“The crime is very similar to a series of murders back in the mid-seventies by a Vaughn Orrin Greenwood who became known as the ‘Skidrow Slasher’. Greenwood is currently in prison, so if this is the work of a copycat, he’s not very thorough. Greenwood left cups of blood and rings of salt around his victims.
“Detectives have been questioning the homeless in the area, but no one seems to know much about Dinkle. Apparently he was new to the homeless community.
“This makes the situation tougher for us. If this is the work of a serial killer --- and at this moment that’s still a big ‘if’ --- he most likely picks his victims randomly. We have no idea when, where or who he will strike next.
“We will increase our presence in the parts of town where the homeless population is the greatest.
“Keep your eyes and ears open. Let’s get this guy before he kills again.”
Oscar Roach eagerly tore the plastic sleeve off of the morning paper.
He had expected to see bold headlines on the front page, warning the public of the vicious murderer in their city --- but it wasn’t there.
He hurriedly flipped through the pages, and on page six, under ‘Area News Briefs’, there was a one-inch paragraph saying that the body of a homeless man had been discovered in a sparsely populated area of the city and that the police were investigating.
It was listed beneath the story of a kitchen grease fire that had destroyed half of a rental duplex.
He crumpled the paper in disgust and threw it at the wastebasket. Obviously, the police weren’t taking him seriously.
He felt the anger welling up inside him and it frightened him.
Emotions such as the one that he was feeling, were most likely what had caused others to act irrationally or impulsively, leading to their arrest.
He took a deep breath and thought, “I have committed four murders and the cops don’t have a clue. I must not lose control. I must not act impulsively. I must be patient.”
The anger subsided and was replaced with resolve.
“They can bury one murder, but they won’t be able to bury two. I will show them. Tomorrow, I will be on the front page!”
Oscar knew that he must plan his next kill very carefully.
Since his latest victim was a homeless man, the cops were certain to be patrolling the neighborhoods closest to the homeless camps, so he certainly couldn’t go prowling around looking for another loner.
Just before dark, Oscar went to his basement stash and filled one of his gunny sacks with the tools and clothing he would need and placed it in the trunk of his car.
His plan was to just cruise around looking for a likely victim. If the right opportunity presented itself, fine. Otherwise he would be patient.
Since his last kill was in the West part of town, he decided to drive the streets in the Northeast section of the city, away from the increased police presence.
He drove north on the Trafficway and exited onto Truman Road. He took Truman east to The Paseo and headed north to Independence Avenue. There were plenty of people on the street, but none of them felt just right.
The streetlights had just come on when he turned onto Benton Boulevard.
He spotted a lone figure walking along carrying a battered old suitcase. He followed the guy, who looked to be in his fifties, for a few blocks. He appeared to be wandering aimlessly with no particular destination in mind.
Oscar pulled to the curb beside the man and rolled down the window.
“Where are you headed?”
The man thought for a minute and replied, “Somewhere at least a mile from here.”
The answer made no sense, but Oscar continued, “It’s getting pretty cold. Can I give you a lift?”
The man hesitated again, “Sure, as long as you’re going that way,” he said pointing north.
“Climb in,” Oscar said, pushing the passenger door open.
When he had stowed his suitcase in the back seat and shut the door, Oscar asked, “Where to?”
“It doesn’t really matter as long as it’s five miles from where I used to live.”
“Why is that important?”
“Because I read that most accidents take place within five miles of your home, so I decided to move.”
Oscar tried to process this new information, but it made no sense at all. “So, are you homeless?”
The man thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose that I am --- at least for now.”
After a moment of silence, the man said, “If a turtle doesn’t have a shell, is he homeless or naked?”
“I --- uhhh --- never really thought about it,” Oscar replied. “Going to be a dark night --- no moon,” he said, trying to change the subject.
“Why do you suppose that people say, ‘after dark’ when it’s really ‘after light.’ After dark would be morning, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, I guess you’re right. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
Oscar knew he had found the right guy. He was homeless and obviously a few fries short of a Happy Meal.
“I think I know of the perfect place where you can spend the night,” Oscar said, “and it’s exactly five and a half miles from where you used to live.”
“Wonderful! Let’s go!”
Oscar drove to Bud Park at St. John and Brighton.
On this cold, dark, November night, the place was deserted. He pulled into the lot near the rustic old shelter house made of native stone.
“How does this look?” he asked. “You can curl up in the shelter house out of the wind until morning. Then you can look for somewhere permanent.”
“Works for me,” the man said.
He got his suitcase from the backseat and headed to the shelter.
Oscar followed and when the man turned away, he struck the back of his head with a hammer.
He had dreaded the thing that he was going to do next, but since simply cutting the throat of his previous victim didn’t get the press he wanted, he figured he would have to do something more drastic.
He retrieved an old meat saw that he had purchased at a farm sale from his trunk and cleanly severed the man’s head from his body.
After the bleeding subsided, he carefully wrapped the head in plastic and placed it in the gunnysack.
He propped the headless torso into a sitting position and placed the novel into its cupped hands.
After he had changed, he placed the hammer, saw, and his bloody clothing and gloves into the sack along with the head.
He looked around the shelter, the path to his car and the parking lot carefully to make sure he had left no incriminating evidence.
When he was satisfied, he drove, once again, to the river and threw the weighted bag with its grisly contents into the dark, cold water.
As he watched it disappear beneath the surface, he felt a sense of accomplishment.
A month ago, he was just another underachiever, struggling anonymously through life.
Soon, the whole city would take notice of what he had done.
Though he could never personally claim the deeds, he would know.
At the hospital, it was like he was invisible. The nurses, doctors and patients barely acknowledged his presence as long as he kept the bedpans and the trash cans empty.
Little did they know that they were working along side of the city’s newest serial killer, a man that had committed perfect crimes.
Though the night was cold, he felt only the warm glow of the moment.
He had found his calling.
He was now a notorious serial killer!
CHAPTER 11
We had just pulled into Dunkin’ Donuts for a cup of coffee and a long john when the radio crackled, “All units in Midtown and Northeast report to Bud Park.”
“Car 54 responding,” Ox replied. “So much for our pastry break.”
The scene at the park was much the same as the one near the homeless camp. Blaylock and the M.E. were already on the scene and the guys from a black & white that had arrive
d before us were roping off the area with crime scene tape.
I had prepared myself to see another guy with his throat cut, so I was certainly not prepared for the headless torso that was leaned up against the wall.
“Cause of death is pretty obvious,” the M.E. was saying. “Looks like he has been here about twelve hours, so T.O.D. was probably between eight and nine last night.”
“Who found him?” Ox asked.
“City park employee comes by to empty the trash cans every morning. Saw it and called it in.”
“Are you thinking that it was the same perp that cut the homeless guy’s throat?” I asked.
Blaylock looked at the torso, “Maybe. This is probably a homeless guy too, but it’s quite a jump from cutting a guy’s throat to a complete decapitation. The thing that makes me think it’s the same perp is the book.”
I hadn’t noticed the blood soaked book in the victim’s hands.
Ox took a closer look. “The Poet,” he said. “One of Michael Connelly’s best. It’s about a serial killer that leaves a quote from one of Edgar Allen Poe’s works on his victims.”
My partner never ceases to amaze me.
“No ID and no wallet,” Blaylock said, “and without a head, unless the guy’s fingerprints are in the system, we may have a John Doe.”
Then I saw the suitcase a few feet away.
“I know who it is. Marvin Atwater. I saw him with that suitcase yesterday.”
“Where?” Blaylock asked.
“I had just gone by the Three Trails to let Mary know about Abe Dinkle and Atwater was just moving out. He had some goofy story about most accidents happening within five miles of your home, so he decided to move. He was carrying that suitcase.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Blaylock said, wrinkling his nose.
“No kidding.”
I could see the wheels turning in Blaylock’s head and I knew what was coming next.
“Walt, we’ve got two dead bodies in two days and as far as I can see, the only connection between the two victims is that they came from your hotel. We’re going to have to question everyone there. Hell, if I didn’t know you like I do, you could be a suspect yourself.”
“Gee thanks for the vote of confidence. Do you want me to help coordinate things at the hotel?”
“No, you’re too close to this thing. Just let Mary know that we’ll be coming. I don’t want her hurting any of our guys.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Then another thought struck me.
Something about the first murder scene had been rattling around in my mind, but I couldn’t put my finger on it, but when Ox jumped in with his review of the book left in this victim’s hands, it all came together.
“Detective,” I said, “do you remember the murder/suicide a few weeks ago?’
“Sure,” he replied. “Case closed. We put that one to bed.”
“Can you think of any details from that crime scene that might relate to these last two murders?”
He thought for a minute, “Son-Of-A-Bitch! The book!”
“Secrets of Eden,” Ox said. “I remember it because the theme was a murder suicide.”
“But there was nothing else at the scene to make us believe that it was anything else but a murder/suicide,” Blaylock said, thinking. “Maybe the book being there was just a coincidence.”
“Unless it was staged,” I said.
“Hmmm, it’s a long shot, but it’s worth looking into. I’ll ask Captain Short to give the two of you a few days to nose around and see if you can find any connection. In the meantime, stay away from the hotel until we finish our investigation.”
Oscar had pulled an evening shift at the hospital and was busy delivering trays of Jell-o and weak tea to the patients on restricted diets when he heard one of the nurses.
“Another mutilated body. That’s two in two days. The news anchor is saying that it might be the work of a serial killer. Just great! I’m scared to go to my car alone as it is.”
Oscar delivered his last tray and paused for a moment to watch the evening news report on the patient’s TV.
A spokesman from the Kansas City Police Department was being interviewed.
“We can confirm that a second victim was discovered this morning. At this time we cannot release the victim’s identity pending notification of next of kin.
“The Department is using all of its resources to find the perpetrator or perpetrators. If anyone has seen or heard anything relating to these homicides, please call the TIPS Hotline.”
The anchor broke in, “There has been speculation that this might be the work of a serial killer.”
“I think that assumption might be a bit premature with the evidence that we have at this time. Certainly we will keep the public informed of any new developments.”
Oscar smiled as he left the room. ‘Serial killer’. At last the word was out.
As soon as he heard the paperboy slam the front door of his building, he hurried down the stairs.
Impatiently, he tore the paper from its plastic sleeve.
“YES!” he said triumphantly as he read the headline.
“Is A Serial Killer Stalking Kansas City Streets?”
The article went on to describe the two murder scenes in detail, including the books that had been placed in the victim’s hands.
The article called the books a ‘signature’ and compared them to signatures left by other serial killers.
He could hardly contain his elation when he read, “Are these senseless murders by ‘The Librarian’ isolated incidents or are there more to come? We certainly hope not.”
‘The Librarian’! The paper had called him the ‘Librarian’!
He had read about the Skidrow Slasher, The Eyeball Killer, The Hillside Strangler and dozens more, and now, he was in that infamous group. The Librarian!
He had killed and he would kill again, and the cops didn’t have a clue.
Captain Short was livid as he called the squad meeting to order.
“I want to know who leaked this,” he said, holding the paper high so that everyone could see.
No one spoke.
“We were trying to keep a lid on this thing and now this!
“The Librarian, for God’s sake. They’ve even named the bastard.
“Two days before the Thanksgiving holiday and the busiest shopping day of the year and people are afraid to go out of their homes.
“It’s a disaster, and the worst part is that we don’t have the slightest idea who this guy is.
“He’s left no fingerprints, DNA or evidence of any kind.
“The Mayor is having a conniption fit. Retailers want this guy caught so that people will come out to shop and he’s putting the pressure on us.
“Talk to your sources on the street. Call in favors. Do whatever you have to do to get a lead on this guy.
“We can’t have a serial killer roaming the streets of our city!”
CHAPTER 12
I had called Mary to let her know about the flood of cops that would be descending on the hotel, and Mary was --- well, Mary was Mary.
“Search the place! For what? The only thing these old farts kill around here is time, sittin’ on the front porch --- and maybe an occasional cockroach.”
“I agree,” I said, “but you have to admit that it’s quite a coincidence that both of the dead guys came from the Three Trails. They have to check it out.”
“I suppose so, but they better not mess anything up!”
The next day Blaylock gave me a rundown of their Three Trails experience.
“We turned the place inside out and questioned every tenant. I had to have a man stay with Mary to keep her in her apartment. She was breathing down our necks from the get-go.”
“So what did you find?”
“Not a damn thing. The most dangerous thing we found was the toxic gas in bathroom #4 after an old guy named Feeney had used it. You really need to think about installing industrial gra
de air fresheners in that place.”
I hadn’t expected that they would find anything, but you never know.
Meanwhile, Ox and I had pulled the case file on the murder/suicide and reviewed the notes. We were looking for anything that might tie the deaths of Ed Weems and Larry Dunlap to our two new homicides.
“Do you remember the box on the front steps when we first arrived at Dunlap’s apartment?”
“Yeah,” I replied, “it was addressed to Dunlap c/o the Midtown Book Club. I remember the landlady saying that the group hadn’t been around for a while.”
“Given the fact that novels were left at all three crime scenes, that book club is our best lead.”
“I agree,” I said. “Let’s check it out.”
We paid another visit to Dunlap’s landlady, but got little more information than she had already given us.
She said that the first time the club met in her building there were at least eight members. She remembered because they had trouble finding places to park. The next time, several months later, the group had dwindled to four. She didn’t know the names of any members other than Ed and Larry.
“If the group rotated their meeting place each month, maybe they also met at Ed Weem’s place,” I said.
“Right,” Ox replied, “no one even interviewed Weem’s landlady that I know of.”
We drove to Weem’s apartment on Belleview and knocked on the landlady’s door.
“May I help you?”
We flashed our badges.
“Ma’am,” I began, “we’d like to ask you some questions about one of your former tenants, Ed Weems.”
“Tragic! Just tragic!” she said, wringing her hands. “Ed was a good boy!”
“I wonder if you could tell us about the Midtown Book Club?” Ox asked. “I understand that he was a member.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, “they met here several times --- a fine group of young people.”
“I don’t suppose that you would know the names of any of the members other than Ed and Larry,” I ventured.
[Lady Justice 10] - Lady Justice and the Book Club Murders Page 6