The Christmas Killer (6 page)

Jake didn’t go back to his desk, which was in sight of the colonel’s office across the hall. It was better to keep out of Asher’s way. Instead he went out to the front desk. There was a computer there hooked into the system, and that would do.

Nothing new in his in-box apart from offers of cheap Viagra and an invitation to join an online casino. The department’s spam filter was, like other things in Littleton, a bit behind the times.

Jake quickly fired off two emails asking for updates. One went to the medical examiner’s office, the other to the forensics laboratory that shared the ME’s morgue. He wasn’t too hopeful; if there had been any news it would have been there waiting for him. But he wanted to keep the pressure on.

He stared at the shimmering screen. A shadow appeared behind him, and he was engulfed in a scent of jasmine: Sara Janesky, the desk secretary. He turned. She smiled and handed him a mug of coffee he hadn’t asked for.

Every cop in the department had a thing for Sara.
Barely over five foot, the young divorcee was a little firecracker. She had long dirty-blonde hair, which hung over one ear but left the other bare, revealing a big silver Gypsy earring. She wore tight blouses that emphasized her cleavage, and her voice oozed smoke and honey, like a rich whiskey.

‘You look like you need a pick-me-up, sugar,’ she said.

‘You’re a mind-reader.’ He smiled at her, knowing he offered a different sort of smile to the one she usually got at the station. Most of the guys talked about her like she was an easy score – based, seemingly, on the fact that she was good-looking – but he had not seen one of them even make it to first base. Jake thought she was smarter than she let on. He wondered if she had grown up with a father who was domineering, old-fashioned to the point of chauvinistic, the kind of man who preferred his ladies – her mom, especially – to keep their intelligence concealed. Not a violent man, just one set in his ways who Sara had learned how to handle at a very young age.

What she had learned, she could apply to the boys’ club that was the local PD where she had ended up earning a living.

Sara sat down on her chair behind her desk. ‘What you thinking about?’

He made a show of clearing his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Working on a case or going through the personals?’

‘I’m waiting on word from the lab.’

‘You’ll be waiting, honey. Didn’t you hear?’

Jake looked up from the computer, puzzled.

‘What they found over in Springfield.’

Springfield was two towns away, a more rural version of Littleton. Jake had driven through it once but nothing about the place stood out. He hadn’t heard anything particular about Springfield today.

‘Oh babe, you need to catch up. The interstate construction crew dug up a skeleton about two hours ago.’

Something jumped inside Jake.
Can it be a coincidence? Two bodies found at construction sites
. His eyes widened.

Sara was looking at him. ‘Don’t get excited, cowboy,’ she said. ‘It was an old skeleton. A child. From long ago. They were working in the grounds of an old asylum that used to house all the crazies and the stray kids.’

‘A kid? How old do they make it?’

‘Dunno. I mean, the place was probably full of skeletons. Who knows what went on in those places.’ She gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘Gives me the creeps.’

It gave Jake the creeps too. He could imagine the old stone building, the cold corridors, the small dusty windows, the attendants. He had a vision of blood in a basement. It was all in his head – too many movies when he was young.

‘Hon, I need to go out for a few minutes.’ She placed a hand on his forearm. ‘I’m due a smoke break. Can you mind the desk while I’m gone?’

‘So the coffee was just a bribe?’

‘Such a sharp detective.’ She gave him a wink as she swept out the front door.

Jake was doing nothing, killing time until the technical people got back to him. He might as well kill it here. He turned back to the screen and was googling ‘Springfield Asylum’ when he heard the main door opening. Putting on his friendly face, he looked up and smiled.

The man who came in resembled an extra from a zombie movie. He was tall and thin, with narrow shoulders and three-day stubble. His pale eyes had the bleary appearance of the habitual alcoholic; his clothes looked like they had been slept in, and his smell wafted ahead of him, as if trying to escape the body to which it was attached. As he reached the desk the man fumbled in the pocket of his torn coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

‘No smoking in the station,’ said Jake.

‘Sorry,’ mumbled the man.

Jake stared at him.

‘I want to talk to someone about the murder out by the new interstate. I have some information.’

Jake’s heart quickened. ‘I’m one of the investigators. You can tell me what you saw.’

The man’s lips began to quiver. ‘It’s not what I saw,’ he said. ‘It’s what I did.’

Jake waited, his heart now slamming against his sternum.

‘I have a confession.’ The man paused, took a deep breath and said, ‘I killed Marcia Lamb.’

It was like a klaxon had sounded in Jake’s head.
This is it!

Every case broke at some point, but rarely this early. He stood up as deliberately as he could, putting on his blankest, most professional face. He had to handle this just right.

Don’t spook the guy.

He came from behind the desk and gently took the man by the elbow. The man looked at him, pleading with his eyes. He came meekly as Jake led him around the desk and down a corridor to one of the interview rooms. The man kept glancing about, seeming like a little boy lost in a big world. Jake brought him into the bare room and sat him down on one of the chairs.

‘I need you to just stay here for a few minutes while I get one of the other detectives to sit in on our conversation. Is that all right?’ Jake asked.

‘Yes, sir. I’ll wait,’ said the man. ‘Thank you.’

Jake left the interview room and made sure to lock it behind him. He jogged down the corridor into the office.

‘Mills! Someone’s here with a confession.’ All the staff nearby looked up at Jake. ‘Says he’s our guy.’

Whatever Mills was typing he dropped it fast. ‘You think it’s solid?’

‘Too early to say,’ said Jake. He could feel his heart thumping and he was trying to get himself under control. They started down the hall and everyone followed behind. ‘We’ll play it straight this time and just ask the questions. I think he wants to tell his story.’

Jake and Mills entered the interview room slowly and shut the door on the ten or so people standing outside. They approached the desk like the man was a dog who might freak with any sudden movement.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’ Jake asked him.

The man shook his head, not looking up from his lap.

‘Fine.’ Jake and Mills sat opposite him. ‘I’m Detective Austin, and this is Detective Mills. We want to hear what you have to say, but before we begin, I have to ask you if you need a lawyer?’

He was a bit surprised when the man shook his head again. He seemed diminished in the chair, and Jake could see he was breathing deeply.

‘OK,’ said Jake. ‘Let’s begin with the basics. What’s your name?’

‘Johnny Cooper. I live on 42nd.’

Even Jake knew this was one of the roughest parts of town: skid row.

‘What have you come here to tell us, Mr Cooper?’ Jake asked.

‘I killed her. I smashed her head in with a rock, God help me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.’

‘Let’s go back to the beginning,’ said Jake gently. ‘Did you know Marcia Lamb?’

‘Never met her in my life. I just felt the urge. I was walking around the park … I got nowhere else to be most days.’

Jake nodded sympathetically.

‘I saw her walking there,’ said Cooper. ‘I get so lonely. I didn’t mean to – I just wanted to talk to someone. And she wouldn’t stop. She just kept walking. And the red mist descended, and I killed her. Used a knife.’

‘Because she didn’t talk to you?’ said Jake, wondering how he got her back to her house and how the knife was used. He hadn’t seen knife wounds on the corpse, but maybe the medical examiner had found something. He took out a pad and made a note that this would need to be checked out.

‘All I wanted was some company,’ the guy continued. ‘I didn’t ask her for money or nothing. I just wanted someone to talk to me, to see me. And I wanted to fuck her.’ He said this softly, his weak eyes watery. ‘I’m sorry. I get urges, but I can normally fight them. If I could have just got her to stop …’

Jake looked at Mills, who had turned to face the wall. Jake frowned – was the confession getting to Mills? Jake knew that Littleton might not have seen much in the way of grisly murders – not in the same way a city tends to – but still, Mills had coped more than fine with everything so far. Jake turned back to Cooper.

‘How’d you get into her place?’

‘I’m good with locks. Always have been.’

Jake’s hopes began to fade. He tested a theory: ‘And her daughter?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you kill the daughter?’

Cooper shrugged. ‘I tried to. But she ran away too fast. Long legs on that girl.’

Jake looked back at Mills, who had now turned back from the wall. He had a hand over his mouth, holding in his laughter.

And Jake felt a sudden fury that he had walked into such a rookie mistake.

Mills cleared his throat as if about to say something but Jake stopped him. ‘I’ll ask the questions,’ he said, an edge of steel to his voice.

Jake turned back to Cooper, who was now sobbing gently at the table. He couldn’t believe it. The man looked sixty, but when Jake looked closely, he realized he was probably nearer forty. Jake knew the type. The type that wandered the streets.
People ignore you. You feel invisible. Parents died or gave you up at a young age. You were in the care of the state. Thrown out when you came of age. Since then you’ve drifted between cheap hotels, dingy one-room apartments, mission flophouses and the streets. You feel guilty because your parents abandoned you. You think it is your fault. You crave attention. You need to be noticed.

‘You don’t need to do this, Mr Cooper,’ Jake said gently.

‘Confession is good for the soul,’ Johnny replied.

Mills choked back a laugh, unsuccessfully trying to
disguise it as a cough. Jake calmly rose from his chair. ‘Detective, can I see you outside?’

They walked out of the interview room and the people outside were laughing too. When they saw the look on Jake’s face they quickly scattered.

‘Office tradition,’ said Mills. ‘Everyone has to take a report from Johnny the Snitch. It’s a rite of passage.’

‘It’s a fucking disgrace. That guy needs professional help.’

‘Come on,’ said Mills. ‘He’s confessed to more crimes than I’ve investigated. Son of Sam – that was him. The Milwaukee Cannibal – he did it. He’ll confess to offing Santa one day, I’m telling you. He’s just a harmless bum looking for some attention. We’ll hold him until lunchtime, feed him and send him off with a twenty in his pocket. No harm, no foul.’

‘You’re a prick.’ Jake walked away from Mills, too angry to look him in the eye.

Somewhere in Littleton a murderer roamed free. The murderer wasn’t Johnny Cooper, but Johnny felt all the guilt. That was almost as sad as the murder itself.