After that, from the lobby of the Tribune Tower, she texted the two photos to Detective Castino—along with a message:
Det. Castino: This is a photo of the first victim of the Immaculate Conception Killer. She was murdered on 9/14/70, exactly 50 yrs before Diana Mackie’s death. She too was last seen leaving the college library. Note the books scattered around the scene. Note the title of one book, magnified in the other photo: Look Homeward, Angel. Do you still think the book is insignificant? The girl’s name was Greta Mae Louden, and she looked like Diana. I think we have a copycat killer. Please call me and we’ll discuss. Thank you.
It had occurred to Ellie while she’d been examining the more gruesome photos in the newspaper’s files: How had this copycat killer picked up such a minute detail from an old crime scene? She’d needed a magnifying glass to discern that one of the books around Greta’s corpse was Look Homeward, Angel. That photo hadn’t been published in the newspaper or online. Had it been written up in some obscure article exactly what books had fallen out of Greta’s bag the night she’d been strangled?
Ellie had walked over to Jim’s desk and showed him the photo. “How could someone get a hold of an unpublished picture like this one? Somebody I know described to me in detail this photo—right down to the title of one of the books here in the foreground.”
He’d grinned at her. “Well, I’d say that’s one morbid son of a bitch.”
Ellie had given a weak laugh. But no sooner had she asked the question than she thought of a possible answer. Maybe the copycat killer was a reporter or a policeman—or, more likely, the son of a reporter or a cop who had covered the case fifty years ago.
“Still, I’m wondering how this guy could know about everything in this photo,” Ellie had pressed.
Jim had shrugged. “Some of these murders and serial killings have fans. They can be very resourceful. They go online and swap unpublished photos with other fans. Some will even pay good money for an uncensored crime scene photo—especially if it’s a murder that really fascinates them. A picture like that one could easily go for a couple of hundred—maybe even a grand for the negative. Hell, if I weren’t such an honest, scrupulous guy, I’d be rich . . .”
As Ellie drove past the tall brick pylon at Winnetka’s Tower Road beach, she wondered if tonight, in Nick Jensen’s apartment, she’d find photos like the ones she’d seen in the Trib’s archives.
Her smartphone rang. She had it bracketed to the dashboard. She glanced at the screen for a second: Det. Castino, Anton. Ellie reached past the steering wheel and touched the phone screen to put him on speaker mode. “Detective Castino?”
“Hello, Ms. Goodwin,” he said cheerlessly. “I got your text. And you’re right. It’s a very interesting coincidence—and something we’ll be sure to investigate further. But I don’t want you jumping to any quick conclusions that Diana’s death was the result of some copycat killer. Talk like that can cause a panic.”
“I understand,” she said, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. “But look at what’s happened: first, the fire in the laundry bungalow exactly fifty years after the baby-killing incident. Then, on the fiftieth anniversary of Crystal Juneau’s disappearance, Eden O’Rourke disappears—”
“Is this the girl who sent a text to her sister saying she was fine and coming back soon?” Castino asked, his tone dripping with irony.
“Crystal’s sister got a note just like it—and all the while, Crystal was being held prisoner in a shack in Lyle Duncan Wheeler’s backyard. And look at the similarities between Greta Mae Louden’s murder and Diana’s death on Monday night. Did you even bother to look up Greta online and check her picture? Did you see how much she looks like Diana?”
“Yes, I bothered,” he replied. “And, yes, I see a similarity between the girls—”
“They were both in the library before they were killed. The same book was found by their bodies. Diana was killed on the fiftieth anniversary of Greta Mae’s murder.”
“The problem here is that you’re looking at all the tiny similarities, Ms. Goodwin, and not the big, big differences. You say there’s a copycat killer on the loose. But if that’s true, he’s not really copying the murders, is he? Another consideration—serial killers, especially copycats, most of them are publicity hounds. They want their work to be noticed. So why would this ‘copycat’ go to such lengths to make Diana’s death look like a suicide? For a copycat, he’s sure working under the radar, and he’s very, very subtle.”
“So he doesn’t fit the normal profile,” Ellie argued, glancing at her phone for a second. “That doesn’t mean he isn’t out there.”
“Ms. Goodwin,” he said with a heavy sigh. She could picture the Danny DeVito lookalike at his messy desk with his Dr Pepper and Little Debbie. “You’ve had quite a shock. And you may even feel responsible for what happened to Diana, because she turned to you for help and you weren’t able to get to her on time. But no one’s blaming you. I think you’re grasping at straws. Someone pulled a sick prank and set a small fire on the fiftieth anniversary of something. So you want to take it seriously because it will help explain away what happened to your friend. I know you have the best of intentions. Have you thought about what we discussed last time? Have you spoken with a grief counselor or one of the priests there at the university?”
“Not yet,” Ellie growled, squirming in the driver’s seat.
“Well, I’m sure if you consulted with one of the fathers there, he’d agree with me. This talk about a possible copycat killer, it could really hurt the school. I’m sure you don’t want that. Diana’s parents strike me as very private people who want to keep their grief private, too. You don’t want to cause them any more pain, do you?”
“Of course not,” she sighed.
“Listen, I have another call right now,” he said. Ellie figured that was a lie. “Anyway, I appreciate that you’re trying to help . . .”
Another lie.
“I’ll give you a call in a couple of days and let you know if any of this information you gave us pans out. Okay?”
And still another lie.
“Thank you, Detective,” she said, frowning. She reached up and pressed the hang-up icon on her phone screen.
Ellie thought about Jane Marie Eggert, found strangled under a bridge along Sycamore Way on September 20, 1970.
Three days from now.
How was Detective Castino going to feel if another girl died on Saturday?
More important, Ellie thought, how am I going to feel?
If she had any reservations about breaking into Nick Jensen’s apartment tonight, they were gone now.
The bogus appointment Alden had made with him was in less than an hour.
Ellie shifted in the driver’s seat and pressed harder on the gas pedal.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Thursday, 6:09 P.M.
Sitting in the front seat of her parked Toyota, Ellie watched Nick Jensen’s apartment building across the street. For the last ten minutes, she’d been keeping her eyes on the front window of his second-floor unit. The curtains were open. It was just starting to get dark. The streetlights were on. She could see a light was on in his apartment, too. But from where she sat, she couldn’t tell if anyone was home.
She’d called Hannah to check in with her. According to Hannah, she and Alden had gotten an outside table at Campus Grounds with an unobstructed view of everyone coming and going from O’Leary Hall. Alden had his phone with him—in case Jensen called to cancel or anything. They would phone her once they spotted him heading into the dorm—and then again, when they saw him leaving.
It occurred to Ellie while she waited that Jensen might not even be home right now. He could have just left the light on. Maybe he was out on another appointment and planned to leave from there for O’Leary Hall. Instead of wasting valuable time sitting here in the car, waiting for him to appear, she could be in his apartment, searching the place.
She glanced at her wristwatch. He should ha
ve left for O’Leary Hall by now. It took about twenty minutes to get to the campus from here.
Ellie decided to give it five more minutes, and then she’d go up there and try to peek through the window. Her stomach rumbled, and she could feel herself perspiring. What if the stupid key wasn’t in the flower box? she thought, then this whole thing would be for nothing.
She saw his window curtains shut. A moment later, the door opened.
Ellie slouched down behind the wheel and watched as Jensen carried his folded-up massage table out of the apartment. He was dressed in black shorts, a gray T-shirt, and a gray sweatshirt, unzipped in front. He shut the door behind him, gave it a twist to check it, and then carried the table down the walkway to the stairs.
She watched him lug the contraption across the parking lot. He glanced around a couple of times—almost as if he thought someone was watching him. Ellie slumped even lower in the seat. Could it be he knew he was being set up?
He loaded the table in the trunk of his car, an old red Ford Fiesta. Then he looked around again and climbed into the car. After a couple of minutes, the car lights went on and he pulled out of the lot.
Ellie told herself to sit still for another sixty seconds—just in case he realized he’d forgotten something. That minute seemed to drag by. Finally, she grabbed her purse and phone and stepped out of the car. She hurried across the street to the L-shaped building. She headed up the stairs, and as she reached the top step, Ellie heard a door open. She stopped dead.
A woman emerged from another unit. She was talking on her phone. Ellie stepped aside and smiled at the woman. Without even a glance her way, Nick’s neighbor headed down the stairs. Ellie leisurely walked toward unit seventeen and knocked on the door. She knew the woman could see her from the parking lot if she bothered to look up. Ellie dug into her purse, took out her phone, and pretended to make a call. All the while, she watched the woman down in the lot. Once the woman had driven out of the lot and turned down the street, Ellie shoved the phone back in her purse. Then she glanced around and stepped over to the flower box. She lifted up the first of three small flowerpots. She didn’t see a key.
“Shit!” she hissed.
She put the pot back and tried the next pot. There it was.
She snatched up the key, put the pot back, and then, with a shaky hand, she slipped the key into the lock for unit seventeen. She heard a click and opened the door. For a moment, she held her breath, waiting for an alarm to go off.
Nothing.
Ellie put the key back under the flowerpot, and then she quickly turned around and slipped inside the apartment. Her mouth was dry and her heart raced.
The place was clean, but stark—with only a few furnishings. Everything looked like it was from Ikea. There was a sofa, and above it, the only thing on the otherwise bare beige walls—a large, unframed print of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks. Ellie had always thought everyone in that painting looked so lonely and sad. A small TV sat on a folding table and beside that, another folding table with a computer on it and a chair. A solitary barstool was at the counter bar that divided the tiny kitchen from the living area.
Everything looked so temporary—like he hadn’t been there long and didn’t intend to stay long either.
Ellie checked the computer to see if he was still logged in. But as soon as the monitor came on, a password request appeared. She tried Nick. That didn’t work.
Then she got an idea that made her shudder. She typed in Lyle.
That didn’t work either. She decided not to push her luck and risk a third incorrect guess that would lock up the computer. She didn’t want him to know anyone had been in the apartment.
She noticed a spiral notebook by the computer, but when she opened it, there were only a couple of pages of notes he’d taken in her class—and some doodling. The rest of the notebook was blank.
On the floor, to the side of the sofa, she noticed two books—both from the university’s library: East of Eden by John Steinbeck and The Cider House Rules by John Irving. Ellie made a mental note to check later with the library to find out if the books had been checked out or stolen.
She detected a pleasant, subtle spicy-musky scent from one of the two rooms off the small hallway. She switched on the light in the bathroom. It was tidy, but the light fixture and the cheap, pressed-wood cabinet looked outdated. She opened up the medicine chest, but didn’t see any prescription bottles amid the toothpaste and other toiletries. She’d been hoping to find out if he went by another name.
The pleasing aroma came from the room next door. It was also the homiest room in the place. There were two comfortable-looking chairs and a handsome dresser with a phone port and speakers and a couple of sleek glass candleholders on top of it. A standing oscillating fan stood in the corner. A dark curtain covered the window. Two framed Jackson Pollock prints hung on the walls. Ellie realized that this was where he gave massages. There was a big gap in the middle of the room where he must have had the massage table set up when not on house calls. She wondered where he slept.
She opened the dresser drawers and found neatly folded sheets and towels—along with an array of lotions and bottles of essential oils. Peeking behind the dresser and underneath, she didn’t discover anything he was hiding. She didn’t have much luck in the closet either. His limited wardrobe was nice and conservative, except for the one Hawaiian shirt she didn’t like. The shelf along the top held a couple of sweaters and nothing else. There were no mysterious boxes or storage bins—just a laundry bag with some sheets and clothing in it.
Heading back into the living room, Ellie lifted the seat cushions on the sofa. Nothing was hidden there—except the sofa bed. Now, at least she knew where he slept.
She was checking under the couch when her phone rang. It was too soon for Jensen to have made it to the campus already. Ellie grabbed the phone out of her purse and checked the caller’s name on the screen: O’Hurley, Robert.
It took her only a moment to realize why Father O’Hurley was calling. Obviously, Detective Castino had contacted him because she was being a pain in the ass. “Well, that didn’t take long,” she muttered to herself, shoving the phone back in her bag.
Finding nothing hidden in the living room, she looped around the counter bar and checked the kitchen cupboards. Jensen certainly had a healthy diet—not a bag of chips or candy in sight. On the top shelf, she saw a big box of Honey Nut Cheerios and a large container of Quaker Oats. The Quaker Oats container seemed like the ideal hiding place for a gun, a computer file, or even some rolled-up documents. On her tiptoes, she reached up and grabbed the Quaker Oats. She opened the container. It was about half-full—with Quaker Oats. She even shook the oats around, but nothing was hidden at the bottom of the container.
Frowning, she put the Quaker Oats back on the shelf and reached for the Honey Nut Cheerios. The box was too heavy for cereal. The top flaps on the box were worn and slightly frayed—as if they’d been opened and closed repeatedly and for a long time. She opened the flaps and found the cereal box stuffed with papers. Ellie carefully pulled them out. There were three manila folders full of documents. Ellie thought she might find a collection of grisly photos like the ones she’d just seen in that file at the Tribune’s library.
In the first folder, on top of a stack of papers, was a printout of Hannah’s Instagram page—with a selfie of her and Rachel Bonner eating pizza:
My new favorite pizza place is Bellini’s in Delmar! Best. Pizza. Ever. #gobellinis #carbfeast #cantgetenoughpizza
The rest of the folder was full of printouts of other social media posts from Hannah, along with newspaper clippings and stories about her and Eden.
It looked like Jensen was obsessed with the two of them.
Ellie flipped through the next folder. It was the thickest of the three, crammed with printouts and clippings about Rachel Bonner and her parents.
The third folder was the thinnest—just a few pieces of paper. Ellie stared at what was on top of the papers: a newspaper c
lipping with the headline
SHEBOYGAN GIRL DIES IN BICYCLE ACCIDENT
Kayla Kennedy Was Known for Heroic Rescue of Drowning Mother and Child
“Shit,” he said, pulling over to the side of the road.
He was about halfway between his apartment and the campus.
He didn’t have a good feeling about the massage appointment with this Patrick Murphy kid. First, most of his clients were adults. This was a student at the university, and the kid wanted the massage to take place in his dorm room at O’Leary Hall. A noisy dormitory for boys hardly seemed like the ideal setting for a massage session. And how many students could afford to drop a hundred dollars for a massage? It seemed like a setup. Somebody was punking somebody else—and at his expense, too.
On his phone, he found a number for O’Leary Hall. Though he figured he’d get a recording, he gave it a try anyway.
A man answered: “O’Leary Hall, front desk.”
“Hi, yeah, I have a pizza delivery for Patrick Murphy in room four-oh-three. I just want to make sure he’s in.”
“Let me check for you. Hold on a sec.”
While he waited, a few cars passed him on the road.
“Hello?” The desk clerk came back on the line. “Jim Munchel and Anthony Wingarter are in room four-oh-three, and neither one of them ordered a pizza.”
“Thanks,” he said, frowning.
He clicked off the line, glanced in his rearview mirror, and started to turn the car around.
* * *
“Would you relax?” Alden said. “He couldn’t possibly trace this to you.”
At their outside table at Campus Grounds, Hannah sat facing the quad and the front entrance to O’Leary Hall across the way. The men’s dorm was one of the more modern buildings on campus—a cold-looking, five-story, concrete-and-glass structure. But the entryway was well lit, and she could see people coming and going.
The Bad Sister Page 25
