Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (13 page)

Part of me wanted to say, If you know who I am, why do you need identification? He seemed almost gleeful to find me . . . unaware I was aware that the Minneapolis police chief had a price on my head. I was pretty sure the day-off bonus only counted for moving violations, and that parking on a dark street was not breaking any law.

But before I could get all smart-alecky, Garnett spoke up.

“You don’t care about her.” He flashed a homeland security badge at the officer.

Gold. Shiny. An eagle across the top. I vowed to get a closer look at the impressive design. Maybe if he waved it at me later on, in the privacy of my own home, I’d even let him frisk me.

The cop shined the light from the badge to Garnett’s face. I heard an intake of breath as he recognized my companion.

“Nick Garnett. What brings you back to town?”

“Well, an hour ago I would have told you pleasure.” He smiled at me. “But now I’m afraid it’s turned into work.”

“Anything we locals can assist you feds with?”

“Actually, it’s going to be the other way around. I’m going to be assisting your office . . . with a murder investigation.”

He tilted his head in the direction of the homicide house. The officer didn’t react. He’d clearly been briefed about the address’s recent history when he received the call about a suspicious vehicle.

Garnett opened the car door and stepped out. “See you later, Riley.” His farewell held a hint of regret as he slammed the vehicle shut.

Then he turned to the cop. “Why don’t I catch a ride downtown with you.” He said it like he was giving an order, not asking a favor. After all, he used to be one of them. One of their best. And the officer didn’t disagree.

“Hey, what are you doing, Nick?” I said. “We’re on a date.”

“You’re right. Sorry.” He walked over, leaned through the window, and planted a quick kiss on my mouth. “Duty calls.”

And the two of them left me parked alone on a dark street reeking of murder.

I was mad about a couple of things—personal and professional. First, being cut out of the case after giving him an important clue . . . even though I still wasn’t sure what the photo meant, it clearly held significance. Second, even though we were sort of, almost, maybe engaged . . . I was pissed to be kissed like some kind of trophy. It was like he was showing off to that other cop that he had me in his pocket.

I wanted to follow the squad car, but I knew they’d ditch me by driving down the underground entrance to the cop shop.

I also wanted to go up to Cheryl Gordon’s house and yell at her for calling the police in the first place, but I was afraid she’d just flex her telephone muscles and redial 911.

So I knocked softly on her door, and she answered all excited when she turned on the outside light and saw me.

“Did you see that car over there? I called the police and they took a man off to jail.”

I explained the man was a law enforcement officer and friend of mine and that I was pointing out the crime scene when the
flashing lights arrived. Handing her another of my business cards, I reminded her, besides calling the police, to phone me if she noticed anything.

“Oh heavens,” she said. “You’re so busy, I’d hate to bother you.”

“No trouble. I’ll make time.”

I
didn’t want to wait up for Nick because that might make him think I cared about him. But I didn’t want to go to sleep either. That would make it easier for him to sneak under the covers next to me, hoping I wouldn’t notice and might have calmed down by morning.

I threw a pillow and blanket on the couch for him, determined he wasn’t getting within an arm’s length of me unless I got a straight answer about what he thought he knew about Kate Warner’s murder.

But over the next couple of hours, I figured it out myself.

When Garnett looked at my chalk fairy photo, he acted like he recognized something. He must have seen a similar picture before—or a similar crime scene.

I turned my phone back on, emailing the picture to my computer. Then I printed out a larger version and propped it against the wall by my bed. The quality was much better than I expected. And again, I was struck that the outline around Kate’s body wasn’t the traditional kind you see in police dramas or old crime scene photographs.

Her arms were distorted. Like her killer had been in a hurry to finish. But that also made the fatal artwork unique. A murderer’s
signature. And Garnett had clearly seen it before. Which meant Kate’s killer had killed before.

A signature is a ritualistic crime scene behavior that goes beyond what is necessary to kill that person. Often, it becomes a clue left behind when slaughter alone is not enough for psychosexual gratification. But sometimes the conduct is designed to mock law enforcement—catch me if you can.

Garnett had explained the concept of signature in homicide to me once before when I was covering a serial killer story. I didn’t think I’d cross paths with another such madman the rest of my career in news.

A mass murderer, sure. Their kind snap, killing multiple victims at the same time and place. Spree killing is the law enforcement term; going postal is the slang. Such a rampage murder can happen anywhere people gather. A school. Workplace. Political rally. Church. Family home. The crimes are obvious, nothing subtle about them. And often, the killers add themselves to the death toll, making the cases easy to solve.

But serial killers are hard to detect . . . and much harder to apprehend.

I must have drifted off to nightmare land when I heard the door open. I jerked awake in a panic before remembering that Garnett had a key and now stood next to my bed.

“So tell me what’s going on,” I mumbled before remembering I wasn’t speaking to him.

“I can’t right now.” He sounded committed, not tired.

“Then the wedding is off.” I tried to sound like I meant it.

“Stop talking like that. Neither of us is supposed to tell the other how to do our jobs. That’s always been our understanding.”

I explained that investigating Kate’s murder was
my
job, not
his
. “You’re supposed to be protecting our national security. So unless you can prove a terrorist connection to Kate’s death and
that of the other women, you’re out of your game . . . and out of my bedroom.”

I pulled a blanket over my head to show I meant business.

He grabbed the covers back so he could see my face or maybe so I could see his. Either way, he wanted to know what other women I was referring to.

I continued my bluff and he bought it. “The other ones Kate’s killer drew chalk fairies around.”

“How do you know about them?”

“I’m a reporter. It’s my job.”

“I think you’re just guessing.”

“Well, it looks like I guessed right.” In retrospect, I probably sounded a little too smug. “Because you just confirmed that there
are
others. And I’m going on the air to report that Kate Warner was the victim of a serial killer.”

“I’m not sure you have enough to support that story.”

I conceded to myself he could be right, but didn’t want to say that out loud. “Yeah, well, I have a hot photograph that’s sure to go viral. You just wait and see what I end up broadcasting.”

That’s when he noticed the picture of Kate’s outline now lying on my nightstand, and realized I was determined to break the story.

“How about if we both just put this disagreement aside till morning,” he said, “and go back to that book you were reading from earlier at the drive-in?”

I couldn’t believe he still thought our weekend together would end in a fit of passion. A fit of rage, more likely. “Sure, Nick.” I pulled
Black Angel Lace
out of my bag and threw it through the bedroom door toward the couch. “Read yourself to sleep out there.”

Mumbling something about waiting for an apology, he grabbed one of the blankets and disappeared into the hall.

I almost called out, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” But then he’d crawl under the covers with me and whisper,
“
Love Story
, 1970. Ali MacGraw and Ryan O’Neal.” He might mess up on the actors. Few people remember that both stars spoke the trademark line; she in the middle of the film, he at the end.

I could use that flub as an excuse to kick him out of bed, but if he nailed the answer correctly, I’d have to let him stay. And he’d certainly want to reenact their dorm room sex scene.

But part of me still wanted to go to bed mad. So I simply lay there, yearning. Nothing but silence. I could outlast him for sleep because I hadn’t been traveling all day. Then a faint, familiar snore sounded from down the hall.

I closed my eyes and craved black. Even at night, I never seemed to see total blackness. It’s more like the inside of my eyelids are painted near black with thin fingerprint etchings that sometimes look red and other times look gray.

Black would be such a relief.

H
e reached Iowa City amid thunder and lightning. Summer storms had flooded the state’s farmland that season, but this latest torrential rain did not deter him.

He drove through the metal gate, following a narrow road up a hill and around a curve. And there she stood.

The Black Angel.

Her wings reached down as if to embrace him. Magnificent among the other grave markers; her blood was his blood.

He turned off his headlights to avoid attracting attention to his visit. The cemetery had closed hours earlier, and trespassers were discouraged. But a streetlight overhead illuminated the larger-than-life statue.

The tombstone was the legacy of Teresa Dolezal Feldevert. Local lore had the sculpture, once golden bronze, turning black as evidence of her malevolence.

Karl knelt on the cement slab at her hem, raising his blurry eyes to the monument’s immortal ones.

“I have come for your blessing, cousin,” he said.

A crack of lightning lit up the sky. Then, as if on cue, the rain slowed to a drizzle.

Carvings on the base showed Teresa to have been born in 1836; her date of death was left blank. The curious take that
as proof that she isn’t actually dead, but continues to prey on those who disrespect the Angel. But Karl knew, from his genealogy studies, that she had died on November 18, 1924, at the age of eighty-eight, and that her ashes were buried here under the sculpture.

When his research found a family connection between the two of them, his life took on a new directive. His cravings now endorsed, he felt free to act. No matter their relationship was distant. He had few living relatives, she had no direct descendants; he might as well be mentored by her ghost.

Each visit to Oakland Cemetery made him more certain of his path. Proud to claim Teresa as kin, he had established a routine of obtaining her benediction before proceeding on his next calling.

He stood before the Angel, his arms spread wide, mirroring the distinctive slope of her wings and pose of her body. Her silhouette dwarfed him; head to ground more than twelve feet tall, towering twice his height. But he was ready to vow another sacrifice at the foot of his master.

He whispered the next name.

“Riley Spartz.”

Deep in his soul, Karl Dolezal knew he had permission.

I
woke up too scared to scream.

Seconds passed before I understood I was home in bed. Blankets tangled. Pillows scattered. Somewhere outside, a police siren confused me. My nightmare had something to do with the angel of death.

I reached for a lamp switch. The picture of the chalk fairy outline was the first thing I saw. And suddenly, I realized the drawing wasn’t a fairy after all, but an angel.

An angel of death.

Funny how our minds work while we sleep. Sometimes the answer we’re searching for finds us instead. At that moment, I sensed I had learned something important about Kate’s killer.

Her murderer fancied himself the Angel of Death.

I caught myself just then and realized I shouldn’t necessarily assume the murderer was a man. A woman could also be capable of inflicting blunt force trauma.

All killers leave evidence behind, usually not by choice: fingerprints, DNA, tire marks, witnesses. But this murderer—male or female—deliberately left a clue. A clue that might suggest the killer had an affinity for religion.

Was the angel wing outline simply a way of showing off? Or
was the slayer marking victims like an artist signing a painting? Or an author signing a book?

Then I remembered Kate’s book,
Black Angel Lace,
and wondered if its pages held an inkling. Looking around, I realized Garnett had the paperback. Daybreak was still a couple of hours away, so I didn’t want to sneak in and risk waking him. I also wasn’t sure I wanted to share my death angel theory. You have to give to get. I’d already given him a hell of a photo and gotten zip.

And hours earlier, we had discussed marriage. Could there be a happily-ever-after in our future if we never seemed to be on the same team? We both liked chasing things, but for different outcomes. Him for justice; me for news. Our professions both needed each other’s, but did
we
actually need each other? Our personalities clashed so much that, deep down, I wondered if I’d be better off married to a shoe salesmen.

For the next hour, I lay with a cover over my head, debating what to say to Garnett in the morning. Imagining possible conversations wasn’t particularly helpful, but at least it kept my mind off the Angel of Death.

I slept late, and when I awoke, my man was gone.

Garnett left an empty bottle of Nordeast beer on the counter along with a note. I expected to read something about him being sorry or stupid. But he mentioned nothing about me going to bed mad, instead that he was off to the Mall of America to meet with a security colleague and would connect with me later.

His suitcase lay in the other room, so he clearly intended to return to the scene of our fight. How things unfolded next would have to wait, but I was actually glad to postpone any showdown.