Obsession

by Patricia Bradley

  “Oh? Why would you pay any attention to anything he said? The man has Alzheimer’s.”

  “He seemed pretty clear tonight when he said Trey wasn’t responsible for Mary Jo Selby’s death.”

  Gordon stared at Sam, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Slowly he shook his head. “I can’t help you there since I don’t have a clue what he was talking about.”

  Emma didn’t believe him. “Are you saying you don’t remember anything?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Come on, Gordy,” Sam said. “You left the Hideaway with Trey and Ryan the night Mary Jo died, and she was with you.”

  “That was a long time ago, and I was pretty out of it that night.” He palmed his hands. “By the time we left the Hideaway, I was wasted.”

  “Where’d you go?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t know. I remember leaving the tavern and nothing else until Trey dropped me off at my folks’ house. That’s it.” Gordon’s face had turned pasty, and sweat beaded his upper lip. “Anything in between is gone, but why don’t you ask Trey? He was the one who wasn’t drinking much.”

  “I plan to.” Sam’s frustration spilled over into his voice. He took a card from his wallet and handed it to the doctor. “If you remember anything, give me a call.”

  “Of course, but I doubt anything more will come to me.”

  After he left, she looked at Sam. “Do you believe he doesn’t remember anything?”

  “No. He’s hiding something, just like Sheriff Carter.”

  61

  After a restless night, Sam crawled out of bed at six. He tried to avoid Jenny, who was already up and getting Jace ready for school. He was still angry at her for her outburst at the hospital.

  Sam called the hospital to check on George Selby and his daughter and was told they were slightly improved but still critical. Then he texted his mom to check on her and received a message back that his dad was better and that he would go home today.

  Home to the house they’d once shared until the divorce. Another text hit his phone, his mom asking when he would drop by the house. His finger hovered over the keys, and then he shoved his phone in his pocket. He wasn’t ready for that. Sam had held on to his anger for so long it was hard to let it go. What if Emma had the same trouble forgiving him? He slipped his phone back out. Soon, he texted.

  Jenny came into the kitchen while he was drinking his second cup of coffee. She poured herself a mug, and cupping it in her hands, she turned to him. “All right. I’m sorry for what I said to Emma last night.”

  “You should be. Why did you do that?”

  She jutted her chin. “To show you Emma Winters would throw you under the bus the first chance she got.”

  He had to believe Emma would come around. “Did it ever occur to you I might be in love with her?”

  “All the more reason for her to know before you invest any more of yourself in the relationship.”

  “Who made you God?”

  “Look, I apologized. I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

  “I’m a big boy now. I think I can take care of myself, and I’m not sure you should be handing out romantic advice, anyway.” The flash of hurt in her face made him wish he could call the words back as soon as they left his mouth. “I’m sorry, Jenny. That wasn’t fair.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “The thing is, it’s like I’ve been hit by a two-ton truck. Emma is the only woman I’ve ever wanted to marry.”

  Jenny gaped as she stared at him. The words surprised even him.

  “But don’t you understand? That could never happen until she knew the truth about what happened between you and Ryan,” she said. “Look, I did you a favor. If you two can overcome this, you may have a chance.”

  He glared at her. “Don’t do me any more favors.”

  She glared back at him over her coffee. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  Running feet sounded down the hall. “Sam!” Jace cried as he bounded into the kitchen. “Can you take me to the soccer game this afternoon? And can I have pancakes for breakfast, Mom?”

  Disappointment hit Sam hard. “I’m sorry, Jace, but I have business in Jackson today. I may not be back in town in time to take you.” And if he was, he needed to look Trey Carter up.

  The boy dropped his head. “But all the dads will be there, and if you don’t go, I’ll just have Mom.”

  “What am I?” his mom asked. “Chopped meat?”

  “Aw, Mom, you know what I mean.”

  Sam glanced out the window. “It’s raining—maybe the game will be canceled.”

  “It’s supposed to quit by noon,” Jenny said and pulled out the makings for pancakes. “Jace, you just have to accept that Sam is busy today. Maybe your grandfather can take you.”

  No way. “You know he’s not physically able.” Sam would just have to find a way to be back by three. There should be enough time after the game to find Trey. “I’ll rearrange my schedule and pick Jace up after school.”

  “Are you sure?” Jenny asked as she mixed the batter.

  “Yes.” He ruffled Jace’s hair.

  “You don’t mind if I come watch, do you?” Jenny asked.

  “Of course not, Mom.” The boy looked up at Sam. “You’re the best uncle in the world.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Sam replied with a laugh.

  “Jace, bring your homework so I can check it while you’re eating,” she said. After Jace left, Jenny poured a small circle of batter on the griddle. “How many pancakes do you want?”

  “None, thank you. I plan to grab breakfast before the drive to Jackson,” he said as Jace returned with his homework.

  A few minutes later, Jenny put the stack of pancakes in front of her son. “Here you go.” Then she turned to Sam. “Do you have time to look over his math while I look at his spelling homework?”

  Sam hesitated, wanting to get on the road. But helping out with Jace was the main reason he’d returned to Natchez. He resisted checking his watch. “Sure. Hand it over here.”

  The boy was neater than Sam had ever been. “Looks good. You must like math.”

  “I do. Better than spelling.”

  Jenny handed his papers back. “And it shows. You’ve misspelled three words in your sentences.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s for you to find while I finish dressing.”

  Jace groaned. “Would you help me, Sam?”

  “And no, your uncle can’t help you,” she called from the hallway.

  “I’d like to, but you heard your mom. Besides, I have to leave.”

  “It’ll be your fault if I get a bad grade.”

  The boy was a con, for sure. “No. It’ll be your fault. You can find them.”

  A few minutes later, Sam dialed Emma’s number as he backed out of the drive. “Would you like breakfast?” he asked when she answered.

  “No, thanks. I’ve already eaten.”

  His stomach dipped at her cool tone. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  He stopped by McDonald’s and picked up a sausage and egg biscuit and another cup of coffee and ate on the way. Emma was ready when he arrived, and they were soon on the Trace headed to Jackson, with the windshield wipers keeping a steady rhythm as they drove the deserted road. The atmosphere in the SUV was as gloomy as outside. He kept a check in his rearview mirror as the miles rolled off, occasionally catching sight of a pickup.

  “My supervisor okayed me to work at Mount Locust tomorrow instead of Melrose,” she said after miles of silence.

  He remembered that Mount Locust was only open to the public Thursday through Sunday. “I should be free to take you there.”

  “If not, I can hitch a ride with Brooke.” She turned to him.

  “What do you hope to learn from this detective we’re going to see?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe find the connection to these murders and Mary Jo. And Ryan.”

  “It still doesn’t feel real that Ryan
is dead,” she said. “In my mind it’s like he’ll come back to Natchez one day.”

  “I feel that way too.”

  “What do you think Sheriff Carter meant when he told you Trey didn’t kill Mary Jo?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I plan to ask Trey this afternoon when we get back.”

  “We’re not going on to Oxford?”

  “Not today. I promised Jace I’d take him to his soccer game.”

  She shot him a questioning look.

  “It’s important. Besides, I thought I’d see if the Jackson investigator would take part in a conference call with the detective in Lafayette County. If we learn something we need to check out, we can do it tomorrow.”

  Once they hit the Jackson city limits, he concentrated on navigating the heavy traffic, barely arriving at the police department on time. He texted Detective Lane they had arrived, and the detective met them inside the front entrance. The lanky, midfifties detective had a couple of inches on Sam’s six-one. His blond hair was parted low and combed over the top of his head, covering his baldness.

  After the introductions were made, Lane led them to a small conference room. “Make yourselves at home. Can I get you something to drink?”

  As he’d followed the detective, Sam had gotten a look at a pot of coffee that looked like tar. “Water will be fine.” Emma echoed his reply.

  “Probably a good idea,” Lane said and chuckled. “I’ve pulled all the files and made copies for you, and I have contact information for the victims’ families in case you want to interview them.”

  “You think they’ll talk to us?” Emma asked.

  “The Fisher family will—I hear from them on a regular basis wanting to know if any new information has surfaced. They want the killer found and punished.”

  “What suspects do you have?” Sam accepted the file from Lane.

  “None. We know someone sent notes to Kimberly Fisher and figure it’s the same person who gave her daisies, but we’ve been unable to discover who that person was.”

  “What kind of notes?” Sam asked.

  “They’re in the folder there.”

  Sam flipped through the folder until he came to an envelope. When he looked inside it, there were three notes, each of them with a drawing and message in printed text. One looked exactly like the card Emma had received with a dead rat on it. He held it up for her to see. “Look familiar?”

  Emma’s fingers shook when she reached for the note. “It’s identical to the drawing I received.”

  “Do you know if these were mailed to her?” Sam asked. Emma’s card had been slipped under her apartment door.

  “There’s no way to know. Her sister found the notes in Kimberly’s home desk after her death.”

  “How about the daisies? Any clue who sent them?” Emma asked.

  Lane shook his head. “The flowers weren’t from a florist, so I couldn’t trace them that way. Kimberly lived in a cul-de-sac but had no security camera and neither did her neighbors. Except for an eighty-year-old gentleman with cataracts, all her neighbors were at work. And she had no enemies.

  “We thought we had a lead when her sister mentioned there was a man in her office building who advised her to drop her deadbeat boyfriend, but she didn’t know his name, and our investigation didn’t turn up this mysterious man—she was a receptionist for a billing company and a lot of people stopped by her desk.”

  “Where did she work?” Sam asked.

  “In an office building not far from the medical center.”

  “How about the other offices?”

  “Mostly companies that had a connection to the medical center, although there were a couple of law offices and accounting firms.”

  Emma tilted her head. “How about the boyfriend who was murdered?”

  “He was another matter. A recovering alcoholic who had been abusive in the past. If she’d died first, he would have been our prime suspect. At one time they’d been engaged, but after he hit her in a drunken stupor, she ended the engagement. He promised to go to rehab and stay straight. They had recently gotten back together after he got out of rehab.” Lane shook his head. “You’ve heard of the perfect murder? This was it.”

  “You know there’s a similar crime up around Oxford?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. I got in contact with the detective in charge after I entered the crime in RISS. Lieutenant Doug Marsh. The cases are practically identical. I talked to him this morning, and we set up a teleconference through my laptop for ten.”

  Good. Lane had anticipated Sam would want to talk to the Oxford detective. He checked his watch. Another thirty minutes. “Do you think he might be available now?”

  “Let’s see,” Lane said.

  A few minutes later the detective appeared on Lane’s laptop. “Good mornin’,” Marsh said, his Southern drawl more pronounced than Lane’s. The Hinds County detective introduced Emma and Sam.

  “Do you have a murder case that matches ours?” Marsh asked.

  Sam turned the computer where he could see the detective better and Marsh could view him. He figured Marsh to be in his midforties. Since the detective sat in an office chair, Sam couldn’t tell much about his size other than Marsh’s broad shoulders filled the camera lens and his lean face led Sam to think the detective didn’t spend a lot of time sitting around eating donuts. “From what I’ve read and heard about your case and Lane’s, I believe they’re connected to mine. Happened ten years ago, and I suspect it’s our murderer’s first kill.”

  “How come you’re just now investigating?”

  “It’s complicated,” Sam said. “Until recently, there was only one body, that of Mary Jo Selby. The sheriff at the time believed a man who went missing about the time of her death was her killer, and the case wasn’t investigated thoroughly.”

  Lane leaned forward. “I haven’t asked this previously, but what makes you think her murder is linked to our cases?”

  “The daisies, and we believe the missing man was killed the same night. My victim received a bouquet of daisies not long before her death, and her sister couldn’t remember much about the man who gave them to her. I’m just now investigating because the missing man’s body was only recently found, giving me the opportunity to reopen the case. I’d already been looking for an excuse after I discovered the murder case file was missing.”

  “What does the current sheriff have to say about that?” Marsh asked.

  “The sheriff who investigated the Selby murder has dementia, and the sheriff we have now just took office. He’s still getting his boots on the ground.”

  “So not much help there,” Marsh said.

  “Right. The former sheriff’s son was one of the last people to see the Selby girl alive, and I plan to question him later today.”

  “Any chance the man who went missing killed your victim?”

  Emma leaned closer to the laptop. “No. We found where he was buried last week, and while I’m not a forensic anthropologist, I believe the body has been there since he went missing ten years ago. The site is within a few miles of where Mary Jo Selby died.”

  Sam pulled out the notes he’d made and laid out all the details of their case for the two men, beginning with discovering where Ryan’s body had been buried and then removed. “We found his college ring and one bone, but it was enough to identify him.”

  Then he told them about the daisies Emma had received and the anonymous notes, how someone fired on them at her apartment, and then George Selby’s and his daughter’s shootings.

  “It sounds like our killer is living in Natchez,” Lane said.

  Sam looked up from his notes. “That’s my conclusion.”

  “What’s the connection to Oxford and Jackson, though?” Marsh asked. “Do you have a suspect who has either lived in both places at the time of the murders or has relatives in the area?”

  “I wish. I don’t have any suspects at all,” Sam said. “I want to question the former sheriff’s son, but—”

  “
Wait a minute,” Emma said. She looked over the notes Sam had taken, then turned to the laptop. “Both Trey Carter and Gordon Cole were in Oxford when your victim was murdered. They were at Ole Miss then.”

  “What?” Sam jerked his head toward her. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. They graduated in 2013, a year after Ryan would have graduated. And both had come home the weekend Mary Jo was killed to celebrate Ryan’s twenty-first birthday. And mine,” she added. Her eyes widened. “It just dawned on me that Gordon went to medical school in Jackson . . .”

  “How about Trey? What did he do after graduation?”

  Her face paled. “He attended the police academy in Jackson.”

  62

  Emma couldn’t believe it. Trey Carter a murderer? She shook her head to clear it. It wasn’t possible that the man she’d dated for several months was a killer. That he’d killed his best friend . . .

  He was controlling . . . but that didn’t make him a murderer. “Trey and Gordon aren’t the only men I know who lived in Oxford and Jackson at the time of the murder,” she said. “Corey Chandler attended Ole Miss the same time they did, and then he practiced law in Jackson until three years ago.”

  “When did you learn that?” Sam asked.

  “Last night.” She added Corey’s name to her notes and then marked through it. “But as far as we know, he wasn’t in Natchez when Mary Jo and Ryan were killed. He would have been at Ole Miss then, so that basically eliminates him.”

  “We need to make sure he wasn’t in Natchez ten years ago.” Sam leaned toward the computer. “Did you two research erotomania?”

  Both men nodded. Emma had skimmed over a few internet articles. “What I read,” she said, “was that an erotomaniac’s behavior could closely resemble that of a single-minded stalker, and like stalkers, they could even perceive themselves as being the ‘savior’ of the object of their attention.”

  “Yeah, I read that,” Marsh said. “And all that love they have could turn to rage if they thought the object of their desire was never going to return their love.”