by Rick Reed
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jack and Liddell decided to grab something to eat while they waited for crime scene to do their thing. Since they weren’t involved in searching the dumpsters, they would be in the way. And they couldn’t talk to any neighbors since it was an industrial area and the closest inhabitants lived several blocks away.
They went to Milano’s, an Italian restaurant, located on the Main Street Walkway in the heart of downtown. The motif was Italian, the owner was Lebanese, and the waitstaff were from various Middle Eastern and Asian countries. It was Katie’s favorite place. Candlelit at night, and sounds of Italian music would drift from mounted speakers. Her favorite dish was baked ziti, although she picked at it—as with all her food—like a bird. He never understood how she could stay alive, as little as she ate.
His own appetite seemed to have left him. His plate of spaghetti with meat sauce set untouched while he sipped the mint tea that was forced on him by Kazan, the owner.
“You gonna eat that?” Liddell asked.
Jack pushed his plate across, but kept one of the handmade rolls called garlic knots and began nibbling at it.
“Why did the killer try to bury Nina?” Jack said, not realizing he said it out loud.
“That’s easy,” Liddell said. “We weren’t supposed to find her.”
“That’s what I thought,” Jack said. “So why smear blood all over the front of that dumpster?”
“C’mon, pod’na,” Liddell said. “Don’t read too much into it. These guys are all nuts.” He shoveled what remained on the plate into his mouth, and around the food, said, “Okay, let’s play that game. If he did the Harrisburg girl and her pimp, then he left the heads where they would be found. Then he kills Nina and takes her head and puts it in a garbage bag with one of her arms, and then cuts the fence and buries that inside our dump. Some dogs find it and think, “Mmm mmm . . . this looks tasty,” and so they drag it out by the fence.”
Jack put a hand on Liddell’s arm before he could continue. Several people had stopped eating and were staring open-mouthed at the two detectives. Jack and Liddell got up, paid their bill to a grateful clerk, and headed outside.
“Sorry, pod’na,” Liddell said when they were back on the sidewalk. “They just got entertained for free. Better than an episode of NCIS.”
“So go ahead and finish your theory,” Jack said. He was interested to hear Liddell’s perspective.
Liddell pulled a napkin from his pocket and dabbed his mouth. “Okay. So he kills Nina and buries her head and her arm in the landfill—maybe the rest of her is buried there as well. Why doesn’t he put her in a dumpster like the other ones. Why does he clean up the scene at Nina’s house make it look like she has left town. The answer is obvious to a trained detective like me.”
This wasn’t the first time Liddell had used a dramatic pause, and Jack took the bait. “So what’s your explanation?”
“The killer knows her. He may be a boyfriend we haven’t found out about, or an ex-husband. Or someone she prosecuted that’s pissed.”
“Wow!” Jack said. “You came up with all that?”
“No. It was the secret surprise in a box of Cracker Jack’s.”
Jack could see the sense in what he said, up to a point. “There’s a hole in your theory, Bigfoot. If it’s a revenge or jealousy killing, why kill the other women? The guy who dismembered Nina and decapitated this new victim has killed before. Most first-timers don’t chop heads off. Whoever this is, he isn’t squeamish.”
“I didn’t say it was the answer, pod’na. I was just offering an explanation. So, what do you think?”
Jack just shrugged. Something Liddell said struck a chord, but the thought was buried in the back of his mind, just outside of his grasp.
Jennifer Mangold, secretary to the chief of police, hurried toward Jack and Liddell as they were crossing the street in front of the police department.
“The chief wants you,” she said, a little out of breath. She was forty going on fifty, with a constant dark tan, and deep lines around her mouth from years of chain-smoking. But she knew how to keep a secret, and that had kept her in a job through three administrations.
“Hey, Jennifer,” Liddell said as they entered the building. “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” This was a regular routine between them.
“No, he doesn’t. But there’s a steaming pile of it waiting for you in there.” She pointed at the chief’s door.
Jack was about to knock on the chief’s door when Jennifer put a hand on his arm.
“Jack, I need to tell you something before you go in there.”
“We’re all ears,” Liddell said, pulling his ears forward.
She pulled a piece of notepaper from her desk drawer and handed it to Jack. He spied two names with phone numbers, and one of them he recognized. “Karen Compton is the receptionist at the prosecutor’s office, isn’t she?”
“She is,” Jennifer said. “And Sylvia Jennings is the receptionist for Juvenile Court.”
Liddell grinned. “Are you selling tickets to the Receptionist Ball?”
“Can you be serious for one minute, please?” she said. “The reason I’m giving you these names is they both overheard a terrible argument two days before Nina was killed.
Liddell immediately sobered, and they listened to her story.
“Once a week we three meet for lunch, and we got together today. We were talking about Nina’s murder, and I mentioned that Nina seemed like a very nice person. Both Sylvia and Karen disagreed. They both thought she was a real . . . Well, you know what they thought. Anyway, I asked why they thought that, and they both said they had overheard a very heated argument recently. Nina and Bob Rothschild were arguing—yelling at each other really—on the side of the building.”
“Did they know what the argument was about?” Jack asked.
Jennifer shook her head. “But they overheard Bob scream at Nina that if she kept doing something, he’d make her wish she were dead.”
Jack and Liddell traded a long look.
“Bob Rothschild the county attorney?” Jack clarified.
“Yes. I hope I did the right thing telling you,” Jennifer said. “I just thought it might be important. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Even that little snake in the grass.”
“You did exactly the right thing, Jennifer,” Jack said. “But I will have to talk to Karen and Sylvia.”
“I already talked to them and told them I was going to tell you first chance. They understand and will talk to you.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. That will have to be checked out, he thought as he knocked on Marlin Pope’s door. Inside, he could hear a raised voice, and it wasn’t the chief’s.
“Come,” Pope ordered, and they went inside.
“It’s about time!” Trent Wethington said and stood up.
Jack ignored the big show of indignation. “You wanted us, Chief?”
“Have a seat.”
Eric Manson looked uncomfortable, and Bob Rothschild was staring at his feet. Trent had his shirtsleeves rolled up on another pink shirt with white collar and cuffs, and his deep blue tie was loosened.
“Cooperation, gentlemen,” Trent said. “That’s the name of the game. Cooperation is what clears cases. Clear and timely communication clears cases. I hope I’m clear on that?”
“I’m sorry, Trent,” Jack said. He had witnessed the prosecutor’s “take no prisoner” stance before, and he didn’t want to waste time. “It’s my fault. There’s no excuse.”
This mea culpa seemed to quell Trent’s emotional tirade. He regarded Jack like a forgiving father. “I know you’ve got your hands full, Jack. But you must keep me apprised of any progress in future.”
Jack risked a look at Marlin Pope, who rolled his eyes. “Will do,” Jack said.
Trent turned to the police chief. “Are we any closer to finding that leak on your department?”
Pope’s eyes narrowed. “We,” he said, “haven’t determined that the
leak came from my department.”
Trent cleared his throat. “Of course. I misspoke, Marlin.”
Pope continued. “But when we identify the person, I’ll be bringing charges against them. I trust your office will pursue criminal charges this time.” Jack knew he was referring to the past leaks of Larry Jansen and Deputy Chief Richard Dick that had gone unprosecuted.
This shut Trent down. Pope knew the prosecutor would never file charges if the person involved were an employee of either Trent’s office or the police department. It was tantamount to washing city laundry in public. In effect, Pope had just issued a challenge to put up or shut up.
“We’ll discuss it,” Trent said, and turned to Rothschild. “I suppose we’re done here, Bob.” The county attorney, who had not uttered a word, followed the prosecutor out of the office.
Eric Manson stood to leave as well, but Jack stopped him.
“Eric, I want to ask a favor. Do you mind looking up to see if Nina ever prosecuted Hope Dupree? You know, the victim in Harrisburg?”
“Cooperation is the name of the game, gentlemen,” Eric said in a voice mimicking that of his boss. “Or is it communication? I’m so confused.”
“Good one,” Liddell chimed in. “I didn’t think Trent allowed you to have a sense of humor.”
“I usually keep it in my desk,” Eric said.
Liddell said into Jack’s ear, “Should we corral Bob now?”
Jack shook his head. “Let’s talk to the women first.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Moira leaned back in her chair in frustration. “Where would I put important files in this mess?” Every flat surface in her new office was covered with paperwork, some of it loose, some in stacks, some in manila folders or in banker’s boxes that lined the walls. At first glance, the job of sorting and filing all of this had seemed an insurmountable task, but Moira soon settled into a rhythm and, like a marathon runner, found her pace. In the two hours after Jack hurried away, she had three-fourths of the task completed. At the very least she had divided active cases from closed ones.
Eric said he would have a temp worker take the boxes to their storage room in the basement. He had already taken Nina’s current caseload with plans to divide these among more senior people. That would allow Moira to start fresh after she was trained.
Eric also made the note that Nina was a pack rat, and Moira had to agree. In going through this stuff she had found cases going back twenty years or more. The Indiana statutes of limitations restricted the length of time the state has to prosecute someone for a crime. These lengths generally depended on the type of crime, and the terms on all of these cases had expired. Moira couldn’t imagine why Nina would keep these cases around.
She stepped into the hallway, intending to find more bankers’ boxes. Maybe her death has nothing to do with her job. Maybe Nina was a target of opportunity.
“Would you come in my office, please?” Trent said, startling her.
He was leaning out of his doorway. She entered his office and he shut the door. He walked behind his desk, indicating for her to take a seat. He remained standing and turned to look out of his window. “You’re helping Jack look through Nina’s files.”
Moira didn’t know if he was asking a question. “Is that what you want me to do?”
He flashed a brief smile and his eyes bored into hers. Moira imagined that was the look he gave opposing counsel during trials, calculated to break a suspect on the witness stand. She prided herself on being self-confident, but she wilted under Trent’s blazing stare.
“It’s exactly what you should be doing, Moira.” He took her hand and put one of his business cards on her palm. Yet he continued to hold her hand, longer than necessary and making her uncomfortable. She extricated her hand at last, and he said, “My home and cell phone numbers are on the back.”
Moira glanced at the card, and he continued, “I know you and Jack are already family, but we are your family now. Me. Everyone in the prosecutor’s office.”
Moira wasn’t sure what he was getting at, but she nodded agreement with his statement.
He moved to the door, indicating that the discussion, or whatever it was, was over. She stood up, intending to get back to work, but Trent braced an arm against the door and moved closer to her, saying, almost in a whisper, “The police have someone leaking information to the news media.”
Jack had told her about the leak, but she didn’t see the significance. The police were always having leaks. So did every other government agency, be it city, county, or state. What she did know was that she was uncomfortable with Trent’s closeness, and being in his office with the door shut. But he was her boss.
“What can I do, sir?”
“Please, when we’re alone, you may call me Trent,” he said in a tone that was anything but fatherly.
“Yes, sir . . . Trent.”
“The point I’m making, Moira, is that you owe as much loyalty to your working family as you do to your kin.” He let his words to sink in. “If you, or Jack, find anything . . . I want to be the first to hear about it. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and then remembered, “I mean, Trent. You will be the first.”
He gave her a toothy smile and took his arm from the door. “You take care of us, and we’ll take care of you.” Putting two fingers beside his right brow, he added his tagline, “Scout’s honor.”
She escaped down the hallway, but not back to her office. He had creeped her out and she needed to get outside for a smoke. Then she would have to spray herself with Febreze so Katie wouldn’t smell it when she got home. She’d quit smoking later—after she got used to the way people acted in this place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The call from the Narcotics Unit was brief and uninformative. Jack guessed that could be expected from someone working in that unit for twenty years, as Sergeant Kim Hammond had. Jack and Liddell left the morgue and drove to headquarters, where they took the stairs to the basement.
Their latest victim was as yet unidentified, but the manner of her death had an unexplained detail. Dr. John thought she might have been injected with something, because he found a needle mark in her neck. He was putting a rush on the toxicology, but Jack wasn’t holding his breath for a quick turnaround.
In the basement, they passed the indoor pistol range, the Crime Scene Unit, and then forged deep into the recesses where the Narcotics officers dwelled. Jack had never had any desire to work narcotics because their field investigators tended to be as quirky as the suspects.
Outside the door where they stopped, Jack noticed something taped to the wall. It was a crayon stick drawing of a person with a long and pointy object in one hand. Under the drawing, scribbled in red crayon, were the words, Runs with Scissors.
Jack put a hand on Liddell’s arm. “You said something earlier about Nina’s death that’s been bugging me. Both she and Hope—and the pimp—were killed the same night and the same way. What are the odds of that? And now this one is killed, maybe injected with something, and her head is left where it would get the most attention—the newspaper offices.”
“So?” Liddell asked.
Jack searched for the right words and then said, “This one matches some particulars from Harrisburg and some of ours. So far none of ours had been left out in the open.” He kept spinning the idea out. “Nina is the center of this. I’m sure of it. She’s the only one the killer tried to hide. We haven’t found any of the kill locations, but at Nina’s house we found a lot of blood. That’s the only time he screwed up. I’ve been asking myself why, and the answer I keep getting is that the killer knew Nina. She was special.”
“So you’re saying the killer is trying to make us think these are gang killings? That it’s drug-related? But it’s not. It’s about Nina.”
“I’m not sure yet.” Yet he did think of the lies Eric told them. Maybe he deserves a closer look. Garcia can check with the police in Pennsylvania. Why did he leave that place, anyway
?
Liddell pushed the door open and said loudly, “Knock, knock.”
“What’s the code word?” inquired a female voice from somewhere inside the dark maze.
Kim Hammond had adapted to her job well. Years of working undercover left her with numerous tattoos, high blood pressure from poor sleeping and eating habits, and a lifetime of chain-smoking, not always tobacco. She was short, sturdily built, with a youthful appearance for a woman nearing fifty years old. But she smelled like a doobie.
“You still smoking devil weed?” Liddell asked.
“You know it, Big Mon,” Kim said. “A bag a day keeps the doctor away.”
Kim was in charge of the narcotics unit evidence room. Being in there for any amount of time left a person smelling like cannabis.
“What have you got for us, Kim?” Jack asked. He could see a small tic at the corner of her mouth.
“Hope Dupree was mine,” she said, and rubbed her face. “She was my snitch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Did Mike Jones know Hope was your snitch?” Jack asked.
“Why didn’t you tell us before about Hope?” Liddell added.
Sergeant Kim Hammond motioned toward several empty desks. She remained standing while the men sat.
“I don’t have to tell you about keeping confidences,” she began. “Dupree was involved with some pretty heavy stuff. Major players!”
“And I don’t have to tell you that I’m working a double homicide,” Jack countered.
Liddell leaned his chair back against the wall. “Okay. What can you tell us?”
“This isn’t my first rodeo, guys. I’ll give you what I can, but some things I would have to clear with the chief.” She waited for them to nod in understanding, and then continued. “I’m part of a bigger task force. I can’t tell you details about our investigation because you don’t have clearance, but I can tell you that Detective Mike Jones didn’t know Hope was working for us.”
Jack momentarily wondered why that would be, but then again, they hadn’t told him or Liddell either.
