The May Day Murders

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The May Day Murders Page 7

by Scott Wittenburg


  “No, I called you first.”

  “Then here’s what you do. Call the police and tell them what happened-tell them everything. They’ll probably tell you there’s nothing they can do about the obscene phone call, but surely they’ll offer to keep an eye on your house for a while, I should think. That will at least give you a little piece of mind. In the meantime, get that light in your backyard fixed. Do it today.”

  “I’ve already called the landlord and he’s coming over this afternoon to take a look at it,” Ann said.

  “Good. So will you call the police?”

  “Yes, I will. Karen, I don’t know what I’d do without you… You always know the right thing to do. I’m not so sure I would have even thought of calling the police.”

  “Well, hon, you’ve been under a lot of stress lately, that’s all. There’s just too much happening all at once and you’re not quite yourself. I’m just doing what any friend would do.”

  “And I appreciate it. I feel a lot better already.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. I hate to say it, but this is all the more reason why you need to get a man in your life. I mean, for security, if nothing else! Here you are, two gorgeous gals living all alone, without a man around, and you’re sitting ducks for things like this. Get yourself a man, Hon! Your troubles will be over.”

  Ann managed to smile at her friend’s persistence. “You know, it’s funny you’d say that because I just met someone this morning at the supermarket.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful! Tell me all about him!” she gushed excitedly.

  “Calm down a little, Karen-it’s really not that big of deal,” Ann declared. She then proceeded to tell her friend about the brief encounter with Jerry Rankin.

  When she was finished, Karen said, “So what are you going to do? You’re going to call him, aren’t you?”

  Ann sighed. “I don’t know, Karen… I doubt it.”

  “Why not call him? He sounds like a very nice guy and believe me, they’re few and far between nowadays. Plus, you said he was a hunk-what’s stopping you, gal?”

  “I said he was handsome, Karen, not a ‘hunk!’ At any rate, as I told you yesterday, I’m just not ready for a relationship. I don’t know if I’ll ever be for that matter.”

  “Who said anything about a relationship?” Karen persisted. ”The guy just wants to take you out to dinner, not marry you! Listen. He’s a widower, right? So he’s probably not anymore interested in a relationship than you are. He’s probably lonely, like you, and at the crossroads of his life, like you. It sounds perfect! What do you have to lose?”

  Ann sometimes resented the way Karen made everything out to seem so logical. She took a deep breath and said, “Okay, Karen. You’ve made your point. I guess when you put it that way it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. I’ll give it some serious thought-I promise. But don’t get on my case if I don’t go through with it.”

  “Ann, I would never pressure you over anything like this and you know it. I’m just trying to encourage you a little-God knows you need encouragement! One last thing before I drop the subject. It won’t hurt anything if you just call this guy and talk to him, just like he suggested. You know-get to know him a little bit and play it by ear. Then, if it looks good, go ahead and let him take you out. If he sounds like a creep, then just ditch him. Simple as that.”

  Ann sighed. “I guess you’re right; it’s not like I have to go out with him, right? I could just call and talk to him, being careful not to tell him my last name or anything else that might enable him to find out my phone number or where I live. Then just take it from there. Actually, he didn’t remind me of the type who would hassle me-he was really sweet… Okay. I just might do it! But I’m still going to think about it first.”

  “Great! Promise me you’ll let me know the scoop if and when you do call him, okay?” Karen said.

  “I will,” Ann replied. “How was the movie, by the way?”

  “Pretty stupid, really. We went to see one of those sci-fi action movies-Bill loves them-and I fell asleep. Dinner was nice, though. We went to Angelino’s.”

  “I’ve heard that was a pretty decent restaurant.”

  “It’s fantastic. Maybe if you hook up with this Jerry fellow, we can double sometime.”

  Ann chuckled. “You are unbelievable, Karen!”

  “I know it. Well, hon, I’d better let you go. If I don’t talk to you in the meantime, I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Karen. And thanks, again.”

  “No problem. Bye.”

  Ann hung up the phone and sat for a moment, thinking about what Karen had said. Maybe she was right, she thought. It wouldn’t hurt just to call Jerry Rankin up someday and chat with him. She might even be glad she’d followed through with it.

  But right now she had a more important call to make. She stood up and went over to the refrigerator where the card with the emergency numbers was stuck to the door by a pear-shaped magnet, and carried it back over to the phone. Then she dialed the number for the Woodcrest Police Department.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sam stared blankly out the window at the frost on the ground, the morning rays of sun just now beginning to melt it away. As he leaned over the kitchen sink, he felt a relentless throbbing in his head and wished to hell the coffee would finish brewing and the aspirins he’d taken would start kicking in. He had a hangover of mammoth proportions.

  He hadn’t tied one on in a long time. In fact, the last time he’d gotten that shit-faced was the last day he’d stayed over at Roger’s place. Since then, he’d kept sober for the most part-no more than a couple of beers before going to bed. Roger Hagstrom couldn’t stop at two drinks to save his life.

  Sam had acquired this little house out in the sticks for a number of reasons. He knew he could never go back to the one he and his family had lived in before-the memories and the ghosts would have made it unbearable. It had been a handsome house-an old Cape Cod on the north end of town that he’d renovated exactly to his and Ann’s specifications. It had been their dream house, and they’d spent nearly as much money over the years making it everything they’d ever wanted as they had on the original mortgage.

  Once the divorce proceedings began, he’d moved in with Roger until he could find another place to live. He had learned about this humble abode from one of the employees in the advertising department at the Observer, and had driven out here to the rural countryside to check it out. From the moment he’d first laid eyes on the little cottage nestled in a hollow between two steep hillsides, he knew he wanted it. The asking price was a steal, especially taking into account that the deed included ten acres of nicely wooded land. But the house had been in bad need of repair. This hadn’t been a problem though, he had in fact looked forward to a project that would help take his mind off the divorce.

  It was secluded here, and he liked that. The only thing standing between his house and Route 52 was his land and the road linking them together; a quarter mile of winding, bumpy terrain. His closest neighbor was over two miles away, as was the nearest convenient store-the only drawback to the whole arrangement. But he’d learned to deal with it.

  The coffee maker fell silent. He took a mug out of the cupboard, filled it up, and carried it with him into the den. Plopping down on the sofa, he took a cigarette out of the pack lying on the coffee table and lit it up before stretching out his long legs.

  Sam spent a lot time in this room. Not only was it bright and sunny, it afforded the best view in the house. Outside he could see the brightly colored leaves on the trees that sprawled up the north slope of the hillside and the winding creek that cut between the hills through his backyard, forming a natural boundary between his property and the state forest. He peered across the room at the typewriter on top of his cluttered desk. He had purposely left the last page of his manuscript he’d worked on in the carrier as a constant reminder of yet another ambitious project he’d started up and never finished, hoping that some day he would
feel the inspiration to take up where he’d left off. Then he thought about Marsha Bradley’s murder and the article he had to write for Monday’s paper, realizing that his book would remain pigeonholed for at least one more day. Perhaps even forever…

  His thoughts shifted to Ann and Amy, wondering what they were doing that very moment. Amy would no doubt still be asleep, he thought with a grin. Ann would be awake though-she was an early riser. He recalled how she was always the first one up in the morning when they were still married, how the coffee would already be brewed, and the way she would be puttering around in the kitchen when he would finally saunter in, still half asleep. And never once had she failed to greet him with her familiar bright smile and cheery, “good morning, dear…”

  Sam closed his eyes to blot out the memories. Was he ever going to get used to this? he wondered. Hadn’t he suffered long enough for his screw-up? Hadn’t he been a good husband and father up until that one little fall from grace with Shelley Hatcher? She had meant absolutely nothing to him-she was just a young, perky temptation who had thrown herself at him one too many times until he’d finally given in to his animal instincts. What normal, red-blooded male could have resisted?

  This one should have. That was more than obvious now.

  He gulped his coffee and took another long drag off his cigarette. Nothing good had come from his romp in the hay with Shelley Hatcher. He had lost his family, couldn’t add a single coherent sentence to his manuscript, and Shelley had ended up losing her job at the paper and leaving town. He felt bad about that-she hadn’t really done anything wrong. But McNary had wasted no time in firing her from the Observer, citing that the publicity of the affair was bad for business. After all, he couldn’t continue employing a young woman who was a bona fide house wrecker. It was a damn shame, too. Shelley had shown great potential as a photojournalist. She was aggressive, creative and a fast learner. Only problem was that she was a fast lay as well.

  He hadn’t slept with anyone since Shelley. Six months, he counted on his fingers. Divorced and celibate at forty. And now he was living like a hermit in the sticks of Seleca County. What was his next move in life? Become a monk? Or a hopeless drunk?

  Sam gazed out the window again. A squirrel sitting on a fencepost was cutting on a beechnut that it held in its paws. The squirrel could see him but wasn’t intimidated in the least. It merely sat there chomping away at his nut, probably wondering how much longer before he had start to storing the things away for the winter.

  Sam stubbed out his cigarette, stood up and went back into the kitchen to warm up his coffee. He plotted out his day, deciding that after breakfast he’d take a shower then drive into town to work on the Bradley story. He had just replaced the coffee carafe when the phone rang. He went back into the den to answer it.

  “Feeling crispy this morning?” Roger’s voice asked, gruff but alert.

  Sam feigned a groan. “I’ve felt better. What in the hell are you doing up so early? I thought you worked the afternoon shift today.”

  “Something’s come up. I think you ought to come down to the station ASAP-you’re gonna want to hear this.”

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  Roger sighed impatiently. “We got a call from the New York P.D. earlier this morning. It may be something, or it may be nothing. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  “Something to do with the case?” Sam asked, feeling his pulse quicken.

  “Possibly. Just get your ass down here and I’ll give you the details.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Sam said before hanging up the phone.

  He drained his coffee, went into the bathroom and washed up, dressed and was out of the house in five minutes.

  When he arrived at the Smithtown Police Department, Sam could see Roger Hagstrom in his office huddled over some paperwork. He walked up to the desk sergeant, Mark O’Brien, greeted him and made his way over to Roger’s smoke-filled cubicle. His friend looked the worst for the wear and apparently had been rousted out of a coma-like sleep and ordered to come down to the station by the chief. He was unshaven and still wearing the same clothes he’d worn the night before.

  “Yo,” he greeted as Sam strode in.

  “Rough night, eh?”

  Roger glanced up at him and grimaced. “You don’t look so hot yourself. But it was a pretty decent drunk, you gotta admit.”

  “Yeah, but we’re paying dearly for it now. What’s going on?” Sam asked, sitting down on the other side of the desk.

  “Do you remember Sara Hunt?”

  Sam thought for a moment then replied, “Yeah. She graduated in our class at high school. Then her family moved away not long afterwards.”

  “Well, she’s dead. Murdered in New York City a few weeks ago,” Roger declared grimly.

  Sam raised his eyebrows. “Jesus! What happened?”

  Roger Hagstrom lit up a Camel filter, glanced down at the report he had been reading and peered across his desk at Sam.

  “Raped and strangled.”

  He studied the incredulous look on Sam’s face before continuing.

  “I’ll give it to your from the beginning: we got a call this morning from a Lieutenant Mancuso of the N.Y.P.D. He told me that he was following up on a homicide investigation he’s been working on and was requesting our cooperation. He went on to say that Sara Hunt’s body had been discovered in her apartment by her roommate at around 2:30 a.m. Her assailant had entered her apartment, beat the shit out of her, raped and strangled her, then left her apartment without having been seen or heard by a single solitary soul in the building. Not a single clue to his identity had been left at the scene. No prints, no murder weapon, nothing. All the murderer left behind were a few strands of hair and his semen, deposited inside and upon Sara’s body.”

  Roger took a drag, exhaled and resumed. “Mancuso suspects that Sara had known her assailant. Although the lock on the door of her apartment building had been broken and non-functional for several weeks prior to her murder, the door to Sara’s apartment showed no signs of being tampered with, indicating that she most likely had invited her assailant inside.” He paused a moment and yawned. “I need some more java. You want some?”

  Sam nodded. “So this Lieutenant Mancuso thinks that Sara Hunt’s killer is the same guy who killed Marsha Bradley?”

  Roger stood up. “Hold your horses a second and I’ll explain. Mancuso didn’t even know about Marsha Bradley’s murder until I told him.” He walked over to the coffee maker and poured Sam a cup, warmed up his own then went back over to his desk.

  “I’m confused,” Sam said.

  Roger sat back down with a groan. “Mancuso called us on a lark. He said that evidence has been so scarce in the case that he and his men were scouring every potential piece of evidence. They’d found a Smithtown High School yearbook stashed away underneath Sara’s bed and hadn’t thought much of it at first, but later on discovered that a page of the yearbook had been marked with a tiny piece of paper tucked just out of sight.” He shuffled through the papers piled in front of him and handed Sam a couple of documents stapled together. “He faxed these to me.”

  Sam looked over the documents. In his hand were copies of two consecutive pages of The 1970 Smithtown High School yearbook depicting a couple dozen graduating seniors’ headshots in alphabetical order, beginning with “Jamison” and ending with “Martin.”

  Roger said, “Mancuso wants us to do a background check on all of these people-the males, that is. He wants to know where they are now, what they’re doing, and most importantly, if any of them have a police record. It was after he’d made this request that I mentioned the Marsha Bradley case, noting the uncanny similarities between her case and Sara Hunt’s. He was quite interested, to say the least.”

  Sam looked over the individual names and accompanying pictures, silently counting up how many were males. “Nine guys,” he mumbled.

  “Yeah, and I can account for five of them already. You probably can, too.”
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br />   “Let’s see… Tony Jamison, Bob Jones, Bill Kellerman, Dick Korns-they all still live in Smithtown,” Sam said.

  “You forgot Harold Justice-he works at the Seven Eleven in Milford.”

  “Didn’t know that.”

  “So that leaves us with four guys that we might have to do a little digging up on,” Roger said. “Anyway, Mancuso admitted that the yearbook angle is a long shot and the odds are slim that any of these guys are linked in any way to Sara Hunt’s murder. But it’s definitely a good thing he followed up on it, as it turns out. Otherwise, he may have never found out about the Bradley murder, and we probably wouldn’t have learned out about Sara Hunt. Now we have two murder cases that are not only curiously similar to one another, but involve victims who we know for a fact had at one time been Smithtown residents.”

  Sam’s eyes widened as this correlation suddenly sank in. “Jesus, Rog! There has to be a connection! Look at the odds-”

  “Wait-it gets even more interesting,” Roger interrupted. “There was a lipstick mark on Sara Hunt’s left breast.”

  Sam gasped. “No shit?”

  “I shit you not. And a lipstick vial, presumably Sara’s, was found near her body. It looks as though the murderer started to write a little message and changed his mind for some reason or another. Maybe he had to make a sudden getaway.”

  “What does this Mancuso think about all of this?”

  “He just about lost it when I told him about Marsha and the lipstick message. He thinks there’s a very good chance that the same guy did them both in.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Hell’s bells-I agree! But not quite 100%, though. There are a few things that don’t quite stack up.”

  “Like?”

  “For one thing, it just doesn’t seem feasible that it could be the same guy. New York City is over five hundred miles away. The murders took place only weeks from one another. Unless this guy had a perfect game plan devised, I don’t see how he could possibly pull off both murders so goddamn flawlessly in such a tight time frame. Furthermore, who ever killed Sara Hunt had beaten the mortal shit out of her. Mancuso told me she had bruises and contusions all over her body-excessive ‘excessive force’ was how he put it-much more than was needed for Sara’s assailant to have his way with her. It’s more than obvious that this bastard wanted her to suffer a helluva lot before murdering her. Marsha Bradley, on the other hand, had been virtually unharmed physically, with the exception of the marks left on her neck from strangulation. The killer’s M. O’s just don’t jibe.”

 

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