Chapter Seven
Jake and Gordon walked up to the Woodbridge apartment complex together. Gordon had been waiting for Jake when he got out of his car. The bastard. He lives 10 miles further from here than I do. “Do you sleep in your clothes, Gordon? Is that how you do it? Just constantly stay in that suit?"
Gordon smiled, his bald head reflecting the rising sun. “Now Detective Matherly,” he said, in a fresh, singsong voice he used when he wanted to get on Jake's nerves in the morning. “You know I would never treat my suits with such disrespect."
Jake growled at him as they walked around the building to the Dumpster area in back. They were latecomers to the scene, since they had been called in as a courtesy by dispatch. These apartments were more rundown than the ones Susan lived in, even though they were only a couple miles apart. Constructed in the seventies, they looked like they were made to fit into the woods surrounding them. At the time, that must have been a hip thing to do, but by today's standards, they were dark and ugly. The small windows alone meant that the apartments would have little natural lighting and moss seemed to be taking over parts of the dark brown siding.
Jake and Gordon walked to Detective Jerry Martel. “You catch this one?” Jake wasn't a big fan of Martel but tried to keep his feelings to himself. As a detective, Martel was known around the station as average at best. In social situations, Jake avoided the fifty-something, born-again Christian whenever possible. Martel had once cornered him for thirty minutes at a funeral to talk about Jake's eternal soul. Jake believed in God but he also believed that people who pushed their religious views on others were a large pain in the ass.
“Yep,” Martel replied, turning to face them. “I paged you so you could see it. Victim's throat was cut.” Martel's hands flapped when he talked, every other word or so punctuated with a wave, as if he was conducting an orchestra.
“Describe the victim for me, Detective Martel, sir,” Gordon said, his voice still jovial since he'd succeeded in getting a rise out of Jake.
“White, female, mid-forties. Throat cut. She was found behind the Dumpster. Tenant saw her this morning when he was taking out his garbage.” His hands moved on the words ‘white,’ ‘forties,’ ‘cut,’ ‘Dumpster.’ Jake had to wrench his thoughts back to what the man said, forcing himself to ignore Martel's hands.
“Any stab wounds to the body?” Gordon asked, all business now.
“Not that we've seen so far. Someone cut her neck all the way to the spine. She bled out somewhere else and was dumped here. She's been dead since late last night or early this morning. ME puts it between eleven and three."
“She have any other wounds?"
“Besides a wicked bruise on her cheek, the neck wound looks like her only one."
“Shit,” Jake said, his disgust evident.
“Yes, Detective Matherly, I believe you are correct,” Gordon replied. Gordon took out his notebook and began to take notes.
“What's got you two all hot and bothered?” Martel asked. Martel was not the brightest guy on anyone's block. Jake remembered an incident last year when Martel put a knife into a paper evidence bag, instead of the double-ply plastic ones, and checked it into the property room. The results of his goof were a desk clerk with ten stitches and a knife too contaminated to use at trial. Martel had gotten a speech about how sharp-edged items will often cut through paper.
“What has gotten Detective Matherly all in a tizzy is that we didn't release to the press that our vic had other stab wounds."
“So? Maybe this woman has some other wounds too, ones we can't see with all the blood on her clothes."
“Forty others, Martel?” Jake let the sarcasm drip just a little. Even Martel would probably not miss forty other stab wounds, but he guessed anything was possible.
“Forty she don't have,” Martel answered, his head nodding a bit, hands directing the violin section through what looked like a difficult section. Maybe it showed how nervous he was, depending on the speed. “But she could have a few."
The three men watched the medical examiner take pictures of the body. “Different age, different sex, different wounds,” Jake said to Gordon. The woman on the ground was dressed in clothing a forty-year-old wouldn't usually wear. Short jeans skirt, fishnet hose and a tank top were not standard October clothing. Her hair had the look hair sometimes gets from too many bleach treatments, kind of burnt-out and tired looking. Jake couldn't see her face but noticed with a twist in his gut that she only had one shoe on. He hoped that death treated him better than this. He didn't want to die wearing only one shoe.
“Not many people switch to gentler killing,” Gordon observed, his voice pitched as if he was talking about the weather. “Still, we don't know. Maybe he was interrupted."
“Could be. We'll know more about the knife, at least, when we get the ME's report back.” Jake felt antsy and off center. Don Waters, the medical examiner, had told him the bad news this morning. Besides one hair stuck to the outside of Daugherty's blood soaked shirt, they hadn't gotten a single hair or fiber from the scene that could give them a clue about their guy. They did know about what type of knife was used. It could be any one of the large ones with a slight serrated edge bought to carve turkeys at Thanksgiving. And they knew from the wounds that the person who did it was a little over six feet tall and strong. Unless Zena, Warrior Princess, had come to life, it was a sure bet it was a man.
Of course, they had other bits and pieces they could rely on. The textbooks said he was almost certainly white, since the victim was white. People tend to kill within their own race, unless the murder was racially motivated, which was unlikely here. White people weren't usually killed because of their color. And they knew from the wounds that their perp was one very, very angry guy. There hadn't been any hesitation marks, which would have indicated that the murderer wasn't convinced he wanted to kill the victim. Forty deep slashes and stabs meant the perp had some anger management issues.
But they had nothing that linked the dead man to anything that might have caused his early demise. The vic had drawn a blank on bad habits and angry enemies, although they were still chasing that side of it down. Maybe something would turn up but Jake thought it would be a dead end. He had meant it when he told Susan that the guy could be Ward Cleaver.
There was a chance that it was one of the tenants in the building. Jake thought killing someone for unauthorized use of the building's washers was a little over the top, but people had killed for less reason than that. They hadn't found anyone who admitted to knowing Daugherty. The only tenants that had set off any bells were Robb Connors and Paul Parker, but Jake wasn't sure he was being objective about either of them. He might be suspicious of Robb because he had scared Susan and he had lied during his statement. But many people who weren't killers lied to the police or confused facts out of nervousness. Mr. Parker had acted strangely during their interview, but he might just be a nut case. Sadly, there were no laws against that.
“For now, we'll play it as if this one was killed by the same guy,” Gordon was saying, his voice pitched low so it didn't carry to the rest of the people at the scene. “We'll have to consider them both related until we get the ME's report and we can conclusively find that they had different killers. It's too much of a coincidence that we have two people dead with their throats cut in less than a week."
The three men stood looking at the Dumpster, unaware they mimicked each other, posed with their hands on their hips, their stances reflective.
* * * *
Susan picked up the phone in her office when it rang, her mind still on the conversation she'd had with one of her clients. He'd given her a hard time over how long it was taking to put together a contract for his small printing firm. It was standard boilerplate he could use with his clients for their printing jobs. She rarely did this kind of work anymore and now she remembered why. She preferred working with one or two big clients, helping them negotiate partnerships with other businesses and reviewing their contracts and even the
ir web-site content. Interesting and big enough so people don't go all petty on you. So she answered the phone with a bit more sharpness than she normally would, saying, “Rivers."
“Susan love, you sound like you're ready to take a bite out of someone.” Jake's voice flowed over the line, making her shiver. “I'll do the world a favor and volunteer."
“Nice, Jake. But I suggest you stay away from me. I'm having a hellish day.” Susan looked at the plaque hanging on her wall beside the door that Briles had given her for her birthday. It said, “The problem with the rat race is that even if you win, you're still a rat.” It was tastefully done in dark wood with silver plating and most people thought it was some sort of civic award until they leaned close to read the writing. She was in the mood to agree with it today.
“And it's only Thursday afternoon, too. Bet you wish it was Friday and you were going out on a date with me."
Susan smiled, despite herself. Be firm, her little voice warned, even as her stomach did a joyful jig. You will not have him again. You have sworn him off because you know you will slip up and tell your secrets if you come within a mile of him. Either that or jump in bed with him again. “Sorry, I'm unable to go on a date with you Friday night."
“Busy?” Jake sounded angry, but maybe not. She was having trouble reading his mood without seeing his face. Not that it mattered, she hastily assured herself.
“Very."
She heard him sigh. “Why do I get the feeling I've taken a giant step back?"
“I have no idea. Did you call for a reason? Other than that one?"
He sighed again. “Lord, you're difficult.” She heard him cover the phone and say something to another person that sounded like ‘coffee, black’ but she wasn't sure. “Sorry. Actually, I did call for another reason.” He paused for a second and Susan listed to the line hum while he seemed to debate what to tell her. “There was another murder, this time at Woodbridge Apartments."
Susan felt a ripple of unease curl through her. “When?"
“Last night, late."
“The same person killed them both?"
“We're not sure. I don't think so but if we were taking a poll around the station, I'd be out-voted. I'd offer to move in and keep you safe, but you'd just think it was an elaborate scheme on my part to hit on you.” His voice was joking, but underneath, Susan heard his concern.
“I'll be careful, Jake."
“Do. Keep your doors locked and don't let anyone in without knowing who's there first."
“Okay.” Susan looked up to see one of the firm's partners standing at the glass beside her office door. “Look, I need to go. I'll talk to you later."
“I'll look forward to it.” His voice was smooth and pitched to make her shiver again. She was glad he couldn't see her or he'd know how impacted she was by him.
“Jake?” Susan waved to the man at the door, signaling for him to come in.
“Yes?"
“Thanks for calling me.” She hung up the phone and looked up to smile at the man coming into her office. As she reached for a pen, Susan saw the slight shake in her hand that signaled nerves that had nothing to do with another murder.
* * * *
Jake hung up his desk phone then immediately picked it back up and called a number he'd underlined in the phone book in front of him. He introduced himself to the woman that answered and asked to speak with Margaret Westbrook.
“This is she,” she said, her voice holding that usual oh-shit-it's-a-cop reluctance.
“Ms. Westbrook, do you know Robb Connors?"
“Yes, actually, I do."
“Did you speak to him Sunday night?"
“Yes, I did. He called me for about the hundredth time to ask me out on a date. The guy is completely annoying."
“Do you know him well?"
“We work together."
“Where do you work?"
“Why? What's this about?"
“Someone was murdered at his apartment complex. This is just a routine alibi check."
“I work at The Copy Center on South Broad Street. Robb's the manager there. I've considered turning him in for sexual harassment, he's been such a pest."
“Out of curiosity, Ms. Westbrook, why haven't you?"
“Well,” she paused, reluctant to tell him. “I did go out on a date with him a couple months ago, but after that I've told him no each time. I've told him to leave me alone, but he keeps calling. I flat out told him that he wasn't my type and that I wanted him to back off."
“Has his behavior been physically threatening in any way? Or has he threatened you verbally?"
“That's just it, Detective. It hasn't been threatening at all. It's as if he doesn't get it. He calls and asks me out like he's never heard me say no before."
“When was the last time you saw him?"
“Saturday, at work. Did he murder someone?"
“This is routine, Ms. Westbrook. How long was your conversation?"
“As short as I could make it, I promise you. No more than five minutes or so."
“When did he call you?"
“I guess around seven or so.” Jake thought for a second. That meant Robb had between seven and nine to go down to the basement. It was enough time for him to be the murderer. Jake jotted himself a note to pull Robb's phone records.
Jake gave her his phone number in case she wanted to reach him again and thanked her for her time. He made notes on the call and then stuffed them into the file. Picking up the phone, he called Susan's neighbor, Ellie, to see if she was a little calmer than she had been on Sunday. He ended up leaving a message on her machine.
* * * *
“Susan!” A voice called to her across the parking lot. Susan turned to see Georgia Witherspoon walking out of the stairwell. Her tall, slim next-door neighbor had an aura about her that said she was together, confident, going some place.
She and Susan hadn't become friends, although Susan had made overtures when Georgia first moved into the apartments. Her neighbor had been too busy working long hours and volunteering for everything under the sun to go out for fun. The blond beauty had more things going on in a week than Susan did in a month. The only strange thing was that she was busy with everything but dating. In the months they'd lived next to each other, Susan had never seen her with a date. Then again, Susan hadn't had a date the whole time either, so what did she know?
“Hey Georgia.” Susan walked over to her. “I'm surprised to see you here during the day.” Susan came home to eat lunch once or twice a week. This week, she had come home almost every day. She didn't want to answer people's questions about the murders. It was as if she was suddenly an expert on stabbings because she had found the first victim. Since the newspapers were full of news linking the two murders, she had been everyone's favorite person to corner and chat about the ‘Apartment Slasher.’ Thank God it's Friday.
“Ever since my brother came to live with me, I've been dying for some me-time.” Georgia said with a sigh, her perky smile still in place.
“You know, I don't think I've met your brother."
“Samuel's only living with me temporarily. This is going to sound horrible, but I'm hoping he'll be out of here within the next week or so. He's in adult daycare during the day so I've to get him up early and have him at the center. You must be working late hours to miss us in the evenings. I'm home almost every night since he moved in. I've had to cut out all my volunteer work.” Georgia looked out over the parking lot, not meeting Susan's gaze. “My brother's mentally challenged so I can't leave him by himself for very long."
Susan's heart went out to her neighbor. To have to look after a mentally handicapped brother at the age of 24 would be more than a challenge. It sounded like caring for her brother had rearranged Georgia's life. Maybe not having any family had some up sides. “I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do? I could look after him while you go out one night, if you'd like."
“Thanks Susan, that's truly sweet. I'm hoping to have him in a group home with
in the next week or two. The insurance ran out so quickly when my father died that I didn't have time to find something new before they released him from the last program. The State has a ton of paperwork I have to file before I can get him into a home and it's a six week process at best.” Georgia's serious face turned lighter. “But it's almost over, God forgive me for saying it. I never thought I'd be taking care of my brother like this.” Georgia's gaze roamed the parking lot without settling on any one thing. “If you're really serious about coming over to watch him for me, I would be indebted to you forever. Especially if you would come over Sunday night and spell me for an hour or two while I go grocery shopping."
“Sure. I'm free starting around six.” Susan was glad she could help. Even if they weren't that close, Susan really liked her neighbor and wanted to give her any support she could.
“Seven o'clock too late for you?” When Susan shook her head, Georgia said, “This is awesome! You are a complete lifesaver. Hey! I heard you found that body in the laundry room."
“Oh Georgia, please don't ask. I've had to talk about it so much in the last week that I am completely sick of the subject. I've been hiding out during my lunch break so I won't have to rehash the whole thing."
“Okay, I'll leave you alone. But I have to tell you I told the police it was Robb Connors."
“Georgia!” Susan felt inappropriate laughter bubble up.
“He showed up Sunday afternoon to ask me out again and I had to get bitchy with him to get him to leave."
Susan couldn't help but grin. “Let me guess—tickets to a concert Monday night?"
Georgia smiled back. “You too?"
“Yeah but I must be slipping, because he didn't ask me until after he'd asked you. Next time I see him, I'll point out that you love him more so he can forget about me."
“Do it and die. That guy is such an asshole. He got my brother all riled up on Sunday when he wouldn't get out of my apartment and I had to start threatening him with the police. Samuel was so upset that he sat and rocked for hours after he left."
True Seeing Page 7
