Except he could almost swear that the man had a scar on the back of his hand. Sam was about ninety percent sure of it in fact, but not absolutely. He recalled somebody having a noticeable scar as he was being handed a copy of his book to sign but it could have been somebody else. And then there was one other thing he’d noticed about the man that he hadn’t given much thought to at the time: his English accent seemed a bit forced, possibly bogus.
No, it was all just too much to fathom—
Could it be that Stanley Jenkins was at his reading yesterday? And he actually is London’s serial rapist?
As crazy and unthinkable as it was, Sam was almost certain of it. Because who, other than Stanley Jenkins, would make a request like that? To ask Sam if would mind dedicating his book to his sister, Ann—who was too ill to make the event. She was too dead was more like it because he had murdered her.
But why? Why would Jenkins risk coming to his reading just to kick sand in his face? That was as ballsy as it got. And stupid. Did he really think he’d get away with it?
Sam waited at a corner for the signal to change. Seriously? he thought. Did he truly think that Stanley Jenkins was in London right this moment, raping and killing British citizens after fleeing the US? And once he heard Sam was doing a book reading in town he decided to attend the event like some kind of goddamn ghost? Absurd. For that matter, the man he’d seen yesterday looked absolutely nothing like the police sketch he’d seen on TV.
Sam crossed the street. He felt ryimself for letting Jenkins ruin an otherwise lovely day. He wished he could just make it all go away forever. But it seemed that would never happen—never in a million years. There was only one thing to do at this point. He had to somehow prove to himself that wasn’t Jenkins at his reading yesterday. He searched for Nicole’s cell number on his phone and pressed call.
“Nicole? It’s Sam Middleton.”
“Sam, so nice to hear from you!”
“How’s everything going?”
“Lovely. We’ve been busy but not so busy that we’re going bonkers. Where are you?”
“Actually just heading back from visiting Abbey Road.”
“So you finally made it there—you’d mentioned how badly you wanted to do that.”
“Yeah, it was really awesome. Anyway, I was wondering if you could do something for me.”
“Of course, just say it.”
“Is there some way I could see the photos that were taken during my reading?”
“Yes, that could be arranged. Jenny Matlin was the gal I hired to document the event. I could give her a ring if you’d like. When would you like to see them?”
“ASAP.”
“Hmm, I’m curious, Sam. Why the urgency?”
“It’ll take a while to explain. How soon can you find out if your photographer could meet?”
“I’ll call her now,” Nicole replied. Sam thought she sounded put off and felt bad.
“I’m sorry, I know how annoying and rude this is. Hopefully you’ll understand why I’m being such a pest when I see you and can explain.”
“No worries, Sam! I’m sure you have your reasons and I am more than happy to comply. Let me see if I can track down Jenny and I’ll ring you back, okay?”
“Thanks a million, Nicole. I’ll be here.”
As he disconnected Sam felt like a turd. He had now made a complete ass out of himself by getting Nicole involved in all of this and he almost wished he’d just let it go. But he couldn’t. He had to be sure that wasn’t Stanley Jenkins at his reading yesterday. And hoped to make it up to Nicole somehow.
He felt his pace quicken incrementally. He tried to hail a taxi but they all seemed occupied. He had walked another five blocks when his phone finally rang.
“I got ahold of Jenny and she said she could be here in about half an hour,” Nicole said. “Why don’t you meet us here at the shop?”
“Great, I’ll be there as soon as I can find a cab. What’s the address again?”
After she told him, Sam said, “Thanks, Nicole.”
An available cab suddenly pulled over and Sam hopped in. He told the driver his destination, keeping his fingers crossed that this issue would be resolved quickly.
After his arrival at Stewarts Bookshop he spotted Nicole at the sales counter speaking to a customer. He caught her eye and stood by, surveying titles on the new arrivals shelf. Moments later she came over and greeted him with a firm embrace.
“Jenny hasn’t arrived quite yet. Shall we go to my office so you can tell me what this is all about?”
Sam nodded and followed her up to the second floor.
“So why are you in such a tizzy to see photos from the marathon? You make it sound so mysterious!”
“As you may or may not know, the man who murdered the real life friend of my wife’s escaped from prison a couple of years ago. A friend of mine is the detective who arrested this man, Stanley Jenkins, while he was in the process of assaulting Ann. Long story short, my friend called me Sunday to inform me that Jenkins had raped and murdered a woman in Las Vegas last month. They identified him after running the DNA found on the victim’s body through CODIS.
“They also discovered that this woman had been given a date rape drug prior to her murder, which was carried out by strangulation. Although I wasn’t surprised to learn that Jenkins was back to his old murdering ways I felt hopeful that at least they had a trail to follow at last. Prior to this murder, no one has seen or heard from Stanley Jenkins in all the time since his prison escape. Now there’s at least a chance they might be able to nab him.
“Then I saw on the news yesterday that there’s a serial rapist at large in London and that he had just murdered his latest victim. When I learned that his victims had all been drugged prior to being raped and that the latest one had been murdered in the same manner as Jenkins’ victim, it got me actually thinking that Jenkins was the killer, as crazy as that sounds. But of course I knew it couldn’t be so I put the whole insane notion out of my mind. Until a little while ago, that is.
“While returning from Abbey Road I suddenly recalled one of the guests at my reading who had asked me to sign a copy of my book for his sister, who had fallen ill and couldn’t come to the event. His sister’s name was Ann and the guy’s accent seemed fake—nearly as bad as I sound whenever I try to affect an English accent. I had chalked up his having a sister with the same name as my wife to mere coincidence and never gave the fake accent a second thought at the time. But what has now suddenly made me suspicious of this character is the fact that he had a scar on the back of his hand—or at least I’m fairly certain he did. Just like the London killer. I know this seems incredibly farfetched and I totally agree—it is! I just want to be certain I’m wrong about all of this by finding out if this guy indeed had a scar on his hand or not. I’m hoping there may be a shot showing his hand—I recall your photographer taking several shots during the actual book signings. If by chance there’s a shot of this guy’s hands and I see that there are no scars, I can quit worrying about this whole debacle.”
“What I don’t understand, Sam, is why you couldn’t tell this fellow wasn’t Jenkins just by simply looking at him. I mean, that would seem simple enough.”
“You’d think so, right? But it’s not as easy as that. You see, Stanley Jenkins had a total plastic surgery overhaul prior to his meeting my wife. He had taken on a whole new identity—changed his name, his looks, and in fact his entire demeanor—just so he could seek revenge on some girls who he felt had conspired to make him look like a total ass back when we were all in high school. Jenkins had a crush on Ann and had gone through all of these steps to transform himself into a cooler, more attractive person with the prime intent to win Ann’s heart. How freaking obsessive is that? Anyway, Ann’s friends had played a trick on Stanley back then that led to his eventually becoming a deranged killer out for blood. That’s why he murdered Ann’s best friend and the others. They all had something to do with his failure to be a cool person in li
fe.”
“What a fascinating story! It sounds similar to the storyline in your book and even more diabolical, if you don’t mind my saying so. But I still don’t understand. Are you suggesting that Jenkins looks different now from how he looked before?”
“Exactly. No one has any idea what he looks like now because he hasn’t been seen since his prison escape. So it wouldn’t be much of a stretch for him to take on yet another totally different appearance through plastic surgery. Which would explain how he has managed to elude the authorities all this time.”
“But wait a second—surely you saw the police sketch of what the London rapist looks like. Did this man at the reading look like the sketch? That would clinch it, I should think.”
“That’s another major hiccup in this. The guy didn’t look anything like the sketch.”
“Excuse me for asking, but how in the world can you think they are one in the same person if he doesn’t even resemble the sketch?”
Sam shook his head. “Hell if I know. Like I already said, this is way out there. Which is why I just want to hurry and disprove this whole insane notion. I may as well tell you that more than once my detective friend has accused me of being obsessed with Stanley Jenkins ever since he escaped and I suppose he’s right. I even think he’s the one who ran over and killed Ann. So now you can see why I am so caught up in this. I need to know the truth.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Nicole said.
The young woman Sam had seen taking photos at his reading entered the room.
“Hello, Jenny. You remember Sam Middleton.”
“Of course. Hi.” She smiled.
“Hi, Jenny. Thanks for doing this—I really appreciate it.”
“No worry at all. I’ve brought a flash drive with all of my photos organized chronologically by author. Could we plug it into your laptop, Nicole?”
“Sure. Here, I’ll come over so we can look at them together.”
Nicole rotated her MacBook Pro so it was facing her guests and came around the other side of the desk. Jenny plugged the thumb drive into a USB port and double clicked the icon after it appeared on the desktop. She opened the contents of a folder named “Middleton” and dragged all of the images into the Preview app. They watched as the thumbnails of the images appeared on the screen.
“There you go,” said Jenny. “I’ll step aside so you can take a look.”
Sam scrolled down the long row of thumbnails until he located the ones taken during the signings near the bottom. His finger trembled noticeably as he slid it along the track bar, his eyes peeled for a shot of the man in question. Then he saw him, standing behind the older woman who had been so sweet and complimentary of his work.
“There he is,” he declared.
He felt Nicole press against him for a closer look as she peered over his shoulder.
“The bloke there with the ugly sweater?”
“That’s the one,” Sam replied. He clicked on the next thumbnail that showed the man handing a copy of his book to Sam. A larger image appeared in the window.
“Perfect! There’s the back of his hand and clearly there’s no scar—at least not on that hand. Can’t see the other one.”
“What about the next shot?” Nicole asked.
Sam clicked on the following thumbnail. It was a shot of the next person in line.
“Shit.”
“What are you looking for, anyway?” Jenny asked.
“I’m trying to see if this guy has a scar on the back of his hand.”
“Oh, I see. Let me take a look, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.”
Jenny swiveled the computer around, scrolled up the row of thumbnails and stopped. She clicked through a couple then brought up an image of the entire crowd applauding from their seats. She zoomed in on the back row and Sam saw the mystery man sitting there on the end, clapping his hands. There on the back of his right hand was a long ugly scar about three inches long.
“There’s a scar,” Nicole said softly, close to Sam’s ear.
“There sure is,” he said.
What now?
Feeling his heart rate accelerating, Sam examined the man’s face closely. He appeared to be in his early fifties with hair cropped short, green eyes and a medium build. Sam’s first impression was that this man looked absolutely nothing like Stanley Jenkins, Jerry Rankin or the sketch of the London serial killer. Not even close. So how in the hell could he ever suspect this guy to be Jenkins—scar or not? It just couldn’t be. Time to forget all about this and move forward. Screw—
Then he spotted it. It was so obvious he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before. Excitedly, Sam hit the magnify icon and zoomed in further on the man’s bare left wrist. It was blurry, the pixels were chunky but there was no mistaking it. The man was wearing the exact same sterling silver turquoise bracelet he’d been wearing while being handcuffed at his home in Hocking Hills.
“Hello, Stanley,” Sam breathed.
“What did you just say? Is that really him?” Nicole exclaimed.
“It is. And I can’t fucking believe it—pardon my French.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“The bracelet he’s wearing. Jenkins was wearing it when he was arrested. Someone jokingly asked who had provided him with that trophy and he just frowned. They never did find out where he’d gotten it but there was no mistaking it was special to him. And apparently still is.”
“My God, Sam—what are we going to do?”
“Call the police. Tell them that we know who the London serial rapist is.”
Sam took out his iPhone.
Chapter 27
Clive Hogarth hadn’t drunk a drop of liquor in over seven years. He’d never liked the taste of alcohol in the first place nor had he been particularly crazy about being intoxicated. There was something utterly foolish about allowing oneself to lose one’s faculties and become incapable of making rational decisions—especially in a time of crisis when clear thinking and quick reflexes could make the difference between life and death. Not to mention the long-term negative effects of the stuff, so succinctly and tragically demonstrated in the case of his dear mother. She had begged him to promise her he would never drink again not long before her untimely death from cirrhosis of the liver.
And now as a result of his antics from the night before, his mum was turning in her grave this very moment.
After he and Higgins had returned to the station following their fruitless search in Chelmsford for the identity of the serial rapist, he had decided to make good on his decision of breaking his promise and have a drop. He had asked Higgins to join him at the pub but she declined, declaring that she would have no part of his fall from grace in his mother’s eyes. So be it, he’d told her, and he’d gone to McSorley’s all by himself.
By the time he’d downed his fourth boilermaker, Hogarth was absolutely smashed. He’d managed to leave the bar and arrive at his flat in one piece but ended up vomiting violently in the toilet. When he’d awoken this morning, he was so hung-over that he prayed for forgiveness from his mother, swearing that he’d learned his lesson and would never, ever let her down again if he could just make it through the rest of the day.
It was now half past three and he was actually feeling nearly normal again. His conference with the Chief Inspector earlier had had a profound sobering effect on him and sped up the recovery process considerably. There was something about being scolded for having wasted valuable time chasing a wild goose in the suburbs and threatened with demotion if he didn’t turn up something concrete within the next twenty-four hours.
So here he was at his desk again, following up on every unaddressed tip and lead that had been called in since yesterday’s press release. As he dialed the next number from his list he again tossed around the idea of early retirement now that his future on the force looked bleak. The party he was calling failed to answer so he hung up just as his other line lit up.
&nb
sp; “Inspector Hogarth,” he answered.
“My name is Sam Middleton and I’m calling in regard to the London serial rapist.”
“I see,” Hogarth replied. The man sounded American, which caught his attention—if for no reason other than he was the first Yank he knew of to call in on this case. “And what would you like to tell me, Mr. Middleton.”
“Well, you probably aren’t going to believe it, but I am certain I know who the killer is.”
“And who might that be?”
“A man named Stanley Jenkins. He’s an American who was sentenced to life in prison for rape and murder, but has since escaped and was recently identified for the rape and murder of an American woman last month.”
Hogarth sat upright in his chair, half-doubting the caller’s claim while at the same time wanting to believe there may actually be some substance to it.
“I need to caution you, Mr. Middleton, that purposely lying to the police is a serious offense. I must know that you are being truthful with this information, not simply wasting my time.”
“I’m telling you the truth. This man may also have murdered my wife, so I have no reason to be anything but truthful since I want nothing more than to see the son of a—sorry—this man captured and returned to prison.”
“Where are you calling from, Mr. Middleton.”
“London—I’m at Stewarts Bookshop. I have Nicole Heaton, the shop’s owner, here with me who can vouch for my sincerity if you’d like.”
“No need for that, sir. I would like you to stay put so we can meet, if you don’t mind.”
“I can do that.”
“Wonderful. Where exactly is this shop located?”
Hogarth heard him ask somebody for the address.
“On Garrick Street near King.”
The May Day Murders Sequel Page 23