February's Regrets (Larry Macklin Mysteries Book 4)

by A. E. Howe

  His record included an assault when he was in his twenties that had left a man badly injured and several arrests for drunk and disorderly conduct. He had also been accused of threatening a girlfriend with a baseball bat.

  “I’m glad you understand our need to be thorough.” Again I found myself smiling at this man for no reason. “Where were you last Saturday night?”

  “Where I am most nights, here at home. My wife will vouch for that.”

  I bet she would. But I wouldn’t bet he was here. Something was very off in this house. His life had too much makeup on it.

  “What type of car do you own?”

  “We have several. A minivan. It’s aspirational—we don’t have any children yet, but we’re still trying. That’s my wife’s car. We’ve also got a Lexus and a Dodge pickup. Out here in the country, you’ve got to have a pickup.”

  I made notes. “Thank you. That’s all for now.” I didn’t see any reason to ask his wife to confirm his alibi. Maybe if we had some solid evidence, but I’d want to take her out of this Stepford house before I questioned her. I stood up.

  “Sure I can’t get you a drink?” Tony offered.

  “No, thanks. I have more folks to interview.”

  “Good luck. It’s awful what some people are capable of.” He always said the most socially acceptable thing.

  The remaining interviews were pretty commonplace. The men I met were mostly down on their luck with old criminal records that guaranteed they would never do any better.

  I called Pete and compared notes. He had a couple men who would stay on the suspect list, but most of the rest no longer fit anyone’s profile of a serial killer. We hashed out some of the details concerning the next day’s canvassing of the area around the Sweet Spot and Dawn’s house. I told him I wanted to talk with Dawn’s co-workers at Roma’s. Leon County had already contacted them, but I still wanted to talk to anyone there who knew her.

  I called Cara and asked her if she wanted to go on a working date with me. When she heard where I was planning to go, she didn’t hesitate. She had a soft spot for Italian food.

  I ran home first to change and to feed Ivy. There was no way was I going to be late with her dinner two days in a row.

  I picked up Cara just before dark. She’d called ahead for reservations. “A real date on a Saturday night,” she said, smiling as she got into the car. She was wearing a dark green sweater dress that complimented her red hair and her deep blue eyes were sparkling.

  “Well, I do need to interview some of the staff,” I said apologetically.

  “Just don’t make anyone mad before we get our food.” Cara gave me a light punch on the arm. “How’s the investigation going?” she asked, some of the humor leaving her voice.

  “It’s early days yet, but this is going to be difficult. I’m not used to working a murder where motive isn’t a factor.”

  “It’s all just random?”

  “Appears to be. Predator is the right word for a serial killer. They live among us and when they feel the urge, they just pick a victim based on looks, availability and timing. In most murders, motive is the driving force. But for a serial killer, opportunity is the most important consideration.” I thought about it for a moment, then added, “And the urge.”

  “The urge?”

  “The impulse. I think that goes hand-in-hand with opportunity. Imagine you’re walking through the kitchen and someone has put out a plate of chocolate chip cookies. You know they don’t want you eating them, but when you see them you get the urge, the desire for one of them. If the person is standing right there watching you, then you don’t have the opportunity. But if they leave you alone with the cookies, then the desire combined with the opportunity means one less cookie on the tray.”

  “Or two or three. Unless you have impulse control.”

  “Exactly, and a lack of impulse control is a defining feature of a serial killer.”

  “And they don’t kill all the time because they don’t always have the urge when they have the opportunity?” Cara asked thoughtfully.

  “Like walking through that kitchen, but your mind is on things other than cookies.”

  “Chocolate chip cookies are always a high priority for me.”

  “Maybe cookies were a bad example.” I smiled and got another light punch on the arm.

  I was glad Cara had called ahead. The parking lot was almost full. The weather was perfect, with a chill and the smell of wood smoke in the air. Half a dozen people were waiting for tables around the maître d’s station. I gave the woman my name and she told me that it would be a few minutes while they cleared a table.

  “I’m going to go ahead and see if I can talk to the manager,” I told Cara and she promised to get our table if it was ready before I got back.

  I exchanged a few words with an officious looking fellow in a black vest with a name tag that read: Alberto, though I was guessing that Albert was closer to the truth. He told me he was the assistant manager and would be glad to talk with me, though he was also quick to remind me that they were busy. I felt a little guilty about that. He took me into a private room that was being set for a large party.

  “You said this was about Dawn. It’s horrible,” he said as soon as the door closed.

  “She waited tables?”

  “Sometimes she was a hostess, but she liked waiting tables best.”

  “How long had she worked here?”

  “I don’t know exactly. About a year.”

  “Was she a good employee?”

  “The best. I wish everyone was like her. Dawn did her work. She was friendly to everyone, but she didn’t get into any of the catty kitchen stuff like a lot of the girls and, honestly, the guys. A lot of waiters are gossips at heart.”

  “Did she have any particular friends?”

  “Not really. She lived over in Adams County and, once we were done and the tips were divided up, she was usually in a hurry to get home. Always afraid her car wouldn’t make it. A couple times it didn’t.

  “One time that creature she called her roommate dropped her off. Yuck.” He made a face. “I really don’t know what else to tell you. She came in, she worked, everyone liked her, and she went home. A few times she talked about how hard it was working her way through school. I remember she was going to be a nurse. Damn, how sad is that?”

  He seemed touched by her death. Not deeply like you would be for a close friend or family member, but like when you see something beautiful that’s been destroyed for no reason. Which, from all appearances, was exactly what had happened. He gave me a few names of employees that were on familiar terms with Dawn, but said he didn’t think any of them had ever had contact with her outside of work. One of them was working that night, so Alberto sent her back to talk with me and she said essentially the same things he did.

  “Did you talk to everyone you needed to?” Cara asked me when I joined her at our table.

  “Yep, and I heard what I expected to hear. Dawn was a great employee who was pleasant and kept to herself.”

  “So awful. No one deserves to die like that, but it seems like the killer was determined to take out wonderful people. Tonya and then Dawn.”

  “Luckily Tonya is going to recover. The doctors are expecting her to regain consciousness in a couple of days. I don’t think Shantel has left the hospital through this whole ordeal.”

  “You said Tonya won’t remember anything.”

  “I doubt it, though I don’t think she saw anything. Dawn either. That’s this maniac’s MO. Come up behind—” The waiter came and took our orders. When he left, I said, “We don’t need to be talking about this at dinner.”

  “Don’t worry. I hate that it happened, but I’m glad you’re working on the case.”

  “I’m not sure how I feel about it. I was ready to give up being an investigator.”

  “Having doubts? We’ve been over this. I’ll support you as long as it’s what you want, and you don’t shut me out.”

  “I don’t
know. Maybe it’s just this case. The danger that this man represents. I understand why my father was so obsessed with catching him.”

  “I like your father.”

  “That’s good. Don’t they say that if you want to know how the son will turn out, look at the father? Oh, no, what am I saying?”

  Cara grinned. “They say the same about mothers and daughters.”

  “Your mother’s okay.”

  She laughed. “Just okay? So I’ll just be okay?”

  “You are already much more than okay,” I said, reaching across the table to take her hand.

  “Seriously, your dad is great. He’s funny when he’s around Mauser or the horses.”

  “He’s always loved animals. He’s usually too indulgent with them. For me, Dad was not the easiest father to grow up with. When he paid attention to me it was usually way too intense, but more often than not, he was preoccupied with his work. Mom made everything all right. She always knew when I needed him, and she’d have a word with him. He loved her so much that he’d do whatever she asked. I’ve told you that’s why he became sheriff. She joked with him for years about running for sheriff. None of us took it seriously.”

  “It must have been hard for both of you when she died.”

  “Dad went days without speaking to me. Not because he was being cruel. He was just so lost inside himself that it never occurred to him that he needed to talk to me.”

  “Still, you suggested he run for office.”

  “I wasn’t sure he’d do it. I think what finally tipped the scale was a birthday card he found. Mom had drawn it. It was pretty childish—she wasn’t an artist, but it was just for fun. It said: To Ted, my sheriff, the man who wears the star. Seeing it in her handwriting, the word ‘sheriff’ seemed to move him. Once he got it into his head that that’s what she would have wanted, there was no stopping him. For months, whenever he was off duty, he’d drive to a neighborhood and knock on every door and listen to anyone who would talk to him. He won the election handily.”

  Cara smiled at me and squeezed my hand. Then the waiter delivered our food and we were both distracted by the excellent aroma and taste. We ate until we were stuffed, but we managed to share cannoli for dessert.

  We drove back to Adams County in companionable silence. Then I turned the radio to a classic rock station and we both sang along like a couple of silly kids. For just a moment, I was able to stop thinking about the hunt that lay ahead.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I woke up Sunday morning alone. Well, almost alone. Ivy was sitting on the bed, staring into my face from six inches away and using all of her feline mind control powers to make me get up and feed her breakfast. Once she realized that mind control was failing, she resorted to reaching out and kneading my pillow while purring loud enough to penetrate my dreamless sleep. I opened one eye.

  “Really?” I looked over at the clock, which told me it was almost eight-thirty. I sighed. “Okay, okay.” I crawled out of bed reluctantly and fed the princess her breakfast.

  Pete and I had scheduled a meeting with a few patrol deputies for one o’clock to review the questions we wanted them to ask while canvassing the neighborhood around the Sweet Spot and Dawn’s house. I decided to use the morning to go over the old files and come up with criteria for expanding our list of suspects to males who were as young as twenty years old when the original murders took place. I had some of the information that had been used to develop the original suspect list. I wanted to go over that and see what criteria, besides age, should have been considered so that we could cast a net wide enough to catch the killer, but not so wide that he was obscured by red herrings.

  I was using my desktop to access the office database and trying to see how the online files on the original case were organized when I got a text message.

  Hola from Miami! It was from Eddie Thompson, my confidential, cross-dressing informant. He’d saved my life twice, at least according to him, and had felt the need to flee the county when everything blew up with his family last month.

  Me: Having fun?

  Eddie: It’s crazy fun here. But like Dorothy said, there’s no place like home.

  Me: Only your dad and Edwards are still in jail. Rest made bail.

  Eddie: Yeah, word is Gramps is running things. He never liked me. I’ll keep dancing on South Beach! Heard the Swamp Hacker is back. Insane. Good luck with that.

  Me: Thanks. You better go. Your gramps might be intercepting our texts.

  Eddie: Shit, didn’t think about that. Later.

  Okay, that last was a little cruel, but all in good fun.

  As I reviewed the old records, I thought about the characteristics of a serial killer. Having a record of violent behavior toward women was number one. Second was anti-social behavior, third was arson and the fourth, animal cruelty. The prime demographics were male, white, thirty to forty-five years old. Since several of our victims had been African Americans, did that mean that that a black man could have committed these crimes? Black serial killers are as rare as hen’s teeth, but they do exist. The D.C. sniper and Wayne Williams, who killed children in Atlanta, were two. And some who were never caught, such as the phantom in Texarkana, might have been black. It was something to consider.

  My phone rang.

  “She woke up. And it’s Sunday.” The joy in Shantel’s voice made me smile.

  “I’m really glad she’s doing better.”

  “I can breathe again. Praise God, I can breathe again.”

  “Would you like to help us find this guy?”

  “Hell, yes,” she said, her voice deep and serious. “Just tell me what I can do.”

  “Take today and be with Tonya, but tomorrow, if you can, start going over the evidence from the earlier cases and cross-reference it with what we’ve gotten this time. We want to expand the suspect list. Tolland with Leon County will help you access their records.”

  “I’m itching to get on that SOB’s trail.”

  I assured her we’d get him and told her to call me if she had any problems tomorrow.

  Just gathering the data that we needed to expand our list was going to be challenging and time consuming. And for both the original list and our expanded list, there was a major piece of the puzzle that was out of reach. Juvenile records are sealed. Our killer may have gotten into trouble for abusing people or animals or for arson when under eighteen, but if he wasn’t adjudicated as an adult, then we’d never know.

  My hyperactive phone rang again. It was Pete this time, confirming that we’d meet with the other deputies at Winston’s Grill. Some of them were working off the clock so he’d offered everyone lunch.

  “You paying?” I joked.

  “We’ll go halfsies. This is our case.”

  When I got there, Winston himself was waiting our table. There was one male and two female deputies. Julio joined us a few minutes after I sat down. Everyone ordered a large meal at our expense.

  “You all eat like that, all you’re going to want to do is curl up somewhere and take a nap,” I grumbled good-naturedly.

  “I caught that one sleeping in his patrol car last week,” Teresa Pelham said, pointing playfully at Derick Jacobs.

  “That’s bull. I was typing up a report,” Derick said, trying to defend himself.

  “I tapped on his window with my flashlight and he practically jumped through the roof of the car.”

  “You startled me.”

  The joking and jostling went on until Pete raised his hand. “Okay, now that most of you all are done eating, let’s remember that you’re here for a reason. Larry and I have drawn up a list of questions we want you to go over with anyone who will answer their door.”

  “I think we’ll have some luck. Just cruising through there the last couple of days, people have wanted to talk. Some of them are pretty scared,” Julio stated.

  “Good. I’m scared. Everyone should be. There’s a freak out there killing people and hacking them up,” Pete said, a little louder than some of
the after-church-on-Sunday families eating lunch around us would have preferred.

  Winston came by with coffee. “It’s crazy. Everyone who comes in here’s scared,” he said to the table at large. Everyone nodded as he filled our cups.

  Pete handed out the list of questions and copies of a map that showed everyone’s assignments. “I know you all could have done a good job without us telling you what to ask, but we want to be thorough and consistent,” he said.

  The questions were mostly of the have you seen anything variety. Have you seen a strange car or truck hanging out in the neighborhood? On Saturday? If so, what did it look like? Could you see the driver? If so, what did he look like? What time was it? That sort of thing.

  “This could take a while,” said Susan White, a large and intimidating black officer with a disarming smile. She reminded me of an elementary school teacher I’d had. If that woman frowned in your direction, you would wet your pants. But if she smiled at one of your answers, you felt like the whole world loved you.

  “Yep, so we should get started,” Pete told everyone.

  “Just one thing before we go,” I said. “I know I don’t have to remind you all that Shantel’s niece was attacked by this guy. I know this one feels personal for all of us. Push people, but don’t push them into an answer that isn’t true.”

  Everyone nodded solemnly. They knew how easy it could be to guide a witness. Far too easy. Even when you didn’t want to, you could end up getting answers you wanted rather than answers that were true. But looking around the table, I felt good about our prospects. This group represented some of the best and most dedicated deputies in the department.

  As we were leaving, Winston offered free pie and coffee if we wanted to come back when we were done. It sounded like a deal to all of us, so we agreed to meet back there at five.

  We all were pretty much done-in by the time we got back to the restaurant. True to his word, Winston had a couple of strawberry pies waiting for us, made with fruit fresh from Plant City. We agreed to eat pie first and compare notes later.