Black and Blue

by David Rosenfelt

  Deirdre had been concerned about the less frequent usage of the library facilities; it had been a gradual decline over the last few years. She was afraid that the county might cancel the funding, which in her mind would have been a tragedy. The next nearest library of any size was almost twenty miles away.

  Deirdre was near retirement age, so she wasn’t particularly concerned about losing her job, though she loved what she did. In fact, once she retired she’d probably volunteer there. It’s just that she considered a library an absolutely vital part of every community, even communities that didn’t take sufficient advantage of it.

  Deirdre had heard about the horrible murder of the gas station owner not that far away, but it didn’t make her more cautious. Everyone who lived in the area was so friendly that there just was no feeling of danger, even after what happened. On some level, Deirdre just assumed that the poor murder victim must have been involved in something untoward.

  But when she left the building and started walking toward her car, alone in the parking lot, she did look around, just to be sure. She saw no one.

  Deirdre got in the car, reached to turn on the ignition, and felt the arm around her neck. Three seconds later that neck was broken, and two seconds after that, she was dead.

  This morning I’m back at the house of Cynthia Morris, Phelan’s ex-wife.

  The house has been locked up and guarded by cops ever since she was gunned down while getting her mail, but today a search warrant is being executed for the contents.

  Helen Mizell and Walter Brookings had connections to Danny Phelan, albeit obscure ones. I have to assume that there was some discord or friction between the victims and Phelan that we just don’t know about yet. It is probable that Mizell and Brookings weren’t even aware of it, or had no recollection.

  It could have been some real or perceived slight that took on a large significance in Phelan’s warped mind, yet meant nothing to Mizell and Brookings. Certainly it was nothing that they thought they were going to die for.

  If his notes to me are to be believed, and so far he’s been backing them up, then Phelan has almost a hundred additional victims on his hit list. They might be people who he’s carried similar grudges against over the years, all of whom he now plans deadly retribution against.

  So we have to dig into Phelan’s life and learn what we can. Maybe we can find something that will protect one of his targets, or even help apprehend him. More likely not, but, like sending up the choppers, there’s no downside to trying.

  Of course, in the murder of Cynthia Morris, there is no need to search for some hidden grudge. She divorced him and refused to take him back, so a reason for his resentment of her is out in the open.

  I don’t have an important role here today; the officers executing the warrant know what they’re doing. They also know that they are not here to make value judgments about potential evidentiary value; if something could be of the slightest, remotest significance, they are to catalogue it and take it back to the station.

  I’m standing out front when I get a call from Captain Bradley. “The FBI is entering the case,” he says. “You know the drill. It doesn’t change what we’re doing, but we’ll need to cooperate.”

  I’ve expected this; in fact, I’m surprised it took so long. “Under what jurisdiction?”

  “Not that they need any, but if we think he’s hiding in the woods in North Jersey, then those woods extend into New York. They view it as unlikely he would be observing state borders, so there is a credible reason to think he’s traveled across them.”

  “The more the merrier,” I say.

  “Your very large partner was slightly less welcoming when I told him.”

  I actually have no problem with this development; if it helps to get Phelan off the streets, I’m all for it. “I have a smaller ego than Nate,” I say.

  “You have a smaller everything than Nate. How’s it going at the ex-wife’s house?”

  “A barrel of laughs. I’m coming back in.…” I stop because a car pulls up and Julie Phelan gets out. She’s alone, and she looks angry as she walks toward me. I hope I can get my knees to stop shaking before she gets here.

  “Lieutenant, what is going on here? This is my house now.”

  “Captain, let me call you back.” I hang up and hand Julie the paperwork I have in my pocket. “And this is my search warrant. It is lawful and we are executing it. I’m afraid you’re not welcome to be inside while we do it.”

  The aggression seems to seep out of her, but she still can’t let it go. “What do you want from my mother? Can’t you let her rest in peace?”

  “We don’t want anything from your mother. We want to know if there are any possessions of your father’s in there, any paperwork, old photographs, etc.”

  “There aren’t.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes. Why do you want them?”

  I’m torn here; my inclination is to get rid of her and not tell her anything. For all I know she might be in contact with her father, though our phone taps have not turned up anything. But I also can use her help.

  So I decide to give it a shot.

  “Come with me,” I say. “Please.”

  “Where to?”

  “To that bus stop bench over there. We need to talk.”

  She looks like she is going to resist, but then nods and follows me to the bench. I sit down, and she sits as far from me as possible without falling off the side. “My father is innocent,” she says.

  “There is a lot of evidence that says otherwise. We have found a connection between some of the people who died and your father. I expect we’ll find the same is true for the others.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, Julie. That’s why I’m here. That’s why we’re going through this. We need to stop the killings.”

  “He wouldn’t be doing this.”

  “If he’s innocent, that will come out, I promise. But he ran away, so we have to assume the worst. At least until we learn otherwise.”

  She nods. “Okay. I understand that.”

  “His belongings, his papers … they weren’t in his house. How is it you’re so sure they aren’t here?”

  She’s quiet for a little while, looking down at the ground. “Because I have them. Mom didn’t want to have anything to do with him; she was going to throw everything out. So I took it. A friend of mine let me keep it in his garage; it’s only a few boxes. Then when I moved out, I put it in storage; that’s where it is now.”

  “Will you give it to me?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Julie, I’m going to share something with you. Back a couple of years ago, when the first shooting happened, I had reason to suspect your father. So I interviewed him, and I investigated him, and I decided he was not the killer.”

  “So why can’t you have been right?” she asks.

  “Maybe I was, maybe not. But if I was wrong, if he did it and I didn’t make sure he was arrested for that crime, then all of the killings since are my fault. Do you understand? I very much do not want him to have done this, but I have to know. I can’t let more people die.”

  She stares at the ground a while longer and finally nods. “Okay, but I’ll give it all to you. No one else.”

  “Fair enough. Where is it?”

  “I’ll get it and turn it over to you.”

  “Thank you, Julie. You’re doing the right thing.”

  “How come it doesn’t feel like it?”

  She tells me that it might take a day or so because she wants to go through the stuff before turning it over.

  “Don’t edit it,” I say. “You never know what might be of value to the investigation.”

  “I won’t. I just want to keep anything valuable, especially if it’s of sentimental value. You get everything else.”

  I want to ask her if she called Phelan to tell him about her mother’s death, an event which sent him on the run. It wouldn’t mean anything if she did, since I assume he fired
the fatal shot, so he would obviously have known all about it. But if she said that she didn’t, it would be further proof of his guilt, since there is no other way he could have known.

  I don’t ask her that or any other questions right now. I’ve got what I wanted from this conversation. She trusts me, and I don’t want to screw that up before I get the materials I want.

  “The deceased, whose name is being withheld, was in the driver’s seat,” the local news announcer is saying as I turn on the television. He continues, “It is unclear, or at least the authorities aren’t saying, what the exact cause of death was.”

  “Why do we watch the news in the morning?” Jessie asks. “It’s always so depressing. Why don’t we wake up to music?”

  She’s got a point. The announcer is talking about a woman found dead in her car near the northern New Jersey border with New York. The car somehow caught fire, though the cause of the fire is not known. At least according to the announcer, there was no apparent crash.

  When the firemen arrived, the flames had mostly run their course, and of course it was too late to save the woman. I’m sure there are other excruciating details, but for the moment we are spared them. A reporter is on the scene, and there are photographs of the burnt-out shell of a car.

  “We’re homicide detectives,” I say. “We watch the news to find out what my day will be like.”

  “You’re off the hook on this one,” Jessie says. “I’ll bet she was smoking in the car and fell asleep.”

  “Why didn’t she wake up and open the door?”

  “Maybe she was on drugs and had passed out.”

  “I think that’s near Sussex,” I point out.

  “You think this could be our boy?”

  “No, not unless he’s completely changed his MO, which seems very unlikely. This was hands on; our boy likes to take out his victims from a safe distance.”

  That conversational area exhausted, Jessie asks if I’m going to take Bobo for a walk.

  “Bobo takes me for a walk,” I say. “He just goes where he wants to go; I don’t think he even notices I’m holding the leash. As far as he’s concerned, I’m only there to pick up his shit.”

  “Let’s go together,” she says. “Like a family. You going to shower first?”

  “I refer you to my previous comment about picking up Bobo’s shit. That doesn’t really feel like it should be a post-shower operation.”

  So Jessie gets the leash, I get the bag, and off we go. We make the perfect family … a boy, a girl, and their very hairy horse.

  I, of course, spend the entire walk thinking about our search for Danny Phelan. I’m anxious to get the materials that Julie is going to turn over to us, although I’m not naïve enough to think there will be a smoking gun, literal or otherwise, in there.

  The material is by definition old; Phelan has been away and hasn’t added to it in a long while. There’s not going to be a diary that lists his future victims in order, but maybe there will be some reference to those he has already targeted, some hint of grudges that he might hold.

  I know that Bradley and those above him are feeling tremendous pressure. It’s not a game to them, but it is a fact of life that catching Phelan will be considered a “win.” Every day with him on the run is a “loss,” and the losses are mounting.

  For me, and for Nate, it’s a different kind of pressure. Phelan is not going to stop killing; he’s made that all too clear. So every day that goes by with him on the loose is a day that we just might get a phone call saying that someone else is dead.

  And every time we get one of those calls, all I can think about is that the victim would be alive had I not let Phelan slip through my fingers last time.

  We get back from our walk and feed Bobo. That in itself is quite a sight to behold; he eats like Nate, but without using his hands—or in his case, paws. Jessie makes sure not to overfeed him; she wants to control his weight because in a dog his size, there is a danger of hip issues. And Bobo would be very easy to overfeed; he would eat a filing cabinet if she offered it to him.

  Just like Nate.

  We head down to the station. On the way I get a report that the choppers, as expected, have not turned up anything in the woods. There have been a few false alarms that they’ve checked out, but they’ve either been animals or campers.

  We’ve got our morning meeting with the team coming up, during which we give out assignments and discuss any potential or real developments. Nate and I take turns running the meeting, and fortunately, it’s his turn today. I’m not big on public speaking, even when it’s not really in public, when I’ve essentially got nothing to say.

  But I stand up near the front with Nate, to answer questions that might come up. Near the end of the meeting the side door opens and I see Captain Bradley signaling me to come over.

  When I do, he closes the door behind us, so that we’re alone in the hall. “Did you hear about the woman who died in the burning car up north?” he asks.

  I nod. “Just from news reports.”

  “Well, she was apparently dead before the car burned. Her neck was broken.”

  I don’t say anything; he’ll get to his point quickly enough.

  “So you and Nate better get up there,” he says.

  “It’s our case?”

  Bradley nods. “It’s our case. The car that she was in, the SUV that burned, is a Ford Escort belonging to one Danny Phelan.”

  The meeting is ending anyway, so I grab Nate and we head for still another murder scene.

  A county cop, Detective Roy Chasman, knows we are coming and is waiting there for us. He’s the one who got the VIN off the car and matched it to the APB we had out on Phelan.

  The scene is still being guarded, but the event has long been over. The car had been consumed by flames; just the shell still stood there. Even so, it is obvious that it was an SUV.

  The woman’s body has also been taken away. If she was stuck in that inferno, there can’t have been much of her left. The coroner’s report said that the body was intact enough to tell that her neck was broken—not an injury that could be attributed to the fire. I hope his belief that she was dead before the fire started is accurate; the alternative is pretty awful.

  “Her name was Deirdre Clemons,” Detective Chasman says. “She was a librarian.” Then, “I knew her; everybody around here knew her. She was as nice as they come.” He shakes his head. “She was nice, and she was a librarian, and someone broke her neck and set her on fire.”

  “Is this where she was killed?” I ask.

  “Hard to know. Best as we can tell, she left the library last evening, like always. But never got home.”

  “Did she have a car?”

  “Yes, it’s still in the library parking lot. So most likely she was grabbed there. Maybe killed there, maybe not.”

  “So he put her in this car,” Nate said, “then came here, set it on fire, and left her.”

  Chasman nods. “And put gasoline all over the seats to make sure it burned. He was making a point of some kind.”

  “They were making a point,” I say, with an emphasis on “they.” “There had to be at least two of them. He could have driven to the library in the SUV, but once he set fire to it here, he would have needed a way to get back to wherever he’s hiding out. He couldn’t walk anywhere from here; this is too isolated. Someone had to have picked him up; otherwise he’d have been taking too great a risk. He didn’t call Uber.”

  Chasman nods his agreement. “And because it’s so isolated, we haven’t found any witnesses. No one reported anything unusual so far, and we have cops canvassing the closest neighborhoods.”

  “Was she in the driver’s seat?”

  “Yes.”

  Nate says, “Nothing would have looked unusual until the moment he set the fire. He could have had her propped up in the seat, or lying down, until he lit it. And he wouldn’t have made that move until he was sure there was no one around.”

  “Did she have a family?” I
ask.

  Chasman nods. “A husband, no children.”

  “Do you know him also? Because we’re going to need as much detail on her background as we can get, to see if we can find a time when her path crossed with Phelan’s. And when I say background, I mean starting in kindergarten and ending last night.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Thanks. Can you take us to the library parking lot?”

  We follow Chasman to the library, which is closed. I’m not sure if it’s in honor of Ms. Clemons or whether it’s to keep the area as pristine as possible. “No video surveillance here?” I ask, and he shakes his head.

  The back parking lot cannot be seen from the street, there’s a winding, uphill road that leads to it. “I bet his helper was here as well. That car was all over the news, and the gas station guy was killed not far away. If she saw the car, she might have been leery, or at least the killer might expect that.”

  “So where was the guy who grabbed her?”

  “Hard to know,” I say. “He could have been hiding near the door and either grabbed her there or held a gun on her. He even might have been in the back seat of her car.”

  Chasman nods. “Until now this was not an area where people had to lock their car a lot.”

  “Once he got her, then the SUV would have pulled up. But they had to have two cars here. The killer drove her in the SUV; she was probably dead by then. If you’re going to kill her, might as well do it right away, in a place that’s secluded. Then the helper followed in the other car.”

  “Cold-blooded bastards,” Chasman says. He seems like a good, experienced cop, but I doubt he’s seen many things like this. It takes a lot of getting used to.

  On the way back, I say, “Something here doesn’t compute. We’ve got Phelan killing these people because of some weird grudges he’s had. But if he’s not doing this alone…”

  “Right,” Nate says. “What does the other guy get out of it? They both hate the same people? Or he’s along for the ride? Doing Phelan a favor? Maybe we’ve been looking at this all wrong.”