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“God,” Hurd said. “We might have just saved that last woman’s life, if we’d gotten to that tire recycling plant in time.”
“We did everything we could, Hurd,” Lauren said. “It was the delay in getting the search warrant that made us late, so the fault lies with the judge, if anybody, certainly not with us.”
“I guess you’re right,” Hurd said. “Lauren, post some do-not-enter notices on the front and rear doors, and let’s get out of here.”
Jimmy drove back to police headquarters. The watch was changing, so most of the force roster was in the squad room.
“Let me have your attention,” he shouted. Everybody got quiet. “The information I’m about to give you is not for public consumption until you read it in the papers or see it on TV. Everybody got that?”
There were murmurs of assent.
“A couple of hours ago I was at a crime scene out at Orchid Island, where another female victim was found, left in a sand trap. While I was there, Gladys called me and told me the chief was an hour late for a meeting and he wasn’t answering his phones, and she asked me to go to his house and see if he was all right.
“I found the chief lying in bed, dead, with his Glock on the floor beside him. I summoned the ME and a rep from Forensics and Hurd Wallace and Lauren Cade, too. We found a suicide note, and Hurd found a box of stuff on a closet shelf that included half a dozen pairs of women’s panties and a vaccination gun, like the one stolen from the hospital. It appears from the available evidence that the chief was the murderer of all these women who have been found dead lately.”
Everybody started to talk at once.
“Quiet!” Jimmy said. “Like I said before, this is not for public consumption until it hits the papers. The chief never appointed a deputy chief, so for the moment, because I’m the senior officer here, I’m acting chief until the city council does something official. They’ve already been notified of what’s happened.
“I don’t want to answer any questions right now. You’ve been told everything I know, so let’s get on with the watch change and start doing our jobs again. Thank you.”
Jimmy walked back to Bruno’s office. “Gladys,” he called, “please come in here. I’m going to search the chief’s office, and I want a witness.”
Gladys came in and stood by the door. Jimmy searched the desk and the cupboards and didn’t find anything relevant to the murders, except a nearly empty bottle of Famous Grouse Scotch in a bottom desk drawer.
“Thank you, Gladys. That’s it,” Jimmy said. “Please close the door behind you.”
Gladys left, and Jimmy sat down behind Bruno’s desk. He was the chief now, by God, and Bruno was dead, with all the murders hung around his neck. The suicide note was a fake, and he figured Lauren Cade or Holly Barker for having shot Bruno, but he wasn’t about to pursue that. This was the best day of his life.
43
It was Holly’s last day of training on the Malibu, and she was now certified to pilot her new airplane. She drove home, excited, ready to grill steaks with Josh, and as soon as she walked through the door she saw the light on the phone flashing. She pressed the voice-mail button on the phone and listened.
“Holly, it’s Lauren. Please call me on my cell as soon as you get this message. Something good has happened.”
Holly dialed the number.
“Holly?”
“Yep.”
“I’ve got good news and good news.”
“Tell me the good news first.”
“Bruno is dead; he ate his gun.”
Holly had to sit down. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then let me tell you the good news: he left a suicide note confessing to the murders of the women.”
Holly took a deep breath. “I’m just flabbergasted, Lauren.”
“There’s more: we searched his house and found six pairs of women’s panties in a shoe box in a closet-they’re being tested for DNA matches with the victims now-and a vaccination gun that matches the serial number of the one stolen from the hospital.”
“I would call that a slam dunk,” Holly said. “Who found the body?”
“Jimmy Weathers. I forgot to tell you the bad news.” Lauren told her about the latest victim and about the phone call asking Jimmy to check on Bruno. “He found him dead in bed, with half a bottle of Scotch on the bedside table. The autopsy results have just come in: he had Ambien and six ounces of Scotch in his stomach, and the ballistics are good for his service pistol. All we need are the DNA results on the panties, and they’re due any minute. Hang on a second.” Lauren spoke with somebody else, then came back on the line. “The results are in: the DNA results match the victims. No semen present, though.”
