RCC03 - Beneath a Weeping Sky

by Frank Zafiro

  Tower took a deep breath of his own and let it out slowly, thinking. “Okay, here’s what we need to do. I need to see what’s in this file, for starters. I probably need a warrant for that, or at least a subpoena.”

  “That prosecutor, Patrick Hinote? He could help you with that,” Renee offered.

  “Good idea,” Tower said. “I’ll give him a call. Meanwhile, I need you to do as much research as you can on this Jeffrey Goodkind.”

  “What do you want me to focus on?”

  Tower raised his fingers and counted. “Where he works, for starters. And then look for anything that fits your theory about a trigger point. Something that might have set him off.”

  “You got it,” Renee said, her fingers already flying over the keyboard.

  Tower reached for the telephone.

  0825 hours

  He was about ready to give up when she appeared at the doorway of the hotel room, carrying a suitcase. She stepped lightly down the stairs to her Jeep. He watched as she stowed her suitcases in the rear of the vehicle.

  He frowned, deep in thought.

  Here was another wrinkle. Was she taking a trip? That didn’t make sense. The bags were already at the hotel room.

  It dawned on him suddenly. He slapped the steering wheel twice, first in frustration for being so dense and then a second time with exuberance for figuring it out.

  This is where she’d hidden from him. She’d packed up a bag and checked into a hotel room in order to avoid him. That had been her grand plan all along. The boyfriend was just an added bonus.

  She went back upstairs. After a while, she appeared again. This time, she held two much smaller bags. He was fairly certain they were full of girl stuff – toiletries, makeup, curling irons and so forth. She was definitely packing up to leave.

  A thought struck him and he smiled.

  Maybe she was heading home.

  0841 hours

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Tower shouted into the phone.

  “I’m sorry,” the tech support agent told him. “I can’t do it.”

  “But I’ve got a fucking subpoena!” Tower raged.

  The phone fell silent. Then the man said, “Sir, I understand that. I’m not refusing to open the file. I’m telling you that I am not able to open the file. I can’t do it.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s password protected.”

  “So who has the password?”

  “For Juvenile Superior Court, the gatekeeper is in Olympia.”

  “Gatekeeper?” Tower snorted. “What the hell is that?”

  The tech support agent’s voice didn’t waver or become defensive. “That is the term for the individual charged with the electronic security and integrity of those files. Our county Superior Court transfers the information to Olympia for central housing.”

  Tower shook his head. A dull pain was beginning to throb behind his left eye. “Do you have the number for this gatekeeper guy?”

  The tech agent rattled it off from memory. Tower wrote it down and hung up without another word. Then he picked up the phone again and dialed. After five rings, an electronic voice answered. With growing impatience, he listened to the phone tree options, finally selecting what he hoped was the right one.

  After two more rings, the line picked up. “This is Jonah Brandenburg,” a voice stated, “head of File Integrity for Juvenile Defendants and Victims for the State of Washington. I’m currently on vacation and will return on May twelfth. If you’re requesting information on a sealed file, please forward a request along with a subpoena to my office. I’m currently experiencing a backlog of two weeks in my response time, so thank you for your patience. If you’d like to leave a message, you may do so at the beep.”

  Tower hung up, cursing.

  “Dead end?” Renee asked.

  “Goddamn government bureaucracy,” he groused. “You get anywhere?”

  “Getting there,” she answered.

  0902 hours

  At first, she’d headed back north. He’d been thrilled at that. Anticipation hummed through him so powerfully that he almost let out a preternatural whine. He breathed in deeply and exhaled long and slow to get control of the urge. His grip on the steering wheel tensed and loosened while he drove.

  Halfway to her house, when she pulled into a diner, he groaned out loud.

  He parked across the street and watched her go inside. A few minutes later, the older man in the blue truck arrived and went inside to meet her. They sat across from each other in a booth near the window, giving him a front seat view to their little breakfast meeting.

  “I guess it’s true,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Sex really does make you hungry.”

  He laughed nervously at his own joke, but his mind was whirring. Why didn’t they just order room service? Or was this part of the façade? That if someone sees them having breakfast together in public, that explains why they were together today?

  It didn’t make a lot of sense to him, but at this point he didn’t care. He just wished the bitch waitress would arrive with pancakes or whatever the hell they were ordering so that Katie should shove some food down her gullet and get her ass home.

  He had plans for her.

  0921 hours

  “All right,” she said. “I’ve got about all I think I’m going to get for a while.”

  Tower grabbed his cup of coffee and sidled up next to her desk. “Run it for me.”

  Renee picked up her notepad. “The collision report from 1995 didn’t list a work location, but there was a telephone number. I did a reverse on the number. Turns out he works for Men Only, a men’s suit store on Wellesley Street.”

  “I know that store,” Tower said.

  Renee cast him an appraising look. “Not from shopping there.”

  Tower ignored the jibe. “I drive by it sometimes. What else did you find out?”

  Renee glanced back down at her notepad. “Okay, no time for jokes, apparently,” she muttered, searching for her place with the tip of her pen. “I also discovered something interesting when I checked the power records for his residence. Up until April, the account was in the name of a Jennifer Gallagher. Then, in late April, the account was switched to Jeffrey Goodkind.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “Well,” Renee said, “you could surmise several things. The first is that she moved out in April and he moved in. But –”

  “But we already know that’s been his address since at least 1995,” Tower finished.

  “Right. So another possibility is that they lived together, but changed the account over for personal financial reasons.”

  Tower’s eyebrows scrunched. “So this guy has a girlfriend? Hard to believe.”

  “I think ‘had’ is a better word to use.”

  “Why?”

  “I checked with the power company and the phone company for a Jennifer Gallagher. Both sources showed her with a new account as of early April.”

  Tower pursed his lips. “So they broke up?”

  Renee nodded. “Yes, I’d say so. And did you notice the timeframe?”

  “Yeah, right around the time of the Patricia Reno assault.”

  “A relationship ending could act as a trigger,” Renee said.

  “You don’t sound so sure.”

  “I’m not,” she answered. “A breakup is no small thing, but it just didn’t seem like enough of a cataclysmic event to send a man over the edge all by itself. Not a man who has been simmering but remaining under control for eight years.”

  “It seems like a perfectly logical trigger to me.”

  “Well, either way, that’s why I looked at Jeffrey Goodkind a little more closely. I called Men Only and posed as a wife wanting to bring my husband in. I told them Jeffrey had helped us out last time and asked if we could have him again. The manager said that would be no problem.”

  “So he still works there,” Tower observed. “No job loss for a trigger.”

  “No. And aga
in, depending on how important his job is or isn’t, getting fired or laid off might be a big deal or might mean absolutely nothing.” Renee put a check mark next to that item on her notepad. “But I had to eliminate it.”

  Tower nodded. “That’s just good investigative technique. Process of elimination.”

  “Problem is, I was running out of things to eliminate.”

  “I run into that sometimes, too,” Tower said ruefully.

  “Then,” Renee said, “I asked myself what the biggest stress-related event in a person’s life might be. And then it all made sense.”

  Tower twirled his finger in a hurry-up gesture.

  “Death,” Renee pronounced.

  “Huh?”

  “Someone dying is the greatest stressor for most people,” she explained. “So I checked the River City Herald obituaries for anything related to Goodkind.”

  Tower raised his eyebrows hopefully, but Renee shook her head.

  “Nothing there. But when I didn’t find anything, I tried a Lexis-Nexis search on the last name. There were a lot of hits, but I started with Pacific Northwest cities like Portland and Seattle.”

  “That’s a lot of work,” Tower said. “How’d you manage that so fast?”

  Renee tapped her computer. “Once I had the articles, all I had to do was tell the computer to search for a mention of Jeffrey Goodkind in any of them.”

  Tower thought about it for a moment, then nodded his understanding. “Because he’d be listed as a surviving family member in an obituary, right?”

  “There’s hope for you yet, John,” Renee said with a wink. “That’s exactly right.”

  “So, what did you find?”

  “In the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, I found an obit for Cora Goodkind who is survived by her only son, Jeffrey Goodkind.”

  “Amazing,” Tower said. “Before computers, that would have taken days.”

  Renee shrugged. “Maybe. Before computers, the networks were people-based. If I didn’t have this here,” she tapped her monitor again, “then I’d have to know a guy at the Seattle PI. I’d make a phone call and he’d get back to me.”

  “Still, it wouldn’t be as fast.”

  “Probably not. It is pretty amazing.” She leaned back in her chair and looked at Tower. “But what’s more interesting is the date on that obituary.”

  “Let me guess,” Tower said. “She died around the beginning of March this year.”

  “February 27,” Renee reported. “Which, coincidentally, was around a week before –”

  “Before Heather Torin was attacked,” Tower finished.

  “Exactly,” Renee said. “And the death of a mother, particularly one that he likely had issues with would definitely qualify as a trigger.”

  “So the death of his mother sets him off,” Tower said, theorizing. “Then he manages to control it again, holding it together for at least another month. But maybe he’s acting hinky or something, because the girlfriend dumps him. And that pushes him over the edge.”

  “With the pressure of the mother’s death behind it, I think that’d do it.”

  Tower reached out and rested his hand on Renee’s shoulder. He gave her a squeeze. “Renee, you are magnificent.”

  “I know,” she said.

  Tower turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Men Only,” Tower said. “Sealed file or not, I want to have a chat with Mr. Jeffrey Goodkind.”

  0956 hours

  Katie pulled up in front of her house and parked her Jeep. She cast a look at the dark red brick of the little home, enjoying the comforting sensation that the familiar sight gave her.

  “Be it ever so humble,” she whispered sleepily. Emotion welled up in her chest. Small prickles of tears stung her eyes. Surprised at her own emotion, she turned off the ignition and wiped away the beginnings of tears.

  I’m just tired. Tired and glad to be home.

  She exited the Jeep, and walked around to the rear. Exhausted from working all night and now with a belly full of breakfast, the task of hauling in her luggage seemed herculean in nature. She considered leaving it for later, but opened the back hatch of the Jeep, anyway. She gathered up all of the luggage, setting it on the damp asphalt of the street while she closed and locked the hatch. Then she trapped one of the smaller bags beneath her armpit, took a bag in each hand and made her way to the front door.

  Katie remembered what Chisolm told her at the hotel and again at breakfast.

  “Maybe this guy’s gone and maybe he isn’t,” the veteran officer said. “But you need to keep your guard up.”

  Katie didn’t want to admit to anyone that while she resented the protective measures while they had been in place, she suddenly felt a sense of vulnerability now that they were removed. That fact, in turn, made her a little bit angry at herself. How did it make sense for her to complain about something on the one hand, but then be glad for it at the same time? And then be mad about both?

  Don’t try to understand everything, Katie.

  Chisolm didn’t seem to have any difficulty understanding the paradox. He gave her a reassuring pat on the hand at the breakfast table. “You’ll be fine,” he told her. “You’re a warrior.”

  That was another instance in which she’d felt emotion welling up inside her, unexpected, uncontrolled. Having the consummate warrior tell her that he looked at her as a peer gave Katie a greater sense of satisfaction and accomplishment than anything her bosses could have bestowed upon her. Respect was hard enough to get from fellow cops. Throw in being female and it got to be about three times as hard. But she had Thomas Chisolm’s respect, and you didn’t get any higher than that.

  “Thanks,” was all she’d been able to manage at the diner table, but she supposed that there really wasn’t anything more that needed saying.

  At her front door, she set down the bag in her right hand and unlocked the door. As she swung open the front door, the familiar smell of her home washed over her.

  Katie smiled and stepped inside. She needed a shower and then a good day’s sleep, but she was home.

  0957 hours

  He watched her step through the front door of her house. Excitement buzzed through his limbs like an electric current.

  “Wait,” he whispered, shifting his aching erection to one side.

  She worked all night. She just had sex, then ate breakfast. It only made sense that she’d be going to bed. So he’d wait a few minutes. Let her settle in. Doze off. He’d catch her still half-asleep, so that she would wonder if the cold of his knife against her throat and him thrusting inside her was real or only just a nightmare.

  And then she’d find out.

  “Wait,” he whispered again. “Just a little while.”

  1008 hours

  Tower flashed his badge at the store manager. “I’m looking for Jeffrey Goodkind,” he said.

  The manager, a tall, effete man that reminded Tower more of a mortician than a suit salesman, leaned forward to inspect Tower’s badge and identification. Satisfied, he replied, “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Goodkind is not at work today.”

  “When does he work again?”

  “He was scheduled to work today, but he has not yet arrived.”

  Tower’s eyes narrowed. “Did he call in sick?”

  “No.”

  “He just didn’t show?”

  The manager nodded. “Yes.”

  “Is that normal for him? To just not show up?”

  “No,” the manager conceded, then shrugged, “although, he has been acting strangely of late.”

  Tower raised his fingers to his face and rubbed his chin. After a moment, he realized that he was mimicking one of Browning’s habits. Dropping his fingers, he asked, “Strange in what way?”

  The manager shrugged. “He has just seemed a bit pre-occupied. Not as attentive to his work.”

  “Do you know what’s been going on in his life?”

  The manager’s eyebrows shot up in horror. “Oh
, no. Jeffrey is quite private and I would never think to pry.”

  Tower suppressed a sigh. Then he asked, “Does he have a locker or a work station?”

  “Not really. He has his own drawer at the salesmen’s desk, though.”

  “I’d like to see that, please.”

  The manager hesitated. “Do you have a search warrant?”

  “Do I need one?” Tower shot back.

  The manager pressed his lips together, considering. Then he said, “No, I suppose not. Right this way.”

  He turned and walked toward the rear of the store. Tower followed. As they passed the last rack of suits, a series of photographs lined the hallway that led to the back room where the manager was headed. Large block letters proudly pronounced, “OUR SALES TEAM IS HERE TO SERVE YOU!”

  Tower slowed, his eyes passing over each photograph. When he reached the one labeled “Jeffrey Goodkind, since 1993,” he stopped.

  A photograph of Mr. Every Other White Guy stared out at him from inside the frame, a practiced smile on his lips.

  And at that moment, Tower knew for sure.

  1011 hours

  The pressure was too great. He couldn’t wait any more.

  Staring at that hateful little brick house, his hands trembled. The pungent smell of his own sweat filled the cab of his car. He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, trying to force himself to wait a few more minutes.

  He glanced down at the passenger seat. The silver blade of the Buck knife radiated a cold light back at him.

  The time for waiting is over.

  Pick up the knife.

  Go inside. Lay the whammo on that arrogant bitch. Slice her. Gut her.

  Kill Katie. Kill that cunt.

  Kill Cora.

  He gave a short shake of his head, trying to clear his mind. He had to be careful. He couldn’t let his rage get in the way. He couldn’t let his mother turn his victory into another defeat by taking away what he most wanted.

  Fear.