Barry Friedman - Dead End

by Barry Friedman

  Sussman rocked back in his chair. “You know, there are two things that puzzle me.”

  Maharos sat back down.

  “Most serial killers commit their murders at random. They may have some pattern in selecting their victims, like erasing all the prostitutes in the world, or homosexuals, or taking out the population of priests. But for the most part they have no specific individuals in mind. They’ll take anyone who fits their particular specialty. You’ve found a connection between at least two of the victims, right?”

  “Uh-huh, a hardware salesman in Canton and a guy from Talmadge who’s a clothing salesman. He’s also a gambler.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if you found that your killer knew all his victims. What I’m saying is that these may not be random killings.”

  “What’s the other thing that puzzles you?”

  “You can account for murders on the seventh of each month except February, right.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s not likely that he would miss one month. Someone with a compulsion like your killer is on some kind of mission: holy, satanic, sexual, who knows. He’s got to account for the seventh of every month until he fulfills whatever his end is.”

  “You think we’ve missed one?”

  Sussman nodded. “I think you’ve overlooked February’s member of your Murder-Of-The-Month Club.”

  Again Maharos started to get up. Sussman went on. “One other thing. I’m going to stick my neck out and make a prediction. The next one is going to be the culmination of whatever this character’s mission happens to be. It seems to me that he may have been building up to the next one—which, incidentally, may be the last.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “July seventh. Seven-slash-seven. Seventh day, seventh month.”

  NINETEEN

  “Call Stark County Sheriff’s Office,” the message on Maharos’ desk read. He found it when he returned, following his conference with Dr. Sussman.

  He phoned Vandergrift. “What’s up?”

  She sounded excited. “I think we’ve got our February connection.”

  For a moment the meaning escaped him. Suddenly, it registered. “You’ve filled in the February homicide?”

  “Can you meet me here. We’ll have to go down to Parkersburg and check it out.”

  “West Virginia?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, it occurred to me that we had been looking only at the Ohio homicides that fit the M.O. On a hunch, I got a computer run of the homicides under investigation by county sheriff’s offices in the other states through which Interstate 77 passes. I found that a guy named—“ He heard the rustle of papers. “—Abelson was killed in what appeared to be a traffic accident just off State Route 68, just a few miles from I 77 near Parkersburg. West Virginia. At first, it looked like a routine one-car accident. The car was found burning in a ravine, the investigating sheriff thought it had gone out of control and crashed. There were two badly burned bodies in the wreckage.”

  “Two?”

  “Uh-huh. Abelson and a married woman—not his wife. When the coroner autopsied the bodies, he found that they had both been shot before they burned. The man had been shot twice in the back. The woman was shot in the head.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “February seventh.”

  On the way to Parkersburg early the next morning, he filled her in on his meeting with Dr. Sussman. When he had finished, she said, “So the psychologist thinks July seventh will be the Big One. Wonder what that means.”

  “Who knows. Every homicide is a big one to the victim. You don’t get much deader whether you die in May or in July.”

  “What about his idea that the killer is on some kind of mission?”

  “That’s his theory. We won’t know until—or unless—we figure out if all these victims have some connection,” said Maharos.

  Maharos and Vandergrift had not been together since the night she had prepared dinner for them in her condo. The wine and candlelight had been prelude to what they both knew would happen. By dessert time, they were two consenting adults tearing off their clothes and falling on the bed. They had spoken on the phone several times since, but it had been all business. Now, driving down to West Virginia in the unmarked detective’s car they both carefully avoided any mention of that evening until they had gotten the discussion of their investigation out of the way.

  For several minutes, while Maharos drove along the freeway, they both fell silent. Then, as though on signal, they started speaking together.

  They laughed. Vandergrift said, “You first.”

  Maharos said, “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for years, as I did last Monday. I’m looking forward to Saturday. I want you to meet Annie.”

  “I feel the same way about Monday evening.” She smiled.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Anyone listening to us would think we’re a couple of adolescents talking about our date last Saturday night.”

  He nodded. “It isn’t easy being work-mates and playmates at the same time. First time for me.”

  “Me too. That’s one reason I never dated any of the deputy sheriffs I work with. Somehow with you it seemed, well, different. After all, it’s not as though we’re in the same department. I mean this is really a temporary arrangement—you and me as partners.”

  Maharos grinned. “And here I thought my love-making had impressed you. Oh well, I guess I’m just good for a one-night stand.”

  She punched his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

  They crossed the bridge over the Ohio River at Marietta, and a few miles below the West Virginia border reached Parkersburg.

  In the Wood County Sheriff’s Office the deputy who was on duty at the reception desk told them that the sheriff was out. However, he had left word that they were to be taken to Deputy Sheriff Aaron Lincoln who was in charge of investigating the Abelson case.

  Lincoln was a tall black man with a build like a wide receiver. The copper-colored, football-shaped trophy engraved “MVP” on the bookcase behind his desk, was a reliable clue to his having been a pretty good one. He followed Maharos’ gaze to the trophy. “That’s from last year’s Copper Bowl game. We won.”

  “Copper Bowl?”

  “The cops against the sheriffs. We play every year.”

  Vandergrift said, “Cutsie name, Copper Bowl.”

  Lincoln smiled. “Nothin’ cutsie about the way we play it.”

  Maharos looked at the man’s biceps bulging at the edges of his short-sleeved uniform shirt and could believe it.

  “What can you tell us about the Abelson case?”

  Lincoln read from a thick manila folder lying on his desk.

  “Theodore Abelson, 43, Caucasian, resided in Lubeck, that’s a couple of miles south of here. Divorced. Abelson worked as a salesman for Halliday Ford. He had been in this area about three years. Moved here from Canton where his ex-wife still lives. She’s re-married.”

  At his mention of Canton, Maharos and Vandergrift looked at each other.

  “Frances Salter, nee McGuire, 40, Caucasian. Resided at 833 North Chelsea, Parkersburg. Married. Worked as secretary-bookkeeper at Halliday Ford for nine years. Husband Charles Salter, unemployed. Worked as driver for PTS, that’s Parkersburg’s local bus line, until terminated for DWI on 20 December. Present whereabouts unknown. Last seen in Parkersburg on 1 February. Is currently subject of APB, wanted for questioning in homicides of Abelson and Mrs. Salter.”

  Maharos interrupted. “Was he reported missing before his wife was killed?”

  “No.” He went on. “At 11:10 p.m., 7 February, a motorist on State Route 68, two miles west of I 77, near Vienna, observed flames in a ravine fifty yards from the highway. He stopped and, looking down, saw a car on fire. Neither the driver or any other person was in the vicinity. He assumed that there were people in the car but because of the fire, he was unable to get close enough to render aid.
He drove to a farmhouse one mile from the scene, roused the occupant and phoned the Wood County Sheriff’s office. A deputy in Vienna responded at 12:08 a.m., extinguished the remaining fire and, removed the bodies of a man and woman, later identified as Abelson and Salter.”

  Lincoln took from the folder a small packet of papers stapled together. “Here’s the medical examiner’s report. It’s got a lot of big words I can’t pronounce so you’d better read it for yourself, if you’re interested.”

  Maharos placed the report on the edge of Lincoln’s desk and he and Vandergrift pulled their chairs up close so they could read it together. Polaroid photographs mounted on pages in the report depicted the bodies, most of the skin burned black. Fragments of charred clothing hung off the corpses. Another group of pictures had been taken after the burned clothing had been removed, and segments of skin that had been protected by clothing stood out as stark white in contrast to the blackened portions.

  They shuffled rapidly through the pictures until they came to the pages on which were mounted close-ups of the gunshot wounds. The woman had been shot once, through the back of the head at the base of the skull. Her head had not been burned in the car fire, and a dark circlet surrounding the bullet entry site represented powder burns indicating that she had been shot at very close range. The bullet had exited through a ragged hole in the right cheek.

  When they came to the close-up of Abelson’s gunshot wounds, Maharos and Vandergrift huddled closely, their heads touching.

  The photos showed the characteristic two entry sites: one over the base of the neck, the other between the shoulder blades. The signature wounds.

  One additional photo showed an exit wound in Abelson’s neck.

  Maharos said, “Did you recover the bullets?”

  Lincoln said, “Yeah. The pathologist got one from Abelson’s body that had not exited. I think it was in his breastbone. We recovered another in the car wreckage. We’re not sure which of the bodies it passed through.”

  Vandergrift said, “There were two exit wounds, so one bullet is missing.”

  “Right. We went through what was left of the car but couldn’t locate it.”

  Maharos said, “What about the ballistics?”

  Lincoln shuffled through the papers in the folder and pulled out a report from West Virginia State Crime Laboratory. It described the deformed bullet fragments and their markings. They had been shot from a .25 caliber gun, probably a Beretta.

  Vandergrift said, “First time he’s used a Beretta, isn’t it?”

  Maharos said, “Yeah.” He turned to Lincoln. “No match on the ballistics?”

  Lincoln shook his head. He looked from Maharos to Vandergrift. Puzzled. “How come you’re interested in this case, and what did you mean, ‘First time he’s used a Beretta.’?”

  Maharos said, “Didn’t your chief tell you? I explained it to him when I phoned down last night. We’ve got a couple of homicides in Ohio with M.O.s that fit these—at least Abelson’s.”

  Lincoln said, “Nobody told me nothin’ about that. Sheriff Smith was already gone when I came on watch. He just left word that you’d be here and that you wanted to go over the file. Nothin’ about why. What do you mean, ‘a couple of homicides’? You think Salter’s runnin’ around the countryside shootin’ up others besides his wife and her friend?”

  “We don’t think it was Salter,” said Vandergrift.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “We don’t know who it is, but I doubt if it’s the husband. Abelson was probably the target. She just got in the way.”

  Lincoln looked at Maharos for confirmation and got a nod.

  Maharos and Vandergrift went over the file, but there was little else of interest to them. Abelson had no family or close friends in Parkersburg. He was living in a house he had rented shortly after arriving from Canton three years before. He had no police record, his credit rating was unblemished.

  They asked Lincoln for photocopies of the file and waited while they were made.

  On their way back to Canton they made plans to look up Abelson’s ex-wife, find out if she had any knowledge of a relationship between Abelson and the other victims.

  “Sussman was right. He predicted there would be a February victim,” said Maharos.

  “Actually, we’ve got a bonus,” said Vandergrift.

  “Bonus?”

  “Uh-huh. The woman. If Sussman is right about the killer aiming for seven victims, he’s already met his quota.”

  “Well, only Abelson had the signature. I think you put your finger on it when you told Lincoln that Abelson was the target. Mrs. Salter happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.”

  Vandergrift said, “You know, there’s one thing that’s puzzled me. We haven’t really discussed it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “All of these murders have taken place on country roads. We’ve assumed that the killer somehow gets into the victim’s car and has him drive to where he kills them. He leaves the body in the car. How do you figure this guy gets back?”

  Maharos said, “That’s bothered me, too. One way would be to have an accomplice who follows the car with the victim and the killer. After the job is done, they ride back to town.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t buy that. Serial killers are loners. I can’t imagine this one being different.”

  “I don’t think much of that idea either. Of course, he could always get on the road and hitchhike, but these killings have all taken place at night and I can’t imagine anyone stopping on the freeway in the dark to pick up a stranger, can you?”

  “No. How about this: the killer parks his car at a predetermined place, off the side of the country road where he had decided he’s going to take his victim. He does it in daylight then hitches a ride back to where he’s going to pick up the victim that night.”

  “That’s a possibility, but it’s still taking a chance he would get picked up by a sheriff or highway patrol officer for hitchhiking on the freeway.”

  Vandergrift laughed. “Reminds me of the riddle where this farmer has a fox, a chicken and a bag of grain. He wants to take them across a river in his canoe.”

  Maharos said, “Yeah, I remember. He only has room for one of the items at a time, besides himself, in his canoe. He can’t leave the fox alone with the chicken because it will eat it. If he leaves the chicken alone with the grain, you know what will happen to the grain. The puzzle is: how to get all the items over to the other bank. Did you ever figure it out?”

  “Sure. The farmer bought a bigger boat.”

  Maharos said, “No, no, no. You missed the whole point. The farmer eats the chicken, plants the grain and brings home a fox stole for his wife.

  “Of course. How could I be so stupid!”

  They rode in silence for several miles, gazing at the green fields on either side of them. It was approaching late afternoon and dark clouds appeared in the western horizon over some low hills. A few flashes of lightning reflected against the darkening sky, and gusts of wind bowed the tops of trees that bordered the freeway.

  Maharos said, “We’re going to catch it in about an hour. Maybe we should think about stopping for dinner. Let it blow over.”

  What he was really thinking was that they hole up for the night in a motel along the way.

  Vandergrift smiled as though she had similar thoughts. She placed her hand on his arm. “Wish we could, Al. But I caught late watch tonight. I’m afraid I have to be back early.”

  Disappointed, he drove on. By the time they reached the outskirts of Canton, large drops spattered the windshield. He dropped her off at the entrance to Sheriff’s Headquarters with sheets of rain slanting down around them. He declined her invitation to come in and wait until the worst of it was over, preferring to drive on back to Youngstown.

  TWENTY

  Lieutenant Ed Bragg stopped chewing on his hamburger long enough to register a frown. “Whatta ya’ mean ‘It was her idea.’ You runnin’ the show or what?”


  “Look, Ed. This is a joint venture between us and the Stark County Sheriff’s Office. No one has a monopoly on coming up with ideas to follow. I suppose if it came to making a policy decision, my seniority would outweigh hers. As it turned out, she came up with the idea of checking the other states for homicides with the same M.O., and it paid off.”

  Bragg grunted. “Listen. I don’t know how much longer I’m gonna be able to hold off the media. Gayle Whats-Her-Name from Channel Eight’s been pushin’ me for a public statement. They know somethin’s goin’ on. Can’t we throw ‘em a bone to chomp on?”

  Maharos shook his head slowly. “Christ, Ed. Anything we say now will just open the tap and maybe wash this whole investigation down the sewer. We’re really close. I can feel it. What’s today, Thursday? July 2nd? Just stall for another week. Maybe we can wrap this whole thing up by then.” Maharos glanced at his watch. “Did you want me for anything else?”

  Bragg glowered at him for a moment. “Runnin’ off to Canton, right?”

  “Uh-huh. We’ve got an appointment to question the ex-wife of Abelson, the guy who was killed in Parkersburg.”

  Bragg was getting ready to explode. “You’re goin’ back to Parkersburg?”

  “No. She lives in Canton.”

  Bragg waved him out and swiveled to gaze out the window.

  Maharos and Vandergrift walked up the steps of the small red brick two-story house on Orchard Street in Canton. The name over the doorbell read “G. Swenson.”

  The woman who came to the door was a hefty blonde who looked about forty. She wore a loose-fitting sweatshirt with hand-painted, sequined doodles covering most of its front, and white shorts. Maharos flipped his shield case open. Vandergrift was in her tan uniform, gun belt on her hips.

  “Mrs. Swenson? We’re the ones that called about—.“

  The blonde said, “Yeah. Come on in.”

  She followed behind the pair and gestured to the small living room. The officers sat on a sofa facing Mrs. Swenson.