by Joel Goldman
The maintenance man was waiting for us when we got off the elevator in the sub-basement. He was Hispanic, bony, and older than me with close-cut silver hair and a matching moustache. An institute ID identifying him as Carlos Morales was clipped to a shirt pocket that held a pack of cigarettes, his hand involuntarily reaching for a smoke he couldn't have.
"This way, Mr. Harper," he said.
We followed him through a warren of concrete hallways painted white and marked by overhead pipes interspersed with pale florescent tubes, giving the subterranean space a dispassionate chill. We passed equipment and storage rooms until we reached the utility closet in a corner of the basement.
Nancy Klemp was standing in front of the open door, her face a quiet mask, her eyes unfocused and brimming. Carlos hung back as I shouldered past Milo and Sherry.
"Stay back. No one goes inside the closet."
Nancy nodded and stepped away, giving me a clear view of the body. It was Anne from HR.
The closet was wide and deep, at least six feet to the back wall where her nude body was propped up, her knees bent and legs splayed open, a broken shaft of wood stuck in her vagina, dried blood staining her inner thighs and the floor. Her head hung to one side, resting on her shoulder, eyes open, purple bruises ringing her neck. Her clothes were folded on the floor, her purse and shoes on top like paperweights.
I didn't see the ID badge and gold chain she was wearing around her neck when she gave me the set of new employee forms to fill out the day before. I doubted that the chain was sturdy enough for the killer to have strangled her with it, though he could have taken it if he was afraid it might have captured his DNA.
Her hands were at her sides. The ring finger on her left hand was missing, a bloody pair of wire cutters lying next to her. A bank of electrical boxes was mounted in the middle of the closet wall to my left. A tool chest sat beneath the boxes, one of the drawers open.
I turned to the others. "Nancy, have you called the police?"
"No. I called Ms. Fritzshall soon as Carlos called me. Then I came down here."
"I'm glad you did but I need you to go upstairs and call the police. I'll stay until they get here."
"I knew her," Nancy said. "She was a good girl. Real good. She was supposed to get married in June. Her boyfriend used to work here. I watched them dance at the Christmas party."
I put my arm around her. "I'm so sorry."
"Yes, sir." She hurried away, wiping her eyes.
"Carlos, when did you find the body?"
"Not more than fifteen minutes ago. I came down here to get some tools. I opened the door and there she was. Man, I couldn't believe it."
"Did you go in the closet?"
"No. I was too scared."
"Did you touch anything? Did you touch her?"
He was a small man, a lifetime of hard work written in the lines worn into his leathered face. He filled his chest and rolled his shoulders back, daring me to insult him with another question.
"I would never do such a thing."
"That's good to know. Wait back at the elevator for the police. Show them the way."
"I didn't touch her," he said, his dark eyes burning. "I wouldn't. I've got a wife and two daughters."
"I didn't mean anything by it," I told him.
"I'll tell the cops the same thing," he said, marching off, his back stiff, his head high.
"What about the FBI agents?" Milo asked. "Shouldn't we get them down here?"
"Not their jurisdiction," I said. "This looks like a sexual assault and murder. Kansas City PD will handle it."
"What FBI agents?" Sherry asked. "There are FBI agents in the building and nobody bothered to tell me?"
"There's a dead body in the closet," I said. "That trumps the FBI agents."
"They're talking to Anthony Corliss about Walter Enoch's murder," Milo said. "They think he might have had something to do with it because Enoch let him in the house to take the dream video."
"Milo," Sherry said, her hands on her hips, "you can't leave me out of the loop like this. Things are getting out of control and if you think you can handle this without me, you're out of your mind."
"I wasn't leaving you out of anything but after the way you mangled our security, that may have to change," he told her. "I'll be in my office," he said to me. "Anything I can do to help?"
"Yeah. Have HR pull Anne's file and put it on my desk."
"Done."
"What about me?" Sherry asked. "What am I supposed to do?"
"I don't care," Milo told her. "Just don't screw it up."
Chapter Thirty-four
Crime scenes are like people. Some are a confused, chaotic mess, tormented by misplaced passion or uncontrolled rage. Others are organized and well ordered with little left behind that would lead to the offender's capture and conviction. And some, like this one, are staged to give the dead man a voice that screams look what I did and there's nothing you can do about it.
An autopsy would reveal the time and manner of Anne's death, though several things were likely. The bruising around her neck was evidence that she'd been strangled. The sexual assault could have occurred before or after she was dead, or both. The killer may have raped her with the piece of wood because he was impotent or because he didn't want to leave his semen.
The killer probably worked at the institute now or in the past since someone else would not have been familiar with the sub-basement. He probably knew Anne, or at least had seen her and singled her out, though she may not have known him. Several hundred people worked at the institute, enough that he could have stalked her without her ever having a hint that he existed until their one and only encounter. However, it would have been easier for him to get her onto an elevator headed for the sub-basement if she knew him and wasn't afraid of him.
Most murder victims know their killers, spouses and partners most likely to kill the ones they love. Anne's fiancé had worked at the institute and would need a tight alibi.
I thought of all those possibilities as I studied the scene from outside the closet. The other scenario I had to concede was that a serial killer was working his way through the ranks of people affiliated with the institute. A pattern was beginning to emerge.
Regina Blair had been first, pushed off a ledge, maybe even on an impulse. Tom Delaney was next, the killer becoming more proactive, staging a suicide, ratcheting up the violence with Delaney's gun. Walter Enoch's murder had been more intimate—a hand pressed over Enoch's nose and mouth, squeezing the life out of him in a careless effort to disguise the homicide as something else.
It was a pattern marked by the increased violence and boldness of Anne's murder. The careful staging of her body meant that the killer was in control of the moment of death but the pattern meant the opposite. The killer was losing control, taking less time between victims while becoming less clever and more savage. If I was right, Anne was the latest, not the last, victim.
"Step away from the closet, sir."
Two uniformed officers had arrived. Both had seasoned, steady eyes. I nodded, taking note of their name badges, Sanchez and Grant. Sanchez had given the order. Carlos Morales was a step behind Sanchez.
"It's all yours," I said. "I'm Jack Davis, director of security. Carlos here found the body. Nancy Klemp called it in. She was the next person on the scene. Both of them told me that they stayed out of the closet and didn't touch anything. Milo Harper and Sherry Fritzshall were with me when I relieved Nancy. Their offices are on the eighth floor. So is mine. Let me know when you're ready to talk to them and I'll set it up."
Grant wrote it down and Sanchez followed me back to the lobby which was swarming with uniformed cops, the circle drive filled with squad cars, their red, white, and blue lights richocheting off the glass walls, television crews setting up shop in the near distance. Sherry Fritzshall stood in the center of the lobby, directing traffic as the cops asked her questions. Nancy Klemp held her ground at the front desk.
"How's she doing?" I asked Nancy as we watched She
rry work the room.
"She'll be all right. She's a hard one to run over."
A sedan snaked into the packed circle drive, finding a seam between squad cars. Detective Paul McNair jumped out of the passenger side, the detective who was driving close on his heels. They aimed for Sherry and I met them there.
"Well, Davis, you got a real homicide this time?" Mc-Nair asked.
"The victim is a young woman. Looks like she was strangled and sexually assaulted. The killer left her nude and staged the body to make a lasting impression on whoever found her. Does that qualify?"
"Good enough for me," McNair said.
"Does that mean we get a real investigation?"
"I'd like to see some identification," Sherry said, not wanting to be left out.
"I'm McNair. This is Quincy Carter. We're KCPD homicide," he said, both of them showing her their badges. "Who's in charge here?"
Carter was black, his shaved head, broad shoulders, and fresh, eager eyes a sharp contrast to McNair's sloped back and pasty face. Carter was about getting it done and McNair was about getting it over with. I wanted to ask them the same question, hoping that Carter was the one who answered.
"I'm Sherry Fritzshall and I'm in charge."
McNair looked at her then at me, waiting for me to confirm or deny. I looked at Carter, giving him an opening. He tilted his head at McNair.
"What do you need from us?" I asked McNair.
"You know the drill. There's a lot of people in this building we need to talk to and I don't want to have to chase any of them down."
"Follow me," I said, walking back to the front desk. "Nancy, do we have a PA system?"
She handed me a microphone and pushed a button on the control panel built into her desk. "Goes all over."
"May I have your attention," I said into the microphone, pausing and looking around the lobby as my voice reverberated. People stopped what they were doing and stared at the speakers hidden in the ceiling.
"This is Jack Davis, director of security. We have a police emergency. No one is in any danger and the building is secure. You may go about your regular duties but remain in or near your offices until the police have an opportunity to talk with you. Please give them your complete cooperation."
"Thanks," Carter said. "I'd like to put people at all the exits just in case someone decides to go home early."
"Nancy, give the police any help they need finding their way around," I said, pointing to the control panel. "Can you program the elevators so they can use them without a key card?"
She nodded and pushed another button.
"Sanchez can take you downstairs where the body was found," I told McNair. "I told him what I know, which isn't much. The victim's name is Anne Kendall. I'll have a copy of her personnel file when you're ready for that."
"We'll need that to find out who to notify," McNair said.
"I called her boyfriend," Nancy said. "I told him to come over but I didn't tell him why. He's on his way."
"Boyfriend?" McNair asked. "What's his name?"
"Michael Lacey. He used to work here. They were supposed to get married in June," Nancy said.
"Were they living together?" McNair asked.
"I think so," Nancy said. "Everybody does anymore."
McNair turned to Carter. "Find out if Michael Lacey made a missing person's report on Anne Kendall."
"There he is. You can ask him yourself," Nancy said, pointing to the circle drive where a man in jeans and a parka was waving his arms at the uniformed cop blocking the front door.
"You got some place quiet where we can talk to the boyfriend?" McNair asked.
Sherry answered. "There's a conference room on this level. I'll show you."
"Sanchez, go get Mr. Lacey and take him to the conference room," McNair said. "Don't ask him any questions and don't answer any. Just babysit him until we get the rest of this circus organized."
"If this is the circus, does that make Jack Davis the clown?" asked Agent Dolan, his face split with a toothy grin. "My partner and I heard your announcement, thought we'd see if you needed any help. You guys were so busy solving the crime, I didn't want to interrupt."
"Who's this asshole?" McNair asked.
I hadn't seen him get off the elevator. "His name is Dolan but he'll answer to asshole," I said.
"FBI," Dolan said, waving his ID.
"See, I told you he'd answer to asshole."
Carter turned his head to cover his laugh. McNair didn't bother.
"We've got this, Dolan," McNair said. "It's a homicide. Nothing here for the feds."
"Funny thing, we've got one too. And we think one of our suspects is in this building," Dolan said, giving me a long look that turned McNair's and Carter's eyes my way.
McNair nodded. "That is a funny thing. You got some time, why don't you go with me and Carter and the three of us will have a look at the body in the basement. Nancy, show us the way. Davis, you go wait in your office. We'll be by to see you in a little while."
Chapter Thirty-five
McNair, Carter, and Dolan fell in line behind Nancy, disappearing into the garage elevator. Sherry stood by me, waiting for Sanchez to retrieve Michael Lacey from the cops at the front door.
"That FBI agent sure gave you a look," she said.
"He has a crush on me."
"That wasn't a man love look. That was an accusation look. You said the FBI is questioning Anthony Corliss about Walter Enoch's murder. It sounds like Dolan thinks you're a suspect too."
"Thinking isn't in his skill set."
"Well, he has a badge and you don't so he must be doing something right. And I'm certain my brother will want to know if you are a suspect. I think that would be quite a conflict of interest for you. I don't know how you could continue working here."
I wanted to tell her that thinking wasn't in her skill set either but that wouldn't advance the ball so I ignored her and watched Lacey as Sanchez herded him toward us.
He was jabbering, searching for a question Sanchez might answer, his head swiveling as his eyes darted around the lobby, the fact that he was the only civilian being escorted by the cops and what that might mean dawning on him. He stopped as if to turn back but Sanchez cupped his elbow, keeping him in line as he stumbled, the solid ground on which he'd built his life giving way.
Close up, he wasn't a bad looking guy, the slight crook in his nose offset by the cleft in his chin, a combination some women would call quirky and cute. No one would say that he looked like someone who would strangle and rape his fiancée until after he was convicted. Then people would say that they knew it all along, that they saw it in his eyes or the way he walked or the way he chewed his food. Until then, they'd say he looked normal, like the rest of us.
"This conversation isn't over," Sherry said to me as she led them toward the conference room.
I would have shot a snappy comeback at her but I shook instead, a belly to the brain temblor that jacked my head up and back like I'd been hit with an uppercut.
"Can't wait," was all I could manage.
Leonard jumped me when I got back to my office.
"What the hell is going on? People are going crazy up here. There's all kinds of rumors about a dead body being found."
The police wouldn't start canvassing the floors until after McNair and Carter were finished in the sub-basement and could brief their troops on what questions to ask. Anything I told Leonard now would be rebroadcast in e-mails, text messages, and phone calls, distorted by the time it reached the second set of eyes and ears, indecipherable by the time it reached the last, confusing people about what they knew and how they knew it. Since McNair couldn't find his foot if he stepped in a bucket, I didn't want to make his job any harder.
"So let's not start any new ones. When the police come by, just answer their questions."
He traded in his stick-on smile for hangdog disappointment. "You don't trust me to keep quiet."
I put my hand on his shoulder. "I trust you to be human."
He brightened at my touch. "That's a start. You've got company," he said, pointing to my office.
"Who?"
He leaned toward me, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Connie Nichols. She's the HR director and a total bitch. You give a girl a compliment and she'll write you up for harassment. Word is she's a dyke."
My mother taught me not to drink from a poison well and not to turn my back on the person who poisons it. She wouldn't have liked Leonard.
"Thanks for the heads-up."
Connie Nichols stood when I came in; a manila file tucked under one arm. She was middle-aged middle management, dressed in a dark green pantsuit, her bottle blond hair cut straight and close to her shoulders, her face grim.
"Jack Davis," I said, shaking her hand. "Have a seat."
"Connie Nichols, HR director. What a terrible thing."
I closed the door and sat in the chair next to her. "What terrible thing are we talking about?"
"My God! Poor Anne!" she covered her mouth and lowered her head, crying. She pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket and wiped her eyes.
I waited for her to stop crying, not surprised that she knew about Anne. Nancy Klemp had called Anne's boyfriend. There was no way to know how many others she had called, though one would have been enough to start a wildfire. Carlos Morales no doubt had done the same, his story racing along a separate upstairs/downstairs network, the two colliding like weather fronts spawning a shit storm. Whatever doubts Connie may have had were extinguished when Milo Harper told her to bring Anne's file to my office. She sat up, red-eyed.
"Is it true, what they're saying he did to Anne? That's so awful it's unspeakable!"
I didn't want to lie to her and I didn't want to fan the flames. "May I see her file, please?"
She handed it to me, taking my request as confirmation, her eyes welling up again. Anne's application and performance reviews were on top, the more recent information toward the back. She was twenty-five years old, graduated from high school in Warrensburg, Missouri, and from Truman State with an English degree. She had worked for the institute for eighteen months and her performance reviews were exemplary. Connie reached for the file, flipping to the last page.
