at your murder book on Yolanda Sims?" Lucas waited out a long pause.

  "Misdemeanor to take HPD property and not return it."

  "I think we can say a statute of limitations is at work here. So, can I come have a look? If it's good enough, we'll include it on the database."

  Another long moment of silence. "Tell you what, Stonecoat. I'll come down to the precinct house."

  "I could save you the trip."

  Remo nearly shouted into the phone, "I don't have reason enough to get out much, so let me!"

  "All right, sir. Suit yourself."

  "Not much for this retirement life."

  Three quarters of an hour later, Maurice stood at Lucas's desk, introducing himself, a murder book clutched to his chest.

  Maurice's take on the Sims case proved unique, an absolute eye-opening departure from the original investigators. Like Lucas, he believed that all four of the suspects interviewed, being familiar with the neighborhood, would not have left the body where it had been dumped.

  "Dead wrong they were," Remo repeatedly said, somehow looking relaxed in a rolling office chair. "If the creep who killed her didn't know the lay of the land," he calmly said, finally breaking with his chant, "then it stands to reason he was no more acquainted with Yolanda than he was her house and her address."

  "That's been my thinking," agreed Lucas.

  "You go down there, you look at the houses on these two streets, and you find they are like clones all of 'em. All right then, you have to know the area well to be on the right street. All the streets in that area begin with the same letter, Denton, Denby, Densmore, Denlow. So the guy is nervous, turns down Denby instead of Denton, pulls up before 1214—the right address on the wrong street—at three or four in the morning. He then quickly carries the girl's body from his car or van and dumps it on the doorstep, not out of any grief or concern for the child's remains or the family's closure, Detective Stonecoat, but out of malice, to g
et even with her uncle, who inadvertently brought this horrible tragedy down on his niece, but the man is so broken up, he can't accept this truth."

  "The uncle was dealing drugs? This was because he owed somebody? What?"

  "The killer wants to shock and dismay someone at that address. He wants to rub it in the uncle's face. And he gives not one thought to the child's siblings or parents."

  "What was it, drugs? Numbers? Gang-related turf war?"

  "None of the above."

  "What was the beef with the uncle then?"

  "Love."

  "Lovers? They were lovers?"

  "Love kills...we see it all the time."

  "A highly personal motive then.'"

  Remo stood and paced. "The little girl was used to get back at her uncle by the man he abandoned."

  "So the guy's boyfriend killed her with no remorse?"

  "None, not this mole."

  "Does he have a name?" asked Lucas.

  Remo rubbed the white stubble at his chin, not answering Lucas, slowly allowing the thread of his thoughts to unravel, like a magician unfolding a trick handkerchief. Lucas patiently awaited the old detective's sleight-of-hand. Remo continued to pace to the eye-level window that looked out on the sidewalk here in the basement offices of the Cold Case file room. Finally, he said, "An outbreak of child abduction-murders occurred that year, and at first I suspected that Yolanda's murder was only the first in this string of killings."

  "First because?"

  "First because he was sloppy and careless in Yolanda's case, and because it seemed he had a conscience, that he tried to do one right thing."

  "Bring the kid's body back home," said Lucas.

  "But he failed miserably to do so, and possibly was seen in the act and frightened off. After this, the others, he didn't take such chances with; he never brought another kid back to where he had abducted her from. Instead, he discarded them in city Dumpsters."

  "You mean this guy who they called the Dumpster Killer, Paul Mick Ryan, electrocuted in..."

  "Sixty-three."

  "But you never really believed Yolanda's killing was related, despite prevailing winds?"

  "No. Fact is, I got over the notion fairly quickly."

  "Why not Ryan?"

  "The Dumpster victims were not beaten to death, burned, or tortured; not a bruise on them except the single deadly black-and-blue throat where the stranglehold was so intense they lifted whole thumb and finger images off the victims' throats, all a match to Ryan's prints. Yolanda was not strangled to death."