by D P Lyle
“Exactly. But it might explain why no one remembers seeing him. He really does look benign.”
Morgan seemed to consider that for a few seconds. “Maybe so. I always figured he came to town, did his dirty work, and headed back to his lair up in Tallahassee. Where I hear he lived during his spree.”
“That’s what he told me,” I said. “I wasn’t sure he was being entirely truthful.” Morgan raised an eyebrow. “He came into strange towns, strange to him anyway, and got out without being detected. In short order. Seemed to find his victims quickly. That didn’t feel right to me so I questioned him on it. His assaults seemed to be well planned. Like he’d have to spend at least a few days getting the lay of the land, so to speak. Finding a vulnerable target. He flatly denied that was the case. If he’s being truthful, it seems to me he was very lucky to stumble on just the right victim. Seven times.”
Morgan nodded. “Some predators are good hunters.”
And there it was. Billy Wayne was definitely a skilled hunter. He knew, or felt, or whatever, the vulnerability of others. I suspected this was true of killers like Bundy and Gacy and many other multiple murderers. Each had that sixth sense that sniffed out the vulnerable, the trusting, or from their point of view, the weak. And if Billy Wayne was being truthful, he was smart enough not to hang around. Or return to a place where he had killed. Kept moving. Stayed off the radar. Unless he really did all three killings here. Maybe found Pine Key to be the ideal hunting ground. I wasn’t sure yet what I believed.
“Since you had three victims here,” I said, “he must have found something he was comfortable with in Pine Key.”
Morgan sighed. “That’s what I’ve wrestled with since then. Are we too comfortable around here? Not vigilant enough? Should we be more wary of strangers?” His shoulders dropped a couple of inches. “Truth is, I’d hate for the town to become cynical. I’d hate to be the one that pushed folks in that direction. But, in the end, isn’t that my job? Ain’t I the one that’s supposed to keep the town safe? To forewarn them of danger?” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It weighs on me, I’ll tell you that.”
It did. I could see it in his face, his body language. I suspected that three years ago he looked ten years younger. I did not envy Charlie Morgan his job.
“I’m sure it didn’t help that the last victim here was the wife of one of your officers,” Nicole said.
“No, it didn’t. Sara Clark. Frank’s wife.”
“How did that change the public’s mood?”
“A couple of ways. It definitely ramped up the hysteria. As you mentioned, people began to wonder if the killer had taken a special liking to Pine Key. Sort of like that shark in Jaws. Found a feeding ground where he was comfortable. On the other hand, it settled down Tommy Lee Kovac. His sister Noleen was the second victim. He got it in his head that we weren’t doing our job. Made a ruckus. Dragged a few others into his circle. Made things a shade more difficult. But when Sara was killed, that seemed to diffuse his anger a little.”
“What about Frank Clark?” I asked. “How’d he take it?”
“Damn near killed him. He and Sara were close. Very close. He sat right there where you are and cried his soul out. Broke my heart. He’s been with us a long time. Our best guy. And almost like a son to me.”
“Did it affect his job performance any?” I asked.
“Sure did. He and his partner, Terry Munson, were leading the investigation into the other two murders. When Sara became number three, it knocked Frank all sideways. Distracted, emotional, not sleeping, all the stuff you’d expect.” He opened and closed one fist as if limbering it up. “But, I’ll tell you, he still did his job. Terry helped him a lot. We all did.”
“Do you think he’ll talk with us?”
“Don’t see a reason why not. He ain’t here right now, but he and Munson shouldn’t be too far away. Or too busy. Quiet day so far. I’ll give him a call.”
“We’d appreciate that.”
“One thing,” Morgan said. “I hear you got a couple of consultants with you? P.I.s? That true?”
“Yes,” I said. “My father and his partner. We hired them to help sort out the investigator stuff. Make sure we understand everything that happened here.”
“That’ll help us better portray the effect these murders had on the town and the victims’ families and friends,” Nicole added.
Morgan gave a slow nod. “Makes sense. Frank and Terry can walk you through all that. They know these cases better than anyone.”
“We’ll do our best to not get in the way,” Nicole said.
Morgan smiled. “The truth? I like what you’re doing. It just might be the thing this town needs. I know the mayor feels the same way. If everyone who lost someone can get their story out there, vent it as it were, then maybe it’ll help put Billy Wayne Baker in the rearview mirror once and for all.” He gave another brief nod. “We could use that.”
“Oh, speaking of the mayor,” Nicole said, “she asked us to remind you of your meeting this morning.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s our annual budget wrestling match.” He smiled. “I want more and she always wants to give me less.” He gave a quick nod. “Guess I’d better grab another cup of coffee before I mosey on over there. Gwen’s a tough cookie.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RAY HAD JUST finished a phone conversation with an attorney back in Gulf Shores. A case that had nothing to do with Billy Wayne Baker. Ray had worked with the guy before, a young up and comer in the local legal world. He wanted Ray to look into some business shenanigans in a real estate firm where one of the partners was suing for unlawful termination, defamation, loss of income, the usual stuff. Seems his partners, who would be the clients, felt the dismissed colleague had bent the rules a little too far and had placed the company in legal jeopardy. The attorney used words like fraud, predatory practices, kickbacks, bribery of inspectors—things that to Ray were the typical under-the-table shuffles that go on in the mega-buck real estate world. The kind of case that could be a quick in and out, thank you very much, or turn into a multi-tentacled monster that sucked up time and effort like a Hoover. Ray wasn’t overly enthusiastic but agreed to look into it and decide whether he could help or not.
That’s when Jake called. After giving him the thumbnail of what he and Nicole uncovered from their talks with Mayor Gwen Olsen and Chief Charlie Morgan, not much, Jake said Morgan was arranging a chat with Frank Clark and his partner, Terry Munson. Both were on their way to the station.
“The chief okay with me and Pancake snooping around?” Ray asked.
“Seems to be on board. Just remember, you guys are technical consultants.”
“I know the game,” Ray said.
“And wear your RGP shirts.”
“That I might not have remembered. Thanks.” He disconnected the call.
Fifteen minutes later, Ray and Pancake arrived to find Jake and Nicole in the reception area. Almost immediately, Clark and Munson came in. Ray recognized them from the department website photos as well as the materials Pancake had dug up on each. Introductions followed. Clark led the group down to Chief Morgan’s office. He was ensconced behind his desk.
Morgan had a no-nonsense air and a firm handshake. He carried his extra weight well, but his chair creaked as he sat.
“What happened to you?” he asked Pancake.
“Asphalt,” Pancake said.
“There’s a story there.”
Pancake shrugged. “It’s better now. Should’ve seen it a few days ago.”
Clark and Munson had moved to Morgan’s left side and turned to face them. They adopted wide stances as if forming an impenetrable wall. The blue wall. The one that said we’re in charge here.
Clark was a bull. Big chest and shoulders, dark eyes, square jaw, buzz cut. He looked tough. Looked like a cop. Munson was slighter of build, light brown hair that flopped over his forehead, and hazel eyes. Sort of a pretty boy. Went with his ladies’-man rep. Both we
re pleasant, if a little reluctant. Understandable. They were cops. Suspicious by nature. First instinct always to circle the wagons, say little, gather intel before revealing anything. Ray respected that. He was of the same mold.
Nicole managed to dent their armor. First off, her mere presence laid a patina of school-boy nervousness over their hard faces. Quick smiles, looks away, all the reactions guys of any age have when facing a beautiful woman. Boys/men never change. She sure had that effect on Jake. He and Pancake, too, for that matter. Nature of the beast it seemed.
Still, Clark and Munson didn’t exactly melt. But, when she explained the project, the slant, how the documentary would tell the town’s and the victims’ stories, not Billy Wayne’s, the tension in the room dropped several notches.
Munson eyed her. “What’s your position in all this?”
Nicole smiled, reeling him in. “I’d be the project manager. Probably the host of the show.”
Munson nodded, glanced at Morgan. “Can’t say I hate the idea.” He smiled.
Nicole gave a soft laugh. “Well, that’s a start.”
A few more minutes of casual conversation followed, both Clark and Munson relaxing, warming to the idea, or at least to Nicole. Ultimately, a plan was formed. Jake and Nicole to sit down with Clark while Munson took Ray and Pancake through the cases.
As the meeting was breaking up, a man stuck his head in the door.
“Peter,” Morgan said. “Let me introduce you to some Hollywood folks.”
Peter proved to be Peter Swift, the first victim’s husband, the owner of Swift’s Bakery, the name printed in white script on the side of the large, flat, pink box he juggled as he shook hands with everyone. He flipped open the box, exposing an array of muffins, pastries, and cookies. “Brought these over for the crew.”
Morgan laughed. “Peter comes by almost every day trying to fatten us up.”
“Community relations.” Peter smiled. He extended the offerings. “Any takers?”
Everyone declined, except for Pancake, who lifted a bear claw and took a bite.
“Wow,” he said. “These are good.”
“We do our best.”
“Mr. Swift,” Nicole said. “We’re sorry for the loss of your wife.”
Peter nodded. “Thanks.”
“We’d like to stop by and talk with you later.”
He looked at her, then scanned the other faces in the room. “About what?”
“A project we’re working on,” Nicole said. “If it’s okay, we’ll drop by after we finish here. I can explain it then.”
“That’d be fine,” Peter said. “You know where the bakery is?”
“Just follow the smell,” Morgan said with a laugh.
“That’s true,” Peter said. Then, to Morgan, “Is Angus here?”
Morgan nodded, smiled. “Ain’t he always here?” He glanced at Ray. “Angus Whitehead’s our town drunk. Every place has one, I suspect. He’s harmless, and actually smart enough to wander over here to sleep it off whenever he gets a snoot full. Which is often. Hell, he spends more time here than I do. But that beats him trying to drive home. So we keep a cell open for him.”
“Sounds like an interesting character.”
“Oh, yeah. He is that.”
“He’s a pain,” Clark said.
“And annoying,” Munson added.
Morgan smiled. “Frank and Terry ain’t big fans of Angus. Me? I sort of like the guy.” He then nodded to Peter. “He’s in the back. I’m sure he needs the sugar about now.” As Peter turned to leave, Morgan added, “Tell him it’s time to go home. We ain’t the Holiday Inn.”
Peter gave the group a nod before retreating down a hallway toward the rear of the building.
“I’m going to leave you guys to it,” Morgan said. “While I have the pleasure of a sit-down with our mayor.” He looked around. “Now, where’d I leave my coffee?”
“That one?” Nicole said, indicating a stainless mug on the corner of his desk.
Morgan wagged his head. “Jesus, I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached.” He scooped it up and circled his desk.
“Tell her we want a raise,” Clark said. “Ain’t had one in so long I can’t remember.”
“I’ll be sure to add that to my wishful thinking list.” He gave a soft laugh. “Later.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RAY CLIMBED INTO the passenger’s seat of Munson’s gray Chevy sedan, Pancake in back.
“I think it’s best if we visit the scenes in order,” Munson said. “Maybe that’ll help you get a feel for what we were up against.”
“Sounds good,” Ray said.
Munson pulled from the station lot, swinging onto Main Street. Traffic was light.
“You’ll find out just how small this town is,” Munson said. “Each of the scenes is within four or five blocks of the others. Made everyone feel like the murders took place right in their own backyard.” He whipped a left. “Literally.”
“Bet that kicked up the community fear level,” Pancake said.
“It was more than that. Folks were terrified. Panicked might be a better word.”
“Made your job easy, didn’t it?” Ray said. Not really a question.
“You got that right.” Munson shook his head. “I’d never seen anything like it. Every time a pine cone fell on someone’s roof, or a raccoon rummaged in a trash can, or, hell, even if the rain pattered a little too hard against a window, we’d get a call.” He brushed his hair back from his forehead. “And me, or Frank, or one of the other guys’d have to check it out.” He glanced at Ray. “Sleep became a rare commodity.”
Munson pulled to the curb in front of a well-maintained house only three blocks from the station.
“This is where Peter Swift lives. Where his wife, Loretta, was murdered.”
The house, the entire street, was pleasant, and quiet. Safe. Thick green grass, flowering shrubs, fat shade trees. The kind of place nothing bad could ever happen. The kind of place Peter Swift would live. Having just met Peter, Ray’s first impression was that he was a quiet and welcoming man. One of those who went about his business and likely never harmed, or even insulted, anyone. Passive, almost meek. He fit this neighborhood well.
“Peter had been up in Panama City at an Elk’s meeting,” Munson said. “He’s a big muckety-muck in those circles.”
“I hear he got home late and found his wife’s body,” Pancake said.
“That’s right. We got the call about eleven, eleven thirty, something like that. Frank was on first call but when he learned it was Peter’s wife, he called me. We both came running.” He sighed. “Loretta was one of the nicest people you’d ever want to meet. Her murder shook this town like an earthquake.”
“How’d Peter react?”
“Crushed. Beside himself. Kept pacing the floor, muttering, crying. We tried to get him to leave, or at least sit down, but every time he settled on the sofa, he’d pop back up. He was frantic.”
“Understandable,” Ray said.
“You see, he and Loretta were together since high school. Actually, before that, I think. Everybody knew even back then they’d end up together. Nothing else seemed possible.”
“You knew them back then?” Pancake asked.
“Sure did. Frank did, too. We all went to school together. Peter and Loretta were a couple of years ahead of us, but around here everybody knows everybody else anyway.”
“I understand she had a sister,” Ray said.
“Charlaine Anders. A year younger, but they looked like twins. She, like Peter, was destroyed. She and Loretta were inseparable. Charlaine ended up in the ER that night. Hysterical. The doc over there sedated her. Kept her overnight to keep an eye on her.” He shook his head. “It was a tough time.”
“She now helps run the bakery, doesn’t she?” Pancake asked.
“Sure does. She was working over at the hardware store but she quit and stepped in to keep the bakery working.”
“And the scene here?” Ray
asked. “Any sign of a break-in?”
“Nope. She apparently had left the back door unlocked. Front door, too, for that matter. According to Peter they rarely locked anything. Never had a reason to.”
“She was found in the bedroom, right?” Ray asked.
“Yes. The sheets were a bit messed up, but there was no real sign of a struggle. Later we learned Billy Wayne used a knife to force compliance. So, it’d make sense there wasn’t a struggle.” He stared at the house for a few seconds. “Of course, Billy Wayne tied her to the bed. Both wrists and both ankles. So fighting him wasn’t an option.” He shook his head. “Loretta wasn’t a fighter anyway. At least, she never seemed that way to me.” He looked at Ray. “More like Peter. Nice folks.”
Ray knew most people under those circumstances weren’t fighters. They’d let an intruder restrain them before they’d resist physically. Always hoping it was simply a robbery and that no harm to them was the intent. Hope can be dangerous sometimes. But how was someone to know what was best? Fight a guy with a knife, or some other weapon, tooth and nail, maybe to the death, or hope and pray that being tied would be the worst of it? If they knew what was coming, they’d react differently. At least most people would, he believed. So, Billy Wayne likely used the knife and probably some sweet talk to convince them to let him tie them up. Probably saying he was there to rob them and wasn’t going to harm them. He wasn’t the first killer to use that tactic. Wouldn’t be the last.
“What’d he use for restraints?” Pancake asked.
“Blue ski rope.”
“Same with the others?” Ray asked.
Munson nodded. “The FBI guys said that was his standard MO. They were able to determine the manufacturer but never could trace the purchase site. Too common and too many sources out there.” Another brush back of his hair. “They even sell the same stuff over at the hardware store.”
“No evidence Billy Wayne shopped there?” Pancake asked.
“Nope. Besides, he’d already used the same type of rope up in Santa Rosa Beach.” He shrugged. “And then the same thing after he left Pine Key. The other two killings.”