Alter Ego

by David Archer

  Walter wasn’t listening, because he was moving slowly across the lot. Every few feet, he lay down and looked across the ground.

  “The driver didn’t pull out the way I would expect him to,” he said. “He should have turned as he passed at the corner of the building, but he went way out until he was almost at the edge of the lot before he turned. He was probably swinging wide around another vehicle that was parked beside the building.”

  “Another vehicle? According to O’Rourke, this happened when nobody else was here.”

  Walter was on the ground, looking at the area just beside the building, where he was speculating a car may have been. He looked for a moment, then squatted over the spot.

  “There was a car sitting here around that time,” he said. “There are old tire prints that are the same age as the ones from the van. The car that was sitting here was leaking power steering fluid. Some of it must have been spraying onto the left front tire, because it’s mixed into the tire track. We need to get a sample of it.” He took a plastic bag out of his pocket, then removed his pocket knife and used the blade to scoop up some of the oil-stained dirt and put it in the bag. “If we can find the vehicle it came from, it’s possible we could have a witness.”

  Steve shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “I think anyone who might have been here when the girl was being murdered would have come forward by now.”

  Walter looked up at him. “Unless they don’t want anyone to know they were here at the time.”

  “Are you saying this person might have been involved? Another killer?”

  “Not necessarily,” Walter said. “There could be a lot of reasons somebody was here when they weren’t supposed to be. He could have been up to something criminal of his own, maybe getting ready to break into the building when the van appeared, or maybe he was meeting someone here for a drug deal. The fact that all the DNA found on the victim matches Sam indicates there was only one person in the van with the victim. Whoever this was, they were here for their own reasons.”

  “But we can’t be certain whoever it was actually was here at the same time as the murder,” Steve said. “That vehicle could have been parked there hours before, or hours after, maybe even days.”

  “Then why did the killer swing around the spot? Unless something was sitting here, he would have naturally turned and followed the driveway around the building, but he swung out wide and ended up on the edge.” Walter got up and walked a bit further. “And here, behind where the car was sitting, he pulled back into the main driveway and ran over some of the oil. It’s the same density as the one from the other car’s front tire, so it was made very close to the same time.”

  Steve stared at Walter for a moment, then grinned. “Well, at least it’s something. Now, how do we find the car that was sitting there?”

  “First, we check all of the employee vehicles,” Walter said. “Even if somebody fixed the power steering leak, there will still be traces of fluid on the tire and the wheel, probably up under the hood as well. We can match that oil to this sample. If it isn’t one of the employees’ cars, then we need to look at other cars that have been seen on the security video. The way the driver parked here could mean he’s familiar with this spot.”

  “But it’s just oil,” Steve said. “How are we going to prove it’s the same oil as this?”

  “Oil in machinery picks up metal particles. The fluid traces we find on the car will have the same metal parts per million as the sample. If it doesn’t, it’s the wrong vehicle.”

  “I’m just curious, Walter,” Steve said, “but do you ever get tired of being a walking encyclopedia?”

  Walter looked up at him. “No,” he said.

  * * * * *

  Denny hadn’t waited for morning to start his own investigation. He went home and fired up his computer, then sent emails to friends in the FBI, asking for information relating to similar murders to the one Sam was accused of. When he finished with that, he started googling murder cases that might have similarities, and by midnight he had come up with more than a dozen with similar MO’s.

  By that time, he was getting tired and went to bed. He got up at six a.m., made a pot of coffee and waited for it to produce enough to fill a cup, then carried the extremely potent brew back to his desk. There were no responses to his emails yet, so he started reading all the details on the similar cases he found.

  Over the past nine years, there had been at least twelve cases of young girls being raped and murdered in similar fashion. In six of those cases, similar bloodstains had been found, and a few possible witnesses had mentioned a Chevy van. Denny scanned through all the articles on each of them, starting with the oldest case.

  The victim in that case, seven years past, had been fifteen-year-old Cheryl Heathcote. Her body, riddled with stab wounds, was found hidden in a trash dump, nude from the waist down and showing signs of ligature marks on her wrists. Like Brenda Starling, she had been raped by someone using a condom, but no bodily fluids were found. A bloodstain similar to the one behind the maintenance garage had been found on a back road. The only DNA evidence recovered from the body was in the form of saliva traces, but the samples had not come back with a match. Denny made a note to contact the Mecklenburg County Sheriff’s office in Charlotte, North Carolina, to see if the samples might still be available for testing.

  The next case occurred in Jacksonville, Florida, a year after the one in North Carolina. A thirteen-year-old girl, Robin Shaw, had been raped and stabbed to death in similar fashion. In this case, however, the condom the killer used must have been defective, because they found minute traces of semen in her vagina. Once again, DNA did not return a match, but everything else about the case was so similar to this one that Denny again made a note to see if the samples were still available.

  Next was the case of Belinda Carter from Tupelo, Mississippi, two years after Robin Shaw. Belinda had been sixteen, and her body was found only a few hours after she was killed. It was discovered in an abandoned house by teenagers looking for someplace to hang out and get high. Like Brenda Starling and the others, she was naked from the waist down and had been stabbed repeatedly, and another bloodstain was found behind an old, abandoned gas station a few miles away. No witnesses came forward and no DNA was recovered from the body, but Tupelo police picked up a man who was apparently living in an older Chevy van for questioning. He had been hanging around town for about a week and several people claimed to have seen him watching young girls, but there was nothing to tie him to the crime and he was released the same day. His name was not listed in the article, so Denny made a note to call and find out what he could.

  He turned to the next case, Rita Wasserman, which happened two years earlier. Rita had been fifteen and was found in yet another empty, old building outside Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Her body was in the same condition as the others, naked from the waist down with her shirt torn open and with ligature marks on her wrists. In this case, however, the CSI techs were able to find traces of semen, just like on Brenda Starling. Once again they failed to get a DNA match, and Denny made another note.

  All the other cases, while having some similarities, were also different enough to make Denny think that they might not be the work of the same perpetrator. He got up and made another cup of coffee, then picked up his phone and started making calls.

  The first call was to the Mecklenburg County Sheriff’s office. The Cheryl Heathcote case had been investigated by a detective known as Sergeant Grosvenor. Sergeant Grosvenor had been promoted since then and was now the chief deputy, but Denny lucked out and found the man was in his office.

  “Chief Deputy Grosvenor,” he said as he took the call.

  “Hello, Chief,” Denny said. “My name is Denny Cortlandt, and I’m a special investigator with Windlass Security in Denver, Colorado. I’m calling about an old case of yours, the murder of Cheryl Heathcote.”

  “Oh, yes,” Grosvenor said, “I remember that case. It’s pretty cold, what can I tell you about
it?”

  “As it happens, local authorities out here are investigating a similar case. I was wondering if you might have any of the evidence from that case still available.”

  “I’m sure it is. One thing about us out here, we don’t get rid of anything if we might need it in the future. We also don’t give up on cold cases. What is it you’re looking for?”

  “Everything you’ve got,” Denny said. “We extracted DNA samples here, and I’d like to compare them against what you lot found. Do you think that would be possible?”

  “DNA? We tried that route, got nothing. The only DNA we found on the body was some slimy stuff the lab techs said was dried saliva. They pulled some sort of DNA analysis out of it, but we never found a match. You think you might have better luck?”

  “Well, mate, that’s what I hope to find out. What I’m out to do is determine whether we are dealing with the same killer. How would I go about getting your samples?”

  “Hold on a minute,” Grosvenor said. “Okay, give me an address to send it to. I don’t know if you have any luck after all these years, but I’ll take any break I can get in that case.”

  Denny gave him the address of Windlass Security and then used a corporate credit card to pay for overnight delivery. Grosvenor promised to have it out before lunchtime and made Denny promise to share any results he found.

  Next, Denny called the police department in Jacksonville, Florida. The case of Robin Shaw’s murder had gone to Detective James Atkinson, but Atkinson had since retired. Denny was transferred to the Police Chief, who was more than happy to agree to send some of their remaining evidence samples to Denny.

  When he called Tupelo, the former detective who had handled the case turned out to be the new chief of police, and quickly picked up the phone when he learned what the call was about.

  “Chief Rogers,” he said. “How can I help you today?”

  “Chief, my name is Denny Cortlandt. I’m an investigator with Windlass Security in Denver, Colorado, and I’m looking into a case that’s very similar to the murder of Belinda Carter.”

  “You don’t say?” Rogers asked, his interest obviously piqued. “Well, how can we be of assistance?”

  “I was wondering about any evidence you might have collected from the scene, but I also saw an article saying that you had actually questioned a suspect. Could you possibly tell me who that might have been?”

  “I can tell you who it is, and if you were sitting here, I could give you the man’s picture. I ain’t ever forgot him, I can tell you that. His name was Boyd Benson, and I never was satisfied that he didn’t do it. We just didn’t have any kind of evidence that would connect him to the murder, so we had no choice but to release him. Far as I’m concerned, he’s still my number one suspect.”

  “Really? Any idea what might’ve happened to him after he walked away?”

  “Nope. I tried to keep track of him for a while, but he just sort of disappeared. When he left here, he went to Louisiana, some small town in the middle of nowhere and I never found any trace of him again after that. Funny thing is, when we look into his background, we found out that he was an ex-soldier, one of those guys with PTSD. He was living on the street in Birmingham up until a few weeks before he showed up here, but when we got hold of his military files, he didn’t look nothing like he did when we picked him up. Ask me, I think the guy we talked to wasn’t really him at all. I get the impression he changes names the way most people change their underwear.”

  “Sounds about right,” Denny said. “I know you said you didn’t have any evidence that actually connected him to the crime, but was there any other sort of evidence collected? I’m trying to determine if the case I’m working on might be connected.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Rogers said. Denny was put on hold and waited five minutes before the chief came back. “Okay, turns out everything is still in the evidence room. It isn’t much, though. A few fibers, a little bit of the girl’s hair with blood on it, that kinda stuff. There was nothing that seemed to come from the killer.”

  “You mentioned fibers,” Denny said. “What kind of fibers?”

  “Seems to be cotton fibers; they were found in the abrasions on her wrists, probably from the rope that she was tied up with. Now, that was kind of another funny thing, now that you mention it. They ran DNA tests on the fibers, hoping maybe there was DNA from the killer on it, but they ended up with several different DNA samples. Crime lab says that rope likely had been used to tie up other people in the past. Ain’t that something?”

  Denny scribbled a note to himself to check on fibers from Brenda Starling’s ligature marks. “It certainly is,” he said. “Would it be possible to get some of those samples sent to me? And a copy of your file, specifically anything related to Mr. Benson?”

  “I’ll send you everything,” Rogers said. “Much as I hate to admit it, this case has us completely stumped. If you come up with anything, maybe we can finally get justice for that little girl.”

  Denny gave him the address and offered to pay for rush shipment, but the chief refused. “Least I can do,” he said. “If you have any luck, maybe I can finally put this case to bed.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Denny said.

  There was one more call to make, to the Jefferson County Sheriff in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Denny looked up the number and dialed and a moment later was speaking to Sheriff Joe Hinckley.

  “Sheriff,” he began, “my name is Denny Cortlandt, and I’m an investigator with Windlass Security in Denver, Colorado. I’m investigating a case that is similar to the murder of Rita Wasserman, and I’d like to know if you have any of the old evidence from that case.”

  “Of course we do,” Hinckley said. “Just how similar is your case to ours?”

  “I’m afraid it’s very similar. Our victim, Brenda Starling, was a fourteen-year-old girl who was found in the same condition as Rita. She had been raped and stabbed multiple times, and we recovered DNA. That DNA has come back to a suspect, but there is a problem. The suspect is a man who would normally be considered to be completely above reproach, and we are trying to determine whether the actual killer had ever done such a thing before. If we can confirm that Rita was murdered by the same person who killed Brenda…”

  “Hold on, I heard about this,” Hinckley said. “You said Denver? This is the case where they arrested that Prichard fellow, right?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is. The problem is that I, and many others, have reason to believe that the DNA evidence is in error. We know Sam Prichard, and this is simply not something he would do. If we can link any other murder of this type to that same DNA, at a time when Mr. Prichard could not possibly have been the perpetrator, we can show that the DNA evidence is somehow incorrect.”

  Hinckley whistled. “Damnation,” he said. “According to CNN, the DNA evidence against Prichard is absolutely conclusive. If you manage to show that it’s wrong, you could be ruining DNA evidence admissibility in every murder case in the future.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” Denny said, “but what we actually believe is that Mr. Prichard is being deliberately framed. We have investigators looking into whether his DNA profile had been altered to match, which would explain why it looks like his DNA on the victim. If we can find another source of that DNA on another victim, we may yet be able to track down the true perpetrator.”

  The sheriff was quiet for a couple seconds, then cleared his throat. “Mr. Cortlandt, I’ll confess I’m having a little trouble believing that DNA could be wrong. On the other hand, if it turns out Prichard is your killer and the DNA does match from our case, you will have solved a murder that’s been leaving me unable to sleep for several years. I’ll send you our evidence, but I want a complete and accurate report on what you find, whether you like it or not. Deal?”

  Denny grinned. “Sheriff, that’s exactly what I have in mind.” He gave the sheriff the address and once again paid for rush delivery.

  * * * * *

  Summer was
waiting in the hall when O’Rourke came out of the courtroom.

  “Detective O’Rourke?” she asked, feigning timidity. “Can I have a moment?”

  O’Rourke stopped and looked at her, started to turn away and then did a double take. Summer was probably one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on, and a lazy smile spread across his face. “Sure,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  Summer smiled. “I just wanted to tell you thank you,” she said. “For finding the man who killed that poor girl.”

  O’Rourke’s smile got bigger. “It was definitely a pleasure,” he said. “Any man who would do something like that… I don’t know, I just needed to see that poor little girl get justice.”

  “That means so much to me,” Summer said. “Girls are so vulnerable nowadays, and you hear so much about how people abuse them, you know, men who should know better. It’s nice to see a detective who won’t give up, who won’t just let it get swept under the rug.”

  “I never could,” O’Rourke said. “Were you related to Brenda?”

  “Oh, no, I just hear so many stories about things like this that never get solved. I just wanted—well, I just wanted to meet the man who wouldn’t give up.”

  The smile became almost blinding. “Like I said, it was a pleasure. Would you maybe like to hear about how we were able to track him down? Over coffee, maybe?”

  Summer’s eyes lit up. “Do you have time? I mean, I don’t want to keep you from anything important.”

  “I can take a short break. We’ll call it a celebration coffee, because we got the guy.”

  “Detective, I would love to have a cup of coffee with you.”

  “Well, then let’s go. There’s a nice coffee shop just down the street.” He pointed south.

  “Everyday Joe’s,” Summer said with a smile. “That’s a lovely place.”

  SIX

  She followed O’Rourke out the door of the courthouse and they walked down South Mason Street to the coffee shop. Everyday Joe’s Coffee House was run by volunteers from a local church and featured live inspirational music. Summer had done her research and found the place, intending to invite O’Rourke herself before he beat her to it. As she had expected, it was rather quiet in the morning and they were able to get a small table by themselves.