Beverly Connor - The Night Killer

She usually parked outside the garage and entered by the front door, but she needed to secure her vehicle. She wanted to collect paint transfer. But right now, she wanted more than anything to get inside the house.

From the garage she walked into the mudroom, pulling the door closed behind her a little too hard, and locked it. From there she walked through to the kitchen, then into the living room, where Frank was entertaining Ben Florian. They rose when she entered.

“Diane?” Frank’s voice was like cool water, or music, or chocolate-comfort. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She must look a fright. That was what she was-affright-sick with it.

“You’re pale,” he said. “Are you ill?”

“I’m fine,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t come out as a squeak, hoping they couldn’t see how she trembled.

“Hello, Ben. It’s good to see you.” She held out a hand and shook his. She saw the concern in both their eyes. She smiled weakly and told them she’d be right back as soon as she changed.

She hurried to the bedroom and into the bathroom and threw up. When she finished heaving, she rinsed her mouth out, brushed her teeth, and changed into comfortable jeans and a tee. She ran a brush through her hair and stared into the mirror at herself. She looked pale and frightened. Where had her bravery gone? She had hung precariously on rock faces literally by her fingernails with less fear than she had been having lately.

She went back out to explain herself to Frank and Ben. Frank met her with a glass of wine.

“Did something happen?” he asked.

Diane held the glass of wine and took a sip and wished it were whiskey.

Both Ben and Frank were in suits-probably the suits they went to work in. Frank looked good in suits. He looked good in everything. He smiled at her as she sipped the wine, and waited for her answer. Frank was rational, kind, and handsome, and she loved the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. Looking at him, she wondered if her friend Laura was right. This sudden explosion of fear was because she was coming out of the numb state she’d been in since Ariel had died.

She sat in a stuffed chair by the fireplace now covered with a wrought-iron grate ornamented with a sculpted metal branch of cherry blossoms.

Since Ben was here, they must have news for her, but now they both waited for her news. Diane calmly related the last few miles of her trip home.

“Here? Just down the road?” said Ben. He looked out the window as if he could see the stretch of road where it occurred.

Ben’s gray suit was slightly wrinkled and slightly small. He looked like an old-fashioned door-to-door salesman. He was a few years older than Frank. Frank always said Ben could blend in well. He had an ordinary face and his graying hair was thinning and receding.

“Yes, just a couple miles down the road,” she said.

“We need to call the police,” Frank said.

Diane took a deep breath. “I suppose.” The last thing she felt like doing was talking to the police all night. “I’ll call Chief Garnett and give him a rundown over the phone.”

Douglas Garnett was her boss on things concerning the crime lab. After a rocky start, she had developed a good working relationship with him. She punched in his number and, after apologizing for calling him so late, she explained what had happened.

“I really don’t want to spend the rest of the evening talking with policemen. I’d like to report it to you this evening and go in and make a statement tomorrow morning.”

“Do you have any idea who it was?” he asked.

“I have ideas, but no proof of anything. There are a lot of things going on.”

“I’ve been reading about that murdered couple you found. Does this have anything to do with that?” he asked.

“Either that or the skeleton in the tree,” she said.

“Skeleton in the tree?” he said.

“It’s a very long story. I’ll tell it to you tomorrow,” she said.

“It sounds like it would have to be a long story. Can you give me any kind of description of the vehicle?”

“It was a truck. Something big enough to shine its lights in the rear window of my Explorer. It was a dark color, but I couldn’t tell what color. It will have red paint from my Explorer streaked down its right side, and probably on its front bumper. That’s about the best I can do.”

“Okay, that’s pretty good. Could you see if the driver was a man or a woman?”

“No, I couldn’t tell. Whoever it was, was pretty skilled at doing what they did.”

“This is enough to start with. I’ll put out a BOLO. You get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” he said.

Diane sat back down with her glass of wine and gave the two of them what she hoped might pass for a winning smile.

“Tell me about your day,” she said to them. “I’ve been anxious to hear about it.”

Frank brought in more coffee and Ben laid a top-bound spiral notebook on the walnut coffee table. The tan grid pages of the notebook contained small, neat handwriting Diane couldn’t read upside down. Like Frank, Ben had his own shorthand. Frank placed an empty cup and saucer in front of Diane and put a tray with a fresh pot of coffee, sugar, and cream on the table.

Diane sipped her wine and curled up in the chair.

As if that were his cue, Ben began a description of their inquiries that day into the past activities and associations of Tammy Taylor. He and Frank had spent most of the day showing Tammy’s picture to people at shelters and clinics in the Atlanta area. In relating their investigation, Ben was using the same monotone voice that Diane guessed he used in court-straightforward and unemotional.

“Tammy Taylor was a nurse’s aide for five years before she hooked up with Slick Massey,” Ben said. “She volunteered at a number of places in and around Atlanta. We didn’t go too far out from the city. Not enough time.”

“There was plenty of information to be had where we did go,” said Frank. “I’m not sure we have ever been this lucky, have we, Ben?”

“No, I don’t believe so,” he said.

“We felt that Atlanta would be an ideal hunting ground for her,” said Frank. “Close enough for easy access, but far enough away from home that she could still remain anonymous. No one would know her personally. So it was a good bet.”

Ben nodded. “If you do your thinking ahead of time, you don’t waste time,” he said in a way that Diane figured he’d said it many times before.

“We also acquired a mug shot of Theodore Albert Massey, his legal name.” Ben smiled for the first time. “Frank and I were relieved to discover that his mother didn’t name him Slick.”

Diane smiled too, and took a sip of wine. “What was he in the system for?” she asked.

“Petty theft, mostly. A few bar fights,” said Ben. “No felonies.”

Though Ben had put his notebook in front of him, he never referred to it, or even glanced down at it.

“We didn’t find anyone at the shelters who recognized Slick,” he said.

“I don’t think he could be as convincing as Tammy at luring ill, elderly women to come live with him,” added Frank. “But the staff at several shelters did recognize Tammy. Not immediately. They had to study the photo before it dawned on them. She changed her appearance a lot. . and her name-Terry Tate, Theresa Thomas, Tracy Tanner, to name a few. I guess she always wanted to match the monogram on her luggage.”

“We thought we struck gold just by confirming that Atlanta was her hunting ground,” said Ben. “Then we interviewed Norma Fuller, the latest woman Tammy had lured to her house. Now, that was real gold.”

“Did Norma have a lot to say?” asked Diane.