by DB Kennison
The man did not immediately respond.
“This is how it has to happen, Fred. I’m asking you to trust me.” Jon leaned on the doorjamb and added softly, “Come on, Fred. You can do this.”
“Okay.” Fred whispered. “Okay, I’m coming out.”
Jon nodded at Terri, and she said into her handheld. “Suspect is surrendering. Stand down.”
The door crept open, and Jon got his first good look at Fred Turner. A slight, thirty-something man, Fred was half the size of Wachowski and the definition of a mild-mannered-geek. There was no way this guy overpowered Wacko.
Terri took Fred out in cuffs as she read his rights to him. If things had gone down the way Jon suspected they did, he might be charged with nothing more that disorderly conduct, if that.
The chief and Jon entered the unit together. The apartment was immaculate. The only thing out of place was a decorative pillow on the floor and Sergeant Wachowski in a heap beside it. His face was puffy, his eyes red, and he was ranting at them through duct tape that Fred had placed across the broad expanse of his face that also wrapped his arms and legs.
Wacko lay on his side with one pant leg cut off, just above a small wound on his thigh that appeared to be no more than a graze.
It was the only wound Wacko had sustained. There weren’t even any welts from the magazine. It appeared that Fred had cut Wacko’s pants to access the degree of his injuries and bandaged it with a wide swath of gauze strips and medical tape. He and the chief exchanged a look and shook their heads in unison. He’d bet a month’s pay Wacko hadn’t gotten a warrant. They’d be lucky if Mr. Turner didn’t sue them.
With his hand and feet duct taped, Wacko looked like a walrus floundering on the beach. Thomlin leaned down and yanked off the tape. Wacko exploded in a tirade of spittle.
“You son of a bitch, you can’t arrest him! He’s my perp. I found him. I cracked this case, not you!” He turned to Thomlin. “Chief, this should have been my case. Don’t let him take the credit for this!”
Jon couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He hadn’t seen this kind of self-delusion since his great-aunt gave away all her money to a church, thinking the end of the world was coming in two weeks. Wacko was still yelling as the EMTs entered the room.
The chief turned to Jon and jerked his thumb towards the door. “Beat it. I got this.” And with that the chief resealed Wacko’s yap with the tape.
Chapter Thirty-Three
CJ stood at the doorway and shouted, “Matthew McConaughey!”
“Huh?” Randi didn’t know how long she’d been staring out the window, thinking about things other than the beautiful weather, before CJ caught her daydreaming.
“Ben Affleck!”
Randi looked across the room at CJ, genuinely confused.
“Harry Connick Jr.!” Her assistant flopped down in the chair across from her boss’s desk. “That’s my pick. At least most days.” She reclined in the chair, feet crossed at the ankles and hands laced over her midsection. She looked like a lazy teenager settling in for a late-night vampire movie.
“What on Earth are you talking about?”
“Oh. I just assumed with that dazed stare you had going on that you must be fantasizing about some hunk or another.” She twirled a lock of green hair as her eyes stared off into the distance. “Have you seen Harry on Idol this season? Keith Urban’s got nothing on him—that sexy lopsided smile, that dry sense of humor and good Lord, that Lousiana accent. He’s pure melt-in-your-mouth candy!” She gave a lascivious growl.
Randi rolled her eyes. “No, I was just thinking about my schedule this week.”
“That’s what you get for working us on a Sunday.”
“You don’t seem to be working too hard. Besides, it’s just long enough for us to catch up on missing a day last week.”
“Well, at the rate you’re working we’ll have to do away with days off completely.”
Randi fumbled to close the window on her laptop before CJ noticed it. She could not bring herself to admit that she’d been preoccupied with thoughts of Jon, and worse, to realize she’d been looking up his profile on the Mt. Ouisco Police Department website. What was she thinking?
Well, she was thinking of how that chiseled face would feel as she pulled him in for a kiss. She wondered if his lips were as soft as she remembered. She even wondered whether or not he was circumcised…
“Sean Connery!” CJ yelled as Randi’s mind drifted again.
“No! Gads—he’s ancient.” She shot her an annoyed look.
“Yeah, but he’s got that Scot’s accent. And old or not, it’s whatever floats your boat.” She said, philosophically. “Well, whoever he is, he’s sure got you distracted. I figure it can’t be anyone in town, because other than porn-brunch man you haven’t met anyone new…” A big grin slowly spread across her face. “Exceeeept that handsome police detective…uh, Brick-something? Bricklayer, Brickwall, well whatever…he’s built like a brick house.” She sat up and grinned wide.
Randi threw a paperclip at CJ. “Isn’t there something at your desk I’m paying you to file, type, phone or mail?”
CJ picked up the paperclip after it hit her on the boob and bounced to the floor. She left the room humming Love to Love You, Baby by Donna Summer. Randi could hear her moan at her desk during the sexy climax of the song.
Randi chastised herself for wasting time on Jon and pulled up Facebook on her computer. She started to poke around Larissa’s page again and those of her friends. The police had a man in custody, Truman Perry. His bizarre art aside, Randi wondered what motive he had to kill Larissa, and why was she obsessed with him to the point that she followed him.
Randi wanted answers, but she wasn’t sure how to get them. She’d also felt a connection with Jon last night. But…was it even real? Did she imagine it or was it just him working the case?
Worst-case scenario, she would never hear from him and would have to read details of the murder in the paper or hear it in the gossip loop before that. She thrummed her fingers on her desk and stared out the window, waiting for a revelation. Then she trolled around Facebook pages some more, learning about Larissa, her life, and her friends.
Larissa Leuenberger’s Facebook page was a legacy to her life, with final postings from friends on how they would miss her. Unless someone had her personal passwords or went to the trouble of getting a death certificate and presenting it to the powers-that-be on Facebook, one could assume it would stay intact forever. Her parents might be oblivious to the social media account.
Randi scrolled down the condolences, reading the shorter ones, skimming the longer ones. She spent forty-five minutes that way before something caught her eye.
There among the hundreds of good-byes was a comment by a woman named Flip, hoping that Larissa would finally have peace and no longer have to worry about what happened to her sister.
What happened to her sister? Hadn’t she died of cancer? Randi thought she’d read that somewhere. No wait, her coworker, Nancy Stratford, had mentioned it. Huh.
Randi had just typed Liv Leuenberger into Google search when CJ notified her that her new clients were waiting in the lobby. She shut her laptop, making a mental note to do the search later.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Thanks Terri, I appreciate it.” Jon snapped his cell shut and reached down to scratch Dammit’s ear. He kicked off his shoes, grabbed a Snapple from the fridge and shuffled through his mail at the counter.
Jon tossed the Publishers Clearing House envelope out onto the living room floor for Dammit. “You can have this one.” The dog was instantly on it, ripping into the paper. It was a game the pair had played since he was a pup.
He tossed the bills into a pile. He’d deal with those later. As he sat down to wrestle with the dog, Jon thought about how thankful he was he had a competent partner who didn’t mind him taking advantage of he
r enthusiasm.
After shoring up the final details of Wacko’s fiasco that morning, Terri agreed to finish up the paperwork. Jon did a little digging and looked into the casework Wacko had been assigned.
It was shit—all of it. Wacko had not only accosted Mr. Turner, but had gone so far as to falsify information pertinent to the case. None of what Wacko entered into any database could be trusted to be accurate. Cutting corners based on a hunch—it didn’t matter what city you were in, it was still bad police work. They would need to re-enter all of the data, this time correctly.
Jon then had to deal with Truman Perry. The man had lawyered up, refusing to answer questions. It was for the best considering Jon had no idea where they stood with the case or any of the evidence that may have pointed to Perry, all thanks to Wacko’s ego. If they charged Perry it wouldn’t take long for his lawyer to tear the case as it was apart and nothing left, no matter how compelling, would stick.
Jon rubbed his eyes. It served him right. He’d let moving to this small town lull him into thinking he wouldn’t have to work hard anymore. His instincts had been squealing the moment he’d been forced to trust anything significant in the hands of an imbecile that thought he was Dirty Harry, and he’d rolled with it when he knew in his gut it was all going wrong. Now they had to start over, repair the damage that had been done, and keep an eye on Perry as they did it.
Jon plopped down in his favorite chair and Dammit nearly knocked him over as he leaned in begging for more attention. Jon yawned as he scratched Dammit’s ear.
“I missed you too, pal.” Between Wacko’s meltdown and Truman Perry’s interrogation, Jon had been up for the better part of two days. He’d come home long enough to put the dog out, feed him and crash for a few hours.
Dammit rooted around in a pile of dirty clothes on the floor and pulled out Jon’s dress shirt from the night of the gala. The dog dragged it out in order to better pursue the scent and Jon took it from him. There was a series of sniffs and snuffles as Dammit put his paws on the chair and ran his nose across the shirt.
“Ah…you smell her, don’t you, boy?” Dammit’s stub wagged faster. Jon put the shirt to his face and inhaled. Randi’s perfume still lingered here and there…or was he imagining it? Dammit didn’t think so. “Yeah, I agree. She does smell pretty. And believe it or not she tastes even better.”
Jon brought the bottle to his lips and smiled. Shoot, he’d second-guessed the decision of kissing her from the start, but his libido had won out. It was just a kiss, after all.
“Right?” He asked the dog. Dammit cocked his head to the side and barked. Jon took Dammit’s favorite chew toy, a rubber uniformed police officer that squeaked when you squeezed him—a gift from his mom for her grand-dog—and tossed it onto the dog’s bed. Dammit took the bait and left in hot pursuit. He tortured the copper for a few minutes before falling over to sleep.
Jon noticed the time on the wall. “Fuck!” He slammed down the rest of the iced tea. Another night a bust. Not only was he screwed out of any chance to see Ms. PI naked last night, but also any chance of proper sleep tonight. And according to his own meager standards decent meant anything over three hours.
It surprised Jon how quickly they’d dealt with the whole horrendous affair. The chief placed Wacko on administrative leave pending a psych evaluation, but they all knew he wasn’t coming back. The chief made it very clear to Wacko, as long as none of this evening’s events became public he could still take early retirement. But make any noise, and he’d be leaving broke as well as broken.
Terri was able to come to terms with Mr. Turner. Remarkably all he wanted was for Wacko to go away. That was taken care of with the issuance of a restraining order, which meant Wacko would be moving. The chief coordinated that with Wacko’s sister in Chicago. As soon he was able, Wacko would be a Flat-Lander.
Confidentiality papers were signed, and everything else was swept under the rug. Jon noted that he had been strategically left out of the process. That meant that although the chief put him in the lead on the case and let him handle things at the Armpit, he didn’t know for a fact that Jon would keep his mouth shut. Not having his name listed anywhere solved that pesky problem, at least officially. Ahh yes, Jon recognized a whitewash when he saw it.
As nice as it was to have the whole thing tied up neatly, it left a bad taste in Jon’s mouth. Wacko should have had the book thrown at him for that stunt, Mr. Turner should have been generously compensated for the attack against his person and home, and the public had a right to know about the whole affair. With the thoughts that were running through his mind right now, perhaps the chief made the right call keeping him out of it.
Or maybe life here wasn’t so different from Milwaukee after all.
His phone rang. He snapped it open. “Yeah?”
“Detective Jon Bricksen, this is Tom Carpenter of WEKZ Big Radio. Do you have a comment for us regarding the police standoff at Arlington Arms?”
Jon’s mouth formed a thin line as he kept his temper in check. “I’d really like to help, but I’m going to refer you to Chief Thomlin. He’s the guy you want for an official quote and with any luck he’ll tell you where you can stick your big radio.” He hung up the phone and keyed in a block on that incoming phone number.
Jon felt proud of the way he handled the guy, quite mature compared to the response he’d given the newspaper reporter earlier when he suggested the man go fuck himself with his tape recorder.
Jon sighed and grabbed a beer instead of tea, not caring how he felt tomorrow. After all, he just wanted a quiet life—and where the hell was that right now?
Chapter Thirty-Five
The riffle of stiff paper was the only sound that could be heard in the Crime Analyst room of the DOJ this time of night. As far as Becca knew, everyone else on the floor had gone home for the day. With her bare feet enjoying their freedom from the sensible heels she wore in the field, she snacked on peanut M&Ms and reviewed her handwritten notes, hoping to find an overlooked clue. For the umpteenth time she poured over the evidence of four murders, all part of the serial case she’d been assigned to as lead investigator. Her first major case.
Thinking a change in methodology might make a difference, she decided to review printed photos on the tabletop along with her personal handwritten notes. The night before it had been a large whiteboard at the front of the room. The night before that it was all on her laptop.
At this point she felt an acute level of frustration, not unlike the sharp pain she felt between her shoulders. This case was sixteen weeks old and they were no further along, no leads whatsoever. Oh, they had found plenty of particulate evidence, but with nothing to match it to. The entire team was on edge and Becca felt she needed to prove herself capable of solving this one.
What concerned her even more was that she didn’t believe these four homicides were the only ones connected to this unsub. These killings were well planned and executed. It was highly unlikely that the killer started out like that. The odds were good that the first murder would have been based on opportunity and very sloppy. There might be a degree of forethought, but it would have been unorganized and messy because the killer would not yet be in control of his emotions.
The killer had to become controlled after that so he could keep killing without getting caught, and to make the pleasure of the experience last longer. With restraint comes time management.
So if someone already in control did the four murders Becca knew of, where was the first? Find that, and they might have new evidence or insight that could lead them to the killer. Even if these victims were random, there was almost certainly a personal connection to that first kill.
Becca looked down at the photo in front of her and placed her handwritten notes beside it.
Melanie Fuchs:
Married, white, female, age 23, of Baraboo, WI
COD: GSW to the right temple with a .38
> BD: — Victim found nude on a Duck boat that was docked on the Wisconsin River Dells area. A seasonal worker found victim.
Misc: right ear removed post mortem
Becca looked at the accompanying photos. It showed a young woman with long blonde hair bent over the side of the boat, a little yellow rubber duck sitting on the small of her back. Becca shook her head. She’d seen the photo hundreds of times and still she got a chill when looking at it. The bastard had to be playing with them, otherwise why the duck? Her eyes moved on to the second case:
Cathy Schutz.
Single, white, female, age 35, of Fayette, WI
COD: broken neck (advanced decay present)
BD: found sprawled across a wooded ATV fence bridge, partially wrapped in barbed wire. Local farmer discovered body when preparing fields for spring planting.
Misc: Degree of decomposition makes it impossible to extract further evidence
Becca rolled her head to avoid the pain that was looming at the fringes. ATV trails threaded through the entire state of Wisconsin, many of which run through private property. But you still have to do some homework to know where the more isolated trails run. Level of decomp left it unclear if her ear had been sliced off or not. She put aside the paperwork for the cases and lined the photos up side by side in order to compare them, trying in vain to find a common thread. Frustrated, she opened the next case file:
Alexis (Lexi) Thomas.
Divorced, African-American, age 42, of Montello, WI
COD: exsanguination
BD: Victim found on Fond du Lac lake by a sturgeon fisherman opening morning. Wrists and ankles were cut. Bled out at that location after being incapacitated and moved onto the ice.
Misc: right ear removed post mortem
Becca looked at the next set of photos. Lexi Thomas, her dark skin a shocking contrast to the white of the frozen lake, was spread eagle and pinned to the tundra with a seven-inch auger used to drill holes in the ice. So this guy must have set the auger into the ice in advance. He could have done that in the middle of the day. Anyone who saw him would have assumed he was ice fishing. Then the unsub drugs the vic, hauls her to the lake, tethers her to the auger and slits her skin, so she bleeds out.