by Meg Lelvis
Chapter 7
Less than a mile away from where Detective Jack Bailey was pursuing his investigation, a faded thirty-something man named Donald Sowder wandered through the world avoiding attention at every turn. In a movie, he’d play an accountant perhaps, a sales clerk, a computer nerd. His medium brown hair parted on the side lay flat on his small round head. He wore thick wire-rimmed glasses, too large for today’s fashion. Average build, average height, he dressed in mostly brown or tan clothes. A witness would be hard pressed to describe him. Just what he wanted. What he relied on.
Donald strolled along Thirty-seventh Street seemingly unnoticed by anyone, always his plan. Story of his life. No one ever gave him a second glance. He blended into the woodwork, the scenery. Like a chameleon. Invisible.
The mid-morning sun melted the last remnants of snow. Winter’s end lifted his spirits, and he felt relieved he wasn’t working his tedious job until next week.
He reached Union Street and turned right, stopped, and gazed. There it was in all its glory. He hadn’t seen Nativity of Our Lord Church for years. Donald felt compelled to see it today. He was exhilarated, but kept his face void of expression.
The old nun’s demise had been easier than he thought. Actually, quite simple. Everything worked according to plan. Last Wednesday night, easy access to her apartment; the girl at the desk bought his story, no problem. He rode the elevator right to the apartment.
After he rang her bell, Sister Anne Celeste called out, asked who was there. Must’ve looked through her peephole. She said she recalled Donald’s name and let him in. His heart hammered when he saw her face. She hadn’t changed except wrinkles crinkled her face; she’d added a few pounds. Did she look guilty? He couldn’t tell. Surely she remembered.
Funny how she offered him tea. Like nothing had happened. He declined the tea. She was interested in his life. What did you do after high school, Donny? I heard you went to college here in town.
She nodded when he said he’d dropped out of Columbia after a year. He had no direction. No goals. So he attended tech school, got into computers like lots of guys. Been working at Midway Airport for years. Nothing exciting of course.
Her milky eyes penetrated him. How could she forget—unless he wasn’t the only one. Oh god. Hope there weren’t more. He felt dizzy. Needed water.
Afterwards he barely recalled the words Sister choked out. Asking his forgiveness. Too late. Damage done. He snuck out the apartment unseen. He felt energized, high when he reached his car two blocks away on Wells Street. No one would notice a gray Toyota at the end of a high school parking lot beside several other sedans and a black pick-up.
A blaring horn interrupted his reverie. “Watch it, asshole,” the driver yelled.
Donald jumped back on the curb. Crap, can’t afford attention. Must be careful. He wandered along Union past the church. “I got you back,” he whispered as he gazed at the stained glass windows of martyred saints glimmering in the sun.
Reaching the next block, he crossed the street to Shinnick’s Pub. He could use a pint; too bad they didn’t open until noon. He kept walking, turned onto Pershing, and wandered to his car parked alongside a convenience store.
He wished there were a decent movie playing. Getting lost in a dark theater always appealed to him, but nothing other than crappy films these days. Nothing like Poe’s stories. The best. ‘Nevermore’. Was proud of his collection of Edgar’s short stories. The beating of the old man’s heart.
Yesterday Donald ran errands: grocery shopping, visiting his mother in the human warehouse as he called it, even though it was a decent place for what it was. What a bother. She hardly knew who he was; still he didn’t want her to die. Not yet. His old man had put her there. Forget that history, Donald told himself.
He took I-55 south toward the airport and his dismal apartment. One of these days he’d move. But he had plans to carry out before going anywhere.
What would he do without computers? He could discover anything. This afternoon he needed to put the final touches on his plans for the next project. He already knew what Bible verse to use.
Chapter 8
Early Monday morning Jack’s phone rang, piercing his slumber. He raised his head, squinted at the clock, 5:04 AM. Shit, now what?
“Bailey,” he croaked, and then listened. “Fuck. Does Sherk know?”
Jack hung up and punched in Sherk’s number. Waited. “Yeah, I know what time it is. Dispatch called. They found another body. Sounds like the same perp. Call ya back with the address when you’re half awake.”
Within half an hour, Jack had showered, dressed, filled Boone’s food and water dishes, snatched a stale caramel roll, and tramped out the door. Darkness surrounded him as he made his way down the block to his car. He tightened his jacket collar around his neck to offset the cool breeze.
After climbing in the car, he called Sherk, told him the address, and entered it in the GPS. Firing up the engine, Jack wound his way out the neighborhood, headed west to I-55. Too early for heavy traffic. Shouldn’t take over twenty-five minutes.
He raced south on the freeway in the direction of Midway Airport. Ten minutes later he passed the terminal signs and exited on Highway 171 driving east and then south. He slowed down at Resurrection Cemetery, turned right, arriving at a one story ranch style house in an older neighborhood. Two patrol cars sat in front, lights flashing. Jack pulled up, parked, and stepped into the cold, brisk air. He hurried up the sidewalk to the front steps.
A uniformed cop was securing the perimeter with yellow crime tape. Jack mumbled a good morning, donned his gloves, and opened the front door.
A familiar looking young cop stood in the entryway. “Hello, Detective Bailey. We meet again.”
“Yeah, Jeff? You were at the nun’s place last week. Where’s our vic?” A musty, moldy odor pervaded the air. Jack glanced around the drab living area. Looked like an old folks’ home from days gone by with its tattered olive green sofa, chair, and one pole lamp.
“He’s in the bedroom this way.” Jeff led Jack down a dim hall. They reached a room at the end and walked in. An overpowering stench of urine hit Jack’s nostrils before he spotted the body lying face up on the bed. At least it was urine, could be worse.
“Same position as the nun,” Jeff said.
“You the first one here?”
“Yeah, Finch, the guy outside, came the same time. Front door was unlocked, doesn’t look like a scuffle.”
Jack studied the man on the bed. A young guy, perhaps in his twenties, dressed in a long sleeved ragged blue shirt and faded, torn jeans. A pair of white tennis socks with holes in the toes covered his feet.
“Wonder what killed him? No signs of bruising like the nun’s, no blood visible so far.” Jack peered close to the deceased’s right wrist. “What’s this? Another message from the almighty?”
Jeff approached the bed for a closer look. “Yeah, it barely shows. Bet it’s another Bible verse.”
“You’re a quick study, kid. I should wait for the tech guys to see the note, but hey, it’s here, ready to fall off the bed. Just take a peek.” Wasn’t the first time Jack bent the rules.
He eased the edge of the paper from underneath the plastic-looking hand until the note was freed. Same kind of white paper as Sister Anne’s, folded in half. Jack opened it and read aloud. “It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones. Luke 17:2.” Looked like the same blue ink printing as the first note. Only difference was the verse was written out rather than just the title.
“What do you make of that?” Jeff asked.
“Had to have been there. I don’t see a millston
e and he didn’t drown in the sea.” Jack folded the paper and carefully returned it to its rightful place under the hand of this soul who perhaps offended a little one.
Jeff’s half-smile looked excited, hopeful. “Looks like we have a serial killer on our hands.”
“Sorry to disappoint ya, kid. Gotta kill three or more. But don’t give up. My hunch tells me the future holds promise.”
He instructed Jeff to call in two guys and start canvassing the neighborhood. After Jeff left the room, Jack heard the crescendo of a wailing siren, squealing brakes, a car door slamming. He waited in the bedroom for whom he hoped was his partner.
“Good morning, Jack.” Sherk hurried into the room and unzipped his jacket. “Cold out there.”
“The Bible thumper strikes again.” Jack waited while Sherk took in the crime scene.
Sherk bent toward the corpse’s right hand. “There’s the tell-tale note. What words of wisdom doth it impart?”
“Dunno. Wait for the tech guys.”
“Come on, Jack. I know you better than that.” Sherk removed his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. Only guy Jack knew who used a handkerchief.
“If you must know, something about a millstone around the neck and drowning in the sea comes to someone who offends little ones.”
Sherk raised his eyebrows. “I’m impressed at the paraphrasing, Jack. It pretty much nails our theory of Sister Anne turning a blind eye, and this one was no doubt a sin of commission in the eyes of our perpetrator.”
Jack’s phone buzzed. He answered and listened while Sherk studied the body, careful not to touch.
A minute later Jack said, “That was dispatch, more info about the call on the body. Was anonymous, one of those disposable phones. Caller said to check out this address for a dead body. Wouldn’t give a name. Male voice, no accent. Caller’s last words were ‘vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’ so that explains why I heard right away it’s the same perp as the nun’s.”
Sherk said, “But from the looks of it, the guy could’ve died a natural death. He’s young for a heart attack, but it happens. Wonder how the perp got him and Sister Anne in bed with no signs of struggle or dragging the body into the room.”
Jack thought a second. “Obviously well planned. We’re dealing with one smart son of a bitch. Covers his tracks. Do you think he has some ties to the clergy? A former pastor, youth group leader, something to explain the Bible verses. We should look into cults and crap that attract religious fanatics. Maybe he thinks he’s God, ridding the world of evil.”
“That’s it, Jack. This latest note reinforces our suspicions.”
Jack heard the front door open followed with muddled conversation. “Good, CSI’s here.” He heard a woman’s voice in the hall. “Hell— LePere,” he said to Sherk.
Rich, the CSI guy, strode into the room with two other men behind. They looked like ghosts in their white garb and immediately shooed Jack and Sherk from the room.
“See you back at the station,” Rich said as he and his men kneeled down to retrieve equipment from their black bags. “I’m sure you did nothing to contaminate the scene.”
Jack held up his gloved hands. “You know me, Rich.”
“Only too well, Bailey.”
Daisy LePere appeared in the doorway. “Enough idle chatter, men. Get to it. Bailey, Sherkenbach, let’s go.”
Dressed in her usual dark pants and black jacket, she turned and paraded into the living room. She gazed at the men. “I hear it’s the same perp. All we need, a serial killer on our watch.”
“Sarge, you know he’s one vic short of serial killer status.” Jack smirked.
“Don’t get smart with me, Bailey. You know damn well what I mean. We can’t afford any more murders, especially connected to the nun, whose funeral is tomorrow, I might remind you.”
Sherk cleared his throat. “We’ll keep the connection out of the press. We’ll treat it as an unfortunate coincidence that a second murder occurred so soon after Sister Anne’s.”
LePere ran a hand through her blond waves. “Two murders in one week—less than a twelve-mile radius. I forget the last time that happened in Bridgeport. Maybe never.” She wound her Burberry scarf around her neck and made her way to the door. “Go get this guy. Do your damn job. By tonight I hope.”
Jack looked at Sherk. “No problem, Sarge. We’re on it.”
“Ms. LePere to you.”
Jack rolled his eyes. He and Sherk followed her out the door. When she walked beyond earshot, Jack said, “What do ya think? By six or seven o’clock we’ll close the case?”
“No reason not to,” Sherk looked amused. “We’ll get Gary Calvin on it first thing.”
Jack climbed into his car as his partner headed toward his vehicle down the block.
. . . . .
Traffic thickened as Jack traveled north toward the station. He didn’t know a better route, so he told himself to relax and think. No identification on the vic, but shouldn’t take long to find the homeowner’s name. Calvin will check the sex registry list, might get a hit. Maybe the perp left something else besides hair and fiber; something solid. Dream on.
The station buzzed with activity when Jack wandered in thirty minutes later. Cops bustled up and down the hall, keyboards clacked, people chattered on phones. Jack grabbed coffee from the kitchenette area. Nothing to eat. Damn, he was starving. Could use a couple donuts.
He made it to Gary Calvin’s desk. “Calvin, need you to check—”
“Good morning to you too, Bailey. If it’s the address on Arbor Lane you refer to, I have it here.” He flipped through several papers with his chubby hand.
Jack bent closer to Calvin’s shirt. “First things first. Gotta read today’s words of wisdom.” Jack silently read, I’m only responsible for what I say, not for what you understand printed on the geek’s black shirt. “That must refer to me. That’s cold, Calvin.”
“Ha. Frankly, you understand better than some old geezers.”
“Thanks, I guess. Where’s that ID?”
Calvin handed Jack a paper. “The house is owned by Louise Welton. Her husband died five years ago, house is in her name. She has several children who live out of state. I was ready to look on sex registry when I was rudely interrupted.”
“You read my mind,” Jack leaned over Calvin’s shoulder to see the monitor as he typed away on the keyboard.
A moment later Sherk appeared. “Know anything yet?”
“Workin’ on it,” Jack said. “What took you so long?”
“Some people drive within the speed limit.”
“A-ha,” Calvin exclaimed. “Surprise, surprise. Looks like Bruce Welton is your guy. Louise is his grandma. He’s living with her, and guess what—he’s on the registry. I’ll dig around for more, get back to you.”
“Thanks, Calvin. Good work,” said Sherk.
“Nice someone appreciates my efforts.” Calvin stared at Jack.
“Always good talkin’to ya, Calvin.”
Back at their desks, Jack and Sherk updated their notes on their computers and spiral notebooks. Jack felt comfortable using paper and pen rather than his phone or pad. He still identified with the old school, and besides, his fingers were too large to manipulate touch screens for more than a couple minutes.
After twenty minutes, Jack grew impatient for Calvin’s report. “Should be ready by now.” He looked at Sherk. “I’m gonna ride his ass.”
As Jack pushed back his chair, Calvin arrived with a file in hand. “Happy reading, guys.”
“Thanks.” Jack took the file and watched Calvin lumber away.
Sherk
listened while Jack paraphrased from the report. “Bruce Welton is, was twenty-five, high school education. Sprung from Stateville two months ago, had to register as a sex offender. He gave the Arbor Lane house as an address, owned by his grandma, Louise. He’s employed as a maintenance worker at the Home Depot on Larpenter.
“How long was he in the penitentiary?” Sherk asked.
Jack studied the paper. “Two years. Before that he was custodian and groundskeeper at Willard Charles Elementary on Roberts Road. Seems several parents complained, and one stuck. Settled out of court, the prick pleaded guilty.” Jack looked at Sherk. “Vic was a six-year-old boy.”
Sherk bit his lower lip. He had a son the same age.
“Don’t quote me, Sherk, but it’s a damn shame we’re supposed to catch the killer. I’m ready to pin a medal on him.”
Chapter 9
Jack knew he needed to separate the case from his personal feelings, but knowing and doing were two different ball games. He understood why pedophiles were prime bait in prisons. Let em’ have a taste of their own medicine.
He scribbled notes. “Let’s head out to Home Depot. See what we can dig up on Welton. We’ll grab lunch after.”
Sherk untangled his legs, ready to leave. “Sounds good. Calvin can track down the grandmother.”
Twenty minutes later they arrived at Home Depot on Larpenter, a side street several miles from Bruce Welton’s house. Jack parked the cruiser in front of the sprawling retailer, and he and Sherk emerged. The sun glimpsed around silvery clouds, but the air felt sharp.
They entered the store, tracked down the middle-aged store manager, and followed him into a small office past rows of refrigerators. In no mood for social niceties, Jack asked about Bruce Welton.