A Cincinnati Cold Case

by R. W. Nichols

  In fact, he avidly hoped she did remember him, because when she ran into him again it would only cause her terror to be elevated. Of course, she wouldn’t wear the surprise factor, which is what he called the disbelief and shock the women’s faces showed when they finally understood what was going to happen. That was something he truly enjoyed, but the fear she would emanate over recognizing him would be better. It would be delicious.

  Paul shuddered as a thrill passed through him, and then was amused to discover that he was aroused. “Down boy,” he thought. There was plenty of time for that later. He had work to do now.

  ***

  Later that afternoon, Jason studied the sketch that Jeff had handed him. There was nothing unusual about the drawing. The man portrayed was good-looking with symmetrical features and dark hair and eyes, like hundreds and hundreds of men in the area. At least, those lucky enough to have been blessed with good genes. Jason, himself, wasn’t one of them. Short, with thinning sand-colored hair and stooped shoulders, he was no prize. He knew that he wouldn’t be mistaken for the suspect in the drawing. But the sketch did look familiar. Now, who was it? Who did it remind him of?

  He hadn’t gotten much out of the woman; just the name Daisy, if that was her name, and a cell phone number in case he needed anything else. If the number was legit, that is, which he didn’t have much faith in. But at least he had something to turn over to the detective. Odd that Paul hadn’t stuck around to interview her himself. He’d been angry about missing her before and had told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t to let the woman get away again. Well, he hadn’t. But Paul must have lost interest, because he sure didn’t seem to care this time. In one way, it was rewarding that Paul thought him capable of doing the interview. But in another way it seemed like such an unexpected turn around on the other man’s part that Jason found it confusing.

  He’d done his best to reward the detective’s trust, but was disappointed that all he’d gotten out of it was a probable fake number and a generic sketch. He’d hoped for better.

  Jason stared again at the drawing. That was it! Now he had it. The simple black and white illustration on the table in front of him resembled Paul. Lucky bastard, even women that hadn’t seen him before plucked his good looks out of thin air. Of course, she could have seen him on TV. Jason thought there was a good chance the detective had been interviewed by some bright-eyed reporter back when the Bathtub Girls’ murders were headlining the news and Paul’s features had stuck with her. The resemblance was just a coincidence and meant nothing. Which only further proved that the sketch was useless.

  At any rate, the drawing did not resemble Grant Mason much, other than the dark hair and eyes. This man had a different hairline, different shape to the eyes and lips. He even had a different shape to his brows, which Jason found telling. He didn’t know why there had never been a study done on eyebrows. He suspected there was a correlation to the shape of a man’s brows and his character. He could be wrong, but he didn’t think it likely. This man in the sketch had eyebrows that rose in the middle like Paul’s, which explained the resemblance. There was probably no similarity other than that. Still… It did look like him.

  It was actually funny and he expected that Paul would get a chuckle out of it. But just in case he didn’t, Jason wasn’t going to spread his opinion around the precinct. He had no intention of getting on the detective’s bad side. Not when things were going so well. It was nice being buddies with a detective. You got the plum assignments.

  Jason pulled out a box of hand disinfectant out of his desk drawer and tore one package open. His hands were smudged from the pen and ink Jeff had used to shade the drawing. Unfortunately, it was always dirty here; germs were everywhere. Daisy seemed clean, but you couldn’t trust your eyes. You can’t see germs. He hadn’t shook her hand because he didn’t shake hands with anyone, having long ago learned. No sir, there would be no cold, flu, or the possibility of who-knew-what for him. He hadn’t been sick in years and had no intention of letting his guard down now. Jason didn’t know his compulsion was well known with his co-workers and that they thought him strange. If he had, he would have been hurt, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. Although he didn’t suspect it, he had a lot in common in that way with Paul, his hero. Compulsions, like urges, are nearly impossible to change.

  Chapter 24

  Three hours after slipping out the back door, Paul returned to his office. While he’d been out he had walked two crime scenes, letting his mind wander to form a plan. He hadn’t allowed it to dwell on what he would do to the woman. That would have been too distracting. Instead he had centered on where his investigation should begin. And that would, of course, start with the identification of the young woman who called herself Daisy. Everything else would fall into place when that small obstacle was gone.

  “Jason, could you come in here?” he asked, as soon as he caught up. Messages and e-mails were waiting whenever he returned from the field. He rarely had a free moment. Cincinnati, like most major cities, was a super bowl for crime. And crime never took a timeout.

  Jason came in quickly, papers in both hands.

  “Here’s the sketch Jeff came up with. The only thing I can see is that it looks like you,” Jason said laughing.

  Paul grimaced, as he looked it over. This was worse than he’d expected; the picture was a dead ringer for him. He felt forced to deny it, but would do it in an off-putting way. “I don’t see it. This guy doesn’t have my charm and sophistication, although he seems to be a good-looking gent. He looks like Mason; don’t you think?”

  “Some,” Jason reluctantly agreed, if only to please the detective. Paul might see a resemblance, but he sure didn’t. He looked again at the drawing and then back at Paul. It was almost as if the artist had used him as the model. It was a very good likeness, and, if he had been the suspicious type, enough to make him wonder. He wasn’t.

  “I’ll make copies and pass them out at tomorrow’s meeting,” Paul said. “Not that it matters, when we get Mason this case will be over.

  “Did you get the woman’s address?”

  “No, she wouldn’t give me anything, except a cell phone number.” Jason passed a slip of paper over to Paul. “And that’s probably fake. She refused to give me anything we could identify her with. I threatened her with the usual - obstruction of justice and interference, but she wasn’t swayed. As soon as she and Jeff finished the sketch she went out the door. She won’t be back.”

  “That’s all right. I’m not worried about it. Have you sent the number down for identification?”

  “No, I didn’t have time. I figured you wanted to do it.” Jason was nervous and hoped he hadn’t blown it. He’d expected Paul would want to handle that aspect.

  “That’s fine,” Paul said, seemingly unconcerned. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Jason perked up. He was still in the loop. He hadn’t expected to be kept informed. With what the detective had said, it was almost as if they were working the case together. He’d once had a dream of working homicide, before the germ obsession had become so overpowering. It had been a dream difficult to give up. For a brief instant, he experienced it again. It had been an aspiration promising better pay and desired prestige, strictly a pipe dream where he wasn’t laughed at and the brunt of the other guy’s jokes. A dream where he was important to someone other than his mother and sister.

  He looked at Paul with respect bordering on adulation as he left the office. The detective had always treated him kindly, better than anyone else at the precinct. It was almost as if they were friends and that was a good feeling.

  ***

  On his way home that night Paul picked up a cheap, pay-as-you-go cell phone. One that was basically untraceable, commonly called a throwaway phone. Sitting in the dollar store parking lot, he rang up the number Jason had so thoughtfully provided and was pleased when i
t went straight to voice mail. The name left for messages was, oddly enough, Daisy. So, that really was her name, or at least a stage name. How stupid of her. His lip curled thinking about how foolish some women were. As he remembered, this one had been pushy and practically begging for what had happened. He hadn’t intended to let his urges get out of hand; he’d simply been out for a little fun that night. In fact, he remembered wanting the whole thing to cool down. Two hookers dead in Cincinnati had been enough to bring in the FBI and their infernal snooping. The whole precinct had been on high alert. That’s why he’d gone into Dayton for entertainment. Wasn’t it? To let the heat die down? Or was it because he really hadn’t wanted to wait? He shrugged and put it out of his mind. It wasn’t important now; he would probe into his own psyche in more detail later, when there was time.

  Most important was her address, which should prove easy to find. He would simply run the number and her full name and address would pop out at him. There was no reason for anyone to monitor his whereabouts on the computer; he was safe. And he would be free to implement the rest of his plan.

  He would tell Jason that the number was fake. He was positive that he’d been given the original paper the phone number had been written on. So, except for this little sticky-note he held in his hand, there was no record of it being in police possession. And in Paul’s keeping, there was no way of tracing a connection back after the girl was gone. There would be no paper trail to link them. He smiled; confident everything was going the way he wanted it.

  Still, Jason might remember. Paul racked his brain for what to do. There needed to be a distraction. Something to take the other man’s mind off the woman and her blasted sketch, although the sketch could be fixed. A little tweak here, a heavier line there, and the eyes would droop at the corners, the lips would be fuller. Maybe he’d even add a scowl line between the eyes. This was the easy part. He’d brought the drawing home with him, confident there would be no problem modifying it.

  The problem would be Jason himself. His memory was too good. But he seemed to want to follow wherever Paul led. Their friendship was something Paul carefully cultivated and he was reasonably sure the other man could be convinced his recollection was incorrect. But a distraction …

  Jimmy Warren’s message popped into his head. It was something about wanting a cadaver dog to search Mason’s grandparents’ property. Paul shook his head. Getting approval from his boss for this added expense and then having to get a search warrant for what was ostensibly a cold case was a major hassle. But, it could certainly prove a distraction, and would take the focus away from the drawing and the resemblance to him. If they found the girl’s remains, the sketch could be filed away with the rest of the evidence until Mason was found. No one, even Jason, would remember it existed. Yes, that was a good plan. First thing in the morning he would approach the Lieutenant and get the ball rolling.

  This was exhilarating. Not only was there the chance that he would be able to add new life to a cold case, but he had the thrill of a hunt looming. And, with the extra challenges that stalking a previous victim entailed, it promised to be quite the hunt.

  Chapter 25

  “Which lab handled the paternity test?” Jimmy asked.

  “That clinic on the west side. Just a minute, I’ll get the name and address for you,” Avis Clough’s raspy voice answered.

  Jimmy heard the rustling of paper and then the attorney came back on the line.

  “Valley Clinic and Lab. Why do you need this?” he asked suspiciously. Avis had just been told that there would be more hours involved, and that this was going to cost him more than originally expected. Alicia Ervine wouldn’t pay it; she was broke. The money would have to come out of his pocket, which he normally wouldn’t consider. However, if the will were legit, his agency would be reimbursed. Most likely in triplicate for expenses, with the creative way he did billing.

  “I’m going to have a friend of mine look at it. She’s in forensics and one of several professional witnesses used for years by the police department. I want to prove to myself that the kid isn’t Wurtsmith’s.”

  “So, this isn’t on my clock?”

  Jimmy groaned inwardly. Why had he worded it that way? He could have simply made the statement without putting the ‘myself’ part in. Lawyers were such tightwads. You’d think that it physically pained them to part with every dollar.

  “No, not on your clock. Of course, if I find something --.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. Jimmy knew that if he found the old man had been the father, then that information would be needed. Although the lawyer could win without it, a far-fetched surprise like this, even after so many years, would prove very useful. It would simplify things and a judge might be sympathetic.

  “Never mind,” Clough’s voice said, the words seemingly pulled from him against his will. “You’ll be paid for your time. Wherever you go. You’re the detective, so I’ll leave it to your discretion. Here’s the address.”

  Jimmy wrote it down. It was on the business district’s north side, the same direction he would need to go to call on Glenn Purdue, the bodyguard. It would be good to consolidate trips, but was he up to that?

  His face wasn’t as bad today as he’d expected. Colorful and puffy, but not scary like the first time. Or, and here was another way of looking at it, there was a possibility that he was just getting used to his new look. Studying his reflection in the mirror, he thought he looked like a tough guy, could even be considered mean looking. With that garish green and purple eye shadow and the bridge of his nose swollen to both eyes, he looked dangerous and threatening. Move over Charles Bronson, Jimmy Warren was in town.

  Reaching into the medicine cabinet, he took out two more pain pills. Looking tough wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It hurt.

  ***

  At the lab Jimmy was given the runaround until he threatened with a court order. The receptionist nervously explained that supplying copies of DNA paternity tests to just anyone was illegal. He told her he worked for Avis Clough and that he needed it to close his file. At that time he was introduced to Luther Billings the office manager, a small, bespectacled man who looked like an accountant. He was quickly led into the man’s office, in an attempt to stop the scene that was happening in the waiting room. Potential clients were staring, and scenes weren’t good for business.

  “How may I help you, Mr. Warren?” Billings asked, his tone peevish as he fretfully pushed heavy, black-framed glasses into a position higher on his nose.

  “My employer, Attorney-at-Law Avis Clough, sent me to pick up a copy of the paternity test run between Bryan Ervine and Darren Wurtsmith. This would have been about ten years ago.”

  “Oh, that long? I’m not sure that we still have it. That’s a long time to keep something filed.”

  “Computers have the file space. I know you don’t use a file cabinet. Why don’t you look? I’ll wait.”

  Billings glared at him. “I don’t think legally I could give you that information, if we even still have it.”

  “Sure you can. Call up Clough and ask him. He’ll tell you. If you want, I’ll get a search warrant and we’ll see how long it takes for the cops to release your computers afterwards. Could be months, which would be a shame for business.”

  Billings chewed on his bottom lip, studying Jimmy’s bruised face, while Jimmy did his best to appear dangerous and blasé. Then Billings reached for the phone. After talking with Avis Clough it only took him two minutes to bring up the results and thirty seconds to print out the file.

  “I want it noted that I’m not pleased with you and your lawyer’s strong-arm tactics. If I hear of anything illegal coming out of this, I’m going straight to the cops.”

  “Fine, call me and I’ll tell you who to talk to,” Jimmy said. “They’re good friends of mine.

  “I’d like to thank you for your help,” J
immy continued, trying not to sound sarcastic. He reached out his hand and hid a smile when the other man refused to shake with him. This tough guy act was amusing and proving helpful. He’d never thought of himself as intimidating before. It was exhilarating.

  Back in his car, Jimmy glanced over the papers. It was plain he didn’t understand DNA codes. The way the results were written was confusing. He made a note to call Michelle Miller that afternoon. Hopefully, she would help straighten it out. He stuck the sheets up behind the driver’s sun visor and set the GPS for Purdue’s residence, feeling the beginnings of the headache he’d battled for a week trying to make a return. Being tough might be fun, but it wasn’t easy.

  ***

  Glenn Purdue met him at the door with car keys in hand. Although a large, muscular man, he stared at Jimmy’s face with trepidation, as if he, too, thought Jimmy dangerous. Jimmy had all he could do not to laugh.

  “Mr. Purdue? I’m working for Avis Clough. Could I speak with you about a matter that has been recently brought to our attention?”

  Purdue stiffened. He recognized the attorney’s name.

  “I’m on my way out. Could it wait until later?”

  “It will only take a few minutes of your time. And then I’ll be out of your hair.” Oops, bad choice of words. Jimmy eyes were pulled to the man’s shaved head. As large as he was, it looked like a bowling ball. Fortunately, Purdue wasn’t paying attention. He was looking at his watch.

  “Okay, but make it quick. I’ve got an appointment.” He motioned Jimmy inside his home, a neat brick ranch on the end of a cul-de-sac. They took seats at a bar that separated the dining area from the U-shaped kitchen. The kitchen was clean and the cabinetry updated with lighter colors and more fashionable hardware, but the style was reminiscent of the eighties.