by Tom Fowler
“Private,” I said.
He shrugged. “You just don’t have to do all the paperwork.”
“I try not to do any of it.”
“How old were you when your sister got killed?” he asked.
“Sixteen. I was almost finished my junior year of high school.”
“I’m sorry your parents lied to you.”
I took a deep breath. “Me, too. By now, the trail has probably grown cold.”
“It was never warm to begin with.”
“I’ve read the case file,” I said. A few more tables filled up. Ambient noise in the restaurant increased.
“I’m surprised they let a private detective take a case file,” said Pembroke.
“Someone downtown likes me, I guess.”
“I guess. Everything I found is in the folder you have. I know it ain’t much. A bunch of other cops pitched in when they could. The brass wanted to clear this one. A pretty college girl murdered in a sketchy neighborhood? It was a red ball from the start. I’m surprised you never found out, though. No papers, no press?”
“My parents managed to keep my sister’s name out of the paper.”
“They must have some influence.”
“They do all right,” I acknowledged.
Pembroke sized me up as the waitress dropped off his minestrone. “How does a rich kid end up a PI?”
“How does a good cop end up retiring early?”
“Your story’s bound to be better than mine,” he said.
“Maybe, but it’s irrelevant. Can you walk me through what happened when you arrived on the scene? Maybe you’ll remember something.”
“You think I never tried?”
“The memory works in mysterious ways. You never know what might trigger something, and anything is useful for me.”
“Hell, maybe it’ll help.” Pembroke put a spoonful of soup in his mouth. He closed his eyes. I transferred some salad to my plate and ate it while he remembered. “We got the nine-one-one call about a dead girl in Patterson Park. Never knew who put it in. When we got there, the girl was face down with a lot of blood on the ground around her. My partner, Beatty, and I started taking pictures and looking for evidence. We taped off the scene. Forensics got there and did their thing. They took a bunch more pictures, blood samples, bits of grass . . . you name it, they put it in a baggie. Once they were done, we rolled the girl over to see what happened to her.” He shook his head. “Sorry. This is probably tough for you to hear.”
“I’ve seen the pictures,” I said. “The audio is easier.”
“Once we were finished, the ME’s men came and took the body away. We sent some uniforms out to canvass the area, see if anyone saw the girl before she got killed, maybe someone with blood on them, anything like it. We talked to residents, business owners who might have been open, dog walkers, everybody we could. No one saw anything.”
“Had you seen a killing like this before?”
Pembroke paused for a drink of his soda. “I seen a lot of killings.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Plenty of people got stabbed. I don’t know if I saw one like this, I gotta tell you. Just the . . . viciousness of it all. All those wounds, and they were deep. This wasn’t some limp-wristed guy with a pen knife. This was a strong man with a good-sized blade who enjoyed what he did.”
I winced. The pictures might have told me the same thing if I could’ve looked past the fact my sister was dead in all of them. I recalled the picture of Samantha’s torso. Depth of wounds was hard to determine in a photo, but a deep red surrounded each of the areas where the son of a bitch stabbed her. “You say he enjoyed what he did,” I said.
“Speculation,” said Pembroke.
“Do you think it’s possible the same man killed anyone else?”
“If you’re looking for patterns, we already did. Age of the victim, gender, height, hair color, where they were found, face up versus face down, number of wounds, size of the blade, anything we could think of. If this guy killed anyone else, he didn’t do it in Baltimore.”
There went another theory. The waitress brought our food. I ate a breadstick while I let my steaming entrée cool. After a moment, I cut a piece of chicken parm and tried it. The Olive Tree could keep their doors open. Pembroke’s chicken Amelia consisted of a large chicken breast, pasta, broccoli, and a cream sauce. I hated cream sauces.
“I wish I could tell you more,” said Pembroke. “There’s just not much to tell. We worked the case for a while. The brass busted our balls about it. ‘A pretty blonde rich girl,’ they would tell us. The mayor was going to get involved or some shit. We did all we could.” Pembroke almost sounded like he sought some kind of approval—or at least absolution. Cleansing someone of responsibility was well outside my pay grade.
“I don’t blame you,” I said, the closest I could offer to an absolution. “Sometimes, trails go cold, and killers aren’t caught.”
“You’re not giving up, are you?”
“Of course not. Let me ask you one thing. I remember reading the BPD used my sister’s online activity to point to someone who went by Rondel. Do you remember?”
“Yeah,” he said, “some. I wasn’t up on all the technology stuff. Still ain’t, really. I send email and all, but the rest of it is just too much for someone like me.”
I said, “So you weren’t involved in the forensic side of the investigation?”
“I talked to the tech guys. Anything they found, they told me, and I put it in the report. We tried to figure out who the guy was, but it never went anywhere. You couldn’t try to find him today?”
I shook my head. “His Internet provider went to the great bit graveyard years ago. There are way too many out there to search for one guy who might not even be using the same handle at this point.”
“Your explanation actually made some sense,” Pembroke said with a chuckle. “Scary.”
We ate our respective chicken dinners for a while. The waitress refilled our drinks. I took some more salad but eschewed the now-tepid breadsticks. “Did you learn anything?” Pembroke said when he had put his fork and napkin down in surrender.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Any information can help me. Simply talking to someone else who knows the case could be a windfall.”
“You get an idea you want to run past me, you call me and we can hash it out.”
“Thanks.”
“I won’t even make you buy me dinner again.”
“If you lead me to Samantha’s killer, I’ll buy you your own restaurant,” I said.
* * *
I got home and looked at the file out of a dearth of better options. Dinner with the lead detective on the case didn’t inch me any closer to unraveling what happened to my sister. It didn’t disappoint me; I’d expected to come away with nothing. The hope of a better outcome got extinguished. Gloria walked into the office and sat in one of my guest chairs.
“How did it go?” she said.
“Pretty much like I expected.”
“You still don’t have enough to go on?”
“I don’t have enough to be in the same ballpark as having enough to go on.”
“You’ll get there. You’re smart and dedicated.”
I knew what Gloria tried to do and smiled at her. “Thanks, but neither of those qualities will make evidence materialize.”
“Why don’t you call Rich?” I groaned. “I mean it; he might be able to help you.”
“He doesn’t know what happened either,” I said.
“No,” she said, “but he’s more used to doing this than you are. Plus, he’s not as close to the case.”
Her point was valid. Before I could take out my phone to dial him, however, Rich called me. “Speak of the devil,” I said.
“I’m almost surprised you answered,” Rich said.
“Would it be like me to ignore someone’s phone call?”
“I can ask your parents.”
“Let’s not.”
“I was wondering how you’re ma
king out with the case so far. Any luck?”
“Not really,” I said and blew out a breath. “I talked to Detective Pembroke. He didn’t remember anything not already in the file, and he didn’t know enough about the tech side of things.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “I get stuck on cases from time to time, but this is different. I have to figure this one out.”
“Have you considered the FBI?”
“The FBI? Why would I talk to them?”
“Samantha met the man who killed her online,” Rich said. “Odds are good he came from out of state. Maybe he did something like this before.”
“Pembroke said he didn’t know of a similar case.”
“Not in Baltimore. Maybe not even in Maryland. But there might be one somewhere. Hell, there might be a bunch.”
“You think a serial killer murdered Samantha?” I said.
“I think you probably won’t find out unless you talk to the FBI,” Rich said. I heard forced patience creep into his tone. I’d gotten used to it over the years. “They have resources we don’t. Just promise me you won’t try to hack them.”
“I probably could.”
“C.T.!”
“All right, I won’t. Is there someone in particular I should talk to?”
“I served with a guy named Jason Hess. He works in the Baltimore Field Office. If you’re willing to go there at eight tomorrow morning, he’s willing to meet you.”
I remembered Hess from the luncheon Gloria organized. We didn’t talk, but at least I knew the face. “I’ll be there. How much does he know?”
“Not much,” Rich said. “You know more about the file and the case than I do.”
“All right. Thanks, Rich. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Good luck.” Rich hung up.
“That sounded promising,” Gloria said. I told her about the conversation. “I’m sure they’ll be able to help you.”
“I wish I could share your optimism,” I said. “I’m hopeful. We’ll see how it goes.”
“You should get a good night’s rest.”
“I’ll be up in a while. I want to look some things over again before morning.”
Gloria went upstairs. I re-read parts of the case file and even looked at some of the more tolerable pictures. Talking with Pembroke desensitized me a little, but it still ripped at my core to see my sister ravaged by violence. At some point, it became harder to focus on the page. I woke up with my head on my desk a little past four o’clock. I trudged upstairs and was awake again before seven so I could take my chances with the FBI.
Chapter 8
Gloria stayed in bed while I got up and showered. I went downstairs at seven-twenty to make breakfast. My refrigerator mocked me with its emptiness. I would have to remember to get groceries. With a lack of better options, I made coffee and ate a bowl of cereal, its flakes grown half stale. I could add it to my grocery list.
After my mediocre breakfast, I finished getting dressed upstairs. Most days, I wore jeans—Tommy or Ralph, but jeans nonetheless. Today, I broke out a suit. I opted for the blue pinstriped Armani. Maybe Hess would regard a fellow sharp-dressed man and be inspired to help me. Maybe he would think I was a label snob. I would confess to the charge—I certainly couldn’t deny it—if it would spur him to action.
I took a cup of coffee for the road and drove to the FBI field office in Woodlawn. Getting up I-83 and around the Baltimore Beltway proved more challenging than I expected. Even with my usual aggressive driving, I stood no chance of being on time. When I got there at ten past eight, I considered it a small victory. I found Agent Hess in the directory and rode the elevator to his floor. A secretary directed me to his office.
Special Agent Jason Hess occupied an office on the outskirts of a cube farm mostly empty on a Saturday morning. I didn’t know if this made him some kind of supervisor or not, but it beat toiling in a cubicle. Hess’ office looked like all the other ones carved out along the walls. In this dreadfully modern floor plan, even the offices presented a stifling sameness. I could never work in an environment like this. I knocked on the door.
Hess stared up at me. He had a full head of blond hair with some gray peeking in at the temples. I guessed him to be a couple years older than Rich, right around forty. He possessed a football player’s physique and a piercing gaze. The Army and Quantico had taught him well. His stare reminded me of a few I received from the guards in the Hong Kong prison. Those were not happy memories. “Rich told me you’d probably be late,” he said.
“Traffic.”
“There’s always traffic. Come on in.”
I walked in and sat in a guest chair which didn’t make me want to leap out of it right away. Hess typed a few keystrokes and then gave me his attention. I felt strange sitting on the other side of a desk. I had gotten used to being on the business side and now preferred it. “What can I do for you?” said Hess.
“Thanks for meeting me on a Saturday morning,” I said.
He showed a brief smile. “Rich is a good guy. I don’t mind. What’s up?”
“I have a BPD cold case file. It’s my sister’s. She was murdered thirteen years ago in Baltimore.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Unfortunately, I only recently learned she didn’t die of natural causes.” Hess gave me a funny look. “Long story. Anyway, I might have been able to do something with this if I’d gotten it sooner. Now, it’s thirteen years after the fact. The police didn’t have much luck the first time. I’m hoping to do better. I need to do better.”
“How can I help?” Hess said. He held my gaze. He radiated sincerity. Maybe this would work out.
“The BPD did some online investigation. I think they were pretty new at it, so I’m wondering if your people could help there. Also, the lead detective on the case thinks my sister was killed by someone who enjoyed it. He said it could be a serial killer.”
This time, Hess’ smile rose from politeness. “Mr. Ferguson, serial killers are very popular on TV and in movies, but they’re quite rare. Very few victims are actually murdered by serial killers.”
I knew this already, but I didn’t contest the point. I needed Hess on my side. “It can’t hurt to look. Improbable doesn’t mean impossible.”
“Very true,” Hess said. You have some information for me, then?”
I told Hess everything I could about Samantha, where and how she was found, the number of stab wounds, the length of the blade used, and anything else I thought could help. Hess entered it all on the computer. “We have a database to track patterns in crimes,” he said. “It doesn’t guarantee there is or isn’t a serial killer involved, but it lets us play the odds better.” He finished with a few keystrokes. “It takes a few minutes to run. What else do you have?”
I went over the BPD’s foray into my sister’s online activity and what they found. Hess asked for the spelling of Rondel, which I gave him. “I don’t have anyone by such a handle in a database,” he said.
“The ISP he used is long defunct,” I said. “I was hoping you had some information on people who fit this kind of pattern.”
“Mr. Ferguson, people are killed following online meetings a lot more often than we’d like. If I were to get all their files, I’d need a wheelbarrow and a lot of time.”
“I figured. You don’t have anything on this Rondel, though?”
“I’ll look again.” Hess did some more typing, then shook his head. “Nothing.”
“What about your cybercrime folks?”
“The search I ran includes their databases.”
I frowned. “Oh. I guess I’ll cross my fingers for the other one, then.”
A minute later, an answer showed. Crossed fingers didn’t help. “This software plots a lot of factors,” Hess said, “and assigns each a different weight. Based on the data you gave me, it’s extremely unlikely your sister encountered a serial killer.”
“How un
likely?”
“Odds are almost 96% against it.”
“Still a four percent chance,” I pointed out. A regular math ace, me.
“Do you play poker, Mr. Ferguson?”
“Occasionally.”
“Would you push all your chips in with a four percent chance to win?” Hess asked.
“If it were the right time to make a stand, yes.”
Hess nodded. “Fair point. I don’t think this is that time. I’m sorry.”
“Are there any serial killers who are possibilities?” I said.
“If I come up with any, I’ll let Rich know.”
“All right. Thanks.”
“I wish I could find better results for you.”
“I’ve heard it a lot the last few days.”
“I’m sure you have.” Hess stood and extended his hand. I shook it. “Good luck, and if you can, have a good weekend.”
“I think my search will consume my time,” I said.
“I’m having a geekend, myself. Some friends and I are going to watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy again.”
“Sounds like you’ll have more fun than I will. Thanks for your time.”
I left the FBI field office no closer to finding Samantha’s killer than when I walked through the front door. Everywhere I went, I spun my wheels. I was desperate to find a break in the case, but I had no idea from where.
* * *
I returned home to discover Gloria left. Maybe she decided to take a tennis lesson. Maybe she realized she’d neglected her own house, which could hold three of mine. Regardless, I had the place to myself and little motivation to do anything except focus on Samantha’s cold case file. I know the BPD’s best detectives from thirteen years ago hammered at the case and couldn’t get anywhere with it. Detectives routinely split their time. I could be single-minded.
Simply reading through the file didn’t help. I needed to be more interactive. For the first time in my professional life, I wanted a whiteboard. A trip to Staples later, I had a 36” by 48” model hanging on the wall behind my desk. I wrote out a rough timeline for when things happened, including the electronic events leading up to Samantha’s murder. Laying it all out helped me keep the events straight and think of them in a logical progression. Now, I needed it to help me solve the case.