I gathered my composure and circled back to Maddy, who had just exited the car. I told her, “While our killer may know computers, he’s just another psychopath who rationalizes assaulting a completely vulnerable woman. The rapist wasn’t Ava, and it damn sure wasn’t Jada. I don’t see any pent-up anger in Kub Kuam Peb, so that brings us to Zeke—the only suspect we have right now who wasn’t handed to us by the killer.”
I scratched an itch behind my ear. Maybe I was hoping to instigate a neural connection in my brain that would set in motion a series of answers.
I asked, “Is this killing about intimacy?”
Maddy considered quietly, “This has been my belief since the beginning. Killing is the only intimacy this killer has in her or his life. This is why we’re getting letters and messages on bodies.”
“This killer has spoken to us directly,” I postulated. “I’m not using a metaphor. I mean actually spoke to us. This killer is too attention-starved to just be watching.”
Maddy stared straight ahead, deep in thought. “I agree. Let’s run through everyone we’ve talked intimately with about the murders. We know it’s not Layla Boyd. She had a solid alibi at the time of Asher’s death. She was on camera at work. The Hartman sisters—Leah and Yesonia—are a long shot, unless that gun was never stolen.”
I interrupted, “Here’s another thought. We know the killer is college educated and he’s made the trip from Minneapolis to St. Cloud on I-94. This corridor connects the two largest colleges in the state, the University of Minnesota Twin Cities campus and St. Cloud State University. Is it too much of a stretch to consider that the killer attended one of these campuses and works in the other city? Where did Zeke graduate from?”
Maddy grinned sardonically, “The University of Minnesota—in Duluth. So he drove I-35 rather than I-94. But we have Kub Kuam Peb at the University of Minnesota Twin Cities Campus.” She said, “Okay, let’s run with this thread. Where did Jada go to college?”
I answered, “The University of Minnesota, Twin Cities Campus.”
“And didn’t she do some free-lance writing for the St. Cloud Times?”
I conceded, “Yes, she did.”
Maddy continued, “And how about Ava?”
“Augsburg.”
Maddy frowned until I told her, “Her dorm sat right on the edge of University of Minnesota campus. She lived closer to Ted Mann Concert Hall than I do.”
She urged me on, “And how about El Epicene?”
“St. Cloud State University.”
Maddy murmured, “Mmmm, interesting. Okay and let’s see who else is associated with this case—Jack Kavanaugh?”
“St. Cloud State University.”
Maddy teased, “How about Opie, that red-headed, Clear Lake cop?”
“Dale went to Central Lakes College, and then Minnesota State University in Mankato.”
“Sean Reynolds?”
“Vermillion Community College in Ely.”
Maddy laughed, “Are you kidding me? He headed to great white north?”
“Sean loves the boundary waters. Then Hamline.”
Maddy considered, “And you went to SCSU too!”
“Yes. Maddy, that leaves you.”
She kept me waiting a moment before sharing, “I went to a college that flows off people’s tongues with pride. When you ask someone about a state college, they always offer an explanation like, ‘It was affordable.’”
“Did I say that?”
Maddy shared with deep pride, “The University of St. Thomas.”
“They say you can always tell a Tommie, but you can’t tell ’em much.”
With a light condescending tone, she whispered, “It’s tell them.”
Kiddingly, I added, “We forgot about Maurice Strock,” our elderly supervisor. “Where did he go to school?”
She laughed, “Stonehenge.”
I suggested, “I think we can dismiss Maurice.”
“Agreed.”
As silly as the exercise seemed, it made it increasingly clear that we were dealing with a small number of people who had inside information on this case. Maybe the answer was closer than it seemed. I became serious and Maddy now listened intently. “Zeke’s somehow connected to this. The killer’s been throwing darts and we’ve been chasing them rather than creating our own leads.”
Maddy wordlessly walked by me toward Zeke’s door, and with a nod, said, “Then let’s do this.”
Zeke answered the door in a worn black, Foo Fighters t-shirt and dingy blue sweatpants. He squinted at us warily, waiting for us to state our business.
There was no point in small talk, so I firmly stated, “Zeke, I need to know what you were doing on the night Alan Volt was killed.”
Zeke was nervous. “I don’t have to answer any of your questions.” His eyes began darting wildly about.
Maddy interjected with a hand up, “Look, Zeke, we’ve known each other for years. Let’s just get this cleared up.”
Zeke stared hard at Maddy, as he realized he didn’t have much choice in the matter. He turned and led us into the entry-way and closed the door behind us. He crossed his pudgy arms, blocking any further entry into his home and said defensively. “I was home. Alone.”
I said, “No alibi?”
“Why are you harassing me? Maybe I should talk to HR. People change jobs all the time. You’ve been giving me crap about my work on this case, when I’ve generated our best leads. Neither of you is doing any better than me, so get off my ass.”
Maddy asked, “You’re switching jobs?”
Zeke’s face tightened, but he didn’t respond.
I was losing patience. “I don’t give a crap about you leaving the BCA. I may leave, myself, when this is done. Do you realize it took over an hour to get ahold of you on the night of the murder?”
Appalled, Zeke opened his mouth to yell, but nothing came out. He looked away and looked back at me again, arguing, “You didn’t need me immediately.”
I pressed, “Give me an alibi for the murder.”
Resigned, Zeke waived us unceremoniously into the living room. We found ourselves standing in front of a large-screened television, paused with the cartoon image of a woman displaying ample cleavage, wearing a red and gold Wonder Woman type of outfit. She had long blades for fingernails and a gold tiara with a green emerald on her forehead.
Maddy laughed and said, “Wow, is she on her way to the Abu Dhabi beach or does she work for the Justice League?”
Zeke was defensive as he explained, “I’m trying to become a professional SMITE player.”
I thought out loud, “Smite means to strike with force.”
Annoyed, Zeke said, “It’s a video game. SMITE stands for Suspected Malicious Insider Threat Elimination. It’s one of the most popular MOBA’s.”
Maddy looked confused, so I shared, “Multi online battle arenas.”
Zeke rolled his eyes and explained, “Look, I have to play six hours a day to hone my skills. You have to be in the top point-one percent to go pro, and I’m just outside of the cut right now. You can win $150,000 for one of these championships. I’m close to having sponsors. SMITE consumes all my free time, so I don’t always stop and answer the phone.”
I told Maddy, “While I’m not familiar with SMITE, I’ve heard the MOBA League of Legends is paying $500,000 for a championship.”
Maddy was equally impressed and incredulous. “That’s crazy.”
Zeke was becoming more energized. “You know who Marcus Samuelsson is, right?”
I nodded, “Yes, top chef. Born in Ethiopia and was adopted by a Scandinavian family. Does charity work in New York City.”
Zeke continued, dropping onto a worn leather recliner, the end table beside it covered with various game controllers and empty energy drink cans. “Marcus talks about there being ten chefs in the world who are a step above even your best chefs. It’s the same in the computer industry. There are guys who are that good. This killer is out of the league of any of our state comp
uter experts. We’re not going to catch him through computer work. I’m sorry—I’ll keep trying, but that’s the reality of it.”
Maddy and I remained standing. Maddy said, “If you were playing SMITE, you should be logged on during the murder. There should be some record of games, right?”
Zeke nodded, “Certainly. It’s not like anybody could just fill in for me. There’s nobody else in the state who plays at my level.”
“You knew what Fafnir referred to, on Asher Perry’s body, and you didn’t say a damn thing.” I asked, “Why didn’t you tell us Fafnir was a SMITE character?”
Zeke looked away, “First you claim my car was there. If I would have told you that,” he hesitated, “I don’t know—someone’s setting me up. As a Muslim, I’m an easy target, so I decided to keep my mouth shut.”
“Your car was in Alan Volt’s neighborhood the night he was killed.”
Zeke offered, “Maybe you read the plate wrong.”
Maddy pointed out, “We have it on video. It’s your car, Zeke.”
Zeke argued, “Well, you’re wrong. My gaming history will prove I was right here.”
I tried to imagine any other possible explanation. I considered, “Do you keep an extra set of keys on your car?”
He nodded, “Yeah, under the driver’s side wheel well. And I always leave it outside …”
21
CULHWCH
12:00 A.M., EARLY THURSDAY, JUNE 22,
RURAL PRINCETON
LIGHTNING BOLTS CUT JAGGED TRAILS through the night sky, while thunder pounds in the distance. A spatter of rain weeps as I cruise through the darkness to the home of Nina Cole and Bo Gere in rural Princeton. Bo Gere’s truck is at work, as planned, so there will be no surprises tonight. The investigative shows don’t bother to show how many times a great serial killer goes out and comes home with nothing. I’ve had eight weeks in a row of people not being home, having guests over, or neighbors barbequing outside too close to the targeted home for me to escape unnoticed. It’s time for me to end this dry spell. Tonight, I selected a house in the middle of nowhere.
I park my car down the road from Bo’s rural weather-battered home. One ragged window had simply been covered with plywood, rather than replaced. When I approach the front door, I find it has already been unlocked, as Nina is expecting Bo home from work in an hour. I toe my shoes off and quietly slip inside. Dirty dishes are piled up on the kitchen counter, and my socks peel off the sticky linoleum as I cross the floor.
I can hear Nina whimpering, softly and repeatedly, “No, Bo,” as I quietly make my way up the steps. I draw my gun. Bo shouldn’t be home yet. I could leave, but I want Nina, so I wait for a minute and then continue my ascent. The second step to the top creaks under my weight, and Nina’s soft cries stop.
She calls, “Bo?”
I realize she must have been dreaming. I grunt in response.
I can hear soft footsteps approaching on the other side of the door. I hastily snug the gun into the back of my pants, pull the rag out of my pocket, and wet it with ether …
I NOW HAVE NINA UNCONSCIOUS AND RESTRAINED, “Bo Gere style,” in bed. With half-inch wide, black leather straps, Bo tethers Nina’s wrists to her ankles while she lies flat on her back, in bed—right wrist to right ankle and left wrist to left ankle. With two additional straps, he then ties each ankle/wrist bind to the frame of the bed, rendering escape impossible. Nina has small breasts and scrawny, chicken-like arms and legs—not the picture she portrays online. There are purplish bruises around her breasts where Bo must have previously tied some type of ligature. By lamplight, I study her and realize she was experiencing an aftereffect of meth use, called “the shoulder.” After the immediate rush, the user slides into a pattern of repetitive phrases or behavior that can last for hours. The ether has silenced her. She’s mine now …
I STILL HAVE AT LEAST TEN MINUTES before Bo’s home, so I turn the bright light on in Nina’s bedroom for a moment then, disgusted by her pale, scabbed body, shut it back off. Nina’s going to die in a matter of months from using.
I wrap my hands around her throat and consider putting her down. Why prolong her agony? I tighten my grip, but I’m embarrassed that Bull (my dad) has taken control. I loosen my hold on her and resume self-control once again. I have to give her a chance to change, like I’ve given the others.
I abandon Nina and find the gun safe stored in a closet. I selected this home because my reconnaissance revealed that Bo has a Taser, a Maxim nine-millimeter pistol with a built-in silencer, and a stockpile of toys I’ll be using in the future. I break into homes because there are guns in the home. The safe requires a key, which Bo must have on him. As I check the clock, I realize Bo has either stopped at a bar, or has a friend he’s spending time with. Where else do you go after midnight in Princeton?
I find some of Bo’s homemade DVDs and put them in the living room DVD player. I cringe as I watch Bo beating a bound Nina with an electric chord. He has two ex-girlfriends who have complained online about how he didn’t stop the S&M, even after the safe word was expressed. Bo will soon have his comeuppance.
They stop serving alcohol at 1:00 a.m., so shortly after 1:00, I walk out into the dark and wait for Bo to pull into the driveway. It’s damp and warm outside, but no longer raining—a calm between the storms. I shut the yard light off. With the cloud cover, I should be able to get very close to Bo’s truck unnoticed.
I could have Nina again, but I don’t think I will. I used a condom, to avoid possibly catching herpes. I’m still angry. Nina Cole was no Ava Mayer. The plus with Nina is the ether worked perfectly, although she was probably too wasted to give the police anything of value, anyway. But Ava’s smart enough to figure things out.
I look forward to making Maddy Moore aware of the suicide cypher that reads, “Maddy like false allegations?” After my freshman year of college, an alumnus came forth with a full-ride scholarship for a student of high potential. I was the top candidate until another candidate suggested I had taken advantage of a high school senior I had been assigned to guide through a tour of the college. I never dated much, so when she gave me her phone number, I called. She was eighteen, and visited me when I was alone in my dorm on a cold winter’s night. For God’s sake, is a work-study freshman really in a position of power over another consenting adult?
A professor later asked her if I made her feel uncomfortable and she said I did, and that was the end of my scholarship. I went back to her and asked her why she said this, and she told me, “It felt a little weird that you asked me to lie still during sex.” I had asked her to lie still because I’m not too big and I wanted it to work. “Not too big” is different than “a small dick,” as Ava Mayer suggested. A bolt only needs to be the size of the nut, so Ava’s comment is more of a criticism of herself. Trust me, Ava will get another lesson, yet.
Tonight I need to remain calm. The best is still yet to come. I’m not running. Before the night’s over, there will be a dead investigator near Princeton, and my work will finally receive the national attention I deserve.
22
JON FREDERICK
3:45 A.M., THURSDAY, JUNE 22,
MINNEAPOLIS
ON EARLY THURSDAY MORNING, I woke to my ringing cell phone. The body of a male had been found three miles south of Clearwater, on Interstate 94, between Minneapolis and St. Cloud. Fortunately, the responding officer had read the memo we sent, stating the BCA was looking for any murder or suicide victims with odd sorts of lines marked on the body, so we were contacted immediately. The man was apparently still dressed, but his shirt was cut, and line markings were observed on the side of his body. I quickly dressed and was waiting outside my apartment when Maddy pulled in to pick me up.
Maddy told me there was a body, but no vehicle this time. She suggested we have officers secure the crime scene and drive directly to the victim’s home. “This guy seems to know exactly how we’re going to respond. He’s smart enough to not use his car to haul the body, so maybe he�
�s on his way back to the victim’s home. The responding officers can secure the scene. My concern is there’s a woman still tied up there.”
I called the officer at the scene, and he pulled the victim’s driver’s license from his pocket. Bo Gere—Princeton address. Maddy’s siren wailed from her midnight-blue Crown Victoria as it cut through the darkness toward Princeton. Maddy handed me her phone, and I gathered what I could from the officer before we ended the call. I had him email me some pictures I could access on my secure work cell phone.
Approximately three miles south of Clearwater, in a dark and unpopulated stretch of Interstate 94, state troopers were standing over a large ape of a man, whose body was carelessly discarded beneath an overpass on the side of the road. Scanning through the pictures sent to my email, I could see his long hair looked oily, and he was covered in tattoos. He appeared to have been pushed out of a vehicle onto his side and had partially rolled onto his back. He wore a red-and-white sleeveless flannel shirt that was blood-soaked from his being shot in the shoulder and twice in the head. The victim had a tattoo of Sons of Anarchy’s “Tig” on his right bicep. In the show, Tig was a biker with a proclivity for bizarre sexual behavior and the use of unwarranted violence. A closer photo showed his shirt had been cut open down the side, and lines were drawn on his skin by what I presumed was a black marker. The black lines gave the following transcription: ////. ///
I forwarded the picture of the markings to Tony Shileto. It was early in the morning, but Tony could very possibly be awake, since he no longer had a schedule. Even if he was sleeping, Tony would be angry if I didn’t send this to him immediately—he lived for this.
This corridor of Interstate 94, from St. Cloud to Minneapolis, was one of the busiest stretches of road in Minnesota, so dropping the body was a gutsy maneuver. The killer took advantage of the fact that 3:30 a.m. was the least busy time of day. Even though he found a window of opportunity to dump the body unnoticed, he was bent on this body being found. State troopers were pulling cars over and searching vehicles on I-94, since the freeway would be the fastest way to escape from the scene.
The I-94 Murders Page 14