I turned to Ernie. “And Quinton Myers, the man you talked to, said that he lost his knife several months ago.”
He nodded. “Yes, and he didn’t have an alibi for last night, or for the night that Jonathan Hall was killed. He was home alone in bed. How can he prove that?”
“And my guy, Clive Worchester,” I said as I looked at all of them, “says he gave his knife to his friend.” I’d told them about my conversation with Bryce Mueller. “He was cagey, and he lied to me about meeting friends for lunch. He’s holding something back. I want to figure out who his girlfriend is and talk to her.”
“Someone’s lying, that’s for sure,” Ernie said.
We batted around all we had, arguing points, tossing theories out, rejecting them.
“I don’t know about Eve Godwin,” I said. “I still come back to the homeless man. He was so certain he’d seen a man. That would eliminate her as Jonathan Hall’s killer.”
Ernie crossed his hands over his middle. “A tossup between Worchester and Mueller?”
Before I could answer, Tara Dahl rushed into the room. She saw all of us and stopped.
“What kind of meeting of the minds is this?” she asked.
Spats stopped pacing and said, “The brightest minds around.”
Ernie snorted.
Tara walked over to me with some papers. “I thought you’d want to see this.”
“What’s that?” I took the pages from her.
“It’s an online conversation that I took off Eve Godwin’s laptop.” Tara leaned over my shoulder and pointed. “She belonged to a very secretive chat group. The site is designed to keep conversations private.” She smiled. “However, I managed to get into it, anyway.” There was a note of pride in her tone, and I felt it, too. Tara is really good.
“There’s a whole group of them that have anonymous names,” she said.
“How do you know they’re aliases?” Oakley asked.
Tara smiled at him. “Because of their names: Marilyn Monroe. Teddy Roosevelt, Brad Pitt, Joe Smith, Pete Rose, Daffy Duck.”
“Oh, how clever,” Ernie said.
“But here’s the kicker. They keep talking about doing a ‘deed. ‘” Tara stood straight and looked at everyone. “One conversation occurred a week ago Wednesday.”
Oakley stared at Tara. “That’s the day after Jonathan Hall was killed.”
Tara nodded. “And another conversation occurred last Wednesday.”
Spats put his hands on the desk and leaned over toward mine “That’s after Nicole Lockwood was killed.”
I was reading through the conversations. “Listen to this. They talk about their ‘deeds,’ how it felt to do it. It sounds like they’re talking about killing. They want to know what it feels like.”
Tara held up a cautious hand. “But they’re careful not to say that. They know what they’re doing; they don’t want anything to implicate them. They even say that in one of the conversations, how they can’t do anything to get caught.”
“Multiple killers?” Oakley asked, incredulous.
“A killing group.” Spats shook his head in a mix of awe and disgust. “Really?”
“That’s what we need to find out.” I said.
“Is there a leader?” Ernie asked.
“From what I can tell, Teddy Roosevelt,” Tara said.
“Isn’t that fitting,” I muttered. “A president.”
“One known for his hunting,” Oakley observed.
I laid the papers on my desk. “This is great, but it doesn’t help me build my case.”
Tara grabbed the pages and shuffled through them. “No, but this does. I did a lot of internet work and managed to track down two of the people on the list. Joe Smith is Alan Oswald, and Daffy Duck is some guy named Clive Worchester.”
My jaw dropped. “Give me those papers.” I stared at them.
“I’m working on the others,” she said. “I’ll give whoever set up this chat group credit, they’re making it really hard to figure out identities. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“That’s great work, Tara,” Ernie said.
She shrugged shyly. “Thanks. I’ll leave you bright minds to figure it out.”
As she left the room, I said to Oakley and Ernie, “You two talk to Yamamoto. Let him know what’s going on, and find Alan Oswald. Spats, you come with me. We’re going to talk to Clive Worchester again. I think we’ve found our killers.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
While Ernie and Oakley got in touch with Detective Yamamoto from the Aurora Police Department, Spats and I went back to visit Clive Worchester, unannounced. When we walked into his building, the doorman stared at us, his face again blank. I walked past him, Spats on my heels.
“Excuse me,” the doorman called out. “You need to be announced.”
“So announce us,” I snapped.
He looked confused, but reached for the phone, and Spats and I strode to the elevator and got in. The elevator stopped on the eleventh floor, and Spats and I got out and walked quickly down to Clive Worchester’s door. Before we got there, it opened.
“Detectives,” Clive said, his voice smooth, a cool edge to it. “I didn’t think I would see you again so soon.”
“A moment of your time?” I said, matching his faux politeness.
He nodded without a word, stepped back, and let us into the condo. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked as he went to a long bar along one wall. He began fixing a drink. “Oh, may I offer you to anything?”
Spats and I both shook our heads. He turned around, took a long pull on his drink, then walked carefully over to a loveseat and sat down. Then he gestured for us. “Sit, please.”
I edged over to the back of the couch across from him and perched on the edge. Spats stayed where he was. Clive took a drink and gazed at me.
“I do have more questions,” I said, “but before I begin, I would like to read you your rights. That way we’ve covered our bases.”
He arched an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”
“It protects both of us.” I smiled, then before he could object, read him his rights.
“I understand my rights,” he said when I finished. He swirled his drink.
“Thank you.” I dispensed with any niceties. I held up the piece of paper that Tara had given me with some of the names of the online chat group members. I tapped it. “We found out something interesting about you.”
Spats put his arms at his sides and let me talk, but his muscles tensed, one hand near his gun, ready for anything.
“Oh?” Clive’s hand stopped for just a moment, then resumed. “What might that be?”
“Teddy Roosevelt, Daffy Duck, Brad Pitt, Joe Smith, Marilyn Monroe, Pete Rose.” I glanced at him as I read off the names.
He stared at me, forcing bemusement. “That’s an interesting list of names.”
“These are names from an online chat group. We’ve managed to track down a few of the people behind the pseudonyms. You’re one of them.”
“Really?” His face was neutral, but his eyes held venom. Then he said, “You talked to Bryce? He told you I was with him last night, and a week ago.”
“Where did you go?”
“The Chophouse. I love that restaurant. Great steaks.”
His eyes flickered at the same time mine did. We both knew he’d just lied.
“Your friend said you were at The Palm,” I said.
He tipped his head. “Are you sure about that?”
I nodded. “One hundred percent.”
“Maybe he’s lying.”
“Why would he do that?” He didn’t answer, so I said, “Maybe you’re lying.”
He suddenly swore. “Bryce insisted on saying it was the Palm, but I hate that restaurant and never go there.” He shook his head and softly cursed his friend. He drained his glass and set it on the coffee table with a loud clink. Then he stared at me. I was wary, wondering what his next move would be. He finally said, “Well, Detective, you cau
ght me.”
I was taken aback. “Excuse me?”
He smiled, but his perfect white teeth couldn’t hide the smarmy oiliness. “The game is over, the jig is up.” He leaned back casually and laid an arm over the back of the loveseat. “It was the perfect crime. A homeless man, someone that nobody knew or cared about, the deed done late at night.” He pondered that for a second. “I watched the homeless people for days, knew that most of them were too high or confused to notice much that went on. I saw fights, disputes over their territory or belongings. And the drug use.” He sneered. “No one around would’ve ever noticed anything between me and another homeless guy. And the man I chose, he was a wreck. I talked to him once. It seemed as if he barely knew his name. I knew drowning him would be easy. I’d wear gloves, dark clothes, a hoodie. In the middle of the night, down on the Platte, who would notice me?”
“A homeless man did,” I said.
He smiled haughtily. “Yes, but did he know it was me?”
I shook my head. “No, he didn’t see your face.”
“Even if he had, I disguised myself. He wouldn’t have been able to describe me.” He went on, talking as if he’d been playing ball with someone, not committing murder. “That night, I went down to the Platte. That man was there, as he usually was. He was half drunk, maybe high. I made sure no one was around. Except, I guess, for the homeless man you mentioned.” His laugh was casual, dismissive. “But how could I have known he was there? Anyway,” he waved a hand, “I chatted with the man I’d chosen, walked him down to the river, and hit him in the stomach. I pushed him down into the river, and it was easy to hold his head under. He fought a little, but then he was gone. I walked back up the bike path to my car, and no one was the wiser.” He held up a hand before I could say anything. “Oh, I know, you’re going to say the other homeless man saw me, but again, what does that matter?”
The room was quiet. I heard Spats, trying to keep his breathing even. I waited on Clive. He wanted to talk, and I wasn’t going to stop him.
“Then,” Clive went on, “imagine my surprise when I find out my victim is the son of the lieutenant governor.” He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. “The rest of the group thought I should’ve known, but how do you know who a homeless person is? They’re, by nature, seemingly anonymous. And I couldn’t very well talk to him at length, risk witnesses seeing me with him. The one time I did speak to him, he didn’t give me his real name. Shooter. What kind of a dumb nickname is that?”
“And the knife?” I asked.
Another slight uptick in the shoulders. He smiled. “Yes, that didn’t go well, did it? The knife dropped out of my pocket, and I didn’t notice it was gone until I got home. At that point, I worried that if I did go back to the Platte, someone might see me. I had to leave it, hoping that if it was found, it wouldn’t lead back to me. As it turns out, that was my downfall.”
He was so smug, so arrogant. My stomach was a knot. “Why’d you take it with you?”
“For protection, and in case the guy fought me. I didn’t want to use a gun, too much noise.” He scratched his chin. “Turns out, it wasn’t necessary.”
“What about Olivia Childress?”
“I don’t know her,” he said.
“Your friend Bryce wasn’t involved at all, except as an alibi?” I asked.
“After you left a while ago, I called him and asked him to lie for me.” He shook his head. “He couldn’t even do that right.”
“You thought you had it all planned out.” I said, “You never thought you’d get caught, so you wouldn’t need an alibi.”
He didn’t argue. His conceit was astounding.
“Why tell me all this?” I asked.
His face went pensive. “When you questioned me earlier, I was dodging your questions, trying to keep from getting caught. That’s why we’re in the Guild, so we can talk to each other about our deeds. But it’s such a small group, and we don’t know each other. I want people to know what I did. I want you to know.”
“The Guild?” This from Spats.
Clive nodded eagerly. “Yes, the Guild. A group for people who want to know what it’s like to kill.”
A chill went through me. “How many of you have killed?”
He shook his head, a sly look on his face. “Now, now, I can’t tell you that. It’s part of the Guild rules. I’ll tell you about mine, but no one else’s.”
“What about Marilyn Monroe? Who’d she kill?” I tried to get him to reveal something, anyway.
Another headshake. “No,” Clive said. “You won’t get anything about anyone else from me.”
“You’ve never met the other Guild members?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, it’s anonymous. One of the rules.”
“How did it get started?”
He wagged a finger at me. “I can’t tell you. Again, part of the rules.”
“You killed for sport?” Spats asked.
Clive looked at him. “Not for sport, for science, for intellectual curiosity. To know what it was like. And you know what?” Neither Spats nor I seemed to be able to say anything. Clive went on. “It was wonderful, awe-inspiring. To have that kind of power and control over someone else.”
“That’s sick,” I finally said.
He glared at me. “You’ve killed, Detective. I read about you in the paper. You didn’t feel a thrill?” he whispered.
I stared at him, doing my best to control my anger. “No, I didn’t.”
“That’s too bad,” he said.
“No, it’s not.” I snapped.
Spats cleared his throat. I drew in a breath to calm myself. I stood up and stared at him. Spats moved to block the door, his hand now on the butt of his gun. Clive remained seated.
“Clive Worchester, you’re under arrest for the murder of Jonathan Hall.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A few hours later, I was sitting at my desk when Ernie walked in.
“You are not going to believe this,” he said.
“That seems to be your catchphrase.”
He guffawed, a big belly laugh that made me smile.
“You’re in a good mood,” I said. “That must mean something good happened.”
He nodded as he sat down. “Yamamoto made an arrest for Olivia Childress’s murder. It was Alan Oswald, aka Joe Smith from that chat group.”
My nod was pure satisfaction. “And,” I paused dramatically, “you’re not going to believe this.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You got Clive Worchester?”
I nodded and called Clive an unflattering name, then told Ernie what had happened. “It was amazing. We talked to him, and he told us everything. In fact, it seemed like he wanted to talk about it. He wanted his moment of glory, wanted people to know what he did. The arrogance of that guy.” I pointed toward the door. “Spats is with him now, getting a full confession on tape. I was at his condo with forensics. We’ll get a warrant for his electronics as well, see what evidence he left behind. I doubt there’ll be much, but I hope something concrete. I’ll be talking to Mueller to see if he knows more than he’s telling.”
Ernie rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Mine didn’t go quite like that. We went to Oswald’s house, he saw us, and he ran out the back door. We chased him …” He held up a hand to shush me. “Yeah, I know, I wasn’t the one doing the chasing. Anyway, we caught up to him and the little turd actually fought us. Oakley might have a shiner.”
“Wow.”
“Once we had him subdued, Oswald dodged everything, tried to lie his way out of his crime. He’s a whiny little twenty-something, plenty of family money, doesn’t even work. The only thing is, he isn’t very smart. He left a trail of evidence you could see from the moon. The Aurora detectives found some surveillance video that caught his car with his license plates near the park, and they found the girl’s backpack in a dumpster near his building. You’d think he would’ve gotten rid of that somewhere far away, but no. And she apparently fought some, and
there might be some of her DNA in his car as well. Plus, we have the chat room conversations to build motive.”
“I can fill that in some for you. There apparently is a ‘murder guild,’ ” I said, using air quotes. “Clive Worchester confirmed what we thought. The members wanted to experience what it feels like to kill.”
Ernie shook his head. “I thought maybe we were wrong about that.”
“Nope.” I sighed. “Who would’ve thought?”
“So Eve Godwin was Marilyn Monroe?” he asked. “And that was her motive? That rich woman wanted to kill someone?”
I nodded. “Apparently so. I’ve been reading through some of the conversations. The members even talk a bit about how they did their deeds. That’s what they call the murders; their ‘deeds.’ There’s some talk about Marilyn Monroe – Eve Godwin – and how she planned her crime, learned all she could about prostitutes and then picked one.”
“Nicole Lockwood.”
“Godwin didn’t know her name, but yes. She picked up Nicole, took her to a nearby park and shot her, then dumped her body at the motel. Then she tossed all the evidence in dumpsters, took Hackenberg’s car to his place and cleaned it out. We can verify this. She disabled his alarm system that afternoon so there wouldn’t be a recording of her going into his house.”
“Unbelievable.”
I held up some pages. “I was just looking at the list of members. I don’t know who everyone else is. Tara’s still working on it.”
Rizzo walked into the room. I had filled him in earlier on Clive Worchester’s arrest, and he had an update. “I’ve been talking to Follett,” he said. “He was short on praise, but he’s still pleased. However, he wants us to make sure we can nail Clive Worchester.” He looked at me. “How solid is your case? You think Worchester might change his admission?”
“We’ll see what evidence we can come up with,” I said. “We’re getting a warrant for his building’s video surveillance. My guess is we’ll find him leaving and returning around the time Jonathan Hall was murdered. And I don’t think he’ll clam up. He seems to want to brag about what he did.”
Before Rizzo could say more, Tara walked into the room, looking nervous. I waved her over.
Deadly Guild (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 3) Page 21
