PROLOGUE
October 2006
Cat Leigh, 30, but looking like a fresh-faced college cheerleader, sat on her living room sofa sifting through a stack of 8x10 glossies. Her long blonde hair hung down around her face like a curtain, hiding the piercing blue eyes that stared hard at the images of death before her. If appearances are deceiving, then Cat was the ultimate chameleon. Dressed in navy blue Capri pants, navy and white stripped short-sleeve cotton sweater and red low-heeled sandals, she appeared ready for a day of boating—not one spent examining corpses and interviewing murder suspects.
One by one she held a magnifying glass to the photos and looked for something— anything—that would put an end to the reign of terror that had taken hold in Palm Beach County and, in particular, her hometown of Palm Beach Gardens, Florida and the neighboring town of Jupiter. Larger and more heavily populated West Palm Beach, a neighboring city to the south, was also caught in the grip of this diabolical crime spree.
The Kalendar Killer, christened by a local reporter with degrees in both English Literature and Theology, had left his victims displayed like gifts wrapped in banners celebrating the holiday of the month. The reporter, not content to merely slap the madman with a media worthy nickname, had chosen to use the ecclesiastic spelling… a not-so-subtle message that God had been missing in action when the crimes were committed.
So far, there had been five murders: Janice Handera, 47, married, two children, stabbed through the throat with a nine-inch steel florist’s pick on Mother’s Day; Wallace Lanier, 60, a long time deadbeat dad, buried up to his neck and “stoned” to death with baseballs on Father’s Day; PFC Timothy Varde, 23, bayoneted on July 4th; Peter Colangelo, 63, retired president of the local Electrical Workers Union, hung with a heavy duty extension cord from a Gumbo Limbo tree on Labor Day; and Amber Culp, 28, a palm reader with one of the smaller traveling circuses that make their way up and down the east coast, suffocated with tarot cards shoved down her throat on Halloween.
No connections had been found between the victims, no usable evidence was uncovered at the scenes and other than Lanier’s history of non-support for his three children, the victims appeared to be decent people. The holiday banners in which the victims were wrapped were a dime a dozen in every party store in the country and on the internet. None of the local stores had surveillance video and, since hundreds of people had bought the banners, well, to quote one store owner, “You think I can remember every person who bought decorations over the past year. Think again!” If there was anything to be thankful for, it was that no murders occurred in August—a month with no recognized holidays.
Located at the north end of Palm Beach County, Palm Beach Gardens and Jupiter, the formerly quaint fishing village on growth hormones, had zip codes that were popular winter destinations for wealthy retirees who called the northeast home only during the spring and summer. Come November, thousands of snowbirds, as they were less than affectionately called by the locals, arranged for their BMWs and Mercedes to be shipped to their temporary residences in the Sunshine State via auto transport. They booked first class tickets on not-so-first-class airlines and flew south before a single flake of white marred their manicured lawns; firm believers that it was better to sweat than to shiver.
For those fanatics who carried a golf club bag like a dowager’s hump, Palm Beach Gardens was heaven on earth. There were 12 USGA rated courses within the city limits and the Professional Golfers Association of America was headquartered on the Avenue of Champions inside PGA National Resort and Spa, one of two sites which annually hosted the Honda Classic; the other being the Country Club at Mirasol.
Both Palm Beach Gardens and Jupiter were home to some very famous people in show business and the sports world, and Jupiter also had the distinction of being rated the Ninth Happiest Seaside Town in America by Coastal Living. With the potential for more murders hanging heavy in the air, there were no waits to tee off, the driving ranges and putting greens were empty, and the smiles of North County residents had turned into grimaces of fear.
Even the citizens of West Palm Beach, for whom the sound of sirens was a nightly occurrence, were behaving less apathetically than usual. Many were spending their evenings at home, which was putting a crimp in revenues at popular nightclubs and bars on trendy Clematis Street and at restaurants in upscale City Place. With each murder, the economy was becoming as big a concern for local government as crime statistics.
Headlines on the front page of the Palm Beach Post, the forever shrinking newspaper which was little more than a directory of new and used automobiles for sale, fairly shouted demands for answers. In every edition, the mayors and councils of every city in the county were quoted hurling verbal assaults on Sheriff Mike Brickshaw and some were threatening to drop the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office (PBSO) from their payrolls. Brickshaw’s constant assurances that PBSO homicide detectives were working overtime to discover the identity of the Kalendar Killer had done little to assuage their concerns. Brickshaw himself had been issuing a few threats, telling his staff that if he heard one of them using the made-for-tv sobriquet he would fire them.
Among local law enforcement and across the country, a deep dislike for crime shows such as the popular Las Vegas based CSI had been intensifying over the past few years. The public’s belief that the technology seen on these shows actually existed had put an added burden on already overworked staff to solve crimes quickly. Although the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System could provide results in as little as 27 minutes, DNA processing could take weeks to months and sometimes years. When you considered that an estimated 400,000 rape kits were waiting to be processed nationwide, crime solving took on a whole new perspective. Sheriff Brickshaw was often heard to state in his I dare you to contradict me voice, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if crimes could be solved in the time between commercials for urinary incontinence and erectile dysfunction.”
Unselfconsciously, Cat spoke aloud to Kneesaa; the little black and white Shih Tzu perched beside her. Despite the dog’s powder puff appearance, she was more protective of Cat than any ten-times-her-size Rottweiler and, judging by the attentive look in her eyes, Kneesaa understood every word her mistress was saying.
“We need a miracle, NeeNee,” Cat confided using her nickname for the dog. “What if we don’t find this guy before Thanksgiving?”
The simple act of communication seemed to have a calming effect on Cat, who cradled the dog in her arms while burying her face in the scruff of her neck. A few seconds later, the dog squirmed away and Cat began to scowl. She returned to looking at the photos, frustration obvious in the Frisbee-like way she tossed each one to the floor.
The carpeting around Cat’s feet was littered with throwaways—those pictures that documented the depravity of mankind while providing nothing new in the way of hope. Newspapers from weeks past, highlighted in yellow and circled in black, were stacked on the cushion next to her. So intent was she on looking for clues that the banging of the apartment complex maintenance man installing a new air conditioner in the kitchen was like a cotton ball bouncing on concrete. So many people had tried to repair the ancient and rusting parts that Cat had grown immune to the sound of wrenches and saws hacking away at the old plumbing running through the walls of her second floor unit. Weekly complaints over the last three months had finally gotten her the result she wanted—a new a/c with the power to keep her apartment and her temper cool even on the hottest of days.
Only the ringing of the maintenance man’s cell phone, which played an offensive rap tune with each incoming call, got Cat’s attention, causing her to furrow her brow as though asking “Why that song?” The droning sounds of the morning news anchors coming from the television were mere white noise until the voice of one of Cat’s favorite “shiny girls” broke through her concentration. Shiny girls—that was what Cat called the overly sunny personalities of the local female weather forecasters who were more annoying than informative. Usually this was the point at which she turned off the news but on this morning Cat reached for the remote and amped up the volume as the map of south Florida filled the screen.
“For the next few days, our normal October cool weather will be replaced with the sweltering heat of summer so dress accordingly,” bubbled the early morning Miss Shiny, who was clad in a too tight, low cut dress left over from some long forgotten holiday party.
Cat picked up Kneesaa’s rubber chew toy from the floor and threw it at the widescreen across the room. “Wardrobe advice from a wannabe actress. I guess she doesn’t own a mirror, Nee Nee. That outfit is better suited to New Year’s Eve at a strip club than morning television.” Cat shook her head and reached again for Kneesaa. “Well, Nee Nee, shall we take bets on how Marci will be dressed today?” The look in Kneesaa’s eyes seemed to say, “You have to ask?”
Cat clicked off the television and returned to looking at the photographs, effectively blocking out the world around her. Deeply engrossed, she failed to hear the maintenance man announce his pending departure.
“Miss,” the tall, muscular black man in his early twenties adjusted the Bluetooth in his ear and pulled the brim of his baseball cap low on his face as he called to Cat from the hallway between the kitchen and living room. When she did not answer, he raised his voice slightly and tried again. “Miss, I’m leaving. If you have any more problems, please call the office.”
Again Cat didn’t acknowledge his presence and again he raised his voice. Kneesaa growled in response to its aggressive tone. Cat looked at Nee Nee, who was looking into the hallway. Following the dog’s stare, she saw but didn’t make eye contact with the repairman as she offered a response. His back was now towards her as he prepared to exit the apartment. “Did you say something?”
The maintenance man spoke over his shoulder. “I’m leaving. If you have any problems, call the office.”
Cat, who had already turned back to studying the crime scene photos, waved a hand in acknowledgement as the maintenance man opened the front door. “Thanks.”
The next thing Cat heard was a scream, which barely caused her to flinch.
“Yikes!” Cat’s partner, Marci Welles, yelled as she stood in the doorway, blocking the maintenance man’s exit.
Cat looked at Kneesaa and rolled her eyes. With photographs still in hand, she called to her dearest friend to enter. “Nice of you to wake the neighborhood, Marci. Come on in.”
Short and pleasingly plump Marci was dressed in a man-tailored, long-sleeve shirt, suit jacket and heavy rubber soled tie shoes. Her boyish haircut was softened by long bangs which framed mischievous dark eyes and a pert little nose. Freckles were scattered over her cheeks like soot that had drifted on the wind. Her raspy voice held a tinge of suppressed laughter.
“You scared the crap out of me,” Marci informed the repairman who, with head lowered, side stepped around her.
Mumbling, “Sorry,” he moved quickly down the stairs.
“No problem. Now, at least, I have an excuse for the grey streaks in my hair.”
The maintenance man didn’t respond. Marci shrugged her shoulders at his rudeness and moved into the apartment, closing the door behind her.
“Are you ready,” she called to Cat as she strode into the living room. “They’re waiting for us.”
“Yeah, I’m just going over the shots from the Blowing Rocks murder.”
Marci threw a manila envelope onto the coffee table. “Here. Look at these. I guarantee they won’t make you cringe.”
As Cat opened the envelope, Marci picked up Kneesaa and rubbed her belly. She directed her comments to the dog but the intended recipient was well within earshot. “Nee Nee, your mommy needs to get a life.”
Cat stuck her tongue out at Marci as she withdrew another stack of photos from the envelope. A huge smile crossed her face. “Oh, Marci, these are precious.”
“Yup. Your goddaughter is one cute kid even if I do say so myself.”
“You and Ian are so lucky.”
“You’ll have one of your own before long.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely,” Marci assured her with a punch to the shoulder. “But right now we’ve got a hot one waiting for us downtown.”
Marci gave Kneesaa a final rub on the belly and laid her back on the sofa. Cat gave Marci’s outfit the once over. “Hot being the definitive word, Marci. You do know that it’s 96 degrees outside, don’t you?”
“Your point?”
“You’re dressed for winter—in Vermont.”
“I look professional.”
“I’ll remind you of that statement when you’re struggling to breathe and dripping like a melting icicle.”
Cat rose from the sofa and headed for the front door. Kneesaa followed her. “Sorry, sweet pea. No time for a walk now. Be a good girl while I’m gone.”
Near the door, Cat opened the drawer of an antique credenza. She removed a holstered gun and a gold detective’s shield on a lanyard. She took the gun from the holster, snapped in a clip and slid the gun back into the holster before dropping it into her satchel, which was hanging on a nearby coat rack. She slipped the lanyard around her neck and tucked the badge inside her shirt. Marci, anxious to get on the road, already had her hand on the door. Cat stopped her as she was about to step onto the porch. “You sure you don’t want to change into something cooler?”
“I’m fine. This is my signature look.”
“Whatever you say, Nanook. Lead the way.”
Donna Carbone is the Executive Director/Playwright in Residence at the Palm Beach Institute for the Entertainment Arts, where education through entertainment is the mission statement.
Please visit: pbinstituteforentertainmentarts.com