Aidan took the seat on Mara’s other side so he could keep an eye on Spike, who was busily trying to decide which of Tanner’s dogs to bully first.
“So, Mr. Shields, special agent with the FBI, we still haven’t established what brings you to my door.” Tanner rocked gently and gazed out at the lake.
Aidan paused, then said, “You know, somehow I expected that Chief Lanigan would have paid you a visit after I spoke with him on the phone yesterday.”
“Actually, he did. Mentioned that you asked about old murders in Lake Grove. We’ve had our share over the years, God knows, mostly jealous husbands or stupid kids.”
“I was particularly interested in any unsolved murders, Chief.”
“Sorry, son. I can’t think of a one that we didn’t make an arrest on, some easier than others, of course. I remember them all. Some were worse, naturally—if one death can be considered worse than another.”
“Some deaths are harder than others. If you’re looking at a homicide, chances are the death wasn’t a gentle one,” Aidan agreed. “And some cases are just tougher, all the way around, than others.”
“Well, ironically, the nastiest death I ever saw was my easiest arrest. Guy called in and told us what he’d done and asked us to send a car out for him—imagine that? Course, that was one for the books, any way you looked at it. You get one case like that, you don’t need to see another. Plenty to talk about, a scene like that one.” Tanner shook his head. “Gruesome, what he did to that woman. Yessir, that was a case to remember.”
“What case was that, sir?” Aidan asked, more out of politeness. He’d come seeking information on Curt Gibbons, but if the way to Gibbons was through Tanner’s war stories, so be it. He wasn’t in a hurry.
“I remember it like it was yesterday, though it has to be a good thirty years past. . . .” He shook his head slowly and gazed out toward the lake. “Never seen anything like it, before or since. The call came in from Al Unger that he’d just killed his woman. I was out on the street in my patrol car and heard the call, went over to Unger’s place. He was sitting on the front steps wearing just his boxers. You could tell he’d been drinking, but he wasn’t drunk. He didn’t even look up when I got out of the car. ‘She’s in there,’ he told me. ‘I done it. I killed her.’ ”
You could hear a pin drop right about now, Mara thought as she watched memory take Tanner by the hand and lead him back in time.
“So I go on in—never thought to wait for backup, you know—and there she was. Blood everywhere.”
“What was the cause of death?”
“Multiple stab wounds. It was the damnedest thing I’d ever seen. She was lying there on the floor, her skirt all neat around her legs—didn’t even know she’d been raped until the autopsy—”
Aidan’s ears began to ring.
“—and that cloth over her face—”
“There was a cloth over her face?”
“Yeah. Like one of them linen towels from the kitchen.”
“Six stab wounds?” Aidan said without realizing he’d spoken aloud.
“Now how in the world would you know that?” Tanner stopped rocking and turned to Aidan.
Aidan told Tanner about the Mary Douglas killings in eastern Pennsylvania.
“Now that beats all.” Tanner shook his head. “That just beats all.”
“Where is this guy, this Unger, now?”
“He served his thirty years—heard he did get a little time off for good behavior when he came up for parole. Been out about ten months now.”
“He’s out?” Aidan’s jaw dropped.
“Yes. Served his time and they released him. Said he was a model prisoner, never caused a bit of trouble in prison.”
“How do we find this man?”
“Chief Lanigan can probably get in touch with his parole officer.” Tanner leaned forward, looking around Mara to Aidan. “You can’t possibly think for one minute that Albert Unger had anything to do with these other killings.”
“You have to admit, it’s pretty suspicious. The MO is pretty distinctive.”
“Well, hell. He’s gotta be near as old as I am. And the chances of him running back and forth to Pennsylvania to kill . . . how many women did this guy kill?”
“Four that we know of.”
“I just don’t see it happening, but you ask Lanigan to give a call to the parole officer. See what’s what.”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
“Yep, worth a follow-up, I’d say. You’ll stop back after you see him? Let me know if there’s any smoke behind that fire?”
“We will, yes.” Aidan stood and held out his hand for Mara, thinking that he’d want to make a trip back anyway. He hadn’t gotten around to asking about Curt Gibbons. “Thanks again, Chief. We’ll be in touch.”
Tanner began to rock again, more slowly. “Yes, sir, that was the worst thing I ever seen, that woman lying dead there on the floor. . . .”
Less than two hours later, thanks to the quick work of Chief Lanigan, Mara and Aidan were on their way to Telford, several towns over, where they would try to locate Albert Unger. Aidan went first to the small motel where, the parole officer had told the chief, Unger rented a room by the week.
The motel parking lot was littered with fast-food wrappers and cigarette butts, but few cars were parked on the faded black asphalt that appeared, like the rest of the motel, to need a serious overhaul. Aidan went into the office and cleared his throat to get the attention of the thin balding man who sat behind the counter, trimming his nails with a pocket knife and watching a daytime soap on a small TV.
“Excuse me,” Aidan said. “I’m looking for Al Unger. I understand he’s living here.”
“Yeah, he has a room,” the man responded without looking up. “Whatcha want with Al?”
“Just need to talk to him.”
“Al’s at work.”
“What time do you expect him back?”
“After midnight, most nights, by the time he gets back.”
“From?”
“What’s it worth to you?”
Aidan slid a twenty-dollar bill across the worn wooden counter. The man finally looked up, examined the bill, then shrugged.
“He works at the movie theater downtown. Right on Main Street. Can’t miss it. Only one there.”
“Thanks.”
Aidan left the office and walked back to the car.
“He’s not here?” Mara asked as he got behind the wheel.
“No. But I know where he is. Let’s see if we can get him to talk to us.”
“Us?”
“He might be more at ease with you present. Do you mind?”
She shook her head. “Of course not.”
By the time they arrived at the theater, the early matinee had twenty minutes left on its run. Aidan bought two tickets from the young girl in the booth, and as he pocketed his change, asked, “Do you know where I can find Al Unger?”
“You can ask the manager.” She pointed across the lobby to a man in a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Is Al Unger in yet?” Aidan asked as they approached the manager, who looked from Aidan to Mara, then back again.
“What he do? He’s not in any trouble, is he? I hired him on the provision that he keep it clean.”
“No, no. No trouble,” Aidan assured him. “I just need to ask him a question or two.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m with the FBI.” Aidan offered his credentials. “But Mr. Unger hasn’t done anything wrong. We’re just following up on something routine.”
“You sure? Because if he broke his parole—”
“Nothing like that. Just a follow-up on something.”
“Unger cleans up after the shows. Sweeps the floors, collects the trash left behind, that sort of thing. The movie that’s showing now has less than a half hour to run.”
“That’s what the tickets say,” Mara noted.
“You bought tickets? Give ’em to
me. I’ll get you a refund.” He held out his hand. “You’re not even gonna watch the show. Here, give me the tickets.”
“Thanks anyway, but that’s not necessary.” Aidan declined the offer.
“Hey, you sure? We like to cooperate here, you know?”
“I’m sure you do,” Aidan said, but did not hand over the tickets.
“All right, let me know if you change your mind. Now, why don’t you just slip into the back here, take a seat—plenty of those, we’re not crowded at the weekday afternoon matinees. You just wait around till the show is over and everyone leaves, and Al will be along to clean up.”
“Thanks. We appreciate it.” Aidan nodded and opened one of the doors into the theater for Mara.
They sat in the back, in the dark, and watched the action film near its climax.
“Want some popcorn?” Aidan whispered.
“Sure.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He was back in less than five minutes, a jumbo box of buttered popcorn tucked in the crook of his elbow and a large drink in each hand.
“I hope you like a lot of butter,” he said as he handed her one of the drinks and held out the box of popcorn.
“What is the movie theater experience without hot buttered fingers?” she whispered as she dug in.
The movie ended with the hero single-handedly dispatching the villain and a dozen or more of his cronies. The few moviegoers who still remained when the lights came on moved slowly up the aisle. Soon the theater was empty except for Mara and Aidan, who sat in the back row munching on popcorn while they waited for Albert Unger.
They heard him before they saw him. The vacuum cleaner whirred from down near the front row, and Aidan leaned forward to observe.
Albert Unger was, as Chief Tanner had told him, well into his seventies.
“He looks awfully old,” Mara noted, “and not very strong.”
“No way he’s our man. Unless he knows he’s being watched. Look how he has to stoop over with the vacuum, how frail he appears to be. There is no way he’d have the physical strength to kill those women.”
“Well, his parole officer did tell Lanigan that Unger hasn’t left town since he got out. Are you still going to talk to him?”
Aidan nodded.
He had his chance when the old man reached the back row and realized that not all of the theater’s patrons had left when the lights went on.
“ ’Scuse me, folks. I’m going to have to vacuum here. But if you want to still chat some, you can move on down to where I cleaned. I won’t tell the manager. . . .”
“Thanks.” Aidan smiled. “But we actually would like to talk with you. If you have a minute.”
“With me?” Unger’s wary pale blue eyes flickered from Aidan, to Mara, then back to Aidan again. He knew law when he saw it. “What would you want with me?”
“I was just wondering if you’d be willing to—”
“I ain’t done a thing, I swear.” The old man’s hands began to shake. “Swear to God. Done one thing in all my days, and I done my time for it.”
“We know that, Mr. Unger. Look, what time are you finished here? Do you get a break? Could we buy you a cup of coffee and just sit and talk for a few minutes?”
“Who are you?”
Aidan told him.
“You want to know about what I done . . . back then?”
“Yes.”
“You writin’ a book or something?”
“No, sir. Just trying to find a needle in a haystack. Thought maybe you could help us look.”
“I go on break soon as I finish up here. Usually go next door and have my dinner when the matinee cleanup is done.”
“How about if we meet you there?” Aidan offered.
“Dinner on you?” Unger asked slyly.
“Sure.”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes, tops.” Unger turned the vacuum cleaner back on and went back to work.
“You really think he’ll show?” Mara asked after they’d been seated for almost twenty minutes at the small luncheonette-style eatery.
“I think so. I think he’s curious.”
“What do you think you’ll learn from him? He’s obviously not the Mary Douglas killer.”
“I don’t know. Maybe just a glimpse into the mind of someone who does that sort of thing. Kills a woman like that, then tries to tidy up the scene.”
The door opened and Unger shuffled in.
Mara smiled as the man approached the table. “Mr. Unger.”
“Miss.” He stood in front of the table, apparently not knowing what to do next, whether to sit next to Mara or to Aidan.
She motioned to him to take the seat next to hers, which would, she figured, allow Aidan to make eye contact with Unger. This was, after all, Aidan’s show. She was only along for the ride.
The waitress took their orders, teasing Unger by saying, “So, Albie, looks like you won’t be dining alone today, eh?”
Unger nodded and blushed.
“You’re a cop, I know you told me that, but tell me again what kind.” Unger took slow sips from the coffee the waitress had left for him.
“I’m with the FBI. My name is Aidan Shields. This is Mara Douglas.”
He watched Unger’s face to see if there was any reaction whatsoever when he mentioned Mara’s name. There was none.
“I didn’t do nothin’ that the FBI needs to know about.” Unger looked as if he was about to panic.
“We know that. We just want you to tell us, if you wouldn’t mind, what happened between you and your wife.”
“She weren’t my wife, though I loved her like she was and tried to be a father to her boy. That’s the truth. That’s the one thing you have to understand. I loved Joanie. I did.”
He paused when he saw the waitress approach with his soup and did not resume speaking until she was out of hearing range. He lowered his voice, though, just to make certain that he wasn’t overheard. It would serve no good cause for the people he dealt with every day to know that he had served almost thirty years in prison for murder.
“We’d been living together for almost two years. Oh, I knew she wasn’t gonna be around forever, she being almost fifteen years younger than me. But I gave her a home, took in her and her boy too, tried to get her off the drugs, tried to get her to stay away from the drink. I was doing pretty good there for a while, too. Then I screwed up and went to prison for ten months. Well . . .” He sipped his soup from his spoon, as if he needed the sustenance to go on.
“Well, I come out when my time is up, first thing I do is go to the house we had out there on Railroad Avenue, not sure she would still be there. The prison was about a hundred eighty miles from Lake Grove, you know. She didn’t have no car and unless she could get someone to bring her out, she couldn’t visit much.” He turned his attention back to the soup, stirring it and looking into the cup intently.
“Was she still there?” Aidan asked.
Unger finished the soup, then sat back while the waitress took his empty cup, and served his dinner and the salads ordered by Mara and Aidan.
“Enjoy,” she said brightly as she walked away.
“She was still there, all right.” Unger’s face hardened. “Strung out on heroin and drunk as a skunk. I left the house and went down to Eagle’s, the bar at the corner. I look back on that day now, and I think, if I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have known. . . .”
“Known what, Mr. Unger?” Mara heard herself ask.
“She’d been turning tricks from just about the day I left. In my house. In my bed. And other things, things worse than whorin’. Things no decent person would even think of doing.” He looked at Aidan. “I was drunk, I admit it, and it ain’t no excuse, and I never said it was. But I came back home and threw her to the floor and I . . . forced her. Next thing I know, the knife was in my hand and I don’t know what took over me but I started stabbing her and I couldn’t stop. All’s I remember thinking is that after what she done, she deserved it. Had it comin
g to her, not even so much for what she done to me, but for what she done to that boy. Animals got more respect for their young than she did.”
Unger’s head shook slowly, side to side. “She—Joanie—she had no business putting that boy out.”
“Putting the boy out?” Aidan put his fork down.
“Some of her boyfriends liked little boys as best they liked women.”
“You mean she—?” Mara found the words too distasteful.
“Traded her son for drugs, yeah.”
“How old was he at the time, do you remember?” Aidan asked.
“Seven, eight, nine, somewhere thereabouts.”
“What happened to him? Where is he now, do you know?” Aidan asked as the first hint of understanding began to hum in his brain.
“No idea.” Unger shrugged. “They put him into foster care. I never heard what became of him.”
“What was Joanie’s last name, Mr. Unger?” Aidan stared at his plate. Knowing.
“It was Gibbons. Joanie Gibbons . . .”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
CURTIS CHANNING HAD LAIN AWAKE MOST OF THE night, staring at the dark smudge in the center of the ceiling that was the overhead light fixture. Too exasperated with himself to even be annoyed, he focused on a game plan. As he saw it, he had two choices. He could forget the whole thing and move on. Or he could finish the job and then move on.
By morning he’d decided that it was times like this that proved the mettle of a man. And he, Curtis Alan Channing, whatever else he might be, was a man of his word. He’d heard someone famous once—he couldn’t remember who it was, but it was someone really big—say that a man’s word had to be his bond. Well, okay then. He’d find a way to make it right.
He crossed his legs at the ankles under the light blanket and closed his eyes. Sometimes it helped to visualize the task at hand. No problem there. Once he found his quarry, he knew exactly what he’d do. If he could get close enough, that is.
It was a given that the police would be watching the home of every M. Douglas from here to Harrisburg and back. How could he narrow the field if he couldn’t get close enough to take a look? Some of those M. Douglases would be men, right? Once he identified who was who, he could cross off those right away and concentrate on the others.
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