He crossed the room to the closet. It was a single door with a knob, not a sliding door like you saw in a lot of homes. Maybe it was a bathroom? Only one way to find out.
He reached for the knob with his right hand, holding the flashlight in the left, opening the door slowly. As his light illuminated the interior he saw that it was indeed a closet, with clothing hanging in it. As he opened it wider he became aware of someone in the closet, sitting on the floor. He shone the light downward and saw frightened eyes staring up at him, a man's eyes. He was cowering on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, obviously scared out of his wits.
"D-don't you hurt me," the man said. "I'm not gonna hurt you," Jackson said. Could this be the dreaded killer they were looking for? A male victim? Or simply another resident of the house?
"Come out of there," Jackson said, softly. "Come on. I'm a policeman. I'm not gonna hurt-"
"Yes… you… are!" the man suddenly shouted, and as he lunged Jackson knew he had made a terrible mistake. His hand streaked for his gun, but already he knew it was too late. He felt the knife go into his belly, the impact driving all of the air from his lungs. His legs went dead, and as he was falling to the floor he was vaguely aware of the man still shouting at him, of the knife being withdrawn, and then he was being stabbed again… and again…
49
At seven the next morning Keough was in Forest Park flying a kite. This wouldn't be quite the relaxing experience it usually was, though. The kite was a cover.
It was seven-fifteen when someone came up beside him. There were some runners in the park, but no one else was flying a kite. Keough was pleased with the breeze that morning, and had actually gotten into what he was doing, enjoying the loops and whirls of the kite and its tail. When she appeared she almost startled him.
"Good morning, Miss Bonny."
"Detective."
"Do you have a first name?"
She hesitated, then said, "Angela."
"May I call you Angela?"
He looked at her then. She was dressed for work in a suit, the skirt of which hung several inches below her knees, and high heels. For someone who wanted to meet him here instead of the office-he supposed to avoid being seen-she was dressed oddly for a walk in the park.
"Why did you leave me a message to meet you here?" he asked.
Her message had been clear: "Please meet me in Forest Park near the running track. It's urgent. Be discreet." It also contained detailed directions, or they never would have found each other in the sprawling expanse of Forest Park.
Keough still didn't know who had taken the message, but that didn't matter. When he got home and read it again, he thought about his kites and that it was time to air them out. He decided he'd take a simple one with him to the meeting, just to finally get in some air time.
"Do you do this a lot?" she asked. "Fly kites?"
"Yes."
"Why?" She actually sounded interested, and a bit puzzled.
"It's relaxing."
"I thought flying kites was for kids."
He was used to that attitude.
"It is," he said, "it's for kids, and for adults. Do you know that stunt kites can fly at sixty miles an hour?"
"I… didn't even know there were stunt kites."
"And they're entirely under your control-if you know what to do with your hands."
"I see."
He sensed he was losing her, and they hadn't come to talk about his kites, anyway. The one he had in the air now was a simple line kite, so he took his eyes off it and looked at her.
"What did you bring me here to tell me, Angela?"
"Well…"
She paused as a runner went by.
"Nobody's going to listen to us," he said. "Go ahead."
"It's… it's about… about Bill Sanders."
Big surprise. He waited.
"I don't know where to start."
"Maybe I can help," he said. "Were you having an affair with him?"
She hesitated, then nodded.
"Have you seen him since he and his wife disappeared?"
"No," she said. "Honestly. I thought I would, but…"
"Then why did you want to meet me here?"
"I'm worried about him," she said. "I thought… I thought if I told you the truth it might help you find him."
He wondered how to play this, and decided to scare her. Why let her off easy?
"It might have helped," he said, "if you had told the truth earlier, like in the beginning."
"I… I don't understand. This doesn't help?"
"Well," he said, "for one thing, I'm no longer on the case. You have to talk to Detective Jackson."
"Him!" she said, spitting the word out. "He's… rude."
"Yes," Keough said, "that's our Detective Jackson, but you see, it's his case, now."
She shook her head. "I won't talk to him."
"You won't have to," Keough said. "I'll give him the information, but I don't know how much help it will be… now."
She looked at the ground.
"All right," she said, "I deserve this. I know I should have told the truth in the beginning, but…"
"But what?"
"I was afraid," she said. "I didn't know what had happened to Bill, but he always said we had to be… discreet."
"Discreet," Keough said. "Did you think that no one in the office knew about you?"
She frowned at him and said, "No one did."
"I sensed it when I first met you." Keough grinned. "Don't you think other people could? People who knew the both of you?"
She stood frozen for a moment, then said, "Oh, God. Do you think… they all knew?"
"Not all," he said, "but somebody must have."
"But… but what if someone told his wife?"
"What would have happened?"
"Anything could have happened," she said. "After all, she's-she was-"
"She was what?"
She firmed her chin and said, "She was a bitch. She used to… to hit him."
"Hit who? Brady?"
"I imagine she hit Brady," Angela Bonny said, "but she also hit Bill."
"Wait a minute," Keough said, "let me get this straight. She used to hit him?"
"That's right."
"And did he hit her back?"
"He didn't dare."
"Why not?"
"Bill would never hit a woman."
Now Keough frowned. Had he gone about this all wrong from the start? Could it have been Mrs. Sanders who killed Mr. Sanders? But what about the man who had shown up at Brady's foster home? A stranger? A coincidence that someone happened to be peeping in the window of that house?
"Angela, you've got to tell me the truth now," he said. "It's very important."
"I will."
"Have you heard from Bill Sanders at all since he disappeared?"
"No, I haven't," she said. "I-I swear it."
Keough stared at her for a moment, then took a small pair of scissors from his pocket and cut the string on the kite. Immediately the colorful paper soared higher and further.
"Why did you do that?" she asked.
"I like flying them," he said, "but I hate reeling 'em back in."
"What… what can I do now?"
"Nothing," he said. "Go to work, Angela. I'll be in touch."
"You will?" she asked. "Not that… that other detective?"
"No," he said, "not the other detective. Me."
"Thank you, Detective Keough."
He nodded and she walked away.
"Hey, mister," a boy of about eight or nine called out to him. "Your kite's gettin' away."
"I know," he said.
"Ain't you gonna chase it?" the boy asked. "It'll probably come down someplace else in the park."
"I'll tell you what," Keough said. "If you can catch it, it's yours."
"Really?" The boy's eyes widened.
"Really."
"Cool!" the boy said, and took off running.
***
Keoug
h made his way back to his car and drove home. Approaching the house he looked up at the three-story brick-and-slate structure and wondered, as he usually did, how anyone could live in such a big place when all the rooms were open, and not just in three or four rooms, as he was. The message light on his phone was blinking twice, indicating two messages. He debated whether he should pick them up or not. He already had two things he wanted to do today: question the woman who had almost been grabbed yesterday in the Border's parking lot, and check into some information regarding the Sanders case. If one of the messages was from Steinbach, though, telling him that the FBI had caught the killer, it would save him from wasting time.
He walked to the machine and pressed play.
Beep.
"Joe, it's Valerie. Please call me."
No note of urgency in her tone. No way to tell if her request was business or pleasure.
Beep.
"Keough, it's Captain McGwire. Get your ass in here. Ken Jackson was found dead this morning!"
He clipped his holster to his belt, pulled on a wind-breaker, and left the house.
50
Jackson was found in the trunk of his car, wrapped in a sheet. He'd been stabbed seventeen times then driven out to South County and left on Lemay Ferry Road, out past Butler Hill Road, near some open land. His badge, ID, and gun were still on him.
Keough found this out when he got to the office, filled in by Captain McGwire.
"Where's your partner?" McGwire demanded as Keough entered.
"He's with the FBI," Keough said, "staking out malls."
"Oh, yeah," McGwire said, passing a hand over his drawn face.
"Are you all right, Cap?"
McGwire dropped his hand and stared at Keough.
"I've never had one of my men killed before, Keough. I'm afraid I-I don't quite know how to react."
Keough had seen his fair share of dead cops in New York, but he kept quiet. McGwire seemed stunned, which was a perfectly natural reaction.
At that point McGwire explained how Jackson was found by a passing St. Louis County police car who noticed Jackson's unmarked car parked by the side of the road.
"What made him check it?" Keough asked.
"There aren't that many cars parked on the side of the road out there," McGwire said. "He saw the radio in the car and knew something was wrong. Why would an unmarked police car just be parked out there like that?"
"Who responded?"
"St. Louis County detectives went to the scene, and then they called me. I went out there myself."
"When was this?"
"Daylight," McGwire said.
Just when Keough was leaving his house to go to Forest Park. He wanted to ask when McGwire left the message on his tape machine, but decided not to. He didn't want to have to say what he was doing when McGwire was viewing the body of one of his men.
"Where is he now?"
"The morgue. Do you want to see the body?"
"Uh, no, why would I?"
"Because you're in charge of this case."
"I see," Keough said. "Does that mean I'm off the Mall Rat case?"
"Yes," McGwire said. "Steinbach can handle that."
"He'll be a one-man task force."
"So what?" McGwire snapped. "One of my men is dead, Keough, and you're the only man with the experience to handle this case. You've handled this sort of thing in New York, haven't you?"
"As a matter of fact, Captain, yes," Keough said, "I have."
"Then it's yours."
"If you don't mind me saying so, Cap," Keough said, "I think I should stay on the serial case, as well."
"No," McGwire said. "Besides, the Feehs will probably catch him today."
"I don't think so, Cap."
"You think the killer is going to get in and out of one of those malls without getting caught?"
"I don't think the killer will go to any of the malls today."
"Why not?"
They were standing in the squad room, and McGwire was fidgeting, moving from side to side, almost swaying.
"Can we go in your office, Cap? Maybe have a cup of coffee?" Keough had brought two containers of coffee in with him.
McGwire heaved a big sigh and stopped swaying.
"Yeah, okay," he said. "I could use a cup of coffee."
"And I think you should sit down."
McGwire rubbed his jaw, which was covered with stubble, and said, "Yeah, okay. Come on in."
They went into the captain's office, and Keough took the two coffees out and put one on the man's desk. McGwire sat in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and reached for the coffee.
"I hope black's okay," Keough said.
"Fine."
Keough sat across from McGwire, holding his own coffee.
"Okay," McGwire said, after a sip. "What's on your mind?"
"Cap, Jackson was working on just one case, the serial killer-the Mall Rat."
"I know that."
"It stands to reason that he was killed because of that."
McGwire leaned forward. "You're saying that the same killer got him?"
"I'm saying that Jackson was a good detective, maybe as good as he thought he was. Maybe he got onto the killer, found him, and came out on the short end."
"Jackson's put a lot of people away, Keough," McGwire said. "What makes you think his death is connected to the task force?"
"Call it a hunch," Keough said, "or say I don't believe that much in coincidence. Neither Steinbach or I knew what Jackson was doing. He was keeping to himself."
"So he found out something you fellas didn't know, and moved on it himself."
"That's what I'm saying, sir," Keough said. "Maybe if he'd filled us in he'd still be alive."
McGwire put his coffee down carefully on his desk.
"So his arrogance finally got him killed."
Keough didn't respond.
"All right," McGwire said, "keep working on the serial killer, but work on Jackson's killing, too."
"Both of us?"
"Yes. Of course, if the FBI get him today-"
"They won't."
"Why not?"
"He's not the smartest guy in the world, Cap, but if he killed a cop last night I don't think he'll be going out trolling today."
"You think killing a cop satisfied his… his obsession?"
"Probably not," Keough said, "but maybe it scared him enough to keep him inside."
"What are you going to do now, then?"
"Well," Keough said, "I don't think I'll be any help at any of the malls. I'd like to go through Jackson's things."
McGwire picked up the phone.
"I'll have his personal effects brought up here."
"I'll want everything, sir," Keough said, "everything he had on him, and everything that was in his car."
"Done."
"I'll also want to check his home. Was he married?"
"Yes," McGwire said, putting the phone back down for the moment, "and he had two kids."
"Can you arrange for me to get inside his home?"
"I think so."
"Preferably with no one else there," Keough said.
"Why?"
"It would just be easier to go through his things without someone looking over my shoulder."
McGwire toyed with his coffee container.
"I know his wife," he said, finally. "I think I can arrange it."
"Okay. Is that it?"
"For now."
McGwire picked up the phone again.
"I want this son of a Bitch caught, Keough," he said, dialing.
"That's my intention, Captain. There's one other thing-you don't have to hang up."
"What is it?" McGwire asked, as the phone rang in his ear.
"Just keep the FBI off my back as much as you can," Keough said. "Like I said, I work better without anyone looking over my shoulder."
"I'll do what I can-yeah, hello. This is Captain McGwire. Who is this?"
Keough tuned out
the captain's end of the conversation as the man arranged to have all of Ken Jackson's personal effects brought to the office. Keough wondered what was going on at the malls? He felt pretty sure that the man who had killed the women and placed the babies in the Dumpsters was the same man who had killed Ken Jackson. It just made sense to him. It also made sense that the killer wouldn't be cruising any malls today. Having killed women in the past-and one child, probably by mistake- at the moment, he was probably trying to deal with the fact that he had killed a man, a policeman.
At least, Keough was hoping that this was weighing heavily on the man's mind-so heavily that maybe he'd make a mistake.
51
Eric Pautz went out to buy a newspaper. Clutching the St. Louis Post-Dispatch in his hands, he made his way back to his house in Shaw. He did not look at the newspaper until he was inside. He needn't have bothered, there was nothing there about a policeman being killed. It had been discovered too early that morning.
That stupid cop had to come blundering into his house last night. Lucky for him he was coming out of the downstairs bathroom as the cop forced the back door. He had gone right into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and then hid in the closet. At least he thought he hid in the closet. He wasn't quite sure what had happened until he realized that he was stabbing the man over and over again.
In truth the killer had panicked. After grabbing a knife from the kitchen he had run up to his room to hide. He became confused, cowering in the darkness as he had done many times as a child, when his mother was angry with him. The closet had always been his safe place. It was quiet, and the walls seemed to hold him, comfort him.
Then the door opened, and the light came streaming into his safe place…
It wasn't until after he had stabbed the man a dozen times that he realized what he was doing. Still, he went on stabbing five more times before he stopped and stared.
He had never killed a man before. He stood looking down at him, and realized it didn't give him the same pleasure as killing a woman.
He flipped on the bedroom light, turned the man over, and went through his pockets. He found the gun first, and then he found the badge and ID.
He panicked again, but just for a moment. He went to the front window to look out, but didn't see anyone. He stepped out the front door to take a better look, but still saw no one.
In the Shadow of the Arch Page 19
