Stalking Susan (18 page)

CHAPTER 27

S
hep’s hair stood up and so did mine, until I was able to identify the shape peering through the darkness as Dr. Redding. Then I felt foolish. He stood at the curb next to a silver BMW—stereotypical doctor’s car—no imagination. I forgot I had invited him over. I’d meant to stop by Lund’s grocery to pick up some fancy snacks suitable for company. The last time I’d had company food in my kitchen was the week of Boyer’s funeral when all the other cop families brought hot dishes, salads, and desserts.

Unfortunately, all I could offer Dr. Redding was a handful of hot doggie doo.

“Just a minute,” I called out, on my way to make a deposit in the garbage can next to the garage. Shep continued snarling and straining the leash in my guest’s direction. “It’s okay, boy,” I reassured Shep, who gave no sign of quitting. “He’s really very gentle,” I reassured my visitor.

Redding made no move to come any closer. “Splendid animal,” Redding said to me. “Good dog,” he said to Shep.

Shep wasn’t falling for any false compliments. With a throaty rumble and a lunge of muscle, he demonstrated just how seriously he took his protector duty.

“He’ll settle down once you come inside.” I opened the front door. But like a shield, Shep kept his body between me and Redding, fervently guarding the porch steps, refusing to let my visitor pass.

Mrs. Fredericks stuck her head out her door. “Everything okay, Riley? We’re not used to so much barking.”

“Just fine,” I answered. “I’m introducing Shep to Dr. Redding, a friend of mine. By the way, this is Mrs. Fredericks.”

“Nice to meet you.” Redding didn’t say it like he meant it.

She gave me a wink and went back inside to escape the night air.

“Let him sniff you,” I suggested, “and then he’ll know you’re okay.” Redding looked doubtful, but Shep was eager to try—for a bite it turns out, not a sniff.

“Down Shep,” I pleaded, pulling his jaws back in the nip of time as Redding’s jacket sleeve ripped. I apologized profusely. “Maybe we should walk around the block and let him get used to you.”

That didn’t work either. Shep was determined to keep his prey in sight by herding Redding down the street with his teeth. I realized Shep could outlast me, so I dragged the German shepherd back to my yard, yanked him up the stairs, and locked him in the house. I leaned back against the door, exhausted and relieved that my dog owner days were numbered.

“Had him long?” Redding asked.

“He’s a loaner.” No need to go into the details of why I required a watchdog. “I’m watching him for a friend.”

“Must be a dear friend.”

Just then a police car came around the corner, slowed, and shined its headlights on us. The cop called out, “Everything okay tonight, folks?”

“Fine, officer. Thanks.”

He waved from his squad and pulled away. Mentally I gave the chief kudos for following through on the extra patrols.

“Private security?” Redding asked.

“No, the cops just like to patrol this street. His shift doesn’t end till breakfast, so he might swing by again.”

“That’s personal service.”

Rather than stand in the driveway and continue to entertain Mrs. Fredericks, who was now watching us from her kitchen window, I decided we should walk and talk. We headed toward Lake Harriet and spoke of politics and sports and the weather. We didn’t speak of the Susans.

In another quarter of a mile, we would pass the house where Susan Chenowith’s killer had dumped her body. I knew the exact location; I figured Redding didn’t. We walked in silence until I stopped and led him into the alley. Spooky, the temperature seemed to drop at the crime scene, probably just because we quit moving, or so I told myself.

“This is it,” I said.

He didn’t ask, “What?” which meant he knew what I knew. I volunteered no specifics, though plenty of gruesome details never made public came to mind. I decided to show respect instead of showing off. I also didn’t want Redding to think I’d turn around and gossip about his dead wife, too. Not when I needed him to open up.

“We’re here,” I continued.

“Why?” he asked.

Hmmm, I noted. He asked why instead of where. “I want to know who killed them.”

“I hardly think I can help you there.” Clouds blocked the full moon so I couldn’t read his face. I’m not sure light would have made much difference. For the last twenty minutes Redding had seemed inscrutable, perhaps steeling himself for the conversation he knew was ahead.

“You know things that might help me,” I said.

“Indeed?” He seemed noncommittal.

We walked toward the Lyndale Park Rose Garden. An entire acre of roses. I was disappointed park workers had already mulched them for the winter. Some lone blooms, red, white, and pink, still poked through the tons of dead leaves piled high. The air smelled heavy and sweet. Redding picked a pink rose and handed it to me.

“Thanks.” I stuck it through a buttonhole on my jacket. “If I can’t know who killed them, I want to know why they were killed.”

“That I do have some insight about. The human mind sometimes craves evil.”

What did I expect? Redding was, after all, a psychiatrist. He proceeded to explain, in great detail, the differences between psychopaths and sociopaths, until I finally had to cut him off.

“But why the Susans?” I asked. “And why November 19?”

“If you’re right that it’s a serialist, he’s the only one who knows the answer. Find the answer and you find the killer.”

Perhaps, I thought. “Or find the killer and we find the answer. Which comes first?”

He ignored my chicken versus the egg quandary and we started down the walking path again. “Your theory could be wrong on other levels,” he said. “By focusing so narrowly, you could miss other leads. The killer might be just another sexual sadist out murdering victims named Cynthia and Maureen and Stephanie other nights of the year.”

At least he didn’t say Riley. “Then I’ll never figure it out and neither will the cops.”

“But if you are correct,” Redding continued, “clearly the name and date have a special significance to him. The closer the date comes, the more stress he feels. However insane his motive for killing may seem to us, to him it makes perfect sense.”

“How do you know so much about this?” I asked. His insight was useful.

“Sometimes I’m hired as an expert witness to determine the sanity or insanity of the accused.”

“Which way do you usually come down?”

“I like to think my diagnosis is correct for each patient. While many defendants suffer character disorders, that doesn’t make them insane. Criminal insanity is and should be a rare diagnosis.”

“Sounds like you work for prosecutors.” Redding didn’t answer. “What do you make of the raincoat?” Since the doctor wasn’t billing me, I decided to milk him for all I could get. “Taking it off one victim, putting it on another?”

“A trophy. He might have even worn it himself, depending on his size. A raincoat, was it? Maybe he even flashed someone in a park with it.”

“Ugh. That’s gross.”

Redding’s mind was creepy, as well as clinical. “Case studies have well documented that sex offenders can escalate from minor offenses, like window peeping, to rape to murder.”

“I get that killers sometimes collect souvenirs from their victims to relive the event. But why put it on the next victim? Seems risky, giving the cops an opportunity to link the cases.”

“It might be part of his game. He might be searching for a worthy opponent. If that’s the case, the police aren’t his adversary, you are.”

“You make it sound like chess.”

“In his mind, it could be.”

“So if it’s a game, what are the rules? Played annually on November 19…Must be named Susan…Trophy to be moved from one victim to the next…That means it doesn’t end with the raincoat.” Sometimes rambling leads to revelation. “We should be seeing mismatched items with the other victims.” I stopped on the walking path and turned to Redding. “Was anything missing from your wife?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Redding reverted back to his miffed and terse demeanor, like it was one thing to talk abstractly about sexual homicide, another to talk specifically about his wife’s murder. “While all this speculation is interesting, do not forget the two of us have a major point of disagreement: The person who killed my wife didn’t kill the others. Your theory is flawed.”

“We may find out tomorrow.”

That’s when Dusty Foster’s defense attorney would argue before the St. Louis County Court that not ordering further DNA testing on the old evidence would violate his client’s legal rights and further a miscarriage of justice. I’d be listening in court, but Dusty wouldn’t. The state of Minnesota isn’t obligated to transport inmates to legal appeals. Dusty would wait in prison for word on whether he’d get another crack at freedom.

“Are you going to the hearing?” I asked Redding.

“No. This whole ordeal is stirring up sour feelings. I have no desire to encounter cameras waiting for me in front of the courthouse. I thought all that attention was over years ago.”

Redding was hard to figure. Usually arrogant people like him enjoy being on TV. My bet was if MSNBC called him for a psychobabble expert opinion on some important newsmaker, he’d say, “Certainly, do you have any face powder to get rid of my shine?” But this new wave of news coverage hit him deep where it hurt most. And it was my fault.

“I’m sorry.” It was not just a line; I genuinely was sorry. I know TV saves lives; I know it ruins them, too. I can live with myself because the ruining part usually happens to people who deserve it. The Susan killer, if apprehended, would undoubtedly whine about how the media had ruined his life.

But sometimes bystanders, like Redding, get caught in the mess and we make their personal tragedies worse.

“Why can’t you just drop that part of the story?” he asked.

“I don’t have a choice. I know you’re certain the right man is in jail, but if there’s any chance a mistake was made, I have to follow through.”

Redding nodded, but he didn’t seem to buy it and changed the subject. “By the way, what’s the story behind your name?”

“You mean Riley?”

He nodded again, and I felt relaxed so I gave him more than the usual spiel about my great-grandfather. I even offered to show him some old photos when we got back to my place so he could see how Grandpa Riley’s cheeks grew sunken as mine grew chubby. Grandpa, like so many of the Spartz clan, moved back to the farm to die. Generations of us consider dying on the home farm good luck, unless, of course, the death results from a gruesome farm accident. My parents and aunts and uncles still click their tongues and shake their heads every time a distant relative passes away in a car crash or nursing home. “Such a shame they couldn’t die on the farm.”

Redding followed my digression intently, then offered his professional opinion. “I think your family does that to try to control death.”

“Is that good?” I asked. “Or bad?”

“Rituals can make the unknown less frightening. Society frowns on picking the time and manner of one’s death. We call it suicide. But there’s nothing wrong with picking the place and waiting for nature to take its course.”

The direction of our conversation made me uneasy, but Redding didn’t seem to notice. Then he dropped a verbal bombshell.

“A few years after Susan’s murder, I went through an erratic stretch. I even thought about suicide.”

“Really?” His words stunned me. Specifically that he’d say them aloud, especially when I was around to hear. “I thought pros like you would know better.”

“I checked myself into a private clinic a couple days before the third anniversary date. I checked myself out the day after. A precautionary measure. Probably unnecessary.” He shrugged. “It seemed prudent at the time, but I have not felt the need since.”

I filled him in on the story about me and Mrs. Fredericks, but left out the part about having sabotaged my wedding anniversary the year before. Too dark a secret to share. After all, he wasn’t
my
therapist.

“More people attempt suicide than actually succeed,” Redding said. “It sounds like you wanted to be rescued.”

“Am I as crazy as your patients?”

“You’re not mentally ill. Well, you’re not bipolar or schizophrenic anyway. But that’s not the only reason people try to kill themselves. Otherwise healthy people facing overwhelming trauma can behave suicidally.”

“Grief and guilt?”

“Grief and guilt can make strong people weak.”

“What do you have to feel guilty about?”

“That’s none of your business.” He said it playfully this time, not petulantly. We were making progress.

“Come on,” I pushed, “what could you possibly feel guilty about?”

Redding paused and looked serious. “I used to feel guilty because my wife died while I was absent, out of town, for my work. Later, after I learned she was having an affair with her killer, I realized her own choices cost her her life.”

Oh Lord, I couldn’t look at him.

My hands covered my face as I explained how Boyer would still be alive today if I hadn’t put my job first.

He pulled my hands down and looked me in the eye. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

I turned away. “Yes, it was.”

“You are not responsible for the actions of a madman.”

If only I could believe that. I didn’t answer, just started back in the direction of home. Besides a “murdered spouse” bond, Redding and I now shared a “toying with suicide” bond. I suppose that made us trust each other more than we normally would have. He took my hand while we walked. Holding hands with a source is a bad, bad idea. Especially in the middle of a torrid story.

Awkwardly, I joked, “You don’t know where that’s been,” and slipped my fingers from his. “Remember Shep?”

The clouds cleared and moonlight opened up the shadows. I headed for a bench beside the lake and sat down. He joined me, pointedly clasping his hands behind his neck. Across the lake, the silhouette of the band shell stood out against the sky. We watched a small dog swimming near shore. Then, ugh, I realized it was a large rat.

“He was my patient. Not Susan,” Redding said. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.