“I think it was Linus, or Larry. I can’t remember now.”
Larry was the name written in Fay’s journal. At the time of her death, no one with that name was registered at the university. No one by that name even lived in Bloomington. Morgan wrote the names Linus and Larry on her notepad. “Was it Larry Milhouse?” She asked.
“Maybe. I couldn’t figure him out. So much time had passed, I didn’t know him anymore. I remember he looked so much like his father. That’s when I knew it was too late.” Anna closed her eyes, lost in the memory. “He told me all kinds of stories about his sister. It warmed my heart to know they’d stuck together. That girl was quite a prankster. I think she got it from me.
“As Eks told me some of the stories, I remember he laughed. I’m not sure what tickled him. But when he laughed it reminded me of when he was a boy. It was good to hear, because it sure seemed like something big was bothering him. Something heavy.” She chuckled at the memory and held back another cough.
“What kinds of things did Caryn do?” Morgan asked, thinking that her early behavior might shed light on her adult personality.
“Aw, you know, the usual kid-stuff.” Anna’s mouth turned downward as another thought saddened her. “Thank goodness Ekhard stood by her. I think he set her right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ceecee was a little bully, even in first grade. But I liked that about my Ceecee. She didn’t take shit from anybody. After I left them, I heard she got suspended from her new school. Dug her fingernails into some poor girl’s face. That girl had it coming from what I heard. She teased Ceecee too much. I was like that when I was young too. Until I met Theo.” The coughing began again.
Morgan held back her question until Anna had stopped. “When was the last time you saw Ekhard or Caryn?”
“Caryn didn’t come find me. That’s okay. And I never saw Eks after that once.” Between coughs she added, “He sometimes sends a card. At least I think it’s from him.” Anna Clare nodded toward the get-well card on the bedside table. Morgan lifted it from behind Anna’s water bottle and opened it. The front of the card showed a bouquet of pastel flowers covered in sparkles with “Get Well Soon” written in cursive lettering. Inside, the printed sentiment read, “Wishing you a speedy recovery.” No handwritten note. It was signed, “Nathaniel Johnson.”
“You think this is from Ekhard?”
“I don’t really know.”
No envelope was with the card or on the table. Could it be in the trash? Morgan took a pair of latex gloves from a box and then dug around in the wastepaper basket. When she didn’t see what she was looking for, she asked the nurse in the hallway.
“That card came over a week ago. The envelope is long gone,” she said.
When Morgan returned to Anna Clare’s bedside, she had fallen asleep again. Her breathing sounded thick and gravelly, adding to the musical purr of the oxygen converter.
Reluctantly deciding it was time to go, Morgan stood up and stretched. She left her business card on a table under a small vase of flowers. Then she looked around the cozy hospice room once more.
Outside, Morgan wrote down another name in her notebook.
CHAPTER 36
MORGAN: 16 Years Ago
Hope lit Morgan up and she walked much faster. Fay and the other person were almost the length of a football field away. But who was that with her? It wasn’t a guy. The woman wore a clingy brown dress and jean jacket. Morgan saw Fay follow her into the trees and began to jog.
Morgan knew what lay beyond those trees—a picnic table and a rock big enough to sit on. The creek bed was nearby. She and Fay had smoked their first joint there because it was secluded. But why would Fay go to their secret place with another woman? Could Fay be gay too? How did I not know? Morgan wondered.
She jogged to catch up. As she closed in on them, doubt filled Morgan’s mind. What if Fay loved this other woman? What if Fay doesn’t love me? At this distressing thought, Morgan reduced her speed. She decided to approach slowly and listen to them talk before announcing her presence.
In the growing darkness, Morgan stepped lightly so as to make no noise as she snuck up on her friend. Under the trees, she smelled cigarette smoke. Fay didn’t smoke. Morgan heard Fay’s nervous laughter and crept a little closer to hear their conversation. Something about Larry.
The glowing coal of the woman’s cigarette lit up her features. The blonde wore dark eye makeup. When she exhaled, she moved the cigarette away from her face and the darkness disguised her again.
“How long have you known him?” Fay sounded scared.
“Since we were kids. We grew up together,” she said.
Crouching behind a tree, Morgan listened and watched.
Fay said, “And you’ve kept in touch all these years, that’s great.”
“We haven’t kept in touch,” the woman said. She tossed her cigarette into the creek.
In the darkness, Morgan squinted to see.
Fay said, “Look, I guess I should be going. I should get home to my mom. She’ll be expecting me, and Larry’s really late.”
“Larry’s always late.”
CHAPTER 37
MORGAN
A mixture of ice and hard rain crackled against the third-story window near Donnie’s desk.
“You’re an hour late.” Donnie greeted Morgan.
“I’ve been grieving.” She wasn’t kidding. Donnie, she hoped, would think she missed her car. The truth was that she’d been obsessing about Fay again.
“Because of a speeding ticket?”
Lucky. Hands flew to her hips. “How did you hear about that?” If she had slept at all she’d woken in a bad mood. Suzanne, Hallie, Larry, and Fay—they were all connected, Morgan was sure. The strike patterns on Hallie’s and Suzanne’s faces were the same. Fay’s might be too. Morgan had laid awake wondering whether to get an exhumation order for Fay’s body.
“Rob told me,” he revealed. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. That Mazda is a sweet car. I would have been going one hundred miles an hour too.” Donnie smiled and nodded his approval.
She inhaled sharply. “I wasn’t going one hundred.”
Donnie filed the crime photos in a manila folder on his desk. “So you’re not buying a sports car?”
“No. Absolutely not,” Morgan grumbled. “I’m leasing a Toyota now.”
“That’s safe. Kinda like your old car.”
Morgan dropped into her desk chair. Their desks faced each other, and now she noticed how clean his was compared to hers. The sight unnerved her. “You’re really taking Holbrooke’s job?”
Donnie nodded. “It’s a big decision, but it’s time to settle down a little.”
With straight fingers, she smoothed her brow. This wasn’t something she wanted to deal with right now. She had to remain focused.
Donnie kept talking, “And you too. Buying a car is just a start. It’s time you began thinking about your future. Dating Rob, that’s a no-brainer. I think he’s perfect for you.”
Morgan glowered at Donnie. “How do you know Rob anyway? Since when are you two such good friends?”
Donnie sat back and folded his hands behind his head. “I bumped into him outside the station. That’s all. He asked about you. Don’t get so sensitive with me. I’ve known you for a long time, Morgan. Will you let me care a little?”
Morgan stifled a yawn. “Sorry, I appreciate your perspective, Donnie. I’m just grumpy. I haven’t slept well since this thing with Hallie Marks started.”
Morgan stared at the raindrops on the window reflecting the overhead light behind her. Each single drop stood alone until it rolled down the windowpane and joined the rest in a puddle on the sill. It reminded her of the blood pools of each of the victims. Eventually, they would form a single body of evidence.
Suzanne held the secret in her hand: hairs that belonged to her killer. Processing thoughts that arrived between fits of slumber, Morgan had tied together similarities of the two murders:
Hallie Marks and Suzanne Aiken. Their faces had been crushed beyond recognition. Ekhard Klein was a clear suspect in both cases—if they could find him. Fay remained in the distance, waving from the trees beside Jackson Creek.
Bloomington was too damn far from these Indianapolis crimes to pin Fay’s murder on this person. Or was it? Two facts forced Morgan to question her judgment: the time between the killings and the distance. And yet, if the same person murdered them, he—or she—had been killing for twenty-two years. What did the killer do during those gap years? Not needlepoint.
Over the years Morgan and Donnie had spent hours looking at similar crimes. At any given time, there were more than fifty serial murderers living in the United States alone. They mingled with the working crowd, pretending to be normal. In Morgan’s mind, they were one step from screwing up and getting caught.
What kind of person would kill young women so brutally? The thought sickened Morgan. How does a person like that think? How do they interact with friends, lovers, and victims? Morgan thought she knew. Her left hand dipped into a crowded pants pocket. Wedged inside, the pawed, pocket-sized spiral notebook with softened edges filled the space, allowing no room for her hand. She pulled it out by the corner and caressed the booklet with her thumbs.
On his wooden desktop, Donnie’s cell phone vibrated once. “Oh, Etta. She isn’t supposed to text during school.”
Morgan smiled at the little distraction. “Did something happen?”
“No. She’s got Driver’s Ed tonight. She was reminding me I’m supposed to drop her off.”
Morgan stepped toward his desk and lifted a framed photo of Donnie’s daughters, Etta and Annabel, while Donnie texted a reply to Etta. When he looked up, he seemed to sense her brooding. “What’s wrong?”
Morgan set the picture down and began paging through her notebook. She opened it at the names she’d written down while talking to Anna Clare. “Anna Clare admitted that Ekhard has changed his name. She didn’t say why. I have some calls to make.” She explained about the name on the card.
Donnie tilted his head to the side. “Sure everything’s okay?”
“I’m sure.” Researching Nathaniel Johnson, the name from the get-well card, Morgan found twelve men with that name in the state of Indiana. Five within the right age range lived in Indianapolis. After calling them all and dismissing them as possible suspects, she extended her search. It was late afternoon before she began working on a CPA in Lafayette, Indiana. Nothing came up when she cross-referenced his name with Anna Clare’s. But before giving up, she ran a search with his name and each of the victims, Hallie Marks and Suzanne Aiken. Unable to find any links, she called his workplace. The receptionist at Baker and Baker told her he was no longer working there.
“How can I get hold of him?” Morgan asked.
“Are you a client of his?”
“I’m with Indianapolis Metro Homicide. Can you give me his personal number?”
“Certainly.” After the receptionist gave Morgan Nathaniel’s number, she explained that he’d left the firm to branch out on his own.
* * *
The next morning, when she asked Donnie to try the number again, Nathaniel answered. Eyebrows raised in excitement, Donnie waved her over to his desk. After the initial greetings, Donnie put the call on speakerphone. “Nathaniel, I’m investigating Suzanne Aiken’s case. Have you heard about it?”
Right away, Nathaniel began coughing. “Yes,” he said when he had caught his breath. “You’d have to be living in a cave to miss it.”
“You would. Horrible what happened to her, wasn’t it? She was tortured, then killed with a number of hammer blows to the face.”
“Horrible.” Nathaniel agreed. He coughed again, then apologized for his asthma.
Sympathetic, Donnie said, “Aw, that sucks. My father has asthma. Sometimes just the cold air will trigger it.”
Morgan loved the way her partner could comfort a person before laying siege with questions.
“Let me get to the point of my call. My partner interviewed some people associated with the Aiken girl when she was alive. Your name came up.” Donnie relaxed back in his chair.
“It did?”
“It did.” Donnie paused between these little bits of information, giving Nathaniel plenty of time to say something. And plenty of opportunity to ingest the details.
“Did you know Suzanne socially?” Donnie asked, circling like a hawk.
Nathaniel answered decisively, “No. I’m sure I didn’t.”
“Did you grow up in the state of Indiana, Nate? Can I call you Nate?”
“Yes I did. If you don’t mind my asking, how did my name come up?
“Ah. Members of the Klein family mentioned you.”
Nathaniel seemed to choke on the word. “Who?”
“How do you know Anna Clare Klein?”
“Anna Clare?”
Morgan noted the agitation in Nathaniel’s voice.
He coughed again before answering, “She’s an old friend.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Many years. I used to do her taxes for her.”
Morgan shook her head. Anna Clare lived in Muncie, a good two-hour drive from Lafayette. She doubted either of them would have made that long a drive to do taxes. Quickly, she jotted a question on a sheet of paper and dropped it on the desk beside Donnie: “Does he know the kids?”
Donnie glanced at Morgan’s note and asked, “Do you know her children?”
This time Nathaniel’s coughing spasm lasted several seconds before subsiding. Donnie repeated the question.
“I can’t help you, Detective.”
Morgan wondered if he couldn’t, or wouldn’t.
* * *
Morgan told Donnie her plan to drive to Lafayette to talk to Nathaniel while he took Etta to Drivers Ed. On her way out of town, she stopped in to see Rebecca Harrington at the Channel 6 News building downtown. Rebecca had left her a message saying she had found something that might help the investigation.
A pleasant young security officer at the information desk directed Morgan to the third floor. Open cubicles formed a maze of desks that Morgan navigated with the help of three different people. When she finally reached Rebecca’s desk, it was vacant. Morgan hadn’t called ahead, but she knew that Rebecca frequently traveled for work.
“She had to go to a live shoot on the north side,” a woman at a nearby desk informed her.
Morgan turned on her heel. “I should have called.”
The woman’s round cheeks sagged. Her blue blouse had a greasy stain down the side. “Rebecca’s been a little forgetful lately. Hallie’s death hit her hard, you know.”
Morgan did know. She glanced at the top of Rebecca’s messy desk. Stacks of paper spilled out of a file box. A half-dozen yellow sticky notepapers drew attention to the bottom of her computer screen.
“Can I help you with something?”
Morgan flashed her badge. “I’m investigating Hallie’s murder.”
“Oh.” The woman raised her chubby hands in the air.
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” Morgan said, then sat down at Rebecca’s desk.
The sticky notes bore a variety of announcements and reminders. Call Doug re: Carmel Cupcakes. Oil change—OVERDUE! Gerald needs final report on Sampson story. Call Detective Jewell re: receipts.
What had Rebecca found? Morgan unclipped her phone and dialed Rebecca’s number.
“Detective Jewell. I was hoping you’d call.” Wind was obviously blowing across Rebecca’s phone, making it hard to hear her.
Morgan nodded. “I got your voicemail and stopped by your office. I’m there now.”
Wind scraped across Rebecca’s receiver. “… inside my desk.”
“Can you please say that again?”
“… second drawer.” This time, the connection went bad.
Morgan waited to see if the static cleared, but the line went dead. She hung up and tried calling again. The call didn’t go thro
ugh. She pushed away from the desk. Looking around the office to see if anyone was watching, Morgan began quietly opening drawers. The second drawer on the left was filled with junk food—Doritos, Keebler cookies. A dozen or so airplane-sized bottles of whiskey and vodka were buried at the back.
On the right, the second drawer was full of strips of paper. Credit card receipts from restaurants and hotels in a jumbled disarray filled the drawer. It looked like Rebecca had just thrown them in. Was this her filing method? Morgan took out a handful and looked through them. On top were several from a Clarion Hotel in Bloomington. Some under that were from a restaurant in Illinois. These must be her work receipts.
Morgan’s phone rang again. Rebecca.
“Sorry about the bad connection. So listen, I wanted to tell you I found something. I had completely forgotten about this. About six months ago, I was emptying the trash in our bathroom and noticed some bar receipts. I always save those for tax purposes, so I took them out and put them in my desk drawer. The other day I was looking through them and found credit card receipts that don’t belong to me. There’s a blank envelope at the front of that second drawer.”
Morgan pushed papers aside, digging for it.
“I don’t know how Hallie got them, they aren’t hers either.” Static returned to the line. “Those are for you.” Rebecca said something else, but it was drowned by a loud crackle.
“Thanks Rebecca,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER 38
CARYN
The sunless Indiana sky shed grainy gray light, making the world appear barren and uninteresting. The incongruity with her colorful thoughts rubbed Caryn raw.
Before picking the lock, she had checked the time. This time, she picked the deadbolt in twenty-two seconds, the doorknob in sixteen. With her sleeve pulled over her fingertips, she turned the knob. Prepared for the proverbial swarm of bats to come rushing past her, Caryn pushed in the door to Ekhard’s house.
In the basement, cut wood odors lured her to Ekhard’s hobby room. The door stood open with just enough space for her arm to reach through. She felt along the wall for a light switch. When she found the familiar, smooth switch plate, she flicked. Loud buzzing came with illumination.
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