by Tim Kizer
“I’m going on a stakeout.”
“Did they call you again?”
“Yes.” Mark placed his hands on Joan’s waist and kissed her. “And you know I can’t say no.”
Joan didn’t need to know he was going to tail Sam Curtis.
“What time are you coming home?”
“Before midnight.”
Joan picked up a glass of juice and sat down at the table. “Have you talked to Phillips since last Saturday?”
“Yes. He called me last Tuesday.” Mark took six bottles of water from the pantry and put them in a duffel bag.
“What did he say?”
“He asked me about Laura Sumner’s murder.” Mark drank some juice from the other glass.
“By the way, have they caught the killer yet?”
“No.”
“You talked to the detective?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I read about this girl on the Internet. It seems she really was murdered the same way as Helen.”
Why did she search for information about Laura Sumner’s murder? Didn’t she say Phillips was lying?
“Was anyone else killed this way?” Joan asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What if…” Joan paused. “Text me when you’re done with your stakeout.”
“Okay.”
He left the house at four o’clock. Curtis’s car was nowhere in sight when Mark arrived at his place.
It could be in the garage.
There were no lights in the windows visible from Mark’s vantage point.
Maybe Curtis had already left to hunt for another victim.
Let’s hope he hasn’t.
He should have bought one of those GPS tracking devices that you could attach to a car. It would have made his job so much easier.
To prevent Curtis from spotting him, Mark moved to the back seat.
2
Mark checked his watch. It was six o’clock. So far no one had gone into or come out of Sam Curtis’s house. The windows were still dark.
It shouldn’t be very hard to pick the lock on his front door, Mark thought as he looked at Curtis’s porch.
I could search his house for evidence—secretly, of course.
What kind of evidence could he hope to find there? The knife used to murder Laura Sumner (or his daughter)? Mark was willing to bet Curtis had gotten rid of the knife shortly after the murder.
At 6:26 p.m. Sam Curtis’s Mazda 6 pulled up in front of the house. The driver, a slender man about six feet tall, got out of the car and started walking toward the driveway. It was Sam Curtis. His hair was longer than in his mug shot.
Mark scanned the rear window, the trunk, and the rear bumper of Curtis’s Mazda, looking for something that made the car unique. The only distinctive feature he could see was the sticker on the right side of the bumper, which read: “I Was An Honor Student. I Don’t Know What Happened.” The sticker was white and would be highly visible against the gray bumper when night fell.
Fifteen minutes after Curtis came home, Mark took a ham sandwich out of the duffel bag and began to eat it. By the time he finished the sandwich, the sun had gone down.
Assuming Curtis was the killer, where would he go to look for his next victim?
Austin was about two hundred miles from Arlington. There were two other major cities that were two hundred miles from Arlington: Houston and Oklahoma City.
At a quarter to eight, Curtis’s front door opened, and Curtis came out of the house. He was carrying a plastic bag. Accompanied by a beeping sound, the Mazda’s parking lights blinked twice. When Curtis got in the Mazda, Mark slipped out of the car through the right door, then climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. As he buckled his seat belt, Curtis drove off. After a few seconds, Mark pulled away from the curb and headed down the street.
Curtis turned north when he got to Fielder Road, one of the main streets of the neighborhood.
The shortest route from Curtis’s place to Houston was via Interstate 45, and to Oklahoma City via Interstate 35. Depending on the traffic, it would take Curtis thirty to forty-five minutes to reach either of the highways.
When Curtis entered I-30 eastbound, Mark began to doubt he was going to Oklahoma City. Five minutes later Curtis turned north onto Highway 161, and it became clear that he was not headed for Houston.
Curtis stayed on Highway 161 for five miles and exited at Conflans Road in Irving. After two miles, he turned right at Story Road. Less than a minute later, he pulled off the street and into the parking lot of Pistons Bar and Grill.
Mark checked the clock. It was 8:04 p.m.
Curtis parked at the edge of the lot, stepped out of the Mazda, adjusted his crotch, and then walked into the bar.
Curtis wasn’t looking for another victim here—assuming he specialized in teenage females, of course.
Perhaps he’d go hunting after leaving the bar. Chances were that he’d stay within the Dallas-Fort Worth metropolitan area this time.
Soon Mark became curious about what Curtis was doing, and he went into the bar. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of beer and fried food. A rock song was playing, which he didn’t recognize. Mark scanned the room, found Curtis—he sat alone at a table in the back—and then walked over to the counter.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll have a Guinness,” Mark said.
While the bartender was filling his glass, Mark looked toward the billiard tables, then at Curtis.
He should have a friendly chat with Curtis. In bars you could talk to strangers without being taken for a kook. He could learn a lot about Curtis if they became friends.
Considering that there were empty booths and tables in the bar, would Curtis find it suspicious if he sat down at his table?
He could say he didn’t like to drink alone. A lot of people didn’t like to drink alone.
Curtis was sipping his drink with an impassive look on his face. His cheeks were covered with stubble, his brown hair was fashionably tousled. Pointing at the chair opposite Curtis, Mark said, “Is this seat taken?” He smiled.
Curtis gave him a vacant look and said, “No.”
“Great.” Mark put his glass on the table and sat down. “I hate drinking alone.” He smiled again.
Curtis nodded silently.
“I’m Michael.” Mark held out his hand. When Curtis shook it, his right jacket sleeve slid up, revealing a barbwire tattoo circling his wrist. “Do you come here often?”
“Once a week.”
“This seems like a fun place. What are you drinking?”
“Scotch.”
Curtis checked his watch, and as he did, Mark noticed a chain tattoo on his left forefinger.
“I like Scotch,” Mark said. “Do you shoot pool?”
“Yeah.” Curtis stared at Mark for a moment and then looked away.
“Wanna play?”
“Let me think about it.”
Mark drank some beer and then said, “Did you see the Cowboys game last week?”
“No. I don’t watch football.”
Mark wasn’t getting a serial killer vibe from Curtis, but then again many serial killers looked normal.
“Do you watch baseball?” Mark asked.
“No. I’m not into sports. You know what pisses me off? These guys are paid millions of dollars for running around a field. That’s not fair. Do you think it’s fair?”
“No, it’s not.”
“And these morons don’t appreciate their money. Almost all of them eventually go broke.”
“Yeah.”
“Easy come, easy go.”
“Right. Remember Mike Tyson? The guy blew three hundred million dollars.”
“Yeah. That’s crazy. Boxing is the most useless sport, if you ask me.”
Curtis raised his hand and waved to someone. Pretending to be nonchalant, Mark didn’t turn to see who it was. A few moments later, a lean man in his fifties sat down at their table. He wore a fle
ece jacket and jeans, his hair was mostly gray, as was his neatly trimmed beard.
The man glanced at Mark and asked Curtis, “When did you get here?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” Curtis said.
The man motioned the waitress over and ordered a Budweiser and french fries.
Curtis’s friend’s face seemed familiar. As he sipped from his glass, Mark remembered where he had seen it: the man looked exactly like Jeff Phillips, Edward Phillips’s father.
Was it Jeff Phillips?
“Hi, I’m Michael,” Mark said, offering his hand to Curtis’s friend.
“Jeff.” The man clasped his hand briefly.
So it was Jeff Phillips.
Why was Edward Phillips’s father hanging out with Sam Curtis?
“What do you do for a living, Mike?” Curtis asked.
“I’m a real estate agent,” Mark said.
“A real estate agent? It’s a nice gig. What kind of houses do you sell?”
“All kinds.”
“Have you sold any mansions?” Jeff asked.
Mark nodded. “Are you looking to buy one?”
Jeff laughed and said, “No. Do you know any billionaires?”
“No. Why?”
“I’m looking for an investor. I have a great green energy idea.”
“What is it?”
“Sorry, it’s a secret.”
The waitress brought Jeff’s beer and french fries, and Jeff said to her, “Thank you, darling.”
“Are you guys related?” Mark asked.
“No, we’re just buddies.”
“Do you play poker?”
“Yes, about once a month. Do you live nearby?”
“I live about ten minutes from here.”
Would it look suspicious if he asked Jeff if he could join his poker group?
It might seem so to Jeff.
It wouldn’t look suspicious if he brought it up the next time they met because he would be considered an acquaintance then.
“Is he good at poker?” Mark asked Curtis, pointing at Jeff.
“He’s all right,” Curtis said.
Jeff glanced toward the billiard tables and said to Curtis, “Let’s shoot some pool.”
“Okay.”
Jeff and Sam grabbed their glasses and made their way to the billiard tables.
If they wanted him to play with them, they would have invited him, wouldn’t they?
Mark watched the two men play for a couple of minutes and then moved to another table, which was about twenty feet from the entrance. Feeling hungry, he ordered a cheeseburger.
Had Edward Phillips told his father to spy on Curtis? Of course he had. The chances of this being a coincidence were microscopic.
What was Jeff Phillips’s plan? Did he want to arrest Sam Curtis while he was trying to kill his next victim?
Or was Jeff going to capture Curtis and torture him until he agreed to confess to the police that he had murdered Helen?
By the way, the idea of torturing Sam Curtis until he confessed to killing Helen seemed worth considering. He might try it if all else failed.
3
Jeff and Sam played pool for forty minutes before they went back to the table. Mark chose to observe them from a distance and didn’t join them.
It was twenty past ten when Jeff and Sam exited Pistons Bar and Grill. Mark followed the pair outside, waited at the entrance until Jeff got to his car, a black Cadillac CTS, and then walked by the Cadillac to look at its license plate. When he slipped behind the wheel of his Impala, he saw that Curtis had already backed out of his parking space. Keeping an eye on Curtis’s car, Mark started the engine and shifted into reverse. Curtis pulled out onto Story Road, heading south. By the time Mark turned onto the street, Curtis’s Mazda was approaching the intersection, its right blinker flashing. Mark stepped on the gas.
After rounding the corner, Mark found Curtis’s car and then looked in the rear-view mirror to see if Jeff was following Curtis. There were no Cadillac CTSs behind him. Evidently, Sam and Jeff went their separate ways.
After two and a half miles, Curtis got on Highway 161 southbound, and Mark wondered if he was headed home. Mark hoped Curtis would try to kill someone tonight: it would be nice to catch him in the act and solve the mystery once and for all, wouldn’t it?
At 10:41 p.m. Curtis pulled into his driveway. Brightly illuminated by the headlights, the garage door began to roll up.
He was putting the car in the garage, which meant that he wasn’t going anywhere else tonight.
As Curtis drove into the garage, Mark decided to continue the surveillance for another hour, just in case.
If Jeff captured Curtis tonight, he wouldn’t intervene. He might even join him.
Mark took out his cellphone, opened the notes app, and wrote down Jeff’s license plate number.
The lights went on in Curtis’s house.
Maybe Curtis was going to kill someone tonight but changed his mind because he noticed he was being tailed?
Usually people drove around the block or turned a few corners to make sure they were being followed, and Curtis had done neither of those things.
Perhaps he didn’t need confirmation.
Mark checked his messages and saw a new text from Joan asking if the stakeout was over yet. He texted back saying he’d be home around 12:30 a.m.
In the following hour and a quarter Curtis didn’t go outside and no one came to visit him. The lights were still on in his house when Mark went home at midnight.
The next morning, Mark ran Jeff’s license plate and found that it was actually registered to Jeff Phillips.
Chapter 9
1
“Thanks for meeting me, Frank.” Mark took out his notebook.
“No problem,” Frank Backus replied. “How have you been doing? It’s been almost a year since…”
“It’s been hard. Thanks for asking.”
The assistant district attorney was of medium build and had a lean, tanned face. His small office was cluttered with boxes and files.
Mark had known Backus since long before Edward Phillips’s trial; they had first met eleven years ago, when Backus was working on a case investigated by Mark.
“You said you wanted to talk about the Phillips case,” Backus said.
“Yes. I have a couple of questions about it.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
Mark opened his notebook to the page with the questions he was going to ask Backus, and said, “Besides Edward Phillips, were there any other suspects?”
“As far as I know, Phillips was the only suspect.”
“Any persons of interest?”
“No, there were no persons of interest.”
“Did Phillips take a lie detector test?”
“Yes.”
“Did he pass it?”
“What does it matter?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Yes, he passed it.”
The fact that Phillips had passed the polygraph exam didn’t mean that he was innocent. There were a number of ways to beat the test.
Then why had he asked this question?
The truth was, Phillips passing the test added credibility to his story.
“Can I see the test report?” Mark said.
“What do you need it for?”
“I want to know what questions were asked.”
Backus looked at him for a long time and said, “All right. I’ll send it to you.”
“Did you offer Phillips a plea deal?”
“Yes. We offered him a life sentence with the possibility of parole.”
Under the circumstances, it had been a good deal for Phillips. He could have been out in thirty years.
“Why do you think he didn’t take the deal?”
“I suppose he overestimated his chances.”
“Was there any evidence you were unable to present at the trial?”
“No. We presented all the evidence we wanted to present.”
“Did he say anything incriminating on the phone while he was in the county jail?”
“No.”
“Did he say anything incriminating to his visitors?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Did you keep the recordings of his conversations?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you he knew who had really killed Helen?”
Backus shook his head. “No.”
Mark closed his notebook and said, “Just between you and me, is it possible that Edward Phillips is innocent?”
“Do you doubt that Phillips is the killer?”
“No. Well, I just want to be sure that you got the right guy.”
“We got the right guy, Mark.”
“But you can’t be completely sure, can you?”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t an open-and-shut case.”
“So you’re not sure Phillips is guilty?”
“Is it possible that he’s innocent?”
Backus thought for a moment and then said, “Anything’s possible, you know. It’s possible that the sun will explode tomorrow.” He leaned forward. “I understand your doubts, Mark. The system isn’t perfect, mistakes happen, but I assure you Phillips is guilty. Helen’s blood was on his clothes. How do you think it got there? Phillips gave us no explanation.”
He bumped into Helen when she had a nosebleed.
It wasn’t really an implausible idea, was it?
“What makes you think Phillips might be innocent?” Backus went on. “Did his parents talk to you?”
“No. It just came to me one day.”
“You said it wasn’t an open-and-shut case. Would you have felt better if Phillips had been acquitted?”
Mark shook his head.
2
Had Edward Phillips rejected the plea deal because he was innocent?
Maybe he had been persuaded to reject the deal by Leonard Barlow.
Mark called Barlow’s office and left a message with his secretary asking him to call back.
As he looked at the calendar on his desk, it occurred to him that Saturday might have been the wrong day to follow Sam Curtis. Laura Sumner had been murdered on a Wednesday, so the logical thing to do was to tail Curtis on a Wednesday.
He didn’t feel like following Curtis this Wednesday. He might do it on Wednesday of next week.
He kept thinking about the results of Edward Phillips’s lie detector test. It was a big deal that Phillips had passed the test, no two ways about it.
