GLASGOW
SMILE
(The
Third Installment in the Wes Archer Series)
By
Daniel Skye
1
It was early September of 2013, a few nights after the
Harvest Moon when the girl’s body was discovered at the abandoned foundry. The
corners of her mouth had been slashed with an unidentified object, bisecting
her cheeks and giving her the ghastly visage of a permanent malformed grin.
Carter City Police Department went over the area with a
fine toothcomb. And their search still yielded no tangible evidence. The killer
was vigilant; covering every track, not leaving behind a single footprint.
Detective
Wes Archer was on the scene. He had turned thirty-seven that August, but the
stress that these cases brought made him feel twice his age. His partner, Dale
Craven’s birthday was right around the corner.
Dale
is what the old timers around the station call a thrill seeker, an adrenaline
junkie. Dale participates in skydiving and hang-gliding on the weekends, and
holds a third degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do.
Hard
to believe that a man who voluntarily jumps out of planes could be shook at a
crime scene, but that night, Dale was shook.
The
girl was no more than sixteen. A runaway who had been reported missing by her
parents two weeks prior. And that night, the brutality, the senselessness of it
all just seemed to get the better of Dale.
“Weeks
of sitting on our asses, filling out paperwork, and now this? Who could do such
a thing?”
“We’ve
seen worse,” Archer said, trying to balance the situation.
“You
have. I’m still new to this gig. I guess I don’t have a steel stomach yet.”
“You’ll
get used to it,” Archer said as he put on his examining gloves. He was able to
ID the girl as Fran Fowler, the aforementioned runaway from the birthmark on
her inner thigh that had been exposed by her torn black skirt. Her purple
blouse was still intact, but caked in blood that had dried to a thick red
crust.
The
birthmark had been reported by her parents when the girl took off without
notice.
Rising
from the victim’s throat, Archer caught the lingering scent of bitter almonds.
A taste and scent that’s associated with potassium cyanide.
“She
was poisoned. Have Pete do a toxicology report. I’m positive they’ll find
traces of cyanide. The cuts were likely made postmortem.”
“What
does this mean?” Dale asked. He looked like a kid trying to put a jigsaw puzzle
together with pieces missing.
“It
means the killer didn’t want to prolong her suffering. He ended it quick. Then
made the incisions. Could be gang related. A way to send a message. Or it could
be the grisly calling card of a new serial killer."
* * *
Two days later, the call from Pete confirmed traces of
potassium cyanide were found in Fran Fowler’s system. The cuts to her face were
made postmortem as Wes had also suspected and were determined to be made with a
straight razor. But their examination failed to yield a single print, sample,
or useful piece of evidence to aid them in their investigation.
“You want some coffee?” Dale offered Wes, who was busy at
his desk looking at case photos.
“I’d prefer a shot and a brew,” Wes responded.
“You’re better off not having coffee,” Officer Barclay
said to them in passing. “I don’t know what Foley puts in that blend but it
always gives me the runs. Burns my stomach, too.”
“Thanks for sharing,” Wes said, rolling his eyes. “Where
is Foley anyway? He was supposed to get that report for us.”
“I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”
Barclay brushed shoulders with Officer Nathan Foley on
his way to the bathroom and let him know he was being summoned. Foley gathered
the report and personally delivered it to Archer’s desk.
“I can give you a summary if you’d like,” Foley offered,
trying to seem eager in front of a veteran like Wes.
“Sure,” Wes shrugged. “Saves me the trouble of reading it
all.”
“Fran Fowler was sixteen, a shy runaway who bailed on her
parents a week ago. We talked to the parents, they weren’t very cooperative.
Officers searched her room, found nothing of interest. The last person to see
her alive was Heather Underwood, seventeen years old, a student at Carter City
High. Heather says they were walking back home from school when Fran claimed
she forget her book bag and had to turn around. She told Heather to go on
without her. And her boyfriend was Vernon Keene, a local druggie with a few
misdemeanors under his belt.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s everything worth nothing.”
“Thanks, Foley,” Dale said as he knew Wes left his
manners back in high school. “That’s all we needed.”
“You want to ask this Underwood girl a few questions?”
Wes asked his partner.
“You read my mind, bud. And when we’re done with her, I’d
like to ask this Vernon Keene a few questions too.”
* * *
Wes parked his Jeep outside the Underwood house and they
waited patiently for Heather to return from school. As she walked down the
block and approached the door of her house, Wes and Dale stepped out from the
car.
“Miss Underwood,” Wes snagged her attention. “I’m
Detective Archer. This is Detective Craven. Carter City Homicide. We’d like to
ask you a few questions about Fran Fowler.”
She dropped the book bag from her shoulder and walked
over to them. “I just lost one of my best friends,” she snapped at them. “Don’t
you guys have any respect? You should be out looking for the sick fuck that did
those horrible things to her. Not out questioning her friends who cared about
her.”
“If you cared about her, then help us. Tell us about the
last day you saw her.”
“I already told the police. We were walking home from
school; she had forgotten her bag and told me to go on without her. So I did. I
didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I think she left her bag behind on
purpose. So she could disappear without any explanation. I was her best friend
and she didn’t even want me to know.”
“Why do you think Fran ran away?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I think she was unhappy. I
think she wanted a better life. That was Fran, she always wanted more from this
world. More than her parents could offer her.”
“And what can you tell us about Vernon Keene?”
She hesitated for a brief second, but it was that brief
second that told Archer she was hiding something. “Her parents didn’t approve
of their relationship. They were old-school and they didn’t think races should
mix. So when Fran brought a black guy home for them to meet, they weren’t
pleased.”
“But what kind of person is he?” Archer pressed her for
answers.
“He was always nice to me, and Fran. I never saw them
fight.”
“Did you ever see Keene use or sell drugs?”
“No.”
“Did you ever do drugs with him?”
“I don’t use drugs.”
“I thought all the kids used drugs nowadays.”
“Not me,” Heather shook her head. “Do you have anything
useful to ask me?”
“Yes,” Archer continued. “What are you hiding from us?”
“I’m not hiding anything,” she said, twirling a strand of
her hair in an innocent fashion. “If you want answers, ask Keene yourself. Or
ask Fran’s parents. They’re the ones that drove her out of that house. Now
leave me be or I’ll have my family’s lawyer up your ass in a heartbeat.” She
picked up her book bag, unlocked the front door, the slammed it shut before
they could ask another question.
As they walked to the Jeep, Dale asked, “Should we talk
to Fran’s parents again?”
“No,” Wes shook his head. “She’s just covering for Keene.
I saw the way she hesitated when I asked about him. And I saw a twinkle in her
eye. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she has a thing for this Keene
fellow. But a cop knows that anyone with a criminal record is not a
quote-unquote nice guy. If Keene had anything to do with this, we’ll find out.”
“Where do you want to look for him? I had the boys check
his place. He’s not home and he’s not at the school, either.”
Wes opened the driver-side door of his Jeep. “I want you
to stay behind and canvas the neighborhood. Find out what you can about Heather
Underwood and Vernon Keene. If Keene is still in the city, one of my snitches
will know where to find him.”
“Can I be frank with you?”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“I’m tired of this crap. You’re constantly bossing me
around and sending me off on bullshit assignments while you do your lone wolf
thing. I’m your partner, start treating me like it.”
“We may be partners, but I have the guts, the knowledge,
and the experience. You’re still a rookie in my eyes, and a pitiful rookie at
that. And I never asked to be your partner.”
“Yeah? Well I never asked to be your partner, either.
They stuck us together for God knows what reason. But that doesn’t mean I have
to take shit from a washed up drunk who smokes pot and shoves needles into his
arms like he’s a common criminal.”
It was that final remark that sent Wes over the edge. He
took the first swing, which Dale ducked and caught him with a fist to the
kidney. Dale swung again, but missed and hit the driver-side door. Shaking off
the pain in his hand, he left himself open to Wes, who caught him with a hard
knee to the gut.
Dale dropped to one knee and caught Wes’ fist in the
face. He flopped over, his vision blurred as he could feel his eye instantly
swelling. As Wes grabbed him by the collar and raised his fist again, a voice
shouted out, “Hey! Knock it off before I call the cops.” It was a nosy neighbor
who had witnessed the scuffle and was attempting to break it up.
“We are the cops, dipshit,” Wes shouted back. He relaxed
his fist and extended a hand to his fallen partner. He helped Dale back to his
feet and he dusted himself off and rubbed his hand across his swollen eye.
“I’m sorry,” Wes said. The apology was not one Dale was
accustomed to, but he accepted it anyway.
“No, I’m sorry,” Dale said, still shaking it off.
“You know what? Screw canvasing the neighborhood. You can
ride with me.”
They go in the Jeep together and Dale examined his black
eye in the rearview mirror. It would take a few days to heal.
“You
know what today is?” Dale asked as if Wes should know the answer by heart.
“No,
but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“My
birthday. And you gave me a black eye as a present.”
“Well,
at least we’re even now.”
“How
do you figure?”
“You
gave me a tie rack for my birthday.”
2
Wes has a variety of seedy connections throughout the
city that feed him information in exchange for immunity. One of these snitches
is a young man aptly nicknamed Toad. At least he didn’t name himself Rat.
Last time Wes left off with Toad, he was out of the drug
game and working the local soup kitchens. But old habits die hard as the saying
goes.
When Wes and Dale finally located him, it was on the
corner of Sparkwood and Sycamore. The downtown section of Carter City. To the
cops, downtown Carter City is known as drug central. You can find anything you
want from weed to speed to heroin.
Wes crept up slowly along the curb and rolled his window
down. “Back in the game?” he said, startling Toad. “You disappoint me.”
“Gotta make a living,” Toad defended himself. “Now what
can I help you with? You want the usual?”
Dale shot Wes a disapproving look. “We’re not here to
buy,” Dale spoke up. “We’re here for information. And you better sing loud and
clear or your ass is gonna be spending the night in county lockup.”
Toad threw his hands up as if to say “you got me.”
“Like I said, what can I help you with?”
“Vernon Keene,” was all Dale said. Toad nodded.
“I know him. He hangs out around here. Usually chills by
the arcade. But I haven’t seen him around lately.”
“You heard about Fran Fowler?” Wes joined back in the
conversation.
“Yup,” Toad said. “And I’m guessing you think Keene
killed her. But trust me, he doesn’t have it in him. Kid’s a scumbag, but he’s
no murderer.”
“Why do you say he’s a scumbag?”
“He’s a player. He juggles girls like a professional.
When he was dating Fran, he was banging half the bar skanks in downtown Carter
City. Not to mention her friend, Heather.”
“What about Heather?” Wes asked.
“She and Keene were fucking.”
* * *
They popped by the arcade and scoped it out. Vernon Keene
was nowhere to be found. And Wes didn’t think he would be hanging around in
plain sight. But he knew finding Keene was only a matter of time.
They returned to the department and punched out, calling
it a day.
At home, Wes considered calling his father. They hadn’t
talked to each other in almost a year. Adam Archer had yet to forgive his son
for what he had done.
And Wes had yet to forgive himself, too. It was the only
decision in his career that haunted him. He turned in his own brother, Aaron.
It got him a major promotion to Homicide and earned him the respect of his
peers for having the courage to turn in his own flesh and blood. But it had
destroyed his family in the process.
Even if he blocked the number, his father would hang up
as soon as he heard Wes’ voice. So he unplugged the phone, stepped away from
it, and focused his mind on the case.
Fran Fowler was poisoned with cyanide, then hacked with a
razor before her body was dumped. This was no spur of the moment incident. This
was premeditated murder.
A smalltime thug with a petty rap sheet like Keene could
never be smart enough to hatch a plan like that. Not on his own. So maybe Toad
was right. Maybe Keene wasn’t a murderer. But he was still worth questioning.
So Wes spent the rest of the night polishing off a
six-pack, and waited for morning. Fran Fowler’s funeral was right around the
corner. And Keene might just be daring enough to make an appearance.
* * *
Fran Fowler was buried three days after her murder. Among
the family and friends in attendance, Wes spotted a somber Heather Underwood.
But no Vernon Keene.
After the funeral, Wes and Dale expressed their
condolences to Fran’s parents and moved on to the arcade.
Hours of waiting and boredom yielded no results. And when
the arcade closed at six, they gave up their search for the evening.
“Want to grab a drink before we punch out?” Wes asked.
“What the hell,” Dale shrugged. “Let’s do it.”
Wes started the Jeep and drove ten blocks before he came
across the Cornerstone Pub. The décor of the establishment–if you could even
use a word like décor–offered no welcome. To Dale, it looked like the kind of
place you’d go to score smack. “Why this place?”
“We’re still on the clock,” Wes pointed out. “Maybe the
bartender or one of the patrons knows something about Keene.”
They walked in and checked out the scene. Three older men
sat at the bar, beers in front of them. They looked like they hadn’t seen the
sun in weeks. They were definitely regulars. In the back, two younger men
played a game of pool.
The
man shooting the ball was wearing a wrinkled leather jacket and a skull
bandana. The other man was sporting a white headband with a cigar tucked into
one side, the cigar still in the plastic wrapper. He was wearing an outdated
Planet Hollywood T-shirt and basketball shorts.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked as they pulled up
two stools.
“I’ll have a glass of white zinfandel,” Dale ordered.
“I’ll have a Bud, a shot of Whiskey, and a side of
tampons for my partner here.”
The bartender brought them their drinks, sans tampons.
Archer downed his shot and took a swig of beer to wash it down. His eyes
drifted back the pool table.
The young man in the Planet Hollywood T-shirt cut the
game short to grab a refill on his beer and it took all of ten seconds for the
bartender to give him away.
“You want your usual, Vern?”
“Vern? As in Vernon Keene?” Wes asked, turning his full
attention to the young man holding an empty mug.
“What’s it to you?” Vern barked. “You a narc or
something?”
“Homicide Detective, actually. My partner and I have been
looking for you. Want to ask you a few questions about your former girlfriend,
Fran Fowler.”
“I ain’t got shit to say to you or your partner.”
“That’s fine,” Wes shrugged. “You don’t have to say shit.
We’ll just take you down to the station for resisting and obstructing a murder
investigation by refusing to cooperate.”
“You ain’t fuckin’ takin’ me anywhere.” Keene gripped the
mug by the handle and smashed it on the edge of the bar top, the top half
breaking off and forming a jagged ring of glass around the bottom half.
Wes leapt from his bar stool and Dale did likewise. But
whereas Dale backed off, Wes stood his ground, basically daring Keene on.
“I’m going to carve your face into Swiss cheese,” Keene
snarled.
“I prefer Gorgonzola,” Wes quipped and made a motion with
his hand as if to say bring it on.
Keene lunged with the jagged mug, but Wes was one step
ahead and cleared out of the way. He struck Keene with a right hand to the jaw
and knocked the mug out of his hand with the left. Keene was dazed, but still
on his feet. So Wes cracked him in the jaw again. He fell to one knee briefly
and came back up, spitting blood in Wes’s face.
His jaw was swollen, his lip was busted, and he was
begging for more. And Archer was more than happy to accommodate with a stiff
uppercut that turned Keene’s lights out. The kid with the bandana came rushing
over and Wes just turned, both hands balled into fists and waited for him to
make his move.
“I’d sit this one out if I were you,” Dale whispered to
the kid.
* * *
Four days after the murder of Fran Fowler…
“WHERE THE FUCK IS WES ARCHER?” Lieutenant Morris
screamed from the door to his office. His voice resonated throughout the
station.
“Over here, Mitch,” Wes waved from his desk.
“IN MY OFFICE NOW!” Morris slammed the door shut.
“Dad’s mad,” Wes muttered to Dale as he excused himself
and walked to Morris’s office.
“Close the door,” Morris said as he entered. Wes closed
the door and approached his desk. “Don’t bother sitting down, either. You won’t
be here long.”
Wes knew what was coming next: Suspension. It felt as
though he had this identical conversation with Morris a thousand times before.
It was a wonder he still had a job and a pension.
Lieutenant Mitch Morris has a startling appearance to
many. But Wes is more than accustomed to his face, which can aptly be described
as a roadmap of scars.
Mitch was maimed more times in the line of duty than he’d
care to tell you. And once by his own brother. That’s why he wears that scar
across his throat. But that’s another story for another time.
“Congratulations,” Morris said, sarcasm dripping from the
word. “You broke that kids jaw. His family is suing the department now.”
“That kid came at me with a jagged bottle. All I did was
defend myself. That’s why he spent last night in lockup. And that’s why he’s a
suspect in the Fowler case.”
“Not anymore,” Morris shook his head. “We set him free
this morning. He’s not your guy.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Heather Underwood was murdered last night, same
method as Fowler. She was poisoned and her face slashed. Pete estimated the
time of death between one and three AM. Keene was in lockup at that time,
therefore he can’t be the murderer.”
“But why’d you cut him free? He might still have
information? And he tried to attack me for Christ’s sake.”
“The department has dismissed all charges against Vernon
Keene in the hopes that his family will reconsider the lawsuit.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“No, I’m not shitting you. This is the way it has to be.
At least until this all blows over. I’m sorry, Wes, but I’m going to need your
badge and your gun. From this moment until I say otherwise, you’re hereby
suspended.”
3
Wes thought he had turned over a new leaf when he kicked
the junk habit. No more suspensions, no more failed drug tests. Things were
looking up. And then the department’s arbitrary decision to suspend him over
his incident turned everything upside down.
Wes
has always been prone to violent outbursts. He understands his propensity for violence;
he just tries not to embrace it. He does his best to contain it, reserving it
for suitable occasions. But as Wes has learned time and time again, you can
only suppress your anger for so long.
He was
on his fourth beer when Dale phoned him. “How many times is this you’ve been
suspended now?” Dale joked.
“I’ve
lost count,” Wes shrugged as if Dale could see him over the phone.
“So…Heather
Underwood.” Dale didn’t say anything else. He just let the girl’s name hang
there for a moment until Wes broke the silence.
“I
heard. And Morris said that Pete confirmed it happened while Keene was locked
up. So Keene isn’t our guy after all. Did you hear anything from Pete yet?”
“Still
waiting on the autopsy and toxicology reports. But I examined the body myself
and it looks like cyanide again. The corners of her mouth were slit open, just
like the Fowler girl. It looked almost like she was grinning at me as I stared
down at her. It was…creepy.”
“I
think that’s the killer’s quirk. He’s not doing this for money or notoriety.
He’s after shock value. It’s his intention to unnerve us. It’s all part of his
game.”
“How
do you know that?”
“Trust
me. For some fucked up reason, I know how these sickos think.”
“Well,
since I do trust you, and since you can think like these psychopaths think, why
don’t you tell me what to do next?”
“Wait
for the reports and see if Pete turns up anything useful. In the meantime, do
what a detective does best. Detect.”
“Gotcha.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta run. This coffee is repeating on me.”
Dale
ended the call abruptly and Wes felt thankful coffee wasn’t part of his palate.
His taste buds practically rejected the flavor. Beer seemed to be the only
liquid that wasn’t an adversary to his taste buds.
And so
he drank another six and passed out on the couch. That night, he dreamt of a
man walking through the park with two boys at his side. The man was Adam
Archer, and the children were Wes and his brother.
It wasn’t
the first time he had dreamt of his brother. And it certainly would not be the
last. Aaron Archer–despite has incarceration–has managed to dominate his
brother’s psyche, looming over Wes like a black storm cloud that refuses to
dissipate.
* * *
He slept through the night, waking only to the sound of
knocking at his door. The glare of the sun made Wes shield his bloodshot eyes
as he opened the door for Ray Frye, welcoming him inside.
Frye was an assistant at the morgue and often aided Pete
the coroner with his reports. He was also an old friend of Archer’s from his
high school days.
“What brings you here?” Wes asked as he flopped back on
the couch, rubbing his throbbing temples. The alcohol was still working its way
out of his system and he was experiencing the onset of a migraine.
“Dale told me you got suspended,” Ray said.
“Bad news travels fast, huh?”
“In this city it does. Speaking of which, I know you
heard about Heather Underwood.”
“Of course I heard. I’m suspended. I’m not living under a
fucking rock.”
“Easy. No reason to be grumpy. I came here to help. In
fact…” He cut himself off as he fished through his pockets and dug out a joint.
“This will ease your tension.”
“I’m clean,” Wes said emphatically.
“It’s
pot, not PCP. Besides, you’re suspended. You don’t need to worry about passing
a drug test for the time being.”
Ray
sparked the joint with his lighter, took two puffs and held it out for Wes to
accept. He took the joint from Ray’s fingers, which were still sticky from
breaking up the weed, and took a few tokes. Then he passed it back to Ray.
“So
I’ll ask again, what brings you here?”
“Have
you considered the possibility that the killer is Scottish?” Ray asked. The
question puzzled Wes.
“Why
do you ask?”
“The
Glasgow Smile.”
“The
what?”
“The
girls. They were both given a Glasgow Smile.”
“The
fuck is a Glasgow Smile?”
“You’re
a real wordsmith, Wes. A Glasgow Smile is when you cut the corners of a
person’s mouth and bisect their cheeks. When the cuts heal, the scars leave the
impression of a permanent smile. Think of Heath Ledger in the Dark Knight and
you’ll get what I’m saying.”
“I’ve
never heard that term before.”
“Well,
I guess it pays to know me,” Ray boasted.
“You
might be onto something…There was a guy I busted years ago when I was still in
undercover narcotics. His name was Flanagan. Roy Flanagan. And he swore
revenge.”
“So?”
Ray shrugged, realizing he was hogging up the joint and passed it back to Wes.
“How many murderers and crooks have sworn revenge against you?”
“You
don’t understand. This guy was one sick puppy. He slashed some poor girl’s face
with a box cutter at the mall. And that’s not all he’s done. But that’s what
made me think of him while you were talking. Excuse me a sec.”
Wes
picked up the phone and called Dale, who was at the station, looking over
Pete’s reports on the Underwood girl.
“Dale,
I need you to find out everything you can about a man named Roy Flanagan. He
probably got out of prison a year or two ago.”
“Will
do,” Dale said as he jotted down the name. “Want to hear what I have for you?”
“Shoot,”
Wes said, opening the floor for Dale.
“Heather
Underwood was poisoned with cyanide, same as Fowler. The cuts, the weapon, all
identical. Only this time, our killer left something behind. Pete found a hair
on the body. And that’s not all. They found three similar hairs where
Underwood’s body was dumped by the turnpike. They tested them and the hairs
were a match. Looks like our killer needs some extra-strength Rogaine.”
“Why
don’t you leave the puns to me?” Wes sighed. “By the way, what color was the
hair?"
“Light brown.”
“If memory serves me correctly, Flanagan’s hair was light
brown. This could very well be our guy. Dale, drop everything you’re doing and
start digging up info on Flanagan.”
* * *
Officer Foley dug up the files on Roy Flanagan and placed
them on Dale’s desk. He flipped through the last pages and saw that Flanagan
was released from Carter City Penitentiary on good behavior a year and a half
ago. That’s where his file ended. But there was a number where his parole
officer could be reached.
Dale put in a call to the parole officer and had
Flanagan’s address in five minutes. Against his better judgment, he called Wes
and told him the news. Despite the suspension, Wes was adamant about tagging
along for the ride.
And against his better judgment, Dale agreed to swing by
his place and pick him up. The Jeep’s engine was already running in the
driveway when Dale pulled up. Archer insisted on taking his set of wheels.
To spare himself a lengthy argument, Dale caved and
hopped in the shotgun seat of Wes’s Jeep.
Wes ventured a guess that Flanagan was living in downtown
Carter City before Dale even read him the address. And he was right.
“It’s an apartment complex on Sparkwood. I believe you’re
familiar with the area,” Dale said, referring to Toad.
Wes punched the gas and weaved in and out of traffic.
Suspension or no suspension, if this was their guy, Wes wasn’t going to let him
slip through their fingers.
“Did you hear about Barclay?” Dale inquired as they drove
at lightning speed.
“No, what happened? Clumsy bastard shoot himself in the
foot or something?”
“He’s in the hospital. Some kind of bug that’s been going
around the station. He’s got it worse than anybody.”
“Do you have it?”
“No.”
“Good. I won’t have to toss you out at the next light
then.”
When they pulled up to the corner of Sparkwood and
Sycamore, Toad was in his usual spot. He had a disconcerting look on his face
as he approached the vehicle. And he was sporting a bloody lip.
“I tried to stop him,” Toad said as Dale rolled the
passenger window down.
“Who?”
“Roy Flanagan. He came running out of that apartment
building over there saying the cops were coming to take him in. I guess he got
a tip from an anonymous source. Anyways, I tried to stop him for you guys and
he decked me and kept on running.”
“Someone tipped him off?” Archer wondered who it could’ve
been.
“Did you see what direction he was heading in?” Dale
asked.
“West,” Toad pointed with his finger.
“Thanks,” Archer said, “And sorry about the busted lip.
I’ll make it up to you.”
Wes made a fast U-Turn and pumped the gas again. They
traveled west, looking to catch Flanagan before he disappeared. But it was a
futile pursuit. They scoured every inch of downtown Carter and found no trace
of him.
Returning to the apartment complex, they acquired his key
at the desk and tossed his room. The desk clerk hadn’t asked to see a warrant,
and Dale was thankful for that, because they didn’t have a warrant. They were
playing by Archer’s rules now.
But in
the end, they found nothing to link Roy Flanagan to the murders. A bunch of old
porno magazines, a few pairs of clothes, and a cheap television set was all his
apartment contained.
* * *
“What’s our next move?” Dale asked as they sat parked in
front of Dunkin’ Donuts. Yes, despite the cliché, cops still eat donuts on a
regular basis. He had already put out an APB on Roy Flanagan and was waiting to
hear back from Lieutenant Morris.
“Our next move? I’m not even supposed to be here.”
“But you insisted on being here. So you’re going to help
me, like it or not.”
Dale’s phone rang and immediately scrambled for it to
stop Wes from hearing the Dawson’s Creek ringtone, but he heard it anyway. Dale
answered and made a motion with his finger over his lips to tell Wes to keep
quiet. It was Morris on the other end.
“Yes, sir,” Dale said after Morris spoke. “I’ll tell him
as soon as I speak to him.” Dale hung up and turned to Wes.
“You’re off suspension,” Dale told him.
“First things first, what the fuck is up with your
ringtone?”
“Can we just stick to the business at hand?”
“So you expect me to ignore that ringtone?”
“It’s a personal choice.”
“And is it a personal choice to wear heels and prance
around like a fucking fairy, ‘cause that’s exactly the path you’re heading
down.”
“Do you want to hear the deal or not?”
“I’m all ears,” Wes said, stifling his laughter.
“Keene’s family dropped their lawsuit and all charges
against you. You’re back on the force as of this moment.”
4
After collecting his badge and gun, and after being given
direct orders by Lieutenant Morris to stay away from Keene, Archer went to see
Vernon Keene that night, alone.
Keene’s mother begged him not to go near that “brute” as
she called Archer, but Vernon assured his mom everything would be ok and spoke
to Archer from the porch.
“So what you want, man?”
“You dropped the lawsuit and the charges. Why?”
“I understand you’re trying to find Fran and Heather’s
killer. I want to see this bastard pay as much as you do.”
“You were sleeping with both of them.”
“Yes, what can I say? But that doesn’t mean I didn’t care
for both of them equally. They were my girls and someone took them away from
me. I want that son of a bitch to pay.”
“So help me. Tell me who Fran was going to meet after
school that day she disappeared.”
“I doubt you’d believe me if I told you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Fran was seeing someone else on the side. Someone she
met online. I don’t know his name or what he looks like, but Fran slipped up
once and told Heather the guy is a cop.”
“A cop? A cop in my department?”
Keene didn’t speak, just nodded his head.
“That’s all you know?”
Keene nodded again.
“Thanks, kid. You’ve been a big help. And try to stay out
of trouble.”
* * *
The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. He had
his suspect in mind, he just needed to prove it. So he went to the station the
following morning and collected a sample of coffee. He then took the sample to
the forensics lab and slipped the technician fifty bucks to make it his
priority to test the coffee for traces of poison.
In two hours, the technician had conclusive results. The
coffee tested positive for trace amount of cyanide. Not even to kill a person
at once, but more than enough to do the job over time. It explained Barclay
being hospitalized, various coworkers suddenly growing ill. Roy Flanagan being
tipped off.
It was all the work of Nathan Foley.
He knew the who, what, when, where, and how. Know all he
needed to know was why? Why kill two innocent girls?
“Officer Foley,” Archer said, approaching him.
“Yes, Detective?”
“Might I have a sample of your hair?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You see, this is going to sound crazy, but we found hair
samples at one of the crime scenes and on one of the victims. The samples were
light brown, kind of like your hair. I was just working on a theory that
somebody else put me onto.”
“You think I’m a killer?”
“I know it sounds absurd, but it would really help clear
a lot of things up. And it would clear your name, too. You know how the guys
can be around here. If they get wind of this, who knows what stories they’ll
make up about you.”
Archer saw Foley’s fingers creeping for his service
revolver. Faster than Foley, Archer drew his gun with one quick motion and shot
Foley in the shoulder just as his gun was pulled from his holster.
Foley’s gun fell to the floor and a crowd of concerned
cops scrambled towards Archer’s desk.
“The fuck did you do, Wes?” one officer shouted.
“This is our guy,” Wes told them. “He killed Heather
Underwood and Fran Fowler and he’s been poisoning all of you with his coffee. I
have all the DNA and forensic evidence available to prove it.”
“Well I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Dale said as he made his
way through a sea of cops.
“It’s true,” Foley confessed, clutching at his bleeding
shoulder. “I was doing those girls a favor. I was relieving them from their
pointless, mundane existences. They were spoiled brats who hated the world and
took everything for granted. They didn’t want the life they were given, so I
was helping them escape. Can’t you see that?”
“I can see your future, and it starts and ends with an
eight by ten cell.”
* * *
Roy Flanagan turned himself in a day later. He admitted
that Nathan Foley tipped him off no more than five minutes after he dropped the
Flanagan file on Dale’s desk. This confession only cemented Foley’s condemned
status. He was going to be serving life without the possibility of parole and
Wes couldn’t have been happier.
He celebrated the victory with a shot and a brew, and
Dale even joined in with a glass of zinfandel.
“About that whole black eye thing,” Archer started to
apologize.
“Forget it,” Dale shrugged it off. “It’s in the past.”
“I want to make it up to you. I got you a belated
birthday gift.”
Wes handed him a small package and Dale smiled
benevolently as he accepted and tore open the wrapping. It was the soundtrack
to Dawson’s Creek.
Dale laughed and Wes even cracked a smirk as they clanked
their glasses together and finished their drinks.
They had brought peace to Carter City once more. It would
be months before their services would be required again.
