Tempest Court. Jan Walters
attention. He turned toward the sink. No water was dripping. Where was the sound coming from?
“C’mon, Sam. Hurry up.” Henry pounded on the metal door to encourage Sam to hurry up. The stall door eased open. Instinctively, he took a step backward. His eyes widened. A thin stream of blood caught his attention. The crimson liquid inched its way toward Henry’s shoes. Reluctantly, Henry raised his gaze.
Sam sat lopsided on the toilet. His torso splayed open. His intestines sat in his lap. Drops of blood fell from the displaced organs to the white tile floor.
Henry’s breath froze. He staggered backward, collapsing against the sink. He clutched his collar, ripping off the top button. His chest heaved. He couldn’t breathe. He drew a hand across his face. He forced his gaze upward. Sam’s facial features were distorted; twisted in agony. It was as if his face was frozen in terror.
“Oh, my god…” Mustering strength, Henry made a beeline for the bathroom door, flinging it open and then running pell-mell back to the office. Quickly locking the door behind him, he grabbed the phone. His hand shook so hard he could barely punch 911.
“Des Moines Police Department. What is your emergency?”
“Help. I… A man has been killed. Need help.”
The calm voice on the phone asked. “Sir, what is your name?”
“Henry Morrison. Retired DMPD officer. I’m at the Art Center. Send help right away.”
“Sir, an ambulance and a unit are on their way. What door will be open for them?”
“I’ll be waiting at the front door.”
Henry hung up the phone and drew his gun. As he hurried toward the front entrance, he flipped on every light along the way. Is the killer still in the building? How did he get inside?
Within minutes, flashing red lights raced up the driveway into the parking lot. He quickly holstered his gun, not wanting the officers to think he was a threat. Once they were inside, he led the officers to the bathroom while he waited out in the hallway. He didn’t want to see Sam’s face again. Once was enough. He stiffened as the bathroom door flew open. An officer quickly exited the bathroom and grabbed an empty trash can to vomit in.
Henry ignored his churning stomach, realizing that he needed to report the incident. He pulled out his cell phone and called the art director. With the upcoming investigation, who knew how long the center would be closed? Turning away crowds of people wouldn’t make the administration happy. It would only be a matter of time before someone pointed the finger of blame in his direction. Oh, he knew that he didn’t kill Sam, but he was the senior guard and a former police officer. Ultimately, he was responsible. He needed this job to help pay health insurance costs.
“Sir, I’d like to get your statement if you’re ready,” the officer requested.
After giving his statement, Henry waited at the information desk near the front door. The coroner would be arriving soon. Until then, the body stayed where it was. Poor kid! Henry couldn’t believe Sam was dead. How the hell did it happen? He didn’t hear anything. No screams. Nothing. Why wouldn’t Sam have screamed?
Henry pulled out a chair, sinking his face into his hands. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what happened? A tap on his shoulder drew his attention.
“Morrison, is that you?”
Henry looked up and met Chief Ander’s gaze. Quickly rising, he shook the chief’s hand. “Anders. Glad to see you’re still working.”
Anders nodded. “For a few more years. I heard that you called it in. What the hell happened here?”
Henry shook his head, blinking back the moisture collecting in his eyes. “I was training a new guard, Sam Anderson. We were doing our rounds, but Sam didn’t come back to the breakroom. When I went looking for him, I found him in the bathroom there.” Henry pointed over his shoulder. “The kid was split open like a baked potato.”
“The guys said it was pretty bad. Did you hear anything?”
Henry shook his head. “Nothing. Not one damn thing.”
“That’s strange, don’t you think?”
Henry nodded. “I’ve been trying to figure it out.”
Anders brushed back his gray hair. “Anything out of place?”
“Damn. I haven’t even looked after this all happened. I’ll make the rounds and get back to you.”
“I can send one of the men with you.” Anders gave him a weary-looking smile.
“Thanks, but I got it. They’ve got their job to do. I’ll do mine.” He might have let Sam down, but by God, he was going to help solve the kid’s murder.
* * * * *
Anders frowned as he watched Henry walk away. His story sounded legit, but you never knew. With a deep breath, he turned and entered the bathroom. Two detectives were in the process of recording evidence.
Anders glanced in the stall. “Mother of God,” he swore. He turned toward the detectives. “You guys ever see anything like this?”
“This is a new one, sir. I can’t tell for sure by the way the guy is cut open but I think something is missing.”
“What do you mean by that?” Anders stared at the body again.
The detective shrugged. “I’m not sure but I think a body part is gone.”
“How can you even tell? All I see is guts and blood.”
“Just a hunch, sir. The coroner will confirm it.”
Anders threw open the bathroom door and took a deep breath once out in the hallway. He’d seen some weird, gory shit in his day but never a mutilated body like that. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the calendar. November second. Not October. Was he jumping to conclusions? Was he reading something into it? A chuckle escaped him. Am I going batty in my old age? He’d wait and see what the coroner report indicated and then decide whether or not to call in O’Shea to investigate the case. No use in getting the horse before the cart!
Chapter 16
Brett jerked awake. Something touched the back of his neck. He rolled over and saw Michael standing above the bed, motioning for him to follow. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly before rolling out of bed and tiptoeing out of the bedroom.
He joined Michael in the kitchen. His great-grandfather sat at the table, watching him. He slid into a chair and rested his chin in his hands. With eyes barely open, he let out a yawn. Ready to ream the ghost out for waking him up in the middle of the night, Brett bit back his harsh words. His eyes narrowed, studying Michael. With the fedora in his hand, Michael’s head bowed. The ghost’s sandy-brown hair fell across his brow. Brett straightened. Michael’s green eyes looked wet.
“What’s wrong?” Brett leaned forward.
“There’s been a murder at the Art Center.”
Brett clenched his fists. “What?”
Michael waved a hand at him. “Calm down. It’s not Layla or anyone you know.”
“Start talking.”
“I was snooping around Layla’s exhibit tonight because that creepy canopic jar of yours still bothers me. As I was drifting around the building, I heard a strange moan or something. By the time I got there, some young kid was gutted like a fish.”
“So Morrison is okay then?” Brett’s lips thinned into a straight line.
Michael nodded. “Yep. How do you know him?”
“He used to work with Dad before he died. I remember him hanging out at the house when I was a kid.”
“He seems like a nice guy. It was quite a shock for him.”