Mounted

by E. H. Reinhard

  Neither Beth nor I responded but followed him into the building when the door buzzed us in. King guided us through the room with the bullpen and offices. He made a right down a short hall and through a door that led to a longer hallway with offices off to its sides on the right and left. From the look of it, I imagined it to be the patrol division. He pushed open a door at the end of the hall that led to the garage. I spotted parked cruisers to my left and right. A back area off to the left appeared to be where the patrol vehicles received service. He headed in that direction.

  “Her car is back here,” King said.

  We followed him around the nose of a couple of cruisers. I took a glance at the light bars on the roofs, confirming the rotating reflectors inside. I spotted the Hyundai sedan belonging to Katelyn Willard parked near the back wall, near the hoist for vehicle service.

  “Did you take a look before we got here?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he said. “I actually just walked in a second or two before you guys. So you wanted to check to see if there was registration in the vehicle?”

  “That’s correct,” I said.

  He stopped at the front of the car and waved me toward it. “Have at it,” he said.

  “You’ve already processed it?” I asked. “I don’t need to glove up or anything?”

  “No. The car is actually going to go back to the family in a day or two. We’re done with it here.”

  I pulled open the passenger-side door and had a seat with my feet hanging out of the vehicle. The passenger-side floor was covered in trash—mostly receipts with more garbage sprinkled in.

  “What is it with women and garbage in their cars?” I mumbled to myself.

  Beth walked around the front toward the driver’s side, looking over the car. I popped the glove box, which was wedged top to bottom with papers, what looked like the car’s owner’s manual, napkins, more receipts, and air fresheners. Something hit my knee, and I glanced down—sitting on top of the foot-well trash was a ball of what looked like hair ties that must have fallen out. Beth opened the driver’s door and crouched in the doorway.

  “Looks like the inside of my car between cleanings,” she said.

  “I believe it to be a woman thing. Karen’s truck is usually jam-packed full of garbage as well. Here.” I pulled a two-inch stack of paper and whatever came with it from the glove box and set it on the driver’s seat. “Look for a registration in there.”

  Beth looked through everything I’d placed before her. I took an equal-sized stack and started flipping through it—some fast-food order tickets, a warning for speeding, a grocery list, a receipt and the results from an eye exam, and some miscellaneous garbage.

  “See anything?” Beth asked.

  I held up a receipt. “Pedicure receipt. Seems like something really important to keep. Aside from more crap like this, no.” I shook my head and continued through the stack. “If there was a registration in here, how the hell would she even find it?”

  “I’m guessing the same way we are going through it,” Beth said.

  “Nah, on the video, she handed the guy at the window whatever the paper was and her ID pretty quickly.”

  “Finding anything?” King asked.

  I glanced up through the car’s windshield at him standing at the front bumper and watching Beth and me. “Not yet,” I said.

  Beth and I continued through the contents of the glove box, never finding anything that looked like it belonged to the vehicle itself and not finding a registration. Beth stacked all her papers and handed them back to me. I stuffed everything back in the glove box and closed the lid.

  “See anything on the floor there?” I asked.

  Beth leaned in and looked around the carpet. She reached below the driver’s seat and came back with a blue cardboard envelope. She smiled and held it up. The front of the envelope had the words car docs written on it in black marker.

  “Probably what we’re looking for,” I said.

  Beth opened the flap and pulled out the documents within. “Maybe she left it on the seat, and it landed on the floor when it was towed or something.” She turned the papers in her hand and went through them one by one. “Looks like the paperwork from when she purchased the vehicle, some oil-change and service receipts. And…” Beth flipped the final paper. “No registration.” She held out the papers toward me.

  I took them in hand, paged through them, and confirmed the absence of registration. “Okay, so it’s not in the car. I guess that’s about all we need to know.”

  Beth stood from her crouched position. I put the papers back in the folder and left it on the passenger seat as I got out and closed the door.

  “And no prints here that weren’t hers?” Beth pointed to the driver’s door as she closed it, possibly referencing powder remaining on the door, which I couldn’t see.

  “None,” King said. “And from the video we looked at, it doesn’t seem like the person at the window actually came into contact with the car.” King went silent for a moment. “Am I ever going to find out what exactly the hell is going on here with the FBI and this missing girl? I mean, I’m doing my part and all to assist—just kind of like to know what I’m assisting with.”

  Beth said nothing and looked at me to field the question.

  “We’re going to have a press conference at nine this morning to tell the public what we know.”

  “And that is?” he asked.

  “The area has an apparent serial killer on their hands. The case was transferred to the bureau from the Louisville PD to investigate.”

  He stood before us with a blank expression on his face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Duffield had decided to reveal to the public that our possible suspect could have been posing as a police officer but had left out the possibility that he might actually have been a police officer. He’d brought in the chief of police from Louisville Metro PD to speak for a moment. The police chief stated that he’d informed all his officers to dress in uniform and only make stops if they were in official vehicles. He went on to say that he was working with other departments to ensure the same thing. He also stated that, if people had the feeling that they were being approached by someone who wasn’t official law enforcement, they should tell the officer they’d like to call 9-1-1 or their local department in order to verify the officer.

  As I listened to the words the police chief was saying, I mentally shot holes in each part laid out. His plan was filled with flaws, flaws that would affect the ability of the officers to do their jobs, as well as potentially putting them in unneeded danger.

  The police chief stated a few more steps they planned to take, one of which was to be on the lookout for any civilians driving retired patrol or detective cars, which I thought was a good idea. He finished his speech and turned the podium back to Duffield, who answered a few questions and wrapped up.

  We’d concluded the press release a few minutes before ten o’clock, and I spent twenty minutes with a journalist from the Louisville Press-Gazette as per my agreement with Andrew Shalagin from the paper.

  I found Beth in Duffield’s office, gave the door a tap, and walked in.

  “It was his idea,” Duffield said.

  “Whose idea?” I asked, taking a seat next to Beth.

  “The chief of police, with the whole ‘Dressed in uniform and verifying officers’ thing.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s all pretty much worth crap,” I said.

  “I tried telling him that before we started. You know, the fact that he’s limiting the ability of his own guys out on patrol.”

  “I was punching holes in it as he was rambling on,” I said. “The official uniform and vehicle part was pointless. Our guy could go and buy a Halloween police costume, and the vehicle he was driving is already believable enough to get people to pull over. When you factor in the cover of nightfall…” My words trailed off.

  “I think he just wanted to show his face and say he was doing something,” Duffield said, “ev
en if what he planned on doing was useless.” Duffield ran his hand over the top of his short black-and-gray hair and leaned back in his chair.

  “So why again are we leaning just toward the ‘Posing as an officer’ as opposed to ‘May actually be one’?” Beth asked.

  “I agreed with the chief deputy that we weren’t going to put that as a possibility out there. Until we know for certain that it’s a police officer, and not someone posing as one, that’s the route I agreed to take. Which, after watching the recording countless times, I think is the right one. There were just too many things wrong with it. Hank, you said that you were PD at one point, right?” he asked.

  “I was. Homicide detective and then sergeant,” I said.

  “Patrol?” he asked.

  “Years and years ago.”

  “Okay, but you have to remember the procedures—safe ways to conduct a traffic stop.”

  “Being?” Beth asked.

  “Watching your ass,” Duffield said. “Every traffic stop an officer makes is one of two things—risk or high risk. Basically, risk because you never know who you’re walking up on, or high risk when you know—a driver with felony priors, evading, warrant, et cetera. The point is, if you’ve ever made a stop, those essentials of being cautious are kind of ingrained into you. You’re not going to make a stop in a dark parking lot and walk directly up to the driver’s window and stand there—no spotlight, no being mindful and approaching cautiously from behind the vehicle, or anything—just casually walking up to the window and standing square in front of it.”

  I thought about watching the footage. Duffield did have a point.

  “I bet our guy probably already knew who was in the car,” I said. “He has a type of female he is after, from what we can see with the victims. Driving around randomly stopping cars would be a bit too risky and time-consuming, I would think. But I agree with your thinking on the walk-up.”

  “Well, if he was watching or following Katelyn Willard, where did he first come upon her?” Beth asked. “As far as we know, prior to her going missing, she went from her work to her mother’s place and then home, where she was taken. I mean, unless the guy had maybe followed her from her work—but then he would have been sitting in front of her mother’s house for however long she was there—hours. I guess we don’t know.”

  “She drove home at nine o’clock, I think her mother said.” I pulled out my notepad and flipped through the pages until I found the one from our meeting with the mother, sister, and roommate. I confirmed the time in my notes.

  “Something about a television show just starting and the DVR switching to the program,” Duffield said. “So that time is probably pretty accurate.”

  “I have to think, due to the time, that our guy was familiar with her and her vehicle prior or knew where she lived. I doubt, with the cover of night, that he picked her out driving.”

  “Unless she made a stop on her way home,” Beth said.

  “Maybe,” I said, a number of thoughts rolling through my head. “I know I saw the time-stamp on the video of when she pulled into her apartment, but I don’t remember it off hand. I’d like to get that exact time and see how long it actually takes to drive from her mother’s to her apartment. If the times don’t add up, we can assume she made a stop. It gives us some places to check.”

  “We’ll probably want to ask her mother and see if she knows the route she would have taken as well—on the chance that there are multiple ways,” Beth said.

  “Good idea,” I said.

  “Did you want me to get someone on that?” Duffield asked.

  “Beth and I will dig into it. After this meeting with the family the package was mailed from, the rest of our day doesn’t have much on it.” I glanced down at my watch. “And speaking of this family, what time are we supposed to go over there?” I asked.

  “When I spoke with the man…” Duffield pushed around a couple of papers on his desk and brought his fingertip down onto a name, “Chris Emmerson, he said they were getting in early Wednesday morning and he’d be willing to meet with us then. We don’t really have a set time. Let me try giving him a call and see if they’re back in the area.”

  “Sure,” I said. “If he can’t meet with us until later today, maybe Beth and I can get on this right away.”

  Duffield nodded and scooped up his desk phone. He punched in the number written on the piece of paper underneath the man’s name. A moment later, someone must have answered.

  “Mr. Emmerson,” Duffield said.

  Beth and I sat quietly as Duffield completed his phone call, which didn’t take much more than a minute or two.

  Duffield then hung the phone back on its base. “He says he can meet with us now if we wanted to drive over.”

  “They’re back pretty early. Must have taken a red-eye flight or something,” I said.

  “He said they got in at one this morning.” Duffield rocked his head back and forth. “Which technically is early Wednesday morning, like he said. Did you guys want to shoot over there right away or get going on the other thing and schedule a meeting with them later?”

  “Let’s get the meeting with the family knocked out now and checked off the list,” I said. “The address is in the file, correct?”

  “It’s in there,” Duffield said.

  I pushed my chair back and stood. “I’m guessing we’re just going to come back here when we’re through. We’ll get going with the calls we need to make on the Katelyn Willard thing and then go start with that.”

  “Door knocking too,” Beth said.

  “Damn, that’s right.”

  “What’s that?” Duffield asked.

  “We wanted to do a little door knocking around these people’s house that the package was shipped from, as well,” I said.

  “We’ve done it once,” Duffield said. “As soon as we found where it was shipped from.”

  “Another round couldn’t hurt,” I said. “We’ll expand the original radius a bit. What was the last name? Emmerson?”

  “Yeah, Chris Emmerson is the man. Didn’t get the rest of the family’s name. Why don’t I tag along with you guys? Another set of eyeballs and another pair of feet walking around and knocking on doors will probably help.”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  Duffield rolled his chair back from his desk and stood. “I’m just going to grab a coffee from the break room, and we can take off.”

  “A coffee actually sounds like a pretty good idea,” I said.

  We followed Duffield from his office, made a quick stop for a couple coffees, and walked to the cars.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  William walked through the laundry-room door and turned toward Erin in her cage. His catch pole scraped along the ground as he approached. “It’s moving day and, well, your last day.”

  She said nothing but cowered in the back of her enclosure.

  William crouched before the door.

  Erin tried to inch back farther, holding her knees in her arms.

  William stared in at her—watching her as she sniffed and trembled—her eyes were pink and wet. He saw a tear run down her cheek. “I’d have to say it looks like you actually believe me now.” He set the catch pole beside him on the floor, took the cage door in both hands, and shook it.

  Her feet slid back across the metal tray at the bottom of her enclosure as she gripped her knees more tightly to her chest.

  “Aww, is my little captive scared?” he asked. William cocked his head to one side and smiled. “If not now, you will be soon. I have a surprise for you as well.”

  She again didn’t respond.

  “Well, say something,” he said.

  Erin didn’t utter a single word.

  “Silent treatment, hey?” he asked. “But you’ve always been so chatty. You know—spreading rumors about me around Channel Eight, water-cooler talks about how I was creepy. I’d imagine some pillow talk and lies with Mark, before you guys got married, to get me fired and let you skate into my
job. You know how annoying it was watching you on the telecast every day?”

  Erin let out a small cough. “William, I’m sorry. It’s been years. I’m… I’m a different person now.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s so good to hear. All I ever wanted was for you to say that you’ve changed from the shitty person you were.” William took the key from his pocket and reached for the lock on the cage door. “Here, let me let you out of there and get those cuffs off of you. Since you’ve seen the error of your ways and changed, you’re free to go.” He stopped with the key in the lock cylinder and then pulled it back out. “Hmm. You know, on second thought, I think I’m actually just going to go ahead with my plan of killing you and mounting your head.”

  “Please,” Erin said. “I’m—”

  “No.” William waved his finger at her. “You can talk when I’m through. I want you to know your fate. And not just the end result, which you’ve seen, but the process involved. It took a fair amount of trial and error. See, killing you is just the beginning. As soon as you’re dead, I’m going to cut your head off with that Sawzall out there and toss your body in one of those freezers on top of the practice girls.”

  “William, no,” she said. Tears welled in her eyes.

  He smiled. “Tears and fear. Now we’re getting somewhere. But I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet. All right, so after I saw your head off, I’m going to drag your head upstairs by your hair, probably thumping it off each step as I walk up. Then, once upstairs, I’ll cut and pull the skin from your face. After that, I’ll remove your hair and scalp.”

  “William,” Erin said, her voice cracking.

  “Wait, wait, wait. Okay, so when I get all the skin from your face and scalp from your head, I’ll scrape away the meat still attached to your skull. Now, your skull itself is another process. First, I’ll dig your eyes out. Then, I’ll go in from your eye socket with a coat hanger and kind of whip and pull at your brain until it’s completely out.” William made a motion with his hand and arm as if he was completing the process. “It’s surprisingly difficult to get all of the brain out, but I’ve come up with a couple of tricks.”