She turned to Radhauser. “What does this mean?”
Radhauser answered, his gaze never leaving Dennerson’s face.
“Was Ahmed angry? Did he talk back to the officer?” Dennerson was badgering now.
"Officer demand Ahmed get out of car and put hands on roof. Ahmed, he do what officer say. But then Kareem, he very upset and he cry. We are frightened. We see television in New York where Muslim people are arrested and thrown into jail for no good reasons. Kareem, he is crying so hard he almost get sick." She told him the same thing Kareem had.
Again, Dennerson smiled. “So, Ahmed moved and reached into the back window when he’d been warned to keep his hands on the roof?” Condescension dripped from his voice like a summer ice cream cone.
Radhauser shifted in his chair, unable to remain silent. “What would you have done if it was your son?”
Dennerson addressed his response to Daria. “I’d like to think I’d do what the police told me to do. What if Ahmed was a terrorist and had a gun or a bomb in the back seat? What if you and your son were innocent bystanders? Wouldn’t you want our police force to protect you and other potential victims?”
“But Ahmed is not terrorist. We have no bomb. And no gun. We are American citizens. And we do nothing wrong.”
Radhauser stood. He’d had about all he could handle. “I think it’s time for us to go. But before we do, I want you to know one more thing, Chief Dennerson. When I spoke with Officer Jenkins in the hospital emergency room, I asked what made him pull the Azamis over. He claimed they looked suspicious. I asked what about them made him suspicious. And Officer Jenkins said it was the way they were dressed. I quote, ‘Like those suicide bombers you see on television.’ That’s a clear case of racial profiling. And if you don’t acknowledge that and find a way to apologize to the Azamis, and pay their medical bills, I will encourage them to take the Grants Pass Police Department to court. And I can assure you I will testify on their behalf.”
Dennerson stood and slammed his fist into the middle of the table. Dust stirred, then settled. “This is not your jurisdiction, Radhauser. And I’d advise you keep your opinions to yourself.”
Daria took Kareem’s hand and started toward the door then turned back to Chief Dennerson. "This is not fair. You were not there. You do not know what happen."
“You and your son just told me what happened.” Dennerson flipped off the recorder. “And I think I’ve heard enough. I assure you, we will conduct a thorough investigation.”
Radhauser followed Daria and Kareem out of the room, but not before he heard the lie in Dennerson’s assurance.
Chapter Thirty
After dropping Daria and Kareem back at their apartment, Radhauser returned to his office. He checked in with McBride who’d called area hardware stores, Home Depot and Lowes about recent hatchet and tarp sales, but found nothing suspicious or connected to any of their current persons of interest.
“See if you can get a search warrant for Fayyad Hadad’s apartment. He was seen fighting with Baker and following him out of the Greenleaf Restaurant shortly before his death. They’ve got some bad blood between them. Baker publicly accused Hadad of using Islamic Foundation funds to support Al-Qaeda.”
“I’ll get right on it, sir.”
"I'd like you and Corbin to do the search when I call him in for an interview."
“The element of surprise, right, sir?”
“You got it.”
“While we’re talking about the case,” McBride said. “I plan to head over to the Medford airport first thing tomorrow morning and talk with the people Baker worked with. See if they can shed any light on his character or his enemies.”
“Perfect. And see if you can find out if Baker had life insurance. And if so, how much and who was the beneficiary.”
Radhauser phoned both Fayyad’s apartment and the storefront, but no one answered either phone.
Though Radhauser preferred interviewing face-to-face, to save time, he put in a call to Walt Keiser, the man who headed the Little League board. Keiser confirmed that Baker was a hothead and several parents had complained about his treatment of their kids, but he didn't think anyone involved with the league was angry enough to commit murder. "A formal reprimand was on the agenda for our next meeting. But after the incident on Saturday, I was going to recommend we let him go."
"What incident?" Radhauser asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew.
"I wasn't present, but one of the dads of a kid on Baker's team got into a fight and threatened the coach, accused him of humiliating his son. Baker shoved the man to the ground. He called the kid Osama. The little boy is Muslim. You don't think his father—"
“I suspect it was just idle talk.” Radhauser thanked him for his time, then sat at his desk with his head in his hands. He was unaccustomed to murder cases that lingered on. He was the kind of detective who liked to clean things up fast and he had a good record for solving murders. Why couldn’t he solve this one? What wasn’t he seeing?
He picked up the phone and dialed his friend, Kurtis Lee Jackson, an FBI agent in Portland.
Jackson answered on the third ring. “If it isn’t Winston Radhauser. How the hell have you been?”
“I need your help.”
“You don’t waste any time with small talk, do you?”
“I’m sorry,” Radhauser said. “I’m frustrated as hell and I don’t know where to turn. How are you at profiling?”
“Not bad. And I can also collaborate with agents who are experts.”
“That’s great. I need all the help I can get on this one.”
They made a little small talk, catching up. Radhauser filled him in on the kids and Gracie. Jackson now had a granddaughter who was nearing two years old. “You were right. Alicia’s got me wrapped around every tiny finger on her hand.”
When they’d finished, Radhauser got down to business. He told Jackson everything he knew so far or suspected about the Parsons and Baker murders. The drawings on the back of the severed hands. The fact that the hands were left in a different location than the bodies. The similarities between the two cases and the differences. “The line drawings convince me both murders were done by the same perp. I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling he’s not finished yet.”
"I suspect you're right. E-mail me your photos of the crime scenes. And any evidence and interviews you've gathered so far. It might take me a couple of days," Jackson said. "I'll work up a profile and get back to you. Let me know if you need me to come down."
Radhauser thanked his friend and hung up. It was almost seven p.m. and things were pretty quiet, most everyone had left for the day and maybe he should, too. He’d worked both Saturday and Sunday. But he needed to talk to Fayyad, needed to find out why he’d lied about his encounter with Baker on Saturday evening.
He tried Fayyad’s home number again. This time he answered. "I need to ask you a few more questions about Bradford Baker. Can you come to my office? I'm in that white building across from the Plaza, near the entrance to Lithia Park."
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Fayyad said.
Radhauser called McBride into his office. “Fayyad is on his way in.”
She patted the search warrant in her jacket pocket.
Ten minutes later, Fayyad appeared in Radhauser's office. He wore a white robe that buttoned down the front over a pair of loose-fitting white slacks. His head was wrapped in a black turban.
Radhauser closed the door. “Take a seat.” He gestured toward one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Fayyad sat. “What’s this all about?”
“I went over to the Greenleaf to see if anyone there could verify your alibi for the time Bradford Baker was murdered.”
“And?”
“It seems you had company that night. Someone you failed to mention. A man in a green baseball cap your waitress identified as Baker.”
He blinked and gave Radhauser a disbelieving look. “It wasn’t planned. He just showed up drunk and sta
rted accusing me again of sending foundation funds to Al-Qaeda. Same old, same old. And it's all a bunch of bullshit.”
“Didn’t you think it was worth mentioning to me?”
Fayyad looked down, as if ashamed, but said nothing.
“The waitress told me you fought with Baker, so loud the manager suggested you go somewhere else. That you slapped some money down on the table and followed Baker out of the restaurant. She said you were pissed.”
“Wouldn’t you have been?”
“So, it’s true. You were angry when you left the Greenleaf. And you followed Baker out of the restaurant.”
“Yes. It is true. Generally speaking, I’m a peaceful man, but Baker’s lies have caused a lot of problems for me and my foundation.”
"Enough problems for you to take matters into your own hands?"
“I never touched him.”
“Did you talk to him again?”
“No. He got in his truck, rolled down the driver-side window and gave me the finger, then drove off.”
“Where did you go?”
“I walked home. I rent a basement apartment over on Granite Street.”
“Do you own a car, Mr. Hadad?”
“I do. But someone backed into it in the Food CoOp parking lot last Thursday night. It’s over at R & B Garage for repairs. It’s been there since Friday. It’s a blue Honda CRV. You can check for yourself.”
"I will." Radhauser told Fayyad he was free to go.
Without a car, it would have been difficult, if not impossible, for Fayyad to transport Baker’s body to Thomas Flannigan Sports Park and stuff him into that portable toilet. He’d ask Hazel to check with local rental car agencies to make certain Fayyad hadn’t gotten a vehicle that way. And, of course, there was always the possibility he borrowed one. Fayyad Hadad remained a suspect, but Radhauser would need more evidence to detain him.
After Fayyad left, Radhauser phoned McBride to let her and Corbin know that Fayyad was on his way home. “Did you find anything?”
“Nothing. No tarps, no hatchet. He essentially lives in one room with a small bathroom and a hot plate. He’s got a file cabinet filled with paperwork for his foundation. We leafed through some of them. It looked legitimate.”
When he hung up, Radhauser cradled his head in his hands. The need to solve this case ate at him. He needed to look at the evidence again and find more. Questions pounded inside his brain, demanding to be answered. One thing was certain, no one committed the kind of murders done to Marsha Parsons and Bradford Baker without some perceived reason. Was his killer once an abused child? Was he taking revenge on other abusers for the crimes once committed against him?
* * *
Just as he knew it would be, when Radhauser arrived at the station early Tuesday morning, Kurtis Jackson’s profile sat on his desk. The man had probably stayed up all night working on it.
• Male between 20-40 years old – More than 90% of serial killers are male. Probably white, but may be any race. Most likely an Ashland resident.
• An average guy, maybe even a pillar of the community.
• A master manipulator—hidden behind vulnerability and a need to please.
• The link between serial killers and childhood abuse.
• Probably grew up lonely and isolated.
• Often had sexually stressful events in their childhood.
• Psychological abuse in childhood.
• Could be a missionary murderer—one who believes they are meant to get rid of a certain group of people.
• Your perp is organized. He is prepared with gloves, shoe protectors, hatchet, duct tape, and chloroform.
• Lacks empathy or remorse.
• A superficial charmer.
• Could be a revenge killer, but not necessarily against the victim. Symbolic revenge through the murders.
• An avenger who feels justified.
• Cutting off the hand means something very personal to him.
• He could have an attachment disorder.
• He may have a profile for the type of person he kills. An abuser. A bully. A person he doesn’t believe deserves to live.
Radhauser had two persons of interest who were connected to both Marsha Parsons and Bradford Baker—Ahmed Azami and Fayyad Hadad. But neither of them fit the profile. Ahmed was such a gentle and caring father. He went to medical school in Kabul. He risked his life to comfort Kareem. They both had good reasons to hate Baker. But why would Fayyad murder a woman who was studying Islam with him? It just didn’t make sense.
He buzzed Hazel. “Did you find any evidence that Fayyad Hadad rented a car the night Baker was murdered?”
“I called all the rental agencies within a fifty-mile radius of Ashland. No one had a record of him renting anything. I even called U-Haul and Penske.”
"Good work. Any possibility you can pull child abuse cases from the '80s and '90s before you leave tonight? I'm interested in male children who'd be in their twenties or thirties now."
“Sure thing. I’ll get right on it.”
Radhauser spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to track down male child abuse victims. It was tedious work and not very rewarding. Hazel had pulled more than a dozen reports. Most of the victims were no longer living in Ashland. Two were in prison and couldn’t possibly be the perp. He interviewed three others who were now married with children, but he found no connection to either Marsha Parsons or Bradford Baker. Another dead end.
Chapter Thirty-One
The first thing Radhauser saw when he pulled into his driveway was the black Lincoln Town Car parked beside his barn. It was almost eight p.m., but the sky was still light, the sun just beginning to drop behind the Siskiyou Mountains.
Beside the Lincoln’s driver’s door, Rollins stood, as still and stiff as a soldier. He wore his chauffeur’s uniform and cap. He gave Radhauser a quick nod as he drove past.
Radhauser pulled into the space under the overhang, grabbed his backpack and got out of his car. He did a quick survey of the area around the barn. The pastures were empty and it appeared the horses had been brought into their stalls for the night. The double barn doors were closed. Everything seemed to be in order. He hurried over to Rollins. “What’s up? Is Cooper okay?”
“I assume so, sir. Miss Julia has come to fetch him home.”
“I thought Cooper made it clear to his mother that he has no intention of going anywhere.”
“That may very well be true, sir. But Miss Julia is not one who takes no for an answer.”
Radhauser opened the double barn doors. The horses were quietly munching on their alfalfa. Ameer neighed when he heard the rumbling of the doors as they slid open. Or was it the sound Radhauser’s boots made as they struck the packed dirt in the center aisle? The barn office door was closed, but he could hear the sounds of a struggle inside.
Without knocking, he thrust it open.
Cooper lay on the ground, his back against the tile floor. He was naked from the waist up.
His mother sat on his chest with her white-knuckled hands around his neck.
Cooper, eyes bulging, had a dazed look on his face but wasn't fighting back.
“What the hell are you doing?” Radhauser grabbed Julia under the arms and lifted her off Cooper. She wobbled for a moment, then regained her balance. “I petitioned Julliard to readmit him in the fall. And they’ve agreed to give him another chance. He belongs at home with me. He needs to practice.”
Cooper coughed a few times, cleared his throat and scrambled to his feet. As if embarrassed, he turned away from Radhauser.
The skin on Cooper’s back was striped with old scars that looked as if he’d been struck repeatedly with a thin leather strap or whip.
Radhauser clasped Cooper’s shoulder.
When Cooper shook his head and wrenched away, Radhauser turned to Julia. “What have you done to him?”
“It was for his own good.” She used her palms to smooth the wrinkles from her denim skirt. “He’s ne
ver appreciated what he’s been given. It’s a sin to go on wasting his gift.”
“I want you to leave.” Radhauser clenched his fists and fought an impulse to slap some handcuffs on her. “Now. And if you don’t, I’m arresting you for assault. You can spend the night in Ashland Holding Jail if you wish.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m stating a fact.”
She stared at him for a moment, as if checking to see if he meant what he’d said, then raced out of the room as if being chased by the devil. Julia slammed the barn office door behind her, hard and unforgiving as a slap.
Ameer reared, let out a high-pitched neigh and kicked at his stall.
Radhauser opened the door and hurried across the barn aisle, grabbed a handful of sweet feed from the bin. “It’s okay, boy. No one is going to hurt you.”
A moment later, Radhauser heard the Lincoln start, then the crunch of tires on gravel as it headed down the drive.
Calmed by the sound of his owner’s voice, Ameer ate the sweet feed from Radhauser’s hand.
When he returned to the barn office, Cooper had grabbed a T-shirt and pulled it over his head. “It’s okay,” he said.
Beneath Cooper’s anguish, Radhauser spotted a festering rage.
“She didn’t do this,” Cooper insisted. “It happened a long time ago. Just a bunch of mean teenagers who called me Liberace and thought I deserved to have the gayness whipped out of me.”
It was a plausible story, but Radhauser wasn’t buying it. “You don’t have to lie to me, Cooper. I think I know what’s going on here. And you don’t have to go anywhere with her. You’re welcome here for as long as you want or need to stay. You could file assault charges and take out a restraining order. You’re still young enough to press child abuse charges against her as well. Don’t let her get away with this, son.”
He stared at Radhauser for a long time, his green eyes narrowing. “I can’t,” he finally said, his face a mix of sadness and resolve. “She’s my mother.”
The depth of feeling Radhauser had for this young man surprised him. How quickly Cooper Drake had become a part of their lives. He was a marvel, a wizard of a pianist who’d absconded with Lizzie and Jonathan’s hearts. And somehow along the way, he’d grabbed a part of Radhauser’s too.
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