The May Day Murders

by Scott Wittenburg

  All of this would no doubt be making her heart do flip-flops. He could almost hear her now: “Excuse me sir, but I couldn’t help but notice the movie script that you’re reading there and I just wanted to let you know that I’m an actress-just in case by some chance you’re looking for a cast for your movie. I’m even willing to be an extra if you need…”

  At this point Stanley would smile, introduce himself, then offhandedly tell her that as a matter of fact he was in need of a few more players for his movie and that one of those roles actually had a speaking part. He would go on to explain that he’d flown in from L.A. the day before to do some background research for a scene he would be filming and hadn’t yet found a competent actress who could effectively play the role of an over-enthusiastic groupie who ends up going to bed with Mick Jagger after a concert during their first American tour.

  Sara Hunt would then go absolutely bonkers. “Oh please, Mr. Quincy, please give me an audition for that part!”

  At this point, Sara Hunt would be putty in his hands.

  Stanley would be sure not to act overly zealous about auditioning Sara (in true Hollywood big shot style) and mention to her that he unfortunately didn’t have a great deal of time to spend in New York-he had to return to L.A. the following morning. Then he would rather hesitantly offer to fit her in later that evening if she was going to be free, after which Sara would of course assure him that she would indeed be available. At that juncture, Stanley would appear to warm up to her suddenly.

  “You know, Sara,” he would announce with a winning smile, “The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that you just might be perfect for that part. I don’t suppose by any chance you can dance as well?”

  Sara Hunt’s eyes would bug out of their sockets. “Are you kidding? I dance to the Rolling Stones all the time!”

  Stanley would reply, “That’s wonderful, because there’s a scene where the character in the movie gyrates all over the place while she’s in the audience at a Stones concert. Mick notices her and struts over to the edge of the stage and whispers in her ear, (Here, he would suddenly evoke his finest English accent with just the right Mick Jagger inflection) ‘Meet me backstage after the show, luv?’ Mick then hands her a backstage pass. And of course that’s how Mick ends up taking her to bed.”

  Sara would nearly faint after hearing all of this. “I don’t believe it! Oh Mr. Quincy, you have simply got to give me that part!”

  “Please Sara-call me Hugh,” he would demand warmly. “I’ll tell you what. If you can prove to me that you can dance-and I mean really dance-then I’d say you’re as good as in.”

  “Oh Hugh, that’s terrific!” Sara would gush.

  Then his expression would become somewhat grave. “There’s only one problem, though. In this particular scene, the character dances to Honky Tonk Woman while engaged in dialogue with Mick. I would prefer everything to be as realistic as possible but I’m afraid I don’t have enough time to set up a soundstage on such short notice-”

  “I’ve got it, Hugh! Why don’t you just come to my apartment and audition me there? If it wouldn’t be too much bother, that is.”

  His eyes would suddenly light up just enough. “That’s a wonderful idea, Sara…”

  Then they would set up a time for this impromptu audition-no doubt early evening after Sara got off work and had time to clean up for the big moment. Stanley would copy down her address and phone number, finish his breakfast, leave her a fat tip, and give her a reassuring wink just before he left the coffee shop.

  Stanley smiled sardonically as he visualized the whole scenario. There was no doubt in his mind that the plan would work, especially when taking into account Sara Hunt’s more than apparent weaknesses and overall naivete. The only shaky part would be the risk of his being seen by nosey neighbors either while entering or exiting her apartment building. The building had a total of 48 units and the odds of this happening were of course considerably high. But the odds of any of the neighbors seeing him actually enter her flat were much less likely and the reason for this was simple: the building’s front door lock was broken and had been ever since he’d first gotten into town. This would give him the opportunity to enter the building at his leisure without having to be buzzed in by Sara.

  The other potential risk would be Sara’s roommate, Tonya Spellman. Stanley already knew that Tonya was scheduled to work tomorrow evening and shouldn’t pose any real threat but there was always a slim possibility that she may skip work for some reason or another. If this were the case, the mission would have to be nixed and another one implemented. Stanley however had his doubts that Tonya would stay at the apartment even if she decided to skip work. It was fairly evident that Sara Hunt and her roommate lived pretty much independently of one another and it was his hunch that if Sara anticipated that Tonya might be planning on being at the apartment tomorrow evening she would most likely tell her roommate that she was expecting some company and would prefer that she not be around. Tonya would most likely oblige her wishes.

  Stanley felt his pulse quicken as he turned and began making his way though the darkness toward the door. The anticipation of tomorrow’s mission nearly overwhelmed him as he pictured Sara Hunt dancing nude to Honky Tonk Woman as he snapped off a few quick shots of her with his camera. She would give him the best show she’d ever given anyone, all full of enthusiasm and trying her damnedest to please him so she could have the part that would launch her into movie stardom. He would wait until the song was over, applaud her animated performance and beautiful body, and then let her know that she had made Stanley Jenkins one happy camper.

  Then, before Sara had the chance to get over the shock of what a complete naive fool she’d been, Stanley would proceed to fuck the living daylights out of her and make her regret the day that she had shit all over Stanley Jenkins all those years ago.

  Then he would make her suffer for a while.

  And then he would finally murder her.

  CHAPTER 21

  Sam eased up on the accelerator when he glanced at the speedometer and saw that he was doing almost seventy-five mph. All he needed now was to get pulled over for speeding by one of southern Ohio’s notoriously efficient highway patrolmen to add to the mounting anxiety he was now experiencing. He watched the needle and waited until the Jeep had coasted down to an even sixty as he continued his journey west on Route 52.

  It was a crisp sunny Saturday afternoon and he couldn’t help but gaze at the vibrant fall colors of the foothills skirting the Ohio River from time to time as he made his way west back to Smithtown. For a moment he wished that he was still with Shelley-it would have been a perfect day to got out into the woods somewhere and take in the beautiful autumn foliage. By next weekend, he knew that the all too brief majesty of fall in southern Ohio would be history-the trees would be all but bare and what few leaves remained would have turned from brilliant red, orange or yellow to a withered dull brown.

  The urge to turn around and go back to Shelley’s apartment entered his mind again for the umpteenth time but he knew he couldn’t do it no matter how tempting it was. He’d learned long ago that once something started nagging at him as much as this was that he wouldn’t be able to function at all until he had the matter resolved. Shelley Hatcher was just gong to have to be put on hold for now.

  He wasn’t sure now exactly when it had first hit him. It was one of those lingering thoughts in the back of your mind that begins eating at you and won’t let up until you finally acknowledge its presence. Sam realized now that it started to bug him at the debate last night, but at the time he’d been too busy jotting down the questionable highlights of the damn thing to give it any real thought.

  When the debate was finally over and he had snapped a few quick shots of the candidates, he had hastily headed for the Jeep and drove across the Ohio River to Kentucky-bound for Ashland in heavy anticipation of a stiff drink and Shelley Hatcher’s companionship for the rest of the night. Throughout the fifteen-minute drive, the
nagging thought was still there, but had apparently been overshadowed by his desire to be with Shelley, his attempt to forget the boring debate he’d just endured, and the rift he’d had with Ann earlier that evening.

  Once he’d finally arrived at Shelley’s small but cozy and clean apartment, he had immediately proceeded to dive head first into the booze. As they drank, they watched a video that Shelley had rented-a “B” movie thriller that he still couldn’t even remember the name of. Then they had gotten naked and rolled around for a while until they both passed out in her bed. They slept until noon and Shelley had fixed a nice breakfast that had helped ward off the relentless hangover he’d been experiencing.

  All of this time, the nagging thought continued lingering somewhere in his mind as he’d downed several cups of mega strong coffee.

  And then it suddenly came to him.

  Amy’s letter Something about the letter Amy had written. There was something wrong about it.

  Something in the letter Amy had just sent him was either out of kilter or just plain didn’t make sense. The problem was, he had absolutely no idea what it was. He just knew it was there.

  Sam had mulled it over in his head for while, trying to recall what all his daughter had written, but eventually realized that the only way he was going to know for sure was to got back to Smithtown and read it again.

  So he had announced to Shelley that he had to leave, apologized, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then hopped into the Cherokee and made a beeline for the highway. Shelley was hurt-he could tell by the look in her eyes-but she had been understanding and hadn’t prodded him as to why he had to leave so abruptly.

  Sam reached the east side of Smithtown then swore at every red light he had to stop at as he proceeded though the center of town. When he at last reached the outskirts and the open road again he gunned the engine and did sixty-five all the way to his driveway.

  Once inside, he found the letter lying on his desk, whisked it up and began reading. When he reached the end, he stared blankly at it for a moment then read it again, this time more carefully. He finished reading and threw the letter aside in utter frustration before plopping down in his easy chair.

  A false alarm? he wondered as he ran his hands though his long, unkempt hair. He had found nothing in the letter that seemed particularly unusual. Had he driven all the way back here like a maniac all for naught?

  No, he persisted. Something was wrong here-he just hadn’t caught it yet.

  Sam grabbed up the letter again and reread it. Then, when he reached the part where Amy mentioned the photo she had enclosed, Sam bolted out of the chair as if shot from a cannon.

  The picture!

  Sam ran over to the mantel where the picture was still propped up against the wall, snatched it up and examined it closely. It was a Polaroid instant print, which wasn’t particularly unusual. What was unusual however, was that this print was the same type that his old Polaroid SX-70 camera used. And that type of film was rare as hell since Polaroid had quit manufacturing the only camera that used it nearly fifteen years ago. And he still had that camera in his camera bag along with his Nikon-he was certain of that. He certainly wasn’t going to give that beloved old classic to Ann after the divorce.

  So who had taken this picture, if not Ann?

  Jerry Rankin. That’s who had to have taken this picture. He must have taken it while he’d been over at Ann’s last weekend. That was the same weekend Amy had gotten the new dress. Amy probably hadn’t mentioned that her mother’s boyfriend had taken the picture because she figured that her dad would have gotten pissed or jealous about that-God love her.

  So what? Sam thought. So what if Ann’s lover boy had taken this picture? It annoyed him a little of course, but it didn’t Then it hit him.

  Like a ton of shit.

  Stanley Jenkins had used the exact same type of Polaroid film!

  And didn’t it seem more than a little coincidental that Jerry Rankin had the same type of Polaroid camera that Stanley Jenkins had used when he’d raped and murdered Marsha Bradley?

  Sam felt his pulse quicken. He stared at the photo again. He looked down at the bottom edge of the image and noticed the small mottled area where the picture hadn’t fully developed-where the pinch rollers in the transport mechanism of the camera had failed to evenly compress the developer pod as the print passed through it…

  Just like the print he’d seen down at the Police Department!

  His heart now racing, Sam brought the print closer as he examined the thin scratch marks running vertically along the image window, approximately a half inch from the left hand border. The scratch marks had no doubt been caused by a burr in the metal of the pinch roller of the camera and was in the same general area of the print as the one left by Stanley Jenkins at Marsha Bradley’s house!

  Mere coincidence?

  “Jesus Christ!” he swore out loud. That would be just one coincidence too much.

  He had to be sure, though, that this Polaroid print came from the same camera that had taken the Polaroid found at the Bradley house before he jumped to any conclusions.

  Sam needed to compare both prints, one beside the other. The scratch marks were in essence like fingerprints: no two sets could be exactly alike unless they were produced by the same set of pinch rollers having the same burr of metal in the exact same area, which would produce identical scratch marks with regard to the size of the scratch, the relative position of the scratch on the print, and the intermittent pattern of the scratch-where it began and ended as it cut into the Mylar window of the print…

  He had to get to the police station and take a closer look at Exhibit A!

  Sam ran around the desk and picked up the phone. He started dialing the number then stopped himself cold.

  What in the hell am I doing here? he thought. Am I trying to tell myself that Jerry Rankin might actually be Stanley Jenkins? That’s absurd! Ann certainly knows what Stanley Jenkins looks like or would look like today. Jerry Rankin obviously doesn’t resemble Stanley in the least-otherwise Ann sure as fuck wouldn’t be going out on dates with him! She’s not that dizzy.

  A disguise? he thought. Was it possible that Stanley had somehow transformed himself into a totally different looking person? So goddamn different that no one could even suspect that he was one in the same person?

  How could he? It would be impossible!

  Wouldn’t it?

  What about Michael Jackson? Sam thought. He’d had so many plastic surgeries that he no longer resembled his former self.

  Plastic surgery.

  What if somebody wanted to drastically alter his appearance through plastic surgery? A person who had access to a large sum of money and an agenda that warranted such a drastic change? A person who could go even further and work out in a gym, pump himself up, color his hair, etc. etc.

  Certainly not impossible…

  One thing at a time.

  Sam began dialing the number for the station again when he noticed the blinking light on his answering machine. He nervously pressed the button for playback as he continued dialing.

  “Yo, buddy,” Roger Hagstrom’s voice blared out. “I’m back in town. The trail in L.A. was cold as ice so I came back here. I miss those California babes already! Found out some damn interesting shit about our man, though. Call me at the station if you get home before six-otherwise, call me at home.”

  The desk sergeant came over the phone.

  “Detective Hagstrom,” Sam said.

  Sam tapped his fingers nervously as he waited for his friend to get on the line.

  “Hagstrom.”

  “Have you got the Polaroid they found at the Bradley house handy?”

  “Yeah, it’s around here somewhere. What’s up?”

  “Find that print and I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Wait, Bucko! You mind telling me what you’re up to?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there. All I can say is if I’m right about this, and I hope to hel
l that I’m not, we’ve got to get our asses into gear!”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Roger said.

  “Just find that Polaroid, Rog. I’ll see you in a few.”

  He hung up and dialed Ann’s number.

  “ This is a recording. The number you have dialed…”

  Fuck!

  Sam reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet and located his ex-wife’s new unpublished phone number. He dialed the number and let it ring a dozen times before slamming down the receiver.

  She’s in the country with Rankin! he suddenly recalled.

  Or should he say, with Stanley Jenkins?

  Amy was most likely at a friend’s house, he could only pray.

  Feeling like he was moving in slow motion, Sam grabbed the Polaroid and sprinted toward the front door before stopping himself halfway Fingerprints!

  Although the Polaroid no doubt was already peppered with his own prints and Amy’s as well, there was still the slim chance that Rankin’s prints would still be distinguishable. Sam grasped the print by the edges, went into the kitchen and found a ziplock bag. He carefully dropped the print into the bag, sealed it and made his way out of the house.

  As he tore out of his driveway, Sam could feel his heart pounding in his chest. As much as he prayed that he was wrong about all of this, he had the unsettling feeling that he wasn’t and there was good reason for it. If Jerry Rankin were indeed Stanley Jenkins, it would explain a lot of things-the most obvious being why the son of a bitch hadn’t been identified by a single solitary soul in all of this time. Because Stanley Jenkins no longer looked at all like Stanley Jenkins! He had somehow managed to transform himself into and entirely different person-that person being Jerry Rankin.