A Cincinnati Cold Case

by R. W. Nichols

  Dale and Jimmy shook hands, appraising each other.

  Dale said, “She went missing a long time ago. Why the sudden interest now?”

  “I’m working for Edward Hilton, Janet’s father. The case has gone cold and he’s hoping I can stir it up.”

  “Are you having any luck?” Dale asked.

  “I’m doing what I can. I have a few leads.”

  “Why are you questioning my wife? She had nothing to do with it.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t. I was hoping that Mason had hinted at one time or another where he might run. That maybe your wife knows more than she thinks.”

  “He never said a word to me about leaving,” Donna cut in. “When the detective told me Grant planned on leaving the state, I was shocked. He never said one word about that to me. In fact, he told me he was divorcing his wife and kicking her out of their home and we’d move in so as to have more room for the baby. As I said before, his leaving was a total shock.”

  There was a whimper from the bedroom.

  “Excuse me.” Donna stood and began walking toward the sound, letting out a sigh. So much for that precious half hour. She hadn’t even had time to put her feet up and enjoy a cup of coffee.

  “If that’s all, I’d like you to leave now, Mr. Warren. My wife has told you everything she knows.” Dale urged Jimmy to his feet and shooed him toward the door, as the whimper turned into a full-fledged bawl. Georgie was now awake and wanted to be out where the action was.

  “You can call us if there’s anything else. As you can see, my wife is a little busy at the moment. Call and we’ll schedule an appointment. If you think it’s truly necessary.”

  ***

  On his way to the car, Jimmy thought over the abrupt way he’d been dismissed. It was apparent that Dale Bradbury didn’t like him, or he didn’t like P.I.s, one or the other. He wasn’t favorable to his wife being questioned that was for sure. Jimmy thought it wise that he’d taken a chance and dropped in rather than calling for an appointment. If he’d had to go through Bradbury, he would never have been allowed to speak to her.

  The man did seem overly defensive. Was he just being protective of his family? Or was there more to it? And that comment from Donna about Mason kicking his wife out and keeping the house for himself, that was new. Didn’t sound like a man ready to run. If there were something more to Mason’s disappearance, say he’d been murdered and wasn’t enjoying a beach in Mexico; then Bradbury would have a motive. If Mason were dead, there would be a long list of suspects. A man like him had a lot of enemies. Considering this made Jimmy remember that at the top of the list was usually the spouse. Startled with the way his thoughts were going, he almost drove past his own apartment. As he carried the bags inside, he allowed the wheels of his mind to continue to turn, his supper momentarily forgotten.

  He hadn’t suspected Izzy of being guilty of anything before this. Funny that. First thing he’d been taught as a cop was to always suspect the wife, or husband, first. He wondered why he hadn’t. Probably because Mason was considered a sure bet to be working on his tan and sipping a margarita. Now Jimmy wondered if this assumption were true. It was almost impossible for him to think of Izzy as a suspect. In fact, he felt stupid even considering it, but he knew better than to let his personal feelings get in the way of an investigation. So, why was he?

  His thoughts turned again to Bradbury, who had just as good a motive. His wife had been running with Mason. And she’d gotten pregnant by him. Jimmy had seen how much he cared, how protective he was. He hadn’t witnessed the man’s interaction with the baby boy, but Mrs. Bradbury hadn’t shown a sign of there being a conflict. Had Bradbury murdered Mason and disposed of the body? He was supposed to be in Florida at the time. But it would have been easy to hop in a car and drive back, do what he needed to, and hurry back south before Mason was even missed. Yes, it was possible. To Jimmy, that was a much more comfortable train of thought.

  Now that he was seriously thinking along these lines, he wondered just how long a suspect list there would be for Mason’s possible murder. Probably pretty lengthy. The man had a reputation as a ladies’ man. There would be husbands, boyfriends, and jilted girlfriends listed, along with his abused wife.

  And maybe it was something else altogether. Maybe somebody just plain didn’t like him. Jimmy remembered that he hadn’t. The one time he’d met him, right after the Hilton girl disappeared, he hadn’t been impressed. The man was an egotistical, ornery ass. If he were indeed dead, there would not be a long line of mourners. That was for sure. Except for his grandparents, there didn’t seem to be anyone that missed him.

  Why hadn’t this angle been pursued? Actually, it might have. Jimmy remembered that he’d left town the year after Janet Hilton’s disappearance, after the second prostitute had been found murdered. In the four years he’d been gone Lewinski could have tracked this potential twist and ruled it out. Jimmy didn’t know for sure, but resigned himself to the fact that he would have to follow up on it.

  Of course, there was another side to the coin. Det. Paul Lewinski had gotten a lot of recognition for solving the Bathtub Girls’ murders. It was a shining moment for the young detective. He might not have wanted to lessen this fame by implying that part of the case remained open. If the murderer had himself been murdered, the case was more complicated. There could even be accomplices. Oh, boy. Another can of worms. Jimmy pondered on this as he refrigerated the milk and eggs, leaving the bread on the table to have ready. There had been no evidence of a second killer. After considering it carefully, going over everything he knew about the case, Jimmy ruled a second killer out. Most hookers knew not to go with two men willingly. He doubted especially that those two dead women would have. They were young, but both were experienced. There had been no evidence that had gone any way but willingly.

  This brought him back to Lewinski and the man’s understandable inclination to have the Bathtub Girls’ murders closed. Even with Mason still missing, the prostitute murders were, for all extents and purposes, a settled case, if not closed. Jimmy thoughts remained focused, weighing the possibilities, as he slid the brisket into the slow cooker. He didn’t have any earth-shattering epitomes as he added the spices that smelled so great, making his mouth water, nor any as he checked his phone for messages.

  Mason may have been murdered; he may not. The only thing he was certain of was that he would have to tread lightly. He didn’t want to further antagonize Det. Paul Lewinski. He needed his help now more than ever.

  Chapter 18

  Paul was enjoying the breakfast buffet when he heard the first report of a hooker being murdered in the city’s red light district. Several detectives at the next table were hashing it over, joyously spreading a rumor – as if it was gospel – they’d only just heard. A murder in somebody else’s town was always more enthralling than one that dirtied up your own.

  Back in his room, Paul had attentively watched the early morning news, but there hadn’t been anything said about the pretty black hooker. He’d channel surfed to no avail. Although not exactly expecting word to get out so quickly, he wasn’t surprised to hear about it in the dining area downstairs. Word traveled fast through the law enforcement grapevine. And a conference made up of cops was a regular jungle.

  “The woman was found naked in the shower, strangled,” a slim young man with thick glasses said. “The witness was no help. He wasn’t able to do a police sketch. He said he couldn’t see the perp’s face because it was too dark. You know some of those cheap motels. They have hardly any lighting in their lots. Stupid. I think it would only help business if the patrons felt safer.”

  Witness? What witness? Paul felt his throat tighten making it difficult to breathe.

  The other detectives at the table nodded, agreeing with the young man. “They make it so difficult,” one of them said, a woman with gray, thinning hair. “I wish we could shut th
ose dives down.”

  “Human nature, Rhonda,” the man to her right said. “You’re not going to change it. There’ll always be somebody operating on the fringe. Nothing we can do.”

  “What’s the matter, Paul?” Michael asked. He was seated across the otherwise empty table from Paul, his plate full. “You getting sick?” Michael stared at him, concern on his face.

  “The sausage is hitting me wrong. I wouldn’t eat it if I were you.” Paul thumped the center of his chest with his fist. Straighten up. Not a time to look suspicious.

  “I’ve already eaten four. I don’t think it’s the sausage. I think you had too much to drink last night. Where’d you go? After Amber left I knocked on your door, but you weren’t there. Did you go back to the bar? Didn’t want to drink with me? You know drinking alone isn’t good for you.” Michael grinned. He seemed to think it perfectly acceptable to tie one on that late at night. Paul felt nervous cramps begin in his belly.

  “No, I was there. I sleep pretty sound.”

  Michael looked skeptical, but didn’t pursue it. He showed him a sausage on his fork before jamming it whole into his mouth and groaning in exaggerated delight.

  “Asshole,” Paul said, looking away, back at the other table. Another detective was speaking.

  “Yeah, they said the witness and his wife are leaving town tomorrow. There was nothing they could tell the investigating officers, other than the man who did it was tall, dark haired, and wore a checkered jacket. Probably from some thrift store.”

  Paul repressed a grin. He actually had picked the jacket up at a thrift store, but it wasn’t going to return to one. It would be disposed of it where it would never be found, buried in a hole off some back road, on a trail he was comfortable with; one that got very little foot traffic. He knew several that would fit the bill.

  Michael also had been paying attention to the talk at the next table. He glanced at Paul with a suspicious expression on his face before saying, “You’re dark haired and certainly tall. I can see you wearing a checkered jacket.” He thought he was being funny.

  Paul heard roaring in his ears. Michael was pushing his buttons, and doing it well. He fought hard to compose himself. It was time to stop the foolishness before it got out of hand.

  A few seconds passed as he curbed his temper in and then he said, “Cut it out. I don’t feel like putting up with your shit this morning.”

  Michael looked at him in amazement. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Just watch it. We’re detectives, not children. It’s our job to catch murderers. Not play stupid games.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was such a problem,” Michael said in a hurt tone. He was offended and didn’t understand what the big deal was.

  Neither spoke for several minutes.

  Talk at the other table continued. Mostly it was about the morning’s classes and the breakfast they were enjoying. After a time, someone again brought up the murder of the prostitute of the night before.

  “They said she was posed.”

  Paul almost choked on his mouthful of cold eggs.

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard, too. She was positioned to face the bathroom door. The officers on the scene said it was creepy the way her eyes found theirs. Just weird, you know. I don’t think this was an isolated event. I think he’s done it before. My money’s on a serial killer.”

  Why had he felt the need to pose her?

  Some of the others nodded, some appeared skeptical. Serial killers aren’t common, no matter how popular they are in the movies.

  “I’ll catch you later,” Michael said huffily, picking up his tray. He was leaving and Paul knew they wouldn’t be sitting together during class. Michael was too mad. For Paul that was no problem. After what he’d just heard, he preferred to be alone. There was a lot to think about.

  He’d known better than to position the woman. That was one of the things stressed in yesterday’s class, how repeat killers left their own personal marks. He hadn’t given it a thought that posing was one of his. He hadn’t really thought he had a signature. But of course he did. At the time he had been more concerned with taking the right souvenir and cleaning the room and body than what remained behind. How very, very stupid of him. And to think he’d been proud because she wasn’t white.

  It was funny, too, that he hadn’t even been aware of doing it. He remembered her leg falling to the side and that he’d repositioned it. He’d braced her in the corner against the walls and her feet at the shower lip to hold her there, so that her head…. So that her head faced the door.

  He had posed her. He’d wanted her eyes riveted to the door… Like the others.

  When he’d been in the Air Force, stationed in Louisiana, he’d read about a prostitute murdered and left lying in a creek bed. He’d bought every newspaper that mentioned the murder. He still had those clippings. It had excited him so much that he had done the same thing a few months later. So, basically, he himself was a copycat killer. A police sergeant – a detective no less – and a copycat killer. This thought teased out a slight smile, and he relaxed the clenched muscles in the hand gripping the fork. Calmer now, he placed his silverware and napkin on his tray, ready to carry to the tray caddy, still smiling. The thought had been amusing. It was just too funny.

  What he remembered the most about the articles were those staring eyes caught in a photo that some photographer snapped when no one was looking and then sold to a thrill magazine. They were always there, staring at him for months afterwards. He couldn’t eat, work, or sleep without them hovering, just on the fringe of his vision, calling to him. When he’d happened upon a prostitute alone with no one around to remember whom she’d left with, he couldn’t resist. That one had been a hurried affair; his second was better. He’d taken his time. This murder was more carefully planned, and he’d enjoyed it immensely. He felt no guilt about the woman’s death; didn’t care whether she had a family or if blue was her favorite color. She’d known the dangers involved in the career she’d chosen. If she didn’t, she should have.

  He’d played his little game with one more hooker before he left the service, for a total of three that year. But he’d also paid just for sex sometimes, leaving them alive and wanting more. He knew this also - he was good in bed. Any of those women were lucky to get his attentions. As for the murders, he’d evolved and perfected his control. He knew what pleasures he most wanted. And the climax was watching their eyes for that perfect moment. And, afterward, posing the bodies so others could enjoy the women’s lovely stares. Hopefully they enjoyed it as much as he did.

  In the years since, he’d been careful not to indulge too often. It made it even better when he finally did allow himself the pleasure. And he had been busy, working hard to make rank and detective. Also, he was a little older, a little wiser. Although he had enjoyed the sport twice in Cincinnati, he had gone to Dayton for a third. But that had been a disappointment. The girl had pulled a gun. He didn’t know yet if she was going to cause trouble, but after this long didn’t believe it. She had remained quiet, mostly. Daisy was her name, or that was the name she gave Cpl. Jason Adel when she came in to report the attack. But she’d chickened out and fled, without waiting for a sit down with the sketch artist. Apparently she’d changed her mind. And she hadn’t come back. It was fortunate that he’d been on a conference call and they hadn’t run into each other. That could have been a real mess. He had been lucky that day. That was partly why he had kept his urges at bay for such a long time since. And that was why he had felt it vital to give up two of his souvenirs and to frame Mason. Until now he’d thought that time and his sacrifice had been enough.

  But now he’d made another mistake and was feeling the stress. It was putting a real damper on the exhilarated mood he’d enjoyed since waking from the mere three hours of sleep he’d had. This posing of his was a real probl
em. What if somebody connected this murder to the others? And how was he going to be able to enjoy his little rodeos if he couldn’t trust himself not to make amateur mistakes? He had a signature and he had left it. And it was easily something that the right profiler could read. How was he going to change? If indeed he wanted to. Or if he even could?

  Everyone was leaving the room, heading for their first class. Paul picked up his tray and carried it to the cart, his mind still in a jumble. He walked down the hall following the stragglers, and barely made it to room 112B before ‘Recent Advancements in DNA’ started. Lost in thought, he didn’t get much out of the class.

  ***

  On the news channel that night, as Jimmy sat in his chair enjoying leftovers (a sensational pulled-pork sandwich), he saw the brief news story of the prostitute murdered in Indianapolis. It captured his attention for two reasons. One was that most murders that happened over there stayed over there. They weren’t of interest to the general public in Cincinnati. Cinci had enough trouble of her own. The reason it had hit the six o’clock news was because of a possible link connecting it to two of Cinci’s. The reporter seemed to find it very telling that the murdered woman had been posed. She was propped in the shower, facing the door. It reminded someone in the newsroom of the Bathtub Girls. That’s why it had hit the local news. Jimmy also found it suspiciously reminiscent, but also different in that a shower had been used instead of a tub.

  He wondered if there was a chance that Mason was in Indianapolis, and if he was up to old tricks. That would shoot the warmer climate, beach bum theory all to hell. Why would anyone relocate to Indianapolis? Friends or family? Jimmy didn’t remember reading that in his file. Indianapolis was too close to Cincinnati for someone that wanted to continue satisfying a violent nature. Too close, because a reporter might catch the similarities and the wrong person could follow up on it. Then again, maybe Mason was smarter than he thought. Maybe he went there for his fun just because no one would expect it. This was a stretch though, even for someone with more brains than common sense. Another possibility was Mason was just passing through and it had been a crime of opportunity.