“I’m sorry I can’t be more specific at this point. I just received your material yesterday,” she said as she briefly held up the folder. “I only had time to look it over on the plane and last night in the hotel. I’m going to spend the next few days here, studying the case, so I’ll be around for a while. If you have any questions, I’ll do my best to answer them.”
What followed was a half hour question and answer session, mostly general terms about the characteristics of a serial killer and what makes him tick or, depending upon your viewpoint, explode. Jake sat back in his chair, listened and watched as the questions and discussion went around the table. The shrink obviously knew her business but it wasn’t too helpful. He had not expected it to be, having pulled a book about serial killers from the public library a couple weeks before. The discussion taking place and the doctors brief lecture had pretty much coincided with what Jake had learned on his own. It didn’t hurt either though, he thought. Getting inside this guy’s head and figure him out could only help.
It had been almost three weeks since the Dahlstrom girl and that trail had grown mighty cold. Jake had come to the sad conclusion that it was likely there was only one way they were going to catch this guy. He was going to have to make a mistake which, Jake was certain, sooner or later he would. The problem with that reality was, to make that mistake, he was going to have to attack someone again. Maybe kill again. Hopefully, they would get a witness or something concrete to tie to this guy.
The discussion died out and Holby rose and said, “Thank you, Doctor. It’s been very informative and I’m sure we’ll have more questions come up.”
Looking over the table of detectives the psychiatrist replied, “I’ll be around. Please feel free to call or stop by anytime. You never know what might be useful. What might be significant. Don’t hesitate to ask. I’m just sorry I can’t be more specific.”
“Lieutenant,” said Holby turning his attention to Waschke, “You wanted to go over what we have on each victim?”
“Yeah, right Chief.” Jake answered.
“Why don’t you and the doctor trade places and we’ll do that now, then,” said Holby.
Jake stood and walked around the small woman as she gathered her material and moved to take the chair vacated by the imposing detective. Jake took her place at the podium, respectfully waited a moment for her to get seated, gather herself and prepare to take notes.
“Like the Chief said,” Jake began as he looked over the faces in the room. “I’d like to take some time now to go over the victims one-by-one to refresh everyone and bring everyone up to date with what we have.
“Victim number one or, as far as we know, we believe is his first victim,” he said as the doctor stretched her neck to see the podium surface, impressed that the detective doing the speaking was not using a single note, “Mary Margaret Briggs. Age thirty-eight. Divorced. Two teen-age kids. Boy and a girl. Both now living with their dad.”
“How long ago was the divorce?” asked Mitch Klein, one of the detectives brought over from St. Paul with John Lucas.
“Four years. Forget it, Mitch. We checked thoroughly. Amicable split. They got along well. Nothing there. Anyway,” Jake continued, “she worked as a broker in one of the downtown firms, Hollings and Jenkins. Killed Thursday, January twenty fifth around 9:30 or 10:00 p.m. in a parking ramp over on Second and Eleventh. Found naked next to her car. Yes, in a parking ramp, in Minneapolis, in freeze your ass off January. She had been out with a friend, a woman, for a couple drinks. That’s how we established the time of death. Hands bound with her own bra. Sexually assaulted. Single knife wound under the chin into the brain. Death almost instantaneous. Physical characteristics; tall, five ten, one hundred thirty pounds. Brunette. Very attractive woman. No physical evidence found except fibers from ordinary blue jeans. Levi’s. Fairly new ones according to the lab boys and obviously very common. Everyone in this room probably owns a pair.”
“Victim number two,” he said without taking his hands from the podium and still without notes. He continued this way for another twenty minutes running through the names, backgrounds, physical characteristics and evidence, or lack of it, for each of the first three victims.
“What about the semen found on number three, Kimberly Mason?” asked the doctor.
“Boyfriend,” Jake replied. “We matched it up. His alibi is solid. He was working as a bartender from five until almost two in the morning when it happened. Plenty of witnesses.”
“Okay,” said Helen Paltrow.
“Anybody notice anything so far?” asked Jake looking over the group as a whole. “All tall, five eight to five ten. All attractive. All brunettes,” came the response from one of Jake’s officers, a woman named Denise Anderson.
“Very good, Detective Anderson, you win a cookie. Anything else?” asked Jake.
“All killed on a Wednesday or Thursday between roughly, 9:30 and11:00,” replied another of the Minneapolis officers, Mike Santell.
“Very good, Detective Santell. You too win a cookie,” said Jake. “What does that tell us?” Jake asked rhetorically. “Not much except he likes tall, attractive brunettes.”
“Who doesn’t?” said Santell, eliciting a hearty laugh from all in the room and a playful punch from the blonde haired Denise Anderson seated next to him.
“Good point, Mike,” Waschke said after the room had calmed down. “John, give us the rundown on Michelle Dahlstrom will you please. Victim number five.”
“Sure Jake,” said John Lucas, the lead detective from the St. Paul Police as he rose to address the group. “Michelle Marie Dahlstrom. Age 24,” he began looking at his notes. “Five foot eight, one hundred twenty seven pounds. Brunette. You’ve all seen her picture so, you know how pretty she was. Killed Wednesday, April twenty fourth between 11:15 and 11:30. Times verified by coroner and witnesses who saw her in a bar on Grand, Charlie’s, just before the attack. Witnesses included a state trooper who knew her from the Governor’s detail, Bob Murphy. Murphy says he saw her but left before she did. Says around 10:30 or 10:45.”
“You check this Murphy out?” asked the Deputy Chief.
“Yes, sir,” replied Lucas. “Looks pretty straight. No alibi for the time of death but solidly through his work records for the other victims .”
“Which brings us back to who we believe is victim number four,” said Waschke. “Constance Ann Gavin. Age thirty four. Sandy blonde hair. Five foot four. One hundred forty pounds. Pretty average all around. Nice enough looking but more average than really attractive. By comparison, the others could all be called stunning, except this one. Plus, she was attacked on a Sunday evening between 9:00 and 9:30.
“Semen sample found that does not belong to her husband. He says she was at church that evening. Witnesses verify it. She left around 8:45. Her car, with her naked in the back seat, hands bound with her bra just like the others, was found behind a closed gas station four blocks from the church.”
“Does the husband know about the semen sample,” asked one of the St. Paul detectives.
“He does now. We had to take a blood sample for a DNA comparison from him and he had a right to know why. No doubt, it’s not his. He says they weren’t getting along, but he was still pretty shook up. Has no idea who it might be from. We have questioned everyone that knew her about a possible boyfriend but came up empty.”
“Why do you think she’s one of his victims?” asked Doctor Paltrow “His pattern, such as it is, and victim profile, seem well established and this one is seriously out of the norm.”
“The cause of death, Doctor,” Jake answered. “Single stab wound under the jaw and through the brain. Very distinctive. And it matches exactly. In twenty three years on the force, I’ve never seen anything quite like it and, as far as I know, no one else has, either. Plus, using the bra to tie her up like the others.”
“That’s not unusual,” said the doctor.
“Yeah, I know. But, it is common to all of them. Except Michelle Dahlstrom. He
didn’t get that far with her and we don’t know why,” said Jake. “Could be any number of reasons,” he added.
“What about the semen sample?” asked the Deputy Chief, even though he knew the answer.
“No luck, so far. The BCA ran it but, no match,” replied Waschke.
“BCA?” asked the doctor.
“Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. That’s the state agency over in St. Paul. Their lab and computers tried to come up with a match but the data base hasn’t come up with anything. Our guy may not be on file for any number of reasons. When we get him, we’ll match it then,” said Jake. “Anything else?”
“The footprints,” he heard John Lucas say. “We found a set of footprints about a block away from where the Dahlstrom girl was found. Reeboks, size ten. By the placement of each print, whoever made them was running. They were over four feet apart. We’re working on tracking down make, model and where they may have been sold but, don’t hold your breath that it will lead anywhere.”
“Forget it,” said Paltrow, “your guy’s too smart for that. Even if he is the one that made the prints, those shoes are long gone and he won’t buy Reeboks again.”
“Jeff, what about the computers?” Waschke said, looking down the table at the quiet, balding, bespectacled man seated on the far end. Jeffrey Miller looked to be the furthest thing possible from a police officer with his glasses, bow tie and ever present stack of computer printouts. Typically the butt of good natured teasing, he was one of the most popular members of the department because of his genius with computers. He had solved more cases than anyone in the room with his gift, grit and determination.
“Easily a couple hundred possible based on the sex crime aspect of the case. I’ve run into a brick wall with the method of killing. The single stab wound. Crazy’s seem to go for the multiple stabs when they use a knife so, the computer hasn’t turned up anything,” Miller replied.
“What about the possibles?” asked the Deputy Chief.
“We’re running them down but, no luck so far,” replied Jake.
“What are you looking for?” asked the doctor.
“Violent sex offenders. Rapists that used a knife, especially. We may have to expand the search which is where you come in Doctor. If you could get together with Jeff and go over what we’ve looked for so far, maybe you could come up with some suggestions,” said Jake.
Bringing the meeting to a conclusion, he looked around the room and added, “One more thing, folks. The knife wound. The method of killing. As a reminder, that is absolutely confidential. No one, I mean no one, outside of this room is to know it. The coroner’s office is being damn good about this and let’s be sure we are, too. If I read about it in the papers or hear it on TV I will have someone’s ass. Any questions? Anything else? Good. Well, let’s get back to work.”
FOURTEEN
Deputy Chief Holby caught up with Waschke in the hall, gently grabbed him by the arm and said, “Jake, the Mayor wants to see you, me and the Chief in her office at 10:00 this morning and then there’s a press conference at 10:30.”
“Are these things really necessary? Do I have to be there, again?” asked Jake, obviously annoyed. “I’m not running for office.”
“Yes. The Chief was quite explicit about it. Besides,” he continued poking a finger in Jake’s ribcage, “the press loves you, remember,” he said with a laugh.
“Yeah, right. Kiss my ass,” Jake said as he leaned his head to the Deputy Chief so only the two of them could hear the last remark. Holby let out a hearty laugh, slapped Jake on the shoulder, taking the gloomy look off Jake’s face.
The two men took the elevator in the old City Hall Building, an oddly shaped architectural eyesore from another era, up to the floor that housed the offices and staff of the Mayor of Minneapolis.
Jake dreaded these weekly press briefings that he was forced to attend at the Mayor’s insistence. The briefings started with victim number three, Kimberly Mason, when the police were forced to admit there was a serial killer on the loose. At first, the briefings were heavily attended. Attendance had started to decline as the daily papers and local radio and TV stations moved on to other things. Jake had begun to wonder if the lack of publicity might be the trigger that caused the stalker to strike. Then came Michelle Dahlstrom and all hell broke loose. The story went national at that point and now the networks were camped in town.
They arrived on the third floor and went through the double glass doors leading into the Mayors offices. Without breaking stride, the two men walked past the Mayor’s receptionist and straight into Her Honor’s office where the Mayor, her press secretary and the Police Chief awaited their arrival.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Mayor Gillette as Jake quietly closed the door behind him. “Come in and please, give me some good news. It would be nice to have some around here for a change.”
“Your honor, I’m shocked to see you smoking in a nonsmoking building,” Jake said in mock admonishment.
“Screw you, Waschke,” she replied as the other three men laughed at the exchange. “So, arrest me for smoking.”
“Might not be a bad idea,” broke in Chief Frederick Romey. “it would get us out of this press conference and give them something to write about.”
“Hey Fred,” said the Mayor, “you may have something there. Let’s do it.”
“Too much paperwork,” said Jake. “Not worth the bother.”
As Jake sat in the booth sipping his coffee recalling the scene in the mayor’s office, trying to suppress a smile the memory brought on. He genuinely liked Susan Gillette, a self-described ‘tough old broad’ who had won the Mayor’s Office the year before on a get-tough-with-the-gangs platform. A sixty two year old white grandmother who could appeal to a broad cross-section of the voters by reminding the minority community who the crime victims were. Jake was beginning to take it a little too personally that, right after she got the job, this mess with the stalker had fallen in her lap and Jake was not doing much about it.
The press conference itself had gone fairly well. The Mayor’s press secretary, Ron Goldman, had started it off with a brief statement that basically said nothing. This came as a surprise to no one, especially Jake, since there was nothing new to report and even if there was, it likely would not have been reported anyway. A total waste of time, thought Waschke. These people know perfectly well that as soon as something breaks, they will be told. For the next half hour Jake sat behind the Mayor as she stood at the podium taking the heat. He had to give her credit for it. She could have sent any number of people up there to take it, but it was her city and she would not let anyone do it for her.
“Tough old broad,” he heard himself say.
“Who’s a tough old broad, Jake?” he heard Louie ask as he snapped out of his reverie to find Louie hovering over him with the coffee pot in one hand. “More?” he asked.
“Uh, no thanks, Louie. Gotta get going,” Jake answered as he placed his right hand over the cup.
“So, who’s a tough old broad?” Louie repeated.
“Oh, that,” Jake laughed. “The Mayor. She really is a tough old broad, just like she claimed last fall, remember? Hey Louie,” he continued, “why do they call this place the Lakeview Tavern? You can’t see a lake from here.”
“Fuck you, Waschke. You’ve asked me that dumb question a hundred times.
How the hell do I know why? I didn’t name it for chrissakes.”
“Always a pleasure to see you, Louie. Such a pleasant atmosphere. What do I owe ya?”
“Same as always, flatfoot. Get yer ass out there and catch the nut job and I’ll take care of the coffee.”
Louie headed back to the bar with the coffee pot in one hand and Jake’s empty cup in the other. Jake pulled his feet from the opposite bench, stood and reached across the table to retrieve the raincoat he had tossed on the booth’s other bench. Heading toward the front door leading to Lyndale, he waved a goodbye to his friend and put on the coat as he stepped through the do
or onto the wet sidewalk. Standing on the sidewalk stretching his back, he looked up and down the almost empty avenue. ‘We’re going to have to get lucky to get this guy,’ he thought. ‘And it better be pretty damn soon.’
FIFTEEN
Marvin Henderson relaxed in his Lay-Z-Boy watching the 10 o’clock news on local channel 8 as was his normal custom. Seventy two years old and retired after over forty years with Honeywell, he had lived alone for the past three years, since the death of his wife. The kids were grown with families of their own. They all kept an eye on their dad, seeing him more often than most children did in this day and age. He lived alone now except for the collie whose muzzle he now felt nudging his right arm as it rested on the chair. A reminder that it was beyond the normal time for their nightly walk. She needed a respite outdoors and it was time to go.
“Okay, old girl,” Marvin said as he pushed down the chair’s footrest, patted his companion on the head and rose from his seat. “Let me check the weather first.” He walked toward the front door, the collie at his heals, and peered through the small window in the solid wooden door that led to the front of the house on 35th Street in south Minneapolis.
“Looks like it stopped raining. Well, Keesha, guess I’ll go with after all. Let me grab an umbrella and your leash and I’ll be right with you,” he said to the dog as he bent to retrieve the leash lying in a corner by the door. He went into a closet, took a coat from a hangar, an umbrella from the shelf, snapped the leash to his old friend’s collar and followed her through the door into the night.
“Let’s go down by the lake for a bit,” he said to the dog as he patiently waited for her on the front lawn of their home. “As long as it’s not raining we might as well get a little exercise.”
He walked out into the street and headed west the two blocks to Lake Calhoun and the walking path around it. It was a familiar route her master had taken literally hundreds of times over the years. The dog knew where they were headed and she patiently walked alongside the old man, the leash hanging loose between them.
(2012) The Key to Justice Page 7
