Malice

by C. M. Sutter

  “This is such bullshit.” Ed spewed the words as he dragged the corpse over branches and tree roots far into the dense thicket. He stopped, pulled the flashlight out of his pocket, and checked his surroundings. Jackie’s body couldn’t be seen from the lake or the parking area. Ed slipped on his gloves, untied the tarp, and rolled her out. With the black plastic sheeting balled up under his arm, he bushwhacked his way back to the truck and climbed in. He’d find a dumpster somewhere far from the cottage and dispose of the blood-stained tarp.

  Chapter 19

  I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my belly for emphasis. “That dinner was delicious. Thanks for suggesting Italian. The carbs should help me fall asleep.”

  J.T. wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin and chuckled. “Does anything, other than a hammer to the head, help you fall asleep?”

  I smirked. “Yeah, I know. Only guys have that luxury of drifting off anytime, anywhere. Girls? We think too much.”

  “And I know what you’re thinking about, Agent Monroe.”

  “Really?” I played along. “I thought Kate was the psychic one in our group of friends. Okay, tell me, Agent Man, what am I thinking about?”

  “Ed Tanner.”

  I burst out laughing, not expecting J.T.’s response. “You’re a sick puppy, you know that? Come on. Pay the bill. I need some shut-eye.” I pushed back my chair and stood then threw a ten on the table.

  J.T. followed me to the counter with the check in hand and paid for dinner, then we walked the two blocks back to the hotel. At my door, J.T. looked at his watch. “It’s ten o’clock. If you turn off the gerbil wheel right away, you’ll get a decent night’s sleep.”

  I nodded. “I’ll try. What time are you going to bang on my door?”

  “Six forty-five. That will give us time to hit a drive-through on our way to the station.”

  “Sounds good. Night, J.T.”

  “Night, Jade.”

  Inside my room, I sat at the table and sent a good night text to Amber before silencing my phone. I retreated to the bathroom for a hot, relaxing shower. My phone, notes, and brain, would be put away for the night. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and I just hoped for sleep.

  I barely remembered going to bed last night, but now it was morning, and my phone alarm buzzed in my head. I reached for it and swiped the screen to silence the annoying tone. I ground my palms into my eyes and realized I felt somewhat refreshed. I had nearly seven hours of sleep. Another shower, this time to wash my hair, would revive me and get my day started on the right foot.

  Right on time, a knock sounded at my door. It was six forty-five, and if a finger blocked the peephole, I could be certain it was J.T. I peered through and saw only darkness but heard chuckling from the other side of the door. I swung it open. “You’re so immature.”

  “And you wouldn’t expect any less of me. Ready to hit the ground running?”

  “Sure am after we grab breakfast.”

  We found a drive-through restaurant that didn’t have eight cars in line ahead of us. Our day was starting out right, and hopefully it would continue that way. With our coffees in the cup holders and our breakfast sandwiches in hand, we ate as we made our way to the police station.

  I paged through my notes with my free hand. “I’m anxious to find out if there were any house showings Wednesday night and if they were with Chad Nolan.”

  “We’ll know as soon as Scenic View Realty opens.”

  “That’s right. Their office doesn’t open until nine o’clock, but we can interview the King’s daughter while we wait. According to Hardy, she and her husband left St. Louis yesterday afternoon, and it’s a six-and-a-half-hour drive. Hopefully they made it here okay and got a little sleep too.”

  J.T. took a sip of his coffee and placed it back in the cup holder. “They’d have to stay in a hotel. The house is still sealed as a crime scene. I doubt if it’s even been cleaned up.”

  “Yeah, they don’t need to see that. Sarah Cummings’s house is still sealed too. I’m sure her parents will have to get in before they go back to New York. Somebody needs to check into that.”

  J.T. pointed at my notepad. “Write that down. On a positive note, I didn’t get any urgent texts or calls during the night about another murder.”

  “Me either, which leads me to believe there could be a personal reason he went after the Kings and Sarah Cummings. Maybe he’s done.”

  “We can only hope.” J.T. pulled into the parking lot where he was assigned a space yesterday and killed the engine. He placed the parking permit where it would be visible through the windshield, then we grabbed our coffees and food wrappers and exited the Explorer. With an underhand toss, I made the ten-foot distance into the outside garbage can with the balled-up wrappers.

  J.T. shrugged. “Is there anything you aren’t good at?”

  I gave him a wink. “I’ll never tell.”

  We said hello to the desk sergeant and the officers at the front counter, signed in, and headed to the elevator. We entered the first set of doors that opened, and J.T. pressed the button for the third floor. Voices from the conference room echoed down the hallway as we exited the elevator. Our workday was about to begin.

  Inside the conference room sat Hardy, the detectives, and the sergeants. A stranger sat to the left of the captain.

  “Agents Monroe and Harper, this is Dr. Samantha Collins. Sam is an old family friend and a forensic psychiatrist. She’s agreed to give us her input on why both Sarah Cummings and Gloria King were stabbed repeatedly in the throat, yet Mr. King wasn’t. There could be a significant reason, at least in the killer’s eyes, why he did that,” Cap said.

  I walked over and shook her hand, then J.T. did the same. Back at the opposite side of the table, we took the two empty seats across from her. I was happy to have face-to-face communication with the psychiatrist, and I was more than anxious to hear what could be a fascinating theory.

  “Everyone good to go?” Hardy asked as he met each of our eyes.

  The shuffling of paper and pens, then momentary silence, told Dr. Collins we were ready to take notes.

  “Good morning, everyone. Like Captain Hardy said, we’re old friends and occasionally run cases past each other. He gave me a call last night, I will admit, at a late hour”—she gave him a grin—“but chances were he couldn’t sleep. I find myself in that same situation often.”

  I whispered amen under my breath.

  “Cap allowed me to review the police and medical examiner’s reports on both cases, and I do believe there is a specific reason for the killer’s modus operandi. Using a knife as a murder weapon can be interpreted several ways. Yes, in some cases, but not all, it is thought to be a very personal way to commit a murder. That logic comes from the fact that the killer is in the same proximity as the victim—eye to eye, so to speak. A gunshot, on the other hand, creates distance between the shooter and the victim—no personal contact.” Dr. Collins took a drink of water from her cup and continued. “Other reasons could be that a knife is easily concealed, is quiet, there aren’t any bullet casings to pick up at the scene, it can’t be traced to the registered owner like a gun, but most importantly, a knife instills more fear in the victim than a firearm.”

  “Really?” Lyles said.

  “Indeed. A knife represents a slow, painful death. The victim can imagine torture and intense pain with a knife, where more commonly, with a gun, they are shot and die immediately. A knife also shows a certain amount of power the killer has over his victim.”

  I made eye contact with Dr. Collins and tipped my head.

  “Agent Monroe?”

  “Wouldn’t that be far more dangerous for the killer as well when dealing with someone, a man in this case, who could be of equal size and strength?”

  “Sure, but Mr. King is presumably older than the killer and, don’t forget, was attacked from behind with a Taser. The killer needed to disable him in order to be that close to the man. In a woman-only scenario, he could likely overpower t
hem easily.”

  J.T. nodded. “All of that makes perfect sense, but what’s your take on the throat wounds to the women?”

  “Usually something that specific holds meaning to the killer. I don’t believe he’s a misogynist—that’s too broad—but I do think there’s somebody in particular, a woman, of course, that he hates. The act of repeatedly stabbing somebody in the throat tells me he’s trying to shut her up, or cut her off, so to speak. Her voice irritates him, her words anger him, and he wants to silence her permanently. In my profession, we call that transference, transferring his hate for this woman, somebody he can’t access, to a different woman, somebody he can.”

  “Wow!” Everyone looked my way. I was sure I’d spoken too loudly.

  “Jade, did that ring a bell with a particular person?” Hardy asked.

  “Sorry for my overzealous outburst, and no, Cap, not yet. So the man has a wife, girlfriend, mother, sister, neighbor, or even a coworker that he hates?”

  The doctor agreed with my conclusion. “It’s a good possibility. I’d start with the most controlling person in a man’s life, and that would be a mother or a wife.”

  “What about the fact that both homes were for sale with the same real estate company?” Andrews asked.

  “I’m not certain that’s relevant to the case. A person anxious to sell their home may have a moment of bad judgment and allow a stranger inside to look at it. Anybody can prowl the internet or newspaper at homes for sale.”

  “And the fact that it’s the same company in both cases doesn’t necessarily raise a flag?” Hardy asked. He raked his hands through his hair, and his expression told me we might be wasting our time with the real estate connection.

  “I believe Scenic View Realty is the largest real estate company in the state. Is that correct?”

  Hardy looked at Andrews and waited for his response. “Yes, it is, actually, with the company my wife works at as the second largest.”

  “Then there are more homes for sale with Scenic View than any other company. It’s probably a matter of convenience and quantity, an easy choice for the perpetrator.”

  Hardy leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Okay, I think we need to go back to the drawing board. Thanks so much, Sam. I’ll walk you out.”

  We thanked the doctor, gave her our cards, and took a five-minute break. J.T. and I headed to the cafeteria to plug change into the vending machine. We both needed coffee.

  “I’m still going to follow up on Chad Nolan,” I said as we walked back to the conference room.

  J.T. tipped his wrist. “It’s after nine o’clock. The office is open. Use the desk phone once everyone is seated back in the conference room. I’m sure the entire group wants to hear if Chad was showing a house Wednesday night or not.”

  “Good plan.” Once we returned to our seats, I looked up the phone number for Scenic View Realty. I rattled off the number as J.T. tapped the buttons on the desk phone and set it to speakerphone.

  A friendly voice answered on the third ring. “Scenic View Realty, Kathryn Price speaking. How may I direct your call?”

  “Hello, Kathryn. My name is Agent Jade Monroe with the FBI. I need to speak with the person who schedules home showings.”

  “Oh my word. Um, each Realtor schedules their own showings, ma’am.”

  “Well, there must be some type of board that lists all of the showings by day and time for the entire company, otherwise there could be overlap and confusion.”

  “Yes, ma’am, there is that.”

  “And do you have eyes on that board right now?” I looked at the group and smiled.

  “I do.”

  “Wonderful. Now I need to know if anyone showed the home on Greenhaven Street between six and seven o’clock on Wednesday evening.”

  “Oh, that house? I’m so sorry to hear about the unfortunate—”

  “Kathryn? Can you just check the board, please?”

  “Yes, certainly. Give me one second.”

  I was put on hold, and we listened to smooth jazz for thirty seconds. A click sounded, and Kathryn was back on the line.

  “Agent Monroe?”

  “Yes.”

  “None of our associates’ names show up for that time on Wednesday. The only appointment scheduled at that home on Wednesday with our company was at two thirty with Darren Grimes. Of course, other agencies may have shown the home throughout the day.”

  “Thank you, Kathryn. That’s all I needed to know.”

  J.T. disconnected the call. “That was a bust. Looks like Chad Nolan is off the hook.”

  “Boss?”

  Hardy turned to Andrews. “Yeah, Fred, what’s on your mind?”

  “I know you didn’t want to involve Lisa, but with a few taps of her computer keys, she can access the MLS database with her log-in password and see if any real estate company had an appointment at the King house at that time. It would sure speed up this process.”

  Hardy sighed and jerked his head toward the hallway. “Go on, and I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Andrews left the room and headed down the hall.

  “If nobody at any company showed the house Wednesday night, then I’d suggest we close the real estate agent or buyer theory and look for some other connection.” Hardy tipped his head toward Lyles. “Have any reliable leads come in?”

  “Plenty of leads, but none have panned out, sir.”

  Andrews returned a few minutes later. “Lisa said no showings came up on the MLS for that time slot.”

  “And the MLS listing database is one hundred percent accurate?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m afraid it is.”

  Chapter 20

  “We need to hit the streets and widen our parameters. Looks like we’ve been barking up the wrong tree for the last couple of days, and important leads may have gone cold. Pan out and go three blocks in every direction of both houses. Look at grocery store receipts and see where they shopped. Talk to the hair salon people and the personnel at the nearest hardware store to the King house. There’s a chance Mr. King may have recently done repairs to spruce up the house before selling it. Go through the checkbooks and credit card statements at both homes. Find out what their favorite restaurants were and where they went to the movies. I want to know everything they did and everyone Sarah Cummings and the Kings came in contact with over the last month. Let’s go, and someone interview Beth Sloane again, and this time tape it.”

  Dana peeked through the open door as everyone filed out. “Captain Hardy, Mr. and Mrs. King’s daughter and son-in-law are here.”

  “Damn, I forgot they were coming in. Have them wait in the visitors’ lounge downstairs.”

  “We’ll handle that interview if you have something else you need to do.”

  “Nah”—Hardy stood—“thanks, Jade, but we should do this together.”

  I noticed the anxiety on Hardy’s face as we rode the elevator down to the first floor. “Cap, do you need a minute before we go in?”

  “I’m a tough old codger, even though it doesn’t always seem that way. I’ll get through this, but it’s hard when you have nothing of value to tell the next of kin. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but some nutcase killed your parents, and we can’t figure out who or why they did this.’ It isn’t good enough. Then there’s the press. They want headlines, and the TV news stations want something salacious to put on the air about the killer.”

  “What we do isn’t easy, especially when we have to be the bearer of bad news. Sarah Cummings and the Kings were about as different as they come. There’s no common link between them that we’ve found yet. Let’s tell the daughter the truth. It’s the only thing we have, and it’s always the best way to go.”

  “You’re right, Jade.” Hardy breathed in deeply. “What are their names?”

  J.T. pulled out his notepad from the inner pocket of his sports jacket. He flipped the pages until he found the entry. “It’s Jeremy and Diane Larson.” He opened the door to the visitors’ lounge, and w
e entered behind Hardy.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Larson, I’m Captain Kip Hardy, and these are Agents Monroe and Harper of the FBI.”

  We shook their hands and offered our condolences.

  At the far end of the room was a table that would give us plenty of privacy. “Let’s have a seat at the table, shall we?” I walked with the distraught daughter, and the men walked ahead of us.

  After we took our seats, J.T. led the conversation. “There’s no easy way to say this, Diane, but your mom and dad were brutally murdered. I’ll spare you the details, but I’ll be the first to admit, we’re at a loss. We have nobody with a motive and no leads. We need your help. Can you think of anyone who had a beef with your folks?”

  “Dad spoke of the neighbor two doors down. His dog always ran loose, tore up Mom’s flower bed, and did his business in their yard. Dad called animal control on the guy several times. They had plenty of shouting matches, but that isn’t quite a motive for murder.”

  I wrote as she talked. “Do you know the man’s name?”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember, but I am sure Dad said it was the house two doors south of him.”

  Hardy made a note of that. “I’ll check with animal control. Anything else?”

  Diane wiped her eyes. “It depends on how serious of a situation you mean.”

  “At this point, we’re checking all leads, ma’am,” the captain said.

  “Mom mentioned having to tell the grocery store manager about the bag boy. I guess she complained to him constantly about being careless with her produce. He’d put the gallon of milk on the tomatoes, that sort of thing. She finally called the manager, and the kid was fired. She found out during their phone conversation that she wasn’t the only person who complained about him. Other than that, I can’t think of anything. That in itself seems way too petty.”

  “You never know what sets people off. Do you know what store that was or the bag boy’s name?”

  Diane rubbed her forehead. “She shopped at Giant’s Market and has for years. I would imagine it happened there.”