Kale smiled, then said, “The answer is you don’t. People are incredibly complex. Even twins raised under virtually identical circumstances can turn out quite differently. Certainly patterns exist, and some of them are predictive. But not every square peg fits in a square hole. Human beings have a perverse way of not sliding nicely into a mold. As an investigator, your job is to assemble as many facts as you can and use your intellect and experience to get the true picture.
“Does that help, Ms. Carmichael?”
“I guess,” the girl said, though she still sounded perplexed.
“Let me put it this way. You have very little chance of learning the truth if you know in advance what the truth ought to be.” Kale glanced around the room and continued, “As Ms. Carmichael said, we do have a midterm coming up on Monday, so I’ll end class early and give you a little extra time to study. Don’t stress over it, people.”
There was a general shifting of chairs as students got up and began to file out. Beth noted 85 percent of them were women. One actually put an apple on his desk as she passed by.
“No way,” Beth said to herself.
After a second, she realized she was the last person still seated.
Jackson Kale was standing there watching her. “Detective Sturgis, I presume?”
For a moment Beth was thrown off that he knew her name. Then she remembered her conversation with the housekeeper. She’d probably called him.
“Do I look that much like a cop?” she asked, starting down the aisle.
“Not in the least. My housekeeper left a message about your call. Jack Kale,” he added, offering his hand.
“Elizabeth Sturgis.”
His eyes were more hazel than brown, something that hadn’t come across in the file photo. He released her hand and then folded his own in front of him, waiting for her to continue.
“Do you have a couple of minutes, Professor?”
“Jack.”
“Jack,” she repeated. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
“Sure. That was my last class. I have coffee in the office.”
“We can talk right here.”
“All right,” he said, leaning back against his desk. “Would you care to have a seat?”
“Standing’s fine.”
“It is, but sitting makes it easier to take notes,” Kale said, nodding toward the legal pad she was holding.
She immediately felt foolish. Like most cops, her tendency was to take control of an interview and direct the questions. The man had a disconcerting gaze . . . not leering or even intense, just sort of focused.
“I guess sitting’s better,” she conceded, smiling. “And maybe your office would be more comfortable.”
Kale nodded and gathered his lecture notes, pausing momentarily when he noticed the apple sitting on the corner of his desk. He picked it up, tossed it in the air, and caught it as he headed for the door.
Chapter 5
Jack Kale’s office was comfortable, though slightly messy, and definitely masculine. A dark-brown Chesterfield sofa sat along the right hand wall under a window. About a third of it was covered in blue test booklets. In front of his desk were two matching leather guest chairs. Behind the desk was a credenza with a keyboard and flat-screen monitor. The wall opposite the window contained the usual detritus of education.
Jack scooped up the test booklets and placed them in a stack at the end of the couch, clearing a place for Beth to sit.
While he was busy retrieving two white porcelain mugs from the top drawer of a metal file cabinet, Beth studied the office further. On the wall above the credenza was a renaissance print of St. Mark’s Square in Venice. She recognized it from her visit to Italy on her honeymoon. The only other picture was a photo of a smiling preteen girl at the corner of his desk.
Jack returned with the coffee and took a seat opposite her in one of his guest chairs. She liked the fact that he didn’t retreat behind his desk, putting a barrier between them.
“Your daughter?” she asked.
“Morgan,” he said. “Age twelve going on twenty-eight. She’s a handful.”
“I remember what it was like being twelve,” Beth said. “Does she get along with your wife?”
“Ex-wife. Katherine remarried a few years ago. They both live in California now.”
Shit, Beth thought. The damn file said he was married.
“Did you read all those?” she asked, pointing at the books on his shelves.
“Not all. Some are reference materials,” he said. “But you didn’t come here to talk about me. Most of my background is probably in that file in your briefcase.”
Beth stared down at her lap for a moment and smiled. The hardest people to interview were cops, and that included ex-cops.
“Just making conversation,” she said.
“To put the subject at ease. I understand. How’s the coffee?”
“Terrible”
Jack blinked and sat back in his chair, then sniffed his mug and took a tentative sip. The expression on his face confirmed it.
“Jesus,” he said, taking the cup from her. “You’re right. Give me a minute and I’ll make us a new pot. Or would you prefer tea instead?”
“Honestly, don’t go to any trouble. I appreciate the offer.”
His getting flustered was kind of funny. One minute a calm professor lecturing about schizophrenia and investigative techniques, the next, a man fumbling to make coffee.
“Sorry,” Jack said. “How about a rain check?”
“Uh . . . that would be fine,” Beth said.
“So, what can I do for you, Ms. Sturgis?”
“Well, for starters, you can call me Beth.”
“Fair enough, Beth.”
The follow-up question she was about to ask remained on the tip of her tongue when she noticed a book on Jack’s desk titled Psychoanalysis.
“You’re a psychiatrist?”
“Psychologist,” he said.
“I was an anthropology major,” Beth told him. “I don’t get all that stuff about the subconscious.”
“Neither do I,” Jack said.
“Really?”
“No.”
She responded with a flat look.
“Sorry,” Jack said. There was an amused expression playing at the corners of his mouth.
“I dated a psychologist once. They always answer a question with a question.”
“How should we answer them?”
Beth opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again and informed him, “You’re aware I carry a gun.”
He smiled and held up his hands in surrender. “All right, what brings you here today, Beth?”
“I have a few questions about a case you worked on some years ago. Do you recall a man named Howard Lincoln Pell?”
The pleasant smile faded from Jack’s face. It wasn’t much of a change, but it was noticeable. “I do.”
“You were with the FBI then—their senior profiler.”
Kale nodded and didn’t reply.
Beth continued, “It’s hard to read between the lines, but it looks like you basically took over the role of lead investigator.”
“Sometimes a case turns out that way,” Jack said. “Your department remained involved.”
“Isn’t that a little unusual for a psychologist?”
“Before I joined the Bureau, I was assigned to the Marine Corps Criminal Investigation Division. They had a program that let me work and pursue my doctoral degree.”
“So you became . . . what, a behaviorist?”
“Behaviorist, psychologist. It’s pretty much the same thing. Criminalist is probably the closest description.”
“I didn’t know that,” Beth said.
“No reason for you to.”
“I haven’t had time to track down the other detectives who worked the case with you. Mike Dibella’s retired and living someplace in Florida. His partner left the department and works security for a casino in Atlantic City.”
>
“Why?”
“Why what?” Beth asked.
“Why do you need to track them down and talk with me?”
“A case just fell into my lap yesterday,” she told him. “A man was murdered several days ago in Jordan. He was found shot in the face and dressed as a scarecrow in the middle of a field. Local law enforcement called us in to assist.”
Jack nodded his understanding but offered nothing in return. The only reaction, if it was one, was that the color in his face seemed to have risen a shade.
“I’m hoping you can give me some insight into Howard Pell,” Beth said. “Not everything gets in the book.”
“What is it you need to know?”
“It’s pretty obvious we’re dealing with a copycat.”
“I’m familiar with the term, Beth,” Jack said. “Unfortunately, I’ve been out of police work for quite a while now. I doubt I’d be of much help.”
“But you remember the case.”
“Vividly.”
“Then talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. The Scarecrow was a monster—literally. An aberration that shouldn’t exist in this world. Somehow, Dr. Pell slipped through the cracks and went on for years before he snapped. It seems to me the murder book should contain everything you need.”
“It might,” Beth said. “But you knew Pell better than anyone.”
Jack laughed to himself without humor and looked out the window for several seconds. “I’m not sure how to respond.” The last words were spoken more to himself than to her.
“Every detective forms impressions and feelings about a case,” Beth said. “All I’m asking for is a few minutes of your time.”
Jack continued to stare out the window.
“Jack?”
“Yes. You want a few minutes. I heard.” He took a deep breath and turned back to her. “The cause of death was the gunshot?”
“We don’t know yet,” Beth said. “When I examined the body, it was nothing obvious. There was certainly a gunshot wound, but the ME didn’t think that would be fatal. The odd thing is the victim was as white as a sheet as if all the blood had been drained out of him. Even more interesting: the ring finger on his left hand was missing. The autopsy’s set for Monday. Would you be interested in attending?”
Jack looked at her sharply at the mention of the body’s condition. After several seconds, he said, “No. I’m not with the FBI anymore.”
“I understand,” Beth said. “But you’re still more or less in the field.”
“As I’ve said, I’m pretty backed up at the moment. I’m sorry.”
Perplexed at his attitude, she decided to ignore his last comment and push harder. She took the crime scene photos from her briefcase and spread them out on the middle section of his couch.
“Would you at least look at the preliminary report? I made an extra copy for you.”
“I . . . sure.”
For the next several minutes, he studied the gruesome pictures, shaking his head. The rise and fall of his chest had been noticeable a moment ago, but now he seemed to have calmed himself. When he finished with the last one, he held his hand out for the accompanying notes. She passed them to him and waited, feeling very much like a student again.
Jack finally inquired, “Sheriff Blaylock was the responding officer?”
“Right.”
“And he’s the one who spotted the two sets of shoeprints in this photo?”
“He pointed them out to me. I had electrostats made.”
“And from them, you concluded there were two men present at the scene, apart from the victim.”
“Correct,” Beth said. “It makes sense. Jerome Haffner was a big man. It would’ve taken more than one person to carry him and hoist him up on that cross.”
“Not if the killer tied him to it while he was lying on the ground and then lifted it.”
“They still had to get him there,” Beth said.
“From where?”
“That we don’t know. There’s a farmhouse about a quarter mile from where the victim was found, and the road is at least a five-minute hike. Unfortunately, there were no tracks coming or going. The barn looked good, but it was empty. I went through it and forensics followed behind me. It was clean. Since there was so little blood present, we figured they killed him someplace else and brought him there for some sick reason.”
“And carried him across the field at the risk of being seen?”
“The place is deserted. Even the railroad tracks are abandoned. I read that Pell had a helper in the beginning, before he killed him. It fits the pattern.”
“Did you check outside the barn?”
“Outside?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Well, I walked around it with Sheriff Blaylock and two deputies. We didn’t see anything.”
“Four people walked the crime scene?”
Beth was beginning to regret having asked for his help, but said, “More eyes to search.”
“Ideally, you want no more than two people. With every additional person, the odds of contamination go up. What about the house?”
“We looked, of course, but it was clean.”
Jack picked up the electrostatic images of the shoeprints and examined them again.
“First off, you’re dealing with one killer, not two. Granted, the shoeprints are different, but sometimes a clever criminal will use different shoes to throw you off. I think that’s what’s happened here. If you look at the depth of the prints, they’re the same. If something heavy was being carried in one direction, there would be a difference.”
Beth tentatively said, “Okay . . . that makes sense.”
“You see this close-up picture of the locket and chain around the victim’s neck?”
“Sure.”
“Obviously that’s not the kind of jewelry a man wears. According to your notes, the sheriff mentioned two women are missing, right?”
“Um-hm.”
“If I had to speculate, I’d say their disappearance and this man’s death are both related. The locket probably belongs to one of them. Whoever did this is sending you a message. He’s got one or both women and doesn’t care if you know it. In fact, he wants you to know it.”
“Damn,” Beth said, as the implications began to dawn on her.
“It’s also clear this isn’t the entire murder scene. You should check the area again for a basement or maybe a root cellar. You’re probably right about the victim being killed someplace else. I just don’t think it’s that far away or that the killer would risk driving around with a body.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m not. It’s just a reasonable hypothesis,” Jack said. “Your bigger problem is the missing women. I don’t believe in coincidences. Something’s either happened to them or it’s about to—something bad, I’m afraid.”
“Then help us,” Beth said.
“I’m sorry. I’m not in a position to.”
It was an odd choice of words. She was frustrated and wanted to shake him. All her instincts told her he was interested, but something was holding him back. Beth tried a different approach.
“Tell me this: if we’re dealing with a copycat, what’s driving him psychologically?”
“If?” Jack said.
“Obviously,” Beth said. “I checked with Meadowbrook before I came out. Pell is still there. He’s had almost no visitors and very little contact with the outside world. What else could there be?”
“What else, indeed?” Jack said absently. “To answer your question, if someone is out there modeling after Howard Pell, you’d look for a person with sociopathic tendencies, a loner who possesses higher-than-average intelligence. The crime scene tells us that much. Mind you, those are just broad categories. There are a lot of factors to consider.”
“Not all square pegs fit in square holes,” Beth said.
Jack smiled. “Right.”
“Would you at least be willing to co
me out and look at the crime scene?”
Jack was holding one of the coffee cups in both his hands. He rotated it first one way and then the other for several seconds. “I wish I could be more help. I’m sorry, Beth.”
With that he stood, indicating the meeting was over.
“So am I,” she said.
Chapter 6
Beth Sturgis was confused and fuming as she marched across campus. In one minute, Jack Kale had gone from open and charming to uncommunicative and detached for no reason she could see.
Beth fished around in her purse, found her cell phone, and called Max Blaylock. He answered on the second ring.
“Sheriff, is the scene still secure?”
“Yep. I’ve got one of my guys out there. He claims he’s dying of boredom.”
“I want him to check the barn and the house and look for either a basement or a root cellar.”
“How come?”
“I just came from a meeting with a man named Jackson Kale who used to work with the FBI. He thinks the victim was killed there or someplace close by. If you do locate a basement, I want you to seal it immediately and call me. I’ll have forensics come out and go over the area with a fine-tooth comb.”
“No problem,” Blaylock said. “Why do I know that name?”
“He was the one who ran the fed’s Scarecrow investigation a few years back.”
“Right. The guy who chased Pell to Cloudland Canyon. They made a TV movie, if I remember right. Is he coming aboard?”
“No, Kale’s out of law enforcement now. He’s teaching at Georgia Tech,” Beth said.
“Too bad. I heard he was a bright guy. I’ll give Avilles a call and get him started. Did Kale think they killed Haffner in a cellar then hauled him up top?”
“He didn’t say Haffner was killed there, only that there’s a second scene. He also doesn’t think there are two killers.”
“Has to be. You saw the victim. He’d be a handful for one man to lift.”
Beth explained Jack’s theory.
The sheriff processed that for a moment. “Like I said, bright guy.”
“The bigger problem is your two missing women,” Beth said.
“How do you mean?”
Once Shadows Fall: A Thriller (A Jack Kale and Beth Sturgis Thriller) Page 3