Surprised, I asked, “How so?”
“She wasn’t with Lemor at 1:00 p.m. on the day Brittany disappeared. I checked her cell phone records, and she had made a call from the Little Falls area at twelve fifty-eight.”
I began questioning if there was any aspect of my life that I was handling well at the moment.
Paula smiled slightly and added, “I have some additional information on Lemor. I couldn’t get his therapist to give me any information, so I went to probation and asked for a list of sex offenders who had group treatment the same time as Jeff. I’ve been tracking them down, one by one, and found out through interviews that March thirtieth wasn’t the first time Jeff had spotted Brittany walking down that gravel road. This makes the offense premeditated.”
I realized Jeff might have failed the polygraph simply because he never revealed that he had seen Brittany make that walk on other occasions. This still didn’t mean he was guilty, but it did make him look dishonest. And now he no longer had Vicki’s alibi.
Sean said, “It’s my sense that the abductor cleaned up the scene. We didn’t find anything.”
Tony stewed as he quietly tapped on the table with his pen. “I’ve never heard of a stranger abduction case where the scene was cleaned up, and Lemor was a stranger to Brittany.”
Sean interrupted, asking, “Have you gotten the DNA report on the leather jacket yet?”
Tony shrugged it off. “No.”
Sean leaned back, rotating his shoulders. “It really seems a long shot that the same person would commit both of these crimes.”
Tony conveyed his uncertainty by saying, “It’s not as much of a stretch as you might think. These crimes happened about eight miles apart, which is nothing in rural Minnesota. Most people in this area drive thirty miles to work every day. But the jacket theory has taken me nowhere. So, I agree, I think we’re looking at two different perpetrators.”
Sean started gathering his paperwork in frustration. “I’m not going to sit and wait for Maurice any longer. We’ve got something to check out.” He turned to me and said, “It’s been nice working with you, Jon.”
Paula reminded him, “He’s not gone yet.”
Sean nodded and sarcastically said, “Right.”
After Paula and Sean left, Tony turned to me and wearily said, “I think Serena set Victor up, and I think you’re being played. You need to be careful.”
Not needing a lecture from Tony, I put my hand up as if to say, “I don’t want to hear it.”
Tony sat back and, respecting my wish, asked, “Did you get anything out of your interview with Randall Davis?”
I considered this. “I don’t think Randall knew Mandy. He made derogatory comments about every other woman we spoke of, so my gut feeling is that if he would have known Mandy he would have talked trash about her, too.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t shot again.” Tony held up his hands in retreat before I could argue. “I understand you need to find Mandy’s killer. Just don’t be stupid about it.”
Maurice entered in his gray suit and stared hard at me, as if I was the only one in the room. His white hair was ruffled. He pushed his glasses up his nose as he spoke. “I think you know what I’m going to say,” he began. “You’re done for now. I’m going to put you on paid leave, and tell people you’re still recovering from being shot. That’ll buy us a couple weeks. Hopefully, we’ll have some answers by then.”
I had no union protection, as I was on probationary status for my first ninety days as an investigator, and could be terminated or suspended for any, or no, reason. I thanked Maurice for giving me a little time. He didn’t have to do that.
When Brittany’s investigation first started, things happened so quickly it was like stepping into a whirlwind. Now I was being tossed back out.
Chapter
Twenty
SERENA BELL
THURSDAY, APRIL 10
MINNEAPOLIS
JON STILL DIDN’T GET IT. I could end up in prison for manslaughter before this was over. Still, I went to the police immediately with the information I had, like I should have done ten years ago. Seeing what they did to Victor broke my heart. Before I gave myself up, I first needed to consider other possible explanations.
I was going to start with exploring Randall Davis’s alibi, Anna Hutchins. Back when we were still talking, Jon had mentioned her name in connection with Randall. The investigators hadn’t been able to track her down, but I had resources they didn’t. While Anna might have had an outdated address on her driver’s license, and might not show up in the correctional system, she wouldn’t stop showing up in the medical system. Medical records were well protected in our system, so only the patient’s consulting nurse and doctor had access to them. While I didn’t have access to Anna’s medical records, as a supervisor in billing, I had access to the addresses of anyone who had been seen in our hospital and any of our adjoining clinics. Nervously, I accessed the database, and it didn’t take long to find her. Even though I tried to rationalize that I wasn’t hurting anyone, I knew I could lose my job over this.
After work, I drove to the Pines apartment complex in Brooklyn Center. Anna Hutchins lived in a three-story brown-brick complex, with black iron-railing patios.
I told myself, Act confident and composed, then knocked on the door. I prayed to God that Tony wasn’t tailing me. Anna answered in a tattered gray pullover. The odor wafting off of her indicated she’d been doing some kind of sweaty job not long before I arrived. Her short, dark hair was thick and beginning to gray. Anna was slightly overweight, wore no make-up, and was rather plain-looking. She was a woman who could easily be lost in a crowd and likely planned it that way. Anna studied my professional attire cautiously.
I had violated ethics at work and was about to commit a lie of omission by letting Anna believe I had some legitimate role in investigating Mandy’s murder, but I forged ahead. Before she asked for a badge, I appeased Anna by telling her, “You’re not in any trouble. The disappearance of Mandy Baker back in 2004 is being reopened, and I’m only here to ask you questions about Randall Davis. From the differences in your current addresses, I assume you and Randall are no longer together.”
Alarmed, Anna closed the door until it was open only a few inches, her eyes frantically scanning the hallway behind me. “I left that nightmare over nine years ago. He doesn’t know where I live, does he?”
“I have no information that would suggest that,” I assured her. “I’m only here because you provided an alibi for him on the night Mandy disappeared. I know Randall had been abusive to you, and I was wondering if this led you to make a statement on his behalf.”
Anna studied me. “What ever happened to that girl?”
“Her body was found buried on a farm by Pierz.”
There was an incredible sadness in her eyes. Anna looked past me at something, or nothing, lost in thought. She opened the door further. “I remember that night because Randall was hauled in and interrogated the next day. Randall was a piece of work, but that was one crime he wasn’t guilty of. Part of me would like to say he didn’t have an alibi, just to cause him some of the misery he caused me. But the truth is, he was home with me that night.”
I wanted to hug the sadness out of Anna, but I managed to maintain my composure. “Are you okay, Anna?”
“Yeah. People don’t really understand. I can’t hate him without hating part of myself. I wasn’t that fifteen-year-old girl he raped. I chose Randall. He did help me off of drugs, but he was ridiculously brutal about it.”
I met her gaze sadly, and all I could think of to say was, “Well, I’m not beyond doing stupid things for a man.”
This elicited a low, guttural laugh from Anna. She said, “I like your honesty. Even if it makes us both sound a little pathetic. There aren’t too many investigators who’d have the guts to say that.” She started to close the door, but stopped and said, “Thank you for talking to me like I’m a real person. Most investigators look at me with a c
ombination of ‘I know your type’ and pity. It’s refreshing to know they’re not all like that.”
I smiled in return and said, “Thank you for clearing this up. Have a nice evening, Anna.” As she quietly shut the door, I heard the bolt snick shut, and I was filled with regret for having to remind her of a time she was clearly trying to put behind her.
When I returned to my car, I opened up my notebook and crossed out Randall Davis’s name. I decided I was going to write to Say Hey Ray Benson, to see if I could get on his visitors’ list at the prison in Florida.
7:30 P.M.
EDINA
I HAD AGREED TO MEET Clay at Broder’s Italian Bistro in Edina, as it was a safe, public environment with a great calzone.
Clay looked good, with tanned skin and muscular features, highlighted by the trim fit of his black button-down shirt. His appearance was the trap. He was most appealing dessert you’d ever seen, but the taste was rancid.
Clay had obviously had a few drinks after work, breaking down the few defenses he possessed. He studied me curiously. “So, what brings you back to me?”
The comment made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I gave him a warning look and said, “Jon’s not talking to me. You asked me not to tell him about us, and then you told him anyway. Why?”
Clay gave me an impish grin as he said, “I just did.” He took a long pull from his bottle of Heineken before saying, “Sorry about that. I was angry, and it just slipped out. And you know how Jon is. If he told you it’s over, you’re done.”
My anxiety sky-rocketed, and I reminded myself to take slow, even breaths. Clay hit on everybody I knew, so he must have hit on Mandy. She was sensual and seductive. Clay wouldn’t have been able to resist her.
I no longer felt like eating, so I just said it. “Mandy came to Pierz for you on the night she disappeared. She told me she wanted to be in Pierz when the bus returned. You were on the bus.”
Clay set down his fork and said, “This isn’t about Mandy. What is this, buyer’s remorse? You were the one who drove to my house to be with me. It doesn’t get any easier than that.”
I took a chance and stammered, “I was with Mandy the night she disappeared, and you were, too.” I kept all expression off my face and just looked at him.
Clay’s voice was getting thicker with alcohol. “Are you wearing a wire again?”
He attempted to peer down my shirt, and I quickly raised my hand and said, “No.”
Clay scrubbed his hand over his mouth and pushed his plate to the side, laughing, “Nothing I haven’t seen before. You tell me what you think happened, and I’ll tell you the truth. If you’re not comfortable talking about it here, we can go someplace more private. Don’t ask me to talk about it if you don’t have the nerve to say it yourself, in detail.” Elbows now on the table, he rested his hard jaw on clasped hands, waiting.
“Here is fine, Clay.” I lowered my voice and shared a tale of Mandy being the coquettish siren, and Clay being the brazen bull who would teach her a lesson. When I had finished, Clay’s face flushed red, embarrassed by his arousal.
“I like that story a lot. Is this a fantasy of yours?”
I shook my head. “Not mine. How close was it to the truth?”
Clay put his hand on mine and said, “We both know why you’re here. Let’s just do this.”
Feeling repulsed, I pulled my hand back. “You promised me the truth, so tell me.”
Clay turned to me and said with a sneer, “It’s a little too late for you to just be a tease. I was with Mandy, but it wasn’t on the night she disappeared.” Clay raised his voice and his bottle, for the sole purpose of embarrassing me. “I didn’t have sex with her—just with you. So don’t be too quick to judge everyone else, whore.”
The two young women working the counter stared at us for a moment, then looked at each other, uncertain if they should intervene, while the middle-aged couple next to us pretended they didn’t hear him.
Furious and mortified, I fought the urge to throw my Diet Coke in his face. Instead, I let my expression go flat, and with quiet anger, asked, “Do you feel better now? You seem to think we have this love/hate thing going, but I don’t give a damn about you. You’re just a pretty boy who can’t seem to see beyond the end of his dick, and you’re one year of drinking away from losing your business.” I stood and flipped cash onto the table for our meal. “So here, have one more drink on me.” I left before I started crying over my ineptness. I had never been this obnoxious to anyone, and I felt anxious and ashamed. My face was burning. I got no satisfaction out of being mean, no matter how justified it was.
I HAD A LOT TO SAY to Jon, so I was pleasantly surprised to find an email from him when I returned to my parents’ home in St. Paul. It was less enticing after I read it:
Serena,
I hate to ask you this, but I’m out of options. I was wondering if you could lend me some money. I’m afraid jail could be the death of Victor; the bullying will tear him up. I need to come up with $100,000 to bail Victor out, and I’m about halfway there. Any amount you could offer would be greatly appreciated. I promise to pay you back with interest. I’m sorry I was so rude to you last time we spoke, and I’d certainly understand if you can’t help. It’s a lot to ask.
Sincerely,
Jon
I decided to wait until we spoke face to face to tell Jon about my encounter with Clay. It had to torment Jon to ask me for money. It wasn’t his nature to ask for help from anyone. I was good with money, though, and with what I’d been saving to buy a house, I would be able to meet him halfway. I had a feeling I was going to need to pay for an attorney before this was over, but I was going to give him my money, anyway, in a last-ditch effort to mend my breaking heart. I hoped someday he would appreciate how much I loved him.
I sat staring at my computer screen in my bedroom, searching for words. I pulled the blanket wrapped around my shoulders a little tighter to fight the chill in the room. I’d loan Jon the money, under the condition he would sit down and talk to me. I couldn’t let “us” end, tormented by the thought of being misunderstood.
Chapter
Twenty-One
PANTHERA
9:30 P.M.
THURSDAY, APRIL 10
THE WONDERFUL THING about smokers is that no matter how secure their home is, they’ve got to step out for that cigarette. If she’s stressed, she steps out a little earlier. If it’s a typical day, she’ll come out of the house in about ten minutes. I slide into the dark shadows against her house and wait. She sneaks out the side door, into the darkness, probably because she hasn’t told family members she’s smoking.
As anticipated, she passes by me. She’s nine minutes ahead of schedule. She’s shivering, because it’s cold and she isn’t wearing a jacket—probably afraid it’ll smell like smoke and give her secret away.
The pretty young thing blocks the wind with her cupped hand to light her smoke, and then cautiously looks around. I’m right behind her, in the shadows, but she still hasn’t noticed me. She’s looking for movement, and I’m not moving. I can feel her fear. I love this game. I want her so bad, I’m prepared to defile her to her death. I need this, and she deserves it. It’s such a rush to stalk at night, because so much of the darkness is unknown.
Now, she’s cautiously craning her neck and looking around. She senses my presence, but hasn’t found me. She’s looking in every direction but mine. I’ll let her have most of her smoke. Bring her anxiety down a little before I engage her. But I do have to take hold of her before she turns back in my direction. She inhales a deep drag and closes her eyes while she exhales.
Perfect. I step in and wrap my hand around her mouth. I can feel her warm breath in my bare hand, and she can feel the gun in her back. “We’re going to go for a little walk.”
Rigid with fear, she mindlessly moves with me as I walk her to the darkness alongside her garage. She’s too afraid to make a decision. It’s funny how people can sense when it won’t faze
you to take their lives. I whisper into her ear, “If you want to live through this, you’ll go along with everything I say. Remove your pants and underwear.”
I free her to let her undress, and she pleads, “Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything.” She kicks off her shoes and with trembling hands, does as she’s told.
I feel an endorphin rush as she complies. This is the best drug on earth. “Now bare your top.”
She turns her back to me to remove her shirt, and as she’s pulling it over her head, I knock her down and pin her to the ground, facedown. Her arms are tangled in her shirt, so without them to break her fall, she lands hard. She lies there lifeless, but she’s not fooling me. I shake her, say, “You’re not dead,” and then taunt her. “Don’t act like you are.”
Through her whimpers she softly pleads, “I’m not going to fight you.”
I grab a handful of hair and push her face into the cold, hard dirt. It has to feel like rough sandpaper against her body. I feel so strong. She coughs hard in response and tries to spit out the dirt she’s just inhaled.
I undo my pants and then grind hard into her. “I like it rough.”
She bites her hand as she tries to bear the pain, but true to her word, she doesn’t fight . . .
She slowly gets up and dresses, like this was simply a bad date she now regrets. She’s accepted humiliating defeat. She straightens her shirt and through her tears tells me, “I won’t tell anyone.”
“I’ll kill your family if you do.”
With a blank stare, she concedes. “I know.”
“If anybody asks, tell them Jon Frederick did it.”
She glances down for a moment, and I sense despair when she tells me, “No one will ask.”
She’s right. I’m her master and her compliance makes her someone I can return to. A port in a storm. I was prepared to kill her if necessary, but I think I’ll keep her around for the time being.
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