“Yeah, that’s right. The police are conducting their investigations. I don’t think they know who killed her,” Victor replied.
“But if she was found in these trash bags or whatever they were, it probably means that she was killed somewhere else and then placed inside your house.”
“That’s probably just what happened.”
“Where’d you say she was from?” Harold asked.
“Michigan; the last I heard. Bee tried to find her a few years back, but without any luck.”
“Well, supposing she were in town to see you, don’t you think it’s a bit odd for her to just pop by for a surprise visit after all those years? No phone call, no nothing?”
“It would be kind of strange, wouldn’t it?” Victor’s mind again reverted to a place of confusion. “But why would the killer dump her body at my house?” He posed, actually expecting an answer from his friend. “I barely knew the woman. I'm just trying to put the pieces together here.”
“I know, Son,” Harold gently gripped Victor’s shoulder. “But I’m sure everything will work out just fine. In the meantime though, if there's anything I can do...”
“I know, Harold…and thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you and your family through this.” Harold approached the window and looked out into the distance. “Ever since our son, Ray died in that plane crash ten years ago, you’ve been like a son to us, you know. You were there for us through that very difficult time and now you can rest assured that we’re here for you every step of the way.”
“Thanks Harold. I really appreciate that,” Victor said.
“Oh,” Harold glanced at his wrist-watch. “I’ve got to get going. My nine o’clock must be here by now. Extend our condolences to the family, will you?”
“I sure will.”
Harold turned to leave.
“Oh Harold,” Victor stopped him. “Tell me what you would do if you felt the cops weren't convinced you told them everything you knew about a situation - you know, like the one I'm dealing with here.”
Harold stared at Victor, expecting more.
“I mean, if your gut told you they suspected you, if only a little,” Victor added.
“I wouldn't worry about it,” Harold said calmly. “Cops have a tendency to suspect everyone in a matter like yours. Because you found the body in your house, they look at you for now. It's just natural for them to act that way even if they don't really think you're guilty of the crime. But, in the final analysis, everything has to be proven, kid. Suspicions without proof are as good as cars without wheels - they get you nowhere.”
FOUR
Six days later, a semi-intoxicated drunk found himself wandering through a dark alley in the vicinity of Crenshaw.
Staggering on, his eyes gleamed with anticipation as he spotted a large, red dumpster at the end of the alleyway. After what seemed like forever to get to it, he quickly rummaged through, totally oblivious of the fact that he had a young wife at home whose recent affair had ended and she wanted him back. Her act of betrayal that fateful summer when she had packed her bags and moved in with “Lover-boy Harry” ruined poor Joe, and he turned his back on what used to be his life - for good - resorting instead to make the spirit lady of the bottle his new companion.
Plowing through a few inches deeper, his eyes met something amidst the heap that quickly deadened his inebriated state. He jerked away quickly and landed on his buttocks.
The body was later identified as that of a seventy-four year old woman named Clare Moore.
All week, Nick and Lou had meticulously searched for any clues that would lead them to the killer or killers of Freda Jennings and the young victim found through Third and Main. They had nothing more than the photograph of the Jennings woman that rendered no usable latent evidence. It now appeared to be just as Nick had dreaded – another out-of-control, maniacal, serial killer case - which instantly made him edgy.
That night at the Morgue, the detectives were accosted by stale, raw meat fetor combined with settled blood, feces and urine. Clare Moore’s body was swollen with bruise-like colors of decay. A bluish film shrouded her open, lifeless eyes and a crusty tongue protruded slightly through her swollen lips. The grimace of agony clearly conveyed a grisly message to the detectives that she had been brutally tortured before her death.
“You got a really bad one here, detectives,” Doctor Parker said. “Single stab wound to the heart, thirty-eight puncture wounds in total.” She showed them the pre-printed diagram with her indications both back and front.
“Approximate time of death?” Nick asked.
Debbie consulted her notes. “Without the results of a full autopsy, at this point I can only guesstimate that time of death might be somewhere around April 14th, approximately five days ago. Although the victim was found nude, there were no signs of vaginal penetration and no traces of semen in or about her body. If I’m right about this and there’s a serial killer on the loose, he apparently has no interest in sexually assaulting his victims - just merely torturing them.”
Lou looked on with interest; Nick with disgust. Moments later, Nick walked out of the room, jabbed his hands into his trouser pockets and silently paced the hallway.
Lou followed him. “You’ve got to keep a clear head on this case, Nick. You’ve got to stay focused. Don't get so emotionally caught up.”
“This guy is evil, Lou; not just demented, but downright evil!” Nick retorted, eyes ablaze. “He takes out young girls, old ladies, like he's slaughtering filthy pigs! I swear, I'm gonna get this guy if it's the last thing I do!”
Lou gripped his partner’s arm, forcing him still. “You want to lose your mind over this? You wanna get thrown off the case like the last time? Do ya?!” He yelled with a glare in his eyes. “I know how you feel, buddy, but for goodness’ sake, get a hold of yourself. That's the only way we'll get justice for those people that monster killed and to stop him from ever doing it again.”
Nick knew that Lou was right. He had to control his emotions or he was bound to let those innocent victims down.
Early the next morning, during a general meeting at Headquarters, a few officers were assigned to assist Nick Myers and Lou Riley in their investigations. Chief Tuyler also announced that an FBI profiler would have to be called in to erect a profile of the alleged serial killer.
At 8:58 a.m., Tony Emerillo shouted from across the room, “Richard Braxton’s on line two, Nick!”
Nick picked up the line, unaware of who Richard Braxton was. “Myers here,” he said.
“Detective Myers…” the voice on the other line started rather slowly, “…you don't know me, but I know you. In fact, I know everything there is to know about you.” The man spoke in a deep, low whisper.
“What can I do for you?” Nick asked impassively, deliberately unmoved by the stranger's apparent web of intimidation.
“I want to help you solve the recent murders, detective. I know who killed those women. I can lead you to their missing limbs,” the stranger added.
“Missing limbs?”
“You know where I'm coming from, Myers, in spite of your department's efforts to keep from the public the gory fact that the Jennings woman and the elderly lady from Crenshaw were missing one, an arm, and the other, a leg. I also know you couldn't keep the details surrounding the dead girl from Third & Main a secret because some kid had already discovered her body before you guys did.”
Nick was startled by the caller’s distinct knowledge. “You mind telling me how you know all this, Richard? If, in fact, Richard is your real name.”
“Believe what you want, Myers. You're the guy who has to solve the murders, not me. I can hang up right now and you'll never know who I am or why I called in the first place, except, of course for the reason I said I did,” he grinned.
“Okay, you were saying you know where the limbs are...”
“I'll answer that question in due time. I know you need my help, Myers. You fee
l like you're sitting on a rats-trap 'cause you don't have a single lead in any of the cases. You're up against the wall and it's driving you nuts. I pretty much know your history, detective. I know what these murders remind you of.”
“Who the hell are you?” Nick demanded.
Lou looked on quietly from across the desk as Nick was obviously losing his cool.
“If you had something to do with these murders and just playing games with me, I promise you, I'll track you down and ...”
“Ooh... sounds to me like you have a killer instinct there yourself, detective. I'm really appalled,” the caller said callously. “You've got it all wrong, though. I am a decent, respectable human being just trying to do my small part to make this fine community of ours a safer place.”
Nick scoffed at the idea, but managed to compose himself. “How do I know I can trust you?” He asked.
“Your mind and body run like clock work, and your instinct guides you in the right direction. You'll find the clues 'cause I'll be there every step of the way. I'm watching, Myers. Keep your eyes open.” The caller hung up.
Nick sat quietly at his desk in a daze.
“So, what'd this Braxton fella want?” Lou asked, sensing something bizarre about his partner’s phone call.
“He claims to have some information regarding the murders,” Nick answered. “He may not be who he says he is, but I have a hunch he knows more than we do - a lot more.”
* * * *
Around noon, a woman walked into Police Headquarters. She went up to an officer who was seated in the reception area.
“Excuse me, sir. My name is Edith Larson. I'm the lady who reported Clare Moore missing several days ago.”
Edith was an African-American woman in her early thirties. She was wearing a long, blue flannel dress that hung near her ankles.
“What can I do for you, Miss Larson?” Asked the balding officer.
“I know that Clare’s been found since I made that call. Well, I was just wondering if there are any leads in the case thus far: If the police was able to find the man that murdered her.”
“Why do you think a man murdered her, Miss Larson?” The officer asked. “Couldn't the killer be a woman?”
“No, sir,” Edith replied matter-of-factly. “I know that for sure. I'm here because I have some information regarding the case and I'm only doing this because Clare was my friend.”
“Clare Moore?” Lou Riley interjected as he was passing by.
“Excuse me, but who are you?” Edith asked.
“I’m sorry,” Lou reached into his shirt pocket and showed her his identification. “I'm Detective Lou Riley, Ma'am. My partner and I are investigating the case you’re referring to.”
“Oh, really? Well, I guess I should be talking to you then.” She gave the other officer a reprimanding glance, then turned back to Lou. “My name is Edith Larson. Clare Moore and I were very close friends. She was like a mother to me.”
Lou extended his sympathy and they spoke briefly as he led her down the corridor to Nick's cubicle.
“Nick, this is Edith Larson,” Lou started. “She says she was a close friend of Clare Moore. Miss Larson, meet Detective Nick Myers.”
Nick stood up quickly and shook Edith’s hand. “Good to meet you, Miss Larson.” He invited her to sit as Lou found himself a comfortable spot at the edge of his partner’s desk.
“I'm really sorry about your friend,” Nick said. “No one deserves to die that way.”
“Thank you, detective,” Edith responded somberly.
“Miss Larson says she has some information pertaining to the case,” Lou explained before getting up to retrieve a cup of water from the dispenser just outside the cubicle.
“Oh?” Nick replied.
“A young man who lives a few blocks away from me said he saw a white man leading Clare away the night she disappeared,” Edith started. “Clare lived right opposite me. I usually got up early in the mornings and sat on the porch a while to see when she was about to leave her house. Some days she was fine and knew where she was going, but other days, she didn’t have the slightest clue where she was headed. She’d just wander off somewhere and believe me, there was no stopping her. You see, Clare lost her mind a short while before her husband, Phil, died. After that, I felt it was my duty since she was always so nice to me to protect her as best I could especially since poor Phil wasn't around to watch her no more. She really loved that man too. She once told me she’d never leave that old house even if she got the chance to live in a brand new one. She believed old Phil was still there with her.”
“So what happened the day she disappeared?” Nick asked.
“Clare was always at home by six every evening, no matter where she had been all day. She prized that li'l watch she wore around her wrist. It was a birthday gift from Phil, you see.”
Nick nodded.
“Well, anyway, I saw her go inside her house shortly before six that evening. After that, I wasn't worried because Clare never went back out again at night once she got home. So, I got dressed for this party I was invited to down the block and left around eight.” Edith paused for a moment unsuccessfully restraining the tears. “I hardly ever go out anywhere, detective; anyone in my neighborhood can tell you that. I thought Clare would have been fine.” She pulled a crumpled napkin out of her purse and dried her tears. “I was just devastated when I woke up the next morning and found Clare gone. I blamed myself because I didn’t get up early enough to check on her before she left, but when that boy I spoke with said he'd seen her the night I went to the party - the same night I saw her go inside her house, I was surprised. He said it was almost midnight when he saw her with that strange man. I didn’t believe him at first, but he swore that what he was telling me was the truth!”
“So, did this eyewitness you mentioned describe the man he saw with Clare Moore that night?” Lou asked, assuming a more comfortable position on the desk.
“All he told me was the man was white and kind of tall.”
“It would be best if we speak to this witness,” Nick said.
“But he'll never agree to that. He’s afraid to come here and speak with the police,” Edith replied promptly.
“That's no problem at all. We can go to him,” Nick said. “If it would make things easier for him, he can arrange a place and time for us to meet privately, and we'll be there. Try to convince him, Miss Larson. He may be the only person who can identify your friend's killer.”
“I’ll do my very best, detectives,” Edith assured them as she stood up to leave.
Nick expressed his sincerest thanks and Lou walked her to the exit.
FIVE
Victor had learned of Clare Moore's murder the day after her body was discovered and three days after his family had held a small, close-casket funeral for Freda Jennings. Since the police had not shown up at his front door after the latest gruesome discovery, Victor was convinced that this time they had found nothing to connect him to that murder.
In an effort not to burden his employer and friend, and fearing that news of the police finding his aunt's photograph at another crime scene could potentially jeopardize business for AR Trust, Victor decided not to disclose that information to Harold. He put on his best face at work and tried to block out the negative thoughts that had been troubling him since the day he had returned home from Vegas.
He was expected to chair the executives’ meeting that morning. By eleven o’clock, everyone was seated in the conference room, but he had lost track of time and arrived several minutes later.
“I apologize for my tardiness, gentlemen,” he said, sliding a manila folder out of his briefcase. “We'll get right down to business.”
Victor began distributing colored copies of a graph to each person when there was a light tap at the door. Gwen Jamison, his secretary, apologized for her intrusion and handed him a sealed envelope.
Annoyed and baffled by Gwen’s conduct, considering she was aware that during such meetings, he was n
ever to be disturbed, Victor politely excused himself, pulled her aside near the door, and quietly demanded an explanation.
Gwen looked flustered. “I'm sorry, sir, but this envelope arrived just now with the mail. It says right here that it’s very urgent that you open it right away.”
Victor quickly tore open the envelope, unaware that he had an extremely observant audience. As he unfolded the letter and began reading, a puzzled expression emerged on his face, and seconds later, he quickly folded it back. He thanked Gwen and dismissed her from the room, then approached Harold and whispered something into his ear. Immediately afterward, he gave Harold the report he had been holding.
“Will you excuse me, gentlemen?” Victor asked. “Something just came up that I must urgently attend to.”
He hurried back to his office and shut the door behind him. Standing there, he read the neatly typed letter again:
‘If you want to know the truth about Freda Jennings’ murder, follow these instructions carefully. Get your car keys and go downstairs to the parking lot without telling anyone where you are headed. Drive to the barge at Sutton Creek where you’ll see a blue bin on the side of the lighthouse. Park right next to it. Beneath the bin, you will find another letter and your instructions will proceed from there.’
For a few moments, Victor contemplated the startling content and apparent urgency of the unsigned letter. Naturally, he was desperate for the truth behind the brutal murders, especially since, thus far, he had been somewhat linked to two of them.
In the parking lot, he slid behind the wheel of his car. What caught his eye immediately on the front passenger seat was a hand-drawn map with his destination encircled with blue ink. He looked around the interior of the car, then got up to check the exterior. Soon after, he again sat down at the driver’s seat now puzzled as to how the stranger had gotten into his locked vehicle. Bearing on the fact, however, that the long drive to Sutton Creek would demand his strict attention, he chose to focus on the task at hand.
Dangerous & Deadly- The Nick Myers Series Page 3
