“I don’t think so.”
“What you think, young man, does not affect the truth.”
“Ma’am,” Jake said, leaning forward across the table, “what you say doesn’t change the truth, either.”
“Are you calling me a liar, too?” Angela said as she pressed back in her chair.
“Yes, ma’am. And so is Steve Broderick. On his recorded statement, he apologized for your lie.”
“He’s just trying to protect me and my reputation.”
“No, Ms. Dromgoole.” Jake turned to Lucinda and said, “Lieutenant, could you please give us some privacy.”
Lucinda squinted her eye, plastered both of the people at the table with a sneer and left the room.
Jake gave her enough time to get into her observation post on the other side of the glass before scooting his chair to the end of the table. He took one of Angela’s hands between both of his. “Angela, listen,” he said and paused, waiting for her full attention. When her eyes were firmly fixed on his, he smiled. She smiled in response. “I am about to let Mr. Broderick go home. I sure would like to let you go with him. But Lieutenant Pierce is a real tough ass – pardon my language, but I just don’t know how else to describe her. I need you to tell me the truth. Then I can force her to let you go home.”
Angela looked down at the table then back up at Jake. “You can do that?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to arrest Steve?”
“No.”
“Honest?”
“Cross my heart,” Jake said as he removed one of his hands from hers and sketched an X on his chest.
She breathed in deeply, exhaled and said, “I didn’t even go to church that night. I had a headache.”
“So you didn’t see Steve Broderick that night, did you?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. That woman just frightened me. She’s so intimidating. If she hadn’t been so mean, I never would have lied.”
“Okay, Angela. You sit right here. I’ll work things out.”
As he stood and pulled away his hand, she grabbed on to it tightly. She looked him in the eyes and in a breathy voice said, “Thank you, Agent Lovett. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
He slid his hand out of her grip and said, “No problem, ma’am. Just doing my job.”
Lucinda and Jake met out in the hall and looked at each other with clenched lips. They scurried away until they knew their distance was far enough that they would not be overheard. Then, they doubled over in laughter. “Oh, jeez, Jake. ‘Just doing my job?’ You were unbelievable. How did you keep a straight face?”
“It was not easy, not easy at all.”
“She might be holding out on Broderick but, I swear, if you asked, she would have given it up for you right there on the table.”
“Oh, please, that’s a vision I don’t need floating around in my head,” Jake begged.
“I’ll go find a patrol officer to take them home,” Lucinda said.
They looked at each other and smiles faded from both of their faces. “You know what I’m thinking, Lucinda?”
“Yeah, we just lost our only suspect.”
Thirty-Seven
He picked his next victim after seeing his photograph in the newspaper. He stood beaming, one arm raised high in the air, fingers arranged in a “V” for victory. It was that symbolic gesture that aggravated him more than anything. He read about Frederick Lee’s plan to end child abuse in his lifetime through “Enough”, a new program initiated by his organization, the Family Service Center. The story quoted Lee at length as it discussed the new total immersion approach that included intensive workshops, child-parent confrontation and guerrilla counseling. The whole project made him angry. Whether or not it was effective was irrelevant to his reaction. His irrational rage centered around one reality: no one ever did this for me.
He’d watched the offices of the Family Service Center for days and realized that the most effective way to get to his victim was from the inside. But to do that, he needed to clean up a bit, capture that presentable but humble look.
He scoped out a blue-collar neighborhood, seeking a home without a dog where the residents all left the house about the same time for work and school. From the handful of places that fit that requirement, he selected the one where the man’s size most closely matched his own.
He returned early in the morning. He watched the Dad drive away in his car. He saw the kids walk off to school. Then he saw the Mom emerge and take her place at the bus stop on the corner. When she boarded and the transit system whisked her away, he slipped into the yard and found the most concealed window. Using the blade on his pocket knife, he forced the screen out of its track, twisted and pulled on the frame and set it behind a bush next to the house. He was pleased to notice the window latch was not engaged. His first attempts to push open the window, though, did not work. He ran the blade of his knife around the edges of the window frame, flaking away the paint that held if shut. He grunted as he shoved on it again. It gave just enough to create a slot for his fingers. He reached in and pushed up but the progress was slow; he struggled for every centimeter of elevation.
At last, the opening was wide enough that he could slide into the house. He looked around for any observers in the vicinity and, seeing none, threw one leg over the sill and edged his body into the room.
He stood in a bedroom – a little girl’s bedroom from all appearances, ruffled pink bedspread, a mountain of stuffed animals and white painted furniture. He walked out into the hallway, looking for the master bedroom. When he found it, he slid open the closet door and selected a pair of pants, a shirt and a belt, taking care that each item he chose showed some signs of wear without appearing worn out.
In the chest of drawers, he picked out a T-shirt, a pair of boxer shorts and a rolled-up pair of socks. He transferred all of the clothing to the bed in the little girl’s room. Just in case he had to make a quick exit, he wanted to be able to grab all of it on his way out the window.
In the bathroom, he turned on the shower to heat up the water while he undressed. The air was steamy by the time he pulled back the curtain and stepped inside. For a while he just stood there, head tossed back, water beating on his chest and sluicing down his legs. At first the rivulets ran dark, nearly black. It had been quite some time since he’d bathed. When the water finally ran clear again, he turned around and let it beat on his back and buttocks. It felt good to feel the water massaging his skin and the layer of grime dissolve in the stream and roll down the drain.
He grabbed a bar of soap and rubbed it between his hands, stirring up rich, foamy lather that he swabbed on his face and his neck, then in his armpits and every other nook and cranny of his body. Next, he poured a healthy dollop of shampoo into his palm and worked it into his hair. His dirt-encrusted strands felt liberated as the oils and caked-up residue washed away.
He smiled at the bottle of conditioner. It seemed kind of girly but why not? He put a handful of that on his scalp and worked it in. He hummed while he waited for two minutes to pass and then rinsed it out. Then he just stood there, shifting front and back under the shower, loving the sensation of the pellets of water pounding on his skin. He let it run until it began to cool.
He grabbed one towel off the bar and ran it all over his body, soaking up moisture. He tossed it on the floor of the shower. Then he grabbed another and used it to rub his head with vigor, pulling out as much moisture as he could, and tossed it aside. He grabbed a third towel and caressed his body as he savored the touch of clean cotton on his skin.
He picked up the electric razor off the counter and moved it across his beard and mustache areas until they were smooth. Then he ran it over the hair that sprouted on his neck at his collar line. When he was finished, he ran his hands over the freshly shaved places and grinned at his image in the mirror.
He walked naked down the hall, enjoying the feel of the carpet in his toes. He slid into the borrowed boxer
shorts and sighed with pleasure. There are no words to describe how nice a clean pair of underwear felt after weeks without. When he finished dressing in the other man’s clothing, he snatched a gym bag from the bedroom closet and stuffed his dirty pants, shirts and socks inside. He added a pad of paper and a couple of pens he found on a desk in the corner of the dining room. His used underwear were gross – too smelly and filthy to keep. He found a bag in the kitchen and stuffed them in there. He walked out the back door, gym bag in one hand, trash sack in the other. He dumped the latter into the first dumpster he encountered on his walk back to the Family Services Center.
He spent the rest of the morning spying on the center, estimating the number of people who worked there. For a while, he leaned against the back wall of the building writing a new note. When he finished it, he signed his full name with a huge flourish. The big, bold signature reminded him of the teacher who had taught him about John Hancock in American History class. The anger inside him rose up in a hot rage. She left me behind, too. They all did. Maybe I should do a teacher sometime – they were goodie two shoes, too.
He straightened up and struggled to wipe the emotion off his face. He didn’t want to raise suspicion or give anyone cause for concern. It was time for the staff to leave for lunch. He watched the front door and drew a gender-specific stick figure for everyone who came outside. After twenty minutes, if he’d calculated correctly on previous days, there was now only one person inside: the receptionist. He tucked his gym bag behind a dumpster for safe keeping and walked into the office. He nodded in the receptionist’s direction before taking a seat.
“May I help you, sir? Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.
He stood and walked to her desk. “I’m supposed to see a counselor.”
“They’re all out to lunch now. Are you sure you’ve got the right time? Who are you supposed to see?”
“I don’t know the counselor’s name, ma’am. I’m supposed to meet my social worker here from the child welfare agency. She knows who we’re supposed to see. I don’t rightly know the time either. The social worker wrote it down for me but I lost it. All I remember was that it was this afternoon.”
“Well, maybe if you tell me why you’re here, I can narrow it down.”
“Ma’am, I”m here on accounta my wife. She drinks and when she drinks, she beats on the kids something fierce. The social worker said you all had a program for people in denial about their problems and you might could help my family.”
“That sounds like the program with the guerilla-counseling component. You probably need to see Mr. Lee. But I don’t see any appointments on his calendar with any social worker this afternoon. Are you sure you have the right day?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure of that. Is there someone else here you can ask?”
“No, everybody else has gone out to lunch,” she said and then swallowed hard with the knowledge that she’d just made herself vulnerable. She fiddled with items on her desk.
He picked up on her discomfort instantly. He entertained a momentary fantasy of taking advantage of her fear but reminded himself of his goal. Tonight Frederick Lee will die. I don’t have time for a side show. He smiled softly at her and said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have asked the question of a young woman like yourself. It was bound to make you nervous. I’ll just wait outside.”
She blushed and responded, “Oh no, sir. I am so sorry. Please have a seat.”
“That’s mighty sweet of you, ma’am. But I grew up with a couple of sisters and I know just what you’re feeling. I’ll wait outside so you can relax.”
“It’s really not necessary but thank you for your understanding, Mr. . . .?”
“Gilbright,” he lied with automatic ease. “Lucius Gilbright. Thank you for your trouble, ma’am,” he said as he turned and walked out the door.
He positioned himself with a clear view of the door and drew a diagonal line through the stick figure representing each person as they returned from lunch. Later, he’d add a line in the other direction making an “X” over the staff as they left for the day – until only one remained, the person who was the last to leave every day: Frederick Lee.
The afternoon was sunny and comfortably warm. He brushed the dirt away from a patch of concrete at the base of the wall. He sat down with his back leaning against the brick and his legs stretched in front of him enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun on his face. It made him feel drowsy and without knowing it, he dosed off and the pad of paper slipped from his hands.
He awoke with a rush of adrenaline. Sirens. Lots of sirens. Pulling up in front of the building. Pulling into the parking lot behind the building. People running inside the office. He didn’t know what was happening. But he knew he had to get out of here. He cursed as he ducked behind parked cars. Everything was ready. Everything in order. Tonight was the night. Damn. Damn. Damn. He kept hidden behind cars and dumpsters as he made his way down behind the strip of office buildings. When he reached the end, he jumped up, darted to the side of the building and stood still. He calmed his breathing, listened for any sounds of pursuit, then sauntered away up the street. He was many blocks away before he remembered what he’d left behind – the gym bag of dirty clothes and the notepad with the signed letter.
Thirty-Eight
Even though there was a bit of a chill in the air, Lucinda and Jake chose to eat their dinner on the deck of the restaurant. It was quieter and easier to converse outside.
“So, now that we’ve pretty much eliminated every reasonable suspect, what now?” Lucinda asked.
“No other suspects at all?” Jake said.
“You checked up with the techs working your case in D.C., right?”
“Yes I did. Nothing from forensics or research points to anyone viable. We’ve got a couple of people that might have possibly committed the crime but none of them really add up.”
“Same thing here. I won’t say all of their alibis are iron-clad but I really don’t seriously think any one of them is the perpetrator. If they were available for Shari Fleming’s murder, they weren’t available for one of the others.”
“What about the others? Anyone standing out in those jurisdictions?”
“I talked to Ted. He is in contact with the investigators in all the identified jurisdictions on a daily basis, at the very least. Not one of them has a suspect. Some of them are following up leads or hot-line tips but they all sound weak at this point. Ted said they’re hoping we’ll find something,” Lucinda said.
“Then we need to explore the connection between the notes at the crime scenes and the notes left on your car.”
“I still don’t think they are connected, Jake. It doesn’t make sense to me,” Lucinda objected.
“But it’s all we’ve got.”
“That’s pretty pathetic, then. I guess we do need to identify my little message leaver just to get that out of the way.”
“Your ‘little message leaver’? Lucinda, those notes were threatening. How can you be so cavalier about them?”
“Jake, I’ve seen a lot worse. I’ve gotten direct, graphic threats. These are lame in comparison.”
“You still shouldn’t trivialize them.”
Lucinda shrugged.
“You are exasperating,” Jake said.
“It’s just a gender thing, Jake. Men are bad drivers. Women are exasperating. It’s a trade-off.”
Jake shook his head and chuckled. “I’m not sure which trait is more dangerous. Tell you what, I’d like to continue this discussion over a drink but my teeth are starting to chatter out here. There’s a nice bar in my hotel. How ’bout we go back there?”
“Why not?” Lucinda said.
When they reached the entrance to the hotel bar, Jake rested the palm of his hand in Lucinda’s back and guided her to a booth back in a corner. His touch tingled at the base of her spine and sent a burst of electric impulse through her limbs. She was both disappointed and
relieved when he removed his hand as they arrived at their destination and slid into their seats.
Lucinda ordered a glass of merlot and Jake a bottle of Sam Adams. At first, they shared amusing stories from the lives in law enforcement. Then Jake switched to funny anecdotes from childhood. Without warning, the conversation turned serious and intense. Lucinda described the night her parents died and they talked about their shared fears and confusion over the childhood loss of their parents.
Lucinda nursed her solitary glass of wine for the entire two and a half hours. Jake, on the other hand, was working on his fifth beer. When Lucinda said it was time for her to head home, Jake said, “Are you sure it’s safe for you to drive?”
“Yes, Jake, I’ve only had one glass of wine all night.”
“Oh,” he said as he scratched a spot on his face for no reason. “It still might not be safe. You can stay in my room. There are two beds. Honest.”
Lucinda sighed, her shoulders moving up and down with her breath. “No, Jake. Not while we’re working this case.”
“I’m serious about the two beds.”
“I know. I just have trust issues.”
“You don’t trust me?” The forlorn tone of Jake’s voice struck Lucinda as pretty pathetic, laughable and endearing.
“No, Jake. I don’t trust me,” Lucinda said.
“You don’t trust you? Oh, okay, I get it. And it only took one glass of wine to get you to that point?”
Lucinda stood, resting her palms on the table. “No, Jake, the wine wasn’t even necessary.”
“Let me walk you to your car.”
“No, that’s not necessary. In fact, it’s not even wise.”
“That trust thing?”
“Yeah. See you in the morning, Special Agent Lovett,” she said as she spun on her heel and strode out of the bar.
Thirty-Nine
The next morning, Lucinda picked up the phone in her apartment and punched in Jake’s cell number. When he answered, she said, “Awake and ready?”
Punish the Deed (A Lucinda Pierce Mystery) Page 17
