More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

them was Desmond’s apartment in Warwick.

He decided to check the garage, thinking he might come across something helpful the killer had tossed out of the car and forgotten about — maybe a sheet containing directions or a map or receipt.

Altman discovered something far more interesting than evidence, though; he found Howard Desmond himself.

That is to say, his corpse.

The moment Altman opened the old-fashioned double doors of the garage he detected the smell of decaying flesh. He knew where it had to be coming from: a large coal bin in the back. Steeling himself, he flipped up the lid.

The mostly skeletal remains of a man about six feet tall were inside, lying on his back, fully clothed. He’d been dead about six months — just around the time Desmond disappeared, Altman recalled.

DNA would tell for certain if this was the vet tech but Altman discovered the man’s wallet in his hip pocket and, sure enough, the driver’s license inside was Desmond’s. DNA or dental records would tell for certain.

The man’s skull was shattered; the cause of death was probably trauma to the head by a blunt object. There was no weapon in the bin itself but after a careful examination of the garage he found a heavy mallet wrapped in a rag and hidden in the bottom of a trash-filled oil drum. There were some hairs adhering to the mallet that resembled Desmond’s. Altman set the tool on a workbench, wondering what the hell was going on.

Somebody had murdered the Strangler. Who? And why? Revenge?

But then Altman did one of the things he did best — let his mind run free. Too many detectives get an idea into their heads and can’t see past their initial conclusions. Altman, though, always fought against this tendency and he now asked himself: But what if Desmond wasn’t the Strangler?

They knew for certain that he was the one who’d underlined the passages in the library’s copy of Two Deaths in a Small Town. But what if he’d done so after the killings? The letter Desmond had written to Carter was undated. Maybe — just like the reporter Gordon Wallace himself had done — he’d read the book after the murders and been struck by the similarity. He’d started to investigate the crime himself and the Strangler had found out and murdered him.

But then who was the killer?

Just like Gordon Wallace had done…

Altman felt another little tap in his far-ranging mind, as fragments of facts lined up for him to consider — facts that all had to do with the reporter. For instance, Wallace was physically imposing, abrasive, temperamental. At times he could be threatening, scary. He was obsessed with crime and he knew police and forensic procedures better than most cops, which also meant that he knew how to anticipate investigators’ moves. (He’d sure blustered his way right into the middle of the reopened case just the other day, Altman reflected.) Wallace owned a Motorola police scanner and would’ve been able to listen in on calls about the victims. His apartment was a few blocks from the college where the first victim was killed.

The detective considered: Let’s say that Desmond had read the passages, become suspicious and circled them, then made a few phone calls to find out more about the case. He might’ve called Wallace, who, as the Tribune’s crime reporter, would be a logical source for more information.

Desmond had met with the reporter, who’d then killed him and hid the body here.

Impossible… Why, for instance, would Gordon have brought the book to the police’s attention?

Maybe to preempt suspicion?

Altman returned to the disgusting, impromptu crypt once again to search it more carefully, trying to unearth some answers.

* * *

Gordon Wallace caught a glimpse of Altman in the garage.

The reporter had crept up to a spot only thirty feet away and was hiding behind a bush. The detective wasn’t paying any attention to who might be outside, apparently relying on Josh Randall to alert him to intruders. The young detective was at the head of the driveway, a good two hundred feet away, his back to the garage.

Breathing heavily in the autumn heat, the reporter started through the grass in a crouch. He stopped beside the building and glanced into the side window fast, noting that Altman was standing over a coal bin in the rear of the garage, squinting at something in his hand.

Perfect, Wallace thought and, reaching into his pocket, eased to the open doorway, where his aim would be completely unobstructed.

* * *

The detective had found something in Desmond’s wallet and was staring at it — a business card — when he heard the snap of a twig behind him and, alarmed, turned.

A silhouette of a figure was standing in the doorway. He seemed to be holding his hands at chest level.

Blinded by the glare, Altman gasped, “Who’re—?”

A huge flash filled the room.

The detective stumbled backward, groping for his pistol.

“Damn,” came a voice he recognized.

Altman squinted against the back lighting. “Wallace! You goddamn son of a bitch! What the hell’re you doing here?”

The reporter scowled and held up the camera in his hand, looking just as unhappy as Altman. “I was trying to get a candid of you on the job. But you turned around. You ruined it.”

“I ruined it? I told you not to come. You can’t—”

“I’ve got a First Amendment right to be here,” the man snapped. “Freedom of the press.”

“And I’ve got a right to throw your ass in jail. This’s a crime scene.”

“Well, that’s why I want the pictures,” he said petulantly. Then he frowned. “What’s that smell?” The camera sagged and the reporter started to breathe in shallow gasps. He looked queasy.

“It’s Desmond. Somebody murdered him. He’s in the coal bin.”

“Murdered him? So he’s not the killer?”

Altman lifted his radio and barked to Randall, “We’ve got visitors back here.”

“What?”

“We’re in the garage.”

The young officer showed up a moment later, trotting fast. A disdainful look at Wallace. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“How’d you let him get past?” Altman snapped.

“Not his fault,” the reporter said, shivering at the smell. “I parked up the road. How ’bout we get some fresh air?”

Angry, Altman took perverse pleasure in the reporter’s discomfort. “I oughta throw you in jail.”

Wallace held his breath and started for the coal bin, raising the camera.

“Don’t even think about it,” Altman growled and pulled the reporter away.

“Who did it?” Randall asked, nodding at the body.

Altman didn’t share that for a moment he’d actually suspected Wallace Gordon himself. Just before the photo op incident he’d found a stunning clue as to who Desmond’s — and the two women’s — killer probably was. He held up a business card. “I found this on the body.”

On the card was written, “Detective Sergeant Robert Fletcher, Greenville Police Department.”

“Bob?” Randall whispered in shock.

“I don’t want to believe it,” Altman muttered slowly, “but back at the office he didn’t let on he even knew about Desmond, let alone that they’d met at some point.”

“True.”

“And,” he continued, nodding at the mallet, “Bob does all that metalwork — his hobby, remember? That could be one of his.”

Randall looked uneasily at the murder weapon.

Altman’s heart pounded furiously at the betrayal. He now speculated about what had happened. Fletcher bobbled the case intentionally — because he was the killer, probably destroying any evidence that led to him. A loner, a history of short, difficult relationships, obsessed with violence and military history and artifacts and hunting…. He’d lied to them about not reading Two Deaths and