by V. K. Sykes
Dale’s voice followed immediately. “Kitchen clear.”
The Martin detective edged into the hall as Amy glanced left toward what appeared to be two bedrooms and a bathroom. With a hand gesture, she indicated Dale should take the first room on the right. Amy moved forward three steps and beamed her flashlight into a small bedroom on her left. She glimpsed walls covered in posters and a single bed tucked in the corner of the room. Empty. She yanked open the door of the small closet. “Bedroom one clear,” she called out.
“Bedroom two clear,” Dale echoed.
The bathroom at the end of the hall was empty, too. The detectives gathered in the kitchen. When Poushinsky switched on the overhead light, the neatness of the place became apparent. In spite of its age and dowdiness, Gardner had kept his house clean and tidy. No dishes in the sink, no food on the counters, and the walls, floors and appliances were free of visible stains. The place looked barely lived in. Amy had a hard time envisioning this house as the scene of gruesome torture and murder.
Dale yanked her cell phone from its hip holster. “A team from our CSU has been standing by. They’ll be here in five minutes, tops.”
“We need them to check for trace evidence, of course, but this isn’t a crime scene,” Amy said. “Gardner wouldn’t have taken his victims here. Not with neighbors so close. Those folks could probably hear Gardner snoring through these flimsy walls.”
She turned to the other Palm Beach detectives. “Let’s take a closer look around. Jenn, DeSean, take the second bedroom and the bathroom. We’ll take the first bedroom.” Ryan and Washington moved off.
“He’s got a hideaway somewhere,” Dale said.
“I agree.” Amy headed down the hall, grabbing latex gloves from her pocket. At the door of the first bedroom, she reached in and flicked the light switch.
She almost laughed. “Wow,” Poushinsky muttered from right behind her. “Teenage boy-dom. Where’s the Xbox?”
Glossy posters of baseball players and stadiums covered at least seventy percent of the room’s wall space. Above a white, three-drawer dresser, Amy recognized Alex Rodriguez in Yankee pinstripes.
“Check out the big one right behind the bed,” Poushinsky said.
Amy swung around. “Calice.”
Luke Beckett smiled at her. The giant poster captured him resting on one knee on the grass of some stadium, propping himself up with a bat. He had slightly shorter hair in the poster, and a less intense tan, but otherwise looked exactly as he did today. Either it was a fairly recent photo, or the man wasn’t aging much.
Poushinsky grimaced. “He’s a goddamn Luke Beckett fan boy, for Christ’s sake.”
Amy’s gut twisted. “I’m glad Beckett isn’t here to see it. It would make him puke.”
Her partner picked up a framed photo, a five by seven. It was the only item on top of the dresser. “Our boy and his daddy, or so it would appear.” He handed it to Amy. “Unless the kid’s coach is a pervert.”
“Damn, Poushinsky,” Amy muttered, grabbing the frame. A burly, middle-aged man in a baseball jacket had his right arm tightly wrapped around a boy in a red and white uniform. The kid looked maybe thirteen or fourteen. He clutched a trophy in one hand and a bat in the other. “It’s his father, obviously. He’s the spitting image.”
“See the little stand at the bottom,” Poushinsky pointed. “It looks like it says Louisiana Babe Ruth Baseball…I can’t read the smaller print below that.”
“Looks like a happy kid with a proud dad,” Amy said, wondering how it could have gone so wrong for Jason Gardner. Was the father still alive? What about his poor mother? ” She set the photo back down on the dresser.
Amy pulled open the top drawer, finding a few pairs of underwear and socks. The second drawer contained three pairs of white baseball pants and a pair of jeans. The bottom drawer was nearly empty save for a couple of pairs of jock shorts and three porno DVD’s.
“Look at this,” Poushinsky said after opening the closet. Amy and Dale both peered inside as he took a step back. Tee shirts, at least ten of them, were hung neatly on hangers. Poushinsky poked them apart with a gloved finger and read out the logos. “Jupiter Hammerheads, Tampa Yankees, Dunedin Blue Jays, Bradenton Marauders, Lakeland Flying Tigers, Brevard County Manatees, Fort Myers Miracle, Charlotte Stone Crabs, Clearwater Threshers, St. Lucie Mets. He’s got almost the whole Florida State League covered here.”
“Jackets and caps, too,” Amy said. Several jackets of different materials hung from the single rod. The shelf on top was filled with caps and hats.
“Serial killer and big-time baseball nut,” Dale snorted.
Amy shook her head. “These are part of his M.O. They’re props he uses to relax the victims and make them feel he’s one of them.” She picked through the tee shirts. “There’s no Palm Beach Cardinals shirt here, though. He had that one on when he bought the flowers from Jodie Jamison, so he’s either got it with him now or he’s ditched it.”
“He probably ditched it after he killed Megan,” Poushinsky said. “With all that blood…”
M.L.’s image jumped into Amy’s head. Her sister sometimes wore a Palm Beach Cardinals tee—one of Justin’s shirts that came down past her mid-thigh—and a horrifying possibility made her stomach clench.
Maybe he’s planning to use that shirt again .
Her head swam, and she had to clutch at the dresser to steady herself.
60
* * *
Friday, August 6
10:20 a.m.
Amy tossed her half-finished cup of coffee down the sink, her stomach pretty much begging for mercy. She’d had a lousy night, and now she could barely force down the coffee she needed. Maybe she should ask Poushinsky to pick up some Red Bull and give that a try.
She’d probably made a mistake last night by telling Beckett that she needed to be alone. As much as she had wanted to be with him, her mind was too revved up by how close they were to nailing the baseball killer. In that state, even Beckett’s skilful attention probably wouldn’t have been able to settle her down.
When she’d called and told him the killer was the equipment manager for the St. Lucie Mets, Beckett had remained silent for several charged seconds before groaning into the phone. He remembered meeting Jason Gardner just a few days earlier at the ballpark. Amy could tell he was furious with himself for not being able to identify the creep, and she’d tried to reassure him. But by the time she’d gotten off the phone, she’d felt wrung out.
She’d tossed and turned all night, not falling asleep until about four. Cramer had woken her at six-thirty, summoning her to HQ to brief him and Knight. Her nerves had jacked her into over-drive, but fortunately the commander was pleased with their progress on the case. Now, three hours later, her remaining energy seemed to be draining like air from a punctured balloon.
Her cell buzzed before she made it out the door of the office kitchen.
“Detective Robitaille? This is Dan Spendlove. You left me a message this morning.”
The Portland team’s general manager. “Thanks for calling back so quickly, sir. I’d like to get some information on Jason Gardner. I understand he was employed by your team last year.”
“Yes, Jason was our equipment manager. Actually, he started the year as the assistant manager, and when the previous manager moved on, we promoted Jason.”
Amy strode quickly to her desk and started jotting notes. “When did he start working for you?”
“Just give me a second to look that up, please.”
It turned out to be more like two minutes by the time he got back on the line. “Okay, here it is. Jason worked for the team for about ten months. Before that, he worked at Hadlock Field. That’s our stadium. He was a groundskeeper for almost a year.”
“And before that he was in prison?”
Spendlove swallowed audibly. “Yes. I knew that when I hired him. When he worked at the stadium, Jason proved himself to be an excellent worker and a very personable young man. He showed a
real desire to make something of himself, and he wanted nothing more than to be part of the team. When an opening came up, I decided to give him a chance, and he didn’t disappoint me.” He paused. “I’ve always thought young people deserve a second chance after prison. Most of them, anyway.”
Amy stifled a sigh. “That’s a laudable sentiment, sir, but were you aware that Gardner committed arson, as well as numerous assaults and acts of vandalism as a juvenile?”
“Yes, and I believed at the time that with extensive counseling, he’d straightened himself out. Apparently, I was wrong.”
Apparently. “Last July,” she continued, “the wife of one of your players was murdered. A woman named Rita Ramirez. The crime remains unsolved.”
“Yes. It was horrible. It shocked absolutely everyone here.”
“What was the relationship between her husband, Eddie Ramirez, and Jason Gardner?”
Amy could practically hear Spendlove’s mental wheels turning. “Eddie and Jason were good friends outside the stadium. Close friends, actually. Jason was popular with all the players, and he spent time with several of them off the field. But more so with Eddie than anyone else. Eddie seemed to take him under his wing.”
“In what way?”
“Eddie thought Jason had natural baseball talent. He’d work out with him, and he’d even get Jason into the batting cage for a few swings sometimes during team practices. The manager and coaches didn’t mind. They all liked Jason.”
“What about Jason and Rita?”
“I don’t know anything about that. I assume Jason must have known her, since he spent a lot of time with Eddie.”
“There’s a strong possibility that Gardner murdered Rita Ramirez, along with several other women in Florida.”
“I understood that from your voice mail message. Frankly, I’m still in shock.”
“Maybe there was a relationship between Rita and Jason? Behind Eddie’s back?”
Spendlove grunted. “Well, Rita might have been having a relationship with somebody, but I’d bet my house it wasn’t Jason Gardner.”
Amy jerked upright in her chair. “You’re saying Rita did have a relationship with someone outside her marriage?”
There was a long silence while she waited impatiently. Finally, he replied. “It was no secret around the team that Rita had a wandering eye. In fact, before she was killed, Eddie had been in the dumps for weeks, and his batting average and power numbers had tanked. He’d let it be known that things weren’t great at home, and had dropped some hints about Rita.”
“But you’re certain the relationship wasn’t with Gardner?”
“Detective, you should talk to some of the players. Every last one of them will tell you Jason would have happily cut off at least one of his arms for Eddie Ramirez.”
“Is Eddie still with your team?”
“No, the Red Sox promoted him to Pawtucket in late August last season. He was there until a couple of weeks ago when Boston called him up as an injury replacement. He’s still with the big team. The kid’s got five-tool talent. He just lost his way for a little while last year until he straightened himself out again.”
Amy scrawled “PROMOTED” in block letters across her pad. “So, you’re telling me Eddie was in a big slump in June or July, and yet he got promoted in August? With his wife murdered, I’d have thought the rest of his season would likely have been shot.”
“That’s understandable, but actually the opposite happened. Eddie took several days off to attend to funeral arrangements and so on, but then he insisted on getting right back in the lineup. For the next month or so, he went on a hitting tear. Nobody could believe it.”
“He used his renewed commitment to baseball as an outlet for his grief, perhaps?” Amy theorized.
“I suppose. But Eddie seemed to put his grief behind him awfully fast. I have to say, the way he acted did make some of us wonder.”
No kidding . Eddie Ramirez sounded like something of a jerk, but he had an iron-clad alibi for his wife’s murder. “It sounds suspicious, but Portland Police have assured us that Eddie Ramirez had an alibi for the evening of the murder.”
“That’s right. Five other guys on the team were with him playing poker at the time. ”
Amy closed off the call, feeling her energy surge back. She signaled to Poushinsky, who pushed back from his desk and ambled over.
“The Portland general manager?”
“Yep,” Amy said with a tight smile. “It seems Gardner and the Portland victim’s husband were best buds.”
He blinked. “You’re kidding.”
Amy shot him a long-suffering look.
“Right, you don’t kid much. But buddies? How fucked up is that?”
“About as fucked up as the husband suddenly breaking out of a slump and getting himself promoted a few weeks after the wife shakes off the mortal coil.”
He gave a low whistle. “Best friend kills wife. Husband’s career takes off. Think Eddie paid our boy to whack the wife?”
“The GM said Eddie and Rita were having their problems, and Rita might have been stepping out.”
“Whack the cheating wife, get your stroke back. Maybe that was Eddie’s theory of how to beat a slump.”
Amy nodded. “Eddie’s not quite passing the sniff test, is he?”
“He wouldn’t be the first guy to pay somebody to kill his wife while he made sure he had an unshakeable alibi.”
“Which would make Jason Gardner a hired killer,” Amy said, but she was already shaking her head before she finished the sentence. “But that’s stupid, Poushinsky. What are the chances that Kasinski, Noble, Rist, and Harrison all contracted Gardner to murder their wives? About zero.”
He grimaced. “They all had solid alibis, so that part was similar. But you’re right, I don’t think Gardner went around clubhouses handing out business cards that said I’ll murder your wife for you.”
“So, while it’s a workable theory for the Ramirez murder, when we apply it to the others it gets ridiculous.”
“Right. I think we’ll have to get to Gardner’s motive after we haul his ass in.”
Amy snorted. “Yeah, if he isn’t already a thousand miles away by now.”
* * *
A half hour and another gut-blasting cup of coffee later, Amy’s office phone rang.
“Detective Robitaille? Mick Spencer, Portland P.D.”
“Thanks for calling back, Detective. You understand why I called?”
“Call me Mick,” he said. “And, yes, you want to know about Rita Ramirez. Whether Jason Gardner was a suspect.”
“Exactly.”
“Of course he was. We investigated everyone on the team, from management on down. Gardner was one of the guys who didn’t have a solid alibi, so he got more than his share of attention. Plus, he had a record, so he was a no-brainer for our short list.”
She squinted at the file containing Joey Garneau’s prison record, trying to bring her tired vision into focus. “I’ve got the basics of Gardner’s sheet—or Garneau’s, as he was known then. Can you fill in the details?”
“I’ve got his file right here. Garneau legally changed his name to Gardner as soon as he got out of prison. He grew up in Louisiana. Father was a minor league baseball player, and then a high school coach. Mother was a hairdresser who spent most of her time in a the bottle. When Joey was fifteen, the parents died in a murder-suicide. Mom shot Pop, then ate her gun.”
Amy sucked in a breath. “Christ,” was all she could manage.
“Yeah. His maternal grandmother here in Maine took him in. Gardner ran pretty wild back then. Minor juvie shit, mostly, except for one serious assault on a classmate at school. Punched her in the face and knocked out some teeth.”
“No sexual assaults?”
“None. One night, when he was seventeen, he torched his own house. The big old Victorian went up fast and hard. Grandma collapsed on the stairs as she tried to get out. Firefighters rescued her, but she nearly died from burns and lu
ng damage.”
Gardner was one serious psychopath. “He was trying to kill her.” Amy said.
“Oh, yeah. But the grandmother claimed Joey was a little prince and he’d never try to harm her. Joey’s story was that his grandmother had told him she wasn’t going to be home until midnight on the night in question. Grandma backed him up, saying she’d come home early while Joey was still out, and that she believed him when he said he didn’t know she was upstairs asleep. The District Attorney’s Office decided they didn’t have enough to make an attempted murder charge stick.”
“So, what reason did he give for setting the fire?”
“He was mad at grandma for making him go to school.”
“Jesus. He was tried in adult court?”
“Found guilty of arson and sentenced to six years in Maine State Prison. He served a little over four before he was paroled.”
“I understand Gardner and Eddie Ramirez had a close friendship.”
“That’s right. Ramirez treated him like a kid brother, and Gardner idolized Ramirez. When we zeroed in on Gardner as a suspect, Ramirez went nuts. Claimed his buddy Jason would never do anything to hurt his wife. In the end, we had nothing concrete to tie Gardner to the crime. No physical evidence. No motive. Ramirez claimed Gardner had been to their home on a dozen or more occasions and had always gotten along okay with his wife.”
“The team’s general manager said it was common knowledge that Eddie and Rita Ramirez had a rocky marriage. And that Rita may have had something going on the side.”
Spencer snorted. “We knew that, but we were never able to pin anything down on that angle. And Ramirez downplayed it. Besides, Eddie’s alibi was rock solid. He had a bunch of other players prepared to testify that he was playing poker with them until long after the time of death.”
Amy took a deep breath, flexing tired shoulders. “I guess Ramirez could have set that up, right? Have his friend kill his wife while he had a solid alibi?”