Wolfman is Back

by Dwayne Clayden

  Brad shook his head. “No, it’s going to take more than luck this time. But I don’t have a clue what that is.”

  There was silence in the room as they mulled over Tina’s information.

  “There’s one more thing we need to do,” Davidson said.

  “What’s that?” Brad asked.

  “As I mentioned earlier, we need to go public. Television, radio, and newspapers.”

  Brad nodded. “Last time we were wrong. We should have gone to the public right away.”

  “I’ll get a news conference for tomorrow afternoon,” Tina said.

  “Why so late?” Devlin asked.

  “We have to give the media notice if we want this done right. And I need time to put it together. Sorry.”

  “Don’t give out details we’ve held back. You can say that we think he’s in the southeast.”

  Three knocks on the door, then it opened. Sergeant Sturgeon entered. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No, we’re done,” Brad said.

  “I’ve got some of the forensics back on the murder of Gail Wilson and some matches to fingerprints at the scene.”

  Brad sat up. Maybe some good news for a change. “Grab a seat.”

  “A lot of this stuff you already know. We collected quite a bit from the murder scene that we’ve been analyzing. That room had hundreds of fingerprints, so that was going to be a big task searching them all. I decided we’d take a shortcut. First, we compared Wolfe’s fingerprints with those we found. Bingo. A match. That doesn’t mean he raped and murdered Wilson, but it means he was in that room at some time. We’re still going through every fingerprint looking for matches. Maybe it wasn’t Wolfe. Maybe he had an accomplice. Maybe there’s another unknown suspect. It’s going to take a few weeks to work through that.”

  “We know it’s Wolfe,” Devlin said.

  “You think it’s Wolfe,” Sturgeon said. “You need to prove that beyond a reasonable doubt. We have to check everything. Most evidence of the rape of Billy-Lou was washed away. But we found the barn where she was raped. We found two blood types. Billy-Lou’s and another. There was some skin under her nails, so she fought back. Both victims had different blood types, but we also found a third type, and it matches Wolfe. That’s evidence you can use.”

  “I have the Wilson autopsy report. It’s nasty. I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll leave a copy and you can read it if you want to. I’d recommend you not read it. At least not now. That’s stuff you don’t need floating around in your head.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Brad had come home exhausted. For two days he’d worked with Steele and Zerr checking every hotel bar, corner bar, and tattoo parlor in the southeast. They didn’t find Wolfe and, not surprisingly, no one remembered seeing him. Too late Brad realized it was a waste of time. No one was going to talk to the cops. And anyone who knew Wolfe would go to great lengths to keep quiet. Wolfe’s revenge was far worse than anything the cops would do.

  Dinner was finished. Maggie and Annie were in the kitchen planning a shopping trip on the weekend. Brad reclined in a chair in the living room and read the financial pages. It was the first time he’d relaxed in days. He tried to concentrate on the paper, but his mind wandered to Wolfe. Then his eyes grew heavy and he worked to keep them open. When the six o’clock news came on, Brad turned up the volume. The lead story was about Wolfe.

  Wolfe’s picture appeared on the screen. The reporter gave background on Wolfe’s involvement in the Gypsy Jokers’ Outlaw Motorcycle Club two years ago and his conviction on murder and rapes of two teens.

  The reporter talked about Wolfe’s arrest a few months ago for murder and rape and his subsequent thirty-day psychiatric assessment.

  The screen changed to Davidson’s press conference and ended with a note at the bottom of the screen to call the police if Wolfe was sighted. Maggie walked into the living room and sat next to Brad. Wolfe’s picture came back onto the screen.

  Annie stood in the doorway. She gasped. Tears flowed.

  Brad turned off the TV. “I’m sorry, Annie. I should have shut that off.” He stood in the middle of the room, color draining from his face, feeling like a jerk.

  Annie wrapped her arms around her chest, sobbing. Maggie jumped off the couch and put her arm around Annie’s shoulder.

  “I’m scared,” Annie said. “He did horrible things to me. He’s a monster. Do you think we’re safe here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you forgetting the night the bikers blew up your car?” Maggie asked.

  Brad glared at Maggie, his you’re-not-helping glare. “It’s different now. The house is alarmed, Lobo is trained, and there will be cops here anytime I’m not here.”

  Annie turned and ran out of the room.

  Maggie glared at Brad. Her you’re-an-idiot stare. “What were you thinking, watching the news here?”

  “I wanted to see how it went.”

  “You knew it was going to be on TV tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s bad enough for Annie without you bringing it right into our home. For a bright guy, sometimes you’re stupid. I’ll see if I can settle Annie.” Maggie stormed out of the room.

  He collapsed into a chair, deflated. A tightness cramped his stomach, weight pressed on his shoulders, and an overpowering guilt for hurting someone he loved swarmed his mind. He’d made her cry. Maggie witnessed his stupidity. This was supposed to be Annie’s safe place. For Annie’s sake, he needed to make this right.

  When Brad and Lobo got home from a run later that night, the house was quiet. He got Lobo settled with some fresh water and leftover hamburger, then tiptoed upstairs. The door was closed to Annie’s room. In the master bedroom, Maggie was in bed, her back to the door. He stood in the doorway waiting to see if Maggie heard him or knew he was there. He felt like he should say something. Maybe apologize or agree he was an idiot or hit his head with a hammer or pull his fingernails out. He decided to let time pass and maybe in the morning he’d be out of the doghouse. Not that Lobo wouldn’t like the company.

  He showered and shaved and walked back into the bedroom. Maggie hadn’t moved. He slid into bed as carefully as he could. He was torn between wanting to talk to Maggie and dreading they would talk. Rather, he’d do a lot of listening. Lobo wandered into the bedroom and took his spot at the end of the bed. Brad stared at the ceiling. Nothing they learned today about Wolfe was good and they were no closer to finding him. Lobo snored and Brad tried to settle his mind so he could sleep.

  Wednesday Night

  Brad awoke with a start, wide awake, soaked in sweat, his heart racing. He was eye to eye with Lobo. Brad glanced at the clock. 0100 hours.

  “Hey, buddy. I guess I woke you up.”

  Brad swung his legs off the bed and stumbled downstairs, Lobo at his side.

  He sat in his den in the dark. For almost a year the nightmares stopped. That was when he was off the street and studying. After less than two months back on the street, the nightmares had returned.

  Lobo watched every move Brad made. “I can always count on you. My security blanket after a nightmare. You keep me sane.”

  He wasn’t sure what the trigger was this time. Single event, the first murder or the rape of Billy-Lou. Maybe it was past horrors, his partner dying, killing his murderer, the senseless violence with the bikers. Or Jeter Wolfe. He’d barely touched the surface of the crap he’d seen over the years. Briscoe had told him to suck it up four years ago. That was the police mentality. Was it right? Was there another way? Telling anyone you were struggling would get you front-counter duty or prison transports. No thanks. He lived with the nightmares.

  He turned at the creak on the stairs. Lobo jumped up, raced out of the room and growled. Then a scream. Brad flipped on the den light.

  Annie stood on the second-last step, arms tight around her chest, shaking.

  “Annie, are you okay?” Brad asked.

  “Yes—well, no. Lobo scared me.”

/>   “What are you doing up?”

  “I had a nightmare,” she said.

  “You have them often?”

  She nodded.

  “About Wolfe?”

  “Seeing his face on TV terrified me.” Annie burst into tears.

  “I’m so sorry you saw Wolfe on TV. I’m an idiot.” Brad put an arm around her shoulder and led her to the living room. He switched on a lamp and sat beside her on the couch. Lobo sat in front of her, then licked her hand.

  Annie sobbed into his shoulder. A few minutes later she sat up and rubbed the tears from her face. “Why’re you up?”

  “The same reason as you, a nightmare.”

  “What? You get nightmares?”

  “Yup.”

  “How often?”

  “They stopped for a while, now they’re back.”

  “Because of him?”

  Brad nodded.

  “Two years ago,” Annie said, “after I was rescued, I had nightmares every night. The counselor helped me and after about a year they stopped. I was okay the first time he escaped, because I didn’t know. When you told me I had to talk to the prosecutor and testify, the nightmares came back.”

  “I’m sorry. How often?”

  “Every night until he was sent to the psych ward. Then they were fewer, but my subconscious knew he’d escape again. That was the theme of the nightmares—he came for me.”

  “I’m not going to let that happen. Nor will Lobo.”

  Annie wiped at her eyes. “How do you handle the nightmares?”

  “Not very well. You’re doing better than me.”

  “Do you go to counseling?”

  “No,” Brad admitted.

  “You should.”

  He chuckled. “And here I thought I was comforting you.”

  “We can help each other.”

  Chapter Forty

  Thursday Morning

  Wolfe woke at dawn and glanced around the strange room. For a moment he couldn’t figure out where he was. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes. Right. The abandoned house. He grabbed a cigarette and headed to the can. There were even towels, so he had a shower.

  Thirty minutes later he headed out. He stopped at a 7-Eleven for a coffee and a couple of hotdogs, then headed northwest. Traffic was still light—the rush-hour traffic wouldn’t start for another thirty minutes.

  He drove past Blighe’s house and was about to pull to the curb when he saw a gray Crown Victoria. The same car, probably the same cops. They paid him no attention. Wolfe parked at the end of the street next to a newspaper box. He slid out of the car and bought a paper. He was careful to keep his back to the cops. Back in his car he sipped coffee and read the newspaper. He spewed coffee when he saw the date—July 2—his court date. I guess I get to keep my appointment with the crown prosecutor.

  He lowered the paper and focused his eyes on her house. First, check her routines—see if they’d changed.

  He’d just finished his coffee when he saw her car back onto the street and drive in the opposite direction. If he was quick, he’d catch up to her by circling the block. He pulled up to the stop sign as she drove past, the Crown Victoria close behind. There was no need to follow her close—she was heading to work.

  He took the back streets into downtown, parked in China Town and jogged to the corner. He was waiting at the lights when she drove past and into the car park. The unmarked police car stopped briefly on the street, then drove away. Wolfe was sure they were supposed to escort her to her office but after all night surveillance they were cutting corners. Good to know. Instead of crossing the street he leaned against the wall. Less than five minutes later she came out of the parking structure, briefcase in hand, and strode toward her office.

  Wolfe crossed the street and followed a block behind. She entered the courthouse. Jenni Blighe was at work. For a second, he thought of going into the courthouse and catching a closer glimpse of the crown prosecutor. That was stupid. If the court security didn’t recognize him, Blighe certainly would. The quick glimpse as she entered the courthouse would have to do. But soon, she’d be his.

  Wednesday Evening

  That evening, Wolfe sat in a small bar on Seventeenth. He’d pounded away three beers and two hot dogs. He was still hungry—maybe another dog or two. As he walked to get the hot dogs, he looked up at the TV. There was a good-looking blonde giving some report. The volume was low so it took him a moment to figure out what was happening. He knew the chick from somewhere. The camera pulled back and showed police headquarters in the background.

  He leaned closer to the TV so he could hear what she was saying.

  “We want to make the public aware of a fugitive who escaped custody and we believe is in Calgary. His name is Jeter Wolfe. He’s a former member of the Gypsy Jokers’ Motorcycle Club. The bikers call him Wolfman. The nickname is from his appearance.” The screen changed from the chick to a picture of Wolfe. “We believe he is in the southeast, likely the Forest Lawn area.”

  Wolfe stared at the screen, jaw clenched, wide-eyed. He felt the burn move up his neck to his face. The fucking bitch!

  “Wolfe escaped from both Edmonton Max and a psychiatric hospital. He was serving time for rape and murder. He’s a suspect in one death and two rapes. Do not approach this man. He is extremely dangerous. If you see him, call police immediately.”

  Wolfman drove with the window down through the city center to the northwest. Those fucking cops. They’ll pay. Fuck, his picture on TV. He was pretty sure he’d made it out of the bar before anyone connected him to the mugshot. Let’s face it, none of those in the bar were there to catch the news.

  He pulled into a 7-Eleven, grabbed scissors, shaving cream, a razor, and a pack of blades from the shelves. After he paid, he asked the clerk if he could use the restroom.

  Inside, he locked the door and leaned over the sink. The long hair and beard had to go.

  The scissors weren’t the best. He hacked away randomly, the sink filling several times with hair and beard. He scooped up the hair and tossed it in the garbage bin.

  Thirty minutes later he was down to skin. He rubbed the shaving cream over his face and shaved. It was weird with the beard gone. He’d had the beard for more than ten years. His face felt cold.

  Shaving his head from the ears forward was easy. Shaving behind the ears was a disaster. He struggled with the opposite image in the mirror. When he thought he was shaving toward the middle of his head, he nicked his ears. Other times he twisted the razor sideways and cut his scalp. Finally, he was done. His head, particularly at the back, was a mess of razor cuts. In a few days he’d find a barber and get it done right.

  He rinsed his head and face. The store clerk stared open-mouthed as Wolfman walked past.

  Wolfe calmed while shaving. It was bad luck the cops showed his picture on TV, but what the hell, he’d easily fixed that.

  Wolfe drove north on Crowchild Trail. As he neared her place his heart rate increased and he vibrated. After he’d escaped max, seeing her again was thrilling; the second time, he almost blew a wad. Then the fucking cops took it all away. This time he’d be more careful. This time he’d move around—never too long in one place. He drove toward her street and parked down the block.

  Cigarette smoke drifted out of his window as he watched the house. He worried he was too late, but she was later. He chain-smoked while he waited.

  The BMW turned right at the T-intersection and pulled into her driveway. She didn’t look his way.

  He focused his binoculars on the car—same routine as before. The driver’s door opened, legs on display. Around to the passenger side and the kids jumped out. The three of them walked to the house.

  The light was wrong tonight and the setting sun reflected off the picture window.

  Fuck it. He opened the door and strolled toward her house—just a guy out for a walk. Well, a mountain of a man clean-shaven with a bald head. He looked like Mr. Clean.

  He stopped just before he reached the
corner of her yard, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and slid one out. He turned toward her house as he slowly slipped the pack into his pocket and lit a fresh cigarette. The sun still reflected off the glass. He couldn’t see anything. Shit.

  He walked to the end of the block, crossed the street, and walked back toward his car. The Crown Victoria was in its usual spot. He walked past the car as casually as he could. This was the real test of his new look. He walked past the cops, listening for a door to open, the sound of footsteps behind him. His brain shouted, “Run!”

  In the car, he turned the ignition and slowly drove away.

  For the next ten minutes he was sure the cops would stop him. Finally, he relaxed, but not much, and pulled to the curb.

  He lit a cigarette and thought about his next move. He needed to visit in the morning, know that routine. Common sense said leave. His groin said to take her now. His brain said, “Not yet.”

  The cigarette burned to the filter and scorched his finger. Damn. He tossed the butt out the window.

  He had a lot of pent-up tension from the TV report, her, and the cops. He needed a release. He knew just the place.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Thursday Morning

  Brad awoke to the ringing phone. He grabbed the receiver. “Coulter.”

  “Detective, it’s dispatch. We got a homicide, downtown on Third Avenue.”

  “Hooker stroll?”

  “Yeah, in the alley north. Detective Griffin wants you there.”

  “All right. I’m on my way.”

  Brad snuck into the spare bedroom where he kept his clothes for work. Late night callouts were routine now and changing in the spare bedroom let Maggie sleep. She slept like a log at home. At work, however, she slept in the shallow point just under consciousness, ready for the next medical call. Sleep to fully awake in seconds.

  He crept down the stairs, Lobo at his side. Lobo went to the kitchen door and whimpered.