by Vernon Rush
"So will you go have that drink with in me? Just one," she asked, placing a friendly/desperate hand on his knee. "I don't want to be alone right now."
Nate's lips bent slightly with a smile with sympathy, though the fact that he thought she was a racist floated in the back of his brain. He gently took hold of her hand and removed it to a more neutral location. There would never be a 'just one' for him again so long as he lived, but he didn't have time to explain that to her. "I will walk you to your car. I think it is best you go straight home. In fact, I can follow you there. I can check in with you later after I meet with my connection at the police station. You have my cell phone number." But when he took a good look at her, he could see she was genuinely afraid. "Is there someone I can call for you?"
She laughed self-deprecatingly. "I just officially broke up with a boyfriend. I was dating a man over at the college. That's why I asked about you, to see if you worked with him."
"Now who might that be?"
"Bill. Bill Merit," she replied, her voice rattled with stress.
Nate kicked himself; he had mistaken her clumsy inquiry for cloaked bigotry and realized he had some of his own judgment issues. He only wished he had recognized those at the beginning of their meeting, for now he saw Emily Fabian in a different light. She was just a sweet, nervous woman.
CHAPTER 8
The Drunk Tank
Nate didn't have an easy feeling as he left Emily Fabian. It was paramount that he go to the police with what he just learned, but his stomach churned with a bad feeling—guilt maybe, that he was leaving her holding the bag. He couldn't shake it. The thought of Emily Fabian provoked a twang of anxiety that reverberated throughout his entire body.
One of the many blessings that Frederick was such a small town was that he would return to her as soon as he could. In the five years since the first two murders occurred, almost none of the same people were on the case, so he had to think hard who he could communicate this new information to. He mulled over the possible reasons why the personnel on the case had changed over to the two who were working it now. Maybe it was an executive decision that called for them to remove people who knew the details and the evidence inside and out, to then hand it all over to a team comprising members who probably weren't even cops when the first two people were killed. The only connection he had to this case was Det. Jack Wilcox and he didn’t feel secure contacting the good detective. The least little questionable detail about the fact that Nate questioned Emily and Nate knew he would be on Jack Wilcox’s shit list permanently. He could approach Det. Dan Klein. The problem with Klein was Nate didn’t like him. He seemed wormy. He probably carried little weight with the force. Nate decided he would call Jack Wilcox and give him an ultimatum.
Two minutes from the Frederick Police Department, he placed what believed would be a fateful call to Jack Wilcox. It was not the most prudent of moves, since it was against the state law to use a cell phone and drive. And, for a black man, it was particularly against the law. The moment Nate's phone touched his ear, he was greeted with lights and sirens. He shook his head but tried to keep it cool. He'd grown up in Frederick and in Frederick, if you lived there for even a little while, most everybody knew everybody. Still, Nate got pulled over at least once a month, which was about twelve times more a year than Daria got pulled over. As hip, slick, and cool as Frederick wanted to be, it still had an eagle eye for the errant black man.
He rolled down his window, with a well-practiced script at the ready. "Officer," he began. He reached for his license and the policeman stepped away from the car and drew. Nate raised his hands as high as he could, but a rush of fright paralyzed him.
"Don't move unless instructed to," the cop ordered.
Nate already knew that no matter what he did from that point forward, he was pretty much under arrest. The degree to the force of that arrest might be somewhat negotiated, but not much. The cop wasn't reacting to the uncertainty of Nate’s reach for a license. Nate knew this cop was not a black citizen-friendly kind of guy.
"Yes, sir. Kindly put the gun down." Nate’s stomach roiled. He began to gag. "I have to throw up," he pleaded. Out of a reflex, he fled out of the car to vomit.
The cop was quicker. He swept Nate's feet and down Nate went, slamming to the graveled side of the road and emitting at the same time. Nate felt his arms being placed behind his back and cuffed. He was under arrest. As he was brought to his feet, he saw Emily Fabian drive past, very slowly. Something told him that if he wasn't in enough trouble at that very moment, he would for sure be by the end of the day.
***
It wasn't the name dropping that got Nate released. He dropped his department head, Bill Merit, the mayor’s name. He mentioned the owner of Jerry’s and that of the Creamery, not to mention Det. Jack Wilcox and Det. Dan Klein. He was a friend of the blue. He kind of thought that, by dropping those names, at least one of the parties might call or show, namely Jack Wilcox. Instead, Nate was held in the Frederick Police drunk tank for four hours before urinalysis backed his story that he had not be drinking. A black man vomiting while in custody just could not get a break. He was surprised to learn that his reputation as a drunk preceded him and that, somehow, the cops knew he was wont to hit the bottle. Since he had never been busted for drinking related activity, Nate's strong hunch was that that could only come from one person: Jack Wilcox himself. As soon as his phone got reception, despite that it was pushing ten o'clock at night, Nate dialed Wilcox to light into him.
Finally, Jack picked up. "Hello," he said bluntly.
"I want to talk to you," Nate demanded.
"Not really a good time," Jack replied.
Nate squinted as he computed the character of Jack's speech. If Nate didn't know any better, he would say Jack was on his way to drunk. The background bar sounds confirmed it. "Where are you?" Nate asked, changing his tones.
"Jerry's," Jack replied.
Nate didn't know the detective well enough what part of his tone was inebriation and what part was self-loathing, but he knew himself well enough to recognize both in Jack. He hung up the phone to make a Twelve Step call. The first rule of such calls, in which a sober person comes to the aid of a drunken person in want of aid, was never to go alone. The risk was great that Nate could wind up drunk himself. Jerry's was the last place he had drank. It was like home for him in a way that home was not. He had only a few weeks clean and sober but they were precious to him.
***
Jack Wilcox was not very hard to find. With Jerry's big picture windows, he could be seen from the street, slumping at the bar. Nate stiffened his stride, keeping in mind he had but one purpose being there. And he would get in and get out. He made eye contact with Jack as he approached via the mirror behind the bar. He placed a consolatory hand on Jack's back. "Let's go," he said quietly.
"What's the point?" asked the detective. "Once the department finds out, I am fired. Then I lose what visitation I get with my kids. No, given what I got going for me, I can safely say there is no place I would rather be." Jack raised his shot glass but Nate softly blocked him.
"I have information on the murders, so I need to you stop," Nate said patiently. "The victims need you to stop. I am going to pay the bill and you're going to get into my car and come to my place, where I am going to brew some coffee."
Jack gave a half-hearted laugh. "That only works in the movies."
"Not for you. I just spent the better part of the evening in a drunk tank because you didn't pick up. I made the mistake of driving while black near the station on a call to you and a rookie pulled his piece on me. I guess I am a little shaky, still being off the juice relatively recently, and I hurled." He assessed the detective. "And you're probably not getting a word I am saying, so I will keep it simple. Get in the car. Trust me."
He paid Jack's tab and the two made their way to Nate's car parked out front. Both men were tall, though Jack Wilcox was broader than Nate. Getting into Nate's micro car, they looked like a couple
of circus clowns folding themselves into a clown car. Nate would get Daria to help move Jack's car later. As they said in the rooms of AA, nothing happens by accident. Jack Wilcox's slip up just became Nate's 'in' on the case. He wouldn't be too domineering a task master, but Nate would make Jack feel beholden enough to him that Jack would share information on the case. But first, Nate would find out what was the matter with the man.
"Jesus Christ, you think your car is small enough?" Jack razzed. The car wheezed with their weight.
"I usually don't run taxi," Nate replied dryly.
"Touché," Jack sighed. "I am not that drunk. I mean I am, but I am not. I'll be cool in a bit."
"Did you just have two?" Nate continued.
"Yeah, something like that." He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned his head back in defeat. "Does your sponsor know you're doing this, or do you even have one?"
"You're criticizing my program?" Nate asked.
It was that quick that they were in the drive of Nate's place. Despite his pronouncement that he was not that loaded, Jack Wilcox required assistance getting out of the car. Nate had lost everything he had eaten that day. He would make them both sandwiches and some of that Pacific Coast roast he'd picked up at Snyder's. He was anxious to have the detective sober. After he had him situated, Nate would take a moment and make some notes.
"So this is where you live?" the detective asked. "Pretty nice. I have a similar setup a couple streets down. Separated. About to graduate to divorced."
"Is that what's behind all this?" Nate asked.
"My wife told me she is engaged," he answered.
"Did you lose your marriage to the job?" asked Nate.
"Na," Jack laughed. "To a guy named Bill. Bill Merit. I think he works over at the school."
"He does. He's my boss," said Nate. Between serial murders and adultery, Frederick was way too intertwined, he thought.
"Whatever," said Jack. "Anyway, they're running off to get a quick divorce but she doesn't want me to take the boys because my place is small and," he imitated his wife, "she doesn't feel comfortable with me keeping them at our old place. So she is going to send them off to Chevy Chase to her parents, who absolutely hate me."
"Now why is that?" asked Nate.
"It might be because I fell asleep on their front lawn once . . . in a car . . . while it was still running. Or because I derailed their blueblood plans for their princess. I haven't decided which one. And you know what?"
"What?" Nate replied.
"I don't even like her. I never even liked her. I just saw her as an achievement. You know the way we think."
Nate nodded. "I do. So is that how come the second job?"
"Yeah. The department doesn't technically have a rule against a second job but they don't like it much. If I make waves for her, then Bill will weigh in and my job will suck. It's not bad enough I have to see the corpses of murdered young women cut down seconds after their parents have them launched, but I have to watch my Ps and Qs or I will get my nose whacked by the paper from my ex. And I love . . . my . . . boys," he added, but not without tearing up.
The coffee was ready. Nate tipped the carafe to two mugs he made back when he was sober once before and engaged in a brief period of pottery making. He pushed the sugar bowl towards his guest. "I am going to make a couple of peanut butter and jellies. They go well with coffee and I think you could use the sugar boost." The detective nodded. "Sip that," Nate said of the coffee. "It's very hot."
The detective did. "It's very good."
Nate slapped together some sandwiches and let his guest eat while he collected his thoughts. He had a spreadsheet that listed the facts about each victim and where the overlapped. So far, each of the victims had died with some sort of injury to the neck. Three of the victims were killed with a chain but public disclosure on the fourth victim simply reported that she was asphyxiated. The fourth victim was the only attorney who came from a family of means. The other three were working class. All four victims were white women about the same age, but they had no outstanding physical similarities. Although the killer was unanimously believed to be male, the first three victims had not been sexually abused. Nate didn't know anything about the fourth woman. He hoped Jack would fill in some blanks.
"What have you got going there, Doctor Private Eye?" Jack teased.
"Careful, detective. I am licensed by the same state that you are," Nate replied. He took his notebook to the kitchen counter to share. "Are you straight enough or should I wait?"
'I'm good," Jack answered. "Swear. I know we can do some damage but I was only there for about 45 minutes. I blew eight years of sobriety that fast, but I am not all that drunk."
"Very well. Over the years, I have been compiling profiles," Nate said, affecting his professor's voice and pointing to details with his pen. "But today, what I was on my way to see you about today, I discovered a fact that could be extremely useful. When the first two murders occurred, many of the employees from Dublin & Meyers, where the vics worked, had moved to Weston & Hale. So we now have a new link besides the MO."
"It's a small town," Jack said quickly. "The chances that a person worked in both places are not remote and not necessarily significant."
"Sure. But it's a common denominator that has not even been discussed before. The killer likely works at the firm; that's my take," Nate began.
"Yes, but didn't you believe he was some landscape guy?" Jack countered. His response told Nate that the detective had been reviewing his notes in the department files.
"Yes, because he was a serial killer connected to both victims in many ways. There were so many crossovers to Cobbsmith that if you were to graph them, you would draw a star. And so, obviously, since he's not the guy, the killer probably almost definitely works at the firm. The victims were familiar with him because what, Yvonne Winters got in the car for a ride because her car wouldn't start? There is no way she would get in someone else's car if she didn't know them."
"So how did you come across this epiphany?" Jack asked.
"This person knows I am coming to you, but they insist on protection. Can we keep it just between us?" Nate asked.
"No press, if that's what you mean," the detective replied.
"It's the employment agent who places admins in all the businesses around, including the college," Nate answered.
"Well, there's a hell of a common denominator right there," Jack said, taking a last sip of coffee. "I'm getting more. I need to go get my car in a minute."
"I was going to have a friend of mine, a sober one that is, assist me with that," said Nate.
"Sounds like I have an enabler on my hands," Jack chuckled. "Back to your source though. Anybody look at her before?"
"For one, she's a woman," began Nate.
The detective shook his head. "So?"
"The killer crushed the necks and/or windpipes," Nate offered. "This woman is petite. Not exactly a Russian wrestler."
"That's what the element of surprise can do for you. Or fear. Catch your victim off guard and paralyze them with fear," the detective theorized.
Nate made a face that told he didn't find it plausible.
"Hey look, I have put cuffs on many of female perp and I'm 6'2" and these women put up a fight. If a woman is fired up, she is a formidable opponent," Jack insisted.
"Okay, I concede it is possible, but my second point is that this woman had no contact with the attorneys themselves. She only places admins, not professionals. They wouldn't know her or have a relationship with her enough to accept a ride from her."
"That was only one victim. Two of the victims were at the park. Avid runners. The killer knew their schedule. These victims had to be tracked. Stalked."
Nate smiled. "Or the killer knew their schedule because he or she kept them."
Jack Wilcox sat up straighter, with a look of sudden sobriety. "Like a secretary."
"Like a secretary," Nate nodded.
Jack high-fived Nate. "So what we have to look
for the male secretary at Weston & Hale and we have our suspect?"
"No," said Nate. "But my source did say there was a running joke that the office creep, a support person, did the crimes. He lived with his mother all his life."
"Probably has a deep hatred for women," Jack said and then laughed. "But then I loved my mom and I may actually be in the same boat."
"This too shall pass. Give it some time. If my source isn't the killer, as you suggested, you should definitely hit on her."
"Cute?" Jack perked up.
"Smokin'," Nate replied.
"Why don't you go for it?" Jack asked.
"I'm not there yet. I may be married to solving these crimes. So, if our creep was at both places, then we might be on to something. The trouble is: If he is as creepy as he is reported to be, no one would get in the car with him."
"Are you writing all this down in your notebook? Because I am definitely not going to remember it all. I have to go get my car, seriously. Don't bother your friend. I gotta get home. To no wife or kids."
Nate dialed Daria's number anyway. "She can drive my car and I can drive you in your car. We don't want to take any chances."
Jack Wilcox was quiet for a moment. "I really appreciate all this. I'm sorry for treating you like shit before. And I am sorry my colleague treated you like shit. I am going to have to talk to him."
"I want to jump and say no need, but by all means," Nate said.
Daria was not answering her phone but then Nate looked at his watch. It was midnight. She was probably dead asleep, as she should be. "Okay, you win," he said. "I didn't realize it was so late. I am going to follow you home. I am going to the meeting tomorrow and then I have a class."
"I can swing by to pick up you up for the meeting. I am off tomorrow so I get to work the lovely convenience store detail."
"Does that really make a difference financially?" Nate asked him.
"It makes me feel better. Actually, it keeps me from feeling. For the time being, it keeps me from killing anyone."
"Well, that's a good thing," said Nate.
