by J P Tompkins
These were the scorned girlfriends, angry ex-wives, men and women with extreme grudges against someone. I shared some of them with Cole one day. I found them simultaneously entertaining and infuriating. Cole’s reaction was to shrug them off. It happens all the time, he explained.
One tip I spent about a week looking into came from a stripper, a girl named Diane. She emailed me, explained that there was someone she was very concerned about, someone she had actually become afraid of.
When I called her, she told me about a regular customer of hers, a guy who came into the club two or three times a week. She would spend hours with him, sometimes giving lap-dances, but sometimes not. Some nights, he was just looking for company, she said. He would buy drinks, they’d sit at a table most of the night, talking about anything and everything, and he would periodically tuck cash into the little bag she carried to hold her money.
Diane recounted a strange thing that happened during his last visit, just two nights before our conversation. This case came up during their conversation and that’s when she realized that he hadn’t been there on any of the nights the attacks happened. This would have required her to have known all the dates of the attacks and memorized the dates this guy had or hadn’t been to the club. When I pointed that out, she said, “Oh, I didn’t bring it up. He did.”
There was a long pause between us. I remember staring straight ahead, absorbing what she just told me, waiting for her to continue and tell me what was said next.
“I didn’t even say anything,” she told me. “I was sipping my drink at the time and I just sort of held the little straw there. I didn’t know what to say. And then he immediately said that probably sounded weird, but he just didn’t want me to think anything of it. I remember sitting there wondering why he would think I would put all that together and suspect him in the first place.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Hell no,” Diane said. “I was so freaked out, I had to fake even wanting to sit with him at the table.” She paused. “But I did. Easy money, you know?”
She had more information on him than I had expected her to. She explained, with some shame in her voice, that she knew his home address because she had been there twice. “Not for what you’re thinking,” she insisted, and I assured her I believed her. The truth was, I didn’t care.
I followed him for a couple of days, starting early the next morning around before dawn. I located his house, parked a few doors down the street in the dark, and waited. His garage door went up just before seven o’clock and his BMW rolled out. I knew where he worked, less than a ten-minute drive from his house. I had already gone by his office and I knew there was an adjacent shopping center where I could park and not look suspicious.
When he got out of his car, he fit the basic description Beth Callahan had given investigators: five-eleven, maybe 180 pounds.
I left to do some work, returned later, and followed him again. He went back to his house and stayed there all night.
The next day, he repeated the same movements. Just as I was wondering how long I would keep this up, my phone rang. It was Diane.
“He texted me,” she said, nervously. “He wants me to come over, but there’s no way I’m doing that again.”
“Tell him that,” I said, thinking if this was the guy, being rejected might ignite something in him, make him go out and do his thing. And I’d be right there behind him, ready to dial 911, thwarting his attack and putting an end to this case.
Ten minutes later, he pulled out of his garage. Faster this time, cutting the wheel when he reached the end of his driveway, then speeding out of his neighborhood.
I followed, my mouth going dry, heart racing, just knowing I was watching the killer in pre-attack mode.
He drove to a strip club. Not the one where Diane worked, but one on the other side of town. It was just after nine o’clock. I was parked three cars away from his, with a clear view of the club’s entrance.
Around 12:30 a.m., I heard a call go out on my police scanner.
There had been another attack. This, I found out later that night, turned out to be the Janelle Morris murder.
Strip Club Guy was innocent. Of this, anyway.
I was exhausted, even contemplating taking a few days off. I tried convincing myself this search of mine was ridiculous. I wasn’t doing anything the police weren’t already doing, and with more resources and official power.
But then, one night as I was about to try to go to bed early for once, something occurred to me.
I knew, from talking to Kristi’s family, that she had a gym membership and went at least three times a week. I didn’t recall anyone looking into that and nothing Cole had given me indicated that the police had, either. They might have, but I didn’t know. So down that path I went.
I had spoken with two of Janelle’s friends after she was killed but they never mentioned her working out, or a gym membership. It was worth a try, so I called one of them and I asked. She did have a gym membership, and it was the same one Kristi went to.
This friend of hers could tell that I was latching onto that for some reason, and quickly laughed, recalling how Janelle only went once, maybe twice, but kept paying for it and swearing she’d go back. She said it was a running joke among their group of friends. I asked how long ago Janelle would have gone to this gym. The answer: just a few months before she was killed.
That’s my working theory now. The gym angle.
Cole keeps telling me it’s another one of my rabbit-holes. But this one, I just can’t let go.
Chapter 14
I’m alone in Cole’s home office now, putting the finishing touches on the story. He knocked on the door about ten minutes after leaving me alone and told me he needed to run an errand, but he’d be back within the hour.
I plan on heading over to a hotel after he gets back.
“Just got it,” Neil says, when I call to let him know I had sent it over. “You doing okay?”
“I’m fine.” I think I’m fine, anyway, but I don’t say that. I’m tired, but other than that, I’m fine. So far. Maybe. “I just need some sleep.”
“They’re not going to let you back in there tonight.” He tells me he sent Joaquin, a staff photographer, over to get some pictures of what’s going on at the house. “It looks like it did earlier. Where are you, by the way?”
I look around. If he only knew. “A friend’s house. But I just came here to write. I’m staying at a hotel tonight.”
“Expense it. You’ve never had to do that before, so consider it approved.”
Unlike some of our other reporters, all of my work is done locally. I’ve never had to stay in a hotel in another city to cover a story, never had to fly anywhere or drive any great distance. Not that I particularly wanted to. I like staying local. I’m a low-overhead employee.
I thank him, the call ends, and I get up to take a look around Cole’s office. I didn’t see it when I was here to interview Cole and Heather for the feature article, so this is the first time I’ve seen it.
The walls are covered with pictures of Cole at different points in his life. Several of him in various baseball uniforms, from little league to high school to college. There’s some fraternity memorabilia. An out-of-focus picture of a German shepherd, framed along with a weathered dog tag: Shilo.
There’s a stack of file folders next to his computer. I open one and see hard copies of police reports from the Kristi Stroup murder. I thumb through them quickly, then move on to the next file, Janelle’s, and finally to Payton’s.
I hear the garage door opening, so I put the files back in order. Cole is back and I feel bad for not trusting him. I have no reason to think he held anything back when he forwarded the case files to me, and he didn’t. I have it all, everything I’ve needed to write the stories fully and accurately.
I put my laptop, tablet and spiral notebook into my backpack, lift it, and it catches on something. A drawer opens a little and I get a glimpse of something that mak
es me stare it for a few seconds. Electrical cord. Two bundles of it. One opened, one untouched.
This isn’t an uncommon item in a house, especially a house belonging to a guy who is at least somewhat handy. But still, the cord is far from innocuous to me now. It’s no longer just cord. It’s a killer’s tool. That’s how I see it now and probably always will.
I’m back in the living room when he comes through the door. My backpack is slung over my shoulder and I keep imagining that feeling of it snagging on that drawer handle.
“Story all finished?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m going to head back over to my house.”
“They’re not going to let you in.”
I wonder if he drove by and saw what Neil was talking about, but I don’t ask. “I know, but I want to wait for Erin’s parents. I’m sure they’ll go right there.” They still haven’t replied to my calls and texts. And before he can ask me if I’m coming back I say, “I really appreciate you letting me come over and work—”
“Are you coming back?” he asks, cutting me off mid-sentence.
“I’m just going to get a hotel room. I really need the alone time, I think.”
Cole shrugs. “Okay. If you change your mind, let me know. Any time.”
When I get to my car, I turn the ignition and look up at his front porch. He smiles, waves. I wave back.
I feel grateful for someone I can trust, someone who understands my driving interest in this case, someone who would take the risk of letting me crash at their house after one of the worst days of my life.
But I’m resentful, too. I hate the fact that as I look at Cole, standing there waving his friendly wave and smiling like the trustworthy confidant I know him to be, I imagine him holding two ends of that electrical cord, tightening the ends around each hand.
Chapter 15
My street is no less busy when I get there than it was earlier. Two police cars remain at the corner, blocking the entrance to anyone who doesn’t have an ID that proves they live here.
I hold up my driver’s license to one of the cops. She looks at it, her eyes flitting away from it and back to my face. She not only recognizes the street name, she recognizes the number. She waves me through.
A few neighbors are gathered in the cul-de-sac. It reminds me of the block party I didn’t go to a few months ago. Back then, my neighbors were gathered around picnic tables and grills, sharing laughter and fun; today they’re gathered around nothing, exchanging looks of disbelief and fear. Back then, this was a quiet, safe street, like it always had been for the fifty or so years all these houses have been here; today it’s the place where a serial killer struck, changing the look and feel of the place forever as most of them slept comfortably in their safe, quiet bedrooms.
I wasn’t expecting to be able to get back into my house this soon. I only came back here to see if Erin’s parents might be here.
There’s no place to park close to my house, so I pull to the curb two doors down and walk to my driveway. When I get there, I see Hogle and Roark walking back toward their car. They stop when they see me.
“You’ll be back in tomorrow,” Detective Hogle says. “I’m assuming you know who to call about cleanup.”
Having covered this case for almost a year, I do know who to call. There’s only one crime scene cleaning company in town. Regular cleaning companies don’t offer such services. We didn’t even have one of our own until about four years ago, when someone realized there was an underserved market here, a base of customers to be had, money to me made off the misfortune of strangers.
“You could almost do it yourself,” Roark says. “It’s just like the others in this case.”
He doesn’t need to elaborate. I know what he’s talking about. The crime scenes in this case don’t have what so many others have. There are no blood-soaked carpets, no blood-spattered walls, no other gory biohazards. I’ve covered crimes where all of that exists. I’ve interviewed someone who works with a company as a Crime and Trauma Scene Decontamination Specialist.
Even without blood and body tissue lying around, I know what’s inside my home that will need cleaning. Fingerprint dust. Lots of it. Medical technicians and people from the coroner’s office always leave their latex gloves lying around, discarded and tossed on the floor.
I also know how much it will cost and why they can charge so much. Who is going to do it themselves?
“Have her parents been here yet?” I ask, as I walk with them to their car.
“About an hour ago.” Hogle pulls a key fob out of his pocket. The car beeps twice and he opens the driver door.
“We only spoke with them briefly,” Roark adds. “We’re meeting with them in the morning.”
Hogle gets into the car and starts it.
Over the sound of the engine, I ask, “Do you know where they’re staying?” I keep my eyes on Roark, knowing he’s more likely to share that with me than Hogle is anyway.
“Holiday Inn. The one right around the corner.”
◆◆◆
It takes me just five minutes to get to the Holiday Inn. I drive around the parking lot twice, looking for a parking spot but they’re all taken. There are also two large buses crammed into the small half-circle entranceway.
I see a couple leaving the hotel, so I follow them slowly in my car. When they leave, I park and walk toward the door. About two dozen teenage boys are swarming around the buses, running, yelling, while a few older guys try to get them in order, telling them they need to unload their bags from the luggage compartments. The closer I get, I notice they’re all wearing the same Little League baseball shirts. Erin’s parents aren’t likely to have a peaceful, quiet stay here.
At the front desk, a woman smiles as I approach, welcoming me and asking if I’m checking in.
“No, I’m actually looking for someone.”
“Do you know their room number?”
“I don’t.”
“Not a problem,” she says with a smile. “What’s the name? I can call their room and let them know someone is here to see them.”
“Last name is Thorpe.”
She types it into the computer, picks up the phone and dials a few numbers.
“Mrs. Thorpe, this is Angie at the front desk. I have someone here…” She looks at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your name.”
“Kate Downey.”
“Kate Downey is here to see you.” She pauses for a few seconds. “I’ll let her know. Thank you.” She hangs up. “She said you can go up to their room. They’re in room three-twenty. If you go down this hallway, that elevator will let you out close to their room.”
The elevator is slow. Or seems slow, anyway. When the doors open, I step out and immediately see Erin’s mother standing three doors down. Waiting. The walk toward her feels long, like I’m going the wrong way on one of those moving walkways in an airport.
“Oh, Kate,” she says, opening her arms to hug me as I reach her. “I can’t believe what’s happening.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
She holds on for a few moments, then lets go.
“Come on in,” she says, opening the door.
I step in behind her and see Erin’s father sitting in a recliner. He’s on the phone, his back to us. He’s talking in a low, hushed tone, so I can’t hear what he’s saying or make out who he might be talking to.
Mrs. Thorpe motions for me to have a seat in one of the chairs and whispers, “He’ll just be a minute.”
I nod and strain to hear the mumbled words of Mr. Thorpe that are drowned out by the whir of the air conditioner, which they have set on full blast. There’s still at least two hours of daylight left, but they have the curtains pulled closed against the window and there’s only one lamp on, so we sit in this cold, darkened room and wait.
A few minutes pass and Mr. Thorpe’s voice gets louder. He thanks someone. I see him lower his hands, the phone coming away from his ear, and then he turns around.
“Sorry,” he says. “I
was talking to my brother.” He looks at Mrs. Thorpe. “He and Sheila were going to come down. I told them no need, we’ll be home in a day or so anyway.” He lowers his head and looks at the floor, collecting himself, then looks up at me.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Erin’s parents. Going on almost seven years, as best I can figure. They both look like they’ve aged more than that, though, and I wonder how much of it is the stress and grief they’re currently under.
Mrs. Thorpe recognized me right away in the hall, but Mr. Thorpe doesn’t seem to.
I feel like I shouldn’t be here.
“Jack, you remember Kate?”
He lets out a sigh, big and loud enough so it sounded like he had been holding his breath. “Of course, I’m sorry.”
“No, please,” I say. “I tried calling and—”
“I know. It’s my fault.” Mrs. Thorpe shakes her head. “We left in such a hurry, I forgot my phone. It was right there on the kitchen counter and everything was happening so fast.”
I relax a little now that I know why they didn’t respond to my calls.
“We’re both glad you’re okay,” Mrs. Thorpe says. “Your parents must have been terrified.”
I shrug it off like it’s nothing, because I don’t want to tell her my parents have no idea what’s going on and I’d like to keep it that way.
Mr. Thorpe stands, his knees crack, and he walks over to the mini-fridge, pulls out a bottle of Diet Coke that’s half empty. As he sips, I notice that his shirt is tucked in only halfway and his khaki slacks are wrinkled. It makes me think of them rushing to leave their house and drive down here to retrieve their deceased daughter.
My attention is drawn back to Erin’s mom when she speaks. “Jack went and saw her at the morgue. I stayed in the car. I just couldn’t do it.”