“Keri Jones? You mentioned her before. She used to tease Rowland, correct?”
“Yeah, she could be a bitch at times.”
“Was Zach ever arrested?”
“Not that I know of, but he got in trouble once for beating up a guy in a bar. Zach was drunk and really hurt the guy. The man was in a coma for a day or so.”
“Does Zach Connors have a problem with alcohol?”
“He certainly likes to drink, but I don’t think he’s an alcoholic, although, he might be headed that way.”
“And the man he injured in the bar fight, he never pressed charges?”
“The ambulance attendant found drugs on the guy when they were treating him at the scene. I can’t prove it, but I think the chief used that to keep the guy from pressing charges against Zach. The rumor is that most of the drugs disappeared, making the offense more minor than it would have been.”
“That would make the chief dirty.”
Linda shrugged. “I guess, but it wasn’t like he wanted a bribe; he was protecting his son.” She took her eyes from the road and studied Erica. “Are you thinking that Zach Connors might be a murderer?”
“I’m just following leads as they come up. Most will be a dead-end, but they all have to be explored.”
“And what about Joey? I guess he’s still your main suspect if you’re taking his DNA.”
“He’s still a suspect, yes, and maybe the DNA test will clear him of at least some of the murders we’re investigating.”
“Joey likes you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw the way he was staring at you; he thinks you’re beautiful, and you are.”
Erica laughed. “I don’t date suspects.”
“But what do you think of him?”
“I think Jude Rowland is a man who has suffered much in his past. If he learns to leave it behind him, he could have a great future.”
“I know, right? He’s smart, good-looking, and has all the money he’ll ever need, but he locks himself away in that house with those dogs. It’s such a waste.”
“You sound as if you wouldn’t mind doing something about that.”
“Yeah, I’d date Joey in a second, but I don’t know if he’ll ever trust me. I hurt him once. He might be afraid that I would do it again.”
They arrived at the hotel near the police station a few minutes later. Linda pulled to the curb and let Erica out.
“Are you and that handsome partner of yours staying in town, Erica?”
“We are, unless something draws us away.”
“Happy hunting,” Linda said.
Erica watched Linda drive the patrol car around to the fenced-in parking lot at the side of the police station.
Nearby, Owens was getting out of the Chief’s vehicle, along with the chief. The two appeared to have made up. As Erica approached them, they were talking amicably about football. Apparently, they were both fans of the same team.
After telling the chief goodbye, Owens joined Erica on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. The snow was thickening as the flakes grew fatter, but it had yet to start sticking to the ground.
“Why did you want to talk to Officer Perkins?” Owens asked, as they entered the lobby. The old hotel had a real fireplace; it was ablaze and crackling. The heat felt wonderful.
Erica told Owens about her interest in the chief’s son. He nodded in agreement as he thought it over.
“He’s more likely to be the author of the letters than John Revene. Whoever left those letters had to place them in Rowland’s mailbox by hand. It seems unlikely that Revene would travel back to town to do that, but the chief’s son could have done so while he was here visiting.”
“That was my thinking,” Erica said.
A black SUV pulled up outside the hotel and the agents recognized it as a Bureau car. A young man in a blue suit and a tweed top coat stepped out of it and headed for the lobby doors. He was an FBI agent from the resident office in Portsmouth. He was there to pick up the DNA sample and deliver it to the Boston field office. Erica, who had turned thirty only weeks earlier, thought that the lanky young man looked too young to be an agent, then she remembered that people had said that about her until only a few years earlier.
The man entered the lobby and Erica and Owens waved to him. They then took a few minutes to chat with the rookie agent after passing the DNA sample to him. His name was Troy Carson.
Agent Carson had been with the Bureau for only a year, but he had scored high at the academy. He seemed pleased to be included in such an important case, even if he was staying on the periphery of it.
Wind had blown his hair about, and the dark locks were speckled with snowflakes. Carson brushed his hair back in place with his hand, and his blue eyes sparkled as he smiled at Erica and Owens. When he spoke, it was with a Boston accent.
“My supervisor says that I’m to be at your beck and call until Jude Rowland is either cleared or arrested. My guess is he’ll be arrested though, right?”
“Why do you say that?” Owens asked.
Carson pushed a lank of stray hair from in front of his eyes as he answered.
“The website said that there was damning evidence against him.”
“What website?” Erica asked.
Carson brought out his phone, fiddled with it for a moment, then held it up for Erica and Owens to look at. On the phone’s small screen was the latest headline from a website called the Techno-Tattler.
THRILLER WRITER JUDE ROWLAND SUSPECTED OF BEING A SERIAL KILLER.
Under the headline was the subtitle:
THINKING OF LEAVING A BAD REVIEW ON A JUDE ROWLAND NOVEL? YOU MIGHT WANT TO THINK AGAIN.
The blog post went on to give details of the Wildcard case, including the victims’ names and the bizarre and varied methods of their deaths.
The article continued, saying that the FBI had also placed Jude Rowland at the scene of a homicide unrelated to the dead book reviewers, where a Florida woman was stabbed to death.
The post ended with a statement that Jude Rowland had no alibi for any of the murders.
Accompanying the article was a photo of Erica, Owens, Jude, and Chief Connors that was taken as they left the police station earlier. The picture had been manipulated to make it look as if Jude’s arms were bound behind his back in handcuffs.
Erica sighed in disgust. The case just got tougher.
Chapter Twenty-Five
SANGUINE, NEW HAMPSHIRE
After returning to the station, Chief Connors had a short discussion with the police dispatcher to ask if anything of note had happened in his absence. After learning that things had been slow, the chief went to his office.
A quick call to the head of the town’s public works assured Connors that they had everything under control and would be able to keep the roads passable during the snowstorm. A second short call to the state police and he was satisfied that the expected snowfall would be no problem.
Connors then summoned his deputy chief to the office as a new concern clouded his mind. When the man appeared, Connors gestured for him to take a seat.
The deputy chief was Shawn Dix. He was a black man in his late-fifties whom the chief had become friends with while they both served in the army.
Dix was not a native of New Hampshire. He had grown up in Queens, New York, then served twenty-five years with the Connecticut State Police. After retiring, Dix started a successful internet business that failed during its seventh year due to inattention. Dix’s mind had been elsewhere, because at the time, Dix’s wife had been dying from an acute and virulent form of cancer. They had been together for over thirty years.
With his two kids out on their own and his wife gone, Dix wanted a new start. He found it in Sanguine after his old friend Chief Connors offered him a job. He was well-liked by those on the force and everyone called him by his surname of Dix.
Dix relaxed into a wooden chair. Before sitting, he angled his seat so that he could stretch out his long legs.
“Is everything set for tomorrow?” the chief asked.
“Oh yeah, it’s all been arranged, but you know those Feds are going to give you holy hell for this.”
“Screw them, this is our town and we’ll do things our way. Now what about the dog, is that still an option?”
“If you’re worried about the snow, don’t be. It shouldn’t make a difference. We used them once in Connecticut in over a foot of snow. The dog wasn’t fazed by it at all.”
The chief grinned. “Great. By this time tomorrow we’ll have Joey Revene in a jail cell, where he belongs.”
“You’ll also have the Feds up your ass, Gary.”
“I know, but it will be worth it.”
“I guess we’ll find out in the morning,” Dix said.
* * *
The reporter from the Techno-Tattler, Sly Perhach, had talked Jude’s new neighbors into letting him set-up in a loft above their detached garage. The loft had a window that looked out over the edge of Jude’s land.
Perhach had to move a stack of empty moving cartons aside in order to make room for his camera and tripod. When he was done, he had a good shot at a trail that wound through Jude’s property. It was located by the small lake, a spot where Jude often walked his dogs.
An inch of snow had fallen, and the temperature was dropping. The loft was unheated and lacked even a chair but Perhach didn’t mind the discomfort. He had no intention of waiting for something to occur. He was a man who made things happen.
A smile lit his thin face when he spotted one of Jude’s security cameras. After donning his hoodie, Perhach grabbed what he needed and went outside. He was not an athletic man by any definition, and so he had trouble climbing over the six-foot high wooden fence separating the properties. His effort was further impeded by the slippery snow coating the wood. After three attempts Perhach made it over the fence.
As he drew nearer to the camera, Perhach waved his arms over his head. He was hoping to attract Jude’s attention.
* * *
Jude was seated at his desk inside the house as his mind reeled from what he was seeing on his computer screen.
He had become aware of the Techno-Tattler’s story about him. While wondering what effect it might have on his books, he’d brought up his author’s pages on several online bookstores. There were dozens of new reviews on each of his books and all were negative. Many of them referenced the Techno-Tattler’s story while daring Jude to come after them.
Try killing me, Rowland, and you’ll get a face full of buckshot. One review claimed, as another stated, I dare you to come and try to kill me. Remarkably, the author of that challenge had included his home address in the review.
The end result was that the average star rating of Jude’s books was plummeting. If it kept up, and if the new reviews weren’t removed by the sites’ management, his ratings would be dismal. Then, Jude noticed something else. His sales were going crazy. He sold well, but the latest numbers were looking fantastic. It seemed the Techno-Tattler’s story had at least some positive effect.
As he was reaching for the phone to call Erica and ask her if she knew how the story had leaked, Jude happened to glance over at the security monitors. On the left hand monitor he saw a hooded figure waving wildly at the camera.
What the heck is this? he thought.
After whistling to the dogs, who were huddled together atop their mound of blankets, Jude headed for the back door. Once he had shrugged into a heavy jacket, he ventured out into the snowstorm. In the jacket’s pocket was a container of pepper spray.
* * *
Perhach was back inside the loft by the time Jude reached the spot where he’d been. He had no idea if he’d been spotted or not but prepared for Jude’s arrival. He adjusted his camera with fingers made numb from the cold and waited to get his shot.
* * *
Jude saw the shoe prints in the snow, then watched as the dogs followed their scent over to the fence. He was about to walk over to join them when he noticed the object laying in the snow. His brow furrowed when he realized what it was. Without thinking, he plucked it from the frosty ground, then held it up to get a better look at it. It was a sword, or rather, a realistic-looking reproduction of one, a katana he thought they were called.
Intense flashes of light lit up the dusky gloom and Jude wondered if he was witnessing the phenomenon known as thundersnow. Thundersnow occurred when a lightning storm took place during a snowstorm.
Thoughts of unique weather anomalies left Jude’s mind when another flash appeared; he traced it to the window of his neighbor’s garage loft.
Someone was taking pictures of him, and damn it if they weren’t doing so while he was holding the ridiculous sword aloft. Jude flung the fake katana over the fence, then took out a flashlight and aimed its beam at the window above him. Sly Perhach’s face was visible and Jude got a good look at him, and the camera he was holding.
A reporter, Jude thought, and for an instant he was considering vaulting over the fence and attacking Perhach. Wisdom prevailed and he turned and stalked off. He was heading back to the warmth and comfort of his house. To hell with what other people thought of him.
* * *
Perhach’s blood had run cold when he saw the way Jude Rowland was staring up at him. At that moment, he had no trouble believing that Rowland was guilty of the charges. After Jude had turned and stomped back toward his home, Perhach felt a wave of relief flood over him.
He’d been beaten twice while working. Once by an NFL linebacker he’d caught with a male prostitute, and the second time by a Hollywood starlet whom he’d photographed without makeup. The starlet had hit harder and dislocated his jaw.
With the threat of bodily harm behind him, Perhach studied the photos. Most of the shots were crap, but there was one that was solid gold. Perhach whistled happily as he sent off the photo he’d taken of Jude holding the sword. He could see the headline in his mind’s eye.
JUDE ROWLAND STALKS THE NIGHT WHILE LOOKING FOR ANOTHER VICTIM.
Perhach loved his job, he truly did.
Chapter Twenty-Six
DERRY, NEW HAMPSHIRE, 3:47 a.m.
Erica had been woken from a sound sleep by a phone call from the young agent she’d met earlier, Troy Carson. After apologizing for interrupting her slumber, Carson gave Erica news that caused her to come fully awake. A sixth Wildcard victim had been discovered.
The decedent’s name was Timothy Wesley. His friends and family believed that Tim had been off on a cruise to Italy. Wesley had never left his apartment.
Although his sister, Shauna, thought it strange that her brother hadn’t communicated with her or sent pictures of his cruise, she hadn’t been worried enough to call the authorities or contact the cruise line. She’d also been distracted by a deadline at work that had her putting in fourteen-hour days.
Shauna’s greatest hope was that her brother was having such a good time that he was too busy to write or phone. Tim had just divorced his wife of three years after finding her in bed with one of his friends. Thankfully, there were no children involved. The cruise to Italy was to be a time for Tim to relax while possibly finding romance aboard ship. The cruise catered to New England singles and there would be many available women on board.
However, when the day came for Tim’s return, Shauna uncovered the fact that Tim had never made it onto the ship. That was when she contacted the police and asked them to check on her brother.
Tim and his ex-wife had been renting a house. After the breakup, Tim settled in a basement apartment that was close to his job. The apartment above him had become vacant mid-month, although the former tenant had paid the rent up until the first. The job of finding a new tenant had yet to be addressed by the company that managed the property.
If someone had been renting the space above Tim, his body might have been discovered sooner. Anyone living directly over him would have been distressed by the foul odor of his decomposing body. As it was, the cop sent to check on Tim had
vomited from the stench of decay.
* * *
Erica applied a mentholated gel to her upper lip before passing the tube to Owens, who then handed it to the young Agent Carson. Afterward, they donned paper masks, booties, and gloves. Fortified against the stench and having taken precautions against contaminating the scene, they entered Tim Wesley’s basement apartment.
The coroner was there and was giving the mangled body a cursory examination. She was a woman in her fifties with a lined face and youthful eyes. She wore no mask and seemed inured to the malodor of decomposition.
Tim Wesley’s ankles, wrists, knees, and neck had either been broken or dislocated. This was done in order to fit his normal-size frame into an average-size suitcase. After so many days inside the case, the corpse had become molded into its rectangular shape.
Carson, who had seen enough, excused himself and went outside. Erica figured he had lasted longer than she had at her first violent crime scene.
Erica was not surprised by the method of death, in fact, she had been expecting to find something like it. As with the other victims, Wesley was a voracious reader who often left harsh 1-star reviews. Erica had perused his comments and book reviews while riding to the scene, and one repeated sentence stuck out. It was a phrase that Wesley used often whenever a book failed to hold his attention.
I found it difficult to get into.
Wildcard had made certain that Wesley found it most difficult to get into his own suitcase. The level of violence required to accomplish that task was high and must have been fueled by rage. Erica hoped that Tim Wesley hadn’t suffered through the worst of it.
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