by DB Kennison
The Durango owner wasn’t sure but thought the license plates had been stolen while he was working his shift at the Racine Yacht Club. PD had requested security cam footage after the report but hadn’t found the time to go through them because the case was a low priority. Jon and Terri raced to Racine before first light.
After viewing a few hours of footage, they’d found what they needed. The video showed the Durango owner pull into a stall at the back of the lot—the area designated for employees. An hour later a black truck matching the one on their Mt. Ouisco tapes pulled up and parked across from the Durango. A man with dark hair got out and approached the vehicle. His head swiveled as he checked the lot; then he pulled out a screwdriver and swiftly removed the plate. He then went back to his truck and swapped them. The suspect had tossed his old plate on the ground while he worked and there, in plain view, was the truck owner’s plate number. Racine PD was more than happy to pick the guy up.
Jon borrowed a small office inside the department to make a few calls before the interview. “What’s the word this morning?” He asked Mike Walberg. Mike had had the unenviable task of dealing with the victim’s parents.
“I’ve never had to give a death notice before. It was all I could do to tell her folks and not start bawling myself. On top of it, the father mentioned having already buried one daughter years ago. Sheesh, talk about a parent’s worst nightmare—it would be hell to outlive your children.”
“It’s tough for everybody to deliver that news, Mike. You did good.” Jon knew full well how much it sucked. He’d done it far too many times.
“They’re going to come down day after tomorrow, make arrangements, and then come in and talk to you. They gave me Larissa’s spare key, and I’m headed to her apartment now. I’ll go to her job after that.”
“Let me know how it goes.” Jon hung up and left the room.
Terri met him in the hall outside the interrogation room. She seemed to be wondering what was on his mind. “Did you ever apologize to Randi Lassiter?”
He frowned. “Kiss my ass. I’ve changed my mind. Not going to.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve washed my hands of her. She’s none of my concern as long as she stays the hell out of our way.”
Terri smiled to herself as they entered the observation room.
Jared Johnson was a twenty-six-year-old junkie known on the street as Son. A gaunt, restless guy with stringy black hair and a face covered in drug-induced acne. As Jon and Terri watched the guy through one-way glass, they noticed how he was unable to sit still. His feet danced as he alternately rubbed his sweaty palms on his baggy jeans and cracked his knuckles. He stood up, just to sit right back down again.
“Twitchy little shit, isn’t he?” Terri said as he picked a scab on his chin. “Meth?”
“I’d bet on it.” Jon answered. They observed him a bit longer before they went inside. They introduced themselves, told him that they knew he’d switched license plates and wanted to know why.
At first he denied the accusation. He grew more agitated when they showed him the surveillance footage with him taking the plate. His head fell into his hands, and he moaned. “Yeah, what’s it to you. So I took a plate, big fucking deal.” He put his thumb to his mouth and chewed at a nonexistent nail.
“You don’t think this is a big deal, Jared?” Terri asked.
He shrugged. “Nah, man. I mean…I know I should’na done it…but geez it’s not like anybody died or nothin.” He sniffed.
“Why do you think you’re here?”
That seemed to confuse him. Not that such a thing was difficult. “I took the plates off some knob’s fancy SUV, you just said.”
“So you could use your truck in a crime and not get caught, maybe?” Terri suggested.
Jared started to squirm in his chair. “Naw man. No fucking crime.” He looked at Jon, who sat quietly, letting Terri take the lead. “Dude, you got to believe me.”
“We don’t have to believe you. We have another video.” Jon watched the confidence melt off Jared’s face. “One of you driving around Mt. Ouisco. All you have to do is just tell us the truth.” He and Terri held silent as Jared looked from one detective to the other. Suddenly he burst up out of his seat. “Shit. No way. No fucking way.” He leaned forward. “I never did no crime!”
Jon pointed for him to sit back down and waited.
“Okay…” Jared’s butt bounced off the chair, and he slumped in defeat. “I took the plates because mine are expired, see, and I had to get over to Mt. Ouisco to grab my shit.”
“Your shit?” Jon asked.
Jared could see that they didn’t understand and started again. “My girlfriend, ex-girlfriend…” He corrected. “She moved to Mt. Ouisco and took some of my shit with her. I told her she better hand it over or I’d make sure she…that is, I told her I’d call the police if I didn’t get it back.” Jared sat back as if telling his story had lifted a weight off him. “It’s just my tools, but I’m going to get a job soon and I’ll need them tools.” He looked the most relaxed he’d been since getting picked up. “I just needed to get to Mt. Ouisco to pick ’um up. And with my plates expired I thought I’d just take…uh…I mean…borrow some so I could get over there and back without getting stopped by no cops.”
“Where did you meet her to get your tools back?” Terri asked.
He shrugged. “Don’ remember the address. It was on the edge of town, not too far from some truck stop hotel or something.”
Terri and Jon exchanged a look. They had just wasted the better part of the day to interrogate a dumbass. Jon knew he shouldn’t waste his time, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking one last question. “So…why couldn’t you just go to the DMV to renew your plates and then go get your tools?”
Jared looked confused. “Well… I couldn’t afford the seventy-seven bucks for renewal stickers.”
As they left the interrogation room Terri mumbled. “Fucking idiot probably spent that in gas for a round trip to get tools he’s not even using.”
Jon smiled. He was reasonably sure Jared hadn’t heard her when the junkie asked. “So can I go now or what?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Holy shit!” CJ murmured.
Randi concurred. “I know. I can’t believe it either.”
Both women stood over a set of twelve photos fresh from the office printer, each one a five-by-seven glossy, the largest size Randi could print and still maintain grain-free detail. They were the photos of their Sanke investigation at Bell’s Motel the night of the murder.
“I can’t believe you got that shot.”
“It was purely by accident. That was when I slipped on the ladder.”
CJ looked at Randi and rolled her eyes. “I’m not talking about that one. I’m talking about that one.” She pointed to a photo that showed the inside of the hotel room and the activities going on. “Maybe I can bargain for better interest rates down at the bank.”
Randi slapped at CJ’s hand as the woman went to pick up her preferred glossy for closer inspection. “Well, you can’t keep it. I’ve got to get these over to the police right away.” She slipped them into her laptop bag. “If I had known what was on them I would have rushed them through processing.”
CJ looked disappointed. “At least let me make me a copy?” She begged, and the bright purple extensions bobbed among the shorter tufts of orange on her head. “I’d only use my powers of blackmail for good, I promise.”
Randi ignored her. “You need to text me the addresses of the showings for the Parkers, give them a reminder call and tell them to be at the Crestview house at six o’clock and I’ll go there when I’m done at the PD. Then you can work on the handouts for the open houses this weekend.” She grabbed her laptop bag, purse and water bottle. “And comps for the houses on 16th Avenue, Juniper Road, and the condo at Pleasant Grove.” She pushed her
way through the door and waved at CJ as she sang over her shoulder. “Thank you.”
On the way to the station, she prayed she wouldn’t see Detective Bricksen. She thought to send CJ with the photos, but delivering them personally would be the professional thing to do. If she requested a sit down with Detective Terri Watman instead it might be okay.
The young officer at the front desk escorted Randi to the detective’s room once she explained that it was important that the valuable contents to be given directly to Detective Watman. He showed her to a seat next to one of many empty desks and told her to wait, that Detective Watman was on her way back to the station.
Randi was there a full five minutes before her curiosity got the better of her. She took advantage of the empty room and walked around to the business side of the desk. She didn’t touch anything. Not at first. The desk was neatly organized and clean. There was a multi-tiered file box on the corner that contained stacks of folders. Randi ran her finger across the labels and saw nothing of value. She moved on, perusing mail messages, notations on the calendar, sticky notes, pretty much anything with writing on it. Nothing of interest. She glanced over at the desk across the way.
What a pigsty. She moseyed over a step at a time while keeping an eye on the doorway, then sat down at the chair next to the desk. This desktop was cluttered and in amazing disarray, but it was a gold mine of paper. Had to be Bricksen’s. Randi could not keep her fingers from rummaging—not that she tried too hard.
She sorted through stacks of files and paper, the piles strewn around without any sense of order. In order to gain some sense of the items she’d looked at and to avoid looking at the same information twice she straightened as she went, unable to stop organizing once she got started.
She quickly cleared off space in the middle, finding the Formica top and crumbs of some sort that had been buried long ago under layers of paper. Without conscious thought, she stood and began to clean the desk in earnest now, like she did her own at the end of a hectic day, sans the food remnants. She took note of anything that might have had to do with the Larissa Leuenberger case.
Near the bottom of the pile, she found a thick file folder labeled homicide #1-15. That had to be Larissa. Inside she found crime scene photos, evidence marker reference list, witness lists with her name at the top. Every name had a notation of resolution next to it in the detective’s studious, small script, except hers. He had labeled CJ a wack-job—fair enough. There were numerous technical sheets like the medical examiner’s report, lab reports and assignment checklist. Everything needed to find the victim’s killer.
Victim. Most of the tech info was referred to as vic. Huh. That would make the job easier, less personal. Randi was bummed that there was nothing in the way of real information to be gleaned from the data. She thumbed back to the ME’s report and jotted down some details.
Randi couldn’t believe her luck, she’d done all this poking around and nobody had come into the room. Just as she was tucking it in her purse, she heard voices from the hallway. Panicked, she rushed back to Detective Watman’s desk, plopped down in the side chair and tried to look innocent. She heard Detective Bricksen from the doorway. “Oh hell.”
“Don’t worry, she’s sitting at my desk, not yours.” Terri said.
The two detectives made their way over, and as Terri Watman greeted her, Randi watched her partner out of the corner of her eye as he reached his desk.
Jon sank his hands onto his trim waist, and groaned. “We better put out an APB for a vandal in the building.”
Terri stopped what she was doing and noticed the state of his desk. “Why? Do you want to pay them for cleaning?”
“No, I would like to string them up by their pretty little necks.” He gave Randi a sharp look. “Christ, I can’t find a damn thing now.” He sneered at the pile of crumbs in the center and swept them onto the floor.
Randi glanced at the floor, annoyed. “I’m sure you could find a broom if you tried.”
Jon turned to face her, crossing his arms as he leaned back against his desk. “What is it exactly that we can do for you today, Ms. Lassiter?”
Randi directed herself towards Terri instead. “It’s not what you can do for me. It’s what I can do for you. And please—call me Randi,” she said sweetly.
Terri looked from Randi to Jon and back. “Okay. I’ll bite.”
Randi handed her an envelope. Terri pulled out the photos and laid them out in a row. Curious, Jon crossed to her desk.
“Shit.” Terri whispered. Jon remained quiet.
“As a matter of full disclosure, those are all of the photos I took that night. The one I’m sure you’re most interested in was accidentally taken when the camera slipped from my hands.” She stood to go.
“I’ll keep this one if you don’t mind.” Terri picked up a photo showing a large brown rat dragging a short-handled bloody knife into a storm drain.
She handed another of the photos to Jon. “You can keep this one if you want.”
Jon looked down at the crystal-clear photo of Chad Sanke with his naked backside pressed up against a big screen TV inside the motel room, getting a blowjob from his redheaded secretary.
“Those are your copies, here is the SD card from my camera. If you have any questions, Detective Watman, please feel free to call me.” Randi turned and walked out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jon reclined in the soft leather armchair, an old favorite from his college days that was worn to fit his shape and was uglier than sin even when it was brand new. His stocking-clad feet were propped up on an overturned box, one of the three he’d found the incentive to uncrate that week. He looked around at the rest of the lot yet to be unpacked and tried to imagine his home without the cardboard clutter. It couldn’t be done.
As if on cue, Dammit lumbered around a stack of boxes and knocked them over, causing a racket that sent him scurrying.
Jon laughed. “Come here boy, I’ll clean up soon. I promise.” He patted the dog’s big head, and the dog in turn flopped down by his makeshift hassock.
Jon tossed the Scrap Iron IPA cap toward the kitchen trashcan and missed by a mile. Grasping the long-necked bottle between his fingers, he felt the iced-cold brew slam down his throat and into his empty stomach. He really should eat something.
With his head deep in the sinkhole of the old headrest and his eyes closed, he relaxed in the quiet of his small, deranged house. No ringing phone, no office chatter and for a moment, no thoughts of murder. The only sounds Jon heard were a light breeze tickling at the curtain of his open window, his stomach growling and Dammit’s soft snore at his feet.
What niggled the edge of his consciousness, no doubt from some sexually deprived corner of his brain, were thoughts of Randi Lassiter in her oversized sweater and bare shoulder. This time he allowed his mind to wander in whatever lascivious direction it wanted to go. She was a looker, no doubt about that. The attraction surprised him because she wasn’t his type. He tended to gravitate toward rail-thin women with dark hair and no sense of humor. Randi Lassiter was curvy, but in a healthy, sexy way. And she wielded a sharp tongue as a weapon—a behavior that annoyed the hell out of him but at the same time….
It bugged him that she popped in and out of his random thoughts. He was pretty sure he didn’t like it. She had gotten under his skin and was festering, like a boil that would eventually need lancing. And Jon hadn’t been laid or lanced since the breakup with Becca. He imagined her straightening his desk, and even that made him feel giddy.
Shit, he did need to get laid.
Maybe a trip to a local bar would take care of that problem, or at least he could get his head clear. No. A one-night-stand wouldn’t be worth the potential pitfalls. He’d already learned how fast word spread around here. Don’t shit where you sleep, Ace. Better to prowl out of town. Or better yet, put it out of your mind and just move on.
Jon got up and went into the kitchen. He grabbed a second beer and forced his thoughts back to his case. It had been three weeks since the alley photos had been dropped off by Lassiter. Nearly four weeks into the investigation and they were no closer to finding the killer than they were four hours into it.
The entire team was knee-deep in the investigation. Hopes had been high that there’d have been a break by now. Jon and Terri had gone up to Woodbury for the funeral, just in case someone they hadn’t interviewed had showed. Even with the press and Chief Thomlin breathing down on him, the pressure seemed miniscule compared to the burden Jon put on himself.
It didn’t help that statistically most homicides were committed by someone that knew the victim. And with the violence of this crime, it seemed clear someone was outraged with Larissa. Whether that was personal or just because of how she chewed her gum—who knew? Everyone who was a part of her life said there was no one who wanted to hurt her, so that left more casual acquaintances.
Larissa had come to Mt. Ouisco for a reason. Everyone said it was important to her. Jon had gone over the lists and made sure that every Walnut Ridge guest, staff member, and exhibitor had been hauled in or chased down to find out what they might have known.
But maybe there was someone within that framework they’d overlooked. Or maybe someone was simply very good at lying.
At any rate, it bugged him that the case had gone cold. The longer a homicide went unsolved, the greater the chances that they would never find the killer. Despite an extensive search, they’d failed to recover the knife that was in Randi’s photo. He’d handed Larissa’s hard drive to a forensic IT guy that he’d hoped could extract useful information from her computer, and had come up empty-handed.
As the one-month milestone approached, Jon had been kicking around an idea—hatching a plan of action that would hopefully get the investigation moving again. And might even be enjoyable while he was at it—as long as he kept things professional.