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K. L. Miller is a freelance writer living in Roswell, NM with his wife and five kids--at last count. He served four years in the United States Marine Corps, after which he went home to Idaho to pursue a career in Law enforcement. He currently serves as a U.S. Border Patrol Agent teaching Driving Techniques at the Border Patrol Academy in Artesia, NM. Fantasy fiction and mysteries are his greatest literary interests and he is plugging away at a first fantasy novel. Hard as Nails represents his first forray into writing a mystery. Hard As Nails by K. L. Miller
The rhythmic thwap of the wipers lulled Holden Michaels into a near trance. He watched the little rivers run across the window as they approached the scene. Another body. When will it end? Of course the only answer he could come up with was, when you find this sicko and put him away.
"Be there in about five minutes. You ready?" Paul Macnair, Holden's grizzled partner said, crow's feet deepening as he glanced over.
Holden turned and resumed watching the gloomy morning rain streak his window and sighed, "Yeah."
***
"Detectives, you'll need your wet gear for this." The local call-out guy for the Coroner's Office pointed them down toward the creek bed. "She's down there. They give you any details?"
They both nodded as they slipped on their galoshes and pulled safety-orange slickers over their cop-salary-quality suit jackets. Then they surveyed the scene.
A mix of old-growth evergreens with scattered hardwoods, typical northwest mountains. Mossy Oaks Creek served as a popular picnic spot from spring until the first cold snap around early September. The rain had swollen the stream to overflowing, leaving the state-provided picnic tables up to their bench seats in silty water. I used to bring Carol and the kids here, Holden thought.
"How long?" Paul asked, referring to the time the deceased had spent in the water.
"Looks like a couple of weeks. Rain's been heavy and probably lifted her out of whatever snag she'd been hooked up on."
Paul and Holden exchanged a look that was mutually understood––this could be victim number one.
Using the guide ropes the rescue guys had already laid out, the two detectives and the deputy coroner made their way down the steep fifty-foot embankment. When they arrived on level ground they moved upstream.
"Right over there." The deputy coroner pointed the butt of his flashlight toward a back-eddy, forty yards further upstream, at the edge of the pond.
Grim, the two detectives crawled over more tangled vegetation and slid down a short, muddy bank before encountering their victim. She half-floated in the back-eddy, face up and fully clothed.
Holden slipped a cheap digital voice recorder out of his pocket and described their location into it, along with the date and time of their arrival. "Female, appears to be late teens or early twenties. Brown hair…uh…green or hazel eyes. Approximately five feet and three or four inches, maybe…a hundred and twenty pounds." He paused, just looking.
"Hey, I don't see…wait, there." Paul nudged Holden in the arm and pointed at the tell-tale signature of New Mexico's Most Wanted serial killer, three ten-penny nails driven into the skulls of the victims. One in each of the temples, above the zygomatic arch, not into the brain, just into the sinuses and orbital cavities. Then, one more, always at the base of the skull, entering the cerebellum.
"Victim number one." Paul shook his head.
Holden just grunted, unsure whether to be relieved that it wasn't a fresh victim, or worried that there might be any number unaccounted-for still out there. He clicked off the record button, then just stared at the depressing mess of humanity some whack-job had left for them to clean up. Sometimes he hated his job.
***
"Why nails?" Holden had been asking himself and his partner that question for a week and a half. Eight weeks, six murders, no apparent link. The FBI was moving in to take over, and the local police were itching to get in on the game. Lieutenant Dowd, the frazzled detectives' immediate superior, was more than breathing down their necks, he was spitting molten lead and drooling it on top of their heads.
"Hell, I don't know. You think I haven't asked that question a hundred times? A thousand? It isn't the angle. We gotta find the link. How're these girls connected?" Paul threw an empty file folder at his partner, "This is what we got. Zip. Nada. Not a goddam thing."
Holden took the berating in stride. They were both on edge and nowhere nearer to closing this thing. The feds were all up on them like stink on a monkey, and they were possibly minutes away from getting jerked off the case completely.
Holden piped in, "All these girls were last seen having attended a party of one type or another, at various locations. Our guy is a partyer, or at least has a way of knowing where the raves are being held. He's in. He has some connection to the academic world. He has a close familiarity with anatomy, because, from what the medical examiner says, he specifically targets non-lethal portions of the cranium with his nails. These girls are alive and can feel each of those penetrations to the temples. It's the one to the cerebellum that kills them."
"So we have…what? A med professor?"
"Yeah, maybe." Holden wasn't sure, but he felt that wasn't quite right. There was something else, something there, waiting to be seen. They just weren't finding it.
***
"Hi honey!" Holden's wife, Carol, kissed him on the cheek while flitting around to drop a trio of plates, laden with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cheese puffs, on the little kitchen table. "You home for a while?" The wife of a detective quickly learns to take advantage of lulls in the demanding timelines of a case.
"I got the day off. Rizzo and Carpenter are standing in. Paul and I needed a break."
"Great. Are you tired?"
Her tone gave Holden the impression there was more to it than a passing curiosity. "No. Not really."
"Wanna take the boys to their soccer game with me?" Hopeful.
He thought about it as he headed for the stairs to peel off the suit. "Yeah, sure." He felt more excited than his voice let on. He hadn't been to the kids' games in a while. Besides, he needed a distraction.
"Okay, babe. We have to leave in about twenty minutes.”
"Yep." He paused and gave his wife a warm smile before turning and heading for the bedroom. He called over his shoulder as he mounted the stairs, "How about dinner out tonight, just us?"
He could hear the surprised pleasure in her voice as she said, "That would be great."
***
The sounds of soccer being played on four fields created a hum. The boys had two pitches and the girls had the opposite two. Holden could hear the screams and squeals coming from the far side of the park complex.
He held Carol's hand as they sat perched on the hard aluminum bleachers. He could see his son, Brad, dribbling downfield, skillfully avoiding the attempts by the opposition to tackle.
"Go Brad!" Carol yelled with one hand held to the side of her mouth.
"He's gotten very good." Holden mentioned.
"He sure has. But, this Coach Bennett…sometimes he seems too hard on the boys. I don't know. Maybe it's better."
Brad didn't score in that charge and Kevin, playing goal keeper on the team, held off an attack with an athletic, diving save. He was proud of both of them and wished he could do this more often.
After the game, Holden and his family walked through the complex toward the parking lot. Along the way they passed an older group of girls dressed for practice, followed by a crewcut, stern-looking man who was discussing something intently with one of the girls in an Irish brogue.
"If you’re weak, you'll lose. You have to be strong out there, stronger than them. Hard as nails.…"
Holden stopped in his tracks. His family didn't notice for a moment and left him standing by himself long enough for those words to reverberate through his psyche.
***
After he and his wife returned from their pleasant, intimate dinner, Holden called Paul.
"What's up, partner?" Paul sounded like he was into beer number three or four, not yet oblivious to reason.
"Hey, did anyone look into sports? Soccer, softball.…"
"What are you…oh, the girls…I dunno, I think some of them might have been. Not sure, why?"
"Something I heard. Maybe nothing. Can you come in?"
"Now? Look, the Feds're taking over. They'll be set up by tomorrow afternoon. What do you have here?" Paul was sobering up with the inevitable adrenaline that came with a possible break in the case.
"Look, I don't know if I have anything yet. Just come in. Meet you in thirty minutes."
At the office the case file was spread out over the conference table in the sheriff's office. Holden and Paul were sifting through all the available data, trying to link the girls through sports.
"Ok, Two and Five played for their junior college soccer team, junior varsity. One played varsity for State. Three and Four were playing basketball at their own schools and Six was not involved in sports at the time of her death."
It has to be here. Holden fumed at his inability to see it. It has to be.
"What about off-time? Away from school?"
"Let's see, not much info here. Maybe we should go back to the families."
At seven o’clock the next morning, the anxious detectives met at the station.
"All right. I'll take One through Three," Holden offered.
"Meet at Mama's at noon?"
Holden nodded agreement and they left, ready to get this next difficult step over with.
***
Every city has its own version of Mama's Diner. A place where law enforcement feels comfortable. They could go, eat, be left alone or not, talk about work or not. An unwinder that served excellent homestyle cooking and hot, highly caffeinated coffee.
Paul leaped right in after a sip of his coffee. "Whaddya got?"
"The only connection I have is a soccer camp all three of mine attended a year ago upstate. The university hosted it. You?"
As Holden spoke, Paul’s eyes widened and he leaned forward abruptly. He set his cup on the table hard, spilling a few drops and burning his fingers. He failed to notice. "No kidding? My girls went there. All of them."
"Let's go."
Paul nodded, scalded his tongue with one last quick sip, threw a five on the table, and together they hustled to the door.
***
"Coach O'Mally?"
The same coach Holden had seen that day back home. He turned, realized they were the detectives that had called him earlier, and broke off from his running drills to walk over, smiling and reaching out to shake hands.
"Sean O'Mally, how can I help you?"
Holden took the offered hand and wondered if he would soon be placing cuffs on it.
After a lengthy interview with the coach, however, Paul and Holden thanked him for his time and hurried back to their car.
***
They approached the home of Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Johnson, a wealthy couple known for their enthusiastic booster contributions to their daughter's university athletic department.
At their knock, a butler opened the door and ushered them into the foyer. "Mr. Johnson will be with you in a moment."
Paul and Holden nodded as they took in the spectacle of the stylish home.
In a few short minutes, Mr. Johnson appeared, wearing tennis togs, "Gentlemen," shaking hands with both of them, "how can I help you?"
"We are investigating the murder of several young women throughout the area."
"The Nailer?" Mr. Johnson repeated the moniker the press had given the killer.
"Yes, sir. We would like to speak with your daughter. We understand she knew all of the victims. It could help our case a lot if she might give us some insight into their behavior."
"Jennifer? She knows these girls?" He seemed nonplussed to figure out how his highborn offspring could know the apparently low caste victims.
"Knew them, sir." Holden reminded him of the girls’ deceased condition. "From Soccer Camp at State University last summer."
"I see. Well, Jennifer is upstairs." He looked pale. An awkward silence extended for a moment, then he asked, "Should I call our lawyer?"
Holden, resisting the urge to scream at him, only replied, "We are just here to ask Jennifer about her soccer camp. She isn't charged with anything, so.…" He let it hang there while Mr. Johnson's mind whirled through possibilities.
Mr. Johnson got to his feet, leaving the racquet, "I'll go get her. If you would wait here, I'll only be a minute."
Jennifer Johnson followed her father into the formal room with a sway of hip and bounce in step that told the detectives she was a curious mix of athlete and debutante, with a sprinkling of affected ditz.
"Will this take long?" The father asked, "Jen has practice in an hour."
"We should be finished soon, sir." Holden gritted his teeth. Prick.
Paul addressed the girl directly: "I am Detective Macnair. This is my partner, Detective Michaels. We are here to ask you a few questions regarding the soccer camp you attended at State last summer. As you already know, some of the other girls who attended have been killed."
"I read about it in the paper." She flipped her medium-length auburn hair back and efficiently pulled it into a tight ponytail. "It's all very sad. Scary too. I hope I'm not on any killer's list or anything." Her words came out flat and she appeared quite casual. She settled into the wide armchair opposite Holden, so he took up the line of questioning.
"Please, tell us about the camp. Did you get to know the other girls well? Was there competition between you? Anything at all might help?"
"I didn’t get to know many of the girls there well at all. We all just, like, worked, ya know? We were up at five o'clock in the morning, worked out until eleven, ate lunch, then worked out until five or six. It was tough, ya know?"
"It sounds like it. Were there any rivalries? Anything stand out of the routine?
"No, not really, I mean, the coach…well, he pushed us hard, all of us." Her face grew tense and her voice wavered, ever-so-slightly as she said this.
Holden saw it and kept his own demeanor placid and interested. He nodded to keep her going.
"Well, Sean, I mean Coach O'Mally, maybe pushed me a little harder than the others. He thinks I can make the Olympic team next year."
"How did he do that? Push you harder, I mean." Holden had picked up a vibe. That unquantifiable something that sometimes made the difference in a successful interview and a washout.
"Oh, he was always telling us to be hard, ya know? Tougher than them."
"Than whom?"
"The other players. Other team. But two or three times a day he'd call me aside and yell at me for being weak. 'You gotta be tough as nails', he said." An almost imperceptible quiver began at the corner of her mouth. Her cool demeanor was beginning to slip away.
Paul slid back a bit in his seat as Holden inched forward slightly, a body language technique calculated to get her to feel closer to Holden.
"Coach O'Mally told us that you had some personal problems with some of the other girls. He said you threatened to get them. Why would you say that?"
"Mary Collinsworth, that little bit—I mean the girl from North Central U. Sean would always hug her and tell her how tough she was. Always yelled at me, though. And that Annie Oakley slut from Missouri or wherever, her and her little southern twang had all the men coaches drooling daily."
"Jenny!" Mr. Johnson stepped up and reached out a hand to comfort his now obviously agitated daughter.
"Get off me, Dad!" Jennifer pushed his hand away and looked up into his eyes, her own were reddening and filled with unshed tears. "You don’t know anything!" Then she snapped. She stood up, turned and yelled in her father’s face, leaning into it, poking a perfectly manicured fingernail into his chest. "You and that alcoholic mother of mine. Neither of you have any god-damned idea what I go through. You sip your stupid martinis and play your stupid tennis…you treat me like a freakin' soccer prom queen." She wiped her nose with her hundred-dollar track suit sleeve and raved on, "I work hard, harder than either of you and all I get is Sean telling me I gotta work harder and be tougher and…fuck this! Fuck you!" She fell heavily back into her seat, crossed her legs and folded her arms. Tears streamed down her unblemished face as she turned toward the glowing curtain over the large picture window. "I don’t care anymore."
Paul got up and herded a shocked Mr. Johnson out into the foyer to advise him that he would, indeed, be needing to call his lawyer.
Holden moved clear out to the edge of the sofa with his hands carefully folded between his knees and softly asked, "How many are there?"
***
The media had a feast for weeks. The discovery that The Nailer was a college girl went against all the FBI's best profiling plots. Jennifer Johnson was tried and convicted of six counts of first-degree murder. The district Attorney battled head-to-head with the best defense money could buy and prevailed. The truth won out, for once, and justice prevailed. Or did it? Holden wondered at how the parents, the coach, and the whole system that pushed this girl to multiple killings could just walk away. No culpability whatsoever.
He walked out of the courthouse shaking his head and went home to his family.
***
A few weeks later, the now familiar wail of children struggling against gravity, themselves and their opponents in that age old game of soccer, brought a touch of sadness to Holden as he sat watching his sons' latest game. They would make the playoffs if they won that day, but he didn't push them. He and Carol just encouraged them to do their best and, win or lose, they took them out for pizza or ice cream, and told them they were proud of them.
THE END K. L. Miller © 2008 |