A Justified Bitch: A Las Vegas Mystery

By H.G. McKinnis

It takes a guilty bastard to make a justified bitch.

When a severed finger shows up on her doorstep in a seedy section of Las Vegas, Helen Taylor does not freak out. She’s already crazy, as evidenced by her junk-stuffed house and its ever-growing population of cats. There’s also Bobby, her long-dead husband. Helen talks to him regularly, and Bobby talks back.

The finger and the brutal murder it reveals are more than a hoarding cat lady with a phantom husband can ignore. Helen’s a suspect, and she ends up in jail. Summoned by the detective on the case, Helen’s sister Pat arrives from Phoenix with two teen-age boys in tow.

While Helen is AWOL from a mental facility, another gruesome murder is discovered. Pat, the boys, and the detective struggle to separate fact from insanity, but it takes power beyond the ordinary to bring the truth to light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Imbrifex Books
• Release date: Aug 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781945501029

Book preview

Chapter One

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Friday, July 2

The Las Vegas heat shimmered off the patched asphalt, giving an opaque and eerie quality to the air. Sitting on her porch, Helen stared into the afternoon sky, rocking and humming quietly. The corner lot gave her an exceptional view of the neighborhood. Through the wire-enclosed backyards, she had an unobstructed view of the cluttered expanse all the way to the next corner. In the opposite direction, long-abandoned treasures lay baking in the sun: old cars, worn-out furniture, and less defined objects—maybe toys, maybe tools—all of them showing signs of exposure to the harsh desert environment. Across the street, beyond a car tagged with an orange tow-away sticker, she tried to decipher the hieroglyphics of the new graffiti spray-painted across the front of the Sanchez house. No message there.

A bike jump had been set up behind the car, and two teenagers wearing nothing but cargo shorts were practicing kamikaze acrobatics on their skateboards. One kid, a short Latino with tattoos on both arms, flew off the ramp and landed on the sidewalk, pumping his fist in the air and laughing in triumph. No message there.

Next door, Lupe and Fuzzball were howling, the sound rising and falling with unceasing monotony. Not a message she wanted to hear.

Bobby plopped down beside her, wearing the same shorts, T-shirt, and hiking boots he had been wearing ten years earlier when he stepped off a sixty-foot cliff in the Ruby Mountains. Helen glanced toward Bebe’s house, afraid she had seen something horrific, but not sure. It could have been another hallucination, or a late-morning dream. What do you think?

Squinting, Bobby craned his neck toward the back fence, a sagging chain-link. Don’t really know.

From the corner of the yard, Stripes crept toward them. Wary, the cat crouched in the brown grass, ears up, pupils wide, something in her mouth. Her green eyes focused on Helen, as if trying to communicate telepathically. Connection made, she crept forward, her coloring a perfect match for the dry grass, her prize poking out the side of her mouth like a mini cigar, then she zipped forward and deposited her gift at Helen’s feet.

Helen stared at the offering, a woman’s finger, the fingernail sporting a French manicure with a tiny fake diamond at the tip. The opposite end looked as if it had been snipped off with pruning shears, the white of the bone even with the flesh. How about that? Bebe must have lost her press-on finger.

Bobby gave a disgusted snort. She wears press-on nails, not press-on fingers. Looks like she cut it off.

Helen’s stomach knotted in sympathy. Why would she do that?

The baying from the next yard took on a mechanical quality, then quickly mutated into the familiar sound of emergency vehicles. When a squad of police cars screeched to a halt in front of Bebe’s house, Helen realized she hadn’t imagined things—the flashing lights proved that.

Uniforms slammed out of the cars, swarming around the house like well-armed ants. A large uniform, consisting of khaki pants and a matching shirt, banged his fist against the door. Metro! Open up! When no one answered, the man waved another uniform forward.

Helen wondered if it would be worthwhile to sell used uniforms in her booth. The police sure seemed to need a lot of them.

The new man hoisted a hand-held battering ram, and at some unseen signal smashed open the door. A gang of uniforms raced inside, their voices echoing back through the opening.

Watch it!

Christ Almighty!

It’s a damn slaughterhouse.

Don’t step on anything!

Check the hall!

"Holy shit, wait for Crime Scene! Wait for Crime Scene!"

Back out, goddamnit!

Within minutes a crowd had gathered in front of the house, stoking their insatiable need to check out the latest neighborhood drama.

Hey, come here.

Look at this!

The kamikaze skateboarders shouldered their way into the crowd as two prepubescent girls hurried past, one chattering excitedly. I heard her yellin’ and screechin’ but I dint know she was gettin’ messed up.

The other one nodded. Yeah, she been doin’ all that phone-sex stuff. ‘Oh, you hurtin’ me . . . oh, you too big . . . oh, you so good.’ Like that. Neither girl looked old enough to be out of middle school, but they sounded street-smart and world-weary.

Held back by the uniforms, the adults quickly tired in the summer heat and drifted back to their homes. The teenagers, made of sterner stuff, lingered behind, their eyes hungry for gruesome details. They pressed against the fence, openly eavesdropping and teasing the excited canines until the uniforms chased them off.

Helen continued rocking and humming as a shiny pair of black cop shoes—forty-eight dollars at Kmart, or nine bucks at Trudy’s Good As New—stomped across her grass, crushing the life out of her lawn. Bobby glared at the man. Ass!

The shoes halted just short of the porch. Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Officer Stone. Metro.

Hello, Officer.

I’d like to ask you some questions about your neighbor. Did you see what happened?

Bobby snickered. What kind of question is that? You see all kinds of stuff. Some of it happens, some of it doesn’t.

Helen focused on all the gear attached to the officer’s belt, wondering about their resale value. Was he trying to trick her with his did-you-see-what-happened shtick? You mean over there? She inclined her head toward the impromptu carnival surrounding Bebe’s house.

Yes, ma’am. He nodded, ignoring her husband.

How rude, she thought, but then most people ignored Bobby. She picked at a scab on her elbow, trying to focus on his question. Well . . . there was a lot of noise.

You’re referring to her dogs.

Bobby laughed. No, her sex life.

Helen gave the uniform a toe-to-head scan, and decided this one wouldn’t appreciate a sarcastic remark about Bebe’s career. Her animals have been howling and barking for a while.

The uniform leaned in close, as if wanting to say something confidential, caught a whiff of her aura and jerked back. Pansy. She wasn’t against taking a shower once in a while, but she wasn’t a fanatic about it. He backed up a couple of steps, trampling her fragile grass. Ma’am, please look at me when I’m talking to you. Now, when did the dogs start barking?

She stared at his shoes crushing her brittle lawn. She only has one dog. The big one, Lupe, is a wolf. She let her eyes flick up to his sunglasses. Forty-nine dollars at Big Five, but would go for fifteen at the swap meet.

A wolf? he repeated, his voice heavy with disbelief. Right.

Bobby moved around behind the uniform, mimicking the man’s tone. A wolf? No kidding? Ain’t they hard to housebreak?

Helen suppressed a laugh. She looks like a big dog.

Did you see anyone go into your neighbor’s house this morning?

Bobby nodded encouragement. Go ahead, tell him.

But she couldn’t, not until she was certain. I don’t think so.

Are you sure?

Was she? Maybe she had, but maybe she hadn’t. She shook her head.

Annoyingly persistent, the uniform had yet to move his toxic feet off her grass. Do you know what time the dogs started barking?

Not exactly.

Please, ma’am, give it a little thought. Was it before breakfast?

No, she answered, not appreciating his condescending tone.

"Was it after breakfast?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. Do these guys go to charm school?

It was after breakfast.

Was it …around lunch?

Does he think you’re an idiot?

The electricity in her skin might make her watch run a little fast, Helen thought, but she could still tell time. Perhaps a little before—she paused, waiting for the howling and barking to subside—noon.

The uniform frowned, turned his head and spoke into his shoulder radio. Stone here, uh . . . listen. We’ll need Animal Control at the crime scene on Tsunami Avenue. We have a couple of dogs for impound.

A woman’s unintelligible voice crackled back, but Bobby took a stab at translating. They’re on the way. Hide the cats!

The uniform kept yapping about time and dogs, pacing back and forth until he stepped on Bebe’s finger. He glanced down, turned it over with his shoe, then with Olympic agility leapt onto the porch.

Helen smiled to herself. Finally, his shoes were off the grass.

God! The uniform leaned forward and gagged.

Helen grabbed his arm, steering him to the stoop, then opened the spigot and filled a cup with water. He took a big gulp and immediately spit it onto the lawn. The cup, she realized, might have been a little gritty from digging up gladiolus bulbs.

Bobby sneered. Wimp.

Officer Stone took a deep breath and shuddered. God damn!

Sacrilege! She hated it when people took the Lord’s name in vain.

Other uniforms turned in their direction, and immediately an entire shoe department of footwear scuffed and trampled their way across the lawn.

I’ll bet they all have yard service, Bobby growled, and a variance for extra watering.

Get off my grass! Helen screamed. It was too much. She was a law-abiding homeowner. She stooped to collect Bebe’s finger and a gang of uniforms grabbed her.

Calm down, lady.

Get her out of here.

Angry at the interference, Helen tried to stiff-arm the uniforms away, but there were too many. Giving up, she turned toward her door, but before she could escape inside, one of the uniforms had cuffed her wrists.

Look, lady, we’re just doing our job. We can’t have you interfering with evidence.

Evidence! This is my yard! Get off my grass!

A pair of dust-gray Lucchese python boots, retailing for three hundred and fifty dollars, stepped between Helen’s high tops and the chorus line of black shoes. Hey guys, lighten up. I checked around. This is the local cat lady—eccentric, but not a suspect.

A pair of familiar cop shoes stepped forward. I found a finger from the victim on her property, Detective. Very close to where she was sitting.

I appreciate your diligence, Officer Stone—the cowboy boots moved closer, warm fingers closing around Helen’s arm—but there are two things I look for in a suspect connected to this type of investigation: blood on the suspect’s clothing, or no blood on a freshly washed suspect. I gotta tell you, this woman doesn’t fit either description.

The detective steered Helen into the backseat of a police cruiser and buckled her in. You just sit tight, ma’am. I’ll be back in a few minutes.

Helen leaned back, enjoying the feel of the upholstery and the cool breeze of the air-conditioning. She had forgotten how nice a new car could smell. Bobby drummed his hands against the mesh cage that separated the back from the front. This is great. I could see you driving around town in something like this. You should get one.

I can’t afford it, she snapped, and before he could object she added, and don’t tell me to use your money. You know I won’t.

Officer Stone leaned against the fender. You really don’t think she did it? He indicated Helen with a jerk of his head. Have to be a real wack job to cut somebody up like that. Jesus, there are pieces all over the place.

Bebe? Helen felt her breathing quicken as the possibilities swirled and rattled through her mind like abandoned paper cups. She wished she could remember what happened, but as usual when she absolutely needed to recall something, it hid away inside the cracks and fissures of her brain.

Bobby chuckled. Don’t these idiots realize the cruiser’s window is open?

The detective shook his leg, trying to dislodge an affectionate plastic bag that had attached itself to his jeans. Hard to say at this point. He leaned in through the open window and pulled a printout off a small fax machine attached to the dashboard. Parking his butt against the fender, he scanned the paper. Might have been a dissatisfied customer. Our victim has been quite a busy girl. Prostitution, drugs, did some time for fraud, and has a whole bunch of unpaid parking tickets. My guess, it was Parking Enforcement. Those people are relentless.

The uniforms started stringing yellow tape around Bebe’s property while the detective and Officer Stone took pictures of the finger. They measured its position from the fence, then from the stoop to the sidewalk, and from the sidewalk back to the fence. They measured its length and its width. Finally they picked it up with a pair of tongs and placed it in a small Ziploc, which they put into a brown paper bag and sent off in a van with dozens of larger bags. Helen wanted to wave good-bye, but with her hands cuffed, couldn’t. Bobby stood in the middle of the street and watched Bebe’s departure.

A few minutes later an Animal Control van pulled to the curb and two AC officers, a man and a woman dressed in light-blue uniforms, climbed from the cab. They walked around to Bebe’s back gate—the woman with a long-handled noose, the man with a throw net—and stopped, staring at the smears of blood on the sliding-glass doors where the wolf had tried to claw her way in, and Bebe had tried to claw her way out.

The officers stepped into the yard, being careful to close and latch the gate behind them, then moved forward, concentrating on the Schapendoes. Extending the noose, the woman motioned for the man to move in from the side—a scissors move—but Fuzzball ducked under the net and scampered away.

Bobby flashed Helen a wicked grin. Who knew the mutt had a brain?

The officers, their faces stiff with determination, converged on the dog a second time. Fuzzball’s normal expression of vacuous amiability had vanished, her ears back, her hindquarters down. Moving carefully, the woman slowly extended the pole as the dog backed away, her furry head moving from side to side, trying to decide which direction offered the best avenue of escape. She suddenly darted toward the man, and was almost by him when the noose slipped over her head. The woman crouched and turned, pulling the noose taut, bringing the animal to a flying stop, all four feet flailing in the air. Dazed, but still determined, Fuzzball shook herself and lunged for the gate, only to have the noose tighten, cutting off her wind. The officers pulled the dog out of the yard—her paws scrabbling on the concrete, her tail tucked beneath her body—they shoved her into one of the van’s compartments, then returned for Lupe.

With the fur standing up over her neck and shoulders, Lupe suddenly appeared as wild and dangerous as her ancestors. As the officers closed in, she sprang for the top of the fence, caught a paw on the wire and fell back, yelping in pain. Normally she had no trouble clearing the chain-link for her morning stroll around the neighborhood but not today, not after all her exertions to save Bebe. Her muzzle twisted into a sinister snarl as she lowered her head and started toward the officers. The woman stuck out her pole to catch her by the neck, but the man panicked and threw his net. Too early. As soon as she saw the opening, Lupe dodged past, slammed through the gate, and was gone, leaving a trail of bloody paw prints on the sidewalk.

Helen and Bobby whistled and rattled their cage, encouraging Lupe with their cheers.

The detective climbed into the front passenger seat and twisted around. Helen, right? A slight cough was the only indication that he might have noticed her forceful persona. Do you mind answering a few questions?

I don’t mind, she replied cautiously, thinking it might be better not to get his hopes up, but I might not be able to.

Who does this guy think he is? Bobby asked, examining the man’s expensive boots and faded blue jeans. Clint Eastwood? Go ahead, Helen, make his day.

Officer Stone pulled open the driver’s door. Excuse me, Detective?

Yes?

Well … uh. He hesitated, seemingly at a loss for words.

Stage fright, Bobby diagnosed.

Helen recognized the signs. Too often in her career she had seen young men lose their confidence and articulation in the presence of women and superiors. Take a deep breath, she advised. Think about what you want to say, then say it.

Officer Stone shot her a look that was far from grateful.

Bobby gave a little chuckle. Now you’ve embarrassed him.

The detective rolled his hand, encouraging Officer Stone to continue.

The man took a deep breath. I’m studying to take the detective’s promotions test, and I was wondering if I could do the interview. I believe I’ve established a rapport.

I’m sure you have, the detective answered. I should have suggested it myself. He swiveled around to face Helen. Young Stone would like to practice his interviewing technique. He winked. Any objection?

Hey, Bobby growled, he’s putting the moves on you!

He is not! she snapped back. I’m too old for him.

The detective leaned over, peering into the backseat. Excuse me, who are you talking to?

Helen heaved a sigh. She had hoped to keep Bobby’s presence a secret, but now she would have to introduce him. This is my husband, Bobby. She motioned toward the seat beside her. He goes where I go. Bobby, this is …?

Detective Madison.

Bobby, this is Detective Madison.

Madison hesitated, then gave a polite nod. Nice to meet you, Bobby. If you’re both agreeable, Officer Stone would like to ask you a few questions.

Stone slid into the driver’s seat, then pulled a notebook and a gel rollerball pen from his pocket. Helen bought the same brand by the carton, but only displayed a dozen or so at her booth, giving the impression of rarity and value. Stone cleared his throat. About your neighbor. When did you—

Around noon, Helen answered. I didn’t see anyone go in. And yes, I was here all morning.

Bobby shook his head. It might be a good idea to let him actually ask the questions before you answer.

The man’s sunburned neck glowed fluorescent red, his words suddenly clipped and harsh. When was the last time you saw the vic— . . . your neighbor, Bebe Small?

Bobby rolled his eyes. Didn’t he ask this stuff earlier?

Just now, Helen answered, trying to be helpful. When they put her finger in the van. She noticed Officer Stone hadn’t written anything. The one you stepped on.

He frowned, speaking slowly and distinctly, as if trying to communicate with someone who barely understood English. I mean … when … did … you … last … see … Ms. Small … alive?

About a year ago, I guess. Before she got into drugs. She’s just been going through the motions for quite a while now.

Stone jammed his pen back into his pocket. Detective, we’re obviously not going to get anything from this witness. He dropped his notebook on the dashboard. I think we should take her in.

The detective expelled a deep breath, then reached out and pulled his seat belt into place. Okay, I’ll question her at the station. Wine and dine her on pizza and Pepsi—he caught Helen’s eye in the mirror and winked again—and she’ll crack like an egg.

Watch this guy, Bobby warned. He’s definitely putting the moves on you. He leaned back and propped his legs on the back of the driver’s seat. At least we get to take a road trip.

Better roll down your window, Stone suggested. God knows what she’s got living in her hair.

The detective gave the man a frown, then glanced over his shoulder. How you doin’ back there? Remember anything you might want to tell me?

I’m not stupid, Helen answered. I remember things, but sometimes I don’t remember what I remember.

Chapter Two

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By the time the patrol car pulled into the parking lot of the Clark County Detention Center, Helen was almost crazy from itches hopping around her body. She rubbed her cheek across the headrest as Stone turned into the sally port and stopped next to a gray door. I’m gonna have to sanitize this whole goddamned car. He still sounded cranky. Perhaps, Helen thought, he needed to sit quietly and think about his day.

Detective Madison came around to unbuckle Helen’s seat belt and remove the cuffs, before guiding her into a room marked PROCESSING, a government-gray cave tiled with industrial-grade linoleum. The room reverberated with noise: phones beeping, footsteps rushing, and doors crashing. People hurried past, men explaining, women whining, and an unhappy child wailing. The detective took Helen’s hand, placed it on his arm, and escorted her to a gray Formica table, its surface scratched and inked with names and graffiti. Helen examined the scrawls. No message there.

A woman wearing a khaki uniform and Rockport shoes stepped forward. Oh boy. She scrutinized Helen for a moment, then her voice softened to a tone of jaded amusement. Where did you find this one?

This is Helen Taylor, Madison answered. She’s a possible witness in the dismemberment case, and we’re having a problem getting a coherent statement. He gave Helen’s arm a comforting squeeze. Helen, this is Officer Maria Fine.

Officer Maria pointed to a chair. Have a seat.

Why? Helen asked, not wanting to commit herself to a chair in this unfamiliar place. She examined the table, which held a computer, a slightly darker shade of gray than the surroundings.

Officer Fine needs to get your personal information, Madison explained. For our files. He glanced at his watch, a water-resistant Timex Indiglo that went for no more than fifteen dollars at the swap meet. I need to start the paperwork. You know how fritzy the lieutenant gets if every ‘I’ isn’t dotted.

I’ll process her as a material witness, Officer Maria said, gesturing toward the chair. Make yourself comfortable, Helen.

Detective Madison gave Helen’s shoulder a pat, then was gone. Officer Maria offered a professional smile. What’s your full name?

Bobby sauntered around behind the desk. And how does that differ from your empty name?

Helen suppressed a laugh. Helen Eileen Taylor.

Date of birth?

August 11, 1965.

Address?

Bobby leaned over the woman’s shoulder, reading the screen. What’s this? Their personal version of Trivial Pursuit?

5573 Tsunami Avenue, Helen answered. The streets in her neighborhood were all named after natural disasters, events that seldom took place in that part of town. Hurricane and Tornado were the cross streets. Why they weren’t called Tow-Away and Drive-By she couldn’t imagine.

Occupation?

Vendor.

Business address?

Broadacres outdoor swap meet.

Education?

Yes.

Officer Maria sent an admonishing look back across the table. I meant what level of education. Did you graduate high school?

Bobby hopped onto the table and crossed his legs, assuming a haughty pose. Graduate! We taught high school.

My husband and I taught at Western High.

Officer Maria nodded. So you graduated from college?

I have an Ed. E in educational psychology from Berkeley.

An Eddy? What’s that?

A doctorate in education. Helen traced the initials on the table with her index finger. An Ed E

The questions kept coming and Helen answered them to the best of her ability, but she could feel time slipping away. The gates to the swap meet opened at seven o’clock sharp every Saturday morning, and at the rate the interview was proceeding she wouldn’t have enough time to pack her truck. I need to go home. She shot a pleading glance at the officer, hoping for an understanding nod. I have to load my truck.

Officer Maria flicked her eyes away from the screen for a moment. We’ll see. She spoke as if she were the mother and Helen the child. Detective Madison still has a few questions. Lucky for us we have your finger prints from your background check when you were teaching. the officer explained. She turned toward Helen. Please take off your shoes.

My shoes?

We don’t allow laces or sharp objects in the waiting area.

Helen hesitated.

Might as well go along, Bobby said. She seems determined.

Since Bobby had no problem with it, Helen decided to humor the woman. As the officer held out a plastic bag, Helen pried off her high-tops, a fabulous find from a dumpster behind Smith’s grocery. Booth value, five dollars; cost, nothing. The woman dropped