Death Notice. Todd Ritter

      FIVE

      Henry didn’t know where to begin. It wasn’t easy sounding sane while telling someone a killer faxed you his victim’s death notice before the murder occurred. But he was determined to try.

      He also didn’t know what to make of the woman sitting next to him. Kat Campbell seemed to inject everything she did with relentless drive, whether it was marching out to her patrol car or buckling her seat belt. That quest for efficiency extended to her facial features. Her sharp chin jutted forward while her lips formed a grimace.

      Yet Henry noticed small attempts at femininity peeking through her determined personality. Light pink gloss coated her lips. Tiny gold hoops hung from her ears. And some salon-produced highlights colored her obviously darkened hair. All that, coupled with shapely curves that couldn’t be erased by a severely starched uniform, made her look both tough and vulnerable—a soccer mom heading into battle.

      And she drove like a maniac. Careening out of the station’s parking lot, they barely missed hitting a fire hydrant and had to swerve out of the way of an approaching car.

      “First thing,” Kat said, steering through an alley that would take them onto Main Street, “when did you receive the death notice?”

      “It was sitting in the fax machine when I got to my office this morning.”

      “And what time was that?”

      Henry clutched the dashboard as Kat jerked the steering wheel, making a sharp right onto Main Street. “Nine.”

      “I found the body just after eight. I’m certain word trickled out to enough people for someone to send it before you got to work.”

      “That doesn’t explain the time stamp,” Henry said. “And before you ask, yes, I already checked the fax machine to see if its date and time are set correctly. They are.”

      “What about the fax number it was sent from?”

      Henry knew what she was talking about. On every fax, the sending number appeared next to the time stamp.

      “I don’t recognize it. Which means it wasn’t sent by a funeral home I regularly deal with. Or even by a funeral home at all.”

      “So who do you think sent it?”

      “If I had to guess,” Henry said, “I’d say it was sent by whoever killed George Winnick.”

      On Main Street, traffic was plentiful. A UPS truck idled in the middle of the road, forcing all vehicles behind it to inch their way past. Kat huffed in frustration, her knuckles turning white as she tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

      “Have you told anyone else about this?” she asked.

      “No. I thought it was best to keep something like this quiet.”

      Kat no longer appeared to be listening. Instead, she glanced in her rearview mirror before snapping her head toward the window, her hair whipping across her cheek. With her jaw set and the nostrils of her pert nose flaring, she said, “Hold on.”

      She flicked on the car’s lights and siren before swinging the vehicle around the car in front of them and into the left lane. Without slowing, she continued on the wrong side of the road until they were past the UPS truck.

      “Did you get a look at that truck’s plates?” she asked. “I should ticket him.”

      A shaken Henry, who figured Chief Campbell should ticket herself first, shook his head.

      Kat shrugged and veered left, bouncing them through another alley until they were on Baker Street, home of the elementary school.

      “Let’s say the fax really was sent at ten fifteen last night,” she said, resuming their conversation. “Now, assuming it is from the killer, that means he would have sent it almost immediately before George Winnick died. But why would he do that?”

      “I have no idea,” Henry said. “Maybe it was a warning.”

      Kat sighed. “Or else a taunt.”

      As she spoke, the school edged into view. Kat steered the patrol car into a line of sedans and SUVs waiting at the curb. She put the car in park just as the school’s front doors flew open, depositing a wave of children onto the sidewalk.

      “I have a favor to ask,” Kat said, her eyes glued to the school doors. “Don’t tell anyone about this. Not your editor. Not any of the reporters. Not even Martin Swan.”

      “Agreed.”

      The chief glanced away from the school long enough to flash him a look of pleased surprise.

      “Not a very devoted employee, are you?”

      “My loyalty lies with the people I write about,” Henry said. “Nothing else is my concern, so I don’t bother with it.”

      “That’s a good attitude to have.”

      “I think so.”

      Among the last students out of the school were two boys. One of them was a small child with ebony skin, thin limbs, and a pair of glasses balanced on his nose. The other was larger but slower, and he broke into a smile when he saw the patrol car. From where he sat, Henry could tell that the boy had Down’s Syndrome.

      “Hey there, Little Bear,” Kat said as she jumped out of the car and planted a sloppy kiss on the boy’s cheek.

      He ran the back of his hand across his face, wiping the kiss away. “Mom, not in front of Jeremy.”

      The boy’s voice was thick and halting, though not as bad as most other cases of Down’s that Henry had seen. The clothes he wore—jeans and an oversized Philadelphia Eagles jersey—made it clear Kat wanted him to be treated like any other boy.

      “How’s your cough?” she asked him. “Better?”

      The boy nodded. “I only coughed eleven times today.”

      “Eleven? I guess that’s better than twelve.”

      When the police chief smiled this time, Henry noted it wasn’t a forced grin like the one she had offered him in the police station. It was natural and maternal, spreading across her face with unconscious joy. Much more attractive than the pinched expression she had worn during the drive there.

      Kat opened the patrol car’s back door to let both boys climb inside. When he saw Henry, the chief’s son held out a pudgy hand.

      “Hi. I’m James.”

      “My name’s Henry.”

      The other boy crinkled his nose at Henry, a gesture that made his glasses rise and fall.

      “What happened to your face?”

      James swatted him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t be rude.”

      “I was just asking,” the other boy said.

      “This is Jeremy,” James told Henry. “He’s a stupid head.”

      Jeremy scowled. “You’re a stupid head.”

      Kat slid behind the wheel and admonished the pair with a stern glance in the rearview mirror. “You’re both stupid heads. End of discussion.”

      That sent the boys into hysterics.

      “Mom called us stupid heads,” James said through a torrent of giggles. “That’s funny.”

      Henry should have found it funny, too. Yet the presence of the boys made him so uncomfortable it eclipsed all amusement. He wasn’t good with kids. Not anymore.