He took the folded papers, opened them, and ran his eyes over the material. He said nothing at first. “Where did you get this?”
“The Internet. I did a little research.”
“A little research, eh?” He read it again, then, “I'll be back.” He walked away. I hadn't expected that. I thought there would be a gentle reprimand for interfering and an admonishment to go back to the office and push my papers around. West was never cruel and never as acerbically blunt as his boss, but when he was in charge he stayed in charge.
I watched from my position behind the barricade as West walked to the guard shack that stood to one side of the open gate. He spoke to one of the SI people, then stepped into the shack. The SI detectives were packing their gear. A few seconds later, West reappeared, looked my direction, and wiggled his index finger in a come-here fashion. I ducked under the tape and ignored the curious glances of the spectators. I walked straight to West who stood just outside the door of the shack. He held my papers in his hand.
“You never cease to amaze, Mayor.” He stepped inside. “Watch your clothing, there's fingerprint powder all over the place.” I followed him in.
The shack was the size of a hall bath and was designed, constructed, and painted to match the main building. The white paint on the exterior was marred with black dust left behind by the SI folk. Inside was less glamorous. Bare studs and rafters made the place feel like a tiny garage on a 1940s home. A desk made of plywood and two-by-fours was screwed into the wall that faced the parking lot. A fixed pane of glass was on that wall, and a small sliding window was next to the door. A battered, gunmetal stool was set close to the crude desk.
“That's where we found him. His replacement showed up a little after seven thirty, saw the victim hunched over the desk, and assumed he had fallen asleep. Apparently he was prone to do that, but who can blame him? The guy was almost seventy.”
“What was his name?” I was feeling a little ill.
“Carl DiMaio, a retired schoolteacher trying to make ends meet with a part-time job.”
I could imagine poor Carl lifeless, his chest and head resting on the plywood table. “Who would kill a seventy-year-old man?” Indignity was added to my discomfort.
“Same killer that took the life of Jim Fritz who was in his sixties and Jose Lopez who was not yet thirty.”
“You're telling me that his . . . that the killer used the same technique?”
“Yup. Everything is the same and you were right. Look here.” He pointed to a small radio in the corner of the desk. “Same station as Lopez and Fritz. Initial estimates on time of death places the murder in the time frame of Robby Hood's show. I had made that connection on my own. What I didn't do was connect the deaths with the subject matter on Hood's show. I want to say it's all coincidence, but three murders in three days by the same means with radios tuned to the same station is pushing the coincidence idea a little too far, even for me.”
“Do you think Robby Hood is connected somehow?”
West handed the papers back to me. He wouldn't need them. Sorting evidence was what he was trained to do. I had no doubts that he had memorized everything on the papers. “I won't rule out anything, but I doubt he's personally involved. He has the perfect alibi; he's on the air when the murders take place.”
“Couldn't his program be recorded?”
He nodded. “Very possible. That will be easy to check. Your chart shows that he had open calls each night. A little research and phone records will tell us what we need to know.”
“Then what?”
“Then I pay a little visit to Mr. Hood.”
The thought that had pushed me out of my chair and into my car kept orbiting in my mind like an airplane waiting permission to land. “I did one other thing.”
“You looked ahead to tonight's program.” He was good.
“Yes.”
“And?”
I took a breath and pulled another sheet of paper from my purse and unfolded it. “This is a printout of the Web page. It has the information that I used to create the charts. It also has tonight's program listed.” I handed it to him. “The first hour is open calls. That seems to be the pattern of the program, on most nights anyway. The second hour has a guest who has his own Web site. I went to it. He's one of the conspiracy people. He's just self-published a book called
America's Secret Police, Past and Present
.”
“America doesn't have secret police,” West said. “Who would there be to murder?”
I shook my head. “You're being too literal. Remember Lopez was found in his car on the night they discussed mythical creatures like chupacabra, trolls, and
gremlins
. Lopez wasn't a mythical creature but he drove a car named after one. Jim Fritz died on the night the topic was chemtrails sprayed in the sky by airplanes. At best, Jim was a weekend pilot, he certainly wasn't flying military aircraft at his age, but he did work around airplanes. Carl DiMontiâ”
“DiMaio,” he corrected me.
“Carl DiMaio wasn't the guest who saw the ghost, just a security guard like him.”
“So since the word âpolice' appears in the topic line you think the next target will be a cop?”
“I hope I'm wrong. I hope DiMaio is the last of it, but my gut tells me otherwise.”
West studied the paper. “Did you read the topic for hour three?”
I thought. Nothing came to mind. “No, I was a little fixated with the word âpolice.'” He handed the paper back. My eyes tracked to the spot. There it was.
Hour three: Mayor Judy Morrison discusses
strange aircraft seen over her city.
I
was edgy as I steered my Aviator through the early-afternoon traffic. I had been so preoccupied with the idea that the next murder victim was going to be a cop that I hadn't noticed the next line. I comforted myself with the idea that all the murders had been related to the topic of the second hour, not the third. One of my problems is that my logical mind doesn't pay attention to my emotional side. When I lie to myself I expect the rest of my brain to play along. It never does.
It was the logical side of my personality that wanted attention. There had been three violent murders, each somehow associated with a topic that appeared in the second hour of Robby Hood's program. In terms of serial killings that was a lot, especially in three days' time, but three was an awful, small statistical number. I doubted there was a coincidence explaining the connection between the radio program and the murders, but I lacked the same conviction that the murder was somehow locked into the second hour. And who was to say the killer wouldn't find the idea of murdering a police officer too difficult and move on to something easierâlike me.
As I pulled from the freeway and onto surface streets, it occurred to me that anyone on the council might be a target. I pushed the accelerator a little more. I had a meeting that had just become even more important.
I parked and headed for the office. I caught myself looking around more than I normally do, wondering if killers were behind cars or bushes. I walk fast but at that moment I was close to breaking into a jog. Very un-mayor-like. Just because my brain was buzzing didn't mean my body had to be.
“I was getting worried,” Floyd said as I walked into the office. “You told me to be back well before the meeting, and you weren't here. It starts in five minutes.”
“I only need three,” I said and plowed into my inner sanctum, dropped my purse in the drawer after I removed my research. Opening my center desk drawer, I pulled a leather-bound notebook that I use to jot down thoughts during a meeting. I slipped the charts I made and the printout of the Web page into the folder.
“Also, while you were gone, someone from Mr. Elliot's office called. He won't be at the meeting. He went home with the flu.”
Russell Elliot was the city manager. He was a quiet but efficient man; things just got done without even knowing he was around. “Okay. Take good notes. After the meeting type up an FYI memo and deliver it to his office. Put it in a sealed envelope.”
“Ready?” Floyd said from my doorway.
“Go ahead to the conference room. I'll be right behind you.”
“I can wait.”
“That's very gentlemanly of you, Floyd, but I'm going to the little mayor's room. You probably don't want to be standing by the door.”
“The little mayor's room? Oh. Oh, I get it. I'll wait in the conference room.”
“Thanks, Floyd. I won't be long.” He left and I exited close on his heels. I have a private bathroom but not off my office. In our remodel a few years ago, we considered adding an adjoining restroom but the cost persuaded us otherwise. As it was, my private restroom was out the office door and several steps to the left. I went in and locked the door behind me. Facing the mirror I tamed a few rebellious strands of dark hair and made certain that the emotions I felt didn't reflect in my face. A touch-up of lipstick and a straightening of the clothes and I was ready to go. I took several deep breaths to fill my lungs and aerate my brain. Right now, my brain needed all the oxygen it could get.
Notebook in hand, I stood before the mirror until my mayor mask was just the way I wanted it. Then I left.
I wasn't sure how I'd handle the meeting, and I reminded myself that there were several issues that needed attention. With long strides, I marched down the corridor and turned into the conference room at 1:59. I was the last one in.
The room had nothing about it to make it noteworthy. Situated immediately behind the council chambers, the conference room was where we held our closed-door sessions. The walls were a simple white and the carpet was the color of sand. A few pastoral pictures hung on the wall, the kind one finds in a doctor's office. Just twenty by twenty, it was too small to comfortably seat five council members, the city clerk, city attorney, and staff members for each council person.
The room was already full. I took my place at the head of the table and looked the group over. Only council members and the city attorney sat at the table. Aides sat in chairs that lined the wall. Jon Adler sat at the other end of the table, a Diet Coke in front of him. He looked bored. Tess sat to his right, my far left, wearing the same unhappy expression I left her with that morning. To my immediate left was Larry Wu who looked content and filled with ancient Eastern wisdom and ready to serve it up with his Texas barbecue accent. Titus was to my right and looked distracted. Between Titus and Jon was our city attorney Fred Markham.
“Thank you for being here on such short notice,” I began. I sat. “I've received word that Russ is home ill and won't be with us today.”
“It's a good thing I'm not due in court,” Jon snipped. I wanted to ask if he meant it was a good thing for his client but stuffed the comment.
“There are four things we need to address, two of which we may be able to dispense with quickly. The first has to do with Councilman Overstreet.” I looked at Titus for an indication that he wanted to make the announcement. I meant to ask before the meeting but I spent too much time at the marina. He returned my look and nodded. I took that to mean he preferred me to reveal the news. “Titus is having surgery and will be out of the office for a number of weeks. Perhaps two months or more.”
Every eye shifted to him. Titus didn't like to be the center of attention, at least not after such an announcement. “It's a serious surgery, but the doctors feel everything will be fine.” More silence.
“Colon cancer,” he blurted. “Don't worry, I'll be back to make all your lives miserable. You'll just have to do without my keen insights for a while.”
“Is there anything we or the city can do?” Fred Markham gazed directly at Titus. I noticed Jon and Tess were studying the table.
“Not a thing. I'd rather see us do something for Fritzy. I've arranged for a large arrangement of flowers to be sent to the funeral, but someone else will have to inform the florist when and where that will be. I'm going to be a little tied up.”
“I'll take care of that,” Larry offered.
I told them that Jim Fritz's body had been released from the coroner's office and that we should have details about the funeral soon.
“My offer to help with the funeral expenses still stands,” Titus said.
“Count me in on that, too,” Larry added.
I glanced around the room. Fred said he wanted to help, Tess gave me an approving nod, and several of the aides added their pledges. “I'll pass that information on to Fritzy. I imagine she and Jim had already made pre-need arrangements, but I'll double-check. I know she'll appreciate your concern.”
“The next item?” Jon pressed.
“I was coming to that, Jon. In our last council meeting we left upon the matter of deputy mayor. Titus will not be with us this coming Tuesdayâ”
“Could you rephrase that?” Titus interjected.
It took me a second to get his reference. A few people tittered. “Right. Titus will be recuperating in the hospital and dancing with the nurses after an extremely successful surgery and so will not be in attendance at our Tuesday night meeting.”
Titus gave a gracious nod. “I like the dancing part. Good addition. Of course, if my wife hears about it, I'll be spending an additional week in the hospital.”
I gave a smile that I hoped didn't give the image of pity. “The matter of deputy mayor was left up in the air at our last meetingâ”
“Whose fault was that?” Jon asked. “We were ready to deal with it right then and there.”
“Shut up, Jon,” Tess said. Her words were soft but hard as steel. Jon looked like she had slapped him.
“I hung things up. I admit that. Not only that, earlier today I jumped to a conclusion that was . . . erroneous. I confronted Tess with something I should have checked out before I opened my mouth.” I faced her. “My words were spoken in private, but I want my apology to be public.”