Corktown

by Ty Hutchinson

  “We didn’t say there was a serial killer.”

  “Okay, a killer taking out auto execs one by one. Now that’s front-page news.”

  “Tell you what; you don’t print or mention anything until we catch our guy, and we’ll give you the scoop… provided the information you give us helps us solve the case.” I stuck my hand out. “Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Hardin went on to tell us how the GM plant shutdowns affected Flint. I had already heard the same story from Wilkinson. I hoped Hardin had more. “What does that have to do with our victims?”

  “They both worked at GM at the time.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “Are you telling us they were responsible for the plants shutting down?”

  “Possibly…”

  For a reporter, Hardin was light on his facts. “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “I need to dig around before I can expand on that.”

  “Okay. Anything else you can tell us?”

  Hardin leaned back and fiddled with his chin until he popped forward, clapping his hands together. “The local newspaper did a story on a man named Eddie Bass. Before the hard times hit, he championed GM, almost like their de facto mascot. He was known around town as The Motor. All he ever talked about was working at the factory, until he lost his job.”

  “I’m sure a lot of people had a beef with the company. Was there something special about him, besides being a cheerleader?”

  “Well, I imagine he was shocked when they let him go. Probably found it difficult to deal with,” Hardin said. “Granted he wasn’t the only casualty, but a lot of people thought he would be safe, being who he was.”

  “Their number one fan,” Wilkinson added.

  Hardin nodded. “He didn’t take it well. The story goes that he took to drinking and eventually drank himself to death. Left behind a little girl. His wife had died a few years after she was born. Cancer, I think.”

  “Where’s the daughter now?”

  “Before Eddie died, he and his daughter moved to Ohio to live with his sister. I’m guessing the sister ended up raising the kid after his death. You’ll have to talk to her for more information.”

  We thanked Hardin, but I wasn’t so sure we were any further along on the case.

  24

  That same morning, Katherine Carter drove her two boys to St. Mary’s Grade School at the corner of Woodward and 12 Mile. Eight year-old Lorenzo was starting third grade. He was a pro at school and was excited to be back. Jackson, however, was starting kindergarten, and at four he had not grasped the concept of leaving his mom.

  As soon as Katherine parked the white Land Rover in the school parking lot, Lorenzo got excited. “Mommy, Mommy, look. There’s Marcus and Toby.”

  “Are you happy to see your friends again?”

  “Yes! Yes!” Lorenzo had already unbuckled himself and gathered his things.

  Katherine turned to Jackson. “What about you Mr. Big Boy? See how excited your brother is? It’ll be fun.”

  Jackson sat in the back seat, pouting and wiping his eyes. “I don’t wanna go.”

  “Come on, Jackson,” his brother said. “You’re going to love it.”

  Lorenzo ran ahead to meet his friends while Katherine carried Jackson to the drop-off point. She knelt down and faced Jackson toward her. She fixed his collar and straightened his Mickey Mouse backpack. “I know you’re scared, but you’re going to have a lot of fun, and your brother is here, too. Soon you’ll have plenty of friends.”

  Katherine wiped away the tears that ran down Jackson’s cheeks. It took everything she had not to cry herself as she struggled to maintain a smile. She wanted to hug him and take him home.

  “He’s going to be just fine, Mrs. Carter. We’ll take good care of Jackson,” one of the teachers said. Katherine watched the teacher lead Jackson away. He kept looking back at her with his puffy cheeks and big eyes. She turned away just in time to avoid him seeing her cry. A quick wipe before turning back to wave goodbye.

  She hurried back to the SUV, her heels clicking noisily against the asphalt. Safely out of view, she let it out of her system. A few moments later, she composed herself and fixed her makeup. Katherine now had to go to work, the reason she wore an elegant black pantsuit that morning—certainly not the norm for most of the other stay-at-home mothers who were dropping off their children.

  A twenty-five minute drive on Woodward Avenue had put Katherine just north of downtown Birmingham—Yuppieville. She turned off the main drag, down one of the tree-lined roads, until she found Hazelwood Street. Katherine parked two houses down from 813 Hazelwood, where a Victorian home with white and blue trim sat. It stood out from the other homes with their muted colors.

  Katherine grabbed a handful of business cards from the glove box and slipped them into her purse. On her way to the house, she surveyed the neighborhood out of the corner of her eyes but kept her head straight. Katherine followed the cement path that cut through the lush front lawn and walked up the wooden steps. Just as she was about to knock, the door suddenly opened.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Katherine blurted, taking a step back.

  The woman who opened the door jumped back as well. “Sheesh, you scared the heck out of me.”

  Katherine smiled at the woman. “I am so sorry. I was just about to knock. My name is Cheryl Newton. I’m a Realtor,” she said, extending her hand.

  The woman shook Katherine’s hand. “Hi, I’m Rebecca Tanner. I’m sorry, but I’m on my way out.”

  Katherine looked behind the woman and saw two large suitcases. “I guess you’re heading out of town?”

  “My sister just had a baby, so I’m going to help out for a few weeks.”

  “Well now, that sounds like a lot of fun.”

  “I can’t wait. It’s her first. Mine are all grown and in college, so I’m the experienced one.”

  “Is your husband joining you?”

  “No, he’s busy with work right now.”

  Katherine dug into her purse and handed over her business card. “Well, I stopped by to see if you and your husband were having any thoughts on a lifestyle change.”

  “It’s funny that you ask, because we were thinking of two things: either renovating or moving. We haven’t decided yet.”

  “Well, when you’re back in town, we can arrange a time to meet, and I can answer questions the two of you may have about selling and buying in this market. It might make that decision easier,” Katherine said with a warm smile.

  “That’ll be nice.”

  “Oh, how silly of me.” Katherine grabbed the door. “Let me hold this for you so you can get out.”

  Rebecca wheeled both suitcases out onto the porch.

  “Give me one,” Katherine motioned for Rebecca to hand her a suitcase. “I’ll help you get this to your car.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to do that.”

  “No, no, I insist.” It’s the least I can do.

  25

  Wilkinson and I buried ourselves back into the case files and worked to make sense of everything. It felt like we were walking in circles just gathering bits of information that led nowhere. I knew deep inside it all meant something; I just didn’t know what. It was frustrating to say the least.

  “Did those agents get back to you?” I asked.

  “Not yet. I left messages though. I got a guy trying to track down a personal cell number. Might be able get a hold of them that way,” Wilkinson said.

  It seemed odd that we were having a difficult time locating fellow agents. Were they avoiding us? If so, why? I shook my head at the thought and picked up a file on another hostage from the Comerica heist. Just as I scanned the notes inside, it dawned on me; maybe we should follow up on the two survivors. I didn’t recall coming across case files for them. “You find any files on the two surviving hostages?”

  “Why?” Wilkinson asked. “You think they might know something about our current killer?”

  “I’m curious to know if they
’ll corroborate Garrison’s story.”

  “Why are you so content on digging up the old case? There may be holes, but we’re not here to find out why. We’re here to catch the guy out there killing people.”

  I stood up and paced the room. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but my gut is telling me the two cases are connected. If Garrison is telling the truth, that he only shot people that day, then someone else in that bank cut those other people.”

  “And if Garrison is lying? We waste time and get nowhere.”

  I continued to dig around for those files but came up empty. Another misplaced file? I convinced Wilkinson to help, but the more we dug, the more it became apparent that what we were looking for didn’t exist. I threw my arms up. “Nothing adds up. Files are missing. Cases aren’t closed properly. This whole thing stinks of a cover-up.” I tapped the desk. “Hey, assume Garrison is telling the truth, that he didn’t kill everyone in the bank.”

  Wilkinson sighed. “Then your theory of another killer would be correct.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe it was his girlfriend. Maybe she was slicing people up,” he said, making a slashing move with is hand.

  I shook my head. “Someone slit her neck. Why would Garrison kill his own girlfriend? Second, why use a knife and not the gun? Why kill people two different ways?”

  “Because he’s a pyscho.”

  “Normally, I would agree with you, but if my theory is right…”

  Wilkinson paused for a moment, realizing his answer. “The original killer is still out there.”

  “And he could be killing again. This isn’t a copycat. It’s the same guy.”

  26

  “That’s crazy,” Wilkinson said. “What about the surgical blade they found with Garrison’s prints on it?”

  “Planted.”

  “And the confession?”

  “Coerced,” I said. “It makes complete sense if you throw out any rational thinking.”

  “Why the cover-up then?”

  “The citizens were scared, and the city felt pressured to capture this guy. So they latched onto Garrison and patched up the holes as best they could.”

  “Yeah, but wouldn’t the real killer just keep on killing, proving they had the wrong guy?”

  I leaned forward in my chair. “Not if, for some reason, luck played a role. Killer decides to stop for whatever reason at the same time. It totally works in the favor of the city. Everything is good for seven years and then there’s a murder with the same M.O.”

  Wilkinson turned his palms up in front of him. “You know this sounds completely improbable.”

  “I know. That’s why we had a roomful of scared police chiefs,” I said pointing in the direction of the conference room. “They were stupid enough to go along with this idiotic plan. They can’t come clean now. It would be political suicide.”

  Wilkinson rubbed his face and exhaled heavily. “The amount of people needed to make this cover-up work is huge. I’m not buying it.”

  “Doesn’t matter if you buy it. The people of Detroit bought it a long time ago. Don’t you see? We weren’t brought here to catch a copycat. We were brought here to catch the original guy.”

  27

  It all made complete sense to me, even if Wilkinson thought it was crazy. Sloppy casework, Garrison pleading innocence, White not wanting to talk—the real killer was never caught. It was all a farce. The people of Detroit were led to believe they were safe but, instead, were sold a security blanket littered with holes. It was only a matter of time before it fell apart.

  Wrapping my head around the case made it ache. How many individuals were involved? How high up did it go? The chief of police? The mayor of Detroit? The governor of Michigan? The fallout would be devastating for many political careers. Was their failure to catch a killer over a five-year period so bad they had to orchestrate a cover-up of that proportion?

  I didn’t want to believe it, but it was a way to connect the dots. I prayed I was wrong, because I believed in the good of law enforcement. I prayed I was right, because that nut job needed to be put down.

  My endorphins had kicked in. I practically kicked our office door down as I marched over to White’s office. I stopped at his doorway with my sleeves rolled up and my hands planted firmly on my hips.

  White looked at me for a moment before motioning for me to close his office door. He put aside his paperwork and watched me take a seat. I did my best to keep a level and professional tone. “Lieutenant White, I have one question for you, and I want an honest answer.”

  He nodded.

  “Did the city of Detroit wrongly accuse and imprison Michael Garrison for the serial killings that took place before the Comerica robbery?”

  White didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look up to the left. He didn’t roll his eyes. He didn’t breath in or out heavily. He did nothing but look me straight in my eyes. “Agent Kane, are you sure you want to travel down this dark road?”

  I couldn’t believe that man had answered my question with a question. “That’s not an answer,” I said.

  “Agent Kane, I’m going to try to say this as clearly as I can. This thing, it’s bigger than both you and I, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the guy out there killing folks.”

  The truth of the matter was the lieutenant was right. I could prove Garrison was innocent and the real killer was never caught, that it was a cover-up. And none of it would solve the current problem; someone was still killing innocent people.

  “Lieutenant, if the person out there is the original killer, there’s a good chance it could be one of the two hostages that survived.”

  “That’s what we thought. We questioned the hell out of them. Nothing. We even watched them 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for six long months. We knew where they were at all times, what they were doing, who they spoke to, who their friends were. We even knew how many times they flushed their own toilet in a day. Neither one of them appeared to be the killer. Plus, the killings had stopped.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The surveillance cost the city a fortune. We shut it down.”

  “With the current murders having the same M.O., didn’t you guys think to check them out again?”

  “It’s not them, Agent. Trust me on this one.”

  My head ached more. If the killer wasn’t one of the two hostages, then Garrison got lucky and shot the killer during his rampage, and the current killer really was a copycat.

  “Agent Kane, we’ve already gone down this route. Forget about Garrison and the previous murders. Concentrate on the new ones and get this guy.”

  “Can I at least get the names of the surviving hostages?”

  “I would say yes, but even I don’t know who they are.” White paused for a moment and rubbed his hand down his face, grabbing hold of his chin. “They were known around here as John and Jane Doe. It was that way from the very start. And if you’re going to ask about the original surveillance team, there were three of them. Two were killed in the line of duty, and the other died of a heart attack.”

  “How convenient.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” he responded flatly. The lieutenant leaned back in his chair. His eyelids looked heavy and tired. “Like I said, Agent, this is bigger than you and me both. Catch the killer and everything will be fine.”

  28

  Wilkinson had just hung up his phone when I returned to our office. He had a super-sized smile on his face that enhanced his kissable dimples.

  “Guess who I just spoke to?”

  “Someone who can help us,” I said, sitting against the desk.

  “Michael Ton, the agent transferred to San Diego.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Turns out he and the other agent were told by their superiors to cease all work on the case. Effective immediately, the FBI was no longer involved. They boxed it all up and filed it away.”

  “Anything else?”

  Wilkinson looked down
at his notes. “He said they thought it was strange that Garrison had confessed to all the murders. They personally found it hard to believe he was the guy. When they brought their concerns to their supervisor, Tully, they were quickly silenced. Soon after, they were transferred. And not by choice, either.”

  “That sucks. At least our fellow agents had the same thoughts as us about Garrison.”

  Wilkinson leaned back in his chair. “He sounded scared, Abby. He didn’t want anyone to know we had spoken. He mentioned they might still be watching him.”

  “Whose they? The Bureau?”

  “No, the City of Detroit.”

  White wasn’t kidding. This was turning out to be huge. “Did he elaborate on that?”

  “I prodded him but got nothing. He mentioned he still had a few friends in town, and he might be able to get names on those two surviving hostages.”

  I looked down at my watch. It was nearing 1:00 p.m. “Let’s see if we can have another conversation with Garrison. He might be the only one who can identify those hostages.”

  As we drove over to the prison, I filled Wilkinson in on my conversation with the lieutenant.

  “Bigger than both of us, John and Jane Doe… He said that?”

  I nodded. “He’s right.”

  “You’re agreeing with him?”

  “Solve the case and everything will be okay. He’s right about that.”

  “Meaning if we catch our current killer, the cover-up won’t matter. It’ll be as if it never happened.” Wilkinson shook his head. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”

  Solve the case and go home, or stick our noses where they don’t belong and end up like Agent Ton. Those seemed to be our options.

  When we reached the prison a half hour later, the guard on duty told us we couldn’t see Garrison. Didn’t matter that we were FBI, or that he was part of an investigation, or that we had just interviewed him not long ago. We must have made enough of a commotion, because Gary Walczak showed up.