Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

“And my guy?”

  “Well, when he removed the camera from whatever holder he was using, I got a few frames of the dash. That led me to Chrysler, which led me to K car which led me to 1989. So, our guy is driving a 1989 Chrysler K car. Or at least he was five years ago.”

  “Excellent work, Frank.” Shakespeare tossed it out to the room, though he knew it was probably useless. “Keep your eyes opened. We know he’s watching us—”

  “Watching you,” interrupted Trace.

  “—okay, me, for sure, but maybe he’s watching others. If you see a K car following you or in the vicinity of anything of interest, pull it over, arrest him for whatever reason you can think of, and we’ll deal with the consequences later.”

  “Long shot,” said Walker.

  “No shit,” replied Curtis. “That’d have to be over twenty years old by now, no way that’s still driving around.”

  “You never know,” said Walker. “If he lives in the city, he might not drive it much. Could have a garage for it. I still see them around, just not as many as before.”

  “I remember in high school a buddy of mine had a K car. He’d hit the button for the cruise control, and it would floor it. You’d have to turn the car off to get the damned thing to stop. Terrified the shit out of me when he let me drive once and told me to just use the cruise control.” Curtis shook his head. “Fuckin’ Sandy.” He paused, his eyes boring a hole through time. “Wonder whatever happened to him?”

  “We’ll put an APB out on him later,” said Shakespeare. “For now, what did your Gray background turn up?”

  “Oh, he’s our guy alright,” began Walker with a grin. “Found out his best buddy at the post office, Chuck, was not only having an affair with Sandra Gray, but she was going to leave Carl for this guy. And”—he raised a finger to cut off any interruptions—“lover boy worked the same route where the Cooper residence happens to be, and—wait, I’m not finished, I’ve got more—and he had Carl cover for him a bunch of times over the year the affair was going on, while Chuck would go boink the guy’s wife!”

  “You mean Carl Gray delivered mail to Wayne Cooper’s house?” exclaimed Shakespeare.

  “Yes, a bunch of times. At least a dozen. And get this, Chuck specifically mentioned Cooper to him, told him he was a pedo and to lose his mail whenever he could, and somebody put in a change of address on the residence for six months, redirecting all their mail to a PO box, then cancelled it just before the murder.”

  “Jackpot!” exclaimed Trace, the excitement clear.

  Shakespeare steepled his fingers. “So we’ve got a direct link now between Cooper and Carl Gray, and we’ve got a motive for Gray to have killed his wife.”

  “This case is sounding less and less thin,” commented Walker.

  “Unfortunately we have no evidence.” It was Vinny that spoiled the mood. “It was his apartment, so his DNA is supposed to be all over the place. It’s his wife, his DNA is supposed to be all over her. Her blood was all over him because he was found holding her. Any transfer can be explained by that.” Vinny threw up his hands in frustration. “Short of a confession, I don’t see how you’re going to get him.”

  “We need to link him to the gun,” said Trace. “If we believe Eileen Cooper, they never had a gun. What do we know about it? How was it registered?”

  Walker flipped through his notes and nodded. “I looked into that and this is a little odd. She never registered a weapon.”

  “What?” It was Shakespeare’s turn to be surprised. “We ran the serial number, it came right back to her!”

  “Yes, but the reality was it came back to her because somebody reported selling it to her. I looked at the file and it shows that they sent a cruiser to her house to seize the weapon a week before the murders, because she didn’t respond to their correspondence properly.” Walker closed his notes. “According to the file, somebody reported the private sale. When they tried to find that somebody, it turned out to be a false name and address. So the investigating officer believed that it was a lame way of either trying to get Eileen Cooper in trouble, or a vendetta against her because of her son’s past.

  “Since he’s a registered sex offender, and banned from weapons ownership, the Cooper residence was searched top to bottom about a week before, and no gun was found. The serial number though was still put into the computer so that if it ever came up, and the Coopers were linked to it, then he could be charged.”

  Shakespeare uncrossed his legs then crossed them again, switching to the opposite side.

  “So what you’re saying is Gray got a gun, perhaps off the street, then reported a fake private sale to Cooper, then intercepted all the correspondence related to the follow up questions by the License Division, and once the Coopers were raided, he cancelled the change of address.”

  “You got it.”

  “Why the hell didn’t we know this before?”

  Walker shrugged. “You were off the case within hours of the weapon being stolen, and when Vinny found the DNA, well…” He paused, as if not wanting to say it.

  “I’ll say it,” said Curtis. “You know how McFarren was. He never followed up on anything he didn’t have to. The gun was out, so there was no point in even running it down.”

  “And instead, an innocent man goes to prison for five years.”

  Everyone looked at Trace who crossed her arms, taking a defensive posture.

  “Hey, he may have been a pedo, but in this case, he was framed.”

  “We still haven’t explained his DNA being at the site,” said Vinny.

  Shakespeare nodded. “Well, if the gun was a frame up, you can be sure the DNA was too. We just need to figure out how Gray got his hands on Cooper’s DNA, and we may just have enough circumstantial evidence to nail him.”

  “Should we pick him up?” asked Curtis.

  Shakespeare shook his head.

  “No, we don’t want him to know we’re onto him. Let’s just keep moving forward, see if we can come up with enough evidence on our own to force this guy into a confession.”

  Because without a confession, I can’t see us even getting charges laid.

  Tears would have poured down Carl Gray’s cheeks if he weren’t submerged, but instead, they merely mixed with the water filling his tomb. His sobs echoed through the tube, grunts of sadness at knowing what was to come.

  “The rules are simple.”

  He tried to stifle his sobs and listen.

  “You are here with another. Two of you are here to be tested. But only one will have a chance at redemption, but that choice is completely in your hands. But be warned; it is in the other’s hands as well. Whoever makes the correct choice first, will be redeemed before the eyes of Our Lord, and all their sins forgiven, thus allowing entry into Heaven.

  “And here is the test: only one of you can live. When the test begins, you will share the oxygen supply. When it runs out, you will both die, but should you choose to sacrifice yourself, the other will live. Giving your life will save theirs, and save your soul.”

  His mind raced as he tried to comprehend what was happening. There was a chance to survive, but only if the other person was better than him. This isn’t a test of crimes. His heart sank as he realized this was a test of character. Would they be willing to save him, and sacrifice themselves?

  Perhaps if they didn’t know his shame, they might.

  “And now to introduce you to your partner in all of this.”

  The chamber was suddenly flooded with light, so intense it was blinding at first. Gray squeezed his eyes shut, tight, and after a few moments adjusted to the light penetrating his eyelids. He opened them a sliver, then after a few seconds, was blinking rapidly as things slowly came into focus and the shock settled down.

  And he gasped.

  At least as best he could with the breathing apparatus shoved in his mouth. Overhead he could see the face of a young woman, the same type of apparatus in her mouth, floating above him, but facing him, the same terror he was feeling
etched across her features.

  But there was something off. How could she be floating above him, facing him, with her hair “rising” toward him? It was impossible. And then he figured it out. It was a mirror, on an angle. Memories of Boy Scouts flashed through his mind as he realized what it was. There was an angled mirror, reflecting another opposing mirror, that was actually looking down on her.

  Clever.

  “Carl Gray, this is your partner, Fiona Lipton.”

  Pleasantries were not exchanged, instead more panic from both of them as they realized their nightmare was about to get worse.

  Suddenly the breathing tube was ripped from her mouth, and Gray watched in horror as she struggled, trying to hold her breath. He screamed as he felt his own tube ripped from his mouth. He struggled back and forth, trying to reach the top, his mind not acknowledging it was useless—the chamber was filled to the top.

  A rushing sound filled his ears. At first he thought it was the pounding of his own pulse, his panic attack near complete, but then he saw the surface above him change slightly.

  What’s happening?

  The surface continued to change, and it was getting closer. Then he realized. The sound was that of water rushing out. The change above him was the surface of the water dropping.

  Which meant air.

  He struggled, shoving his hips down as he tried to push his head toward the slowly approaching air, his lungs screaming for relief. He desperately wanted to take a breath, he needed to take a breath. Just one. It was all he needed, but if he did it now, his lungs would fill with water, and he’d die. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, but it was no use. He felt himself about to black out, his chest burning, his heart slamming against his ribs.

  He felt a ripple on his forehead.

  Opening his eyes, he saw the surface.

  From above.

  He tilted his head back and felt his lips break the water. He opened his mouth and was greeted with nothing but air.

  He sucked in a lungful with a gasp, the burning in his lungs subsiding, his panic fueled heart beginning to calm. And while he eagerly breathed in this life giving gas, he felt the water continue to drain away, until after another minute, he was resting on the bottom of the chamber, breathing easier.

  The girl!

  He looked up and saw that she too was resting, her head turned to the side as her chest heaved, her own ordeal now over as she sucked in lungful after lungful. Then something tweaked.

  You will share the oxygen supply.

  NINE

  Shakespeare scratched his cheek.

  “Okay, what else have we got?”

  Trace flicked her wrist, taking the floor.

  “I searched Fiona’s apartment. Nothing there, no evidence of her alternate lifestyle. I’m guessing she keeps all of that in a locker somewhere. Should have the low jack warrant for the car that picked her up any time now.”

  “And I’ve got the face from the restaurant running through facial recognition,” said Frank. “It’s a profile shot, so I’m not too optimistic.”

  “Can we see it?” asked Shakespeare.

  Frank nodded and disappeared from view, moments later being replaced by the photo from the restaurant. It flipped to a grainy close up of the man sitting in the booth behind Aynslee, and Shakespeare felt a wave of disappointment flow through him.

  How the hell can you make anything out of that?

  And as if by magic, his thoughts were heard and the photo was replaced with another one, much crisper. He grunted.

  “Can’t make much out of that, can you?” commented Trace.

  Shakespeare stood and approached the screen.

  “Well, we’ve got a male, from what I saw, about five foot ten, but perhaps, Frank, you’ll be able to get us a height based upon booth measurements—”

  “I’ve got those if you need ’em, Frank,” interjected Vinny.

  “Looks like dark brown hair, shortly clipped, and from here he looks like he’s about fifty give or take.”

  “And he’s white,” offered Curtis.

  “Thanks for that, I think we all missed it,” said Walker. He grunted as Shakespeare continued to look at the photo, Curtis apparently landing a well-aimed elbow.

  He looks familiar.

  Shakespeare tapped his chin.

  “I know this guy.”

  Trace stepped up beside him.

  “From where.”

  Shakespeare slowly shook his head.

  “I have no idea. He just looks familiar to me.” He closed his eyes, trying to imagine the man turning toward the camera, praying his subconscious would fill in the gaps.

  But it might as well have thrown in a jelly donut for all it produced.

  Nothing.

  His stomach growled.

  Trace looked down at the beast.

  “Missed breakfast,” he muttered.

  “Uh huh. How many?”

  He looked at her and spotted the grin trying to force itself past her straight-man routine.

  “Har har.”

  He turned to face the room.

  “Anything else?”

  Kowalski raised his hand. “I ran down that phone call to your drunk’s house. Looks like he’s telling the truth. Call came in at six-thirty-eight pm the night before Cooper’s release, lasted less than five minutes, from a burner phone. But”—he raised a finger, drawing everyone’s attention—“I was able to find out from the cellphone provider—due to my considerable amount of charm—”

  Walker coughed a “bullshit” that would have made Iceman proud.

  Kowalski glared.

  “As I was saying, I was able to find out that several other calls were made. The first was to Cooper’s defense lawyer’s office, the second to the Trump International, the third was the Nickel call, the fourth to a pager registered to an F. Campbell, and the final call to the Trump International at about ten-thirty, the night of Cooper’s release.”

  “And that’s it?” asked Shakespeare, rubbing his chin.

  “Yup.”

  “Can we track down the Campbell person?” asked Shakespeare.

  “I paged them, but never heard back.”

  Trace began to chuckle and murmured, “Clever girl.”

  All eyes shifted to her.

  “What?”

  Trace looked at Shakespeare. “Don’t you get it? F. Campbell? Campbell’s soup? What’s another type of soup? Lipton’s? F Campbell as in Fiona Lipton?”

  Shakespeare made an effort to stop his jaw from dropping, and instead nodded his head.

  “‘Clever girl’, indeed.” He pursed his lips. “So, we know the person who hired Nickel to do the switch at the hotel, then housesit, also hired Cooper’s evening entertainment, and arranged everything with the cooperation of the legal team. That probably means he foot the bill for the hotel stay.” He pointed to Kowalski. “See if you can find out from the hotel who paid for the room and how, and from Cooper’s lawyers what they know about this. If they put up a fuss, tell them we think their client may be innocent, and their cooperation will help us prove it.”

  Kowalski nodded.

  “Anything else?” asked Shakespeare.

  Shaking heads were the response.

  “Okay, Trace, you and I will go to the hotel and see if we can reinterview Cooper. Walker and Curtis, you two see if you can figure out how Gray would have got Cooper’s DNA—”

  “I may have an idea on that,” interrupted Vinny.

  “What’s that?”

  “We found the DNA on a piece of tape that was used to hold together a broken door jamb.”

  “How’s that?” asked Curtis.

  “The door jamb on the bedroom door was broken, so it looks like Gray had taped it together, but with a double-sided tape, very sticky stuff.”

  “Seems like a rather stupid way to repair it,” commented Walker.

  “Yeah, well at the time we just figured he was the anti-Bob Vila, since he wasn’t a suspect—use whatever’s handy,
you know. But now, since it was double-sided tape, perhaps he placed it somewhere where he knew Cooper might touch it, then retrieved it and put it in his apartment. His DNA on it would be expected, but Cooper’s would be unexplainable.”

  “Makes sense,” said Shakespeare. “Anyway to determine if the tape had been originally stuck somewhere else?”

  “Maybe. I’ll take another look at it, but remember, since this piece of evidence has been tossed, anything we find can’t be used.”

  “Not worried about that,” said Shakespeare. “Right now I’m more concerned with clearing an innocent man. If we can prove the DNA was planted, then we know Cooper is innocent. He can get on with his life, and we can stop wasting time on him. Then we can focus on proving Gray killed his wife, and then try to figure out who the hell has killed seven other women before he kills again.”

  “I’ll take another look at the tape right away,” said Vinny.

  “Good. Frank, you let me know as soon as you have anything on that photo and when the low jack warrant comes in. Also, see if you can run DMV records for all K cars that were licensed in this area five years ago—”

  “That’s gonna be a hell of a lot of cars,” interjected Curtis.

  “—then use your computer wizardry to narrow that down by the owners’ sex, age, criminal history, anything you can think of, that might shorten the list.”

  “You expect to find the guy that way?” Walker’s voice oozed incredulity.

  Shakespeare shook his head. “Not at all, but we might get lucky. Perhaps somebody who knew one of our victims, or was their neighbor, co-worker, whatever.” He pointed at the room in general. “Make sure everybody feeds every name they’ve got to Frank so he can begin cross referencing.”

  Walker’s eyebrows rose slightly and he tilted his head, as if saying, “Long shot, but okay.”

  “MJ, I don’t think I’ve got anything for you to do right now for this case.”

  “No worries, I’ve got plenty of other customers here. I should have the results back today on the lubricants and other trace found at our latest scene. It’s a longshot, but if he’s been inactive for five years, he just might have pulled out his old tool kit and used the same supplies. Just another link to the other crimes.”