A Killer’s Wife

by Methos, Victor

  The droplets of rain felt warm against her skin as she walked to her car.

  The early lunch crowd had packed Fat Blue Burgers. Yardley cut the line and leaned over to the cashier. “I need to speak with your manager, please.”

  A woman in a black T-shirt and jeans came over. “I’m the manager. What can I do for you?”

  “May we speak in private?”

  She stepped to the side, and Yardley followed. She showed her the badge and said, “I’m with the US Attorney’s Office. Someone we’re investigating ate here one night. I’d be very curious to know what time. I saw the video cameras you have. How long do you keep the video?”

  “It’s just uploaded to our security people. We don’t keep them here.”

  “Can you please contact them for me?” The woman didn’t move. “I’m happy to get a warrant from a judge to make sure you’re covered. It’ll take a little time to process. In the meantime, can you get the video so I can have a look?”

  She nodded. “Let me call the district manager and make sure it’s okay.”

  Baldwin was waiting in his car at the curb when she arrived at Iron Fortress Security. He joined her on the sidewalk and said, “You work quick.”

  She wondered why he hadn’t already run Ketner’s credit cards before arresting him. She hoped he wasn’t so wrapped up in wanting this case closed that bias affected him. When law enforcement officers looked to prove the guilt of a suspect, it never worked out well: it was how innocent people ended up in prison. When Yardley taught training seminars to federal agents or local police, she always told them that once they had a suspect, they should think in reverse: try to prove they didn’t commit the crime. If they couldn’t, it meant they likely had the right person, and then and only then should they gather more evidence for the court process.

  The thought came to her again of Baldwin showing photos to a witness before a lineup. She watched as he put some gum in his mouth. He looked fatigued, and his normally pressed suit had wrinkles and looked like it’d been worn one day too many.

  “Did you have anyone run his cards before?” Yardley asked as casually as possible.

  “Didn’t get around to it yet. Probably would’ve happened in the next day or two.”

  “Probably?”

  He stopped and looked at her. “Yeah, probably. I have other cases still, you know. Is there something you want to say to me, Jess?”

  “No. Just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  “Well, we are. Now let’s get this done. I got a briefing with my ASAC in an hour.”

  The security company occupied a small office on the first floor. Baldwin showed his FBI identification and said he needed to speak with whoever was in charge. Yardley saw a painting on the wall. A river ending in a waterfall that fell into a large pool. She stared at it awhile: Cal had painted something similar, but in his the pool had reflected an empty blackness. The water falling and disappearing into nothingness, and on the edge stood a young boy, looking down into the abyss.

  By the time she turned back around, Baldwin had gotten a regional manager to approve their viewing the Fat Blue Burgers video. He led them to a room filled with monitors and other electronic equipment.

  The manager booted up the videos while they stood in the back of the room. The videos were in color, and the quality was excellent. Most security companies had switched to digital.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” the manager mumbled to himself. “We got April fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . . here’s the eighteenth. You want the whole day?”

  “Just probably after four,” Yardley said.

  “Well, I can’t just sit in here with y’all. This is how you fast-forward, and this is how you rewind, these circular knobs right here. I’ll pop in to check on you every now and then.”

  Baldwin sat down and began fast-forwarding. He got to double and then triple speed and took it a little further.

  “Drive-through?” he said.

  “He said he sat down.”

  They watched in silence awhile before he said, “It’s him, Jess.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

  He looked back to her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that some fishermen get so wrapped up in the catch they don’t notice they have the wrong fish. I know you’re too even tempered for that. Stop. Right there.”

  Baldwin stopped and rewound the video. It was clearly Ketner. He ordered at the counter. When his food was ready, he took it and sat down at a table and ate.

  “Seventeen minutes to eat,” Baldwin said. “At around seven thirty.”

  “That doesn’t fit the timeline.”

  “Sure it does, if he went to the Olsens’ right after he ate. He knew he’d be hiding at the house for hours and wanted something to eat first.”

  “You talked to him. Did he really strike you as someone sophisticated enough to pull this off?”

  “Why not? You can learn anything you need to online. And he has access to law enforcement files and forensic laboratories. Who knows how much he’s learned over the years?” He swiveled the chair around to look at her. “You’re right about the blinders law enforcement put on, but lawyers can have the same blinders. They believe so strongly in someone’s guilt or innocence they ignore any evidence that doesn’t fit their belief.”

  She looked at Ketner’s face on the screen. Was that who she was looking for? The monster that had made Aubrey Olsen watch her husband bleed to death in their bed, knowing she was going to die next?

  “Who we’re looking for is so careful,” she said. “Keeping the mementos at his home is about the sloppiest thing he could’ve done. Especially in locations so easily searched. He could’ve tucked them in a vent or kept them in a waterproof case in the toilet tank.”

  “Offenders like this lose their grip as time goes on—you said so yourself. They get sloppy as the fantasy and reality lines blur. Eddie did it, too. That’s how he got caught.”

  “Eddie was thinking clearly. He was caught for other reasons.”

  “What other reasons?”

  Before she’d met Dr. Sarte, he’d written a piece in a psychological journal stating he thought Cal had been subconsciously trying to get caught after he’d found out his wife was pregnant. That he had in fact been trying to stop.

  Before she could answer, Baldwin said, “We think it was just two couples, but what if this was couple number six or seven for Ketner? By then, his thinking is completely skewed. Ketner’s got the psychology, reliving the trauma from his youth; he’s got the mementos in his home and the email sent from his computer; he doesn’t have a solid alibi, and he had plenty of time to commit the offenses. I’m not seeing the problem.”

  “If I wanted to divert attention away from myself for these crimes, Ketner would be a perfect person to set up. People would think because he was a victim of Eddie’s, he’s gone insane and is doing what was done to him. From what I’ve seen, he’s not sophisticated enough to be the person we’re looking for.”

  “Do you know Ketner’s IQ? Because I don’t. A psychopath like him would be a master at manipulating others.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s him. I’m not saying let him go, but let’s keep digging.”

  “He has Aubrey Olsen’s damn necklace at his house!” Baldwin nearly shouted. “What the hell do you want to dig for?”

  “Don’t you dare yell at me, Cason. And I’m not filing this case against Ketner as it is.”

  He ran his tongue along his cheek, his face flushed with anger. “Maybe it was a mistake bringing you in on this. You’re too . . .”

  “What? Emotional? Too much of an emotional woman, Cason?”

  “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  She headed for the door. “Find me more, or I’m cutting him loose.”

  30

  Despite her sharp tone with Baldwin, Yardley knew exactly what would happen with Ketner, and she had no power to stop it. The AG himself had calle
d Lieu to congratulate the office on apprehending a killer that had gotten national press. There was no way they wouldn’t file charges against him. If Yardley didn’t do it, Lieu would simply take her off the case and assign it to another prosecutor that would.

  The knowledge hung like a weight chained around Yardley’s neck. She tried to shake it off by walking and got a call from Wesley as she made her second trip around the block.

  “Hey,” she said. “I feel like going out for dinner. Want to meet me somewhere?”

  “Sure. But I was actually calling about Tara. She with you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I know she’s grounded, and I’ve been home all day and haven’t seen her. Did you check her room this morning when you left?”

  She stopped walking. “No.”

  “I took a peek around ten. She wasn’t in there.”

  After trying everyone Tara knew and not finding her, Yardley figured there were only two possibilities left. Ice filled her chest as she parked in her driveway and raced to Tara’s room.

  Many of her preferred clothes and shoes were gone, as was a jewelry box she kept her favorite earrings and bracelets in. Tara kept her money in a jar in her closet, something she had done since the time she was seven years old. The jar wasn’t there either.

  Sharp panic threatened to overwhelm her. One possibility was that Tara had run off with Kevin after Yardley had made clear Tara wouldn’t be seeing him anymore. The other was too horrific to even contemplate, but she forced herself to consider it: the copycat knew Yardley was involved and had taken Tara. But before putting herself through that, she had to make sure Tara wasn’t with Kevin.

  His home was in Las Vegas, about thirty minutes from the Strip. The neighborhood sat against small rocky hills, and the homes appeared dilapidated. She realized she’d been out here before: she’d come with a parole officer to search a defendant’s house. He’d been convicted of a brutal domestic violence assault and was restricted from possessing firearms. His wife had called Yardley one night, terrified, and said that he had bought several firearms from a street dealer.

  Luckily, the parole officer had found the weapons quickly, without incident. Yardley had agreed not to prosecute him for the new offenses if he moved out of the home and left the title to the wife.

  She found Kevin Watson’s home. His father, Dustin Watson, answered in a sleeveless shirt, smoking. His face pockmarked and greasy, he wore ripped jeans and dirty boots. Yardley caught a glimpse of a leather vest draped over a recliner. It had the patch of a motorcycle gang on the back—the Berserkers. She had dealt with them several times before.

  “Is Kevin here?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Tara’s mother.”

  He looked her up and down. “What you want with Kevin?”

  “My daughter left the house without permission, and I think she’s with him.”

  He smirked. “Shit, well, that sounds like him. He got all sortsa ass comin’ over here at all hours.”

  Yardley kept the anger out of her face. She forced a grin and said, “I would really appreciate if I could speak with him for a minute.”

  He shook his head. “Ain’t here.”

  “I called the school and he never went today. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  “Nope,” he said, staring down at her breasts.

  She took out her card and handed it to him. His expression changed when he looked down at it: the look of someone that had served time. Ex-cons had two reactions to law enforcement: rebellion or subservience. Those that got out and rebelled against authority usually ended up back inside quickly. The smart ones, the ones not damaged beyond the hope of repair, realized that fighting all of society wasn’t a winning battle.

  Dustin Watson seemed like the type that rebelled.

  “You a cop, then?”

  “A prosecutor. Will you please have Kevin call me as soon as he gets in?”

  He flicked the card into her face.

  Her face steeled as she stared at him. “You’re going to tell me where Kevin is, or I’m going to check if you’re on parole and then tell your parole officer you assaulted me.”

  “Assaulted you? Bullshit. I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “You threw an object and hit me in the face. That’s assault. Now, do you know where Kevin is or not?”

  He stared at her. Yardley took a quick step toward him, as though to hit him. He immediately backed up, a shot of fear in his face.

  “Have him call me. Don’t make me come back out here.”

  She was turning to leave when she glanced down to the chain hanging from his belt loop. It held a set of keys. With the keys was what looked like a flat pocketknife. It had the word LOCKMASTERS printed on it.

  “What is that?” she said.

  “What?”

  She nodded to the keys. “It’s a lockpick.”

  “Yeah, so? I get locked out of the house sometimes.”

  “Is it a universal lockpick?”

  He spit onto the porch by her feet. “Unless you gonna arrest me, you need to get the hell outa here.”

  When she was back in her car, she went to the US attorney database on her phone and put in Dustin Watson’s name and address. Then she called Baldwin. “I need your help, Cason.”

  31

  When Baldwin arrived at Yardley’s, she was standing out on the main balcony, a phone glued to her ear, on hold with an office supply store, waiting to speak to the mother of one of Tara’s friends.

  Baldwin said, “We have an Amber Alert out and an APB. I circulated her picture to the police departments north and south for fifty miles each way. Kids run away, Jess. It’s just something that happens. But we’ll find her.”

  “She’s never done this before,” she said, leaning against the railing. “That boy she’s with . . .”

  “I know.” He hesitated. “The father admitted he left last night. Gathered some of his things and said he wouldn’t be back.”

  “Left to where?”

  He shrugged. “Father didn’t know. Oscar says he didn’t seem like the type that cared much about where Kevin went or with who.”

  A woman got on the phone, and Yardley explained the situation, but she said her daughter was at school and she didn’t know anything about Tara, then ended the call abruptly.

  Wesley came out, his phone in his hand, and said, “Had someone on the Las Vegas PD do me a favor and leave her photo at the more popular cheap hostels in town.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and bit her thumbnail.

  Wesley turned to Baldwin and said, “Agent Baldwin. It’s been a bit.”

  They shook hands.

  “I appreciate you helping us,” Wesley said.

  “Of course, anything you guys need. I’m going to head over to the high school and talk with some of the students that know Kevin. They had to drive wherever they’re going, and since Kevin and Tara don’t have cars, somebody drove them.”

  “Or they called an Uber,” Yardley said.

  “We’ll check with all the cab and ride-sharing companies, too.” He stepped closer to her and gently took her hands in his. “I’ll find her,” he said. “I promise.”

  “Thank you, Cason.”

  He nodded to her and to Wesley, who gave him an icy stare, and then he left.

  She leaned over the railing and looked out at the empty desert. “I did this to her, Wesley.”

  “You did no such thing.”

  “She’s trying to find where she fits in the world, and at every turn, instead of letting her figure it out, I punished her for it.”

  “What were you supposed to do? Let her run wild with this boy and act on whatever whim they happened to have at the time?”

  “I don’t know. Something. Something different.”

  He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. The hot breath on her neck made her skin prickle, and he kissed her cheek and said, “You are a great mother and did everything you could. This was u
navoidable, just something kids do because they don’t know what else to do. I see it all the time at the Guardian ad Litem’s Office. A lot of them return home within a day, a lot of them within a week—”

  “And some of them never. And we can’t tell which group she falls in.”

  He gently turned her around to look into her eyes. “We are going to find her and bring her home, and then the three of us are taking a vacation. Mexico, England, Scotland, wherever. Doesn’t matter. We’re going to spend some time together and work through this. Okay?”

  “What if she’s not with Kevin? What if that thing broke into our house and took my daughter? It’s my fault, Wesley. I took this case. I brought him into our lives. If anything happens to her”—she turned back around and looked out over the desert—“I won’t survive it.”

  32

  The exposed brick walls of the cell were meant to convey some type of elegance, give it a modern feel, but Eddie Cal had always thought it resembled the inside of a wood-burning oven from centuries ago, where the bricks absorbed the essence of the food cooked inside. He wondered what essence these bricks had absorbed.

  As he sat on his cot, his back against the wall, sliding a pencil across the smooth surface of a small canvas on his lap, he thought how ironic it would be if they had ovens here for the inmates to choose as a method of death. The veneer of civilization around the death penalty was a misguided salve. People, he thought, should take responsibility and see it for what it was: the murder of another person. Death row would run so much more smoothly if those in charge accepted that they were murderers, too.

  The drawing, done freehand without a model, was as good as any professional artist on the outside could have made. Cal had been painting since the age of two. His uncle David, though a relatively decent man, had been a struggling businessman, always looking to make a quick buck if he couldn’t borrow money from Cal’s father, Steven. He had taken some of the paintings Cal had done when he was four and put his own name on them, claiming himself to be a Scandinavian impressionist. The paintings had sold well, until Cal had refused to make any more for him because he couldn’t paint what he wanted. His uncle had demanded he paint flowers and forests and rainbows, children by streams and families roasting marshmallows at campfires.