During Franklin Denemore’s tenure as head of the group, the Denver Police Department had developed a reputation of near perfection in handling evidence. Throughout his seven-and-a-half years heading the department, not one major criminal case soured due to evidence handling. After Denemore retired two months earlier, Jillian had been recruited from Mansville County. She had maintained the reputation of the group, but Nick knew her from prior dealings.
“Hello, Nick.” The tension was palpable.
“I really appreciate your being out here personally.”
“Not a problem,” she responded curtly.
“I haven’t gone into the room yet,” he replied. “As clean as this is, I thought I would wait until you and your team were done before I had a thorough look. I am glad you are here. I’m going to go interview some of the potential witnesses.”
“From the looks of things,” Jillian responded as she peered over his shoulder into the sleazy motel room, “I don’t think we’ll be more than an hour and a half, two tops.”
“And, Nick,” she added, “I am glad you’re back in the game.” She and the techs prepared to enter the room.
Nick glared at her as she walked away, wondering where that comment came from. He shook his head and moved on toward the motel office.
“Mr. Wilson, I would like for you to tell me in your own words what happened this afternoon,” Nick said. He had already finished questioning the responding officers and sent them on their way. He believed most of the answers would come from the motel owner, the victim, and the yet unnamed lady of the evening they would inevitably find before the day’s end.
“I already told the other officer exactly what happened,” Wilson protested.
Nick began again, trying to keep his patience. “Mr. Wilson, please tell me everything you recall that led to your finding the body in room thirteen.”
“I found him about 3:30 or 3:45 and called 911. I’m not sure there is much more to tell than that, Detective.”
“Let’s start from the beginning. When did this gentleman rent this room?”
“He didn’t, someone else did.”
Nick looked down at his still-blank notepad. He wanted to shake the information out of this guy, but he knew better. Patiently, he stepped him down the path. “Good, we’re getting somewhere. Who was it that rented the room?”
“She signed the guest register as Sally Smith, but I doubt that’s her real name.”
“And did you sign her in?”
“No, my wife did. I take a nap most days in the late afternoon. She registered about 6:30 yesterday.”
“And how did she pay?”
“She paid in cash.”
“How much?”
“I’d have to go look, but that room goes for $79.95 on weeknights.”
“Now Mr. Wilson, tell me how you came to find the victim.”
“Our maid went to clean the room, probably around twelve or so. She knocked as she always does, and when no one answered, she went in. She saw this gentleman and thought he was sleeping, so she left to finish the other rooms. She went back sometime after 3:00, after she had finished the other rooms, and he was still in there, so she came and told me. Since the room wasn’t paid for, I went over there to have a word with the gentleman. When I couldn’t wake him up by knocking, I became concerned and opened the door. It seemed pretty obvious to me he was dead, and I called 911.”
“Did you go into the room?”
“No, because I could tell from the door he was dead. I’ve been around too long; I didn’t want to be associated with this in any way. I didn’t touch him or even go in there. I just called 911.”
“Good decision.”
After talking to the motel owner, Nick talked to Mrs. Wilson and the maid. With Mrs. Wilson, he established a number of things: Sally Smith arrived on foot; she did indeed pay in cash; she was not one of the escorts Mrs. Wilson knew or had seen before, but she did provide a generic description—blonde, twenty-three, thin, not much more; and, she was alone, no John Doe in sight. Mrs. Wilson assumed she must be new to the trade.
The maid provided little more than a first-hand description of what Mr. Wilson had told him. She had not seen Sally Smith leave.
After finishing with the maid, Nick returned to room thirteen. Jillian was standing outside, smoking a cigarette and talking on her cell phone. She motioned to Nick that she would only be a moment. He nodded acknowledgement and looked into the room. Dr. Erwin Tasser, Denver’s long-time coroner, was still examining the corpse in his methodical way. Nick turned back to Jillian after she ended her call.
“Crew’s headed out,” Jillian offered. “I think we’ve done all the damage we can for this scene.”
“Find anything interesting?”
Jillian laughed a smoker’s deep laugh. “You know, we probably have pubic hair from the Governor on down coming out of that room. The techies were pretty disgusted to be honest with you. I think that’s by far and away the best vacuuming that room’s ever seen.”
She took another drag, then continued. “You have a very interesting case on your hands. This guy died from multiple stab wounds. They’re everywhere. Tasser is in there right now. He’ll show you. It looks like he was killed somewhere else then placed here. I have to go, but catch Brenda tomorrow. She’s going to handle this case. And if you need anything from me, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks. I’ll plan to get with Brenda tomorrow and see what the preliminary findings are.”
Nick entered the room, placed his hand on Tasser’s back as he said, “Finding anything interesting there, doc?”
Tasser jumped with surprise. “Jesus.” Nick grinned. “I’m about done here. This one is not your garden variety Colfax murder. He has stab wounds all over his torso. They’re everywhere. Look here.” Nick peered around the doctor’s side as he opened the man’s shirt to reveal the left half of his torso. The wounds were dark and bruised, appearing deep, from something big, maybe a butcher knife. And there were lots of them.
“No chance this guy died here,” Tasser continued. “He’s been dead at least a couple of days. Most of the blood has drained out of his body, but none of it is here. He’s been thoroughly cleaned and dressed in fresh clothes. I’m telling you, this is a weird one.”
Nick scratched his chin, deep in thought. He, along with everyone else, believed this was going to be a slam dunk case. Find the hooker, question her, process her, and send her away. Could be the pimp. Easy enough. All in a day’s work. This was a good way for Nick to get back into the groove, to start dealing with real homicides again. Now he was presented with something infinitely more complex.
“You all right?” The coroner brought him out of his reverie.
He looked down at the body. John Doe’s hands and feet were now bagged to preserve any trace evidence under fingernails and toenails as the body was transported. Jillian would have the Puritanistic shoes and socks, such as they were.
“If it’s all the same to you, let’s keep a little quiet about this scene. Something’s really wrong here, and I want to make sure we don’t compromise the investigation with loose lips.”
Dr. Tasser looked at him blankly. “Sure Nick, nobody talks to me anyway.”
“When are you going to do this guy?” Nick asked, referring to the autopsy.
“We’re pretty slow right now, so I’ll get to him first thing in the morning. If you want to drop by around ten, I should be well underway. I can show you what I’m finding and give you some preliminary thoughts.”
Darkness surrounded the beautiful log mansion, set deep in the woods and on a severe slope, backing to National Forest property. One thing that appealed to the owner about this remote forty-acre site was that he would never have neighbors up the mountain. Most of the other plots within this development were either undeveloped or occupied by city folks who visited infrequently on weekends. It left plenty of time for him to come and go as he pleased, make as much noise as he liked, and go undetected.
Beads of perspiration dripped to the paper as The Doctor put the final touches on his newest script. True genius, he thought. Sinister, but compelling and artful was the only reasonable conclusion. He believed history would remember him as a man ahead of his time, one who understood the liberal laissez-faire world of the future. This would be a time when man was affluent, bored, looking undeniably to fresher, more stimulating pleasures. His was a world beyond extreme sports and death-defying adventure. His moved fully to death itself and the voyeuristic pleasure gleaned from watching the death dance of two humans returning to their animal states.
Glancing through the script, he knew he needed more dialogue. He was too focused on the setting and action and had not focused enough on the interactions between the two players. While the improvisational elements of his screenplays were nearly always the best part, he nonetheless would continue to hone his skills as an artist. He understood his weakest element, as always, was dialogue.
—————
FADE IN
The lone light dangles from the ceiling, pitching darkness from side to side.
GRINDING AND CLANGING AS THE TRAP DOOR OPENS. Guinevere crawls through the opening, blindfolded and gagged, with her arms apparently secured behind her back. Tentatively she stands erect, attempting to sense her new environment without use of sight or touch.
Galahad eyes his beautiful Guinevere and approaches her gently, placing his hands on her shoulders.
GALAHAD
Ah, my Guinevere, you’re here at last, how I have waited.
GUINEVERE
Oh, Galahad, is that you?
She leans into his warm embrace.
GALAHAD
Milady, if only you knew how I counted the days until your good beauty would grace my heart again.
—————
As he searched the web for other examples of screenplays, he realized how sparse his own were. With as many as he had developed and produced, he knew he could do much better. The camera directions were minimal since he was the cameraman, and there were sufficient cameras rolling throughout the action to capture everything many times over. However, if he was going to have a legacy that lived, his art would have to improve dramatically. Incredibly, this was much harder than mining. The Doctor set to the difficult task of editing without the luxury of friends, family, or even an editor to help him move this to a final product.
Phyllis landed in Milwaukee at 7:30. She walked directly to the transportation area and immediately spotted her limo driver holding a sign reading “Dr. Goodwin.” Phyllis had never adopted her husband’s name for her professional career. Although she was already married when she completed medical school and earned her MD, it did not seem appropriate to her. She was Phyllis Goodwin—always had been and always would be.
Arriving at one of Milwaukee’s finest hotels, the Pfister, at 8:00 pm, Phyllis was refreshed and ready for a stimulating dinner. As she checked in, Phyllis felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to greet Dr. Edwin Meiser, head of Marquette University’s Clinical Psychology department.
“Dr. Goodwin, it is indeed a pleasure to have you here,” he announced.
“Dr. Meiser, the pleasure is all mine,” Phyllis responded, smiling broadly. “I am honored to be here with such an esteemed group.”
Published extensively in numerous magazines and other periodicals, author of two best-selling books within her profession, and growing in popularity on the lecture circuit, Phyllis was developing a solid reputation as one of the leaders in her field. She was on the cutting edge of new clinical methodologies that were gaining widespread acceptance, although not without controversy – some felt her newly-founded field was more about her prominence than any discovery in emerging psychiatry. Anywhere Phyllis went, she would inevitably be challenged by a dissenter, leaving her always on guard.
“I was so pleased you could join us on such short notice. With Dr. Silva’s family emergency, she insisted you were the one person who could do the topic justice, and even with minimal time to prepare, you would be a much superior speaker. I hope it is not too much of an inconvenience for you.”
“Dr. Meiser, you and Susan are too kind.” Phyllis absorbed the adulation. “It is no inconvenience at all.” With that, the doctors Meiser and Goodwin headed down the hall for an intimate dinner amongst peers in a private dining room.
Nick arrived home at 11:16 p.m. He sat in the driveway for several long minutes, contemplating the fate that had brought him here. How could so much sadness and disappointment have entered the life of someone so happy and alive? He thought about his two beautiful children inside and the disappointment he had been to them over the last three months. He had to move on, for them if not for himself. How do you get rid of sadness? He didn’t know.
He made his way inside. Walking into the living room, he found his daughter Michelle curled up across the large sofa chair and ottoman, sound asleep with her earbuds blaring one more musical mystery to Nick. Michelle, the little beauty in his life. At thirteen, she was too old and too big for him to carry. He scooped her up anyway, pulled her close, and carried her to bed anyway. She woke up, giggled, nuzzled her father with sleepy breath, and said, “I love you, dad.”
“I know, baby, I love you, too.” He knew he wouldn’t get to repeat this scene many more times in his life, but for the moment his heart healed slightly.
Nick closed her door softly, then made his way to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, searching for the food equivalent of the Holy Grail. This adventure would not end well, and he knew it. With two hungry teenagers in the house, and a host of others at any given moment, good food did not last long. He settled for two grilled cheese sandwiches and a heaping pile of sour cream and onion potato chips, losing the never-ending battle to improve his diet.
As he sat at the kitchen table and ate, he began his nightly ritual. He pulled the accordion file folder from the hutch and placed it on the table. At this point, the papers and other documents in the folder were straining its capacity. He turned it upside down and dumped its contents slowly onto the kitchen table, directly in front of him. He then pulled his notebook out of the stack, placed on top of everything else, and turned to his entries that seemed to never change no matter how many times he looked at them.
Crime scene neatly organized.
Minimal trace evidence.
Victim killed at another location and moved here.
Victim cleaned and dressed AFTER murder.
Killer has done this before. Otherwise, would not be comfortable with handling a victim in this way.
Victim dressed in unusual, period-piece clothes. Why?
Killer is playing some sort of game.
No apparent motive for killing.
Killer held victim for three to five days prior to killing her, but without any ransom demands.
Serial killer? No established connections in Denver.
He flipped back through his notes. This crime happened three months earlier, and he had not made a lot of progress in a long time. The notes read identically every night; it had been weeks since he had added to them. But he couldn’t let this go. He had to have resolution.
“Hey, dad, whatcha doin’?” Nicky asked, walking bleary eyed into the kitchen and interrupting his father before he made the obvious connection.
“Hey, buddy.” Nick shuffled the papers as had become his custom when the kids walked in while he worked this case. “I’m finishing up a little paperwork here. It was a long day. How was soccer?”
“Cool, dad, it really does work for me. I’m not very fast, but I’m quick and have a lot of endurance, so as the game goes on, I tend to outlast the other guys,” he responded. Nick knew this was true, both of his namesake and himself. Perseverance, toughness, stick-to-itiveness, those were trademarks of the Lynch men.
“And you’re having fun?”
“Yeah, dad, I am. We’re pretty good this year.”
“What are you now?”
“We’re eight
and one with seven to go, then the playoffs, hopefully.”
“And how many goals have you scored now?”
“Seven.”
“And where does that put you?”
“Third in scoring.” Nick Lynch was proud of his son. He worked hard at everything he did, including soccer. Although Nicky wasn’t the smartest kid in his class, he usually brought home straight-A report cards. Unlike his younger sister, Nicky never needed to be prompted to study or work hard. Quite the contrary, Phyllis and Nick spent some amount of time encouraging him to have more fun and relax.
“That’s great, Nicky. I know how much soccer means to you.”
“It really does. And I know how hard you work, so I really do appreciate the fact you’ve made it to every game this year.” Jesus, this is the dream kid, Nick thought. He’s fifteen; the hell years have to be coming pretty soon.
“I wouldn’t miss them for anything. These years go by pretty fast buddy. I love getting to see you play.”
Nicky headed to the refrigerator and poured himself a large glass of milk. He took a big swig and wandered out of the kitchen, saying, “Good night, dad.”
“Night, buddy,” Nick responded.
It was past midnight, and Nick was tired. He took one more look at his notes, crammed everything back into the folder, put it away, and went to bed.
Nick awoke with a start. He looked at the clock. Great, 4:13 in the morning. He knew he wouldn’t go back to sleep now. Once his mind kicked into gear on a case, he would wake after about four hours of sleep, and it was hopeless. He would not sleep again this day.
He went into the kitchen, started the coffee, and grabbed the file from the night before. He then pulled his current notebook from his briefcase. His heart raced as he laid the cases side by side. Certainly, there were variables from one case to the next, but the similarities were striking, at least to Nick. This would be one time when he would have to keep his suspicions to himself.
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