The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  “Also note that Clark Sandlon, the next author on the list, is scheduled to begin at three o’clock sharp. We must be sure to fit the readings, subsequent questions and answers and book signings into that ninety-minute time frame. That might seem like plenty of time, but you’d be surprised how long those Q and As and signings can take. If at some point it looks like we need to sort of ‘move things along,’ somebody will let you know, discretely of course. Any questions?”

  “Is there any chance that things could end considerably sooner than expected?”

  She laughed—she had a wonderful laugh. “Are you thinking you won’t have enough people here to keep them busy for ninety minutes? The answer is no. I don’t know if Norman told you but there are plenty of folks here who want to meet you, Sam. So you needn’t worry about that at all.”

  “Okay, I withdraw the question.”

  “Now if you don’t mind I’d like to get some up-to-date background info on you for your intro. Let’s go to my office.”

  “Will you be needing me?” Norman asked.

  “No, why don’t you go lend a hand downstairs, Norman. I’m sure they could use some help.”

  “Will do.”

  As he walked away, Nicole said, “Such a wonderful young man. Don’t know what I’d do without him. Friendly, reliable and very bright.”

  “How long has he been working here?”

  “Ever since he was just sixteen. Norman used to always hang out here at the shop after he got off school, browsing the aisles, looking for his next book to read. A voracious reader that one is!”

  They entered Nicole’s office and she motioned for Sam to sit down. “Coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee, if you don’t mind.”

  She picked up what looked like an old school walkie-talkie from her desk, pressed a button and spoke into the speaker. “Mary Beth, could you please bring us up some coffee and tea?”

  “Yes, ma’am, be there in a jiffy.”

  “Thanks.”

  She opened up her MacBook, typed a few characters and peered across the table at Sam. “You still live in Smithtown, Ohio correct?”

  “Yes, just moved into a new house, in fact.”

  “Wonderful. And you’re currently working on your fourth novel?”

  Sam nodded.

  “And what is it about?”

  “Well, it’s a mystery, of course. I’ve created a new main character who’s a retired police detective. The guy is an alcoholic struggling to make it as a private investigator—sort of like Paul Newman as the drunk lawyer in The Verdict — a guy really down on his luck and about ready to give up. This character manages to get hired to investigate a case that challenges him on several levels as he attempts to expose the bad guy.”

  “Sounds very interesting. Will this be the debut for a new series?”

  “Not sure yet. I guess I’ll wait and see how it goes first.”

  “So tell me, what is it that drives you as a writer? Why do you feel a passion to write?”

  “I’ve always enjoyed writing in general and have in fact been a newspaper journalist for over twenty-five years. I love the satisfaction of producing a well-written story or first-hand account of something that folks would be interested in knowing about. But writing stories for the paper has rarely given me the freedom to write what I really want to write; it’s typically a piece that has been assigned to me. So that’s how writing fiction came into the picture. And after I got a taste of that, I was hooked. So to answer your question, my sheer love for writing is what drives me to write—it’s as simple as that.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Nicole said.

  A young woman came in carrying a tray of coffee and tea.

  “Thanks, Mary Beth.”

  The girl set the tray on the desk and turned to leave. “How’s the crowd downstairs looking?” Nicole asked.

  “Large, and growing larger by the minute.” She smiled.

  “Excellent.”

  Nicole poured Sam a cup of coffee and a prepared a cup of tea for herself. Sam added some non-dairy creamer powder and took a sip. As Nicole sipped her tea she studied her computer screen. “Next question. By your own account, the real life events surrounding the search and eventual capture of a serial killer in your hometown inspired you to write The Foxburg Murders. My question is, why not write a true crime documentary instead of a fictional account of these horrific crimes?”

  “Good question. I think there are probably two reasons why I chose not to do a documentary of the Stanley Jenkins story. One, I’ve been writing documentaries most of my professional life in a sense, in the form of newspaper articles. I wanted to do something different for a change. And secondly, I had been trying to write my first work of fiction for years but it had never really gelled. So not long after Jenkins was thrown in jail, I decided to blend that story with a fictionalized story of my own creation. The result was The Foxburg Murders.”

  “I see. Last question, and you don’t have to answer if you’d prefer not to. Your wife was tragically killed last year by a hit-skip driver. How has that affected you personally, and have they ever caught the motorist?”

  Sam looked away, not sure how to respond. He was tempted to pass, then decided to comply. “I loved my wife deeply and miss her each and every day, so losing her has obviously had an enormous impact on me. I am thankful to still have my daughter and granddaughter who help ease the pain and give me something wonderful to live for. I’m learning that life goes on and am doing the best I can to move forward. As for the person who killed my wife, he is still at large. We’ll just leave it at that, if you don’t mind.”

  “Very well. Thanks so much, Sam, for your candor. Can you think of anything in particular you’d like me to mention in your introduction—any upcoming events for example?”

  “Not offhand.”

  “Alright then.” She checked the time on her watch again. “I really must go see how things are going downstairs. In fact, I’m going to be tied up the rest of the day with the marathon but I would really like to continue our conversation. What would you say to meeting up tomorrow morning?”

  “I’d love to, Nicole.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll take you to a nice little café I know of that serves a good cup of coffee—I couldn’t help but notice you’re less than thrilled with that.”

  “It’s that noticeable?” Sam said, turning crimson.

  “Afraid so.” She chuckled.

  Nicole sent the file to the printer, closed her laptop and stood up. “I’ll be seeing you again in a bit. In the meantime, I’ll send Norman up to help you set up for your reading. If you’d like, you can take whatever you’ll be needing over to the podium and start getting settled in.”

  “Sounds good, thanks.”

  She shook his hand again before leaving. “Good luck, Sam. I know you’re going to absolutely wow your audience!”

  “I sure hope so.”

  After she left, Sam opened his briefcase absent-mindedly, trying to make sense of the “interview” he’d just had with Nicole Heaton. There was something fishy going on here and he wondered what it could be. For starters, some of the questions she had asked seemed unusual, for lack of a better word. Her wanting to know if his wife really had a best friend who had been the actual killer’s last victim for one. And how Ann’s death had affected him. Neither seemed like the sort of information that would be relevant to his introduction. So then why had she asked? Yet she hadn’t mentioned anything about Stanley Jenkins’ escape from prison or asked his thoughts about the killer still being at large. That sort of information would have been decent fodder for his intro, Sam thought. Surely Nicole knew of Jenkins’ escape, right?

  The fact that the shop manager had invited him to go out had surprised him as much as delighted him. He felt an immediate liking toward Nicole Heaton, but that was no surprise. How could he not like a woman who had invited him to London and gone to so much trouble to further his career?

/>   Norman suddenly entered the office, carrying a Grande cup of Starbucks coffee. He handed it to Sam. “Nicole wanted you to have this—there’s already half and half in it.”

  “Damn, how nice of her!”

  “Nicole’s a very nice person. Believe me, I couldn’t ask for a better boss. Got a heart of gold, always looking for ways to please everybody.”

  Sam removed the lid and snuck up on his brew. Much better.

  “So why don’t we get you settled in and then I’ll show you around the shop if you’d like.”

  “Sounds like a plan. When will they start letting everyone up here?”

  Norman checked the time. “About thirty minutes. We should probably get a move-on.”

  At one-thirty sharp Sam stood nervously off to the side of the podium while Nicole Heaton adjusted the mike and smiled at the crowd. He could feel the first droplets of sweat form on his brow and resisted the temptation to mop it.

  Here we go.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman. I would like to welcome all of you to the Stewarts ‘Meet the Authors Marathon.’ This special series features five outstanding authors of our time who have been handpicked to appear today and share their time and special talent with you. Our first author has come all the way from the small town of Smithtown, Ohio, located in the Midwest region of America to read to you excerpts from his mystery/thrillers. This American newspaper journalist has written three novels to date including his exciting blockbuster debut, The Foxburg Murders. He is currently working on his newest manuscript which promises to take his thrilling stories into a brand new direction. So without further ado, would you please welcome Sam Middleton!”

  “Thank you,” Sam said to Nicole as she stepped aside and he came forward to address the crowd. When he stared out at the fifty-plus people in attendance, Sam felt a mixture of excitement, pride and mortal fear. The applause was almost deafening (or at least seemed that way) and he now had a good taste of what it must be like to be a famous person with adoring fans.

  And he loved it.

  After the applause died down, he thanked the crowd and began what at first seemed not unlike facing a firing squad but morphed into an enjoyable, rewarding experience. At the conclusion of his reading, he fielded questions from his audience and answered them to the best of his ability, eventually feeling a sort of bonding taking place with his readers. It was one thing to write a book and have it read, but quite another hearing back from those who had entered the world you had created.

  At one point Sam saw Norman raise his hand with an index finger extended, apparently indicating this was to be the last question. Nicole then came over to the podium and Sam stepped aside so she could take over the microphone.

  “Before we conclude with the book signings, I want to thank Mr. Middleton for his participation in this event and making it such a pleasurable, rewarding experience!”

  She applauded and the crowd followed suit. Nicole then shook Sam’s hand and returned to the mike. “Please bring your books and form a single line. Clark Sandlon is on deck and will begin his reading promptly at three o’clock. We would appreciate your keeping the line moving in order to afford everybody an opportunity to get his or her book signed. Thank you so much.”

  Norman motioned for Sam to sit down at one of the tables while another staff member began getting the audience organized. Sam took his seat, grabbed one of the black Sharpies, smiled at the first person in line—her name was Maureen—and promptly signed and dedicated the copy of his book she handed to him. As he repeated the process repeatedly for the next twenty minutes, Sam noticed out of the corner of his eye a staff member busy documenting the book signing session with her digital SLR.

  After he’d signed his last book and the room had cleared out, Nicole came over and offered her hand again.

  “That was wonderful, Sam! Didn’t I tell you there were some serious Sam Middleton fans here?”

  “You did. That was really fun—thanks again for inviting me.”

  “My pleasure. So are you planning on staying awhile?”

  “I haven’t really had much time to think about it.”

  “Well, in case I don’t see you again, how about I pick you up at nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Great, I’ll see you then.”

  “Thanks, Nicole—I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me, too.”

  She gave him a quick hug before walking away toward her office. Norman came over and shook his hand.

  “Great job, Sam!”

  “Thanks, Norman. So you think I did okay?”

  “Better than that—the crowd loved you.”

  “Gotta say, it was a lot of fun and I couldn’t be happier with how nice everybody has been. Truly a day I will cherish forever.”

  “So where are you off to, now? Or will you be hanging out here?”

  “I think I’ll just go back to the hotel, if you don’t mind.”

  “No problem. As soon as you’re ready to go, I’ll get you a cab.”

  “Thanks, Norman.”

  Sam gathered up his things and followed Norman.

  “So how long are you going to be in town?” he asked.

  “I’m leaving on Thursday. Wish I could stay longer, but unfortunately I can’t.”

  “That’s a shame. I overheard that you’re meeting up with Nicole tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll be seeing you again before you leave. If not, enjoy the rest of your visit—it’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

  “Same to you, Norman. Thanks.”

  They went outside and Norman hailed a cab. Sam shook his hand before getting in and heading back to the hotel.

  Chapter 22

  “I don’t feel at all good about this, Molly,” Hogarth told his partner.

  “I hear you. If this actually was our man, it’s going to be very hard to sleep tonight.”

  Inspector Hogarth pulled up beside one of the other squad cars and parked. “Let’s do it,” he said drily as he opened the car door. “What floor is it again?”

  “Third,” Higgins replied.

  They showed their IDs to the officer standing outside the apartment building and took the stairs up to the third floor. Police tape was strewn across the hallway leading to the flat where the murder had been. Feeling his heart racing from a combination of the trek upstairs and what he was about to see when he entered the flat, Hogarth already knew the outcome.

  “Hogarth,” greeted Deputy Inspector Tom Sellers of the Murder Investigation Team as the pair entered the flat.

  “Where’s the body, Tom?”

  “Back in the kitchen.” he replied. “She’s exactly as we found her, as promised.”

  While following Inspector Sellers down a narrow hallway, Hogarth’s mind was racing ahead. If this indeed was the same man, they would have to report it to the media promptly. They in turn would make a huge to-do why this villain hadn’t yet been caught and Hogarth could already see the headlines on the front page of the Times: Serial Rapist Strikes Again, followed by the subheading, And now an innocent woman has lost her life.

  They entered the kitchen and Sellers led them over to the breakfast bar. Hogarth saw the deceased’s nude body lying spread eagled on the floor and let out a gasp. The woman had a lamp cord tied tightly around her neck and there was a black costume mask covering her eyes. Hogarth leaned down for a closer look and nodded toward Higgins.

  Their serial rapist could now be upgraded to murderer.

  “So did your suspect do this, Hogarth?” Sellers inquired.

  “Afraid so.”

  “How sure are you?”

  “About one hundred percent, give or take a tenth of a percent. The mask she’s wearing is identical to the one left at another victim’s flat. This woman’s obviously been sexually assaulted and my bet is they’ll discover she was drugged with rohypnol as well. What’s the victim’s name?”

  Sellers peeked at his notes. “Olivia Cavesh. Her mother suspected
foul play when Olivia failed to pick up her young son this morning after spending the night at his grandparents.”

  “Have you found anything significant yet?”

  “No, but we’ve only been here less than thirty minutes. My men are combing the place as we speak.”

  “Please keep me informed of your progress, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  Back in their car, Hogarth let out a long moan. “I’m so bloody angry I could spit! Nearly a month since this monster raped his first victim and what have we got besides yet another victim who in addition to being raped has been murdered? Nothing!”

  “But it’s not for lack of trying, Clive. We’ve done the best we can with what little evidence we’ve been able to obtain from his other victims. We’ve even released an artist’s sketch of the suspect based on Iris Matthew’s description plus practically everything else we know about the crimes. There just haven’t been any decent leads—and that’s certainly not our fault. Just plain bad luck.”

  “That’s no excuse, Molly. Granted we’ve had no luck at all in either of these cases but that doesn’t justify a total lack of tangible progress. Maybe we should have followed up on those calls we thought were bogus or unreliable for this reason or that. All it takes is one person to have actually seen this killer somewhere and we’d have something to work with. Who are we to think we have the magical ability to tell if a called in tip is a red herring or not? You know what I’m saying?”

  “I know what you mean but you’re forgetting one thing—we aren’t physically able to follow up on each and every tip we get from the public. There are just too many and we don’t have the resources. Plus, we know from past experience that half of these tips are either from crank callers or crazed drug users who don’t know which is end is up looking for a reward.”