The Coldest Fear (24 page)

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Authors: Rick Reed

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller

BOOK: The Coldest Fear
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CHAPTER
SIXTY-TWO
Agent Tunney sat in the back passenger side of Liddell Blanchard's unmarked unit behind Jack Murphy. Murphy had offered him the front seat, but this seating arrangement was the only way he could get legroom for his six-foot-three frame. Liddell wasn't wasting any time and, at five o'clock in the morning, was only slowing at the toll bridge to pay the fee. There was little traffic on the road anyway. At the point where Highway 62 becomes Illinois Highway 141, Liddell took a hard left onto Big Hill Road.
An Illinois state trooper passed Liddell going south and Liddell looked at his speedometer. “He's doing over a hundred, Jack,” Liddell observed.
“You drive like a girl,” Jack said.
“Do not.”
“C'mon, Bigfoot. Catch that mother,” Jack said.
“Are you going to pay the ticket?” Liddell asked.
“I'll pay the ticket,” Tunney said from the backseat.
Liddell stomped the gas pedal down and the car rocketed forward. “Oh well, I can't ignore an order from the FBI,” Liddell said.
Jack said to Liddell, “And you always say that FBI agents don't have any balls.”
“I never say that,” Liddell protested. Jack sat quietly. Liddell looked back at Agent Tunney and said, “I never say that.”
“Eyes on the road please,” Tunney said. “I don't want my balls splattered all over some cow pasture.”
 
 
“Where did you get this information?” Bob Robertson was sitting behind his desk, with Arnold squirming in a seat across the room.
“I have a source,” Arnold said.
“What?” Robertson shouted. “You have a source. You think that's all I'm going to have to explain when we run with a story that the police just now got involved with?”
Arnold didn't know what to say. He couldn't reveal his source.
“I called Chief Johnson and he confirmed they're working a homicide involving Jon Samuels as the victim, but he didn't want to go on record,” Robertson said, but he wasn't really talking to Arnold. He was trying to come up with an angle to use the story. It was a great one, and they would once again have the scoop on the television stations. He didn't really give a damn who Arnold's source was.
“But we have a problem, Arnold,” Robertson said, and chewed on his thumbnail. “They got two dead bodies. No identification on the second victim yet.”
Arnold saw that Robertson wasn't even looking his direction. He might as well not be in the room. “I can write that into the story if you want, sir,” Arnold offered.
“Get back to your source first. See what the score is on this. Then do a quick rewrite,” Robertson said. “You have ten minutes and then we're running with whatever you have.”
Arnold got up and left the editor's office. He was tired of being a go-between for the killer and the newspaper. They were both using him. He was not going to keep getting pushed around like this. But then he remembered the book he was working on and the thought of having a bestseller made him forget his resentment.
Ten minutes would be more than he would need since he couldn't call his source. Arnold never contacted his source. It was the other way around. He would just use his writing skills to put the second dead body in the story. He picked up the phone on his desk and called a number from his notebook.
 
 
JJ returned to his car and drove through the tunnel created by the dark cornfields to the driveway leading to the apartments. His job was to block the road and only let authorized vehicles in. He heard an engine gunning hard before he even saw the headlights as one of the Illinois State Police marked units came into view. JJ pulled out his Maglite flashlight and flicked it off and on to make sure the trooper saw the driveway. The state trooper turned into the drive and didn't even slow to acknowledge JJ as he sped past him, kicking up a choking cloud of dust.
“State troopers,” JJ muttered and swiped at his eyes. He could hear another big engine in the distance somewhere, but it was blotted out by the sound of his cell phone ringing.
“Lieutenant Johnson,” he said into the phone.
“Arnold Byrum here, Lieutenant.”
JJ swallowed.
Not that guy again,
he thought. “What can I do ya for, Arnold?”
Arnold tried to assimilate what JJ had just said. Then he realized that JJ was just being facetious, making a play on words. “Well, for starters you can tell me if Jonathan Samuels was murdered.”
JJ thought about it. Uncle Bob would be furious that he was talking to the news media again. But then he thought about the Illinois state trooper leaving him in a cloud of dust, and treating him like he was a school crossing guard and not a lieutenant in the Shawneetown police force. In a short while the cameras would be there and they would all be focused on the state police.
“What do you want to know?” JJ asked.
CHAPTER
SIXTY-THREE
JJ watched the tan Crown Vic pull up next to his car and stop. The driver's window came down and JJ recognized Liddell Blanchard.
“The chief told me you'd be coming,” JJ said.
“Not even breathing hard yet,” Liddell said.
JJ looked stymied for a second; then a grin spread across his face. “Oh, I get it.” And he made motions with his right hand as if he were masturbating. “I gotta remember that 'un.”
Jack leaned across the seat and said, “Looks like we're the last ones at the party. Anything for us here, Lieutenant?”
JJ stood straight at the mention of his rank.
“I'd take you up there myself,” he said, trying hard to look like he was in charge. “But the chief called the state police and he wants me to stay down here and direct them in. I'll call the chief and tell him you're on your way up.” JJ took his cell phone out, and Liddell reached out and stopped him from dialing.
“Might be better if we just go on up,” Liddell suggested.
JJ caught on. “Okay. I hope them boys don't give you too much trouble about being out of your jurisdiction.”
“Hell, we're practically neighbors,” Jack said and forced a laugh.
JJ laughed and motioned them to go ahead.
As they drove slowly down the gravel road to avoid kicking up a cloud of dust, Agent Tunney said from the backseat, “You two should sell cars. You'd make a fortune.”
“It's a Jedi mind-control thing,” Liddell said.
“Only works on weak minds. Like Liddell's,” Jack said.
“You're the weak-minded one,” Liddell protested.
“Watch this,” Jack said to Agent Tunney, and then to Liddell said, “Keep driving forward.”
“You a funny man, pod'na,” Liddell said with a grin on his face.
 
 
I may be down, but I'm definitely not out,
Claudine Setera thought.
She had been arguing on the telephone with her station manager for the best part of twenty minutes to no avail. The problem was the murder was not only in another city, it was in another state. She maintained that the murders in Shawneetown might be connected to the three murders in Evansville. He wasn't convinced and didn't want to “commit the station's resources” to a murder in Illinois when they didn't have a definite tie-in with their audience.
“Let me make my appeal in person, Elliott?” she pleaded in a sexy voice. The implications were clear.
“Sorry, Claudine. No can do,” he said.
She couldn't keep the anger out of her voice. “That's bullshit, Elliott, and you know it.”
He could hear her taking deep breaths, and the thought of what he had just turned down almost made him give in.
“If I was one of your drinking buddies you wouldn't have a problem with any of this,” she said. “It's just because I'm a woman. That's discrimination and I plan to talk to the station owners about it. I don't think they'll be too happy that you let something this big go by you because you aren't man enough to meet with me and let me plead my case.”
She was really pushing the envelope by talking to the station manager this way. He may be the new guy, but he wasn't a pushover.
Elliott Turner, who had only recently been hired as station manager for Channel Six television station, remained quiet for almost a minute, and then he made his decision. She was right. This was too good to pass up. And she was also right when she said that he would have already committed the station's full resources to any of the male reporters. But not because he was discriminating against women. It was because he had already had a chance to meet with them on an individual basis and knew which he could trust, and even how far that trust could go. With Claudine he knew little. She had not interacted with him since his hiring, at least not on a personal level, and that was probably as much his fault as it was hers.
What he did know of Claudine was that she was very aggressive and a damn good reporter.
“Okay, take one of the satellite vans. I'll get a team in place and we'll do this live at five-thirty.” He could hear Claudine take in a deep, surprised breath. “Do you think you can be ready by then?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Claudine said, her voice tight and controlled. “I won't let you down.”
CHAPTER
SIXTY-FOUR
There were five Illinois State Police cruisers in the parking area of the apartment building. The crime scene had been taped off and the troopers had been generous in the proportions of the perimeter, which covered almost the entire parking lot and building.
Chief of Police Bob Johnson was standing in the parking lot talking to one of the troopers and another man who was wearing tan slacks and a dark blue knit top. Jack assumed this would be the state police detective in charge. After they showed their credentials to the trooper who guarded the scene entrance, the yellow tape was lifted and they were directed to a parking spot inside the perimeter. The trooper who let them in got on his cell phone and Jack saw the plainclothes guy answer his phone.
“We've been made, pod'na,” Liddell said, also noticing this exchange between troopers.
“I thought troopers were like an ant colony and didn't need telephones.” Jack said, and Tunney chuckled.
“No jokes around these guys,” Tunney remarked. “I've dealt with them a few times in the past and if you think the FBI doesn't have a sense of humor . . .” He left the rest unsaid.
Jack wanted to assure him that they had dealt with Illinois before, but then he remembered that Liddell could use the extra warning. In the past, Liddell had given his best lines to the troopers and no one had even cracked a smile.
The plainclothes guy saw them approaching and looked at them suspiciously. Agent Tunney walked up to the man, and instead of showing his FBI credentials, he extended a hand and said, “Roger. It's been a long time.”
The state trooper took the proffered hand and smiled. “Hi, Frank. What brings you out in the sticks?”
 
 
Illinois State Police Detective Roger Zimmer was a sturdy man of average size with dark hair and piercing black eyes. Jack guessed his age as being close to his own. It was easy for Jack to imagine himself on the other side of this equation—being the lead detective on a murder case, with two out-of-town detectives and an FBI profiler falling into his lap. He would not be happy.
“I appreciate you allowing us to be here,” Jack said, shaking hands with Zimmer.
“Are you kidding? I've heard good things about you two.” He nodded toward Jack and Liddell. “And this guy here”—he put a hand on Tunney's arm—“is the best there is at crime scenes.”
Tunney looked like he was going to blush. “You give me way too much credit, but I'll take the compliment and return one of my own. I'm glad that Roger is the one working this case. He's like you, Jack. Bites down on a case and won't let go.”
Jack and Roger eyed each other. It felt like two alpha dogs meeting and deciding without bloodshed how to divide the spoils.
Grrrr!
“My guys will be done taking the preliminary photos in a few minutes and I'll take you through the scene,” Detective Zimmer said.
Chief Johnson came up and said, “Don't mind me. I'll just stick my thumb up my ass and pretend I'm Little Jack Horner.”
Agent Tunney laughed and reached out a hand. “I'm Frank Tunney,” he said to the chief of the Shawneetown Police Department.
“Bob Johnson,” the chief said, feeling that the circle of stars on his shirt collar was enough to introduce him as the chief of police, and he'd known this guy was FBI before he got two steps from the car he'd come in.
Zimmer looked at the chief and said, “Sorry, Chief. You don't need an invite from me because this is your jurisdiction. I have to commend you and your lieutenant for the work you did before we got here to help you.”
Chief Johnson hitched his gun belt up and looked up toward the second-floor apartment where two bodies lay butchered. Truth was he was glad to be shed of this damned problem, and the state police were welcome to take the case.
“Well, I been up there once already so I don't need to crowd you guys, but I'd like to hear the FBI's take on the scene when you get done up there. You too, Murphy. I'd like to know if this is the same guy that done Cordelia.”
Jack nodded understanding. A state trooper at the foot of the stairway yelled at Zimmer, “You ready to go through the scene, Roger?”
Zimmer looked at the group of lawmen and said, “Let's do it.”
 
 
Arnold typed the last few words in the copy and sent the electronic file to his editor. JJ had really come through. This one had front page all over it.
In less than a minute his phone rang on his desk. “Arnold Byrum,
Evansville Courier
newsroom,” he said into the phone.
“Get in here,” Robertson's voice blared from the phone receiver and the line went dead.
Arnold's heart skipped a beat.
Now what's the matter?
he thought, and got up from his desk. He trudged down the empty hallway to the editor's office and was about to knock when the door was yanked open.
“You have a solid source on this, Arnold?” Robertson asked. His face looked pale and shiny and he seemed to be having trouble getting his breath.
“Yes, sir,” Arnold answered. “Someone at the scene.” He didn't want to give up JJ's name if he didn't have to.
“Well, damn!” Robertson said, and the door slammed in Arnold's face. From the other side of the door he could hear the editor barking orders into his phone, ordering an extra run on production. He heard the words “special edition” and “priority,” and then he went back to his own desk to wait for more orders. A part of him was excited, but the other part was frightened. He was in over his head. He'd been doing all this to get the attention of a woman who would never notice him. He would always be an office joke.
Then he cheered. He would have a bestseller when the book was finished. The story of a serial killer as told by the serial killer himself. How could it fail?

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