“Meaning?”
“The sheriff also mentioned two women have gone missing. He doesn’t think they’re related. I’m praying he’s right.”
“Jesus,” Cass said. “I need to get my ass back in the office.”
“Come back when you’re ready,” Beth said. “I can hold down the fort till then. A few more weeks won’t kill me.”
More silence followed. “Is he sure about the women?”
“He just mentioned it in passing. You know, like when it rains, it pours.”
“Yeah,” Cass said. “Let’s hope they’re not related. Does the name Jackson Kale mean anything to you?”
Beth frowned as she watched the techs conferring with each other about something. “No. Should it?”
“Kale was the FBI’s lead investigator on the Scarecrow case eight years ago.”
“Before I joined the department,” Beth said. “Is he still around?”
“He pulled the plug and took a teaching position somewhere.”
“How come?”
“The official reason was medical, but I heard there were problems with Internal Affairs or whatever the feds call it. He might be worth talking to.”
“What kind of medical problems?”
“Who knows? Like I said, it was just a rumor. Maybe the pressure got to him. Putting on a medical label might have been the Bureau’s way of saying thanks for a job well done and bye. I mean, the guy was a hero.”
“Too bad he’s gone,” Beth said. “I’ll see if I can find him.”
“You understand once the papers get hold of this, the shit’ll hit the fan.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Let’s keep the missing finger out of the report for the time being. You understand why?”
“It’s what you did on the Scarecrow case.”
“Smart girl. I’m here if you need me.”
“And I’m here if you need me,” Beth said.
When they disconnected, she tried to recall the details of the Scarecrow murders. Sixteen deaths in all. Men and women. Bodies mutilated. The city of Atlanta and surrounding counties in a state of panic. The national media and lurid tabloids you find at checkout counters picked up the story and only made matters worse.
“Please don’t let it be happening again,” Beth whispered and then went to watch the forensic techs work.
Chapter 2
It wasn’t hard to track down Jackson Kale. Beth looked in the white pages and found he was still listed. Following that, she sent a request to the FBI for his file. The file confirmed that Kale had voluntarily left the Bureau for “medical and personal reasons.” Beth was aware she was reading an edited version, or at least as much as the FBI was willing to share.
Nolvia Borjas, the department secretary, who’d brought the fax to her, looked over her shoulder as she went through it and asked, “Who’s that?”
“A former federal agent,” Beth said.
Always curious, Nolvia turned her head to the side to get a better look. “Cute.”
“Mmm,” Beth said noncommittally.
“Is he involved in your case?”
“Not really. He worked on a similar one a few years ago. Would you run a DMV on him and see if they have anything more current? This address is pretty old.”
“Sure,” Nolvia said. “He looks familiar. Was he ever around here?”
“It’s possible,” Beth admitted.
“Give me five minutes,” Nolvia said. “By the way, Lieutenant Fancher wants you to stop by her office before you sign out.”
Beth looked at the glass-wall enclosure where Penny Fancher sat talking on the phone. Fancher was Beth’s boss in the Northside Division. She didn’t have much street experience and had gotten into management via administration. Her reputation around the department was that she was fair-minded and competent and would back you up if push came to shove. That, at least, was comforting to know until her partner returned from convalescence. Trying to learn the ropes had Beth feeling like a fish out of water. Unwritten rules and norms, which a partner typically passed on to the junior member, weren’t the easiest to pick up. Cass was a longtime veteran in Homicide and a good teacher. She missed having him there.
The lieutenant chose that moment to look up and motioned for Beth to come in. It was close to four o’clock, and as it was on most Friday afternoons, the squad room was nearly empty. Many of the detectives would be at Winston’s Pub just down the street before heading home for the weekend. She still wasn’t completely comfortable socializing with them and generally avoided such gatherings.
Beth stood up and walked past a row of eight cubicles with gray metal desks that faced each other. She would have preferred they faced the opposite way, giving at least an illusion of privacy.
Most of the shades in the office were halfway down to block out Atlanta’s late afternoon sun, which always seemed to be strongest at that time of day. Penelope Fancher was in her early forties and had short, brown hair. She was just under five foot six, slightly heavyset, and wore little makeup. Beth heard somewhere she’d been married once. There seemed to be a lot of that going around. The divorce rate among cops was ridiculous.
“Have a seat,” the lieutenant said. “Coffee?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“How’re you settling in, Beth?”
“Slowly.”
“Any problems?”
“A few sexist remarks now and then, but most of the guys have been pretty helpful.”
“The remarks go with the territory,” Fancher said. “Anything I need to address?”
“Nope.”
“If there’s anything I can do to smooth the transition, don’t hesitate to give me a shout.”
“I will, boss,” Beth said. “I appreciate the offer.”
“I see from the board you caught that homicide in Jordan,” Fancher said. “Are you okay to work it alone until Lenny Cass gets back?”
“We’ve been talking on the phone. I’m good for now. If I need help, I’ll send up a flare.”
The lieutenant considered that for a moment and then asked, “What’s your take on the case?”
“The autopsy’s set for Monday,” Beth said. “We’ll know more about the cause of death after the cut and toxicology come back.”
Beth hoped Fancher wouldn’t push. She’d deliberately avoided mentioning her request for the FBI file on Jackson Kale. Feds and cops never mixed particularly well, and that went for former feds, too. Earlier, she’d pulled the book on the original Scarecrow murders and planned to study them over the weekend. The truth was she wanted this case, wanted the opportunity to show she belonged. It was hers and she was going to solve it. Simple as that.
Her statement seemed to satisfy the lieutenant, who said, “If you’re sure you can stay on top of this solo, I’ll go along. Otherwise, I can pull one of the guys off their assignment to work with you. The budget cuts are killing everyone.”
“I’ll be fine,” Beth assured her.
She was about to continue when she saw Nolvia coming down the hall holding a sheet of paper with the results from the DMV search. Beth reached behind her and motioned with her hand for Nolvia to keep going. Nolvia’s footsteps slowed momentarily as she reached the door and then picked up again. Fancher didn’t notice.
“Have you developed any suspects yet?”
“It’s way too soon to say. We just got an ID back on the victim,” Beth said. “Jerome Haffner, forty-three years old, Vinings resident. I was about to head out and knock on some doors.”
“That’s good. The first forty-eight hours are critical,” Fancher said, repeating the oft-quoted maxim in homicide investigations.
“Got it,” Beth said.
“Sounds good. Keep me up to date on the developments. I’m trying to get our clearance rate above sixty percent.”
Which, as Beth was coming to learn, was the bottom line. Fancher might be a good administrator, but she wasn’t a street cop. From the memos that came across her desk weekly
, it was obvious the lieutenant tended to focus on statistics.
Better her than me.
“I’ll do my best,” Beth said. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep my cruiser over the weekend. My car’s warranty ran out last month, and it turned into a Ford.”
Penny Fancher smiled. “I know the feeling. Go ahead. I’ll authorize it.”
That seemed to end the conversation. Beth got up and returned to her desk to find the DMV report she’d asked for. She located a phone number for Kale and dialed it. A woman with a distinct Scottish accent answered the phone.
“Kale residence.”
“Is Jackson Kale available?”
“No, I’m sorry. He’s not here right now. May I take a message, miss?”
“This is Detective Sturgis with the Atlanta Police Department. When do you expect him home?”
“I don’t expect him at all. I’m his housekeeper. The man’s probably teaching class, isn’t he?”
“Do you know what school that would be, ma’am?”
“Of course I do. It’s Georgia Tech. Kale’s a professor, you know.”
Beth didn’t know if he was or wasn’t, but there was no point pursuing the conversation further. She’d gotten what she needed. She thanked the housekeeper and left her name and number.
After disconnecting, she studied Jack Kale’s folder again. The information sheet listed him as thirty-eight years old, six foot two, and 192 pounds with brown hair. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, quite different from the blond, five-foot-eight actor who had portrayed him in the film. What stood out, even in the photocopy in front of her, were his eyes. According to his file, he studied psychology at Ohio State University but for some reason chose not to pursue that profession, joining the FBI instead. He’d served four years in the Marine Corps and had seen combat in Afghanistan, where he was awarded a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star.
Interesting man, she decided, glancing at the photo again.
It was nearly four thirty, and everyone was either gone or getting ready to leave. Beth shut down her computer, gathered the file together, and did the same.
Chapter 3
Along with the FBI and DMV reports, Beth placed the loose-leaf binder containing the Scarecrow file into her briefcase and headed for the elevator. Penelope Fancher waved good-bye from her office. She was probably trying to find a way to make the numbers look better.
The elevator arrived and the doors opened to reveal two men in conversation. Beth immediately recognized Deputy Chief Noah Ritson. The other man she didn’t know.
“Afternoon, Chief,” she said, stepping into the car.
“Detective Sturgis,” Ritson said. “Nice to see you again. How are things in Homicide?”
Beth resisted the impulse to say, “Dead.” Ritson wasn’t known for his sense of humor. She was actually surprised he remembered her name at all. The only time they’d met was at her graduation from the academy some five years earlier.
“Busy, Chief,” Beth said.
“Have you met Burt Wiggins?” Ritson asked. “Burt works with me up on seven.”
“No, I haven’t,” Beth said, shaking hands with him.
Wiggins was the chief’s administrative assistant. Both men were dressed in medium-blue suits and crisp white shirts. The only difference was the color of their ties: one red, and the other blue.
Wiggins smiled at her. “I remember now,” he said. “All those transfer requests hit my desk first.”
Beth immediately felt the color in her face rise. “Sorry about that. It’s not that I didn’t like Environment. It’s just—”
“There’s a little more action in Homicide, eh?” Ritson said, finishing the sentence for her.
“Something like that,” Beth said as the elevator came to a halt. The men waited for her to exit before they got out.
“Off for the weekend?” Ritson asked.
“No, Chief. I need to talk with some neighbors about a man who was killed in Jordan. I’m trying to get a better line on who he was and what he was doing when the crime went down.”
Ritson nodded. “A very disturbing situation. Sounds like we have a copycat on our hands.”
“That’s my take so far, sir,” Beth said.
Beth wasn’t surprised that Ritson knew about the case. Penny Fancher had probably talked to him earlier. For the last thirty years, the deputy chief had his finger on everything in the department. It was how he had survived so long when others fell by the wayside.
Ritson informed her, “This case has the potential to create a great deal of media attention, Detective, not to mention a public outcry. The crime sounds bizarre.”
“No argument from me,” Beth said.
“I’d like to be kept up to speed on your investigation. You’ll have the full resources of the department at your disposal.”
“I appreciate that, Chief.”
The group slowed at the glass door leading to the parking lot. Ritson turned to her.
“Things are changing for us, Beth, but our basic mission remains the same—protect and serve the public. The obvious physical differences aside, I believe, with proper training, any woman can be the equal of a man.”
“Well, I don’t like to set my sights too low,” Beth said.
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.
Ritson’s attention sharpened. He studied her for a moment before his face creased into a smile and he chuckled.
“That’s marvelous,” he said. “Set your sights too low. May I tell that to my wife?”
“Oh . . . sure,” Beth said. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“None taken. Good luck with your investigation.”
Both men nodded to her and headed out the door. The last look Wiggins threw in her direction fell somewhere between amusement and “Oh boy.”
Muttering to herself about being an idiot, Beth hurried to her cruiser, got in, and started the engine. She had the distinct feeling their eyes were on her as she drove out of the lot.
Chapter 4
On impulse, Beth decided to head to the Georgia Tech campus rather than fight her way through Atlanta’s rush-hour traffic to Vinings where Jerome Haffner lived. She reasoned there was a better chance of catching people at home later in the evening.
At the administration building’s reception counter, she asked a matronly woman where she could find Jackson Kale.
“Professor Kale’s office is at the College of Criminal Justice. Do you need a campus map?”
“I guess so,” Beth said.
The woman reached beneath the counter and produced one showing the university’s layout. Using a yellow highlighter, she circled a building and drew a path toward it.
“This is the Hayes Building,” she said. “Unfortunately, his office hours are over.”
“I thought you said he was in.”
“I did. Professor Kale’s teaching now. His class lets out in twenty minutes or so. If you hurry, you can just catch him.”
Beth thanked her and departed. After a few wrong turns involving streets that weren’t on the map, she came to a red brick building near the edge of campus with the name “Hayes” above the door. A young man in jeans and a T-shirt informed her Jack Kale’s classroom was on the second floor. As Beth climbed the steps, memories of trudging up a similar staircase at Boston College drifted back to her. There were no pangs of nostalgia. It had been a turbulent, heady time in her life, marked by two long-term relationships, one of which had led to marriage. Twelve years older than she was and a published author with a national best seller to his credit, she wondered if William Camden was still charming the pants off nineteen-year-old co-eds. Probably. Leopards don’t change their spots.
The classroom had two doors. Beth slipped in the back one and took a seat in the last row. The room was arranged in the style of an amphitheater with contemporary beige desks and chairs. Kale, wearing a vested gray herringbone suit and a white shirt with a bow tie, was at the bottom. Behind him was a
whiteboard. He was in the midst of a lecture. The suit was an old-fashioned cut, like one of those her grandfather owned and refused to throw away. The bow tie was a surprise. It wasn’t a bad look and sort of fit her image of what a professor should wear.
“The famous French criminologist Edmond Locard theorized that in every homicide, there’s an exchange between the victim and the murderer or the murdered and the crime scene. Those of you who plan to pursue a career in law enforcement would do well to familiarize yourself with at least basic forensic technique. I know this class is about behavioral science, but you can’t be a one-trick pony. The field is changing rapidly, daily it seems, and advances are coming at us all the time.”
Beth studied the speaker. Funny how you form a mental picture of someone. She conceded his photo didn’t do him justice. The FBI file only provided a sketch of his background and his career with them. What it didn’t say was that he had a fine deep voice that easily carried to the back of the classroom. For one brief moment, his eyes settled on her and then moved on.
“Professor,” a young woman in the first row said, “yesterday we talked about patterns and psychological profiles. Can I ask a question about that?”
“Have at it.”
“Well, in today’s newspaper, there was a story about the police in Virginia arresting a man in connection with five women who were strangled outside of Richmond. Did you read that?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
The girl went on. “They’re saying that he’s probably a drug addict as well as schizophrenic and that he walked away from a mental hospital three months ago. I’m confused, because that kind of pathology doesn’t really fit a serial killer’s pattern, at least not the ones we’ve been studying.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Kale agreed. “Schizophrenics as a group are no more dangerous than the rest of the population. Probably less so.”
“Then how do we know about what type of profile to concentrate on? I mean, we have a midterm coming up.”
Kale smiled, then said, “The answer is you don’t. People are incredibly complex. Even twins raised under virtually identical circumstances can turn out quite differently. Certainly patterns exist, and some of them are predictive. But not every square peg fits in a square hole. Human beings have a perverse way of not sliding nicely into a mold. As an investigator, your job is to assemble as many facts as you can and use your intellect and experience to get the true picture.
Once Shadows Fall Page 2