by C. M. Sutter
With a final look through the room, he slung the backpack over his shoulder, locked the door at his back, and climbed into the Buick. The first thing on his agenda was to swap out that car with another.
John placed his backpack on the passenger seat and drove away. He’d park and wait at the far end of a grocery store parking lot. He had an idea that would work out perfectly. He’d wait for somebody to return to their car and fill their trunk with groceries. While they were preoccupied, he would sneak up behind them, give them a quick whack to the head, and take off in their car. He’d be long gone in a matter of minutes and back on the road.
Twenty minutes later, with the license plates removed from the Buick, John tapped his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited for the owner of the black Ford Focus parked directly in front of him to exit the grocery store and head to their vehicle. Being at the far end of the lot afforded him a certain amount of privacy to do what he needed. With the back of that car facing him and the trunk lid up, no parking lot cameras would catch his actions. He’d wait out the owner of the vehicle. Buying groceries couldn’t take more than an hour at most, and he’d drive away with a different car and a trunk load of food.
He perked up when he noticed a lone woman walking toward the Ford. She’d be easy to subdue. He’d toss her in the Buick and be gone in minutes. He slinked down in the seat when she got closer and popped the trunk. John peeked over the dash and watched as she filled the trunk with grocery bags. It was time to act. He opened the driver’s side door and was at her back in two strides. With a hard punch to her head, he knocked her out cold and quickly threw her in the Buick. He grabbed the backpack and the license plates, picked up the keys she had dropped to the pavement, and slammed the trunk lid. He was out of the parking lot in less than three minutes.
John turned right at the sign that read Oakwood Country Club. He followed the frontage road that led to the parking lot and counted the cars. He decided to take the risk. With his right arm over the seat and his head turned, he backed into a lone space far from the other cars. He quickly got to work switching out the plates. With that task complete, he buried the Ford’s plates under the trash in a garbage can nearby. He exited the lot and headed to Interstate 294 going north.
Chapter 40
We sat in the visitors’ lounge and waited for Agent Spelling’s follow-up call. I tried to focus on whatever it was that bothered me about the composite sketch. Just as I loaded the flash drive into the port on the side of the laptop computer provided by the hospital, my phone vibrated. Thankfully, it was Spelling. I needed to hear about the outcome of the interview, and I knew my concentration level was low, anyway. I’d get back to the video of the truck stop later.
“Finally, it’s Spelling.” I scanned the room, looking for an area where I could click over to speakerphone so J.T. could hear everything too. “Sir, give us one minute. We’re looking for a private place to talk.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Jade, let’s go back to that end-of-the-hall grouping. It should be private enough there.”
I nodded as J.T. led the way.
“We’re almost at a quiet place where we can speak openly, boss.”
We sat and pulled out our notepads and pens, then I clicked my phone over to speakerphone.
I cleared my throat and got comfortable. “Okay, J.T. and I are ready.”
Spelling began. “Good news. The lead in Kenosha seems legitimate, and the man, Ken Pratt, is John Pratt’s first cousin. He said they were close years back before John moved to Arkansas, somewhere near Little Rock. Apparently, John has fallen off the grid, and Ken hasn’t heard from him in years. He said the last time he actually spoke with him was in 2009, but since then John’s phone number has changed. He never updated anyone. Ken said John was the type that didn’t seem to care if he kept in touch with family or not, a recluse in a way.”
“Where are his parents, and how old is he?” J.T. asked.
“As far as Ken knew, John’s folks moved to Florida in 2011. He never got their address, and he can’t remember what city they moved to. Ken said he and John were two years apart, John being the eldest. That would put John at forty years old. He was also an only child.”
“That matches up with the age Jane put him at,” I said. “And the family was from North Bend?”
“So Ken said.”
“That blows my mind, sir. Did he say if any other relatives are in the area?”
“It sounds like Ken and one sister have remained in Kenosha. Their parents moved to southern California four years ago to be closer to another daughter that has kids. I don’t want to get too wrapped up in Ken’s life, though. We’re interested in John Pratt.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Exactly, sir, and we should be able to get a current address off his tax returns.”
“Without his social security number, it could take time if there are other John Pratts in the United States. I did make a call and asked the IRS to check for that name in Arkansas first.”
“What about a description?” J.T. asked. He waited with his pen suspended over his notepad.
“Well, don’t forget Ken hasn’t actually seen John for twelve years or more. The 2009 conversation was a phone call only. He said John was tall, medium built, and had dark brown hair. He played on the varsity basketball team in high school.”
“Do you know if John went to North Bend East or West? We can pull up the old yearbooks.”
“Not sure, but the photographs would be from the early nineties either way. People change a lot in twenty years, Jade.”
I noticed J.T. staring at me.
“Her wheels are turning, boss. Now what are you thinking, Jade?”
“Only that Max Sims went to school in North Bend too, and they’re both tall. I was just wondering if Max played basketball too and if they hung out with each other. Sir, I could have Jack Steele, my old partner, check that out. He worked with me closely on the Max Sims case. I’m sure the high school keeps the old yearbooks archived.”
“Okay, but what would that do for our case other than showing us twenty-year-old pictures? Let’s find out where John Pratt lives and get the local police over to his house. That needs to happen first. We’ll address everything else after that. I’m waiting on a callback from the IRS and should have an address within the hour. Give me a second here. Val just walked in with something from the tip line. I’m putting you on hold.”
J.T. and I waited and listened to silence. I tapped my pen against my notepad with a million thoughts going through my mind, and none of them were good. There were far too many coincidences.
Moments later Spelling returned to the line and groaned with bad news. “Looks like a maid in a motel on the south side of Chicago just found a dead woman in the bathtub of a room she went in to clean. Guess who the room was reserved to?”
“John Pratt wouldn’t leave a paper trail, would he?”
“He’d be stupid if he did, but this is nearly the same thing. The room was reserved online with Ray Moore’s credit card.”
“So, John is still moving north. Maybe he’s going to pay his cousin a surprise visit. What about the vehicle, boss?” J.T. asked.
“The desk clerk said he didn’t pay attention to it since the man didn’t physically register and fill out the paperwork in the office.”
“Then who gave him the room key?”
“Would you believe the clerk’s mother, who is eighty-six and doesn’t remember anything? It would be nice to catch a break once in a while. Anyway, from the hospital, you’re only fifty miles south of that motel. I’m texting you the address. The ME and forensics team are en route, according to what they told Val. They’re leaving the body and the room as is until you arrive. Head out now.”
“We should be on the road in twenty minutes.”
We took the hallway back to ICU. We needed to say goodbye and give our contact information to Alice at the nurses’ station, Dr. Adams, and especially Jane. I had to coll
ect the evidence from Jane’s abduction too.
I knocked on Jane’s door, and she said to come in. I wished we had more time to say our goodbyes, but we didn’t. J.T. gave her parents several contact cards while I carefully embraced Jane. We wished her luck and a speedy recovery, and I promised to contact her as soon as we captured her attacker. We left her room and met up with Dr. Adams in the hallway. With only a few minutes to spare, we said goodbye, shook his hand, and gave him our cards. At the nurses’ station, we did the same. Alice gathered the bag of evidence and handed it to me before we walked out.
Within ten minutes, we had packed our go bags and checked out of the hotel. We drove through town, turned west on State Highway 24, and took that to Interstate 57. We headed north and would be at the motel in less than an hour.
My phone rang at twelve forty-five, and I checked the name on the screen as I lifted it to my ear. I turned toward J.T. “It’s Spelling. Hello, sir, Jade speaking.”
“Just a quick update, Monroe. Local police are on their way to John Pratt’s house. Looks like he lives in Hensley, Arkansas, which coincidentally is almost due south of Conway, where Fred West worked at Millstead Trucking. Looks like the puzzle pieces are beginning to fit together. We don’t have a profile on him and have no idea why he’s committing these crimes, but he could very well be our guy. I should hear back from the police within twenty minutes. What’s your ETA?”
“We should be at the motel in ten. We can exchange information once you hear from the Hensley police.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to you soon.”
I clicked off and pocketed my phone.
“Well?”
“Spelling said the cops are en route to John Pratt’s house. He lives a straight shot south of Little Rock and Conway.”
“Of course he won’t be there if he’s the killer.”
“True, but I think Spelling is looking for intel and evidence of his crimes. We’ll know soon enough.”
The GPS voice kicked in, saying we had reached our destination. J.T. clicked his right blinker and turned in at a one-story flat-roofed motel that looked to have ten units. The asphalt where the cars were parked ran right to each door. The building had seen better days, the pool was empty, and the dried-out and faded wall paint was chipped and peeling. It was the perfect place for a serial killer to lie low with no questions asked. Parked along the edge of the lot were the ME and forensics vans. I assumed the door that stood open with law enforcement crowding around was where the body was located. An officer stood next to the orange cones that blocked anyone from driving in farther.
J.T. parked behind the forensic van, and we exited the car. I pulled the lanyard with my badge attached from inside my jacket. J.T. flashed his bifold badge, and the officer nodded us through. We entered the tattered, dimly lit room, filled with at least six people.
“Who’s in charge here?” J.T. asked.
A deep voice responded from the bathroom doorway. “That would be me, Lieutenant Peters, with the Matteson PD. Are you the FBI agents?”
“We are,” I said. “Has the victim been identified?”
The lieutenant scratched his balding head. “Yeah, afraid so. She’s a runaway from Chicago, Calumet Heights, to be exact. ID says her name is Kathy Phelps, and she’s only seventeen years old. It’s a real shame.”
J.T. peeked into the crowded room. “Has her family been notified?”
“Two officers are on their way as we speak, agents.”
I nodded. “May we?”
The lieutenant stepped aside. Leaning over the bathtub was the forensic photographer, snapping pictures, and the other team member, near the bed, was dusting for fingerprints. The ME sat on the closed toilet seat, taking notes.
“What have we got?” I asked.
The ME stopped writing and looked up. “I’d put TOD roughly between ten p.m. and midnight last night.”
“Then why are her hair and the bathtub wet?”
“Same reason we found a damp towel on the floor when we entered. The sick person that committed this crime likely stood over her and took a shower before they left.”
I shook my head with amazement. “And I thought nothing could shock me anymore.”
“Can we get in closer?” J.T. asked.
The young man from forensics backed out of the room. J.T. gave him a thank-you nod, and we knelt over the tub.
“The gashes look the same as the ones on the girls from Lake of the Ozarks,” I whispered. “He’s using the Neko Te again.” I pulled the phone out of my back pocket and snapped a few pictures. We stood and left the bathroom then scanned the room where the bed, TV, and table were located.
“Was there anything left behind?” I asked.
Lieutenant Peters responded. “Not that we’ve found, Agent Monroe. Everything looked normal until we stepped into the bathroom. We hope to find biological evidence and fingerprints. Otherwise, all we have is a mutilated, wet teenager in a tub.”
J.T. and I stepped outside for some fresh air and to free up room for the forensics team to work.
“How many victims are there now?” he asked.
I frowned and let out a sigh. “Honestly, I’ve lost count.” I pulled out my phone and checked for a missed call. “It’s weird that Spelling hasn’t called yet. Check your phone.”
J.T. patted his pockets. “I must have left it in the car.” He clicked the fob and unlocked the doors.
We crossed the parking lot together and climbed in the car. I reclined my seat and rubbed my brow as I thought. J.T. checked for missed calls on his phone.
“Yeah, Spelling called my phone instead of yours this time.” He pressed a few keys and listened to the voicemail. “Shit. I can’t even believe this anymore.”
I perked up and lifted my seat. “What happened?”
“Spelling said the Hensley PD found a dead man on the bedroom floor of John Pratt’s house. They’re assuming it’s him. They said the body was partially decomposed.”
I punched the dash. “Oh, hell no.”
Chapter 41
We listened to Spelling on speakerphone as he explained how he wanted us to go forward.
“Wrap things up at the motel, have a decent dinner, and put your heads together. I want you two back in Milwaukee tomorrow with your thinking caps on. This has been nothing but a wild-goose chase with a path of destruction from Arkansas to Illinois,” Spelling said.
“Got it, boss. It looks like the Matteson PD has a good handle on the situation with the girl in the tub, and her family has been notified. I want to spend more time tonight going over the camera feed from the truck stop where Jane worked. There has to be something on the flash drive that will help.”
“Do what you can, Jade. J.T., I want full documentation in writing starting with day one at Lake of the Ozarks State Park. We need this killing spree to end and damn soon. Call me when you guys head out in the morning.”
“Will do.” J.T. clicked off and tipped his head toward the open motel room door. “Let’s finish this up, drive to a nicer area, and find a decent restaurant with a hotel nearby.”
Inside the room, we explained to the lieutenant that the killer’s prints weren’t on file, if this was indeed the same man we had been chasing for days. We were ninety-nine percent sure it was. We told him we’d be in touch and left our cards.
A half hour later on the outskirts of Chicago, J.T. pulled into a Hilton Garden hotel. “What do you think of this place? The sign says they have a restaurant too. Want to check it out?”
“Yeah sure, it looks nice.” I noted the time—4:40. “It’s a little early for dinner, though. Why don’t we check in, freshen up, and meet in the restaurant at six thirty? I might even take a half-hour nap.”
J.T. parked, and we grabbed our go bags out of the backseat and entered the brilliant coral-painted vestibule. Beyond the double glass doors, the lobby opened up to a glistening marble floor. Individual cushy looking pit groups surrounded by potted trees filled the space. A glass atrium ceiling
gave the plant life natural sunlight.
I elbowed J.T. “This place looks new. It’s really pretty. I hope the restaurant has good food.”
He smiled as we checked in. “We’ll take a peek at the menu when we walk by.”
“How’s the food?” I asked as the registration clerk handed us our key cards.
“It’s fabulous. We have a great chef, and it’s a continental menu.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Harper, you’re in room 702, and Ms. Monroe, you’re in 705. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
We browsed the menu that was posted on the wall just outside the restaurant door. The fare looked delicious. First I needed a hot shower and a short nap. We rode the elevator to the seventh floor and parted ways at our individual rooms.
“See you at six thirty,” I said as I crossed over the threshold of my room.
J.T. grinned. “Don’t oversleep, or I’ll have to bang on your door.”
“I won’t, I promise.”
I lay on the bed and set the alarm on my phone. I needed only a half hour of sleep. I turned the switch on the bedside table lamp and felt my mind relax when my head hit the pillow.
A half hour later, my alarm didn’t fail me, although I wished it had. The bed was warm, and the pillow was soft and luxurious. The room was pitch black, and it seemed like the middle of the night even though I knew it was only five thirty. I stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the shower. As the water heated, I started the four-cup coffeepot. Strong coffee would definitely perk me up when I got out of the shower.
Dressed and refreshed, I took the elevator down to the first floor at six twenty. J.T. sat on an upholstered bench next to a tall potted palm to the left of the restaurant entrance. He looked up when I approached.
