by Tim Kizer
Edward Phillips’s parents hadn’t visited him since January 6. Why?
Had they passed away?
Had they disowned him for murdering a child?
Would he have visited Edward Phillips in prison if he were in Jeff and Emily Phillips’s shoes?
He probably would. Parents were supposed to love their children no matter what, right?
After studying the visitor logs, Mark did some research on Phillips’s parents.
Edward Phillips’s father was fifty-six and resided in Carrollton. Phillips’s mother was fifty-five and lived with Jeff Phillips in Carrollton. Apparently, Jeff and Emily Phillips were still married.
Emily Phillips had no criminal record. Jeff Phillips had been charged with assault twenty-nine years ago, but the case had been dismissed. He hadn’t been charged with a crime ever since. Evidently, Jeff Phillips was capable of physical violence.
Men in their mid-fifties were typically strong enough to overpower an eighteen-year-old girl. Mark wasn’t sure if the same was true for women.
Two months after Helen’s death Mark had learned that Jeff Phillips was a professor of sociology at the University of Texas at Dallas. Mark checked the faculty list on the university’s website and saw that Jeff still taught at the UT (which meant he was still alive).
Mark had never inquired about Emily Phillips’s occupation.
2
As Mark prepared an application for a search warrant for Christopher Novak’s credit and bank card records, his phone rang. It was Peter Franken from the crime lab.
“I’ve just finished testing the Heckler & Koch you gave us,” Franken said. “The test bullets match the bullet from the robbery of Eddie’s Mini Mart in Garland, which took place on April tenth of last year.”
The test bullets matched the bullet recovered from Eddie’s Mini Mart. This meant that Sam Curtis’s pistol had really been used in that robbery.
“Thank you, Peter. Was the mini mart robbery the only hit?”
“Yes, it was.”
There was no doubt now that Sam Curtis had told Edward Phillips he had robbed Eddie’s Mini Mart. And the evidence supported the conclusion that Curtis had committed that robbery.
Why had Curtis told Phillips about the Eddie’s Mini Mart robbery?
Perhaps because he was a blowhard.
Why had he told Phillips where he had hidden the gun?
Perhaps because he was stupid.
He might have been stupid enough to confess to his cellmate that he had murdered a fifteen-year-old girl.
It was important to keep in mind that so far he had seen no evidence that Sam Curtis had killed Helen or Laura Sumner. And…
Mark’s thoughts were interrupted by his cellphone. It was an unknown number. He tapped the Answer button.
“Hello.”
“This is Edward Phillips. How are you doing, Mark?”
Mark leaned back in his chair and said, “I’m fine. Why are you calling?”
“I just wanted to ask if you got the gun from Sam’s house.”
“Yes, I have the gun.”
“Did you meet Sam?”
“No. He doesn’t live in that house anymore.”
“Did you do a ballistics test?”
“Yes. That gun was used in the Eddie’s Mini Mart robbery.”
“Did you find Sam’s fingerprints on it?”
“Yes, we did.”
“I knew he was telling the truth.”
“You said Curtis trusted you. Why did he trust you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I look trustworthy.”
Mark shifted his eyes to his computer monitor, which had gone into screensaver mode and was now displaying a digital clock bouncing around the screen. The time was 1:29 p.m.
“Let’s say I believe you. What do you suggest I do?”
“He’s going to kill again, and you should catch him in the act.”
“I’ll have to follow him every day, won’t I?”
“I guess so.”
Was Phillips serious?
“I have a job, you know,” Mark said.
“You can do it after work. I think he prefers to kill at night.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Helen was killed at night, wasn’t she?”
Phillips had a point. A serial killer was likely to stick to a method that had worked in the past. Laura Sumner had been murdered at night, too.
“Okay, I’ll think about it.”
“If you catch him in the act, don’t kill him. You have to take him alive.”
Mark knew why Phillips didn’t want Sam Curtis to die: he hoped Curtis would confess to killing Helen.
“Sure. Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Mark.”
I should have asked him about the fingerprint and the blood stains, Mark thought when he hung up.
If he had asked Phillips how his fingerprint had gotten on Helen’s belt buckle and Helen’s blood on his pants and boots, what would Phillips’s answer have been?
Phillips might have said that he had found Helen’s body after the killer had left.
Suppose it was true. Why hadn’t he called the police?
Perhaps he had been afraid he would become a suspect.
Why hadn’t he told the detectives he had found Helen’s body when he was interrogated?
Because they wouldn’t have believed him.
He should talk to Phillips’s attorney, Leonard Barlow. He needed someone to convince him that Phillips might be innocent, and who could do it better than his lawyer?
Did he want Phillips to be innocent?
No, I just want to get to the truth. I want to know who killed Helen.
If you want to get to the truth, you need to talk to the prosecutor and the detectives who handled the Phillips case, too.
That was fine by him.
Leonard Barlow’s office was a fifteen-minute drive from Dallas PD headquarters. Mark called him and made an appointment for tomorrow morning. He did not tell the lawyer it was about Edward Phillips.
3
At half past four Mark picked up Sam Curtis’s pistol at the crime lab. When he was halfway to police headquarters, his phone rang. It was Detective Aguero.
“You asked me to call you,” Aguero said.
“How are you doing, Detective? I really appreciate you calling me.” Mark put on his blinker and began to pull over.
“Are you busy?”
“No.”
Mark brought the car to a stop and turned off the engine.
“You said you wanted to discuss the Sumner case.”
“Yes. I have a few questions I want to ask you.”
“Ok, shoot.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“No.”
“Are there any persons of interest?”
“There was one, Laura’s ex-boyfriend, but we cleared him.”
“Did you find any fingerprints or DNA evidence?”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Did you interview a man named Sam Curtis?”
“No.”
“Has his name ever come up?”
“No. Why are you interested in this case, Mark?”
Mark looked out his window and watched a fuel truck pass by. He could barely hear the traffic.
“Have you heard of Helen Hinton?”
“No.”
“She’s my daughter. She was murdered the same way as Laura Sumner.”
“I’m sorry about your daughter. When was she killed?”
“Last December. They found the killer.”
“Is he in custody?”
“Yes. He’s in prison awaiting execution.”
“Do you think there’s a connection between these murders?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
There was a silence on the line. Then Aguero said, “I’m going to look into this. I’ll let you know if I find something.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Chapter 5
1
“Did you murder Helen Hinton?” Jeff asked.
“No,” Sam replied.
“I know you killed her. I have proof. We found your DNA on her body.”
“It’s impossible. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“If you confess, the DA will take the death penalty off the table. Do you want to live, Sam?”
“You got the wrong guy. I didn’t kill Helen Hinton.”
“Will you take a lie detector test?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Sam thought for a long moment and said, “I don’t know to say. What should I say?”
“Tell them you think that lie detector tests are unreliable.”
“Got it.”
Five minutes later Sam saw what looked like a human figure far down the road. A rush of excitement filled him, the kind a hunter felt when he found his prey.
“I think I see a hitchhiker.” Sam pointed down the highway.
Jeff leaned forward between the front seats and said, “Yeah, it does look like a hitchhiker.”
“Let’s pick him up.”
People rarely hitchhiked these days, so they had to seize this opportunity.
“Why?” Jeff asked.
Sam explained, and Jeff nodded agreement.
When they were about fifty feet from the hitchhiker, Sam pulled over to the side of the road and honked the horn.
“Don’t put him to sleep right away,” he said to Jeff. “Wait five, ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
The hitchhiker was a man; he wore jeans and a fleece jacket, and had no bags. As he approached the car, Sam rolled down his window.
“Where are you headed, bro?” Sam asked the man, smiling.
“Rockwall.”
The hitchhiker was in his twenties and had a stubbly face and short dark hair.
“We can take you there. It’s right on our way.”
“Awesome! Thanks a lot.” The man’s lips drew back in a wide grin. He opened the front passenger door and got in the Ford Explorer.
“What’s your name?” Sam asked, pressing the gas pedal.
“Edgar.”
“I’m Sam. And this is Jeff. He’s my uncle.”
Edgar turned to Jeff and said, “Nice to meet you, Jeff.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jeff shook Edgar’s hand.
Seeing that the hitchhiker hadn’t fastened his seat belt, Sam said, “Buckle up, bro.”
This suggestion was supposed to make Edgar believe he was dealing with decent, caring people, and lull his vigilance.
“Right.” Edgar snapped his seat belt into place. “Where are you going?”
“Richardson.”
“You live in Richardson?”
“Yeah. Do you live in Rockwall?”
“No. A buddy of mine lives there.”
“Where do you live?”
“Waco. Have you ever been there?”
“Yes, a couple of times.”
“Did you like it there?”
“It’s a nice place.”
Edgar nodded. “Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“I saw fishing rods on the roof. Did you go fishing today?”
“Yeah. We went to Lake Tawakoni.”
“Cool. Did you catch anything?”
“Yes, we did. But we released all the fish we caught.”
When they got back to Carrollton, they would have to wipe off everything Edgar had touched in the Explorer to erase his fingerprints, and then vacuum the car and clean the front passenger seat with a lint roller to remove all the hairs that might have fallen from Edgar’s head.
Jeff pulled a flannel rag and a bottle of chloroform from his pocket.
“Do you like fishing?” Sam asked.
“Yes, I do,” Edgar said.
Jeff opened the bottle and soaked the rag with chloroform.
“Want to hear a—”
Before Edgar could finish, Jeff clapped the rag over his face. His screams muffled by Jeff’s hand, Edgar struggled for a few seconds and then passed out. Jeff dropped the rag on the floor and took two ampoules of chlorpromazine and a syringe with a needle on it out of the bag. Chlorpromazine, also known as Thorazine, was a powerful sedative, which was widely used in mental hospitals to subdue out-of-control patients. Jeff drew the drug from both ampoules into the syringe, then pulled up Edgar’s left sleeve and injected the tranquilizer into his arm. They needed to sedate Edgar because chloroform wore off within just a few minutes after the person stopped inhaling the fumes, and Jeff didn’t want to spend the entire trip giving chloroform to Edgar. The dose Edgar received was going to put him into a stupor for at least an hour.
“Get his phone,” Sam said.
Jeff extracted the cellphone from Edgar’s jeans pocket, removed its battery, and put it in the duffel bag.
2
Sam tapped the brakes, turned off the worn blacktop onto a dirt road, and then pressed the gas pedal. They were headed for the secluded spot about a mile south of Kitsee Inlet of Lake Tawakoni they had found three weeks ago. It was located in a wooded area and was a good place to bury a body. There were two shovels in the trunk of the Explorer, which they’d taken with them specifically to dig graves.
The road was rough and bumpy and was only wide enough for one car. Sam felt as though he were on one of those coin-operated mechanical horses.
“Let’s do it here.” Sam pulled off the road onto the grass, stopped the car, and switched off the headlights. To Edgar, he said, “Hey, buddy. Are you okay?” He poked the man in the chest.
His eyes half-closed, Edgar turned his face to Sam and grunted quietly.
“Give him another dose, just in case,” Sam said to Jeff.
He looked at the road to make sure there was enough room for another vehicle to pass, pulled the key from the ignition, and got out of the car. The air was filled with the smell of earth and leaves. It was silent except for the whisper of a breeze blowing through the trees. Sam stood for a moment, peering into the moonlit woods, then went around to the back of the SUV, opened the liftgate, and took out the shovels. When he reached the front passenger door, Jeff was putting the syringe back in the bag. Sam leaned the shovels against the fender and opened the door.
“Are you done?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Jeff climbed out of the Explorer.
“How much did you give him?”
“A hundred milligrams.”
Away from the light pollution of the city, the stars were amazingly bright and sharp. Staring at the sky, Sam wished he lived on a ranch in the country.
Someday I will, he thought.
Jeff reached into the bag and produced two pairs of latex gloves, one of which he gave to Sam.
“You want to get a drink after this?” Jeff asked as they put on the gloves.
“Sure.”
Sam grabbed a flashlight from the glove box, switched it on, and fished his keys out of his jeans pocket. Shining the flashlight at the small compass attached to the keychain, he took his bearings.
The road ran from east to west. This information would help them find their way back to the car after they buried Edgar.
“Which way are we going?” Jeff slung the duffel bag over his shoulder.
“This way.” Sam pointed south. “I’ll carry him, and you’ll carry the shovels.”
He pocketed the keys and the flashlight.
“Let’s go, buddy.” Sam unfastened Edgar’s seatbelt, grasped him under the arms, and pulled him out of the car. The hitchhiker wasn’t fat; Sam estimated he weighed about one hundred and sixty pounds. The smell of sweat emanating from Edgar’s body made him think of his high school locker room. He remembered stealing glances at other guys’ penises to see how big they were.
“Is he heavy?” Jeff asked.
“No.” With Jeff’s help, Sam hoisted Edgar onto his back.
Twigs crackling underfoot, the toes of Edgar’s sneakers scraping the ground, he
entered the woods. The hitchhiker’s body was limp; he made no effort to hold onto Sam.
For a moment Sam wondered if Edgar was just pretending to be out of it.
If he tries to strangle me, Jeff will whack him with a shovel.
If Edgar scratched him, he would have to cut off his fingers so the police wouldn’t get his DNA from his skin under Edgar’s fingernails.
Carrying the shovels on his shoulders, Jeff ambled beside Sam.
“Do you want to do it, or should I?” Sam said.
Sam believed Jeff would understand that by “do it” he meant “kill Edgar”—and he was right.
“You do it,” Jeff replied.
It was easy to walk as the terrain was level and there were no mounds or hollows. After about fifty yards, Sam’s back began to complain.
I should go to the gym more often, Sam thought.
He had read that gorillas could lift ten times their own weight. It would be nice if humans were that strong, wouldn’t it?
When they were a hundred yards from the road, Sam stopped and said, “This is far enough.” He laid Edgar on his back on the ground and wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
“Should we dig the grave before or after?” Jeff asked as he tied Edgar’s legs.
“Before,” Sam said, flexing his fingers, which had become numb from holding Edgar’s arms.
He picked up a shovel and then turned toward the road, thinking he had heard a car. He saw no headlights.
“What is it?” Jeff asked.
“Nothing.”
It took them forty five minutes to dig the grave, which was about two feet deep. No cars passed by during that time. Edgar lay quietly on the ground and did not attempt to get up or crawl away.
Sam knelt down, unbuttoned Edgar’s shirt, and bared his chest and stomach. Edgar raised his head slightly and mumbled something unintelligible.
“Relax, man.” Sam patted him on the cheek. “Everything’s fine.”
He emptied Edgar’s pockets and handed the contents to Jeff: he wanted to make it harder for the police to identify the body.
“Knife,” he said.
Jeff took a knife out of the bag and gave it to Sam.
Sam ran a hand over Edgar’s hairy chest, mentally marking where he was going to stab him, raised the knife, and gripped it tightly. A guttural sound escaped Edgar; his right hand rose, and a moment later fell down. His heart pounding with excitement, Sam drove the knife into Edgar’s left breast, pulled it out, and plunged it into his right breast. Edgar slapped his hands to his chest and let out a throaty groan; a shudder shook his body.
