M Sellars - Harm none

“Can I see those?” I asked tonelessly as I dropped into a chair.

The two solemn detectives quietly slid the checkbooks across the table to me. I reached out and picked up the first one. I opened the pebbly-surfaced grey vinyl to reveal the happily colored pastel checks imprinted with the names RICHARD H. BARNES and KAREN L. BARNES. The dark black logo for the Community Bank of Overmoor stood out in hard contrast against the dusty blue background, wordlessly telling me I was wrong.

I sat holding the rectangular booklet of smooth paper and grainy plastic. Something simply didn’t feel right. I ran my fingers over the checks, tracing the lines imprinted on their faces. They were crisp and clean. The cover felt stiff and new, unsullied by repeated use. I could even detect a faint chemical odor, like that of vinyl upholstery. On a hunch, I flipped open the register occupying the other half of the checkbook and pored over the first line.

“This is a new account,” I voiced immediately, turning the register to them. “Look at this. According to the starting balance, it was opened less than a month ago.”

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Deckert muttered as he stared at the date.

“I’m willing to bet they had an account at Capitol Bank,” I volunteered.

“I’ll call the husband,” he stated, taking the checkbook from my outstretched hand.

The call was short and bittersweet. While I was glad that I didn’t have to be the one charged with calling the dead woman’s husband, at the same time, I felt for him.

“You were right,” Deckert affirmed as he dropped the handset back into its cradle. “They closed their account at Capitol earlier this month.”

“I hate to rain on your parade, guys, but this account isn’t new.” Ben had been reviewing Darla Radcliffe’s checkbook once again and now waved it at us as we turned our attention to him. “Look at the date code next to ‘er name. She opened this account over four years ago.”

I wasn’t going to give up. Three of the victims had used the same bank, and it had to be the connection. This was the clue that was going to identify the killer; I was sure of it. The fact that the fourth victim had conducted her business with a different bank couldn’t be allowed to dispel my theory.

My mind raced, briefly touching upon each of the catalogued facts it held and lingering momentarily on the ones that triggered a thought. Two of the victims were single, one separated, and one married. Ariel Tanner was single, and she was killed in her apartment. Karen Barnes was married, and she was killed in the park. Ellen Gray was separated, living alone. She was killed in her home. Darla Radcliffe was single, and she was killed in her apartment.

“He didn’t want to chance a confrontation,” I muttered thoughtfully to myself.

“What’s that?” Deckert looked up at the sound of my voice.

“Just thinking out loud,” I told him. “One of the victims was married, one separated, and the other two were single, right?”

“Yeah,” Ben chimed. “So?”

“So Karen Barnes was killed outside of her home where she would most likely be away from her husband,” I continued. I wasn’t even sure what I was driving at myself, but voicing it seemed to be helping my thoughts take on a recognizable shape. “The other three were killed in their homes.”

“Go on,” Deckert seemed intrigued.

“Well, if I’m right, and the killer does work at a bank, then he would have access to information about the victims, and he would know their marital status.”

“So you figure he used that info to avoid being interrupted by someone who could kick his ass,” Deckert submitted.

“Yeah, I guess something like that.”

“While that makes sense,” Ben agreed, “it still doesn’t wash, ‘cause we just established that Darla Radcliffe didn’t use the same bank as the other three.”

A fact, at the same time both obvious and insignificant passed quickly through my mind. Mentally, I stopped and flipped backwards through the imaginary file. “Darla Radcliffe had a roommate, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Ben answered, absently snapping open his notebook and paging through it. “Butler. Wendy Butler. They both worked for the same airline. She wasn’t home though. She was fillin’ in on a flight for…” His words trailed off as the pieces started falling into place.

“…Her roommate,” I completed the sentence. “Wendy Butler has an account at Capitol Bank. She was supposed to be victim number four.” I tossed the last comment out on the table and waited silently for a reaction.

“She’s stayin’ with her parents,” Ben stated, as Deckert dialed the phone, glancing over at the proffered notebook for the number.

No other words had been spoken since my remark, and in the stillness of the room, I could hear the faint buzz from the handset as the phone rang at the other end. After a few brief seconds that pretended to encompass lifetimes, I detected a click followed by a distant voice.

“Miz Butler, this is Detective Carl Deckert with the Major Case Squad…” He spoke into the mouthpiece while Ben and I listened patiently, “…I’m fine, thank you…Listen, I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you a question…”

Just as he had done earlier in the call to Karen Barnes’ husband, Detective Deckert came quickly to the point. A repeated apology and a “goodbye” later, he settled the handset back on its base. His gaze had remained on me from the moment he had asked the woman where she did her banking. It still hadn’t wavered.

“Bingo,” he affirmed. “Wendy Butler has had an account with Capitol Bank for about two years.”

“See if you can find out who we need ta’ contact for employee records,” Ben told him hurriedly. “I’ll see about a warrant just in case we need it.”

Deckert nodded and reached for the phone once again. His hand stopped midway in the air, and we all turned with a start as the door to the small conference room swung open and another detective poked his head in.

“Storm, Deckert,” he spoke urgently, “we just got a call from the Sherman police chief. They’ve got a seven-year-old girl that never made it home from school.”

How the hell did this happen?!” Ben was saying. “Did they have their heads up their asses or somethin’?!”

We were no longer cloistered away in the small conference room, and his angry voice pierced through the veil of noisy activity going on around us. It was a certainty that the other members of the Major Case Squad heard him, but they continued about their assigned duties with no perceptible hesitation.

Deckert, somewhat calmer than Ben, pressed the other detective, “Did anyone actually see the kid get snatched?”

“No,” he answered. “At least no one that they’ve talked to. They’re searching the area right now, but it doesn’t look very promising…They found her book bag, but that’s about it.”

“Dammit, they shoulda been expecting somethin’ like this! We told them…” Ben continued his semi-contained explosion, “What did they give us on the kid? What’s ‘er name?”

“You’re not gonna believe it when I tell you,” the other officer returned. “It’s kind of a strange coincidence.”

“Ariel,” I announced flatly from behind them. “The little girl’s name is Ariel.”

“Yeah, weird isn’t it? He looked past Ben and Deckert at me. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Anyway,” he continued, “she’s seven years old, just started the second grade. Shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, and she was last seen wearing a blue dress. Denim, the mother said.”

“Just a second.” Ben looked quickly at his watch. “You said she never made it home from school. When was she reported missin’?”