Sam skimmed over the articles in the Post and the Daily News next. With the exception of the bolder headlines and wordy journalism, neither of the tabloids offered much more information concerning the murder, other than the fact that the police were refusing to release any specific details pertaining to the case at this time.
Out of curiosity, Sam went through and counted up how many homicides had been reported on that particular day and came up with seven, including the execution-style slaying of a notorious Mafia crime boss. Of all the murders, that particular one had by far received the most press coverage. No wonder there had been so little interest in Sara Hunt’s murder, he thought with a wry grin. Not only had she just been one of several other homicide victims in the city that day, she had been upstaged by a more “newsworthy personage” as well.
He shoved the newspapers off to the side and opened the manila folder containing a copy of the police report. Lying on top was the eight-by-ten publicity headshot of Sara Hunt that Mancuso had sent. Sam was surprised at how little she had aged since high school as he stared at the black and white image, wondering skeptically how recently the photo had been taken. Her hair was jet black, in a bob, and her face showed very few lines and wrinkles. Her eyes were large and dark; her smile revealed a set of near-perfect pearly whites. She looked good-in fact, beautiful-and not a day over twenty-five.
He turned the promo shot over and read the resume pasted to its back. Sara had been a theater major at Pitt and there was a list of plays she’d been in while at college. Below was a list of the theatrical productions she had appeared in since moving to New York as well as a handful of television commercials she’d done.
Sam turned to the police report and noted the similarities between Sara’s murder and Marsha Bradley’s. Both women had been raped and strangled. Both were believed to have been strangled to death by a thin cord-like object from behind. And both had been found totally nude with lipstick marks on their breasts, or on only one breast in Sara’s case.
Sam turned to the Xerox copies of the photographs taken at the crime scene and examined them closely. Then something dawned on him. Excitedly, he pulled out the police file copies of Marsha Bradley’s case which he had kept for himself, then set one of the photographs of Marsha beside Sara’s.
It was uncanny. Although the quality of the copies was poor and the camera angles differed somewhat, it was more than obvious that the relative positions of both bodies were virtually identical. Both were lying flat on their backs on the floor, their arms outstretched, their legs spread-eagle, and their eyes opened and frozen in terror…
The body positions were mirror images of each other!
Sam realized that even if the hair and semen samples hadn’t been compared and matched, any idiot could plainly see that both women were murdered by the same person. The pictures were proof positive.
He stubbed out his cigarette and lit up another one. Staring pensively at both photographs, he wondered why the murderer had taken the time and effort to meticulously arrange his victims’ bodies in identical positions. They almost looked as though they were…
Posed.
A light came on in his head.
The murderer had arranged the bodies in this way so he could take pictures of them!
What a sick fuck, he thought.
And what a meticulous son of a bitch!
But why had he done it? As a visual reminder of his escapades? Every picture tells a story?
Or was there more to it than that?
Sam retrieved the copies of the yearbook and stared at the pictures again. Simple logic now told him that none of these men seemed likely suspects, taking everything into account. The murderer was clever and fastidious, carefully thinking through his game plan in advance. He was relentlessly thorough and thus far, hadn’t knowingly been seen by a single solitary soul who could positively identify him. Neither of Sam’s “prime suspects,” Ernie Jones and Clyde Kastings, was bright enough to carry out these two murders without leaving some kind of trail behind…
Sam heaved a heavy sigh of hopelessness. All of a sudden, the whole yearbook angle seemed like a dead-end street-for more reasons than just one. It had dawned on him before that even if the murderer were pictured here, why would he allow such an obvious slip-up to occur? It didn’t fit into his modus operandi at all.
Sam gathered up all the papers, piled them into a haphazard stack and shoved them off to the side. Maybe he was giving this bastard more credit than he deserved. Maybe he really was pictured in the yearbook and had actually fucked up. Maybe Sara Hunt had managed to mark the pages while the prick wasn’t looking and now he was gonna get nailed. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
He took a final drag off his cigarette, coughed, and stubbed it out with a vengeance. Running his hands through his long hair, he listened to the rain pelting down outside and began wondering why he was so caught up in all of this. Granted, he was personally involved and wanted nothing more than to see this asshole caught and fried, but how much was he really contributing? He wasn’t a cop, had no capacity as a cop, so why didn’t he simply just let the police do their jobs instead of sitting here pretending that he was Colombo? Was it because he had nothing else to do in life? Because it helped take his mind off Ann and Amy and how miserable his life had become since he’d lost them?
The answer to all of the above was yes, but there was more to it than that. He didn’t like the uneasy feeling that Ann might somehow be in danger-that she could possibly be involved in this in some way. He had first gotten that feeling when Marsha had been found murdered, but he simply refused to allow himself to get paranoid at the time. But now that Sara Hunt’s murder had cropped up, the feeling had resurfaced. And now that it was confirmed that both women had been killed by the same man, the feeling had suddenly become substantiated. And the fact that several hundred miles didn’t seem to stop this lunatic from killing wasn’t helping much either. Columbus was only ninety miles away…
Sam started to pick up the phone to call Ann but stopped himself. He wanted to hear her voice, to be assured that everything was okay. Then he recalled their conversation earlier-how distant she had sounded at first, as if she were annoyed at him for even calling her in the first place. Her mood had changed somewhat after he had told her about Sara Hunt, but he could still sense more than a trace of detachment in her voice throughout the rest of the conversation. It was as if she would really prefer that he back off and let her live her own life-that his services were no longer needed…
Fuck it, he thought to himself. She’s on her own now, buddy. You’ve lost her forever. And your kid. And as much as you want to pretend that you still have a role in their lives, it just ain’t so. You fucked everything up a while back and now you’re history.
Suddenly the idea of getting sloshed came to mind and it appealed to him in a big way. There really wasn’t anything else to do; his drinking buddy was in New York City doing his thing, his ex-wife and child were in Columbus doing their thing, and here he was in the sticks of southern Ohio with the rain pouring down on a dreary Friday night and a twelve pack of Rock in the fridge.
So it seemed only fitting that he tie one on…
CHAPTER 9
Ann stared at herself in the mirror, straightened up her hair for what seemed like the hundredth time and glanced over nervously at the clock on her nightstand. It was 7:55. In a last minute panic she brushed her shoulder-length auburn locks for the last time then carefully examined her makeup before stepping back and eying the rest of herself in the full-length mirror. She was wearing a plain gray skirt with a navy blue silk blouse. She realized that the outfit was a bit on the conservative side, but that had been her intention. She didn’t want to look flashy on her first date with Jerry Rankin. She was nervous enough as it was, and the last thing she needed was to feel like she was being gawked at all evening.
Just as she had expected, Amy hadn’t bothered to ask her who she was going out to dinner with when she’d come home after school to
get ready for the football game. Oddly, Ann had been a little disappointed-she would like to think that her daughter might at least be a little curious about her life once in a while. But this was typical Amy behavior nowadays-so wrapped up in herself and her own plans that her mother may just as well not exist.
The doorbell suddenly rang and Ann’s heart skipped a beat. She took one last look at herself and realized in horror that she looked like a middle-aged schoolteacher. Shrugging her shoulders in exasperation, she turned and headed down the stairs. She paused at the living room window and peaked through the curtains long enough to spot Jerry Rankin’s BMW parked behind her car in the driveway. She went over to the door and opened it.
“Good evening, Ann,” Jerry greeted. He was dressed casually, she noted in relief, wearing a tweed sport jacket, sweater, and a pair of khaki Dockers.
“Hi, Jerry,” she said nervously. “Come in.”
“Thank you,” he smiled. He stepped inside and glanced quickly around the room before looking her over approvingly. “You look wonderful, Ann.”
Ann blushed. “Thanks. I wasn’t quite sure how to dress-you never mentioned where you were taking me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I wasn’t sure what kind of food you liked, so I decided to wait and see if maybe there was somewhere in particular you’d like to go.”
“I like all kinds of food. And as far as restaurants go, I must confess that I haven’t been to all that many since moving here.”
“In that case, how does Italian sound to you? I know of a marvelous Italian restaurant in Dublin,” he offered.
“I adore Italian food.”
“Then it’s settled,” he smiled. “Your house is charming, by the way.”
Ann strode over to the hall closet to get her coat. “Thanks. I’m still not quite done furnishing it yet.”
“I love these older homes. I live in a relatively new house and it doesn’t have half the character of this one. My neighborhood also leaves a bit to be desired. Hardly any trees, no sidewalks, and everything is so bloody new-too new.”
Ann returned, carrying her coat. “I’m only renting, unfortunately. I have an option to buy, though.”
“Here, let me help you on with that,” Jerry offered.
He took her coat and Ann slipped into it. “Is that your daughter?” he asked, glancing over at Amy’s school picture on the mantle.
“That’s my little girl,” Ann replied.
He went over for a closer look. “She’s lovely. Why, she looks just like her mother!”
Ann blushed again. “Maybe after you’ve tacked on a few decades or so.”
“You certainly don’t look old enough to be mother to a teenager, Ann. It’s quite remarkable.”
“Your flattery is a little overwhelming, Jerry,” Ann replied cynically.
He turned and stared into her eyes, his handsome face wearing an expression of sincerity. “I’m being quite honest, Ann; I’m not trying to embarrass you. I tend to be very straight-forward at times and say what I feel when I feel it. I hope that doesn’t put you off.”
His tone of voice almost made it sound like an apology-he apparently sensed that she regarded his compliments as so much bullshit. Ann said, “I appreciate honesty and frankness, Jerry. It’s been a long time since I’ve been complimented so much. I guess I’m just not used to it.”
“You’d better start getting used to it, then. Otherwise, I’ll find myself biting my tongue an awfully lot,” he declared with a grin.
Ann chuckled. “I’ll try to, Jerry.”
“I’d like to meet her,” he said, his eyes returning to Amy’s picture.
Ann replied, “Unfortunately Amy’s not here right now-she’s at the school football game. Maybe some other time.”
“I’d like that… Well, shall we go?”
“I’m ready,” Ann replied, heading toward the door. Jerry followed her outside and stood by while she locked up. When they reached his car, he opened the door and waited until Ann was inside before walking around to the driver’s side and getting in.
“Nice car,” Ann commented.
“Thanks. I prefer sportier cars actually, but this one accommodates my clients quite nicely.”
“What kind of real estate do you handle?” Ann asked as Jerry started the car and backed out of the driveway.
“Mostly residential, a little commercial. I lean more toward the speculative market. Condominiums in particular.”
“I see.”
It started to drizzle and Jerry turned on the wipers. They drove several blocks in an awkward silence. Ann noticed that Jerry was tapping the steering wheel with his fingers and suddenly realized that he was probably more nervous than she was. This made her feel more comfortable for some reason. She assessed how things were going so far and had to admit that she felt fairly at ease in Jerry Rankin’s company. He looked even more handsome than she remembered him looking the day she’d met him at the supermarket and she was impressed with his impeccable manners. Sam had only opened a car door for her a handful of times in all the years they’d been married. And two of those rare occasions had been on their wedding day…
“Would you mind a little music?” Jerry suddenly asked.
“No, not at all.”
He turned on the stereo and inserted a CD. Ann immediately recognized the song, Gimme Some Lovin’ by The Spencer Davis Group.
It’s an oldies collection,” Jerry explained. “They don’t make songs like this anymore.”
Ann smiled at him. “You can say that again. Amy plays some of the most nerve-wracking stuff imaginable! Rap music. Heavy metal. And she always plays it so loud!”
Jerry gasped. “That must be dreadful! How do you deal with it?”
“I put as much distance as possible between her bedroom and myself.”
He laughed. “How’s she doing in school?”
“Passing by the skin of her teeth. Amy’s a bright kid, but her social life takes precedence over her studies. She used to get all A’s and B’s through middle school, but she simply doesn’t apply herself anymore. I don’t think she realizes that it’s all going to catch up with her in the end if she doesn’t start shaping up.”
Jerry said, “She’ll come around, Ann. Most of the kids her age that I’ve worked with at church have the same problem. It’s not easy becoming an adult nowadays-the old, innocent days of Leave It To Beaver and Ozzie and Harriet are extinct. I think the family structure in today’s society is partially to blame for a lot of this generation’s problems.”
“Divorce doesn’t help much, either,” Ann muttered half aloud.
“What was that?”
Ann sighed. “I said that divorce doesn’t help matters any, either.”
Jerry hesitated a moment, then said, “Divorce is an unfortunate fact of life. But it certainly doesn’t have to destroy a child’s life. As long as there’s plenty of love and understanding at home, they can adjust eventually.”
“How about the theory that two-parent families are more stable for children?”
“I won’t argue with that. But remember, a divorce needn’t be a death sentence, Ann. Many parents remarry and experience successful relationships between stepparent and child.”
This was something Ann had given little thought to. “Are you sure you don’t have any children, Jerry?” Ann said, grinning. “I mean, you seem so well-versed on the topic.”
He chuckled, then his expression turned somber. “I wish I did, Ann. I really do. Marie and I tried for years to have a child but never had any luck. We were seriously considering adoption just before she passed away.”
“I’m so sorry, Jerry,” Ann said quietly.
“It’s all right. At least I have my kids at the church, and believe me-they’re quite a handful!”
Ann smiled and fell silent. For the first time, she realized just how lonely Jerry Rankin must be and felt sorry for him. Beneath the surface of that rugged physique and handsome, confident face beat a lonely heart-Jerry Ra
nkin was a vulnerable soul who obviously loved kids and sorely missed his lately departed wife.
To look at him, who would ever have guessed?
The restaurant was crowded when they arrived. Once they were shown to their table, they each ordered a glass of wine and began looking over the menu. After they’d given the waiter their orders, Ann stared across the table at Jerry and said, “This is wonderful, Jerry. I’m glad you suggested it.”
“The food is just as impressive as the atmosphere. If you like Italian food, this is the place to be.” he replied.
“There’s something I’ve been dying to ask you. Are you English, by any chance?”
“Not hardly!” he laughed. “I spent several years in Europe before I got married-I met Marie in England, as a matter of fact. After we were married, I brought her back to the States and we settled down in Cleveland, which is my hometown. Between the time spent in Europe and being around Marie all those years, I seem to have picked up a bit of an accent in the process.”
“I’ll bet I’m not the first to ask you then, am I?” Ann said.
“No, actually, you’re not,” he replied. “Have you ever been to Europe, Ann?”
“No. I’ve never even been out of the continental United States. I guess you could say I’ve led a sheltered existence.”
“You really should go some time. It’s marvelous-especially France.”
“So I’ve heard.”
The waiter came over and they ordered another glass of wine. Ann felt herself becoming pleasantly buzzed by the time their food arrived. Jerry had loosened up considerably, too. His somewhat formal way of speaking became markedly more relaxed as the evening progressed and his dry sense of humor began to surface. By the time they’d eaten and had one more drink, the two were carrying on as though they were lifelong friends. Ann wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or Jerry’s company that had put her in such high spirits-maybe a combination of both. All she knew was that she was thoroughly enjoying herself for the first time in what seemed like ages.
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