by Hank Edwards
Now, on this overcast Sunday afternoon, the road finally smoothed out as Pearce directed Jake to a small bungalow. Pearce stepped out and looked up and down the block. Well-maintained homes lined the street, and an older man was raking leaves out of a flowerbed at a house across the street. Pearce nodded to the man and received a steady stare in response.
"Friendly," Jake muttered as he followed Pearce's gaze.
"Observant," Pearce said. "Let's follow up with him after we talk to the family."
They climbed the steps, and Jake knocked on the front door. It opened a crack, and a young woman peered out at them from beneath the security chain. "Yes?"
Pearce held up his badge and smiled, saying, "We're FBI, and we have a few questions about Stuart Behnke. I called earlier. I'm Agent Aaron Pearce, and this is Agent Jake Perrin."
"Oh, yes. I'm sorry. Could I see your badges again, please?"
They held their badges out, and the woman studied the pictures and looked at them. "Just hold them there a moment." She tapped what looked to Pearce like their badge numbers and names into her phone, then peered out at them again. "Just so you know, I emailed this information to myself and my mother's personal email account."
"Completely understand your precautions," Pearce said. "We appreciate you taking time out of your Sunday to speak with us. May we come inside?"
She closed the door, and they heard the rattle as she removed the security chain.
Seconds later, the door opened wide, and she motioned for them to enter. "I'm Stuart's sister, Vicki."
Pearce entered the house and looked back at Vicki. "That was a smart trick with the badge numbers. Any specific reason for it?"
"Other than my brother being murdered?" Vicki asked, fixing him with a steely look.
"Point taken," Pearce said.
"Just so you know, there are security cameras all throughout the house, and the recordings are stored in the cloud, not locally."
"Are your parents home?" Jake asked.
"No. They're divorced, and my mother works two jobs." Vicki led them into a small living room filled with comfortable older furniture positioned around a large flat-screen television standing in a corner.
"Are you his older or younger sister?" Pearce asked.
"I'm two years younger than Stuart," Vicki replied. "But I've already told a lot of other people that."
Pearce held his hands out palms up. "We're not the enemy, okay? I know you've probably talked to a lot of people about this, both from the Detroit police and from the Bureau, and this must seem like a lot of rehashing of stuff we should already know, but it's important, okay? Agent Perrin and I are going through each of the files with fresh eyes, and we want to talk to as many of the relatives as possible. So, is this a good time to talk?"
Vicki's shoulders lowered a bit, and her expression shifted from something like hardened steel to something more vulnerable. She seemed to age about a decade as she waved them toward two overstuffed armchairs before she sat on the edge of a narrow sofa.
"I'm sorry," Vicki said. "I didn't mean to act like that toward you. It's just so frustrating when you tell so many different people the same few pieces of information and nothing is getting done. It feels like no one is writing anything down and I'm just shouting into the void."
Pearce held up the notepad he'd luckily removed from his sport coat pocket before she started talking. "I will be making notes, and I can assure you that we have a file with your brother's name on it and we've each read through it."
"Twice," Jake added. When Pearce gave him a side-eyed look, he said, "I read faster than you."
"Anyway," Pearce continued. "We are determined to figure out who killed your brother and why."
"I have a question first," Vicki said.
"Fair enough," Jake said. "What is it?"
"How many other victims have there been?" Vicki asked.
Pearce exchanged a look with Jake, then replied, "That is something the Bureau has elected to keep quiet for now."
"A reporter from the Free Press called the house and started to ask questions," Vicki went on as if Pearce hadn't spoken. "She said there have been four victims, and then she said 'so far.'" She looked between them, her expression sad and broken as she practically whispered, "Four."
Pearce dropped his gaze to the faded rug beneath his feet as he said, "We really can't comment on that, Ms. Behnke. I'm sorry."
"All found strangled," Vicki continued. "And all with notes in their hands."
Pearce snapped his gaze back to her face.
"That seems to have hit a mark," Vicki said. "Is it true?"
"Whether it's true or not, it was irresponsible of that reporter to say those things to you," Jake replied before Pearce could manage to find the words.
"So it is true," Vicki said as she stared at Jake. She looked at Pearce and asked, "What did Stuart's note say?"
"We can't comment on that, Ms. Behnke," Pearce replied. "We hope you can understand."
She shook her head. "No, I don't understand. Stuart was a good man. He was well liked and had a large circle of friends. Our family was very close and losing him has…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked away as tears ran down her cheeks.
"We can do this another time," Jake said in a gentle tone. "Just tell us when might be a better time to come back."
"No." Vicki wiped away her tears and looked at them again, her jaw clenched and a glimmer of steel in her eyes. "Ask your questions. I'll tell you whatever I can, reveal any family secrets needed to help catch whoever did this. Just promise me you'll stop whoever did this and make him pay."
"I assure you, he will be stopped," Pearce said, and felt the cold twist of guilt in his gut.
Pearce and Jake took turns asking the standard questions: Did she have any guesses who might have done this? Did Stuart have any addictions or habits that might have gotten him in with a rough crowd? Did Stuart often engage in casual sex? Anything said prior to Stuart's murder? Was he acting any differently? Any strange cars outside the house?
Vicki answered all of their questions negatively, and Pearce was about to thank her for her time when Jake asked, "Which bedroom in the house was Stuart's?"
Pearce frowned at him, but Jake was watching Vicki's reaction and ignored him.
"The corner room," Vicki said, pointing to the ceiling directly over their heads. "Facing the street."
Jake nodded. "Did he ever climb out the window at night when you were growing up?"
A sliver of a smile flashed across her features. Her gaze drifted to the side and became unfocused as she thought over the memories.
"We moved to this house five years ago, but he used to climb down a tree outside his window at the house where we grew up."
"Any reason to suspect he might have continued that practice in this house?" Jake asked.
Vicki's smile faded, and she focused on them again. "No. I wouldn't think so. I mean… He never told me about it, if he did. He told us when he was going out at night. He usually just said he was going to meet up with friends at the bar."
"Any idea which bars he frequented?" Pearce asked.
Vicki shook her head. "We didn't talk much about it."
"Did you two share any personal stuff like that?" Pearce asked.
Vicki started to nod, but then shrugged. "We used to, but, you know, as we both got older we grew apart a bit."
"So he could have been into things you might not have known about?" Pearce asked, keeping his tone soft and nonjudgmental.
She looked at her hands, clasped tight in her lap. "I guess so. But nothing like drugs or crazy bondage shit, we would have noticed that kind of change."
"Could we take a look at his room?" Jake asked. "If it's not too much trouble?"
Vicki nodded and led the way up the stairs. She gestured to the door and stood a few feet back, arms crossed and her expression tight.
"I haven't been in it since weeks before he… before. My mother has spent some time in there, mainly sitting on
the bed and crying. Other than that, it's like he left it."
"We won't take anything without telling you about it," Pearce assured her. "We just want to look around and get a feel for what he was like. Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay."
Pearce followed Jake into the room, and they stood just inside the door, looking around. A queen-sized bed took up most of the room, with two dressers standing against plaster walls painted a soothing dark gray-blue. White plastic mini-blinds covered the two windows, and Pearce raised both sets to look outside. The old man across the street was still raking the leaves and looked up when Pearce raised the blinds.
"Definitely need to talk to him before we leave," Jake said as he looked over Pearce's shoulder.
"Definitely," Pearce agreed.
They looked in drawers, sifting through clothing and personal items, but found nothing of interest. Pearce noted they didn't find condoms, lube, sex toys, cum towels, or pornography. Not that magazines were big collection items any longer, but the lack of anything related to sex made him wonder if Stuart's mother had disposed of these things after his death.
"You look thoughtful," Jake said. "Care to share?"
Pearce checked to make sure Vicki wasn't in earshot and said, "I'm not seeing anything that relates to sex."
"Such as?"
"Condoms, lube, sex toys, movies, cum towels," Pearce replied. "None of it."
"Maybe he wasn't as invested in being gay as you are."
Pearce narrowed his eyes. "That's the second gay crack you've made, and I'd like it to stop."
To his credit, Jake blushed before he said, "I didn't mean it as a joke. Seriously. I meant it as a serious discussion point."
"Invested?" Pearce asked.
"It was a bad word choice," Jake said. "I admit it. But my point is that maybe he just wasn't as sexually driven."
"Then why did he go to so many bars?" Pearce asked and shook his head. "No, someone's been through here and cleaned it out."
"The mother?"
"Most likely," Pearce replied. "We'll need to track down some of his friends and talk with them."
"Wish we had his cell phone," Jake said.
"Let's check the list from the Detroit PD," Pearce said. "Maybe they found a few we can follow up with and expand out from there."
"Sounds good." Jake cleared his throat. "Look, I'm sorry if you thought I was making a crack about you being gay."
Pearce waved it off. "Don't worry about it."
"You could apologize, too, you know," Jake said.
"Me? For what?"
"For getting pretty fucking hot under the collar about it," Jake said. "For no reason."
Pearce fixed him with a steady look, which Jake returned. Finally, Pearce rolled his eyes and grumbled, "Fine. I apologize."
"There," Jake said with a smile. "Was that so hard?"
"I think we're done in here." Pearce turned and left the room, sneering as he heard Jake's chuckle behind him.
They asked Vicki if her mother had removed any items from Stuart's bedroom following his death, and she told them she didn't think so. They left their business cards with her and told her to call with any other information she might think of, no matter how small the detail.
When they stepped outside, the old man across the street was nowhere to be seen, so they crossed the street and knocked on the front door. He answered moments later, and Pearce and Jake both showed him their badges.
"FBI?" the man said with a frown. "This about that boy's murder?"
"That's right, sir," Jake said. "What's your name?"
"Dwight Oldfield."
"Is there a Mrs. Oldfield?" Pearce asked.
"There was," he replied. "Until about seven years ago."
"My sympathies, sir," Pearce said.
Oldfield waved his comment away. "Long time ago."
"Anyone else live here with you?" Pearce asked.
"Just me. What can I do for you fellows?"
"Anything you can tell us about Stuart Behnke, Mr. Oldfield?" Pearce asked.
"He was a fag."
Pearce raised a brow. "And how do you know that?"
"Saw him making out with his boyfriend in a car parked in front of the house a week before he died," Oldfield said.
"Boyfriend?" Jake said. "Was this someone you saw out there on a regular basis?"
Oldfield shrugged. "Can't say that I did." He made a face. "Just saw it once, and that was enough for me."
"Do you know the kind of car they were in?" Pearce asked.
"Nah," Oldfield said with a wave of his hand. "All these new models look alike. There's no distinction between them anymore. Just like slices of bread off the same loaf."
"What about the boyfriend?" Jake asked. "Did you get a good look at him?"
"Wasn't looking that close, to be honest," Oldfield said. "Saw it and looked away. Almost called the police on 'em, but decided I didn't want to get involved. Sometimes the more attention you give something the more someone's apt to do it."
"If you had to take a guess about the car, could you do it?" Jake asked.
"Newer model?" Pearce added. "Dark or light color?"
Oldfield glared at them in turn. "Didn't you hear me just now? I didn't look that close."
Jake nodded. "We heard you, but, you see, any information you have about that car might help us figure out who murdered him."
Oldfield grunted and shifted his gaze to look past them and across the street at the Behnke house. "It was late at night, so it was dark. I was up because I don't sleep much anymore." He looked at them in turn. "Don't get old, no matter what you do. It's hell."
"The car?" Pearce prompted.
Oldfield glared again, but continued. "Looked silver from what I could tell. Smaller car, probably foreign. One of them newer foreign pieces of shit, with a name that doesn't make any sense."
"How many doors?" Pearce asked.
"Four," Oldfield replied with a nod. "He got out after they'd mashed a bit and then opened the back door to get some kind of bag."
"Bag?" Jake asked. "Like a grocery bag?"
"Nah, a backpack kind of thing."
"So you saw them kissing, and then you saw Stuart Behnke exit the vehicle and grab a backpack out of the backseat," Pearce said. "Sounds like you looked out the window more than once."
Oldfield was silent as he stared Pearce down. "You trying to start something with me, young man?"
Pearce flashed a cool, fixed smile. "Just trying to get the details of what you saw correct, sir. This is a man's life we're talking about after all."
Oldfield nodded. "I looked out a few times, hoping they'd be gone. But I didn't see much more than what I told you already."
"Silver four-door car," Jake read back from his notes. "Smaller model, most likely a foreign car. And Stuart Behnke had his backpack in the backseat."
"Yeah, that's it." Oldfield nodded, then cocked his head. "Had something hanging from the rearview mirror, I remember that now."
"Describe it," Pearce said.
"Long string with something small hanging at the end," Oldfield said. "When he drove off, it swung and the streetlight flashed off it so it was metal or something shiny."
"And the driver?" Jake asked. "Did you get a good look at him?"
Oldfield shook his head. "Didn't want one, either. Less I knew about him the better, if you ask me."
Pearce had to hold back a sharp comment and spoke up before Jake could jump in to try to salvage the interview. "How big was his nose?"
The surprised look on Oldfield's face was what Pearce was going for. He'd found over the years that if he asked surprising questions about specific features of a suspect, a witness could usually provide more details than they might have thought.
"Size of his nose?" Oldfield let out a phlegmy laugh. "What are you? Anti-Semitic?"
Pearce gave him a cool smile. "No, sir. Just asking for details."
"Funny detail to ask about."
"Does that mean you don't remember?" Jak
e asked.
"No, it's just that… Now that you ask about it, I do remember thinking the guy had a pretty big schnoz on him and wondered how they managed to mash on each other for so long with that honker in the way."
"There, you see?" Pearce said. "You remember more than you thought."
"Guess I do."
"How about hair?" Jake asked.
"He had it, yeah," Oldfield replied.
"Short? Long? Dark?" Pearce prompted.
"Short and dark." Oldfield nodded. "Short dark hair and a big nose. Sounds like a real catch, doesn't he? Don't know what that kid saw in him."
"Well, maybe we'll be able to track the guy down and ask him ourselves," Jake said, then handed Oldfield his card. "If you think of any other details, please call."
Pearce handed over his card as well. "Anything at all. No detail is too small."
"Yeah, they caught Bundy from a parking ticket," Oldfield said as he flicked the corners of their cards with his thumb.
"That they did," Jake said and nodded. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Oldfield."
They walked back to the car without speaking. Pearce got in on the passenger side and looked up at Stuart Behnke's window as Jake started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
"Well that was a treat," Jake said after a couple of minutes of silence.
"You didn't have to try to jump in and take over, you know," Pearce said.
"I wasn't doing that—"
"I've heard people call gay men 'fag' before," Pearce said, cutting him off. "I'm not some precious victim you need to treat with caution."
"Hey, look," Jake said, shifting his attention between Pearce and the road. "I couldn't care less if you got your feelings hurt by Mr. Sunnyside Up back there, okay? What I was concerned with was making sure we kept the conversation on track and got as much information from him as possible. In case you haven't heard, you have a reputation for being kind of a dick, and I didn't want your winning personality to override the reason we were there talking to the crabby, homophobic old fuck."
Pearce was quiet for a while, then finally mumbled, "Only kind of a dick?"
Jake looked at him with wide eyes, then both of them snickered before Jake said, "Right now, you're a full-fledged hard-on of a dick."