Coming of Winter

by Tom Threadgill

  “Yeah. You’re a cop. What’s your instinct say?”

  He hesitated before saying, “The chief says to drop it and move on. The whole thing doesn’t feel right to me, but I couldn’t tell you why. No evidence of a crime. No suspects or motives. I figure people who disappear on purpose are either running away from something or running to something. And as far as I can tell, Miss Blackston didn’t have any reason to do either.”

  “You think she was taken.”

  “Well, if it was some sort of accident, we’d have found her by now. With the warmer weather, there’s plenty of hikers and golfers around the park. Something would’ve turned up. There’s a volunteer group up in Indy that’s got a cadaver dog, and they’re coming down in a week or two. Maybe they’ll find something. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem. I’m looking forward to watching the dog work. They said this is the same German Shepherd that found Sarah Goldman a few years back.”

  “Sarah Goldman?”

  “Yeah. It was big news around here back then. Young girl, around seventeen if I remember right. Disappeared on her way home from high school up in French Lick. They found her body, or at least what was left of it, a year and a half later.”

  Jeremy’s stomach churned. “Where’s French Lick?”

  “Opposite side of the park, and I know what you’re thinking, but it’s a dead end. They caught the guy who killed her, and he’s still sitting in prison on death row, although he’s more likely to die of old age I’d guess, what with the appeals and all.”

  He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “Got it. You’ll call me if the dog hits on anything?”

  “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  Jeremy hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, both hands clasped behind his head. Nine-fifty. An hour and a half until lunch. Enough time to line up a few interviews with the drug doctor’s patients.

  He sighed and logged back onto his laptop. Twelve hundred names. Sort by number of narcotics prescriptions per patient. Here we go. Start making phone calls. Yep. Any minute now.

  His mouth suddenly dry, he closed his office door before minimizing the database and accessing the Internet. Why did he feel like he was doing something wrong? A few minutes to satisfy his curiosity. That’s all. Go to Google, search for Sarah Goldman. Can’t hurt. A quick distraction to wake him up. That’s it.

  Six and a half hours later, Jeremy phoned the Indiana State Prison in Michigan City to arrange a meeting with Sarah Goldman’s killer.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jeremy stifled a yawn and shuddered as a chill sprang on him. Why was he here? It seemed highly unlikely the convicted murderer would provide any helpful information. In the five years since they’d found Sarah Goldman’s body, nothing had changed. All the evidence, at least what there was of it, pointed to Lawrence Berkley. Almost four years ago, a jury took less than three hours to determine he was guilty, and two days later the judge handed down the death penalty. They decided who lived and who died by the book. All nice, clean, and legal. Berkley became the thirteenth man on Indiana’s death row, and the justice system trudged forward.

  Jeremy cleared the prison’s security and was escorted into a small room of cinder block walls and metal furniture. Cheery. Berkley would arrive any minute, escorted by at least two guards. The murderer understood, short of an escape, he’d leave prison in a body bag sooner or later. Convicted of killing another inmate during a fight last year, he’d obviously opted for later. Jeremy had to pull a few strings to arrange this meeting, and he’d owe a few favors when it was done. It would be worth the trouble, though, even if peace of mind was all he got out of the brief encounter.

  The interrogation room door swung open, and Berkley shuffled in, clad in a khaki prison uniform and hunched over, his hands and feet shackled to the chain circling his waist. The prisoner dropped into the chair opposite Jeremy, yawned elaborately, and held up his handcuffs.

  Jeremy shook his head. “Not gonna happen.”

  Berkley shrugged and slouched into the metal seat. One guard exited the room and the other positioned himself between the killer and the door.

  Jeremy studied the man on the opposite side of the table. Twenty-eight years old but looked fifty. Skinny, ash-yellow pockmarked skin, thin lips, and a shaved head. Teeth that showed at least marginal meth use. Neck tattoo. “Only God can judge me.” Guess the judge disagreed.

  “I’m Special Agent Jeremy Winter with the FBI. I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask about the Sarah Goldman case.”

  “Look, man. I’m not saying nothing without my attorney here.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Fine. But for the record, what I have to ask can only help you. You’re sitting on death row. What could I possibly do to make your situation worse?”

  Berkley leaned forward and placed his hands on the metal table. “Help me?” The convict’s eyes narrowed. “You people are all the same. Nothing but lies. We both know there’s nothing you can do for me. The last time someone said they were going to help, I ended up in these chains. So, you’ll excuse me if I tell you to kiss my—”

  “Fair enough,” Jeremy said. “You’re right. I’ve got nothing to offer you except a chance to tell your side of the story.”

  “Already did that. You read the transcripts from the trial, right? The story hasn’t changed.” He leaned back and tried to cross his arms but was hindered by the shackles. “The truth don’t change, man. I didn’t have nothing to do with that girl.”

  “A jury of your peers said otherwise.”

  Berkley laughed, worked up a good spit, and spewed the saliva on the floor. The guard placed a hand on his baton and moved toward the convict, but Jeremy raised his hand and shook his head.

  “My peers?” the prisoner said. “Man, I was convicted as soon as they saw me. My picture all over the news saying I did those things to that girl. They couldn’t wait to get to me.”

  Jeremy crossed his arms and allowed his delayed yawn to proceed with full fury. “Mmm hmm. Prisons are full of innocent people.”

  “I’ve done a lot of things, but I didn’t kill that girl. Wouldn’t do that. And wouldn’t do none of the other stuff they said about her either.”

  “Well, Mr. Berkley, let’s run through the list, shall we? High school salutatorian turned meth dealer and sometimes user. Breaking and entering. Possession of a stolen gun. And let’s not forget about your second murder conviction last year. And that’s only the stuff we know about. I’m sure you have other hidden talents. And yet you want me to believe you wouldn’t kill Sarah Goldman?”

  The felon worked his mouth as if he had a bad taste that wouldn’t go away. “Where was the DNA? Wasn’t none. Know why? Because I was set up, man, but didn’t nobody want to hear it.”

  Jeremy scratched his cheek. Stubbly. Time to replace the razor. “First of all, the lack of your DNA at the scene means exactly nothing, other than to hurt your whole ‘I was set up’ claim. Seriously, if anyone wanted to frame you, the first thing they’d do is plant your DNA there. It’s not too hard, you know. An old cigarette butt. Maybe some chewing gum. Actually, in your case, probably a needle. Grab it, dump it near the body, and you’re done.”

  “Wasn’t like that, man. Yeah, I did some bad things. Got to make a living, right? But kill her? No way. Got nothin’ to gain from it. Never seen that girl until the police slapped her picture in front of me.”

  “Uh-huh. Her body was found in the woods less than a quarter mile from the abandoned trailer where you cooked your meth. Now that could certainly be a coincidence. And when the dogs tracked her clothes to the rotten pine trees fifty feet from your trailer? Maybe that’s just your bad luck. But her ID? Come on, Lawrence. Driver’s license and credit cards buried under your front steps?”

  “Man, how stupid do you think I am?”

  Jeremy arched his eyebrows. “You really want me to answer that?”

  “If I’d killed that girl, you t
hink I’d up and bring her junk back to my place? Everybody knows to burn stuff that might, uh, burn you. Police can’t do nothin’ with ashes.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  The convict shrugged. “Whatever. And no fingerprints on any of it. Don’t make no sense. And then the cops get an anonymous phone call saying I did it? No way, man. Dude set me up. It’s not fair.”

  Heat flashed through Jeremy’s face, and he slapped the table. “Not fair, huh? Don’t you hate it when bad things happen to good people? I mean, here you are, an upstanding law-abiding citizen, just trying to make an honest living. No problems at all until Sarah Goldman has the nerve to go and get killed nearby. You’re not the victim here, Mr. Berkley.”

  The prisoner slumped and stared into his lap. “I got a good idea who did it. I told them, but they said there wasn’t no evidence. That I was lyin’.” He leaned forward and reached his hands across the table.

  “I’m in the mood for a good story, Mr. Berkley. Fire away.”

  “Stacks, he did it. Set me up, too. Don’t matter now, though. He got what was comin’ to him.”

  “I’ve seen the file,” Jeremy said. “Stacks was your partner. Handled the sales end of the meth business. Funny how none of this came out until after you’d been charged. In fact, you repeatedly told investigators you handled the business by yourself. No one else involved.”

  “I’m not a snitch.”

  “Uh-huh. Stacks set you up so he could, what? Take over your little lab of horrors? Sure, sure. I can see that. One problem, though.” Jeremy pointed his index finger at Berkley. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just kill you? Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through when a bullet in the back of your skull would have been simpler.”

  The prisoner nodded. “That’s the thing. I don’t think he planned to set me up. We were tight. Maybe he found that girl’s body. Or maybe he got himself in a situation and tried to make the best of it. Know what I’m sayin’? Kill two birds. Check his file, man. Stacks had a history with chicks, slappin’ them around and stuff.”

  “Well, Mr. Berkley, as I’m quite sure you’re aware, your buddy left this life in a blaze of, well, I’m not sure ‘glory’ is the right word. He should’ve stayed in sales, I guess. There’ll be no more questioning him. And according to the files, he alibied out. Something about sitting in jail on a drunk and disorderly charge if I remember correctly.”

  The convict worked his mouth again and twisted his head, cracking his neck. “Look, man. Why’re you even here? You don’t want to hear the truth. You all got what you wanted.”

  Jeremy pulled a photo from his briefcase and slid it across the table. “Sarah Goldman. Seventeen years old when she was killed. Do you think she deserved to die, Mr. Berkley?”

  “I got no idea, man. I don’t know nothing about her except what you all told me.”

  Jeremy rested his elbows on the table. “Really? Because I didn’t know her either. In fact, I’m sure I know less about her than you do. But I don’t think she deserved to die. And then, to mutilate her like that, well, it takes things to a whole new level of evil, wouldn’t you say?”

  Berkley fixated on the photo. “She didn’t deserve that. Nobody does.”

  “And her family. Suffering for so long. Wondering what happened to their little girl. Expecting the worst but hoping for the best. Then finding out someone had done that to their daughter. Can you imagine? I can’t. It must be horrible. To still be wondering ...”

  The felon shook his head slowly and swallowed hard.

  Jeremy placed his palms on the cold steel table. “Where are they, Lawrence?”

  Berkley’s head jerked. “What?”

  “Sarah’s hands and skull. Where are they?”

  The prisoner jumped up, sending his chair flying backwards. The guard yelled for his partner, and each of them grabbed one of the prisoner’s arms. Berkley made no effort to resist.

  “Told you, man. I didn’t have nothing to do with her. Must be the Devil himself to do something like that. Find yourself somebody else to play games with.”

  Jeremy stood and inclined his head toward the felon. “No games, Mr. Berkley. There’s far too much at stake. Thank you for your time.”

  “So, what was this all about then?”

  Jeremy studied the man before him. “I had to know whether I believed you.”

  Berkley returned the stare, holding his chin high. “And?”

  “You, sir, are a threat to society, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure you spend the rest of your hopefully very short life in prison. But do I think you murdered the girl? Yeah, I think there’s a good chance the jury got it right.”

  “Knew it. You people only hear what you—”

  “Enough with playing the victim.” Jeremy scooped up his file and walked around the table until he stood face-to-face with the convict. “I also think there’s a possibility, a slight one, that you didn’t kill her.”

  The prisoner shifted on his feet. “So, you’re going to reopen the case?”

  “No,” Jeremy said. “I’m not. You’ve told me nothing the police didn’t already know.”

  “What’s the point then? Waste of my time, man.”

  Jeremy held up the photo, clenching it so tightly that the picture creased. “The point, Mr. Berkley, is to make sure no one else ends up like Sarah Goldman.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jeremy held a photo in each hand. Catherine Mae Blackston on the left, Sarah Goldman on the right. Middle-aged brunette and blonde teenager. Meticulously applied makeup versus multiple facial piercings. Moderately overweight and borderline anorexic. Both Caucasian. In other words, nothing.

  He placed the pictures on his desk side-by-side and clasped his hands behind his neck, pushing back against them. Was he wasting his time? No other murdered women around the park in the last dozen years. Nothing linked these two together other than Hoosier National Forest, and that was flimsy at best. Certainly not enough to go to his boss with.

  Deputy Director Bailey had not been in a good mood since, well, a long time. And if he found out Jeremy was spending part of his day on work that had nothing to do with his assigned white-collar case, his attitude would get a lot worse. Without hard evidence, Jeremy had to keep his suspicions under wraps. Best not to antagonize the boss. Bailey’s conversations with Jeremy had become curt, almost terse. Something had changed, but what?

  He tapped his finger on the edge of his laptop. The NCIC database showed more than fifty other missing women in Indiana, half of those within the last five years. The National Crime Information Center’s data was incredibly useful when it wasn’t overwhelming. Not too many to sort through, but probably only the tip of the iceberg. If no one reported them gone, or if the police believed they left of their own accord, they wouldn’t be on the list.

  Still, it was worth a look. Anything to scratch the nagging itch. He stretched his arms high overhead, shook his hands vigorously, and pulled his computer toward him. Another sip of bitter java from his coffee mug, finally stained the lightest of beige, and then—

  His cell phone vibrated, and Jeremy checked the caller ID. Speak of the Devil. Bailey. Doubtless wanting an update on the prescription-pushing doctor. The case would be presented to the prosecutor in a week, maybe less. He had three more interviews set for this afternoon. At this point, he needed to make sure his witnesses, many of them drug abusers, were reliable enough to testify.

  Jeremy cleared his throat and answered the phone. “Good morning, sir. How can I help you?”

  “Morning, Agent Winter. I’m putting together this month’s updates for the powers-that-be. What’s going on with your bogus prescriptions case?”

  “Wrapping it up now, sir. The prosecutor will have the file within a week or so. I expect it’ll be a fairly easy indictment. The doctor’s got a passport, so I’m certain they’re going to recommend no bail if possible.”

  “Excellent. Good job on that. What’s next?”

  Should he ta
ke the chance? Mention his suspicion of a serial killer stalking public lands? No. The old expression’s true. It’s a lot easier to get forgiveness than permission. “Got a couple of options, sir, but it’ll probably be a car cloning ring based in central Missouri. They’re grabbing sports cars and SUVs out of Saint Louis, switching the VINs, and reselling them on the Internet.”

  “Hold on, Winter.” A scraping noise filtered through the phone as the Director covered the mouthpiece. “Janice! We got any more coffee out there? Okay. I’m back. So, a car cloning ring? That’s next?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Got it. If you could explain something, though. I’m not clear on how either your current case or the auto thefts require a visit to the Indiana State Prison?”

  Jeremy tugged at his shirt collar and covered the phone to block his mumbled word selection. “Sir?”

  “We’re the FBI, Agent Winter. It’s our job to know things. Now, what does Lawrence Berkley have to do with these cases?”

  “Um, nothing, sir. It’s something else I’m working on. At this point, I just have a theory. No point in wasting your time with details.”

  “I see. It seems to me that your time’s being wasted, not mine. Worse, you’re throwing away taxpayer dollars. Your priority is to work the cases you’re assigned. Hold on.” Muttering trickled through the phone, and a short laugh followed. “Thank you, Janice. Okay. Agent Winter, anything else you do cannot and will not detract from your assigned investigation. Clear?”

  Uh-oh. The taxpayers. Never good when he went there. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  Jeremy took a deep breath. “Sir, I was wondering how much longer I’d be assigned here. In Saint Louis, I mean.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Not a problem. It’s just that D.C. seemed to be a better fit for me.”

  “Uh-huh. How so?”

  How could he explain without sounding like a whiner? “I feel that my skill set is more attuned to working nationwide cases rather than local issues.”