When Drexel returned to his room, he opened the window and left it open, watching the curtain flutter in the dim light from the moon and street. He pushed down all the thoughts of the crimes. He focused on the window and tried to imagine he could see the light breeze entering. And Zora rose up in his mind. He fell asleep to her memory.
Chapter 22
The chorkie woke him at 4:42 a.m. He wished the couple who owned it—he thought the dog’s name was Kepler—would control it better. The beast barked at everything. The damage was done, however, so Drexel ran his route through the dark streets, showered, and ate a breakfast of coffee and white toast with orange marmalade.
At the station, he looked up Benoit’s Chicago PD service record, at least what he had access to without calling in HR or Benoit’s captain. The Missing Persons detective was born in 1974 in Marseille. He had worked for the Marseille police and then the Police Nationale before immigrating to Chicago in 2000. He moved because he married an American, though he was now divorced. A few minor complaints against him, mostly from parents saying he failed to follow up with them in a timely manner regarding their missing child. Nothing serious and nothing alarming. He seemed capable and honest. No red flags.
If Benoit was the killer, what triggered him? A seemingly normal man for years all of a sudden turned into a butcher of people with strange symbology? If not, then he had been killing for years but only recently altered the brutality or frequency. Was his French background, particularly from southern France and its connection with Cathar history, mere coincidence? Was Drexel trying to find a link, forcing it?
He looked at the time on his phone. 8:04 a.m. He looked up the name of Benoit’s ex-wife: Jamie Odolein. Guessing she was awake, he called. A child picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello.”
“Hello. Is Jamie Odolein there?”
Drexel heard the sound of the phone being placed on a counter or table. “Mommy, someone’s on the phone for you.” He heard steps and the phone being picked up. “Hello?” Her voice was rushed.
“Jamie Odolein?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Drexel Pierce from Chicago PD.”
“Okay.”
“Were you married to Benoit Cadenat?”
“I was. Did something happen?” In a muted tone—Drexel assumed she covered the mouthpiece with her hand—“Stop that right now.”
“Uh, no. But I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
A brief pause. “Look, right now, I’m packing the kids up for school and trying to get to work. Can I call you in an hour or so?”
“Sure.”
“Great. Thanks.”
He gave her his number and hung up, tossing his phone on the desk. The floor had come to life a bit since he arrived. Newgate sat at his desk typing up his daily report, a white Styrofoam cup of coffee nearby. Starling was talking to Doggett, though Drexel could not make out their conversation. He rolled his head around, stretching his neck.
After Doggett and Starling finished their conversation, Drexel asked him if he could swing by Kevin Blair’s residence. Vivaldi had ruled him out as a suspect based on the profile, and Drexel agreed. However, he did not want to leave that stone unturned, and he trusted his former mentoring detective to help confirm that. Doggett agreed and started pouring over the materials related to Kevin.
Drexel looked back at the computer and entered a search on the Chicago PD case files regarding the building on Dewitt and Delaware. A number of entries appeared, and he filtered out those that happened a year before Zora’s death and all those since the building was torn down. He further removed all that were traffic related. Many of what remained were assault and batteries, purse snatching. Minor crimes, all told, but a definite nuisance. Most of those cases remained unsolved. A single IA case report, but it was restricted. However, it was within the correct timeframe for any corruption. The IA detective listed was Andrew Slater. Drexel looked him up in the Chicago PD database. He retired after twenty years on the force in 2014.
Daniela surprised him. “Different case?”
“Huh. Oh.” He closed the window on the screen. “Yeah. Killing time until Jamie Odolein calls me back.”
“Who?”
Drexel walked with her to the conference room and closed the door. “Benoit’s ex.”
Daniela nodded.
“If Benoit is the guy, I don’t think he just started kidnapping and chopping up people in the past year or so. Something led to this, so I wanted to see if I could get some background from the ex.”
“Sounds good.”
They reviewed the autopsy reports and forensic reports they had. The autopsies for Jared Sales and Bobbi Lawlend would not happen until later this week. The results were consistent. All were strangled with a ligature. Drexel dismissed any idea of a forensic countermeasure by the killer dismembering Brittany and Jodi at the neck given that Jared and Bobbi were not treated that way. Sticky residue around the ankles and feet indicated they were bound—duct tape was suggested as a possible method—as least some of the time during their captivity. Like Brittany, they both had inorganic trace beneath their fingernails. Noelle suggested they were a dense, foamlike material. The trace forensic techs, in a separate report, had identified the foam as cross-linked polyethylene or PEX. The tech who wrote the report, Rachel Walker, stated that PEX had a wide range of uses, particularly in the making of pipes and tubes. However, given the density and consistency of the PEX found beneath the nails, she suggested it was more consistent with the material used in foam gym crash mats or wall mats, the kind covered with a colored vinyl or cloth and used for physical education and gymnastics and as wainscoting. As Drexel and Daniela considered this, his phone rang. He sat it on the table, answered, and turned on the speaker option. “Detective Sergeant Pierce, hello.”
“This is Jamie Odolein. You called a bit ago.”
“Yes, hello. Thanks for calling back.”
“Yeah. Sorry, kids and all.”
“Understood. Look, I’ve got you on speaker with my partner, Daniela”
“Okay.”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Benoit.”
“Okay. You know we’re divorced, right?”
“Yeah, we saw that. Since when?”
“Like five years now. But you’re not calling about that, right?”
“We’re wanting to find out if during the time you were dating and then married, or so long as you’ve known Benoit, if he had unexplained absences, periods of time he wasn’t around.”
“He was a cop, so he was gone all the time.”
“Yeah, yeah, right. But I’m thinking of unusual absences. Stuff that made you wonder or you knew wasn’t part of this job. Or you thought wasn’t part of the job.”
She sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”
Daniela held up her finger at Drexel and said, “Why did you guys get divorced?”
“Frankly?”
“Yes.”
“His being a cop. Being an officer in Marseille versus Chicago is completely different. Don’t get me wrong, Marseille wasn’t some idyllic, victimless place. But Chicago’s a different beast altogether. All the long hours, the ugliness he saw day in and day out. It wore on our marriage over time.”
“Did you think he ever had an affair?”
Jamie paused. “Why are you asking these questions?”
“As part of an investigation. We’re just doing some background.”
Another pause. “Look. He might’ve had an affair. I don’t know. He was gone a lot. Stayed over on shifts a lot. I don’t know if he had an affair, but it never felt like it. If that makes sense.”
Drexel scratched his chin. “It does. It does. Did you meet in Marseille?”
“You’re going way back. Yes, we did. I went to school there—part of a un
iversity study-abroad program. I managed to find a job for an American company based there. We met in a nightclub. It wasn’t love at first sight, but he was persistent. A few dates turned into something serious.”
“Why’d you come back to Chicago?”
“My mother got sick. So we came back to take care of her, and we stayed. We were young and adaptable.”
“Did he like Chicago?”
“Oh, he loved—loves—it. Funny, isn’t it? I wanted to go back to Marseille. He wanted to stay here. So often we want to escape where we grew up.” Jamie drifted to silence.
Drexel let it ride for a brief time. “So how long before you noticed his change in—in—”
“I’m not sure how long it was before I noticed. It was a few years, which meant it happened earlier, I’m sure.”
“Was he a religious man or get religion?” asked Daniela, who raised her eyebrows as a shrug.
“Oh no. Not at all. Why?”
Drexel laced his fingers together and ignored Jamie’s question. “Did he have a place he ever went to? Like a ‘man’ cave sort of thing.”
“Benoit? Hah. No. He was French. The idea of a man cave would have been foreign to him. But—.” She trailed off. Daniela and Drexel looked at each other, gauging if one should prompt the ex-wife. Jamie continued without that though. “Actually, he had a place in Wisconsin he’d go to for fishing. Port Beaux. He used to rent a cabin there when we were married. I don’t know if he still does or not. He always liked to fish.”
“Do you know where the cabin was located specifically or the property it was on?”
“No. No idea. He wouldn’t let me go up there. Showed me pictures, but I never went there. And I, frankly, didn’t want to go there. So I never bothered. Is that weird?”
Drexel said, “Thank you. This has been very helpful.”
“Look, I’ve got to get to work. Are we done?”
Daniela said, “Yes, we are. Thank you very much for your time.”
Drexel said, “And I’d appreciate it if this conversation could be kept private. Please?”
Jamie said, “No,” and hung up.
Drexel put the phone in his pocket. “How about a trip to Wisconsin?”
Chapter 23
Daniela raced them north on I-94 in her little Fiat, through the suburbs and through the forests and fields of northern Illinois and southeastern Wisconsin. Port Beaux was between Racine and Milwaukee, a small coastal town on the western edge of Lake Michigan. While she drove, Drexel called a list of parks—both state and private—they had printed out prior to leaving, searching for a cabin rented by Benoit Cadenat. On the twelfth call, he found it. A private reserve called Muskego Views, owned by Betty Lark. They grabbed forgettable burgers and fries from a drive-through near Port Beaux.
Muskego Views sits northeast of the city along a string of creeks and lakes. The paved highway gave way to a tar-and-chip road that had not been resurfaced in years. After about a mile of driving, they pulled into the gravel driveway of Betty’s house and office, a two-story, white-sided house with a large porch.
The house was in need of a fresh coat of paint, but the yard was well maintained, with large beds of tulips and greening shrubbery. A large silver truck, its tires bedecked in mud, sat in front of a small barn. On the steps of the porch, three large black dogs, Labrador and Golden Retriever mix by Drexel’s estimation, looked up at the two detectives as they approached. They laid on thin mats with a large bowl of water and two well-used rope toys nearby. Two of them followed Drexel and Daniela as they stepped onto the porch and walked to the door. The entrance had only the screen door closed, and Drexel rapped hard on its metal frame. A woman, in shadow, stepped backward into view. “Hold on.” She disappeared. Daniela reached down to the nearest dog and petted it. About a minute passed before the woman appeared again and walked down the hall toward the door. “Sorry about that,” she said, still in shadow. Though only an hour and a half north of Chicago, she had the distinctive Wisconsin accent with “boat” sounding a lot like “boot.” She stopped at the screen door. “Had to pull the bread out of the oven.” She wore a white apron over her green T-shirt and jeans. Her silver hair was cut close, with the back wrapping into a curl behind her ear. Drexel guessed she was in her fifties. “I assume you’re the police officers who called earlier?”
Drexel held up his badge. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Detective Drexel Pierce and this is Daniela Longfurd.”
She looked at the badge and nodded. “Well, come on in. I’d hate for Leo there to get too much of a fancy to your partner.”
Daniela smiled and stood up. “He’s beautiful.”
“And he knows it.” As Drexel and Daniela passed by Betty.
They walked into a large sitting area that looked out onto the porch. On the white walls hung family portraits and photos of large bodies of water at sunset or sunrise. The couch and chairs were upholstered in a white fabric with small red roses and green vines. As Daniela and Drexel sat down, Betty said, “May I offer you anything to drink or eat?” They shook their heads. “How, then, may I help?” She sat in an armchair next to Drexel.
Drexel leaned over and laced his fingers together in front of him. “On the phone, you said you rented a cabin to Benoit Cadenat. How long have you been renting to him?”
“After you called, I looked up exactly. My father ran the place until he passed, and Mr. Cadenat started renting before then. It’s been nine years.”
“So since 2007? The same cabin?”
“Yes and yes. Some of the cabins are rented like hotel rooms. Some are rented more like apartments. Mr. Cadenat has been renting on a yearly basis the same cabin.”
“Do you know Mr. Cadenat?”
Betty shrugged. “Not really. I’ve seen him, of course. But he’s always been quiet. Courteous. Pleasant enough. But we don’t talk beyond that.”
“Do you routinely enter the cabin?”
“Routinely? I guess that depends on what you mean. I would say, ‘No.’ I treat those cabins as one would treat an apartment. I’ve gone in when I’m asked to or when I need to. I’ve replaced the water heater, fixed some leaky pipes. The most common reason is to turn off the water or drip the faucets during the bitterest cold when the tenants aren’t there. But I always call and ask first.”
“When was the last time you were in Mr. Cadenat’s cabin?”
“February, I think. When one of them below-zero nights came up on us. I called him and asked permission to enter and check. He granted it. May I ask why you’re interested in Mr. Cadenat?”
Drexel pursed his lips and paused. “We’re not allowed to comment on an ongoing investigation.” He rubbed his hands together. “But. But.” He looked at Daniela. He continued, “But he may be involved—we don’t know to what extent—in some murders in Chicago.”
“Oh my god.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine Mr. Cadenat doing something so awful.”
Daniela leaned toward her. “Honestly, we don’t think so either, but we have to check out everything. You understand? We hope to clear his name.”
Betty nodded.
Drexel rubbed his chin. “Any strange happenings at Mr. Cadenat’s cabin? Or nearby? Coming and going at odd hours? Strange vehicles? Anything like that?”
She shook her head. “No, not that I can think of. But, mind you, I don’t pay too close attention. He pays his rent. No one’s complained. I know he’s a detective in Chicago and that he likes to fish at the lake.”
“Does he have a boat?”
“He does. His cabin sits along the Pike River. A little boathouse is there, and he rides the river to the lake.”
Drexel asked Betty if they could have the keys. She asked if they had a warrant, and when they did not, she refused. But she did provide directions to cabin 15, which meant following the gravel driveway up and over a hill onto a dirt road that forked a f
ew times, always taking the right fork. As the gravel gave way, the forest closed in and they drove between tall maples, elms, and spruces that appeared to lean over the road. A low, gray cloud cover had moved in and began to drop a misty rain. The wipers beat intermittently to smack it away as they took the degrading road—a term Drexel applied loosely—to the cabin. They pulled into a clearing before it, a small, rectangular building. Its wood siding was narrow and a deep oak color. The front door had a standard house-sized window next to it. Two other windows sat above a stack of wood on the side visible to them.
Daniela turned off the car, and they were left to the silence of the woods and themselves. They stepped out of the Fiat and walked up to the cabin. Drexel circumnavigated the structure, peering into the dirty windows. From what he could see, the cabin appeared to be a single main room with a small kitchen, a full bath, a bedroom, and a back entrance mudroom. No lights were on and the place seemed empty. He paused at the front door with Daniela standing behind him. He debated what his excuse for entering would be.
Daniela said, “We can say we thought he was holding another hostage. Was going to kill her.”
He did not need much of a push, so he jogged back to the car and pulled a set of lock picks he kept in the inside pouch of his messenger bag. The lock was old and easy to pick. They walked into a chaotic room. A sofa that did not match the chair with beat-up end tables. A large area rug was frayed at the edges. A box with clothes on top sat on the couch and a similar one sat on the floor beside it. A charred log sat in the fireplace.
The kitchen was devoid of nearly everything except a few canned goods and cookware. The bathroom smelled stale, a small ring of mold in the toilet bowl. The full-size bed was half-made and the nightstand’s clock blinked twelve at them. A copy of An Army at Dawn and another book, Coloniser, Exterminer - Sur la guerre et l’Etat colonial. A few clothes hung in the closet or were folded in the drawers.
The mudroom’s floor mat was dirty with dried, tan mud. A pair of boots, caked with the same color mud sat in a box beside the mat.
Kill Them All (Drexel Pierce Book 2) Page 19
