Once Bitten, Twice Dead Read online

  Suddenly Vance looked up, and we startled him. “Roy, I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed. I’m not auditioning any new dancers.”

  Wow. These two guys sure had a one-dimensional view of women. Maybe I should have worn my skimpy bathing suit.

  “She’s a cop, boss. I thought she might cause more trouble if I didn’t let her in.”

  “I don’t pay you to think, Roy. But all right—wait outside—now that she’s here, she’s here. What can I do for you, Missy?”

  Missy? I had suddenly been transported back to “Little House on the Prairie.”

  “This is about Ed Butcher’s murder.”

  “Yeah—what about it?”

  “I can see that you’re still all broken up over it.”

  “I’ve got bigger problems than someone’s death.”

  “Ed wasn’t just someone, was he? Wasn’t he the someone who had lent you a lot of money to help you finance this establishment?”

  “So what?? He’s dead now; he can’t loan me any more cash.”

  “How very thoughtless of him. From what I’ve heard, though, the living Ed had already refused to lend you any more money.”

  “So what?”

  Vance seemed to have such a way with words. “Did his refusal bother you?”

  “Of course it did. I was counting on it. It was that bitch wife of his who loused it up for me.”

  “Why did you expect Ed to keep lending you money??”

  Vance suddenly moved a corner of his mouth. I guess it was a grin. “I had something on him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was cheating on his wife, and I said I’d tell her if he didn’t loan me the money.”

  “So then when Ed refused, did you tell Larabella??”

  “Of course not. I’m a man of integrity. I wouldn’t snitch on that crumb bum.”

  I left the man of integrity still playing, Battleground.” His words had suddenly made the case more complex. If Vance was lying to me and he had told Larabella about Ed’s cheating, one of the most accurate truisms I knew was, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” Maybe Larabella decided to enact her own revenge. She was a big woman, and I think she could have supplied the power of the cleaver into her husband’s skull. Or maybe she paid Vance to do it, promising the nightclub owner future money if he dispatched Ed. Certainly Roy, the Cyborg, could also have easily annihilated Butcher.

  Too many suspects, too little time.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The next morning at 6 A.M., I was rudely awakened by my ringing phone. It was Larabella Butcher, and she was not calling me to confess to the murder of her husband. On the contrary, she was the one threatened.

  “Detective Stolle, get over here as fast as you can. Someone is breaking into my house. Roddy is sleeping over at a friend’s—I’m here all alone. I feel like. . .” Here the message was cut off, and the phone hung up.

  I rushed into my clothes and drove like a maniac, just in time to see a shape running away from Mrs. Butcher’s porch. I skidded my car to a stop and leaped out. On the college track team I ran mainly short spurts, and I needed that burst of speed right now.

  As I shortened the distance between us, I could see that the shape was a man, and he already had his car door open. One of the college events I ran was the Relay where I was the anchor and was noted for leaping toward the tape at the finish line. I made such a leap right now, and we both crashed into the heavy door. He was not finished. He got in a quick punch that sent me sprawling back into the street. But I was up quickly before he could close the door and knocked him against the steering wheel, momentarily stunning him. Then, one short chop and he was out.

  I looked at him sprawled out on the front seat. I recognized him from the police photo in his file. “Tommy Granger, I presume,” I said to the inert body. Later, after Granger had been booked at the stationhouse, Larabella told me that Granger had barged into the house and threatened her.

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted what everyone always wanted from Ed—money. He said Ed had promised to help him on a project in Mexico. Granger always seemed like a sleazebag to me, so I didn’t think Ed had promised him any kind of help, and I told him so. He hit me, and then grabbed a knife off of a rack I had in the kitchen. It was frightening. I thought he was going to kill me. But then, without another word, he dropped the knife and ran out. He must have heard you drive up.”

  It was fortunate for Larabella that I had the siren on.

  In a duffle bag in Tommy’s trunk, I found $11,000 in cash, and a plane ticket to Houston. It seemed that Tommy was back to his old smuggling tricks. He just had needed a little extra “financing.” I bundled Tommy up with some rope he had, put him in his cozy trunk right next to his bag, and drove him to jail. Larabella went with me, with Tommy yelling in the trunk all the way.

  He was booked on assault charges, and possible attempted murder. Larabella said she would testify against him. Captain Benz back at the precinct said he was going to check with his contacts in Mexico to see if Tommy was back in the business. “If we can get some evidence from the authorities down there of more smuggling activity by Granger, he won’t be out for a long time,” Benz said.

  I drove Larabella back home. After five minutes of silence, she asked, “Do you think Tommy killed Ed? I sure felt he was capable of it when he was standing over me with that knife.”

  “It’s possible, but the guy is skinny, probably not even weighing 140. I don’t know if he was strong enough to do it.” That’s all I said. I didn’t want to remind Mrs. Butcher of the cleaver stuck in her husband’s cranium.

  “Then who did kill Ed, Detective Stolle??”

  “That is the question, Mrs. Butcher. That is the question.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  That night I got a call from my brother, Mark

  “How’s the reporting coming, Mark?”

  “There’s always something happening in New York City. Even the news that’s ‘not fit to print.’” You should see the stuff our paper doesn’t print.”

  Even though he was five years older, Mark and I had always been close. He felt he should always be the big brother protecting his little kid sister. Like when I was in third grade, a gang of the “right” girls were pushing me around in the school cafeteria until Mark walked up. He was in 8th grade, but not much bigger than a couple of the girls. However, he always had “the look.” All Mark had to do was glare at someone, and that person would hesitate. That day he gave the girls “the look,” and that broke up the little meeting we were having. They never bothered me again.

  “How’re you doing, Sis?”

  “Fine. Things are going good.”

  “How’s that police work coming?”

  “It’s great. Well, not really.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My partner deserted me.”

  “How could he do that? I thought partners had to back each other up. Like you and I do.”

  “He retired.”

  “What’s wrong with that? He’s entitled to do that. Who’s your new partner?”

  “That’s just it. There’s been a hiring freeze. We haven’t had any new recruits for six months. I’m working alone now.”

  “Listen, Raven, if I had to pick one person to bet on to do a good job, I’d bet on you every time.”

  “Thanks for the brotherly encouragement, but the cases I have are pretty tough.”

  “You always told me that police work would be tough.”

  “It’s much different thinking about something rather than living it.”

  “You don’t have to be a policeman. Why don’t you just get out?”

  “Mark, I just started. I do want to be a cop.”

  “I’m just testing you, Raven. If you want to be a cop, then be one and solve those cases. What’s the one you’re working on now?”

  I told him about Ed Butcher’s murder and my non-progress.

  “I
’m not a crime reporter, Raven, but from what you’ve told me, why don’t you check more into Butcher’s background when he was younger. You told me about that guy Granger who suddenly appeared in Butcher’s life. How about other people from Butcher’s early life? His school might be a good place to start for information. You might eventually find a person who was zapped by the guy a long time ago. Sometimes people in the past don’t forget harm that was done to them.”

  “Butcher was in school over thirty years ago. Would someone wait that long to kill him?”

  “You know how you get a sore and it doesn’t quite heal—how it irritates you and then something opens up that sore again, and it becomes more painful. Maybe something happened recently to open up that festering spot, and revenge was enacted.

  “It’s possible, I guess.”

  “I’m a journalist. I like to use words—maybe I’m talking just to hear myself—so don’t go hog wild checking back. But take a peek, anyway.”

  “Thanks for talking to me about all this. You’ve always been a great brother.”

  “It’s easy when it’s someone like you.”

  “Boy, are we ever a mutual admiration society.”

  “We sure are. Take it easy. I’ll keep in touch.”

  I did take Mark’s advice. I had read somewhere that high school is the period of time in a person’s life that they remember the most of any era. I called the office secretary at John Adams High School to see what I could find out about Ed Butcher. Even though nowadays teachers come and go at a rapid rate, I was hopeful that some of the teachers who taught Ed were still there. I asked the secretary if she could tell me which teachers had been there for at least thirty years. She did a quick check at their seniority lists and told me there were three such people: a social studies teacher and football coach, a guidance counselor, and the current principal. I made an appointment with the principal.

  Mrs. Bederston looked liked some of the female teachers I had experienced, tall and stately, but with a firm set to her mouth that told me she would not take any crap.

  “Yes, Detective Stolle, I did have Ed Butcher in my Math class. I remember him because of one particular incident. I was in only my second year of teaching, and I still was not in good shape with being able to control a class. The class Ed was in had a group of hellions in it, who from day one made life miserable to me. That is, until Ed stood up and told them to stop.”

  “He actually did that?”

  “It was the third week of school, and as usual that last period class was itching to get home. They just wouldn’t be quiet. I had told them three times to calm down, but it didn’t work. Then Ed stood up and walked to the front of the class. He hadn’t said a word up to then to anyone. He proceeded to give a one minutes speech on respecting your elders (even though I was only 23 at the time).”

  “How did the class react?”

  “One guy, the worst kid in class, swore at Ed, and laughed. Ed went and picked the kid up off his seat, and held him in the air. Now, this kid, Bernard Mackey, himself was a big kid—but Ed was bigger and stronger. Mackey eventually told Ed that he understood what Ed was saying. Ed put him down, and asked if there were any more objections. There was total silence, and that total silence continued for the rest of the school year. I owed it all to Ed, but it also told me I had to be more forceful in my discipline. I never grabbed anyone and pulled them out of their chair, but I did become firmer when I said things. I survived that second year, and I’m still firm as Principal of this high school.”

  “Did you ever say anything to Ed about that incident?”

  “I tried to right after class, but he just walked away. Ed wasn’t looking for praise. He really did respect authority.”

  “When I called the office earlier, Mrs. Bederston, the secretary told me that you still have two teachers who have been here at least thirty years.”

  “Yes, they would be Mr. Anderson, and Mrs. Jones, the Guidance Director. Brian Anderson has been the football coach all those years, and since it’s spring now he’ll be in the Athletic Office. And of course you can find Claire Jones in the Guidance Suite. I do know that Ed Butcher played football, and everyone in this school has had to always have at least one meeting each quarter with his or her counselor, so most probably both of them were acquainted with Ed. Both people have always been hard workers, so even though school was finished a half hour ago, they’ll probably still be here. You won’t find too many other teachers here—most of them flee right after that last bell rings. Teaching has become all pressure and not much reward.”

  The Guidance Office was directly across from the Principal’s Office, so I started there. The third door down the hallway said, “Claire Jones.” The door was open, and I peeked in. A white haired woman wearing a trim blue suit was bent over a stack of what looked like transcripts.

  “Ms. Jones?”

  “It’s Mrs. Jones. I’m proud of my husband. But how may I help you?”

  I explained what I was doing there.

  “Please sit down, Detective Stolle. Even though it’s been a while, I do remember Ed. He was one of my failures.”

  I took the chair next to her desk. There wasn’t one inch of space on that desk. As I looked more directly now at Claire Jones, I saw a clear-eyed, smooth-faced woman who had large bags under her eyes. She looked strained.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you. You’re very busy.”

  “When you work in a school, your entire life is interruptions. If I couldn’t have handled that, I would have been gone in a year. But let me tell you about Ed.

  “Ed was not a superior student but he put forth effort and got fairly good grades, mostly B’s and C’s. He was also a good football player, and he could have easily gotten an athletic scholarship from what Coach Anderson told me. I definitely encouraged the boy starting in his junior year, but he turned a deaf ear to me.”

  “It’s odd that he didn’t want to keep going to school. It sounded like he had the ability to do the work.”

  “He definitely could have handled the academics. For a complete year I kept bugging Ed to fill out the applications forms, but he never would do it. He just didn’t want to go to college, and that’s all he would say. Finally at the beginning of his senior year, he said to me, ‘Mrs. Jones, if I tell you why I don’t want to go, will you get off my back?’

  “‘Yes, please tell me,’ I told him.

  “He took a deep breath and started in: ‘I know you like it and all that, but to me school is a phony place. It’s not real.’

  “‘What do you mean?’ I asked him.

  “‘It’s all a set-up. The teachers don’t really care about us learning anything. They just want to keep their jobs and feed their egos. And we, the students, don’t retain much of that so-called knowledge, anyway. We just study for the tests and then forget it all.’ I could see Ed felt bad saying those things to me, so as for a kind of apology he said, ‘I suppose school has given me some discipline because I do know how to study.’

  “‘Why did you study?’ I asked him.

  “He replied, ‘I know that the world will not accept me if I have bad grades, and I want to succeed in that world.’

  “‘If school isn’t real, what is real for you?’ I asked him.

  “‘Other people,’ he answered. ‘And school is not really about the people in it.’ And, Detective Stolle, that’s all he ever said to me, and he never filled out the college applications forms.”

  “How about his character and his friends? Did he have any enemies?”

  “His character was the highest—and even though he wasn’t afraid to get into conflict with people, there was a way he did it that didn’t rub people the wrong way. He didn’t really hang around with anyone I know of; he was nice to everyone, but he always just seemed to be by himself.”

  For the next few minutes, Mrs. Jones praised Butcher, and we finished without her recalling any hostile elements against him. That was to change when I talked with Coach Anderson.

&n
bsp; CHAPTER TEN

  I asked a janitor how to get to the Athletic Office, and without a word he pointed me the way.

  As I opened the door his finger had directed me too, I found myself going down a long stairwell, seemingly into the bowels of the earth. The school was old, and I almost expected ancient cave drawings on the walls as I drew closer to another door that said, Locker Rooms. Once inside I saw that most of the lockers hadn’t had a fresh coat of paint in years, the floor had a billion cleat marks on it, and the showers seemed to have been taken out of a football documentary I had seen on the History Channel, showing all the players wearing leather helmets. The shower area was so small I couldn’t imagine even four players getting cleaned off at once. Everything had that cramped sardine-can feeling to it, as if the walls would eventually close in on you. It seemed that the entire locker room area had never been renovated, or even thoroughly cleaned. The air had that pungent jock-strap smell to it.

  Principal Bederston had said that the surrounding neighborhoods had never seen any wealthy days. “We’ve never had much monetary support,” she said. “The parents are great with backing us in spirit, but they’ve never had the financial resources to do anything more.”

  I finally found Coach Anderson in an almost dark room watching football films. I knew it was he because of his name on the back of his warm up jacket. Even though I was approaching him from the rear, he spoke to me as soon as I entered the room. “Are you lost? No one comes down here.”

  “I’ve come down here to talk to you.”

  “No one wants to talk to me. Are you a reporter? I don’t think so—we haven’t had a good season in ten years. Maybe you’re from the School Board telling me I’m finally fired.”

  “Why don’t you let me tell you who I am?” So I did.

  As I mentioned Butcher’s name, Anderson smiled, “I do remember Ed—he was one of the best players I ever had; that year we lost only one game.”