Kindred Killers: A Stanford Carter Murder Mystery

by Gary Starta

  Carter waited for Pressler to answer.

  “We met at the Spread Eagle. I talked to her one night and found she was running from her parents so I suggested she stay with me until things got sorted out.”

  Carter found this odd. If Pressler had met Cheryl at the club, how did Cheryl have the means to travel from the city to Methuen?

  “Is this your car?” Carter flipped to the next picture in his folder, a broken down Chevy.

  “Yeah, I got real worried when she didn’t come home last night.”

  “Did you try to call her?” Carter asked.

  “Yes, but I got no answer. I had lent her my cell phone—it rang to voicemail.”

  Carter was still troubled by how Pressler answered the first question.

  “Do you know how Cheryl came to work at the Spread Eagle?”

  “She was friends with one of the dancers, I think—I mean I’m not for sure on that. She probably contacted the friend when she first ran away.”

  “Do you happen to know the friend’s name?” Mallow asked.

  “No. She wouldn’t tell me much. She was afraid her friend might get in trouble, but more afraid her parents would find her. She’d been pretty tight lipped.”

  “Was she your girlfriend?” Mallow asked.

  Carter watched Pressler for facial reaction. He pursed his lips and ran a hand through his hair again.

  “Well, guess you could say that. I mean, I never thought I’d get involved with some stripper. I wasn’t looking at any long term plans with her, if that’s what you mean. I just wanted to look out for her.”

  Mallow unfolded his arms, shifting his hands to his waist.

  “So you two were a couple. She shared your house, your car?”

  Tim nodded, answering Mallow’s question.

  “Why didn’t you drive Cheryl to her job? Weren’t you afraid for her safety? I mean if you were supposedly ‘looking out’ for her.”

  “Wait a min—minute.” Pressler stammered, talking to Mallow. “I need to know what happened to Cheryl—before we go any further.

  “We’re only going to tell you that she’s dead,” Mallow nearly growled, contempt lacing his tone. Carter was wary about Mallow’s aggressiveness, but he had no choice. The Methuen officer was rightfully sharing in the investigation.

  ‘Damn it, this sucks. I’ve got no idea at all!” Pressler shouted back. He was fully confrontational. Pressler whirled to his right. He looked as if he was entertaining the idea of punching the doorjamb.

  “When the autopsy is complete, are we going to find that Ms. Thomas was sexually abused? And are we going to find your DNA all over her private . . . ”

  Tim interrupted Mallow. “You won’t find any evidence of abuse, if that’s what you mean. I don’t know what happened. Maybe one of the perverts at the club followed her, maybe he couldn’t take no for an answer. I told Cheryl to quit that job and go to school.”

  Mallow scratched his arm and Carter took it as a signal that Mallow didn’t believe Pressler’s act. Mallow probably can’t see one shiny glint of evidence that Tim Pressler is a knight in shining armor. At the moment, I can’t disagree.

  “Why did she work at such an establishment? You knew she was going through some rough times. Couldn’t you support her?” Mallow asked.

  “That’s really none of your business, officer,” Tim answered, seething. Carter equated Tim’s mouth with a shark’s. He also observed the anger welling up in Pressler’s eyes. He could only imagine what abuse Cheryl may have suffered at Tim’s hands. Tim finally told the officers that he was laid off by Boston Edison—the state’s electric utility company.

  “We find it odd, Mr. Pressler,” Carter said, “that her car was found broken down. The battery was stone dead when Methuen police found it. They also found the cell phone you’re referring to, plus a change of clothing in a duffel bag. We also find it particularly odd that Cheryl would be wearing a stripper’s outfit and not the long sleeve blouse and skirt she had packed in the bag.”

  “Are you thinking I set this up?” Pressler asked, eyes darting and filled with fury.

  Mallow responded to him.

  “Maybe you had some issues with Cheryl. Maybe she wasn’t paying you enough money. You must have a mortgage to pay. I think you probably found a goldmine when you met Cheryl. A dancer often makes an honest week’s salary in a span of a night. Did she hold out on you? Is that why you made it look like some psycho killed her? And why didn’t you go looking for her? You could have called a cab.”

  “I don’t need her money. I don’t need anything from anybody.”

  Mallow retorted.

  “I think that maybe Cheryl wasn’t the first woman to support your lifestyle. When we question the club’s manager, is he going to tell us that you’re a regular—that you prey upon vulnerable girls?” Mallow’s voice was more accusing, than it was asking.

  “Mr. Pressler,” Carter said—his voice becoming gentle and lilting—“you can see why we need to question you. Someone could have staged her car trouble. I mean, what is the coincidence that some psycho just happens to find a crime of opportunity?”

  “I can’t talk any further without a lawyer. I’m sorry,” Tim said with eyes full of contempt, not apology. “I’m sorry I got involved with her. Well, I guess no good deed goes unpunished. Unless you’re going to charge me, get off my property.”

  “Okay Mr. Pressler,” Mallow said, “but don’t you want your car back?”

  Pressler slammed the door shut. Mallow was being facetious. The car was now part of a crime scene and there was little chance it would be returned to Tim Pressler anytime soon.

  Carter didn’t speak to Mallow until they were back in the cruiser.

  “Well, that went well,” Carter said to Mallow. “Pretty damn brutal—if I don’t say so myself.” Mallow responded with a toss of his cap onto the backseat.

  The two officers canvassed the Spread Eagle next. The owner, reluctant to even identify Cheryl as a dancer, outright refused to confirm he ever saw anyone fitting Tim Pressler’s description.

  The bar was nearly empty. It was hours away from opening.

  Mallow couldn’t resist the chance to taunt the owner.

  “We’ll be back when your club opens. Maybe you’ll be more amenable to answering questions when you stand to lose a house full of business. Black suits with badges usually don’t complement g-strings very well.”

  The owner grimaced. “Look, she worked here. That’s all I can say.”

  Carter felt as if Mallow was but a rookie, incapable of resisting any urge to taunt a suspect or uncooperative witness. Carter was glad to part ways with Mallow. Officer Jamieson would accompany him to deliver bad news and a possible interview with Cheryl’s parents.

  ***

  It was almost like déjà vu for Carter. He informed Cheryl’s parents of the girl’s gruesome death, but neither Sherry nor Darryl Thomas had been quick to shed so much as a tear; similar to Therese Collins. Carter observed Jamieson as much as he did the parents. If the officer wasn’t surprised by their placid reactions, he didn’t show it. He has a good poker face. Maybe he had been too quick to judge Jamieson.

  The parents were also tight lipped, almost like the way Tim Pressler had described Cheryl. Could they be hiding something? They had ample opportunity to contact police, Cheryl’s picture had been featured on every local news station and cable news network for the past eight hours. Why didn’t they come forward? Why did I have to seek them out?

  Darryl Thomas traded a few sidelong glances with his wife. It was all too familiar to Carter. He had seen plenty of male abusers over the years. They forced their victims into silence. He studied the wife’s body, her arms and legs to see if there were any bruises. Carter felt sick to his stomach. The girl had probably run away from them because she had been abused as well. Why else leave such a posh lifestyle? Carter rolled this idea around in his mind as he sat in the Thomas’ parlor. Every appliance was brand new. The bamboo floors shined as if
they were newly installed. Possibly to cover up one of the many accidents that might have left trace residue behind. He nearly shuddered imagining what brutality Darryl might have inflicted upon Cheryl over the years. Anger boiled in his stomach. He tried some deep breathing, but at that moment, he felt as angry and hot headed as Officer Mallow. He wanted to push Mr. Thomas for answers concerning Cheryl’s disappearance. He wanted to push him hard and fast, right now before the bastard stopped speaking for fear of incriminating himself.

  When Sherry tried to answer one of Carter’s questions, he swore Darryl flinched.

  “You know, you never think such terrible things can happen to your family.” She sounded way too rational for a mother who just learned her daughter was brutally killed.

  She added. “I suppose we—I mean I—was to blame. I should have been more proactive with her. You know those anti-drug ads they run on TV. They tell you to confront your children, make them talk about what’s bothering them. Well, I tried a few years back when Cheryl first became rebellious. I mean it wasn’t much, just missing curfew a times; I thought she was just a normal teen rebelling. I guess I overlooked an early warning signal.”

  “So there have been instances when you were unsure where Cheryl was?” Carter asked.

  Jamieson cleared his throat. “Please understand this is for information gathering only. We need to do this so we might establish a suspect list.”

  Daryl’s eyes were on the floor. Are they filled with shame or rage?

  A long moment of silence followed. Carter tried to comfort Sherry, maybe she would reveal what Darryl was obviously trying to conceal.

  “You know, Mrs. Thomas,” Carter said—purposely keeping his eyes trained on her and not on Darryl—“you are so right about intervention. You should do everything in your power to know who your child’s friends are, what they like, what they dislike. We must become our children’s best friend—he paused to smile sheepishly—whether they want us to, or not.”

  Darryl Thomas couldn’t contain himself a moment longer.

  “Oh, and what do you know about parenting detective? Any children of your own?”

  “No, Mr. Thomas—not yet,” he said in a challenging tone, a tone which made him pause for a brief instant. He recalled Officer Mallow’s tactics.

  “But sometimes,” Carter continued, sweetening his acidic tone with psychology, “we fall short. It’s not anyone’s fault,” he said gazing into Sherry’s eyes. “Sometimes there are extenuating circumstances . . . ”

  Darryl interrupted. “What are you implying here? The answer is very simple if you ask me. My daughter gets hooked up with some low class bums who persuade her to go make some big money. I mean why wait tables for chump change when you live large dancing on a pole? Huh?”

  Carter looked to Sherry whose eyes fall on the floor. Is she shamed by her husband or shamed by her daughter?

  “Now,” Darryl continued, “Cheryl never ran away before. I mean there was one time, about a year back, when we got a little worried.”

  Sherry intervened. “Yes, Detective Carter. She had been gone for four days.” Carter nodded in enlightenment. But Darryl was quick to douse Carter’s ember of hope.

  “But it turns out she hadn’t run away—did she dear?” he said glancing at his wife, almost mockingly. “It was just a big communication gap. Her cell phone was out or range and she couldn’t call us. Turns out she got a last minute invitation to go camping with a neighbor’s family. It was only just a miscommunication that’s all.”

  Carter felt like he was hit in the stomach. He knew Cheryl had been borrowing Tim Pressler’s cell phone. In all likelihood the girl never owned a phone. Darryl Thomas’ overbearing nature would seem to confirm such a hunch. Furthermore, if the girl had been missing four days why didn’t the Thomas’ report her as a missing person? Jamieson scribbled notes onto his pad with head bowed.

  “So tell me, Mr. Thomas, why didn’t Cheryl use her cell phone with her when her car broke down? I mean, you just said she did own one, didn’t you?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. Maybe it was out of range.”

  Another lie .She probably didn’t have one because she had been borrowing Tim’s. And quite possible she would never turn to Daddy Thomas even in a time of crisis.

  “Mr. Thomas, investigating officers confirmed Cheryl had been borrowing a phone from a man we believe to have been her boyfriend. Did you ever happen to meet a man named Mr. Timothy Pressler?”

  For an instant, Sherry Thomas nearly bobbed her head in agreement. Her eyes had met Carter’s but broke away under the steady glare of her husband.

  And now Carter wondered about Tim Pressler. If he had been a boyfriend of Cheryl’s before she ran away, why not admit it? It certainly would diffuse Officer Mallow’s charge that he sought Cheryl out at the strip club. Had Mr. Thomas influenced Tim Pressler as well? In any event, the answers Carter didn’t hear from the Thomas’ raised even more doubts. The parents have given Carter no plausible explanation as to why she would run away. Carter left the Thomas’ brick-faced seven room home with no solid evidence to pin Cheryl’s murder on anyone. He must have faith in the forensics team. Just because they had failed to put a murderer at Dan Collins’ crime scene didn’t mean they couldn’t break this case wide open with the discovery of some key trace evidence, possibly either left at the football field or maybe in the car Cheryl was most likely abducted from. Faith in forensics was really about having faith in CSI Jill Seacrest, his love. And for her, he had no doubts. Because of this realization, anger about the injustice of a department policy gnawed at him as he drove. He was not only mired in two homicide investigations with many suspects but little clues, but was also dreading the day of Jill’s transfer. He couldn’t bear to lose her as a colleague not to mention a friend or lover. Did this outweigh his need to have her in his personal life? He must make a choice soon, yet he couldn’t bring himself to discuss the problem with Jill aware how much pain the subject inflicted upon her internally. He could see it on her face because unlike him, Jill didn’t believe in a stoic nature. Jill told him she should allow herself to respond truthfully to all situations, no matter how uncomfortable, because if she didn’t, she felt as if she was a liar—both to herself and those around her. Carter believed he would be shaming those he cared about by letting his true emotions bubble to the surface. He had once allowed the world to see all that he felt when he was but a rookie. But his admiration for his former boss, Captain Sean Lyons of the Medford Police Dept., had grounded him. It was Lyons who had taught a young Carter how to survive the gruesome day-to-day grind of homicide investigations. Lyons schooled Carter about empathizing with the victims instead of sympathizing with them. Through meditation, Carter could silently acknowledge all the voices in his head—the very voices that demanded him to bring the victim’s killers to justice. He could deal with all the animosity and anger by consolidating it in a small place within himself, through meditation. Those officers who did not learn this lesson often burned out the job, first turning to alcohol or wild women to dull the brutality of the crimes they witnessed, then eventually becoming the very monsters they despised, losing their marriages and families as a consequence of their bitterness. Carter not only survived as a homicide investigator, but also excelled because of Captain Lyon’s intervention.

  Lost in memories of his first years on the job, Carter absently reached into his pocket and dug out his cell. “Excuse me, Officer Jamieson.” He rang his old mentor and friend, asking him to join him for an impromptu meeting at one of their favorite coffee shops.

  ***

  Captain Lyons was now retired, but the bark in his voice told Carter the candle of youth still burned brightly within him.

  He showed up dressed casually in jeans and a short sleeve polo shirt. Carter couldn’t recall ever seeing Lyons out of uniform. He smiled as his friend and former boss recognized him through the crowd. Lyons was just entering the busy and popular coffee spot, located off Boylston Street. Carter was alread
y seated at his regular table, a table he often shared with Jill. Lyons wandered through a crowd to join Carter, his eyes still sparkling with vigor as they did some fifteen years earlier.

  “Nice to see some things don’t change,” Lyons said.

  Carter knew what he meant. Unlike most of the newer and trendier coffee bars, Arthur’s Coffee and Donut was not equipped with Wi-Fi for Internet users, nor did it sell overpriced coffee mugs. What Arthur’s did offer was a chance for two people to communicate as they did years before the digital age, a time when a person might still question what a latte is, perhaps as Carter’s father had once done when he confused the drink with some newfangled breed of dog. “Stanford, why would a coffee shop be selling dogs?” he had asked Carter, his face full of innocence. Carter recalled the look fondly, now that it has been three years since his father had passed, a victim of throat cancer. Carter’s father, Joseph, had never understood his son’s need to become a cop. But Sean Lyons did. And because of that, Carter always equated Sean as his substitute father. It seemed fate brought Sean Lyons into his life, to be not only his former captain but to be his second father, just in case of emergency.

  “So good to hear about Jill. When are you two getting hitched?” Sean Lyons was painfully unaware his words were like bombshells to Carter’s ears. The detective chose not to enlighten Lyons about his conundrum with Jill over the phone. But he realized he must do so now, because Lyons—ever the detective—would find out soon enough, all Sean had to do was keep staring at Carter’s facial expressions and posture. Those were telltale signs to a former cop or perhaps a substitute father.

  Carter caught Lyons up to speed. He told him about the lab’s policy on marriage, how unfair it was. But that he must obey the policies, because without order there could be only chaos.

  “Very wise of you,” Lyons said, pausing to give his order to a waitress. “Black coffee and jelly cruller for me.”