Tommy slumped into her seat. Tears poured down her cheeks. It was early and nobody else was in the newsroom, or at least anywhere close enough to see her. She didn’t care, anyway. All the sorrow of the past few weeks came out until she was sobbing with her head down on her desk. When she finally lifted her head, she had a new look in her eye. She was not going to resign. At least not yet.
She could never undo the things she had done, but she could make some things right. She could find out who really killed Jackie Chandler. It was the only way to put things right with Mr. Bender—she had to find the real killer. She would try to do that before she resigned—one last gesture. It wouldn’t undo the damage she had done, but it was the only thing she could think of doing that was worthy. Even so, deep down, she realized it would be next to impossible. It was better just to cut her losses and leave before she caused any more damage.
Tommy spent the next two days pouring through all the newspaper clips about the Chandler slaying, looking for some clue.
Who else would know that Jackie Chandler walked every day? Her coworkers, obviously. She couldn’t stop thinking about that one man who was angry with Chandler denying his insurance claim. Tommy made a note to call Jackie Chandler’s boss and try to get the guy’s name. But this time around, she vowed, she would be much more careful about what she put in the paper. Or what she didn’t put in the paper.
Meanwhile, she got a call back from a halfway home that agreed she could come visit. Sandoval loved her idea to do a huge photo essay: a Sunday project about halfway homes and how mental illness affects families.
Whenever she had down time between assignments, Tommy visited the halfway home for the mentally ill. It made her feel only slightly better when she thought of Mr. Bender and the grief he felt after she splashed his son’s name all over the front page.
Spending time talking to people in the group home and their families gave Tommy an understanding of mental illness she never had before.
Later, when she called Chandler’s boss, Thomas Hoover, he surprised her by slipping her the name.
“Just don’t say it came from me,” he said gruffly. “Just find the son-of-bitch who did that to Jackie.”
The research librarians at the newspaper were able to dig up information on the guy who was angry about his wife’s insurance policy being denied.
He had killed her—and himself—in a murder-suicide two months before.
“What a tragedy,” Tommy thought, mentally scratching him off as a suspect.
Later, driving her Jeep along Interstate 35 with the top down, the voices on the scanner were muffled. But as Tommy passed by the Highway 36 exit, she heard a voice that sounded harried and frantic. She cranked the volume up as high as it would go and leaned her head down to the dash where her police scanner was bolted. It was the Minneapolis Parks Police channel. She cocked her head listening and then heard the words that made her suddenly swerve and take the next exit. Homicide. Sunset Hill.
Tommy dialed Parker. He’d heard too and had already been filled in on the basics.
This time, the victim, a woman of similar age to Jackie Chandler, had been killed during an early morning walk instead of a lunchtime jaunt. Her husband had reported her missing after she took the dogs for a walk around the cemetery loop but then the dogs came home alone a half hour later, dragging their leashes behind them.
It took police and search dogs another two hours to find her body: in the brush, several yards from where Jackie Chandler’s body was found.
But the creepiest part, Parker told Tommy, was that the victim was the spitting image of Jackie Chandler.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WHEN TOMMY GOT TO THE scene, Sgt. Laughlin was the only one left, taking down the yellow crime scene tape.
“Out trying to slander more innocent people?” He said with a grunt and sneered, his gray walrus moustache turning up at the sides. At least there wasn’t egg stuck in it today.
Tommy ignored him and just to be obnoxious, starting taking snapshots of him rolling up the yellow tape.
“You better knock that shit off!” His face was red and the veins on his neck were bulging.
His anger surprised her. He stomped over and Tommy’s breath caught in her throat. He acted like he was going to punch her. She didn’t put down her lens. Instead, she continued snapping away as he grew closer, figuring maybe if he assaulted her, the film would be proof. But he stopped inches away. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a couple walking by staring.
“If you don’t leave immediately, I’m going to arrest you for interfering with a crime scene.” It appeared as if it took all his effort to say these words, which he seemed to spit out between his gritted teeth under his bushy moustache.
“Fine.” Tommy backed up slowly and turned without meeting his eyes. There was so much vitriol rolling off him, she half expected him to thump her from behind or something.
When she unlocked her car door, Tommy breathed easier. She sat in the driver’s seat but didn’t start the engine, instead staring through the windshield at Laughlin.
He didn’t look her way when he finally put the tape in his trunk, slamming it forcefully before he hopped into his squad car and took off with a squeal.
Tommy’s hands were shaking as she turned the key in the ignition.
Later that night, lying in bed, Tommy remembered something. When she first arrived at the scene of the second homicide, it seemed almost as if she had startled Sgt. Laughlin. He had been facing the brush area and she would’ve sworn he actually jumped when she pulled up.
Tommy decided to go back to the scene. She wondered just what it was that the sergeant had been doing or looking at when she arrived.
But this time when Tommy arrived at the scene, she saw a black car parked on the road, so she kept driving. Just at the top of the hill was a small parking lot where people went to make out and star gaze and take in views of the downtown skyline. After Tommy parked, she pulled her jacket hood up over her head and cinched it tight to hide her red hair. With the hood up, she was just a genderless figure in black. She grabbed her smallest camera and silently made her way down the hill to the crime scene where the vehicle was parked.
As she got closer, she realized she would have to press against the brush to avoid being seen.
She was doing just that when she heard a slight noise that made her pause. She looked quickly at the dark car. It was empty. But somebody was in the brush.
Heart racing, Tommy ducked into the bushes through a small clearing that looked like it was used by deer. It was just big enough for her to fit through if she stooped.
Tommy crawled through, as quietly as she could, taking tiny steps. Then, in front of her and down the hill a bit she saw the beam of a flashlight moving around and heard what sounded like a grunting noise.
Whoever had the flashlight was swearing and grunting under his breath. And suddenly, she knew.
That grunt was familiar. Sgt. Laughlin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TOMMY FROZE. THE FEAR and adrenaline rush came from the realization that not only was she was certain Sgt. Laughlin was up to no good, but that without anyone else around, he was capable of extreme violence.
A loud cell phone ring sent her pulse skyrocketing. Sgt. Laughlin immediately answered in hushed tones. Tommy strained to listen.
“I told you I had some paperwork to finish up. Yep. Shutting down my computer right now. See you soon.”
After a moment of silence, Tommy heard him swear loudly. A second later, she could hear brush rustling and realized Laughlin was heading away from her toward the road.
Tommy strained her eyes in the dark so she could remember exactly the area that Sgt. Laughlin had been searching. When she heard the sound of Laughlin’s vehicle drive off, Tommy took out her camera.
Using her strobe light, she surveyed the area he’d been looking. The ground was covered in leaves. It didn’t look like a crime scene. There were a few matted leaves, but noth
ing else to indicate anyone had been there.
Thinking like a photographer, Tommy decided to look at the scene from different angles. She scrabbled up a small tree and then used the strobe to look around down below. Nothing.
What had he been looking for? Then, she decided to try it from another angle and lay flat on the ground. She then made a complete circle from her prone position in the middle of the clearing, turning her body like the hands on a clock and flashing the strobe. She was about half way around when something shiny caught her eye. It was over at the edge of the clearing. She Army crawled over there without taking her eyes off it so she wouldn’t lose track of it.
A class ring. A huge blue stone said 86. The class of 1986. Tommy used her sweatshirt sleeve to scoop it into her pocket without touching it. Crawling back out of the brush, she hiked up the hill to her car and immediately set off for Jackie Chandler’s house.
A few moments later, a sleepy looking Don Chandler answered the door. She explained her theory: The killer was Jackie Chandler’s high school sweetheart.
Don Chandler’s eyes grew wide.
“You don’t mean that cop fellow who was at the reunion?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AN HOUR LATER, TOMMY headed back to her apartment armed with several photos that showed Sgt. Laughlin and Jackie Chandler as high school sweethearts. The senior yearbook had several shots of the couple. They’d been named Homecoming King and Queen.
She also had a stack of photos showing Jackie Chandler the summer before she set off for college on the East Coast. Prominent in every photo was the class ring strung around Jackie’s neck.
Don Chandler said right before Jackie left for college, she dumped Laughlin and returned his ring. Laughlin had started to act funny, abusive. Almost hit her once, Chandler said, so Jackie broke up with him.
Chandler also unearthed a box that Jackie had kept with high school memento that included not only photos of the couple together, but also several letters that Sgt. Laughlin had sent over the years. Including one he sent last month.
“I never read them. Respected my wife’s privacy. I didn’t need to worry about nothing. I trusted that woman with my life.”
Tommy sat down on the couch and read the letters.
Laughlin averaged about a letter a year and always said the same thing: Jackie was the love of his life. He would never get over her. He said he was saving his class ring, waiting for her to wear it again.
It became clear that his letters always remained unanswered. He would say that he was sure her husband wouldn’t let her write back, but that’s okay because he knew how she really felt inside and that was enough.
His letters increased in frequency when Jackie divorced her first husband. Now, was their chance, Laughlin wrote. Nobody stood in the way anymore.
But Jackie never responded. Laughlin begged her to respond.
Then, in June, he was at the class reunion.
Chandler told Tommy about it: Laughlin got so drunk and belligerent, his friends had to pack him up to leave the event early.
After that, the tone of his letters quickly changed. They went from pleading to threatening.
As Tommy read the letters to Chandler, his face grew white. “She never said a word. God, she must have been so scared. I wish she’d told me. I would’ve put that guy in his place. Poor Jackie.”
Then they came to a letter dated a few weeks before her death.
It said that if Jackie didn’t leave her new husband for Laughlin, he would kill himself. His life was falling apart, he wrote. He was unhappy with his shrewish wife; the police chief was trying to talk him into taking early retirement, and Jackie wouldn’t run away with him. He closed that letter saying that without Jackie’s love he had nothing to live for and might as well kill himself.
At the bottom of the shoebox was a small folded note. It was dated the day before Jackie’s murder.
“I can’t bear to watch you with him any longer. You leave me no choice. You will wear my ring again. But this time on your wedding finger.”
Don Chandler hit his forehead with his hand. “Jesus Christ. It’s all right here in writing.”
Tommy gave a grim smile. “Yes. He’s going away for a long time.”
“What if the police try to deny it, to protect one of their own?”
“That’s where the power of the press is going to come in,” Tommy reassured him and left with promises to take the evidence to the police first thing in the morning.
On the way back to her apartment, she put in a quick call to Parker and asked him to check with his morgue sources on something.
“Ask them about Jackie Chandler’s ring finger. On her left hand. Did she still have on her wedding ring?”
“Okay, Snap. You gonna tell me why?”
“Meet me at the police station tomorrow morning at eight. Bring your tape recorder.”
“Deal.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BACK HOME, TOMMY LOOKED at the pictures she had taken at the Chandlers. She had photographed not only the shots of Sgt. Laughlin and Jackie, but also all his letters to the dead woman.
There was no doubt. He was the killer. Unbelievable. She quickly sent the photos in an email to herself and to Detective Kelly just to be safe, even though, as far as she knew, he was still somewhere in the Wisconsin wilderness. It just reassured her to have sent the pictures to someone she trusted.
Grabbing her phone, she called the police chief’s line and left a message saying it was urgent she meet with him first thing in the morning. She wasn’t sure who checked his messages so she didn’t feel safe leaving the details of what she had discovered.
Her cell phone rang and she jumped, hoping it was Kelly. But the screen showed it was Parker. She decided to let it go to voice mail so he wouldn’t pump her for more information. She was worried she’d just spill it and she wasn’t willing to have something published in the morning edition until she had met with the chief.
A few seconds later, her cell showed she had a voice mail message.
From Parker.
“My guy at the morgue says funny I should ask. They never did find Jackie Chandler’s wedding ring. Her husband said she never took it off. Showered with it and everything, but when they found her body, it was gone.” Parker took a deep breath. “Another thing: that finger — where her wedding ring was supposed to be — was broken in five places. This sounds good, Snap. Don’t leave me out in the cold. Don’t make me wait until morning. Come on. We have history ...”
Tommy hung up in the middle of his pleading message.
At the last minute, she decided to call Kelly’s cell, but just like she expected, it went to voice mail. The cabin was probably out of range of cell phone reception. She left a message in case he was heading back home or to town. She was anxious to tell him what she’d discovered. He could come back. He was off the hook.
To celebrate, Tommy grilled a T-bone steak on her patio. She made a simple salad and poured a Diet Coke and ate a late dinner looking out over the city lights.
But her foot tapped nervously the entire time.
“Settle down!” she told herself, but her anxiety level was at an all-time high. She could hardly bear the hours until morning when she could confront the police chief in person with her suspicions. The hours were dragging and her anxiety only got worse. She wanted to have it over with and have the whole mess out of her hands.
Finally, around ten, she admitted that her stress level warranted nothing less than a quick run along the Mississippi River. Pacing her apartment would not make morning come any quicker, but maybe wearing herself out from a good run would help her fall asleep easier.
She laced her running shoes up, grabbed her water bottle and set off across the Washington Street Bridge. On the downtown side of the river, she followed the looping path as it wound down and underneath the bridge, flanking the water.
At one point, the streetlights were further apart and the path grew darker as it wound through a
wooded area. During the day, the area was usually filled with children at an adjacent playground.
The sudden noise of scuffling in the bushes beside Tommy made her jump. Tommy got a chill, but then relaxed when she realized it was two squirrels chasing each other through the brush and then up a tree, skittering and scattering bark loose as they climbed.
Tommy chided herself, but still had the feeling she was being watched. But every time she looked behind her, the path was empty. If anyone was following her, he or she had better be an experienced runner because Tommy wasn’t taking many breaks.
When she reached the part of the path that wove near the locks and the Guthrie Theater, Tommy put her hands on her knees and took a quick swig of water and a short rest before she turned around and headed back the way she came.
Anyone who had been following her would be obvious now, she thought. But she didn’t come across another soul. As she came back towards the bridge, she slowed her pace and then began walking, breathing heavily, feeling the burn and enjoying the endorphin high.
That’s why she didn’t have any warning when she felt searing pain at the back of her head and her world went black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A FEW SECONDS LATER, she came to with a splitting headache. She heard shouting and the sound of footsteps racing past her.
“Stop!”
“Call the cops, Jon.”
“Give it up, man. Dude’s way gone. You’ll never catch up to him now.”
The voices didn’t make sense, just filtered into her consciousness.
And then quieter, nearly in her ear, “Are you okay?”
Tommy tried to sit up and felt woozy. The voices belonged to two college-age men also out for a jog judging by their running shorts, tennis shoes, and bare chests. One of them helped her sit up.
“Easy now. You got a good whack on the head.”
“What happened?” Tommy asked.
The Last Exit: A St. James Mystery (St. James Mysteries Book 2) Page 7
