by Rick Reed
Jack said, “And Indiana in January.”
“Yeah. You’re last, but we don’t think this guy is done. He took Christmas off. Maybe he has a family and he wanted to spend Christmas with some semblance of sanity,” Sanchez said.
“We think our driver was killed last night or early this morning,” Jack said.
“The St. Louis driver was found a mile or so from the truck two days after the bodies in the trailer were discovered. The drivers’ bodies in the Florida and Texas cases were found with the trucks. The one in Louisiana is still missing.”
“Swamp?” Liddell asked.
“Yeah.”
“Alligators,” Liddell said.
“That’d be my guess. Our case is the oldest,” Sanchez said. “We’ve had the most time to work on it, but we haven’t gotten very far. We weren’t aware of the other states’ cases until a few weeks ago when Toomey came to my chief. And here I am. Lucky me.”
“What does Toomey want from us?” Jack asked.
“You’ll be getting everything that we drug up over the last six months, but it will all be new to you. Maybe you’ll have a different perspective since you’re not invested in a theory.”
Jack said, “I don’t think we’ll be welcomed with open arms by your detectives. Hell, I know I wouldn’t want someone coming in and stepping all over my investigation.”
“It won’t be like that,” Sanchez said.
“Are you saying the St. Louis Homicide Squad is going to cooperate?” Jack asked.
“Nah. They’ll bitch and moan. They always do, but they’ll leave us alone because I’m one of them. We won’t be working directly with them unless we need them.”
“My question again. What are we supposed to do for you?” Jack asked.
“Toomey wants fresh eyes on this. The St. Louis case is stalled big time. They get stuck on one suspect after another and each time, the suspect has an ironclad alibi. I know that don’t mean much normally, but these are all local assholes that I doubt had time or money to travel to all the locations, murder a bunch of people, and come home to the Show-Me state.”
Jack said nothing. This sounded like the Feds were grasping at straws to him. If they didn’t have more to go on than getting a fresh set of eyes, it meant they wanted someone to blame for the case not being solved. It was an ideal case for him.
They passed the Winfield K. Denton Federal Building and crossed the street to the YMCA parking lot.
“I hope you didn’t park in here,” Liddell said. “The Meter Nazis will have your car towed by now.”
“I’ve got an FBI placard in the front,” Sanchez said.
“That’s just chumming the waters in the downtown area, Lieutenant,” Liddell said. “These people eat FBI for breakfast. Out-of-state plates make you a meal deal.”
Sanchez stopped at a black GMC Yukon Denali 4X4 with heavily tinted windows and a push bar on the front. An FBI placard was on the dash in the front window.
“Ain’t she a beauty? The downside is I have to stop every other block or so to gas up.”
“Don’t complain,” Liddell said, still in awe. “We’re driving Fords almost old enough to vote. Do you think Toomey will get us both one of these?”
“Sure, Bigfoot,” Jack said. “And maybe you’ll have Double Dick for a driver.”
“Double Dick?” Sanchez asked.
“We’ll explain later,” Jack said.
Sanchez got in the SUV and drove away.
Jack said, “Let’s go back to the detectives’ office and see if Chapman has anything yet.”
* * * *
“We should have driven him to his car,” Liddell complained by the time they climbed the steps to the back door of the detectives’ office. Detective Larry Jansen was waiting for them.
“Hey, Jack. Hey, Liddell,” Jansen said.
Even in the zero-degree weather, Jansen was wearing a summer-weight tan trench coat and brown felt hat. All that was missing from the Columbo image was the ever-present unlit cigar that Peter Falk favored for the role as the not-so-bumbling detective. Jansen’s strategy for interviewing suspects—when he was inclined to do police work—was to act stupid but be cunning. Jansen was stupid and acting cunning.
“Larry,” Jack said. They headed to the detectives’ office at a brisk pace.
Jansen hurried to catch up. He pulled out a tattered notebook. “Well, I’ve gone through the entire hospital, every person, every floor, and no one saw your boy leave. I know he’s already been found, but I got a list here, names, where they work, who they were visiting, room numbers, other stuff if you need it. So where is the boy anyway?”
“That’s swell, Larry,” Jack said. His gut told him to have Captain Franklin order Jansen to stay out of the investigation. Two reasons for not doing so presented themselves. Jack could feed Jansen info that would leak to Double Dick and/or the news media; and more importantly, something this big would require all the help they could get. “Give your report to Detective Chapman. He’s the central hub on this.”
“The pivot man in a circle jerk,” Jansen said, smiling, holding the door for them to enter. “Is that where you’re headed?”
Jack stopped and turned to face Jansen. It wasn’t like the little man to be so “helpful.” It definitely wasn’t like him to do real detective work to give it to Jack for free. Something smelled.
“That’s where we’re going,” Jack said. “Why?”
“Good. That’s good,” Jansen said and rubbed the skin of a cheek lined deeply from years of chain-smoking. “I just had a thought. The list I made might come in handy after Channel Six told everyone the kid was in the hospital. You know. In case the killer came to the hospital to finish what he started.”
Jack felt his face flush. He’d been so pissed at Claudine and so focused on finding Joe he hadn’t thought of that. He hadn’t posted a guard on the boy at Deaconess and allowed the boy to take off. That Claudine was able to get in to see Joe so easily was his fault as well.
“Good thinking, Larry,” Jack said.
“I was just wondering if—you know...”
“What is it, Larry?” Jack asked.
“I was wondering if you want me to keep an eye on the boy for you. I don’t mind,” Jansen said. “I want to help out.”
Then you’ll know where Joe is, and that’s information you could trade or sell. “Why don’t you come with us and tell Chapman what you have? I’m sure there’s other things that need doing. I’ve got the boy covered for now. Maybe later. Thanks.” Asshole.
Jansen gave Jack a resigned sigh.
“Nah,” Jansen said. “I’ll get with Chapman later.” The notebook disappeared back inside his coat. “I just remembered I got other things to do. Important things.”
Chapter 17
Detective Earl Chapman had taken over a sergeant’s office in the basement of police headquarters. When Jack and Liddell came in he said, “What have you gotten me into, Jack?”
Chapman was Jack’s go-to detective if he needed something done right the first time with minimal whining. The magnitude of this investigation made it a monumental task, so Jack needed someone he could trust not to cut corners. Chapman was running the scut work for this investigation, anything that needed done—door to door contacts/interviews, running license plates, running records on all the neighbors, verifying information—it was like running an emergency room with one doctor after an airplane crash.
“Aren’t you retired yet, you old geezer?” Jack asked.
“Well, I was going to and then some asshole killed a bunch of people. Why? You want me to leave? I will, you know,” Chapman said, smirking.
“I’ll owe you one,” Jack said.
“You’ll owe me more than one. How about you loan me your boat for a week in July? I promise to bring it back, and I’ll split the fish I catch with you.”
Jack had a 25-foot cabin cruiser called the MISS FIT in dry dock for the winter months. He owed a bottle of Scotch to the Deaconess ER doctor, and now this.
“I’ll go with you,” Jack said. “What have you got?”
“Two things. Diddly and squat,” Chapman answered. Piled in front of him was a small stack of reports created by officers and other detectives working the case.
By tonight the inch-thick stack of papers would be a foot high.
“We’re going to St. Louis, Earl,” Jack said.
“I hear you two are real G-men now,” Chapman said. “What’s in St. Louis? Is that where the FBI Secret Hideout is?”
“Bite me, Earl,” Jack said. He wasn’t surprised that Earl had already heard they’d been sworn in by the US Marshal. Earl probably had seen the guy come in the building and put two and two together.
“You think this guy got whacked by someone in St. Louis, Jack?” Chapman asked.
“We can’t rule anything out this early,” Jack said. He remembered Sanchez said the St. Louis case was stalling out. It had been six months. It wasn’t always a hard and fast rule, but if a case didn’t come up with some leads in the first day, it was difficult to solve at best. Some people—the FBI—thought it was all over after twenty-four hours. Jack thought it was over after twenty-four years, give or take a decade.
“You got a lead? I know you’re FBI and shit, but you can tell your old pal, can’t you?” Earl asked.
Before Jack could answer, the phone on Chapman’s desk rang. It was Sergeant Walker for Jack.
“Tony,” Jack said.
“We have the pictures and other things your girlfriend, Anna, asked for. One of my detectives is bringing it upstairs to you.”
“She’s not my girlfriend, Tony,” Jack said, and a crime scene detective named Suzie came into the office with two thumb drives and a mailing envelope stuffed tight.
She handed Chapman the mailing envelope and one of the thumb drives. “You need to put a copy of all your paperwork in that, and an FBI agent is coming to get it.” She handed Jack the other thumb drive. “From Sergeant Walker. Do I need to keep copies of any updates to forward to your girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack said.
“Sure,” Suzie said. “I hear you’re real Feds now. I heard they’re flying all this stuff to your girlfriend.” She winked and left.
“Your girlfriend?” Earl asked.
“Yeah. Jack’s a stud-muffin, Earl. Men fear him, women love him,” Liddell said.
“Shut up, Bigfoot.”
“I thought you were back with your ex,” Earl said.
“I am. I don’t have a girlfriend, Earl.”
Chapman’s phone rang again. He answered and said, “No. No. Not yet, Mrs. Raymond. No, that won’t be necessary, ma’am. I won’t need to talk to you again, Mrs. Raymond. Yes. I’ll let you know if there’s any cause for alarm. Okay. Bye, ma’am.”
Chapman said to Jack, “That woman has called a dozen times. She was interviewed during a neighborhood check, and she insists she saw the killer drive past her house. She didn’t see shit. Just a car that she thought was suspicious. Everything over by the university looks suspicious to me. She won’t stop calling.”
Jack raised an eyebrow.
Earl said, “She’s a widow. She’s lonely. She wants to be needed. Channel Six has created a monster with their bullshit news specials. Now the Civic Center switchboard is transferring calls from anyone asking for information or leaving tips on the murders straight to us. Not witnesses. Just the curious.”
“We were told that Channel Six will cease and desist,” Jack said. “It should slow down in a little while. Need some help?” Jack asked. “I’ll call the captain and...”
“I’ve already talked to him. He’s putting together some guys and phone lines to field this crap,” Earl said.
“Where does this woman live?” Jack asked. “Mrs. Raymond, I mean.”
“Four blocks north of the Coffee Shop on Weinbach Avenue. I’m telling you, Jack. Don’t waste your time. She’s as nutty as a Payday candy bar.”
“I believe you, Earl, but I need to talk to her just so I can say I followed up.”
“Really?”
“You never know. She’s a widow, lonely, probably up all night watching out her window and dreaming about you,” Jack said.
Earl wrote her name and address on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Jack. “Her name and address. If you talk to her, it’s like feeding a stray. You’ll never get rid of her.”
“Thanks, Earl. I’ll take the risk.”
Jack and Liddell headed toward the parking lot. Jack said, “Maybe Earl really should retire. He’s getting burned out.”
“He’s done this longer than the both of us, pod’na. He might be right about the widow, but I guess it won’t hurt to run by there on our way to St. Louis.”
Jack handed the car keys to Liddell. “We’re in no hurry, so you drive.”
“You saying I drive like an old lady again, pod’na? Ooh, that hurts.”
They drove down Walnut heading east. Mrs. Raymond’s house was on a narrow corner lot four blocks from the murder scene. Two picture windows partially covered by sheers gave a perfect view of the street. The house was white-wood-sided and badly in need of paint. A low brick wall enclosed a small front porch decorated with two black rockers like Cracker Barrel furniture. Stone lions guarded the three steps onto the porch. The steps were covered with that hideous green indoor/outdoor carpeting that was popular when Nixon was president. Around the front foundation were flowerbeds, now thick with frozen plants and weeds. Jack expected to see the traditional collection of concrete yard gnomes belonging to an old woman, but the yard was neat and empty.
They stepped onto the porch, and a woman in her late 20s or early 30s opened the door before Liddell could knock. She was Jack’s height with a runner’s physique that matched her orange and purple running outfit, fluorescent pink running shoes, and ear muffs that hung around her neck. A blond ponytail protruded from the back of her Otters baseball cap.
“Is Mrs. Raymond at home?” Jack said and opened his badge case.
“Detective Murphy and Detective Blanchard,” she said. “I knew you’d come. Please come in. Make yourselves at home. The front room is to your left.”
Jack and Liddell didn’t move. Mrs. Raymond was a little young to be an eccentric widow, as Chapman had led them to believe.
“I’m Mrs. Raymond,” she said and stepped back to allow them to enter. “Please come in and let me shut the door. This is an old house, and it takes an hour to heat once it gets cold.”
Jack and Liddell came inside. “You’re the Mrs. Raymond that talked to a detective?” Jack asked.
“Yes. Detective Chapman and I have talked quite often this morning. Would you like coffee—or tea? I have instant coffee, but I make the tea strong and sweet. My grandmother taught me how to make it. You see, my mother and father died in a plane crash coming back from a church mission to Haiti, so I was raised here by my grandmother. I married, but my husband passed away, and I moved back in with my grandmother. She’s gone now too, and I just can’t give this place up.”
Jack said, “Nothing for us, Mrs. Raymond. We just have a few questions, and we’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.”
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” she said. “I just made fresh canapés, and then I remembered I shouldn’t eat so many... Well, I’m sure you don’t want to hear all that. I was getting ready to go for a run, but it can wait until I answer your questions. I know you’ll want to ‘pick my brain.’ At least that’s what Detective Chapman called it. He’s so nice. Don’t you think? His wife is very lucky, but he doesn’t seem too happy. I don’t know if he even has a wife. Does he?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said. “Yes, he’s a nice man
. Now, you told him you saw the killer.” Before she could launch into another long monologue, he said, “We’ve heard what you told him, but we need to see for ourselves how you saw this person, and what makes you think it was the killer.”
“I didn’t really see the killer,” she said. “Come in here.” She led them into an adjacent room with a huge picture window. The room was devoid of furniture but was crammed with fitness equipment. The allowance for furniture was a well-used leather recliner in one corner, facing the window.
“Wow. This is awesome,” Liddell said.
“This isn’t what I wanted to show you. I know that as investigators you have to ascertain if a witness could see what they claim to have seen. A lot of what you get is people’s idea of what they really saw, when in fact they were in another room or peering through a bush, or something else had their attention.”
“That’s correct,” Jack said, thinking they had another fanatical fan of crime scene shows. CSI was giving prospective criminals a training they wouldn’t get in college, and it was giving real investigators a pain in the ass.
“Sit there,” she said, pointing to the recliner in the corner.
Jack sat on the edge of the seat, and from there he had an unobstructed view of the street all the way to the corner.
“You can see the street and the intersection, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“My grandmother would sit in that chair all day, watching her television shows, and watching out the window. She was what you would call a nosy old woman. Sorry, Grandma.”
“Sorry for your loss,” Liddell said.
“Thank you, Detective Blanchard. My point is, I have a clear view of this street and the corner. I haven’t been sleeping well, so I get up and work out in here. I just light a candle. Something about the dim light helps me exercise, and helps me go back to sleep. Grandma Raymond always said I burned the candle at both ends. But anyway, I was just finishing my sets with the weights. I do the arm curls on the edge of the recliner, which gives me a clear view of the street. I saw a car creeping down the street with its lights off.”