Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (16 page)

“Found one, listen to this.”

She read, “His mind clear but his body unresponsive, the victim could do nothing as the blade made its terrible pass along his abdomen and cut away the muscle and flesh holding in his intestines. Petre thought of nothing but the odd sensation of his guts spilling onto his legs and the unfamiliar tug from deep inside. There was no pain, only surprise. He wondered how long a man could live with his intestines outside of his body. Not long, he feared.”

She looked up from the page. “Again, a perfect match with the way the victim was killed. And this sheet was found alone as well.”

“Good work,” Prichard said. “Now let’s keep looking. I want to know whether there was a page like that at Mueller’s place as well.”

They found it thirty minutes later. It read just like the first two.

“The killer tugged on the yellow nylon rope, checking to be sure the victim could not escape. With the dosage of sedative he was carrying, it was unlikely the naked man could move, let alone struggle free.

Taking his time, the world asleep and his actions as secret as a confession, the killer put the blade at the base of the naked neck and pushed in until pearls of blood squirted from the flesh. The red drops ran in streams down the to the corduroy ottoman. Firmly and slowly the killer’s hand drew the blade down the victim’s back and marveled at how the skin opened, exposing the pink wrapped backbone like a lover opening a robe.”

“Let me see that,” Prichard said.

He compared the three pages.

“These pages are numbered in the same order as the actual killings,” he said, “as though the killer is writing a book about the murders. Pages 47, 68 and 156. To write something like this you have to know the place, the furniture and everything else at the scene. So this killer must case the victim, write this out, come in, do the deed, and then leave this behind.”

“Pretty original,” one of the technicians offered.

“There’s no doubt,” Prichard said. “We’re dealing with a serial killer.”

He excused himself to go call Chief Smythe.

* * *

Smythe sat back in Andrade’s chair. Andrade, Prichard and Thatcher faced him from across the desk. Andrade was uncomfortable sitting on the wrong side of his own desk. He knew Smythe was flexing his seniority.

“Can anyone tell me,” the Chief said, “why it took so long to discover these pages?”

“These were single pages,” Prichard said, “mixed in with all the other paper in the three apartments. It took a bit of time, but we did find them. Even better, our technicians recognized their importance.”

“That’s true,” Smythe said, “and I know these things take time, but time is in short supply right now.”

“Which is why we got the pages analyzed right away,” Prichard said. “The report says the paper is standard bond and printed with a laser printer in 12 point Courier. Ordinary and impossible to trace.”

Smythe grimaced. “Figures. I’m getting serious heat from the Mayor’s office now that the press is all over this.”

Thatcher nodded.

“My guess is the killer was looking for exactly this kind of press coverage. Most serial killers become bored after a while. Outwitting the police stops being enough. They’re attention junkies. They need to taunt us. That usually leads to a dialog of some sort, most often by mail.”

“You think the killings will continue?” Smythe asked.

“Almost certainly.”

“So what now?”

“The Bureau’s putting together a task force,” Thatcher said. “We’re going to track down every name mentioned in the correspondence found in those three apartments.”

“That’s a lot of names.”

“We’ve got the manpower and we’re going to use it, see if we can catch a break.”

“Anything we can do on the local side?”

Thatcher looked thoughtful. “Wouldn’t hurt to do some background research into the local publishing industry. Talk to some agents and publishers and see if you can get some hard data on what has this crazy so pissed off.”

Smythe nodded. “We can do that.”

“I happen to have some connections because of the book I wrote,” Prichard said. “My agent would be good start. Her name is Nancy Callahan, with the Roth agency. I’ll give her a call and ask if she can make time for your Detectives.”

“This is a murder investigation,” Smythe said. “Tell her she’s going to make the time.”

“Of course. I’ll call Jerry Shapiro, too. He’s the managing editor at my publisher.”

Smythe looked at Andrade. “Work for you?”

Andrade nodded. “No problem. I’ll put Collins on it. He’s been working this from the start.”

“Good,” Smythe said, “and send Drake with him.”

Andrade couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Drake?”

“He’s a writer and I want to hear his perspective.”

Smythe gave Andrade a glare of conviction. It was an order, not a request.

“Makes sense,” Thatcher agreed.

All Andrade could do was nod in agreement. He guessed it made a certain amount of sense, but Collins wouldn’t like it. Not one damn bit.

* * *

After returning to Station One, Smythe sat at his desk and read through the photocopy of the letter Drake had sent him. Chief Fitzpatrick’s concern regarding the Hennings case was abundantly clear, literally a voice from beyond.

Smythe prided himself on his ability to read cops and he knew they often crashed under the stress of the job, especially Detectives. Something in his gut, though, told Smythe this was not the case with Detective Drake. During the Hennings investigation Drake had been the image of professionalism and confidence. When the case crumbled and Drake was called on the carpet, he seemed as shocked as anyone.

So Smythe sat and wondered, yet again, whether Drake was taken down by the rigors of police work. Or had his career been torn down? The image in Smythe’s mind resembled an unwanted hotel with charges expertly placed to ensure it would crumple under its own weight.

Smythe hit the button for his private intercom.

“Helen, I want to see whatever we have on the Hennings case.”

“Hennings?”

“Yes, Joshua Fairbanks Hennings. Murder case from about ten years ago. I want to see the case files.”

“Yes sir.”

Smythe gazed contemplatively out his window. He had been around long enough to know that case files virtually never contained all the information there was to know. Time and again throughout his career he had proven to himself there was simply no substitute for talking with people who were close to the situation. He needed people who had been close to Drake for many years, who could provide personal insights. And he knew one person who would be a perfect candidate.

He dialed down to the Detective’s department and asked to speak to Paul Kellerman.

“This is Kellerman.”

“Hello Detective, it’s Chief Smythe. Do you have time to come up to my office now?”

“Of course sir. I’ll be right up.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as Smythe hung up, his secretary called through.

“Chief, all the Hennings case materials have just been converted to electronic format. Do you want me to get the paper files brought up, or do you want to access them online?”

“I’ll look at them online for now. I’ll let you know later if I need the actual files.”

“Very good sir.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, he thought as he logged onto his computer. He hadn’t been reading long when a knock came at his door.

“Come.”

Detective Kellerman stuck his head in.

“You asked to see me sir?”

Smythe waved him in.

“Close the door, son, and have a seat.”

Once Kellerman was situated, Smythe handed him Fitzpatrick’s letter.

“Have a look at that. I’d like to know what you think.”

Smythe sat quietly while Kellerman scanned through the few paragraphs. When Kellerman looked up, the Chief saw genuine concern on his face.

“What do you think?” Smythe said.

“I’m familiar with this Hennings case, sir. I wrote a paper on it back in college.”

“I know, I read it. You made a good case that there was plenty of uncertainty surrounding the facts, even after everything was resolved.”

“That was the assignment.” Kellerman said. “Pick a high profile case and argue from the other side.”

“Sure, but you had personal reasons for selecting that particular case.”

Kellerman nodded. “Lou Drake is a good friend of our family. I grew up calling him Uncle Lou.”

“Because before your father retired, Drake was his longtime partner.”

“Yes sir, that’s right.”

“So I understand you come at this with a particular point of view, but I’m still interested in your thoughts on the case.”

Kellerman looked confused.

“If you don’t mind me asking sir, why are we talking about this now? It’s been ten years.”

Smythe pointed to the letter that was still in Kellerman’s hands.

“That’s part of the reason, and the rest is need to know, I’m afraid.”

“Yes sir, I understand.”

“And I’m going to ask you to keep this conversation to yourself for the time being.”

“Absolutely.”

Kellerman paused and took a breath.

“Permission to speak freely?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“I’ve always thought Lou Drake was set up so Hennings could be let off the hook.”

“In other words, you think Fitzpatrick was on the right trail.”

“I do.”

“Do you have any hard evidence to back that up?”

“Unfortunately no, but for me it was always about what makes the most sense. I mean, they got a confession from a petty criminal who was known to be a pathological liar. Then the guy hangs himself, which is damned convenient for Hennings.”

“You’re not the first person to point that out.”

“Exactly, and then there were the witnesses who changed their stories.”

“It happens,” Smythe said.

“True, but stack all that up against the likelihood that Lou Drake would make the kinds of mistakes he got blamed for. I mean, the guy was an absolute rock star as a Detective.”

Smythe smiled. “Not that you’re biased or anything.”

Kellerman dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Sure, that’s true. You should have heard my Dad talk about him. It was like Drake walked on water. But still, it boggles my mind that someone could handle a thousand cases in a row like a complete pro, and then screw up like he was supposed to on this particular murder case.”

Smythe nodded, as much to himself as to Kellerman. Now he was more determined than ever to continue sifting through the online Hennings files.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
O
NE

SANDY ALEXANDER SAT at his dining room table in his apartment and stared at his reflection in his fourth cup of coffee. A bottle of Johnny Walker Red rested at is elbow, ready to fortify the next cup. Sandy felt the warm glow of a drunken stupor, not to mention tightness around his eyes from the caffeine. Buzzed alertness was the blessed state of the frustrated, the creative and the damned.

He lifted the cup with both hands and sipped as if taking salvation from Holy Communion. Sandy was raised as a staunch Catholic. Every week his parents dragged him to Saturday Catechism and Mass on Wednesday and Sunday. Then when Sandy was ten his father withered and took to his bed. After his father finally gasped out his last breath, Sandy’s mother sat in self-imposed seclusion and read her bible.

Sandy and his mother lived in a small house on Kensington Street in upstate New York with the gasping ghost of his departed dad. His mother danced with it late at night. She quoted scripture and talked to the empty rooms while Sandy huddled in bed. He imagined God pointing down at him from Heaven while the devil waited under his bed. Soon he developed a deep resentment for the God spewed at him from the pulpit. The host on Sandy’s tongue became a tasteless pill and the sip of bitter wine his weekly reminder of his condemnation.

“Here’s to you mom,” Sandy said out loud, raising the coffee cup. “I’m dancing with the demon drink. Here’s to God the Almighty and Jesus and the apostles and all the saints.”

Outside the weather was dank and cold. Sandy had an image of freezing fog clawing at the cracks in his walls and doorways, trying to get in like starving cats outside a fish market. He loved to make those associations. Were they metaphors or similes? He could never remember.

Don’t try and distract yourself, Sandy thought. Remember you are a sinner.

He no idea how the booze had overtaken his life. What was the trigger? In the late summer he had felt the tug of … what? Shame? Or guilt?

Bless me father for I have sinned. I have blood on my hands.

His foggy mind realized the seed had been planted when the clouds came in and the air cooled. The gnawing had started and the drink soothed him until one night he found himself standing in the park in the rain.

But he couldn’t go there. That was all too painful to bear on this particular night. Another cup of coffee and another healthy splash from the bottle and Sandy soon slipped into the darkness he was after.

* * *

Sweetum’s Doughnuts closed at midnight. The clean up and lock down took another hour. Robin finally closed the store at one fifteen.