The Rainy Day Killer

by Michael J. McCann

  Natalie shot to her feet and shook the offered hand. “That’s okay. I was here early. I mean, I don’t mind waiting.”

  “We’ll do the interview in my office. Right this way.”

  Griffin watched them disappear into the back.

  A uniformed sheriff’s deputy mooched up to the counter, shot Griffin a look, and drifted away. The dispatcher’s voice murmured in the background. Replies popped on the speakers attached to her equipment. When there was a lull in the action, he listened to the humming of the overhead fluorescent lights.

  The man who finally came out to speak to him wore a crisp brown uniform with the gold epaulettes and insignia of a senior officer. He was about twenty years younger than Griffin, six inches taller, and fifty pounds heavier.

  “You wanted to speak to someone?” he asked politely.

  Griffin stood up, showing his identification. “Supervisory Special Agent Ed Griffin. I’m attached to the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI in Quantico.”

  The man took the identification and gave it a long look before handing it back. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Mike Ames, chief deputy, sheriff’s office, Alleghany County.” He shook Griffin’s hand with a firm, aggressive grip. “What can we do for you today, sir?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “My office.” Ames led him through the cattle door and back to an office where he pointed at a visitor’s chair, inviting Griffin to sit.

  “I was hoping to speak to the sheriff,” Griffin said. “Is he here?”

  “Not at the moment. And I’ve only got a few minutes before I have to leave, too.” Ames sat down and leaned back, folding his hands behind his head.

  “I see.” Griffin unzipped his portfolio, removed a copy of the poster with the composite drawing, and passed it over. “We have reason to believe this individual may be in your county at the moment. We’re concerned he may have targeted a female police officer from Maryland who’s here to get married this weekend.”

  Ames took the poster and looked it over. “The Rainy Day Killer. Glendale, Maryland. And you think this person may have traveled from there all the way over here to chase someone. That it?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Ames dropped the poster on his desk. “Here’s something I don’t understand. You say you’re from Quantico. Why am I hearing about this from you instead of the Roanoke office?”

  “Several reasons. One, as an analyst in the BAU, I’ve been working this case for, oh, about three years now, when he showed up in Kentucky to rape and kill a young woman after kidnapping her right off her own doorstep. I’ve followed him to Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Maryland, and now here. Two, the potential victim I mentioned is one of the investigating detectives from Maryland, and I happen to be an invited guest at her wedding. Three, this guy’s the target of a fugitive pursuit task force in Maryland, which still believes he’s back there, and I happen to think it might be a good idea if an update on his current whereabouts came from your office instead of from me. Your sheriff will probably want to call the Roanoke Bureau office to get the ball rolling. I could call them, but I don’t have investigative responsibility. Plus, I’m trying to extend you a professional courtesy, since this is your jurisdiction.”

  Ames thought about it for a moment. He picked up the poster, read it again, and put it back down. “So, what’s your ‘reason to believe’ he might have followed this detective here instead of running anywhere else in the known universe, seeing as he’s got this task force climbing all over his back?”

  “He threatened to make her his next victim. Part of his post-crime behavior is to establish contact with the lead investigator. In this case, Lieutenant Hank Donaghue of the GPD.”

  “Mentioned right here,” Ames said, tapping the poster with his index finger.

  “That’s correct. In his last communication with Donaghue, he stated that Detective Karen Stainer or one other police officer would be his next victim. He made it clear to Donaghue he knew Stainer was coming here to get married and was looking forward to a road trip. We believe he’s going to try to make good on his boast.”

  “So you’re saying this Detective Karen Stainer’s the next victim, and she’s getting married. Who’s she marrying?”

  “Sandy Alexander. His family lives—”

  “Up on Pleasant Mountain Road, yeah. I know them. Sandy was a year ahead of me in high school. I heard he was a Feeb. How come I’m not talking to him about this?”

  “Because he’s getting married, for crying out loud. Donaghue and I haven’t had a chance to bring him up to date. We felt it was a higher priority to get you boys on the job.”

  “That was your ‘expert analysis’ of the situation, was it?”

  “Yes, dammit, it was. Look, can we put aside the games for a minute and focus? You may be enjoying yourself putting down the stuffed-shirt federal agent, but women are dying very horrible deaths because of this guy, and the odds are extremely high he’s just come into your jurisdiction for his next kill. You need to circulate that poster, or get out one of your own with that guy’s face on it, this afternoon. Without delay. The wedding’s scheduled for tomorrow and Stainer will be leaving tomorrow night, so if this guy’s planning to kidnap, rape, and murder her here, which we strongly believe he is, it’s going to happen within the next twenty-four to thirty hours. That doesn’t give you a lot of time. Every deputy needs this face burned into his brain right away because I guarantee you he’s here, right now, possibly in town, having a cup of coffee in one of your restaurants or scouting out abandoned buildings in the area or buying new stuff for his kit. His time’s short, so he’s going to keep it simple, which means if you get busy you might catch him in a mistake and nail his sorry ass before Stainer or someone else gets hurt. Does that maybe sound like a plan to you?”

  During this speech Ames had listened attentively, without expression. As Griffin angrily closed the zipper on his portfolio, the chief deputy shrugged. “I’ll talk to the sheriff about it.”

  “Wonderful. When might that happy event take place?”

  Ames glanced at his watch. “In about ten minutes. He’s over at the high school right now, giving a talk to the kids on the baseball team. I’m heading there now to spell him off. I’ll let him know about it. Where can you be reached?”

  Griffin reached into his pocket and tossed a business card on the desk. “My cell number’s there. I’m checked in at the Day’s Rest, just down the street. He needs to call me right away so we can get this thing in motion.”

  Ames stood up, grabbed his hat from a hook, and clapped it on his head. “We’ll be in touch.”

  As Griffin stood up, Ames strode out of the office, leaving him behind. The deputy who’d earlier eyeballed him over the counter stepped into the doorway and gestured.

  “This way, sir.”

  Griffin shook his head. “Delighted, I’m sure.”

  39

  Friday, May 31: evening

  That evening, the screen porch just off the ranch house dining room was taken over by the Stainer family. Darryl, who seemed to feel the cold more than the others, had built a fire in the fireplace, the temperature having dropped down to 60 degrees Fahrenheit after the sun disappeared behind Pleasant Mountain. Karen sat in another of Lane’s expensive wrought-iron patio chairs, her feet up on a matching foot rest, while Bradley, as the youngest Stainer present, was elected to serve drinks to everyone. Delbert was stretched out on a three-cushion lounger, his eyes closed, but when Brad held out to him a Jack Daniels and cola, his hand found and gripped the glass firmly.

  “Del could be in a coma,” Brad remarked to Karen, “and still hook onto that JD and C.”

  “He’d get it intravenously,” joked Rebecca, Darryl’s wife, who was sitting at the round patio table.

  Beatrice Roberts, Del’s girlfriend, laughed. It was a low, throaty sound that operated on a frequency felt by men in the marrow of their bones. A double for Diana Ross in her prime, she was a night club sing
er in Houston often compared by the local media to Etta James in terms of vocal style. She and Del had lived together for twelve years now. Karen liked her.

  Del swung around on the lounger and sat up, making room for Darryl, who dropped down beside him. “You make me sound like a lush.” He sampled his drink, then held it up. “A toast. To our little baby sister, who’s all grown up. Here’s to you, Little Kay.”

  They all drank solemnly.

  “You guys are the best,” Karen said.

  “We know.” Brad sat down at the table across from Rebecca and Beatrice. “Did you get a tour of the barn?”

  “I peeked in through the door. It looks amazing. But it’s so damned big!”

  “Seating for a hundred and twenty. That’s not so bad, is it?”

  “Two hundred and forty fucking eyeballs staring straight at me. Jesus Christ.”

  “You’ll be fine, darlin’,” Brad soothed. “Just pretend we’re all naked.”

  “Please,” Del complained, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve got a migraine already. Don’t make it worse by forcing me to picture you naked.”

  “What’re you talking about? You saw me naked all the time when we were kids.”

  “Yeah, before puberty, pal. Before you crossed the ne plus ultra. Don’t take me down that road, man.”

  Brad laughed.

  “I can’t wait to see your wedding dress,” Beatrice said to Karen.

  “It’s nice. It really is. I paid for it myself, Bea. Twelve hundred bucks, and I don’t regret a single dime.”

  “Who would’ve thought?” Brad said. “My big sister, a blushing bride.”

  “Leave her alone,” Beatrice said, pretending to be stern. “I think it’s wonderful. They’re a perfect couple.”

  “Wait a minute,” Brad said. “How can you afford a twelve-hundred-dollar dress on a cop’s salary? Are you on the take?”

  “Fuck off, Brad,” Karen laughed. “You just wish you could try it on. You want me to leave it in your room after, so you can see what you look like in it?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “For your information, I do not wear women’s clothing. Ever. Just so you know.”

  Karen winked at him, her face softening. Two years younger, Brad was the brother she’d always looked after in school, a kid who’d always been picked on for his passive manner, a brother for whom she’d often fought other boys, breaking one kid’s nose when he caught Brad in the schoolyard and started to whale away on him. The kid was fifteen and Karen only twelve, but she’d dropped him with a single punch. Blond like Karen and smaller than Darryl or Del, Brad had always been the different one, the one not interested in cars or guns or law enforcement or living up to their father’s expectations. He was his own man and lived his life on his own terms, and Karen loved him for it.

  “You didn’t tell me how the rehearsal went,” Beatrice said, leaning over to pat Del on the knee.

  As Del ran a hand through his long, wavy black hair, Karen noticed that it was starting to show some gray. Uncombed and parted in the middle, hanging in his eyes and touching his shoulders, it gave him the look of an aging rock musician or college professor, but the long-fingered hands with their small cuts, rapped knuckles, and chronic dryness betrayed his actual profession.

  “It was a happening, baby,” Del said. “I thought I’d joined the army. First we all had to line up, and in the right order, no foolin’. Darryl thought we should be tallest to shortest, but that’d put Karen closest to the door and we don’t want her running off on us.”

  “Darryl!” Rebecca laughed at her husband. “You didn’t.”

  Quiet as always, Darryl gave her a shy smile.

  “After that,” Del went on, “we had to practice the re-cessional and the pro-cessional, up and down, back and forth, by the numbers. I thought I’d joined the Foreign Legion by mistake.”

  “Delbert, you do exaggerate,’ Rebecca said.

  “So we’re doing the processional, and I’m up at the front with Hank, Sandy, and the minister. They start the music, and the two bridesmaids start coming down the aisle, that blonde chick—”

  “Louise, the minister’s daughter,” Karen supplied.

  “Right, and your friend—”

  “Molly.”

  “Molly. She comes down next, and right after her Brenda, Sandy’s sister.”

  “She’s the matron of honor, isn’t she?” Beatrice asked.

  “You got it. So then Darryl and Karen start down, and out of nowhere Molly breaks into these Michael Jackson dance moves and you”—he pointed at Karen—“start laughing, and I’m breaking up, and the minister’s giving me a dirty look, but all I can see is the look on poor Mrs. Alexander’s face, like, ‘who are these people and what planet did they beam down from?’ Poor woman.”

  “She’s having a hard time with Molly’s piercings and tattoos as it is,” Karen said. “I told her Molly’s a really outstanding parole officer, one of the best, but it’s not really getting through. All she can see is the lifestyle stuff.”

  “I thought she was going to have a stroke,” Darryl said.

  “I thought I was going to have a hernia.” Del drained the last of his drink and waggled his glass at Brad, who got up and took it from him. “Anyway, baby, it was all downhill from there.”

  “You have to be nice to these people,” Beatrice said. “They’re not used to people like us.”

  “What, gay people?” Brad said, coming back with Del’s drink and taking Karen’s glass for a refill.

  “Gay people,” Beatrice said, “lesbian people, black people, hard-ass cop people. We’re different from them. It’s not easy.”

  “You’re right, baby,” Del said. “We’re like the circus coming to town. They’ve got these plastic smiles on their faces, like they’re trying real hard to like us and it ain’t working.”

  “They’re okay,” Karen said. “Anyway, Lane really likes you, Brad. She went on and on about the great job you did on the barn. I heard James made it up here, by the way. I absolutely love his barbecue.”

  “Yeah, he drove up with me. I had to help him load all his damned coolers of meat into the van.”

  “You know it’s going to be worth it.”

  “Damned right. Lane wants Texas barbecue, she’s getting Texas barbecue.”

  They fell quiet for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. Karen listened to the sound of crickets and frogs in the darkness beyond the window screens, feeling better about things now that she was spending a little time with her brothers. Having them with her made the Alexanders, and all the other strangers who’d be watching her tomorrow like a bug in a jar, that much easier to face.

  She looked at Darryl and caught him exchanging a shy smile with his wife. Hard to believe he was now forty-four years old and a father of three teenaged kids. She hadn’t gone back to Texas over the Christmas holidays because she’d been working, and when she thought about it, she realized it had been at least a year and a half since she’d seen any of them. She saw the gray in Darryl’s dark, slicked-back hair, the lines on his handsome face, the few extra pounds beneath his black polo shirt as he lifted his glass to his mouth, and her heart went out to him.

  “Darryl, I swear you look more like Daddy every day,” she blurted.

  Darryl swallowed and looked down, nodding.

  “He does, doesn’t he?” Del said. “Me, I look like somebody’s pet possum, but isn’t he just the spitting image of Trooper Bobby Stainer?”

  “One more of these,” Brad said, holding up his beer, “and I’ll be asking him to read me my bedtime story.”

  “Sometimes,” Darryl said, smiling at Karen, “when I get up in the morning, I’m scared to look into the mirror in case I see him instead of me.”

  “You’ve done him proud, Darryl,” Del said fervently. “Don’t you ever think otherwise. You made lieutenant and took over the motorcycle troop, and you got that award for bravery. You know he’s looking down on you and glowing with pride, man. You’ve gone t
wice as far already as he ever did, and that’s a fact.”

  “You’re going to make his head swell,” Rebecca said.

  Rain began to patter softly on the other side of the dark window screens.

  “So how’s she doing?” Karen finally asked, having put off the question for long enough.

  “She’s all right,” Darryl said. As the oldest, he’d accepted the responsibility of holding their mother’s power of attorney, and he visited her twice a month at the institution where she was kept in Dallas. “She’s doing okay.”

  “You told her about it? About the wedding?”

  Darryl nodded. “She was pleased, I think. There was a moment there. She looked at me and focused on what I was saying. It didn’t last long, but it was there.”

  “Good,” Karen said. “That’s nice.”

  “Next time you’re down,” Rebecca said, “you should come visit her with us. She’d like that. She’s very quiet, Karen. Her health’s good and her behavior’s just fine. We talked to her psychiatrist—when was that, hon?”

  “January,” Darryl said.

  “January. He said her episodes are getting a lot less bad than they used to be. They like the meds they’ve got her on now. They seem to keep her, you know, okay without knocking her right out. He said they’ve come a long way with the drugs from how it used to be.”

  “How it used to be was pretty damned ugly,” Del said.

  Karen nodded.

  “We had a real good talk with him,” Rebecca went on. “Darryl’s been a little worried about the kids, now they’re into puberty and all, but he told us the chances are real good nothing bad’ll happen. He gave us a copy of this article that said there’s only a 5 percent chance that a grandchild of a person with schizophrenia will get it themselves. That’s if only one grandparent had it and neither parent does.”

  “I thought it was a lot higher than that,” Karen said.

  “No, that’s what the doctor said. Darryl was pretty relieved. Weren’t you, hon?”