by C. M. Sutter
Kate pulled out her phone and tapped the calculator icon. She typed in numbers then looked up at me. “You’re right. We have a ten-year window to work with but no case number.”
“True, but it’s better than going back nearly one hundred thirty years. At this point, we don’t even have actual proof they ever worked together. It’s just a hunch. I’ll call Jack and tell him what the clerk said. Maybe he’ll want us to go ahead, and maybe he won’t.” I made the quick call to Jack’s cell phone and tried to speak quietly. Cell phone usage in any of the courthouse offices was frowned upon. I set Speakerphone to the lowest volume so Kate could hear the conversation too. “Boss, it’s Amber. We can only access old files with a date and case number, otherwise we have to go through the archives manually. We did the math, and it would be a manual search between 2003 and 2013—a ten-year span. What do you want us to do?”
“Since Clayton and Billings came up with nothing on Gold Star’s parking lot videos, I’d say go ahead. I just don’t know if you should start at 2003 and work your way up or at 2013 and work your way down.”
“It’s your call, sir.”
“Okay, start checking the archived court transcripts. Stay until five and then head back. Those departments will be closing then, anyway. Begin at 2013 and work your way down.”
Chapter 31
The situation couldn’t have been better. Nobody in their right mind would be outside in that downpour. It gave Keith complete anonymity. Any kind of visibility beyond a foot ahead was next to impossible. He parked at the end of the block and grabbed the black plastic case from the backseat. He walked at a quickened pace, his head down and hood pulled up. When he got to the side yard, he reached over the gate and lifted the latch. Keith pushed the gate forward, entered the backyard, then closed it behind him. He wiped the rain from his face and squinted as he continued on.
His earlier research showed that Stan Kingsley worked until five thirty every day. Eleven years earlier, Stan had been a patrol deputy with the sheriff’s office when he testified at Kevin’s trial. These days, he was nothing more than a ten-dollar-an-hour unarmed security guard at the mall. His occupation was of no concern to Keith. The fact that Stan would be dead soon was the only thing that mattered, and Keith had the perfect plan in mind. Holman Correctional Facility’s ominous nickname, slaughterhouse, came to mind when Keith planned Stan’s fate. That term suited the security guard just fine.
The soggy ground squished under his feet as Keith slinked along the six-foot-wide pathway. He peeked around the left corner when he reached the back of the house. The fenced yard was barren of anything that represented pride in ownership.
What a shithole.
There wasn’t a single flowerpot or piece of yard furniture, only dead grass, weeds, and a three-by-five-foot cement slab at the bottom of the patio doors. Keith pressed his nose against the glass and tried to get a layout of the floor plan. The darkened house and sheets of rain running down the slider made it difficult to see anything. He followed along the back wall until he came to a frosted window. It had to be a bathroom. He pushed up on the casement window, and to his surprise, it hadn’t been latched yet for winter. Keith pushed in the screen, lowered his case to the toilet, and hopped up. He pulled his upper body through. The landing would be awkward, going in headfirst, but he’d manage. Keith grabbed the sink faucet and held on as he wiggled his legs through. He was in the house, and that was what counted.
Inside, Keith undressed down to his boxer shorts and T-shirt, then he tossed his wet pants, socks, and shoes in the tub. He looked out the door and turned right at the hallway. Two rooms were on his right and one on his left. He crossed the hall and entered the room on the left. With that room facing the street, it was too dangerous to turn on a light. He enabled the flashlight on his cell phone. It looked to be the master bedroom although sparsely decorated and in complete disarray.
No surprise there. The guy doesn’t seem to care about appearances.
Keith opened the first dresser drawer and looked in—socks.
I could use a dry pair about now.
He pulled out a balled-up pair of black socks and slipped them on. He went to the closet and pushed the sliding door to the side, grabbed a shirt off a hanger, and put it over his T-shirt. It fit just right. He opened another dresser drawer and found pants. He slipped on a pair, a bit large at the waist but at least dry. Keith checked the time on his phone—5:34. Stan had probably clocked out and was running through the rain to his vehicle. The mall was only seven blocks from his house. Keith returned to the bathroom, fitted the screen back in the window, and straightened the rugs. He gathered his belongings and entered a room facing the back of the house.
Let’s see what we have in here.
The small space appeared to be an extra bedroom with a futon and dresser in case somebody happened by. Keith decided to take up residence for a bit. He opened the closet and peered in. Only a few stacked totes were inside.
Hmm—there’s plenty of room for me.
He grabbed a spare pillow from the closet shelf and lowered it to the floor. He checked the time again. He had a few minutes before the garage door would lift. He went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out two individually wrapped packets of string cheese and a half stick of summer sausage. Keith stopped in his tracks when he heard the motor of the garage door opener. He had only seconds to take his place in the closet. He walked down the hall and flipped off the bedroom light. Then he entered the closet and closed the door behind him.
Keith listened as the door between the garage and laundry room opened and closed. He heard Stan in the kitchen, and moments later, the television went on. Keith peeled back the cellophane wrapper on the first cheese stick and took a bite. It would be a long night.
A few hours later, a sound startled him awake. He realized he had dozed off, and he checked the time again—nearly nine o’clock. Stan was inches away, in the bathroom, which shared a connecting wall with the closet. What Keith had heard was the toilet flushing. He remained still and listened for more identifying noises. A rustling sound caught his ear. He smiled. The shower curtain had been pulled aside, and now the water was turned on. His plans would change for the better. There would be no mess no fuss of killing Stan in bed. The shower was a much cleaner option. Keith slid the closet door to the side and crept out.
He peeked through the four-inch gap at the door and noticed that the master bedroom light was on. He had to be careful. Keith heard that same rustle as before. He looked to his left and saw that the bathroom door was partially open. Stan was definitely in the bathroom, and the sound was the shower curtain sliding along the pole. Keith would give the security guard a few minutes to lather up before having his life ended.
He crept along the hallway, his knife snapped open and ready to go, but maybe he needed something larger. He walked to the kitchen and pulled out the butcher knife from the block. He didn’t want any accidental misses while trying to stab Stan through the shower curtain.
He returned to the bathroom and slipped through the door’s opening. Keith heard Stan humming on the other side of the curtain. He saw a vague image through the plastic. He’d go for the torso—a sure hit. Keith pulled back the knife and thrust it forward through the curtain. He had to kill Stan quickly so the mess would be contained to the bathtub. He pulled back the knife again, and the thrashing began. Stan screamed out his pain as his body tangled in the curtain. He flailed and grabbed at the air as Keith continued the assault. Blood ran down the white tiled shower wall as it mixed with the water. The thud of Stan’s fall told Keith the man was losing traction. With a hard yank, Keith grabbed the shower curtain and tossed it across the room. He plunged the knife into Stan’s heart, and the man went limp. Keith sank to the floor and turned off the water. He closed his eyes for a minute and leaned against the vanity to catch his breath. Keith scooted to the tub and looked over the edge. Stan lay dead with his eyes wide open. Blood covered every surface of the shower as it ra
n out of his wounds and swirled toward the drain.
Now the real work begins. The term ‘Slaughterhouse’ is going to become very real in just a few minutes.
Keith went to the kitchen and began opening cabinets and drawers. He found what he needed—large garbage bags. He dropped off the roll of bags in the bathroom and continued on. In the bedroom where he had been hiding, Keith flipped on the light. He opened the closet and pulled out the black case he’d brought with him. Back in the bathroom, he removed the rugs, the items on the countertop, and the clothing Stan had taken off before showering. He placed them in the hallway and stripped off his own clothes and put them on the pile too. Keith returned to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Inside, he smoothed out the shower curtain on the floor to alleviate some of the cleanup, then he pulled the trigger on the reciprocating saw. It was about to get messy. Keith would make short work of Stan’s body.
It took only an hour to quarter Stan into manageable pieces. Arms and legs went into one heavy-duty garbage bag and the torso in another. Stan’s head and shower curtain went into a bag of their own. From the bathtub, Keith scooped bone fragments and thick pieces of muscle into his hand and shook it off over the toilet. He gave it several flushes. A clogged bathtub was something he didn’t want to deal with. The bathroom looked like a set from a horror film. Keith spent another hour cleaning the walls and floor. He studied the room carefully as he stood naked in the tub. He didn’t want to miss anything. Satisfied that nobody could tell without the aid of luminol that a body had just been slaughtered and quartered in that room, he turned on the water and scrubbed himself clean.
Dried and dressed, Keith carried his muddy shoes to the car and set them in the driver’s-side footwell. Once in the house, he gathered his wet clothes from earlier and the outfit Stan had been wearing. After removing Stan’s wallet and keys, he jammed the clothes into a bag. He returned the garbage bags to the kitchen drawer as he passed through to the garage. With two clicks of the key fob, he had the trunk popped open. Keith carried bag after bag of body parts from the bathroom to the car. With a final walk-through of the house to make sure nothing looked out of place, Keith turned off the TV and lights then backed out the car. His Lexus was parked only a block away, and the downpour was still in full force. The neighborhood was hunkered down for the night.
At the end of the street, Keith backed up Stan’s car against his own and transferred the bags into his trunk, then he returned Stan’s car to his house. With the car tucked inside the garage and the keys above the visor, Keith cleaned up the small amounts of blood in the trunk, lowered the overhead, and ran the block to his car.
Chapter 32
Our workday was over. Jack insisted that we all go home at an appropriate time that night, considering the weather. We didn’t have any leads to work with, anyway. Kate and I had managed to get through the 2013 court files and found none that had any mention of Leslie McDonald or Tyler Rauch as material or expert witnesses. Jack offered up Billings and Clayton to help search files tomorrow since they had exhausted every idea they had to help us identify the killer.
Jack gave a brief profile to the press. With the little information he had, reliable leads—if any—would be few and far between. Any male between thirty and sixty who resided in Washburn County and owned a black sedan would be given a closer look. It was all we had.
Kate and I discussed the case as I drove. Ever since she moved in, we’d been taking turns weekly driving to and from the sheriff’s office. The arrangement was working out great for both of us.
“Maybe with help from Clayton and Billings, we can push through those files tomorrow and actually find something.”
I gave Kate a quick smile. “I know what would really speed things up.”
“You do?”
I nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Well, tell me, then.”
“Just figure it out in your dreams.”
Kate let out a disappointed sigh. “I thought you were being serious.”
I chuckled. “I am, damn it. Our jobs would be a hell of a lot easier if you’d just tell us who the killer is.”
“You wouldn’t even have a job if I knew all the answers. Your position as a detective would be unnecessary since you wouldn’t be detecting anything.”
“Humph. I guess you have a point.”
We were home by seven thirty. Jade had left me a text earlier saying she and J.T. had to fly to St. Louis for a case. It was Kate, me, and the menagerie for a few days. I was happy to have a roommate, especially when we had to deal with murder cases. Even with the advanced security system that was installed at the condo and the half dozen weapons that were within my reach, I always felt better when a loved one was with me.
I went straight to the kitchen, where I planned to warm up the leftover spaghetti and meatballs I had made yesterday and throw together a bagged baby greens salad. Spaz jumped from the floor to Kate’s lap as she sat at the table. His purring filled the silence while Kate scratched behind his ears. I shot him a scowl. “Traitor, and after everything I’ve done for you.”
Kate laughed as Spaz snuggled in her lap and stared at me.
“Seriously?” I went to the wine rack and pulled out a bottle of Merlot. It would go nicely with the spaghetti. I poured two glasses and placed them on the table then took a seat while our dinner warmed on the stovetop. “So, who’s filling in for Jamison?”
“Jamison? Where is he going?”
“Jack didn’t mention it to you?” I sipped my wine.
“Guess not since I don’t know anything about it.” Kate gave me a sneer and wrinkled her brows.
Jack had asked me earlier that day to pass the information on to Kate, but I liked to see her get riled up. She was a very animated person. I smiled. “He and Clark are going bow hunting near Hudson. They rented a cabin in the woods for a week.”
“A week? So who’s taking his place?”
“That’s what I just asked you.” I tapped my fingers on the table. “Maybe Mary and Mitch will take turns filling in.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“There hasn’t been much going on during the night shift, anyway, and unfortunately they can’t access the courthouse files after hours to give us a hand with that task. I guess Jack thought he could spare Jamison for a while. Clark brought it up at the Packer party on Sunday, but maybe you didn’t catch that conversation.” The buzzer rang on the stove, and I got up to give the spaghetti a stir. I popped the garlic bread into the broiler. “Five minutes. You need to get that fur ball off your lap and wash your hands. I’m about to set the table.”
Chapter 33
Kate climbed into the passenger seat Thursday morning as I settled in behind the wheel. I pressed the button on the remote, and the garage door lifted.
“Maybe today will be our lucky day.”
I looked over my right shoulder as I backed out. “So you did have a dream about the killer?”
“No, but with good detective work, we’ll figure it out. I just hope nobody else dies in the meantime.”
“By the legal definition, Tyler isn’t dead, he’s missing, but with every new day—”
“Yeah,” Kate said. “It doesn’t look good.”
We reached the sheriff’s office, hoping for a day of resolve. The sun was shining brightly, a cool nip was in the air, and we were definitely deep into the fall season.
We crossed the lot together as Clayton climbed out of his car. He looked to the sky then zipped his jacket to his neck. “At least the rain has stopped.”
I smelled the aroma of freshly brewed coffee as we entered the bull pen. Billings had arrived seconds before us and held the door open.
“Who made the coffee?” I asked as I slipped off my coat and hung it in the closet.
Jack stepped out of his office and leaned against the doorframe. “I did. I realized this morning that I hadn’t gone grocery shopping lately. There wasn’t any coffee or creamer left in the house, so I bought some for the bull pen too
.” Jack folded his arms over his chest. “Mary Rauch already called, and she wants answers on her husband’s whereabouts.”
I looked at Kate, and she shrugged. “I’m not getting any images if that’s why you’re staring at me.”
“Sorry. It’s just a habit.” I turned to Jack. “Nothing in Tyler’s truck that could help?”
“Not a thing. The killer probably reached in, grabbed the keys, and then locked the door behind him. The cell phone didn’t have any blocked or unknown callers and no texts other than the usual fare.”
Billings spoke up. “So what does Mrs. Rauch want from us?”
“More feet on the ground, searching in the area where the truck was left. We don’t have that kind of manpower to spare. We’ve already conducted a thorough search of the area using deputies, detectives, and Yolo. I suggested getting the news channels involved. They can spread the word and get volunteers involved in a foot search. Same goes for Tyler’s coworkers. They can round up people to help as well during their time off.”
Jack poured the coffee and passed cups around. I gave him a nod of thanks. “What’s your gut telling you, boss?”
“With the amount of blood we saw at the back of the truck, my gut says Tyler Rauch is no longer among the living.” Jack glanced at the clock then blew over his cup. “The courthouse is going to open soon. Finish your coffee and head out. I need to pay Mary Rauch a visit. There has to be more she can tell us about Tyler that will shed some light on this case.”
Fifteen minutes later, Kate, Clayton, Billings, and I took the sidewalk to the county courthouse. We boarded the elevator for the second floor. The doors closed, and the elevator bucked then began its short ascent. Once at the archives and records department, we signed in and were allowed access to the back room.
