“So this guy isn’t quite as slick as he must think he is,” Sam declared.
“Not in Sara’s case, at any rate. But don’t forget Marsha Bradley. Not a single slip-up there… so far,” Roger reminded Sam.
“That’s true,” Sam agreed.
“But he sure is one scary son of a bitch. What keeps going through my mind is that he had to take pictures of Sara Hunt’s body-like he was going to do it no matter what the risk might be. Couldn’t let it slide…”
“I know what you’re saying,” Sam said. “You’d think he wouldn’t have bothered. Apparently, those pictures meant a lot to the sick bastard.”
The waitress came with their drinks. Roger took a gulp of his coffee and said, “The times all match up with our theory, by the way. The man across the alley spotted the murderer on the fire escape at approximately the same time Sara’s neighbor knocked on her door bitching about the music. That’s how we came up with the theory in the first place. But of course it is only a theory and we’re still no closer to catching the perp than we were before. All we really have is a vague description of the guy, and that’s pretty damn weak at best. I mean, how many tall white guys with long dark hair and a beard are there in this country, you reckon?”
Sam nodded as he sipped. “I see what you mean.”
“So all of this information is for the most part useless, unfortunately. So imagine how Lieutenant Mancuso is going to feel when he learns that Mister Small-Town Cop just may have a suspect in mind.”
Sam nearly choked on his coffee. “What?”
The detective grinned smugly. “That’s right, Bucko. Like I told you earlier, there’s a lot more happening here in tiny Smithtown than there is in The Big City.”
Roger Hagstrom certainly had a flair for the dramatic, Sam thought to himself. It was just like him to wait until the last possible moment to divulge the crux of a matter. “What in the hell are you talking about, Rog?”
His friend ceremoniously stubbed out his cigarette and said, “One of my men called me at my hotel room early this morning. It seems that our little Smithtown Class of ‘70 yearbook investigation has yielded a possible suspect after all.”
Sam mentally raced through the senior pictures in the yearbook, wondering who it would be. “Who, Roger?” he asked.
“You ain’t gonna believe it, I can tell you that,” his friend replied.
“Who is it, goddamn it!” Sam snapped impatiently.
Roger stared directly into his eyes. “Stanley Jenkins.”
Sam pictured the horn-rimmed bespectacled geek with the 4.0 average and laughed out loud. “You’ve got to be kidding! Stanley Jenkins?”
“That’s right, buddy. And please, hold off on your understandable skepticism until I’ve finished. Because even if Stanley ends up not being the man we’ve been looking for, I’m sure that you will at least be appreciably impressed with his rather interesting and colorful past since graduating Smithtown High.”
Just then, the waitress came with their food. Sam waited until she had served them then said, “Let’s hear it.”
Roger took a gargantuan bite of his hamburger and washed it down with coffee before speaking. “After graduation, Stanley Jenkins enrolled at a little college in Indiana called Fountainhead Institute of Technology. I’ve never heard of the place before, but apparently it’s somewhere near the Ohio border, not far from Dayton. Anyway, as you recall, Stanley was a bona fide egghead and this college has a rather impressive engineering department. So Stanley chose to go there, as engineering was his major.”
Roger paused for another bite, then added dryly: “Stanley never made it past his freshman year.”
Sam took a half-hearted bite of his BLT. “Go ahead.”
“Well, Stanley was anything but a model student at Fountainhead, believe it or not. He apparently turned over a new leaf after high school and decided to go the full hippie route: grew his hair long, discovered psychedelic rock music, and took lots and lots of drugs. Acid seemed to be his drug of choice. Not unlike us, he partied a lot and studied very little-became a regular guy on campus in the early 70’s, in other words. That is to say, Stanley tried to become a regular guy, but of course it never really happened. You know that old saying: ‘once a nerd, always a nerd.’ Stanley Jenkins was really only a hip and cool guy in his own mind but that persona never really came across to anyone else who knew him, if you catch my drift.
“Anyway, Stanley evidently wanted to make up for lost time from his high school days. He started asking out every beautiful chick on campus with hopes of having better luck than he’d had in high school, now that he was suddenly so hip and popular in his own mind. But unfortunately, he got shut down every time-just like high school. There was one girl in particular he had his eyes on. Her name was Cindy Fuller. A real knockout, from what I’ve been told.”
“Wait a minute, Rog,” Sam interjected. “Before you go any further with this fascinating story, do you mind telling me how in the hell you found all of this out?”
“A real stroke of luck, that’s how. Tom Slater-you know him, the rookie who just joined up last year-is the officer I assigned to track down the men in the yearbook. When Tom discovered that Stanley Jenkins had a police record in Epson, Indiana, he nearly flipped out. Coincidentally, Tom’s older brother had gone to Fountainhead the same time Stanley had. Most of this dope, Tom got from his brother. Now, can I continue before I get any further ahead of myself?”
Sam nodded with a laugh. His friend was really on a roll.
“Thank you. So this Cindy Fuller babe was a real fox and Stanley had zeroed-in on her. He asked her out countless times, got turned down just as many times, then apparently became downright obsessed with her. He started stalking her-hanging around her dorm all hours and following her to her classes-that kind of shit. The guy wouldn’t let up on her despite her constant refusals to go out with him. Then, one night, Stanley sort of flipped out.”
Roger paused long enough to gobble down a fistful of fries, then said, “He tried to burn down her fucking dorm!”
“What?”
“Stanley was tripping on acid one night and I guess he figured that if Cindy Fuller wasn’t going to play ball with him that he might as well make her pay for it. So he took a can of gasoline, poured it in under the crack of her door and all through the hall of her dorm, and lit a match. He was caught almost immediately by campus police, who saw the flames and Stanley running like a bat out of hell away from the scene.”
“What happened to Cindy Fuller?”
“Her room was empty when this all happened so nobody got hurt. They had the fire under control within minutes and the whole thing was basically a farce. But it could have been much more serious.”
“So what happened to Stanley?” Sam asked.
“He was charged with aggravated arson and attempted murder. He got himself a good lawyer who pushed for a temporary insanity plea, citing that Stanley was under the influence of a hallucinogen at the time and not in his right mind. A psychiatric evaluation was ordered and that’s when things really started getting ugly for poor Stanley.”
Sam lit up a cigarette. “What happened?”
“They determined that Stanley Jenkins was psychotic and a sociopath, among other things. The judge, who didn’t like Stanley in the first place-I guess Stanley was less than agreeable throughout the proceedings-ordered him to a minimum of one year in the nut house.”
“Whoa!”
“It gets even juicier. Stanley was committed to the Indiana State Hospital and remained there for four fucking years before they finally let him out. That was in ‘75… May First, 1975, ” Roger added, winking at Sam.
“ May Day! ” Sam exclaimed.
“Interesting, eh? Now get this: there has been only one person as far as we know who has heard from or seen Stanley Jenkins in the last fifteen years, and that would be his mother. And that was in 1980. Since then, it appears as though Stanley Jenkins has dropped off from the face of the earth.”
>
Sam said, “You’ve already talked to his mother?”
“Briefly,” Roger replied. “Ironically, Slater had already telephoned Stanley’s mother once before when we first started investigating the yearbook pictures. The records had shown that Mrs. Jenkins had moved in with her sister in Cincinnati shortly after her husband passed away back in ‘74 so Tom had called her to inquire about Stanley’s whereabouts. She’d told him that he was living in California and that he was working for a chemical firm there. After a few more questions, Tom was satisfied that Stanley was probably clean and not worth pursuing as a suspect, so he thanked Mrs. Jenkins and scratched him off the list of potential suspects. Then, Stanley’s record suddenly showed up last night-so we naturally had a renewed interest in him. And now Mrs. Jenkins suddenly has a totally different story…”
“What did she tell you?”
“When I called her, I immediately got the feeling that she knew we were going to call her again-call it ‘investigative intuition,’ for lack of a better word. Anyway, she hesitantly admitted that she had lied before-that she really didn’t have any idea where Stanley could be now. She told me that the last time she’d heard from him was back in 1976. He’d sent her a postcard from Vegas-she wouldn’t elaborate on what the postcard said. Then she suddenly asked me why I wanted to know and I just told her that we were conducting an investigation, but didn’t give her the specifics. I asked her if she had any idea, even the slightest hunch, where we might be able to locate Stanley and she promptly said ‘no’ and hung up on me.”
“Damn, this is getting weirder by the minute.”
“No shit. When I tried calling Mrs. Jenkins back, surprise of surprises, she didn’t answer the phone. It’s starting to look like she’s hiding something and we just may have to go down to Cincinnati to persuade her to be more cooperative. At any rate, that’s more or less where we stand now.”
Roger Hagstom sat and stared at Sam expectantly like a victorious general on a battlefield.
When it became apparent that he had no more to say, Sam said, “Is that it?”
His friend’s eyes widened. “ ’Is that it?’ Is that all you can say? Hell, you’re almost as bad as that cock-headed doubting Thomas I work for!” Roger snapped in a voice that was too loud.
Roger Hagstrom’s face flushed as he looked around and saw that half the restaurant was now staring at him.
Sam waited a moment for everything to calm down again then said, “Jesus, buddy, I didn’t mean to get you all bent out of shape! I was just wondering if there was more to the story, that’s all.”
Roger collected himself. “That’s cool-I guess I was just a little pissed that your reaction to all of this seemed about the same as Thompson’s. He thinks I’m jumping to conclusions just because I haven’t been able to come up with any concrete leads on this goddamn case yet. But look at the facts! We know that the murderer is pretty damn smart, right? Stanley Jenkins is intelligent, if nothing else. Hell, the bastard was a model student in high school, for chrissakes! We also know that whoever killed Sara Hunt was tall with long dark hair. Stanley is over six feet tall if he’s an inch. Granted, he was a lanky son of a bitch and wore pop bottle eyeglasses back in high school, but people do change considerably in twenty years; he’s probably put on weight and wearing contact lenses now. And what about ‘ May Day? ’ Doesn’t it seem just a little too coincidental that the murderer left behind those words on Marsha Bradley’s body and that May Day just so happens to denote the day of Stanley Jenkin’s emancipation from the loony bin?
“But by far, the most incriminating evidence is the marked page in the yearbook and the fact that Stanley knew both women; not to mention his damning psychiatric profile and the fact that he’s a psychotic, flipped-out lunatic who spent four years in a mental institution for stalking a beautiful chick and trying to torch her just for refusing his advances. Hell, what more do we need?”
“Evidence,” Sam replied flatly. “I’m no lawyer, but I know enough about criminal law to see that all you have is speculation and a bunch of circumstantial evidence in both of these cases. And you can’t arrest and convict somebody solely on that shit.”
“You’re forgetting something, Sherlock,” Roger smiled. “We’ve got the hair and semen samples as evidence. And that’s all it would take to convict.”
This had slipped Sam’s mind. Somewhat embarrassed, he said, “You’re right… That’s why you’re a cop and I’m not. And I have to agree that it looks like Stanley Jenkins could possibly be the murderer. But tell me, honestly, Roger. Would you ever in your wildest dreams believe that he is capable of sadistically raping and murdering two women in cold blood? Jesus, he’s the last person I’d ever suspect in this case. He was such a fucking… nerd!”
“No doubt about that,” Roger nodded in agreement. “I’d never have guessed him to be the type, either. But by the same token, who would have ever thought that he would grow his hair long, drop acid, and try to set a school dorm on fire? Those are documented facts.”
“Good point. I guess my biggest problem with all of this is why? Why would Stanley Jenkins murder Marsha Bradley and Sara Hunt? What was his motive?”
Roger heaved a long sigh. “Hell if I know. But I’m gonna find out, by God. In the meantime, I’ve got a lot of questions to ask a lot of people once we locate them.”
“What people, for instance?” Sam asked.
“The psychiatrist who handled Stanley’s case, for one. Plus Stanley’s lawyer and Cindy Fuller. And his college roommates, if he had any. Also any friends and acquaintances he might have had while living in Vegas. It’s going to take a lot of down and dirty police work, but I’m convinced that there is someone, somewhere who knows Stanley Jenkins and what he’s been up to for the last twenty years.”
“Sounds like that could take a long time,” Sam said.
“It will, no doubt. But it has to be done. We’re also working on a computer-enhanced photo of how Stanley might look today to show to little Tommy Bradley. I forgot to mention that the little tyke is finally beginning to snap out of it, from what I’ve heard. I think Dave is going to give his consent to let us interview him soon, in fact. And if Tommy actually saw his mother’s murderer and can give us a positive I.D. on him from the computer photo of Stanley, we’ll be in business. Then, maybe the chief will get off my back and eat a little humble pie. Damn, I can’t think of anything I’d rather like to see right now!”
“Have you let Mancuso in on any of this?” Sam asked.
“I’d like to wait until I have a little more to go on, but that wouldn’t be right. I’m going to call him as soon as I get back to the station. No sense in fucking around with egos and all that bullshit,” Roger said. He smiled slyly and added, “Still, it would be nice to confirm my theory before I filled him in-just so he’d realize that we’re a little more on the ball than he gives us credit for back here in Small Town, USA.”
“I almost hate to mention this, but isn’t there a possibility that Stanley Jenkins might be dead?” Sam said.
“That has crossed my mind, of course, and we’re checking up on it now, as we speak. I’ll bet he ain’t, though.” Roger finished off his hamburger and said, “Did you have any luck with Sara Hunt, by the way?”
Sam shrugged. “No, I didn’t learn a damn thing. She just didn’t live in Smithtown long enough to make oodles of friends, I reckon. Some of the people I talked to remembered her, but that was about the extent of it. I called Ann as well, but she told me that as far as she knows, Marsha hadn’t kept in touch with Sara since high school.”
“Actually, that’s good to know. Dave Bradley told us the same thing-that he was fairly certain Marsha hadn’t had any correspondence whatsoever with Sara all these years. Which would indicate that whatever connection there may have been between Marsha Bradley and Sara Hunt had been established back when we were all in high school. Mancuso has spoken to Sara’s parents of course, and they, too, have no knowledge of their daughter having been in conta
ct with Marsha Bradley. In fact, they couldn’t even recall ever meeting Marsha Bradley when Sara was living here, so the girls must not have been too awfully close to one another.”
“That’s not surprising. Sara Hunt was always sort of a snobbish bitch, if you ask me. Ann couldn’t stand her, either. Not exactly Miss Popularity, as I recall.”
“Hell, maybe there isn’t any real pertinent connection between the two women; other than the simple fact that they had known each other in high school. We need to get more dope on Stanley Jenkins. That’s all there is to it.”
“I can give you a hand,” Sam offered.
“I’ll let you know on that,” Roger replied tentatively. “For the time being, it’s all pretty much going to be just routine police work. Besides that, you’re better off staying in the background for now. In fact, if Thompson finds out that we’ve had this little chat, he’ll blow a goddamn gasket.”
“I don’t know why he’s so fucking paranoid,” Sam retorted. ”Surely he knows that McNary censors practically everything I write, anyway, even if I were stupid enough to try and print anything about this investigation. Where’s the trust?”
“Thompson has a real problem with the press-you know that. And that’s why your boss is such a puppet. He sucks Thompson’s ass.”
Sam grinned. “You know, I’ve always wondered about those two. You don’t suppose they’ve got something going, do you?”
Roger guffawed. “Never gave it much thought. They would make a cute pair though, now that you’ve mentioned it.”
They both laughed as Roger picked up the check, surveyed it, and laid a tip down on the table. “I’ve got to head back to the station,” he said, standing up.
Sam let his friend pay the check and followed him out of the restaurant. When they were inside the Jeep, Roger said, “Where were you when I called, by the way? And don’t tell try and tell me that you were in the sack with some chick!”
The May Day Murders Page 14
