He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

by LENA DIAZ,

  Branson pursed his lips as Logan’s veiled threat sank in, just as Logan had intended. He planned to haul Branson back to the station, anyway, to get his fingerprints, but he wanted inside his apartment to see if the man was foolish enough to leave evidence lying around. If Branson let him in without a warrant, it would save them all time.

  Branson shrugged and left the door open as he retreated inside and plopped down on a vinyl recliner positioned in front of a tiny TV set.

  He didn’t bother to turn off the TV, which was currently tuned to a rerun of CSI Miami. Logan thought that was an odd choice for the father of a murder victim, but he knew Amanda liked the same show, and God knew she had every reason not to. People were complicated.

  The apartment consisted of a small kitchen separated from the main room by a cracked laminate countertop. There were two doors set into the wall and Logan guessed those led to a bathroom and a bedroom. The apartment was tiny enough to be an efficiency, but there was no sign of a bed or even a futon where Branson could sleep out in this main room.

  It was cleaner on the inside than Logan had expected, given the way it looked outside, but not by much. Dirty dishes overflowed the sink and discarded clothes littered the floor in small piles as if Branson had undressed and left them wherever they happened to land.

  The only place to sit besides the recliner was a stained brown couch with piles of dirty clothes scattered across it. Branson didn’t offer to clear a place for them, and Logan wouldn’t have sat if he did.

  Instead, he leaned down and turned off the TV, then stood beside Riley in front of the screen. Pierce strolled around the apartment, quietly studying everything.

  Branson frowned and tossed the remote on the Walmart-variety end table next to him. “What do you want to ask me? Hurry up. I’m missing my favorite show.”

  “It’s a rerun,” Riley offered. “The limo driver did it.”

  Branson’s face grew red and Logan gave Riley a warning look. “Mr. Branson, where were you yesterday morning, around eight-thirty?”

  Branson’s eyes opened wide and Logan thought his face paled a bit beneath the stubble on his cheeks. “I was at work.”

  “That’s interesting, since the trucking company you work for hasn’t seen you in quite some time. Did you get a new job?”

  “That’s right, yeah. I’m hauling for another company now.”

  Riley pulled out his phone. “Can you give me the name of that company so I can verify your claim, Mr. Branson?”

  Branson’s face reddened again. “My daughter was murdered and my wife left me. You’ve got no business harassing me, and I don’t have to answer any of your questions.” He looked past Logan and seemed to finally notice Pierce, who was studying a pile of envelopes and pieces of paper lying on the kitchen bar. “Hey, what are you doing? Don’t be going through none of my things.”

  “Someone called the station a few days ago, Mr. Branson,” Logan said, trying to divert his attention. “They asked a lot of questions about Amanda Stockton. The man on the phone didn’t give his name, but the police officer recognized the voice. He’d interviewed you after Dana’s murder. He was quite certain you were the one who called. But when he asked your name, you hung up.”

  Branson’s eyes widened and a light sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. “Okay, so I called. No big deal. I was checking on the investigation. It’s been years, and you still haven’t caught the man that killed Dana.”

  Logan leaned toward him, taking advantage of his size to intimidate the much smaller man. “I wasn’t on the case back when your daughter was killed, but I am now. I promise you, I will find the killer. And I’ll find the man who broke into Amanda Stockton’s house yesterday and tried to scare her.”

  Branson sank back in his chair, his eyes darting around as if he was looking for somewhere to run.

  A wisp of a noise had them both looking toward the kitchen where Pierce was standing. The pile of papers he’d been studying had fallen to the floor. “Oh, sorry, must have bumped them with my elbow,” Pierce said as he bent down to gather the envelopes and papers.

  “No, no, I’ll get them. Leave them alone,” Branson sputtered as he jumped up from the recliner.

  Pierce was studying a receipt but Branson swiped it away. “Give me that,” he said. He leaned down to grab the other envelopes and paper.

  “That was a florist receipt, Mr. Branson. Looks like you bought a dozen roses yesterday. And these blue coveralls on the floor right here? They match the description of the clothing worn by an alleged cable man seen at Amanda Stockton’s home, right down to the ripped front pocket that a very observant neighbor noticed.”

  Logan growled and took a step forward. Pierce stepped between him and Branson while Riley pulled out his handcuffs.

  “You’re under arrest, Mr. Branson,” Riley said cheerfully, as he jerked Branson’s arms behind him and cuffed him. The mail and receipt dropped from Branson’s fingers.

  “What for? Buying some stupid flowers?” he demanded.

  “Good question,” Riley said, looking at Logan. “Stalking or murder, boss?”

  Pierce placed a restraining hand on Logan’s arm. “You don’t have enough for murder yet. He’ll lawyer-up and be out by morning. Stalking might hold him longer until we can pull together more evidence.”

  Logan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He wanted to rip Branson apart. Whether he was the murderer or not, at the very least he’d terrorized Amanda.

  Riley patted Branson down, then grabbed his arm and led him to the door. “Stalking it is. By the way, did you know Florida has some of the toughest anti-stalking laws in the country?” He led Branson out the door, chatting amiably about the penalties of stalking.

  Pierce released Logan’s arm. “Can you handle this? Maybe you should take yourself off the case. You’ve made this a personal vendetta instead of a search for justice.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong, haven’t crossed any lines.”

  “You haven’t crossed any lines? You’re the chief of police and you’re working this case as if you were still a detective. Tell me, if Riley and I hadn’t been here, what would have happened to Branson?”

  Logan scowled. “I need to see this through. I can handle it.”

  Pierce sighed. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I’m asking you to be careful. If you let your personal feelings affect your judgment, you won’t be doing anyone any favors, least of all Amanda.”

  “He did it,” Riley insisted. “I don’t know how he got around Amanda’s security alarm—not yet, anyway. He doesn’t seem smart enough to know how to disable one, but he did it. I know it.”

  “Sure he did,” Logan said. “He’s responsible for the pictures, notes, rose, thorns—all of that—and we can prove it. But murder? I’m not convinced.” He let out a frustrated breath, weary from arguing. The other two men believed Branson was the killer. Before the interrogation, so had Logan, but not anymore. He had serious doubts about Branson’s ability to plan and carry out the crimes, and remain undetected all these years.

  Besides that, Pierce’s lecture at Branson’s apartment had struck a chord. Logan had realized he was falling into the trap he’d vowed all along not to fall into. He’d let his attraction to Amanda cloud his judgment. No more. He was determined to prove he could focus on the case in spite of the feelings he could no longer deny to himself. Amanda mattered to him. Somehow he had to focus on the case regardless of that.

  The first thing he’d done after Branson’s arrest was try to seal his emotions away and come at the evidence from a logical viewpoint. Once he’d done that, it became painfully clear that Branson couldn’t be the murderer.

  He glanced across the conference room table at Riley. “Why are you so determined to label Branson a killer?”

  Riley’s eyes widened and he looked like he was trying to figure out how to respond.

  “And why are you being so stubborn?” Pierce interjected. “I’d think you’d be jumping at the chan
ce to put away the man who hurt Amanda.” He tossed his pen on the table. “You’re still not being objective or you’d see the facts right in front of you.”

  “What facts?” Logan asked. “The facts are the same as before you and Riley interviewed Branson. He didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know. You’re both allowing your dislike of the man to influence you.”

  “Hold on,” Riley said. “The man’s a disgusting jerk, but that alone wouldn’t sway me to brand him a murderer. The evidence tells me he did it.”

  Pierce pointed at Logan. “You’re the one who told us to look at Branson again, and we’ve gathered a mountain of evidence that shows his guilt. The interview was just icing, and proves he couldn’t come up with a reasonable explanation for his actions today or better alibis for the other murders.”

  “You say we have a mountain of evidence, but it’s entirely circumstantial,” Logan said. “There isn’t one solid piece of forensic evidence to tie him to any of the murders. You can’t get a judge to indict based on the flimsy facts we’ve put together.”

  Pierce leaned forward in his chair, his eyes dark and intense. “What we have is a man who fits the profile in every way—”

  “Profiles aren’t evidence.”

  “—and,” Pierce continued as if Logan hadn’t interrupted, “we can place him in the same towns at the same times as three of the murders.”

  “What about the other murders?” Logan asked.

  “He’s worked for a variety of trucking companies. We’re still looking for documentation but I’m sure we’ll find it.”

  “Motive?”

  “He’s a serial killer. His motive is he’s a sick bastard,” Riley said.

  “You’re partly correct,” Pierce said. “We don’t know what the trigger was when he killed Dana and attacked Amanda, but after that, his wife left him, he was laid off from his job at the bank. He lost everything he had. Those pressures are the classic types of triggers. Trucking pays the bills but it doesn’t get his wife back, or give him his self-respect again. It just gave him opportunity for the other murders.”

  Incredulous, Logan glanced back and forth between the two other men. “And you accused me of not being objective,” he said to Pierce. “The man is five-foot-four and probably weighs less than a hundred pounds. How do you think he would be able to control a woman like Amanda? And besides that, she thought her attacker was at least as tall as her, which means our suspect has to be six feet or taller.”

  Pierce looked undaunted. “He was much heavier four years ago. We both know men as a rule are stronger than women, even women who are taller than them. And she can’t have a good sense of his height since she was, by her own admission, either lying on the bed or the floor most of the time during her attack.”

  Logan winced but Pierce relentlessly continued. “He initially used the taser to subdue the women. After that, they were weakened by blood loss. It’s entirely plausible he could manage them.”

  “Did you find a taser at his apartment?” Logan asked.

  “Not yet, but they’re still searching. It could be hours before they’re done. But even if he doesn’t have one now, that doesn’t mean he never did.”

  “It’s reasonable doubt,” Logan said, thumping the table to emphasize each word.

  “I disagree.” Pierce crossed his arms over his chest.

  They were at an impasse. Logan’s lead detective and an FBI agent were 100 percent convinced they had the killer, that it was Frank Branson. So why wasn’t he convinced?

  Was he really too close to the case to see what they were seeing?

  “I still don’t like it,” he said. “But do what you have to do to build a case. We’ll hold him on the stalking for now, up the charge to murder if we can get enough evidence to convince a district attorney.”

  “What about the rest of the investigation?” Riley asked.

  “We keep working on the other leads as if Branson weren’t in the picture. I’m not willing to let anything drop just because we have a suspect in custody.”

  “That will take more manpower than we have,” Riley complained.

  “I can take most of the Branson research under the FBI budget, bring in more resources,” Pierce said. “Logan, if you’ll give me Riley to coordinate efforts with a couple of your detectives, you can have the rest of them for the other leads.”

  “Is that what you want, Riley?” Logan asked.

  Riley shrugged. “I believe Branson is the murderer. I’d like to work with Pierce on that. But if you need me on something else, I’ll do it.”

  Logan drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Riley was his best detective and he didn’t have a large team to draw upon. Could his feelings for Amanda be making him paranoid? Unable to believe it was that easy, that Branson was the one?

  Was he willing to risk being wrong again? What if Branson really was the killer and he went free because Logan persuaded his men Branson was innocent? He looked up at the line of pictures marching across the top of the whiteboard. But instead of seeing those women, instead he saw the shadowy faces of the women who might have been murdered by the killer he’d already let go. How many were there? Six, eight, more?

  He shuddered and scrubbed his hand across his face. No, he couldn’t risk it. He had to assume, for now, that Pierce and Riley were right. But he also had to pursue other leads, just in case they were wrong.

  “I’ll keep two detectives working on the other evidence. You two can take the rest and work the Branson angle, but make sure the stalking charge sticks regardless of where else your investigation leads. I don’t want him terrorizing Amanda again.”

  Pierce nodded, his relief obvious. “Thanks, Logan. I appreciate you keeping an open mind.”

  “I don’t know how open it is, but I trust you and Riley enough not to strangle-hold the investigation. I hope to God you’re right and we’ve got the killer.”

  Logan headed for the conference room door but before he reached it, the door flew open and crashed back against the wall. Mayor Montgomery stood in the opening, his rotund body stuffed into a suit so tight the buttons looked ready to pop. His close-set eyes zeroed in on Pierce and Riley before looking to his right where Logan was doing his best to blend in with the wood paneling.

  “Chief, what’s this I hear about an arrest in the Red Rose Ripper case?”

  Logan flinched at the grotesque name the press had dubbed Carolyn O’Donnell’s murderer. “We’ve arrested Frank Branson for stalking.”

  “Stalking? Who cares about stalking? The press is hounding me night and day about the O’Donnell case. Why haven’t you charged this Branson fellow for that?”

  “Just a little thing called evidence,” Logan mumbled.

  Pierce coughed behind his hand and the mayor’s hawk-like gaze turned to him. “What’s the FBI’s position on this? Do you think Branson is the killer?”

  Pierce shot Logan an apologetic glance. “Everything points to Branson. If I had to give an opinion, then yes, I believe he’s the killer. But,” he held up a hand to stop the flood of words the mayor looked ready to spew, “I agree with Logan that there’s not enough evidence to arrest him for murder. Yet.”

  The mayor frowned, not pleased with that answer. “What about you, detective?” he said, addressing Riley, who was slouching down in his chair and looked like he might slide underneath the table any minute. “Is Branson our man?”

  Riley straightened and shrugged. “I don’t have the experience that Logan and Pierce have, so I don’t know that my opinion makes any difference.”

  “Drop the bullshit, detective,” the mayor said. “Do we have the right man or not?”

  Logan watched the expressions crossing Riley’s face and knew before he spoke that they were in trouble. Riley honestly believed Branson was guilty, but he didn’t know politics, didn’t realize the mayor was looking for the slightest excuse to divert attention from his office. If that meant branding an innocent man a murderer in the eyes of the press, Logan knew
the mayor wouldn’t hesitate. Not because he was a bad person. He was just weak, too weak to withstand the daily calls from concerned parents and the kind of pressure he was under.

  Especially with an election coming up.

  “Well? Guilty or not?” the mayor demanded, his face turning a florid color as he waited impatiently for Riley to respond.

  “I think we’ve got the right man, sir,” Riley said. He lowered his eyes to the table as if the wood grain pattern was suddenly fascinating.

  The mayor clapped his hands together, a smug smile on his face. “I’ll set up a press conference immediately. Shouldn’t be hard to do since the bastards are camped out on my doorstep every freaking day.” He glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes? Is that enough time for you three to join me on the front steps?”

  Logan shoved away from the wall. “Riley and Pierce can make up their own minds on this, but I won’t be there. I’m not going to mark a man a murderer without proof.”

  The mayor sputtered, his eyes widening as Logan headed toward the door. “How am I supposed to announce we have a suspect without you there? You’re the chief of police, for God’s sake. You have to be there.”

  “No, I don’t. If you’re going to call a press conference, you’re doing it without me.”

  Logan left the room and headed for his office. He understood the mayor’s position. All of the evidence they had, what little there was, did point to Branson. But no matter how many times he tried to picture him as the killer, he couldn’t see it.

  After grabbing his jacket and some files from his desk, Logan turned to leave. His cell phone buzzed, so he stopped and took a look at the caller ID. When he saw it was from his sister, Madison, he sighed and dropped the files onto his desk and plopped down in his chair.

  His baby sister had lost her husband in a tragic accident in New York a year ago. Ever since, she’d been traveling around the world, running from her pain. One day she would realize she had to face her problems to put them behind her, but in the meantime she would call him or their mother every few months and announce she was still alive.