Jack Daniels Six Pack (18 page)

“Must have been expensive.”

“It was. Now let’s pretend for a moment that we’re both cops and we have other things to discuss.”

“Sure. You gonna eat those fries?”

I gave Herb my fries.

Benedict turned off Addison and on to Christiana. The houses here were city houses; two-story, built in the late forties, with concrete porch steps and just enough front lawn to be able to mow with scissors. Unlike the suburbs, where every fourth house was the same model, these were each unique in their design, brickwork, and layout. Herb had a house like one of these. I might have had one, had I made some better decisions in my past.

Herb found the address and parked by the nearest fireplug. Theresa’s roommate, Elisa Saroto, answered the door after the fourth knock. She was in her mid-twenties, thin, wearing jeans and a white blouse. Her dark brown hair hung down to her shoulders, framing a face that would have been pretty if not for the expression of grief.

After introductions she led us into the kitchen, where she sat down in front of a cup of coffee. Next to the mug was a photo album. She’d been reliving memories.

“We went to Fort Lauderdale last year.” She opened the album and began to flip through it. After finding the right photo she pulled it from its slot and handed it to Herb. A close-up of two women, obviously Theresa and Elisa, both smiling and sporting deep tans. I thought of the picture in my pocket that we’d taken of Theresa at the morgue. We’d found our second Jane Doe.

“These two surfer guys tried to pick us up,” she continued. “Bob and Rob. It was so funny, Theresa and Elisa and Bob and Rob.”

We lost her to sobbing. Herb located a box of tissue on the counter and offered her one.

“Ms. Saroto.” I eased it in while she was catching her breath. “What kind of person was Theresa?”

Elisa wiped her nose and snuffled.

“She . . . she was my best friend. We met in college. We’ve been roommates for five years.”

“Did she have enemies?” Benedict asked. “Ex-boyfriends who couldn’t let go, problems at work, with the family . . . ”

“Everyone loved her. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true. She was a great person.”

“Did anyone ever call and make threats? Obscene phone calls?”

She shook her head.

“Had she been acting strange lately? Afraid?”

“She’s been fine . . . Shit. Why did someone do this?”

A new round of sobs. Benedict and I stood there, uncomfortable with her show of grief, wishing we could take it away. You never get used to people’s suffering. If you do, it’s time to get out of the job.

“How about boyfriends?” I broke in. “Was she dating anyone?”

“No one steady since Johnny. He’s her ex-boyfriend . . . fiancé. They were going to get married. I was her maid of honor. She pulled out a month before the wedding.”

“Why was that?”

“He was cheating on her. When she found out, she dropped him cold. He kept calling, begging her to reconsider. Jerk.”

“And when was this?”

“Six, eight months ago? Her wedding was set for May, so a month before that.”

Herb asked, “What was the boyfriend’s name?”

“Tashing. Johnny Tashing. But he didn’t kill her. He’s a loser, but he still loves her. There’s no way he could kill her. Not like that. Not horrible like that.”

We went on for twenty more minutes, asking more questions, handing her more tissues. Theresa Metcalf had been a waitress at a club named Montezuma’s. The last time Elisa had seen her was three days ago, when Theresa was leaving for work. Elisa had spent the last few days at her boyfriend’s apartment, and hadn’t known Theresa was missing until seeing her photo on television. She didn’t recognize the picture of the first Jane Doe. She didn’t know who killed her friend. She didn’t know why anyone would.

After the inquisition, we walked down the hall to Theresa’s room. It was neat. The bed was made. The closets were organized. Nothing appeared out of place or unusual.

Benedict and I busied ourselves looking through drawers and shelves for anything that could give us a clue as to Theresa’s life and schedule. We found a box of letters, an appointment calendar, and some canceled checks. Nothing else warranted further attention.

Then we checked all the doors and windows, looking for signs of forced entry. We found nothing.

“Did Theresa have a purse?” I asked Elisa.

“Sure.”

We searched the bathroom and the rest of the house and came up empty-handed. Theresa must have taken her purse with her. That meant she probably wasn’t dragged forcibly from her house. So our working assumption was she’d either been grabbed by surprise somewhere else, or she went willingly with someone she knew.

Benedict gave Elisa a receipt for the items we took, and we asked her if she would stop by the morgue sometime tomorrow to identify the body. Normally we’d ask next of kin, but according to her roommate, Theresa was an only child and her parents were dead. Elisa agreed to come in around ten.

“So where to?” Benedict queried as we climbed back into the car.

“Two choices.” I grimaced, trying to get my leg into a position that didn’t hurt so much. “Work or the ex-boyfriend.”

“I’d like to read through the letters we took before we tackle the ex. I saw his name on a few of them.”

“Then it’s off to work we go.”

“You can adjust the seat, Jack. It’s all electric.”

Comfort won out over ego and I began pressing buttons. By the time I’d found the perfect combination of tilt and lift, we’d reached Theresa’s place of employment a few blocks away.

“They don’t look open.” Herb pulled in front of the club. We couldn’t see any lights on through the tinted windows.

“Alley entrance. I’m sure someone’s inside, setting up for the day.”

Herb parked on the street, refusing to leave his nice car with electric seats in the alley. We walked around and banged on the back door until one of the kitchen workers answered. Our badges got us inside, and after an intense session of question and answer with the manager of the club, we learned that Theresa did indeed work there, but she hadn’t shown up for her last four shifts.

We got an employee list, along with the current work schedule, and asked if any other employee had been missing shifts lately. None had. Neither had any employee been dating or harassing Theresa. Had any customers? Well, the wait staff got hit on all of the time, but none fit the stalker category. We’d have to talk with the other servers to be sure. No reaction to the picture of the first victim.

Benedict and I walked back to the car. Routine dictated that every employee had to be questioned and checked out. We’d run them all through the computer for priors, and then we’d begin the lengthy and time-consuming process of interrogation, checking alibis, running down new leads. Hopefully something would break loose, but I wasn’t crossing my fingers. The more we turned up, the more it seemed that Charles picked women at random. Maybe all a girl had to do to get on his list was be young and cute.

We (Herb) stopped for doughnuts on the way back to the station, picking up a dozen and the obligatory coffee. Since Herb’s tongue had been mangled, he’d actually been eating more than usual.

“I once knew an overweight woman who was anorexic,” he told me. “She refused to give in to her disease, so she ate nonstop. I refuse to let a little mouth pain deter my eating habits.”

“Who said overcompensation isn’t healthy.”

“Pass me another cruller.”

I was unable to talk Herb into taking the stairs when we got back to the station, even when using big words like arteriosclerosis and myocardial infarction. It was a good thing I saved my energy, because waiting for me in my office were the men in gray, ready to save the world and document it in triplicate.

“Lieutenant Daniels,” Agent Coursey said. Or maybe it was Dailey. “We’ve got good news.”

I hoped it involved them being reassigned.

“Vicky worked up a new profile of the suspect, and we’re 77.4 percent sure that he’s French Canadian, and most likely owns a horse.”

“Our killer is a Mountie.” Herb said it deadpan.

“A what? Hmm, that’s good. We hadn’t thought of that.”

They looked at each other, and Benedict and I took the moment to do the same.

“How about the candy,” I asked. “Did you get anything?”

“There have been over six hundred recorded cases of food tampering in the last fifteen years. More than two hundred of those were with candy. By limiting the search to individuals who used razor blades, fishhooks, and needles, we narrowed it down to forty-three cases. In only two reported cases had a perp used all three. Both in Lansing, Michigan. On consecutive Halloweens, in 1994 and ’95.”

I felt, for the first time in this case, the stirrings of excitement. This could be a solid lead.

“Arrests? Suspects?”

“None.”

The hope leached away.

“Both times, a bowl of candy had been left at an unoccupied house. No prints, no witnesses, no confessions, just several dozen kids taken to the emergency room, and one terminal occurrence.”

“Have you gone through the Lansing files, found anyone arrested there in the past who might be our man?”

“We’ve cross-referenced arrest records with anyone fitting our profile, but no one came up who was French Canadian. Several suspects owned horses, and we’re checking them out.”

Patience, Jack.

“How about apart from your profile? Anyone arrested in Lansing for kidnapping women? Raping stab wounds? Leaving notes for the police? Any unsolved murders that involved abduction, torture, and mutilation? This guy has killed before. You’ve pretty much confirmed he’s been in Michigan. Did you follow up on any of this?”

“We’re checking,” the one on the right said, hooding his eyes in a manner that could only be described as sheepish. “However, if you could spare the manpower, we’d like to check out some local livery stables and investigate this horse angle.”

I blinked. Twice. I was a deep breath away from spouting off, when a uniform knocked on my open office door. It was Barry Fuller, a large patrolman who used to be on the Chicago Bears. He was assigned to the Gingerbread Man task force, though in what capacity I’d have to admit ignorance.

“Officer Fuller.” I bid him entrance, happy to be interrupted.

Fuller came in, giving the FBI a sideways glance.

“We . . . I took a call this morning.” I now remembered that Fuller had been assigned to work the phones, sorting out fake confessions and tips. “It was Fitzpatrick, the owner of the second 7-Eleven. He wanted to add to his statement.”

“Add what?”

“He remembers hearing an ice cream truck before he saw the body.”

“Like one of those Good Humor trucks with the music?”

“Yeah. It was playing one of those pipe organ songs, he thinks it was ‘The Candyman.’”

I rolled this around in my head. We knew the perp drove a truck. An ice cream truck would be practically anonymous; there had to be hundreds in Chicago. I turned to Herb.

“We need a list of all ice cream trucks registered in Illinois and Michigan. And we need to find out if any special kind of license or permit is needed, and check that list for priors; stick with assault, rape, burglary . . . don’t bother with traffic violations. Then we need the list cross-referenced with Dr. Booster’s patient list. And we need to talk with that kid Donovan, who found the first body.”

“I did that,” Fuller said. “I called him. He remembers hearing an ice cream truck as well. I’ve also gotten started on the DMV reports. The problem is, they only register make, model, and year. An ice cream truck is a Jeep, and there are thousands of Jeeps in Illinois. More in Michigan, I can guess. We can’t break it down by drivers, because anyone with a standard class D can drive a Jeep. If the guy has a business license, it could be possible to find him through that, but that goes by village, not state. It could take weeks to check every suburb.”

“What about companies that sell ice cream that have drivers?” Benedict was thinking out loud.

“There are six in Illinois,” Fuller answered, surprising us. “I’m having them all fax employee lists as well as driver routes.”

“Nice job, Officer,” I told him. “We’ll put someone else on phones, and you’re in charge of gathering all of this information. I want a progress report every morning, and I’ll need Donovan’s and Fitzpatrick’s depositions ASAP.”

Since I liked initiative in my men, I also threw him a bone.

“There’s an extra case file on my desk, go through it, see if anything shakes loose.”

He grinned, I suppose from the opportunity presented to him, and then left. In two minutes’ time, an ex-football player who walked a beat proved to be of more help than two federal agents with years of experience. It didn’t surprise me.

“Maybe he’s selling ice cream on horseback,” Benedict offered to the Feebies.

“Parlez-vous Fudgsicle?” I added.

“His driving an ice cream truck does not preclude ownership of a horse,” the one on the left said, “but we’ll need time to assimilate this new data and consult with Vicky.”

“Maybe you should do that.”

“We are well aware of the fact that you don’t like us, Lieutenant. But we’re all trying to do the same thing here. We’re trying to catch a killer. We do it by analyzing data and comparing it to thousands of other documented cases, in order to get a picture of the unsub. You go on the news and talk about bed-wetting and cowardice. To each his method.”

Then they turned as one and left.

“Ouch,” Herb said, “that was awful close to an actual insult.”

“I may need a hug, Herb.”

“I’m here for you. At least until Lunch Mates sets you up with someone. Did I mention how darling you looked in that sweater?”

“Aren’t there any doughnuts left you should be attending to?”

Benedict’s eyes lit up and he attacked the box. I washed down two aspirin with the last of my coffee, and then was forced to refill it with the sludge from the hallway vending machine. When I returned, Herb had valiantly triumphed over an éclair and had begun poring over the letters we’d taken from Theresa Metcalf’s room. I sat down, stretched my leg, and attacked the appointment book.