The lab room was chilly and various chemical odors seemed to be competing for dominance. Mois thought of poor Kelly Wedgewood having to identify her mother’s body down here. The sterility of the autopsy room always made death seem unreal to Mois. In the buzzy fluorescent lighting, the yellowed cadavers often looked fake, like poorly made-up extras in a low-budget zombie movie.
“You think the killer has some kind of medical background? Or at least some level of physiological knowledge?” Mois wondered.
“Seems possible. There’s deliberation here,” the coroner noted. “In a normal assault, a killer would just slash across the throat if that was his target. Whoever did this went about it methodically, even though we can assume the victims were struggling. The boy has compression bruises around his mouth, probably from the killer muzzling him.”
Mois contemplated the information then closed his pad and turned to go. The morgue gave him the willies; he didn’t like to linger. But Dr. Chen held up his hand.
“Yo, there’s something else I want to tell you,” he said as he crossed over to his desk. He picked up a file and leafed through it. “You know the killer left knives in both of the victims’ necks. A crazy strange MO, but not the first time I’ve seen it.”
Mois stopped in his tracks. “Are you serious?”
“People tell me I’m always serious, too serious,” Chen shrugged. “Anyway, just six months ago, a woman was stabbed to death in East Omaha. Her boyfriend found her, facedown, inside the front doorway of her home.”
Chen slowly shook his head back and forth as he reviewed the file. Mois frowned with impatience.
“Yeah? And?” the detective asked.
The coroner looked up with a pained grimace, his first display of actual emotion.
“And the killer left two knives in the back of her head.”
Mois was stunned. “Who was she?”
A voice spoke up suddenly behind the detective.
“Joy Blanchard,” Sergeant Teresa Negron said tersely from the lab doorway. “And I know who killed her.”
Chapter 9
“How could Murkowski not have told me about the knives left in the bodies?” Negron fumed as she strode ahead of Mois out of the mortuary lab, her heels clacking angrily down the tile hallway. The steel-gray power suit she happened to put on that morning somehow lent authority to her fury.
“Calm down,” Mois said as he moved to catch up with her. “He probably didn’t know. I wanted to keep a lid on that detail for as long as possible out of respect to the families. And to weed out any crazy false confessions.”
They came to the building exit, and Negron gave the double doors an irritated shove. Outside it was a muggy, overcast spring day. As the two headed toward the parking lot, a heavy roll of thunder sounded in the distance.
“And you weren’t even officially on the case until this morning,” Mois reminded her.
“Didn’t stop you from calling me at eleven last night!” Negron said testily as she fumbled with a file she was carrying. She took a moment to calm herself. “Look, I get all this, Mois. It’s just that the Blanchard case really burned me.”
Stopping in front of her fire-red Mustang, the sergeant pulled out a photo from the file—a color mug shot—and held up it up directly to Mois’s face.
“Feast your eyes,” she said. “Craig Talley. Thirty-six years old. Dark hair. Olive-toned skin.”
Mois took the photograph and let out a slow whistle. “Damn. This guy matches the Dundee killer’s description like he was sent directly from Central Casting. What happened with the case?”
Negron let out a bitter laugh.
“Oh, we arrested him, but the DA—in all her wisdom—refused to file,” she said scornfully. “Plenty of circumstantial evidence but not enough physical. So, the bastard walked.”
The first drops of rain began to fall. One landed directly on the photo Mois was holding, leaving a stream of water running diagonally across Craig Talley’s terse, angry-looking face.
“So, we’re taking this to Chief Wolkoff, right?” Negron asked with a do-not-disappoint-me tone.
An even louder roll of thunder seemed to release the pent-up rain—it came down in a sudden deluge. Negron quickly clicked her car doors open and the two jumped inside.
As the water landed in a heavy drumbeat on the roof of the car, Mois turned to his partner. “Look, I know you’re ready to speed dial Wolkoff with this, but we aren’t there yet.”
“We have a possible serial killer on the loose!” she objected.
“Possible,” Mois noted. “But before we run this any further up, I want to find out more about this Talley. Is he even still in Omaha? What’s the connection to the Hunters? And, by the way, does he fit a pedophile profile?”
Negron hesitated for a moment. The windows of the car were already steaming up—she took a frustrated wipe across the driver’s side glass.
“No. Joy Blanchard was fifty-eight,” she admitted. “But that’s just a theory, anyway.”
“Agreed, but we gotta check things off—one at a time.”
Negron sighed impatiently but nodded in agreement. “You’re right. But Jesus I hope we can nail this Talley guy. He is so clearly guilty. It kills me that he’s still out there.”
She stabbed her foot on the gas pedal and revved her car engine. “Where do we start?”
Thoughtfully rubbing his chin, Mois took another look at the mug shot.
“Let’s get Murkowski to track down this guy’s last whereabouts,” he said. “Meanwhile, we’re going to take this photo to Dr. Hunter. Let’s see if it either introduces him to or reacquaints him with Mr. Craig Talley.”
Chapter 10
One murder can take so many lives.
The thought ran through Mois’s mind as he looked at Dr. William Hunter. The man had aged a decade in the last forty-eight hours. He looked gaunt, hollowed out; like some essential energy force had been bled from him. Mois had seen the look before. He thought it likely that, from now on, the doctor would just be going through the motions of his life.
Mois and Negron tentatively entered Dr. Hunter’s small, meticulously organized office at Creighton University, a sprawling campus with an attached medical facility. Hunter was sitting at his desk, staring down at some piece of paperwork, clearly not reading it—not even seeing it.
Across the desk was a thin middle-aged woman with pertly cut brown hair wearing a white lab coat; she had the same air of shell shock that Dr. Hunter had. Next to her was an older, spry-looking man with receding gray hair, also in a white lab coat. The three were sitting in silence, but the man jumped up when he heard Mois and Negron enter.
“Detectives?” he said with a warm, open smile—but a telltale crease of concern in his forehead. “Bill told me you were coming in this morning, so I thought I’d, well…I’d keep company till you arrived. I’m Dr. Roger Brumback.”
Introductions were made, the woman identified as Claire Hunter, also a doctor at Creighton. Both grieving parents dutifully stood and shook the hands that were offered. Then there was an awkward silence.
“Well, I’ll leave you to discuss…your business,” Brumback said with a worried glance over to William Hunter. “We’ll get back to that case history another time, Bill. No hurry at all. Whenever you…”
Giving it up, Brumback backed out of the room with a tight smile. Negron gave Mois a wide-eyed “how to start?” look. But before he could say anything, Claire Hunter spoke up.
“It must seem strange that we came to work today,” she said, almost apologetically. “I’m sure everyone thinks so. But the house is…it’s a crime scene, so we can’t go in. And we couldn’t stand sitting in that hotel room.”
Negron gave her an understanding nod. “I think that was a good decision. And we appreciate you seeing us.”
Mois took a file out of his briefcase.
“We have a physical description of a person of interest seen in the neighborhood,” Mois said as he lay six mug shots down across
a small side table. They showed men who all looked to be in their mid-thirties to mid-forties, including Craig Talley. All had medium-to-dark complexions and dark eyes; several had facial hair, one had a shaved head. “Do any of these men look familiar to either of you?”
William Hunter gave his wife a pained glance. But they slowly stood up and, taking one another’s hand, cautiously approached the table.
“They all look somewhat alike,” William Hunter noted after a moment.
“Yes. Dark hair, cruel eyes,” his wife agreed. “But I don’t recognize any.”
Mois saw that William Hunter was studying the photos with a slightly perplexed expression. “And you, Doctor?”
“No…” he said carefully. “I don’t know any of these men. But…”
“Yes?” Negron asked hopefully.
“I’m sorry,” he said with certainty. “I don’t know them.”
Negron took a piece of paper from her briefcase and laid it on the table. “What about this? It’s an artist rendering of a description your neighbor gave us.”
They both examined the drawing with what seemed equal parts dread and curiosity. The sketch was similar to the photos, although the man depicted had somewhat more swollen cheeks and eyes that were closer together than any of the men in the mug shots. William Hunter looked back and forth between it and the photographs several times.
“Anything?” Mois asked. “Take your time.”
Claire Hunter shook her head; her husband looked at the sketch again then reluctantly shook his head.
“What about the name Craig Talley?” Negron asked, trying not to sound too eager. “Does that sound familiar?”
“Not to me,” Claire said. “Maybe…someone from Shirlee’s family might know him?”
“We’re going to find out. I have to stress that we’re still early in the investigation,” Mois said as he took out another photo. “One last thing, do either of you recall seeing a silver or gray Honda like this in your neighborhood?”
William Hunter glanced at the photo but sighed wearily, “I don’t pay much attention to cars.”
Claire took the photo but almost immediately shook her head. As Mois picked up the mug shots, the awkward silence again descended.
“When is Tom’s funeral?” Negron asked gently.
“Wednesday,” Claire replied, sounding grateful at the mention of her son. “They couldn’t release the—we’ve couldn’t have Tom back before then.”
The detectives said their goodbyes. Both doctors thanked them for coming then slowly resumed their seats. Mois imagined them sitting there for the rest of the day, even into the night. No home to go back to.
“Not very encouraging,” Negron sighed as they walked out of the facility. Then, hearing a ping on her phone, she stopped and read the text. “It’s Murkowski. He’s got Craig Talley’s address. He’s still in Omaha.”
She looked at Mois expectantly. He pondered for a moment—but just a moment. The thought of the shattered couple they had just left renewed his sense of anger.
“Let’s do it,” he said. “Let’s bring that bastard in.”
Chapter 11
“I’m beginning to think you really got a thing for me, Sergeant Negroni.”
Craig Talley—unshaven, dirty jeans, powerfully built but with a rapidly emerging beer belly—sat back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned that he was being held in a stark, cement-walled interrogation room. In fact, he gave every indication of enjoying himself.
“That’s Sergeant Negron, punk,” Mois corrected him with a smack on the back of his head. Talley didn’t so much as flinch, he just kept his small, jet-black eyes on Teresa. He gave her a long slow leer, lingering on her legs.
“I love a Negroni. One part gin, one part sweet vermouth, one part Campari,” Talley said with a smack of his lips. “All parts delicious—just like you, Sergeant.”
Negron clapped her hands and gave the suspect a big fake grin. “Congrats, Talley—you won! You’re officially the two-hundredth asshole to make that joke to me.”
Mois walked to the other end of the small table. “You don’t seem very curious about why you’ve been brought in, Talley.”
They had picked the suspect up when he came home from his day labor job. His filthy, dilapidated house was in one of Omaha’s worst hoods. From the start, Talley had affected a strangely nonchalant attitude. Now, instead of responding to Mois, he stretched back and lifted his feet onto the table; the detective promptly shoved them off.
“Hey, watch the police brutality, dude,” Talley whined. “Ain’t my fault your partner can’t stop obsessing over me. I told her a million times I don’t know nothin’ about that Blanchard chick.”
Mois walked over and, pulling out a chair, took the seat next to Talley. “Big surprise, pal: we didn’t bring you in to talk about the Blanchard case.”
Talley’s eyes nervously narrowed—he’d been caught off guard, finally. Mois could tell the wheels had started turning in his mind.
“Where were you around three p.m. Thursday?” Negron asked in an icy businesslike manner; her abrupt change of tone clearly added to Talley’s unease. He warily glanced back and forth between the two detectives.
“Workin’, I guess,” he shrugged, his brow creased with increasing anxiety.
“Got someone who can verify that?” Mois asked. Talley hesitated a moment, again clearly pondering his situation. Suddenly, a cheesy sham smile spread across his face.
“Now let me see…Hmm,” Talley said with exaggerated effort. “You know what? It’s coming to me. Yeah. This is about those murders—the little boy and the cleaning lady, right?”
It didn’t throw Negron. She kept her gaze steeled on Talley. He tried to laugh it off but finally smacked the table in exasperation.
“Am I the only guy in Omaha you investigate? What the hell!”
“Where were you?” Mois demanded.
“Pouring concrete, over by the airfield. Worked till seven thirty,” Talley stated with absolute conviction. “Boss had to pay us overtime. Wasn’t happy about it either. So, guess you two are gonna have to work a little harder on this one.”
He stood up and gave a showy stretch. “Either ya’ll arrest me or let me go. I know my rights.”
Mois pulled him right back down into his chair. “You aren’t going anywhere until we talk to your boss. And that could take quite a while. Cell reception sucks down here.”
Mois nodded for Negron to join him outside of the interrogation room. As she passed by, Talley made a kissing sound. She seemed ready to whack her folder against the suspect’s face, but a warning look from Mois stayed her hand.
Out in the hallway, Negron walked quickly back and forth, releasing a long breath of frustration.
“Seems pretty sure of himself,” Mois observed.
“His kind always seem that way, hardly ever really are,” she scoffed. “Interesting how he made that jump to the Dundee killings.”
Mois nodded as he took out his phone; at the same time, Negron’s own cell rang shrilly, echoing up and down the empty hallway.
Mois nodded. “Take it. I’ll call Talley’s boss.”
As Mois punched in numbers, Negron stepped away and glanced at the one-way window into the room where Talley was held. He had turned his chair to face the window and sat grinning with his legs apart, squeezing his crotch. Negron looked away in disgust.
“Yep?” she said into her phone. After listening a bit, her brow furrowed. “Can we come over now?…Great.”
She turned back to Mois, who was just getting off his call.
“Bad news. Very bad,” he said with a frown. “Talley’s boss confirms his alibi. He’s not our guy. Sorry, Terry.”
Mois was surprised when Negron just gave a cool nod.
“No worries. I’m gonna get Talley someday. I can wait. Until then, I’ve got good news,” she said. “You might just have scored with your chat room theory. IT compared chats from Tom Hunter’s co
mputer and game console. And they found something.”
Chapter 12
“This place makes the morgue look cheery,” Mois whispered to Negron as they entered the strangely darkened digital forensic lab.
“Just go with it,” Negron replied. “Tech dudes are a breed apart.”
The IT department was downright spooky. The window blinds were all drawn and the overhead lights were off. The only illumination came from the banks of computer monitors, which cast eerie angular shadows over the walls.
Alex Burns, a slim, neatly dressed young technician with a massive brown beard, was typing away on a keyboard. As the two approached, he looked up with a wide smile.
“Welcome to the den of darkness! They let me keep it this way ever since I was diagnosed with SAD—seasonal affective disorder,” he said, almost proudly. “I get super depressed when the time changes, so we just keep it dark all the time. It totally works!”
Negron shot Mois a “told ya so” glance.
“That’s great, Alex,” Negron said. “Shows how much the department values you. So, you have some important news on the Hunter case?”
“Oh, yeah! Come over here,” Alex gestured excitedly as he went to another computer terminal and began punching away at the keyboard. “Tom Hunter logged in some serious gaming hours. And he did a lot of chatting with players online.”
Alex pulled up several transcriptions of chat room conversations—mostly written in shortened, slangy text. Mois leaned forward and squinted at the screen; it was so full of emojis it was like trying to read hieroglyphics. “I need my son to translate this! What are they talking about?”
“Standard stuff,” Alex said. “Game strategy. Trash-talking opponents. As you probably know, most game software will monitor players’ chats. It’ll flag things like explicit language, threats, sex talk.”
“But what about the locked rooms?” Negron asked. “The private chats? That’s what we really need.”
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