Peanut Butter - The Wheelman

SOMETHING ON THE SCANNER CAUGHT SAUGHERTY’S ear—a bit about a dead woman. A bunch of kids found her in an abandoned lot in Southwest Philly where neighborhood residents dump old furniture and trash.

Saugherty had holed himself up in the Comfort Inn up in Bensalem, right off Route 1, just out of the city limits. He took a corner room so he could see the highway. He didn’t want the flashing cherries and blueberries to come screaming out of nowhere. He was still under investigation, as far as he knew. He hadn’t made himself reachable.

The room was packed with the necessary supplies: the police scanner, of course, to see if his Irish bank-robber buddy had emerged. Two sixes of Yuengling Lager in a hard-case cooler. Three bottles of Early Times. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Two bottles of Ketel One—a buddy of his had turned him on to that stuff. Sipping vodka. Go figure. Six bottles of water. Two sticks of pepperoni; one block of sharp white cheese. Box of Ritz. Rye bread, liverwurst, mustard, fat red onion. He stuck the liverwurst and sharp cheese in the cooler with the beer. The rest could stay out.

He’d also paid a visit to his private armory over in Tacony, along the river. There was a bunch of stuff in a black canvas bag under the bed.

Saugherty had been listening for key words like “bank robber” or “heist” or “Wachovia” or “Lennon,” but then caught the police code for body dump. He called a friend on the force and asked for the skinny, which was: woman, late twenties, found naked at Forty-ninth and Grays Ferry, her wrists and ankles bound with brown extension cords and her body smeared with peanut butter. She was three months pregnant.

Wait, back up, said Saugherty. Peanut butter.

Yeah, confirmed the source. Peanut butter. People on the scene thought the killer—or dumper—smeared it on so rats from the area would eat the evidence.

You got a photo? asked Saugherty. Something nagged him about this.

After some back and forth, the source agreed to fax a photo of the woman’s face over to the Comfort Inn’s business center. Saugherty took another three sips of Early Times, then wandered down there.

He got the faxed photo.

Holy fucking shit.