A Killer’s Wife

by Methos, Victor

  “What does she think?”

  Baldwin looked at him now. “What does it matter what she thinks?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Seems like she understands these types of men.”

  Baldwin turned back to his phone. “No one understands these types of men.”

  The apartment complex was near a casino that had a roller coaster in front and boasted on a sign that it was family friendly. The officers pulled around back behind the complex, and Ortiz and Baldwin parked in front. The CO of the strike force called Baldwin and let him know they were in position. Ketner’s employer had told them he had Fridays off. The manager of the complex told them Ketner was home.

  “Let me talk to him first,” Baldwin said.

  “Still think that’s a bad idea. We should go in hot.”

  “Just give me five minutes.”

  An officer who’d been posted nearby informed them that no one had come in or out of the apartment. Ortiz was strapping on his vest when he said, “If this is the dude, he’s outa his head.”

  “Just five minutes,” Baldwin said as he got out of the car. “Could save us someone getting hurt.”

  “Or get your ass shot.”

  Baldwin wore a T-shirt and jeans. He slipped on an oversized Jersey Devils hoodie to cover the Kevlar vest. As he took the stairs to the second level, he pretended to be looking down at his phone. No one was out in the complex, though a garbage truck rolled in and headed to the dumpsters in back.

  Baldwin knocked on Ketner’s door.

  A short man with cropped brown hair and glasses opened it. Acne dotted his face, and he had the burst capillaries in his nose of full-blown alcoholism. The effect was odd on his face, since he didn’t look that much older than a teenager.

  “Hi, hey, I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for Rachel Madrid? She lives a few doors down, and I can’t get ahold of her.”

  “Don’t know her. Sorry,” Ketner said.

  “Yeah, well, would it be okay if I left a package with you for her? I tried your neighbor, and they’re not home.”

  He looked annoyed.

  “Sorry,” Baldwin said. “I know it’s a pain, but I’m driving out to Colorado today and it’d cost me like thirty bucks if I have it sent.”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “Cool. Thanks. It’s a little heavy, though. Can you help me grab it from the trunk?”

  Ketner sighed, clearly irritated, but said, “Let me get my shoes.”

  He left the door open while he went down a hallway in his apartment. Baldwin stepped inside. The place wasn’t dirty or cluttered, but it held the permanent stench of pot and cigarette smoke. A computer sat on a small desk in the corner.

  Baldwin glanced down the hallway. Then he clicked open the photos app on the desktop and scanned them.

  “Hey!”

  He turned to see Ketner standing there.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ketner came forward and pushed Baldwin aside as he closed the windows on his computer.

  “Sorry, just checking email,” Baldwin said.

  “Get the hell outa here! I ain’t keeping a package for you now.”

  “Get down on the ground, Austin,” he said calmly.

  “What?”

  Baldwin took the badge out of his pocket and brought it up a few inches. “Get down on the ground quietly, and this will go very smoothly. If you don’t, in about three minutes, the officers that have surrounded your building are going to rush in here, and I can’t predict what’s going to happen. Though I’m sure it’s going to hurt a lot more than you just listening to me.”

  Ketner’s eyes went wide as he stood there motionless. In a flash, he swung at Baldwin. Baldwin ducked, came up behind him, and wrapped his arm around the man’s throat. He swept Ketner’s legs out from under him, landing on top of him as they hit the ground. Baldwin squeezed. He felt the gasp of air as Ketner tried to breathe.

  “Easy, easy . . . just relax.”

  Ketner fought, arms flailing, trying to claw at Baldwin’s face. Baldwin had his other arm pushing on the back of Ketner’s head, completely cutting off the man’s air. As soon as he felt him losing strength, Baldwin eased his hold. “That’s right, just take it easy . . . take it easy.”

  Baldwin rolled off him, pulled out his phone, and texted Ortiz that he had him.

  27

  Once Ketner was secured in the car, with Ortiz in the driver’s seat, Baldwin joined the officers in the search of the apartment.

  They gathered the computer and a laptop to take to the station. Baldwin would rather Newhall go through it than whoever they used, so he quickly texted Newhall and told him he might need him later tonight.

  Great, he replied. Can’t wait. You’re buying me dinner.

  The officers were looking for weapons, notes, anything indicating Ketner had murdered two couples. That wasn’t what Baldwin looked for. He looked for any indication that Ketner was the type of man that could murder two couples.

  The small bookshelf in the living room held mostly spy novels. The fridge, nothing but deli meats and frozen dinners.

  The bathroom cabinet contained several medications, including Percocet. Baldwin glanced around to make sure no one was looking and slipped the bottle into his pocket. Then he stood there, staring at himself in the mirror, before putting it back in the cabinet and leaving the bathroom.

  In the bedroom, he put on latex gloves and ran his hands underneath the mattress, checking under the bed. The nightstand had three drawers: there were papers and a few photographs of Ketner with a young woman, probably his ex-wife. One photograph showed a little girl with curly blonde hair smiling widely as she sat on Ketner’s shoulders.

  The closet held few clothes and only two pairs of shoes. On the top shelf were several boxes. These were the documents Ketner had thought important: his divorce decree, receipts for large-item purchases like the couch and the television, and some old, empty wallets.

  Toward the middle of the shelf sat a white shoebox. Baldwin brought it down and took off the lid. A necklace. He turned it over. There was an inscription near the clasp on the back. He read it, and his stomach dropped.

  The LVPD brought Ketner to a station near downtown Las Vegas. A thoroughly modern building that would’ve made any police department in the country jealous. Baldwin gave strict instructions to the detectives assigned the case to not speak with Ketner until he arrived.

  When he got there, Ketner was being interviewed by two detectives. Baldwin sighed and opened the door. He smiled at the detectives, who he’d never seen before, and said, “Agent Cason Baldwin, nice to meet you guys. You mind if I speak to you outside for a minute?”

  They glanced at each other and then rose. Baldwin followed them outside.

  “Look, guys, this is a federal matter. Our office has taken this investigation over. I know I’m not your boss and who gives a shit what I say, right? But the DA’s Office and the US Attorney’s Office have worked it out and agreed this should stay federal. I appreciate all the help you’ve given, but I need to speak to him alone.”

  “If he lives in the—”

  “He’s accused of crimes in North Las Vegas and St. George. He only lives in your jurisdiction. So please, just let me do my job and get him talking, and we can all go home.”

  One of the detectives scowled at him, but neither said anything. This case would attract massive media attention, and Baldwin had no doubt the detectives had gone in to question Ketner on orders from higher up. A chance to show the cameras they had beaten the Bureau to the punch.

  Baldwin left the detectives standing there and entered the interview room. He took out his iPad as he sat down and looked at Ketner quietly for a while. Ketner nervously played with his fingers, then said, “Can I go?”

  “Why would you think you could go?”

  “Because I didn’t do anything. Those detectives were asking me about some families that were killed. I have no idea what they were talking about.”

&nb
sp; “No idea at all?”

  He shook his head. “There’s been some sort of mix-up. I mean, you guys clearly don’t have the right person. This is crazy. I would never hurt anybody.”

  Baldwin remained motionless for a good ten seconds before he unlocked his iPad. On the screen was a photo of a sapphire necklace.

  “What’s that?” Ketner said.

  “Oh, come on, Austin. Give me some credit.”

  “What’re you talking about? I’ve never seen that in my life.”

  “It belongs to a woman named Aubrey Olsen. She was killed about a week ago in St. George, Utah.”

  “Yeah, but what does that have to do with me?”

  “I found this necklace in your closet in a shoebox.”

  His eyes went wide. “What?” He jumped to his feet, and Baldwin did, too, touching his firearm with his fingertips.

  “This is nuts!”

  “I need you to sit down, Austin.”

  “I’ve never seen that before in my life!”

  “We can talk about that, but first I need you to sit down.”

  Ketner trembled. Baldwin removed his hand from his weapon and sat down first. Ketner followed.

  “I’m telling the truth. I found that in your house, in a shoebox in the closet. The inscription is from Ryan Olsen to his wife. It’s apparently worth quite a bit. You made a good choice in mementos. I haven’t found anything from the Deans, but I have a feeling that I will as we go through your things.” He leaned forward, his hands on the table. “I’m so sorry for what Eddie Cal did to you, Austin. I know he’s the cause of all this. As far as I’m concerned, the Deans and Olsens are his victims, not yours. But we also need to protect other people that you might do this to. So I need you to be honest with me, and I promise I’ll be honest with you. How many others are there?”

  “Other what?”

  “Other families you’ve done this to.”

  “Holy shit, are you not listening to me? I didn’t do anything. I’ve never seen that necklace before in my life.”

  In his sixteen years of law enforcement, Baldwin had dealt extensively with men that could lie so well they probably fooled even themselves. Though Ketner’s reaction seemed genuine, there was no plausible explanation for his having Aubrey Olsen’s necklace at his apartment other than that he’d killed her. A pure psychopath was expert at manipulation, and Baldwin knew he had to tread carefully. If Ketner felt he couldn’t control the situation, he would shut down and ask for a lawyer.

  Baldwin took off his jacket. “I guess we’re going to be here awhile.”

  28

  Yardley had waited late into the night, but Baldwin’s text never came, and he didn’t reply to her messages.

  When she arrived at the office in the morning, several prosecutors, including her boss, Roy Lieu, were gathered in the general office area past the metal detectors, sipping coffee and chatting. They saw her and started clapping.

  Her face grew hot with embarrassment. “Something happen?”

  Lieu handed her the Las Vegas Sun. The first-page story was about the apprehension of Dark Casanova Junior.

  “Great work on this, Jess. The attorney general called to congratulate us. It’s national news.”

  “How? This wasn’t public yet.”

  “Agent Baldwin’s ASAC called me to tell me they’ve made an arrest, and I got ahead of the story. There would be a lot of questions about why we put people at risk by not releasing information about a serial murderer in the community, so I gave an exclusive to the Sun last night in exchange for them spinning it a certain way. Basically explaining we couldn’t release anything to the public because we believed the DCJ was following his press.”

  Yardley gritted her teeth. “Did Austin Ketner confess?”

  “No, he denies it, but he has no alibi for the dates of both the Deans’ and Olsens’ murders, and they found a necklace of Aubrey Olsen’s in his closet and a pair of underwear from Sophia Dean tucked underneath his socks.”

  Yardley dodged the people coming up to congratulate her, went to her office, shut the door, and read the story. It painted a picture of a victim of Eddie Cal’s who’d lost his way after the death of his parents. A young child scarred and broken who’d turned into the monster that had so deeply affected him. Toward the end, the story mentioned that they were running a search for crimes with similar elements to see if Ketner had claimed any other victims.

  Yardley put the paper down and leaned back in her chair, staring blankly at the frosted glass walls of her office. The next killings could happen as early as next week if the unsub stuck to the cycle.

  She texted Baldwin.

  I want to meet with him right now.

  The Clark County Detention Center looked more like a futuristic office building than a jail. Stone and plenty of glass to allow in as much light as possible. The architect had clearly meant to make a place where the staff would get sunlight during the day and be able to see the streetlights at night. Jail staff had high rates of depression, alcoholism, and suicide.

  The all-white corridors echoed with her footsteps as she showed her badge and identification to two sets of guards. The badge allowed her to go through without being searched.

  Another guard waited for her outside the visitation room and scanned an ID badge that turned the light above the door from red to green. The room had several windows and no glass partitions to separate the visitor and the inmate.

  Ketner came in wearing a dark-blue shirt and blue pants with slippers on his feet. He sat down across from her, and Yardley looked at the guard that had brought him in and said, “Thank you. I’ll call you when we’re finished.”

  “You sure? I can stay.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  She waited until he’d left before looking at Ketner.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Jessica Yardley. I’m the assistant US attorney assigned to your case.”

  “You have to help me,” he said, his voice high with desperation. His eyes became wet with tears. “I didn’t do anything. They think I killed four people.”

  “Did you?”

  “No! I would never hurt anybody. I don’t know how those things got into my apartment. That FBI agent doesn’t believe me. He says he’s going to investigate the case but that I may want to think about a plea deal to avoid the . . .” His voice cracked. “To avoid the death penalty.”

  Ketner’s head fell low, and he sobbed.

  “Where do you think those items came from?” Yardley asked. The majority of murderers she’d dealt with would not take an ounce of responsibility until they had absolutely no choice. And many of them had learned somewhere in life how to cry on command.

  “I don’t know. I don’t have an alarm, and I’m gone from six to six five days a week. Someone must’ve snuck in and left them there and sent that email from my computer.”

  “Why would someone want to do that?”

  “I have no idea.” He looked down to the table. “My parents were killed. In exactly the same way they’re saying I killed those people.” His eyes met hers. “I would never in a million years do that to someone else.”

  Yardley swallowed down the guilt she felt. What would Ketner say to her if he knew she’d been married to the man that had murdered his parents? If Cal had said he was staying late at his studio that night, she likely would’ve been eating ice cream while watching a movie.

  What movie was I watching while my husband killed your parents?

  The thought sent cold revulsion through her. Whatever Ketner was now, wherever his life had brought him, she was responsible, too.

  “We need to establish where you were on the two nights in question. April eighteenth and March twenty-second.”

  He shook his head. “How am I supposed to remember where I was on some random night a month ago?”

  “I don’t know. That’s up to you.”

  He swallowed. “I eat out most nights. Yeah, I eat out most nights. I don’t have d
inner at home. What days are those on?”

  “April eighteenth was a Friday; March twenty-second was a Wednesday.”

  “Um . . . Friday. Okay, I pretty much never eat at home on a Friday. I go out with some friends sometimes or just by myself and eat out. Look into that.”

  “Your attorney should be doing that.”

  “I don’t have an attorney.”

  “You need to get one.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Just check. Please . . . I don’t want to die.”

  Yardley watched him for a few more seconds and then rose. Lying to yourself was the worst type of lie, and though she didn’t want to admit it, she put into words what her instincts had already told her: she believed him.

  29

  Yardley waited across the street from the jail at a coffee shop. She’d texted Baldwin, asking him to upload Ketner’s credit card statements to the US attorney case management site. Sipping coffee, she stared absently out the windows as clouds rolled in and blocked the sun, and a slight drizzle started. The Las Vegas streets weren’t meant to handle rain, even small amounts, and puddles instantly formed. People ran from buildings to cars and vice versa, as though acid were falling from the sky.

  “Hi.”

  She looked up to see a man in a sports coat with a turtleneck. Handsome with a strong chin and green eyes.

  “Mind if I join you? I hate to see a pretty lady by herself staring at the rain.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “You sure? Pastry on me and an open ear to listen to what’s bothering you. You look sad, so I thought maybe you’d want some company.”

  “That’s considerate of you. But no, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “How about if—”

  “I don’t know what type of women this aggression works on, but I’m not one of them. Please leave.”

  He lost his smile and mumbled something inaudible before leaving. Yardley turned back to the rain pattering the streets outside.

  Baldwin texted that the statements were ready. She logged on and quickly scanned them.

  Ketner had no charges on March twenty-second, but he had two on April eighteenth, one at a drive-through coffee stand and one at a hamburger restaurant called Fat Blue Burgers. Yardley knew it. It was a fast-food place not far from Ketner’s home.