Jack of Diamonds

by Christopher Greyson

  “I got it! I got it!” Boomer waved his hand in the air.

  “This isn’t school,” Bobbie said. “You don’t have to raise your hand.”

  “Alice could come back to the hood with us!” Boomer grinned like he’d just made a game-winning shot.

  “You actually think Alice would be safer in the hood with you?” Jack asked in disbelief.

  Boomer nodded rapidly. “If that show was right, serial killers are always white guys.”

  “Not the Atlanta child-killer. He was black,” Shawna pointed out.

  “Yeah, that’s still like one out of a thousand,” Boomer said. “So, if we take Alice back to the hood and some white guy shows up, well, he’s gonna stick out, isn’t he?”

  Jack nodded slowly. “That actually makes some sense.”

  “We can stay at my house,” Shawna said. She smiled at Bobbie, who swallowed nervously.

  “There you go, Jack,” said Boomer. “Between me, Bobbie, and Shawna, we got this. Shawna’s like Dirty Harriet. She’s packing legal.”

  “Me, too,” Bobbie reminded Jack.

  As Jack was thinking it over, Alice’s bedroom door opened, and she stuck her head out. “I’ll agree to it as long as you keep Lady with you, Jack,” she said. “But first I need to speak with you.”

  “Then come on out,” Boomer said.

  Shawna smacked him in the back of the head again.

  Jack went into Alice’s bedroom and she shut the door behind them. He opened his mouth to speak, but she held a finger up to his lips. “Please don’t say anything. I’m sorry about the plate. My nerves are shot. It’s not an excuse, but . . . I understand you’re worried about me. Trust me, I get it. I’m always worried about you. But we’re a team, Jack. We work together. And this wedding is going forward. I promise I’ll stay safe. No unnecessary risks. But know this—” Alice looked at Jack, and her gorgeous green eyes with the golden flecks began to well with tears. “You made me dare to believe that a love like ours could exist, that someone like me could be loved by someone as wonderful as you. You are my world, Jack.” She put her slender hand on his chest. “In five days, I am going to vow to love you for a lifetime. Are you in?” Her lip trembled.

  Jack nodded. “I’m in. No one, and I mean no one, is going to keep me from marrying you, Alice.”

  She smiled, revealing the dimple that made Jack melt every time.

  “Do me a favor?” Jack reached down, his fingertips brushing her cheek as he wiped a tear away. “Write down what you said to me a minute ago? I think you just created our vows.”

  “Can you do me a favor?” She smiled up at him. “Catch this guy.”

  Jack pulled her close. “I will. I promise.”

  17

  Some people love going to bookstores, not just to get something to read but because of the feeling they get when they enter. Others prefer train stations or airports. Jack had even heard of people who went barefoot because it “grounded” them, made them feel an energy. Jack felt that way about the county sheriff’s office.

  After a fitful night’s sleep, he drove there first thing in the morning. The parking lot was already filling up, banter and greetings ricocheting around as his former colleagues got out of their cars. As he walked through the front doors, a wave of emotion rocked him. It was this very station where police had brought seven-year-old Jack after his birth mother abandoned him at the bus station. At that time, Jack could never have imagined that this place would become his grounding point.

  The whirlwind of action ground to a halt as office workers and officers stopped and stared. Brian Murphy, once Jack’s biggest rival on the force, strode over and shook Jack’s hand. He didn’t say anything, and even though Jack had saved the man’s life, he doubted he and Murphy would ever be friends. But their relationship had improved. Murphy respected Jack. That was enough.

  “Glad you could make it, Stratton.” Morrison’s tone was stern and his voice was loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Jack understood. The sheriff was making a point. Jack had been forced off the job by the previous sheriff. He had disobeyed a direct order to save Marisa’s life. It had cost him his career and everything he dreamed of since being a child, but he’d do it again without hesitation.

  Jack chose to serve and protect over obeying the law, and some people here were no doubt upset that Morrison was not only allowing Jack into the station but had invited him as a consultant. The sheriff was letting everyone know that he had the power to do so and that it was his decision. Jack just hoped Morrison wouldn’t pay a political cost later. The sheriff was still an elected official, after all.

  Morrison led the way to the big conference room. Half a dozen officers were seated at the desks, with Ed Castillo in the front row. A thin man in gray suit pants, white shirt, and an elaborate shoulder holster stood at the front of the room. He pushed his round glasses up his nose as he shuffled a stack of papers.

  Unsure where he should sit, Jack remembered one of Aunt Haddie’s many scriptural lessons and took a seat in the back row. She always said to never take the best seat just in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited. Having to move would be pretty humbling. If your host asks you to move up to a better place, then you’ll look like a rock star.

  Murphy entered as well and took the seat in the front next to Castillo.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Morrison said loudly as he walked into the room. “Before I introduce Special Agent Frank Thomas, I would like to acknowledge a private consultant that I’ve decided to bring in on this case. Most of you already know Jack Stratton. Jack?” Morrison motioned for Murphy to get up, then he held his hand out to the now-vacant seat in the front. Murphy’s displeasure showed on his face. He scowled at Jack.

  Everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and the one who humbles himself will be exalted. Thank you, Aunt Haddie.

  “It goes without saying,” Morrison continued, “that you will show him due respect. But Detective Castillo and I remain your first and main points of contact. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” The response, though universal, was slightly disjointed, and a brief murmur rippled through the room afterward.

  “I’ve invited Special Agent Frank Thomas here to develop a profile of our killer. He’s just arrived, and will be spending the morning at the crime scene. He’ll interview witnesses this afternoon. I’ll turn the briefing over to him now.”

  “Good morning.” Thomas placed his hands behind his back and puffed up his chest, scanning the room. “Good morning,” he said again, a fraction of a decibel louder.

  “Good morning,” most people repeated back, including Jack. Forcing people to repeat your greeting was a power play, but Jack would do nothing to upset the delicate position of his current role of consultant.

  “As you are all aware, we have a serious situation here.” Thomas lifted up the stack of papers and handed them to Morrison. “Everything in your briefing is online. These are the instructions for accessing your accounts and communication protocol.” He walked over to the wall and shut off the lights. An overhead projector turned on, with Thomas’s name and contact information on the first screen. “Rule number one: Do not speak with the press. If you are asked for any information regarding the case, direct them to Sheriff Morrison or myself.”

  Castillo shifted in his seat. He looked like he was about to say something but instead chose to write something down in his notebook, his hand furiously scribbling across the small page.

  “Thanks to the work Detective Castillo has already put in, we’ve been able to identify one of the victims.” The slide changed, and the screen showed a picture of a middle-aged woman. “Delores Gill. Forty-three. Married. Three adult children. Reported missing nine days ago from Coventry, New Hampshire.”

  An officer in the third row raised his hand. “Isn’t Carson Murray from New Hampshire?”

  “Very good.” Thomas nodded approvingly. “Carson Murray is the person whose identity was stolen and used
to rent the house where the bodies were located and Officer Pugh was attacked. Mr. Murray is hospitalized in a state mental facility in New Hampshire. We’re currently looking into that.”

  Thomas advanced to the next slide. “Thanks to Sheriff Morrison’s team and Detective Castillo, we’ve also managed to identify five of the women in the sketches found in the home. All five of them have been reported missing within the last two years.” He gestured to the screen, which showed five red dots on a map of the United States. “These markers indicate the locations where the victims were last seen. As you can see, the abductions span four states.

  “Our top priority is to identify the remaining women in the sketches. Each of you has been assigned a territory. Your log-in pages contain links to a digital package of scans of the sketches. You are to contact the police departments in your territories and work on identifying these women, using their missing person reports.

  “As for the two known victims, the ME’s office is working overtime on processing the bodies. We should have some results by EOD.”

  Castillo handed Jack one of the papers. It was a list of log-in names. Jack’s was noticeably absent.

  “Are there any questions?”

  Despite himself, Jack felt his own hand rising. He suddenly felt like he was in primary school again.

  “Stratton?” Thomas resumed his power pose with his hands clasped behind his back and his chest thrust out, prominently displaying the shiny gun in its new holster.

  “I completely agree with the importance of identifying the women in the sketches,” Jack said. “But if we concentrate solely on missing person reports, we’ll fail to identify the ones who are currently not missing. They could be potential targets.”

  Thomas crossed his arms. “Actually, we’re narrowing the field, plain and simple. Once we rule out the missing women, we can concentrate on looking for potential targets, as you said. Besides, there’s no more efficient way of locating these unknown women from sketches alone. Facial recognition software isn’t quite there yet. Unfortunately, real police work isn’t like on TV.”

  Jack let the jab pass. “There’s another route we can take, similar to the one you’re already proposing.” He worked up what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

  Thomas raised a skeptical eyebrow, highlighting the deep creases in his forehead.

  “Right now, it’s very smart using our limited manpower to run the sketches through the missing person files. But we could also expand that reach and run the sketches by thousands of eyes. We should reach out to a news station—”

  Murmurs of disbelief passed through the room.

  “Need I remind you of rule number one?” Thomas said. “The last thing we want to do is contact the media. No one—I repeat, no one”—he fixed Jack with a stare—“is allowed to say more than these two words to them: No comment.”

  “Respectfully, sir, what I’m suggesting is your plan, just a little more robustly implemented,” Jack said.

  “I’m not going to start a panic, Stratton. And if you want to discuss this any further, we can do it offline. Am I clear?”

  Jack didn’t have a problem with authority. He did have an issue with people who didn’t consider any options that they themselves hadn’t personally come up with. But if he was going to stop this killer, he needed the police’s resources. There was no way around this. He needed to play along. Alice was counting on him. He swallowed down his anger and nodded, willing his foot tapping to cease.

  “Good.” Thomas shut off the projector and flicked the lights on. “Sheriff, Castillo, Stratton, meet me at the morgue in half an hour. Let’s go talk with the ME.”

  18

  Jack hated the morgue even worse than the hospital. The tiled room felt like a tomb. He stood awkwardly with the sheriff, Ed Castillo, and Frank Thomas as they talked to Mei Lai, the assistant ME, who was always very helpful. Neil Fredrick, the ME, was at the capital.

  “Is his trip related to this case?” Morrison asked.

  “Yes. He needed to confirm some test results and run a chemical analysis on this.” Mei walked over to a fifty-inch computer monitor. After a few clicks of the mouse, a picture of a piece of dark-blue cloth appeared. “We found it wrapped up in the plastic with Delores Gill’s body.”

  “A handkerchief?” Thomas asked.

  Mei adjusted her rectangular blue-and-pink glasses. “More specifically, it’s a silk pocket square.”

  “What’s the difference?” Thomas asked.

  “One’s for show, one’s for blow.” Morrison chuckled. “My wife loves saying that every time she gives me a handkerchief. She always gives me two.”

  “A pocket square is specifically designed to go into your jacket breast pocket,” Castillo said. “It’s a fashion statement.”

  Jack noted the pocket square in Castillo’s own jacket pocket. It matched his red tie.

  Thomas took out a tablet. “So, it belongs to a man?”

  Mei nodded. “We believe so. Especially because there was still an aroma on the cloth—men’s cologne or aftershave. Strong too. They have machines in the capital that can tell us the brand. Neil also needed to confirm his findings regarding the other woman’s cause of death.”

  “Which was?” Thomas asked.

  Mei shifted nervously as she flipped through her notes. Jack understood her hesitation. If the ME had felt he needed to go to the capital to double-check his findings, it made sense that she was reluctant to share those findings until Neil had answers to his questions.

  “Poisoning,” she said. “There was also bruising evidence that indicated forced injection.”

  “How could you determine if it was forced?” Jack asked.

  “This second woman was restrained. There was a pattern of bruising across her upper arms and chest consistent with being bound by ropes or twine. Her wrists and ankles were tied individually. There were three small surface punctures directly around the injection wound, indicating that it took a few tries to get the needle in.”

  “Were you able to get any fingerprints from the victim’s body?” Thomas asked. “We still haven’t been able to identify her.”

  “We were able to retrieve a great set of prints, but there was no match in the database.”

  “Do you have a cause of death for Delores Gill?” Jack asked.

  “Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “Was that from being wrapped in plastic?” Castillo asked.

  “No. The plastic would result in asphyxiation. Her body shows signs of carbon monoxide poisoning before being wrapped, mostly likely combustion fumes from a fuel-burning appliance or an engine. We still need to confirm that.”

  “Any defensive wounds? Signs of a struggle?” Morrison asked.

  Mei shook her head. “No defensive wounds on either of the victims. Of course, we still took DNA scrapings from underneath their fingernails.”

  “Did they have anything on their persons?” Castillo asked. “Any smartphones or devices? A fitness monitor?” Smart devices were a great way of tracking people’s movements.

  “Only jewelry. Both women wore earrings, a necklace, and a watch.” She clicked the mouse a few times, and a photograph of various pieces of jewelry appeared on the monitor. “These belonged to the unidentified victim.” The photograph showed three rings, a gold necklace, a gold watch, and pearl earrings. “We’re analyzing the watchband for fingerprints and DNA. We found a print on the watch face that doesn’t match the victim’s.”

  “Full print?” Thomas asked hopefully.

  “Partial thumb, but it should be usable.” Mei clicked the mouse and another photograph appeared, featuring more jewelry—a slender gold watchband, a small gold cross, a ring, and two gold earrings that looked like leaves. “Delores Gill,” Mei said simply.

  Jack leaned forward and peered at the monitor. “Her wedding band is missing. Was that all the jewelry recovered?”

  Mei nodded.

  Thomas pointed at the diamond-encrusted gold band on the monitor. “Isn
’t that her wedding band?”

  “No, that’s her engagement ring,” Jack corrected him. “It’s part of a combination set. Trust me, I just looked at hundreds of them. And there was no wedding ring in the other woman’s jewelry, either.”

  “Perhaps she wasn’t married,” Thomas suggested.

  “Can we see the corpse of the unidentified woman, Mei?” Morrison asked.

  “Of course, sir.” Mei walked over to a table and pulled back a sheet. The woman’s body lay underneath.

  “She doesn’t have a mark around her left ring finger,” Castillo said, “If she wore a wedding band, you’d expect a mark or a change in coloration where the ring was.”

  “There is a mark on her right ring finger,” Thomas pointed out.

  “There was no ring on her right ring finger when we recovered the body,” Mei said. “We noticed the depression in the skin as well.”

  “It could have been a wedding ring,” Jack said. “In some traditions women wear it on the right hand. And some just prefer it on their right hand.”

  “Jack’s getting married next week,” Morrison said to Mei, to explain why Jack was so knowledgeable about wedding rings.

  “I’m happy for you.” Mei pressed her lips together as she pulled the sheet back over the corpse. The smell of ammonia wafted over them.

  Jack thought he heard some disappointment in her response. She was never flirtatious, but Mei had always seemed a little smitten with him.

  “Looks like we’ve found a possible commonality,” Thomas announced. “Between the wedding invitation and the missing rings . . .” He looked at Jack. “You picked an unlucky time to get married.”

  “When is the wedding?” Mei asked.

  “In four days.”

  “On the fourth?”

  “Yes, April fourth. Why?”

  Mei’s face went pale. “In China, the number eight is lucky, because it sounds like the word for fortune or wealth. So, a lot of people get married August eighth. Eighth day of the eighth month.”

  “I guess I’ll only be half as wealthy,” Jack joked. “Beats being broke, though.”