Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

Then you are right behind her and you bring the knife down once, hard, and it plunges deep, and when you withdraw it, red spurts from the red jacket, as if the jacket itself were bleeding. She goes down, half in the street, half on the sidewalk, and she isn’t dead yet, her motions like a swimmer trying not to drown, her back to you and you are in a way glad, because you loved this girl, and part of you still does as you plunge the blade in another five times, and she stops swimming.

The sprawling ultramodern Midwest Medical Center on the outskirts of Galena on Highway 20 West had, a dozen years ago, replaced the much smaller Galena-Stauss Hospital.

For a police chief like Krista, the Medical Center was unquestionably a real boon to the community. But she also found it a little over-the-top, from the lobby’s high vaulted ceiling and indirect lighting to the self-noodling mahogany baby grand and sweeping ceramic-tiled staircase leading to a “family meditation” room. The modern design and mission-style trappings of the overthought facility might have been comforting to her if her mother hadn’t died here.

Not that Mom hadn’t received the best care — Krista herself had recommended the Medical Center to her father and mother over the Dubuque options, in part to be closer to her mom but also because it was so highly regarded.

But she was worried about Pop. Booker Jackson had called and said “no worries, everything’s fine”—her father had been assaulted by two “Chicago goons” (now in custody and jailed) and taken to the ER at the Medical Center. Her first reaction, past the initial alarm, was relief — she knew he’d receive top treatment there.

When she was on her way to the hospital, however, Booker called again to say her father had been treated and admitted to a room for an overnight stay and observation. Which on the face of it was fine. The patient “suites,” as they were called, were the most attractive, spacious hospital rooms Krista had ever seen.

Her mother had died in one.

Krista worried about the psychological impact that might have on Pop. She told herself she was being silly, but then she thought about him sitting in his comfy recliner in the ranch-style on Marion Street with a gun barrel in his mouth.

As she slipped into his room, closing the door behind her, Pop appeared to be sleeping. She was relieved to see he was not on an IV. The “suite” was exactly like the one Mom had been in — all shades of yellow and green with hardwood flooring, a wood-paneled wall behind the sizable hospital bed with its country-style quilt; above the bed a framed Galena landscape, a hot air balloon floating over the town. A lime-colored recliner sat in a corner, a green-and-yellow couch stretched beneath a big window, blinds shut.

She pulled up a hardwood visitor’s chair as quietly as she could and sat beside the bed, her father on his back but his face angled toward her, eyes closed.

“It’s quiet out there,” he said. “Too quiet.”

She laughed softly. “You’re such a cornball.”

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “You should see the other guys.”

“You don’t look so bad.” She was on her feet now, at his bedside.

“You haven’t seen my ribs.”

She leaned in. “How bad, Pop?”

“Broke one and I was lucky at that. Both those SOBs were kicking me in the sides.”

“I’m so sorry...”

“Don’t apologize for them. Anyway — maybe I deserved getting kicked.”

“Why is that?”

“Going around Chicago, poking into politics and dirty dealings.”

She gestured behind her, toward Galena. “Booker has both of them locked up. He says he’s going to look into this himself.”

“Tell him I have a Chicago police contact for him.”

“Will do. Your friend Barney?”

“My friend Barney.”

“So does this mean you’re on to something?”

His eyebrows went up; even so, his eyes looked barely awake. “You mean, are one or any combination of Alex Cannon, Daniel Rule, and Sonny Salerno involved in these killings? Unlikely. I just got warned not to poke into their business. I doubt your classmate Alex knows anything about it.”

“Might be able to embarrass all of them, though. And those two strong-arms will do some time. Assault charges. Beating up on a Galena cop who came asking questions.”

“Beating up on me? Sounds kind of schoolyard.”

“Well, ‘schoolyard’ is closer to our case. Something ten or more years ago, involving my classmates, sparked these murders, don’t you think?”

“No argument.”

“Even with you getting leaned on, hard, the idea of a professional killer being responsible for the Sue Logan and Astrid Lund homicides, playing psycho as a sort of cover-up?... It’s just too far-fetched.”

“Smart daughter I got.”

“They’re keeping you overnight?”

“Yeah. They took some X-rays. Gonna keep an eye on me. Should be out of here in the morning.”

“Good.”

“Something we haven’t talked about.”

“Oh?”

“Crank this thing up.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Not all the way, just enough.”

She did as she was told. He winced and smiled at her at the same time.

Then he said, “In Chicago, I looked over the complete case file that cop Hastings in Clearwater sent. About the Logan homicide. I’ve been mulling it ever since.”

“And?”

“In both instances, the killer had been known to the woman.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“Two cups of coffee at Logan’s, two cups of tea at Lund’s. He or she was invited in. Takes the time to wash the cups out in the sink, after each crime. Logan answered the door and was stabbed where she stood. Lund allowed the killer in and on leaving, he or she placed duct tape on the latch to reenter.”

She was slowly nodding. “Both had a friendly conversation with the victim, left... and returned.”

“That seems to be the case.”

“Why would it go down this way, do you think?”

“If both women knew the person, and opened the door for him or her, the killing could have taken place right there and then. But the washed-out cups, and bloody footsteps leading to and away from the sink, revealed by luminol, indicate a pre-kill visit that required some cleanup.”

“Why the pre-visit, though?”

Pop’s eyes narrowed. “If something in the past — something bad — is at the root of these homicides, perhaps the killer wanted to determine whether the victim needed killing.”

She was nodding again, quicker now. “People reminisce at class reunions. Who they talk to, and what memories they’re inclined to share, could matter.”

“Could really matter here. And two... two women are dead. So whatever... whatever that bad thing is they... they share it.”

She could see he was fading. Shouldn’t have allowed him to talk so much. This visit had gone on long enough.

She asked him, “How much are you hurting?”

“Right now not much. I’m on really good drugs. But I’m... I’m taped up like half a mummy.”

“Well, get some sleep... Daddy.”

He smiled at her. “That I can manage.”

She glanced around. “Does it... bother you? Being here?”

He knew what she meant. “No. When I think of your mom, in this setting? She’s smiling.”

Krista nodded. “Know what you mean.”

“Now, if they wheel me into the ICU, I just might get depressed.”

She laughed gently, gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Goofball.”

When she was at the door, he called out to her. “Honey?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t go over to the sheriff’s office.”

That was where the holding cells were. Across the street from the PD, in the massive, mostly old Courthouse and Public Safety complex.