Snowy Misery (Alaska Cozy Mystery Book 7) Page 5

“No,” Sarah objected, changing her mind. “I want everyone to make their way to the police station first. Andrew can order the plow to run and then he'll drive each of you home.”

  “Works for me,” Marion told Sarah and climbed to her feet. “Okay folks, you heard Detective Garland. Let's get our feet out in the cold.”

  “We'll cover the rear,” Sarah assured Marion and opened the front door. “Hurry, everyone.”

  Conrad pulled Sarah to the side as the diner emptied out. Marion stopped at the front door and turned to Conrad. “Snow Falls is blessed to have a good cop like you,” she told him and rushed out into the storm.

  “She's right,” Amanda said and patted Conrad on his shoulder. “You're a good cop and a good man. Just make sure you stay that way.”

  Conrad forced a weak smile to his face. “I'll make sure we all stay good and alive,” he promised Amanda. “Sarah, ready?”

  “Let's go,” Sarah said. She grabbed Amanda's hand, ran out into the storm, hurried past her ex-husband's body, and followed a line of scared people to the police station. Once inside the police station, she quickly put her gun away and brushed snow out of her hair. “Andrew, you need to get the plow moving and then drive these people home,” she said.

  Conrad closed the front door to the station house and locked it. “Okay, folks, try and warm up and find a place to rest. It might be a while before the plow finishes running.”

  Marion spotted a coffee station. “Let's all have some coffee and calm down.”

  Andrew grabbed Conrad by the arm and pulled him into his office while Marion began taking a head count. “We're in some serious trouble,” he told Andrew in an urgent voice.

  Sarah grabbed Amanda's hand and followed Conrad into Andrew's office. “What's wrong?” she demanded.

  “What's wrong?” Andrew asked in a stressed voice. “Sarah, we have a major storm settling in over the town.” Andrew plopped down on the corner of his desk. “Guys, this isn’t a normal snow system. This storm isn't going to be leaving us anytime soon. At least four feet of snow is being forecasted, along with winds gusting at forty to fifty miles per hour.”

  Conrad put his gun away and then wiped snow out of his hair. “You always say this town has weathered some bad storms in the past.”

  Andrew nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said and ran his hands through his hair. The man was obviously stressed beyond his limits. “Conrad, I've experienced worse storms than the one that's hitting us right now, and that's a fact. But this storm is going to make our job impossible. I can't send my guys out into the weather looking for the...the...Back Alley Killer,” Andrew said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I read all about Francis Clark. The guy killed more people than I have fingers and toes. He struck terror into the heart of Los Angeles for over four years before Sarah caught him. This town isn't prepared to deal with the likes of him. Why, this town is candy. We’re sitting ducks.”

  “Oh,” Amanda said and stomped the floor, “this is hopeless.”

  “At least your husband was delayed,” Sarah pointed out and put her arm around Amanda. “The delay was a blessing.”

  Amanda looked deep into Sarah's eyes and read her thought. “At least my hubby isn't lying dead out in the snow...that's what you're trying to tell me, right love?”

  Sarah nodded her head. “Yes, June Bug, that's exactly what I'm telling you.” Sarah looked at Conrad. “I'm not going to let you end up lying dead in the snow, either,” she whispered and listened to the storm howl and scream outside.

  Sarah stood outside a metal door leading into a small, cold room that served as a morgue. The hallway was quiet. The floor beneath her feet was covered with white and green flecked tiles that looked unfriendly under the hateful glare of the fluorescent lights. The walls lining the hallway were painted a depressing, dark gray that made Sarah feel like she was trapped in an eternal scream. “Why do basement hallways always look like this?” she moaned.

  “I know,” Amanda shivered. “Creepy.”

  “You've never been down to the hospital basement before?” Conrad asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “Never had a need to, for crying out loud,” Amanda fussed. “Believe it or not, I'm the type of woman that likes to spend her time in warm shopping malls where the lights are bright and the faces are cheerful.”

  “Yeah,” Conrad said and fought back a yawn. He looked at Sarah. “Andrew got everyone home safe and sound. He said the only problem he encountered was the snow.”

  Amanda wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “It's creepy knowing that psycho is out in the night, lurking about,” she said. “It's even creepier knowing that he can...well, kill at any time. I mean, let's face it, we could all be dead right now.”

  “I know,” Sarah said. “But don’t dwell on it, Amanda. Focus.” Amanda nodded. Sarah looked at the closed metal door. In her mind, she saw Brad sit up on the cold steel table and point an accusing finger at her. All your fault, Sarah...all your fault...all your fault...Sarah fought the horrible thought away. “I wish Dr. Ross would hurry.”

  “I wish Mittens was here with us,” Amanda added. “I can't imagine that little puppy being able to hold her bathroom all night, love. We're sure to come back to a few little accidents.”

  Conrad knew Amanda was attempting to take Sarah's mind off the obvious. “Yeah, I doubt you're going to find a clean kitchen floor, Sarah.”

  “I can deal with a few messes,” Sarah told Amanda and Conrad. “What I can't deal with is knowing that Francis is loose in Snow Falls. And to make matters worse, we're all alone. No outside help can reach us because of the storm.”

  “Trees are down everywhere,” Conrad said. “Power is out in towns to the west of us. It won't be long before the power goes out here.”

  “Oh, pooh,” Amanda said. “That's not the reason help isn’t coming. The outsiders just don't want to admit that the man who killed Brad Garland is the Back Alley Killer.”

  Sarah grew silent as her mind turned over a few other facts that had been gnawing at her. “There’s something else you should all know,” she finally admitted. “There was another killer in Los Angeles around the time I was working on that case. We thought it was a copycat killer, someone imitating him, but I always had my suspicions. We caught Francis, but we never caught the copycat. I think the copycat is actually someone he hired to impersonate him and throw us off the scent.”

  “Nice little diversion,” Conrad said and leaned back against the hallway wall, focusing on the metal door of the basement morgue.

  “It's just hard for me to believe that the FBI office in Los Angeles won't take me at my word that the Back Alley Killer escaped from prison,” Sarah complained. “And now the Alaska State Police refuse to step in because of the storm.”

  “We're all alone,” Amanda sighed miserably. “Alone with a killer. Lovely.”

  Conrad continued to stare at the metal door. His mind was trapped in closed room with desperate thoughts, pacing back and forth like an anxious father waiting for news that his child had come through a long, difficult surgery. How was he going to deal with Francis Clark? How was he going to capture a killer who knew the law better than he did? How as he going to fight a man who had no soul? “Oh man,” Conrad whispered under his breath, feeling desperation and fear latch onto his emotions like a hungry tick.

  Sarah looked into Conrad's eyes. She saw his fear. “Conrad?” she asked, without pushing too hard. “Are you okay?”

  Conrad kept his eyes on the door. “Sarah, Francis Clark is a fierce killer. The man killed numerous people and stashed their bodies in one alley or another.” Conrad began to look at Sarah but forced his eyes to stay locked on the metal door. “You even admitted that you caught the guy by luck.”

  “I set a trap that Francis fell for, yes,” Sarah confessed. “When Pete suggested Francis might be a cop, I turned my investigation around and took a different path.”

  “What would have happened if your friend hadn’t suggested Francis Clark cou
ld be a cop?” Conrad asked.

  Amanda watched Sarah's eyes grow dark. “It’s like I said earlier…I was at my wit’s end the night I ended up in Pete's office for that fateful chat. I was ready to admit defeat. If Pete hadn’t come through with his lucky insight, Francis Clark would have never been captured.”

  “Exactly,” Conrad pointed out. “This guy didn't arrive in Snow Falls without a plan under his belt, Sarah. Francis Clark wanted you to figure out who killed your ex-husband. He wants you to know you're now trapped in his sick game. And he wants you to know that he's in charge.” Conrad closed his eyes in fatigue and frustration.

  “I know, Conrad. We're all trapped in his sick game with no way out. And...there's not a thing in the world we can do except wait for him to strike again.”

  The metal door finally opened and a tall, thin man in his sixties stepped out wearing a white lab coat. “Detectives,” Dr. Edward Ross said in a calm voice, “I have completed a very quick, if thorough, autopsy.”

  “Quick? You were in that room for over two hours,” Amanda complained.

  Dr. Ross shot Amanda a sharp eye. “Being professional and thorough means you disregard the clock. Snow Falls may be a small town and this hospital may be better equipped to tend a wounded moose than a human being, but I pride myself on remaining professional.”

  “We have a killer on the loose, Dr. Ross. We don't have time to worry if we polished our scalpel the right way,” Amanda fired back.

  “June Bug, please,” Sarah pleaded with Amanda, “let Dr. Ross speak.”

  “Thank you,” Dr. Ross said and fished out a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of his lab coat. He opened the manila folder in his hands and perused the report. “Mr. Garland's body was in good condition. His heart was very strong for a man his age. However, his liver was in horrible condition.” Dr. Ross looked up at Sarah. “Your ex-husband was apparently a very heavy drinker.”

  “Brad was a social drinker while we were married,” Sarah admitted.

  “Detective Garland, the condition of that man's liver clearly tells me he was more than a social drinker. Anyway,” Dr. Ross continued, “other than the liver, Mr. Garland's body was in good condition.”

  “You didn't find any drugs in his system?” Sarah asked, nodding to the room beyond metal door. “Any sedatives?”

  Dr. Ross shook his head. “No,” he said. “I did find rope burns on his wrist and ankles. Also, the man's fingernails were badly chewed.”

  “I…didn't notice that,” Sarah said and kicked herself for missing a vital clue.

  “Detective Garland, don't be so hard on yourself. The man was once your husband, after all,” Dr. Ross tried to comfort Sarah. He closed the folder in his hand. “Mr. Garland was killed by a five-point-five-six millimeter bullet.”

  “Interesting. Do you have the weight of the bullet?” Conrad asked.

  Dr. Ross raised his eyebrows. “Yes. It was a fifty-five grain bullet, in fact.”

  “Bullets popular for an AR-15,” Conrad pointed out.

  Dr. Ross nodded his head. “The AR-15 rifle is very popular. I own two myself and recognized the bullet because I own probably over three thousand rounds of that exact type. I'm an avid shooter,” he explained. “In my younger days, before medical school, I served in the Army for four years. I was an infantry soldier...a grunt. It was during that time that my interest in handguns and rifles was piqued. I admit that my gun collection might be a bit surprising to some, especially since I am a doctor, but I take pride in my collection.”

  “This is Alaska,” Conrad told Dr. Ross with a smile. “I think we’d be more surprised if you didn’t have a nice collection of guns. After all, you have the right to own as many as you want.”

  “I agree,” Dr. Ross replied. “Most of my rifles are antiques bought at gun shows. But I have several modern rifles and a solid collection of handguns that keep my home safe. My wife is trained to handle each weapon and can shoot the wing off a fly at five hundred meters. My two sons, who are both firefighters working in Anchorage, each have a better gun collection than me. Sometimes they'll come see their old man and we'll go out and do some shooting.”

  Conrad chuckled and seemed ready to tell a few stories of his own, which made Amanda throw her hands up in exasperation.

  “How lovely,” Amanda interrupted. “Can we focus back on the matter at hand, please? You boys can share your gun stories later. A man is dead and a killer is on the loose. Forgive me if I don't feel like listening to you two trade stories about a rusty old rifle collection.”

  Dr. Ross removed his reading glasses. He focused on Amanda and Sarah. “Of course. I'm sorry.”

  “Dr. Ross, where was my husband shot?” Sarah asked, forcing patience into her mind.

  Dr. Ross lowered his eyes. “Your husband was shot through the heart...a perfect kill shot. Whoever shot him was an expert marksman.”

  “Great,” Amanda grumbled. “Of course the killer is an expert marksman. We're so doomed.”

  Sarah didn't hear Amanda's complaint. Instead, she whispered to herself: “At least you died quick, Brad. Francis had mercy on you...either that or he didn't want to waste any more time on you.”

  Dr. Ross turned to the metal door. “Sarah, would you like to see Mr. Garland?”

  “Yes, please,” Sarah said. She turned to Conrad and Amanda. “I need some time. Will you two please stand guard outside the door?”

  “Of course,” Conrad promised Sarah and rubbed her shoulder.

  “I'm not leaving you,” Amanda confirmed. “I'll be standing right here fussing at Conrad when you walk out of that room.” Sarah nodded her head and stepped through the metal door into the morgue with Dr. Ross.

  “Okay, Conrad,” Amanda said as soon as Dr. Ross closed the metal door, “what in the world are we going to do? My best friend is on another planet. Her heart is ripped out and her mind is tied up in knots. As much as I love her, well…” Amanda began to bite her thumbnail. “I'm worried she's not...well, thinking straight.”

  “Would you be thinking straight if your husband was killed?” Conrad asked.

  “No way,” Amanda said. She looked up and down the creepy hallway. In her mind, she saw ghostly white phantoms walk toward her with their arms stretched out, coldly threatening. “Oh, sod off,” she muttered.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Conrad asked, confused.

  “Not you...those bloody sods skulking about in white sheets or whatever.”

  Conrad turned to examine the hallway and gave Amanda a confused look. “White sheets?”

  “Oh, forget it,” Amanda said in a frustrated voice. “Conrad, we have to do something. We're in some serious hot water here.”

  “I know,” Conrad agreed and leaned back against the hallway wall. “Amanda,” he said, “I don't know what to do. Francis Clark isn't your typical run-of-the-mill killer who shoots someone down at a gas station. The guy is...smarter than me. Smarter than all of us, maybe.”

  Amanda continued to bite her thumbnail. “Conrad, don't give up on me, please. Los Angeles is in the twilight zone right now. You're the man that needs to have a plan.”

  “There's not much I have to go on in order to make a plan,” Conrad confessed. “Sarah's husband—”

  “Ex-husband.”

  “Ex-husband,” Conrad continued, “shows up in town and then he's shot dead by a man who is most likely Francis Clark...a.k.a. the Back Alley Killer.” Conrad fished a toothpick out of his jacket pocket and tossed it into his mouth. “We're trapped in a snowstorm. The authorities refuse to send us any help while the storm bears down on us. There's another killer loose in Los Angeles. And we're standing in the basement of a hospital. Waiting for Sarah. Now what?”

  “When you put it like that,” Amanda sighed. “Oh, I should have gone to London with my hubby.”

  Conrad chewed on his toothpick. “Amanda, we have no choice but to sit tight and wait.”

  “Wait for what? To be killed?”

  “Wait and see what Francis
is going to do next,” Conrad nodded his head. “Francis Clark is out in the storm and we're trapped. We have no other choice but to wait.”

  Amanda looked at Conrad. “Wait until the psycho kills again?” Conrad reluctantly nodded his head. “And then what? Wait until he kills and keeps killing? No sir. I won't volunteer to be a sitting duck. Not this girl. No sir.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” Conrad asked. He looked at Amanda. “I'm open to suggestions. And believe me, I'll take any suggestion you give me. You've saved Sarah's life more than once...and mine. I know I've never told you this, Amanda, but you would have made a great cop.”

  “Me? I'm just—”

  “A very brave and intelligent woman,” Conrad interrupted Amanda. “Now please, just for the time being, pretend that you are a cop, okay? You're right about Sarah. Her mind isn't where it needs to be. I need your help.”

  “Thank you, Conrad,” Amanda sighed. “Your words are very kind. Unfortunately, I'm clueless as to what to do. The only suggestion I can make is to take Sarah and make a run for it. Maybe the killer will follow us out of town? At least if he does, our friends will be safe.”

  “But the storm—”

  “I was just about to say the storm is an obstacle.” Amanda began chewing on her opposite thumbnail. “Blimey, we wouldn't get a hundred feet. I don't want to get caught out in this storm with a killer hunting me like I'm a juicy deer.”

  “Which leads us back to square one.”

  Amanda glanced at Conrad. “The situation can't be this helpless. Los Angeles and I have handled our share of difficult cases. For crying out loud, that weirdo in Oregon wasn't exactly a piece of cake to figure out.”

  Conrad spit his toothpick out. “Amanda,” he said and pulled out a half-smoked cigar from his pocket and popped it between his teeth, “we're standing in quicksand.” And with those words, Conrad grew silent and didn't speak again until Sarah walked out of the morgue.

  Outside in the storm, Francis Clark finally arrived at Sarah's cabin. Even though he was cold and tired, and the storm continued to rage, he found a sheltered spot between the trees in the front yard and immediately began building a snowman. When he finished, he slapped a leather jacket around it and shoved a peppermint candy cane in its mouth. “Oh, the weather outside is frightful,” he sang again. He grinned and eased his way through the snow drifts and stopped at the front door of the cabin. “But the fire is so delightful,” he finished and retrieved a lock-picking tool from his coat pocket. Inside the cabin, Mittens began to whimper.