The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

“I’ll be there within twenty minutes, Mr. Middleton. Thank you for calling.”

  He got ahold of Higgins on the radio, who was following up on a lead that had been called in earlier.

  “Where are you now, Molly?”

  “Heading back, actually. The lead was a bust, of course.”

  “I just got a call from someone who claims to know who our suspect is. When will you be here?”

  “I’m just a few minutes away.”

  “I’ll meet you out back.”

  On his way to the garage, Hogarth’s fingers were crossed that this was the break they’d been looking for. There was something about the caller’s claim that sounded genuine. Perhaps the fact that the man Middleton suspected was American and their suspect was believed to be American as well. Plus, Middleton’s substantiation sounded too unusual to be anything but the truth. Who’d dream up a story like that unless there was a ring of truth to it?

  He saw Higgins drive in as he entered the garage. She pulled up and he got in.

  “So tell me what this is all about,” she said.

  After he filled her in, she looked at him incredulously. “And you actually think this American fellow knows who our killer is? It’s a bit farfetched if you ask me.”

  “All I can say is we won’t know unless we follow it up. It’s not like we have anything else to get excited about at the moment.”

  “That’s certainly true. You should have seen the man I just interviewed, claiming that he’d spotted a man who looks the killer at a grocery store. The guy was so strung out on something that he could barely form a sentence!”

  “Not the first time something like that has happened in this case. I don’t know how much more I can put up with this before I totally snap. The chief just let me know in so many words that my next move in the force will be south to street patrol if we don’t snare this monster before the end of the week. He meant it this time; I’m certain of it.”

  “I hate to think of your chances of staying sober if we fail to deliver, Clive, after what you pulled last night.”

  “Let’s not go there again, Molly. I told you I’ve learned my lesson. So I’ve decided to simply shoot myself instead of dragging this misery out through drink—much quicker.”

  “That wasn’t funny at all.”

  “It wasn’t intended to be,” he replied drily.

  They arrived at Stewarts and a young woman standing near the front entrance approached them.

  “Are you the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Heaton asked me to escort you to her office,” she said and led the way toward the back of the store.

  Hogarth paid little attention to his surroundings as they followed the girl up to the second floor. They entered an office and Hogarth saw a man and two women gathered around a laptop computer.

  “Good afternoon, I’m Inspector Hogarth and this is my partner, Inspector Higgins.”

  “Sam Middleton,” the man said, shaking his hand.

  “Nicole Heaton,” the woman announced. “And this is Jenny Matlin. Would you care for tea?”

  “No, thank you. So please, Mr. Middleton, tell me again why you’re so certain you know who this culprit is. And let’s hear it from the beginning, if you don’t mind.”

  Sam thought for a moment before speaking, not sure where to begin. “I have known this man—Stanley Jenkins—since I was a kid. We both grew up in the same Ohio hometown and he had a crush on a girl I dated in high school who I eventually ended up marrying. . .”

  Sam highlighted the events of the past ten years regarding Stanley Jenkins all the way up to his arrival in London and his reason for being there at the bookshop now. “I came here to look at photos of the man at my reading to see if he has a scar on the back of his right hand, which he does. I think he could very well be the serial rapist, taking into account Jenkins’ similar MO.”

  “So let me see if I have this straight. You think this fellow Jenkins has radically changed his appearance through plastic surgery since you last saw him, correct?” Hogarth inquired.

  Sam nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then how can you be so certain he’s the same man who asked you to sign the book?”

  “I noticed in one of the photos he was wearing a bracelet that’s very distinctive looking. And identical to one Stanley Jenkins owns.”

  “I see. May we take a look at this photo?”

  Sam nodded, leaned over the laptop and scrolled down to the photo of Jenkins applauding.

  “Here it is.”

  Hogarth studied the photo, noticing the silver bracelet Middleton was referring to.

  “Have you ever seen this person prior to Sunday’s event, Mrs . Heaton?”

  “No, I haven’t. Unlike the majority of our attendees, he was not one of our regular customers.”

  “Do you by any chance have a record of his ticket purchase? I assume there was a charge to attend the event.”

  “There was a charge but the tickets were simply sold on a cash basis at any of our six branch shops. There was no sort of registration for the event, I’m afraid.”

  “Have you seen the police sketch of the killer, Mr. Middleton?”

  “I have. And I realize that Jenkins looks nothing like the sketch—that’s one thing I am totally clueless about. But I can tell you this, Inspector. Even if Jenkins isn’t the same man you’re looking for, he’s a dangerous felon who needs to be arrested immediately.”

  “And providing that he’s who you say he is, I’d have to agree. However, we don’t have the manpower to search for an American convict while we’re in the midst of a crime wave that lies much closer to home. Unless we can ascertain that this Jenkins character is our suspect as well, I can pretty much assure you that no action will be taken to apprehend this man by Metro Police. That would most likely be carried out by the NCA anyway, or one of our other special forces.”

  “So you aren’t going to do anything about this,” Sam said accusingly.

  “I’m not saying that, Mr. Middleton. What I’m saying is that we need to find something more solid than just your hunch that this is our suspect before we can justify a search for him. Tell me this: does the man in this image look in any way similar to the Jenkins fellow after discounting his face? Height, weight, frame and so on?”

  “I’d say his height is the same. His frame is similar, although it’s been a decade since I last saw Jenkins. He was in better shape back then; looked like he worked out regularly. This guy looks a bit heavier and less athletic. Of course, Jenkins would be middle-aged now, which could account for his degraded physique.”

  “And what about this scar on his hand? Do you recall if Jenkins had a scar as well?’

  “No, but he could have easily gotten that while in prison.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s feasible. You said that this man sounded as though he was speaking with what you perceived as a fake British accent. How certain of that are you?”

  “Very. Although I’m hardly a linguistics expert, I can pretty much tell when an American is trying to sound English—it always sounds forced and exaggerated to the point of distraction. Furthermore, when Jenkins had transformed himself into his first incarnation—Jerry Rankin—he claimed to have lived in England for several years prior to meeting my wife. She told me Rankin had affected an English accent that sounded less than genuine. After ten years of being out of practice while in prison, I can imagine Jenkins sounding as un-English as the guy in this picture sounded. And another thing that just occurred to me is that his voice was of similar pitch to Jenkins, which was average in range.”

  “Did your detective friend happen to mention if the Las Vegas police acquired a photo of Jenkins during their investigation?”

  “That’s a good question, and no, he didn’t say. I could call him and find out if you’d like.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Why don’t you give me your friend’s phone number and I’ll give him a ring.”

  “Sure, do you have a pen?” Sam a
sked Nicole.

  “Here,” Hogarth said, pulling out his notebook. He thumbed to a blank page and handed it over to Sam along with his pen.

  “How long will you be in London, Mr. Middleton?”

  “I’m leaving on Thursday.”

  “How about jotting your mobile phone number there as well? Where are you staying?”

  “The Sheraton on Knightsbridge.”

  “I’d also like a copy of this photo—would you mind emailing it to me, Mrs. Heaton?”

  “Of course,” Nicole replied. She saved the image to her desktop, typed in Hogarth’s email address, attached the photo and clicked “send.”

  “Very well, then. Can you think of anything else, Inspector Higgins?”

  “I’m curious of one thing. Why in the world would this Jenkins fellow purposely risk your identifying him at your book signing event? For that matter, why did he show up in the first place?”

  “My only answer is you’d have to know how crazy Jenkins is. He was very unpopular at school—all the kids thought of him as this big nerd. But after reinventing himself as Jerry Rankin, he suddenly believed he had everything in the world under his control. He became arrogant, convinced that he could con anybody into anything and have them at his beck and call. I think he has regained that sort of superior attitude in this newest incarnation of himself since his prison escape. I believe Jenkins came to my reading just to prove he could do it and get away with it. He figured he’d just come up to me, feed me this bogus story about his sister, Ann, and that I would buy it lock, stock and barrel. The man is highly intelligent but also loves to play games like that for the challenge, I guess. He’s a cold-blooded murderer and a sociopath that will stop at nothing to get whatever it is he desires.”

  For the first time during the interview, Hogarth felt that there was some serious merit to Middleton’s suspicions. Having heard his take on Jenkins’ checkered past and deranged psyche, Hogarth could almost believe he was chasing the same person. The serial rapist case involves a killer who is clearly highly intelligent, manipulative, and elusive. A killer who seems to thrive on the challenge of meeting a total stranger, beginning a casual conversation with her and then slipping a date rape drug into her drink. He then proceeds to rape her, confident that she can’t recall what has transpired. Afterwards he thoroughly cleans up after himself and slips away into the night, nobody the wiser.

  A quite similar modus operandi, indeed.

  “Thank you for contacting us, Mr. Middleton. We will call if we come up with anything regarding your concerns.”

  “Do you think your suspect could be Stanley Jenkins?”

  “I’ll be frank with you; I have some serious doubts. There are just too many loose ends to tie up before any sort of rational conclusion can be made. I think what stands out most in my mind is how unlikely it is that this Jenkins would show up in London at around the same time that you have, Mr. Middleton. That seems nearly statistically impossible to me. Unless he has purposely come here because you’re here. Otherwise, the odds seem against it.

  “But on the other hand, I am seriously considering what you’ve just told me and I can’t rule it out. There is a possibility—however slim—that your theory could be on target. I’m going to speak with your detective friend and take it from there. And I will keep you in the loop, should something break in this case.”

  “I appreciate that,” Sam said.

  “Very well,” Hogarth said, extending his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. Good day.”

  Hogarth waited until they were back in the car before saying a word.

  “What do you think, Molly?”

  “Honestly? I think the American has read far too many murder mysteries.”

  Hogarth laughed. “That may be so. But he seems to be dead-certain this Jenkins culprit is our suspect. Middleton appears to be of sound mind and not likely the type to make this sort of allegation without having given it some thought.”

  “All I can say is I’ll be very surprised if this pans out. So what do we do now?”

  “How about lunch?”

  “Sounds wonderful—I’m starving!”

  “Let’s see, it’s half past noon, which would make it seven-thirty in the States. I’m going to give this Detective Hagstrom a call and see what I can find out.”

  Hogarth reached for his phone.

  “Do you even know the international code for the US, Clive?”

  “No, actually. Do you?”

  “I do.”

  “Wonderful. Let’s have it.”

  Higgins recited the code and Hogarth punched it in followed by the phone number Middleton had written down. Several rings later somebody answered.

  “Hagstrom.”

  “Yes, Detective Hagstrom? This is Inspector Clive Hogarth of the London police. I have been speaking to your friend, Mr. Middleton, and he gave me your number. I’m calling to ask you about the murder case that occurred in Las Vegas last month. Have you a few moments?”

  “Sure, but I can tell you now I don’t have much more than I did when I called Sam.”

  “Do you happen to know if the police have a recent photo of the man they ID’d as having committed the crime—this Stanley Jenkins?”

  “I doubt it. They were still trying to determine how and when the victim came in contact with Jenkins the day of the murder. Apparently, nobody has been able to confirm seeing the two together, nor do the investigators know the woman’s whereabouts from the time she left work that day.”

  That certainly has a familiar ring to it, Hogarth thought. “So what you’re saying is that nobody knows what this Jenkins looks like now—Mr. Middleton informed me of his penchant for reinventing himself.”

  “I’m afraid so, Inspector. The police have scoured all of the popular casinos in hopes of finding anyone who recalls a Stanley Jenkins or a Jerry Rankin—his alias at the time of his incarceration—but they’ve had no luck. They have also shown old photos of Jenkins and Rankin around, but it’s the same thing. Nothing. May I ask why you’re inquiring about Jenkins?”

  “I’m sorry—I should have told you up front. Your friend seems to think this Jenkins character may be the same person who’s been raping and just recently murdering women in London.”

  “Christ, I should have known! When is he going to let this whole thing go?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sam has been obsessed with Stanley Jenkins ever since he escaped prison—especially after his wife was killed by a hit-and-run driver. He seems to think that Jenkins was her killer and ever since then he’s launched his own campaign to track Jenkins down so he can be thrown back in prison.”

  “And you don’t think Jenkins killed Middleton’s wife, I assume.”

  “I can’t rule it out, of course, but I think it’s highly unlikely. Like I’ve been telling Sam for the past couple of years, Smithtown, Ohio is the last place Stanley Jenkins would go. He’s much too smart to make that kind of mistake. Nor do I think he would take that sort of risk just to kill Sam’s wife. After all, the man was head-over-heels for Ann in his own demented way. So why would he kill her? Doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “If we assume that Jenkins has indeed transformed his appearance, which he evidently has, what sort of risk would he be taking if nobody in town was able to recognize him?” Hogarth inquired.

  “Well, you’ve got a point there, I reckon. But I still don’t think he’d kill Ann—that’s all I’m saying. And now it looks like Sam is going off the deep end again. Why may I ask does he think Stanley Jenkins is on a rape and murder rampage in London of all places?”

  “He thinks Jenkins showed up at his bookshop appearance in his new disguise. And he seemed very certain it was him.”

  “How’s that?”

  “This man was wearing a bracelet similar to one Jenkins owns. Plus, this fellow seemed to be taunting Mr. Middleton in a sense, which made him all the more suspicious.”

  “I do remember that bracelet Jenkins was wearing when we arre
sted him. Silver with several turquoise stones. But that hardly means that was him. How was this guy taunting him?”

  “He told your friend he had a sister named Ann who was too ill to come to the reading and asked Mr. Middleton to dedicate his book to her. Sam felt that was the sort of thing Jenkins might do.”

  “Actually, I could see him doing something like that. He’s an arrogant bastard, without a doubt. Likes to pull the wool over everybody’s eyes. But still, this all seems like pretty weak evidence.”

  “I agree. But it’s a fact there’s a similarity between the crimes committed by this Jenkins fellow and our perpetrator. Both culprits raped their victims after giving them date rape drugs and chose strangulation to take their lives. And from what I’ve heard regarding the Las Vegas case, Jenkins has managed to travel well under the radar so to speak, as has been the case with our suspect. This could be more than mere coincidence; wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I never realized there was such a resemblance between the crimes. Damn, if this ends up being Jenkins after all, I’ll owe Sam a big apology, eh?”

  “It sounds like it. At any rate, I hope to get to the bottom of this before the killer strikes again. Could you do me a favor, Detective, and let me know of any progress made in the Vegas case? And if you hear that they’ve been able to discover what Jenkins looks like? I would greatly appreciate it.”

  “I definitely will, Inspector. And I’d appreciate the same consideration from your side of the pond.”

  “Certainly. Oh, and one other thing. Do you know if there was a mask found at the scene of the Vegas woman’s murder?”

  “A mask? What kind of mask?”

  “An ordinary costume mask, black perhaps.”

  “Nobody mentioned it but I could check with my contact there. Why do you ask?”

  “There was a mask left at two of the crime scenes we investigated. The killer apparently left it as his calling card.”

  “I see. Was the killer wearing this mask, or what?”

  “No, or at least we don’t think so. He left one mask still sealed in its plastic wrapping in one instance, and placed one around the victim’s head in the other. The only one he’s murdered, that we know of.”