“April didn’t say anything to you about someone who might have approached her when she went running alone?”
“I mentioned this to the police. April told me about a man she met at the RiverWalk, and she really liked him. April ran later on the weekends, since she didn’t have to be at school, so there were more people on the jogging trail. I took it the man she ran into was a fellow runner. She said he was really nice. I got the impression she was hoping he’d ask her out if she saw him again. We were having coffee before school when she mentioned it. It was a couple of days before she died.”
“Did April tell you his name?”
“I’m pretty sure she didn’t. If she did, I don’t remember. April did say he was older, maybe in his forties. April was thirty-four. It didn’t bother her, though, because she thought he was really cute. She told me she’d ‘met a hot guy.’ I remember thinking it was a big deal for April to say that, because she hadn’t expressed any interest in dating since her husband died.”
“So, no name, but if she thought he was attractive, maybe she told you what he looked like.”
“She didn’t give specifics. April had a big heart and I think what really got to her was the story about his son. Being a teacher, that had to hit home.”
“What was the story?”
“His son died recently. April told me the boy’s name. It was Ben. I can’t remember if April told me the man’s name, but I do remember his son’s, because it was the same name as my dad. Ben.”
“That’s a coincidence. My older brother, his name was Ben. He died when he was nine.”
“A child. I’m sorry to hear that,” Gwen said. “There was one more thing I told the police. Granted, I’m not implying this man April mentioned is the person who killed her.”
“Of course. I understand. You’re doing the right thing, sharing every bit of information you know.”
“April said the man she met, he told her that he volunteered at the Michigan branch of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. She told me she thought he might be a social worker or something along those lines. I got the impression April thought she finally met a decent guy. But these days, you never know. I just wish I could remember his name. Stupid that I remember his son’s name, but not his.”
“If anything else comes to mind, please give me a call.”
“I will. Can you do me a favor? The press keeps running the same picture of April. It’s her yearbook picture from last year and she absolutely hated it. Her mom and I were talking about that this morning. If you run another story, could you use a different picture of her? I know her mom would appreciate it.”
“Of course. If you speak to April’s mother, please give her my condolences. I’d like to talk to her as well, if she’s willing.”
Gwen grabbed her phone, scrolled through her camera icon, and then pushed her cell across her desk toward Julia.
“April loved this picture. That’s her and her late husband, Jack,” Gwen said. “If you give me your number, I’ll send it to you.”
Julia took in the image of a pretty, trim woman with shoulder-length, light brown hair and blue eyes. In the picture, April Young was tan and smiling in a white dress standing next to her husband in his Marine uniform.
Julia slid her business card across the desk to the principal. “I appreciate your time. I promise, I’ll do my best to find out what happened to your friend. My cell phone number is on my card. Please text me the picture of April, and I’ll make sure the paper runs it with all future stories.”
Julia left the school office, and by the time she reached her car, the principal had already texted the photo. Julia studied the picture of the happy young couple in the prime of their lives and considered the grief April must have felt as a widow left alone after a tragedy to raise a young son. The teacher had already endured so much.
“Who did this to you?” Julia asked as she took in the image of April. “I’ll find out. I promise.”
* * *
Julia swung her SUV onto Chrysler Avenue and then hooked onto the on-ramp for I-75 South into downtown Detroit and her newspaper. She made a mental point to call April Young’s mother later that morning. Julia would normally hunt down her address and ring her doorbell, showing up without warning, since it’s easier to say no to an interview over the phone than in person. But in case April’s son was home, Julia would call first. She didn’t want to upset the little boy any more than he obviously was.
The Detroit RiverWalk, Julia knew from running it herself, was a popular jogging spot along the east riverfront, a relatively short three-and-a-half-mile loop that spanned from the Joe Louis Arena to Gabriel Richard Park. It opened as early as six, a time when April likely took her run, and a time when it was least populated. The route would’ve taken April through parks and pathways and open space, where someone who knew her routine could easily lay in wait in the predawn darkness. Although April could have been snatched up randomly, the fact that the cops had referred to her killing as “ritualistic” made Julia’s gut tell her April’s killer hand-picked her.
Julia thought about the man the principal had mentioned, the one who told April Young his son had died and that he volunteered at the Michigan Chapter of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, an organization Julia knew well.
Julia called out to her Siri to find the number for the nonprofit and waited until a receptionist answered. Julia was then patched through to the agency’s director, Guy Peterson.
“Hey, Julia,” Guy answered. “How are things going with your book on Ben? You’ve got to promise me that I’ll get a signed copy.”
“I hit a bit of a roadblock. I’ve got some revisions to do. My editor wants me to put more of my feelings into the story.”
“That would be a good thing for you to do. I tell families all the time that sharing memories or letting people into their grief helps with the healing process. Holding everything inside isn’t good. I know your brother meant everything to you. You won’t be betraying his memory if you share your story with others.”
Julia ignored Peterson’s good advice and redirected the conversation to the real reason she was calling.
“I’m working a story I was hoping you could help me with.”
“Cold case or current?”
“Neither. I’m trying to find someone who may volunteer for you.”
“If you’re asking in a professional capacity, I can’t give out private information about one of our volunteers.”
“This person may be a suspect in a murder case.”
“Are you talking a murdered kid here? All our volunteers undergo extensive background checks.”
“No, not a child. The person I’m looking for is a man, an adult in his forties. Apparently, he told the victim he had a son named Ben who had died. I’m not sure how the child passed.”
“If it’s an abduction case, the only Ben in our database would be your brother.”
“I don’t have a name for this man, but he might be a social worker. I know that’s not much to go on, but I thought it would be worth checking out.”
“That doesn’t ring a bell. Let me ask around, though. I’ll call over to my counterpart at the Michigan Chapter of the National Children’s Alliance as well. Maybe the man you’re looking for volunteered over there. Some people get our organizations mixed up.”
Julia ended the call with Peterson and passed the five-mile sign to her exit when her cell phone rang on the dashboard. She hit hands free and answered.
“Hey, Gooden. It’s Navarro. This didn’t come from me, but you should head down to McCray Street past Seven Mile. There’s an abandoned Baptist church at the end of the street. Russell and I just arrived at the scene.”
“A church. Is there a second victim?”
“You got it. Same setup as the first vic.”
“April Young.”
“There was a waist pack that was left behind with a license in it. I’ll give you the name if you promise to k
eep it under wraps until I tell you otherwise.”
“I promise.”
“The latest victim’s name is Heather Burns.”
“A waist pack. Was Heather a runner?”
“We don’t know yet. Are you close?”
“Five minutes out.”
“Dispatch wasn’t specific on the church, just the address, otherwise the press would be swarming, so you should be able to get a head start.”
“I owe you, Navarro.”
“I know it. Got to go, Gooden.”
Julia hung up and waved an apology as she cut off another driver in order to make the unexpected exit she’d need to take to get to McCray Street. She was familiar with the neighborhood from her beat and took a slow cruise down a side street that paralleled McCray to get a view of the church before making herself visible. Although she knew almost everyone on the Detroit PD, and they, in turn, knew her by face and reputation, there were always a few new rookies or transfers who would take a blanket approach to the media as being the enemy, so she wanted to get into the scene through the back door first, to be sure her access wouldn’t be blocked by an unfamiliar officer.
Julia parked two blocks down from the back entrance of the church. She grabbed her tape recorder, phone, reporter’s notebook, and pencil, and picked her way through an overgrown thicket of weeds until she reached the rear lot of the Baptist church.
“Julia Gooden,” a male voice called from behind her. “Big surprise seeing you here, trying to sneak into the scene.”
Julia turned to see Branch LaBeau, a forty-something cop who had been working patrol since Julia could remember. LaBeau was of medium build, with a thick head of light brown hair and a cleft in his chin. Julia vaguely recalled him telling her that his first name was actually Scott, Branch being a childhood nickname, The conversation occurred as reporter and officer killed time, waiting for the excavation of a body, or at least some of its bones that connected to a skull discovered in a landfill on the outskirts of the city.
“Are you the official crime scene babysitter?” Julia asked.
“That’s right. I’m here to keep people like you out,” he said.
“Come on, LaBeau. You know me. I won’t touch anything. I just want to find out what happened to this woman. If you think about it, we both want the same thing here.”
LaBeau shook his head but smiled.
“You want to sell papers. I want to protect the public from assholes like the one who sliced up that woman inside there,” LaBeau said and jerked his thumb in the direction of the building. “Whoever killed the victim is into some freaky shit.”
LaBeau narrowed his gaze at a couple of teenagers who cut around the corner of a neighboring house in the direction of the church. The two teenage boys wore hoodies and each carried a brown paper bag. The two were distracted, both trying to outman each other with tales of their recent sexual hookups, but abruptly stopped when they looked up and caught LaBeau in his blue patrol uniform.
“What do you have in the bag, boys? Spray paint or a forty-ounce?” LaBeau asked, his deep voice seeming to split the air.
From inside the hoods of their gray sweatshirts, Julia saw two sets of eyes go wide. The brown paper bag one of the boys was clutching slipped through his hands and made a sharp shattering sound when it connected with the pavement.
“Shit,” the thinner of the two boys yelled, and took off running with his friend close behind him, the teenagers looking like scared jackrabbits trying to escape the snapping jaws of a hungry fox while they fled.
“You’re not going after them?” Julia asked.
“Nah, they’re small-time. Hopefully, I gave them a scare at least, so maybe the next time they cut school, they’ll find a different place to get buzzed instead of inside a church. That’s a sacrilege.”
“I never took you for a religious type.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Gooden. You just need to take the time to ask,” LaBeau said.
“Give me two minutes inside the church. I’m guessing the victim is another female runner.”
“I like you, Julia. I always have. But I don’t want to be your leak. You want answers, Navarro and Russell are inside. Come back later and they’ll probably talk.”
“There’s no later. I need to talk to them now. Come on, LaBeau. Can’t you make a round of the building? There might be someone out front trying to get in. It wouldn’t be your fault if I slipped inside when you weren’t here because you were doing your job keeping the crime scene contained. Just one question to Navarro and Russell and I’m out. It will be like I was never here.”
LaBeau rolled his eyes. “I’m going to my car. You owe me a coffee, Gooden,” LaBeau said. “The guys inside kick you out, that’s on you.”
“Is it just Navarro and Russell?”
“No, there are a couple more cops, including a new guy from Chicago. He’s heavy on the cologne.”
LaBeau stopped guarding the door and walked toward the front of the church, giving Julia a wave with the back of his hand without turning around.
She waited until he was out of sight and then hurried up three broken cement steps to the rear door. She opened it slowly and peered inside.
She immediately spotted Detective Raymond Navarro, a big man at six-three and 220 pounds. Navarro had a thick shock of dark hair and was the same age as Julia, thirty-seven. He had on his usual unofficial uniform of motorcycle boots, jeans, and a fitted black T-shirt underneath his leather jacket. Next to Navarro was his partner, Leroy Russell, who was in his early fifties and wore his trademark bald Mr. Clean look, which he’d had since Julia first met him. Next to Navarro and Russell were two other officers, one she knew well, a veteran, Corporal Gary Smith, who was a whisper away from retirement, and a younger officer dressed up in a suit.
Julia quietly slipped through the open door into the church. She knew she would likely get kicked out, but if she were lucky, she’d be able to get in a few questions before she was escorted out. But more important, Julia wanted to see Heather Burns. Julia’s mantra had always been, if she got to see the body, it would make her work harder to find the victim’s killer.
“Hey, what’s she doing here?” the unfamiliar police officer in the suit said as he spun around after catching Julia’s movement out of the corner of his eye.
Navarro glanced up and nodded at Julia. “She’s good, Esposito. She’s a reporter. We know her.”
“You Detroit cops need to smarten up,” Esposito answered.
“We’re plenty smart. Julia, this is Carlo Esposito,” Russell said.
Esposito walked toward Julia purposely with hooded eyes in an intimidation pose, but Julia kept walking forward in his direction, not backing down.
“How long do you think she’s been dead?” Julia asked.
“The coroner’s office will have to confirm, but I’m guessing maybe a few hours. A couple of teenagers cutting school found the body,” Navarro said.
“Yeah, the idiots came in here to smoke weed,” Russell said.
“You think because you’re cute you can come in here?” Esposito asked Julia. “I’m from Chicago. That shit doesn’t work with me.”
“She’s dressed just like the other one,” Navarro said. He bent over the body of Heather Burns and studied the dead woman’s face. “Looks like a wig this time, too.”
Russell got down on his haunches next to his partner and took a closer look. “Poor kid. The killer slashed her throat deep, down to the bone. Hey, Julia, this is weird, but the dress the victim is wearing—I think you’ve got the same one. You wore it to the police awards banquet, I think. Not that I was looking at you or anything.”
The new cop, Esposito, temporarily halted his pursuit, turned around to take another look at Heather Burns’s body, and then turned back around to Julia.
“Weird coincidence, reporter girl,” Esposito said. “The victim looks a hell of a lot like you.”
CHAPTER 5
Navarro rose up from his squatte
d position next to the body of Heather Burns and pointed in the direction of the church’s organ that was turned on its side.
“Right by where Julia’s standing, I see something,” Navarro said. “It’s pink.”
Navarro brushed past Esposito and bent down next to the organ. “It looks like a woman’s exercise outfit, shorts and a matching pink T-shirt. Get some pictures of this, Russell.”
“Excuse me, Julia,” Russell said, and moved past her to get to the newly discovered piece of evidence. “Looks like someone took the time to fold the clothes up, nice and neat.”
“‘Excuse me, Julia’? What’s with this polite crap? She needs to get her ass out of here,” Esposito said.
“You think the killer grabbed the victim while she was running, brought her here, and then made her change into the blue dress?” Julia asked, ignoring Esposito and getting in a question before the inevitable happened and she got booted from the scene.
“Aren’t you the smart one? Time for you to go, sweetheart,” Esposito said. He latched onto Julia’s arm and pulled her in the direction of the front door and to the street.
“I’ll go, but don’t ever touch me again. And my name is Julia. Julia Gooden. Not sweetheart,” Julia told Esposito, and tried to work her arm free. “I mean it. Let go of me.”
Navarro shot Esposito a hard look, and the new cop released his grip.
Julia felt the burn of frustration, not being able to get any of the cops to confirm her theory, and started for the exit. Unable to let it go, she turned around one more time to try and get a better look at Heather Burns, whose body was still mostly obstructed by the cops hovering around it.
“Ms. Gooden, I’d ask what you’re doing here, but that would be a silly question, now wouldn’t it?” a female voice said.
The acting chief of police, Beth Washington, stood in the open doorway. Washington was in her early forties, with smooth black skin, a short, stylish pixie haircut, and a curvy build.
You Fit the Pattern Page 4
