Forty-Four Box Set, Books 1-10 (44) (178 page)
Read Forty-Four Box Set, Books 1-10 (44) Online
Authors: Jools Sinclair
“Name’s Jason Wakefield. Thirty-two. No arrest record. Judging from the track suit and the GPS watch, he might have been a jogger.”
Moore hated the term
jogger.
In his book, anyone plugging along out there, no matter how slow, deserved to be called a runner. Especially if they had just taken the last run of their lives.
“According to his DL he lived in Lake Oswego,” Reyes said. “You want to head over there, notify the next of kin, see what we can find out?”
“Might as well.” Moore let out a slow, long breath and tried to push away what was staring at him point blank, dead in the face. “We’re not doing any good here.”
“Looking like another Beaverton,” Reyes said, giving words to what they had both been thinking.
“Looking like crap,” Moore said. “C’mon, let’s take that ride.”
Traffic was good and they made it out to Lake Oswego in less than fifteen minutes. The dead man had left behind a wife and toddler. She let them in and they asked her to sit down. Then they hit her with the news.
If you liked this part of the job there was something wrong with you, but Moore was able to go to a place beyond their tears where he could focus on the case and try to learn things. He knew a lot of cops, especially men, who couldn’t get past the tears. Reyes was one of those cops.
They lost their focus. They became caregivers, thinking it was their job to ease the pain and stem the flow of tears. But that was bullshit. Nothing was going to ease the pain. A cop’s job was to catch the bad guys, not hand out Kleenex.
Fortunately for Reyes, Mrs. Wakefield appeared to be in too much shock to cry. She told them her husband went out running with their dog several times a week.
“Can you think of anyone who had a beef with your husband?” Reyes said. “Someone he had argued with recently?”
She shook her head quickly.
“No, he got along with everybody. I can’t think of anyone who would do such a thing.”
Ain’t that the way
, Moore thought. The graveyards were full of people who met violent ends, people everyone loved.
“What about work?” he said. “Any problems there?”
“No, Jason was a web designer. He worked at home.”
Reyes showed her a photo of the leash and she identified it as the one they used to walk the dog. They asked some more questions but didn’t unearth any clues pointing to a potential suspect.
“Well, here’s my card if you think of anything else,” Moore said. “Sorry for your loss.”
“What about Lonnie?”
“Who?”
“The dog,” she said.
“Looks like he’ll pull through,” Reyes said. “I’ll have someone drop Lonnie off later.”
She nodded and closed the door and Moore could hear the sobs and tears finally breaking loose.
“Nice touch,
kemosabe
,” Reyes said when they got back to the car. “‘Sorry for your loss’?”
“What the hell, Rey. You want I should tell her everything’s going to be okay or to have a nice day?”
I picked up the phone. It was Dan.
“Have you had breakfast yet?”
“No, why?”
“Because I’m sending something your way that you can really sink your teeth in to. Two words: serial killer. On the loose in our fair city. Okay, a third word: maybe. I just sent you the wire stories.”
I went through my email and clicked on the link. The body of a man in his early thirties had been found in the back seat of his car near Waterfront Park. The cops weren’t saying anything yet, but there were eerie similarities to a murder that made headlines in Beaverton last week. The murder weapon in both cases had been a dog leash, which was used to strangle the victims.
The woman, Molly Moog, in her mid-forties, was found on a park bench. Her dog was found dead about a hundred feet away. Toxicology results were still pending, but it appeared that it had been given a lethal injection of something.
In the latest murder, the victim also had a dog that looked to have been drugged. But in this case the dog was still alive. It was found sleeping in the driver’s seat.
“Think it could be a copycat?” I said to Dan.
“Dogs and copy
cats
. Good one. Well, either way, it’s news. Get out there and see what you can dig up. I’ve got a contact on the Portland Police Bureau who owes me a favor. Here’s his name and number. Don’t let me down.”
He handed me a pink sticky note.
I pulled out a fresh pad from the bottom drawer of my desk, grabbed my coat, and headed out.
I played it cool but I could feel the adrenaline shooting through me. This was why I had gotten into journalism. Serial killers were all too common in books, movies, television, and big American cities, but Portland was still sheltered and small in some ways. It normally flew under the radar when it came to such things.
I wondered why Dan had assigned me the story. Most of the staff writers had more experience than I did, and while we didn’t have specific beats, Heather Roberts and George McGavin ended up covering most of the crime stories. I figured Dan had read my coverage of the Bend serial killings back when I worked at
The Bugler
and liked what he had seen. In any case, I wasn’t going to question his judgment.
Good bye,
bored
meetings. Hello, big story.
But by the time I made it over to the crime scene there wasn’t much going on. The body had been removed and everything appeared to be normal except for a few TV crews hanging around talking to people on the street.
“It’s kind of scary,” a woman with a dog said. “I mean, I don’t know what kind of dog this man had, but the woman in Beaverton had a Bullmastiff. They’re supposed to be good for personal protection. But it didn’t seem to help her.”
“You think there’s a connection?” the reporter asked.
“Well, yes. Don’t you?” she said. “Both of them strangled with a dog leash. It’s just too weird.”
“I wonder if it’s some sort of sick game,” a man said. “Like that thing where someone sucker punches a perfect stranger.”
“I think the unsub’s making a statement,” a second woman said.
Unsub?
Here was someone who had clearly been watching too much
Criminal Minds.
When I turned around I almost expected to see Jennifer Love Hewitt and her wacky new haircut looking back at me.
“What kind of statement?” the reporter said, pointing his microphone toward the woman’s face. “What’s his statement?”
“I don’t know what his statement is. I just know there’s a nut out here killing people with a dog leash. That’s what I know.”
I talked with a few people and got similar quotes, thankfully without any further unsub references. I called the Police Bureau and tried to talk to the lead investigator but just got his recording. I pulled out the sticky note that Dan Porter had given me and dialed the number.
A man answered and I told him who I was.
“Did that son of a bitch tell you I owed him a favor?” he said.
I hesitated and then said, “Yes.”
“The bastard. He’s been feeding reporters that line of BS for years. Truth is, I don’t owe him the time of day.”
I was about to hang up when he asked what I was working on.
“The Leash Murders,” I said.
“Of course you are,” he said. “Look, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll get back to you if I find out something I think you might be able to use.”
I thanked him and ended the call.
Then I drove out to Beaverton and the site of the first murder.
On the way I thought about the two cases and the possibilities. It was important to start with the facts and see where they led without jumping to conclusions. I reviewed what I knew.
Two people were dead. A week and ten miles apart. One female. One male. On a park bench and in the back seat of a car. Both killed with a dog leash. Their dogs were found nearby. Both appeared to have been drugged. One dead, one alive.
Those were the facts.
But what did they mean?
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