Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 02 - Love Can Be Murder

by Marilyn Rausch

  Walking back toward her house, she felt a bit ridiculous for snooping. She had accomplished nothing and was no closer to finding John than when she got out of bed this morning.

  Jo felt bone weary. The stress of John’s disappearance and her caseload was a weight slowly crushing her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept for more than an hour or two at a time. Jo longed to sink into oblivion. Anything to stop the grief that was settling around her heart the longer John remained missing. Why hasn’t the kidnapper reached out to me, to any of us? She was afraid the answer was one she never would be able to face.

  She let herself back into her house and went from room to room, snapping off the light switches as she went. Never forgetting someone somewhere was watching her every move, she quickly washed the day’s grime from her face, brushed her teeth and then slipped into her darkened, walk-in closet to change out of her work clothes. Jo climbed into bed. The last thing she remembered as her head hit the pillow was the weight of Cleo curling up next to her on the comforter.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Turners Bend

  February

  No respectable groundhog would poke its head out in Iowa in February. The “cruel” month of January had morphed into another equally bitter month weather-wise. Chip’s old farmhouse was under-insulated and drafts rattled the windows. He covered them with plastic, using a hair dryer to shrink the film, making it taut. He stuffed bath towels along the bottom of the doors. He wore socks and gloves to bed. Cabin fever had set in, and he began to envy the locals who had headed south right after Christmas—the snow birds who had flown the coop.

  The murder investigation seemed to have intensified, and Agent Masterson had suddenly shut Chip out. She was keeping the developments hush-hush. His only news came via Chief Fredrickson, who had discretely been keeping him abreast of the progress. The chief was not a stickler for protocol and relished sharing details to get Chip’s insights.

  Chip headed to town, his Volvo’s engine complaining, the icy leather seat crackling the whole way. He made a mental note to order seat warmers on his next vehicle. He was eager for an update from the chief. Being involved in this real-life crime was providing good material for Mind Games.

  The road ahead looked clear, but all of a sudden, he lost control of his car. It careened across the road into the oncoming lane and then into the ditch. He gripped the steering wheel and over-corrected right into a utility pole. Steam began to rise from under the hood of the car. He pushed open the driver’s side door, plowing it into a snow bank. Wading hip deep in snow he made his way to the road and retrieved his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “Bars … thank God!” Chip said out loud.

  “Iver, remember when you warned me about black ice? Well, I’ve just experienced it firsthand. I’m in a ditch about three miles from town out on 25.” He paused. “Yes, I’m fine but freezing cold. My car is pretty banged up.”

  * * *

  Within fifteen minutes Chip’s Volvo was being towed by Iver’s snowplow truck, and he and Iver were on their way to Willis Volvo in Ames.

  “The first time I rode in this truck was the night I met you and Honey,” said Chip.

  “Yup, that was quite a snowstorm. And Honey was one damn good dog.”

  The two rode in silence for several miles, Iver with his eyes watching ahead for patches of potential black ice, and Chip staring out at the empty farm yards and desolate fields of corn stubble. Iver finally broke the silence. “Hard to remember the sweet smell of grass and the chirping of song birds, isn’t it? Spring will come, Chip, and life will emerge out of this bleakness.”

  “You’re quite the philosopher, and a damn fine friend, Iver.”

  “You too, buddy.”

  The rumble of the truck tires lulled the two for several more miles, until Iver again spoke, trying to lighten the mood. “Your mother … she’s a pip. Don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like her. That ride to your house at Christmas was non-stop yakking.”

  “Yes, she’s a piece of work, all right, but I can always count on her in a pinch. She has a way of showing up right when I need her.”

  “What about your dad? You don’t talk much about him.”

  “We aren’t on the best of terms, haven’t been since the day I dropped out of med school and became the black sheep of our family. He and my brother, Parker, are both brilliant neurosurgeons and assholes. The two often go hand-in-hand. I don’t think he’ll ever accept who I am; I’ll never be good enough to be a Collingsworth in his eyes.”

  “He’ll come around, Chip, but you have to meet him halfway. It’s never too late to mend fences … trust me, I know.”

  Chip sensed there was a story there, something Iver might be willing to share with him, but they had arrived at Willis Volvo’s auto body shop.

  * * *

  Chip got a loaner car from the dealer in Ames and headed for the police station back in Turners Bend. He found Fredrickson in his office, clipping his fingernails. Sharon and Deputy Anderson were nowhere in sight. “Slow day in the world of police work?” Chip asked, as he took a seat, shedding his gloves, ski hat and muffler.

  “Jim’s off looking for outdated license tabs and Sharon is taking her mother-in-law to the clinic in Ames. As a matter of fact, there’s been a huge break in the murder case. Seems Tracy Trent played on an intramural basketball team when she was at the University of Minnesota. The coach was asked to resign after a number of complaints from the players. There’s nothing in the official records, but a dean who was interviewed recalls it had to do with her anger control problems on the court and in the locker room. Back then it was pretty common to shove that kind of stuff under the rug. It didn’t get the media attention it would today.”

  “Bingo, there’s the basketball connection. Agent Masterson must be pretty eager to track down a coach with a hot temper and an axe to grind.”

  “The kicker is the coach wasn’t a guy, it was a woman. They’re looking for her, but she seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. Her name is Elizabeth Brown, but the FBI likes to use code names. They’re calling her Knight Rider. Don’t know why, but maybe it has something to do with the hot-tempered Indiana basketball coach.” The chief scooped his nail clippings into his hand and tossed them into the wastepaper basket beside his desk.

  “I would never have guessed the killer was a woman. Doesn’t fit the usual serial killer profile,” said Chip. “Only female serial killer I can think of is Bonnie … you know, Bonnie and Clyde. I’m having trouble visualizing this … a woman, huh?”

  “The Minnesota job wasn’t the first one she lost because of her temper and coaching style. She’s got a rap sheet with three assault charges, even did some time in the Shakopee Women’s Correctional Facility up in Minnesota.”

  “What about the other women on the team?” asked Chip.

  The chief leaned forward and began to talk in a hushed tone. “Here’s where it gets real interesting. Tracy and the other four starters of the team are all missing.”

  “Holy crap! And they didn’t put this together when it happened?”

  “Two of the gals were assumed to have run away on their own accord, and the other two were thought to be abducted, one in Michigan and one in Wisconsin. They think our body is the girl from Wisconsin, but forensics hasn’t confirmed it as of yet. She’s been missing for three years. The searches in the other four locales on the map have intensified. FBI agents are now aiding the local guys. I suspect they’ll find the other bodies here in Iowa soon, and one of them will be Tracy Trent. Just think, she has been missing for five years and all the time her body was hidden somewhere around here.”

  Chip’s mind began to race as he tried to put everything together. “Are there any women who drive milk delivery trucks in this area?”

  “Not one. The milk delivery forms I received are probably a false lead, just some paper the killer had handy. Masterson isn’t totally dismissing it, but it’s not likely to lead us to the killer.”


  “What about the blue swatches?”

  The chief laughed. “You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you? This is where the plot really thickens, but I don’t know if I should be sharing this with you. Masterson would have my hide if she knew.”

  “Masterson doesn’t need to know. Come on, Chief, don’t mess with me.”

  The chief pulled a copy of a photograph from a file on his desk and passed it to Chip. “Tracy’s mother found this snapshot of the team wearing blue jerseys. The girls might have hung on to them after college, maybe wore them to work out in or something. Or, maybe Elizabeth Brown kept a jersey and cut it into five pieces.”

  The chief slid the photo back into the file. “Only the Michigan abduction is recent, just two months before we found the first body, all the others go back a few years. Our killer finally located the last of the starting five, it seems. Guess the authorities never linked them together because of the time and geography spans or maybe it was just plain shoddy investigative work. To be safe, they’re contacting all the other team members to tell them they could be in danger. Masterson is also trying to locate others who were in the athletic department about that time, coaches and administrators.”

  “From the message you got it doesn’t look like the killer is going to stop with the five. What kind of psycho is she?”

  * * *

  Chip left the police station deep in thought about the mental state of the killer and headed back to his loaner car outside of the Bun. He couldn’t imagine such extreme revenge and such persistence over the years to find and kill her accusers. As he walked back to the Bun, he saw Ingrid enter her mother’s veterinary clinic. She was wearing a Prairie Dogs warm-up jacket. The blue color of the jacket, coupled with the news he had just heard, gave him a foreboding feeling. He changed his destination and entered the animal clinic.

  Mabel was at her front desk, stitching sequins on a piece of emerald green satin. “Hi Chip, I know this doesn’t look very professional, but I’ve got to finish this dress for Flora. The premiere is less than a month away. Jane and Ingrid are in the treatment room. You can go in. We don’t have any patients right now.”

  When he entered the treatment room and saw Ingrid, still in the warm-up jacket, his first impulse was to grab the jacket and tell her to never wear it again. He frantically tried to think of a way to warn them without revealing information he was privy to and without arousing unnecessary fear.

  “Hi, how are the Swanson women today?”

  Ingrid tucked her long, red hair behind her ears and gave Chip a big smile, revealing braces. They were multi-colored; it looked like she had two bracelets running across her teeth.

  “We’re so excited about the premiere,” said Ingrid. “I get to wear my first formal and tiara and see The Cranium Killer movie at the Bijou. Good thing it’s rated PG13 and not R.” She stopped gushing and turned abruptly to her mother. “Mom, can I go to the Bun before practice? I’m starving. Can I have a couple of dollars?”

  “Sure, honey, ask Mabel to give you some money from the front desk drawer.”

  Chip plunged in. “Ingrid, I know you feel safe walking around by yourself in Turners Bend, but until the murder is solved, it would be best to always walk with a friend. You can never to too careful,” said Chip. “I’ll walk you to school.”

  Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Oh, Chip, you sound like my mother. I know there are some people who are freaked out by the body you found in the theater, but they’re all just being paranoid. Jeez, this isn’t Minneapolis. I’d be scared stiff walking around by myself up there like Sven does, but get real, this is Turners Bend. Anyway, I can take care of myself. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

  Ingrid grabbed her duffle bag and kissed her mother on the cheek. “I’ve got to run. Coach Whittler goes postal if we’re not there on time. Bye.”

  “Call me when you get to practice, okay?” said Jane. “And don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady. Remember it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  After Ingrid left, Jane bit her lower lip and gave Chip a quizzical look. “What was that all about? You don’t really believe all the fear mongers in town who think we have a murderer in our midst, do you?”

  “I don’t know, but what I do know is that there’s no harm in being cautious. Humor me and keep a close watch on Ingrid and pass the word around among the other parents, okay?”

  “Until now I haven’t taken too much stock in the local talk about the ‘skeleton in the closet.’ According to the autopsy, it was a crime from years ago, and what’s to say it happened here in Turners Bend? The worst of the talk is speculation about farmers who keep to themselves, guys who don’t frequent the Bun or the Bend. I know most of these men, they’re my clients. A couple of them are a little strange, but I trust them. I’m worried this situation could turn into a witch hunt, Salem-style, with innocent men being accused of unspeakable crimes.”

  Jane squinted and gave him a penetrating look. “I sense you know something you’re not telling me.”

  “Let’s put it this way, Jane. I’m not telling you something I know and can’t tell you.” He looked at her gravely, trying to convey more than he could say in words.

  “Fair enough, thanks for the warning. This whole thing is kind of creepy, isn’t it?” Jane shivered as if to shake off an unpleasant feeling. “I’ve always felt so sorry for Tracy Trent’s parents. Imagine going five years not knowing what happened to your child. I know losing Ingrid like that would be more than I could bear.”

  “I’m not a parent, Jane, but it doesn’t take much to imagine that kind of heartache.” Chip checked his watch. “Crap, I’m sorry, Jane, I’ve got to run. Got a podcast interview in half an hour. How about breakfast tomorrow morning?”

  “I’m having breakfast with Lance. I promised to help with the party planning for the premiere celebration. He’s quite the event planner. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “I wouldn’t want to butt in on you and Lance.”

  “Don’t be silly. Come.”

  Hell, lunch yesterday and breakfast tomorrow … she’s spending a lot of time with that guy. What’s he up to?

  * * *

  Chip thought about Lance as he sped home for his interview. One minute the guy was buying a fancy dress for Lucinda and the next he was logging time with Jane. He had to admit he was jealous to the point of wanting to confront him, slap Lance’s face with a glove and challenge him to a duel. With my luck, the dude is probably an ace shot. Man up, Chipster, enough of your petty jealousy of a relatively decent guy.

  The FBI investigation was equally disturbing to him. The closer they got to the killer, the scarier it got. Waiting for the killer to strike again was like watching a horror movie unfold. What would her next move be?

  He rushed into his house and got ready for the NPR podcast interview. It was the fourth interview he had done in the past three weeks. Every radio announcer or newspaper editor had asked the same inane questions. He was in a foul mood, so he decided to make up a bunch of phony answers for this one.

  He logged in and waited for the interviewer to begin. He recalled his uncomfortable interview with Amy Chang and steeled himself for possible trick or leading questions. A female voice broke into his thoughts.

  “Today’s guest is crime writer Charles Collingsworth.”

  “Please call me Chip, only my mother calls me Charles.”

  “Certainly. Tell us about where you do your writing.”

  “I have a lovely log cabin by a lake. I sit by the fire and write long hand on a yellow legal pad.” He looked out at his deserted farm yard piled high with dingy snow, dotted with dog turds.

  “Sounds idyllic. Describe what you see out your window.”

  “Cardinals are gathering around my bird feeder and a lone ice fisherman and his dog are on the lake.”

  “What authors have influenced you?”

  “I’d have to say Proust and Tolstoy. Oh, and Zane Grey.”

  “Odd choices for a crime
writer. What are you reading right now?”

  “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, the third volume.”

  “And are you enjoying it?”

  “Well, after the previous two volumes, it’s getting a little stale.”

  “What do you do when you have writer’s block?”

  “I’m training for the Boston Marathon, so I go out for a seven or eight mile run, or I bake a cherry pie and take it to my elderly neighbor.”

  “What are you writing now?”

  Chip began to sense doubt in the interviewer’s voice. He thought she was probably on to him, but he persisted with his charade. “I’m working on a biography of Dr. Kevorkian.”

  “Dr. Death? I’m sure that will surprise your publisher.”

  “Yes, I suppose it will.”

  “I see our time is up. Thank you, this has been an enlightening interview.”

  He expected Lucinda to call any second. There would be hell to pay. He was feeling a little foolish, but why not; he was a fool and had just reinforced his self-image, hadn’t he?

  Fortified with a mug of burnt-tasting coffee that he had reheated and a package of somewhat stale Double-Stuffed Oreo cookies, Chip turned the switch in his head to Mind Games.

  Chapter Thirty

  Mind Games

  Minneapolis, Minnesota

  Early August

  When the alarm went off the next morning, Agent Jo Schwann was groggy and for a brief moment, she couldn’t remember what day it was or where she was. She had been in the middle of a lovely dream, in which she and John were out on a sailboat on the Chesapeake, the sun warm on their backs. Her hair had been blowing around her face and John had just reached out to tuck a strand behind her ear when the bleat of the clock radio woke her with a gasp.