by Jon Talton
“But Noah was certain he was being followed,” Cheryl Beth said.
“Maybe by the killer.”
The chill returned to her bloodstream. “The killer who writes to you personally. Oh, Will…”
“I want to show you some photographs,” he said. “Let me know if any of them are familiar. Anybody you’ve seen hanging around campus or the hospital. Anybody who might have seen these three students.”
She ran through ten photographs and none looked familiar. One was a bald man, although he looked distinguished in a suit and tie. She went one by one again, trying to remember. She finally shook her head.
“I’m sorry.”
“You lingered on one,” he said.
“Only because he was older and bald. I keep thinking about what Lauren’s sister said, about how Lauren was afraid she was being stalked by an older bald man.”
“Something’s got to tie them together. Three separate attacks, sixty miles apart from each other. One was on a trained police officer, and I can vouch for her toughness. Another was on a well-built young man. And this guy went after two young women at the same time, and after knocking Noah Smith out. Then he comes back and kills him. Thinks he’s an artist. Now we know all these killings were done by the same guy. But we don’t have the key that connects them.”
“Aren’t there random murders?”
“Sure,” he said. “But this random is very rare. It’s common to read about supposedly random murders, but the victims are all prostitutes, sometimes all working on the same strip. Or they’re dark-haired women who remind the killer of someone in his life. Anyway, whoever wrote that note was taking credit, as if he specifically chose his victims. They’re going to bring in an FBI profiler. But I already know what he’ll say. White male. Narcissist, sense of grandiosity. Probably had a screwed-up childhood. Maybe impotent: none of the autopsies showed the presence of semen. Noah and the girls used condoms, and the killer took them. He’s very precise. He’s done it before…”
“Hold that thought.” Cheryl Beth stood and sprinted into the hall, catching up with Allison. She brought her back and introduced her to Will.
“Allison was Noah’s girlfriend,” she said. The girl sat, but upright in apprehension, and Cheryl Beth thought about breaking the news to her easy, she was very good at that. But, no, she would trust Will.
“Allison, I’m a detective with the Cincinnati Police,” he said, his voice even and friendly. “I’m working on some cases that are related to what happened to Lauren and Holly.”
“Yes.” A little girl voice.
“Were you friends with them?”
“Only school friends,” she said.
“Ever hang out together?”
Allison shook her head.
“How long have you been seeing Noah?”
“About a year,” she said. “Ten months.”
“Did you ever feel like anything wasn’t right?”
She clenched her hands. “If you mean do I think Noah did it, the answer is no. There’s no way. He’s gentle and kind and…”
“It’s okay,” Will said. “I meant something else. Did it ever seem like anyone was following the two of you? Anonymous phone calls? Anything creepy?”
She was silent, and then shook her head.
“We were normal. We went to movies. We rode our bikes together. Noah’s in a lot better shape than I am.”
“Does he have any enemies?”
Cheryl Beth was struck by how Will used the present tense to refer to Noah.
“No!” Allison shook her head adamantly. “He made friends so easily.” Then, tonelessly, “Especially women.” She raised her head and spoke more forcefully. “Do you think someone is trying to frame him for killing Holly and Lauren? Please tell that awful detective from Oxford.”
Will nodded. After a silence, He produced the same file folder. “I want to show you some photographs. I’m not saying these are suspects. But they might be. I want you to take as much time as you like, and really look at each one. Ever see any of these men.”
He handed her one photo at a time. She took the each one and slowly ran her fingers over it, then handed it back. He was very patient and Allison was diligent. It took a good fifteen minutes. Cheryl Beth was impressed that Will was eliciting information now, before Allison knew the worst and would probably fall apart.
She handed them back. “I’m sorry, Detective Borders. I’ve never seen any of them.”
“I know this seems out of left field, but did you guys ever watch LadyCops: Cincinnati? The reality TV show?”
“No. There’s not much TV time when we have a slave driver like her.” She smiled fondly at Cheryl Beth.
Will smiled slightly and let a couple of beats pass. “Did you ever go to the bar where Noah met Holly and Lauren that night.”
She pursed her lips. “Yeah, we used to party up there…”
Cheryl Beth watched Will’s expression subtly change. The color momentarily left his face. Then he rearranged himself and leaned forward.
“Allison, there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’m going to say it…”
Chapter Twenty
Will was usually aware of every difficult step, but the long walk from the hospital floor back to his car was over before he even realized it. His mind was in a bad place elsewhere. Back in the car, he filed the mug shots in his brief case. The photos had included Kenneth Buchanan—taken off his law firm’s Web site—the sergeant and diving instructor who were also Kristen’s lovers, along with three other cops and four sex offenders. He pulled out his iPad, logged into the department intranet, and posted what he and Dodds had agreed on to the publicly available police blotter.
Body found in Spring Grove Cemetery
By Detective Will Borders
A man’s body was discovered at approximately 9:30 a.m. Thursday in Spring Grove Cemetery. The unidentified male was white, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. Cincinnati Police Department homicide detectives responded, although the cause of death was unknown and may be suicide. A routine autopsy will be conducted. Anyone with information in the case should contact Cincinnati Police or Crime Stoppers.
He clicked “post” and the system responded immediately.
Then he sat back and digested the words of the mousy little nursing student: We used to party up there…
Those were almost the same words John had said to him when they were sitting on Will’s balcony, talking about Miami. Will hadn’t thought about it much at the time, but why would John be hanging around Oxford?
Why did John have the same brand of shoe that left a print on Kristen Gruber’s boat? For that matter, why had John gone to Kristen’s funeral, a woman he had met once? It’s not as if John was deep into the life of the city or looking for an excuse to dress up.
Will stared at the steering wheel, feeling numb inside. If he were examining this evidence about anyone else than his stepson, his son, he would think this is the only person he had encountered who had a connection between Kristen and Oxford. John had met Kristen. He had partied up at Oxford. It was circumstantial, so far. But circumstantial evidence could be the building blocks of a homicide case.
He laughed mordantly. Cindy was afraid John was involved with drugs. Right now that would be a relief.
John had wanted to tell Will something when he stopped by on Monday night. Did he intend to confess? The memory made Will angry and woozy at the same time. He should have pushed him.
All Will needed was some of John’s DNA to test against the hair found on the boat. Matching the shoe-print could also be probable cause. So would getting Cindy’s permission to enter the house, where he could search John’s room, and find Kristen’s badge, gun, wallet, and keys, as well as the underwear of all the victims. Right that moment, he should pull out his cell phone and call Diane Henderson or Dodds. Then he should call the police in Oregon and find out if they had any unsolved homicides from the time John was in Portland, especially ones involving a knife.
He left the phone in his suit-coat pocket.
Maybe that female nursing student—Allison?—was a potential suspect. She would have a motive to kill two rivals being screwed under the stars by her good-looking boyfriend, and then coax him to the same fate. She didn’t have the strength for it. And how did she know Kristen? He was reaching to the moon.
He and Cindy hadn’t been the best parents, but had they raised a killer? The thought crowded out all his body’s other complaints. John had never killed an animal—that Will knew of. He had a Siamese cat for fifteen years while he was growing up, and was nothing but affectionate toward it. Would he write that kind of letter? The language sounded more mature. John didn’t even know Will had been the lead detective on the Gruber case. But he could also hear Dodds’ voice in his head: “Who the hell knows why or when somebody becomes a monster.” Killing at his stepfather’s alma mater, killing his famous and attractive colleague, addressing a note specifically to Will. If he stepped back, all of this would make him one thing: suspicious as hell.
The sound of a car’s tires squealing on the concrete made him jump. Here he had a killer at loose, taunting him with a note pinned through a dead man’s skin, and he’s in a reverie in a deserted parking garage.
“Smart, Borders,” he said, and started the car.
Before he drove out, he checked the Enquirer’s Web site. What he wrote was already there, as a brief, with his headline. The only editing was to attribute the information to him, rather than giving him the byline. He thanked God that the tough old police reporters who dug and worked closely with the cops had all retired, and now the people down at the paper pretty much only took dictation.
Chapter Twenty-one
Heather Bridges lived in an apartment in a turreted three-story brick building off Hamilton Avenue in Northside. It was a neighborhood above the split between Interstates 74 and 75, and sandwiched between Spring Grove Cemetery and Mount Airy Forest, and Will was amazed how quickly it had gone from down-on-its-luck Rust Belt to Bohemian trendy. Cincinnati had plenty of such districts, but only a limited number of Bohemians, especially with money.
He had gotten rid of his police tail with some difficulty, telling Dodds that he had to run an errand for his ex. Now he was telling lies for John. They called that “accomplice” in his business. But he didn’t need Dodds or some other detective following him up here. He was bait now. The letter on Noah Smith was addressed to him. With luck, good or bad, the killer might come after him. He successfully argued against wearing a constant wire. But he had a hand-held radio with him at all times. Now he carried it in his left hand as he used the right, as always, for the cane.
A girl’s voice answered the intercom after a long wait. “Cincinnati Police” was enough to get him buzzed in. Oh, for a day without a long stair climb. He made it. She was waiting on the second floor, with the door cracked and the chain on. He showed her his badge, now draped in black, and identification.
“You’re John’s dad.”
“May I come in?”
The chain slid off and he stepped inside a high-ceilinged living room. It held a few pieces of expensive new furniture and art posters on the wall. He didn’t take time to read the details of galleries and dates, although one prominently featured the avant-garde Contemporary Arts Center downtown.
“I’m only living here through the summer. Until I go to college. But I didn’t want to be stuck out at the parents’ house, if you know what I mean, nothing wrong with parents, mine are cool, but I love this area…”
The chirping young woman was tall, with reddish-brown hair falling in tendrils over her shoulders, high cheekbones, and shapely legs shown to advantage in shorts. He could see why John was attracted to her. Still, she was mussed and out of breath.
“Let’s sit down,” he interrupted. She sat quickly and nervously. He turned down the radio and set it on the cushion beside him.
“We need to talk, Heather.”
“About what, Will?” A smile to light up a city. The sense of entitlement he had expected from her parents’ bankbook.
“Let’s get off on the right foot,” Will said. “I’ll call you Heather. You call me Detective Borders.”
“Okay.” A pout descended over her lovely face.
“I know you and John were on the river Saturday night and early Sunday morning…”
The pout was turning to unconcealed alarm when a closed door fifteen feet down a hallway was thrown open and a man angrily strode toward them. He was only wearing boxer shorts.
“What’s going on, Heather? This dude bothering you?”
Will made no effort to react. If the guy got in his face, the steel shaft of the cane would make an excellent impression on his nose. As he came into the light, Will saw how young he was. He was John’s age, maybe a year or two younger, and his stride was all confidence. He was lean and fit in an untested way, with stubble on his pretty-boy face, stubble on his head, and no hair on his chest. Beyond his belligerent posture, he wore a sleepy expression. When the fly of his boxers came open as he walked, Will could see the piercing. Lord, he didn’t understand this. But that was a reflection deep inside. His face was all cop.
“Who the fuck are you, kid?”
“I don’t have to…”
“Actually you do, asshole,” Will said, flashing his badge. The young man was momentarily deflated. Long enough for Heather to say, “This is my friend, Zack.”
“Go put on some clothes, friend Zack.”
The young man stared defiantly, then padded back to the bedroom, cursing under his breath.
“What’s Zack’s full name?”
She meekly complied. “Zachary Paul Miller.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
She shrugged. “We hook up. Friends with benefits, you know. Or maybe you don’t…” She glanced at the cane, and for a nanosecond he wanted to beat her to death with it. The urge passed quickly.
“So is John an F.W.B.?”
Heather smirked. “Oh, my god, no.”
“But you went to meet him on Saturday, for a date?”
“Not a date.” She fluffed out her hair and smoothed it down. “He’s sweet. But…”
Zachary Paul Miller stomped back and sat next to Heather. His jeans were so low on his hips that Will didn’t know how they didn’t fall to the floor.
“Stop talking.” He looked like he was going to slap her. To Will: “We don’t have to tell you anything, Borders. I’ve got the family lawyer on speed dial.” He dangled his iPhone. “Kenneth Buchanan. Ever hear of him, cop?” He laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched sound.
Will lifted himself up and walked two paces. He shifted the cane to his left hand. Then he delivered a hard jab to the young man’s abdomen, where it would hurt the most and leave no trace.
He was a tough-guy, at least in his own mind, but he let out a sound between a belch and a pig squeal. Tears came to his eyes as he struggled to breathe.
“Oh, I’m so sorry I fell against you, sir,” Will said. “It’s this whole cane thing. I get unstable. Damned cripples, and we get all the best parking places.”
Will returned and sat down again. “Now listen to me. You may be the king stud of Summit Country Day School, but if I make one call you’re going to be nothing but another jailhouse chicken who’ll get sodomized all night by very muscular men below your social class. They’d love to get hold of your virgin ass and your Prince Albert piercing. Only one night in lockup, you know, before the lawyers can sort things out. Jeez, I’ve seen it happen so many times to the East Side kids.” Will shook his head in mock sympathy. Zack’s eyes widened with terror.
Will continued. “I’ve already talked to Mr. Buchanan.” Technically true. “I’m hoping we can settle this without trouble: the kind that would keep you from your Ivy League future. This is a homicide investigation.” He paused and watched the color return to Zack’s face and quickly flee again. “I know you want to cooperate, Mr. Miller.”
For perhaps
the first time in his life, the kid hadn’t gotten what he wanted. He shut up and nodded, his eyes down, his mouth open, and struggling to refill his lungs.
“So why don’t you tell me what happened on the river last weekend.”
Zack started talking, gradually regaining his voice.
“I was out in my dad’s boat. We picked up some ladies. Your kid tagged along. We went up the Licking to party. No big deal.”
Will watched him. When the silence was starting to make him uncomfortable, Will said, “You want to try again?”
The young man jutted out his chin, then dropped his head. “We saw the boat, okay? Where the lady cop was killed.”
“When did you see it?”
“First when we went up-river.”
Will wanted the time: around three that afternoon. He started making notes.
“It didn’t look like anybody was aboard,” Zack Miller said. “It was tied up. I didn’t think anything about it. Then it was still there when we came back.”
“What time?”
“I have no idea. Way after midnight. We slowed down, thought maybe we could pull a prank. I ran the spotlight over the boat. We called over and nobody called back. So we pulled alongside, and I was going to check it out, make sure everybody was okay. But John went over. I guess he was trying to impress the girls. When he comes back, he said there was a dead woman in the cabin.”
Will suddenly had a headache. “John got onto that boat?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
“How long was he there?”
Zack shrugged. “A few minutes. Then he came back and told us.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I wanted to, but John said not to do it. He made us get out of there and I let everybody off at the Serpentine Wall.”
Will wrote slowly, trying to maintain his composure. Even if John hadn’t killed Kristen Gruber, witnesses now placed him on the boat, and the hair and shoe-print were probably his, too. That must have been why John refused to let the others call the police. He would be in deep shit and there was nothing that Will could do to protect him. He had done too much already. But at least John had an alibi for the time when Gruber was murdered.
