Alter Ego

by Brian Freeman

  Stride waited as Casperson rocked back in the chair in frustration, only to have the cuffs jerk him forward again.

  “You might want to save your money, Dean,” Stride told him, “because you’re going to need it for all the lawsuits that are about to be filed. I don’t think you fully understand what’s happening to you right now. My voice mail is already full with messages from news media, national magazines, and journalists around the world. You are done, Dean. You’re finished.”

  Casperson was having a hard time grasping the reality of his situation, but Stride had said the magic word. Media. The actor who valued his reputation more than anything knew what was coming next. He could write the headlines on TMZ. He could see the video stills reprinted in Entertainment Weekly. Another sex scandal was like a feeding frenzy these days, and the sharks could all smell blood in the water.

  “This isn’t just about Cat,” Stride went on. “She started the ball rolling, but there’s no stopping it now. In the last three hours, twenty-three other women have already come forward on social media to tell their own stories of abuse and rape by you. Do you want Serena to read some of them? They’re very detailed and very graphic. Several of the incidents are well within the statute of limitations in the various jurisdictions you were in, so plenty of other prosecutors will want a shot at you when we’re done. And regardless, all the women are going to be suing you. Your career is over. You’re radioactive. Your fortune will be gone soon enough. The only real question is how much of the rest of your life you spend behind bars. The best thing you can do right now is give us a full and complete accounting of what you’ve done.”

  Casperson sat in silence, as if he were looking for a way out in a room with no doors or windows.

  Serena shook her head. “Don’t you get it, Dean? Being a celebrity protected you for decades, but all that evil finally caught up with you. All thanks to a seventeen-year-old girl.”

  “You’ll never prove I did anything wrong,” he retorted, but the bravado was gone from his voice.

  “Keep telling yourself that if you want,” Stride said. “The fact is, the sexual assault charge is going to be open and shut. That’s the minimum, but you know where it goes from here. We’ve got Jungle Jack in the interview room next door. He knows the rest. He knows everything. We have enough hard evidence on Jack to put him behind bars for the rest of his life. You don’t think he’s going to jump at the chance to give you up in exchange for a deal?”

  “And when he does, you’re the one who’s looking at life behind bars,” Serena added. “I hope you enjoyed your time in Minnesota, because you’re never going to leave the state again.”

  “Life in prison? Are you kidding me?”

  “That’s the penalty for first-degree murder,” Stride told him.

  Casperson looked genuinely shocked. His gaze zigzagged between them, and for the first time his face showed fear. “Murder? What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know anything about murder.”

  *

  Jungle Jack was the opposite of Dean Casperson. He refused to say a word. He sat in the interview room, cuffed, and stared back at Maggie with a permanent smirk tattooed on his mouth. His dark eyes were hooded with contempt. He didn’t ask for a lawyer, and he listened to Maggie lay out the evidence against him without any reaction at all. The only words out of his mouth were to ask for a cigarette, and when Maggie said no, he shrugged and went back to his stony silence.

  “I know you and Lieutenant Stride talked about this man,” Maggie told him, laying a photograph of John Doe’s body in front of him. “He’s dead, so he won’t be testifying any time soon. But this man is—was—a killer. Anyone who helped him commit premeditated murder is a killer, too. That means being a guest at the state correctional facility in Oak Park Heights for as long as you’re alive. By the way, Oak Park Heights is where we house the guys who don’t know the meaning of ‘Minnesota nice.’ I’ve seen it. Trust me, Jack, you’re going to spend a lot of years behind bars. You don’t want to spend them there.”

  Jack used his thumb to dig dirt from under his manicured fingernails and didn’t even bother looking up.

  “We know that our friend John Doe—say, do you know his actual name, Jack? That would really help us out.”

  This time, Jack looked up and gave her a smile.

  “No?” Maggie went on. “Well, suit yourself. We know John Doe murdered a young woman named Peach Piper here in Minnesota and a woman in Florida named Haley Adams. The gun found in his car was used to murder both women. End of story; that’s the easy part. By the way, do you know what else we found in John Doe’s car? This cowboy hat.”

  She laid a photo of a black cowboy hat in front of Jack, who glanced at it with only the slightest puzzlement.

  “Nice hat, isn’t it?” Maggie said. “The feather is cool, too. What is that, a red-tailed hawk? I think I’d look pretty good in a cowboy hat like that. I may have to get one. Anyway, I’ll come back to the hat. The thing is, we know John Doe killed Peach Piper, and we’re pretty sure he killed Rochelle Wahl, too. Rochelle was a fifteen-year-old girl. We’re still gathering evidence to link him to that murder, but we already know he left a party at Dean Casperson’s house with Rochelle, and she was found dead a few hours later. Remember that? It was the party where we have a picture of you arriving with Rochelle. That’s a pretty interesting coincidence for anybody sitting on a jury.”

  She hadn’t broken through Jack’s silence yet, because he didn’t see any threat. She hadn’t shown him anything that he didn’t already know. But he was curious. She could see the wheels turning, wondering what the police had and why they’d felt confident enough to charge him with murder this time.

  “We know John Doe had an accomplice,” she went on, “and we know that accomplice is you.”

  Jack waited. His shoulders gave the smallest shrug.

  “I get it; you think I’m blowing smoke,” Maggie said. She turned around and waved at the interrogation window. “Cab, what do you think? Am I blowing smoke in here?”

  Cab’s voice crackled through the intercom. “No, you’re not.”

  Maggie smiled at Jack. “No, I’m really not. See, we found John Doe’s phone in his car, along with the gun and the cowboy hat. The phone records show that he was in communication with somebody in town. Namely, you. And yeah, as soon as you heard John Doe was dead, I’m sure you ditched the phone. That’s okay. We got the call records on the burner phone anyway. You remember the mistake you made, right, Jack?”

  Jack stared back at her, but this time, he sucked his lower lip nervously between his teeth. Maggie grinned.

  “Yeah, that’s right, the pizza,” she said. “Look, I don’t blame you. When I’m jonesing for a Sammy’s, nothing else will do. But using the burner phone to call for delivery? Not smart. Of course, you called the wrong location, didn’t you? They told you they wouldn’t deliver up to Hermantown. So you hung up and looked at the phone in your hand, and you thought—shit. Lucky break that you didn’t actually place an order, huh?”

  She put a copy of the sheet with the apartment phone records on the interview table in front of Jack.

  “Except then you used the phone in your apartment to call the Sammy’s restaurant in Hermantown. Two minutes later. That doesn’t look good, Jack. You think anyone is going to believe that’s a coincidence?”

  She took out another sheet of paper from her folder and put it facedown on the table. She could see Jack look at it; she could see him wondering what it was. The anticipation was always the worst part. That was what ate into a suspect’s confidence. The not knowing.

  “I got the phone records from the apartment owner,” Maggie said. “He’s a nosy guy, that Stig. Likes to keep an eye on things. We have a statement from him, Jack. He saw Peach Piper hanging out near your apartment. In fact, he called to tell you that some girl was spying on you, and you went out and confronted her. Then you walked her toward the back of the complex. John Doe was staying in one of the cottages back
there. So we figure the two of you took Peach into the woods and John Doe shot her. Did you watch him do it, Jack? Have you seen people killed before? It’s not pretty. I hope you didn’t throw up or anything. Because we’ll be searching the woods tomorrow. We’re going to find the crime scene.”

  She still hadn’t turned over the sheet of paper in front of Jack.

  “The fact is, the game’s over,” she went on. “First-degree murder, Jack. Life in prison. You don’t have anybody to blame but yourself, you know. It’s that ego of yours. The girl who delivered your pizza asked if you were part of the movie crew, and you couldn’t stop yourself, could you? You had to say yes. You had to let her take a selfie with you. Except the thing is, she clicked a few shots before you closed the apartment door, Jack.”

  Maggie reached out and turned over the paper on the table. It was an enlarged photograph taken from Ginny Hoeppner’s phone. Maggie took a red Sharpie and drew a circle on the picture.

  “This is inside the apartment, Jack. See where I drew the circle? Look closely. It’s easy to make out if you squint.”

  Jack did. Then he sighed and closed his eyes.

  “Yeah. It’s a black cowboy hat with a red-tailed hawk’s feather. It’s John Doe’s hat. And I might not even have noticed it without the hat, but the fact is, that’s not even your apartment. The furniture isn’t right. You had the pizza delivered to John Doe’s apartment. That’s why you’re here, Jack. That’s why you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison. If you want, you can wait and talk to the lawyer that Dean Casperson gets for you. But if Dean’s paying for it, who do you think that lawyer is really going to represent? Little tip: it’s not you. My advice is, you cut a deal right now and tell us about Casperson’s involvement in the murder of Peach Piper, the murder of Rochelle Wahl, the murder of Haley Adams, and the murders of anyone else you scumbags have been involved with in the last twenty years.”

  Jack stared at the ceiling. He exhaled slowly, and the stale aroma of cigarette smoke breathed from his mouth. He took another look at the photographs spread out across the table. Finally, he spoke.

  “Dean’s not the one you want,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dean’s a pervert and a predator,” Jack continued, “and you can put him away for that, but he doesn’t know anything about the murders. He just thinks we paid the girls off.”

  “Then who’s behind it?” Maggie asked.

  “Mo,” Jack replied. “It’s always been Mo. Let me tell you, bring a whole squadron when you arrest her, because you’ve never met a steelier character than Dean’s wife. She will do anything to protect his reputation. She made all the calls about who we needed to get rid of. She decided who lived and died. Give me a deal, and I can give you names, dates, places, everything you need. Mo’s the one who hired John Doe. Mo’s the scorpion.”

  43

  “Do you believe him?” Stride asked Cab. “You and your mother know Mo Casperson better than any of us.”

  Cab sipped his three-in-the-morning coffee and made a sour face. “Jack knows you have a rock-solid case against him. If he had evidence against Dean, I think he’d give it to us. If he’s pointing the finger at Mo instead, she’s probably been his contact all along.”

  “I met Mo,” Maggie added. “I have no trouble imagining her as ruthless enough to hire a killer. I watched her tear into Tarla’s reputation at just a hint that she might go public about what Dean did to her. I think Mo would do whatever it takes to keep Dean propped up.”

  Stride got up from the conference table and went to the vending machine, where he bought himself a can of Coke. It was his third since midnight. “Even if Mo was the one behind the murders, I have a hard time picturing Dean as completely out of the loop. He had to know what was going on.”

  “I agree,” Cab replied, “although I’m not sure if you’ll be able to prove it.”

  “Mo may have tried to compartmentalize him,” Maggie said, “so she’d be the one to take the fall if things went south. Or maybe she just didn’t think Dean had the stones to make the tough calls.”

  “We won’t know until we talk to her,” Stride said.

  Cab smiled. “Well, Lala and the Naples Police are on their way to Captiva to give Mo a little wake-up call.”

  Stride focused on Serena, who was pacing back and forth in the conference room. She hadn’t joined the discussion. She still had restless energy driving her forward despite the late hour. One part of the investigation was done, but one part was still open, and the clock was ticking. Aimee Bowe was still missing.

  “Serena, how’s Cat?” Maggie called.

  Serena stopped in the middle of the room. “She’s spending the night at St. Mary’s for observation. Physically, she’s okay. The drugs just need to get out of her system.”

  Cab spoke in a quiet voice. No one had wanted to bring up what really had happened between Dean and Cat. “Forgive me for asking, but was she actually—?”

  “No. We got there in time.” Serena shook her head and glanced across the room at Stride. “Another thirty seconds and I think our lives as we know them would have been over.”

  Stride said nothing. He knew what she meant. If they hadn’t arrived in time—if Dean Casperson had gone through with the rape and Stride had found them afterward—he wasn’t sure he would have been able to stop himself from pulling the trigger when he put his gun to Casperson’s head. As it was, it had been a close call. He could still feel the violence in his veins.

  “I’m worried about what comes next for Cat,” Stride said. “The media focus on her is going to be ferocious. I don’t know if she’s ready for this. The whole world is going to know who she is. Her past will be in every magazine. Then there’s the trial, too. If the county attorney can’t do a plea bargain, Casperson’s attorneys will try to shred her on the stand.”

  “Cat’s tough,” Maggie reminded him.

  “What she did took guts,” Cab added. “She succeeded where everyone else failed. She took Dean Casperson down all by herself.”

  Stride caught Serena’s eye. That was Cat, full of contradictions. He wanted to lock her in her room and keep her safe, he wanted to scream at her for being so stupid, and he wanted to tell her how proud he was that she would sacrifice herself to right a wrong that had been going on for decades.

  Serena sat down at the conference table. “Meanwhile, we still don’t know where Aimee Bowe is.”

  “I don’t think Jungle Jack was involved,” Maggie told her. “We asked him about Aimee after he started talking, and he said he and Mo didn’t have anything to do with it. I think he’s telling the truth on this one.”

  “I agree,” Serena replied. “I don’t see what Dean, Mo, or Jack would gain by staging a sick copycat of what happened eleven years ago.”

  “Except Aimee echoed the movie script when she made the audiotape,” Stride pointed out. “Why do that if whoever took her had nothing to do with the movie? What’s the message?”

  Serena shook her head. “Aimee told me Art didn’t do it. Maybe she’s giving us a clue about who did.”

  The room was silent for a while. Then Maggie spoke carefully, as if she knew she was on shaky ground. “Serena, you weren’t around here back then. You didn’t know Art. We dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’ on that investigation.”

  “I’m not saying you didn’t. You still could have missed something. It happens.” She got out of the chair and slipped on her winter coat. “I’m going to the hospital to check on Cat. Then I’m heading home to go over the Leipold case files.”

  Stride nodded. “I’ll be there soon, too.”

  Serena left the room, her face grim.

  Cab’s phone started ringing, and he left the room to take the call. Stride and Maggie were alone, but the past was in the room with them. They’d spent hours in a room like this eleven years earlier, when they were tying Art Leipold to the murders. They stared at each across the table.

  “Do you think Serena c
ould be right?” Stride asked.

  “About Art? No. Either it’s a stalker or it’s a copycat.”

  “I wonder,” he mused. “I don’t like to think about it, but is it possible we were played back then? Did someone hate Art Leipold enough to set him up?”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  Stride frowned. He did have someone in mind, and he didn’t like where his thoughts were taking him. There was only one man who was linked to both Art Leipold and the movie.

  Before he could say anything more, Cab came back into the room.

  “Mo knew we were coming,” he told them. “Someone tipped her off about Cat’s video and Jack’s arrest.”

  “What do you mean?” Maggie asked.

  “That was Lala on the phone. When they got to Casperson’s estate in Captiva, Mo was already gone. The staff doesn’t know when she’s coming back. If she knows we’ve got Jack in custody, she knows we’re coming after her, too. And she’s got the resources to hide anywhere in the world.”

  44

  When Stride finally got home, the man he was looking for was already there. Chris Leipold was huddled in one of the Adirondack chairs on his porch. The writer was as white as the snow, and he’d obviously been drinking. A half-empty bottle of brandy was still in his hand. He stared at Stride through bloodshot eyes. His speech was slurred by the numbing cold, the lingering effects of his virus, and the dulling effects of the alcohol.

  “It’s over,” Chris said. “It’s done.”

  Stride sat down in a chair next to him. He glanced over his shoulder through the cottage windows. Inside, the lights were on. Serena was already home.

  “What are you doing here, Chris?” Stride asked.

  “It’s over,” Chris said again.

  “What is?”

  “The studio’s pulling out of The Caged Girl. The movie’s dead.”