Targeted (A Jenny Watkins Mystery Book 9)

by Becky Durfee

  Chief DePalo rubbed the back of his neck as he exhaled loudly; his expression looked pained. “While that does sound plausible, you have to understand…the confession we have appears to be legit. There’s no other explanation for it. He knows things that only the killer would know.”

  “I realize that,” Jenny said without animosity in her voice, “and that’s what I don’t understand. It has occurred to me that maybe they were working together. Or maybe they were just friends, and Mark may have told Gary some details about the crime scene when he confided in him. But, either way, I’m convinced Mark Neighbors did the actual killing.”

  The chief looked like he was deep in thought; this was clearly a wrench he didn’t want thrown in the works. She imagined a nice, tidy confession was the ending they’d all been hoping for. Sitting frozen, she waited for his reaction, which she hoped wasn’t hostile.

  He let out another deep breath, declaring, “I owe you a story.”

  Jenny remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

  “I do believe in psychics. I do believe that the deceased have the ability to communicate.” His eyes rose to meet hers, the intensity on his face intimidating. “I saw it first-hand, back when I was a kid. My parents got divorced when I was young, and my mom and I moved into a small house. It was a two-bedroom little thing. Two story. When you walked in the front door, the kitchen and dining room were to your left, the living room to your right, and a set of stairs in front of you. At the top of the stairs, there was a bedroom on either side and a bathroom in the middle.” He used his hands to illustrate his description before crossing his arms over his chest. “My bedroom was the one on the right.

  “I used to see a woman there,” he continued. “Well, I didn’t see her, but I felt her presence. I saw her shadows. I sensed her movements. I was afraid of her at first, but, after a while, I learned she wasn’t going to hurt me. I just kind of accepted that her spirit lived in there, but I didn’t tell my mom about it—at least, not for the first few years.

  “When I was nine or ten, I mentioned it to my mother—that I sensed a presence in my room. I told her I had been aware of it since we’d moved in there. She was shocked to hear me say it, not because she didn’t believe me, but because she’d experienced it, too. And that’s when she told me.”

  Jenny’s eyes remained locked on his.

  He sighed deeply and added, “The previous owners had been a young couple with a baby boy. The father worked; the mother stayed home. The baby was probably about six months old when the husband came home and found his wife dead at the bottom of the stairs. The baby was screaming in his crib, his diaper soaking wet, and there was no sign of any foul play. The doors were locked. Nothing had been taken. Nothing was out of order. It’s believed she fell down the steps after putting the baby down for his nap.” He looked down toward the table. “The steps were made of wood, and she had socks on. It appears her feet slipped out from underneath her, and she hit the back of her head on one of the stairs.” Continuing to look solemn, he added, “Her neck was broken.”

  Jenny put her hand over her mouth. Considering the age of her own baby, this story was hitting a little too close to home.

  “The husband sold the house shortly after. He couldn’t stand to walk past the spot where his wife had died, day in and day out. My mom bought if from him. She said she got a good deal on it. Apparently, nobody wanted to buy the house where the young mother had died.

  “The room I moved into was the baby’s room,” he went on. “That was the only place either one of us had ever seen her spirit. My mother had assumed she was sticking around to make sure her baby was okay. Maybe she even thought I was her baby; I don’t know. All I do know is that I felt her presence, long before I ever knew that she had died in that house.” He sat up straighter and drew a breath. “Spirits are real, Jenny. I know that. And there’s not a doubt in my mind that they can contact us. I’m not sure how you have the ability to hear it so clearly, but I don’t doubt that it’s true.”

  “It runs in my family,” Jenny said softly.

  “And I have nothing but respect for that ability.” He leaned forward to speak with her more intimately. “But what I have here is a confession. A solid one. I realize you have insight that suggests someone else did this, but I have no tangible evidence at this point that would lead me in a different direction than the one I’m already headed.”

  “Rachel bled on her attacker. Her DNA would be on his gloves.”

  “I figured that, but Kimbrough said he disposed of the gloves—and his clothes, and the size fourteen shoes he wore to throw us off his trail. He put them in a bag, weighed them down and dropped them into the Appomac River. We’ve got dive teams looking for the bag now.” Appearing apologetic, he added, “Honestly, Jenny, I do believe in your ability, but, at this time, I have no reason to think we’ve got it wrong.”

  Jenny nodded with understanding, fully aware that this man had nothing but good intentions. “I’d like to meet him,” she replied quietly. “Kimbrough, I mean. I want to see if the girls recognize him.”

  Chief DePalo leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Excellent. Hopefully you can let me know what his affiliation was with these women. At this point, it seems like the victims were chosen randomly, but I wonder if there was something more to it than that.”

  Jenny had a few questions of her own that she wanted answered. “Sounds good,” she replied. “Where do you need me to go?”

  “The meeting can happen in here, if you’d like. We’ll have him cuffed and shackled, and I can be in here with you to keep you safe. We’ll have officers watching through a one-way mirror, too, so if he gets…excited…we can subdue him quickly.”

  “Actually, I’d prefer to be alone with him, if you don’t mind.” She tapped her temple. “Having fewer people in the room makes the connection easier.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but the chief didn’t need to know what her real reasons were.

  He looked at her for a moment before saying, “Are you sure about that? He’s a dangerous man.”

  In Jenny’s mind, the only thing that made him dangerous was his interference with the investigation. That, and possibly his friendship with Mark Neighbors. “Absolutely,” she replied. “Although, I will take you up on the offer to have officers watching through the mirror…”

  Gary Kimbrough’s steps were small due to the shackles on his ankles. His hands were cuffed to a chain around the waist of his orange jumpsuit. His hair was disheveled and his eyes half-closed, indicating he’d been woken up for the meeting. Considering the sun had just barely risen, that certainly could have been the case.

  The guard instructed him to sit, and he did so without a word. “We will be standing right outside the room watching, so no funny business,” the guard said, giving Gary a slight nudge on the shoulder. Turning to Jenny, he added, “If he gives you any trouble, or does anything to make you feel uncomfortable, just raise your hand. We’ll be in here faster than you can bat an eye.”

  Jenny smiled pleasantly at the guard, thanking him, and watched him walk out the door. She fixed her gaze on Gary Kimbrough, the self-proclaimed killer, and waited for some kind of message from the victims—a vision, a memory—something. His face sparked no recognition, no fear, no anger, confirming Jenny’s suspicion that this was not the man.

  Her fatigue allowed her to be cool and emotionless when she spoke. “So, you’re the killer.”

  He cocked his head to the side, wearing a tough expression. “That’s right. And who are you?”

  Jenny didn’t let her eyes leave his. “I am a woman who knows the truth.”

  Chapter 19

  Gary didn’t flinch at Jenny’s words; he simply continued to stare at her.

  “I know you didn’t do this, Gary. And you know you didn’t do this. But here’s the one thing that I can’t figure out,” she went on. “Why would somebody confess to a crime they didn’t commit? Is it for the attention? Low self-esteem? What is it? Care to enlighten me?
”

  Looking cocky, he replied, “I wouldn’t know.”

  She was too tired for this. “You wouldn’t know.” She said it more like a sentence than a question.

  “Nope. Sure wouldn’t.”

  She rubbed her eyes in an attempt to regroup. After her hands worked their way down her face and clasped under her chin, she leaned forward on the table that separated her from Gary. “How long to you plan to keep this up?”

  He simply shrugged and looked at her as if he were challenging her.

  “Okay, then, tell me…how long have you known Mark?”

  He scoffed. “Mark who?”

  “You don’t know anyone named Mark?”

  “I know a couple of guys named Mark.”

  “Well, I would think you’d know which one I was talking about here. After all, he played an integral role in the murders.”

  “There was no Mark involved with the murders.”

  “That’s not what Rachel Moore told me.”

  Gary didn’t reply, leading Jenny to believe she’d left him without anything to say.

  “See, that’s what you may not understand. Those three young women? They can talk to me. I can hear them. And Rachel knows who did this to her, and she knows it wasn’t you.”

  He continued to remain silent.

  “I’m not sure exactly what your goal is, but let me make something clear to you.” She tapped her finger on the table. “While you’re in here getting your ego stroked by all this attention, the real killer is out there, probably planning to strike again. And you know what? The police aren’t even looking for him anymore, because they have you. So make no mistake about it—while you didn’t kill these women that you’re claiming to have killed, you are definitely responsible for the death of the next one. Can you really live with that?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay, then, what was your motive?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I can’t really say. Something just came over me.”

  “Why these women?”

  “They were convenient.”

  “How are you going to explain it when the cops can’t find that bag with the clothes and shoes in it?” She used finger quotes.

  “Incompetence.”

  “What about the smiley-face notes?”

  For a brief moment, his face showed a hint of confusion. He quickly recovered, stating, “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  Confusion. He didn’t know anything about the notes. Jenny felt her blood run cold, realizing this man in front of her wasn’t the stocky man who had been harassing her.

  If it wasn’t him, then who was it?

  “Well, I don’t have the time to waste on you,” Jenny replied calmly, beginning to stand up. “I’ve got to go make sure the killer doesn’t strike again.”

  “I won’t,” Gary said coolly.

  Jenny rolled her eyes. “You never did.”

  Before she even reached the door, the guards came in. “Are you okay, ma’am?” one of them asked, the worry apparent in his voice.

  “Yes,” Jenny replied with a smile, “This interview is just over. And I won’t be needing him anymore; I’ve got everything I need from this young man.”

  The guard who spoke then placed his hand on Gary’s elbow. “Come on, tough guy,” he said, “back to your cell.”

  Gary stood up, taking baby steps out of the room. He didn’t even glance in Jenny’s direction as he left.

  She found herself alone for only a short moment before Chief DePalo came back in. Closing the door behind him, he looked at Jenny eagerly. “Did you get any insight?”

  “Yes and no,” she replied with her head down. She braced herself before she continued, “The girls said nothing to me, which actually told me a lot. I hate to tell you this, but I truly believe he’s the wrong man. I am convinced, now more than ever, that your guy is Mark Neighbors. He had the means and the motive…and feet big enough to need a size fourteen shoe.”

  The chief let out a sigh, looking genuinely torn. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I really wish we were on the same page.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” Jenny looked up at the tall police chief in front of her. “I’m sorry that Gary Kimbrough has led you astray.”

  Climbing back into her car, Jenny shook Zack’s shoulder before she turned the key. “Wake up, sleepyhead. We’ve got things to do.”

  With a loud groan and a stretch, he asked, “What time is it?”

  “About seven-thirty.”

  “Huh,” he replied, obviously confused. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  “You did, and I’m glad you did. You needed it. But now we have some errands to run. I looked last night, and, unfortunately, the stores that sell the tracking devices don’t open until ten, but we have another mission to accomplish before that.”

  He tilted his head back and forth, invoking a loud pop in his neck. “Holy crap, I feel like a pretzel. I’m not young enough to sleep in a car anymore.”

  “Well, once we get these few things taken care of, we can go back to the hotel and sleep in a bed…and I, for one, can’t wait.”

  He let out a yell with another full body stretch. “Where are we headed?”

  “Buford Park,” she replied, glancing at the clock. “I just hope we get there in time to catch the delivery of a biscuit with sausage and eggs.”

  As they walked down the path at Buford Park, Jenny was so tired that she felt like she was having an out-of-body experience. She went through the motions of taking steps, but her brain hadn’t gotten out of the car yet. Joggers whizzed by in both directions, full of energy, apparently well-rested after a full night’s sleep. She found herself painfully jealous of their vigor.

  Before too long, the homeless man came into sight. He was sitting along the path again, in almost the exact same spot as last time. He was alone, which made Jenny slightly nervous; she hoped Jeremy hadn’t already come and gone.

  “Hello, Sir Walter James Southerland the Third,” she said cheerfully once they were within earshot.

  He looked up at her. “Hello, Pam.”

  Pam?

  Keeping the smile on her face, she replied, “My name isn’t Pam.”

  “You look like a Pam.”

  “I do, huh?” Jenny didn’t realize that Pam had a look.

  Zack seemed amused by this conversation. “What do I look like?”

  Sir Walter James Southerland the Third gave him the once-over. “You look like a man who could use more sleep.”

  Zack and Jenny both laughed out loud. “You hit the nail on the head, there, friend,” Zack replied. “Last night was a rough one.”

  “So, what brings you all back out here this morning?”

  “We just wanted to talk,” Jenny said.

  A jogger ran by, raising his hand in a hello to Sir Walter James Southerland the Third, who returned the gesture. “Well, have a seat,” he replied, waving his arm out to the side. “I haven’t cleaned today, though.”

  Stifling a smile, Jenny said, “That’s okay. No need to clean for us.” Finding a decent-sized rock, she sat her bottom down and curled her legs into her chest. The rock was cold, damp and hard, but she was not about to complain. She could tolerate a few minutes of this, considering the man next to her lived under these conditions all the time. “I actually have a question for you, my friend,” she continued.

  “Is it a math question?”

  “A math question?” Jenny repeated with surprise. “No, it’s not a math question.”

  “That’s probably best,” Sir Walter James Southerland the Third confessed. “My skills are a bit rusty these days.”

  Jenny liked this guy. “My question is a bit more personal than a math question. Here’s what I want to know: if you had the opportunity to live somewhere…in a house, I mean…would you like that?”

  “In a house?”

  “Yeah,” Jenny said, “instead of outside. You wouldn’t have to deal with the heat or the cold o
r the rain. You could shower, and you’d have a bathroom.”

  “Right now, the world is my bathroom,” he replied with a smile, gesturing to the trees behind him.

  “You know, there is beauty in that,” Zack noted.

  Jenny looked at her husband strangely, shaking her head. Focusing her attention back on the homeless man, she asked, “Would that interest you, Sir? Having a bathroom, and a bed, and a warm place to stay?”

  “I had a bed once.” He nodded emphatically.

  “You did?”

  “Yup. About a week ago.”

  Jenny smiled. “Did you like having a bed?”

  “I seem to recall that I did.”

  “Would you like to have a bed again?”

  With a grin, he said, “Might be nice.”

  “I can arrange that for you, as it turns out. I’d just need you to come with either me or Jeremy to the place where you could live. They’ll ask you some questions, but I think they’d let you stay.”

  He thought for a moment, sadly adding, “I wouldn’t see the fawn get born.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Jenny agreed, “but maybe Jeremy can get a picture for you.”

  “The doe doesn’t trust Jeremy. She trusts me. She won’t let him close enough to her baby to get a picture.”

  In an instant, Jenny’s perspective changed. Yes, Sir Walter James Southerland the Third had no official home, but that didn’t mean his life was without highpoints. He had routines and relationships that he would inevitably miss—the man even considered the bugs to be his friends. While, to her, it seemed like the move indoors would be entirely positive, she hadn’t taken into account his attachment to the things he’d be leaving behind. Perhaps, to him, the comfortable bed wouldn’t be worth it.