Drake cozied up next to Hanna just in case she needed support. In case she was going to fall again.
“Remember these cages? Well, because they matched the bruising patterns found on the skins, I looked a little deeper. Get this, the taxidermy company was originally registered to a Monty Duggar way back in the early seventies. It has long since gone out of business, and before you ask, no, the shop is no longer there. I mean, it is, but it’s a discount grocer owned by a Lebanese couple now.”
“Duggar?” Hanna asked.
“Yep. Duggar. I did some more digging—har, har—into our friend Lisa Fairchild. Remember when I said that I couldn’t find out anything about her before she became a Trotter?”
“The fuck? A Trotter and a Duggar?” Hanna said. Whatever intense feelings this website had once elicited in her had since vanished.
“Yeah, I know. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. But I’m not done yet—see if you plebes can follow along. Lisa’s first husband’s last name was Trotter.” Screech exhaled loudly. “Plug your ears, Yasiv. Leroy and I practically doxed this woman, went deep on the same websites that that freak Tobin was on. And I finally found what Lisa’s maiden name was. Maiden, maiden name, I guess. Anyone feel like—”
“Just tell us, Leroy,” Drake snapped, his patience finally spent.
Screech frowned.
“Duggar. Lisa Juliana Duggar.”
An eerie silence fell over DSLH.
“No way,” Yasiv said. “No fucking way.”
“Yep.” To prove his point, Screech pulled up a photograph of Lisa’s birth certificate. Her father was listed as Monty Duggar.
“Why the fuck didn’t she say anything?” Yasiv nearly gasped. “What in the hell…?”
In a movement that startled all of them, the sergeant started walking toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Drake asked.
“To have a little chat with Mrs. Fairchild or Duggar or whatever the hell her name is.” Drake made a face and Yasiv grew defensive. “What?”
“Maybe not yet.” Everyone looked at Drake. “You guys think Lisa really did this? Skinned those girls? Because I don’t.”
“I’d say unlikely,” Screech offered. “But with the mannequins showing up at her art show and in the store her husband owns, and the girls, at least the first three, being daughters of the rich people who attended? And now this? The defunct taxidermy business? Oh, and let’s not forget about the suture that Hanna found at the Fairchilds’ house. This is about Lisa, that’s for sure. But did she do it? I mean…” he let his sentence trail off.
Everyone in the room knew that murderers came disguised in pretty much every type of human being, but the level of sheer depravity exhibited by the Straw Man meant that the likelihood of the unsub being a woman was exceedingly low. Of it being a woman who had no priors and who lived in a multi-million-dollar home in one of the richest neighborhoods in New York City?
Well, that lowered the odds even further.
“The what?” Yasiv asked, obviously focusing on something else.
Screech’s face started to turn red.
“The… defunct business?”
Yasiv shook his head.
“No, the suture from their house.” The sergeant turned to face Hanna and Drake saw her hand slip into her pocket. “Tell me you didn’t take something from their house, Hanna. Especially not something like a suture. Something that could be used as evidence.”
Hanna clenched her jaw and once again everyone fell silent.
“Umm, there’s more?” Screech said, clearly trying to diffuse the tension in the room.
“More?” Drake and Yasiv asked in unison.
Screech swallowed hard.
“Yep.” His lips smacked audibly. “Monty’s wife—Lisa’s mom—Beth-Anne Duggar committed suicide less than a year after Monty died of a heart attack.”
“So? What does—”
Screech silenced Hanna by holding up a finger.
“Dunbar says that it was around this time, before Beth-Anne died, that the police started asking the Duggar family some questions.”
“Questions about what?” Drake demanded.
“Missing women.”
Drake’s mouth fell open.
“What?”
Screech nodded.
“Yep—I’m not fucking with you. The files are old and no charges were ever laid, but our good friend Monty Duggar was listed as a person of interest in at least three missing women.”
“Fuck. Fuck—that’s it. I’m going. I’m going to have a chat with Lisa Fairchild.” With that, Yasiv moved toward the door again, but Drake slid in front of him, blocking his path.
“No, you’re not.”
Yasiv’s brow furrowed.
“What?”
“I said, you’re not going to her house. Not yet.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Sure, I can,” Drake corrected. “This is my investigation, remember? And I’m telling you not to go. We have nothing on Lisa Fairchild. You go to her house and start running your mouth, she might pack and leave. Or worse, call that dickhead lawyer of hers.”
“Well, we would have evidence if Hanna here—”
“Watch it,” Drake warned.
Yasiv was fuming, but he knew better than to challenge Drake when he was in this state.
The two men stared at each other, an impasse that endured until Hanna spoke up.
“Yeah, I took the fucking suture I found at Lisa’s house and gave it to the ME. It was a match. You guys standing here, seeing who can get the bigger boner without injecting Cialis into your shafts isn’t going to change that. Move on.”
This was the Hanna that Drake knew, but there was something wrong with her voice. The comment was expected from her, but it lacked her typical mirth.
The two men stared at each other for another few seconds before Screech slid between them, breaking their gaze as well as the tension.
“Let’s just dig up a little more before we go all Lone Ranger on Lisa, alright? Yasiv, see if your guys can send the surveillance video from the club to my computer and we can start looking for Tobin. Does that work? Everyone happy? Dicks still hard or whatever Hanna said?”
Yasiv sucked his teeth but took a step back and pulled out his phone.
“Good,” Screech said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Leroy, you wanna make us some coffee?”
“Sure thing, Massa,” Leroy hollered back and Drake finally unballed his fists.
Chapter 71
For the better part of four hours, every member of DSLH Investigations, and Sergeant Yasiv, scanned video footage from Focal nightclub. They collectively reviewed more than eighty hours of tape on four computers, swapping out when eyes started to blur, or backs began to throb. During that time, Drake had personally witnessed at minimum one hundred infractions, from minor drug possession to distribution, to underage drinking, to sexual assault.
But no Tobin, no unsub, nothing to suggest that a serial killer ever stepped foot in the place. Nor were there any sightings of Nick Petrazzino either, a curiosity that Drake noted but didn’t know what to make of.
They were exhausted when this exercise began and after the fourth hour, they were ready to give up. Drake was going to have to come to terms with the fact that Tobin had duped him, which meant, unfortunately, that the information the twisted little man had given him pertaining to the whereabouts of his roommate’s body parts was probably also a lie.
Just as Drake felt his frustration peak, Screech rose to his desk and came over to him. There was a seriousness to the man’s face that was becoming more and more common.
“Drake, can I talk to you for a sec?”
Grateful for any distraction, Drake said, “Yeah, okay.”
Given that there were no closed offices in DSLH, other than the broom closet, their options for a private conversation were minimal. Screech led him toward the coffee maker at the back of the room and pulled him in tight.
“We have a bit of a problem,” Screech said, sounding even more serious.
This could mean any number of things, so Drake stayed silent and allowed his partner the opportunity to continue.
“A financial problem,” the man clarified.
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean, is that we are low on cash. Like, real low.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed. It was times like these that he missed the simplicity of the NYPD: you went to work, clocked in, then clocked out at the end of the day, and got paid.
“I thought we were good after the Brock Page case?”
“We were… but that was a while ago. The cat case set us back. Small paycheck for a massive operation. I paid out everyone after the sting, from Vanessa to the damn newspaper shop owner. And this place,” Screech gestured to their surroundings, “ain’t cheap. I hate to bring it up now, but I just got hit with the rent. We’re two months overdue. Did you… did you even discuss payment for this job with Yasiv? With anyone in the NYPD?”
This was rhetorical—they both knew that he hadn’t—and Drake resisted the urge to snap back at him.
“Look, I know this case is important, trust me, it would be important even it wasn’t for Hanna—”
“Drake?”
Drake looked over Screech’s shoulder and saw an uncomfortable-looking Sergeant Yasiv approaching.
“Yeah? What is it?”
“I couldn’t help but overhear what you guys were saying. I know that I roped you into this, and we never got a chance to discuss your fee.” The sergeant’s tone was different from the one he’d used during their confrontation. It was conciliatory… almost. “But you know as well as I do, the NYPD is cheap, and we just don’t have much cash. So, I’m not going to lie, whatever money I can scrounge up isn’t going to be much. But—” he emphasized the word to cut off Screech before the man protested, “—but I can promise you this: when we catch this guy, I will make sure that you are up there on the stage, planking on the fucking podium if you want, when the DA announces the arrest. You know how many media outlets will be there? Hell, the DA will be so happy that he might even give DSLH a shout-out.”
Drake grimaced.
“I don’t want any part of that—”
“That would be great for business,” Screech said, interrupting him. “A positive story about DSLH? Who woulda thunk it?”
“Screech—”
Screech looked at him.
“Drake, I know you don’t want to be mixed up in this media shitstorm, but we need it. We need the coverage, the press. This could be huge for us.”
Drake hated the idea, but he wasn’t the finance guy. Besides, there was no reason that he had to be there. Let Hanna and Leroy and Screech flash their pearly whites while he sipped his scotch in the background.
“Okay, okay, whatever. A little cash and a shout-out.”
Yasiv nodded and a small smile crept onto the man’s face, something that Drake hadn’t seen in a long time.
“Good.”
“Alright,” Screech said, clapping his hands together. He was also smiling for once. “Let’s get back to work and find this asshole as quickly as we can, because we are bleeding cash fast.”
“Speaking of which, I think I found something,” Leroy said. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.
Drake yawned and walked over to Leroy’s desk. Screech and Yasiv followed.
“If this is just another celebrity, I swear—”
“No—well, maybe,” Leroy said quickly. “It’s hard to tell because of his stupid white hat, but I think I might have found Tobin Tomlin. Watch this.”
Leroy clicked play and a thin man wearing a long denim T-shirt and white hat appeared on screen. He pushed through the front doors and entered the lobby. Then the man looked up and grinned at the camera.
“Fucking hell, it is him,” Drake said.
“You sure?” Hanna asked.
Tobin looked very different than he had earlier in the day, but it was him alright.
“Yeah, that’s Tobin. Leroy, can you find him again inside the club?”
“Gimme a sec.”
They’d all become masters at working their way around the fourteen cameras placed throughout Focal, so it didn’t take much time for Leroy to locate Tobin again.
“There’s the white hat,” Leroy stated. The camera in question was located behind the bar. Drake watched Tobin Tomlin accept a drink from the bartender before turning his back to the man. The bartender didn’t look pleased and appeared to call out to Tobin. There was some sort of exchange, which clearly revolved around money, or lack thereof. Just when it appeared as if things were about to escalate, another man came into the shot. He was taller than Tobin and had blond or gray hair—it was hard to tell because of all the flashing lights in the club—but he kept his chin tucked low and the camera never caught his face.
“Who’s that?” Drake asked.
Nobody answered.
Leroy jogged forward and eventually, the two moved to the dance floor. A handful of times the man turned, and it looked as if he was going to face the camera only to glance away at the last moment.
“Shit,” Leroy swore.
Tobin and his new friend spoke for a little while longer then left down a dark hallway and out of sight.
“Where are they now?” Hanna asked.
“The bathroom,” Screech answered. “No camera in there.”
Leroy moved the video forward by ten minutes, but the duo still hadn’t emerged from behind the closed door.
“What the hell are they doing in there?” Yasiv asked.
Again, no answer.
They’re getting high and doing whatever else men did in the bathroom together, Drake thought.
Five more minutes and they finally came out. Tobin’s eyes were wide, and he was jittery—clearly, he was stoned. The other man looked the same as when he’d entered the bathroom.
“There, stop it there,” Drake said.
Leroy paused the video.
“Now move it forward a little.”
Leroy did as he was asked, but no matter how far forward, or backward that they went, the man’s face never appeared on the camera.
“What is with this guy?” Yasiv asked. “It’s like he knows where all the cameras are.”
“And is deliberately avoiding them,” Screech added.
Leroy let the footage play out, shaking his head the entire time.
“Goddamn it.”
Tobin and the mysterious stranger were preparing to leave the club, but they still had no clear shot of latter’s face. Then, by some stroke of luck, just as they entered the hallway that led to the front entrance, the disco-style lights flickered, and the man looked up.
Before Drake could analyze the man’s features or compare them to Robert Tiedeman’s sketch, Hanna gasped.
“That’s him,” she said breathlessly. “That’s the Straw Man.”
Chapter 72
“Holy shit,” Leroy gasped. “It is him.”
There was no doubt in any of their minds that the man on the monitor was the Straw Man. Not only had Hanna’s reaction sealed it, but the resemblance to the sketch was uncanny, right down to the oddly light-colored eyes.
“Freeze that—freeze that photo and print it out,” Yasiv barked. “I’ll have it playing on every news station within the hour.”
Leroy gave the computer helm to Screech, who started clacking away at the keys so furiously that his fingers started to blur.
“Let’s just calm down for a second,” Drake said. He wasn’t sure if plastering this man’s face all over the news was a good idea. After all, that tactic hadn’t worked so well with Tobin Tomlin.
Yasiv glared at him, a mixture of confusion and anger on his face. Drake wasn’t sure if it was the pressure the sergeant must be getting from the DA, but the man seemed to have only one gear as of late. He’d gone all-in with Robert, tried to do the same with Lisa, and now he wanted to do it with this man�
� whoever he was.
They needed to slow down, to think. Come up with a plan. They might only have one shot at catching this guy and they didn’t want to blow it.
“I know you can’t stand the media, Drake, but if we show this photograph with Tobin in the same frame? The DA will have no choice but to shift his focus from Robert to this guy.”
“Wait—you want to put Tobin’s face back on the news?” Drake asked, incredulous.
Yasiv squirmed.
“No, I don’t want to, but if we have everyone in the city looking for this guy? I guarantee somebody will spot him.”
“Oh, someone will spot him alright,” Hanna interrupted. “Along with a thousand other men with blond hair and light eyes. This guy?” she tapped the screen. “This guy will get into his old, shitty Chevy and hightail it out of New York. We might never see him again.”
Yasiv scowled.
“Look, you know as well as I do how the DA’s mind works. Even though he hasn’t given his little press conference yet, hasn’t publicly released Robert Tiedeman’s name, you saw all the cops outside 62nd. How long before one of them leaks it to the news? That Robert Tiedeman is the Straw Man? Hell, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already. To get the DA to change his mind, we’re going to need something more concrete than a sketch from Robert and a description of a car from a campsite. To get the DA to eat crow, we’re going to need a photo like this one… our suspect with Tobin Tomlin. If we get this out there? The DA would look like a bigger asshole if he didn’t shift gears. And with the entire NYPD at our—”
“DA this, DA that,” Hanna mocked. “I’m fucking sick of this DA talk. I don’t care what he wants. We release this photo to the media and the Straw Man is as good as gone.”
She looked to Drake for support, and he provided it.
“Hanna’s right, we need to slow down. We have no idea who this guy is. All we know is the type of car he drives and that he likes to hang out in nightclubs. That’s it.”
“The longer we wait, the more likely another one of those fucking skinsuits will show up!” Yasiv was furious now. “And I don’t want—” his phone started to ring. “Fuck!” Likely because he was on the verge of saying something that he was going to regret, Yasiv answered it. “What?”
Straw Man Page 30