by R Weir
“Not as much, though they still had an eye on me, digging around, wondering if I was involved, possibly hiring someone to kill her. It took two other murders before they decided it was a serial killer. It was probably six months before he was dubbed The Front Range Butcher.”
“She was the first victim?”
He nodded.
“Where were you living at the time?”
“South Aurora. I sold the house and moved out here a year or so later. Too many memories…” He left the words hanging, finding it harder to talk.
“Take minute if you need to. I understand reliving this is difficult.”
He nodded his head, taking some time before saying he was ready.
“Did you have any clue or idea of who might have taken her?”
“None.”
“Did she work? What did she do in her spare time?”
“She was a nurse and often did some graveyard shifts and long hours. She liked to work out and spend time with her work friends. Part of why we drifted apart I’d say. We didn’t see much of each other for a year or so.”
“How long were you together?”
“A little over five years. Met in college. Couldn’t keep our hands off each other, but a couple of years after we married, work became her passion.” He stopped again, his voice jumping an octave. “Hell, I knew it was stupid and wrong to cheat on her. Still I desperately craved physical contact, so I hooked up with Virginia.”
“And you married her later?” I asked, remembering the comment in the notes that suggested he had been scarred for life.
“Not right away. I even stopped seeing her for a while because of the guilt. It was several years later before we got back together.” His sorrow was turning to anger, showing in his tone. “I know people look at us, thinking I wished for this to happen. But that is bullshit. Yes, Karen and I were likely going to split up eventually. But I loved her and would never want her to suffer like she did. What that sick bastard did to her wasn’t human. If I could turn back the clock I would.”
Tim gave me some basic information about places Karen would frequent, that he could remember. I noted it all down, hoping to find a pattern with others that hadn’t been noticed yet, before walking him back and giving him my business card. I had the sense though I’d not hear from him again, for he’d been through enough and wanted to leave the ordeal in the past.
I talked with two other sets of the victims’ families, in various parts of the city. Nothing so far connected. It seemed as if the murderer specifically tried to keep from creating a pattern, with little doubt he had planned each move carefully. This was a calculated psycho.
It was getting late, but I wanted to make one more stop and talk to the boyfriend of the latest victim. I had been at his house already, so finding it wouldn’t be an issue. I decided not to call first, as I didn’t think he’d talk with me if he’d had warning of who I was and what I wanted.
When I arrived, it was around dinner time, and I was getting hungry. But I hoped to catch him at home. I rang his doorbell and waited. Nothing. I tried again, knowing someone was home as music played loudly through the walls. I pressed the button again, this time holding it down. Finally, a twenty-something male answered the door. He appeared to be inebriated.
“What the fuck do you want?” he said, slurring his words.
“How are you doing, Jared?” I asked, knowing his name from being at the crime scene days before. “Though I believe I know the answer already from the glazed look in your eyes.”
“Who cares? What the fuck do you want?”
Must have been his catch phrase. Might have it on a t-shirt. If he was wearing one. His chest was tanned and hairless, and he looked like he worked out. His blue jeans were fashionably torn, and his feet were bare. Brown long hair kept drooping in his eyes, that he had to fling backwards to get it off his face.
“I’m a detective and I want to talk.” I left out the private designation.
“I’ve got nothing else to say. Talked to you idiots enough.” He slurred angrily.
“Let me in, Jared. Looks like you need someone to check on you. Want to make sure you’re OK.”
“How can I be OK after what happened?”
There were tears in his eyes. Stumbling backwards, he left the door open. He lurched through the room, putting a hand on the wall to support himself, as he made his way to the sofa in the living area. I followed in and closed the door, to keep the flies from invading.
The place was a mess, with food wrappers, a pizza box with a couple of congealing slices left, and empty beer cans. My first thought was he was drunk, but the obvious smell of marijuana filled the air, a green glass bong also on the table. People deal with grief in numerous ways. Drunk and stoned was a bad combination. I should know. I had drunk myself into the arms of another woman and that ruined my relationship with a woman I once loved. I understood his pain to some degree.
“Jared, I can understand what you’re feeling. This won’t help you feel any better. In the end it will make it worse.” I said gently, gesturing to the mess and drug paraphernalia.
“I don’t want to feel anything. Numb is how I plan to cope.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes for the pain to go away.”
“Then you will be drunk and high for a long time. I’d suggest finding someone to talk to. Do you have a roommate?”
There was a delay in his response, his brain not working to full throttle.
“Sure. But he is no help. Has been staying at his girlfriend’s since it happened. Didn’t want to deal with the cops and the press. I don’t blame him.”
Leaning back on the sofa, he laid his head back, looking dizzy, his head swaying side to side. Then, without further warning, he jumped up and headed to the bathroom with a groan. I heard him emptying his stomach. Shaking my head, I went to check on him. His head was in the toilet. The bathroom looked worse than a truck stop restroom. Dirty towels on the floor, sink with soap scum and hair, and I didn’t even want to think about the toilet. The man was in desperate need of a maid or a woman in his life. It was something I wouldn’t suggest in his current state. I found a washcloth in the linen closet, got it wet and handed it to him when he was done. He stumbled back into the living room, lying down on the sofa.
“Jared, I do want to talk, but now isn’t the time for obvious reasons. Here is my card. Call me when you’re sober and feeling better. I want to help find the bastard who did this to the woman you loved.”
I don’t know if he heard me or not, but I left the card on his kitchen table, which wasn’t as messy as his coffee table. Chances are it would get lost among the rest of the trash, but you never know. I regretted intruding on his pain, wishing now I’d stayed away.
Stepping out into the fresh air, with hunger still on my mind, I reached my bike and put on my jacket and helmet. I was about to take off when a large black SUV pulled up, and out stepped two men. I braced for the worst when I saw they were dressed in dark suits and appeared to be the two that I saw on the scene of the last murder, which was this very location. G-men are not hard to spot.
“Pizza delivery?” I said, with my normal sarcasm. “It’s about time. It took more than thirty minutes, so I want a discount and don’t expect a tip.”
They both didn’t look amused. The taller of the two pulled out his ID.
“FBI!” I said with false surprise. “I’d have never guessed.”
“You need to come with us,” said the tall one.
“Why should I?” I was inquisitive and stubborn but didn’t like being bossed around.
“Because we say so.” He did his best to sound tough, which nearly made me laugh.
“If I say no?”
“Then we’ll drag you.” They both took a step closer, trying to enforce their will.
It was late. I was tired and hungry. I really didn’t care to deal with these bozos. But I also didn’t care to have assaulting a fed on my record.
“Since you asked so nicely.” I said it pleasantly but felt sarcastic.
The shorter of the two opened the back door and I crawled in, tossing my helmet and jacket on the seat next to me. Maybe I could get them to stop at the drive thru on the way.
Chapter 22
There were many types of rooms I had visited in my lifetime. Living rooms in every possible configuration, some for lounging, some for socializing, some for entertainment and gaming. Kitchens sparkling and sanitary, others a mess of dirty dishes and counters, disorganized beyond belief. Dining rooms where I’ve enjoyed great meals, and at times not so great, but still, the company can often overcome poor food. Bedrooms where I’d slept and at times not slept, enjoying the pleasures of the opposite sex. I remembered many of those rooms as I sat in this cold lifeless box, a metal chair causing my butt cheeks to go numb. There were scratches and marks on the floor and walls, dents and scrapes, some looking the shape of a head or shoulder. It was clean but still felt dirty, the grungy gray color adding to the atmosphere. Stains which had been cleaned that looked suspiciously like they were blood. I waited patiently, my stomach growl echoing in the silence, as I wondered when I’d finally speak with someone, the time ticking off slowly.
There was noise as the door opened. In walked a forty something woman in a green pant suit and flat black shoes. She had some meat to her 5’9” frame, though solid and built with good proportion. Her brownish skin led me to believe her family heritage was from south of the border, her chestnut brown hair cut short and layered to the side. She walked up without saying a word, gauging me.
“If you were carrying a pizza I’d be more thrilled to see you,” I said. “Been more than thirty minutes so it should be free.” Maybe the line would work on her better than the two G-men.
“Do I look like a fucking pizza delivery boy?” she said, with some spite to it.
“I was going to say lady. You aren’t built like a boy. If you use a few more expletives I might change my mind.”
My smile was wide and full of childish joy. I don’t think she saw me that way judging by her piercing glare and unimpressed expression.
“Maybe we hold you overnight and your smart mouth will learn its lesson. A night sleeping on the floor might do you some good.”
“Tell me where the remote is, and I’ll get comfortable. You do have Netflix, don’t you?”
Her face turned red and her hands tensed up. I was ready to block any attempt to hit me. She turned around and headed to the door.
“Before you leave,” I said. “I need to use the restroom. And despite its Motel 6 charm, there doesn’t appear to be a toilet anywhere in here. Please lead me to one or I’ll step over in the corner and pee.”
“Hold it,” she replied.
“Not anymore…”
I stood up, walked to the corner and unzipped.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Then take me to a bathroom.”
She looked frustrated, but gave in. She walked me out of the room and down the hall. I did my business. Stepping out of the men’s room, I smiled at her, motioning that she should lead the way. But to my surprise, relief and confusion, instead of taking me back to the interrogation room, we got on the elevator and rode it to the fourth floor where her office was situated. On the desk I saw her name badge. Capital Crimes Division, Catalina Alegre. I had been in the Denver FBI building before, but not on this floor. But like most federal buildings, design and furnishing wise it was no different than those I’d been on. I found a seat and did my best to get comfortable. My butt cheeks were pleased it was padded.
“Nice to meet you, Catalina,” I said. “I’m Jarvis, though I’m sure you already knew that.”
She whispered something under her breath, her head shaking as if to ward off a headache. Grabbing a file folder, she took her seat and opened it. If the feds were keeping a file on me, I felt honored. On the other hand, it was kind of creepy.
“Agent Price warned me about you,” she said.
Dezmond Price and I had worked together, though begrudgingly, on the murder of a computer programmer that turned into a huge case involving a crooked tech company. He grew angry with my methods, and we butted heads several times, which was par for the course for me and those in authority.
“How is Dezmond?”
“Thrilled he is not having to deal with you.” She smiled tightly.
“Hard to believe. We got along so well last year.” This time my sarcasm was clear.
She gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Not how he tells it. Says you’re a mother-fucking-asshole who never gave him a straight answer. Compromised his attempt to put some Russian mobsters away in Cuba.”
“Gee that hurts. Now I know why I didn’t get a Valentine’s card from him this year.”
“Said you weren’t the least bit funny either.”
“This isn’t my best routine. I save the high-quality stuff for open mic night at the Comedy Club.”
Her head slumped down, her chin bouncing off her chest, a deep sigh filling the air. I think I may have worn her down.
“Catalina, I’m hungry. I’ve had no dinner and unless you have a steak or turkey sandwich tucked away in your desk, I would like to get out of here, get my bike and pick up some food.”
“Not until we discuss some things. Lay out some ground rules.”
“I’m not the best at following the rules.”
“There is always a first time. And I won’t play nice if you don’t toe the line.”
I had grown tired of her. I rarely had patience for those trying to intimidate me.
“Look. This little bad Fed, funny PI routine has been fun. If you have something to say, please do. Hell, I’ll even be happy to share all I know, if you tell me what the fuck you dragged me in for. But don’t think you can control or scare me. It doesn’t work that way with me. And I have a lawyer who is a bigger pain in the ass than I am, that I’m happy to call and get down here even though it will cost me a lot of money. But it is worth it, if I can get the hell out of here and waste even more of your time as well. So, lay out what you want from me and I’ll get up and leave happy to have met you.”
It was one of my better speeches. I think I even broke through some of that tough exterior she was displaying as she sighed and nodded. She flipped the folder closed, opened a desk drawer and tossed me a Snickers bar. It could have been laced with poison, but I didn’t care. I tore it open and bit down, taking a third off in one mouthful and chewing it happily. In this case the “Satisfied” slogan was accurate.
“Tell me what you know about this case?” Catalina said.
The chocolate, peanuts, caramel and nougat filled some of the void in my stomach, barely, but at least it was better than nothing.
“Psycho going around and carving up people, leaving their skin in plastic bags on loved ones’ porches. Normally leaving what is left of the body in another location.” I summed up.
“What else?”
“Same MO as a killer who killed sixteen plus people, nearly all female, twenty-two years ago. That killer stopped suddenly, never to return until it seemed like he had a few months ago, when the murders started again.”
She frowned. “All of this is common knowledge. Tell me something the man on the street doesn’t know.”
I took another bite of the candy bar. It was marvelous, though I was so hungry eating dirt would have tasted great.
“Simon Lions was the main suspect for the past murders. And could be a suspect now, other than the fact he is in a home and appears to not be able to walk.”
“What else do you know about him?” Her eyes were directly fixed on me.
“He is connected to some powerful people. Relatives of his having political connections.”
“Good. Did you also know they interfered with the original investigation, telling those in charge to back off?”
I was almost to the point where I wanted to say “duh” but I didn’t, instead I nodded.
“I did. Those in
power often think they are above suspicion. And the law.”
“They were elected officials claiming we were on a witch hunt, and would do anything to solve the case.”
“Did those in charge back off?”
“To some degree yes. Then the killings stopped. It was as if there was a reason to quit. Maybe they had influence over him. Got him some assistance. It was hard to say.”
“You think Simon was the original killer?”
She stopped for a minute to think it over. I expected her answer to line up as the others I’d talked to.
“I wasn’t working the case then. Wasn’t close to it, like I am now. All I’m doing is reading the case files and what they had, like you.”
“Still you’ve drawn some conclusion?”
“I have. Simon was The Front Range Butcher. I have no doubt of that.” She said with certainty. I agreed with her assessment.
“And now?”
“What is happening to these poor women, is too close to what happened all those years ago. He must be involved in some way. We know you talked with him a couple of days ago. What was your impression?”
It was no surprise the FBI knew I’d been at EverCare. They likely had him under surveillance. Though I was surprised I’d not picked up on it.
“Arrogant and cocky,” I said. “In a way that was discreet and indirect so as not to convict himself, he more or less challenged me and admitted he was involved. I plan on visiting him again. I believe he wants to show off how smart he is. Outwit me in his mind game. You must be watching him to know I was there? Or were you watching me?”
Catalina leaned forward, elbows on her desk, thinking over what to say.
“Let’s just say, we are watching all parties involved in a stealthy manner.”
I had been considering the option of getting someone on the inside, but now it seemed it wasn’t necessary.
“Creepy, but not surprising. I’ll try not to expose them, if I spot them.”
“There are times we are not so obvious. Believe it or not we don’t always dress like we are portrayed on TV and drive black, oversized SUV’s.” She maintained a straight face, but I appreciated her joke.
