Kindred Killers: A Stanford Carter Murder Mystery

by Gary Starta

  Carter’s mind wandered back to his earlier interview with the private eye. Jay Fishburne’s demeanor had been unsettling as well. The PI had foolishly indicated he took a personal interest in his client, Therese Collins, when he commented on the infidelity of her marriage. What would the PI Fishburne be willing to do to protect a woman he might have fallen in love with? Could he have conspired to kill her husband with the needles? Yes, he could. But Carter had no definitive evidence at this point to link the PI with the crime scene. In a way, Fishburne was similar to Shock, who had taken a perverse interest in a couple of serial killings immediately prior to his breakdown. Shock had noted how sloppily the serial had handled a scalpel—used to stab victims in the heart. Shock himself soon murdered using a scalpel, employing the skilled precision of a surgeon. There had been no doubt, Shock had taken the killings personally—but not in the humanitarian manner of Robert Shirley. Shock had taken a personal interest to become judge, jury and executioner. Carter wondered if the PI Fishburne could have crossed the same thin line of sanity his former medical examiner had. Perhaps Fishburne thought Dan Collins had it coming to him. If so, maybe Fishburne had acquired a taste for killing. Possibly, there would be others who might be judged in the same lethal manner. The race was on to garner evidence to prevent that from happening.

  Carter’s body radiated a posture of urgency to Shirley, as the detective stepped from the entrance to the foot of the autopsy table.

  “I can state at this juncture that Mr. Collins died from blunt force trauma. It was a blow to the calvaria or skull cap which led to an almost immediate death. I found extensive tearing of tissue underneath the skin. That means the victim’s meninges, the protective membranes of the skull, were compromised resulting in intracranial splintering,” he paused to point at X-rays of the victim’s skull, “bottom line the skull casing was fractured and pieces of bone were shoved into the brain. That resulted in hemorrhaging and death.” Shirley paused and mumbled something unintelligible. Carter surmised it was a disparaging remark intended for the killer.

  “So fortunately for Mr. Collins, he might not have been awake to experience his torture.”

  “I am certain the lethal injury to the skull was made just prior to death and he was not awake. If the blow to the head had been inflicted after the needle invasions, more tissue tearing would have resulted. And despite the extensive damage the needles caused to various parts of the body including the groin and lungs, none of that damage could have been responsible for death.”

  “So what you’re saying is that our killer simply could have murdered Mr. Collins with a rock like the one CSI Seacrest just found near the scene. But since he or she chose to risk capture, opting to methodically torture our victim with needles, it tells me this is quite personal.”

  “Yet a serial may take a personal ‘hands on’ approach to killing. I had a case in Georgia where a man was cut up with meat cleavers. Turns out, the victim had been a butcher. But when the killer was captured, no personal connection between the killer and victim could be made. Was it just blind chance that the killer chose a meat cleaver? In this case, was the murderer simply using needles to tell a story? Perhaps, the killer already knew his target would die from the blow to the head. We could theorize all day, but I don’t get paid to do that. Either way, whether the needles were intended to cause death or not, the whole business is sick.”

  “Sick indeed.” Carter asked Shirley to keep him posted; then he exited out the morgue’s swinging doors.

  Moments later, Carter was in Tony Gelder’s trace lab.

  Gelder informed Carter all he needed was the brand of needles Wong used to make a positive match. “The box Jill found confirms these acupuncture needles were taken from it. These needles”—he stopped to show Carter an evidence sample—“are Japanese style with alloy handles.”

  “Officer Jamieson will be in contact with you to give you the brand of Dr. Wong’s needles, Tony.” Carter hoped to find the brand of needles used by Wong in a search of her residence or at her business. He wouldn’t rely matching a purchase requisition. The idea that someone other than the wife or girlfriend was involved also nagged him. A brand confirmation wasn’t definitive enough to press murder charges against the acupuncturist, especially if someone had stolen the delivery intended for Wong. Needles without trace evidence from the killer or killers wouldn’t be good enough to pin a murder rap on anyone. And according to Dr. Shirley’s findings, Dan Collins did not die from acupuncture wounds which would make it even more difficult to pin a murder charge on anyone who had left trace evidence on them. Bottom line, he needed to establish if Jill’s rock was the actual murder weapon or was it still missing?

  Carter prepared a backup plan. He would request warrants for searches of Dr. Wong’s and Mrs. Collin’s residence and places of businesses, just in case either women had changed their minds about allowing a voluntary search. He had to consider the rock might not be the murder weapon. Possibly, the instrument of Dan Collins’ death could be found in the women’s residences. He glanced at his watch, realizing he must catch Judge Flynn to do this. The judge usually took requests in his chambers in the late afternoon. It was now 3:45.

  Carter left the trace lab, hopeful Tony would now be able to gather transfer evidence from the rock. Was the killer using gloves when he handled it, just as he did when inserting the needles? Or perhaps, could they get lucky as Jill suggested? Could the killer have involuntarily contributed bodily fluids such as saliva or perspiration? Of course, a pair of killers could have accomplished the task. Maybe one struck the blow with the rock and the other applied the needles. Since processing had not been completed, Carter could not rule out a two-person theory, but his instinct wanted him to.

  Carter’s train of thought and path of destination both become derailed when he passed by the lab’s front desk.

  “I have a Mrs. Flagstone here to see you, Detective Carter,” secretary Amanda Parsons announced, waving a note in the air. Carter noticed her urgency. He didn’t want to be interrupted. But Parsons deserved his respect. Carter rolled his shoulders, attempting relaxation.

  Carter gave her the look, the look that said I am muddled in a murder investigation and don’t have time for any visitors . . . unless their witnesses.

  Parsons, a stout middle aged African American, usually read Carter’s thoughts as if telepathic. She and Carter were veterans of their jobs.

  “No, she’s not a witness. She’s from Massachusetts Mothers against Video Violence or—MMAVV—for short,” Parsons answered. Carter nearly smiled. It was as if he and Parsons were a long-time couple.

  “Could you please tell her I’ll return a call?”

  At that instant, Carter was interrupted by the overzealous woman in a knee length green dress—accented with a purple scarf and matching shoes; she had bounded from a nearby bench upon recognizing Carter from a newspaper photo.

  “Ooh . . . Detective Carter in the flesh. So nice to meet you.” Her hand was embracing Carter’s before he had time to react or even swallow.

  “Now I know your schedule must be hectic, but I wanted to personally invite you to be a speaker at our next public forum.”

  “Ah, when is that, ma’am?” Carter’s eyes searched for Parson’s. He was desperate for an out, any excuse to escape this woman’s grip. But Parsons was busy shielding a grin with a pink Post-it pad she held before her mouth. Carter felt as if he was bleeding in the ocean and a shark was circling him.

  A full minute passed and Mrs. Flagstone still held onto his right hand. She would not take ‘no’ for an answer, despite Carter’s grumbling about a heavy caseload.

  “Now before you give your speech, I suggest you come to our group’s weekly supper tomorrow night. You can just sit back and observe to prepare your speech.”

  “Speech?” Carter felt the pitch of his voice rise.

  “Yes. Why who better to speak out against the evils of movies and television? Film is the tool of the devil, immersing our youth in a del
uge of violence and hate, teaching them action always speaks louder than words.” She shuddered and rolled her eyes. “Ooh. How dreadful.” Carter wondered if the woman was reflecting upon her statement or something else. Her eyes fully closed in an awkward moment of silent reflection.

  She had released Carters’ hand, but now hers was resting on his arm.

  Carter peered at it, it reminded him of a slithering snake, possibly the same one that supposedly tempted Eve with fruit.

  This woman probably believes an apple is responsible for poisoning the world.

  Her eyes bulged open. Carter imagined the woman as some sort of leering frog. “So you see, this is for the children. We must tend to them as if they’re our most precious resource. You understand fully, I’m sure.”

  Carter began to speak . . . “Yes, I couldn’t say it better . . . ”

  “Good, so here’s the address.” She handed him a card. “I won’t take up anymore of your time. Please be there, promptly at 6:30 p.m.”

  She turned to go and Carter exhaled. Parsons had taken cover underneath her desk, muffled giggles could be heard among ringing phones and beeping fax machines.

  Suddenly, Ms. Flagstone whirled 180 degrees. “Oh, by the way you’re digging us out of a deep jam. We had scheduled the actor Christopher Walken—you know the one who won the Hasty Pudding award—but he had to back out at the last moment due to a movie commitment.”

  Carter could only stand there perplexed while Ms. Flagstone, with her frog-like eyes and matching amphibious attire, dissipated through a revolving glass door.

  Carter continued to pause until he was sure she had left. He then hurried to secure his warrants.

  ***

  Jill and Stanford finished leftovers. It was 7. Carter did not speak at dinner, too immersed in thought. Jill, exhausted from her crime scene, didn’t push for conversation, but suddenly Carter blurted out: “I can’t believe I’m their runner up.”

  Carter explained how Walken—the recipient of an award by Hasty Pudding Theatricals at Harvard—had been the preferred speaker for a group supposedly against video violence.

  “The man has appeared in countless violent films,” Carter said.

  Jill scooped a spoon of peas into her mouth. Chewing, she said, “Well, he has toned that image down some. Did you know he even entertained running for President?”

  Carter laughed and reached across the table to secure Jill’s hand.

  He had used the subject of Walken to deflect the pressing matter at hand. Carter knew it couldn’t be deflected, however. Jill might be called into Hurley’s office tomorrow for an interview. Still, he could attempt to gently segue into what could be a life-defining conversation—the moment when the detective and the CSI would choose their future paths.

  After he briefed her on working tomorrow’s crime scenes, Carter broached the inevitable.

  “Sweetheart, we’ve got to talk about our future.”

  Chapter 7

  He glanced at his clock radio, winding his way through the narrow confines of a one-way city street. PI Jay Fishburne noted the time, 7:20. It had been six hours since his meeting with Detective Stanford Carter. Yet, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that made his stomach feel as if it were on fire. He tried to relax shortly after Carter left. He watched a mindless movie on a cable demand channel, Earth Girls Are Easy. He knew it would be stupid. He had watched it before, when it first came out, nearly twenty years ago. His opinion of it hadn’t changed. But he admitted to himself that he did find the lead character played by Geena Davis alluring. She was sexy, pretty, with a great body, but she also had a kind face, soulful eyes, reminding him of the duality he felt for Lucy the hooker. On the outside she was obviously sexy, but underneath it all she evoked feelings in Fishburne he didn’t know he possessed. He felt she was the woman he would marry because she possessed a wholesome quality. She tried her best to cover it, clouding it with the sternness of her eyes, the sting of her vile jokes. Nevertheless, Fishburne saw it when she was in the throes of passion, when she cried for him to give it to her good and hard. There was a frailty underneath her hardcover veneer. Fishburne shared her same enthusiasm for sex, because of an unspoken bond they had. He believed she was his soul mate, in both mind and body; she just needed to drop her defenses and see that.

  He rapped his fingers upon the dashboard, stopped at a light. Still nervous, he reached inside his jacket for a smoke. He cursed his faltering memory. He left them at the condo. He had been distracted by a call from his buddy, Sergeant Sid Auerbach. Sid had called an hour before, apologizing for not being able to keep their scheduled rendezvous today. He would be working overtime, canvassing the area for witnesses in the Dan Collins’ murder case. Jay could have used a laugh and a drink. He had tried to focus on his latest case, but found thoughts of Therese Collins to be too distracting. Would she be all right now that Dan was out of her life, for good? Had Therese wanted more than revenge sex the other night? If so, he would have to explain his situation to Lucy. He had been with another woman, and had given in to a moment of weakness. That’s what he would tell her. He wouldn’t lie to her like Dan did. He wouldn’t just duck and run. It wasn’t the first terrible thing he had ever done and probably wouldn’t be the last.

  His heart still belonged to Lucy. No question. The PI believed a good heart to heart talk with Sid might help him with this conundrum. Could he continue his relationship with Lucy now that he had a secret? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he must. Sid would understand—even alleviate some of his guilt. He could tell Sid about anything, ever since they were just kids in middle school.

  On the phone, Sid had sounded fascinated about the coincidence of the investigation. One day ago, Fishburne trailed Dan Collins, hoping to catch him cheating. Now Sid was the one investigating Dan although circumstances had obviously changed. Sid sounded happy when he said he was the investigator. Well, not ‘the’ lead investigator, just a uniformed officer asking questions, but nevertheless an active part of a murder investigation. Jay felt good reminding Sid of this fact. He wanted to repay Sid for listening to him all these years, for putting up with his whining for not making the force.

  Sid ended the call saying, “Jay, old buddy, it’s funny how life crossed our paths.” Perhaps, Jay mused, fate had connected both he and his best friend to this case. He hoped Sid’s efforts would exonerate him from any suspicion by the Boston PD. It had to.

  Jay felt his heart thud in his chest as he pondered the possibility. No. He couldn’t be blamed for Dan Collins’ death. Of course he had secretly wished for Therese Collins to be rid of the vermin Dan Collins was. Any person with a moral compass would. On the other hand, he respected the Boston PD. He needed them to respect him in return. He just needed to maintain a professional persona throughout this ordeal.

  If he was too remain placid and calm he would have to pretend his affair with Therese Collins had never happened. In the long run, it would be better if Lucy didn’t know. Telling her wouldn’t change what had happened. It was a mistake, that’s all.

  Lost in thought, Jay reached his destination, not even recalling driving down the last few blocks. Probably instinct. He had driven this route nearly every day for two weeks to pick up Lucy. Jay was certain instinct had led him not only to a destination, but also to Lucy herself.

  ***

  Lucy hopped into Jay’s car. He was wearing a half-hearted smile. She immediately asked him, “What’s wrong? Bad day?”

  “You could say that,” he said, cutting the wheel to turn back into traffic.

  “Well, whatever it is, let’s put it to rest. I don’t get paid to hear problems.” She caught him glancing at her but she stared straight ahead with stern eyes.

  She popped a knob on his dash and chomped on some gum.

  The Everclear song about a desperate lover trying to win his sweetheart with a big house played. He promised to buy her a new life.

  Lucy pretended she needed to retrieve something from her purse when Jay attempted to
take her hand into his.

  She scoffed. “Hah. I’d like to see someone buy me a new life. Better watch the road, there’s crazy fuckers out everywhere today.”

  A sidelong glance at Jay found he had repositioned both of his hands on the steering wheel.

  At the condo, Jay remained uncharacteristically silent. Maybe she had been a bit hard on him in the car. She just didn’t want any of his speeches concerning her career choice.

  Lucy intensified her gum chewing hoping it would elicit a response. Jay only offered, “Hey, maybe you should eat something. Gum isn’t on the food pyramid.”

  She mustered some feign sympathy. “Hey, I hope I didn’t shit all over your parade. I know you want the best for me. But we’ve been over this; I’ll only end up dragging you down with me.”

  She kicked her heels off and plopped onto the couch. Flat on her back, she began removing her stockings. Her legs dangled in the air nakedly and invitingly before Jay. She didn’t hate her job entirely. This was the part of the night where she imagined she was an actress. She let her legs dangle a moment more as if she was a spider baiting her prey. She could see Jay was immediately aroused. But he was wearing a pained expression at the same time. Talk about mixed signals. “Will you please make up your mind?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She pointed a finger to his groin area. “I mean either wipe that sorry ass look off of your face or come here and fuck me.”

  Jay made love to her with an intensity she had not experienced from him before. She discerned anger in his groans.

  When they finished, Fishburne told her they needed to talk.

  “I’ll bet. I think you’re hung up on someone else. It’s about time.”

  Jay explained today’s events, pacing the floor. Lucy lay on the coach, twirling strands of long, lustrous copper/brown hair in her fingers. Her intuition had been certain Jay’s uneasiness was over a woman but she had been wrong.