Corktown (7 page)

“Not yet. We’ll get some uniforms—”

“No uniforms. I want you and Madero talking to them. Find out what the neighbors know about these two. What time does he come home from work? Do they entertain a lot or keep to themselves? Were they liked or hated in the neighborhood? Find out if there’s any gossip these people are willing to give up.”

Solis nodded and walked back over to Madero. Wilkinson moved up, took his place alongside me, and peered inside the vehicle. “Garrison didn’t do this. Stage people. Why would our copycat do this?”

“He could be bored,” I suggested. “Serial killers kill a certain way because it feeds a need. It brings them satisfaction.”

“And copycats aren’t like that?”

“Not from what I’ve seen.”

Wilkinson swallowed.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m right there with you. There’s something different about this one.”

18

We didn’t bother hanging around the crime scene any longer than needed. I had seen enough to know I had more questions than answers. Not a great way to solve a case. While copycats don’t typically evolve, I worried our guy had. We now had five bodies and no solid leads. If our copycat really was another genius sicko, it didn’t look good for the city.

Walking back to our car, I noticed the lookie loos were still standing in their driveways, whispering back and forth. Their hushed concerns said it all, though. They were terrified. They weren’t used to having a homicide pop up in their backyard. Detroit had wormed its way into their safe little part of the world.

The press had also shown up. A swarm of them circled Wilkinson and me.

“Detective, what happened here? We heard there’s been a double murder.”

How do they get their information so damn fast?

“No comment,” Wilkinson said flatly.

The same woman persisted. “Come on, detectives, tell us something.”

I flashed a smile at the crowd before correcting the person that spoke. “It’s agent, not detective.”

“Agent? Why is the FBI involved? Are there any connections between what’s happened here and the murder of Marian Ward?”

The questions came one after another. I stopped and turned to the female reporter. “We are helping the Grosse Pointe Police with the investigation. As of now there is no evidence to support a connection to the death of Mrs. Ward. That’s all we have to say. Thank you.”

Wilkinson leaned down toward me as we walked away. “You know we’re not supposed to comment to the media.”

“It’s a bad habit I have,” I said as I looked at him and waited for an answer.

He said nothing, just stared straight ahead and swatted at a fly.

The car chirped and my door unlocked. We had come to nickname our rental the Yellow Jacket. I had laughed when I first saw the yellow MINI Cooper. Now I thought we looked cool in it. As soon as we were out of sight of the press, I flipped the visor down to check my makeup.

Wilkinson looked over at me. “You look fine.”

I did. I just wanted to hear it. And to break the tension.

After a few moments of silence, Wilkinson spoke. “The auto industry tie-in is our first real clue,” he said.

“It’s something to bite into.”

“You think it matters that the victims work at different companies?”

“Nah. I’m assuming car execs in this town move around a lot.”

“A few years ago, I saw a documentary about the city of Flint.”

“Oh?” I asked just as I had a yawn attack. “Sorry. So this documentary…?”

Wilkinson gave me a quick look before he started. “Well, it was the late seventies. Pretty much everyone in Flint worked at the plants or made a living off the workers who worked there. Then GM started closing plants. The effect was disastrous. The entire town practically shut down. Everyone was suddenly out of a job. According to the film, the city never recovered.”

An entire town?
Someone living through that could develop a deep hatred for GM, maybe even all three of the biggies. I could see our guy being an ex-employee. What I couldn’t quite accept yet was how a factory worker develops the chops to drain a body in seconds. Was he a hunter? I racked my brains trying to figure out if there were other angles. At the moment, disgruntled worker seemed to be a good way to go.

Wilkinson tapped the steering wheel. “What are you thinking? I hear grinding.”

“I think we need to have a come to Jesus with the lieutenant about what the hell is going on here. Also, I think it’ll be good to talk to the press.”

“You just did.”

“That’s not the press I had in mind.”

Wilkinson pulled into a park near the lake.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I thought we would swing by the area where the dead fisherman was found. This is Pier Park.”

We turned into the parking lot. Half of the land jutting out from the shore was reserved for slips. The other half was a small park.

“Looks dead during the week,” I said.

“Over there,” Wilkinson pointed. “Near the far corner. They found the body inside that gazebo.”

“From the looks of it, I’d say our killer had plenty of time with his victim.”

19

By the time we had the car parked in the lot next to the precinct, the heat index had hit ninety-six degrees. The humidity didn’t help either. It felt like I stepped out of an air-conditioned car and straight into a sauna. I fussed with my hair for a bit before noticing a newsstand on the corner. “Hang on. I’m going to grab a newspaper.”

“A little light reading?” Wilkinson asked when I returned.

“You could say that.” I flipped through the
Detroit Free Press
until I found the auto section. “This is who we need to talk to.”

Wilkinson looked where I was pointing. “An auto industry columnist?”

“Who else would know everything there is to know about the auto industry? He might be able to help us narrow the field on our guy or point to an event worth investigating.”

The second we opened the doors to the precinct, a whoosh of arctic wind swirled around us. It felt wonderful, but I slung my jacket back on. We were heading for the lieutenant’s office, and he was the last person I wanted ogling my chest. Yes, I’m one of those women. If the wind blows, I become a pointer. It has its pros and cons.

Wilkinson stopped outside our office. “Tell you what; I’ll get a head start on tracking this guy down. I’ll rendezvous with you later.”

“Okay. See you in a bit,” I said and continued on.

I gave White’s door a couple of knuckle raps.

“Agent Kane. Come inside.” He motioned for me to sit. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve got questions. I hope you have answers.”

“Shoot away,” he said as he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his lap.

“I had a conversation this morning with Michael Garrison—”

“I heard.”

“Word travels fast around here.”

White just looked at me blankly. I hoped his job wasn’t to humor me. “He denies killing anybody except for a handful of hostages in the bank.”

“Don’t all inmates deny the charges against them?”

“Some of the hostages that day were shot. The rest were cut and bled to death. In my experience, serial killers don’t change their M.O. on a whim. Perhaps over time, for some reason bearing significance.”

“The two surviving victims said they saw Garrison shoot those people.”

“Lieutenant White, I’m not arguing that. I believe Garrison shot a handful of hostages that day. It’s the others I question. He has no medical knowledge or knowhow that I’m aware of. Those incisions had to be precise and were done quickly.”

“Agent Kane, everyone here appreciates your expertise with serial killers. You’ve got a record most in law enforcement would kill to have. But I have no idea why you’re wasting time on a case that has already been put to bed.”

I started to get irritated. White seemed like a nice guy and was probably toeing the line. Loyal cops do that; they get on board and roll with it. They don’t question.

“Lieutenant, I also learned that the FBI agents that worked the Garrison case stopped the minute Detroit PD had him under arrest. Special Agent Tully said he received word from your department that the case was under control and their help was no longer needed.”

“We had a handle on it. We were thankful for their help. What more is there to know? If they didn’t close their cases properly, that’s their problem and you should look to them for an answer.”

“It just doesn’t add up—Garrison going through the trouble of killing the hostages two different ways, confessing to all of the previous murders even though there’s no evidence that I have seen so far that puts him at any of those crime scenes.”

The lieutenant shifted in his seat. “Agent Kane, what is it you want from me?” he asked. His head had tilted down to one side. The crinkles in his forehead deepened. “What are you asking me?”

“I’m asking for the truth here.”

“Truth?” His voice was noticeably lower. “Isn’t that what we all want?” He clucked his lips a bit. “The truth is what we believe. Do you believe the problems you have with the Garrison case will prevent you from catching the killer?”

“No.”

White reached across the desk and took one of my hands, holding it gently between both of his. “If you catch the killer, Agent Kane, everything will work itself out.”

Before he could let go of my hand I grabbed his. “Wait. What do you mean by that?”

White’s eyes were glassy and tired. If there was something going on here, a cover-up, White probably knew about it. After looking me directly in the eyes for a few seconds, he seemed to relinquish the wall he had erected.

“I’ve worked for the Metro Detroit Police my entire life. I love this job. I believe we make a difference in this city. I’m a year away from retiring and collecting my pension. I’ve got a daughter who’s getting married next spring and a wedding I need to pay for. I’m helping my son and his wife purchase their first home. I might not like what’s going on here anymore than you do, but I still need my job.”

White leaned back in his chair and let out a heavy sigh. He was a defeated old man trying to make it to retirement.

“Can you—wait, strike that. Will you help me?” I asked, my voice low.

“I can’t answer all your questions, but I’ll try to help you as much as I can. You have got to understand the situation I am in, though.”

I nodded. Hopefully, he understood the situation
I
was in.

20

“I was born to do this.” That’s what Chief Reginald Reed told others. He loved everything about law enforcement—everything except the visits.

They took place on the first Friday of every month at 9:00 a.m. sharp. For eight long years he had kept his displeasure about those trips to himself. He never spoke a word about his feelings to anybody, not even his wife. It was his little secret.

About quarter to nine in the morning, Reed would leave his office at Central and stroll over to the Coleman A. Young Municipal Center, formerly known as the City-County Building. Reed still called it that, and so did everyone else in Detroit that was his age. By 10:00 a.m. he would be done and could forget about it for four more weeks. That changed recently. He was now being summoned, at whim.

He received the call a little after eight that morning and was told to come over “A.S.A.P.” no later than 9:30 a.m. Reed groaned a little. He hadn’t even had his first cup of coffee, and he had already put up with some EMB—Early-Morning Bullshit.

Reed grabbed a cup of wake-up on the way out of the office, keen on downing it as quickly as possible. He liked being awake and having his senses on point for those meetings. It was important to know the difference between what was discussed and what was actually said.

Ten minutes later, Reed stood outside a drab building, a wall of gray with windows, really.
Functionality at its finest.
He drained the last of his coffee and tossed the cup into a trash bin. Walking toward the glass door, he used it as a mirror to look himself over and straighten his jacket.

As always, Steven Roscoe met Reed in the lobby. He had on his usual attire: a suit more aligned with a nightclub rather than the public sector. He extended his hand. “Good to see you, Chief. You keeping Detroit safe?”

Same fucking greeting every time.
It had been that way from the very first visit. Reed never understood why he had to be escorted up to the office. It was ridiculous. Reed took the man’s hand and shook it. “You still walking, ain’t you?” It was his standard answer. Reed knew he wasn’t really interested in an answer to his question.

Steven Roscoe told everyone he met to call him “Stevie.” Thought it was catchier than Steven. Reed preferred to call him Weasel, on account of the way he looked, the way he acted, and the man he worked for. Either way, Stevie was slime poured into a suit. He walked with a swagger that left the taste of foulness in your mouth, and he always flashed that silly smile. You’d think he was running for office 24/7, the way he held himself up.

The ride up to the eleventh floor was quiet. The cordiality between the two never went further than the greeting downstairs. Stevie always led the way out of the elevator and down the hall to where the double wooden doors stood. He opened them and allowed Reed to enter before following and pulling them shut.

Sitting at a desk was the long-time administrative assistant to Stevie’s boss, Louisa Sweeney. She looked up over her glasses with a wrinkle at the top of her nose before she recognized the man standing in front of her. “Reginald, how are you today?” She was the only person, besides his mother, who ever called him Reginald; most people called him Chief or “Yes, sir.”

Reed smiled back and gave her a friendly squeeze to her arm. “I’m doing okay, Louisa. Thank you for asking.”

“Is he ready to see us?” a voice piped up.

Louisa looked around Reed and saw Stevie behind him. Her smile disappeared. The crinkle on her nose resurfaced and it was business as usual. “Go on inside. He’s waiting.”