The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  Twenty minutes later he turned around and headed back. He made a mental note to pick up one of those devices that measure how far you’ve jogged so he could set up some goals for his new health quest. He had absolutely no idea how far he’d gone today nor how many calories he’d burned. Time to become like every other health nut and get with the program, he thought wryly. He never thought he’d see the day.

  He returned home and was just about to go inside when he realized that something looked different. He walked around to the side yard and immediately noticed that the pink princess tricycle he’d bought Hannah a couple of years ago was missing. He had set it there until he could figure out where to store it. She no longer rode the thing but he didn’t have the heart to get rid of it yet.

  He tried to remember if it had been there before he’d left for his jog. He wasn’t certain, but he didn’t think so. Which meant it had been stolen sometime last night. He checked all the doors to make sure they were still locked to be sure nobody had broken in while he was gone. Then he looked around the grounds to see if anything else was missing. It looked as though Hannah’s trike was the only thing missing.

  Who in the world would come all the way up here just to steal a child’s toy? It didn’t make sense. Then suddenly he thought of someone who might pull a stunt like this. Stanley Jenkins. He could be sending Sam some sort of message: like Hannah or Amy would be his next victims. As horrific and far-fetched as it seemed, Sam couldn’t rule it out. Jenkins had a tendency to play with people’s minds and Sam could almost imagine him finding out he’d bought this house and deciding to give him some sort of wakeup call like this as a house warming gift. The fucking bastard.

  Even if he was wrong about Jenkins, Sam knew he had to find out who had stolen the tricycle. His first thought was to see if any of the neighbors had noticed somebody going up his driveway. There were a few of them at the base of the hill he could ask. At least it was a beginning.

  He got into the Jeep and headed down the driveway. He drove slowly, looking out for anybody who might be hiding in the woods. When he reached the bottom he headed straight for a ranch home a couple of hundred feet from where his driveway began and parked. He rang the doorbell and an elderly man answered the door.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Sorry to bother you, but my name is Sam Middleton and I just moved into the Maynard house. I was wondering if you by any chance noticed anybody going up my driveway either last night or this morning.”

  The man stepped out on to the porch and shook Sam’s hand. “Nice to meet you. My name’s Carl Shipman.”

  “Nice meeting you.”

  “Gotta say I’m glad somebody’s living up there now. Damn kids have been partying in your driveway ever since Bill Maynard passed and it’s been a real pain in the rear end.”

  “I didn’t realize that.”

  “Yeah, well the cops have caught them a couple of times but they just keep coming back after things have died down. Maybe they’ll quit doin’ it now that you’ve moved in.”

  “I hope so,” Sam replied. “Maybe I’ll post a no trespassing sign if you think that would help.”

  “That’d be a good idea—appreciate it.”

  “No problem. So have you seen anybody drive up?”

  “Nah, but the wife and I were at church earlier. Somebody could have gone up while we were gone, I reckon. And we hit the bed pretty early last night so I can’t help you much there.”

  “I see. Well, thanks anyway.”

  “Just curious—why are you asking? Somebody vandalize your property or something?”

  “No, nothing like that. I thought I might have heard somebody walking around outside while I was still in bed—probably just an animal of some kind,” Sam lied.

  “Yeah, that’s certainly possible. I’ve seen quite a few deer around here—a few coons and possums, too.”

  “Probably what I heard, then.”

  “I will say that folks go jogging up the driveway from time to time. Not sure how far up they go but it does happen. I know there’s a path not too far up that branches off and cuts straight up to the top of the hill. That may be their jogging trail.”

  “Is that right? How far up is it would you say?”

  “About a hundred yards or so—on the right side. You can see it if you look hard enough. It’s a bit overgrown in the summer but should be easy to spot now that the trees are bare. I used to walk Marty, my old golden retriever up there while he was still alive. I asked Bill Maynard if he minded me going up there and he told me it’s actually public land. In fact, his property line—your property line now—is only about fifty yards down from your house.”

  “That sounds about right,” Sam said, recalling the deed. “My driveway is technically a sort of no-man’s land.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think most folks know that and assume it’s all your property. I doubt anybody from the city would mind if you post a no trespassing sign, though.”

  “And I will definitely do that ASAP. Well, thanks again, Mr. Shipman, it’s been a pleasure.”

  “Just call me Carl, neighbor. And I’ll keep an eye out for ya if you’d like.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Have a nice day.”

  As he walked down to the only other house on the short street, Sam felt thankful that his closest neighbor seemed so cooperative. Carl Shipman was literally his nearest geographical link to civilization, which could definitely come in handy someday.

  He stepped up to the front porch and knocked, waited a moment and knocked again. After nobody answered, Sam trekked down to the intersection of Fulton Street and stopped. Peering down the street he noted that the nearest house was several hundred yards away—further than he’d previously thought. Seeing little reason to quiz the owners if they’d noticed any passersby, he decided to return to the Jeep. As he pulled away he called Roger on his cell.

  “Hey now, what’s up?” his detective friend answered.

  “Not much. Spent all of yesterday moving shit into the new place. Still have a ton to do.”

  “Gotta admit, I missed my drinkin’ buddy last night. A hoppin’ Saturday night at the Mug.”

  “Well, I haven’t missed being hung-over today, I can tell you that. Best I’ve felt on a Sunday morning in months.”

  “That’s so lame—next thing you’re gonna tell me is that you’ve taken up jogging!”

  “Funny you’d say that—I may actually do it. Which brings me to why I’ve called. I took a little hike on the hill earlier and when I got back home realized that somebody has stolen my granddaughter’s trike out of the yard.”

  “Damn, that’s pretty low. You find out who did it?”

  “No, I didn’t see anyone. I think it was probably taken last night.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m pretty sure, anyway. There’s a slim chance it happened while I was on my hike but I can’t remember if I saw it or not.”

  “Showing your age, my friend.”

  “Like your memory is any crisper,” Sam joked.

  “You think they drove up there?”

  “I don’t think so. I guess they could have while I was gone, but it seems unlikely.”

  “See any tire tracks? Other than your own?”

  “Forgot to look.”

  “What kinda fuckin’ detective are you, anyway?”

  “Not so good, apparently.”

  “I think you’re slipping since you quit shadowing me like you used to.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, what do you make of this? I mean, who the hell do you think would have stolen it?”

  “It’s a prank, Sam. That’s what I think.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know how you tend to let your imagination get the best of you when it comes to shit like this. You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t know what you mean. First of all, why would anybody go to the trouble of traveling all the way up to my new place just to play some trick on me? That doesn�
�t make any sense, nor can I think of anyone on God’s green earth that stupid. I do think somebody could have done it intentionally to shake me up, though.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Stanley Jenkins.”

  “Jesus, Sam, I’ve heard it all now. First you think he murdered Ann and now you think he’s stealing shit out of your yard. Why, may I ask, do you think Jenkins had anything to do with this?”

  “I think he might be telling me he’s out for Hannah—or Amy, or both of them. He went up to my place, saw the trike there and assuming it was Hannah’s decided to lift it to scare my ass. Even if he’s not planning on doing Amy or Hannah any harm, he could have done it just to get a rise out of me. You know how screwed up that prick is—can’t you see him pulling something like this?”

  “Okay, I can’t argue with that. But I still think you’re grabbing at straws, buddy. I’m sorry, but I just don’t think Jenkins did it, period. There’s probably some logical explanation—like maybe a vagrant stole it for a fifth of muscatel or to buy some crack. There are homeless people all around here lookin’ for drug money, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s possible. All I know is I need to find out who it was so I can put it to rest. You have any suggestions?”

  “I’ll have to give it some thought. What do you have planned for today? I’m off the clock so we could get together for a drink.”

  “Too early for a drink. I’m going to Kroger’s to get some groceries and then I’m heading back to my place to finish unpacking. Why don’t you come by in say an hour or so?”

  “Sounds like a plan. Later, dude.”

  Sam had just finished hooking up his computer when he heard a car pull up and park. He glanced out and saw Roger Hagstrom’s ancient Subaru Outback. When he got out of the car carrying a twelve-pack of Rolling Rock Sam cringed. His friend was a binge drinker and once he started he never stopped. The last thing Sam wanted to do was spend the rest of the day getting smashed.

  Sam met him at the door.

  “Brought a little housewarming gift,” the gruff detective greeted.

  “Nice touch, thanks.”

  “I still can’t believe you got this place—what a fuckin’ steal!”

  “No shit. It’s like living on top of the world.”

  Roger took out a couple of beers, handed one to Sam and put the rest in the fridge.

  “That’s one helluva view for sure,” Roger said, twisting off the cap and taking a swig. “You can see all the way down to the river.”

  Sam uncapped his Rock. “Should’ve seen the sunrise this morning. Beautiful.”

  “I’ll bet. So show me around your new digs, buddy.”

  “Well here’s the living room and the kitchen and down that hall is the family room,” Sam began.

  As he showed Roger his new home, Sam’s mind was still on the stolen trike. In fact, he’d found it impossible to think of much else all day. After he’d finished the tour of the inside, Sam showed the detective his backyard and the in-ground swimming pool.

  “I can’t believe this!” Roger said. “I’m seeing some wild pool parties happening next summer—get a bunch of hot chicks up here and just go crazy!”

  Sam laughed. “Not a bad idea. So where do we find chicks interested in hanging out with a couple of old farts like us?”

  “Speak for yourself, bucko. Maybe your ass is over the hill but not this horny bastard! All you gotta say is ‘pool party on top of Three-Mile Hill’ and they’ll be here in droves!”

  “Ya think?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Hmm, maybe we’ll give that a shot and see what happens.”

  “Definitely.”

  Sam had known Roger since they were kids and although they were as different as night and day in many respects, their friendship had never waned through the years. Roger had never married and in fact didn’t seem interested in ever settling down. He was a Smithtown icon of sorts, one of a handful of locals that seemed content accepting the way things were, living life in this Appalachian town with its unemployment in the double digits, serious drug problems, and little more to do than hang out in the bars and try to pay the bills. Roger had been with the Smithtown PD nearly thirty years and could probably retire today with a comfortable pension if he wanted to. But he loved his work too much and was an excellent detective. Although he was a self-confessed alcoholic, Roger Hagstrom always managed to show up at work every day to do his thing.

  As they stood on the deck overlooking the pool, Roger looked around and said, “You ever think of installing security cameras?”

  “No, why?

  “Well, I was thinking that if you installed a couple of closed circuit cameras here in the back and around front, you could see if anybody’s lurking around this place when you’re not around. Like the person who stole that trike if he decides to return.”

  “Hey, that’s not a bad idea. Even if that doesn’t work, it wouldn’t hurt to have some sort of security system around this place since it’s so isolated. But those things are super expensive, aren’t they?”

  “Nah, not at all. Used to be, but they’re cheap now that they’ve become so popular. They even make wireless ones with a pretty decent range that are affordable.”

  “Sounds great. Who sells them?”

  “Just Google it—there’re all kinds on Amazon. The only reason I know all of this is we investigated a burglary last week at a residence that had a few of these cameras installed. The homeowner played the video back and there stood the perp, clear as day. Took us less than an hour to ID him and make an arrest. So I asked this homeowner how much he’d paid for the surveillance system and he showed me several affordable ones online.”

  “That’s pretty cool. I will definitely check that out.”

  “Let’s get another beer,” Roger suggested. “I’m dry.”

  Back inside, Sam did a search of closed circuit video cameras on his iPhone. With Roger’s guidance he ordered an entire system that was reasonable and included all the features he wanted. After placing the order he had another beer which eventually led to another beer and then another. He discovered that having a few beers wouldn’t kill him and it helped get his mind off the mysterious tricycle theft for at least a little while.

  Chapter 5

  Stanley Jenkins stared at the ceiling of his prison cell, his elation palpable. After more than eight years of incarceration in this hellhole he was finally getting out. He thought back to everything he’d been forced to endure—the night he’d been gang-raped, the two assaults that had all but left him dead, eating the slop they called food that had left him malnourished and sick more times than he could count and the sheer fucking monotony of living day-to-day in an eight-by-ten-foot cage.

  He recalled the other time he’d been incarcerated and debated if that had been any less miserable. He’d spent four years in a state institution after torching Cindy Fuller’s dorm his freshman year at college. Besides having his freedom taken away, he’d lived in an environment as unsettling as prison but in a much different way. In the nuthouse he’d been forced to take drugs he didn’t want, subjected to endless consultations and psychiatric evaluations designed to supposedly help “cure” him of his inflictions, and forced to listen to the endless cacophony of screams, moans, hysterical laughter and pitiful cries of the other patients. One thing was for sure: he definitely slept much better here. At least there was some semblance of peace and quiet at night.

  Who knows how long he would’ve had to remain in the nut house if he hadn’t been able to finally coerce Dr. Flagg into declaring him mentally competent and socially stable. Amazing what one can achieve with an IQ of 165 while dealing with a bunch of idiots.

  And now once again, his intelligence would be his ticket out of a hellacious existence. That, plus outrageous sums of money, that is. Luckily, money can still buy anything.

  By far the smartest move he’d ever made was hiring Ted Stillman to represent him in the Bradley
murder trial. He’d first met Ted while living in Los Angeles. He’d heard through the grapevine that Stillman was as crooked as the day was long and that he could be persuaded to do just about anything illegal if the price was right. So he’d hired Ted to mentor him on how to launder the small fortune he’d amassed in Vegas while playing blackjack. He’d mastered the system and made quite a haul before the casinos finally started getting wise to him. Stanley knew that the plastic surgery procedures he would need to become Jerry Rankin wouldn’t come cheap. Ted and his expertise in money laundering and lucrative investing had enabled Stanley to become a very rich man in a relatively short time.

  After his arrest for Marsha Bradley’s murder, Stanley’s single phone call had been to Stillman, who was still practicing in LA. Stanley offered the attorney ten thousand dollars just to fly to Ohio and discuss the possibility of becoming Stanley’s defense lawyer. As expected, Ted had booked the first flight he could and visited him in jail the next morning. During their conference, Stanley laid out his offer to Ted Stillman. He would pay the attorney a retainer of twenty-five thousand dollars plus expenses to represent him in the trial. His first priority would be to work out a plea agreement that would take the death penalty off the table. If successful, Stillman would be paid an additional ten thousand dollars.

  Stillman had of course tried talking him into pleading insanity but Stanley told him that wasn’t an option. When asked why, Stanley explained that he’d been in the nuthouse before and was never going back—he would rather go to prison. And besides that, he wasn’t crazy, although everyone apparently thought so, especially after he’d openly confessed to all three murders he’d committed. And that made him crazy? What’s so crazy about wanting to receive credit where credit is due?