Killer Blonde

by Allan Evans

  Holding up a finger, Crash hesitated. “There’s one more thing.”

  Cade’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Remember the early morning fatality last month on Highway 95? Black BMW, woman apparently fell asleep, a St. Paul attorney.”

  “I saw the report, but Rob handled the follow up. How do you remember all these cases?”

  “It’s all I do. I have no life.”

  “Sucks to be you. Anyway, what about it?”

  Crash didn’t say anything. That was until Cade prodded him. “Crash?”

  Crash let out the breath he’d been holding. “It was the same victim.”

  Cade’s confusion was apparent in both his voice and expression. “Same victim?”

  “Appearance-wise anyways. The victim, Jennifer Allard, was an attorney from Bayport. She was tall and athletic, a knockout. Same long, white-blonde hair. Pretty similar style of dress as well.” Crash pulled off his cap, running his fingers through his thinning hair.

  “Maybe it’s just a coincidence.” Cade didn’t believe it, though.

  Crash replaced his cap and folded his arms, looking directly at Cade. “I hate coincidences.”

  “Me too.” Head spinning with ramifications, Cade repeated, “Me too.”

  The East Metro District Office of the Minnesota State Patrol was housed in a sprawling complex alongside Interstate 94 in Oakdale. Shared with the Department of Transportation, the building was serviceable, but by no means fancy. Cade parked the unmarked Chevy Impala next to a deer-damaged cruiser. In Minnesota, deer crashes were not uncommon. In fact, Cade had recently been called to an accident scene where a trooper—in his first shift in a brand-new Patrol cruiser—had hit a deer while traveling 120 miles an hour. As one might guess, the deer was obliterated and the cruiser totaled. Fortunately, the trooper was unhurt and back on the road the very next day—in an older Crown Vic.

  “Hey Dawkins, the new captain’s looking for you,” was the greeting Cade received as he pushed through the entrance. Cade gave the trooper a thumbs up and wound his way through the clutter of admin desks. Receiving glances and a few smiles, he said his hellos to the staff who kept the place running.

  Nick Javier, a trooper built lower to the ground than most law enforcement officers Cade had come across, chatted with another trooper. “Hey Cade, the captain’s asking for you. Her first day here and she’s already looking for trouble.”

  “That’s what I heard.” Cade paused and walked back to the pair. “Keep an eye on this boy,” he said nodding down to Javier. “Did you know Nick’s the only trooper who’s short enough you can see his feet in his driver’s license photo?”

  They both laughed as Cade continued to the back where the captain’s office was located. He’d heard Capt. Rejene had worked her way up through the ranks, after starting her law enforcement career out of state in Charlotte. Most recently, she’d been in charge of the Patrol’s Rochester district. This was her first day in her new position.

  The office’s previous occupant’s name was still stenciled on the smoked glass: Capt. Dickey. Cade was more than happy to see that officious prick transferred away in the aftermath of the multimillion-dollar theft from patrol headquarters. Which, coincidently, was the case that made Cade Dawkins a household name in the Twin Cities. The story had received national attention—at least for the several weeks the media had been interested before they moved onto greener pastures.

  He could see a woman with her back to him as she reached up to place a photograph on a bookcase. He caught himself staring at her calves as she strained for the top shelf. Focus, he told himself. This was his new boss, and he’d better be careful.

  Cade knocked lightly and pushed the door open. “I’m Cade Dawkins,” he offered as he took her in. She wore the white dress-uniform shirt, a navy skirt and burgundy pumps. Brown curly hair, dark eyes, clearly too good looking to be his boss.

  “Capt. Leah Rejene.” She shook his hand with a firm grip. “I wanted to meet you. You come with a reputation.” She seemed to size him up as the awkward silence filled the room.

  “I hope it’s a good one,” Cade said. Plopping himself in the chair across her desk, he leaned back and hesitated. He was self-aware enough to know he’d always bristled under authority and needed to choose his words carefully when dealing with higher ranking members of the Patrol. “Can I run something by you?” he asked.

  “Sure.” Capt. Rejene sat back, but looked interested.

  “You’re aware of the Lake Elmo fatality this morning?” A nod. “May be nothing, but I’m seeing a red flag I can’t ignore.”

  “Go on.”

  “Crash—Sgt. Simpson—called me out to the scene. The victim had gone off the road at approximately 2:30 a.m. Her vehicle ran aground in the ditch after spinning out on the highway. Initially, it appears she was killed by the facial trauma brought on by the violent spin. However, she was found with her seatbelt unfastened and yet there were seatbelt burns on her collarbone. And there was something about her clothes.” Cade hesitated.

  “Her clothes?”

  “Well, it looked as if she was groped.”

  Capt. Rejene winced, but Cade continued.

  “Her skirt was pushed way up, her blouse was unbuttoned too far—too far for her coming from a work event. Our victim was an event planner and was at a banquet in downtown Minneapolis.”

  “Tell me about the road evidence.”

  “Straight section of two-lane highway, yaw marks leading to S pattern scuffs. Crash said the victim tried to correct, then overcorrected and ultimately lost control and went off the road.”

  Capt. Rejene jotted a note on a desk pad and looked up. “The ditch stopped her forward progress?”

  “That’s what Crash said.”

  “Was there any other damage to the vehicle?”

  “Yes, there was a crease in the driver’s rear quarter panel that may have been a parking lot souvenir.”

  Rejene leaned forward. “It also may have been a bump designed to spin her off the highway. Sounds like a PIT maneuver.” The Pursuit Intervention Technique was a maneuver taught at law enforcement academies all over the world to end dangerous high-speed pursuits. Cade had learned the technique years ago and had the opportunity to use it successfully. One well-placed bump and the suspect lost control with little damage to either vehicle, and no injuries.

  “That’s what we thought as well. It could have been a textbook case of the maneuver. The entire thing gets stranger though.”

  Capt. Rejene’s forehead wrinkled. “You have my attention.”

  Cade stood up, handing her his iPhone. “Here’s a picture of the deceased, Holly Janek. Several weeks back, another late-night one-car fatality happened out near Bayport. Check this out.” He pulled a photo from the file on the deceased attorney. “This was the victim, Attorney Jennifer Allard. See any resemblance?”

  Eyes shifting between both images, Capt. Rejene asked, “What was the conclusion on the Bayport fatality? Any damage to the vehicle?”

  “A lot actually. The victim’s BMW rolled after leaving the highway. It was Rob Zink’s case. He thought maybe she swerved to avoid a deer or possibly another vehicle crossing the centerline. Something like that.” Cade leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. “Sometimes you never know for certain. There are no traffic cams on these rural highways.”

  Standing up, Capt. Rejene moved around to the front and leaned against her desk. “I agree this is highly suspect as far as coincidences go. You’ll need to look into both victims, see if there’s a common bond, something beyond physical appearance. Go check on the lawyer’s vehicle, see if there’s any indication a PIT maneuver was used there as well. Work with Zink, we need to know what we’re up against here. Maybe these are just coincidences, but I agree it doesn’t feel like it.”

  Cade was halfway out the door when she stopped him. “Dawkins, one more thing. I’m a bit of a control freak, but a nice control freak. Keep me in the loop, and I’ll
give you plenty of rope. If there really is a nutjob out there killing blondes on our highways, we need to stop it. Until we know something for sure, this stays quiet.”

  “Jurisdiction issues?”

  “Exactly. If this becomes a full-blown murder investigation, we’ll be required to pass this off to the BCA. I would prefer to keep the investigation here with the patrol.”

  As a former BCA investigator himself, Cade felt no small amount of professional rivalry where the BCA was concerned and was more than happy to hang onto the investigation as long as possible. He smiled at his new boss. “I can see we’re going to get along just fine.”

  Cade was one of two full-time investigators on the east metro division payroll. Although he’d been with the Patrol for just a year, he was considered the senior investigator. Rob Zink, the other investigator, was a recent transplant from St. Paul. He’d worked as a patrol officer for years in the capital city’s west side. Switching between law enforcement agencies wasn’t uncommon. Sometimes you simply needed a change of scenery to keep your career—as well as your sanity—alive.

  Cade found Rob at their shared desk. It was a unique arrangement, both investigators sitting on opposite sides of the same desk much as they had opposite shifts. They overlapped on three of the days each week, which gave the two investigators a chance to get to know each other. Each had their own cases but assisted the other as needed. Clearly not overloaded by his caseload, Rob had his feet up and was playing with an iPad.

  “Angry Birds?” Cade asked as he glanced at Rob’s screen.

  “No, Horny Penguins.”

  “Not going to ask. What you do with your screen time is your business.”

  “Funny,” Rob said, looking up over the device. “So, you meet the new boss?”

  “I did. Better than the old boss.” Cade sized up his investigative partner. Rob was a large man—Cade’s parents would have referred to Rob as husky—with a mop of blond hair sitting on top. “She said I should bring you in on something, that is, if you’re not too busy.”

  Putting down the tablet, Rob smiled. “Lucky for you, court doesn’t start until tomorrow. Have to testify in the Dearborn hijacking. Court never follows their own posted schedule though. Wouldn’t surprise me if it gets pushed until next week.”

  Cade slid the paper file across the desk. “Remember the one-car fatality last month, the Bayport attorney?”

  “Jennifer Allard.” Rob opened the folder, scanning the paper. “This was my case. What about it?”

  Cade handed him his phone. “Here’s the victim of my one-car fatality this morning.”

  Rob’s left eyebrow went up as he looked at the picture. “Really?”

  “Really. Could be the same woman. And there are enough flags to suggest she was bumped off the road, then molested and killed. Capt. Rejene wants you to help me look into it. See if there’s a connection between the two victims.”

  Rob stood up, tucking his shirt in below his ample middle. “I’m intrigued. Where do you want to start?”

  “Let’s go look at Allard’s vehicle. It’s in the Lakeland impound lot. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “It’s been a while since I got lucky.” Rob smiled, “Let’s go find us a connection.”

  Lunchtime on Nicollet Mall could be busy. Make it the first sunny day of spring and the downtown Minneapolis avenue swarmed with worker bees. Men in conservative suits from the busy financial district and women in their trend-perfect outfits from the large retailer headquarters all shared the same crowded restaurants. As both worlds collided, love and sex were in the air. Nicollet Mall was the perfect hunting ground.

  The killer walked the sidewalks with the herd of downtown office workers. Even though he knew he didn’t belong with them, the killer knew he blended in with them. It was important not to stand out, you didn’t want to spook the herd. Much like an anthropologist, the killer studied people. Through systematic observation much could be learned from the diverse human landscape. His fieldwork brought him here, wanting to learn her routines, as he always learned the ways of his chosen ones.

  People were creatures of habit. If most of the human population were wild animals, the DNR ranger would have little use for the tracking collar. We go to work, go home, have a few favorite haunts and friends we see. Ninety-five percent of the time, this is the sandbox we lived in. Learn these patterns and we should be able to find someone when we need them.

  This one was different. Her range was much greater. Her work took her around the metro area and into Wisconsin. Many nights away from home. He hadn’t been able to discern a regular pattern so far. She was going to pose a much greater challenge than the others. But the killer was a firm believer in the end justifying the means. And there was no doubt he’d have her in the end. Now that he had chosen her, the killer would pursue her relentlessly.

  Street musicians dotted the landscape of businesspeople hustling to grab lunch before their hour was up. The noontime crowds filling the sidewalks made it difficult to keep her in view. She was ahead, some twenty yards, walking on Nicollet Mall just past 8th. Now and again, the killer caught a glimpse of her white-blonde hair. The platinum hair was a magnet, drawing him in. He needed to get closer, be close to her. Picking up his pace, he closed the gap.

  At the intersection waiting to cross, the killer stood directly behind her. It was a warm afternoon and she draped her suitcoat over her shoulder bag. Staring at her, he couldn’t look away. Her impossibly long legs looking even longer sitting on top of her high heels. The need drove him forward. The rest of the world faded away as he found himself mesmerized at being so close. He could reach right out and touch her snug navy skirt.

  After the bus and taxi traffic passed, the crowd began to cross, not waiting for the light to change. The killer elbowed an office drone out of his way to keep close to her. His vision has closed up, seeing only her. Outside of The Local, the woman met up with a friend at the Irish restaurant. Head down, the killer was caught unaware and ran right into her backside. Eyes averted, he mumbled an apology and kept moving. To be noticed would not be a good thing.

  “That guy smelled my hair,” she said, behind him. He didn’t dare turn around as he listened.

  “There’s too many creeps these days,” her friend offered. “They’re everywhere.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  The impound lot was nothing more than patches of gravel and grass overlooking Highway 95. Rows of vehicles, some rusty and beyond recovery, some with shattered windshields and broken windows. Most showed the effects of collisions, inattentive drivers, and unsafe conditions. All were here because there was nowhere else for them to go.

  The lot manager directed Cade and Rob over to the fence line where the black BMW sat. It was obvious this one had been in a crash: creased-in roof, passenger door hanging off, front quarter panel missing with exposed wiring, the driver’s side window shattered, dents and scratches over much of the vehicle’s top and sides. The decorative rear bumper assembly was gone and the front windshield, although intact, was a spiderweb of cracks. Cade plucked a weed sticking out from the front grill and turned to Rob.

  “First off, who was she?”

  “She was Jennifer Allard, an attorney from Bayport. On her way into work at 5:30 a.m. I guess those lawyers like to get to work early. Her coworkers said she usually was in the office between 6:30 and 7 a.m.”

  “Where was her office?”

  “Downtown St. Paul.”

  Cade walked to the driver-side door. He peeked in, noting the debris strewn around. For many, cars carried their life. Shake up the vehicle and the contents spilled out into the open. “Find anything unusual in the vehicle?”

  Rob shook his head. “Just the usual.”

  “What was the cause of death?”

  “Blunt force trauma.”

  Moving back to the rear quarter panel, Cade examined the damage. “Looking for signs of a PIT maneuver,” he said to Rob, who knelt beside the vehicle. Cade ran his hand al
ong the depression and scratched metal. “This is a dent.”

  “Yeah, but it rolled down a rocky embankment, and there must be damage over 90 percent of the vehicle.”

  Cade stood and paced around the BMW. Scratches and dents were everywhere. The entire vehicle was covered in dust as well. “We’re not going to get much from this vehicle. The damage is too extensive.”

  At the rear of the BMW, Cade paused. Glancing at the trunk, something caught his eye. A quarter-sized decal sat beside the BMW emblem. The decal’s honeycomb pattern was highly reflective, as it caught the afternoon sunlight, turning it into a miniature spotlight. “What is this? Seen one before?”

  “No, but it seems unusual. You don’t see many BMWs with bumper stickers or any sort of decals. BMW owners are particular people. They don’t want to mar their pristine German luxury automobiles.” Rob ran his hand through his hair. “Any idea why Ms. Allard would want this on her vehicle?”

  Cade shook his head as he covered the decal from the sun. The glow diminished, leaving the decal looking white. “No, but it’d make it easy to follow the vehicle at night.”

  The two investigators looked at each other for a long moment. Neither said anything. Cade’s internal wheels spun as he processed the ramifications. If this woman, Allard, was being followed—stalked, really—this wasn’t a crime of opportunity. This was a killer who selected his victims, followed them, and then killed them. And this killer seemed to have a thing for blondes.

  “How about your fatality this morning? Was there a reflective dot on her vehicle as well?” Rob squinted his eyes in the sunshine as he looked around for the source of a large engine. A flatbed tow truck, emblazoned with blue and red flames came into view. It carried a green Toyota Camry. “I guess we’re going to find out.”

  Rob darted between rows of junkers, waving his arms. The driver nodded and brought the truck to a stop. A mountain of a man swung down and approached Rob. Cade considered Rob to be a large guy, but the driver made him look to be a great candidate for midget wrestling. Standing easily six-and-a-half feet, and weighing somewhere in the neighborhood of 300 pounds, the driver was clean shaven and wore thick black glasses. “What do ya need?” He leaned in close to Rob.