Authors: Jean Lorrah
“My God,” he said flatly. Then, “I don't have to ask you why Rett's photo is here.” He started to examine the pictures more closely, but winced and turned away when he came to the blood-smeared image of Carrie Wyman. “What does it mean?” he asked Brandy.
“Dan, will you teach me the Vulcan nerve pinch?"
“There is no such thing."
“Oh, it's not Vulcan,” she said. “It's some kind of karate thing, isn't it? Pressure points? What's important is where you learned it."
He appeared puzzled, but not guilty. “Are you suggesting that I had something to do with—?” He swept a hand toward the bulletin board.
“No. You were with me when Rand and Paschall and the Andersons were killed."
“But I have no alibi for Saturday night,” he said. “I can't prove that I didn't murder Carrie."
“Did you?"
“No. Do you believe me?"
“Yes."
“Then why are you questioning me?"
He was so calm. She would expect anger from an innocent man—but she would also expect it from a guilty one. Dan Martin simply waited patiently for an explanation.
“I think you know how it was done,” she told him.
He didn't ask what “it” was. “Are you saying all these people were rendered unconscious in the same way?"
“Yes. Dan, tell me! What's going on, some Ninja thing? Kung fu? I don't think you had anything to do with the killings, but you may lead us to whoever did."
He was silent, thinking. Then he said, “I can't help you, Brandy—and you have no idea how much I wish I could."
“Why?"
“I'm no happier than you are at five unsolved murders and a death under mysterious circumstances in the community where I live."
“No. I mean why can't you help me?"
He sighed. “Because there's no such thing as the Vulcan nerve pinch! You can knock someone unconscious by putting pressure on the carotid arteries, but I hardly have to tell that to a police detective."
“None of the victims had bruises to indicate such pressure, and besides, they would have struggled."
“Well, then, you know whatever it was, it wasn't what I did to Jeff. He had bruises, remember?"
He was right. “Why, if it wasn't real?"
“Jeff had to think it was real, or it wouldn't work. I gave his shoulder a good squeeze to convince him I was digging down to find the nerves. I didn't mean to hurt him. Are you going to charge me with child abuse?"
“No. I'm sorry. I never meant to charge you with anything, Dan. I just hoped that you had the clue we need, that you were a secret Ninja or Shaolin priest or whatever the person or persons are who do that to people.” She waved toward the board in her turn.
“I'm sorry to disappoint you."
She couldn't help asking, “Why aren't you angry with me?"
“For doing your job? You saw a possible connection, and you followed it up.” He gave a snort of sardonic laughter. “I wish I had a rational explanation, no matter how far-fetched. Maybe ex-CIA agents gone wild, using the secrets of the Far East to—what? Aside from the expressions on their faces, what is the connection, Brandy? And have you decided Rett Land was murdered after all?"
“Not by any method I know,” she replied, “but there is that damned connection you see there in the photos. You are the best person I know to help me find other connections."
“Back to the computer?” he asked.
“Back to the computer,” she agreed.
“Lunch first,” he told her. They joined Church, and ate at Judy's on the court square, an old home cookin’ restaurant famous for its pies. It was too crowded at lunchtime to discuss police work.
Judge Callahan was in one of the booths, looking as powerfully perfect as always, the epitome of the southern politician from his perfectly-barbered iron-gray hair to his perfectly-polished half-boots. As he had never approached Brandy again after that day at Sturgeon's, she was losing the nervous tension that had plagued her when she saw him.
John Metawan, loan manager of the Bank of Murphy, sat across from the judge, his lunch left half eaten. It was clearly not as congenial a meal as she had seen them taking together a month ago, just before the Car 108 murders. From where Brandy, Church, and Dan were seated, Brandy could see only Callahan's back, but the grim look on Metawan's face told her something unpleasant was happening.
Finally Callahan took out his billfold and laid some money on the check. Metawan got up, still looking none too happy, turned and went out the door. He did not go toward the bank, but turned to the right. In that direction were a dress shop, an antique shop, the radio station, a dentist's office, a furniture store, an appliance store, and the police station. Brandy could only hope that Metawan's expression meant he was headed to the dentist, and not to deliver bad financial news.
Meanwhile Judge Callahan did his usual politicking, moving from one booth or table to another, greeting everyone by name. The place was filled with working class people, and the judge's good ol’ boy accent was at its thickest. When he got to Brandy's table, she was surprised when he said jovially, “Well howdy, Dan,” extending a hand to shake. “You keepin’ them college kids in line?"
Dan shook hands as he replied, “We try, Judge."
Callahan's joviality disappeared as he turned to Church and Brandy. “You folks got a lead on the killin’ of that pore lil’ gal yet?” The implications were obvious: what were Murphy police doing lollygagging over lunch when there were murders to solve?
“Yessir,” Brandy replied defiantly. “In fact, Dr. Martin is helping us to follow up some leads this very day."
A flicker of a frown crossed the politician's face. Then he resumed his friendly air. “Well, I'm certainly glad someone's working’ on it. There's a psycho out there needs to be stopped!"
“Dead in his tracks, Judge,” said Church.
“I hope so,” said Callahan. “Find him guilty in my court, ‘cause I ain't afraid of the death penalty. You lock up dangerous animals like that, and the bleedin’ hearts let ’em right out. You know the parole board released Rory Sanford?"
“He's hardly a dangerous animal,” said Brandy. “All he did was juggle some books."
“Well, if I have anything to say about it, he'll never be in a position to steal honest people's money again!"
Brandy was quite certain of that. She just wondered if Rory would be able to make anything of his life at all.
After lunch they went to the computer. Dan began trying to find connections between Land, the Andersons, and Carrie Wyman.
“How about Rand and Paschall?” asked Church.
“I thought we decided they were killed to get at the Andersons,” said Brandy.
“We don't know that,” Brandy's colleague pointed out.
Oddly enough, there was a connection between Land, Wyman, Paschall, and Rand: Judge L. J. Callahan. Carrie's college records showed him as her sponsor for a scholarship. He had recommended Rand for promotion two years ago, and Paschall to the Police Academy two years before that. And in the material Brandy had gathered at Jackson Purchase State University, there was a letter of recommendation from Callahan for Everett C. Land's most recent grant.
“Busy man,” Dan commented.
“Full-time politician,” said Church. “The man knows everybody."
“Unfortunately,” Brandy added, “finding Judge Callahan's name on these recommendations is about as suspicious as finding the high school principal's."
“I take it you don't like Judge Callahan,” observed Dan.
“I don't trust him,” Brandy said. “He's too smooth, too insincere, and he plays both sides of the fence. You heard him, all strict law and order about Doc Sanford's grandson. Callahans don't get on with Sanfords. But just try to get a search warrant if you suspect one of Callahan's cronies! You could have seven eye witnesses and a smoking gun, and he'd say it was insufficient evidence."
“All we've found so far is connections between Callahan and the victims,” Church pointed out. “Let's see if there's any connection with the criminals."
There they drew a blank. The Andersons had never appeared before Judge Callahan, never been arrested with a warrant he had issued, nothing. Chase and Jenny Anderson had records before their spectacular bank-robbing spree: shoplifting, poaching, unlicensed firearms, bootlegging, forged checks. However, they had never been arrested in Callahan County before the robbery in Murphy.
“Let's try employment records,” Church suggested. “Social Security records will tell us if they ever worked for the same employer."
Another blank.
Dan had to go back to campus for a meeting. Brandy and Church continued plodding along at the computer, until Chief Benton called everyone into the squad room.
The people of Murphy were fed up with murderers going uncaught. There was talk of forming vigilante groups, and they all knew what that meant. Untrained people arming themselves. Mob psychology, even lynchings, if they thought they had found the murderers. The police had to act quickly to repair their image and head off violence.
Soon every cop in Murphy found his spare time going to help organize neighborhood watch programs. After working her regular shift, Brandy now had Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday evenings taken up with citizen's groups.
If the people of Murphy were this excited now, how would they react if the coroner's report on Carrie Wyman were revealed? They had withheld the information about the puncture wounds and saliva, the missing camcorder, and the strange smile—routine precautions to forestall false confessions, deter copycat killings, and prevent destruction of evidence. It frustrated certain kinds of criminals; some obsessive murderers had been known to reveal themselves by bragging about clues the police had missed. But days passed, and the Murphy police had no such luck.
Sunday rolled around, with an invitation to Church's house. “Bring Dan Martin along,” her friend suggested.
Brandy hadn't talked with Dan since the day he had helped them on the computer. Because she hadn't been able to catch him at home, he hadn't been there when she squeezed moving into Saturday morning, with the help of several colleagues. But when Brandy called on Saturday evening Dan was home.
“I'm sorry I missed helping you move. I was at a conference in Lexington, and just got back two hours ago."
He agreed readily to the invitation. “I'm grading midterms. Sunday dinner will be a welcome break.” Brandy heard no recrimination in his voice.
Now that she had time to think about him, she wondered how much Dan cared about her. It seemed never to bother him that her work kept them apart. Since Carrie had been murdered, he had withdrawn. She couldn't blame him; that brutal crime demonstrated the harsh reality of Brandy's work. Maybe he realized that he could not live with it.
On the other hand, he always made time when she was available. An attractive single straight male of Dan Martin's age could be out every night if he wanted to. Yet not once in the six weeks or so she had known him had he turned down one of her last-minute invitations.
Her doubts disappeared when Dan appeared on Brandy's doorstep. As soon as she was in his presence, they seemed made for one another.
The day was extremely pleasant. Halloween decorations rivaled Christmas decorations in Murphy, and the Jones house was no exception. Jeff was finally out of the hospital, his leg in a heavy cast-brace. He was excited about going to a neighbor's Halloween party.
The children were certain to win a prize for costumes, Tiffany was a cave woman carrying a club and wearing a bone in her hair, while her brother's wheelchair was hidden under the body of a dinosaur, his outstretched leg and foot disguised as the neck and head, his real head hidden by a finlike structure on the creature's “spine."
“A whole afternoon of adult conversation!” Coreen exulted when the children had gone. “Church, don't you dare bring up murders or robberies or criminal stuff. Dan, tell us about what you do. I need to get a job now that Jeff can go back to school. Should I take a computer course?"
“You should learn to use them,” he said, “but you don't need the courses I teach. What kind of work have you done?"
“I like this man,” Coreen said to Brandy. “Notice he assumes I've worked before, that I'm not a parasite.” She returned her attention to Dan. “Here I've just done temporary work, but I was a secretary in Chicago. I did learn to use a word processor, an IBM Displaywriter."
“One of the old workhorses!” Dan said. “Well, it gave you the basics of word processing. You'll find it easy to learn the new programs. Do you want to continue as a secretary? Or do you plan to become an executive or a manager, or start your own business?"
“Brandy, where did you find this 21st century man?” Coreen demanded. “Actually, I don't know what I want to do, but we've got to get more money coming in. I'll take what I can get, but I think I can do more than type and file and answer the telephone."
Brandy was content to sit back and listen, as was Church. Both were tired after two nights of activity. The weekend before Halloween was filled with egg throwing, loud parties, fights, idiots setting off fireworks or starting bonfires, and just plain pranks.
Unfortunately, some people used Halloween as an excuse for hate crimes. Following up on a report of auto theft, Brandy had found the car being driven by Ricky Chu, a senior at Murphy High who was going to be his class valedictorian—if he didn't spend the next few months in jail.
The Chu family was one of very few Asian families in Murphy. Almost stereotypically, they worked exceptionally hard, running Murphy's excellent Chinese restaurant. There would not have been any particular problems over their success at that; it certainly took no business from other establishments in a town full of hungry college students. The problem was the brilliance of the three youngest Chus, Ricky, Sandra, and Jane. The latter two had been born in Murphy, and all three were native-born Americans who dressed and sounded just like all the other kids in town. However, they would always look different—and they were not athletes, whose differences Murphians were willing to forget if it got them a winning team.
All three Chu children led their classes academically. One such child the citizens of Murphy might have tolerated. Three of them strained their peculiar sense of “fairness;” when there was a Chu in the class, no other children got to be first.