The Ballet Shoe Killer

The sky outside my window is grey. I like that. It fits my mood. My legs are crossed at the ankles and resting on the corner of my desk as I sit in my office contemplating the day.

Currently, I’m admiring the shine on my brown wingtips satisfied with the decision to stop in the lobby before taking the elevator. The time and money were well spent.

I sipped the whiskey staring at the amber liquid in my glass. It was the color of her eyes. Damn! Why did that woman have to walk through my door! Slamming the glass on the desk harder than I intended caused the whiskey to splash onto my hand. I shook it off then started to pace.

She was the only class in this brick and mortar twelve story dump, and she knew it.

“Are you Mr. Nash?” She stood inside my doorway looking like she stepped out of the society pages. I would’ve told her I was Mr. Nash, if I wasn’t just to hear that sensuous voice talking to me.

“I’m Nick.” I pulled out the chair facing my desk. As she sat, the blue silk hemrevealed one perfectly curved ankle. Sitting on the corner of my desk, I listened to her story.

“I need your help.” I couldn’t help but notice she didn’t offer her name.

“Tell me about it.”

That was ten days ago. Why couldn’t she be looking for a lost diamond necklace, something easy. Something I could manage. She’s not the type of woman a man would let down.

I sat down banging my fist into the desktop. I’m not letting her down!

“I want you to find out who killed my niece.” She looked at me expectantly, confidently.

My face never reveals what I’m thinking, but this time, I think it failed me. I didn’t expect this.

“Why me? Why not the police?”

“We’ve been to the police.” After the way she strode into in my office and took a seat, I didn’t expect to see the softer, vulnerable side to her.

“We? Where is your husband?” Chump! I chided myself for holding my breath waiting for her answer.

“My father. I’m not married. My father is the one hiring you. I’m the one you’ll report to.”

“Where is your father? Why isn’t he here?” Moving to my chair, I sat behind the desk with pen and notebook to appear to be taking notes.

“He’s sick.” Looking down at her hands, I still saw the sadness in her eyes.

“Tell me what happened to your niece.” Best to get right to the nitty gritty details.

“She was the second victim of the Ballet Shoe Killer. The police have no leads. There have been seven more victims after Ashley. My father is afraid the killer will never be found, and Ashley will never be more than one of his victims.”

“I won’t let that happen.” Now, All I have to do is find a serial killer that has eluded the police for ten months.

The first thing I did after she left my officer was head to the local precinct. They always loved to see me. Who wouldn’t welcome a gumshoe wandering into their house to say they couldn’t do the job, so I’m stepping in?

Sgt. Winters was at his usual post at the desk when I walked in. This has been his desk for the past five years. He looks after his officers like a big brother. “Hey, Mikey. Is Joe back there?” My head nodded towards the detective’s squad room.

“Yeah, he’s here. What brings you here? A new case?”

“A doll came into my office about her niece.”

Amelia Huntington wasn’t exaggerating when she said the police had nothing. No leads. No suspects. Nothing.

Nine beautiful young women in their twenties were killed in their homes in busy neighborhoods. Each was stabbed numerous times in the abdomen with a long blade. Each had her throat cut. Each had all her toes cut off and each foot squeezed into a ballet slipper.

From what the police can tell, none of the victims knew one another or had a common link.

This is 2030, for Pete’s sake. They have the most advanced technology at their fingertips. This isn’t like the olden days when police had to dust for fingerprints. Identifying a suspect was easy. Any camera lenses the suspect passes through will identify the person, his complete history and DNA.

Back in my office, I poured more whiskey. Ten days ago, I had nothing but now I’ve got something. I just need to figure out what it means. I’m good at what I do because I’m not afraid to pound the pavement, bang on doors or bust some heads, if that’s what it takes.

Fortunately, this time, that’s not what it took. Not yet anyway.

Looking at the crime scene photos, I picked up on something Joe confirmed the police hadn’t noticed. There was a teacup and spoon in each dish rack. The autopsy confirmed that the stomach contents ruled out the victims using the teacups.

What was the killer drinking and why? Figure this out and the whole case unravels at my feet.

I admit I got lucky. It wasn’t brilliant sleuthing that got me the answers. It was being in the right place at the right time.

When I strode into police headquarters like I owned I joint, Sgt. Winters wasn’t at his post. Probably going for his tenth cup of coffee.

My visit just happened to be the day, his hand was driving Joe crazy. It was itching something fierce. “It’s the darndest thing. I haven’t been any where but home, my office and nine crime scenes but somewhere I got poison ivy.

That had to be it! The killer was drinking poison ivy tea! It had to be! If Joe touched a teacup that was washed in a hurry. There can’t be many people drinking poison ivy tea. The tea is blocking the killers DNA from being detected.

After visiting The Leafy Tea House, I found out it’s the urushiol oil in the crushed stems and leaves that are responsible for the allergic reactions people have to the plant. That was most poison ivy teas are mild and don’t use crushed stems.

I couldn’t figure out how the killer found out poison ivy tea would block his DNA. There were no studies on it. The people in the crime lab didn’t even know aboutit.

I got lucky when I wandered into Giovanni’s restaurant. I hadn’t realized I hadn’t eaten until the scent of garlic lured me in. The inside had red and white checked tablecloths that matched the curtains. There was Italian music playing inside and each table had a bulbous wind bottle swathed in straw with a candle in its mouth.

After I ordered fettuccini in a Bolognese sauce, I drank my chianti thinking of poison ivy tea. Whiskey was my drink of choice except when I ate Italian food, then wine was my choice. I was savoring a second glass after a satisfying meal.

“Cheryl, I’m telling you, it really works.” The conversation was two tables away from mine, but the brunette was sharing her revelation with everyone in the restaurant. “Just look at me. I’ve lost fifteen pounds in one week by drinking green tea. I wasn’t trying to. It just happened!” My office ordered its usual diet soda supply, but the delivery guy brought cases of green tea dropping them off before anyone noticed. So, I’ve been drinking it instead. I’m telling you; I’m never drinking diet cola again.”

Gulping the half, a glass of one in one swallow, I paid my tab then beat a path to my office.

Once behind my desk, I poured some whiskey. That was it. The killer was drinking the tea for another reason then found out it blocked his DNA. Why would he drink poison ivy tea?

Checking the database of people allergic to poison ivy proved useless. There were too many names.

Wait. He’s not going to drink it if he’s allergic to poison ivy. Why would someone drink poison ivy tea? What did that pretty girl in the flowing pink dress inside The Leafy Tea House say? Poison Ivy has been used as an anti-inflammatory. Why use poison ivy when there are other natural remedies without the adverse effects that could be serious? Why risk it?

I felt the answer was staring me in the face, but I wasn’t seeing it. I poured another drink. What am I missing?

The phone woke me. It was her. “Hello.” I wanted to start the day with that silky voice in my ear.

“Mr. Nash, did I wake you? I’m sorry for the early hour.”

“Miss Huntington. That’s okay. I had to get up anyway. What time is it?”

“It’s six in the morning. The family doctor just gathered everyone together and said we should say our final fair wells to my father. Do you have anything I can tell him? He’s in pain but he’s holding on. He doesn’t want to leave this world with Ashley ’s fate undecided.”

“I’m close. I’ll have something for you before the day is over. I promise.”

“Damn! Why did I tell her that. Now, I have to finish this thing in less than twenty-four hours.”

First, I needed a shower. I looked around my office as I stretched and rubbed my neck. Not the first time I slept in my office. Wouldn’t be the last time either. I’ll have to tell my secretary to get a sofa in here. That’s right, I don’t have a secretary. Guess, I’ll have to get that sofa myself.

Have a shower, hot coffee and pancakes, I was back in the office.

I bet our killer was a sickly kid allergic to everything, couldn’t go out and play with other kids. He probably had allergies to dust, dog and cat hair, peanuts, milk and poison ivy. I needed to cross reference data bases of people with severe allergies and people buying poison ivy tea.

That was a bust. I need to weed this guy out. How? This guy is too careful, he’s not going to buy poison ivy tea and have it sitting around his kitchen for the police to find. He’s growing poison ivy or better yet, lives near woods where he has easy access to the plants. Now, I’m getting somewhere.

Walking into the precinct at lunch time, Sgt. Winters was absent from his post. Must be another coffee run.

Joe was at his desk, and I told him everything. I ran through the teacup in the crime scene photos, poison ivy tea and my visit to the Leafy Tea House, the databases of allergies, everything I now know.

“That’s great detective work Nick. I wish you would have shared the teacup angle with me. Sure, I saw a teacup at each crime scene, but it didn’t seem out of place.I didn’t think twice about it. Two heads are better than one, we could’ve run this thing down together.”

“We still can. I don’t know who the killer is. I promised my client I’d have a name for her before night was over.”

“Why would you do that? Who’s your client anyway?”

“I told you, the family of one of the victims.”

“Hey, what’s going on around here? It’s quiet. Winters wasn’t at his usual post when I entered.”

“There was a shooting involving a cop. Don’t worry, it wasn’t serious.” This was in response to my rising with an anxious look on my face. “All available officers are looking for the shooter. If I Winters, he’s on the scene checking on his officer. I tell you; everyone was happy how he embraced the position. Each and every officer is like family to him.

Most people thought he would leave the force or transfer somewhere else rather than be stuck at a desk. He was one of those that joined the force to be in the thick of the action. Nobody expected a happy ending for him after what happened to him.”

“What happened to him?” The distraction of conversation away from the case was good. It helped me come back fresher with new ideas. I needed this right now.

“You don’t know? After he made Sergeant, the house through a celebration for him at O’Malley’s Pub. Well, he was walking home himself that night sometime after one A.M. A street punk tried to rob him, wanted his wallet, watch, the whole nine yards. Winters fought back. Two of his gang members were in the shadows waiting for this. They beat him good and just to make sure he couldn’t follow them, they cut his Achilles tendon. After that, working on the street wasn’t an option. Nobody expected him to take it. He fought it at first. He fought for six months. Then, he must have realized he’s still cop and still fighting the good fight. He settled into the position enthusiastically. ”I told you, he’s out somewhere probably checking on his guy and coordinating officers in the street. Why? What’s up”

“Did you know his allergies as a child were so severe, he had to home schooled?”

“No, I didn’t know. So, what?”

“So, he didn’t settle into the position in the front of the house and thrive. He’s the Ballet Shoe Killer! He wanted to prove to everyone that if he can’t be a detective, he can stump the detectives and leave them with egg on their faces and go down in history with an unsolved serial killer.”

There was a lot of commotion in the hallway. A detective stuck his head in the door, “Joe, did you hear, Winters is dead.”

“Dead.” After my revelation, we both stood and exclaimed together.

“What are you talking about? What happened?”

“He was on the street looking for the guy that shot Monroe. He found him but his draw wasn’t fast enough. Don’t worry, they got Monroe. He’s not shooting anybody else where he’s going.”

Stunned, we looked at each other. I didn’t see this ending when I started this case. I wasn’t sure to feel relieved it was over and the killer was identified, relieved the killings are over or angry and sad that a good cop went down that way.

I didn’t have time to sort out my emotions. There was a certain doll waiting for my call and I wasn’t letting her down.

“Where is he now?” I was on my feet and ready to move.