by R Weir
She looked over the card and looked back at Nick.
“Jarvis is good at what he does,” he said. “If anyone can help, he can.”
“I’m not sure I can afford to pay you,” she said quietly, eyes downcast.
I leaned down and whispered to her. “I work on two-for-one beer commission. Just make sure Nick doesn’t catch you.”
I think she smiled, but it was fleeting and small. She put out her small hand. “Thank you, Jarvis.”
I cupped her hand, finding it warm and soft. “Anytime. And I mean it. If he bothers you again let me know.”
I was the talk of the bar, as she walked away and went back to work. Many of the ladies were talking to her, giving her encouragement, while the men came to me, after seeing all the attention I was getting, talking smack at the top of their voices and saying they were ready to jump in and help.
Nick said he’d make sure she made it home safe as he pulled out the Rockies baseball bat he kept just in case and pounded it in his palm with a wink. I hung around long enough to make sure there was no more trouble and to drink down a second beer, paying my bill now minus the two beers. I said goodbye to Nick and left a nice tip. I waved at Milani, and she waved back, a flushed look on her face. I headed home, knowing a busy day was ahead, happy I could help her and hoping I didn’t make the situation worse.
Chapter 19
The Butcher was sitting there passing the time. Bored out of his mind. He’d watched enough Netflix, Hulu and Amazon Prime to fill his brain. But the streaming of old movies and TV shows wasn’t enough. It was time to start again; the thrills and highs of his last captor wearing off. He needed to find another trophy to add to his collection. Where would he start the quest?
His training clicked in, knowing he needed to continue to stay random. Look in various places, for a different woman, don’t make an obvious pattern. There were many varieties to choose from. White, black, Hispanic, Asian, European and even middle-eastern. He’d always wanted to see under their veils and long dresses, where hardly a layer of epidermis was showing. Short women, tall women; skinny and heavy. Long hair, short hair. Black, brown, red and even hair dyed all kinds of crazy colors. It was a smorgasbord of females to choose from. He would watch and observe for many days before zeroing in on his next delicacy. No matter who he chose, she would be a feast for his eyes and hands to treasure.
His last trophy had lived in Superior. He knew he needed to go to a different part of the city. The two previous had been in Commerce City and in Glendale. He searched the area, seeing all the city and municipal names of the metro region. There were so many to choose from. But, as he stared, contemplating, one stood out and seemed to stiffen his nerve. Golden appeared to call to him, as if the word was whispered on the airwaves. Where there had been goldmines many years before, he would find his golden prize to wet his desire. He pulled up a map and started looking for prime places to begin his search. Malls, shopping centers, business buildings, the Colorado School of Mines, where many a co-ed went to broaden their knowledge, get their degrees and find their mates. Hell, even the Coors Brewery was there. What would be hotter than a sexy female brew master, in a white lab coat, thick glasses and her hair pinned up in the back?
This was the town. He was convinced of it. Time to prep himself.
He dressed in nondescript clothing and high-top tennis shoes, sunglasses and ball cap and hopped into his ten-year-old boring champagne colored Hyundai sedan, making the drive to the foothill city. He was literally drooling at the prospects and could hardly wait to begin the adventure.
Chapter 20
There were a lot of miles to cover today, as I looked to talk with families of the victims, past and present. I put on some heavy jeans, a t-shirt, boots and my vented motorcycle jacket, then, once on my Harley, I put on my helmet, sunglasses and leather gloves before roaring out across town to Ken Caryl Ranch, which graced the edge of the foothills on the southwest side of Denver.
It was around 9 a.m. but the heat was building, as it was going to be a warm late summer day. I had lathered up in sunscreen, the exposure to the mile-high rays more dangerous to my health than all the evil I had faced. My skin had tanned nicely this year, with the sunblock hopefully protecting me. I rode on enjoying the sunny day. I was amazed at the bright blue skies, not a cloud in sight, hoping fortune would match the great weather.
Gliding with the traffic, watching for cars on all sides had been a skill I’d mastered since receiving the bike as a gift from my sister-in-law. Perils of all makes and models came at you from all directions, as distracted drivers too important to follow the simple rules of the road were everywhere. I wasn’t certain how many times I dodged four-wheeled missiles screaming down the road that would have crushed or ran over me without a second glance had I not been aware.
I took my time getting to my destination, often thanking the stars I had survived after yet another near miss. But despite the risks, I wasn’t about to give up the freedom of riding no matter what idiots were out there.
Riding on Evans west to Federal, then south to West Bowles, east to South Kipling Parkway, and finally south on West Chatfield Avenue, took me to my destination. On my long journey, I counted about six different people with headsets, on street corners, twirling signs for various businesses, exhibiting an enthusiasm and dancing skills you’d find in a Hollywood musical. How did someone interview for this job and notate this skill set on their resume? I wondered idly, not envying their job in this heat.
The first home I was visiting was near a fire station. It was a townhome in a rabbit warren of a complex where it took me a few minutes to find the right one, as they were all pretty much the same. After a few minutes cruising up and down mirrored streets, I finally spotted the proper address on the outside of a house and parked out on the street, leaving my helmet, jacket and gloves on the seat. The owners were expecting me, they had been parents of one of the first victims of the original killings. Talking to the family of those who lost a loved one was never easy, even with the all the years passing, as you never truly get over what happened. Especially in the brutal way their daughter had been murdered.
The greeting at the door was muted and guarded, which wasn’t surprising to me because of the nature of the visit. I showed them my ID and they let me in. The mother and father now in their sixties guided me to their living area, where I took a seat in a nice brown leather recliner. They stood side by side as I sat awkwardly down in the chair. They showed their age but looked healthy in spite of their trauma. Gray hair and sunspots, but only a few wrinkles and each moved gracefully as if life had been kind. Both were wearing shorts, his green, hers beige, and sleeveless shirts of swirling colors that complemented well.
The mother, Connie, offered me a drink, and I asked for ice water, since I was feeling parched from the heat. The father, Dale, remained quiet, sitting across from me on the matching sofa, bracing for me to ask the tough questions. There was never an uncomplicated way to start, so I dove right in after drinking my water to quench my dry throat and nerves before placing it on the coaster on the end table.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” I said. “I know it’s hard to dredge up the past. But it may help prevent another death.”
“We heard on the news he is back,” quivered Connie with a pained expression, taking a seat next to Dale. “I never understood how someone could do that to anyone, let alone to our sweet child.”
“How old was your daughter?” I asked softly.
“Marleen was twenty-two. Her life was just getting started and she was going to do remarkable things.” She stared into the distance.
“Do you mind going back and telling me what happened? When you knew something was wrong.”
“It is so hard. Every day we think of her.” She got up and went to the wall where many pictures hung. “You can see how beautiful she was.”
I stood and joined her to look at the color prints. In one of the more recent photos of her as an adult, Marleen had lon
g blonde hair, green eyes, with a perfect smile. Some pictures were of a younger Marleen, the shrine covering grade school age, up to high school. She played sports; tennis and volleyball, and the flute in the school band. So much happiness and hope, ruined by a maniac. I shook my head with a heavy heart.
“She was a real leader in school,” Connie explained. “Class president in high school, finished top ten in academics. She received scholarships to go to ‘most any school she wanted. She’d decided on CU Boulder and had graduated with her Master’s in business at twenty-two years old. She had several job offers and was doing interviews when she disappeared. We were beside ourselves wondering what had happened. It was a few weeks later when we learned.”
Connie looked shaky, so I helped her back to the sofa. It was hard not to feel bad for them. Finding an answer after all these years would be paramount, it might even offer them some comfort.
“Why are you really here?” asked Dale, finally speaking, after grabbing his wife’s hand protectively.
“I want to catch the bastard that did this to your daughter, and all the other daughters that he targeted. I want to prevent more from happening.” I made eye contact with him.
“Why do you think you can do what the police and FBI haven’t been able to?” he demanded. I was not offended by his question. In fact, I had anticipated it.
“I might not be able to, but I’ll give it every ounce of energy I have. That is why I’m talking to the families of the victims. See if there is something, even the smallest clue that might lead me to him. But I need to hear it for myself. Official reports are only part of the real story.”
“What of the man Jonas told us about? Could he be the one doing this again?”
“Involved to some degree I believe. But he is wheelchair bound, so I’m pretty certain he is not the one committing the current murders.”
“After Marleen died and so many others after her, I wanted his name, so I could go and confront him. But Jonas would never tell us. He was worried about what I would do. Even at sixty-eight I would like to wring his neck, if there was even a shred of evidence he did it.” Dale declared with a fire behind his voice.
“I understand. And if that proof comes to light, I would be standing in line behind all the other family members wanting my crack at him too. For now, we need to gather what we can and hopefully prevent another death. There have already been three and we’d like to keep it from becoming four.”
“What else do you want to know?” asked Connie.
“Where was Marleen living at the time?”
“She had moved back in with us. Though it was a different house than what we have now…”
“We couldn’t live in our old home anymore,” added Dale. “After finding…what was left…of her…we couldn’t stand it. The memories were too much.” His voice cracked with emotion and I changed the question before I lost them.
“When did you first discover she was missing?”
They looked at each other, deciding who was going to answer, before an emotional Dale nodded to Connie. She grasped his hand.
“I remember it clearly,” said Connie. “It was a Friday night. She was going out with some friends. She’d had two job offers and wanted to enjoy a night out before making a final decision. When she didn’t come home, which wasn’t like her, as it wasn’t like she had a steady boyfriend or would just go home with another man, we knew something was wrong. We called her cellphone, but it went straight to voicemail, also not like her. We contacted her friends and they said she never showed up at all.” Connie began to look distressed. “The police found her car the next day in a parking lot, the keys still in it, along with her purse.”
“Did the police have any clues of what happened?” I asked gently.
“No,” replied Dale, taking over from his wife. “She was the second victim, if I recall right. It was early in the investigation. They hadn’t determined yet there was a serial killer committing the crimes.”
“I saw in Jonas’ notes, you went on the news asking for anyone to help find her and offering a reward. Did that bring about any leads?”
“Nothing concrete,” said Connie. “Lots of people looking to make money by giving us false hope. Scam artists and attention seekers came out of the woodwork. A couple of them looked promising, with people saying they saw her. But nothing that led us anywhere fruitful. It was so horrible.” She stopped to gather herself. “We just wanted our baby back, alive and well. We’d have paid anything…”
“Most didn’t care about us or her,” added Dale with a look of anger and pain. “Most were simply looking for a quick buck.”
“How many days passed before you learned she wasn’t coming back?” This was probably the hardest question I needed to ask
“It was a week,” Dale answered. “We were so out of it, not knowing what to do. A neighbor called us, saying there was a trash bag on our steps. I went outside and found it. Flies were buzzing all around, so bad that I thought it was someone’s garbage they’d left. I could never imagine…when I looked inside…” He stopped with a visible shudder, not sure what to say next. “…There aren’t words to describe that moment and most every moment afterwards.”
“No one saw anyone leaving it?”
“Nothing. We’d had people bugging us for days, but somehow it was left without a trace of evidence.”
“You knew it was her?”
Dale and Connie looked at each other and nodded.
“We’ve gone on with our lives,” said Connie. “But we’ve never completely gotten over losing her. She was our one and only. I took sedatives for several months to keep me calm. Thankfully I don’t need them anymore, but it’s still difficult.”
“We’ve never had complete closure,” stated Dale. “Catching the bastard that did this to her and us is paramount in our lives, especially now when he’s returned. It felt personal, as if he wanted to torture us and all the other families and loved ones of these victims. If only we could return the favor.”
“We aren’t certain it will ease the pain,” added Connie. “Closure, like Dale says, is what we want. Can you provide that to us?”
There was no way to guarantee I could solve this twenty-two-year-old murder, no matter how much I wanted to find the killer of their daughter. It was not often I was speechless, not being able to find the words. Sitting there, I looked at them both, uncertain how to answer.
Chapter 21
My next meeting was with the husband of the first victim of the Front Range Butcher. He had agreed to meet with me, but not at his home. He wanted to rendezvous at Cherry Knolls Park in Centennial.
I rode down, eventually arriving at the designated spot in one piece, and found the parking lot. I had given him a basic description of myself and told him I’d be on my Harley. As I removed my jacket and helmet, a man came up to me.
“Jarvis?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “Are you Tim?”
He nodded his head and put out his hand, which I took. Not the strongest shake, but at least he didn’t try to crush my fingers in a show of macho manhood.
“Thanks for meeting me here and not at my house. My wife doesn’t like me talking about the past in front of her or at all.”
“No problem. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me. I’m sure it’s a tough moment in your life to discuss.”
“It most definitely is,” answered Tim, with an aggrieved expression. “Let’s walk.”
The park was large, with two baseball diamonds, several soccer fields, playground and lots of green grass and trees. There was a minimal amount of activity on this warm day, being mostly quiet since school was back in session. The scenery was only marred by a couple of lone people walking on the grass, soaking in the sun, and a few younger kids with their parents enjoying the day.
Tim was smaller in size than I was and looked a bit out of shape and heavy for someone pushing fifty. His graying hair was cut short, thinning on top and a five o’clock shadow on his fa
ce. He was wearing long gym shorts, a tank top and sandals. He looked as if he was ready for the beach, smelling of sunscreen.
“If I may ask, why doesn’t your wife like talking about the murder?”
He looked embarrassed to answer at first, thinking over what to say. “Because we were seeing each other covertly when my first wife disappeared. She would just assume to forget any of it ever happened. She does her best to hide it, but I know she feels guilty to some degree.”
“You were having an affair.”
Shame filled his face. “Yes.”
“Did your wife at the time know this?”
“Karen didn’t know. At least I don’t think she knew.”
“What happened when she disappeared?”
Tim’s head slumped down. Answering was difficult—he clearly still felt guilt.
“I wasn’t home. It was all my fault. If I’d been there she might still be alive.”
“Where were you?”
“I told Karen I was working late. I was actually with Virginia. When I got home she was gone. I didn’t know why. I was worried she’d found out and left me. When I tried to call her, it went straight to voicemail.”
“When did you call the police?”
“The next day.”
“Were you a suspect?” I knew the answer but had to ask.
“Yes. They started looking hard at me. In the questioning, I admitted where I was. That made me even more of a suspect. Her parents were furious with me…” He stopped the shame was there to hear. “…I couldn’t blame them.”
“How long before she turned up?”
“About eight days later. Put what was left of her in my yard, with a note saying she deserved better. I freaked out when I found the bag.” His voice was cracking, reliving that horrible moment.
“Were you still a suspect?” I pressed on, though it was hard for me to hear, even though it was necessary.
