by Rick Reed
Jack now knew why Eric was so steamed. Claudine Setera no doubt got the information from Jansen.
Liddell put the cups on the desk in front of Jack and Eric. “Coffee?”
Eric took the cup of steaming black liquid and sipped, grimacing at the bitterness. “I’m sorry, guys, but the prosecutor is beside himself.”
“You mean like an out-of-body experience, where he’s floating and looking down at his body?” Liddell said.
Eric ignored him. “Trent’s talking about having the state police take the investigation over.”
“He can’t do that,” Liddell protested, suddenly serious.
As prosecutor, Trent had the authority to request the state police investigate any case, and in turn, they had jurisdiction anywhere inside the state. Since Trent was running for governor, it was a perfect opportunity for him to kiss up to them. And they would jump at the chance to show off for their prospective boss.
“Be my guest,” Jack said, knowing that if the state police took over and were unsuccessful, people would question why Trent had changed horses midstream. Trent probably had considered the same thing or he would have just made the change.
Eric couldn’t believe Jack was being so nonchalant. “You’re a royal pain in the ass, Jack.”
“Thanks, Eric. You, too.”
“But you’re a good detective, and that’s all that’s saving you.”
He wasn’t going to be patronized by this jerk. “Eric, I can see you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. If you don’t back Trent, he can pull his support of your ascension to the top. If you do back him—and he’s wrong—then the public won’t elect you. Is that about it?”
Eric evaded the question. “So what are you going to do now?”
Honestly, Jack didn’t know. When an investigation was stalled, no matter how hard he pushed, no matter how many people you talk to, no matter how many rocks you turn over, there’s nothing to be found. It was too late at night to call Sylvia Jennings and Karen Compton, the witnesses to the argument between Rothschild and Nina. That would be a good place to start in the morning.
“Now we all go home and hope no one is murdered tonight,” Jack said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Katie and Moira had the much sought-after window seats at La Sombra Coffee Shop on the downtown walkway. Katie ordered orange juice and Egg Beaters. In front of Moira was set a platter with two eggs over easy, four strips of bacon, hash browns, toast and blackberry jam, and a carafe of coffee.
“You sure you have time to eat all of that?” Katie asked.
Moira pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse and laid it on the table. “I’ve got the time, and I even have money.”
“How generous of you, considering I’ve cooked for you for the last week.” Despite what she said, she was glad Moira had suggested they go downtown for breakfast before they both went to work. If not, she would already be at Harwood Middle School, grading papers before her sixth grade class began.
Katie took a sip of orange juice and noticed Moira was picking at her food. “Is everything all right?”
“There’s nothing wrong,” Moira said, none too convincingly, and then in true Moira style, her mood changed to excitement. “Can you believe I’m working with Eric and Jack?”
Katie had never desired to get involved in Jack’s work, and Eric deliberately kept his job and political life out of their conversations, unless he wanted her to attend a fund-raiser. And Eric hadn’t called since Sunday’s party. So she wasn’t sure how to answer the question. She did recognize, however, the glow on Moira’s face. She couldn’t remember when she’d seen her sister so excited.
“So, how is your new office coming along?” Katie had a feeling that things would be different between her and her little sister from now on. The acne-challenged monster she grew up with had turned into a smart and beautiful woman. In fact, Katie felt a small measure of jealousy. Moira was young, vibrant, and thrived on excitement. She was a lot like Jack and Eric in that way.
Not for the first time, Katie wondered what Eric saw in her. She was almost middle-aged. A sixth-grade teacher. The most exciting thing that happened during her day was a fight between kids during lunch, and none of them—thank God—ended with more than a bruise, or at worst a black eye.
“Eric is taking care of me. I guess,” Moira said, dragging Katie back from her thoughts. “Eric gave me a big office. It’s right next to Trent’s.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” Katie asked.
“Yeah, I’m really being punished,” she said and rolled her eyes. “New job. Great office. Lots of money.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Moira leaned forward and said in a low whisper, “It’s just that Trent’s creepy.”
Katie’s eyes grew wide. She had met Trent at several fund-raisers. She knew he could be a little touchy-feely, but she never had the impression Trent harassed his employees.
“I can’t put my finger on anything, sis. Just the way he makes me feel when he stands near me.” Moira laughed suddenly and sat up straighter. “Maybe I’m being silly. He’s old and happily married and someday he’ll be governor. That can’t hurt my resume.”
“Just remember, Jack is always there for you,” Katie said. “He wouldn’t let anyone abuse you.”
“Yeah, Jack’s a good guy, sis,” Moira said, but then remembered how he had treated her last night. He sure wasn’t happy to see her show up with the warrant.
Katie said, “Did I tell you Jack called to apologize for leaving the party?” She didn’t add that Eric had not called. He was probably busy putting political fires out.
“He’s still got a thing for you,” Moira teased, and Katie’s face reddened. “I’m serious, sis. He lights up when he gets around you. He isn’t that way around any other women.”
“Quit being the matchmaker,” Katie said, though she didn’t mind thinking she still had Jack on a string.
“You’re the same way when you’re around him. Do you think . . . ?”
Katie held her palm up. “Stop right there. I’m engaged to Eric. Remember?”
“Yeah,” Moira sighed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jack’s sleep had been filled with nightmares, and his T-shirt was soaked with sweat when he jerked awake at four a.m. He dressed and went back to headquarters. He was sitting at his desk, starting his third cup of coffee, when Liddell showed up with a white paper bag in one hand and a maple honey bun in the other.
“Jansen’s really stepped in it this time!” Liddell said, and devoured the donut in one bite.
“Your donut will get caught in your lungs if you inhale it,” Jack said.
His phone rang and he snatched it up. “Murphy.”
It was Little Casket. “I hope you’re happy. You used up my entire year’s budget making Dr. John stay all night.”
“Take it up with the coroner,” Jack said brusquely. He was tiring of her constant bitching about money. “What has Dr. John got for us?”
“Am I your secretary?” she said. “Here . . .” and the line went quiet while she handed it off.
“Jack?” Dr. John said.
“Just give me the high points. I’m putting you on speakerphone. Liddell’s with me.”
“Well, good morning to you, too,” Dr. John said. “Okay, there was no sign of trauma to the torso you found at the landfill, so I feel a little safer saying the cause of death was manual strangulation. We still have to wait for the DNA match, but the cuts on the neck of the head and arms match those of the torso,” Dr. John said. “And before you ask why I said arms, I’ll tell you. Walker found the other arm after you and Liddell left. He said to tell you he was sorry for not calling, but you wouldn’t be surprised.”
“He’s right about that.”
“And a gold ring with a garnet stone was found on the forefinger of the arm Walker found at the landfill last night,” Dr. John said. “Garnet is the birthstone for January—and that’s Nina’s bir
th month.”
“What can you tell me about the one from Eastland Mall? Did she have a needle mark?”
“I’ve sent off samples for toxicology, and no, there wasn’t a sign of a needle mark on this victim’s neck. It’s going to be a while.”
“So what was her cause of death?”
“This one’s easy. Kusta died of exsanguination—loss of blood—due to assault with a cutting instrument. If it matters, she died within minutes of the onslaught,” Dr. John said. “And by that I mean the blade cut through her neck just behind the point of her jaw and was pulled forward, severing the jugular vein, carotid artery, and the trachea. The other cuts were totally unnecessary, Jack. She would have bled out even if she was in a fully ready surgery room. The other cuts on the body were post mortem or close to that. Thirty-three cuts in all.”
Jack thanked him and they hung up.
“What have we got here?” Liddell asked. “He goes from leaving just the heads to dumping an entire carved-up body. What kind of person could do that?”
Instead of starting a guessing contest, Jack wanted to get back to what his partner had said earlier. “Who stepped in what?” Jack asked.
“Let me tell you why I’m late first,” Liddell said, digging another donut from the bag.
“I can see why you’re late. You’re wearing the excuse around your mouth.”
Liddell did not dignify that comment with an answer. “Anyway, I stopped by Juvenile Court and the prosecutor’s office and talked to Sylvia Jennings and Karen Compton. They told basically the same story we heard from Jennifer, but they didn’t make the argument sound so sinister. They both said Bob was angry and yelling, but they said that Nina was just as angry and just as loud. All they heard Nina saying was something like, “You tell him I know everything.” To which Bob yelled, quote, “If you do this, your life was over. We’ll make you wish you were dead.”
“We?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. That’s what both women said and I interviewed them separately. I can only assume he was talking about himself and maybe Trent or someone else on the committee. I’m trying to get a list of committee members as we speak.”
“Good work, Bigfoot. That sort of makes up for making me interview Rothschild alone.”
Liddell grinned. “Hey, I didn’t make you do anything, pod’na. You saddled that horse all by yourself.”
Jack asked, “Now tell me who stepped in what?”
“Oh, yeah. I just talked to Coin,” Liddell said. Coin was one of Liddell’s street people. He usually had good information, but he was known to sell the same information to a dozen investigation agencies for a little coin, hence the nickname. No one knew his real name and Coin had probably forgotten it himself.
“Coin was hanging around Duffy’s bar yesterday,” Liddell continued. “And guess who he saw being all chummy in a booth?”
“Jansen and Miss Setera,” Jack answered.
“How’d you know?” Liddell was unable to hide his surprise.
Jack didn’t know, he was just guessing. But it was the first thing that came to mind.
Captain Franklin stuck his head in the door. “Jack. Liddell. Chief’s office. Now.”
“He’s expecting you,” Jennifer Mangold said, and whispered, “Did you talk to Rothschild?”
“I capped him with my nine,” Jack said, pretending to hold a gun gangster style, and then blew the smoke from the barrel.
“Forget it,” she said. “You’d better get in there.”
Jack followed Liddell into the office to find the chief sitting on the front of his desk. Captain Franklin was seated in the corner. The chief was dressed in a dark suit and tie instead of his usual police uniform dress blues. The flat-panel television mounted over the credenza was tuned to Channel Six and Claudine Setera’s perfect face filled the screen. She was wrapping up a news report.
“Take a seat,” Chief Pope said. The camera angle changed to allow the viewers to be reeled in. Claudine turned to look in the camera. “To date, The Cannibal has claimed five victims, one male and four females. Three of the victims’ bodies have not been found. Police have been unable to establish a connection between any of the victims.”
“Chief, I think my partner has something you both will want to hear,” Jack said.
Their attention turned to Liddell.
“We can’t go to court with this, but I think I can prove Jansen gave all this to Claudine Setera,” he said.
“Walk with me,” Pope said.
They discussed Liddell’s information as they made their way downstairs to the classroom where the news media were set up and waiting.
“I knew Coin when I was still a rookie cop on motor patrol,” Pope said, and chuckled at his detectives’ look of surprise. “Of course, he was a lot cheaper back then.”
“His information has always been good, Chief,” Jack said.
Captain Franklin held up at the bottom of the steps, his hand on the doorknob. “I believe Jansen did give us up. I just don’t think the information is enough without Claudine Setera or Jansen admitting that he gave her the information. And I don’t see that happening, do you?”
Liddell ground a huge fist into his palm. “Give me ten minutes alone with him, Chief.”
Pope said, “I don’t want to suspend Jansen. I want to fire him! And press criminal charges of obstruction of justice!”
He straightened his tie and made his back ramrod straight. “First the deputy chief goes to the newspaper,” he said, “and now this. Sometimes I wish I was back on patrol.”
Franklin looked at his watch and said, “It’s time, Chief.” He opened the door so they could go face the stirred-up media horde.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The two men had met at the Rescue Mission this last winter. Despite the vast difference in their ages they had become steadfast friends.
Norman was nearing seventy-five. His wife’s long illness had eaten up their meager savings, and the year after she passed away, his job had been outsourced. He had lost his wife, his life savings, and his job in less than year, so being homeless wasn’t much of a hardship for him. He had survived the next twelve years doing odd jobs. There wasn’t much call for a sixty-something tool and die man. His hair was thinner now, but it was still there, unlike his teeth. He had rheumatism in his right hip, and his toes felt numb most of the time—he blamed all that on too-tight shoes and old age. Everything he had would fit in a small garbage bag, and though it wasn’t much, it was enough. He didn’t take handouts, except for the use of a bed at the mission.
Norman’s buddy, Tom, was barely twenty-three, tall and muscular with a scarred face and forehead that looked like he’d survived a fire. He was home from Iraq—ex-military—and had been staying at the Rescue Mission for the best part of a year, but he wouldn’t talk about his past. In fact, he didn’t talk much at all. Norman suspected his hitch in the Army had messed him up in the head. But Tom had a good heart, and would work sunup to sundown.
They had spent the winter helping out around the shelter, doing what work they could find downtown—shoveling snow, hauling trash—whatever it took to get by. But when summer came Norman did what he had done his whole life. Fish. Today was the first time he’d asked Tom to go with him.
Norman kept a small wooden skiff hidden near the Pigeon Creek overpass on Maryland Street. Early this morning, before the sun came up, Norman and Tom had made their way on foot the mile or so from downtown to the creek. Norman was relieved to see the skiff hadn’t been destroyed or stolen.
They dragged it from where the man-high weeds had camouflaged it, and gave it a good shake to make sure no snakes were in the bottom. Together, they dragged it to the edge of the creek and slid it partway into the water.
Hours passed in the most enjoyable way Norman could imagine. The sun would be overhead soon, and they needed to get their lines pulled in and reset for tomorrow’s catch.
Norman sat in the skiff’s stern, nursing a cold can of beer in a foam Koozie i
mprinted on the side with the slogan, Beer . . . It’s whut’s fer breakfast.
“What the heck is this? It’s tough as a steel cable.” Tom tugged at the floating trotline.
Norman squinted at what Tom was holding up. Even though they were less than four feet apart his eyes weren’t so good anymore, especially with the sun reflecting off the water and right into his old eyes. “What’s it say on that spool down there by your feet, idjit?”
Tom picked up the spool of fishing line. “S-U-F-I-X,” he answered.
“Sufix. Ha! That’s the best fishing line in the world, son!” Norman said. “Eighty pound test line. Man, I tell you what. That stuff could pull the Loch Ness monster out of the sea!”
“I don’t like it. It’s too stiff to work with, old man.”
“I got somethin’ stiff you can work with,” Norman answered, and cackled through a toothless grin.
“In your dreams, old man,” Tom said, and began pulling the trotline into the boat.
The portion of Pigeon Creek under the Maryland Street overpass was Norman’s favorite place to put his trotlines down. The creek fed into the Ohio River about a mile downstream. Fish, particularly young catfish, came upstream from the river. More fish meant more money. He’d caught enough last year to put some change back and help feed the shelter for most of the winter.
Tom grunted and yelled, “Hoo-hah! Got me a big one!” He held up the catfish. “Two pounds, I bet!”
“Hmmpf. That’s a baby. We got bigger fish to fry,” Norman said, then snickered and said it again, “Fish to fry.” He began working the line at his end of the boat and felt a thrill at a sudden tightening in the line. He pulled in several feet, but then it refused to budge. Damn thing is snagged.
Norman pulled harder, but not too hard. The baited line was eighty-pound test line, but whatever was hooked to it was way more than eighty pounds. Maybe a tree root. Or worse, an alligator! He shivered at the thought. He heard about people bringing baby alligators up from Florida and turning them loose in sewers and such.