The May Day Murders

by Scott Wittenburg

  “Have you got a magnifying glass handy?” Sam asked Chief Thompson.

  Thompson opened one of his desk drawers, brought out a magnifying glass and handed it over to Sam.

  Sam held the bagged print up closer to the light and peered through the glass. The first thing he noticed was a series of long, thin scratch marks that extended vertically across the Mylar print window-no doubt caused by tiny burrs in the metal pinch rollers of the camera. Then he noticed a small dark area in the upper left hand corner of the image. He looked closer. The dark area was actually the partial image of a ceiling light fixture-a very unique light fixture. The edge of white that merged with the image was fuzzy. Perhaps “out of focus” would be a more appropriate term. Sam felt a sudden cold chill as the implications behind this poorly executed Polaroid print raced through his mind.

  Sam brought the magnifying glass away and stared intently at Chief Frank Thompson. “This isn’t a dud, Chief,” he declared. “It’s an actual exposed photograph taken in Marsha Bradley’s kitchen.”

  The chief’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “Here, take a look for yourself.”

  The chief walked around the desk. Sam handed him the magnifying glass and pointed at the faint dark area of the photo.

  “See this dark area, Chief? If you look at it under the glass you can just make out the wrought iron trim of the overhead light fixture in Marsha Bradley’s kitchen. You can even see where the frosted glass in the housing butts up against it if you look closely enough.”

  The chief looked through the glass a moment and let out a gasp. “I’ll be damned! It is a light fixture-no doubt about that. But how do you know it’s the one in Marsha Bradley’s kitchen?”

  “I’ve been in the Bradley house and I’ve seen it there, that’s how. It’s pretty damn unique, which is probably why I recall it.”

  Thompson eyed Sam approvingly. “Quite a penchant for detail, Sam.”

  Sam shrugged. “A photographer has to be observant.”

  “Let me see,” Roger said. Thompson handed him the print and magnifying glass. “That does look like the kitchen light fixture, no doubt about it. But what’s all this white shit in the rest of the picture?”

  “That ‘white shit’ is most likely the photographer who took the picture, Rog,” Sam stated.

  Roger stared at his friend. “What do you mean?”

  “I’d like to hear this, too,” Thompson said.

  Sam said, “The white area is actually the blown-out image of something. And my guess is that the photographer, who we now know is Stanley Jenkins, was standing directly in front of the camera when it went off. There’s a fuzzy outline along the image of the ceiling light fixture-that’s an out of focus portion of Stanley’s body which is totally over-exposed due to the fact that he was bathed in the light from the camera’s flash. This would make him appear washed out and white in the photo. The tiny image of the ceiling light however is in perfect focus because the lens of the camera was preset for infinity-or at least a distance of fifteen feet or so.”

  “I’m confused, Sam,” the chief said. “What makes you so sure that Stanley Jenkins was standing in front of the camera when it went off? Couldn’t it have been something else, or someone else?”

  “It’s possible of course, but it’s not in the odds. I have a theory, chief, that’s why I’m pretty sure it’s Stanley in the foreground.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “I’m quite familiar with the kind of Polaroid camera that took this shot. It’s an older model that they no longer make-I own one myself. It is in fact the only model that uses this particular format of film-they do still manufacture the film, by the way. Artists often use this old film format because the emulsion can be manipulated. Anyway, this model of camera can be used with an optional self-timer-you know, so you can get into your own pictures if you can run fast enough to get into the scene before the shutter goes off. We now know that this shot was taken in Marsha Bradley’s kitchen but what we don’t know is why. My theory is that Stanley wanted to take a shot of Marsha Bradley while he was in the act of raping her. Otherwise, why else would he take a picture in the kitchen? Marsha’s body was found in the living room and we can more or less assume that the wacko probably took some “after” shots just as he had with Sara Hunt up in New York. But what about taking some “during” pictures, just for the hell of it? Marsha was raped in the kitchen against the counter; you’ve already determined that. So Stanley decides he wants a shot or two of himself in the act. So what he does is force Marsha to wait helplessly near the kitchen counter while he rigs up his Polaroid camera on a tripod and aims it at her. Then after everything is composed and in focus, Stanley engages the self-timer button, presses the shutter release button, then runs over and does whatever his sick mind desires to poor Marsha. The camera fires and he has his shot.

  “But when he took this particular shot, he forgot to engage the self-timer before pressing the shutter release button. In fact, if memory serves me, this is most likely the first shot he took. Because once you’ve flipped the self-timer button on, it remains on until you flip it off. So once Stanley got everything all set up, he stood in front of the camera, pressed the shutter release button and CLICK! He’s got a beautifully blown-out, out-of-focus shot of himself still standing there in the foreground. And in the corner of the shot is the only other element not blocked out by Stanley’s blown-out, out-of-focus body: the crisply rendered light fixture mounted on a white ceiling.”

  Thompson scratched his head. “Not a bad theory. Not bad at all.”

  “It may also explain why he chose the kitchen to commit the crime,” Sam said. “The kitchen is the only large room in the Bradley house that faces the hillside out back-no one could see the flash going off from the front of the house. Furthermore, Stanley must have discovered that the perspective afforded by shooting through the doorway into the kitchen from the living room was perfect for his ‘artistic intent’.”

  “Good point, Sam,” Roger said. “All of the bedrooms upstairs have windows facing the cul-de-sac. Not to mention that they were covered by sheer curtains if I remember correctly.”

  “What about the living room?” Thompson asked. “We’re assuming that he photographed Marsha’s body after he strangled her, and those windows face the front of the house as well.”

  Roger said, “Yeah, but they were covered by heavy drapes, which were drawn the night of the murder. You know, another thought just occurred to me. We now know that Stanley went back into Tommy’s bedroom after he murdered Marsha since this print was found there. The question that suddenly comes to mind is why? ”

  “Excuse me for asking, but what difference does any of this make?” Sam asked. “You already know that Stanley did it so why the big mystery about this Polaroid?”

  Thompson replied, “Let me explain something about police procedure, Sam. Yes, we now know that Stanley committed the murder, or murders, I should say. But we still have to find the sonofabitch and build a case against him. In order to do this, we’ve got to investigate everything we have on hand to establish among other things motive and opportunity as well as try to get an idea where he may have gone from here. This Polaroid is important to the case because we now know, thanks to your expertise, that he owns a particular model of Polaroid camera that uses what I assume would be a relatively uncommon type of film-it surely must be uncommon if they no longer make the camera that uses it. We can now attempt to trace where he bought the film for the camera by checking out any stores that carry that particular type of film and show Stanley’s picture to the store employees in the process. Maybe someone will remember his face. This information could lead to his whereabouts prior to and possibly after the crime was committed. At least we have something to go on now.”

  The Chief took a sip of his coffee and added, “It’s been nearly a month since Marsha Bradley’s murder. Jenkins could be anywhere now-hell, Timbuktu for all we know. And he’s already proven to us that he knows how t
o lay low. He’s somehow managed to disappear completely out of sight for fifteen years, for chrissakes! We now have an APB out on him but that’s not going to be enough. In order to nail the bastard we’re going to have to be smarter than him-piece the puzzle together and determine what his next move is going to be. This fucker is crafty-sly as a fox-and he’s going to slip away from us for good if we don’t start getting a handle on what in the hell he’s up to here. Are you beginning to catch my drift?”

  Sam nodded. Again, he was starkly reminded of the fact that he was a journalist and not a cop. “What about the press?”

  Thompson smiled. “I was wondering when you were going to ask that. That’s the other reason why I invited you here.”

  Chief Thompson pulled out a document from a manila file folder on the desk and handed it to Sam. “This is a computer enhanced photo composite of what Stanley Jenkins may look like now. Write a follow-up story and put this photo along side it, Sam. We’d like to see it in the paper ASAP. Detective Hagstrom will tell you what you can and cannot divulge in the article. There’s obviously a few things we’d like to keep to ourselves for now, as you can probably imagine.”

  Sam looked at the document. It was impressive-effectively depicting what Stanley Jenkins might look like today after having aged twenty or so years. In the top photo, he was shown with long dark hair, glasses and a beard. In the bottom photo, short hair, no glasses and clean-shaven.

  Sam said, “I assume you’ve cleared all of this with McNary.”

  “Yes, I have. I told him to give you carte blanche, but I’m trusting you not to include whatever Lieutenant Hagstrom orders you to omit.”

  “Fair enough,” Sam said. He turned to Roger. “What about New York? Have you talked with Mancuso about these latest developments?”

  Roger nodded. “I’ve filled him in. We’re also in the process of issuing a press release to the AP.”

  “This is pretty damn big, Sam,” Thompson declared. “There’s a serial killer loose who we know so far has committed two murders in two different states within as many weeks. That pretty much makes this more than just a local problem. And believe it or not, we want media exposure on these cases. It may make Jenkins think twice before striking again anytime soon, and buy us some time to nail him in the meantime.”

  He glanced at the wall clock then looked over at Detective Roger Hagstrom. “I’ve got to go out and brief those men now. Why don’t you go over the press release with Sam, quickly I might add, so we can get cracking on this thing.”

  Okay, Chief.”

  Thompson shook Sam’s hand. “Thanks, Sam. Keep this man in line, okay? He’s a damn good detective when he’s not drowning himself in a bottle of scotch.”

  Sam saw Roger scowl out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t worry about Roger, Chief. He’s got things under control.”

  Thompson grunted, then turned and left the office.

  “He’s a bigger drunk than I am,” Roger quipped as he warmed up his coffee. “Let’s go to my office where we can smoke.”

  Sam followed Roger Hagstrom to his office. The two lit up cigarettes and sat down at the desk.

  “Damn, I’m beat,” Roger complained. “I got a grand total of three hours’ sleep last night. And that’s the most I’ve had in as many days.”

  “Life’s a bitch, eh? But at least you’re getting somewhere on this case.”

  Hagstrom nodded. “True. And when it’s finally over I’m going on the biggest drunk you can imagine.”

  “I’ve seen your drunks, Rog, and the scary thing is I can imagine!”

  “This one may surprise even your sorry ass!”

  The detective took a drag and gulped his coffee before slumping back in his chair.

  “At any rate, here’s the scoop. I was actually able to contact Stanley’s mother again earlier today-saving me a trip to Cincinnati, thank God-and leaned on her big time before she could start trying to snow job me again like she had during our last conversation. I promptly informed her that withholding information in a murder investigation could get her in serious trouble. She of course was taken aback by the word, ‘murder’ and asked me if Stanley was in some kind of trouble. I told her that he could be and her attitude changed dramatically. She mumbled something like, ‘money is the root of all evil,’ and I asked her what she meant by that. She told me that at one time Stanley was loaded and that ‘all of that money probably went to his head.’ Apparently, when his father died, Stanley cashed in on a small fortune as a result of Mr. Jenkins’ generous life insurance policy. This was not long after Stanley had been released form the state hospital.

  “Then, to put it simply, Stanley took the money and ran-left home. He didn’t tell his mother where he was going, only that he was ‘finally going to get himself straightened out.’” For months, his mother never heard a word from Stanley. Until a nearly a year later that is, as I told you before.”

  “When she received the postcard from Vegas?”

  “Not a postcard after all, but a letter. She had lied to me before about that. It was a letter that came with a cashier’s check for $25,000 made out to Stanley’s mother. She read the letter to me over the phone. It said something like ‘here’s a little money to help you out, Mom. I struck it big on the tables and I’m heading to L.A. to spend it. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine, but I’ll be even better once I put this money to good use.’”

  “Hmm. I wonder what he meant by “putting this money to good use?” Sam said.

  “Hell if I know. Maybe he planned on investing it in the stock market-or the drug market, which wouldn’t surprise me. At any rate, we’re going to do some nosing around in Vegas and L.A. to see what we can find out. Surely someone must have come in contact with Stanley at one time or another while he was living in either city. We’re also working on tracking down Cindy Fuller to see if she could enlighten us on Stanley’s possible whereabouts. Who knows, maybe he even took another stab at winning her heart since his release form the nut house after conceding that setting her dorm on fire hadn’t been a happening way to create a strong and lasting relationship. We’re dealing with a loony here, buddy, and you gotta go a little crazy yourself in order to catch a crazy,” Roger declared.

  His friend’s statement suddenly registered in Sam’s mind as he realized what he was implying here; that Stanley Jenkins is a certified nut case and totally unpredictable. Without reason, logic and rationale on your side, you’ve got to use “alternative means” in order to make some kind of educated guess at what was on this demented killer’s mind. Those means would be to attempt to try and think like an insane person would think, given his known profile. No small order, indeed, Sam thought. And if nothing else, it certainly left one with some chilling possibilities of what may happen next…

  “What about the state hospital? Couldn’t you get some help from the doctors there? Maybe get an idea of what was on Stanley’s mind while he was receiving treatment?” Sam asked his friend.

  Roger shook his head slowly from side to side. “Already tried that route-no luck. Patient confidentiality has put a quick end to that possibility before it ever got started.”

  “You’re kidding! You mean they won’t tell you anything even though it’s all but a fact that Stanley Jenkins is a fucking murderer? I thought you could force doctors to release their records when it involves a murder case!” Sam exclaimed.

  “That’s not enough to do it. Only when a patient/suspect has knowingly threatened to murder someone does patient confidentiality go out the door. And that’s not the case we have here. It’s a bitch, I know, but it’s the fucking law.”

  Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How could a murder suspect be protected by the law when it was more than apparent that he had murdered someone, for chrissakes? It made absolutely no sense at all, especially considering that the murderer was still at large and most likely would kill again. The information that one of Stanley’s former doctors could offer may well mean the difference between life and d
eath for some innocent, law abiding person.

  “And they call that justice?”

  “There ya go…”

  “Well, what about Tommy Bradley, then? Have you shown the computer composite of Stanley to him yet?” Sam wanted to know.

  “Glad you asked, before you give yourself a coronary. The kid is apparently in much better shape now and we’ve cleared the way to show him the composite and interview him tomorrow morning. That could well ice this whole thing if he positively ID’s Stanley Jenkins.”

  “That’s some good news, at least. But even if you get a positive ID and confirm the murderer, it’s not going to help you catch the sonofabitch. Which reminds me-what’s the dope for the press release? I want to get started on that thing and get Stanley’s mug out for the world to see so we can nail him.”

  Roger thumbed through some papers on his desk and handed Sam a document. “Here’s the official statement. As you can see, we’ve pretty much let the cat out of the bag there. You can embellish it to some degree of course-the only thing the chief’s really concerned about is the details of the pending investigation. You now know the specifics, Sam, so be sure not to put in anything that might tip the creep off. That’s all.”

  Sam looked the press release over and nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m actually impressed; this is surprisingly honest and straightforward for a change. Finally, the public can be adequately informed of what is really happening in this town.”

  “I thought you’d approve.”

  Sam stood up. “I’d better get moving. I think I’ll stop by the office and pick up all the shit I need then take it home-we can’t get this out until tomorrow evening’s paper anyway. As excited as I am about writing this article, it would figure that I’m going to have to do it while I’m dead beat.”