weekend. She was finding the project, big surprise, boring. The upside was she was talking about graduate studies, maybe law.
Pete also called. He was relieved to learn that I’d suffer no lasting consequences, pleased to hear of Katy’s mention of law school. As we talked, Summer was out perusing china patterns.
I was discharged by 10 A.M. To his dismay, Slidell had to stay longer. Before leaving the hospital, Ryan and I stopped by his room. He’d already talked to members of the Rinaldi task force. Ryan was somber, quiet. Between us, we pieced together the story.
My wild guess had been intuitive and right on the mark. Evans was a closet gay who cruised NoDa wearing a ball cap pulled low to disguise his identity. Usually he picked up Gunther. One night he spotted Klapec and got a taste for fresh talent. Pleased with performance, he switched service providers. Gunther was furious and confronted Klapec, his sometime friend. Klapec argued free trade, things got physical, and Gunther killed him.
I remembered Gunther’s words in my hallway.
“For a guy who prided himself on covering all angles, he sure hadn’t worked out an exit strategy. He didn’t want the body found, but he had no idea what to do with it.”
Buying time, Gunther crammed Klapec into Pinder’s grandmother’s freezer. When he read about Cuervo’s altar and cauldrons, he thought his problem was solved. Knowing nothing about Santeria, Wicca, or devil worship, he decided to make the murder appear satanic. After carving symbols in Klapec’s flesh, he dumped the still frozen corpse at Lake Wylie.
“Gunther knew there was a possibility Pinder or one of the chicken hawks might link him to Klapec, so he began feeding false information to Rinaldi,” Slidell said.
“Do you think Gunther knew Evans was Lingo’s right-hand man?” I asked.
“The guy wasn’t stupid, but he definitely had some screws loose,” Slidell said. “They found Tegretol in his apartment. Lots of it.”
“That’s a medication for bipolar disorder.” Ryan.
Slidell’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Like I said. The guy was a whack job.”
I considered, decided against attempting to explain manic depression to Slidell.
“He’d stopped taking his meds?” I guessed.
“Clever move, eh? Doc said he was probably in something called an acutely manic period.”
Impatient with the topic of Gunther’s mental health, Slidell segued back to Evans. “Maybe Gunther learned Evans’s name from Rinaldi. Or spotted him on the tube with Lingo.”
“Lingo’s tirades fed right into Gunther’s delusion,” I said.
“And set Asa Finney up as a perfect patsy to take the fall for Klapec,” Ryan added.
“Here’s the biggest mind-fuck,” said Slidell. “Gunther didn’t know Finney and didn’t know he’d been shot by Klapec’s father. If he’d heard that, he wouldn’t have bothered with the frame on Evans, unless he just wanted to burn the guy.”
Slidell shook his head.
“I was way off base on Finney. The guy was just trying to make a dime and be left alone. His income came from Dr. Games and other sites loading ads on gamers. And the Ford Focus spotted near the witch camp turned out to belong to a cousin of one of the locals.”
“Did CSS find anything useful in Granny’s freezer or basement?” Ryan asked.
“Enough blood for a transfusion. DNA’ll show it came from Klapec.”
“I suspect some of the blood may belong to Senor Snake,” Ryan said.
“Gunther left the copperhead on my porch?”
Slidell nodded. “Probably meant as another satanic misdirect. Or maybe Gunther thought he could scare you off the case.”
I just looked at him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Slidell said. “Maybe the guy wasn’t so smart after all.”
“Why did Evans come home early last night?” I asked.
“Landlady dimed him. Told you that old harpy was trouble.”
“Why did Evans park way up the block instead of just pulling into the driveway?”
“He was probably worried that our warrant might include his vehicle. He must have surprised Gunther sneaking in from the golf course.”
“To plant the saw and Klapec’s head.”
Slidell nodded again.
“When Gunther learned we’d questioned Pinder he decided it was time to get the goods out of Granny’s basement. After capping Evans, he saw us right there in the garage. Things were spinning out of control and he was thinking wildly. That’s when he dreamed up the murder-suicide plan.”
More came out over the course of that day.
At age six, April Pinder had taken a car bumper to the side of her head. The injury resulted in an inability to properly sequence certain types of information. Time was one area that caused her difficulty. Pinder had mixed up dates, confusing the day Gunther got out of jail with the day before he went in.
Turned out Gunther/Ziegler did have a record. Using a long list of aliases he’d worked a number of con games over the years, most bilking elderly or retarded women. A scam based on checking obits, then delivering COD packages requiring payment of money due. Door-to-door peddling of candy, candles, and popcorn for false charities. Sale of “winning” lottery tickets and counterfeited contest coupons. All petty stuff. Nothing violent. His boyish good looks undoubtedly served him well. It was only after going off his meds in August that he started showing bursts of violent behavior.
Overnight, the weather had turned cold and rainy. For the rest of that day and the next, Ryan and I hunkered down at the Annex. Ryan was moody, quiet. I didn’t press. Shooting someone is never easy for a cop.
Katy visited on Saturday morning. She’d never heard of the Cheeky Girls. We all laughed. She talked more about law school. It was good.
Allison Stallings called shortly after noon. I didn’t pick up, but listened as she recorded a message. She’d decided to write about a multiple murder in Raleigh, apologized in case her deception had caused me problems, promised to set the record straight with Tyrell.
Slidell stopped by around four. With him was a very tall woman who almost matched him in weight. Her skin was caramel, her hair black and woven into a single thick braid. From her posture and bearing I knew she was on the job.
Before Slidell could speak, the woman shot out a hand. “Theresa Madrid. This extraordinarily fortunate detective’s brilliant new partner.”
Madrid’s grip could have cracked coconut husks.
“Chief thinks my cultural sensitivities need broadening.” Slidell, out of the side of his mouth.
Madrid clapped Slidell on the back. “Poor Skinny pulled a lucky double-L.”
Ryan and I must have looked blank.
“Lesbian Latina.”
“She’s Mexican.” Slidell’s lips did that poochy thing they do.
“Dominican. Skinny thinks every Spanish speaker must be Mexican.”
“Astounding,” Slidell said. “All those amazingly rich and diverse cultures evolving the same wife-beater shirts and plastic Jesus lawn shit.”
Madrid’s laugh came from somewhere deep in her belly. “Not as astounding as your girlfriend’s mustache.”
Slidell added another puzzle piece. It came from Rinaldi’s son, Tony. His youngest child had Cohen syndrome. Rinaldi was spending all he had on his grandson’s medical fees and on tuition for special schooling. And then some.
When they’d gone, Ryan and I agreed. Slidell and Madrid would get along fine.
Ryan cooked. Chicken fricassee with mushrooms and artichokes.
I worked on a lecture.
Over dinner, and later, we talked.
There had been so many deaths. Cuervo. Klapec. Rinaldi. Finney. Evans. Gunther.
Like poor little Anson Tyler, T-Bird Cuervo had met a violent but accidental end. A man alone in the dark on a
