by Rich Foster
“It's a thief's knot, just like you described in your inquiry.”
“Is the medical examiner done?”
“Yeah, we were just waiting for you.”
Gaines put his hand under the victim’s chin and tried to lift it so the hair would move away, but it did not move.
“She's in full rigor. The M.E. figures she's been dead ten or eleven hours.”
He knelt down, drew the hair back and held it in one hand behind her head..
“What do you think, Harry?”
“She'd pass for a sister of any of the other victims.”
Gaines looked to Maddox, “What is she, nineteen or twenty?”
“Eighteen. Elise Van Dam. She graduated from the local high school last June. Her parents said she was leaving for college next week.”
“The girl's throat was marked with contusions from fingers that pressed into the flesh.”
“The M.E. says it wasn't simple strangulation, the killer crushed her larynx from behind. It would have taken a lot of force, maybe even rage.”
The sheriff let the hair fall. He rose and idly stroked his mustache. “Forensics pick up any crime scene evidence?”
“Nothing so far. The bus stop is clean. We started canvassing the houses but so far nobody saw a thing.”
“Why here? Did she live nearby?”
“No. She was last seen leaving home to meet friends downtown. Her parents didn't know she was missing because they went to bed. They felt she was old enough to take care of herself.”
“Evidently not.”
“Guess so. They live about a mile away.”
“So why leave her here?”
“The streetlamp is burned out. Behind us is a green space that joins the streets. The killer could have parked one block over and carried the victim or parked at the bus stop. The neighbors say it is pitch black without the light. That old lady gawking on the porch over there said she knew this would happen, claims she's been complaining about the streetlight for three weeks.”
There wasn't anything else to say.
“Thanks for calling me. If you find anything let me know, okay?”
Maddox nodded, “Sure, but don't hold your breath, this killer is pretty careful.”
On the way home neither spoke for a long time. Gaines broke their silence.
“I was hoping to avoid this,”
“It was a chance to catch the guy. Now we will have to wait a year.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don't. I know serial killers can get worse and push up the schedule, but this guy seems to operate on some sort of calendar. All his killings are annual events.”
“There could be others, but so far it seems to be one a year, sometime around June.”
Gaines glanced over, “Some kind of anniversary?”
“Yeah, except Kerri Kershaw got away.”
“So why wait four months to strike again?”
“He needed to find a victim that met his profile. It couldn't be just any blonde on the street.”
“So you think he is stalking his victims?”
“I think so, either he shops for a type, or sub-consciously gets set-off when he meets someone that reminds him of some past event.”
“Nice theory, but it doesn't help us to catch him.”
“No,” said Harry, “unfortunately it doesn't.”
Gaines dropped Harry at his office on Edison Street. Before Harry got out Gaines said, “Makes me feel like I should have done more.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Harry slammed the door and Gaines rolled away.
Upstairs Paula was on the phone. Harry sat at his desk and stared out the window nursing two fingers of scotch.
“A little early to be drinking your lunch.”
Harry looked over, “What are we doing here?”
“That bad?”
“Bad enough. Another victim, eighteen and we don't have a clue who is doing this.”
Harry killed his drink. “Let's go home. I'm sick of detecting.”
Paula made tuna salad sandwiches in the kitchen. Harry set plates and napkins on the table. The air had turned cold, hinting of Fall. The French doors were closed. In the fireplace Harry stacked kindling on top of a few sheets from the Clarion then added a couple pieces of oak. The fire took with one match, though it sent heat into the room it failed to warm Harry's spirits.
“I feel like getting drunk.”
“But tomorrow you'll wish you hadn't.”
Harry grimaced, “As usual you're right.”
The murder story appeared in the Clarion, but without new developments it quickly moved out of the news. Neither law enforcement agency gave voice to the fact they were looking for a serial killer. All that could be done was to urge young girls to exercise caution when going out. The trouble with that advice was young people all thought themselves as capable of taking care of themselves, most had never met evil.
Chapter 27
October passed with a burst of Indian Summer. Harry took time off work to enjoy the pleasure of the uncrowded lake. No water skiers cut into quiet bays where he fished, no waiting at the fuel dock, and downtown the streets were pleasantly empty. Several of the waterfront restaurants closed for the season.
Halloween decorations proliferated, soon ghouls and goblins would fill the sidewalk. The annual revelry in blood and gore. The air turned cold and early morning showed the first frost of the season. Harry resigned himself to the coming winter.
At Cody Marina the docks were already gone, Harry's moved his houseboat to a buoy, now it was time to pull it for the winter. The crawler lifted the boat and slowly rolled it into its allotted space. Yard workers set the cradle and braces. Later, Harry would power wash the hull. Then in the spring it would be ready for a fresh coat of bottom paint and the new season.
“You want to pull your runabout, too?”
“No, I'll bring the trailer over and keep it at my house.”
“We have space free in the barn.”
“Sure, but it's not free. My boats cost me too much the way it is.”
Harry went down to the seawall where his runabout was tied off and got in. The sky was slate gray, but the water was calm. He went out for a last spin around the lake. He ran up the eastern shore, past Rocky Point campground where Alison Albright was found, past his house, and on north past the federal prison on Cramsden Point.
He ran out of lake and so came about and motored more leisurely down the western shore, he passed the Corbett estate which appeared shuttered for the season, then the Airport and the Prop Shop, and finally downtown Red Lake. He idled over to the marinas fuel dock which was the last thing to be pulled each Fall and tied off behind a Chris Craft powerboat. The wood was beautifully varnished. An older gentlemen waited while the dock boy filled the fuel tanks.
“Nice boat.”
“Thanks. It's a 1936.
“You can't find mahogany like that anymore.”
“That's true. I had the engine replaced, otherwise she is original. You live around here?”
Harry nodded toward the east. “I've got a cabin on the water over near Rocky Nook.”
The man thrust out his hand, “My name is Randall.”
“Harry.”
The men shook hands.
I've seen your boat before. I admire anyone who has the patience to keep up a varnished hull.”
“I rent a boat house. It is quite easy to maintain if the varnish doesn't get baked in the summer sun.”
Few boats remained in the water. The slip fingers that were crowded during the summer were now gone. The malingerers like Harry used mooring buoys, now as they talked, another boater slipped his buoy and motored past toward the boat lift. The wake rolled the Chris Craft against the dock. Randall instinctively put a hand out to hold it off, then untied one of the fenders and moved it higher, before tying it off, again.
Rather than using a double clove hitch, Harry noticed he tied a reef knot, but something about it did
not look right. Gradually he realized what troubled him. Casually he commented, “Is that knot better than a clove hitch?”
“I don't suppose so.”
“I just never saw one quite like that, the leads come out on opposite sides?”
The gentleman laughed. “When I was a kid in Cub Scouts, I spent a whole day practicing knots. The problem was, I had the reef reversed, by the end of the day the habit was so ingrained I never got it right unless I really thought about it.”
“I guess whatever works.”
“Actually, I later found out it was called a thief's knot because ship's cooks would tie the food bags with it. If a sailor got into the supplies, invariably he would tie a regular knot by instinct and reveal his skullduggery.”
“Really? How fascinating” Harry spoke with feigned surprise.
The dock boy interrupted their conversation.
“Ninety-two fifty, sir.”
Randall handed him a hundred dollar bill and climbed aboard. The big V-8 engine roared to life, with a throaty rumble, and spit water out the exhaust pipes. Harry was about to ask the man's last name but the dock boy arrived with his change. The man told him to keep the change and motored off.
Harry hopped down into his boat to give chase, but in his haste he snapped the key off in the ignition. Randall's boat rapidly receded as a small blot up the shoreline.
“Do you know where that guys lives?” he asked the dock-boy.
The kid shrugged. “No, he doesn't usually buy fuel here.”
“What about a last name?”
The kid shook his head, no.
“Damn,” Harry softly cursed. “I need to find him again.”
“I have his registration number. We copy them down on every boat we fuel. My boss says we need it in case of a fuel spill. He thinks it will somehow help with the EPA or the Water Quality Board or whoever looks into those things.”
This seemed a bit unlikely to Harry, but he was not going to argue against opportunity.
“What are his numbers?”
The youth went into the fuel shack and came back with a clipboard.
“Z 138 467” he said running his finger below the line.
“Listen, can you top my tanks off and then ask Jack to come down and get the key out of the ignition. I'll bring a spare over with my trailer later.”
Harry did not wait for an answer. He trotted up the dock and was in the parking lot before he remembered he did not have a car, having come over in his runabout. The main drag was empty. He turned west and began to jog toward the sheriff's station.
Gaines saw Harry come in. His face was sweaty despite the low temperature.
“Jogging?” he asked when Grim came into is office.
“I found him!”
“Who?”
“The killer!”
Gaines waited for more.
“I ran into this guy on the fuel dock. He tied his fender off with a reverse reef knot.”
“That doesn't make him our killer.”
“His age is about right. His name is Randall.”
“What's his first name?”
“That's it.”
“Then what's his last name?”
“I didn't get it, but I have his boat numbers, Z138 467.”
“Some detective, Harry. Why didn't you just follow him?”
“I broke the key off in the ignition.”
Gaines turned to the computer on his desk and entered the registration number on a data request for the Department of Motor Vehicles.
“Randal Cox. 1856 Birch Lane. That's up near the high end of the lake.”
“On the water?”
“No, it's that development on the hillside, two, three dozen homes. They built it four or five years ago. You turn up Ash Lane. It's a gravel road.”
“But he said he had a boathouse.”
“Not up there!”
Grim was momentarily puzzled, then his mind cleared.
“I remember now, he said he rented one because it kept the sun off the varnish.
Gaines was stroking his mustache,. “I knew a Randy Cox. We went to school together. Moved away years ago after his mother died.”
Harry glanced up. Gaines continued, “Funny thing though, she was murdered.”
“By whom?”
“An intruder. I don't believe they ever apprehended the killer.”
“That's a damn odd coincidence!”
“We were still in school ourselves. His mother was thirty five or thirty-six, way outside the profile of our killer. Besides, this probably isn't even the same Randy Cox, like I said, he has been gone for years.”
“You should get a warrant.”
“Based on what, that the guy can't tie a knot right? Hell, not even Judge Mannering would sign off on that even if she wasn't in Harmon State Prison for murdering the Kellners!”
Harry didn't say anything, but his face worked itself.
“Don't do it, Grim,” the sheriff warned.
“Do what?”
“Whatever it is you are thinking. I know how you think. So don't do it.”
Harry shrugged, a bit annoyed to be caught out as he thought about breaking and entering to see what he might find.
“I'll get his social security number off his DMV application and run him through the data base. That should answer this quickly enough.”
Jimmy Hughes stuck his head in the door. “You're due over at the County Council meeting, Sheriff.”
Gaines stood up. “I'll check it out Harry. If I find anything, I will let you know. For now I have to go give my end of the season report to the council.”
“Can you drop me off?”
“What do you think this is, a taxi service?”
Harry chuckled. “Serve and protect!”
Gaines smiled and nodded toward the door. “Let's go.”
Harry spent the rest of the afternoon getting the runabout out of the water and over to his house. He backed the trailer into the drive where he scrubbed the boat and cleaned the bottom. Under gray skies he waxed the hull, pulled the spark plugs and poured some motor oil into the cylinders for the winter. The braided lines he coiled and hung from the rail on the stern. Finally, he stretched the canvas cover over the cockpit. After moving assorted debris that gathered in the garage over the summer months, he was able to back the trailer into the garage.
During all this time he waited for Gaines to call, yet none came.
There's such a thing as computers, how long could it take to check out Randall Cox?
While he worked, the sky became leaden. The temperature steadily fell. As he closed the garage door, the first lazy flakes drifted down from above.
Inside the house was warm. A cherry flame filled the hearth. Harry blew on his hands not having realized how cold they became as he washed the boat.
“Here, try this,” Paula poured as she put a highball glass into his hand.
He stared at the amber liquid with trepidation.
“What is it?”
“You'll like it!”
“That's what you always say. What is it called?”
“A Scotch rocks.”
“Now you're speaking my language.” He took a long sip, then wrapped his arms around Paula. “It's almost as perfect as you.”
Outside large wet snow flakes fell. Already the deck was taking on the appearance of a frosted cake. Night was coming. If this kept up, by morning the first snowplows of the season would be out. Harry and Paula were content to be at home. They ate, drank, and when it was time to go to bed, they practiced the winter survival skill of shared bodily warmth.
*
The next day Gaines still had not called. Instead of being enamored by the first snow which turned the world into a winter wonderland, Harry chaffed. He puttered around the house; getting nothing done except to rile Paula by his bad mood. By noon Harry gave in and called Gaines.
“Harry here. What did you find out?”
“I'll need to call you back,” Gaines spoke hurri
edly, “I have a meeting with the District Attorney in twenty minutes.”
With that, Gaines rang off. Harry took it for a good omen since the police investigated and it was the D.A. who decided whether or not to file charges. More than ever he was sure they had found their man.
For something to do he got out his snow blower.
Probably a waste of time. Stuff will likely melt by tomorrow.
An hour later the drive was cleared, only to have a snowplow come past and leave a mound across the entry, so amid mumbled grumbling he restarted the machine and cleared that again. He was wrestling the blower into a narrow space between his boat and the garage wall when a sheriff's car pulled into the drive.
Gaines got out. His face was furrowed, even his mustache appeared to frown.
“You don't look too happy,” Harry said.
Gaines nodded toward the house. “Lets go inside and talk.”
They stomped their feet at the door. Gaines opened his jacket. Harry hung his upon a hook on the wall. He walked over to the kitchen and took down two highball glasses. He poured two fingers of whiskey in both glasses.
“Why do I sense you have bad news?”
Gaines dropped his jacket on the arm of the sofa and took a seat in the wing back chair. Harry leaned against the island counter.
“Randy Cox of my youth and the Randall Cox you met are one and the same. In 1962, when he was twelve years old, his mother was murdered by an intruder. Randy came home from school and found the body. After that tragedy he was reared by a foster family until he turned eighteen and enlisted in the Army in 1968. He served twenty years and was honorably discharged in 1988. For the next three years, he lived in Red Lake and then moved to Tuscon, Arizona. Last year he moved back to Red Lake and bought the house on Birch Lane.”
“It all fits.”
“It does. He spent time at Fort Jackson, North Carolina during the same time the two girls were murdered. There was another that went missing. He lived in southern Arizona when the other girls were killed and here during the time all of the killings in Red Lake occurred.”
Gaines sipped his whiskey. In 1990, he was renting a cabin just up the road from Amber Wood.”
