She thought for a moment. “Just one --- a lovely girl --- Elizabeth --- they called her Liz. I only knew her because I was having a procedure at the hospital and I saw her there. She was a nurse’s aide. I remember thinking at the time what a coincidence it was that she was a part of Ed’s group.”
“Do you know Liz’s last name or where she lives?” I asked hopefully.
“Don’t think I ever heard her last name and I don’t think she’s around anymore. When the club started dwindling, I remember Ed saying something about Liz going back to M.U. to finish her degree.”
“You said that she was a nurse’s aide,” Ox said. “Which hospital?”
“St. Luke’s,” she replied. “It’s just a few blocks from here.”
We thanked the lady and headed to the hospital.
“It’s a long shot,” Ox said, “but maybe their Human Resources Department can give us a lead on this gal.”
The lady in the H.R. Department proved to be very helpful.
Her database held the names of hundreds of employees, past and present. She did a search by the first name, Elizabeth, and came up with twenty-two possibilities.
She printed out the list and we spent the next twenty minutes whittling away names.
Finally, the one that popped out was Elizabeth Pringle. She had been employed as a nurse’s aide until August of this year when she had left to enroll in the fall semester at the University of Missouri at Columbia.
Her record indicated that she lived with her parents in the Hyde Park neighborhood.
A phone call later, we hit pay dirt. Her mother said that Liz was wrapping things up at school and would be home for the Thanksgiving holiday. We could give her a call on Friday. She was sure that Liz would be happy to visit with us.
Bingo! Textbook police work 101. Maybe it would pay off.
It was Thanksgiving Day and I had been looking forward to a day away from the murder and mayhem of the past few weeks.
In many American homes, the Thanksgiving celebration is built around family tradition.
I remember the Thanksgivings of my youth when the family would pile into the car and drive to Grandma and Grandpa’s farm.
Grandma always had all of the usual favorites and we ate until we were stuffed.
That was back in the days before television and football, so in the afternoon we played cards or took the old dog out for a hunt in the woods.
Being married just over a year, Maggie and I haven’t settled on anything permanent for the holiday.
Two years ago, we decided to go traditional. We invited all of our friends to my apartment for a feast prepared by my bride-to-be and me. Maggie and I cooked the bird, stuffing and gravy, and our guests brought something to add to the table.
The fellowship was great, but the meal left something to be desired.
When it was all said and done, due to our lack of culinary skills and Murphy’s Thanksgiving law, our feast consisted of Mexicali turkey, Wonder Bread crab paste, Aunt Jemima gravy, hockey puck rolls, chitlins and enough pumpkin pie with strawberry Cool Whip to feed the Mormon Tabernacle choir.
Last year, we did something completely different.
At the urging of Pastor Bob, all of us volunteered to help serve Thanksgiving dinner at the Salvation Army soup kitchen.
It proved to be a very heartwarming and fulfilling day, so we decided to do it again this year.
Our whole gang came along to help.
This year we had a new addition to our crew, Judy DeMarco, Ox’s sweetie. All together there were ten of us to help feed the less fortunate.
I walked into the soup kitchen with mixed feelings.
It was here, just a year ago, that I met Ed Jacobs working on the serving line.
We became good friends and eventually I recruited him into the City Retiree Action Patrol.
After serving just a few months, he was killed in the line of duty.
The memory of my friend and fellow officer made the day a bittersweet experience.
I noticed right away that there was a subdued feeling among the crowd that waited in line to be served and I mentioned the fact to Pastor Bob.
“Of course they’re down,” he replied. “These are street people and two of their own have been brutally murdered in the last week and the killer is still out there. They’re wondering who might be next.”
I guess I hadn’t really looked at the situation from their point of view.
As I took my place in the serving line, I marveled again at what an enormous undertaking this was.
A hundred and thirty turkeys had been baked, donated this year by Buster McElroy of Dyson Foods because of our undercover work. Those, along with twenty-two gallons of gravy and fourteen hundred dinner rolls would be served to over four hundred people in the dining room and another nine hundred elderly and homebound folks that couldn’t make it in.
After a blessing was said, the people began passing through the line. Most offered their thanks as we piled the food on their plates.
When nearly everyone had been seated, I saw Jerry heading to the microphone.
Last year, Jerry’s contribution had been to entertain the homeless folks while they ate --- a tough crowd to say the least.
His banter had been a big hit and evidently he was going to give it another try.
“How’s the food?” he asked.
There was polite applause from the crowd.
“Oh really! Is that all you’ve got? I don’t think you realize how much work goes into this meal. Just imagine, coming in at five in the morning and stuffing breadcrumbs up a dead bird’s butt!
“I’m telling you this turkey cooking can be a challenge. One of the cooks decided to try a new recipe. It said to wrap the bird in aluminum foil and bake until brown. Imagine her disappointment when she took the bird out of the oven six hours later and it was still silver!
“Now let’s really hear it for the folks that have given their time to prepare this meal for you!”
This time the room was filled with hoot, hollers and cheers.
When the noise died down, Jerry continued, “Do we have any rednecks out there?”
Hands went up throughout the room.
“Well, you guys will know what I’m talking about.
“You know you’re at a redneck Thanksgiving if you’re seated around a ping-pong table, your best plates are inscribed with the word ‘Dixie’, and you have a complete set of salad bowls and they all say ‘Cool Whip’ on the side.”
More howls.
“You know you’re at a redneck Thanksgiving if you have to decide which one of your pets you’re going to eat, and your stuffing’s secret ingredient comes from the bait shop.”
Laughs all around.
“You’re definitely a redneck if you own an Elvis Jell-o mold.”
I swear I don’t have any idea where Jerry got his stuff, but the crowd loved it, and he kept up the banter for another fifteen minutes.
The same people that were standing in line, quiet and subdued, left the building with full tummys and big smiles on their faces.
When the day was done, we were all pooped, but we felt great.
Maybe the Williams family had found a Thanksgiving tradition after all.
CHAPTER 13
On Friday, as soon as squad meeting was over, we called the Pringle residence and made an appointment to speak to Liz.
The gal that opened the door was a petite blonde in her mid to late twenties and her hair was pulled back in a saucy ponytail.
“Hi, I’m Liz. Come on in.”
When we were seated, Ox began, “Liz, I understand that you belonged to the Midtown Book Club.”
“Sure did,” she said, “until I left for college. I wonder if they’re still meeting. The group was getting pretty small at the time I left.”
Ox and I exchanged glances. Apparently Liz had not heard about the deaths of her friends.
“Liz,” I said, “I hate to be the one to break the bad news, but two of th
e club members, Ed Weems and Larry Dunlap are dead.”
Her expression immediately changed to shock and disbelief.
“What? How? Oh my God! Is Oscar okay?”
“Two weeks ago, the bodies of your friends were discovered in Larry Dunlap’s apartment. The evidence at the scene suggested that it was a murder/suicide, but we’re taking another look. Who is Oscar?”
“Oscar was another club member. I dated him a few times, but it was nothing serious. Oscar, Larry and Ed were the last of the club by the time I moved. I hadn’t spoken to any of them --- oh, God --- they’re really dead?”
“We’re really sorry for your loss,” I said. “Actually, what we’d like from you, if you have it, is any information you might have on the former club members.”
“I can help you with that,” she said, retrieving her iPad from the coffee table. “I was sort of the unofficial secretary of the group. I notified everyone when and where the next meeting was to be. There wasn’t much to it at the end.”
“Fantastic!” I said, “May we copy the information?”
“Do you have a smart phone?” she asked.
“Well, the phone’s smart. I can’t say much for the guy that owns it. I’m not very high tech.”
“Not a problem,” she said, smiling, “I’ve got everything in a .PDF file. I’ll just email it to you.”
Another miracle of modern technology.
I gave her my email address and when the file was safely stored on my phone, we rose to leave.
“One more question, Liz. Can you think of anyone that might have had a reason to kill Ed and Larry?”
She thought for a moment, “No, I really can’t. Everyone in the club was really nice --- some of the guys were kind of nerdy, but really nice. Other than the club meetings, I really didn’t know much about their personal lives.”
“How about this Oscar guy?” Ox asked. “You said that you went out with him a couple of times. What can you tell us about him?”
“Oscar and I met at the hospital. He’s an orderly there. I’m the one that invited him to join the club. At first, I think he only came to be with me, but later on he seemed to really enjoy the reading --- mystery novels mostly. He was one of the nerdy ones, but really nice.”
We thanked Liz for her help and headed back to the precinct to run the names of the club members.
In addition to Liz, Ed and Larry, there were seven other members of the club. We ran them all through our database, but all we came up with was a few parking citations.
“Not exactly the Hell’s Angels,” Ox quipped. “Maybe there’s nothing here at all.”
“We’ve gone this far,” I replied. “We might as well see what they have to say.”
We discovered that three of the seven, like Liz, had moved away and were not even in Kansas City at the time of the deaths.
Of the four remaining, two women and one of the men had quit the club months ago and had not had any contact since their departure.
That left only Oscar Roach.
“Liz said that this Roach guy was still with the club when she went off to school. I think it would be worth our time to have a face-to-face with the guy.”
Ox looked at his watch. “Tomorrow, partner. Judy and I are taking in a movie tonight. Gotta run.”
“You two have been dating for over a year now. Are there any future plans that I should know about?”
“You’re my partner,” Ox grinned. “When there are, you’ll be the first to know. Well --- maybe the second.”
In just a year, my bumbling partner had become a reader and a romantic.
Who knew?
Oscar Roach realized that fame was fleeting.
Three days ago, his grisly deeds were front-page news, but with the all of the hoopla of the Thanksgiving holiday, he was now just a byline on page three, “Police still have no suspects in the murders of two homeless men. If you have any information, please call the TIPS Hotline.”
It was time to up his game.
His first two victims were easy prey, an old man and a dimwit. He was ready for a bigger challenge.
He likened it to a mountain climber that scales a few small peaks and is driven to climb to even greater heights.
He fired up his laptop and read stories of other infamous serial killers.
The names that stuck in his mind were Robert Shulman, who had killed 5 prostitutes, Vincent Johnson, the Brooklyn Strangler who had also killed 5 ladies of the night, and William Suff, the Riverside Prostitute Killer, who had offed twelve women.
These women, who walked the dark streets every night, would be a bigger challenge --- one worthy of the Librarian.
Oscar was, by no means, a ladies man.
He had seen other guys at the hospital that could bed the nurses with ease, but it just didn’t happen with him.
He certainly couldn’t afford to pay for it with his limited budget, so he satisfied his urges with girlie magazines and Internet porn sites.
Although Oscar had never used the services of a prostitute, he had read enough novels and seen enough TV to know how the system worked.
He had read in the newspaper, the areas of town where police often set up ‘sting’ operations to catch the johns that solicited the streetwalkers.
There was certainly more risk with this new hunt, but the greater the risk, the greater the reward.
He would have to plan carefully.
Oscar loaded everything that he would need in his old brown Honda Accord and just after dark, started cruising Prospect Avenue.
He soon realized that November wasn’t the best time to pick up women on the street. The cold weather had obviously driven many of them into the bars and clubs that dotted the storefronts along the Avenue.
He had started at Linwood Boulevard and by the time he reached Independence Avenue, he had only seen two possibilities, but the girls were in pairs and he couldn’t risk being seen by the second girl. He needed a single.
He turned onto Independence Avenue and saw two women standing under a streetlight a few blocks ahead.
He pulled to the curb and watched as cars slowed down and exchanged words with the women.
Most just drove away, but one car paused longer than the rest, and finally, the door swung open and one of the women climbed into the car, leaving the other by herself.
This was his chance.
He put the Honda in gear and drove to the curb by the woman.
He rolled down the passenger window and she approached, “You lookin’ for a party, big boy?”
“Maybe,” he said cautiously. “How much will it cost me?”
She looked him over. “A hundred bucks.”
His heart sank. He knew that he would have to have cash to lure his victim into the car, but all that he could scrape together was seventy dollars.
“Too rich for my blood,” he said, and started to roll up the window.
The woman put her hands on the glass, “How much you got?”
“Seventy bucks,” he replied.
The woman hesitated and pulled her thin coat closer around her neck.
“I can take care of you for that,” she said.
Oscar popped the door handle and the woman slid into the seat beside him.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Turn up there by the pharmacy and go a couple of blocks. There’s a deserted church --- pull into the parking lot. It’s dark there.”
“He followed her directions and when they were parked, she said, “Let’s take care of business first.”
He pulled the roll of bills out of his pocket and handed them to her. She counted the money and stuffed it in her pocket.
“Slide your seat back, honey. I need some room to work.”
Oscar reached for the slide mechanism and when he was in position, she leaned forward to unzip his pants.
He grasped the hammer that he had stowed between his seat and the driver’s door and brought it crashing down on the back of her head.
A cry
of pain escaped her lips and she slumped into Oscar’s lap.
Oscar had to work quickly. Blood was starting to ooze from the head wound and he couldn’t have bloodstains in the car.
He slipped from beneath her and carried her limp body from the passenger side to the steps of the old abandoned church.
He noticed a sign that had, at one time, been enclosed with glass, that had announced the time and day of the services.
The glass, as well as most of the removable letters, was long gone.
All that remained were ‘pray me ting’ It had probably once said ‘prayer meeting’.
He removed all of the remaining letters and replaced the ‘a’ with an ‘e’, leaving nothing but the word, ‘prey’. It was perfect!
Satisfied, he propped the body against the sign.
He took a knife and plunged it into the woman’s chest. The body convulsed briefly and became still.
When he was satisfied that he had left nothing incriminating, he placed the novel in the woman’s hands.
He changed clothing in the dark lot and placed everything in the gunnysack.
At the river’s edge, he carefully wiped every surface of the car that the woman could have touched with disinfectant, and placed those rags in the gunnysack along with everything else.
He relished these moments when the deed had been done.
Like the climber, he now stood on a higher peak.
The Librarian would soon be front-page news again.
Our plans to talk to the last remaining member of the Midtown Book Club had to be put on hold.
Another body had been found. This time at an abandoned church in Northeast.
A hooker had reported the crime. Apparently this gal and the victim worked the streets together for safety.
The woman that reported the murder had picked up a john, leaving her friend alone on the street corner. When she returned, her friend was gone and she just assumed that she had picked up a paying customer as well.
When her friend didn’t return, she became worried and enlisted the help of some of the other working girls to look for her at the places that she usually took her customers.
When she discovered her friend’s lifeless body, she called the cops immediately.
[Lady Justice 10] - Lady Justice and the Book Club Murders Page 7