Maddy began filling me in on her recent discoveries. “Ava’s previous guy, Jacob, told me he just couldn’t take the drama anymore with her. They dated for two years. Jacob left when she became obsessed with the Fifty Shades of Grey books. He didn’t want to act out a book—he wanted a real relationship.”
Maddy was fit and exuded intensity, even in casual attire. I would never say this to her, but I’d been considering how aspects of hers and Ava’s lives were similar. Both had long-term lovers, followed by poor relationship choices and public humiliation. And they hated each other. I think Sigmund Freud would call this projection. The similarities got me thinking about Maddy’s comment of having a slight burn on her lips after leaving the Town Hall Brewery. Could this guy be stalking a certain personality type online?
Maddy caught me looking at her and asked, “What?”
“Ava has a hell of a time keeping her mouth shut. Still, she’s never made a reference to the cutting on Alan’s body. She’s never even questioned if there was any additional evidence on the body that would suggest she wasn’t the killer.” I paused for effect, “I don’t think she’s aware of it.”
Maddy silently tapped her pen on compressed lips as she considered this. “She certainly puts on a good act.”
I wanted to ask, How do innocent people act? but, not wanting to argue, I handed Maddy the cypher. “The message is, ‘There will be thirteen dead.’”
Maddy wrinkled her forehead as she looked at the letter. “How did you come up with that?”
“There are thirteen letters between every significant letter.” I settled beside her and cleared a space on her desktop for the note, then took the pen out of her fidgety hands. I read through the cypher aloud, and and traced over every significant letter:
Time to educate the ignorant seekers of fantasy, through actual life experience, and with serious action. I have sat by pleading for men playing God to probably come to understanding that 1 in of maybe only 3 million really desire being loved by someone who accept personal derision. / Culhwch
Maddy sat back, marveling. She asked, “Why thirteen?”
“I have a theory.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Maybe the killer wanted me on this case. Jada publicly announced my fascination with numbers in the last case she covered of mine. He sent the letter to Jada, because most people think Jada and I are still together.”
Unable to sit still, I pushed my chair back and got to my feet. I began to pace as I continued, “This might be a stretch—stay with me, here. My first case involved the investigation of Mandy Baker’s murder. Thirteen is a baker’s dozen. I don’t believe her murder is related, but it might be his way of challenging me.”
I stopped pacing and plopped on the chair alongside her desk. “Or, it might be my own self-centeredness convincing me that the universe rotates around me. But there is one thing I am sure of.” Her pen still in my hand, I held it up like the number one, “I am in dire need of a decent night’s sleep. I haven’t slept well for months.” I sighed noisily and slouched in the wooden chair.
Maddy reached over and reclaimed her pen from my grip. She resumed tapping it against her lips, then pointed it toward me while changing the subject. “You filed a ballistic report on the bullet that killed Alan in both Connecticut and California?”
“I did.” It was a long shot, but still a shot.
Maddy smiled triumphantly, “Well, you are one lucky man. The report was on my desk when we got back from Khan’s. Maurice must’ve stopped in and left it here. The murder weapon was purchased in California by one Maria Fernandez. She brought it with her when she moved to Buckman, Minnesota, where she married Luke Hartman. The Colt 45 was stolen from their home in 2015—nothing else was taken. It had a silencer. Maria said she used it when she worked as a farm laborer. Why would someone who worked on a farm need a silencer?”
“If you’re working on a family farm, the owner might request you use a silencer so the children aren’t cognizant of every time you put an animal down.”
Maddy’s expression softened briefly as she considered this, revealing the compassion she made great efforts to keep in check. “I’m sorry for not calling you, but I thought you weren’t working this afternoon.” She handed me a report off her desk. “After the report came in, I drove to Buckman and met with Maria and her daughters, Leah and Yesonia. They’re both sweet girls. Leah is an absolute knockout. Her younger sister, Yesonia, is a nervous character, but overall, the Hartmans were salt of the earth, kind and humble people. “
This was a big break. We know where the killer got the gun, which is something the killer didn’t realize. I felt energized, and was once again on my feet, bouncing with electricity. I paged through the report and asked, “Was anyone assaulted when the gun was taken?”
“No. The family members claimed they hadn’t used it for months, so no one really knows when it disappeared …”
12:45 P.M., SATURDAY APRIL 22, MINNEAPOLIS
I RESTLESSLY LAY IN BED CONSIDERING exactly what we had regarding Alan Volt’s murder. I finally had to grab a notebook and start writing to make sense of my swirling thoughts. I wrote furiously until sated, then reviewed my notes.
Alan’s killer was:
An unidentified male
An unidentified female
An unidentified transgendered person
Ava Mayer
Maddy Moore
I was leaning toward number one, although it is important to note that transgendered was not a category in past studies. For example, Epicene would have been listed as male, because El was biologically male. If this person was a serial killer, as the killer suggested, I needed to consider the following statistics:
94% of serial killers are male. This percentage has continued to increase since the inception of the serial killer database in 1900—when 74% of serial killers were male;
There were four times as many male serial killers in 2010 as compared to 1900;
There were only half as many female serial killers in 2010, as compared to 1900.
It was important to understand this wasn’t the worst of times. Even though men were killing more than women, more than ever, there were seven times as many killers (both male and female) in 1980 as there were in 2010.
Another reason I believed the killer was male was that the killer wore Alan’s shoes. Even though he tried to implicate Ava by having her drive a car with the victim in it, and implicate Maddy by using her perfume and inviting her to the site of the body, the killer put on Alan’s shoes, a size considerably larger than either Maddy or Ava would wear.
The killer enjoyed this entire ordeal too much to be uncomfortable. I needed to find a camera from any of the neighboring homes that would suggest two cars drove away from Alan Volt’s home that night. These details wormed their way into my brain in the middle of the night, and made sleep difficult.
8
CULHWCH
4:30 P.M., SATURDAY, APRIL 22, CLEAR LAKE
FROM I-94, I CUT THROUGH CLEAR LAKE, across Highway 10, past the Thirsty Buffalo Saloon on Commercial Drive, and found my turnoff. Layla Boyd and Asher Perry have a Lifestyle modular home built on a slab just east of Clear Lake.
I guess if your last name was Boyd, you almost have to name your daughter Layla, being that Eric Clapton wrote the song, Layla, about George Harrison’s wife, Patti Boyd. Most people don’t know Clapton actually based the song on a seventh-century Arabian love story, in which a young man fell hopelessly in love with a woman named Layla—a woman he wasn’t allowed to marry. Clapton eventually had Patti Boyd, as I will have Layla tonight. Layla is no Patti Boyd, or even an Ava Mayer. Her long, golden blonde hair is parted down the middle and hangs limply about her shoulders, as if she doesn’t fuss with it, and her build is average. But there’s a warmth in her hazel eyes and petite facial features that pull it all together to make her appealing. Layla’s work shift at GLM Displays will be ending at 5:00 p.m.
Asher Perry promised to be home
a little after 4:00 p.m. to make dinner. Who the hell names their kid Asher Perry? The name means “happy pear tree.” Asher’s a scrawny character with a thin face and boney nose. I type in the security code, which I’ve pulled out of a file on Asher’s computer (containing all of their passwords), and enter the home. Same modus operandi—wait for Asher to come home, walk him to the trunk and wait for my date with Layla. Asher ties Layla with a standard three-eighths-inch braided, nylon rope. I wonder what the folks at Brigg’s Lake True Value would say if they knew that bookworm Asher was purchasing the nylon rope for kinky sex. Sometimes I wonder if I should kill someone in the act of bondage sex to deliver a message. I don’t kill women, though. I could tie Asher to the bed when he gets home, put a bag over his head and suffocate him. When Layla comes home I could ether her, and lay her in bed with him. In 2008, Rebecca Bargy was charged with Reckless Homicide after killing her husband accidently during bondage sex, so there is precedent for this. But, stick to the plan. It worked perfect with Ava Mayer. I want the same experience with Layla.
I wander about the kitchen, not sure what I think about the combination of chestnut brown cupboards and a whitewashed Elm floor. I open the cupboard to find basic white Corelle ware. I hear a labored breath only a few feet behind me. Shit! I have allowed myself to get too relaxed.
When I turn around, Asher Harper is standing there in a white robe, his eyes vacant. Without thinking twice, I pull the gun from the back of my jeans and fire. I didn’t intend to, but I manage to hit the middle of his book-spine of a forehead, dead to rights. Asher drops like a tipped milk can and lies there on the Elm floor, white trash on white wash, with one leg unnaturally crossed over the other.
Asher hadn’t made a sound. I was waiting to hear him pull in the driveway. “What the hell, Asher?”
The way he had been struggling to focus on me, Asher had to be under the influence of something. I rush into the bedroom and there’s an open bottle of Oxy—the prescription made to Gustov Boyd, date of birth, 07/21/1934. I return to the lifeless body on the kitchen floor with no plan. I don’t like looking at dead bodies, so I place a dishtowel over his face.
Okay, I just have to wait until Layla comes home, have my fun, and then I’ll drag Asher’s body out when it’s dark. Fortunately, the combination of the noise suppressor on my gun and the rural location of this home made the gunshot unremarkable. I think a man deserves an explanation first, but he didn’t really give me that option. At least he didn’t suffer.
I got shot in second grade, and it hurt like a son of a bitch. I wasn’t the intended target. Mom and I lived in a crime-ridden area of St. Paul called “Frogtown” at the time. I was on my way home from school when I heard gunshots, and then it felt like a red hot rebar rod was pushed through my shoulder. When I came to consciousness, my mom was holding me in the back seat of a car while one of her psychopath boyfriends was racing us to the hospital. As cruel as mom’s partners were, they were cool in a crisis. Looking back, they lived in crisis all the time, so it likely didn’t cause them much anxiety. As a result of the injury, I was never able to play high school sports.
I get out the black marker I took from Alan Volt’s home to make lines on Asher’s torso. I had cut on Alan’s body, but after seeing the marker, I liked the idea of drawing on a body better. I don’t like messes, and prefer not to touch dead bodies. I had committed to cutting when I arrived at Alan’s home, and I don’t like to change a plan on location. Deviating from a carefully calculated plan can result in unforeseen errors. After thorough deliberation, I write on Asher’s body as planned: 111.111 11111…../////
Where the hell are you, Layla? It’s after 5:00 p.m. I need to find Asher’s phone and text her. I carefully pat his lifeless body and locate it in his bathrobe pocket.
I text: “Layla, where are you?”
She texts back: “Where do you think? I told you I’m not coming home until you can pass a drug test in front of me. You stole my grandpa’s Oxy, you shit. I know it was you.”
Son of a bitch! There was no indication of this online. Okay, how do I get her here?
I text: “I’m done. It’s too late to get into treatment today, but I promise to on Monday. Let’s get the ropes out. If you’re willing to submit, this will be the best ever.” That worked with Ava.
Layla responds: “I’m done with the games. I want a real relationship with a man who’s emotionally present.”
That’s good. But if I can manipulate Layla to come here, she still deserves a hard lesson.
I text: “If you don’t come, I’ll kill myself.”
The threat of suicide would always get my mom to come back. I picture Layla sitting in her car, parked on the side of the road, tears streaming down, tormented over her decision. I remember sitting next to my mom saying, “Don’t go back,” but she always did.
Layla texts back: “Serious? Please wait.”
I don’t respond. I don’t have to. She’s coming. But just in case, I prepare for the worst-case scenario. I bend down and place my gun in Asher’s hand and fire a shot into the ceiling. Now Asher has gun residue on his hand. If Layla doesn’t show, I’ll have to leave my gun, but it’s worth it to rid the world of one more slime ball. I begin working on a suicide note.
Maybe someday, had I had the bloody courage to address my demons, you wouldn’t deal with this mess. I’m sorry. I would kill myself to set you free love, from my life as I act it. Every childish thing was so painful. It is evident now, had Asher been very committed to acceptance of his unfortunate costly obsession, associated wastefully with drinking, opiates, one night abstinances and sin. Is death better?
Asher
I look at the clock. Over an hour has elapsed and she’s still not here.
I text: “Please come now. I fired a shot into the ceiling. The next one will go into my head.”
Layla: “Where did you get the gun?”
I respond: “Stole it. Years ago.”
Layla: “I’ll be right there.”
I have to smile over how well I am handling this. I remove the tower from Asher’s computer, and place it on the bottom rack of their dishwasher. I then find Asher’s iPad and put it on the top rack. I go to Asher and remove the now blood-soaked dishtowel from his face and toss it there as well. I find an unopened gallon of bleach in the laundry room and empty it over the electronics and towel.
I select the heavy duty load, hot, with presoak, and start the machine. When Layla sees Asher’s hard drive is destroyed, she’ll assume he simply didn’t want her to know how frequently he was accessing porn. As I start the wash, I laugh aloud, “Good luck trying to retrace my access to his computer now!”
My dad would be proud—except for the fact that I’m getting rid of slime balls like him. Actually, come to think of it, he’d be proud of that, too—slime balls don’t like other slime balls. I find Asher’s bondage ropes in a plastic container under the bed and tie them to the posts so they’re ready for use when Layla arrives. When I glance out the window, I see a car kicking up dust on the gravel road, and I can’t contain my grin—until I realize it’s not Layla. It’s a squad car. I burst out the back door and sprint to the woods behind Layla’s home. Fortunately, the house is between me and the approaching car, so my exit can’t be seen.
Aided by shadows from the setting sun, I pass unnoticed through the thick brush. I’m able to see back to the house as I journey toward my hidden car. The police officer now exits the home, and hurries back to his squad car … a red Toyota Camry is dusting up the gravel road toward the home. That has to be Layla. Asher’s being addressed as a suicide. I’m relieved, but not completely satisfied. I’m not sure why. The goal is to eliminate slime balls and give women a lesson that will make them abandon abusive men. Layla made the right choice. I handled the situation perfectly. I should be happy.
9
JON FREDERICK
9:00 A.M., MONDAY, APRIL 24, ST. PAUL
ON MONDAY MORNING, I FINALLY received some good news for Ava. Ther
e was a male’s DNA on the mattress that did not belong to Alan Volt. A search was conducted through CODIS (Combined DNA Index System) to see if this man had previously been incarcerated, but no match was found. CODIS is a national DNA system where you can compare DNA at a crime scene to the DNA of individuals who have been arrested for felonies across the United States. The problem with the system is that some states were months behind in storing data, and some crimes didn’t warrant DNA testing.
Maurice Strock warned me the DNA might be unrelated, as it could have come from another male who had simply been in the bed a different time. But Alan Volt was obsessive like me, and I would have washed the bedding after a friend stayed over. I needed to find a way to utilize this evidence.
Tony Shileto managed to find security camera footage that showed the headlights of two cars pulling out of Alan Volt’s driveway the night he was killed, which supported Ava’s story. Unfortunately, it was dark, and the footage was from so far away it gave no information as to the type of vehicle. Still, it was good news. Tony had now taken on the task of reviewing all of the neighborhood tapes to see if he could find me a gray Chevy.
4:45 P.M., MONDAY, APRIL 24, MINNEAPOLIS
MADDY ASKED IF I WOULD HIT BASEBALLS with her son, Miles, after work, at an indoor batting cage in Minneapolis called Game Changers. Her ex had asked if Miles could stay with her tonight, as he and his new wife were celebrating their six-month anniversary. Maddy wasn’t feeling well but was afraid if she declined, he would look to someone else to take Miles when the need arose.
Miles was a typical, awkward and thin eleven-year-old boy—but not a bad baseball player. He just needed to turn his hips when he struck the ball so he could drive it with power. After a couple hours of hitting, we picked Maddy up and the three of us stopped at Cecil’s Deli in St. Paul to enjoy a bowl of hearty chicken soup, with perfectly textured dumplings—not too dense, but not too fluffy. After observing Maddy’s red nose, the waitress proclaimed their chicken soup had healing qualities and stated with a wink, “It’s Jewish penicillin.”
The I-94 Murders Page 7