The Coldest Fear

by Rick Reed

  They entered the chief’s complex waiting room and were buzzed through a connecting door to the inner sanctum. Chief Marlin Pope was holding a copy of the morning newspaper.

  “Looks like you’re getting that spanking after all, Bigfoot,” Jack said to Liddell, but no one smiled.

  “Why me? Why not you?” Liddell asked.

  Jack shrugged. “Bigger butt, bigger target.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Cody Morse stood in the front lobby of the Civic Center, watching people come and go through metal detectors, and wondered how America had become so screwed up. What did it say for the people of a small town in the Midwest that they had to be so security conscious that they couldn’t even pay their water bills or property taxes without having to be subjected to pat-downs and screening by law enforcement?

  I’ve killed more people than they could ever imagine, and yet I can come and go as I please. He looked at the archway of the metal detector and watched as sheriff ’s deputies made people empty their pockets before allowing them to come inside. A few moments earlier someone had tried to bring a knife inside and it had caused quite a stir. The offender was a construction worker who routinely carried a Buck knife on his belt. It was almost comical seeing the looks on faces as the poor guy was taken aside and searched. What would they think if I brought my axe? he wondered.

  And now there was something else going on in the police chief ’s complex, with reporters roaming the halls, foraging for tidbits and scraps of information to feed to their audiences. They didn’t know that the star of all this excitement was within an arm’s length of most of them. He was just another face in the crowd.

  Lenny Bange had proved to be useless. No matter how much skin Cody sliced away with the axe, the man just kept crying and denying that he knew who it was that was calling him. But, Lenny had clarified a few things. Cordelia was a call girl. She was working for Lenny. And she had apparently kept some kind of diary of all the clients and had been threatening Lenny with this before her death. He had also admitted to hiring the hapless clown from Las Vegas, Cubby Crispino, to do some dirty work for him.

  He smiled at the memory of Lenny’s moaning when he learned of Cubby’s fate. It was obvious that he thought Cubby was a tough guy. I wonder how I compared?

  But eventually he had run out of things to cut off Lenny Bange, and Lenny had gone past his expiration date. Cody still didn’t have a clue who the blackmailer was. He didn’t know where the diary was. And he had to find that diary. His name was in it. If the police found it first it would raise all kinds of red flags. That won’t do at all.

  Then he had another thought. Arnold had proved very helpful so far in keeping the police in a defensive position. Maybe it was time to move Arnold to a new position on the chessboard. He remembered visiting an antique store in New Harmony, about twenty minutes’ drive from Evansville. In that store he had found the general junk that people thought of as antiques. But he had also found a section of the store where old tools were displayed. One of these tools was a small hand axe that was smaller than the one he used, but still would suffice for what he had in mind.

  If he left now, he could make it to New Harmony and get back before his absence was noticed. Then he would stop by Arnold’s house again. This would be the third time he had been inside Arnold’s house without anyone being the wiser. He had to keep an eye on the progress of Arnold’s book.

  Missing persons detective Larry Jansen was thinking the same thing as the chief of police. Where in the hell was Arnold getting all this stuff from? It pissed him off. Mostly because Larry was normally in possession of all the information. And he liked being the one who dispensed that information for a price. He didn’t like the idea of someone invading his turf.

  He had been hiding most of the morning, but he knew he couldn’t dodge the chief for much longer. His stint in the hospital hadn’t been long enough and when he’d been released the chief had Internal Affairs waiting at his home. There had been questions. Lots of questions. And now this. He remembered an old saying that goes, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” He knew they suspected him of all of these leaks, and what really pissed him off was that for once in his life he was innocent. Well, mostly innocent, he thought.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Chief Marlin Pope sat at the head of the conference table with the newspaper open in front of him. His face was a mask of calm, but Jack knew that inside the man was a volcano of emotion just waiting to bury the person responsible for the leaks in a mountain of choking ash.

  “Agent Tunney, I want to apologize for the shortsightedness of some of my men,” Pope said. “We know who our leak to the news media is and will have this problem corrected shortly.”

  Tunney waved the apology away. “Chief, I’m used to this. Believe me, you have not seen ‘leakage’ yet. I could tell you stories . . .” he began, but then changed directions. “I still have to file a report, but I think I can promise you the full cooperation of the FBI on these cases.”

  Liddell looked at him and had a sudden insight. “Your boss doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

  Tunney stared at Liddell, his face giving nothing away, before he answered, “No. He doesn’t.”

  Captain Franklin and the chief turned toward the profiler. He looked sheepish and continued, “Frankly, when I told my boss that I suspected the killings here were the work of The Cleaver, he wasn’t very supportive.”

  Jack watched Tunney with renewed respect. Frank Tunney was a rebel, like him. But the thought of a bunch of suits mixing it up in his investigation didn’t make him feel more confident that they would solve these slayings.

  “Some psycho killed one of my officers,” Chief Pope said. “Your assistance would be greatly appreciated. What can you tell me about the Shawneetown case?”

  For the next fifteen minutes Jack filled the chief and captain in on the details from Shawneetown, only leaving out the full-blown confrontation with Chief Johnson over the dog. When he was finished he looked at Liddell and Tunney for any additions or corrections to his account.

  Liddell said, “I’d like to hear Agent Tunney’s take on this one.” And all attention was focused on Agent Tunney, who had been listening intently, arms folded across his chest.

  Tunney cleared his throat and said, “Well, let me first say that these killings—with the exception of Jon Samuels in Shawneetown—have been different in several ways from other killings that we have attributed to The Cleaver.”

  “Do you think Jon Samuels matches the pattern?” Captain Franklin interrupted.

  Tunney nodded. “Samuels is right for this killer.” He stood and paced behind the seated men. “The other man in Samuels’s apartment was beheaded and his hands and head were removed from the scene. That’s a troubling deviation from the pattern, but it doesn’t mean it wasn’t done by our killer.”

  Tunney turned his attention on Marlin Pope. “I don’t know how much you have been told about this killer, Chief, so I’ll go back to the beginning. We first noticed the pattern of murders when we received a request from a small West Virginia town for identification of a body found in a wooded area. We had that police department enter the victim information and partial case information into VICAP”—he was referring to the Violent Offender Criminal Apprehension Program—“and received a hit with three other entries. One of those cases was in Pennsylvania, the other two were in California.” He waited a beat to let this sink in.

  “We now have twenty-four murders in eight states over a ten-year period. This isn’t including the murders here yet. The last murders that we know of were in Atlanta, Georgia, and that was over two years ago. Nothing until your stories showed up on my Internet newsfeeds. If he’s been other places we haven’t received word yet. But the time interval between killings was increasing until Atlanta. There are usually two to three murders in each state. If The Cleaver is responsible for the killings here—and he is—then he is on a rampage.

  “In each case he ha
s carefully chosen his victim, maybe watched them for some time, and then killed them at home in the kitchen.”

  Captain Franklin interrupted again. “But you said the first case you had was a body found in a wooded area?”

  “We were concerned about that too, but found that the victim had been attacked in her home—in the kitchen—but had managed to get out of the house and flee. Apparently the killer caught up to her in the wooded area and finished the job,” Tunney explained.

  “In each of these cases the victims’ faces were sheared off with a sharp metal instrument that left traces of iron behind in the wounds. The faces were the only things taken from the scenes. The FBI lab thinks the weapon he uses is a handmade bone axe, the type that was once used to slaughter cattle and cut through bones. It’s heavy enough to cleave through skulls, which is the general method of causing death in each case. He kills them with a blow to the head, then cuts their faces off. Sometimes he cuts them other places as well, but only takes the faces.”

  The men looked at each other, trying to find a way to fit this in with what they knew of the Evansville and Shawneetown cases. Liddell was the first to put words to his thoughts.

  “I’m not a psychologist or whatever, but it seems to me that our murders have involved a lot of overkill. And obviously he didn’t want us to identify the headless, handless guy in Jon Samuels’s apartment.”

  “I would have to agree with Liddell,” Chief Pope said.

  Tunney sat back down and clasped his hands on top of the table. “I have to admit that his actions here are confusing. The Brenda Lincoln case is the only tie-in with our set of murders, but if he killed Ms. Lincoln he is our killer, too. And from other evidence you have, I guess you have firmly tied him to your other cases. I would like to examine those cases before I give you a firm decision, okay, Chief?”

  Chief Pope nodded at Captain Franklin. Franklin then said, “I’ll make sure you have everything you need, Agent Tunney.”

  Tunney’s face took on a look of great concern. “The killer is evolving, gentlemen,” he said. “I don’t know why. But I can guarantee you he is not finished killing. He’s just getting started.”

  “Jack?” Chief Pope asked. “Do you have a plan?”

  Jack wanted to say that his plan was to go home and slog down a half dozen cans of Guinness, and sit in his hot tub until his skin grew scales, but he said, “I have a dog to see to, sir.”

  Chief Pope chuckled. “You have a dog?”

  “Yeah, you should have seen him go all Rambo when Chief Johnson tried to shoot the dog,” Liddell said, then saw the look Jack was giving him. “I mean, yeah, Jack brought Jon Samuels’s dog back with him. They were going to put it down.”

  Chief Pope said, “Do I want to know any of this?”

  “No, you don’t, sir,” Jack replied and stared at Liddell.

  “Anything else, gentlemen?” Pope asked.

  No one spoke.

  “I’ll let you get on with it then,” Pope said. “And we will keep you involved as much as you like, Agent Tunney.”

  The chief and Agent Tunney shook hands, and Captain Franklin stayed behind when the three, Tunney, Liddell, and Jack, headed back to the war room.

  “I wonder what kind of high-level things they’re discussing ?” Liddell quipped.

  Tunney shook his head. “Maybe their golf plans?” he suggested.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  The dog was still in Liddell’s car. With keys in hand, Jack exited the back doors of the detective’s office. The plan was to have the dog examined by a vet, but now that he thought of it, maybe he should have someone from crime scene on hand to collect evidence. He had only mentioned the possibility of DNA to get Chief Johnson to let the dog live, but the more he thought of it on the way to Evansville, the more it sounded plausible that the dog may have bitten the killer.

  He thumbed his cell phone to the listing for Sergeant Tony Walker.

  Walker answered on the first ring. “Where do you want me to meet you?” Walker said before Jack could say anything.

  “What makes you think I want you to meet me?” Jack asked.

  “Well, because you have a dog that you took from the crime scene in Shawneetown, and I am surmising you want me to be present while you have a vet examine the dog.”

  “Sherlock Holmes has nothing on you,” Jack said. “Okay, I’m going to Branson’s Vet Clinic over by Fendrich Golf Course. You know it?”

  “I’m close. I’ll meet you there,” Walker answered, and Jack disconnected.

  He took the keys he’d borrowed from Liddell and unlocked the door to Liddell’s unmarked car. The dog was spread across the backseat and appeared to be asleep but came alive when the door lock clicked, and was now emitting a menacing growl.

  “What was I thinking?” Jack said out loud. But in for a penny, in for a pound, as his father used to say. He opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. By the time he straightened up from putting the keys in the ignition, he could feel a warm breath beside his right ear.

  “Sit!” he ordered, and to his surprise the dog obeyed. He risked a glance back and saw the dog sitting behind him. Her nose was covered with something crusty and dark, and her eyes looked clouded and unfocused. He felt a stab of pity for the poor animal, knowing she must have tried to defend her master.

  “Let’s get you to the vet and see what he thinks,” he said to the dog, and looking in the rearview mirror saw the dog’s ears lift and her head cock to the side. “I’m not keeping you so don’t start acting cute,” he added. The dog lay down and let out a soft yelp.

  Jack reversed out of the parking spot and turned onto Sycamore Street heading south to the Lloyd Expressway. He pulled his cell phone out again and found the listing for Branson’s Veterinary Clinic.

  A pleasant female voice answered. “Branson’s Clinic, Julie speaking.”

  Jack asked for Brent. He and Brent Branson had known each other since high school. Where Branson was a straight-A student, Jack was always in some kind of trouble. He always knew that Branson would make something of himself. Just as he knew that he would become a cop someday, like his father. In high school Jack had always been the jock, whereas Branson had been a skinny six-foot teen with a shock of unruly red hair. After high school Branson had gone on to Purdue to become a veterinarian. When he came home he had grown another inch and put on about a hundred pounds of pure muscle. Must’ve been something in the water at Purdue, Jack thought as he waited for his friend to come on the line.

  “No. I don’t want to buy any policeman’s balls tickets,” Branson’s voice came over the phone.

  Jack chuckled. “You know policemen don’t have balls,” he responded as he was supposed to.

  “Glad to hear you admit it, buddy,” Branson said.

  “You coming here?”

  “I’ll be there in just a couple of minutes. I have an animal I need you to look at.”

  “Dead or alive?” Branson said.

  Jack looked at the dog, who had raised her head and bared her teeth at him. “That’s up to the dog,” he said, and heard Branson chuckling.

  He broke the connection and concentrated on his driving. Only a mile or so to the vet’s office, but he felt he needed to hurry. The killer wasn’t on a clock. He stepped down hard on the gas.

  Larry Jansen left his back door and walked three blocks to where he had parked his unmarked car. The Internal Affairs sergeant had been knocking on his door about every half hour this morning. Bastard, he thought. Who would work for IA?

  He had never known Kooky Kuhlenschmidt, but the fact that one of their own had been killed changed things. Jansen knew the department would pull out all the stops now, and that also meant that they would be coming after him. He knew his own reputation as a news snitch, and that was not what you wanted to be at this particular juncture.

  Why did he have to go and get himself killed? Jansen thought.

  He hurried down the alley and then down a cross alley to the next block
. The reporter’s house was on the other side of town, but he could make it if he stayed off the major thoroughfares and away from the convenience stores and hamburger joints where cops tended to hang out.

  Time to pay Arnold a visit.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  “Need some help with the dog?” Walker said. He had come up beside Jack’s car door stealthily. The dog twisted toward him and tried to bark but yelped in pain.

  Jack rolled his window down, and said, “Could you go in and see if one of the girls will come out and get the dog?” Walker looked at him questioningly, and Jack added, “The dog hates straight men.”

  Walker grinned and headed toward the gray wood-sided structure that used to be a two-story home and was now the Branson Veterinary Clinic. As he reached the front door, it opened and one of the doctor’s assistants named Julie came out with a leash.

  “Thought you might need this, Jack,” she said and opened the back door of his car.

  The dog began a keening noise and put her shaggy head down between her paws, dark eyes locked on Julie.

  “Oh, you poor baby,” she said, and connected the leash to the dog’s collar. She felt around the collar and located the tags. Reading the tags she said, “Cinderella. That’s your name, isn’t it, sweetie pie?”

  The dog came alive at the sound of her name and crawled across the backseat toward Julie. “Come on, Cinderella,” Julie coaxed, and helped the dog out onto the ground.

  “The doctor will fix you up, baby,” she cooed, and led the limping dog across the lot toward the front doors.

  Jack got out of the car and stood with Walker, admiring the ease with which Julie had taken control.

  “She’s single,” Walker said.

  Jack, who was tired of his friends trying to fix him up, said, “Who, Julie or Cinderella?”

  “C’mon, Jack. She’s cute, and she likes you.”