by Ray Flynt
“What are you working on?” Brad asked.
“I’ve been checking social media,” Sharon reported. “There’s no activity on Christine Truit’s Facebook page since before your call to her. Riley’s Facebook has been dormant since before he flew to Philadelphia, and there are no changes on his LinkedIn account.”
“Any messages?”
“Nope. It’s been quiet.”
Brad’s cell buzzed.
“I spoke too soon,” Sharon said.
Brad answered, “Hello.”
“Brad, it’s Hamilton. Murray is missing.”
“Who?”
Grayson shouted, “Kip Murray, my associate.”
“Calm down, Hamilton. Tell me what happened.”
“He hasn’t arrived for work. After what happened to Truit, I’m worried.”
“What time does he normally arrive?”
“Nine o’clock. Our hours are nine to five.”
Brad glanced at his watch noting it was only ten after nine. He covered the mouthpiece on the phone and whispered to Sharon, “He’s lost it.”
“Kip takes public transit, right? Perhaps there are delays on the subway,” Brad said. “Did you try calling him?”
After a long pause, Grayson said, “Truit missing has me nervous.”
It was clear he hadn’t even called Kip, and Brad wondered how Grayson could handle multi-million dollar accounts with so little common sense.
Brad filled Grayson in on his contacts with Victor Seralago and Truit’s wife, Christine. “Does the Trust Department have power of attorney over Truit’s affairs in the same way you handled matters for Sterling Haller?”
“Yes.”
“Using your power of attorney, check to see if Riley Truit has had any recent credit card purchases, for example since you brought him back to The Ritz-Carlton after dinner on Monday night.”
Brad didn’t want to elaborate with Grayson, but if Truit had opted to visit a strip show Monday evening, then the club would be a good starting point to investigate his disappearance. Perhaps Truit had purchased an airline ticket, with his newfound wealth, to jet off to an exotic location. Stranger things had happened. Besides, looking for the credit card information will keep Grayson occupied.
“Call me back when you’ve found the information, and let me know when Kip shows up.” Brad tried to end the call on an optimistic note.
Brad looked at Sharon and shook his head. “I swear Grayson’s own shadow would intimidate him.”
A half hour later Grayson called again. “There’s been no credit card activity for Truit since Saturday.”
“What did he purchase then?” Brad asked.
“It’s for a flower shop in Oak Park, Illinois. Most likely sent a bouquet to his wife.”
“Did you hear from Kip?”
“No. But I tried to call, as you suggested.” Grayson sounded embarrassed. “My call went into voicemail, and I left a message.”
“Do you know where he lives? You could visit his home and check on him.”
Once again, the hush on the other end of the line implied the idea had never crossed his mind. “We could do that. I appreciate the suggestion.” Grayson abruptly ended the call.
Sharon opened her mouth to speak as Brad’s cell rang again.
Dammit, Grayson!
Brad held up a hold-that-thought finger to Sharon, glanced at his phone’s screen, and saw the call was from Nick Argostino.
“Nick, what’s up?”
“We’ve got another embalmed body on our hands.”
“Jesus!”
“I just got the call. The body was dumped in the same ballfield where they found Sterling Haller. A maintenance man phoned nine-one-one. Luckily, with the rain this morning there weren’t any kids in the vicinity. I sent Detective Perry with a tech. We’ve alerted the medical examiner’s office.”
“Any identity on the body?”
“Male, caucasian, in his twenties is all I have.”
“If it’s Riley Truit, I’d like to know.”
“Sure. I’m about to head over there. I won’t kick you out if you should happen to show up.”
“Thanks.” Brad stood and motioned for Sharon to join him as he headed toward his car.
“Oh, by the way, I owe you an apology,” Nick said.
Sharon already sat shotgun as Brad opened the driver’s side door.
“How’s that?”
“There was an orange hand cart left next to the body.”
28
Did the abandoned hand cart mean the embalmer had finished his reign of terror? What would be this third victim’s connection to Sterling Haller and Henry Lucas? How significant was the ballfield as a dumping place?
Brad turned to Sharon. “Use that app on your phone to tell me what route to take.”
“At the next left, head over to Montgomery Avenue.”
He’d driven for five more minutes when Brad asked, “How’s the Schuylkill?”
“You wanna stay on Montgomery. There’s a thirty-minute backup on the expressway before the Lincoln Highway. I’ve never seen a stretch of red that long on this traffic app.”
Brad stayed in the passing lane and flew through yellow lights.
“Too bad you don’t have a siren,” Sharon said.
A white Toyota pulled in front of him to pass a garbage truck, forcing Brad to apply the brakes.
After Montgomery Avenue merged with the expressway, he had clear sailing.
“We’re headed for the shot tower,” Brad said.
“Take I-676 to I-95,” Sharon directed.
Exiting at Christopher Columbus put him within four blocks of the park, and he found a parking spot on South Front directly opposite the ball field.
Brad opened the trunk and swapped his black dress shoes for a pair of sneakers. Nick had reminded him about the early morning rain and he didn’t want to risk ruining his shoes on the drenched ball field.
Brad and Sharon approached from the outfield. Three men stood on the tan dirt of the infield near home plate. Nick Argostino conferred with another man in a suit, who Brad presumed was Detective Perry, while a photographer snapped pictures.
The photographer knelt next to the body as they neared the crime scene. All Brad could see were legs still clad in trousers. The body lay against the wire- fenced enclosure of home plate. A rusted orange hand cart with a faded U-Haul logo lay nearby. He’d been mistaken to think an orange cart might have come from Home Depot.
Nick spotted Brad and walked toward him. “It’s Truit.”
Brad winced.
“I recognized him, of course, but the driver’s license and credit cards in his wallet confirm his ID.”
“How long’s he been here?” Sharon asked.
“Sometime overnight. It’s difficult to spot any wheel tracks from the hand truck, which were obliterated when it rained after seven o’clock this morning.” Pointing toward the shot tower, Nick said, “We think he rolled the body in from Carpenter Street.”
“He?” Sharon questioned.
Nick shrugged. “Professional prejudice. Not too many female serial killers. It’s difficult to imagine a woman doing all this.”
Brad pointed. “Any serial numbers on the hand cart?”
Nick shook his head. “We’re hoping the underside might have fingerprints not affected by the rain. The cart was laid on top of the body.”
“Wonder why?” Brad said.
“I don’t know. I’m at least six years of education away from having my shrink’s license.”
The photographer had moved away from the body, which provided Brad with a better look. As in the case of Sterling Haller, Truit’s shirt had been removed, along with socks and shoes. Sunlight peeked through the clouds following the rain, and Brad saw the same gray pallor on this corpse that he’d witnessed on Haller. Wes Taylor had described the incision at Haller’s carotid artery as a mess. Brad gazed at the makeshift suture on Truit’s neck; the killer’s skills as a mortician hadn’t improv
ed with practice.
A light breeze from the west brought the smell of human decomposition to Brad’s nostrils. He reflexively covered his nose. Funny how smells could evoke as potent a recollection as sights or sounds. The odor drew him back to the scene in Taylor’s embalming room.
Nick motioned for Brad and Sharon to come to the opposite side of the batter’s cage. “This is Mike Perry, one of our best detectives.”
Brad had often heard Nick use the line when introducing his officers. It pumped up egos and built mutual respect.
After all the introductions had been made, Brad said, “I’m pretty sure those trousers are the same ones Truit wore before heading out to dinner Monday night.”
Detective Perry made notes.
Brad added, “Hamilton Grayson dropped Truit off at The Ritz-Carlton at ten p.m., and a parking attendant confirmed that’s when he last saw Truit.”
The detective looked at Nick and said, “I’ll want to talk with Grayson.”
“Sure,” Nick said, “after the medical examiner takes the body.”
“I wish I’d brought different shoes to change into,” Sharon said. Tan mud from the infield caked the edges of her loafers.
“I want you to see something.” Nick beckoned them closer to Truit’s body. “If you look closely at the top of his head, there’s dried blood around the area of a laceration.”
Sharon leaned down for a clearer view.
“There weren’t additional injuries to the bodies in the other two cases,” Brad said.
“No. We figured the killer disabled his victims, possibly with drugs. Maybe in this instance Truit saw what was coming, and the killer knocked him out?”
While it was speculation on Nick’s part, Brad thought the same thing.
Nick’s and Brad’s cell phones buzzed at the same time.
Brad gazed at his screen and mumbled to Sharon, “Shit, it’s Grayson.”
Before Brad even had a chance to answer, he heard Nick say, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Yes, Hamilton,” Brad answered flatly.
Grayson rattled on a mile a minute and wasn’t making much sense. “We tried. Marge drove to his place. Woke up his roommate. He wouldn’t talk with her. Kicked her out. And then we found—”
“Hamilton, I’m sorry, but I am in the middle of an important meeting right now. I will stop by your office shortly.” Brad disconnected before Grayson could argue.
Brad found himself shaking his head.
Nick leaned toward him and said, “And to think people actually trust that guy with their money.”
“I hear you,” Brad said.
“Curtis Franks wants to see me in his office.”
“You don’t suppose he’s changed his mind about your suspension?”
“In case he does, I’ll call Ken Matheson first, then you.”
Brad laughed. “At least you have your priorities straight. I have to go hold Grayson’s hand. Yesterday Truit was missing; today it’s Kip. Should I say anything to Grayson about Truit?”
Nick turned to Detective Perry for him to respond.
“Since Grayson was the last person to see Truit alive, I’d like to personally gauge his reaction to the news,” Perry said.
“What about your trip to Houston?” Sharon asked.
Brad looked at the time. “I don’t have to arrive before seven-thirty tonight. I gain an hour going west. As long as I’m on the plane by four, I’ll make it.”
Hamilton Grayson looked befuddled as he rounded the corner from his office to greet Brad and Sharon in the lobby. “Oh, Brad, thank God you’re here.”
Brad introduced Sharon, who gushed, “I’ve heard sooo much about you.”
Brad had a hard time keeping a straight face, especially when he saw Grayson glare with disdain at Sharon’s dirty shoes.
“Let me call Marge.” Grayson turned his back and marched down the hall.
Sharon grinned. “He’s everything you said and more.”
Grayson returned a minute later with a wide-eyed, petite, young trust officer in tow. He introduced her as Marge Chu and explained how he’d asked her to visit Kip’s apartment. He signaled for Marge to continue.
“Kip lives on Watts Street in Passyunk Square,” Marge explained. “I drove to his address, rang the doorbell…several times. When there was no answer, I started pounding on the door. Under other circumstances, I might have left, but since Mr. Grayson sent me, I kept trying.”
Her observation spoke volumes about how she viewed the boss.
“Finally, this guy jerked open the front door wearing only his underwear. I was mortified but explained who I was and asked about Mr. Murray.” She gritted her teeth. “He said, ‘I don’t…blank him, I rent him a room. Now get the blank out.’ Nobody ever talked to me like that.”
“Thank you,” Grayson said before Marge scurried back to her office. “Marge also suggested we check Kip’s desk. Perhaps we’d find an appointment on his calendar.” Grayson paused, apparently waiting to be prompted for what else he knew.
“I don’t have time for games,” Brad said. “Did you?”
Grayson bristled at the rebuke. “Follow me.”
Brad sighed, and he and Sharon trailed along to Kip Murray’s office. Once there, Grayson reached for a letter on the top of Murray’s desk and handed it to Brad.
“It’s a copy,” Grayson said. “I have the original in my office.”
Sharon peered over Brad’s shoulder as he studied the desktop-published stationery featuring Kip’s home address on which a curt letter of resignation had been printed. The notification was effective immediately but dated for the following day, a Thursday. His only explanation was, “to pursue other opportunities.” Kip had signed the letter, addressed to Grayson, with a felt-tip pen. Brad wondered if Kip planned to show up the following day to tender his letter in person.
“Do you mind if we snoop around?” Brad asked.
“Not at all,” Grayson said.
Sharon sat at Kip’s desk chair and rummaged through the drawers. “Is his computer password- protected?” she asked.
Grayson compressed his lips. “Our account records are password-protected, but not the computer.”
Brad watched as Sharon reached under the monitor for the switch which would bring it to life.
Brad opened the door to a full-length closet in the corner of the room. The credenza in matching maple extended from it along the back wall of the small office. Inside the closet, several dress shirts hung on plastic hangers along with a navy sports jacket.
He bent down, and on a shelf below them saw gray sweatpants, a white T-shirt, and a pair of running shoes. Riley had mentioned about Kip keeping a change of clothes at the office. A faint but funky gym locker scent invaded the room.
As he straightened up, Brad spotted a marbelized beige and brown button on the sleeve of a shirt hanging in the closet. On closer inspection, it was one of two buttons on the cuff, and a portion of the second one had broken off. Brad recalled the button fragment Nick had found in the grass where Henry Lucas’ body had been dumped behind Sterling Haller’s house.
His eyes drifted toward the photograph on the wall of Kip and his buddies posed in front of the military transport plane they’d dubbed “Ugly Betty.”
Brad then recalled the news story he’d watched that morning of the bodies of American soldiers brought back to Dover for processing. The same base where Kip had once been stationed, and which functioned as the central mortuary for servicemen killed in action.
At that moment, he knew Kip Murray was the serial-killing embalmer.
29
“Sharon, we have to go,” Brad said with urgency in his voice. “Hamilton, may I keep this copy of Kip’s resignation letter?”
“Of course.”
“Lock the door to Murray’s office and don’t let anyone else in,” Brad directed.
“B…but…” Grayson stuttered.
Brad was already halfway to the exit with Sharon on his heels.
Once at ground level, he phoned Nick to share the latest developments and his suspicions.
He urged Nick to get a search warrant for Kip’s apartment and mentioned the evidence of the button and Kip’s connection to the Dover Air Force Base as probable cause.
Brad recalled Kip’s description of having been sidelined from flights after a broken leg. They could check his service record, but it seemed likely he’d been reassigned as an aide in the mortuary operations until his discharge.
Nick said he would work on the warrant, but reminded Brad that a man was already in custody for the first two killings and a judge might balk at what they termed “fishing expeditions.”
Brad figured that the minute Maurice Wright’s attorney heard about another embalming death, he’d be petitioning for his client’s release.
A warrant would be imperative. Kip’s landlord couldn’t authorize a search of space rented by a tenant, so even if they secured his cooperation—which according to Ms. Chu could be a mighty task—any relevant evidence gathered would be deemed inadmissible at trial.
Brad entered the address for Kip Murray’s apartment in his car’s GPS system. He took his time negotiating through city traffic and filled in the gaps for Sharon that she hadn’t picked up from hearing his end of the conversation with Nick.
The woman’s voice on the navigation system urged one final right turn and the destination would be seventy-five feet on the right.
Brad’s heart pounded faster when he turned the corner and saw a white van—like the one Truit had described—sitting in a driveway up ahead. The van had been backed into the space. He wondered why.
Brad parked the car and they both got out.
The van had tinted windows, which made it impossible to see inside. Sharon waited on the sidewalk while Brad walked around the vehicle. He observed what looked like a speck of blood on the driver’s door near the handle. He tried opening the door, but it was locked.
A blue stripe painted on the side of the van gave him a chill. Truit mentioned seeing a graffiti streak on the one he thought had been following him.
What Brad saw next sickened him.
He called for Sharon to join him at the rear of the van.