Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel)

by Graystone, D. A.

  “Son of a bitch. We got him!”

  *

  “Sorry Gregg, the building isn’t there. Nothing by that number on the block.”

  Mann let his shoulders sag. Haynes had already told him as much but they had to check it out themselves.

  “So, he used a false name and address. It was too easy.”

  “And, he paid cash,” Haynes added. “I can tell you what he looked like.”

  “That is going to have to do, for now. You realize that you may have to testify?”

  “I’d do it gladly. That guy used me. I get s…s…sick just thinking about him c…c…coming back to my shop. I mean I could have ended up like that poor newspaper reporter.”

  “All right. I want to take you down to our artist and get a sketch done.” Mann lowered his voice. “I’d like you to keep this under your hat, right now. We don’t want to spook the killer. I also don’t want to put you in danger.”

  “Don’t worry, you aren’t going to s…s…see me on the news. S...s...should I be worried? I mean, is he going to c…c…come after me or my wife?”

  “I doubt that very much,” Mann said, not very convincingly. “Just in case, I’m going to assign you some protection. It will also give us the chance to stake out your business in case he comes back for more pictures.”

  “Thank you. Now, about the pictures? Naturally, I know you want them but would it be possible to get a receipt and a statement that they will remain my exclusive property with all rights?”

  Mann stared at Haynes. He knew exactly what was going through the man’s mind. The dollar signs floated to the floor every time the man blinked. Normally, Mann would be furious. But with their first break in weeks coming from the man, how upset could he get?

  Chapter 74

  Preston stood across the street from the bar. In some ways, it was foolish to return but he knew he would find a target here. Looking carefully both ways, he darted across the street and went into the entrance of the Short Sell.

  He instantly remembered Kraemer and felt himself get hard. He could hear sound of the baseball bat on the bare skin and the crack and crunch of bone. The moaning sobs as he slid the flute up his ass. The tearing sound as he hammered it deep and blood gushed out the metal tube.

  He stopped and took a deep breath. He had to calm down. He was rock hard and it wouldn’t be the first time he had spontaneously orgasmed just thinking about the killings.

  God, he needed another.

  If only he knew then what he knew now.

  Wendy had been so much fun. She had struggled and fought but, eventually, she had given in and realized what she had been missing all these years. She had tried to hide it but he knew she had several orgasms.

  There was still the other one’s wife. She and her new born child were waiting for him. He would not disappoint them.

  As though waking from a dream, he suddenly looked around, not really sure where he was. He guiltily scanned the crowd to see if anyone had noticed him.

  And that was when he saw the mop of red hair bob across the room.

  Ellen Hutchison. Little, sweet, Ellen Hutchinson. Lousy, slutty, Ellen Hutchinson.

  He remembered Ellen Hutchinson. He remembered her well. How could he forget that little stuck up snob?

  He smiled a genuine smile at the bartender and ordered a draft. He had been right all along. Kraemer had not been one-time luck.

  Close to the financial district with its leeches and cowards, the bar was perfect.

  And, Ellen Hutchison was perfect.

  God, how he had loved her.

  Every boy wanted her but he truly loved her. Not just for her red hair and cute little figure. Not just because she lived in a big house. Not because her father was important. Not because she had a pool with a curvy slide that water ran down.

  He loved her because of what she was – not who she was.

  At least, what he thought she was.

  He had been wrong.

  Ellen was no different than all the rest and maybe even worse than the rest.

  In the same class since kindergarten, he had seen her every day at school for years. Every summer, he would ride his bike past her house a hundred times, hoping to glimpse her behind the high, cedar hedge that surrounded the back yard of their big white mansion. That is what it looked like to him, a mansion with its two car garage and intercom system at the front door. Each fall, he would pray he would be in her class again. Hope that this would be the year he was invited to her house, invited to that all important pool party.

  He had been to her mailbox so many times in the dark of night.

  For years, he had been her secret admirer. He had written her letter upon letter, always typing them on his old manual typewriter. He had to make sure she was in love with him before he revealed himself. He kept the stream of letters pouring into her mailbox. Many times, he would include a poem. Some, he would copy out of books, some he wrote himself. His words were parts of him, sent to win her. He gave her a piece of his soul in every letter.

  Finally, he sent her a box of Turtles on Valentine’s Day. Not one of the little boxes. This box had cost him a week’s pay from his paper route. This was to be the final step.

  The next day, he was sure he would hear how she felt. Sure enough, she brought the box of chocolates to school with her. He was so proud. Then, she started passing them out. She gave away his present.

  She didn’t like Turtles, she said. She laughed at the note that had accompanied the candies. She told everyone that he must want to fatten her up so she was the same size as him. Only a fat cow could ever love a tub like him. All her friends laughed with her.

  That was when he realized that she knew who he was. She had known all along and was laughing at him. They were all laughing at him.

  But, he would have the final laugh. He would deliver the punch line and it would be a belly buster.

  She was still here. She belonged with this crowd.

  The stench of abused power surrounded them like flies on dog crap on a hot summer day. They insulated themselves with material things. They could not face the real world and expose their lack of morality. They wore their Armani suits like armor, protecting themselves from truth. Their daily trade was lies. The truth lost in a web of deceit and money.

  They were pretenders. Killer instinct? They maimed, wounded and killed with a fountain pen. They destroyed lives but from a safe distance. They did not have his strength, his resolve, his drive. They might kill second hand but, cowards that they are, they could not face the truth of their actions. They could not accept the blood that is on their hands. Their money washed their hands clean every time.

  He welcomed the blood and was proud of the sticky red stuff. Would wear it proudly, his clothes drenched in the copper smelling liquid of life and death.

  He was the one with the killer instinct.

  God help him but he hated them all. He wanted to wipe them all from the face of the earth and start all over.

  When Ellen left, he waited for a moment before getting up to follow her home.

  By the time he made it to the sidewalk, she was gone. Tail lights from a cab flared up the street as it made a right.

  He had missed her. Not that it mattered. Not tonight.

  Her time would come soon enough and the little redhead would learn of her foolishness.

  Chapter 75

  Mann was flipping through the pictures, looking at the faces, trying to memorize them. More and more, the faces had come to resemble the victims. Others had spent time looking through the rest of the pictures supplied by Haynes. They had played a game of seeing if the pictures resembled anyone they knew.

  For several days, they had been tracking down leads at the school. So far, there was nothing. With no names to go with the pictures, they were still trying to identify the year they came from. The fire had destroyed all the year books that had been stored at the school. They were working on getting copies from other sources but it was slow going. They couldn’
t go public for fear of driving the killer underground.

  Until they hit on a year, narrowing down a suspect from the school register was going to be next to impossible. All the same, the complete record of enrollment was being fed into the computer. It would pull names out of the list and compare them to the lists of suspects, run down criminal records, etc.

  All that took time and there was no guarantee that the killer went to that school during those years. Haynes had not seen the book and had no idea what school the pictures came from. For all they knew, the killer could have picked up the year book at a garage sale.

  But, Mann’s gut told him they had the killer. He was right in their sights, just waiting to be picked up.

  Mann thought about how the killer would pick his victims rather than why.

  If he wanted to find these people, how would he go about it? These victims came off the streets. He chose these victims. Found them somehow. The hospital, Leantown, the University. No connections.

  Mann laid the pictures out in front of him in their proper order. Then, he tried to think like a psychopath.

  An hour later, Mann still had the pictures laid out in front of him.

  He decided that if he was the killer, he would want to have the pictures with him at all times. There were too many pictures to hope to be able to remember what they all looked like. No matter how many times he looked at them, he would want it there instantly when he noticed a potential victim.

  Mann could envision the killer carrying the pictures around like a family album and standing on street corners, sitting in bars, waiting and watching. Some progress. All they had to do was watch for someone consulting a book of pictures.

  No problem.

  He left the warehouse with the file folder of pictures under his arm. Picking a busy corner, he stood against the building. As people went by, he tried to see if he recognized any of the pictures. Constantly referring to them, he missed about seventy five percent of the people that went by.

  He was jostled by a large man with a pizza box. The pictures slid out of the file folder and scattered on the sidewalk. Mann quickly stooped to gather them up before the hot wind took them. Cursing, he straightened and found a recessed doorway to stand in.

  Before he was in the doorway for two minutes, someone bustled out and the pictures were creased.

  The pictures were too large, too bulky. They would also have to be bound together. Bound in a way that would allow them to be flipped through easily but secure enough to prevent them from being dropped and scattered. A loose leaf binder would be ideal but still too bulky. The killer would stand out if he was constantly checking faces against a large binder. Someone would remember him and Mann knew this killer wanted to remain invisible.

  Mann patted his pocket where his own notebook always rested. Yes, something that fit nicely in a suit pocket and where the pages could be removed.

  The killer could use something like that. He could slip it out of his pocket and glance at the pictures. Except when it was being used, the pictures would be hidden from view. No large binder to explain to co workers or friends. The pictures could remain the killer’s own secret.

  At that moment, looking down at the file folder, it hit him and he hurried back to the warehouse.

  *

  “So, his pictures are the same size as the ones you provided us?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Haynes voice came through with a hollow echo over the speaker phone. The detectives sitting around the conference table all had puzzled looks on their faces. Mann had gathered them together while waiting for a call back from Haynes.

  “And you didn’t provide him with smaller versions?”

  “We could have but we didn’t.”

  “Thanks very much, Mr. Haynes. I’ll be in touch if anything comes up.” Mann pressed the disconnect button and sat back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face.

  “What gives?” asked Kydd, recognizing the look.

  “I went out onto the street with the pictures. I was trying to work out how the killer operated. What I ended up with was a bunch of dropped and bent photographs. The things are too bulky to handle.”

  “You were hoping the killer had got smaller versions from Haynes?”

  “No,” interrupted Greer. “You were hoping he didn’t get them from Haynes.”

  “Move to the head of the class.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Where would you go to get a smaller version of these?” Mann asked, drumming his finger on the stack of pictures.

  Ashdown snapped his finger. “I had a map of this reception hall for my parent’s fortieth anniversary party. It was too big to fit in the invitations so we got it reduced. We used a printer to do it. Made them smaller and cut them for us and everything.”

  The implications began to sink in. Several swear words circled the table and everyone pulled their chairs closer to the table. The collective exhaustion was thrown off by the excitement of the new clue.

  “I want every available man looking for printers, photocopy places, Kinko’s, hotel business centers, the works. I’ll get Buma compiling a list. For now, we’ll concentrate on an area around the first killings. I still think we have a geographic link for the first killings. If that doesn’t work, we’ll spread out farther. Get on it.”

  The detectives filed out and Mann remained seated. He was glad that none of them had voiced the most obvious problem with the theory. What if the killer worked in an office with the proper equipment?

  Chapter 76

  Degget had painstakingly compiled all of Flem’s arrests for his career. The pattern was beginning to emerge and Degget couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Bev was right. It was all in the numbers.

  Assuming that the estimates were right and Angelino ran over sixty percent of the organized crime in the city, the arrests should follow the same basic statistics. Angelino ran a good operation but criminals are stupid, no getting around that. And stupid people get arrested. But Angelino’s guys weren’t getting arrested enough.

  Sure, there were some big busts, some major drugs off the streets but nothing that really amounted to heavy damage.

  Degget walked along the wall looking at the different organizational charts he had taped up of the various criminal families in Kesle over the past fifteen years. They detailed the arrests, deaths and murders of all the players. Most of the other families had arrests and plenty of deaths in the upper echelon. Since Angelino took over, his organization hadn’t seen any of these types of reorganizations. Thorman was the most recent death and he was just a low level number cruncher. Something wasn’t adding up.

  Just maybe, he and Mann were looking for the same rat.

  Degget started to sift through the data again when his computer signaled a new message.

  Degget read the message. He read it a second time and picked up his cell phone, his investigation into Flem instantly forgotten. He was grabbing his badge and gun as he listened to the phone ring at the other end. He walked out the door when it was finally answered.

  “Kydd, we got a hit. Ya, I’ll meet you in twenty.”

  Chapter 77

  “He was very impatient. That is what I remember most about him.”

  “You do the work in an hour, don’t you?” Mann asked. Tetrault had brought in the owner of Monteith Printing when she remembered a job that matched the description.

  “Normally,” Sylvia Monteith replied. “The machine was down though and the service man took his sweet time getting there. Anyway, the guy kept calling and asking if the pictures were ready.”

  “And you think you can describe him?”

  “I’ll try,” she said, hesitating. “It was a while ago. I do remember he was kinda tubby.”

  “That’s all we can ask.” Mann got up to leave as the sketch artist came in. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  “Uh, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes?”

  “This guy, I mean, like, do you really think he’s the
Southside Slasher?”

  “He is definitely one of our suspects, ma’am.”

  “The guy I saw didn’t look like a crazy,” she said as Mann left. “He didn’t look like anything.”

  Mann wandered over to where the detectives were sorting through the records. “How’s it going?”

  Each of the detectives and uniformed officers looked up and mumbled something that Mann knew would be better left unheard. He turned to Greer who was slowly working through his pile. “What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is the lady’s filing system. It doesn’t exist,” Greer answered. “She just lumps everything together. So far, we haven’t come up with any easy way to sort through them. And for a place with so many copiers, she has never touched a computer for her accounting. Everything is hand written by a dyslexic chicken.”

  “How have you separated the piles?”

  “I just divided them up,” Tetrault said. Mann had forgotten that Tetrault had brought the information in and was therefore leading the investigation. “The lady does some kind of business. She must be doing two hundred jobs a day. We’re working backwards.”

  “Not from the present?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t see the sense in that.” Mann sensed the pride in Tetrault’s voice at having been one step up on Mann. “I figured to cut the work down as much as possible. I started the search at the date of the Yeck kill.”

  Greer turned to Tetrault with the same look of disbelief that Mann wore. “From the Yeck kill?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tetrault said, becoming worried.

  “Bloody hell! You mean we’ve wasted the last three hours?” Greer’s big voice boomed.

  “Tetrault,” Mann said, barely keeping his anger in check, “get in my office. Greer, clear this out of the way and start at the right date. Work forward from there.”