by Rick Mofina
“Hello.”
“Is this Jack Gannon, the reporter?”
He didn’t recognize the male caller. He’d always kept his name and number listed but not his address. He suffered the whack jobs for the occasional story.
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“I don’t want to say. I live in Ascension Park and have been following the murder of that college girl and this Karl Styebeck business.”
“Yes.”
“Styebeck lives down the street from me and the other day I was walking my dog when I counted six unmarked police cars parked at his house. Guys who were not in uniform, but obviously cops, were coming and going. It’s like they were searching for something.”
“Did you ask them what was happening?”
“Nobody would talk to me. There was nothing in the news, which burns me. I thought we lived in a democracy. Anyway, I thought you should know, seeing how you wrote up a big story about him a little while ago.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe you can put something in the paper?”
“I don’t work for the paper anymore.”
“What? I thought—”
“Thanks for the call.”
Gannon grabbed his jacket and keys.
It sounded like they’d executed a warrant on Styebeck. Now that things were moving faster, he couldn’t risk sitting on what he knew.
As he drove to Styebeck’s house in Ascension Park, he considered how to play his information. Given that he was not Styebeck’s favorite reporter, Gannon figured he should just hit him with Alberta and hope that he’d talk about Deke, maybe reveal other information.
It was a long shot.
Gannon rang the bell. A boy opened the door.
“Hi, I’m Jack Gannon. May I speak to your dad?”
The boy’s face tightened slightly as he and Gannon recognized each other from his first confrontation with Styebeck at the ballpark. The boy kept his hand defensively on the door, his eyes on Gannon, and shouted, “Mom!”
“Who is it, Taylor?” His mother’s voice came from inside the house.
“Mom, you better come!”
Footsteps, then Alice Styebeck appeared, drying her hands on a dish towel, her chin lifting in subtle defiance.
“Yes.”
“May I speak with Karl, please?”
It struck Gannon that Alice Styebeck was struggling with her answer, as if she wanted Gannon, the enemy, to visit her husband.
Taylor shot her a look of surprise when she said, “He’s in the backyard. You can go around the side.”
What just happened there? Was she sending him to his doom, or was something else at work? Gannon wondered.
He heard thumping as he went round the house.
Karl Styebeck was splitting logs with a long-handled ax.
Thud-crack-thud-crack-thud.
Sweat dripped from his face, blotching the neck and underarms of his T-shirt.
Thud-thud-thud.
“Detective Styebeck?”
He looked at Gannon.
“What the hell are you doing on my property?”
“I wanted to talk to you about your father, Deke. I’ve just returned from Brooks, Alberta, and I know.”
“You know what?”
“I know everything, sir.”
“You don’t know shit!”
“I do. I know about your blood and the speculation of what Deke did all those years ago.”
Styebeck’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his ax and pointed the blade to the street.
“Leave, Gannon!”
“Tell me, Karl, does it run in the family?”
Styebeck’s face twisted with rage and he invaded Gannon’s space.
“Get off my property now or I’ll get my gun.”
Gannon stood his ground long enough to let Styebeck know he didn’t fear him. Then Gannon turned to see Alice Styebeck glaring—not at him, but at her husband.
That night in his apartment Gannon tried in vain to sleep.
He tossed and turned, questioning himself over and over about the way he’d approached matters.
What did he learn from his idiotic confrontation with Styebeck? Nothing. He’d committed the sin of prematurely tipping his hand. He was stupid, stupid, stupid!
His phone rang.
“Mr. Gannon?”
“Yes.”
The woman on the line was crying.
“This is Mary Peller.”
“Mary? What is it? Are you all right?”
“They found Jolene!”
“They found her?”
“She’s dead! My daughter’s dead!”
50
A pure and overwhelming calm had descended upon Schiller Park and the low-rent building where Jolene Peller’s mother lived.
Gannon looked up at her third-floor unit. Faint light filled her window like an unyielding flag of hope in the final hour before dawn.
Mary Peller’s words—“my daughter’s dead!”—still rang in his ears.
In calling Gannon, Mary had invited him to her apartment as soon as possible. Half an hour after her call, he brought his car to a halt in front of her building.
He headed for the entrance thinking how much he hated this, just hated this part of the business. As a reporter, he’d been to countless places of mourning and each time it cost him a piece of his heart.
Locks clicked.
Jolene Peller’s mother opened her door, surprising him when she fell into his arms, sobbing.
A wave of alcohol rolled over him. He saw the opened Jack Daniels’ bottle on her coffee table.
“I’m so sorry, Mary.”
She pulled herself away and gestured to the couch.
“Thank you for coming. Daisy made fresh coffee.”
“Daisy?” He saw no one else in the apartment.
“My friend downstairs. She’s stayed with me ever since the two detectives arrived. I just sent her home because you were coming.”
“And Cody?”
“He’s sleeping.”
Mary may have been drinking but she was not drunk.
“I’m sorry. I’m not being a good host at the moment. You’ll have to help yourself to coffee. Everything’s there.”
Gannon fixed himself a cup then joined Mary on the couch. Jolene smiled at them from photographs covering the coffee table. Mary moved the bottle and glasses aside to an end table.
“This is hard for me, Mr. Gannon.”
“Take your time. And please call me Jack.”
“The police told me not to tell anyone what they said about Jolene. They said it might not be safe because the killer might still be around. They don’t want anything leaking out about what they found.”
He was bursting with questions but restrained himself.
“I don’t care what they said because I trust you,” she said.
“I understand.”
“You’re the first person who gave a damn when I was looking for her. That day at your paper you gave me your time. You showed me respect. I just knew you were a good man. I want to tell you what the police told me.”
Gannon nodded.
“The man, Brent, did most of the talking. He was kind and all, telling me they had some news and to brace myself for the worst.”
Mary covered her face with her hands, inhaled then exhaled.
“They said the body of a woman fitting Jolene’s description had been discovered. Fitting her description? I said, are you absolutely certain? I said, show me a picture.”
Gannon cast a glance at the coffee table.
“They didn’t have any pictures of the victim. Well, none that they would show me. They said it was all very bad with the body.”
Mary stopped to breathe.
“Excuse me.” She took a sip from the glass in her shaking hand. “They said they’d sent Jo’s fingerprints and her dental records, which I’d provided when I made my missing person report, to the police for confirmation.”
“Did they confir
m the identity?”
“Not yet. They said it’s all being—being processed, that was the word. They said they wanted me to hear about it all from them first before any of it got out.”
“Mary, if they haven’t confirmed yet, then maybe there’s a chance—”
“They showed me these.”
Mary reached around for a file folder of enlarged, sharp color prints of a locket. The pictures had dates and evidence numbers in the corner.
“See the inscription? See Cody? I gave Jo that locket. My gift because—” Mary took a breath “—because she’d turned her life around. Jo loved it and wore it all the time. All the time.”
“The police gave you this picture?”
Mary nodded. “To identify it as belonging to Jolene.” Anguish webbed across her face.
“Where did they find this locket?” he asked.
“In Jo’s hand. See, she was hanging on to Cody. Never giving up.” Mary gasped. “Mr. Gannon, I have to see her for myself. Unless I see it, it can’t be true. I keep praying that it’s all a mistake. But it’s like the nightmare I had where Jo lost her locket.”
“Where did they find her?”
“Kansas.”
“Kansas?”
“In Wichita. Little boys playing in the woods found her.”
“Did the police tell you anything else?”
“They’re convinced the person who did this is the same person who killed Bernice Hogan.”
51
Later that morning in Manhattan, senior editors gathered in the sixteenth-floor conference room of World Press Alliance headquarters.
Strands of conversations on breaking news, sports, travel budgets and plain old gossip faded as they settled around the polished table.
They’d set down coffee mugs, notepads, copies of the New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal as they commenced the day’s first national-story meeting. There would be other national- and international-story meetings throughout the day and night. Being a twenty-four-hour global news service meant the flow of information never ceased.
“Roll call,” Carter O’Neill, who ran the meeting, said loudly for the benefit of the WPA’s domestic bureau chiefs who were participating through the teleconference hookup. After a string of voices from across the country checked in, O’Neill took attendance around the table.
The editors reviewed printouts of the morning’s national-news agenda and discussed only the bigger stories emerging from across the country, those that the WPA was offering subscribers everywhere.
As usual, O’Neill led off with major stories out of New York City.
“Okay, we’ve got ongoing coverage of the murder of two rookie NYPD patrol officers, the Wall Street investment scandal and the new network and Internet deals for the NFL.”
“Questions?”
“It’s Nan in Miami. We’re hearing that the CEO may be charged in the investment fraud. He’s got family in South Florida.”
“Nan, it’s Gord. We’re on top of the potential charges,” the New York bureau chief said. “But we may need some help. Word is he may take the corporate jet to Boca Raton, then to the Caymans.”
“Other questions?” O’Neill said. “No? Okay, on to the bureaus, to those of you who’ve been flagged. Martin in Washington, you’re up first.”
“We’ve got new testimony on the ‘77–91’ Lobby Gate mess.”
“Let’s hope we hear something substantial,” O’Neill said. “I think the committee’s scraping the barrel. Vince in Chicago, you’re next.”
“We’re on the trial of the two ex-soldiers who robbed the armored car.”
“That’s getting a lot of pickup,” O’Neill said. “Questions?”
“Your team’s been doing nice work on that, Vince,” executive editor Beland Stone said.
“Thanks.”
“Next, Houston.”
“Still have the huge refinery fire. Still burning but its contained.”
“What’s the toll now, Wes?” O’Neill asked.
“They just updated. Eleven.”
“Next, Hector in Los Angeles.”
“The gang shooting in the school yard.”
“How young were those kids?”
“Eight and nine. We’ve got a good followup coming.”
“Next, Brad in Wichita.”
“We’re following the crash with the cheerleaders. A sad story. We also may have something else brewing with a homicide.”
“A homicide?” O’Neill asked.
“A woman’s body dumped in the woods. So far, she’s a Jane Doe.”
Melody Lyon lowered her printout, concentrating over her bifocals.
“Brad, it’s Melody. Why raise a homicide? What do you have there?”
“Wichita police are not saying anything on this. We’re hearing rumors that the homicide was ritualistic and tied to another case out of state.”
“Brad?” Lyon said. “We’ll talk off-line immediately after the meeting.”
Less than fifteen minutes later, Lyon was at her desk, typing on her keyboard, searching for a recent e-mail.
“Gotcha,” she said to herself when she’d found it. “Here we go.”
She called Brad Roth, the WPA’s bureau chief in Kansas. As the line rang, Carter O’Neill entered Lyon’s office. Lyon moved her hand in a sweeping motion signaling him to shut her office door.
He did, then sat in one of her cushioned visitors’ chairs.
Lyon switched her phone to speaker mode and adjusted the sound.
“Hi, Melody,” Roth said.
The WPA’s Wichita bureau had a staff of five: Roth, two other reporters, a freelancer and a photographer.
“Okay, Brad, what can you tell me on this homicide?” Lyon asked.
“Not a whole heck of a lot more than what I said on the meeting call. The police have shut everyone down on this.”
“What about the Eagle?” O’Neill asked. “What have they got?”
“Bare-bones stuff, here. I’m rereading it. We know what they know. They’re trying to ID this Jane Doe, who was discovered by some little boys playing in woods near Clear Ridge Crossing, a new subdivision.”
“So what’re the rumors? What’re you hearing?” Lyon asked.
“The scene was disturbing. Extremely grisly. The little boys who made the discovery are getting counseling. We’re also hearing that a task force has been formed because they think this is linked to the homicide of another woman across the country.”
“Where?”
“We don’t know. Maybe east.”
“Good work flagging this. It could turn into something. Stay on it and keep me posted,” Lyon ended the call and gestured for O’Neill to come closer to see what she had up on her monitor. “Look at this e-mail I got from Jack Gannon this morning.”
Melody:
Still hoping you might have time to talk to me. I’ve got some new and disturbing information concerning the murder of the Buffalo nursing student, including a tip from a solid source that it may be linked to the murder of another woman found in another state. I know exactly where it is, but you can appreciate why I’m holding back. Gannon
O’Neill whistled through his teeth.
“I think Gannon’s case is the Wichita case,” Lyon said. “And I think Gannon knows way more than everyone else.”
“What do you plan to do about it?”
Lyon steepled her fingers and touched them to her lips.
“I need to think.”
“If you’re thinking of involving Gannon, you’d better be careful.”
She nodded at O’Neill’s warning.
At the same time, her instincts were screaming at her.
With Gannon, they could have the inside track to a huge national story.
52
Jack Gannon watched the ground drop and felt the jet force his body into his seat as the A320 climbed from the airport.
Destination: Wichita, Kansas.
He checked his watch. It’d been three hours sinc
e he’d left Mary Peller grieving in her apartment. As metropolitan Buffalo blurred below him, he vowed to stay ahead of this story and somehow get it out.
Just before boarding, he’d e-mailed editors at Vanity Fair, Esquire and Penthouse, pitching an investigative article.
He knew it was futile with the big magazines.
In desperation, he’d e-mailed a cryptic pitch to Melody Lyon at the WPA.
He looked out his window, knowing that in a few hours he’d be at the death site of a second murdered young woman. His job was to show the world the link between these murders and Detective Karl Styebeck.
The jet turned and Gannon’s body shook from his lack of sleep, his adrenaline and an overdose of black coffee.
But he couldn’t rest. He had to work.
When the plane leveled he turned on his laptop. For a moment, he thought of his sister, Cora, out there somewhere, but had to set his thoughts of her aside for another time.
Jolene Peller’s face appeared on his laptop screen.
Then pictures of her locket.
How did Jolene end up in Kansas?
What did police have at the Kansas scene that convinced them that the same guy killed Bernice in Buffalo and Jolene in Wichita?
Jolene knew Bernice. They both knew Styebeck.
Styebeck?
It was wild. A hero cop, a detective, murdering women.
If it was Styebeck, how did he get Jolene to Kansas? Did he chase her? Meet her there? Did he fly there? How is he involved?
And why the hell hadn’t Brent and Esko charged him yet?
Gannon reviewed files and notes until his jet landed in Chicago.
At O’Hare, he’d fallen asleep in the preboarding area with his ticket peeking from his pocket and would’ve missed his connecting flight to Wichita if the attendant had not nudged him.
“Mr. Gannon, it’s last call for your flight.”
During the next flight he bought a prepacked sandwich on board and resumed working, reviewing what he knew of Styebeck’s past.
Did any of it have any bearing on what was happening now?
As the jet began its descent into Wichita Mid-Continent Airport, Gannon reviewed all the articles he’d bought online from the Wichita Eagle. It was superb, well-written stuff, but the purchased items didn’t contain graphics or photos. Thankfully, Gannon’s request for the Eagle’s news library to send him scanned pages of the actual print edition had come through.