by A W Hartoin
I froze. John Jameson’s son. Avery Sampson’s wife. My mom.
“That cannot be a coincidence,” I said.
“What?” asked everyone.
“John Jameson’s kid died of an overdose this morning.”
“I’ll get you everything,” said Spidermonkey.
“Thanks.”
We hung up and I came out of the bathroom.
“Avery’s coming back,” said Grandad. “What’s this about?”
“The Brain Trust.”
Chapter Twenty
AVERY SAMPSON SAT in Mom’s room recounting his time in The Brain Trust. He gripped the arms of his chair and forced himself to talk about murdered women, men, and even some teens. He didn’t want to go there and I hated that I asked it of him.
The first Brain Trust was back in the eighties and lasted two and a half years. It was the case that Dr. Capshaw up in Sturgis referred to, Dwayne Davis Smith, a truck driver who murdered prostitutes all over the Midwest. Davis was executed in ’95. According to Avery, Smith had no family. Certainly, no one mourned his passing. Also, he confessed in bloody detail and there was absolutely nobody who thought he was innocent. The Brain Trust was commended for catching him so quickly. Davis was only in action for eighteen months and I guess that wasn’t long, considering how much he got around.
The next case was a couple, Ronald and Marietta Beck. They, too, got around, killing people in Missouri, Kansas, and Arkansas, but they were different from Davis in that they didn’t do it for the pleasure of killing. They murdered for money, taking in elderly lodgers, poisoning them, and cashing their Social Security checks. They moved houses and states to avoid detection. The Brain Trust caught up to them in 1999 and they both committed suicide in jail before trial. There was a fuss about whether such a mild-mannered couple could poison twenty-three men, but when bodies showed up buried under every house they’d lived in, it was pretty hard to deny.
“So Banging Bob was the last case,” said Chuck.
If his name was Banging Bob, it must’ve been a bad one. I vaguely remembered the case, mostly because of the name. I was young and spent most of my time annoyed with my dad, not following what he was up to. “Did he bang people’s heads or something?”
Avery shook his head. “No, he was a DJ, working in and around St. Louis through the ‘90s and into the 2000s. His real name was Robert Horowitz.”
Mom asked for her water, took a sip, and said, “He drove Tommy crazy. He was absolutely obsessed with that case.”
“When isn’t he obsessed?” I asked.
She thought about it and came up empty, as I knew she would. Tommy Watts was all about focus. “Anyway, it went on a long time and that was hard. It was the longest case you all ever worked, unless you count the unsolved ones.”
Avery smiled. “So long that I retired before it was solved.”
“When did you retire?” I asked.
“2003 and Tommy got Bob six months later in 2004.”
I stood up and looked out the window at the afternoon sun glinting off the cars driving by.
“Mercy?” asked Chuck, coming over and gently touching my back.
“If it’s anyone, it’s Banging Bob?”
“I think he might be dead.”
I turned back to the room. “I don’t care. It fits the timeline perfectly.”
“Timeline?” asked Sydney.
I gave them all the dates I’d gathered and there was a lot of nodding. Avery got a little shaky and Tiny got him some tea. He rolled the cup between his hands, not drinking it.
“That case,” he said. “It really got to me. My daughters were the age of some of the victims. I had nightmares that he got them. Still do, if I’m being honest. That case is the reason I retired. I had to step back. Lainie thought I was going crazy. I think I was.”
“Why was that one so bad?” asked Fats. “Davis sounds pretty nasty.”
“He was, but he had an MO. Prostitutes strangled and dumped by a highway. He even left hair and fibers to test. He wasn’t the brightest bulb. It wouldn’t have taken even eighteen months if he hadn’t been a driver. Interstate cooperation wasn’t the greatest back then.”
“Banging Bob didn’t have an MO?” I asked.
“No, he didn’t. I’ve never seen a killer so random. I heard that Tommy eventually found a pattern, but I never asked what it was. I didn’t want to know.”
“Will you tell us what you do know?” I asked.
Avery nodded and recounted in detail his time on Banging Bob’s case. I could see why that particular serial killer got in Avery’s head. He didn’t make any sense whatsoever. Bob had male and female victims, ranging in age from thirteen to seventy-eight. There was no continuity in race, religion, employment, or location. Bob nabbed young women who got wasted at the raves where he worked, but he also broke into elderly men’s homes. He flagged down unsuspecting motorists, pretending he had car trouble. He lurked in parking lots and got a few when they came to their cars.
Avery stared down into his cup. “You’d have to ask Tommy about the end. Like I said, I didn’t want to know.”
“We talked about it,” said Chuck. “Do you mind if I say what Tommy told me?”
“Go ahead. If this has something to do with what happened to my wife, I need to hear it.”
Chuck continued with what my dad told him over some beers three years ago. It took over five years to catch Bob and when they did, he never gave up a motive. He didn’t sexually assault his victims, take any trophies, or seem to derive any pleasure from the killing other than he’d gotten away with it for so long. Bob seemed to consider it a job well done, but that was about it. He did confess to even more murders than were originally attributed to him. Dad had said that he knew there was more to the story, but he couldn’t get anything out of Bob.
I had such a hard-core Tommy Watts feeling as Chuck spoke that I had to sit down on the bed and pull a snoring Wallace into my lap. “Did Dad think he had a partner?”
“We all thought that,” said Avery. “But we never found any evidence of a second killer. It was more about the diversity.”
“Tommy did say that,” said Chuck. “But Bob said he was a single.”
“So it was just the diversity of the crimes?” I asked.
“That and Bob was no genius. He left evidence behind and was only successful at hiding the bodies some of the time. It was the area and when he started repeating crimes, we realized it was one guy and that was pretty late in the game. There’s this myth that serial killers are all highly intelligent, but that’s not true, in my experience. Davis had an IQ of ninety-two and the Becks were in the 110s.”
“What was Bob’s IQ?” I asked.
Avery shrugged and Chuck said, “I don’t know. Tommy didn’t mention it, but he did say that in his interviews, he couldn’t believe that guy had evaded him for so long. He wasn’t very bright.”
“Maybe he was just lucky,” said Fats.
“Nobody’s that lucky,” said Avery. “I figured he had a partner, but hell, maybe he was a loner with a yen for diversity. If Tommy Watts couldn’t find a partner, I don’t think there was one.”
Fats smiled wickedly. “We could send Mercy in to talk to him.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’re all heart.”
“Can’t,” said Sydney. “Bob is dead. Died in prison. Sleep apnea.”
Mom scowled, taking Wallace back from me. “He died peacefully in his sleep. Tommy was so angry about that. He was hoping for a broomstick in the bathroom. It only seemed fair.”
“Did anyone think Bob didn’t do it?” I asked.
“His mother, Valentina Dwyer, had a hard time accepting it, but she did in the end,” said Avery. “Your father knew her better than I did.”
“Do you still have your notes on Bob?”
“No. Lainie burned them. I was getting up in the middle of the night and going through them. She couldn’t take it anymore and barbecued the file when I went to Home Depot. But Tommy wa
s a much better note taker than me. He probably has a whole drawer dedicated to Bob.”
“He does,” said Mom. “It’s in the office.”
I stood up. “I’ll go check it out.”
Sydney shook his head. “I get the timeline, but I don’t see how this would be connected to Carolina’s attack, much less John Jameson’s kid overdosing and a random drive-by.”
“Maybe if we had another Brain Trust member attacked,” said Chuck.
“Maybe we do,” I said. “Do we know how everyone else is doing?”
Avery finally sipped his tea, frowning. “There were a lot of cops involved at one time or another.”
“Okay. Who were the main detectives?” asked Chuck. “Tommy, you and…”
“Tommy was the acknowledged lead. His partner, Gavin Flouder, was in it, but he died last year. The rest were John Jameson, Scott Frame, and Keely Stratton.”
“What did they do?” I asked.
“Do?” asked Avery.
“Did you have a specialty?”
Avery leaned back and said, “Oh. Of course. It wasn’t formal, but we had certain roles that we gravitated to. I was the tech guy.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “Nothing like Morty, you understand, but I had an interest.”
Chuck nodded. “And Gavin was a ballistics guy.”
“Right. Keely was an amazing profiler. Her instincts were only second to Tommy. I’d say she was second in command. Scott was forensics. He was an EMT back in the day. John was statistical analysis. The man loved maps. He’s the reason we got Smith—John and his maps.”
“And you were the best and the brightest,” I said.
“I suppose so,” said Avery. There was a lot of hesitation in that sentence.
Chuck heard it, too. “Someone didn’t agree?”
“You know how it is.”
I leaned forward. “I don’t. How is it?”
“Keely was a beautiful woman. People said she got in on looks, which was ridiculous. She was top-notch,” said Avery.
“And the rest of you?” asked Chuck.
“We all had our specialties that set us apart.”
“You weren’t all top-notch then.”
Avery sighed and glanced at Grandad. “Scott Frame was average, and John had a closure rate just above his, but they both worked hard and put in the hours.”
Grandad nodded. “The hours matter. You’ve got to put in the time.”
“You know it.”
“Have you heard anything about them recently?” I asked.
“I haven’t talked to any of them,” said Avery. “John’s around, obviously. I think Keely moved to Mexico or something when she retired. Not sure about Scott. He doesn’t come to events, like Cops for Kids, but I think I would’ve heard if something happened to any of them, especially after Lainie. People came out of the woodwork to tell me about every tragedy that ever happened.”
“When my dad died, people did that,” said Tiny. “My mother stopped answering the phone.”
Mom had closed her eyes. We’d worn her out, but she murmured, “They think they’re commiserating. I’ve had a bunch of people tell me about their family members who’ve had terrible diseases. Like that’s supposed to make me feel better.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Nurses, friends…” She trailed off and I signaled that we should clear out.
They all filed out, except for Tiny, who positioned himself between Mom and the door. I leaned over the bed and put my forehead to Mom’s forehead. “I’m going to get Dad back.”
Her eyes fluttered and then closed. “I’m so tired.”
“I know. Just rest. We’re going to get it. I have a feeling,” I said.
“So like your father.” She snuggled down with Wallace and started breathing deeply. Tiny handed me the tray with Blankenship’s packet on it. “What are you going to do about that?”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“I got nothing.”
I gave him a quick hug. “I don’t think the FBI will bite on that, but the laptop…maybe.”
He grinned and picked up the TV remote. “Go get ‘em.”
I went into the hall to find everyone in a cluster. “Do you have a plan?”
Chuck and Sydney had their phones to their ears. Chuck held up his finger and said into his, “Hey, this is Chuck Watts. I’ve got a job for you.”
By the look in his eye, I knew he was talking to Spidermonkey, getting background on the remaining Brain Trust members. Sydney was asking someone if they’d heard from Keely or Frame.
Grandad and Avery were talking in hushed tones about Mom and her accident in June. Avery was getting paler by the moment.
“You’re saying this was a multi-family member attack, not just Carolina, but Mercy and you, Ace?” he asked.
“Assuming it’s the same person, yes,” said Grandad.
“I’ve got to call my daughters.” Avery walked away, dialing his phone.
Grandad patted my arm. “I’m going to stick with him. He’s pretty shaken up.” Then he pointed at the tray. “Tell Chuck and Sydney about that.”
I nodded and Fats drew me away from the detectives saying, “What was that phone call all about?”
“It was my hacker, Spidermonkey,” I said. “He found out that my dad and Avery were in The Brain Trust together.”
“Well, he’s dead useful. I’m going to want his number.”
Pete came around the corner with an ice pack and a troubled look on his face. “I see your diarrhea has passed.”
I smiled and it burned like crazy. “You know me too well.”
Pete put the fresh ice pack to my face. “Yes, I do.”
Chuck glared at us and I rolled my eyes at him. I never expected Chuck Watts to be the jealous type. He’d always been so cavalier about women.
“I don’t think Chuck likes me very much,” said Pete with obvious pleasure.
“Yeah, he’s a nut,” I said. “And speaking of nuts, this is my bodyguard, Fats Licata.”
“Who are you calling a nut, Scarface?” asked Fats.
I lowered the ice pack. “You think it’s going to scar? How bad?”
Pete examined my lip and then said, “You are unbelievable. The nurses said you’d really screwed yourself up, but I didn’t expect this.”
“Just tell me.”
“How did you do it?” he asked, taking a second look. “It’s not a…human bite, right?”
“Well…”
“How did you…no, I don’t want to know,” said Pete, pulling out his script pad. “I’m going to give you some antibiotics and you have to take them religiously. You’ve already had it cleaned?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think I’m good.”
“I think you’re crazy.”
Chuck walked over, his face now smooth and laissez-faire, the big faker. “I agree, but she won’t be going out to Hunt again anytime soon.”
“I’ll go if I have to,” I said.
“Mercy, for the love of God.”
Pete tore off the script. “I’ve got to go. Surgery in twenty, but I’ll be back around to check on Carolina.”
I thanked him and Chuck turned his attention from Pete’s retreating back to my tray. “What is that?”
“Can’t you tell?” asked Fats. “You’re the official detective.”
“I’d like to know more about you, officially,” said Chuck.
Fats laughed and stuck out her hand. It swallowed Chuck’s. He was disconcerted and I so enjoyed that. I got to be smaller than people every day of my life, people who put things on top of refrigerators where I couldn’t find them, and it was nice to see the tables turned.
“Mary Elizabeth Licata,” said Fats. “Look me up. It’ll be a short read.”
“I bet,” said Chuck with narrowed eyes. “Who hired you again?”
“Grandad,” I said quickly. “And this is a clue.”
Sydney came over and they peered at the tray.
“Of what?” asked Sydney
. “Looks like a prescription or part of one.”
I looked around quickly and since the hall was empty, I flipped the paper over to reveal the threat. Chuck’s jaw quivered. “Where’d you get that?”
“Blankenship’s mouth.”
Chuck and Sydney drew back. “Are you saying?”
“That I went mouth-to-mouth with a murderer? Yes, I did,” I said.
“Your father is going to have a heart attack,” said Sydney.
“My father is the reason I did it.” I gave them what I’d found out about the packet so far.
Chuck pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket. He always had a few stashed on him, just like my father. “I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.”
I stepped back. “I need it to get Dad out.”
“I’ll keep it on the down-low for now,” he said. “I’ve got some favors I can call in, but I want that dusted for prints ASAP.”
I took his hand. “I have to get Dad out. You can’t let it go up the chain.”
He kissed my forehead. “I swear to you it won’t.” He bagged the slip of paper and the plastic. “Can you call that guard and see if she’s got anything new?”
I stared at the evidence bag for a second. It was hard to let it go, but I had to. If for nothing else, I had to for Chuck. He needed me to trust him and I needed to see if I could trust him. Instead of snatching the bag back, I called Shelley.
“I was just about to call you,” she said. “I’m with the doctor now. Here she is.” Shelley handed over the phone and a tense woman’s voice said, “I’m sorry, but I have to report this.”
“I’ve already reported it.” I looked at Chuck and he winked at me.
“You have?” asked Dr. Rohner. “Shelley thought you would want to keep this quiet. Something about your father.”
“I do and so do the detectives.”
“Which detectives?” she was sounding more doubtful by the minute and I was forced to hand the phone to Chuck. He went into charming mode and identified himself. By the end of the conversation, the doctor was eating out of his hand and my eyes hurt from rolling.
“You have no shame,” I said. “She practically thinks you’re going to ask her out.”
“I might if you dump me. I’ll need a good therapist,” he said.
