Kindred Killers: A Stanford Carter Murder Mystery

by Gary Starta

  Jill’s mind was racing. She had just gotten off the phone with Carter who surprisingly voiced no protest over her shocking new discovery. If Lucy was the murderer or perhaps an accomplice, the hooker could very well pose a threat to her and the two officers manning the white police surveillance plan.

  But as Jill entered the van, she found Lucy amenable to pat down search by a burly undercover officer named Joe.

  Joe finished and stared toward Jill. It was a silent police gesture to let Jill know the girl was clean—at least as far as any weapons went.

  Jill emitted a sigh. She was far from out of the woods. If she was to trick Jay Fishburne she needed further cooperation from Lucy. How much more cooperation she could expect? Perhaps Lucy was feigning shock over Jay’s alleged involvement in two murders. Maybe she’ll end up ratting out Fishburne once things go down. She’s probably just waiting to see if we can pin charges on him. She covered her cleavage.

  “Hey, Miss Criminalist. I got a tip for you. You’re sure not going to draw any flies to your honey if you keep on covering up the nectar.”

  “Oh.” Jill said, hoping to feign a blush, but she didn’t have to act, her cheeks had turned a rosy red color from actual embarrassment.

  “I will level with you Lucy. I usually don’t go undercover. Will you help me pretend to be . . . well, this is awkward . . . ”

  “Just say it girlfriend.”

  “You . . . help me to be you.”

  “I can help, but I ain’t no miracle worker. But if you can excuse the two gentlemen from the van for a moment I’ll see what I can do.”

  Jill cocked her head at the two officers, ordering them to exit. Joe gave her a lingering stare, letting Jill know by his body language that this probably wasn’t such a good idea and that he’d be right outside the door if she needed him.

  It’s amazing how much we can say to each other without words . . .

  When the sliding door clanked shut, Lucy rose from her chair, stooped over from the low ceiling.

  Jill found herself stooped over as well.

  “Guess we’re both about the same height,” Jill said.

  Lucy smiled with her mouth, but there was no joy in her eyes.

  “Yeah, looks like we got about the same size packages too.”

  Jill nervously eyed Lucy’s cleavage. They were both well endowed without surgical enhancement.

  “You got a steady man, Jill?”

  “Yes, yes I do.”

  “You must please him. He’s lucky he doesn’t have to seek out girls like me.”

  I’m even luckier. She could never part with Carter romantically.

  Lucy began to strip with not a shade of humility.

  “There,” Lucy said, holding her clothing in hand, naked except for a black bra and matching stockings. “I’ll bet purple will become you.”

  “But . . . ” Jill said, eyeing Lucy’s head.

  “Oh, almost forgot.” Lucy removed the wig and her long copper locks splayed over her shoulders. Her bangs complemented her face perfectly, accentuating her high cheekbones.

  Jill suddenly blurted out, “You know, it’s not too late for you to think about becoming a model.”

  “It’s later than you think, my friend,” Lucy responded, locking her eyes with Jill’s. “You can’t expect me to just walk back into your world,” she said after a pause. “I’ve become something else over the last few years; something that doesn’t give me the option of turning back.”

  What was Lucy really saying? Was she simply referring to her job as a hooker or was there something more to be read in her statement, such as possible involvement in the two murders? Jill wished Carter were here to gauge her response.

  ***

  Carter tried not to think about the danger Jill was in. He had to bite his tongue just moments before. He wanted to order her off the case. But he had to think of Jill as a crime scene investigator and not his future wife. Perhaps Supervisor Hurley was right. Maybe I can’t separate my love for her from the job anymore . . .

  Carter waited outside a dressing room at the Spread Eagle. It smelled horrible. A mixture of beer, sweat and god knows what else. He carefully stepped around some dried gooey substance on the black floor that revealed nothing he had come here to find, a clue which might incriminate either Tim Pressler or Jay Fishburne.

  The one girl who had agreed to his interview request was Lila. It was possibly just a stage name, yet Carter wasn’t here to determine the girl’s true identity. He hoped to place a suspect at this bar the night Cheryl Thomas a.k.a. “Cherry” was murdered.

  Finally, a girl’s hand with beautifully painted red nails reached out and pushed aside a maroon curtain. As she stepped through it; the girl seemed to transform before Carter’s eyes. The hand he had seen belonged to some experienced, perhaps beaten down, woman who sought refuge in a skuzzy nightclub. But the face and body of this woman were those of a young girl, perhaps even a naïve runaway like Cheryl Thomas who thought she might escape her past by living under an anonymous name. A rose by any other name . . .

  “I’m Lila.” The girl offered no hand to Carter; no facial expression to indicate she would be an easy interview.

  Carter surmised this girl felt obligated to talk to him. Perhaps she was the one who’d helped Cheryl run away from her abusive father, Darryl.

  “You were friends with Cheryl for quite a while, I understand?”

  Surprisingly, Carter’s leap worked.

  “Yeah. How did you know? Oh, wait. Did her parents tell you about me?”

  Carter nodded to prompt conversation.

  “You know, I did my best to get Cheryl out of that fucking hell hole she lived in. But I guess sometimes your best just isn’t good enough.”

  Carter was saddened by Lila’s words. A comfy house with an adjoining garage a hellhole . . . compared to this rat-infested bar? What kind of monster was capable of transforming not only people but also their surroundings? Carter reprimanded himself for losing focus, and began a line of questioning.

  “What can you tell me about this gentleman?”

  Carter produced a photo of Tim Pressler.

  “Well, not much. He’s the guy who took her in. Gave her a place to stay.”

  “Do you know if Cheryl dated anyone before she ran away?”

  “Uh, I wouldn’t know. We fell out of touch during the last semester of school. I knew what her father put her though. I couldn’t bear to come around to see her like that anymore. I demanded she leave—shit—I probably got her killed. She never wanted to leave, but I persisted.”

  “So Cheryl finally agreed to leave her house on your suggestion?”

  “Yeah. She tried running away once, but she caved and went back to her asshole father.”

  So her first disappearance had nothing to do with a camping trip. Carter reflected upon Darryl Thomas’ lie.

  “But to answer your question, I’ve never seen this guy in here,” the girl continued. “Cheryl rarely talked about him. He sounds like some sort of fucking recluse to me.”

  “Well, how about this man?”

  Carter showed Lila a photo of Jay Fishburne.

  “Uh, I think I’ve seen him.”

  “Did you see him in here on the night of your friend’s murder? Please think, Lila.”

  “No. Not on that night.”

  “You’re positive?” Carter asked, a tone of desperation creeping into his voice.

  Lila cocked her head. Carter hoped she was pressing her brain to remember.

  Lila clasped her hands together. “I’m sure I don’t know anything about the men. But, I do know something about how Cheryl ‘lived’ at home. We had spent a night at an informal pajama party at a friend’s home. And Cheryl’s father just showed up at 3 in the morning, totally out of the blue. I mean, there was no phone call to him or from him. It was then I began to wonder just what kind of home life Cheryl had. It was at that moment,” she gasped, “I just knew Cheryl and I shared a kindred bond.

  “I
was abused myself, at twelve, by my uncle,” Lila continued. Her lips began to tremble, eyes glazed over lost in thought. “I’m sorry. I just lost the only good friend I’ll ever have in my entire life.” The young girl Carter had seen stepping from a dressing room began to emerge completely. She was just another abused victim living on the run. She looked a lot less like a sultry dancer with painted red fingernails and more like a teen in trouble as she sobbed uncontrollably. Her shoulders were heaving. It was then Carter noticed a red rose tattooed on her shoulder.

  Carter waited and allowed Lila to compose herself.

  She sniffled and wiped her hand underneath her nose.

  “I only told Cheryl about that. And now she’s gone . . . ”

  “Lila, please think about the man in this photo. If he wasn’t in the club the night of the murder, can you tell me where and when you might have seen him before?”

  “I remember now. He had doe-like eyes. Like some innocent puppy.”

  Carter knew she was describing Jay. His youthful charm was perhaps an effective mask to hide the monster he harbored.

  “He was in the night before. I’m sure of it.”

  Carter rested his hand on Lila’s shoulder and pulled a card from his coat pocket.

  “Call me if you can think of anything else. And please, by all means, call me if you need my help.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I think it’s time you got yourself of here. You did help Cheryl, despite what happened. You got her away from her father. But there are more predators like your uncle and Cheryl’s father out there. And they thrive in an environment like this. A name change won’t be enough to protect you.”

  “I know, Detective Carter. Thanks, but I don’t need your help.”

  “But maybe you’ll need my help tomorrow, or perhaps another day . . . ”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged her shoulders and sniffled. “I’ll keep it in mind. But for now, promise you’ll get the bastard that killed Cheryl.”

  Carter nodded solemnly.

  ***

  Decked out in a purple skirt and top, shoulder length strawberry blond hair cascading over her shoulders, Jill was the picture of desire.

  “I think you’ll do just fine,” Lucy said. Jill was almost certain she detected a hint of emotion in her tone for the first time. Perhaps she was beginning to bond with this woman. Jill was not sure whom she might be bonding with: A cold-hearted hooker? An accomplice in a murder—or perhaps a woman who was playing upon Jill’s inexperience to fool her into thinking she was ready and willing to give up Jay Fishburne? It was possible she and Jay already worked out this scenario beforehand. Maybe that’s why she’s willing to stick around. Or perhaps she was just a call girl taking one too many risks with her life. She had made no effort to make a phone call to alert Jay of the sting. She had even traded clothes with me. As Jill pondered all these scenarios, she couldn’t help but think about the copper strand of hair found among Cheryl Thomas’ belongings.

  Another hour passed and Jill decided it was time to surreptitiously gather some DNA from Lucy so Tony Gelder could determine if she transferred the strand while possibly taking part in Cheryl’s murder. Or possibly, as Carter stated over the phone, maybe Jay planted her hair to set Lucy up. It’s going to be hard to determine just who’s playing who . . .

  She offered a paper cup filled with water from a portable chilled dispenser. Lucy took it without hesitation and drank it all. She even handed the cup back to Jill. The oldest trick in the book . . .

  Joe and Ted, the two stakeout officers, were seated at a console in the back of the van. They smiled knowingly at Jill who handed Joe the empty cup.

  Jill began to relax a little. She felt the woman must have seen enough crime shows on TV to realize she just volunteered her DNA. Her phone rang, the caller was Carter. She hesitated to answer, spending a moment to consider the possibility that Lucy might be ignorant about the hair transfer. Maybe Lucy didn’t realize they had a strand of copper colored hair in their possession. Maybe that’s why she was so off guard about letting her have a DNA sample.

  She excused herself from the van to take the call.

  “Carter, what’s up?”

  “We have a witness that puts Jay Fishburne at the Spread Eagle.”

  “That’s great.” Jill felt her heart skip a beat. She realized she would soon be confronting a killer.

  “Don’t celebrate quite yet. Our witness placed Jay at the club the night before the murder.”

  “So there might be other suspects?” Jill inquired.

  Carter wondered why Jill would suddenly say such a thing.

  “Are you alright?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. Lucy is being cooperative. I’m wearing one of her outfits. Fortunately, we’re the same dress size and . . . ”

  Carter interrupted.

  “Did you get a DNA sample?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “I don’t have to tell you to watch your back—and you’re front—now do I?”

  “Hey, remember you’re dealing with the CSI who—in your words—never flinches.”

  “That’s good to know, Jill. I—I just wanted to let you know” he paused to stop stammering, “that I’ve been proud to serve with you.”

  “Hey, I haven’t transferred out yet, remember? And don’t you think for one moment I’m going to let anybody get the best of me out here. You hear me? When I leave forensics, it will be nothing less than a high note. Perhaps, they’ll even hang my picture in the reception area.”

  “I have no doubt,” Carter said. “Well, I’m on my way back from Methuen, Jill. I should be in the vicinity in about half an hour.”

  Jill glanced at her watch. It was 7:00. “Then you’ll be just in time to join the party. Lucy said Jay usually picks her up at 7:30.”

  “If Jay should run Jill, you just let me pursue him. I want you to make sure Lucy doesn’t run off into the night. And be careful, Jill. I want you around to enjoy your new job—and your new life.”

  “Affirmative,” Jill whispered, paranoid that Lucy might hear her phone conversation through a closed door with the noise of honking horns and ambulance sirens no less. But she was also a bit afraid to acknowledge the fact that she was leaving the bureau. She really couldn’t stand to hear the words spoken aloud.

  ***

  Carter edged his vehicle close to a curb. It was not quite within optimum viewing distance to discern Jill from the crowd of women milling about Arlington Street. But it would have to do. Finding a closer parking spot in this vicinity would be next to impossible at this time of night. It was summer. It was still daylight. And young men and women were perusing the streets, perhaps on their way to some nightclub or to take in a movie. Carter hoped to god these young people weren’t on the path to becoming Lucy the hooker or the pimp who sold women for fast cash. He watched one young man share a slice of his pizza with his girlfriend. She laughed as she took a bite. Perhaps more can be saved than lost . . . Carter must believe this to be true. He must believe that young women like Lila could still be helped. Perhaps even Lucy, if she wasn’t involved in the homicides . . .

  His train of thought was interrupted. He spotted the same make and model that Jay drove. It was slowly passing him. He couldn’t make out the driver but a glance at the plates confirmed it was Fishburne’s Accord.

  He started his engine. The game was on.

  ***

  He was slowing down. He was in the right spot where Jill said she would be standing. Yet Carter still couldn’t be sure which girl standing on the busy sidewalk was Jill—or another walker who resembled Lucy. Suddenly, he spotted a flash of purple. That must be her. He fought the impulse to put his car into gear.

  ***

  Jay Fishburne decelerated his car. He was humming along to a song on the radio. The song Closing Time by the group Supersonic played. It was about closing doors and opening new ones.

  Jay tapped his hand on the dashboard. He recognized the familiar purple dress
. The hair… Suddenly his skin bristled on the spine of his back.

  Something was very wrong. Lucy didn’t wear the wig around him anymore. He had made some very strong suggestions that she didn’t. He wanted Lucy as she was, he had told her.

  The song continued amidst the squeal of brakes.

  Jay noticed the girl’s approach. It was wrong. She was walking tentatively, not with the confident sashay of his love interest.

  The song played on. Patrons of a bar were informed they didn’t have to go home but they couldn’t stay there.

  ***

  Carter grabbed instinctively for the portable siren in his glove box. He was going to need it if he was going to get through the traffic build up. About three others were behind Jay and they were impatient, squirming to the left and right like worms trying to get off a hook.

  ***

  Jay looked into his rearview. Unmarked cars were all he saw and one was blowing its horn. He reached for field glasses. He pointed them at the vicinity where Jill stood . . .

  ***

  But Carter was sure Jay was pointing a weapon.

  He radioed for all units in the area to assist.

  His car lurched from its parking spot with a loud squeal.

  ***

  Jay heard the squeal despite the loud song continuing to play in his car. The singer passionately launched into the chorus about someone taking him home.

  Searing guitars competed with the tinker of piano keys.

  ***

  Carter saw what he believed to be a gun pointed in Jill’s direction. He yanked the wheel hard to right narrowly missing a Camry by inches. The car ahead, a Fusion, acknowledged the flashing light and attempted to merge left even though it would take the car into an oncoming lane. More horns blew and a taxi driver nearly hit by the Fusion waggled a middle finger in outrage. Carter saw all this transpiring from the corner of his eye, but his focus was dead ahead. He could see Jill clearly now. Jay’s car was fully stopped and he was still pointing the object at her. A brightly lit sign, flashing on and off in neon colors captured Carter’s attention for a split second. The sign was an advertisement for a play called “Last Chance.”