Once Shadows Fall (10 page)

O
n Monday morning, three uniform officers and two men dressed in suits were in the conference room when Jack arrived. They were talking among themselves. Rather than interrupt, he moved to the end of the room where a large urn of coffee and a plate of pastries had been set up. He poured himself a cup and picked out a chocolate-glazed donut and dropped a dollar into a shoebox someone had set up for honor payments. His self-imposed ration was two cups in the morning, which he had at his house. Of course, they were small cups, so he decided to risk a third.

Outside the window, a light rain had begun falling. On the wet pavement below, a scattering of brightly colored umbrellas glided across the sidewalk. Waltz of the gumdrops.

Beth was in the middle of writing notes about the murders on a whiteboard. Jack checked his watch. It was three minutes to eight. The voice mail he received from her the night before indicated they would meet at eight o’clock.

Eager to prove herself
, he thought.

Dan Pappas appeared alongside him and picked out a donut covered in sprinkles.

“Sprinkles?”

“The best,” Pappas said, keeping his voice down so as not to interrupt Beth.

“You have no taste in donuts,” Jack said.

“I must, I’m a cop.”

“Who are the suits?” Jack asked.

“Frick and Frack.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s just what we call them. The tall one’s Ed Mundas. His partner’s Dwayne Stafford.”

“I take it they’re joining us.”

Pappas nodded. “They’re good men. Beth asked the lieutenant for more help. With three murders, we need to put some people on the street.”

“Agreed,” Jack said as four more detectives entered the room. Two he recalled meeting during the Scarecrow case. The other two weren’t familiar to him. He turned to Pappas. “My message last night said the autopsies have been moved up.”

“She also called the deputy chief at home on Saturday night and asked him to intercede with the ME. He phoned Dr. Andrews himself and voila: more troops, instant autopsies.”

“Anything special so far?” Jack asked.

“Two of the three were Tasered,” Pappas said, “plus all of ’em had Seconal in their blood, so you were right about that. Two were missing the ring finger on the left hand. The vics at the farm both died of asphyxiation; the lady at Lake Lanier, drowning.”

Jack was quiet for a moment, then said, “Lady at the lake,” half to himself.

When Beth finished, she introduced Jack to the others. Stafford and Mundas were both tall, slender, and spoke with noticeable southern accents. It was hard to tell them apart. Jack tried to associate their names with their faces but, after a moment, wasn’t sure which was which.

“What I’d like,” he said, “is for you two to start interviewing the victims’ neighbors. It’s possible the killer simply happened on them by chance, but it would be nice to know if any of them were connected, beyond just being friends or knowing Jerome Haffner.”

Frick, or maybe it was Frack, took notes while the other listened.

“Yes, sir. Will do. Ms. Sturgis already told us that. We’ll also be checking to see if the neighbors noticed any strange folk hangin’ around.”

“Good.”

“Vehicles, too,” his partner added.

Jack turned to Beth and asked, “You got a tire print?”

“It’s a Goodyear 275-I6, with noticeable wear on the inside. They’re commonly found on vans. About a grillion were sold last year.”

“A grillion?” Jack said.

“It’s a technical term,” Beth said. “You’ve been out of the business for a while.”

Jack smiled. “What about the fluid drip?”

“The vehicle probably belongs to our killer,” Beth said. “The drip is transmission fluid. If we find the vehicle, we can get a match and place it at the scene.”

She’d been busy and was looking very pleased with herself.
As well she should
, Jack thought.

“And the footprints on the hill?” he asked.

“I’m assuming one was from Sarah Goldner. The sheriff’s checking the size against her other shoes with the family. The man’s shoe is a size twelve and different from what we saw at the farm. The sole is made of something called Vibram. It’s manufactured in China for Rockmart Footwear. There was nothing distinctive about the wear pattern. This one could be the real deal instead of a plant.”

Pappas asked, “Where’s it sold?”

“Everywhere,” Beth said. “There are about thirty thousand retail outlets across the U.S. You can also buy them online.”

Pappas informed him, “We do have one piece of good news, Jack.”

“Oh?”

“Sheriff Blaylock had his deputies canvas the neighbors. Two of them down the road from the Donneley farm noticed a white panel van driving around before the killings. Seems everybody knows everybody up there.”

“Excellent,” Jack said. “Let’s see if there are any reports of stolen vehicles matching that description. The killer probably wouldn’t risk using his own transportation.”

“Will do,” Pappas said.

“We should also see if any rental agencies have one out. If that’s the case, the killer might have acquired it near his own home, which would give us an area to concentrate on. Wouldn’t you agree, Beth?”

“Oh . . . uh, sure. I’ll get on it.”

As soon as the words were out, Jack realized he’d made a mistake. Despite running through what he viewed as the routine and sensible steps they should take, he was conscious of an elephant in the room—the unspoken question about who was in charge. The meeting’s focus was beginning to shift to him. Despite their discussion the previous night, Beth’s expression spoke volumes. She was putting up a good front but appeared awkward and uneasy. His comments were inadvertently undercutting her authority.

He needed to correct the problem.

“As most of you know, Chief Ritson asked me to consult with the department. Obviously, we have a serious situation on our hands.
Detective Sturgis is still the lead on this case, so if there are any command decisions to be made, check with her. I’ll be around to offer assistance where needed.”

Several of the uniforms nodded. As long as there was a clear chain of command, with one of their own running the show, they were happy. The bottom line was, no one liked being told how to do their job, particularly by a former fed like him. Word would filter through the department quickly.

Jack took a sip of coffee and made a face. He’d forgotten to add sweetener. He took stock of the room they were in and couldn’t recall if he’d ever been there before. It was about thirty by fifteen and had a long conference table with eight blue upholstered chairs and a window that looked out over the parking lot. From the window, through a thin line of trees, was I-285 or the “Perimeter,” as Atlantans called it. Cars moved in a steady stream at speeds that indicated the posted speed limit was more a suggestion than the law. Overhead were a series of fluorescent lights he associated with unpleasant places. Despite his being used to speaking with groups, he realized he was nervous. It had been a long time since he was around other cops. A brief sense of loss for his office at school and the comfort of his daily routine swept over him. There wasn’t much help for it now.

Beth Sturgis resumed her talk with the uniforms. At one point, she looked up at him and then continued her conversation. He read nothing in her expression. What was she thinking? Had his speech worked? Was she still resentful? Well, he’d done his best. Maybe she was unsure what to do next. He often was. In the end, it came down to instinct. An investigation is like building a house of cards. You construct it level by level and hope it doesn’t come crashing down. This one had gotten off to a miserable start.

*

The meeting eventually broke up and people drifted back to their desks or to whatever they had been working on. Jack spent some time on the computer searching the FBI’s database for similar crimes and patterns and came up empty. He wasn’t surprised. It was nearly eleven o’clock before he closed the screen and went to the break room for a second cup of coffee.

When Jack entered the room, the conversations abruptly died away. With the exception of Beth Sturgis, all the detectives who had been at the meeting earlier were there. Some averted their eyes. Others occupied
themselves by fixing coffee or looking at the interesting things in the parking lot. He didn’t need to be a psychologist to know they had been talking about him.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“Nah,” Pappas said, “we were just jawing about the case. You remember Dave Childers and Jimmy Spruell, don’t you? They were part of the original Scarecrow task force way back when.”

“Of course,” Jack said, shaking hands with both men. “Glad to be working with you again.”

Childers’s handshake seemed genuine enough, but Spruell’s was perfunctory. Moreover, he seemed to find Jack’s comment about working together again funny. Confused, Jack looked at him for an explanation.

“Nothing personal, Professor, but we haven’t had great luck working with the feds in the past.”

“I’m not a fed anymore. I’m part of the department now.”

“Right, right, our special consultant. I heard Beth Sturgis earlier.”

“Jimmy,” Dave Childers said.

“No offense meant, man. I just remember our consultant doing a lot of running around on his own the last time. Generally, we found out what was going on after the fact.”

“I’ll try to share more,” Jack said. “Things were pretty crazy back then.”

“Of course they were. Unfortunately, that TV movie made us look like a bunch of idiots. You know, poor dumb Keystone Cops wouldn’t recognize a clue if they tripped over it.”

Jack looked down at his feet for a moment. “I didn’t have much to do with that movie, and I apologize if it came out that way. I promise it wasn’t due to anything I said.”

“Artistic license, right?”

“Knock it off, Jimmy,” Pappas said.

“I’m only saying what everyone thinks.”

Jack held Spruell’s eye for a moment and nodded slowly, then said, “I think I’ll get my coffee another time. Good seeing you both again.”

He was partway to the door when Spruell asked, “Hey, whatever happened to that partner of yours? I heard she got cut up pretty bad.”

As soon as the words were out, the atmosphere in the room changed. Everyone felt it. Jack stopped and turned around, the smile fading from his face.

“She died, Detective,” he said and started walking toward Spruell.

Pappas immediately stepped between them. “I ain’t gonna tell you again, Jimmy. That’s enough.”

*

When Jack was gone, Spruell shook his head and muttered, “Fuckin’ showboater.”

“You’re a goddamn idiot, Spruell. You know that?” Pappas said and followed Jack out.

With the smirk still on his face, Spruell turned to his partner for support. The older detective shook his head.

“What?” Spruell asked.

“Jack Kale’s no showboater, Jimmy.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, it’s right. Pappas probably just saved you a trip to the hospital. Kale would have taken your head off.”

T
he Soul Eater sat in a cafe reading the
Atlanta Journal
over his morning coffee. Because the deaths had occurred out of town, the story had been relegated to page three. That was disappointing. In time, he’d merit page one. It was simply a matter of being patient. And if there was one thing he prided himself on, it was his patience.

His cup was nearly empty when the waitress glided over to refresh it. Doubtful she recognized him. That was one of his strengths. Ordinary was good. The ability to blend in, to disappear into the public flotsam, was priceless. Most of his victims never knew he was there until it was too late.

He had done his homework. The woman he’d been observing, Donna Christine Camp, was forty-three, divorced, and the mother of two children presently living with their father in Tampa, Florida. Very sad. Her apartment was three blocks away from the cafe, which allowed her to walk to work. That fit nicely into his plans. She looked five years older than her Facebook photo and wore too much makeup. As a rule, he didn’t care for excess makeup on women. Tattoos were worse. Why do women do that?

He watched Ms. Camp out of the corner of his eye as she moved to another table, wondering how she would look wrapped in white linen bandages. She gave a customer a perfunctory smile. Clearly, she didn’t like her job. After further reflection, he decided the makeup made her look cheap. Makeup needed to be applied carefully, exotically.

He’d been up all night studying the diary. Brilliant. It was as if Albert was speaking directly to him from the grave. His own museum. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? He couldn’t wait until he and Ms. Camp got together.

*

Thanks to Lieutenant Fancher, who had apparently spoken to the deputy chief, the conference room they’d been using was converted into a command center and temporary office for Jack. All things considered, he’d have been happier working out of his home. Ironically, his own words came back to haunt him. You can’t run an investigation from the sidelines.

Beth Sturgis stopped in the doorway and watched as Jack turned a complete circle in his desk chair. She was carrying a copy of the murder book.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Two times,” he said, making one final rotation. “That’s the best I can manage. My chair at school can do three.”

Beth started to respond but changed her mind. She put the book on his desk and left, shaking her head. Jack shrugged and picked up the loose-leaf notebook and began to study it. That he could do so dispassionately was slightly surprising. All his instincts told him it was only a matter of time before the killer struck again. There had been no ransom demands, so this one got his kicks from the death itself and possibly from watching the cops fumble around for clues. If a generalization could be made about serial killers, they tended to operate on their own timetable. Howard Pell did, and if the copycat was following him, there was a good chance he might use a similar pattern.

He went through the book slowly trying to find a unique signature in the new killer’s method but saw nothing that stood out. Like Pell, the only common threads were the crimes had been committed underground and two of the victims had a missing finger.

What confused him were the clues being left behind. Pell had done so with the intent of misleading the police. But he’d also left other clues inadvertently, which proved to be his undoing. So they were dealing with a mimic, but Jack had a feeling this killer was different. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was at work beneath the surface. Unfortunately, at this stage, he had no idea what that could be. Whatever perverse logic was operating inside the killer’s head, he needed to understand it quickly.

Beth returned with photos of the victims and put them up on the whiteboard. On one side she started a list of what they knew about the killer, which was precious little. She stood there concentrating on it, absently chewing on the end of a pencil. There was another stuck in her hair.

Probably forgot she put it there
, Jack thought.

Since his speech earlier, much of the tension building between them had eased. He continued to watch her, forgetting that women have a kind of built-in radar about such things. Beth chose that moment to turn around and caught him staring.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was just . . . ah, studying—”

“My legs?”

“Well, close enough,” he said.

Her response was a raised eyebrow. Thankfully, she didn’t take offense or get angry. In fact, she smiled, and this time there was no frost in it.

“I appreciate what you did earlier,” she said.

Jack nodded. “I meant it.”

“I know you did.”

“You were doing fine without my help.”

“I appreciate that,” Beth said. “Were you like that with your partner?”

“Some,” Jack answered, stiffening slightly. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Okay,” Beth said. “Didn’t mean to intrude. I heard you had some words earlier with Jimmy Spruell.”

“It was nothing.”

“Do I need to talk to him?”

“Not at all,” Jack said. “I’m a big boy and I can fight my own battles. It’s over.”

That seemed to satisfy her. Beth then informed him, “I’m going to Mayfield later to interview Howard Pell. Would you like to tag along?”

“You can handle it. I’d be a distraction.”

There was a pause before she asked, “To Pell or me?”

This time it was Jack’s turn to be surprised. Was there was another meaning behind her words?

When he didn’t respond, Beth said, “I’ll let you know how it turns out,” and stood up.

“One word of advice,” Jack said. “Don’t discuss your personal life with him no matter how hard Pell pushes.”

*

There was something different about the parking lot. Donna Camp couldn’t put her finger on it. Her apartment was only a few blocks away. Though the neighborhood wasn’t the greatest, she felt safe enough. In her purse was a compact canister of pepper spray attached to a keychain she’d bought for self-defense. She gave it a few more seconds of thought then pushed it away. There were more pressing things on her mind.

After a quick stop to change, it was off to Georgia State for her evening class and hopefully a better life. Things were finally beginning to look up. It was spring and she loved this time of year. Every day it would stay light a little longer. Soon the dogwoods and azaleas would be out, along with the flowering crab trees she thought were so beautiful. She missed her garden and the home she’d been forced to sell after the divorce. For the time being, she took pleasure in the world coming back to life again. So would she. With some hard work she’d get everything back and send for her kids. Yes, things were definitely looking better. It was just a matter of time.

Only a few cars remained in the parking lot. At the far end, sitting by itself near the exit, was a white van. She’d seen it several times before and decided it belonged to a customer, though she didn’t know which one.

She noted the lot’s security light was out and made a mental note to mention it to the manager, who’d probably tell her it wasn’t his job. Donna scanned the immediate area and decided she was just being silly. Nevertheless, she opened her purse and made sure the pepper spray was within easy reach.

Across the street, three teenage boys bopped along listening to whatever was playing on their iPods, pants hanging below their butts and baseball caps on sideways—not exactly slaves to fashion.

Thank God her boys hadn’t gone through that phase.

Near a hole in the fence, a cat silently watched as she passed. The smell of ethnic cooking drifted through an open window in a nearby building and made its way to the asphalt below. What little color the street possessed came from the graffiti on the walls. Working a double shift at the cafe was hard, but there were bills to pay and promises to keep.

“And miles to go before I sleep,” she whispered to herself.

The bearded man who stepped out from in front of the van startled her. He was tall, well-dressed, and seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

“Excuse me,” he said, swallowing. “I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

“I think we frightened each other,” Donna said.

“My apologies. Can you tell me if this is Butler Street? I’ve gotten a little turned around.”

“Butler is two blocks west,” Donna said, pointing back toward the cafe.

As soon as she turned, a sudden movement caught the corner of her eye. Her hand immediately went to the pepper spray in her purse. Too late. A blinding pain shot through her body. She tried to scream, but nothing came out.

The tall man caught her as she fell and pulled her back to the van. She was dimly aware her hands and feet were being bound. As hard as she tried to struggle, it was no use. She was paralyzed. Panic set in.
My God, no. This can’t be happening
.

A piece of tape was placed over her mouth, followed by a stinging sensation in her thigh. Consciousness slipped further and further away. The last thing she remembered was looking up at the dark security light and the graffiti.