Austin Camacho - Collateral damage

This time when a knock came at the door Hannibal just called, “Come in. Coffee’s in the kitchen.” Sarge stepped in and passed Hannibal, who had already gone back to examining the photos. When Sarge returned to the room with a big mug, he was crunching on a piece of bacon.

“That’s a big boy you got back there,” Sarge said. “Now what’s up? You want a fuller report of our Vegas vacation?”

“Just glad you got back safe and sound,” Hannibal said. “Want you to take a look at these two pictures.”

Sarge accepted them as Hannibal stood up. “Nasty business. But effective, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah,” Hannibal said, “and the best clue we have to the murder. Now I’ve been thinking I had the murderer in my sights, a woman, but what happened here last night changed my mind. That little petite blonde in there went after the big guy with a knife.”

“You’re kidding?” Sarge grinned big. “Bet he was surprised as hell. Guys like that never expect the worm to turn.”

“Yeah, it changed his world view, all right,” Hannibal said. “But check this out. When she went at him, she held the knife wide, like this, and swung in on him to slash him.” Hannibal mimed her actions with the table knife.

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve seen as a bouncer,” Sarge said, nodding. “When women get mad they swing at you like that, or backhand, the same way, to get more force.” He glanced quickly toward the kitchen to make sure no female ears were tuned to him. Then with his voice lowered he said, “When a woman hates you, she doesn’t want to kill you. She wants to hurt you. There’s a big difference.”

Hannibal nodded, smiling. “Right. That’s what I figured. So I thought, got to be a man. But men I’ve seen in fights generally go for the gut. I mean, who stabs at the throat? You’ve seen a lot more knife fights than I have in bars and such. How do you get a wound like that?”

Sarge held out a hand and Hannibal surrendered the little knife. Sarge stood facing him and tried a couple of tentative moves toward Hannibal. Then he stopped to think. “Do I have to be facing you?”

That raised one of Hannibal’s eyebrows. “Hm. I guess not.”

Sarge stepped quickly toward Hannibal but to his right. Sarge’s left arm looped quickly around Hannibal’s throat as Sarge stepped around him. The knife in his right fist moved to a position just an inch away from Hannibal’s throat. Then he froze and loosened his grip enough for Hannibal to look down.

“Yow,” Hannibal said, bent backward by the shorter man’s grip. “Yep, that would do it all right.”

“That’s the way they taught me to take out a sentry in the corps,” Sarge said, relaxing and releasing his friend.

Hannibal rolled his shoulders forward. “Sure. Should have been obvious to everyone. Not just a man, but a man who’s had military training. He stepped in silently after the argument, but before Francis came in. One quick strike and out. Maybe Dean wasn’t so far off after all.”

“I’m not sure what all that means,” Sarge said, “except I’m pretty sure it means a busy day for you.”

“You got that right,” Hannibal said, sliding the police photos back into their envelope. “I need to see the man who might be able to tell me where Joan Kitteridge ran off to. I have to return an item to the most recent murder victim’s mother. And I guess I need to know a lot more about Joan’s ex-husband. I can think of two people who might be able to tell me about him. I’ll question one, and I think I can get Cindy to talk to the other.”

Each time Hannibal pulled into the Kitteridge driveway, his tension level was a little bit higher. This time he arrived intending to be downright confrontational, and that did not feel good to him. Langford Kitteridge was certainly spry and energetic, but he was still a lonely old man, whose only family was missing and presumed in hiding.

Again Hannibal rang the doorbell in his working suit and tie, glasses and gloves. This time when the door to the big colonial swung open, Langford looked at Hannibal with both familiarity and hopefulness. His face seemed even more deeply lined than before, worry pulling the skin of his face downward.

“Mr. Jones! Please come in. Do you have word of my niece?”

Hannibal stepped inside, but stopped in the cavernous living room in front of the long black leather sofa. “No sir, I haven’t been able to turn up anything. I was hoping you could give me some more information that might help.”

“Yes, yes. Anything.” Langford waved Hannibal down into the couch and lowered himself into the one opposite. They faced each other over the top of a wide glass-topped coffee table. Track lighting softened the older man’s face, but not enough to make Hannibal’s job any easier.

“Sir, I don’t know if Joan is in trouble or not. But if you haven’t heard from her in all this time she might be. And if she is, I think it could be some trouble returning from her past. Specifically, trouble being caused by her ex-husband.” Not a lie exactly, Hannibal thought. In fact, it could well turn out to be one interpretation of the truth. He watched Langford’s face, following his white bushy eyebrows as they rose and lowered.

“I told you, Mr. Jones, Joanie has never been married.”

Hannibal sighed. “Yes sir, you did tell me that. But now I know that was a lie. And I was hoping, with her safety in question, you might be willing to now tell me the truth. I think it must have been when she was very young, and I think he must have been a military man.”

It happened almost too quickly to follow. The color drained out of Langford’s face, then rushed back up into it. He turned away, and his eyes focused on some imaginary spot in the distance. A grandfather clock ticked somewhere in the house, and Hannibal imagined the sound was connected to Langford’s mind grinding away. Hannibal reminded himself that Joan Kitteridge had probably learned her calculating ways at this old man’s knee. But when Langford turned back to Hannibal, his face was clear and relaxed again. His eyes were hooded, but Hannibal knew that shame could cause that in men old enough to still occasionally feel it.

“She was barely eighteen,” Langford said softly. “Had no interest in listening to the old man. Just took off to be with this fellow. I still don’t know what the attraction was. For her, anyway. Anybody could see the attraction for him, eh? But it didn’t last long. He treated her poorly and she soon understood her mistake.”

Hannibal tried to buoy the mood with a small smile. “Young people make mistakes. But sometimes the mistakes don’t go away as quickly or as permanently as we think. What can you tell me about the boy?”

“Nothing really,” Langford said. “I never cared to know anything about him. Except as you say, he was a soldier.”

“All right,” Hannibal said. “I guess that’s no surprise. How about a description? Can you tell me what he looked like?”

“Back then?” Langford’s eyes turned up as he called his memory into play. “Well, let’s see. I seem to recall a handsome man, a tall man, on the slim side but well muscled, as a soldier would be. Dark brown hair and eyes. High cheekbones. Not a dark complexion but well tanned I’d say.”

“You’ve a good memory, Mr. Kitteridge,” Hannibal said. “It almost sounds like someone I know.”

The address was neither hard to find nor a surprise.

Standing on the roof of Mark Norton’s condominium complex Hannibal could have thrown a football with a reasonable expectation of hitting the building Mark worked in before the ball hit the ground. He parked his Volvo in the only unmarked space he could find. Almost as an afterthought he grabbed Oscar’s yearbook, thinking it might make a useful prop when questioning Mark. Once inside, Hannibal called for an elevator. Mark lived on the 11th floor and just as Hannibal touched that button in the elevator his telephone hummed at him.