by Rick Reed
“The attorneys say we have a green light, kiddo. Let’s do it,” Goldberg said with enthusiasm.
Maddy stood, looked in the mirror one more time, and followed Goldberg down the hall to the news desk. She was about to become a star.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In the conference room and on Garcia’s desk were files that had already been entered into the database that Garcia herself had developed. With it, she could search for any name, date, location, time, weapon, charge, conviction, or any of a dozen other items. The program she had written could also streamline the data into comparisons between cases. It was all beyond Liddell, who was grumpily flipping through pages of old cases and wondering what Jack was doing.
“Detective Blanchard,” Garcia said.
Liddell looked up to see her offering him a cup of coffee. He took the coffee and thanked her, then stared again at the pile of papers in front of him.
“Why don’t you call Detective Murphy? Maybe he’s found something out by now,” she suggested.
Liddell closed the file and picked up the stack that was in front of him. “He would have called if he had anything,” he said. “But I can’t just sit here waiting for something to happen. No offense meant,” he added hastily.
Garcia smiled. “None was taken, Detective Blanchard. I can call you if I get anywhere. I should have all of this entered in the next couple of hours, and then we can start the real research.”
“That’d be great, but you have to do one thing for me.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You mean besides bringing you coffee and kicking you out so you don’t feel guilty about leaving me with this mess?”
Liddell chuckled. It would never do to underestimate Vice Technician Angelina Garcia.
“Stop calling me Detective Blanchard,” he said. “Makes me feel like an old man. Just call me Liddell, or hey you, or something else, but not Detective Blanchard.”
“Hey you,” she said, “scoot before the captain comes back. Just leave your cell number, and please don’t let that nasty little grouch back in here.”
Liddell didn’t know who she was talking about for a moment and then remembered that Jansen had excused himself to make a call. He was probably outside smoking and updating Double Dick on their progress.
“I’ll find something for him to do so he’ll stay out of your way.”
“Thanks,” Garcia said and made a face. “He gives me the creeps.”
“You should be safe,” Liddell said with a serious look on his face. “I hear he likes little boys.”
“Liar,” she said, grinned, and then shoved him toward the door.
“So you say this killer is focusing on Detective Murphy?” Mayor Hensley asked the two men. Chief Pope and Deputy Chief Dick had been called to discuss the mayor’s possible comments to the media about the string of recent murders. The fact that the mayor had called this meeting, Pope knew, meant he was planning on going public with the murders even if the media, by some miracle, kept cooperating.
It’s just too good for him to pass up, Chief Marlin Pope thought. He looked over at Richard Dick. The man was openly gloating. Dick could smell the blood in the water. And that blood is mine, Pope thought. If this case wasn’t closed soon, Pope knew he would be out of a job.
“That’s not how I would put it, Mayor,” Pope responded.
“But you said the killer is leaving notes for Murphy. Taunting him,” Hensley said, waving his arms to emphasize his point.
“Yes, that’s true, Mayor, but…” Pope started to say, but was rudely cut off by Deputy Chief Dick.
“Look, let’s not fool each other about this maniac’s intentions,” Dick said and leaned back in his chair. “The fact is that he has left a message in each case. He has used Murphy’s name on one or two notes sent to, uhm, what’s her name…that Channel Six woman, Brooks.”
Pope almost let out a laugh. “You know her name very well, Richard. Now who is trying to fool whom?”
Dick drew himself up, perfectly portraying a wounded innocent, but Pope moved in for the kill. “You’ve had Maddy Brooks in your office more than the cleaning people, Richard. I’ll bet you have her on speed dial.”
Mayor Hensley let himself chuckle at the last remark. It was a known fact, and not just among the police officers, that Richard Dick was a news whore.
“Gentlemen, let’s not lose sight of why we are here,” Hensley said, and Dick eased back in his chair, once again calm and in control. “Maddy Brooks already leaked the possibility of a serial killer to the public.” He stood up and walked to the bank of windows that made up the wall of the office. “Hell, she even dubbed him ‘Mother Goose.’ And she hinted that he was after Jack Murphy.” As he said this, he turned on Chief Pope. “Need I remind you that I wasn’t informed when all this was done? I didn’t even know about the Mother Goose angle. The public should have confidence in their mayor. If I’m not informed in a timely manner it makes me look weak and ineffectual.”
Pope thought that description fit him perfectly.
“If I have to respond to the news media,” Hensley continued, “I need to know what to say. The citizens of this city are going to be extremely upset that we kept quiet about this killer. They do have a right to know. To protect themselves. The question before us, gentlemen, is this: Is it appropriate to allude to the connection between Murphy and the killer?”
Pope saw the mayor and Dick exchange a look. They’re going to take me down and take Murphy down with me, Pope realized. This had nothing to do with protecting the public or the public’s right to know there was a killer among them. It was all politics.
Pope could understand the mayor taking advantage of this type of sensationalistic journalism; after all, that’s a politician’s bread and butter. But Richard Dick was a police officer, sworn to protect the public. Pope knew that Dick hated the very air Murphy breathed, but he didn’t think, until now, that the man would allow people to be killed to get his revenge on Murphy. He suddenly wished he had retired before all this had started.
The meeting had ended just like Deputy Chief Dick thought it would. Pope had blustered and tried to cover for that damn Murphy, but the mayor was having none of it. Now all that remained was for someone to leak the story to one of the television stations in competition with Channel Six—preferably Channel Eleven as they had always been a supporter of the mayor—and then all he had to do was sit back and watch the media frenzy do the rest.
Maddy would be furious with him that they had not given her the exclusive story. But he was confident that people would be calling for results in the investigation, and of course, Dick would be their man. He would take Pope’s position as chief of police and then suspend Murphy for mishandling the case. Even if they never solved it, he could always blame the results on Pope and Murphy. It was the perfect plan. It was a shame that he couldn’t just give the story to Maddy Brooks, but then all the other stations would complain, and, well, he had to start thinking like a chief. This plan was better. And, as they say, all is fair in love and politics.
He sat across from the mayor and looked through the notes he’d gotten from Detective Jansen. Jansen was a scumbag and a pitiful excuse for a police detective, but he was very detailed and loyal. Of course, he’d expect some reward when this was over, so he’d have to throw the man a bone. Maybe promote him to sergeant and make Murphy work for him. If Murphy’s still on the job by then. That thought made him smile.
“What’s funny?” Hensley asked.
“Nothing really, Thatcher,” Dick said. “I was just remembering an old joke.”
“Tell me,” Hensley said. “I could use a laugh right now.”
“Okay,” he said, and quickly thought of a joke so as not to let on what he was really thinking. “Why do people get upset when a Chrysler with four attorneys goes over a cliff?”
Hensley just looked at him, dumbfounded. Doesn’t this moron even remember that I’m an attorney? he thought.
Misunderstanding the mayor’
s silence, Dick continued, “Because a Chrysler seats six.” He laughed out loud. “Get it?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Channel Six newsroom was buzzing with excitement. The cameras were wheeled into place and cued on the news desk where Maddy Brooks sat beside the senior news anchor, Clark Jameson.
“Check her makeup,” the director yelled from behind the cameras, and a cute, young guy rushed to Maddy and dabbed at imaginary blemishes in her immaculate complexion. “On the air in one minute,” the director announced.
The TelePrompTer was rolled into place, but Maddy didn’t need it. She’d been writing this story her whole life. She looked over at Clark, and he was looking straight ahead at the camera. Mr. Professional, she thought. She could feel his tension, knew he was deliberately ignoring her, could almost hear him thinking, Just who does this bitch think she is? But Maddy didn’t care about any of that.
“Thirty seconds,” the director said.
I’m going to be a star after this story breaks, she thought.
“Twenty seconds.”
This will make my career. Maybe give me a chance at Chicago. Or New York.
“Ten seconds,” the director announced, and everything became quiet. The small light on top of camera one lit, indicating that camera one was operative. Camera one’s operator took over the cue at this point, holding up both hands, palms pointed toward Clark, while he mouthed the countdown. Five, four, three, two, one, and Clark expertly began, “Hello, I’m Clark Jameson, and bringing you a breaking news story is our own investigative reporter, Maddy Brooks, who has been working side by side with Evansville Police to investigate a string of murders that have now spread to Dubois County. Maddy?” he said, and the light atop camera two lit.
Maddy took a breath, looked into camera two, and began. “Thanks, Clark. On September fifteenth, a prominent local psychiatrist and her husband were brutally murdered in their north-side home. Doctor Anne Lewis and her husband of forty years, Don Lewis, lived and worked in this community for most of their lives until those lives were brought to an end by a sadistic killer the police have dubbed Mother Goose.”
“Is it important?” Tanner Crowley asked.
Jack leaned over and examined the chewing gum wrapper again. It was from a stick of Black Jack gum. He hadn’t seen that brand of gum since he was a child. He stood up and looked southward. The front of the cabin could be seen clearly about forty yards away. One of the deputies had done a perimeter search and found the spot in the woods where someone had recently trampled a young pine sapling, left a dozen or more boot prints, and apparently had chewed a stick of Black Jack gum.
“A television reporter was attacked a couple hours ago in the parking lot,” Jack said.
“Gee, I’m real sorry to hear that,” Mark Crowley said with a satisfied grin.
“If you knew the whole story, you’d have to go home and change into something more comfortable and have a cigarette,” Jack said, and Mark chuckled with delight. “Anyway,” he continued, “she said the guy’s breath smelled like Dentyne gum.”
“Coulda been Black Jack gum,” Tanner Crowley mused. “I’ll check with all my guys to be sure no one is chewing gum.”
“I’ll do it,” Mark said and ambled back toward the parking area.
They had interviewed Janet Parson, who was reluctant to answer questions, and at one point asked if she should have an attorney present. The sheriff had assured her that she wasn’t a suspect, but she had finally insisted on talking alone with Jack.
Sheriff Crowley scratched his head and looked down in the parking lot where their star witness leaned against her car, smoking cigarette after cigarette. “So you say she’s gay?” he said to Jack.
“Yup,” he answered.
“And she was up here to spend the night with the victim, for whom she had romantic inclinations?” Tanner continued.
“You do have a way with words,” Jack answered. “But, yeah, that’s about the size of it.”
“And that’s why she wanted an attorney?” he said as if he didn’t believe her story.
“I think she’s conflicted,” Jack said.
Sheriff Crowley shook his head. “I’m too old for this shit. In my day…” he began, then seemed to think better of it and said, “Well, never mind that. So she told you she got cold feet about coming, and then decided to get here about three o’clock this morning and surprise her friend. When she got here she found the cabin door open and her friend was dead?”
“Sheriff, if she’s accurate on the time, I’d say you’re lucky you don’t have two murders to investigate.”
“I hear you,” the big man said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sheriff Crowley pulled his Jeep into the parking lot at the Panther Creek boat ramp, where Jack had left his car, and cut the engine. Jack stepped out into the cool breeze coming off the lake. The serenity of the blue water made it difficult to believe that such an atrocity had been committed less than a mile away.
Janet Parson had been of little help to them, and her confusion over the extent of her relationship with the victim didn’t help things. She had been inside the scene of the murder and left. She then waited four hours to make an anonymous call to report it. And then she was hesitant to answer any questions about why she was there at the lake in the first place and about her relationship to the victim. Jack didn’t really give a damn why she was there, except for how it related to the death of Tisha Carter. But he knew that after the state police investigators were through with her, she would wish she had been more forthcoming with him and the sheriff. The staties would not be sympathetic.
Of course, she had to be considered a suspect in the death for all of the aforementioned reasons. Could she have done it? Hell, yes. Jack had seen firsthand the results of the revenge of a jilted lover. But if Janet was telling the truth, they weren’t lovers. Not yet, at least. So she would have no reason to kill her friend.
At the end of the interview, Jack was pretty sure that Janet was merely an innocent who had been caught up in something horrible. Both he and the sheriff had left business cards with her, promising to keep in touch about the case, and she was taken to the Dubois County Sheriff’s Office to wait for the state police to be involved.
He waved good-bye to Sheriff Crowley and was about to get into his car when his cell phone rang. He answered.
“Jack. Why didn’t you tell me the truth? It’s all over Channel Six,” Katie said angrily.
Coin was hunkered down in a downstairs doorway of the Old Courthouse building when Liddell found him. It was around nine o’clock. Most of the street people would be up and moving about, spurred by the noise and foot traffic of the more fortunate. Liddell was surprised to find any of his older snitches except the prostitutes and some of the regular drug users. But Coin was homeless, had been since Liddell had first run across him, and would sleep in trash bins, public restrooms, or any place that was abandoned or had an unlocked window. He smelled like dried urine, feces, and smoke. The last place Coin had stayed was in the basement of an old theater, The Alhambra, in the Haynie’s Corner district downtown. There’d been a fire there a few days ago. Most of the building was gone now. He was surprised Coin hadn’t been caught in the fire.
“Liddell, my man!” Coin greeted him with a huge grin that showed what was left of his summer teeth. They call them summer teeth because sum’r there ’n’ sum ain’t.
Liddell didn’t know Coin’s real name was. He wasn’t sure Coin knew his real name. But he had earned the nickname “Coin” because he would sell out his own mother for a few coins. He was snitching useless information to half the police force before everyone figured out his game. Now, no one would give him the time of day, except Liddell.
“Hey, I got some good stuff for you, Liddell,” Coin said, trying to stand but not quite able to get his feet under him. Two Mad Dog 20/20 wine bottles lay empty near him, and he had made a bed of wadded newspapers.
Glad someone appreciates the local new
spaper, Liddell thought and reached in his back pocket, pulling out the small brown paper bag. “I got something for you, pal,” Liddell said, handing the bag to Coin.
Coin peeled the bag down and twisted the top from a half pint of MacGregor scotch like a kid with a Christmas present. He turned the bottle up and downed half of it before grimacing and coughing, and then he rubbed his watery eyes with the back of one grimy hand and got quiet.
“You okay?” Liddell asked. He’d tried to get Coin into every homeless shelter in Vanderburgh County, but the man stunk, thieved, and fought his way out of so many that no one would take him. He’d finally given up trying to rehabilitate Coin and had decided to let him live his life the way he wanted.
Coin sniffled and rubbed at his nose with his sleeve before looking up with moist, rheumy eyes. “You’re the only friend I got,” he said and hacked up a wad of phlegm into his hand, then started crying.
Liddell stuck a twenty in the old man’s shirt pocket and left. He’d just walked back to his car when his cell phone rang. When he looked at the screen he saw it was Murphy.
“Wha’sup, pod’na?”
“It was him,” Jack said. “This time he wrote ‘You killed her Jack’ in blood on the television screen.”
“Find a note on her?” Liddell asked.
“Yep,” Jack answered. “The sheriff has to wait for the state police. They’re a small department and don’t have the forensics for something like this. Where are you?”
“I was going crazy back at headquarters,” Liddell said truthfully. “I had to get out and do something. Oh yeah, the chief gave us his conference room and outer offices to work from. We got a sharp gal from Vice working with us now. She’s some kind of computer genius. All the files we were trying to go through should be entered into a search program before you get back. If you are coming back, that is?”