by Tim Kizer
Mark took a pair of latex gloves from the bottom desk drawer, slipped them on, and looked inside the mailer. Joan stood beside him, watching. He could smell her perfume; it was Paloma Picasso, her favorite fragrance. There was a plastic zipper bag in the envelope, which contained a kitchen knife with a black handle. He got the bag out, opened it, and pulled out the knife.
There were brown stains on both sides of the blade. The thought that it might be his daughter’s blood turned Mark’s stomach.
“Is it blood?” Joan asked.
“It could be blood.”
Mark stared at the knife as if hypnotized.
This knife might be the knife that had pierced Helen’s heart. The knife that had cut open her stomach.
His arms broke out in gooseflesh.
Mark measured the blade with a ruler and found that it was six inches long. The deepest wound in Helen’s body was six inches deep.
It’s not a hoax. This is the knife used to kill Helen.
From the top drawer, he retrieved a DNA collection swab, which he had brought from work two days ago. He dampened the swab with tap water, then rubbed it over one of the larger stains on the blade and placed it in a storage envelope.
“Are you taking the swab to a lab tomorrow?” Joan laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Yes.”
“When will the results be ready?”
“Thursday.”
Joan watched him for a few more seconds and then walked out of the room.
Mark put the knife in a plastic evidence bag and then examined the bubble mailer. The sender’s name was Chuck Smith, and the sender’s address was 1094 Lakeland Drive, Dallas, TX 75218. Mark entered the address into Google Maps and discovered that it was bogus. That did not surprise him at all. The name was probably bogus, too. Both the sender’s and the recipient’s names and both of their addresses were printed, not handwritten.
“Chuck” had taken all the usual precautions to protect his anonymity. And he might even have made sure to leave no fingerprints on the mailer and the plastic bag the knife had been in.
Mark picked up the knife and studied it for about three minutes before admitting to himself that he had no idea how to prove that the fingerprints—assuming there were any—had gotten on the knife during Helen’s murder.
As they sat in the living room watching TV, Joan asked him if he was going to turn the knife over to the police.
“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Mark said.
“Are you going to dust it for prints yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t give it to the police if the fingerprints don’t belong to Phillips. I think it will be impossible to get a conviction.”
Their eyes met.
“We have to take care of this ourselves,” Joan said.
They sat in silence for a moment, then Mark said, “Do you want me to kill him?”
“Yes. And I’ll help you.”
Mark nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
He felt a surge of adrenaline. He couldn’t wait to beat Helen’s killer to death, to see terror in his eyes, to hear him scream in pain.
Chapter 17
1
“They discovered a cure for cancer a long time ago, but they don’t want us to know about it. You know why?”
The guy’s name was Tony. He was young, no older than thirty. He had come to Beacon Cancer Center with his father, who had Stage II prostate cancer.
“Why?” Sam asked.
“It’s more profitable to treat cancer than to cure it,” Tony said. “That’s how Big Pharma operates. All they care about is money.”
“I’ve heard this theory. I believe it’s wrong.”
“Why?”
“Steve Jobs died. He had cancer.”
“You mean the Apple guy?”
Sam nodded.
Tony thought for a long moment and then said, “You may be right, man.”
Although Sam didn’t believe Big Pharma was hiding the cure for cancer, he was sure that the people running pharmaceutical companies were corrupt enough to hide the cure when it was discovered.
Two days ago, on October 23, Sam had signed a lease for a five-hundred-square-foot office, which was available for immediate occupancy. Yesterday, he and Jeff had gone to an Office Depot store and bought furniture, computers and other equipment for their office. Two guys Sam had found on craigslist (their names were Kevin and Omar) assembled the furniture and set up the equipment. While Kevin and Omar were unpacking the computers, Sam received a call from Leticia, a nurse at Beacon Cancer Center that had agreed to provide him with information about patients for a fee. She told him that Charlotte Stryker, Gordon Stryker’s mother, was scheduled for chemotherapy on October 25. Sam decided to catch Gordon Stryker at the cancer center and try to talk to him about his proposal. If Charlotte came to the center without her son, he was going to call Stryker and make an appointment.
At nine-fifty, an old woman and a middle-aged man entered the waiting room. The man was Gordon Stryker; Sam recognized him from his picture he had seen on the website of his company, Alliance Group. Sam figured the old woman was Charlotte Stryker. They sat down across from Sam. Stryker whispered something to his mother and grabbed a magazine from the table.
Sam was glad that Stryker had come to the cancer center with his mother: it meant that the guy loved his mom very much and would pay a lot of money to save her life.
Five minutes later, a nurse took Charlotte to the infusion room. Sam waited half a minute, then got up and sat next to Gordon Stryker.
“Excuse me, is your name Gordon Stryker?” Sam asked.
Stryker looked at him and said, “Yes, it is. And you are?”
“My name is Jake Ford.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?” Stryker closed the magazine and dropped it on the table.
“I can help your mother, Mister Stryker.”
“What do you mean?”
“She has cancer, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, she does.”
“I can make it go away.”
Stryker’s round face became serious. “Do you know what kind of cancer my mother has?”
“Let’s talk in the hallway.”
“Okay.”
They stood up and went out into the hallway.
“My mother has Stage Four ovarian cancer,” Stryker said. “How are you going to make it go away?”
“We’ve developed a procedure that can permanently cure Stage Four ovarian cancer.”
“Is it a surgical procedure?”
“No. It doesn’t involve surgery, drugs, or radiation. It’s an experimental, highly effective procedure.”
Stryker adjusted his glasses. “Do you work for Beacon Cancer Center?”
“No. I work for New Horizons.”
“Is it a cancer center?”
“No. It’s a technology company. This is a totally risk-free offer, Mister Stryker. If we don’t deliver, you don’t pay.”
“How much does this procedure cost?”
“It’s not cheap. Ten million dollars.”
Stryker raised an eyebrow. “Ten million?”
“Yes. Your mother’s cancer will be gone for good. She’ll be completely healthy. Healthy and happy. I believe it’s worth much more than ten million.”
“Do I have to pay anything upfront?”
There seemed to be genuine interest in Stryker’s voice.
“No, you don’t.”
“If the procedure fails, I pay nothing?”
“That’s right.”
“How does this procedure work?”
“We replace malignant cells with healthy ones.”
“Is it risky?”
“No, it’s totally safe. And it has an exceptionally high success rate. You don’t have to decide right now. Here’s my number. Feel free to call me anytime.” Sam gave Stryker his business card. The card had his alias, the name of his fake company, and a phone number, which belonged to one of his disposable cellphon
es. “When does your mother’s chemotherapy treatment end?”
“Next February.”
“Has she had surgery?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Not very good. How many people have undergone this procedure?”
“Ten. And all of them were cured. How old is your mother?”
“Seventy-two.”
“Would you like her to live twenty-five more years?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Let us help your mother before it’s too late, Mister Stryker. Please think about it. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I look forward to hearing from you. Have a nice day.”
They shook hands, and Sam headed for the elevators. He was proud of himself: he thought his sales pitch to Stryker had been pretty good.
Chapter 18
1
On his way to work, Mark stopped by the Dallas laboratory of Express DNA Testing Service and dropped off the sample.
When he dusted the handle of the knife sent by Chuck, Mark saw that there were fingerprints all over it. He found two full prints on one side and two on the other, and as he looked at them, his heart began to beat faster.
In less than an hour, he would know who had really murdered Helen.
Mark photographed the prints, then lifted them from the handle and placed them on backing cards.
He asked Todd Castor to run the fingerprints through the system. One match was found for the first print.
It’s Sam Curtis, Mark thought, looking at the computer screen.
Castor clicked a button, and the match’s name and photo appeared on the screen. Mark’s heart stopped for a second.
The match’s name was Edward Phillips. The man looked like the Edward Phillips convicted of Helen’s murder.
When Mark saw the match’s latest conviction, his last doubts vanished: it was that Edward Phillips.
Phillips had lied to him, and he had been stupid enough to believe this son of a bitch. He was a shitty judge of character, wasn’t he?
Thank God I didn’t waste a lot of time spying on Sam Curtis.
“Do you want a printout?” Castor asked.
“No. I know this guy,” Mark said, frowning with indignation.
I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I still don’t know if those brown stains on the blade are Helen’s blood.
Yes, he should wait until he saw the DNA test results.
Maybe Phillips got hold of the knife after the killer threw it away.
The second print belonged to Edward Phillips, too, and so did the third and the fourth.
At five o’clock Joan called Mark and asked if he had found any fingerprints on the knife.
“No, I didn’t,” Mark replied. “He must have wiped it.”
He would tell her the truth tomorrow, after he got the DNA test results.
“Phillips wrote you another letter,” Joan said.
“Open it and read it to me, please.”
Joan tore open the envelope, took out the letter, and read it to Mark: “Dear Mark, I hope this finds you well. Have you read Sam’s text messages? Have there been any new cases similar to Helen’s? Did they catch Leonard’s killer? I look forward to hearing from you.” Then she asked, “Who’s Leonard?”
“He was Phillips’s lawyer.”
“He was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Have there been any new cases similar to Helen’s?”
“Not that I know of.”
On the way home, Mark thought: You have to be an idiot to throw away a murder weapon without wiping off your fingerprints. Edward Phillips didn’t strike him as an idiot.
2
Detective Aguero had planned to talk to Edward Phillips’s parents on Tuesday, October 24, but delayed his visit for a day because he had to interrogate two suspects in another case he was working on. He left Austin at two o’clock and arrived at the Phillipses’ house at five minutes past five. After killing the engine, Aguero grabbed his phone and opened his email.
There were no new messages from the Allan B. Polunsky Unit.
Twelve days had passed since their meeting, and Edward Phillips still hadn’t warned his partner. The only person he had contacted in that period was Detective Mark Hinton.
Aguero took out his notebook and found Jeff Phillips’s license plate number. It matched the license plate number on the black Cadillac CTS parked in front of the Phillipses’ house.
Aguero got out of the car and rang the doorbell. Jeff Phillips answered the door. Aguero showed his badge and said, “I’m Detective Aguero. I’m with the Austin Police Department. Are you Jeff Phillips?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Can I see your badge again?”
“Sure.”
Aguero held his badge out. Jeff studied it and then said, “Please come in.”
In the living room, Jeff said, “I’m all ears.”
“Did you go out of town on August twenty-third?”
“August twenty-third.” Jeff thought for a moment and then said, “No, I didn’t.”
He looked calm and friendly, his posture easy, his hands resting on the arms of his chair. It was hard to tell if he was lying.
“Where were you from eight p.m. to midnight on August twenty-third?”
“What day of the week was that?”
“Wednesday.”
“I was probably home.”
“You don’t remember where you were that night?”
He should find out if any of Jeff Phillips’s or Emily Phillips’s credit card transactions had taken place in Austin on August twenty-third.
“It was such a long time ago. But I’m pretty sure I was home. I don’t go out on weekday nights.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Is your wife home?”
“No. She’s out shopping.”
“The black Cadillac parked in front of your house—is it yours?”
“Yes. Why are you asking me these questions? Do you think I did something wrong?”
Aguero leaned back in his chair and said, “Last December, your son, Edward Phillips, murdered a fifteen-year-old girl named Helen Hinton. Two months ago, a young woman named Laura Sumner was killed in the same manner as Helen Hinton. We believe these murders are connected.”
Helen Hinton’s murder was still the only one that might be connected to Laura Sumner’s: so far none of the agencies Aguero had sent inquiries to had reported a case similar to Sumner’s.
Jeff’s placid look gave way to a serious expression. Frowning, he said, “I see. Where did the second murder take place?”
“Austin.”
“What did you say the victim’s name was?”
“Laura Sumner.”
“Poor woman. So she was killed in August?”
“Yes, on August twenty-third. Do you have any information about this murder?”
Jeff shook his head. “No, I don’t. I wish I could help you, but I don’t know anything about this murder.”
“Did Edward confess to you that he killed Helen Hinton?”
“No.”
“Did you ever ask him if he did it?”
“Yes. He said he was innocent.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I want to believe him, but… He was found guilty. There’s proof that he killed that girl.” Jeff stroked his chin. “You know, sometimes I wonder where we went wrong with Ed. Maybe we weren’t strict enough with him when he was a child. As far as I remember, we never physically punished Ed.” Jeff paused. “Maybe we failed to instill the right values in him.” He sighed. “I really hope it wasn’t our fault.”
“Did your son have any close friends?”
“I suppose he did, but I don’t know who they were.”
“Is Edward your only child?”
“Yes?”
&nbs
p; Aguero heard the front door open and close.
“What do you do for a living?”
Emily Phillips walked into the room. She wore jeans and a long-sleeved blouse, and had a shopping bag in her hand.
“Hi.” She smiled at Aguero.
“Honey, this is Detective Aguero,” Jeff said.
“Good evening, ma’am,” Aguero said.
“Good evening, Detective.”
“This is my wife, Emily,” Jeff said to Aguero.
Emily smiled at Aguero again. “I’ll be upstairs.” She left the room.
“I teach sociology at the University of Texas at Dallas,” Jeff said.
“Can I have your cellphone number?”
“Sure.”
Jeff told Aguero his cellphone number.
“Do you mind asking Mrs. Phillips to come here?” Aguero said.
“No problem.”
Jeff brought his wife to the living room and asked Aguero if he had any more questions for him.
“No, I don’t,” Aguero replied. “Thanks for your time, Mister Phillips.”
“You’re welcome.”
After Jeff walked out of the room, Aguero showed Emily his badge and said, “I’m Detective Aguero with the Austin Police Department. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Yes, of course,” Emily said.
She was about five feet seven and seemed to be in good physical shape. She was strong enough to have killed Helen Hinton and Laura Sumner.
“Did you go out of town on August twenty-third?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Do you remember where you were from eight p.m. to midnight on August twenty-third?”
“Was it a weekday?”
“Yes.”
“I was home. What happened on August twenty-third?”
“A young woman was murdered in Austin. Her name was Laura Sumner. I believe your son might know who killed her.”
“How can Ed know that? He’s been in prison since last December.”
“I know that. Did you ever ask Edward if he killed Helen Hinton?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he didn’t do it.”
“Do you think he’s innocent?”
“Yes, I think he’s innocent.”
“Would you like to save his life?”
