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Subject: {ASSM} The Innocent Fugitives CH02 {Varkel} (nosex violent)
Date: Thu,  8 Feb 2001 02:10:05 -0500
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The Innocent Fugitives
a Novel by Varkel
Copyright  2001, Varkel



Chapter 2:  The Mystery



Jenny slumped on the couch with her face in her hands, the two 
police officers standing nearby.  She knew how it seemed to them.  
She ought to be embarrassed that she hadn't dissolved in tears, 
but she felt no remorse at the news of Bud's death.  In fact she 
was relieved to be rid of the horrid man, although she had once 
loved him desperately.

"You'll have to come with us to the morgue for identification, 
Mrs. Collier," Sgt. Martin explained gently.  "It's something 
that cannot be put off, you understand, even though it will soon 
be ten o'clock."

"Yes, yes, of course," she replied, dropping her hands and 
raising her head as she took a deep breath.  "You say he was 
murdered?"

"Yes, ma'am, but we don't have to discuss that for the moment."

"If you don't mind, I was on my way to bed," she said weakly as 
she rose to her feet.  "I need to freshen up, then we can go."

"Yes, of course, ma'am.  I understand."  The policeman's eyes 
followed the good looking woman who left the room as if to 
prepare for some innocent outing.

"She's not taking it very hard, is she?" he commented to his 
partner when she was out of earshot.

The other officer sniffed.  "That's one cold-looking bitch!"

Though accurately guessing their opinion, Jenny was unconcerned 
about their reaction to her undemonstrative response; she was 
scarcely aware of their existence.  Bud was dead, killed somehow, 
and she only felt relief.  She looked at her reflection in the 
bathroom mirror and saw a pretty woman, still young, who was 
suddenly free:  free of sudden demands for loathsome practices, 
free of the stench of alcoholic breath!  She was not yet ready, 
however, to smile.

During the drive downtown Jenny rode alone in the rear seat of 
the squad car; the two officers sat in front.  She wondered about 
Bud's death, his murder, and decided that she was not as 
surprised as she might have been.  The man had been a violent 
drunk.  More than once he had admitted to her his association 
with wild queers.

"How did it happen?" she asked softly.  "Were bikers involved?"

The sergeant turned half around in the front seat to face her.  
"Do you think that bikers might be involved, Mrs. Collier?"

"I don't really know, but he associated with rough men, 
homosexuals."

"Did he!  Well, this time he was with a woman.  He and she were 
both killed."

"Who was the woman?" Jenny asked quickly, surprised at that news.  
Bud had begun to detest women, whom he invariably referred to as 
cunts.

"You don't have any idea?" the officer inquired with narrowed 
eyes.

"No.  I thought he preferred men."

"You weren't close to him?"

"No, not any longer.  We were planning to divorce."

The officer made up his mind.  "The woman's name was Elizabeth 
Lanning.  Apparently she used the name, Beth.  Do you know her?"

Jenny looked up wonderingly.  "Lanning?  No, I don't think so, 
but I will now, won't I?"


* * *


Paul was startled by the entrance of two officers and a strange 
woman into the brightly lit, antiseptic waiting room of the 
morgue.  He had already identified Beth and was about to leave 
the place burdened with a deep sense of guilt, feeling that he 
was somehow responsible for the murder of his wayward wife -- for 
whom he still retained some measure of affection.

He knew the bare outline of the homicide, at least that his wife 
had been found dead in bed with another man, circumstances that 
did not surprise him in the least.  He was suspicious of the 
newly arrived woman, whom he assumed to be the wife of the slain 
man, Beth's lover.  Had she done it? he wondered.  Had she hired 
someone to do it?

Their eyes hardly met before the woman was hustled on through the 
swinging doors.  Paul noticed that she was slender and pretty 
with auburn hair and fresh looking skin.  He decided to linger, 
to meet the spouse of his late wife's lover, perhaps a murderess.

No cops attended Paul; he had insisted on driving himself to the 
morgue.  Only one other person, a man slouched in a far chair to 
scan a magazine, shared the large room with him.  Paul paced the 
marble floor impatiently as he waited.  But shortly the woman, 
now ashen faced, pushed through the doors.

"Excuse me," he said, positioning himself to block her path.  She 
halted, taken aback.  "My name is Paul Lanning."

Her eyes narrowed crossly.  "Do I know you?"  She seemed anxious 
to get away.

"I'm Beth's husband."

"Beth?  Beth who?"

"She's on a slab in the next room along with your husband.  They 
were killed together."

Jenny immediately declared without thinking, "Then this is your 
doing!"  Her eyes flared angrily up to his.

"Not mine.  I didn't know anything about ... this.  Did you, 
perhaps?"

"I don't like your tone of voice or your insinuation, Mr..."

"Lanning.  Paul Lanning.  Why would anyone kill them?  They 
weren't special in any way."

The man in the corner suddenly stood up and joined them.  They 
had hardly noticed him before.  He was tall and muscular, wearing 
a wrinkled charcoal gray suit that had not recently seen the 
cleaners.  His stare swept from Jenny to Paul and he declared in 
a deep voice, "It's only too obvious they were special to each 
other."

Paul squared his shoulders.  "What do you mean to imply, sir?"

The man's eyes were like blue rivets.  "When found, he was still 
in penetration."

"'In pene --'  You mean ..."

"Exactly."

"My god!  That's ... that's incredible!"

"But true."

Paul shook himself.  "Who the hell are you anyway?  Are you a 
reporter?"

"I am Lt. John Calhoun, of the Bering Police Administration."  He 
flipped open the left front of his coat, showing a golden badge 
pinned to the inside pocket.  The butt of a revolver was briefly 
evident in his armpit.  "You, I take it, are the woman's husband 
and you the man's wife.  Your names, please."

Paul responded with his and Jenny with hers.  The man took out a 
notebook and gravely inscribed their names in it.  He looked up, 
his eyes including them both.  "I know it's late.  I won't keep 
you long tonight, but I want you to come into this private office 
and tell me everything you know about your spouse's movements 
today."  His eyes narrowed as he added, "And your own movements, 
too."


* * *


"I don't like that cop, that Calhoun," Jenny grumbled as they 
left the office and returned to the large reception area of the 
morgue.

Paul grunted.  "I don't like any of them.  You can't trust them.  
They have their own agenda."

"I suppose," she agreed, looking away.  "But I'll trust them 
enough to drive me back home."

He nodded.  "I guess you can trust them that much.  But if you 
need a ride, Ms. Collier, I'll be glad to take you home."

Jenny regarded him narrowly.  "Why would you do that, Mr. 
Lanning?"

He sighed.  "We aren't really enemies, Ms. Collier, even if we 
have started off accusing each other."

Slowly her tenseness faded.  "You didn't kill them, did you?"

"I had no motive, Ms. Collier.  Nor am I that sort of person."

"No motive?  You didn't love her?  You weren't jealous?"

"She, ah, did things for me that I valued and that I shall 
certainly miss.  But, no, I didn't love her anymore."

She studied him curiously.  "Does that mean she was good in bed?"

"Yes.  She was so . . . agreeable and willing.  I guess the right 
word is 'complaisant.'  But she was an awful bitch.  As to 
motive, didn't you have as much or more?"

"Superficially, yes, but I am not responsible for their deaths, 
either, though I'll admit I'm glad to be rid of that horrid 
little man.  I think he soured me on sex for the rest of my life.  
He was such a beast!"

"Then you could have killed him out of hatred?"

"No, no.  Like you, I'm not of that sort.  If I were to do 
something like that, believe me, it would have been in my own 
bed.  That's where I hated him the most."

The two of them stood awkwardly in the middle of the too-bright 
room, staring at each other.

Paul shook his head.  "Let me repeat:  we're not enemies.  In 
fact, we've both had the same kind of shock.  We've lost our 
mates, however poorly we might have been mated.  I'd be pleased 
to take you home."

She took a breath.  "That would be nice."  Her voice was lighter, 
as though she had momentarily forgotten the ugliness in the next 
room.


* * *


"It's not much of a car," Paul apologized as he opened the door 
of his eight-year-old Chevvy.

"It's better than mine.  If you have any rust, at least it's not 
visible."

Paul started the vehicle and put it into motion.  They drove off 
in silence.  It was after eleven and full darkness had fallen 
even in August.

She gave him directions, adding, "I hope I'm not taking you out 
of your way."

"Actually my apartment is this way, too," Paul assured her.  
"Tell me about yourself, will you, Ms. Collier?  Did I understand 
correctly that you're a nurse?"

"Yes, I am.  And you're right, we do have something in common, 
maybe a lot.  Will you call me Jenny?"

"Jenny!  I like that."  He smiled.  "The girl next door when I 
grew up was named Jenny.  And please call me Paul.  It's my 
middle name.  I don't care for Henry or _Hank_.  My wife ... 
found that out and called me nothing else, of course.  Do you 
work in a hospital?"

"No, for a private GP.  That's not so demanding since doctors 
quit making housecalls."

"A nurse!" he exclaimed.  "I'd think a nurse would make a great 
wife."

She glanced at him curiously.  "Do you?"

"They teach nurses what people need, don't they?"

She turned her face away.  "If you mean sex, it's not what people 
_need_ that makes it ... so awful."

"What do you mean, Jenny?  Was your husband too demanding?"

"Actually, not," she admitted, taking a breath, "not compared to 
some stories I've heard.  He didn't have a lot to do with me.  I 
guess he was mostly with ... other women or even men."

"You mean he was, ah ..."

"Yes.  Homosexual, too.  What they call a 'swinger,' I think.  
But whenever he did take a fancy for me, he made it awful.  He 
made me do things that ..."  She took another deep breath.  
"Well, they turned my stomach."

"Was it the things he did, Jenny, or the way he did them?"

"Both.  But he could make the most normal acts seem dirty and 
disgusting."

She shifted around in the seat.  "I didn't see your wife's face.  
Was she attractive, Paul?"

"I always thought so, except when she was listing all my 
shortcomings.  She was demanding in the same way as your husband, 
except I'll admit it was far from disgusting.  But she was never 
tender and sweet, the qualities a man needs in a woman.  She 
would have demanded a divorce in another year, I suspect, but I 
would've kept on seeing her -- if she'd let me."

"What do you do, Paul?"

"I'm a buyer for the Ufixit hardware chain, not an exciting job, 
though I do get around some.  It didn't pay enough to outfit Beth 
as she wanted.  I've got some large credit-card bills to settle."

"I was supporting Bud, too," the woman admitted in a low voice, 
"and I'm in the same boat.  That's my place, the house with the 
porch light."

Paul eased the car to a halt in front of a very modest cottage in 
need of paint and having no driveway.  They sat in an awkward 
silence in the idling car.  They were strangers to each other, 
yet both recognized that events had bound them together.

Jenny pronounced a firm summation.  "We both hate it, I know, but 
Paul, we're better off without them."

He sighed.  "On balance you're right."  He lit the dome light, 
took out his pocket notebook and scribbled something on a blank 
page before tearing it out.  "Here are my phone numbers in case 
anything comes up.  May I have yours?"


* * *


The big man parked the nondescript, dirty Ford in the seedy motel 
parking lot and walked with an easy stroll toward the poorly lit 
buildings, passing between them and on out to the street on the 
other side.  A casual observer in the parking lot would have 
assumed him to be a guest returning to his room, on the street a 
guest out for a walk.

But he was unobserved, casually or otherwise.  At midnight few 
cars were on these back streets and no strollers.  In the long 
stretches between streetlights at the corners, his black shirt, 
long sleeved despite the warm evening, and dark gray trousers 
made him almost invisible.  He pounded along the broken 
sidewalks, past the dark and silent buildings, toward the block 
where he was confident of finding life.  Occasionally a tongue 
appeared to lick his lips and a smile flicked across his angular 
face, the smile of a well-fed predator.

He came across life sooner than expected.  At the third corner 
two young men leaned against the lamp post.  Drunk on Thursday 
night?  No, he decided, probably not;  stoned, perhaps.  His 
smile widened.

They watched him approach, sizing him up from head to toe.  Their 
expressions changed from apathy to interest with a flicker of 
anticipation.

When he was twenty feet away, maintaining the same steady pace, 
the closer one demanded, "What you grinning at, asshole?"

Timing his advance, he retorted, "Two homeboys who've lived too 
long."

"You mean us?" the farther one asked incredulously.

But the nearer had seen the big man's glittering eyes.  His hand 
came out of pocket.  A silvery switchblade flashed under the 
streetlight.

It had been perfectly timed.  The big man needed only to lengthen 
his next pace slightly, all his weight shifting to that foot.  
Swinging forward, the other foot slashed upward before the knife-
wielder could begin to mouth his threat.  The hard rubber heel, 
turned sideways, savagely crushed the young man's larynx, 
throwing him back hard against the lamp pole, from which position 
he slid down to a seat on the concrete.  His weapon clattered 
into the gutter.

Eyes huge, the second youth turned to flee.  But the big man, 
anticipating that reaction, leapt toward him half a second ahead 
of his decision, catching him from behind in a vise grip around 
the neck before he could make two steps.  The assailant's power 
was such that he brought them both to a halt still erect, 
allowing only a stumble or two, and whirled his victim around 
toward the lamp post.

The grip was not a choking one.  "Let go of me!" the youth 
demanded, elbowing his captor's torso but striking something very 
hard under the shirt, against which the elbow bones only rattled.

The man removed one hand, though the other alone was large enough 
to compress the throat threateningly.  The freed hand caught a 
youthful arm and twisted it horribly up and behind the struggling 
back.  Searing agony shot through the shoulder joint.  The youth 
felt something tear.  He slumped, sagging to his knees.  The man 
released him then to fall forward on his face.  The twisted arm 
remained behind his back.

The big man chuckled.  "No pain tolerance, eh?  Ought to complain 
to your dealer."

The first victim was flopping around under the streetlight, hands 
to his throat, eyes protruding desperately.  The big man stood 
over him a moment, grinning again.  "Now you know exactly what I 
meant," he remarked.

He stooped in the gutter, retrieved and closed the switchblade.  
Then he took up a twitching foot and turned away, dragging the 
owner behind him, head bumping on the rough concrete.  As he 
passed, he also took a foot of the second and walked on down the 
block, dragging both.

Dimly discernible ahead was a stack of cardboard boxes awaiting 
the morning trash pickup.  The unlikely procession had nearly 
reached them when a voice moaned in agony, "Oh, god, it hurts!  
Oh, god!"

The man turned around and stood over the second victim.  "It's 
supposed to.  Good-bye, fellow traveler on life's merry-go-round.  
This is where you get off."  He jumped into the air and savagely 
stomped the young man's face with the same heel that had killed 
his companion.  When the big man backed away, the moaning had 
ceased.  The youthful chest shuddered once and was still.

The man shoved both bodies into the stack of empty boxes and 
proceeded beyond them down the sidewalk at his same steady pace.  
Reaching the light, he wiped the knife with his handkerchief and 
threw it into the storm sewer.

Turning the corner, he walked on, but now he was nearing his 
destination.  The street lights on the distant corners hardly lit 
the old warehouse, whose boarded windows returned no light at all 
to the street.  Glancing quickly around, for the first time 
worried about being seen, he put a key into the deadbolt lock of 
the steel personnel door.  It produced a well-oiled click.  The 
door opened silently.  He stepped into the blackness and pulled 
it shut behind him.

He walked confidently down the pitch-black hall, hand extended 
for the door he knew awaited him.  Opening it disclosed a 
stairwell, very faintly lit by descending light, enough for him 
to take the two flights of stairs a couple steps at a time.  At 
the top his breathing was hardly affected.

He hurried down another hall toward a door with a 15-Watt bulb 
glimmering dimly above it.  At this door he knocked cautiously 
and called loudly, "It's me.  Slim."

It was a thick wooden door, but he understood the response:  
"Then get in here, damn it!"

He tried the knob and nodded when he found it locked.  Again his 
key opened it.  He slipped into a large room, quickly closing the 
door behind him.  It was a combination kitchen, den and bedroom 
with comfortable furniture and a huge television set flickering 
with colorful costumes, but his attention was reserved for the 
room's single occupant.

She put aside the remote control after killing the TV and got to 
her feet as he approached.  She was a woman of average size, 
small only in comparison to the man, dressed in a long striped 
housecoat.  Her dark hair was shot with gray and she made no 
attempt to hide the crows-feet beside her eyes or the nest of 
wrinkles on each side of her chin.  Her eyes were green and 
flashing in the overhead light when he stood facing her.

Before he could speak, her hand lashed up and slapped his cheek 
stingingly.  He flinched tardily to one side but immediately 
straightened.  Above lips drawn into a thin line her eyes 
glittered on his.  "God damn you, you're _late_!  I suppose you 
forgot what I sent for, too!"

He sighed.  "No, Mamma.  I didn't forget."  His hand came out of 
his pocket and presented her a bag imprinted with a drug store's 
logo.

She snatched it and inspected its contents.  "If you had my 
headaches ...  Bring me a glass of water."

He went to the sink without protest.  When he returned, she held 
four tablets in her hand.  She popped them into her mouth and 
took a long drink from the proffered tumbler.  She set the glass 
down and cocked her head at him.  "Now maybe I can get some 
relief."

"I hope so, Mamma."

"Well, tell me:  did you take care of her threats?"

"Yes, ma'am.  I killed her."

The woman's eyes widened slightly.  She licked her lips.  "And?" 
she prompted.

"And Bud, too.  He was there and I couldn't afford a witness."

"Bud, too!" she breathed.  "I'll be happy to retire his picture 
along with Beth's.  You didn't really need either one of them, 
you know."

He took a breath also.  "And two more on the way here tonight.  
Like that slimy whore last year.  They got in my way."

"Not too close, I hope!"

"Two blocks.  Nothing to lead the cops here."

"So you killed four people tonight!"  Her whole disposition had 
brightened.  "Sit down and tell me all about it, sweetie."

"If that's what you want," he responded diffidently.  "But I've 
got important business early tomorrow.  Let me talk while I help 
with your bath."

She grinned, showing her teeth.  "All right.  That might be 
better anyway."


* * *


Lieutenant Inspector Calhoun, in uniform this morning, silver 
bars distinct on his shoulders, fiddled with the computer monitor 
on his end of the table until it displayed the file for Case 571.  
By this time the other attendees had entered the conference room 
and taken seats.

He looked up and inquired gruffly, "Where's Martin?"

Ruth, the tubby dispatcher, her presence irregular and 
unexpected, replied in her surprisingly deep voice, "Sgt. Martin 
and Cpl. Marcello are investigating another double homicide."

Calhoun's eyebrows rose.  "Another one?  This morning?"

"Yeah.  I diverted them on their way in.  It's on Harget Street 
in the warehouse district.  Two young guys.  A trash collector 
called it in, said they looked to have got in a fight."

"Gang related?"

She shrugged.  "Probably."

The lieutenant gestured at the monitor screen.  "Damn it, Martin 
signed this forensics report."

A skinny fellow to the left of the dispatcher, Smitty, the 
forensics technician, spoke up.  "He signed it but I wrote it, 
lieutenant."

"Okay, good enough.  What're you doing here, Ruth?"

"To tell you about Martin.  I'm about to go home."

"Did you take the call on Case 571?"

"No.  That was Margie.  But I left her tape queued.  It was some 
man pretending to be a woman."

"Thank you.  That was thoughtful."

"Whatever you need, lieutenant."  She looked away suddenly, got 
to her feet and left the room.  A late arriver closed the door 
behind her.

The bearded fellow from the prosecutor's office grinned at 
Calhoun.  "Ruth hopes you'll need _her_, lieutenant."

"Shut up, Narvis.  For that matter, what the hell are you doing 
here?  We haven't identified a suspect yet."

"I heard you did," the man retorted.

"We'll see."  Calhoun cleared his throat, pressing the button 
that started a recorder whirling beside the computer terminal.  
"This is the preliminary conference on Case 571, a very unusual 
double homicide.  All departments are represented, including --" 
his voice developed irony "-- the office of the country 
prosecutor.  Today is Friday, August 13, 1999."

He pressed a key on the terminal keyboard and nodded.  "All 
right.  Let's verify this stuff.  Start with the victims' 
identities, Carter."

The heavy plain-clothes detective stated the names of the 
deceased, obtained initially from driver's licenses and other 
such material found in clothing cast off in the apartment, then 
confirmed by spousal identification of the bodies in the morgue.

"Thank you.  Lots of blanks on this form," Calhoun groused.  
"Anybody found out whose apartment they were using?"

"Guess Martin overlooked that one," Carter answered.  "We got it 
from the manager last night...  Here it is:  Mosely J. Laskew."

"Have you tried to contact Mr. Laskew?"

"We'll work on that today.  But I think he's a fake."

"Why?"

"Nothing in that apartment.  A few glasses wiped clean, drink 
bottles, but no clothing except just enough for the victims to 
wear.  Trash cans was empty.  Fancy enough furniture and modern 
art on the walls, but nobody lives there, lieutenant."

"Laskew's love nest, is it?  Well, I want you to find him, 
whatever his name really is.  He at least gave somebody the key.  
I want to know that somebody."

"Yes, sir.  First thing."

"And he just might be the killer, you know.  Find out about maid 
service.  Maybe the maid knows something."

"Will do."

"Did you talk to the neighbors last night?"

"Three apartments on that floor.  Nobody home, but according to 
the manager all rented.  Nobody home in the one directly beneath 
it, either."

The lieutenant produced a dissatisfied grunt.  He keyed another 
sequence and looked up.  "Smitty, did you attend the autopsy?"

"Yes, sir."

"You agree with the M.E.?  They were choked by a wire?"

"No question about it.  Piano wire, most likely:  number 18 or 
20.  It bit halfway into the woman's neck, dislocated her 
cervical vertebrae, which is what killed her.  The man, too, only 
you could tell he got it from in front.  I mean, the perp was 
standing in front of him.  He died from plain old asphyxiation."

The lieutenant grunted, reading his screen.  "Did you examine the 
bodies at the site?"

"Yes, sir.  Martin swore they hadn't been moved."

Calhoun pressed keys.  "This picture shows her on top of him and 
this next one ... appears to be a closeup of their genitals.  Did 
you actually see his, ah, penis stuck into her vagina?"

"I did.  I was the one who took that picture."

"Huh!  The killer is playing with us, you think?"

"Yes, I do.  For other reasons, too."

"You don't believe they could have been killed in the act?"

"I guess it's possible.  He did have a hell of a long schlong."

"Watch it."  Calhoun held up a hand.  "We're on tape, remember?  
It says here you found seminal fluid in her vagina."

"Yes, a lot of it, but the DNA's not back on that."

"Anywhere else?"

"Such as?"

Calhoun frowned.  "Use your imagination.  Her rectum?  Esophagus 
or bronchials?"

"None in the rectum," Smitty declared positively.  "And stomach 
acid dissolves spermatozoa almost immediately."

"I know that.  Didn't the M.E. open the esophagus?"

"He did, but from the stomach contents she had drunk a coke just 
before she died.  Even a weak acid is hell on sperm."

"So the only seminal fluid was found in her vagina?"

"Well, some had crossed the cervical barrier.  Quite a bit, in 
fact.  I think she got scr-- ah, had sex at least twice before 
she died, once maybe three or four hours earlier."

Calhoun shrugged.  "That's why she was there, don't you think?"  
He pressed additional keys, studying the screen.  "No prints at 
all?"

Smitty shrugged.  "The killer wiped the place down.  We found a 
few prints on the light switches and door knobs, all belonging to 
investigative personnel.  They got a little excited when they 
couldn't get in."

The lieutenant glowered.  "So I understand.  I want the name of 
every officer whose prints you found in that apartment, Smitty, 
on my desk this afternoon.  No excuse for such carelessness will 
be accepted."

Smitty sighed audibly, cutting his eyes around at the other 
attendees.  "Yes, sir."

"Now tell me what got them all so excited.  Where did our 
favorite newspaper girl get her idea about it being a 'locked 
room mystery?'"

"I don't know who told _her_!  But it _is_ a locked room mystery.  
Both doors were chain locked, and the windows can't be locked or 
unlocked from the outside.  They were all locked, too, and none 
was broken."

"Chain locked?  Now, Smitty, those chains have some slack so you 
can peep through the crack of the door without unlocking it.  
You've already noticed this killer is playing with us.  Couldn't 
he have put the chain tab in the slot with, say, long nose 
pliers?"

"Well, maybe --"

"No, he couldn't," Carter interrupted heavily.  "I put that chain 
back together after Marcello cut it.  The slot on that jamb is 
turned horizontal.  It's set up so that you can just get the tab 
in the far end of the slot when the door is fully closed.  No way 
you could get even a needle nose on it from the outside."

Calhoun grunted, staring into the distance.  He looked back at 
the screen.  "Somebody called 911 from that apartment at 7:42 
p.m.  According to this, Martin and Marcello got there in eight 
minutes -- pretty good work, by the way.  If the killer couldn't 
lock that door from the outside in eight minutes, he sure as hell 
could from the inside."

"From the --"  Carter's eyes widened.  "You mean ..."

"By any chance was there a coat closet next to the front door, 
Carter?"

"I ... Yes, there was."

"Who actually checked out the place?"

"Martin and Marcello and that old Greek who manages it."

"Nick Pellas, it says here."  The lieutenant's voice became 
sarcastic.  "And of course all three of them went rushing into 
the bedroom to see the sights!"

Carter's barrel chest swelled in a deep breath.  "You mean the 
perp was hiding in the coat closet and when they rushed past, he 
just stepped out?"

Calhoun nodded.  "It's the only way to account for that locked 
chain.  Undoubtedly the perp, as you say, is the one who called 
911."

"God, what a cool dude!"

"Not necessarily.  He might have just been a desperate one, if he 
couldn't find a key to the deadbolt."

"I don't care.  He's still an iceman."

"Yeah, and if he continues his frigid games, we're sure to nail 
him."

"Wait a minute!" the forensics technician interjected.  "Are you 
ignoring my concern about _two_ killers?  It's at the end of the 
report."

"All right, Smitty.  Let's take it up now.  You think there 
should have been more signs of a fight, that the male victim 
would have never just submitted to a garrote after seeing the 
woman get it, so there had to be two killers to snuff both 
victims together.  Is that right?"

"Ah, essentially, yes."

"Maybe.  But suppose the second one, who might just as well have 
been the woman, didn't expect to get snuffed?"  The lieutenant 
grinned at the suddenly wide-eyed technician.  "The fact that 
Collier got it from the front -- does that suggest anything to 
you about who was first?"

"Well, in his case the killer might have been rushed.  Or maybe 
he never got the chance to come from behind."  Smitty hesitated, 
then nodded slowly.  "I see what you mean."

"Of course you could be right.  That coat closet can hold two at 
once, can't it, Carter?"

"Yes, sir.  It was empty of coats."

"Speaking of two perps," Calhoun added, "just how much do we know 
about the ones with the best motive?"

Narvis, from the prosecutor's office, sat up.  "Now you're 
talking!  That's what I'm here for."



NEXT:  Chapter 3: The Closing Trap
Varangian:  ludmax11@hotmail.com
Kellis:     kellis@dhp.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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