Night Moves : Dream Man/After the Night

  “Thanks.” Trammell cautiously tasted it, eyeing Dane over the rim. “It was a long night, but not a bad one. Well? Did you find out anything interesting yesterday?”

  “Quite a bit. For one thing, let’s say I’m not as skeptical as I was before.”

  Trammell rolled his eyes. “What about Marlie? What’s she been doing for six years?”

  “Trying to recover,” Dane said briefly. “Arno Gleen beat her, tried to rape her, and when he couldn’t, he killed the kid in front of her. According to Dr. Ewell, the trauma of it severely damaged, maybe even destroyed, her paranormal abilities. Evidently this vision about the Vinick murder is the first psychic tickle she’s had since then.”

  “So the psychic stuff is coming back to her?”

  Dane shrugged. “Who knows. Nothing else has happened.” Thank God. “I talked to her last night, asked a few more questions about what she saw in the vision, and she remembered a couple of details.”

  “Like what?”

  “The guy is about six feet tall, he’s in very good shape, and he isn’t from the South.”

  Trammell snorted. “That really narrows it down for us.”

  “It beats what we had before.”

  “Agreed. Anything beats nothing. That’s assuming we accept a psychic’s vision for leads, because a court sure as hell won’t accept her as evidence.”

  “What choice do we have? There is nothing else. This guy didn’t leave a clue. I’ll take any lead I can get, and worry about proof when we find him.”

  “Actually,” Trammell said slowly, “we’ve already talked to someone who fits that description.”

  “Yeah, I know. Ansel Vinick. He’s as strong as a bull, and even though he’s lived in Florida for over twenty years, he still has a midwestern accent.” He hadn’t been surprised; very few people who weren’t raised in the South ever managed to get the accent right. The movie and television industries never had. “But my gut says he didn’t do it.”

  “He had opportunity.”

  “But no motive. No boyfriend, no insurance. Nothing.”

  “Maybe an argument that got out of hand?”

  “The medical examiner didn’t find any bruises on her that would indicate blows. She wasn’t just killed, she was slaughtered.”

  “The textbooks say that when there are that many stab wounds, the killer was really pissed at the victim. And that if he spends a lot of time doing it, he probably lives in the neighborhood. You know the numbers as well as I do: Eighty percent of the time, when a woman’s killed, it’s her husband or boyfriend who does her in. And a lot of the time, the killer is the one who calls the police when he ‘discovers’ the body. Vinick fits into all of the categories.”

  “Except for the first one. If they were arguing, no one knows anything about it. The neighbors didn’t hear anything, they always seemed to get along fine, and Vinick didn’t act unusual in any way at work that night. And she was raped, but there wasn’t any semen. Marlie says the perp wore a rubber; why would Vinick bother? She was his wife, for Pete’s sake. Finding his semen in her wouldn’t be incriminating. What really bothers me,” he said, thinking hard, “is her fingers. Why chop off her fingers? We haven’t found them. There wasn’t any reason to cut off her fingers, unless—”

  “—she scratched him,” Trammell finished, dark eyes shining intently. “She scratched him, and he knew about DNA profiling. He cut off her fingers so forensics couldn’t get a skin sample from under her nails.”

  “Vinick was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that morning,” Dane recalled. “Do you remember any scratches?”

  “No. It’s possible he could have had some on his chest or upper arms, but the hands and lower arms are the most likely location.”

  “Don’t forget the cut screen in the bedroom. If Vinick had done it himself, to make it look like a forced entry, wouldn’t he have made it more obvious? He didn’t strike me as a subtle type of guy, anyway. And everything that Marlie told us dovetailed with what we found at the scene. It wasn’t Vinick.”

  “Wait a minute,” Trammell said. “Marlie didn’t mention the fingers, did she?”

  Dane thought about it, then shook his head. “No, and it doesn’t seem like the kind of detail anyone would forget.” The omission troubled him, and he made a mental note to ask her about it that night.

  “All the same, I’d feel better if we talked to Vinick again,” Trammell insisted.

  Dane shrugged. “It’s all right with me, I just feel like it’s wasted time.”

  Trammell tried several times that day to get in touch with Mr. Vinick, between the hundred other things they had to do, but there was no answer. He called the trucking company where Mr. Vinick worked, and was told that he had been off all week, and all things considered, they really didn’t expect him to return to work for at least another week.

  “The funeral was yesterday,” Dane said. “Maybe he’s staying with friends. Hell, of course he isn’t staying in the house. Forensics is finished with the scene, but would you want to sleep there?”

  Trammell grimaced. “Guess not. But how are we going to get in touch with him?”

  “Ask one of the neighbors. They’ll know.”

  It was late afternoon when they pulled up in front of the Vinick house. It had a closed, unoccupied look. The yellow crime scene tape had been removed, but the house still looked set apart, made forever different from its neighbors by the violence that had happened within. A car was parked in the driveway, and Dane recognized it as the one that had been sitting there last Saturday morning. “He’s here.”

  They knocked on the front door. There was no answer, no sound of movement inside the house. Trammell went around to the back door, with the same results. All of the curtains were pulled, so they couldn’t see in any of the windows.

  Both doors were locked. They banged again, identifying themselves. Nothing.

  Dane walked next door. A woman came out on the porch at his knock.

  “I’m Detective Hollister,” he said, flipping his ID wallet open. “Have you seen Mr. Vinick? His car is here, but we can’t get anyone to the door.”

  She frowned, and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “No, I haven’t seen him since the funeral. I went to it; just about everyone on the street did. She was such a nice lady. I don’t know when he parked his car in the driveway. It wasn’t there late yesterday afternoon, but was when I got up this morning.”

  “You haven’t seen anyone over there at all?”

  “No. Of course, I haven’t been here all day, but no one has been there that I’ve seen.”

  “Thanks.” Dane nodded in good-bye and walked back to the Vinick house. “I don’t like it,” he said, after telling Trammell what the neighbor had said. “How do you feel about forced entry?”

  “I think we’d better,” Trammell said soberly. “If we’re wrong, we’ll grovel and apologize and pay for the damages.”

  They went around back. The top half of the kitchen door was small, diamond-shaped panes of glass. Dane pulled out the Beretta and used the butt to knock out the corner pane closest to the doorknob. He was always surprised at how hard it was to actually break out a window. Shattered glass tinkled on the tile floor inside. Carefully wrapping his hand in a handkerchief, he reached inside and unlocked the door.

  The house was hot, and foul with the odor of death that had been closed up inside it. The silence was almost physical.

  Dane unwrapped the handkerchief from his hand and held it over his nose. “Shit,” he muttered, then raised his voice. “Mr. Vinick? Detectives Hollister and Trammell.”

  Nothing.

  The smell seeped through the cloth. It wasn’t the cloying, sickeningly sweet odor of decayed flesh, but a pungent smell of human waste underlaid with the metallic scent of blood, both old and new. Dane’s stomach knotted. He cursed again, quietly, and stepped inside.

  The living room was empty; he had expected it to be. The walls were still splattered with Mrs. Vinick’s blood, the stains turned
brown.

  Mr. Vinick was in the bedroom.

  It hadn’t been cleaned, either. Chalk still outlined the position of her body, there in the corner. Mr. Vinick lay beside the outline. There was a small pistol lying close by his head.

  He hadn’t taken any chances with botching the job. Anyone who jams the barrel into his mouth is serious about the attempt.

  “Ah, shit,” Trammell said tiredly. “I’ll call it in.”

  Dane squatted by the body, being careful not to touch anything. Nothing he could see indicated that it was anything but a suicide, but it was habit not to disturb a scene.

  He looked around, and saw a sheet of paper lying on the bed. The sheets had been stripped off, leaving only the bare mattress, and the white paper wasn’t immediately noticeable against the white ticking. He could read what it said without bending down.

  I don’t have any family now, with Nadine gone, so I don’t guess it matters much. I just don’t want to go on. He had dated and signed it, even noted the time. Eleven-thirty P.M., just about the same time of night his wife had been murdered.

  Dane rubbed the back of his neck, his mouth set in a grim line. Damn, this was tough. The guy had buried his wife, then returned to where she had been murdered and put a bullet in his head.

  Trammell came back into the room and stood beside Dane, reading the note himself. “Was it guilt or depression?”

  “Who the hell knows?”

  “Shit,” Trammell said. There was just something about this house of death that reduced comment to that crude, simple word. It was sad.

  By the time the scene had been secured, the body taken away, and the paperwork dealt with, it was almost nine o’clock. Dane thought about calling Marlie, but decided against it. He wasn’t in a good mood, and didn’t feel up to any romancing. Trammell had had a date, but he was as surly as Dane, and called to cancel. Instead they went to the cops’ favorite bar and slugged back a couple of beers. A lot of cops had a drink or two, or three, before they went home. It was the easiest way to wind down, and an opportunity to dump all the tension on people who knew exactly what they were talking about, before they went home to the spouse and kiddies and pretended everything was sweetness and light.

  “If he was the perp, we’ll never find out now,” Trammell grunted, licking foam off his upper lip.

  Dane had always liked it about Trammell that the man drank beer, instead of some hoity-toity wine. He could accept the Italian suits and silk shirts, the Gucci loafers, but he would have had a hard time connecting with a wine drinker. He didn’t know why Trammell had suddenly decided that Ansel Vinick was their best bet as a suspect, but they all got maggots in their heads from time to time. “I don’t think he did it. I think the poor sad son of a bitch just couldn’t face living after finding his wife like that.”

  “I wasn’t convinced he did it,” Trammell denied grumpily. “I just wanted to make sure he didn’t get away because we were too busy looking for phantoms.”

  Dane finished his beer. “Well, innocent or guilty, he didn’t get away. You want another one?”

  Trammell considered the level of beer in his glass. “No, this will do it.” He paused, still frowning at the amber liquid. “Say, Dane . . .”

  His voice trailed off, and Dane lifted his brows, waiting inquisitively. “Yeah, what?”

  “These gut feelings you get. Your instincts are usually right on, and everyone knows it. Have you ever thought . . . you aren’t a lot different from Marlie?”

  If Dane hadn’t already finished his beer, he’d have spewed it all over the table. He choked, and his outraged “What?” was just a wheeze of sound.

  “Just think about it.” Trammell warmed to his subject, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the table. “We all get hunches, we all go with our guts. Most of the time we don’t need to, because the perp is sitting there singing like a good little birdie, but every so often we get a mystery. So how are our hunches different from what Marlie does?”

  “That’s a crock. Hunches are just the subconscious noticing something that consciously we haven’t thought about yet.”

  “That’s pretty much what a psychic does, isn’t it?”

  Dane gave him a sour look. “I think two beers is maybe one over your limit. We get hunches because of evidence we can see, and circumstances we can think about. Hell, a psychic doesn’t have to be anywhere around or know anything about the situation, they just pick up these vibes, or whatever.”

  Trammell rubbed his head, disturbing his hair. Dane began to feel vaguely concerned; maybe two beers was too much for Trammell. God knows he’d never seen Trammell with so much as one hair out of place, except for that time when they’d gotten in a shootout and Dane had caught a bullet, but those were extenuating circumstances.

  “I can’t make up my mind what to believe,” Trammell muttered. “Logic and the law of averages says that Ansel Vinick was the most likely suspect. But Marlie knew everything, except about the fingers, and how did she know unless she’s for real? If she’s for real, then Vinick was innocent and we’re back to square one.” He picked up the glass and drained it, then set it on the table with a thunk.

  “That’s exactly where we are. Square one. I’m beginning to feel stupid, because we sure as hell aren’t accomplishing anything.”

  “No evidence, no witnesses, no motive. Know what?”

  Trammell’s lean, faunlike face was so funereal that Dane had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. “No, what?”

  “I don’t metabolize alcohol very well,” his dapper partner announced with grave dignity.

  “No!” Dane clapped his hands to his face. “I never would have guessed.” Privately he thought that anyone who could still say “metabolize” without tripping over the syllables was in damn good shape.

  “I’m usually more careful than this. I . . . sip.”

  “You’re a world-class sipper.”

  “Thank you. But it’s probably a good thing that you’re driving.”

  “I think so. Are you ready to go home now?”

  “Any time you are. You won’t have to put me to bed or anything like that, but I wouldn’t want to drive.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to drive, either, buddy. C’mon, let’s go.”

  Trammell was steady on his feet, but he was humming under his breath, and Dane almost laughed again. Humming “My Darling Clementine” didn’t fit with the image. “Will you have a hangover?” he asked curiously. A hangover from two beers would be hilarious.

  “Never have,” Trammell said. They were outside, and he inhaled a deep breath of smoke-free air. “This doesn’t happen very often. Not since college.”

  “That’s good.”

  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Naw. I promise.” It would be tempting, but he’d keep it to himself. Though most embarrassing things were fair game, this was something Trammell couldn’t help, and the guys would rag him unmercifully for the rest of his life. On the other hand, it was nice to have something he could hold over Trammell’s head occasionally. He whistled cheerfully as they got in the car, his good mood restored.

  • • •

  The ritual was comforting. He liked for everything to happen in exactly the same order every time, because he commanded it. He didn’t do it often enough for it to be routine—that would weaken the power of it—but there was reassurance in the sameness of preparation. Knowing that these very preparations would make it impossible for the police to ever catch him gave him a sense of gleeful power. They caught only stupid people who made stupid mistakes, and he had never made a mistake. Not one.

  Anticipation for the coming night kept rising in him, but he kept it firmly under control. He wanted to concentrate on the preparations.

  First the hairpiece of blond curls came off. It was a very good hairpiece; he had paid an outrageous amount for it, but it had been worth every penny. No one had ever discovered that it was a full wig. Not only was blond his natural coloring, wh
ich meant the color wasn’t jarring, but the style of blond curls was something that people remembered. It was very recognizable.

  There was nothing wrong with his own hair, he thought, examining his temples for any telltale sign of a retreating hairline. But it would be stupid to let a stray hair give the police a means of identifying him. He carefully shaved his head, taking his time about it, though there was only stubble because the last time had been so recent.

  He loved shaving, the wetness, the slick feel of the shaving gel, the glide of the razor over his flesh. It was almost like sex.

  His beard was next. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to scratch her with a rough chin. Then his chest. He had a neat diamond of chest hair, and he was rather proud of its thickness, but it had to go.

  Then his legs and arms. Slick. No wonder women shaved their legs. It really felt marvelous.

  Finally, his crotch. No curlies left behind to be combed out, examined, gloated over. He was extremely careful in this area, for even a tiny nick could leave an unnoticed stain of blood behind. That simply wouldn’t do. And of course, he always wore a condom, so there was no semen left behind. He even had a contingency plan in case the condom broke; so far, he hadn’t had to use the plan.

  Some men, he’d read, couldn’t be identified by their semen; they were called “nonsecreters,” and about one man in five was like that. It would have been nice to know if he was in that twenty percent, but he could hardly go to a lab and ask to have his semen classified as secreter or nonsecreter. He didn’t mind wearing the condom; he didn’t want his sperm inside the transgressors anyway.

  Next were his clothes. Leather. No fabric fibers to be left behind, nothing to give them a clue. He kept his leathers carefully stored in a cardboard box, away from everything else. He had a vinyl seat cover that he put over his car seat, and the floorboard was covered with vinyl mats. He was always very careful not to let his feet touch anything but the mat, so his boots wouldn’t pick up any fibers from the carpet. Detail. Attention to detail was everything. There was no way the police could identify him, because he left nothing behind except the object of the lesson.