by C. M. Sutter
“You want to reach me one of those girlie magazines too?”
The clerk turned to the wall behind her, where the adult magazines were kept. Brown kraft paper wrapped the magazines so only the titles were exposed. The cover photographs were well hidden.
“Any one in particular?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.” He waited for her to ring up the total then swiped his card. He scribbled an illegible name on the digital receipt, took his bagged goods, and walked to the exit. On his way out, Keith slipped the letter into the mail slot.
He pulled up to gas pump number twelve, filled the tank, and swiped his card again. By the time all the bills poured in at the end of the month, he’d likely be gone for good—and untraceable. He’d have to spend some time figuring out how to make that happen.
Once on the interstate, he continued north. After two more stops, only for dropping off letters, he would still get home by nine o’clock. A letter drop in the Chicagoland area and one in Milwaukee would take care of things for a few days. He’d have to wait until the mail was delivered. The recipients would get their bad news that week, and the first letter would likely reach its intended victim by tomorrow. Keith would be ready and waiting.
Chapter 8
The clock’s hour hand had just reached nine, and our Monday morning meeting was complete. It included a few laughs about yesterday’s party and how Horbeck ended up as the designated driver for Jamison, who had consumed way too many beers. We were all pleased with the football game’s results, though—the Packers beat the Falcons, 28 to 9.
I returned to my desk in the bull pen and plopped down. I stared at my to-do stack as it leaned dangerously to the right and looked ready to topple over. My week would involve catching up on reports, witness follow-ups, and reviewing victim impact statements. I was scheduled to testify in court on several cases too.
We’d had an intense October at our sheriff’s office in Washburn County. Earlier in the month, a drunk wrong-way driver in a jacked-up truck took out three cars on the freeway, killing three people and seriously injuring one more. A prominent local attorney and his wife were pronounced dead at the scene, along with an elderly woman in the second car. The third vehicle’s victim was finally released from the hospital two weeks ago. As usual, the drunk driver wasn’t seriously injured. We attended both funerals for the deceased a week later. Mid-month, we dealt with a hostage situation that lasted thirty-six hours until the assailant finally gave himself up. He was the ex-husband of the woman he’d held at gunpoint in her home. She was badly beaten, and the man was sitting in the county lockup—upstairs in our building—awaiting his sentence. A few drug busts and B and E arrests finished up our October. Now, as we entered a new month, the criminals hadn’t yet come out of the woodwork. Maybe I’d get some paperwork done.
We sat at our desks and, inch by inch, reduced the size of our workload until Jack’s phone rang. The four of us groaned and watched through our boss’s glass office wall. Most calls that went directly to him meant somebody wasn’t going to catch up on their work. Kate, Clayton, Billings, or I would be heading out the door as soon as he hung up the phone. Sometimes it was all of us.
Jack placed his phone on the base, and I looked around the bull pen. I randomly pointed at Billings. “You’re heading out, dude.”
“Why me?”
“Why not?” I took a sip of coffee and watched as Jack pushed back his chair and stood. “Here he comes. Might as well put your stuff away, and you can probably forget about lunch today too.” I clasped my fingers behind my head and grinned as Jack opened his door.
“Amber, you’re up.”
I gave him a frown and turned to see Billings laughing into his fist.
“But, boss, my desk has the largest stack of paperwork.”
“No problem. Give it to Billings.”
I happily stood and carried a five-inch pile of papers that I dropped off on Adam’s desk. I whispered as I cupped my hand toward him. “Funny how karma works, huh?”
Jack leaned against the doorframe then tipped his head toward me. “Come in my office, and I’ll update you.” He looked at Kate. “You’re going too.”
“What?” She reluctantly pushed back her chair and followed me into the office.
Jack closed the door behind us then pointed at the guest chairs. He took his seat behind the desk. “You two will be perfect for this investigation.”
I dreaded the words about to come out of his mouth. Since we were still considered rookie detectives, we were usually assigned to something a patrol deputy could handle. I wanted something that would make my heart pound, not a shoplifting interview with the thief in the back room of the Dollar Central Store. Yet that was something that normally required only one detective.
I leaned forward in my chair. “What do you have for us, boss? Something good, I hope.”
Jack smiled. “Yeah, I know. You’re both chomping at the bit and ready to spread your wings. Here’s what we have. The sheriff’s department has received a number of complaints about bad odors coming from Friends for Life.”
I looked at Kate, feeling somewhat let down. “You mean that privately owned pet store and kennel on the outskirts of town? I have noticed a stinky smell when I’ve driven by the place. I assumed it was feces that hadn’t been buried, right?”
“Not entirely. There may be more than meets the eye. Volunteers from the Humane Society have made several trips to the facility, posing as potential buyers. The local chapter believes there are illegal activities going on behind closed doors.”
“Such as?”
“First, the place is unsanitary, and some of the animals look underfed. They believe the facility is more of a puppy mill than a legitimate, clean-cut business. They also believe the vet certificates given to buyers are forged and many of the dogs aren’t purebreds as claimed.”
“That’s all?”
“No. They also think that odor is from dead dogs, not feces.”
I shook my head in disgust. “You know we’re both pet lovers, sir.”
“I do, and that’s why I chose you two. You’ll get to the bottom of this. The Humane Society believes the pet store is a front for illegal dog fighting. Drone surveillance has uncovered several outbuildings toward the back of their seventy-five-acre property. It isn’t anything that can be seen from the road or the store. I want you to check out the pets, especially the breeds most people associate with dog fighting.”
“The pit bulls?”
“Primarily. See if they look injured, skittish, or particularly aggressive. See how many there are. Many people are afraid to buy that type of dog, but if they’re breeding them to fight, there may be many more than what would be considered normal for a pet store. There could be a back room that most customers don’t have access to for all we know. Snoop and snoop good.”
“Why not get a warrant and shut them down?”
“We will as soon as we have proof of wrongdoing. Dog fighting is a felony and makes many low-life criminals more money than drug trafficking does.”
Kate spoke up. “I had no idea it was that big of a thing.”
“It’s huge and surprisingly has grown even larger since the Vick days. I want baseball cap cameras on both of you. This will be an ongoing investigation. Start out as interested buyers, go back a few times, insinuate a few things, and see if they add to the conversation. Check their temperature. I want those buildings looked at, but it has to be under the cover of darkness. We’ll figure that out later in the week.” He checked the notes he had scribbled on the sheet of paper on his desk. “The man who owns the place is named Bob Shoal.”
I tipped my head toward Jack’s computer. “Pull up Bird’s Eye View and see if there’s another way in.”
“I have, and there are two adjoining properties that back up to the property in question. One is Cross Creek County Park, and the other is privately owned. The park would be our best way in, but a wide stream separates both properties from Friends for Life.”<
br />
I huffed. “What’s a little water to wade through?”
Kate raised her brows. “In thirty-degree temperature? Speak for yourself.”
I swatted away her comment. “We’ll wear hip boots over our shoes. No big deal. That’s what they’re for.”
“One step at a time, Amber. Let’s check them out first, then we’ll proceed from there.”
“Sure thing.” I stood. “Do you want us to head out now?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan. Stop in and have a friendly conversation with the owner. In the beginning, act like you’re on the fence about buying a dog. Take your time and keep your eyes peeled. Play against each other. One wants a dog, and the other doesn’t.”
“Yeah, we get it. Let’s go.” Kate and I left Jack’s office and headed out. I stopped by Adam’s desk. “It’s a good one. You should have volunteered.”
Chapter 9
Keith had conducted thorough internet research on Dr. Leslie McDonald, forensic psychiatrist. She had been one of the key players who swayed the court in Kevin’s conviction. In her professional opinion and after several interviews with Kevin, she deemed him capable and responsible of committing the murders. He was mentally challenged but not insane. In her words, Kevin knew what he was doing and should be held responsible.
At the time of the conviction, Keith put the doctor somewhere in her late fifties.
She must be retired by now.
He made a call to the post office as soon as it opened. He asked about the carrier’s route and when he normally reached Hawk’s Nest, the exclusive residential community near Big Cedar Lake. He had a special gift he wanted to present to him. The counter clerk asked him to wait one moment. Keith doodled on the piece of paper while listening to silence. A minute later, the clerk returned to the phone.
“It looks like John usually arrives in that area around ten o’clock. He starts at the end of his route and works his way back to town.”
“Perfect. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for him.” Keith clicked off the call and checked the time. It was ten minutes after nine. The distance to the doctor’s home from the farm, according to Google Maps, was six miles. He entered her address in the GPS app on his phone, grabbed the binoculars in case he needed them, and left the farm. He had one more thing to do before heading west.
The doctor lived in that upscale subdivision between Big Cedar Lake and the country club. According to the map, the country club and golf course were to the east of those exclusive homes and the lake to the west. Keith realized there was only one way into her neighborhood and the same way out. Rockridge Circle was primarily a big loop with no other streets shooting off it.
Going unnoticed could be tricky.
He tapped the bird’s-eye view tab and spread the screen with his fingers to check other options. The country club’s bar and grill entrance and parking lot were located on one side of the fifteenth hole, and the doctor’s backyard, along with several others, was on the opposite side. The large lots had plenty of open space between them, and by sitting in the bar’s parking lot, he’d have a great view of the street in front of the houses. He would see the mailman pass by, and he’d also see if Dr. McDonald left the home. Her garage, situated at the end of a curved driveway, was positioned at the side of the house.
Keith drove to that spot and parked facing the golf course. On the other side of the fairway, only sixty yards away, was the doctor’s backyard. He made himself comfortable and checked the time—9:53.
Several cars drove past the doctor’s home, but so far, all was quiet at 4833 Rockridge Circle. He stared beyond her house, several homes to the right. The mailman would be coming up the street soon. With the mailbox at the foot of the driveway, he’d see her when the old woman came out to retrieve her mail.
A white vehicle coming in caught his eye. Keith peered to the right, four houses down, and saw the USPS logo on the Jeep’s side door.
Ah, here he comes.
Keith watched through the binoculars as the mail truck stopped at every curbside mailbox until it finally reached the home of Leslie McDonald. Keith saw the mailman shuffle through envelopes and magazines before pulling open the mailbox door. He stopped, closed the lid, and struck up a conversation with his arm outstretched. A woman appeared and took the letters from the carrier. Their conversation lasted several minutes while Keith looked closely at her face. He adjusted the focus of the binoculars to the best setting.
That’s definitely the bitch. Eleven years older and more worn looking, but it’s her.
Minutes passed, then she turned with the stack of mail in her right hand and walked up the driveway. She made a left at the sidewalk, and Keith lost sight of her.
I’ll give her another few minutes. Most people open their mail as soon as they walk into their house.
He held his position until he saw the mailman’s Jeep come back into view on the opposite side of the street. Keith needed him out of the neighborhood before he made his move. Ten minutes later, with the coast clear, he shifted into reverse, turned the car around, and left the parking lot. He had a two-mile drive to the subdivision, and he’d be able to see if the mail carrier had left Hawk’s Nest for good that day. He’d have to pass Keith on his way out.
Keith cut in and out of the shadows on the winding road. With the fall sun lower in the sky, its rays bounced off the trees and created images on the asphalt. He veered off the main road at the stacked stone pillars. The words Hawk’s Nest and Private Road were engraved on a large boulder at the entrance to Rockridge Circle. Keith turned the wheel slightly to the right and entered the exclusive community. The mail carrier, busy at the moment, dropped letters into the last box on Keith’s right.
Good. He’ll be gone in a minute, and he never looked this way. It’s time to pay the old bag a visit. I’ll do a quick loop then park out of her line of sight from the front door.
Keith made a slow, deliberate pass of her house. Four windows faced the street. A covered front porch would help hide him in the shadows. He craned his neck left and right, checking out the other homes on the block. Some had their curtains drawn, and some, with the drapes open, gave an appearance of darkness inside. He didn’t see any lights on. Cars were either tucked neatly in the garages, or the homeowner wasn’t there. He’d have to make do the best he could. Keith followed the curve at the street’s end and headed toward the McDonald home. He parked in front of a house with a For Sale sign in the yard. The drapes were closed.
This is the best option I have. I’ll walk the two houses over to hers.
With one more glance both ways, he grabbed his prop and exited the car. He noticed the lockbox on the doorknob as he passed the house for sale. He was sure nobody lived there anymore. With his head down, he quickened his pace and walked up the doctor’s driveway, turned left onto the brick-paved sidewalk, and took one step up to the porch. He looked back before ringing the doorbell—the neighborhood was quiet. With the bouquet of flowers hiding most of his face, Keith pressed the bell and waited. Seconds later, he heard footsteps approach the door. He watched the knob as it turned to his right, then the door opened.
“A delivery for Leslie McDonald.”
“Oh my word, who would have sent me flowers?”
“Sorry, ma’am, there isn’t a card.”
“Well, that’s odd. One moment, please. I’d like to give you a tip.” She turned her back, which was a grave mistake.
Keith stepped into the foyer. “I’d like to give you a tip too, Leslie.”
“Excuse me?” She turned with an expression that quickly changed from happiness to fear when she saw him directly behind her. “What are—”
“Shut up and never turn your back on a stranger. There. That’s my tip of the day.” Keith threw the bouquet to the floor.
She stared as rose petals scattered across the tile. With his fist cocked, Keith slammed her in the nose and knocked her backward, and she fell over the side chair. Blood ran from her right nostril and dripped over her upper lip. Stunne
d, Leslie tried to get up, but he punched her again, this time to the left jaw. She lay moaning on the floor.
Keith took a quick assessment of the living room. “Nope, this won’t work.” He grabbed her wrists and dragged her down the hall. He kicked each bedroom door open until he came to the master. “This has to be yours.”
Keith flipped her on her stomach and pulled her arms behind her back. She began to struggle. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the gloves and a length of twine. With the gloves on, he tied her hands and legs together and knotted the restraints. Leslie began to scream, but with another punch to the side of the head, she went quiet.
After he opened her closet, he began removing long-sleeved blouses. One by one, he tossed them on the bed as he slid each hanger to the left. He stopped, looked from one side of the room to the other, then chose the bathroom door. Keith counted the blouses—he needed more. Six more blouses ended up on the bed before he stopped tossing them.
He knotted the first one tightly around the inside doorknob of the master bath. He continued, tying each blouse to the next one by its sleeve. He gave each knot an extra hard tug to make sure the blouses wouldn’t come apart. He flung the blouses over the door and let them drape to the bedroom side then continued on. He stopped when he had a length of blouses that reached the bed.
Keith grabbed more twine, doubled it, and tied Leslie’s legs to the bed frame. Her lower half was secure. He wrapped the blouses around her neck, trying to envision how Kevin had strangled himself, then tossed the rest of them over to the bathroom side. He scooted her against the door, and she began to moan. Keith went into the bathroom and began to pull the blouses. He felt the weight of her body rise against the door then stop. Her legs, secured to the bed, couldn’t move any farther. That was the sweet spot. Now, all he had to do was pull and wait for the noose, tied together with sleeves, to choke the life out of her.