Clueless: The "Pantyhose Slasher" Cases: Stanley Bentworth, #3

Chapter 1

He steers the hybrid through a residential section on the city’s outskirts, the only sounds his labored breathing and the crunch of tires on the pavement. The day is gone, the streets empty and silent, the houses dark, and the town asleep. The driver navigates the dark course with headlights off and only moonlight and street lamps, one on every block, to light the way.

The young girl’s lifeless body leans against the door, her eyes open but unseeing, her head slumped, her face frozen in a final expression of terror. A deep gash along the fold between her chin and neck seeps blood onto a towel wrapped around her neck. Her hands and feet are bound with her own pantyhose.

Another car turns onto the street a block away. He pulls over alongside the curb and waits to let the intruding vehicle pass. Then he continues his dark, silent journey.

There are no other cars in the parking area of the old church cemetery. The chain link gate stands open, neglected and held in place by an overgrowth of weeds. He gets out, walks around the car, and opens the passenger’s side door. She falls toward him, and he catches her and sits her upright. He grips her hair, lifts her head, and inscribes in lipstick on her forehead his chosen death symbol, the sign of the cross.

He lifts her small body from the car and carries her to the bushes inside the fence, careful to stay out of sight of the roadway. The effort leaves him winded, and he stands quietly for a moment to catch his breath.

Her brown hair is disheveled from their struggle, and he carefully smooths and restores it to its original shape.

One final look at her youthful face reveals the first stages of death, her beauty intact but drained of blood to a colorless gray. He closes her eyes with two fingers and whispers into her ear.

Now you sleep with the angels.

Chapter 2

Ten in the morning and nothing to do but read the paper, which was business-as-usual at the Bentworth Detective Agency, LLC. I am Stanley Bentworth, private investigator, and like the rest of the country, I was out of work. I had two stalled cases and no prospects. Whatever made me think a guy could make a living waiting for the phone to ring?

The outside world was alive and active, though. Things were happening. Bad things. The morning paper reported yet another murder allegedly committed by the so-called Pantyhose Slasher, who had been terrorizing the town for the past year. A young woman’s body had been found at dawn in the weeds next to the old cemetery, her throat cut, her body drained of blood, and her arms and legs bound with pantyhose. Murder number four and counting.

Delbert Falls isn’t a big town, but it’s not a tiny borough either. Located half way between Philadelphia and Baltimore, it provides affordable housing in a small town atmosphere with a few rich people, some middle class, and lots of poor.

Murders are not uncommon here. Gangbangers control the projects, and with that comes drug deals, turf wars, muggings, and robberies, many of which end up with somebody dead. The upper crust has its share of homicides too. Money corrupts, jealousy motivates, and the rich and powerful think they can get away with anything. More than enough action to keep a murder cop busy.

But not a private detective.

I stretched three rubber bands between my fingers and tried to plunk out Stormy Weather with my teeth on my makeshift mouth harp. The old tune never sounded so bad.

Until recently, serial killings were unheard of in Delbert Falls, and with a relatively small population to choose from, the police ought to have been able to catch a serial killer. I know. I used to be a homicide cop. Not any more, though.

In my wildest fantasy I was back on the job as lead detective on the Slasher cases, working the streets, interviewing witnesses, grilling suspects, and closing cases. But that wouldn’t happen. I didn’t work in Homicide any more or anywhere else in the department.

Actually, the job was my second-wildest fantasy. My wildest fantasy involved Marilyn Monroe, whipped cream, cellophane, and a toothless monkey. That one had about as much chance of coming true as the other one.

Booze and a big mouth had cost me my job as a homicide cop several years back. The mouth was fueled by the booze, no doubt about that. I’m working on it, but it won’t do any good. I burned bridges on the way out.

I gazed for the hundredth time at my Mickey Mouse watch. Oliver’s wouldn’t open until four. Six hours is a long time without something to do or something to drink. Not that there’s anything to do at Oliver’s, but there’s plenty to drink.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not an alcoholic. I just drink too much. I can quit whenever I want to. I quit just last week only to learn that I didn’t really want to.

Twang. I shot a rubber band at the wastepaper basket across the room. Missed.

A bottle of cheap bourbon languished in my desk drawer. I always kept one in reserve in case of snakebite and other emergencies. But there were no snakes within miles. Maybe I could buy one.

I drink too much. Did I already say that? At least I’m not in denial.

I had turned over a new leaf, however. I resolved each day not to drink before quitting time. Which, of course, meant I had to lay off work earlier, which was easy enough when there was no work.

I planned to quit smoking too, so I lit a Camel and leaned back to think about that. My swivel chair’s springs complained. Squeak.

Who asked you? I said to the chair and blew a smoke ring.

Twang. Another rubber band bounced off the wall and hit the floor.

I had more than my vices to worry about. A lot more. The bank account was overdrawn, and two unsolved missing-person cases were prominently written in black felt-tip marker on the whiteboard. Neither of those targets, a bail jumper named David Deeter Detweiler and a runaway kid named Charlotte Jens, were anywhere to be found. Well, they were somewhere obviously, but not to be found.

Deeter was a hairdresser on the lam, if you can picture that. He had skipped bail on an assault charge and disappeared. Bondo the bail bondsman hired me to find Deeter and return him to justice. So far, no luck. I’d been to the salon where he worked, his mother’s house where he lived, and all the bars in between. Nobody knew where Deeter was.

Bondo wasn’t the only one who wanted Deeter found. His salon clientele included most of the high society skirts in the Heights, and they wanted him back on the job. Their coiffures required his expert attention, or so they said. Things were getting hairy in the Heights.

Twang. Missed again.

I had no leads on either case and no idea where to look for one. The bane of a P.I.’s existence, the dead-end street. So you sit and wait. And shoot rubber bands. Something better happen soon or I’d run screaming out of the office.

Willa, I called out, I’m going to run screaming out of the office.

The tap-tap of Willa’s keyboard stopped. That’s okay, boss man. Be careful on the stairs. The tap-tap resumed.

Willa was my long-suffering secretary, receptionist, bookkeeper, office administrator, and mother confessor. I wondered what she was typing. Her résumé, probably. She hadn’t collected a paycheck for a while.

Twang. Hung over the rim of the trashcan. I was getting closer.

The phone rang. Willa was busy, so I grabbed it as soon as it rang. Actually, it wasn’t so much out of concern for Willa as it was to break the monotony. I’d have answered the pencil sharpener if it had rung.

Bentworth Detective Agency, Stanley Bentworth here, I said, giving my usual formal telephone greeting when I didn’t know who the caller was. Modern telephones tell their owners who is calling. I might have to look into that some day.

The raspy voice was unmistakable. Stan? I’m on my way. Got something for you.

Thank God. Bill Penrod was coming to spark up the day, and he had something for me. I wondered what it could be. I hung up the phone and leaned back.

Squeak, said the chair. Shut up, I said to the chair.

In addition to the boredom, the missing-person business is usually simple and predictable. Most runaway teens don’t make it much past the edge of town where they panhandle, sleep in abandoned cars, and wait to be found, scolded, and taken home. I’d already been there. Charlotte Jens was not among the runaway street people.

Most bail jumpers go home and hide in a closet, cellar, or attic. I’d been there too. Deeter Detweiler was not at home. At least, not the day I’d been there. Nobody had seen him, or so they said, nobody being his mother and her cat.

Both targets lived at home, Charlotte with her parents, and Deeter with his mother. Charlotte was seventeen and Deeter was in his fifties or thereabouts. No connection, just two independent missing-person cases.

Twang. Slam dunk, nothing but net. That’s more like it.

Since I hadn’t been able to find either missing person, my pal Sanford had taken over the Detweiler search. He’d turn up the fugitive in short order, I hoped, and I’d get paid. The rent was overdue, Willa was getting nervous, and I was running low on bourbon and Camels.

You know what a pack of cigarettes costs these days? Get me started...

After Sanford found Detweiler, maybe he could find the teenager too. He can look in places I don’t dare to go, and he knows people I wouldn’t dare to approach, much less question. Nobody can hide from Sanford.

Twang. Nowhere near.

I mentally ran down everything I knew about Charlotte Jens. She had gone out late in the evening to a convenience store. She liked to walk, according to her mother. The streets were well-lit with plenty of pedestrian traffic, so her parents didn’t worry about her making the short hike to the store alone at night. They hadn’t seen her since.

The police weren’t as concerned about her. Because she had been missing several days, Missing Persons had to file the report, but they weren’t knocking themselves out looking for her. Just another runaway teenager. Most times they come home when they get cold or hungry. Since Charlotte didn’t fit the serial killer’s victim profile—his victims were all adults—they weren’t considering her among the Slasher’s prey. I didn’t know that to be a fact, not being in the loop, but I know how they think.

Charlotte’s boyfriend, Ken Downey, was not missing. Usually when a runaway girl takes off, the boyfriend isn’t far behind, but not this time. Her father said Charlotte and Downey had argued that night. I had not questioned Downey. He made himself unavailable to my private investigation, and I didn’t have the clout to force an interview.

Her father had been clear in his and his wife’s disapproval of the boyfriend. We don’t like that Downey fellow. He’s in his twenties. He’s too old for a seventeen-year-old girl.

Charlotte still attended high school and worked evenings and weekends at her parents’ funeral home. She was happy here, her father had said, and was looking forward to going to college. She had no reason to run away. But that’s how the police are treating it.

Tap, tap on my doorsill. Willa stuck her head in. Heads up, boss man. Bill Penrod is here.

At last. I put the rubber bands away, pulled the bourbon and a coffee cup from the desk drawer, and placed them on the desk next to my own cup. Willa returned to her desk, clucking her usual disapproval of anyone drinking this early in the day.

Bill Penrod, homicide cop and my former partner before I was booted out of the department, dragged his ample bulk into my office. He panted hard from his climb up the two flights of stairs that led from the lobby to the Bentworth Detective Agency, LLC.

You need to get that goddamn elevator fixed, he said as he braced himself first on Willa’s desk just outside my door and then against the door jamb. After a moment, he waddled over, huffing and puffing, and started to speak, but he couldn’t get it out.

I held up my hand. Relax, Bill, wait ‘til you’ve caught your breath.

I have, he said. This is how I breathe. Seen the morning paper? He held up the newspaper to show me the headline.

Pantyhose Slasher Strikes Again

Yes, I said. I put down my coffee and stood to shake hands, an unnecessary formality for friends of so many years, but one we often observed.

Is that what you brought me? I said. The newspaper?

No, he said. Well, yes, but that’s not all. Read it.

He tossed the newspaper onto my desk, dragged a wooden folding chair over, and plopped down facing me with his back to the whiteboard. The chair complained with a sag and a creak. I sat, gulped the last swallow of coffee, and slid the bourbon and both cups over to Bill. I had already read the story, but I read it again with new interest. For some reason, Bill Penrod wanted to discuss it with me, which might mean I’d get some work out of it. He poured while I read.

Police responded this morning to a report of the dead body of a young girl left in the underbrush near Collins Street. Her throat had been slit.

The victim was found lying next to a dumpster and fully clothed except for her pantyhose, which the killer used to tie her hands and legs.

A jogger spotted her in the brush a few yards off the road and called 9-1-1.

Police are withholding her name pending notification of next of kin.

This is the fourth such killing in the past year. In the other cases, the women had gone missing a week before and had died only hours before being found.

Bill looked around the room. His gaze settled on the wastepaper basket with its surrounding rubber bands. You throwing away all your rubber bands? A natural deduction given the evidence. Bill was a master detective, better than me, even.

Nope, I said.

Why is the trash can clear across the room?

For the three-pointers, I said.

He nodded.

So what about this case? I asked. What do you want from me?

This is the fourth killing, Stan. Three straight honeys and a dyke.

Lesbian, Bill. You can’t say dyke. It’s politically incorrect. Besides, we don’t want to offend Willa.

I heard that, came the stern voice from the outer office.

Bill made his aw, shit face and shrunk down as much as the small chair would allow. He whispered. Is Willa a snatch diver?

No. Just an old maid. Can’t seem to get laid.

You should maybe take care of her, he said.

That’d be mercy-fucking. I really kept my voice down for that one. I’m such a dirt-bag; sometimes I can’t stand myself.

The phone rang. Willa called out, Sanford on line one.

As I reached for the phone, Bill said, Line one? How many lines you got?

One, I said. Hold on while I get this.

Sanford was my silent partner in both the figurative and literal senses. His name wasn’t on the door, and he didn’t talk much. An enigmatic character who always wore black, he was slim and dark-complexioned with black hair and black eyes like marbles, and he slithered like a black snake.

Sanford, I said. What’s up?

Got a line on Detweiler.

The bail jumper. That was good news. Maybe we’d get paid. Where’s he at?

Checked into the YMCA. His mother’s credit card. In there now.

What an idiot, I said. Good work. Pull him out and take him to police headquarters. Let Willa know when he’s in custody. Do I want to know how you found him?

No.

Private bounty hunters don’t have to abide by the same rules as cops. They don’t need a warrant or probable cause to enter a building and take custody of the target, Miranda doesn’t exist, and their methods can’t become a defense lawyer’s strategy to taint the trail of evidence or make a case for police brutality.

Sanford’s success didn’t surprise me. He employed questionable but effective tactics for finding people and would have found D.B. Cooper if they’d have given him the case. He probably bribed a YMCA attendant, and now he’d take Detweiler by force. If anybody could do it, Sanford could.

Check in after you drop Detweiler off, I said. I might have another one for you.

The runaway kid?

Yeah, I got no clue about where she is. I hung up.

Willa, I called out, get an invoice ready for Bondo. Call it in when you hear from Sanford. He got Detweiler.

Bondo was the nickname we’d given the bail bondsman who used us as bounty hunters. His real name was James Bond. He hated being called double-oh seven, so we called him Bondo.

Will do, boss man, Willa shouted back. But Bondo is a slow pay.

Tell him if he doesn’t pay by Friday, we’ll turn Detweiler loose.

But the police will have him, she shouted.

Tell him Sanford will spring him.

We heard her laughing from the outer office. Bill looked from me to the door.

You ever think about getting an intercom? he said.

Never, I said.

He took another drink. Stan, if you outlive me, I want to be buried in that shirt.

Whatever for? My shirt was worn and stained, the cleanest shirt I could find that morning.

So you can’t wear it, and nobody’ll have to look at it after I’m planted.

I got up, went to the whiteboard, and erased the Detweiler case with the marker-streaked cloth that hung on a nail. The cloth was a raggedy old cotton polo shirt. I held it up and looked at it and then at my shirt. Bill was right. The eraser rag was nicer.

Sanford work with you now? Bill said.

Sometimes, I said. Mostly he works out of his car. Pour.

I slid my coffee cup over, and Bill splashed bourbon into it. He replenished his own drink, and we sat in silence for a couple minutes as we sipped bourbon and listened to the tapping of Willa’s computer keyboard. I wondered what she was typing now. The Bondo invoice, I hoped.

Why don’t you fix Willa up with Sanford? Bill said.

He’s spoken for. Besides, they’d be the poster children for Jennie Craig. Not an ounce of fat between them.

How about you?

I’ve got enough fat.

No. I mean for Willa.

Against company policy. Can’t fraternize.

What if she was young and good-looking?

I’d rewrite company policy.

I looked at my cup. One last sip of bourbon sloshed around on the bottom. A tiny bug floated on the surface. I dipped at it with my finger, but every time I did, it floated away. I chased it around the cup for a while and then gave up and drank the last sip. The bug was gone. I must have eaten it.

Then Bill said, The Slasher case, Stan. We don’t have jack shit. I need help.

Up went my eyebrows. I do that so people will know I’m surprised. Cops don’t usually ask private investigators for help. They consider us a pain in the ass and wish we’d go away. But Bill Penrod and I had history that broke the barriers between our professions. We had been partners on the Homicide unit for many years. It was okay for him to ask my advice and okay for me to give it. But I knew he was uncomfortable coming to me for help on a major case, me being a civilian and all and having been drummed out of the department. He shifted around. His abundant girth used up all of the straight-backed wooden folding guest chair and then some. He was a big man.

When you going to get some comfortable chairs? he said.

When are you going to lose a few pounds? I said.

He grunted and sipped from the edge of the cup of bourbon that a visit to my office always included. Even at ten in the morning. I sipped along too, but only to be sociable and keep him company. Yeah, right.

Why don’t you retire, Bill? You’ve got plenty ‘nough years in. Why keep working?

Keeps me busy and away from the refrigerator, he said. He had a point.

He chewed on an unlit cigar,