I forgot all about Monica. I felt an avalanche slowing, turning on itself, turning into a kaleidoscope, slowing further, settling, stopping, halted. The pattern blazed through my mind. I began to laugh, a cleansing cackle of satisfaction. Had I seen the truth or only applied even finer filigree to my delusion? One call would tell all. I heard someone calling my name in the distance.
“Monica, I have to go. I’ll call you right back. I think I’ve solved it. I hope I have.”
I dialed the operator, got the area code I wanted, and then dialed information for the police department’s central phone number. I was shuttled through departments toward Homicide.
A voice answered, “Thibault.”
“Baton Rouge Homicide?” I said, savoring each syllable.
“Yeah. Who is this?”
I gave my name. “Detective Thibault, I’m working on a case here in Virginia. A man’s going to be executed in four days for a series of murders up here. Some last-minute evidence has emerged that may link him to murders elsewhere. Baton Rouge in particular. If so, they would have been at least three years ago. Were you in Homicide then?”
“Doctor, I investigated Cain. I’ve been twenty-seven years in Homicide in this city. There ain’t hardly a murder here I don’t know something about, but they’re also startin’ to run together. I’m due to retire end of the year. I hope this one had a flourish, or four days won’t do it.”
“Our killer,” I said, glad to relinquish ownership, “had an unusual MO. He only killed women and then he placed the bodies in conspicuous locations, where they were sure to be found.”
“Got to do better than that, Doc. That’s half of our murders. How’d he do ’em?”
“He strangled them after an attempted sexual assault. But at the crime scenes there were weapons found, or rather planted, so that it looked like the victims had been killed where they were found. Clubs, guns, that sort of thing.”
“That doesn’t ring any bells. Anything else?”
“He took some blood from each victim and he’d spatter it around the next crime scene.”
Thibault was silent for a minute. When he spoke his voice was strangely hoarse. “Your boy’s gonna go when, four days, you said?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Let me ask you a question. Your first victim, what kind of blood type?”
“AB, but—”
We finished the sentence in harmony. “The bloodstains were O positive.”
“Yes,” I said, flooded with elation. “When did these killings occur?”
“They started five years ago. There were four of them over the course of a year. Then they stopped.”
“That’s great. Do you have the lab work on these stains?”
“Yeah. They’re in the file. I’d have to go dig it out, but I could fax it to you. Take an hour or so.”
“If the blood’s a match, our guy couldn’t have done it. He was in a residential facility that whole year. This is great. Listen, I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got to call the lawyer with this news.”
Thibault’s voice was thick and weary when he spoke.
“As soon as you know, Doc, call me right back. You see, if your boy didn’t do it, and that’s our blood at the scene, then I’ve got a call to make. ’Cause our guy didn’t do it, either. And his next of kin aren’t going to like that one little bit.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I would like to thank the following people for their help with this story: noted defense attorney Peter Greenspun; Dr. Jane Greenstein; Constance Knott; Officer Adam K. Schutz; Dr. Mark E. Schutz; and my son, Jakob Lindenberger-Schutz, who solved it in a flash.
A Publisher’s Dream
by Phil Lovesey
©1998 by Phil Lovesey
With his first novel, Death Duties, just off the presses in England — and receiving rave reviews! — Phil Lovesey returns to EQMM with a story about the celebrity successful mystery authors often enjoy. The young British writer knows all about the world of mystery fandom, for his father, Peter Lovesey, has long been a favorite of both English and American readers — and it’s expected that Phil soon will he too!
“God, how I envy you chaps,” publisher began, leafing through IBM the battered typed manuscript. “It’s always been an ambition of mine to write a bestseller. Somehow, the joyful experience just eluded me.”
Gideon Plank shifted uncomfortably, anxious not to upset the man who seemed so taken with his novel. “I guess it’s just a matter of time,” he offered, mindful of the many hours spent torturously crafting the damn book in a damp bedsit just outside Reading. “It can’t be easy running a publishing business. I suppose I was just lucky, in so much as I had the time and space to write it.”
The portly publisher conceded the point. “Even so,” he mused, “it’s an author’s life, really. And I’m not saying it’s not without its drawbacks, but there’re precious few careers which allow one to indulge oneself quite so completely before such an adoring public.” He pointed to several well-known faces framed on the wall, famous authors, each striking the required “intellectual yet instantly approachable” pose. “How pleasant it must be,” he said, “to know an army of eager fans eagerly awaits every word which trips so delicately from the imagination onto the printed page. I’d give a hell of a lot for that, Mr. Plank.”
Gideon smiled, trying to suppress any premature feelings of excitement. Old duffer that the publisher undoubtedly was, he still owned one of London’s largest literary concerns, and more to the point, seemed unduly excited about Gideon’s tentative foray into the world of mystery fiction. He held his breath in the silence, barely daring to imagine that it was the remotest possibility that he might be published.
The publisher turned Gideon’s manuscript over in his hands once more. “I want to publish,” he said. “It’s a good book, eloquently written, with a most original prose style.” He held out a soft fat hand. “Welcome on board, Mr. Plank. And congratulations.”
Gideon offered a tiny hand in return, eyes twinkling with delight. God, it had been a hard struggle, but somehow every trial and tribulation incurred in writing the book vanished as he grasped the publisher’s puffy paw in his own. He sat back, utterly elated in the afterglow of his own efforts. He was going to be published. The euphoria, however, was short-lived.
“I should point out, Mr. Plank, that we do have one or two slight problems.”
Gideon sat straighter in the leather chair, wishing for the millionth time his feet might touch the ground. “Problems?”
“Nothing wrong with the book,” the publisher beamed patronisingly. “More to do with its author.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your stature, Mr. Plank.”
Gideon stared uncomprehendingly at the sagging face opposite his own, scarcely believing he was being manipulated into stating the obvious. The whole notion seemed too absurd, and furthermore, totally unrelated to the critical and commercial merits of the manuscript lying so innocently on the table between them. “My stature?” was all he could say, hoping against some incredible hope that he’d completely misheard the man.