The Coldest Fear

by Rick Reed

  “Yeah, right,” Jack said, and immediately regretted the tone in his voice. “Look, Susan, I’m sorry,” he said, but she was already picking up her purse and fishing for her car keys.

  As he watched her disappear around the side of the cabin he wondered if he should go after her. But it was too late. He knew that they would work this out better if they both had a good night’s sleep.

  Just then Susan came back around the side of the cabin. There was no longer a look of anger on her face, but what was there was worse. Jack saw pity in her eyes.

  “You’re a good man, Jack,” Susan said. “But I’m afraid for you.” She retreated the way she had come and he heard her car drive away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “Gina Sampson. Events coordinator for Evansville Beautiful ,” the pretty young woman said aloud to her reflection in her cars inside mirror. Not bad for a twenty-three-year-old with a brand-new master’s degree in business administration, she thought.

  She looked around the empty parking lot, but it was early yet. People would show up in droves to help celebrate the opening of the new Greenway Walkway. The city had advertised the event for months, not to mention spent millions of dollars to develop the bicycle and pedestrian path that ran from the mouth of the Pigeon Creek entrance at the Ohio River, along the Howell Wetlands, and on to Garvin Park, seven miles away. It had taken city workers and volunteers the best part of six months to clean up the debris along the banks of the Pigeon Creek. Next year they would build the wooden bridges that would allow visitors to cross the water at various points. Then would come the planting of perennials and shrubs and other decorative landscaping.

  In the next few hours tents and chairs would be set out by volunteers at both ends of the Greenway. Tables would be laid with T-shirts bearing the logo I RAMBLED THE GREENWAY. She looked around the gravel lot and looked at her watch. It was still early. But where the hell are the volunteers?

  And then she saw a small parade of vehicles coming down Ohio Street, and the lead vehicle, an old Chevy truck carrying a load of canoes, flashed its lights at her.

  “Hurray! The troops have arrived,” Gina said out loud.

  The sun was just rising as Jack stood on the porch of his river cabin. He sipped coffee and watched his floating dock as it rose and fell with the swells created by a passing boat. He wished he was fishing, or out on his boat before the weather became too cold to risk it. But today was a workday and he had to get in early enough to try and pry a clue loose from this mess. He had tried calling Susan twice and got her answering machine, opting not to leave a message.

  He couldn’t help but wonder how well Susan knew Blake James. She had never mentioned the man before, but it was obvious that they knew each other well enough for her to be comfortable with him at Jack’s cabin.

  I’m not jealous. Just curious, he thought. And then he remembered it was Susan’s birthday in two more days, and he still hadn’t bought her a present.

  “I’m not jealous,” he said out loud and headed for his car to go to the chief of police’s news conference.

  Louie Parson had worked for the city of Evansville for thirteen years, and before that he’d been a delivery driver for the school corporation for twelve years. Another two years of this crap and I can retire with a full city pension, he thought. Fifty percent pay and cheap life insurance for the rest of my life.

  That was what he was working for, trading the next two years of misery for the rest of his life. Not a bad deal. And all he had to do today was deliver a trailer load of banged-up kayaks and canoes to the put-in area so some environmental types could paddle down the Pigeon Creek. Personally, he would rather swim in a sewer than go near that creek.

  When’ll these idiots quit throwing good money after bad? he wondered. But, of course, he knew the politicians would never stop spending the public’s dollars as long as the news media was favorable. And so far, a lot of people seemed to think that taking water excursions on the toxic waste that filled the Pigeon Creek was a good idea.

  He pulled off Ohio Street into the gravel lot that led down to the ramp and that was when he heard the first scream.

  Louie Parson had spent six months in Vietnam as an eighteen-year-old, so he had heard screaming before. And the scream he’d just heard sent a message directly into his brain and triggered the fight-or-flight reflex that had been honed all those years ago.

  He jumped from the truck and prone’d out in the gravel, all senses on alert. He could hear sounds of feet coming fast, crunching on gravel, excited voices being raised but talking fast and over each other until they were unintelligible. Some bad shit is going down, he thought, just as two young women came rushing past his truck.

  He grunted as he pushed up to his knees and reached out for them yelling, “Hey. What’s going on?” But they ran without looking back.

  Louie got to his feet and wiped his hands on his jeans. He looked around to see if anyone had seen him jump out of his truck and splay out on the gravel, but not a soul was in sight. He felt a little embarrassed that he had dropped to the ground like he had.

  He shut the door to his truck and walked in the direction the women had come running from. There was a young lady standing in the water, perfectly still. The stagnant water had turned the bottom of her white dress a nasty shade of green.

  Louie waded into the water, feeling the creek mud suck at his work boots. When he reached her he thought she looked familiar. What’s her name? Sam, or Sammy. No, it’s Sampson, like the strong guy from the Bible stories.

  “Miss Sampson,” he said softly. She didn’t seem to notice him so he said a little louder, “You got to get outta this stinkin’ water, hon.”

  She turned her head and he could see that the lights were on in her eyes, but no one was home. Then her mouth opened wide and the scream that emanated was so shrill the nesting birds from both sides of the creek took flight.

  Louie picked her up in a fireman’s carry and began slogging out of the water. He could hear her making little puckering noises with her mouth and hoped she wouldn’t let loose that big cannon mouth of hers again, at least until he could get her to the truck. And suddenly he was being beaten across the back and shoulders by a very alert Gina Sampson, who was yelling every obscenity she had probably ever heard in her short life.

  Louie was so stunned that he lost his grip and both of them went tumbling in the filthy water of Pigeon Creek.

  “Stop that shit, lady. Dammit, stop hitting me,” he said.

  The tumble into the cold water must have snapped her out of whatever had taken hold of her. She grabbed Louie by the front of his shirt and yelled into his face, “Call 9-1-1!” She pointed to a place on the water just past where she had been standing.

  Louie turned, feeling the mud squishing through his fingers where he was trying to keep upright, and saw what she was pointing at, what had been blocked from his view before. Something was suspended several feet over the water, hanging from a thin rope that was tied to one of the struts of the bridge. He would deny later that he had screamed like a girl until Gina Sampson slapped him very soundly across the face.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The police department classroom served several purposes. During in-service training it was used to satisfy the twice-yearly requirements of police training in updated constitutional law and recertification in things like CPR and Hazardous Material procedures. The classroom was also equipped with a fancy backdrop and podium when it was necessary to release news to the media.

  This morning the classroom was filled to bursting with reporters from television stations, local newspapers, and local radio stations. The huge blue podium that bore the EVANSVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT logo was almost hidden by camera tripods and microphones. Captain Franklin and Deputy Chief of Police Richard Dick stood to one side of the podium, detectives Jack Murphy and Liddell Blanchard on the other. Behind the podium, Chief Marlin Pope waited for the noise to lower so he could be heard.

  “Let’s get start
ed,” Pope said, raising his voice above the racket. When everyone had quieted he looked around the room and began.

  “The Evansville Police Department is currently investigating the deaths of Cordelia Morse and Louise Brigham,” he said.

  Before he could continue, a man from the back of the room said, “Is it confirmed that the murders are the work of a serial killer?”

  Pope didn’t recognize the man and asked, “Who are you with, sir?”

  The man cleared his throat. He was tall and thin, with a sun-darkened complexion and weathered features. “I’m with the Shawneetown Democrat,” he said.

  Pope looked over and noticed Jack was writing in his notebook. This was someone they should talk to. “I’ll answer some questions after I’m finished with this statement. So please hold your questions,” Pope said, and continued with his prepared release. The information he gave the reporters was nothing that hadn’t already been released, but most of them didn’t seem to care as long as they had something to report.

  Pope finished by saying, “Are there any questions?”

  “Do you have any leads as to who the killer is?” a voice came from the back of the room.

  “I think I’ve already addressed that,” Pope said, and called on another reporter when Blake James stood up in the back of the room. Blake towered over the nearest reporters, his blue suit pressed smartly.

  As he moved toward the podium the throng of reporters seemed to clear a path for him. He stopped in front of the chief of police and said in a clear voice, “What we all want to know is how much longer the city will be at the mercy of this sadistic killer. How close are you to making an arrest? What are you doing about this?”

  The looks on the other reporters’ faces mirrored the questions that Blake had asked. It was obvious that they respected Blake, and also that they agreed with him. After all, they had a duty to inform the public. And Blake was challenging the chief of police to give them some facts. They could smell blood in the water.

  “We are doing everything possible to bring this investigation to a successful conclusion,” Pope said.

  Blake smiled and looked at Jack, saying, “So in other words, the investigation is stalled.” He turned to face the other reporters and said, “Perhaps we should ask Arnold Byrum. He seems to know everything.”

  It took all of Jack’s willpower to keep quiet. Just then a uniformed sergeant named Taylor came into the back of the room. His face was a mask of control, but Jack could tell that the man could barely contain himself. He nodded at Jack and then motioned for him to come out in the hallway.

  Jack was glad of the excuse to walk away from his confrontation with Blake, and left the room. Sergeant Taylor was waiting a short distance down the hallway.

  “Jack, we have another one!” Taylor said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The killer stood near a television camera crew that was busy filming the police activity under the Ohio Street Bridge. Police were positioned on both banks of the Pigeon Creek and the parking areas had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. He wondered how the police thought they could control a scene like this. For all they knew, valuable evidence could right now be washing down the creek and into the river.

  Both Channel Six and Channel Nineteen had turned out with their live-reporting vans, their antennae dishes towering above them, broadcasting into homes everywhere. He couldn’t resist taking some video with his iPhone. After all, this was a momentous occasion for him. Ding-dong the witch is dead, he thought.

  Liddell piloted the blue and white watercraft with police markings down Pigeon Creek, approaching the scene of the most recently discovered body. Sergeant Tony Walker and another crime scene tech knelt in the bow.

  Liddell had been part of the Iberville Parish Sheriff Department’s Water Patrol and Rescue Team when he was with that department in Plaquemine, Louisiana. Most of his time was spent performing rescues of small fishing craft from the numerous waterways that branch from the Mississippi River. The Atchafalaya Basin is partially located in Iberville Parish as well, and the other part of his Water Patrol duties included assisting the Law Enforcement Against Drugs, or L.E.A.D. Task Force, in intercepting drugs that would come into the parish from across the Mississippi.

  As a result of these duties, Liddell Blanchard had accumulated more hours on the water than any other deputy in the history of the Water Patrol. Added to that was the fact that he was an accomplished diver. Because there was not as much need for water patrol in Evansville, Jack had almost forgotten about his partner’s skill on the water.

  Sergeant Tony Walker leaned over the side of the rescue boat and examined the body that twisted in the slight current of Pigeon Creek. A white nylon rope was stretched taut between the neck of the dead body and the bridge strut overhead. Walker looked at the victim’s upper torso and yelled to Jack, who was standing on the creek bank.

  “Looks like a woman. Her arms have been secured behind her.” Walker shook his head.

  The victim’s body was above the water, the head canted to one side, tongue swollen and protruding past where the lips would have been if they weren’t missing. Someone had cut the face away, peeling it from the bone. Lips, cheeks, and nose were gone, leaving the swollen tongue to protrude from the mask of death.

  Liddell looked around cautiously, wanting to yell something to Jack, but then saw the news media vans and onlookers gathered less than a few hundred yards away. He pointed to his cell phone.

  Jack called Liddell. “Is it our guy?”

  “Looks like it,” Liddell said. “The entire face is missing.”

  “Did he take her eyes?” Jack asked.

  Liddell asked Walker and then came back on the line. “I don’t think so, pod’na. But it’s hard to say with the damage that was done this time. Looks to me like the whole skull has been crushed.”

  Jack heard Walker ask if Little Casket was on her way, and responded, “She’s been called. Should be here in a few minutes, but I think we need to get this body out of here.”

  Liddell shook his big head up and down. “Will do, pod’na.”

  Jack watched as Sergeant Walker and the crime scene tech prepared to recover the body, and he busied himself making phone calls to his chain of command. They would need this information quickly.

  He pulled a laminated Evansville city map from the glove box of his police car and secured it to the hood with four large magnets. He used a grease pencil to circle the locations of the other two bodies and then marked a spot in the middle of the creek. The obvious thing that stood out was that this was the first body that was transported from a death scene. Not to say that she couldn’t have been killed right on top of the bridge and then strung up and dumped over the side. But it just didn’t feel right.

  Who is she? Why her? he thought. And why bring her here?

  “Hey Jack,” Walker called to him, interrupting his thoughts.

  Jack looked up and Walker was holding up a set of keys that were attached to what appeared to be laminated plastic cards. He shook out a plastic bag and put the items inside.

  “I found her identification,” Walker said, and handed the bag to Liddell.

  Liddell moved the items around inside the bag and took out his cell phone again, indicating Jack to do the same.

  “Set of keys attached to some plastic identification cards for Brenda Lincoln,” Liddell said, when Jack answered the phone. “Deaconess Hospital employee named Brenda Lincoln,” he added.

  The photo on the ID was of a somber-looking woman in her mid-fifties with tight-permed hair and a sallow complexion. The eyes, deep set and brooding, were those of someone who had witnessed much pain in life.

  “She works the maternity ward at Deaconess,” Liddell said. “I’ll call Garcia and get her started on this.”

  “I’ll meet you at the dock,” Jack said to Liddell and flipped his phone shut.

  Arnold Byrum was waiting for Jack and Liddell outside the yellow caution tape.

  “Hey
, fellas. Can you spare a minute?” he asked, but the men walked past him without a word. Arnold scurried behind them.

  “Don’t be mad, guys. You know that someone would have written those stories if I didn’t.”

  Jack paused. Arnold was right, of course. And Jack also knew that if someone besides Arnold had written the stories that person would have been even more sensationalized and more contemptuous of the police.

  Jack turned toward Arnold. “Ask your question.”

  Arnold got his notebook out.

  “Let’s see . . .” he said and looked over his notes from the scene. “I know you can’t give me the victim’s name, but can you verify that it’s a woman? Maybe give me an approximate age?”

  “Yes, it’s a woman. And, no, we can’t give you an age. You should never ask a woman’s age,” Liddell said, and batted his eyes at Arnold.

  Arnold laughed and it sounded like a donkey with hiccups.

  “You can say middle-aged, white female,” Jack said. “Any other questions? We have some things to do.”

  Arnold scribbled furiously, then looked up and said, “No. Nothing that you would answer.” He smiled and walked away.

  “Well, it won’t be long before our leak calls Arnold and fills in all the blanks,” Liddell said.

  “Maybe we don’t have a leak,” Jack said.

  “Jansen’s the leak,” Liddell said. “We both know he’s been selling us out since this began.”

  “But what if it isn’t Jansen?” Jack persisted. “What if someone else was talking to Arnold? How is he getting that kind of accurate information so quickly?”

  Liddell gave him a curious look. “Well, he had been dead-on with his reporting. But are you suggesting that Arnold is in contact with the killer?”

  Both men thought about this for a moment. “Nah! Can’t be,” Jack said.

  “Arnold could never keep that kind of a secret,” Liddell agreed.