Murder By Association: A Stanford Carter Prequel (Stanford Carter Murder Mystery Book 2)

by Gary Starta

  Chapter Three

  Stanford Carter had a rough time sleeping that night. Half of his mind kept reviewing what little he knew about The Plunger. The other half produced more pleasurable thoughts regarding Jill. Was this the battle between good and evil?” Carter thought to himself. “Was my speech in the break room more about me than I care to admit?”

  After a shower and a cup of coffee, Stanford decided he would re-investigate the dwelling of Peter Grasso - the murdered software manager. Sean Lyons, his former boss and mentor, would no doubt be monitoring what little progress had been made in the case. Stanford surmised Lyons would have encouraged him to utilize some good old-fashioned detective work and maybe play a hunch or two. There was nothing to lose besides time at this juncture. All forensic leads were a wash, thanks to Grasso’s gardening hose. No prints, other than Grasso’s, had been found on the hose or on the water spigot. In addition, the tarot card was void of any prints or skin cells. Still, Carter had been assigned to dozens of other cases which had seemed unsolvable at one time or another. Carter often turned to meditation to clear his mind of doubts during these occasions. The investigator decreased the volume on his police radio and began to block out all negative thoughts from his mind. He softly chanted until he felt re-energized.

  A running conversation began to play in his mind as his eyes scanned his rearview mirror. Sometimes felons return to the scene of the crime to cover their tracks. Carter wondered what track the killer might have overlooked. He began his re-investigation by conducting a second round of interviews with the neighbors. As he questioned them, he kept an eye on the cul-de-sac. The perp most surely would be keeping a watch on him if he were here. The questioning unfortunately did not reveal any startling new information. The nearest neighbor to Grasso reported that she had heard the voice of a man speaking to Peter in a friendly, conversational tone around the time of the murder. Stanford reasoned the killer could have known Peter prior to the attack. The serial probably feigned a polite conversation while muffling Grasso’s voice with the towel left at the scene. The towel had traces of Peters’ saliva on it, confirming it had been stuffed into the vic’s mouth. Carter allowed a small, sarcastic smile to play upon his lips. “The bastard knew how to comfort the neighbors. That’s why he was bold enough to commit murder in broad daylight.

  After Carter indulged himself in a few minutes of silent reflection, he reasoned it was time to start re-checking the house. Stanford theorized the killer simply could have murdered Peter on sight. But it was more likely that the perp had stalked Peter. “So how did they meet?” Carter asked out loud.

  Stanford spent the next two hours rummaging through papers to find a connection. A day planner had piqued his interest. In the planner were several phone numbers of women. A business card protruded from the small black book. The card read: ‘Speed Dating–Real Results for Real Professionals. Let the Whirlpool Weave Your Next Web of Love.’ Carter now had a small lead, possibly a track the killed had failed to cover. He phoned the proprietor of the business to obtain the names of all those attending the singles function. He also obtained a warrant for those names as a backup, reasoning the owner might not be so cooperative to confirm a serial killer was a part of his speed-dating event.

  Later that day, Carter had a list of all the speed dating attendees. He requested CSI Tony Gelder to run the names in the DOC database. The Department of Corrections would have a listing of any prior criminal records of the attendees. Stanford waited for the results while sipping his favorite beverage, coffee. The criminalist often enjoyed several cups of French Roast on the house at a small diner located on Causeway Street.

  The owner of the diner professed he owed Stanford and the crime unit ‘big time,’ for capturing a thief who robbed several businesses in the area two years ago. Right now Carter could not imagine how anybody could feel indebted to him. In a few minutes, all that would change however.

  Chapter Four

  Tiwana suddenly found herself in a life or death struggle. Her attacker had sprung up from the backseat of her Dodge Intrepid. Tiwana’s friends had all warned her about keeping her vehicle locked, especially when she frequented city-parking garages. But Tiwana maintained she knew how to handle herself. She had grown up on the streets of Dorchester where danger often lurked around every neighborhood corner. Tiwana defied men to try to take advantage of her―especially when she partied at nightclubs. The 26-year-old African American woman, often turned an icy stare on anyone foolish enough to cross her path. Usually, her confident posture was enough to keep most jerks at bay. For this very reason, she often dared to patronize these establishments solo. This night was no exception. Earlier in the evening, one yuppie dressed in a blue suit had foolishly decided to make an advance, towards what he thought was a very alone and vulnerable woman. He quickly became versed in Tiwana’s ‘no tolerance policy.’ In Tiwana-speak this meant: no jerks allowed. The man in the blue suit flashed Tiwana the finger before acquiescing to a verbal lashing.

  Tiwana left the club alone at one in the morning with little more than a slight buzz in her head. She was used to living in a solitary world where she could come and go as she pleased. In the span of sixty seconds, Tiwana’s whole world changed. The feisty hotel manager entered her car, buckled in and glanced in the rearview mirror. To her horror, she found the man in the blue suit looking back at her. Tiwana had only one minute to free herself from her safety buckle and the stranger’s arm, which had a bear like hold on her. The 5’ 11’ woman sized up her attacker. Using all her might, she threw a reverse punch with her right elbow. The punch connected splendidly with her attacker’s right eye. The force of the hit also freed the weapon from the intruder’s hand. Tiwana had briefly turned the tables on her attacker. She used the element of surprise to grab a handful of his brown hair. She plucked it from his skull like a weed. The tough intruder had suddenly been reduced to a young thug. His cry of pain mimicked a child’s.

  Unfortunately for Tiwana, the maniac in her back seat would not give up so easily. Before Tiwana could unfasten her seat belt with her left hand, the attacker had re-established his grip on her. With knife in hand, he thrust it into her chest. The killer waited for his victim to fall unconscious so he could commence the carving ritual. Later, the perp would remove the patch of hair from his victim’s hand and place his calling card on the passenger’s seat; fully satisfied Tiwana, The Hotel Manager, would never again cast a disparaging glance at him or any other man.

  The next morning the CSI’s were all over the crime scene like ants on honey. Boston Mayor Art Schroeder had also decided to make a personal appearance. Stanford advised his unit to concentrate on evidence retrieval and not the insinuation the politician was attempting to reinforce.

  “Mayor, I know time is of the essence,” Stanford began. Before Carter could finish his thought, he was interrupted by a shriek.

  “Eureka!” Jill Seacrest screamed. With evidence in gloved hand, the young CSI sprinted in the direction of her boss and the alarmed Mayor. “We have hair follicle transfer underneath the vic’s nails.” Carter was silently amused at the CSI’s jubilation. Mayor Schroeder continued to look on Seacrest with wide-eyed amazement.

  “Looks like we just caught the break I was waiting for.” Stanford told the Mayor. But Schroeder did not warm to Carter’s news. Instead, he kicked a pebble down the slope where Jill had been working. Pointing at the rock, Schroeder addressed Carter, “You better catch more than a break, or you’ll be end up buried like that stone.”

  As the Mayor sauntered towards his car, Carter could not resist a final taunt. “My CSI’s dig for the truth, Mayor. Consequently, I rarely worry about getting buried.” The Mayor’s car door slammed. Carter turned his head away to conceal a small smile. The investigator always suspected there was some ‘dirt’ on Schroeder. Carter vowed he would one day expose the seamier side of the Mayor. It just might explain Schroeder’s hostile relationship with him. But righ
t now, the clock was ticking and evidence needed to be analyzed before another person lost a life.

  Back at the lab, the excitement of the investigation team began to mount. Jill greeted Carter with a beaming smile. “We have a nice juicy sample of someone’s sebaceous gland. I think the killer has a full head of hair from the looks of this follicle.”

  Carter wanted to congratulate his young CSI but refrained. Accolades could come later, after the killing stopped. Carter was confident the team would now have a solid representation of the killer’s DNA since the sebaceous gland induces oil into the hair. “Please begin the processing, Jill, and I will meet you later.” He exited the room before Jill could respond.

  “But we don’t have anybody to match it to.” Jill announced in frustration to an empty lab room. Carter purposely left his young CSI to analyze the data on her own. He did not want to induce any more emotion into the case then necessary. Carter would later match the DNA sample to a name Gelder had found in the DOC database. But right now he would visit the medical examiner. He wanted to be sure the autopsy results were consistent with the other victims. As Stanford walked down the hall, he reflected on how Lyons had scolded him for his haste during his rookie year.

  Jill is going to become an outstanding CSI, Stanford reasoned. She just needs a little seasoning. I know I did.

  Medical examiner Shock, told Stanford that the entry wound was consistent with the type of knife used on the previous seven victims. “Our problem is that we don’t have the murder weapon,” Shock explained. “But I can be certain that the killer possesses little or no medical knowledge. Each victim suffered a fatal stab to the heart. But each wound is slightly different. I believe the killer is thrusting the weapon downward into the victim’s chest cavity. This victim suffered a wound to her pulmonary artery. The point of entry is also different in each case. The last victim suffered bruising to the pericardium membrane, which surrounds the heart like a sack. The victim before that experienced several thrusts from a blade, which resulted in damage to her sternum. I find it highly unlikely that the killer used a scalpel in either case. In fact, the entry wounds and the stomach carvings look like they were caused by a kitchen carving knife. I guess it’s quite appropriate to label our perp as ‘The Plunger.’ He just stabs at will.”

  “So it’s safe to say our killer doesn’t work in the medical field. Thanks Andrew.”

  The next day Stanford Carter had the name of a prime suspect. Carter’s gut instinct told him the crime scene DNA sample would match positively with a man named John Chambers. Credit card records confirmed John had attended the speed dating function. He also had a prior record for aggravated assault and armed robbery. In 1995, Chambers had become incensed with a gas station attendant who filled his car with the wrong grade of gasoline. Chambers made a statement to police that the attendant did not properly apologize for the error. That’s when Chambers proceeded to draw a gun on the surprised teen and demand a cash refund.

  Stanford reviewed the data on his laptop in private. He decided not to tell his colleagues about his find. He would quietly apprehend the suspect, fearing a leak in the press might send the killer fleeing over state lines. Two hours later, Carter collared his prime suspect coming out of his Wrentham, Massachusetts home. He was sporting a purple bruise around his right eye.

  Chapter Five

  Five hours before the ‘Plunger’s’ arrest…

  His Hollywood good looks had won him the Mayor’s office, a devoted wife and the lustful embrace of film goddess Eva Davies.

  Rolling upon a king-sized hotel bed, Mayor Art Schroeder playfully wrestled with Davies. They had just made sweaty, satisfying love. The vixen encouraged Schroeder’s manhood to firm once again with breathy squeals of delight.

  “How about we make it the best two of three.” Davies playfully teased.

  “I really don’t want to wrestle you darling. How would we ever explain a bruise on your arm?”

  “Who said the bruise would be on my arm?”

  After enjoying her partner’s stern gaze, she broke into raucous laughter.

  Schroeder followed with an uneasy laugh. “You’ve got me again, Eva. I’ve got to remember you’re a Hollywood actress.”

  The gleam in Eva’s eye faded. She realized Schroeder wasn’t acting. Something was definitely nagging at him.

  “Are you worried about your wife?”

  “Mmm…no. I mean…well yes―in a roundabout sort of way. If I tell you something, you’ve got to swear on your life you’ll never ever breathe a word of it to anybody.”

  Eva nodded. She couldn’t imagine what else besides adultery could be troubling Schroeder. She truly believed he was an honest and fair man―by politician’s standards. It was the reason why Eva chose to engage in sex and playful wrestling matches with him in the first place. She hated the Hollywood phonies refusing to take up residence in Tinsel Town. Eva Davies had managed to maintain her ‘A’ list status over the years despite her advanced age. She believed she did it by winning a legion of devoted fans. Forty something women applauded Davies via blogs. They loved how she refused to let go of the true part of herself even after garnering two Emmy’s. One of Eva’s charms was the fact she did not falsify her age. Forty-nine and still a beauty, Eva believed in living a simpler life, free from fad diets and plastic surgeon’s scalpels. Also free of the Hollywood paparazzi, Davies walked her hometown streets of Boston without pretense. More often and than not, she walked it without a bodyguard.

  Fans adored her openness. So did Mayor Schroeder. Eva, whose large blue eyes made Schroeder think of Liz Taylor, immediately caught the Mayor’s attention at a fundraiser two years ago. Realizing they both shared more than just a wish to cure the sick, Davies and Schroeder regularly hooked up in Boston’s finest hotel suites. Schroeder enjoyed the company of his starlet brunette both physically and emotionally. He never dreamed their affair would end. Yet today, Schroeder felt the weight of the past catching up with him. The piercing gaze of his eyes―which Eva frequently compared to actor Pierce Brosnan’s―had become clouded. His black widow peak sported a few more gray hairs. And crow’s feet had seemingly attached themselves to the sides of Schroeder’s eyes overnight.

  “Tell me, Art. I promise, I won’t tell a soul.”

  Schroeder gripped her hand. “I’m being blackmailed. They say they have a tape of us. If it gets out, my re-election bid―not to mention my marriage―will be over. I think I’ve only got one choice. I must do what they ask of me. Now I know I haven’t exactly lived like a saint. And maybe this is fair punishment for me.”

  “Ah, so you believe in what goes around, comes around.”

  “I suppose.” He gripped her hand even tighter as he sat on the bed resembling a young boy, legs folded underneath his buttocks. She wrapped her right arm around his neck, cradling him with the remainder of her exposed body. She knew Schroeder wasn’t lying. The Mayor was exposing a softer side of himself. It was the first serious conversation Eva could recall between the two that didn’t revolve around sex.

  “Eva, I don’t want to deal with these people. Everybody believes they’re organized crime. Now if I just didn’t have the pressure of ‘The Plunger’ bearing down on me night and day, I might have been able to finagle my way out of this. But those bastards have got me right where they want me. They know I must stop the serial to save the celebration. If I don’t, I might as well not even run for re-election.”

  “Well, you’ll always get my vote.” Eva purred.

  “You actresses amaze me. How can you be so calm and collected? I’m not reciting a script here. The men who are threatening me are probably even more dangerous than the serial. You know I’m beginning to wonder if this serial might be part of this blackmail. If he is part of organized crime, then we all better be scared shitless.”

  “Oh, I’m still scared shitless…Mayor.” Eva accentuated Mayor in a way that almost mocked Schro
eder. He was supposed to be in command. But here he was cowering in the beautiful embrace of a siren. Too wrapped up his troubles, Mayor Schroeder did not catch his mistresses’ derogatory inflection. Eva couldn’t understand why the Mayor just couldn’t say ‘no’ to the blackmailers and resign from office. He could always find other work. And what’s more, he had her, Eva Davies―a modern day legend―nine ways from Sunday.

  But Eva knew men of power would never go quietly. So she cupped his head into her hands, pulled him forward and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll help you get out of this Art.” She dropped her voice to a whisper and said in his ear, “Just think of this as another one of our wrestling matches. In the meantime, we’ll start hooking up at my place. There are no video cameras there, unless you want them to be.” Eva giggled breathily, oozing sex. Schroeder blushed at his rising manhood and took Davies to climax.

  * * *

  Lost in thought about the Mayor’s predicament, Eva Davies didn’t detect the presence of an intruder as she exited the hotel. The stalker had snuck up on Davies, quiet as a cat. Now just a metre behind her, the stalker called out to her in the confines of the parking garage.

  “Ms. Davies. You’ve got to stop the Mayor. Tell him to resist the blackmailers.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Davies tried to emulate her Emmy Award winning character, Marlene Baylor, a tough no-nonsense bad assed chick. But the role was more than a decade earlier. And truth be told, Eva was indeed scared. She swore she could feel her pulse reverberating in her throat.

  “I’m not one of the blackmailers―if that’s what you’re worried about. But I would prefer you not to turn around. I’m not here for a face-to-face chat.”