I stood in the captain’s office with him and the major.
“So was this guy actually into all this satanic mumbo jumbo?” Danes asked.
I leaned my back into the wall beside Bostok’s office door and nodded. “Yes. Without a doubt.”
“So how does a school psychology counselor just up and turn into some satanic murderer?” Bostok asked.
“Something in the guy snapped,” I said. “And it happened pretty quickly. Within a few months. During his trial, some of his coworkers from the charter school came forward. They all seemed to tell the same story. I guess he returned from summer break for a teachers’ meeting with the tattoos on his face and arms. They all thought it was some kind of joke. Then he sits in this meeting and pulls out a joint. He tells his colleagues that it’s laced with PCP. He lights it up and just starts smoking it right there in their conference room. He was suspended and never went back. As far as the satanic stuff, it progressed from there, and then the killings came next.”
“Did you guys ever call in any kind of expert on the devil worship stuff?” the major asked.
“We figured the nines on the woman, and him referring to himself as the powerful one, had to have some kind of meaning. After we found the second body, I had a couple of my detectives make some phone calls,” I said. “You can imagine the kinds of people they got on the line. Each so-called expert gave their own beliefs of what could be the reasoning behind what he was doing. Everything from ending the world to believing that he’d turn into some kind of god. Either way, it all boiled down to a pile of nonsense, and I pulled my guys from looking into it within a day. Talking with other crazy people wasn’t going to help our investigation. Plus, it just wasn’t needed. The guy was leaving us things to work with left, right, and sideways. A little police work and sticking his face up on the television as soon as we had it was all it took to catch him. One of the ‘experts’ called back after we’d found him, though. I guess they saw mug shots and booking photos of him. They said that the big tattoo on his chest was medieval witchcraft related, but the ones on his arms and all the nines, they were unsure of. They thought that he might have been mixing bits and pieces of different beliefs to kind of create his own.”
“Okay. So how do we catch this woman before she starts leaving bodies all over like Koskinen did?” the major asked.
“Well, we wanted to see what you thought. Her identity and description are with the local law enforcement,” Bostok said.
“We also have two BOLOS for vehicles out,” I added. “The car that we believe she took that belonged to Billie Webber, and the vehicle that came back registered to her, a Dodge Ram pickup. The only other thing that we have is to put her name and face everywhere and see if we get a lead that comes back. If we go that route, we’ll need to put something together for the press.”
The major nodded. “Okay, let’s get that done. I want this woman’s face everywhere tonight. Is Sam in the building?”
The Sam that he referred to was Sam James, the station’s public relations guy.
“I would assume that he’s gone for the evening,” Bostok said. “I can give him a ring, though.”
“Okay, let’s have him draft something up,” Major Danes said. “I’d like to get something out to the networks this evening. The sooner the better.”
“Let me try to get him on the line.” The captain scooped up his phone and started dialing.
“We should get both vehicles’ information to the press as well,” I said. “Give them as much as we can.”
Bostok looked at me and nodded. I heard him address Sam on the phone. The major and I sat quietly while Bostok talked. He hung up a minute later.
“Sam is going to come in. Kane, did you want to give him an overview of everything when he gets here?” Bostok asked.
I looked at my watch—it was almost 8:00 p.m. “That’s fine,” I said.
“Go home after you’re done with that,” Bostok said. “Kick Hank and Jones loose as well. Donner and Reynolds can handle working on this until morning.”
“Sure,” I said. I left Bostok’s office and walked to the bull pen. My entire team sat at their respective desks. I saw Hank punching away at his computer keyboard. He held his phone to his ear with his shoulder.
I went to Jones’s desk. “Jones, where are you at?”
“I got the number from Billie Webber’s phone for her brother, Brandon Clemmons. I made contact with him. He lives in Bradenton. I put him on with Donner, and they have an appointment set for later this evening.”
Donner looked over from his desk and nodded.
“Did he know of any boyfriend?”
“Yeah. He said the last guy that she dated moved from the area roughly six months ago. Went to California. He gave us the guy’s name, just a first, unfortunately, Jeff. I searched her phone but didn’t find the name listed anywhere.”
“No number, but kept the guy’s clothes?” I asked.
Jones shrugged. “Maybe deleted his number out of anger but kept the clothes, hoping he’d be back. I don’t know. Still trying to find the guy, though.”
“Okay, what else?”
“Aside from that,” Jones continued, “I’ll be in here meeting with Erica Osweiler’s parents around seven in the morning. When I’m through with them, I’m going to go over to both of these girls’ workplaces and chat some people up. Maybe I can find a last name for the boyfriend from one of Billie Webber’s coworkers.”
“Where did they work?” I asked.
“Billie Webber is a manager at a hotel just a couple miles away from her apartment. Erica Osweiler worked at a clothing store in the mall over by the university. She was part time while she attended school.”
“Okay,” I said. “Do we have any idea how these two knew each other?”
“I guess Erica Osweiler briefly worked at the hotel,” Jones said. “She and Billie Webber became friends, and Erica then rented a room from her. That’s the information that I got from her parents. Um, how long are we staying on?” Jones asked.
“You’re done. You can head out, and we’ll get going again in the morning.”
“Sounds good,” Jones said. “I’ll wrap up what I’ve been working on.”
I looked at Hank, who’d just hung up his phone. “That was Rick,” Hank said. “He tried calling you at your desk and then called me.”
I walked a desk over to Hank. “Did he get something?” I asked.
“He says that he found a receipt in Erica Osweiler’s pants that we brought back from the medical examiner’s. It’s from a bar and grill near the university called Paddington’s. Date stamp shows around ten thirty at night, last night.”
“So she must have traveled back to her house from there and was killed shortly after. She was alive at ten thirty and gone from the apartment before one o’clock, when Billie Webber said that she’d returned home. Ed’s original TOD was between eight and twelve hours from when we found her.” I scratched at my beard with my fingertips. “The times all add up.”
“But how did that all go down?” Hank asked.
“A question that I would damn sure like the answer for.” I looked over at Donner at his desk. He had a phone to his ear. My eyes went to the right and to Detective Reynolds. “Reynolds,” I called and waved him over.
I watched as he rose from his office chair at his desk and walked up.
“What are you working on?” I asked.
“We have all of her records put in for. We aren’t going to have much luck on any kind of a cell phone. I can’t seem to find anything for her. Maybe she uses a prepaid service or something. She doesn’t have any social media accounts, or really anything that I can jump on. Basically, I’m sitting here and going through my other paperwork until I hear anything, and getting a call with something to work in the middle of the night is probably going to be a bit of a long shot.”
“Okay. After Donner gets done with this interview with the brother, I want you guys to go and check out a bar called Padd
ington’s. It’s over by USF. As far as we can tell, it was the last place where we know that Erica Osweiler was alive. See if they have some video, ask if they remember her, and try to find out who she was with. Look for our big blond woman.”
“We can do that,” Reynolds said.
“And call or message me if you get anything. Whatever time, I don’t care,” I said.
“Sure.” Reynolds walked back to his desk.
I looked at Hank. “You can probably take off for the night, Hank. We can pick this up again in the morning. I’m sure Karen has been blowing up your phone, wondering what the hell is taking you so long. You guys probably have to get to your pottery class, or musical, or something else that’s awful.”
Hank said nothing.
“Or is tonight binge watching something on one of the women’s networks?”
“For your information, Karen is out tonight, so I’ll be doing whatever the hell I want. Actually, I was going to see if you wanted to go grab a beer, but seeing as you’re being a dick, maybe I’ll ask Jones instead.”
I smirked. “I have to wait around and run through all this with Sam. The major wants him to put something together for the press.”
“When is he coming in?”
“Now, I think.”
“I can wait around, work for a bit until you’re done, if you wanted to go grab a beer?”
Hank seemed fairly set on the idea of beer grabbing. “Sure,” I said. “I have to stop home and deal with the cat. Did you want to just follow me?”
“That’s fine. Where did you want to go?” Hank asked.
“Lefty’s works for me,” I said.
“You like that place?”
“Small, not a ton of people, it’s just a bar. Like it should be.” I felt my phone ringing in my pocket. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen—a Wisconsin number calling. “Shit, this might finally be my guy from the state hospital returning my call. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to head out.”
Hank nodded.
I walked to my office and clicked Talk on my phone. “Lieutenant Carl Kane,” I said.
“Hello, Lieutenant. Charles Gill, assistant director at the Madison Mental Health Institute. I apologize for the delayed callback. Your message said something about Eve Kleeman?”
“Yes. I need to know her involvement with an inmate, Larry Koskinen.” I walked into my office and closed the door at my back.
“Well, I guess I don’t really know what information you guys are looking for. Another lieutenant from Milwaukee called me earlier today. He asked a couple of questions about Mr. Koskinen, basically, if there was anything out of the ordinary with him, or if he’d been in contact with any females. To which the answers were both no. Now you’re mentioning Eve Kleeman. I’m afraid that someone is going to have to tell me what these inquiries are about if you have any hopes of me actually being able to help you.”
I gave the assistant director the story. That Jim and I were the arresting officers of Koskinen. That we had Eve Kleeman’s fingerprints all over a murder scene. That the homicide that I’d reported to that morning was a staging of a Koskinen murder.
The assistant director seemed in disbelief that one of the guards working at the hospital could have a hand in what I’d described. I informed him, again, that her prints were at the scene, and since my original call to him, we had her prints at another scene, in blood.
“Were Eve Kleeman and Larry Koskinen in contact with each other within the hospital?” I asked.
He cleared his throat. “She was assigned to his block, yes,” he said.
“When was the last time that you saw her?”
“She’s been out on vacation for maybe a week or so.”
“Apparently she came to Florida,” I said.
“Yeah. I need to dig into this on my end as well and find out just exactly what the hell was going on here. I’ll talk with those that handle the guard personnel, some of the other guards, face-to-face, and Koskinen himself to try to get to the bottom of this. Did you want me to just give you a callback at this number?”
“This number will be fine,” I said. “One more thing, do you have a copy of her employee jacket that maybe you could email me? We need everything that we can get on this woman.”
“I’ll have it pulled and sent. What’s the email?”
I gave it to him.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Let me give you my direct number.”
I took his number down, thanked him, clicked off, and rubbed at my temples. I spent the remaining time before Sam was supposed to show up gathering information for the press release that he would write.
Chapter 15
I finished my meeting with Sam James and gave him the information and phone number for the state mental hospital assistant director that I spoke to. He said that he would contact them to get more details on Kleeman to provide to the press. I also had Sam put together something on Billie Webber. We’d put her name and face out there—until we had a body, she would be considered missing in connection with a homicide.
Hank followed me from the station’s parking structure to my condo. I felt my phone buzz against my leg. I pulled it out and saw that it was my sister calling. I debated not answering. My sister had been developing a habit of somehow always making me think of my ex-wife with every phone call. It wasn’t something that I was fond of doing.
I gave her the benefit of the doubt and clicked Talk.
“Hey, Mel,” I said.
“Hey. Did you get my email?” she asked.
“I saw it in my in-box but didn’t open it. Busy day at work.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
My sister knew of the Koskinen case, but I didn’t feel like going over it with her. “Same old shit,” I said. “People killing people. Anyway, what’s up? What was the email? Photos?”
“Yeah, photos,” she said.
“Tommy?” I asked, which I figured to be a safe guess, seeing as my sister sent me photos of him almost hourly. The boy didn’t have a single day of his life pass that either my sister or a professional photographer wasn’t in his face with a camera. Most of the photos landed in my email in-box or were sent to me in the mail.
“Um, no,” Melissa said. “Sam sent me some old photos of when we all went up to Dad’s before you guys moved. She thought that maybe you’d like to have them.”
And there it was, my sister bringing up my ex-wife somehow.
I grumbled and did my best to not take my annoyance out on her. My sister and ex-wife were still friends, and while I didn’t like that fact, I didn’t believe that my sister brought her up purposefully to bother me.
“Do you remember the trip?” she asked.
I knew what she spoke of. My ex-wife and I had taken a trip up to the Northwoods of Wisconsin with my sister, her husband, and my nephew, Tommy. We spent a week with my father and stepmother prior to moving to Florida. While the getaway was fun at the time, and my father and I got a good amount of fishing in, I didn’t have much interest in looking at old photos of my adulteress ex-wife. I made a mental note to delete the email without looking.
“Yeah, I remember it. We had a good time,” I said. “Hey, I’m pulling up to my condo.” It was a half lie. I wouldn’t pull up for another minute or two. “I have Hank following me, so I’m going to have to run so I can call him to tell him where to park.” A full lie.
“Oh yeah, what are you guys up to?” she asked.
“We need to go over a few things on the case.” Another lie, but if I told her that we were just hanging out, she wouldn’t let me get off the phone. “Let me give you a call tomorrow or something.”
“Why do you immediately try to get off of the phone with me at the slightest mention of Sam?”
“I’m pretty sure you know the answer to that, but that’s really not why I have to go.” It was exactly why I had to go.
“Fine, whatever. Call me tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.” I clicked off, tur
ned into my condo’s front driveway, and rolled to a stop to wait for the gates. In my rearview mirror, I saw Hank pull in behind me. When the gates spread, he followed me into the underground parking.
I parked my Shelby Mustang in my assigned spot near the back wall—Hank pulled his old econobox into the spot designated for visitors. I met him as he waited near the elevator.
“Just an in and out?” Hank asked.
“I’m going to change, and then we can take off. Are you planning on staying out for a bit or what?” I asked.
Hank rocked his head back and forth, debating—he never really stayed out for more than a drink or two.
“We’ll see,” he said. “Did the hospital guy call you back?”
“No,” I said. I pulled out my phone and checked to see if the assistant director at the mental health institute had sent me the employee jacket on Kleeman—my phone showed no new emails. “He hasn’t sent me the employee jacket yet, either.”
“Oh, I just saw that you were on the phone in the car,” Hank said.
“Yeah, my sister called,” I said. “Doing her best to try to annoy me.”
“What do you mean?”
I reached out and hit the button for the elevator and then hit the five for the fifth floor when we stepped inside. “Nah, she just always brings up Samantha somehow. It just gets old.”
“That’s still a sore subject, huh?”
I glared at him and said nothing.
“Well, what’s up with Steph? Talk to her lately?” Hank asked.
Steph, short for Stephanie Donnell, was one of Hank’s wife’s DEA friends that they’d been doing their best to try to set me up with for quite a while. “Nah, not really,” I said.
“I’m telling you, you’re dropping the ball there.”
“That’s fine,” I said. I figured I’d throw a different topic out there, or Hank would continue bugging me about Steph or, worse, start talking about my ex-wife. “So what is your gut telling you on Kleeman?”
“She had to have formed some kind of relationship with Koskinen, and he talked her into doing this,” Hank said.
The Ninth Life Page 9
