“Kim, it’s just not possible for me to leave now. But that’s no reason for you and the kids to be sitting ducks for some nut.”
Vandergrift could see that the Marinos were not going to leave town. “Well, if you won’t leave, I want you to know that we plan to give you protection and keep you and your family under close surveillance.”
Kim said, “For how long?”
Vandergrift shrugged, “As long as it takes.”
She was not unhappy with their decision. It was their choice, but Marino was going to be bait for their trap.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Maharos’ eyes were glued to the 12-inch screen of the TV set on the corner of his breakfast table, while he spooned cereal from his plate. A school bus was pictured, lying on its side. Bodies were strewn on the ground, some covered by shirts or other articles of clothing. The camera shifted to a smashed car, wheels in the air like the legs of a dead horse.
“Eight deaths have been confirmed. Another twelve, critically injured, have been taken to three hospitals in the Akron-Canton-Youngstown area. The accident occurred shortly after ten last night at the intersection of State Route 224 and County Highway 14, between Rootstown and New Baltimore.”
The announcer told how the bus, filled with parishioners of the First Baptist Church of Barberton were returning from a holiday outing, when it was involved in a collision with a car containing six teen-aged boys and girls, all from the Youngstown area, at the intersection. The cause of the accident had not been established. The toll of dead was expected to rise.
Maharos shook his head slowly. This was close to home. He wondered how many of the dead and injured he knew. He wiped his mouth and carried the dishes to the sink.
“Meanwhile, the world is anxiously watching the events as they unfold in the Mediterranean, where British.Air.Flight 304 has been taken over by an unknown number of terrorists.”
He glanced to the screen while he rinsed the dishes.
“After briefly touching down at airports in Messina and Cyprus, where requests for refueling were denied, the 747 with 328 passengers and crew aboard, has just landed in Libya”
What a world, he thought. He shrugged into his holster and suit jacket. At the mirror in the front hall he adjusted his tie and hat. What a world. Not ten miles away, they were stuffing bodies into bags. Halfway around the world, no one knew what was about to happen. One thing was fairly certain: some people were going to be hurt or killed. In that perspective, his problem was little more than a twinkle of a star in the galaxy. In ten years, only those directly connected to any of today’s events would remember. In twenty years, no one would remember.
The first thing Maharos saw as he walked into the squad room Monday morning, was this guy sitting at his desk. Cleaning his nails with a straightened paper clip. Medium height, stocky, balding brown hair, wearing a blue suit, looked about thirty-five. A plastic ID clipped to his coat pocket.
“You Maharos?” He raised his eyes without moving his head.
“Yeah.”
Kept picking at his nails with the paper clip. “Ike Show.” He pronounced it like it rhymed with “ow”, as in shower. “McCormack said you need help.”
Show. Maharos recalled the name but hadn’t met him before. He had recently transferred from the Cincinnati P.D. and had been assigned to Vice. He vaguely remembered Fiala telling him that there had been complaints from the others in his unit about the new guy. Maharos had listened with half an ear. Intradepartmental politics didn’t interest him.
Maharos gave him a cold fish look. “Mind if I use my chair?”
Show got up slowly, tossed the paper clip at the wastebasket and missed. Maharos kept looking at the paper clip lying on the floor until Show slowly walked over, picked it up and flipped it into the basket.
Maharos said, “McCormack fill you in?”
Show shrugged. “Some nut wanted for a bunch of homicides.”
Maharos took the investigation file from his desk drawer. It had gotten three inches thick. He slid it to the corner of his desk. Show riffled through the pages like it was a deck of cards. “You expect me to read all this shit?”
Maharos began to breathe heavily. One more word and he was ready to jam his fist down the guy’s throat. He took his time and looked out of the window. The sun was bright, the sky a deep blue—a glorious July day. Finally, he said quietly, “I think you’d better read it.” He got up and walked to the Mr. Coffee machine in the corner of the squad room. He needed to get away from this prick more than he needed the coffee. He watched as Show rapidly scanned the file, hardly pausing to read.
Carrying his coffee in a Styrofoam cup, Maharos went down the corridor to Records. The girl at the computer was someone he hadn’t seen before. She smiled pleasantly and told him Karen Hennessy was on vacation. Best news he’d had so far that day. He asked her if her database could bring up the medical labs in eastern Ohio. She punched a few keys, nodded looking at the screen. “I can get that for you. Want it by category?”
“What categories have you got?”
“Blood analysis labs, pathology labs, spectrographic analysis—whatever that is—.“
“Get me a list of the pathology labs.”
“Okay, but first let me bring up a zip code map, and you tell me what area you want to limit the search to.”
Maharos decided to search the northeast Ohio sector, since almost all of the homicides had occurred in that zone. He felt that’s where they would probably find Rankins. Five minutes later, he walked back to his desk with a printout sheet containing a list of thirty-five pathology laboratories, most of which were in hospitals.
Show had finished looking at the file. He sat, hands in trouser pockets, the chair tilted, teetering on its back legs. Maharos had an urge to sweep the chair out from under him, but resisted. From the file, he took a copy of Rankins’ mug shot. He handed it to Show along with the list of pathology labs. “This is the guy we’re looking for. This is where I want you to look.”
Show said, “Why don’t I just call the places on the list.”
“Because he may be using an alias. I want you to show the picture.”
“Want me to handle all these places?”
“Did McCormack send anyone else?”
“I’m the only one got stuck with this shit.”
Maharos said, “I’m trying to get someone else assigned. Maybe from Patrol. You can share the list with the other person when we get him. Meanwhile, start on the places around here. I’ll fax Rankins’ mug shot and description to police agencies in all the cities on the list. Ask them to send their people around to the labs in their area. We haven’t got much time.”
Show’s eyebrows shot up. “Got a deadline?”
“If you’d read the sheet, you’d know that this guy operates on a schedule.”
“What’d I miss?”
“Each of the homicides has occurred on the seventh of the month. Today is July sixth.”
“No shit!”
“No shit.”
Lieutenant Ed Bragg walked in as Show was leaving. He gestured for Maharos to follow him into his office. “Who was that?”
“One of McCormack’s men. A real wiseass.”
“Did he send just one?”
“Said that’s all he could spare. Jim Spencer said he’d assign me someone from his unit.”
“Patrol?”
Maharos nodded. He outlined to Bragg his plan for the investigation. Bragg nodded his approval. “I’m giving you Emerson and Fiala. Could you use a couple of uniforms?”
Maharos said, “I can use as many bodies as I can get. They can help with the check of the labs, see if we can locate this Rankins.”
The phone on Bragg’s desk rang. He answered it and looked at Maharos while he listened for a full minute. Finally, he said, “He’ll be right there.”
After he hung up he said, “That was the chief. He wants to talk to you.”
Sometime in the long distant past, Chief of Police Bennett Atwe
ll had taken a course in administration. The one thing he learned was: delegate authority to people you can trust, and stay the hell out of their way. His division captains and lieutenants were given laissez faire in the day-to-day work of the department. Atwell’s job was to keep the peace with the mayor’s office and city council, keep the press happy and see that the budget wasn’t cut. He managed all three.
Lucinda Brown, Atwell’s secretary smiled at Maharos when he walked into the only office in headquarters that was carpeted. “Go right in.”
Atwell was seated at a desk that was so uncluttered, it looked as though it had just been uncrated. In spite of his apparent detachment from the rest of the force, he knew everything that went on. Copies of daily reports went on his desk every morning and he read each one. By ten A.M. Lucinda Brown had filed away each report—the written copy, that is. The gist was filed in Atwell’s head. He ran one of the most efficient departments in the state without ever raising his voice above normal level.
He riveted his dark eyes on Maharos. “I hear you’re getting close.”
Maharos nodded, “I think so, Chief.”
“You haven’t much time. You expect him to act on the seventh, right?”
“That’s his pattern.”
“Any idea on who’s next?”
Maharos reviewed what he and Vandergrift had discussed, that Dr. Marino in Canton was the likely target.
“Canton is out of our jurisdiction. I know you’re working with Stark County Sheriff’s Office. You want to stick with this case, am I right?”
“I’ve got a lot of time on this one, Chief.”
“Okay. Just make sure they get warrants and whatever papers are needed. Double-check their surveillance methods. Assume nothing. Do I make myself clear? I know I’m not talking to some rookie, but I want you to know for the record where I stand.”
Maharos’ smile was thin. Atwell did not hand out compliments easily. “I appreciate your confidence.”
Atwell said. “I wouldn’t have anyone but you handling this investigation, Al.”
The Chief glanced at his watch, Maharos got up from his chair. Atwell gestured for him to remain seated. “Stick around. I’ve called a press conference for ten. That’s twenty minutes from now.”
Maharos studied the chief’s face, his smooth skin, the color of rich mahogany, his kinky gray-black hair. “Nobody told me.”
“I’m telling you. I want you to brief them on the status of your investigation.”
“How far do you think I should go?”
“I’ll leave it to your judgment. It might be a good way to get the word out on the man you’re looking for. Save some shoe leather if the publicity turns him up.”
Maharos said, “They’re gonna want to know if Rankins is a suspect.”
Atwell shrugged. “You can say he’s being sought for questioning in connection with the series of homicides in this area. Period.”
Maharos thought that explanation would not satisfy the people like Shelly Ehrlich. The chief read his skepticism. “Of course they’ll press you. Just repeat that he’s wanted for questioning.”
The phone buzzed. Atwell held the receiver to his ear. “Tell them to wait another five minutes…How many are there?”
He replaced the receiver, looked at Maharos. “There are only three, two print and one TV.”
Maharos was not surprised that there were no more. “Did you see the news today?”
Atwell nodded. “The crash near Akron?”
“Yeah. That and the plane hijacking.”
“Guess there are more important things than a serial murderer running loose.”
Maharos said, “Not to me right now.”
TWENTY-NINE
The TV set in the corner of the small lounge of Stark County Sheriff’s Office was tuned to the 5 o’clock news. Maharos and Vandergrift watched in silence, reports of the hijacked plane, still on the ground in Libya where no one seemed to know what to do about the hostages and their captors. An update of the bus-auto collision between Akron, Canton and Youngstown took up most of the remainder of the half-hour telecast. They listened to interviews with injured victims in their hospital beds, family members of several who had been killed and with police officials still trying to piece together the cause of the tragic accident.
Vandergrift said, “They’ll probably go through the sports and weather before they get to Rankins.”
Maharos said, “If they get to Rankins. A week ago I was trying to keep these news monkeys off my back. Now where are they when you need them?”
Vandergrift held up a hand. “I think this is it.”
The blond anchorman with sensuous lips appeared on the screen. “Law enforcement agencies in northeast Ohio are attempting to locate and question a 32-year-old man in connection with a series of unsolved murders that go back to early this year.” The mug shot of Rankins filled the screen. “Ephraim Rankins, formerly a patient-inmate at Oakwood Forensic Center for the Criminally Insane, and is now believed to be in this area, is wanted for questioning in the killings of George Horner, a Youngstown attorney; Henry Gibson, a Canton wholesale hardware salesman; and Frank Burnstein, a male nurse who had been employed at Mercy Hospital in Canton. In a press conference held by Youngstown Chief of Police Bennett Atwell, he intimated that there might be a connection with at least three additional homicides.”
The picture on the screen shifted to the interview with Maharos in Atwell’s office. The reporter’s overvoice said, “Detective Alex Maharos, who served as spokesman for the Youngstown Police, would not say whether or not Rankins was a suspect in the killings.”
MAHAROS: “Mr. Rankins is known to have some connection with several of the victims, but at this time we are not accusing him of any crimes.”
Rankins’ picture was shown again.
MAHAROS (overvoice): “If anyone knows of Mr. Rankins’ present whereabouts, we would like them to contact any of the law enforcement agencies…”
* * *
In the office of Hartman’s Ambulance Service in Massillon, Ohio, John Henderson was alone, sprawled out on a lounge chair in front of the TV set. He was dressed in white from his jacket to his shoes. Henderson drove ambulance for Hartman’s. The other member of his crew was across the street having supper.
Henderson was waiting for the sportscaster to come on with the daytime baseball scores. Today, he had his sawbuck riding on the Red Sox against the Yankees. He listened without interest while the announcer went on about some Arab nuts grabbing a plane. Shit, that was news? Happened every other day it seemed.
He paid a little more attention when the car-bus accident was shown. He recognized the intersection. They should have a four-way stop sign instead of the stop sign on 14. He wondered who got the ambulance calls on that one. Probably the larger outfits out of Akron or Canton.
Rankins’ picture appeared on the screen and Henderson’s eyes opened wide. The face was familiar. He sat on the edge of the chair, now listening to the words of the announcer and the interview with Maharos. I know that guy, he thought. When Rankins’ face appeared for the second time, he said aloud, “Jesus Christ!” He snapped his fingers and spoke again to the empty room. “Peterson’s.” He reached for the phone book.
* * *
The paging speaker in Stark County Sheriff’s Headquarters intoned Vandergrift’s name. She answered using the phone in the lounge.
The operator said, “Are you taking the calls on Rankins?”
She acknowledged.
On the line was Sergeant Laufer of the Massillon Police Department. He said he had just received the call from Henderson identifying Rankins. He told Vandergrift, “He says the guy is called Wiliams. One ‘L.’ Works for Peterson’s Mortuary here in Massillon. You can call Henderson at this number for more information.” He gave her a phone number.
Vandergrift thanked him and hung up. “We may have something, Al. Take the other extension.”
Henderson was waiting for the call. Vandergrift identified
herself. “I understand you think you know the man we’re looking for.”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who works for Peterson’s Funeral Home. I’ve seen him several times when I’ve delivered bodies to the place. I drive ambulance for Hartman’s. Only the guy’s name is Wiliams, or something like that.”
“Could you describe him for me?”
“Well, he’s a little squirt—almost like a midget, know what I mean? Doesn’t say much. Little funny that way.”
Maharos, his ear to the extension phone, wagged his head.
Vandergrift said, “Okay, we’ll check on the information. We appreciate your help.”
She started to hang up when she heard Henderson’s voice, still on the line. “Hey!”
“What?”
“Is there any reward?”
Vandergrift glanced over at Maharos. He shook his head.
“No, I’m sorry. But your action as a responsible citizen is greatly appreciated.”
“Sure. Thanks a lot.”
* * *
At 5:15 p.m., Rankins knocked on the door of Peterson’s office and stuck his head in the door. “I’m finished downstairs. Okay if I take off?”
Jason Peterson, seated at his desk, glanced up. “Okay, Jackson. Goodnight. See you tomorrow.”
Rankins hesitated at the door. “I’m off tomorrow, remember? I switched from last Sunday.”
Peterson’s brows knit. “Oh?”
“I worked last Sunday. You said I could have Tuesday off.”
Peterson nodded, remembering. “You’re right. See you Wednesday.”
Rankins walked the two and one-half blocks to the garage that housed his van and drove it out.
The sun, starting to dip toward the western horizon, still shone brightly. He turned south along the Tuscarawas River, past the Waste Water Treatment Plant. The 10-mile drive to Interstate 77 took him less than fifteen minutes. He was now in Canton. As he approached the on-ramp to the freeway, he slowed, then turned off on a side street. He debated whether or not to pass the doctor’s office once again. Decided he had no need. He had done his surveillance well the previous week. He drove on to Whipple Road, reaching its intersection with the I 77 on-ramp. This time he drove on to the freeway. Continued unhurriedly past the Akron-Canton Airport. At State Route 173 he left the freeway and drove east for another three miles. He was now in open country, fields with scattered patches of woods, weathered barns, farm houses. A narrow dirt road appeared, leading into a densely wooded area. There were no signs or other markings to identify the dirt road. He steered the van on to the road, stopped and set the dashboard odometer to zero. For the last four minutes he had passed no vehicles.
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