But Jada wasn’t finished. “People close to the investigation have compared this case to Jodi Arias.”
Maddy or Zeke had to have leaked that comment. I felt my teeth grinding together in annoyance.
The little self-control Ava harbored dissipated before my eyes. She smugly retorted, “I’m not Jodi Arias! The son of a bitch who killed Alan has a small dick, so that wouldn’t be me …”
And, just like that, Ava had exactly what she was fishing for—an outlandish quote that was sure to be trending on Twitter.
4
JON FREDERICK
5:15 P.M., MONDAY, APRIL 17,
BUREAU OF CRIMINAL APPREHENSION OFFICE IN ST. PAUL
ZEKE ABBAS’S REPORT WAS on my desk by the end of the day. After a search of Ava’s laptop, there was no indication she’d ever accessed Ogham on the internet. Ava was invited to Alan Volt’s home, “if she was willing to submit,” exactly as she had reported. Zeke was able to determine that the message was sent from Alan Volt’s computer. He indicated there were pictures of Ava tied to the bed, which Alan had shared with Ava. I had no desire to view them, and saw no benefit from it, so I headed to Maddy’s office.
Cool and composed, Maddy Moore was sitting back in her office chair in a loose-hanging tunic in blurred greens and blues, similar to a Monet painting. I always wondered what Claude Monet’s paintings would have looked like if he’d have had better glasses. I don’t know that I’d ever seen Maddy in a good mood, but today she wasn’t in a particularly bad mood. I had a feeling she had leaked the Jodi Arias comment to Jada as payback for Ava’s insults. I contemplated the benefits of confronting her.
Maddy interrupted my train of thought by holding up the St. Paul Pioneer Press. “Did you see that crime reporter Jack Kavanaugh’s article?” He had written a critical article about Jada Anderson’s interview with Ava. Maddy started reading, “Was it fair to refer to the killer as a son of a bitch? After all, do we know the killer’s mother is a dog or inconsiderate and insensitive? And as for the small-penis comment, would we, as responsible and sensitive deliverers of news, allow a comment on the breast size of a female suspect? Shouldn’t we be more careful at a time when our citizens are reminded, daily, of the evils of objectification or demeaning others due to their physical attributes—or lack thereof ?”
Maddy handed the paper to me. I perused the article and replied, “Jack Kavanaugh and Jada Anderson have taken shots at each other for years, but they still occasionally have a drink together.” I set the paper aside.
Maddy stretched her arms up straight, then linked her fingers and settled her clasped hands at the back of her neck. She said, “Ava shows no restraint. I honestly don’t believe her ‘micro-shaft man’ even exists. I didn’t find any other murder victims with similar cuts in their bodies, by the way. We’re not looking for a serial killer—just a woman who is very clever at deception. She wiped the security key pad on the door clean of prints, to leave reasonable doubt of someone else’s presence.”
I perched awkwardly on the edge of the chair and defended my instincts. “I saw Ava’s reaction to the scene, Maddy. There is no doubt in my mind she was assaulted. If it was Ava, why wouldn’t she simply say she was chloroformed, rather than burning herself with a chemical that works like chloroform?”
Maddy sat forward and grabbed a pen off the table top. She balanced it on the tips of her fingers, slowly rolling it as she spoke. “I don’t doubt something happened she didn’t consent to. But Ava’s vain. I think after he took the cuffs off her, she got even. The chemical burn was her coupe de grace. It allowed her to not account for her time, and it convinced you she’s a victim.” She handed me a report. “The ether wasn’t from an ethanol plant.”
I had already seen the report. “It makes me nervous as hell to think how easily it’s made. A chemical used to start cars in the winter combined with a chemical you can buy at any hardware store. We have to sit on this. I absolutely don’t want this information out there.”
Maddy nodded in agreement. “Do you think this guy’s a mechanic?”
“I don’t know—maybe. Ava did say he smelled like oil, but I took her to an automotive garage Saturday morning and she said it was more industrial. It may be this killer watches a lot of investigative television. In 1980, Robert Bruce was known as ‘Ether Man’ for raping women using this chemical compound. I’m afraid this guy is just getting started. He used a minimal amount this time, which allowed Ava to come back to consciousness.”
I moved on to the next piece of evidence. “The bullet was from a Colt 45. Neither Alan Volt, nor the Mayers, owns a Colt 45, but there are a lot of these weapons reported as stolen.”
California and Connecticut have comprehensive ballistic identification systems. They require gun manufacturers to test-fire the firearms and then store images of the ballistic markings. They are saved in a data base, so law enforcement can later determine whether a particular gun fired a particular cartridge. Unfortunately, Minnesota doesn’t have a similar data system.
Maddy scratched her scalp with the closed end of the pen. “We have no way of knowing what else was on that table, Jon. Remember, Ava took a full day before you were contacted. Did you feel the pressure on those nipple clamps?” She shuddered, and protectively crossed her arms over her breasts. “They must have hurt like hell! What the hell is wrong with people that they need to torture someone in order to enjoy sex?”
She probably didn’t intend for me to answer, but I did. “You commented earlier that Ava shows no restraint. Is it possible, because her lack of self-control, she enjoys sex more if someone restrains her?”
Maddy apparently didn’t have a similar obsessive brain, as she simply looked blankly at me.
5
JADA ANDERSON
7:30 P.M., MONDAY, APRIL 17,
ELEMENTS MASSAGE IN EDEN PRAIRIE
EL EPICINE AND I LEANED against my car, waiting for Ava to exit from her massage appointment. During our interview yesterday, Ava let it slip that she has a reoccurring massage here on Monday nights. They gave a soothing massage at Elements, and I could’ve used one right then. The muscles in my neck were tight, and I had a tension headache boring into my eyes.
I told El we should try not to look so obvious tonight, so I wore a faded maroon Gophers hoodie and jeans. El, on the other hand, showed up in what appeared to be a new army camouflage uniform, complete with hat, making El the first person anyone would notice loitering outside a massage parlor. The uniform fit wasn’t particularly flattering, either. It accented El’s belly, as this was the one area it was snug.
I shared with El, “You know how I got Jon Frederick to take this case? I plugged in his toaster.”
El smoothed her reddish bangs beneath the hat and looked at me like I was talking gibberish. “What?”
“We used to date, and it bugged him that I always left the toaster plugged in. So, I stopped over and, for a joke, I plugged in his toaster. He thought someone broke in, and it was somehow related to this case, so he hopped on board.”
El laughed, “And you never told him otherwise. I like it.” El considered, “He didn’t go back and look at the apartment footage? It seems like Jon would do that.”
“Oh, I’m sure he did. But I had to park behind the apartment building, and there was a young couple moving furniture through the loading bay, so instead of walking all the way around to the front, I entered there. I hadn’t thought twice about it at the time.” I chuckled for El’s benefit, but my insides clenched at my deceit. I wish I would have just told him what I’d done. It was intended as a joke.
Jon and I had once been the toast of the Twin Cities, which I attributed to his being a handsome and compassionate factotum investigator. It didn’t hurt that I was a reporter for “the most watched news station.” Our work required long and unpredictable hours. We’d crash at each other’s places anytime, day or night. I loved knowing there was always someone there, and I was always welcome. We only broke up because Jon wanted a family
, and I had too much to accomplish before I could even consider motherhood.
Now Jon had a child, as he has always desired, and was single again. So, on a night I was feeling lonely and vulnerable, and maybe had one glass of wine too many, I wrote him a letter professing my feelings and mailed it. I realized, a day later, it was too soon. I still had his apartment key, so I went to his building to intercept the letter before he got it. I didn’t even realize I’d left his extra set of car keys on the counter when I took them off the hook to get his mail key. I plugged in the toaster, with the intention of returning the apartment key fob when he called me on it.
I asked El, “Have you ever done something you wish you could take back?”
El’s body jerked with a one-syllable chuckle through her nose. “Are you kidding me? Look at me. I do something I regret every damn day.”
I lowered my tone confiding in El, even though we were alone. “I took an unopened letter from the mother of Jon’s child.” I didn’t share that I took it out of his mailbox. If I said that part out loud, it’d make what I’d done more real.
El raised an eyebrow with interest, “What did you do with it?”
“It’s in my glove box. I’m afraid if I return it, Jon will shut me out and we won’t get any more information about this case. I have an in with him, because he respects me and he’s single and lonesome. But I don’t feel like destroying her letter, either.”
El marched to my black Ford Torino and snatched the letter from the glove compartment. Before I had a chance to object, she tore it open and read the letter aloud with a contemptuous sneer that disrespected the intended message:
Dear Jon,
People don’t understand Posttraumatic Disorder. I would lie in bed at night afraid if I relaxed, someone would kill me, which left me exhausted and irritable all the time. Loving you isn’t the issue, so if I don’t say it, please understand. I’m just trying to function. I lie awake, trying to sleep, knowing sleep will only bring nightmares. When you would leave for work in the morning, I’d be so exhausted I was a disservice to our poor little Nora. I need help. I thought I was doing better, and then creepy pictures and messages started appearing on my laptop. I swore I saw flashing pictures of the man who assaulted me.
Then Mark 5:15 appeared. It’s a verse that speaks of Jesus challenging evil spirits. The spirits entered a heard of swine and they ran violently into the sea where they choked to death. I got so freaked out I threw my laptop away, fearing it was possessed. It was so crazy. Now, I’m not even sure if any of it was real. I’m in therapy now, lying low, and I feel like I’m recovering.
I’m sorry, but right now I don’t see myself returning in the near future. I’m not sure if it’s your apartment, or your work, or… I can’t even say it. I’m just so, so sorry.
Love, Serena
El callously remarked, “Sucks to be her.”
I added, “Sucks to be Jon. I should just—” I tried to think of the right way to say this to El. Man up? Woman up? Person up? Instead, I went with, “Return it.”
El took out a cigarette lighter, flicked it, and set the letter on fire. As we watched it burn, she dropped it to the dirt and ground it into ashes with too-shiny, wannabe combat boots. She spat on it, and with a theatrical bow, proclaimed, “Message deleted.”
It didn’t feel right, but I hadn’t stopped El. I told myself a burned letter was a small price to pay for Jon getting involved in this case. The Mayers never asked for Jon. I was the one who convinced them Jon Frederick was the very best, and if they wanted their daughter safe, he would be the only one who could guarantee it. I needed Jon to work the case, as he would give me an exposé of the events I needed to take my career to the next level. As if I needed more justification, Jon was also obviously depressed, and I honestly believed the case would pull him out of his funk.
AVA MAYER EXITED ELEMENTS MASSAGE in her beloved white parka and, after a quick glance toward El, sauntered overconfidently toward her Infrared Lexus. If Ava didn’t approach us, I was just going to let her be tonight. If she was innocent, as Jon suggested, I felt badly for spotlighting her on the news.
El commented, “Ava has the trashy nymph look down to a tee, but she’s like a Marvel comics gal, while you’re an Emma Amos painting.”
I had to smile, “I appreciate that you know who Emma Amos is, but don’t make this weird.”
I liked El, but I needed comments like that to stop. “I’m going to give you a lesson in boundaries, because you obviously need one. Now, if you have a romantic interest in someone, but they don’t feel the same, and you want to keep working with them, you don’t tell them—capisce? Trust me on that one.”
I watched a familiar black Honda Accord pull up, and dryly told El, “I care for you as a friend, El, and I like working with you, but I won’t if you keep making comments about how I look.”
El watched me as I spoke, but I wasn’t sure if any of my words were registering. Before there was any opportunity to respond, our attention was diverted to the Honda.
Jack Kavanaugh stepped out of his car and planted himself in front of Ava’s driver’s side door, just as she was reaching for the door handle. Jack was a tough and aggressive reporter. His nose had been broken at one time, and now rested on his face in an S shape, typically indicating poor health coverage and misguided healing. His skin was pale from long days indoors, writing for the St. Paul Pioneer Press. His thick, short blond hair looked like a small mat with a zigzag edge had been placed on top of his head. Even though Jack was cocky, I’d seen him go out of his way to help others. He and I often competed to be the first to cover a news story, and we’d meet with our cohorts at the Town Hall Brewery to commiserate on our efforts every couple weeks. I had no doubt in my mind he intended to steal this story out from under me.
Jack wore a royal-blue, down jacket and an all-knowing smirk as he told Ava, “I’ve only got a couple of questions for you.” He held his hands in the air, “No recorder, no paper, no pen.”
As El and I watched the exchange from across the parking lot, he pointed offhandedly in our direction with his thumb, “Not like your friends, there.”
Ava glanced our way, and then, to my amusement, growled at Jack, “Get out of my way, jerk off.”
Jack held up a business card as he suggested, “Call me. I’ve only one question—is there any possibility your attacker could have been a woman? Maybe a finger instead of a small penis? You said you didn’t see the person.”
Ava contemplated and then quietly told him, “He did have boobs.”
I was shocked by Ava’s response.
She looked at me and her voice increased in volume, “And he was wearing woman’s perfume. I know someone who wears that same perfume.”
Jack recaptured Ava’s attention by taking her hand and folding it around his card. He repeated, “Call me.” He then looked our way, “Maybe you’re confused because it wasn’t a man or a woman. Maybe it was an El.” He shook with laughter at his own joke.
El made a move in his direction, yelling, “Go to hell!” I caught the canvas sleeve of the new uniform and looked hard at El. I received a look of frustration and compliance, and El stopped the charge in Jack’s direction.
When Jack stepped back, Ava pulled open her car door and dropped into her seat. After she had shut the door, she held his gaze defiantly as she hit the lock buttons, then fired up the engine and tore out of the parking lot.
The three of us stood in the empty lot. With a condescending glance my way, Jack said, “You just need to ask the right questions.” Jack retreated from us, by back-stepping toward his car as he told El, “I was just kidding—lighten up! You’re the one who doesn’t want to be defined by gender.”
I called after him, “How did you know Ava would be here?”
With his arrogant grin, he retorted, “Well, I followed you, of course.”
I was upset at myself for not being more careful. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
6
JON
FREDERICK
10:15 A.M., WEDNESDAY, APRIL 19,
BUREAU OF CRIMINAL APPREHENSION IN ST. PAUL
THIS MORNING, MAURICE STROCK demanded I report to him. Had he heard about my work for the Mayers? I couldn’t afford to lose my job. I’d been sending Serena money to support my daughter out of every paycheck, and it hadn’t left me much on which to survive. Still, I wasn’t going to lie to him.
Maurice was a white-haired man, who was always clad in a gray suit. The drab gray was punctuated today by a royal-blue tie. He had beady eyes behind wire-framed glasses, which rested on a pointed nose, giving him possum-like features. In his grating, nasally voice, Maurice read me an article from this morning’s St. Paul Pioneer Press. Jack Kavanaugh’s front page story implied that Alan Volt’s killer was female. Ava had apparently told Jack during a phone interview, last night, that she had come to associate the scent during her assault with a specific person. She insinuated that, because that person works for law enforcement, she was uncomfortable saying anything more about it to investigators.
Maurice wanted me to question Maddy Moore in the interview room, while he observed behind the mirrored glass. He wanted to know how Maddy knew where to find Alan Volt’s body, when the homicide hadn’t yet been called in.
When I entered the interview room, Maddy was seated in a crisp white blouse and black slacks. She was a powder keg of angry energy. Her lips thinned menacingly. “Are you kidding me?”
I carefully explained, “I didn’t ask for this, Maddy.”
Maddy leapt to her feet and shouted, “That crazy bitch makes an accusation, and I get called into the interview room for questioning! I suspect a woman of killing Alan Volt, too. I suspect Ava Mayer!” Maddy started to pace, her hands flexing and opening in rhythm with her steps.
It was all I could do not to look away when I asked, “How did you get to the scene of Alan Volt’s body so quickly?”
The I-94 Murders Page 5