by DB Kennison
“So you can OD on this?” She sounded unconvinced.
“It’s possible. The cough syrup is prescription strength, which can result in an opiate overdose, and if it was mixed with whatever was in the pill bottle… Well, I’m not ruling it out.”
Terri stood with her hands on her hips. “So let me get this straight… This guy offed himself with pills and a gangland party punch?”
Her skepticism wasn’t lost on Jon. “Who am I to judge the method some slimeball uses to save John Q Public a lot of money on room and board for twenty-five-to-life?”
The debate regarding quality suicide was interrupted by a call from the rest of the team. “Hey, over here.”
They headed back to where Erland and Ostlund were processing the body. Truman was beginning to bloat in the heat and they needed to get him into a cooler ASAP.
Erland handed Jon a small envelope. He opened it and tipped out the contents into his gloved hand. A Polaroid of a murder scene and a folded piece of paper.
Terri crowded in next to him. The vic was female and there were some words carved into her stomach. It was hard to make out because the photo wasn’t a close up but it looked like “Fin” was cut into her flesh. Jon unfolded the paper. Inside was a pencil sketch matching the photo along with a sentence written beneath it, the sweeping strokes penned in black ink:
The struggle for the purity of art cannot compare to the struggle for its inspiration.
“Fin? What the fuck is that?”
“It means the end,” said Terri. “Think French artsy films.”
“First you’re the rookie whisperer, now you’re bilingual?”
“Please. Carrie Ann and I happen to like foreign movies.”
So this was how Truman Perry said farewell?
It looked like Perry killed himself to avoid having to go to trial. And as nice as it would be to have their only suspect deliver himself gift wrapped, Jon had a feeling this was too good to be true.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Randi did her best to get comfortable in the stiff, flat chair in the lobby of Middle America Magazine. It was a quarter past four by the time she’d finished at the salon, retrieved her laptop from her room and traveled to St. Paul to meet with the human resource director.
However, Ms. Trudy Stick-Up-Her-Butt Laine had been no help in learning what story Liv had been working on when she died. Ms. Laine was not even employed there at that time and didn’t know who Liv was. She’d gone so far as to say it would be inappropriate for her to direct Randi to any other employees. Bottom line, her official inquiry at the magazine was over before it even started.
Randi had left Laine’s office feeling deflated. She had come to the Twin Cities for a break and instead discovered a potential break in the case. She didn’t feel she had enough to contact the police yet but felt confident there was valuable information to uncover, especially if it could establish some sort of motive for Perry to murder Larissa.
Finding a reason could mean the difference between first- and second-degree murder charges. First-degree murder was intentional homicide and for intent to be proven they needed motive. Up to this point the information had fallen into her lap, now she needed to work for it. She was pissed off that she’d hit a wall, but in a weird way she was actually glad. It was added incentive to find the truth.
Refusing to be shut down and with no place else to go, Randi had bought a bottled iced tea from the newsstand in the lobby and made herself at home. She took up two of the leather and chrome chairs lining the walls, spreading out her all her stuff—a makeshift office on the move. The receptionist cocked a curious eyebrow but forgot all about Randi when the phones got busy.
A pale, bald man with wire-rimmed glasses sat across from Randi in what she would bet was a five-hundred-dollar suit, a cordovan briefcase clutched on his lap and a nervous look on his face. He gawked at Randi as she waited for her Gretchen Facebook page to load on her laptop. She did her best to ignore him by taking in the magazine’s framed accolades mounted on the wall behind her.
Middle America Magazine had won numerous awards for its coverage of twelve states across the Midwest: People’s Choice Awards, Reader’s Choice Awards, and story recognition awards for individual journalists. Apparently no slouch in the industry, MAM was a popular, top-notch periodical and their lobby reflected that with its stylized albeit uncomfortable furniture and bold wall art layered over glass and shiny chrome. All sparkle and glitz, the lobby shouted anything but Middle America to Randi. But then she wasn’t an interior designer, and how much of the magazine’s actual readership showed up in their lobby anyway?
From Gretchen’s fictitious account, she pulled up Liv’s Facebook page. Like Larrissa’s, the fact that Liv was deceased didn’t mean her account no longer existed. In fact, it was still up and running with friend’s posts still updating if they had failed to unfriend her. It didn’t take her long to find connections to MAM and since Liv opened her social media account before stricter settings were available, Randi had unimaginable access to the young woman’s personal and professional life.
She poked around for a few minutes, trying to find a boyfriend she could contact since Liv’s personal status showed she was in a relationship. A minute later she struck gold. She spotted a familiar face among Liv’s work colleagues, a photo of Liv and someone named Cheryl Thiessen commemorating their joint award for a story on vineyards trending in the Midwest. It was the same photo Randi had seen on the lobby wall. Randi noted several other shots of a friendlier nature online and concluded that Liv had been in a relationship with Cheryl Thiessen.
Randi then went to the MAM website’s contact page to see if Cheryl Thiessen was still an employee. Bingo! She found her name and link to her email. But she needed to talk to her now. She went back to the home page and found the company’s main number and dialed it. Randi got up and walked outside as the phone began to ring. Baldy had been fetched for his appointment earlier and no one else was in the lobby so she felt okay leaving her things where they were. Besides, she could still see her stuff through the glass wall outside the front doors.
Randi could see the receptionist pick up the phone as she heard a woman’s voice in her ear. She asked to speak with Cheryl Thiessen and was redirected. After three rings, a lyrical voice answered. “This is Cheryl, how can I help you?”
Randi told her she was in the lobby and explained why she was there—that she was looking into the death of Larissa Leuenberger and needed to determine if there was a connection to the death of her sister Liv. There was an impossibly long pause where Randi held her breath, waiting for security to spill out of the building and arrest her.
“I’ll be down in five minutes.” Cheryl said and hung up.
Randi went back inside, collected her things and waited patiently. Five minutes later a woman walked off the elevator.
Cheryl Thiessen hadn’t changed much since Liv’s death. She still looked barely thirty, a poised professional in fashion model clothing. She wore fitted black ankle slacks, a white sleeveless turtleneck, red leather heels and a large shoulder bag in bold red and white floral print.
“I’m on break.” She looked over her shoulder, almost paranoid. “I can lose my job talking about this. Let’s take a walk.” She pulled out a cigarette as she waited for Randi to gather her things and lit up the second her feet hit the concrete outside.
“I went to Liv’s funeral, had to pay my respects as a coworker. Couldn’t even grieve without drawing attention. Liv wouldn’t have wanted that. Her poor parents are still oblivious of our relationship. I doubt they’re even aware she was gay.” Her lips drew into a hard, resentful line.
“Did you know that Larissa believed Liv’s death was no accident?”
Cheryl looked at her like she was the newest turnip on the road. “Who do you think gave her the idea?” She inhaled the smoke and held it in with her eyes closed before releas
ing it in a deadly plume. Randi recognized the smoke-break orgasm.
“After the funeral, Larissa told me Liv was scared that she was being followed, but she hadn’t thought the accident was anything sinister. After our little conversation, she knew the truth. What Liv was working on got her killed.”
“She didn’t mention her concerns to the magazine?”
“Of course she did.” Randi thought she caught a spark of hatred in Cheryl’s eyes.
“So why is it no one else believed you?”
“We didn’t have any proof. The magazine editors didn’t want to hear about anything unless they could parlay it into a story—which takes facts, not supposition. And they didn’t want to hear about it from me after Liv’s death. Without evidence it was just a scandal they couldn’t afford to be part of. They told me to take it to the cops. Any more conversation on the topic at work and I’d be reassigned, which really meant I’d lose my job.”
“So you went to the police?”
Cheryl shook her head. “Larissa and I agreed to keep a low profile until she could obtain something concrete. Once the coroner made the official cause of death an accident we knew the case would get pushed aside. It was easier to close the case rather than fight the determination. I get it, with rising crime and budget cuts, they can only do so much.”
“So when Larissa was murdered you didn’t go to them.”
She gave an exaggerated laugh. “I assumed the police would exchange information and they’d put it all together. Guess that didn’t happen.” She smiled ruefully. “I got to give it to her, though. Larissa never gave up. Just like her sister.”
A tear trailed down Cheryl’s cheek, which she smeared off with an angry swipe. “And look what she got for her trouble.” She tossed the cigarette butt down and smashed it with her peep-toe pump, then drew herself up. “Look, the life I have may not be great now that Liv is gone, but I don’t want to die. I can’t go down that rabbit hole again.”
She pulled a large manila envelope out of her bag and thrust it at Randi. “I’m glad you’re looking into this, I really am. But be careful. Looking into this is what got them both killed.” And with that Cheryl walked back in the building.
Randi almost twisted an ankle as she ran through the parking lot to her car, barely able to contain herself long enough to shut the door before she opened the envelope.
There were photos, notes, a file folder, news and magazine clippings—too much loose material to risk taking it all out there. She made the hard choice and decided to curb herself until she was somewhere she could dump it all out and go over the information in detail. She had one stop to make first and then she’d be back in the hotel room. No need to worry, she had all night, and Mt. Ouisco’s finest had Truman Perry well in hand.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
“Suicide?” Becca hit her blinker and pulled onto the interstate behind a semitrailer with Kansas state plates, leaving the two-lane from Ripon behind her. “How can you be sure?”
Jon filled her in on the case details over the speakerphone. He told her about the photo of the carving and the note Truman had on him. “It’s been a long day for all of us, but I thought you’d want to know.”
“Definitely. I’m headed to Madison to tie up loose ends.”
Jon said nothing, his mind probably wandering to another part of the case.
“Something is off, Jon.” She swerved around a long semitruck and took the off-ramp into downtown.
“I know. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“It’s all different. That is to say, it’s all the same…but different. Honestly, if I didn’t know this fucking case inside out I might not see it. Hell, I don’t even know what it is.” She groaned out loud. “Yes, I do. It’s all the little things. The ear is missing and yes, it’s cut off, but it’s not a clean cut like the others. And yes the body looks posed, but not with the same details that were done on the previous cases. It was sloppy—maybe even rushed. And that’s not our guy. Our guy is organized, meticulous, and deliberate. He never rushes. He likes to spend time with his dead. And then there are the wounds, they were wide and wobbly, as if made by an unpracticed hand or again—by someone in a hurry.”
“Could he have been interrupted?”
“No, this was a pretty isolated area. No reason for him to rush. And then there’s the vic. She wasn’t dead when he left her, Jon. She bled out right there at the scene.”
“So, maybe he was staging her like the one on the lake—the bloody snow angel?”
That is not our guy’s MO. I’m not saying he wouldn’t bleed out another victim but he wouldn’t just kill and leave them. There’s nothing creative about that and we know our guy likes his art. Maybe he really was burning out.”
Jon went quiet.
“Jon?” Becca pulled into a parking stall and shut off the car. “You still there?”
“I don’t think this is a suicide. Becca. I mean, it looks like he killed himself and right now I don’t have anything that says differently—but I don’t think that’s what happened. I mean, if he killed up in Ripon why come all the way back here to off himself?”
“One could argue that when he killed in Ripon he had no thought of suicide and that he simply came home,” said Becca. “But then that doesn’t explain the carving.”
There was a pregnant silence between them.
“It’s all too wrapped up with a bow. I feel it in my gut but can’t prove it on paper—at least not at this time,” said Jon.
“You think someone killed Larissa Leuenberger and framed Truman, don’t you?” said Becca.
“And then they killed him, making it look like a suicide,” Jon finished. “That’s exactly what I think.”
“If you’re right, you know what that means.” She sat in her car and watched people come and go from the Department of Justice Building.
“I don’t want to think anything other than this is our guy, your guy! I want to think that we caught our killer and that all that’s left is the fucking paperwork. But I can’t.”
“The scary part about that theory is that it means were getting close to the real killer.”
“But why race all the way to Ripon to kill and make it look like Truman did it and then kill him right away?” Jon asked. “The killer could knock Truman off anytime or anywhere. Why the rush?”
“That might explain why the same killer would be so damn sloppy here. He needed to get back to town and take care of Truman,” said Becca.
There was a lengthy pause where neither one spoke. Becca nibbled on her thumbnail as she thought. “I got a bad feeling about this. Ripon is two hours north, Jon. The DOJ would normally send a different CA to investigate, except they knew it was one of mine based on the MO and signature.”
“Right, I’m following,” said Jon.
“It’s no secret in Mt. Podunk that the DOJ is helping on the case. So let’s say you’re feeling penned in and trying to buy some time. The best way to do that is pull us apart with distance and keep us preoccupied hours away.”
“You’re right. You should have a bad feeling about it because that actually makes sense. You think this is a lead-up for a disappearing act?”
“Maybe. Is the chief going to be open to pursuing a murder investigation instead of suicide?” Becca asked.
“I am going to treat this case as a homicide even if I have to run over the chief to do it. How long before you know for sure if your new case is the same guy?”
“I’ll call in a favor, see if I can get prelims done early, rush the corpse to the ME.” She took him off speaker as she got out of the car. “Best I can do. Cross your fingers.” She hung up.
“What the hell is going on, Jon?” Terri asked the instant he was off the phone.
“We may have a problem.” He sat down. “Becca thinks her Ripon murder wasn’t done by Truman Perry, even though everything
points in that direction, including an inscription on the body that matches our photo.” He let her absorb that info. “On top of that, this suicide we’re looking at is too contrived. I think there’s a chance it’s homicide and that someone is trying to frame Truman for all the murders.”
“So we’re thinking the killer found a new vic, set things up so we’d think it was Truman, and then killed him to make it look like suicide? That’s one busy killer.”
Jon nodded. “It also means our killer is still out there, and they’re in a panic trying to cover their tracks. It could also mean they want us to be too busy connecting the Ripon murder and Truman’s suicide to worry about them until they figure out their next move.”
“Shit.” Terri said.
“Let’s just keep this between ourselves for now.” He glanced around the room to see if his call or their discussion had been overheard by anyone else. “We work the case, follow the evidence wherever it takes us and hope we’re wrong.” He gave her a smile he hoped appeared more confident than it felt on his face.
“And hope the killer isn’t up to bigger mischief while we’re running around like chickens with our heads cut off,” added Terri.
Jon sat for a while at his desk, trying to think of a plan—or anything that resembled forward motion. It dawned on him that he should call Randi, let her know what was happening. It wasn’t appropriate, but right now he didn’t really give a shit. If there was a killer still out there running loose, Jon wanted her to know about it. He didn’t want to have to worry about her on top of everything else—no matter what she decided about their future.
He recalled what Becca said about divide and conquer and a more frightening thought came to him. What if the killer had tried to sidetrack them before and failed? Had they missed something?