The Beholder, a Maddie Richards Mystery (10 page)

“I smelled booze on him that night, but I gave him a pass,” Jed went on. “The guy’s wife had just been killed. But I couldn’t imagine him driving all the way from San Diego half drunk, so I got curious enough to check the records on his cell phone, which he actually gave me permission to do. The only way he could have known enough about the Stowe murder to have been able to copycat it, would be if he killed Stowe himself or had someone do it following his script.”

“Does the good doctor have an alibi for the time of Stowe’s murder?” Maddie asked.

“The doc said he and Abby were home alone the night Stowe was killed. That they had a quiet dinner and then he got his turn. That would’ve been the same day of the week the wife got it on with Bronson, so, if the doc told it straight, his wife played a doubleheader that Thursday.”

“Anything else?”

“I found Bronson early this morning, before I headed over here, got his ass outta bed. After I suggested we could always check with the other ladies he
trained,
Bronson got more cooperative. He admitted to having sex with Abby the afternoon of her death. He consented to giving a DNA sample and followed me to the lab.” Jed glanced at his watch. “He’d’ve left there by now. I figure he’ll match up with the sperm and hair Rip found at the scene.”

Maddie pursed her lips, started to say something, stopped, then started again. “The obvious move would be to put trainer Rex at the top of our list.” She paused, thinking, “But, right now, all we’ve got on him is consensual sex with a married woman. His attorney will make a believable argument that his sperm and hair found in her bed and in her blood had been from their sex that afternoon. The maid’s testimony would support the defense’s claim that Bronson and Mrs. Knight got it on every Thursday afternoon. That’d send the jury into deliberations with lots of reasonable doubt. Besides that, we lack anything that hooks Dr. Knight or Bronson to Stowe.”

“By tomorrow,” Jed said, “we’ll know more about Rex the wonder dog. Then we should double-team him.”

Jed took a final look at Theresa as they walked out. She flashed a smile that seemed to say more than thanks for sitting in my section.

***

When Maddie and Jed walked into her cubicle at the station, a big, new straw broom lay across her desk, a note taped to the handle: “You may need this to catch the wicked witch of the east.”

“I see the department jerkoffs have been busy,” Jed said.

Right then Lieutenant Adam Harrison walked in. “Sergeant Richards, what the hell is this all about? And who’s this wicked witch bitch?” Harrison always got to what he had to say with a minimum of verbal dancing, a trait he had likely picked up from his boss, Police Chief Layton.

Maddie leaned back, compressing her derriere against the corner of her desk, and crossed her arms. “Adam Harrison, shame on you, you being a detective lieutenant and all. In the
Wizard of Oz
, Dorothy’s efforts to get to Oz were thwarted by a wicked witch from the east who kept saying our killer’s phrase: I’ll Get You, My Pretty. Beyond that, you know what I know.”

Chapter 13

Maddie returned home to find Bradley covered with mud.

He explained that he and his friends had been sliding in a puddle in the empty field at the end of the street. “We was practicing our base stealing,” he said, making the activity sound not only reasonable, but responsible.

“We
were
practicing our base stealing,” Maddie corrected. He shrugged.

Both of them laughed while she hosed him off, his long afternoon shadow jumping and dodging across the driveway. One of the benefits of living in the desert is that a mother can hose off a muddy kid before turning him loose inside the house.

After throwing her son a towel, she opened a beer and sat down in the family room just as Katie Carson kicked off her special news report with a voiceover. The screen showed the front of the Knights Paradise Valley estate with the yellow, crime scene tape and cops everywhere.

“Abigail Knight, wife of prominent Phoenix psychiatrist, Dr. Mills Knight, was found murdered in her home on Thursday,” KC said, assuming a somber expression as the camera moved in for a close-up. “Mrs. Knight was brutally killed in her own bed.” The camera left KC to show Mrs. Knight’s body being removed from the house and deposited in the back of the M.E.’s van. “The police have no suspects. Stay tuned.”

After the commercials, the viewers were treated to a full view of KC sitting with her legs crossed, a trick she had told Maddie she picked up from the leggy ladies on the Fox News channel.

“In Arizona approximately one percent of all murder victims aren’t even identified,” KC announced, keeping her voice low and throaty. “In one murder out of four the motive cannot even be established with certainty. Two out of three Phoenix murders go unsolved. Now for a real shocker, there has been no increase in the number of Phoenix homicide detectives since the mid-1990s. In that same period the population has grown more than thirty percent. According to the experts, our proximity to the border, the growing number of criminal organizations, and the smuggling of people and drugs are all major contributing factors. Still, the city has neither added a single homicide detective nor created a department dedicated to handling homicides.”

Maddie had always envied KC’s well proportioned, beautiful facial features, and how she had learned to use them to project the mood appropriate to each news story.

“The police admit Abigail Knight’s killer is unknown. Or in the language of law enforcement, an UNSUB, which means unknown subject. After days of digging and confronting our police, I have learned certain things that you need to know to protect yourself. I’ll share them with you after these commercials.”

It was the perfect teaser. Maddie would stay tuned and so, she imagined, would most of Phoenix.

Katie came out of the break with a knockout punch. “Mrs. Abigail Knight was murdered by a serial killer.”

“What!” Maddie screamed, knocking over the last of her beer. She jerked the can upright, but not wanting to miss what would come next, she yanked off her running shoes and used her white socks to sop up the spill.

“Phoenix has a serial killer who appears to favor beautiful women.” KC paused for dramatic effect. “To date he has taken two victims. The first, a lovely black woman named Folami Stowe, was also killed on a Thursday, one week before Mrs. Knight.”

The reporting styles of Walter Cronkite and Edward R. Morrow had died at the hands of flash and dash. Katie Carson was part news and part supermarket tabloid, with a spiff Tom Brokaw and Peter Jennings could never offer, an enticing hint of cleavage.

While KC provided some background on the two victims, her station showed an unflattering mug shot of Folami Stowe from a booking following her one arrest for prostitution. Next they showed a picture of Abigail Knight all decked out in a spectacular gown, on the arm of her husband at some charity ball. Then KC was back on camera.

“The police are not saying that physical attraction may be a prerequisite for the killer, so it is possible the beauty of these two women could be coincidental, but no one I talked with thinks so. What do I know that connects the murders of these two unfortunate women? I’ll tell you after we take a break for a few messages from our sponsors.”

KC then threw a punch to the city’s midsection. “The killer scrawled I’ll Get You, My Pretty on the walls above each victim’s bed, written in the women’s own blood.” The camera tightened on her face. “I don’t as yet know the full details of the killer’s brutality,” she moved a sheet of paper to her right without looking down. “But horrific is the word that fits what I have learned so far. In the coming days I hope to have more details and developments to share with you in further Katie Carson Special Reports.”

When the camera moved in close, KC branded the case. “I’ve given this serial killer a name, The Beholder, as in beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

Suddenly, to Maddie’s dismay, her own picture appeared on the screen.

“This is the homicide detective in charge of catching The Beholder, Sergeant Madeline Jane Richards,” KC announced. “And that’s a good thing because Sergeant Richards’s success record on homicides is twice that of the Phoenix police department as a whole, and exceeds the national closure rate for murders.”

***

I watched the beautiful red mouth of Katie Carson form each word of the slogan I left on the walls above my models, then each syllable of the name she had given me: The Beholder. And I liked it.

***

“Let me end this special report where it began,” KC said with that husky tone she sometimes used. “With our population and total budget continuing to grow, and only one in three murders being solved, why has our number of homicide detectives remained constant? There must be areas where monies are budgeted and police time is spent that are less critical than catching the monsters that steal our futures and take away our loved ones. Until next time, I’m Katherine Carson. Goodnight.”

Fifteen minutes later, just as Maddie headed out the door wearing a dry pair of socks for a blow-off-the-steam jog, the phone rang.

“Well, girlfriend,” KC said cheerfully, “how’d you like my news special?”

“Murder is not like what you see in the movies, Miss TV personality. It’s ugly. It smells. You frightened every woman in the Valley. I’d call that irresponsible.”

“Women have a right to be told to be on guard. By remaining silent, your department implied the murders of Stowe and Knight were not connected when you know they are. Somewhere in our city, this very minute, this fiend is hunting one of our women. To not warm the city is what’s irresponsible.”

“You see this as your big story, don’t you, the one that’ll get you a national feed. The meal ticket you need to become a national network news anchor?”

“Hey, girlfriend, anytime I can help protect the citizens while also enhancing my career, I’ve hit a home run.”

“Oh, stuff it, KC.” Maddie stormed. “The microphone is off. Where did you pick up the serial murder angle, and who gave you the bit about blood messages on the walls?”

“Oh, now you’re interested,” KC said smugly. “I asked to meet with you yesterday, remember? I’m asking again, how about lunch tomorrow?”

“Go to hell, KC. Your meddling only makes catching this sadistic bastard harder.” Maddie carried the empty beer can into the kitchen and slammed it into the trash.

“Hey, don’t get pissed at me. It’s your job to catch the bad guys. It’s my job to tell the citizens whatever I can find out. If I—”

“Listen, KC, I—”

“Don’t interrupt me. If I learn stuff you cops are supposed to keep secret, the problem is in your house not mine. Don’t expect me to cover your ass by not doing my job.”

Maddie squeezed the bridge of her nose. She hated to admit it, but KC had a point. “Why should I have lunch with you?”

“I don’t know, Maddie. Perhaps we could talk about mastectomies and peeled faces.”

Maddie let her body slump against the door jam. She could almost see the look of superiority on KC’s face.

“So you know about that, too?”

“I surely do.”

“Why didn’t you report it tonight?”

“Why give one special when I can give two? Tonight, I told just enough to qualify as major news and to give women a reason to be cautious. The gore can follow.”

“Noon at Matadors,” Maddie said. “You’re buying.”

“Okay, lunch is on me,” KC retorted, “but at Durant’s on Central.”

Maddie hung up without bothering to say goodbye.

A moment later, Jed called, quickly followed by Doyle Brackett and Sue Martin. Finally Dink was on the phone to tell Maddie that the chief wanted her in his office first thing in the morning. Naturally, Dink made his awkward words of comfort sound more like a proposition. Still, the way she saw the issue of Dink, she was way ahead. She only had to deal with the obnoxious twit now and again, while he had to be with himself for the rest of his life.

***

Maddie’s mother and Bradley had come home during the calls, so Maddie went in to see her son. They had been taking turns reading pages aloud from the Hardy Boys books and they were on book three:
The Secret of the Old Mill.
After they read ten more pages—five apiece, Maddie tucked the covers up under his chin, kissed him on the cheek, and closed the door.

“I’m going to bed, dear,” her mother said. “Goodnight. Oh, I got some mint chip ice cream today, your favorite. Bradley and I had a big scoop already. It’s in the freezer. Why don’t you have some while you talk with the fish?”

“I don’t talk to the fish, Mother. It’s just relaxing to sit there with only the tank light.”

“I’m old, Madeline Jane, not dim,” her mother said before retreating toward her bedroom on the far side of the house.

Why me, Lord, Maddie asked silently. Then smiled and shook her head.

The tradition of the past generations of Maddie’s family had been that the girls grew up, got married while still virgins—or claiming to be—rode herd on their families, and left the bread winning and heavy thinking to their menfolk. Most of those women did not work outside the home and, at least publicly, played the game of treating sex as pleasure for their men and duty for them. The young women whose actions expressed otherwise were known as fast, loose, or whichever slur was popular that year among the supposed ladies of that generation.

Maddie had shattered that family mold by pursuing a career doing what traditionally had been men’s work—being a cop like her father. She had also broken the family mold with her attitude toward sex.

At ten, Maddie went in for a shower. Her pubic hairs had mostly grown back and the itch was over—thank God
.

Three months before, she had started going to the YWCA a couple of nights a week and showering there after working out. One night, about six weeks ago, the shower room had included two giddy women in their young thirties who had trimmed their pubic hairs into tight triangles, pointing down.

After leaving the Y that night, feeling old, Maddie had made a rare stop at one of the local cop hangout for a couple of beers with the boys. After a hearty dose of bawdy talk and several brews she went home, stood naked in front of the mirror and compared herself to the two younger women she had seen at the Y. Her bust measured up okay, but her naturals weren’t as erect as the two younger women’s store-bought boobs. Before she knew what she was doing, she had a razor in her hand designing an arrow: this way fellas. After the shaping, she realized that those women’s pubic hairs had not only been shaved, but neatly combed, while hers held the tangled charm of a nylon scrub pad. A painful hour later she had combed out the snarls and gotten it all trimmed to a uniform length.