The May Day Murders (11 page)

Sam’s eyes widened as this correlation
suddenly sank in. “Jesus, Rog! There has to be a connection! Look
at the odds—”

“
Wait—it gets even more
interesting,” Roger interrupted. “There was a lipstick mark on Sara
Hunt’s left breast.”

Sam gasped. “No shit?”

“
I shit you not. And a
lipstick vial, presumably Sara’s, was found near her body. It looks
as though the murderer started to write a little message and
changed his mind for some reason or another. Maybe he had to make a
sudden getaway.”

“
What does this Mancuso
think about all of this?”

“
He just about lost it when
I told him about Marsha and the lipstick message. He thinks there’s
a very good chance that the same guy did them both in.”

“
And what do you
think?”

“
Hell’s bells—I agree! But
not quite 100%, though. There are a few things that don’t quite
stack up.”

“
Like?”

“
For one thing, it just
doesn’t seem feasible that it could be the same guy. New York City
is over five hundred miles away. The murders took place only weeks
from one another. Unless this guy had a perfect game plan devised,
I don’t see how he could possibly pull off both murders so goddamn
flawlessly in such a tight time frame. Furthermore, who ever killed
Sara Hunt had beaten the mortal shit out of her. Mancuso told me
she had bruises and contusions all over her body—excessive
‘excessive force’ was how he put it—much more than was needed for
Sara’s assailant to have his way with her. It’s more than obvious
that this bastard wanted her to suffer a helluva lot before
murdering her. Marsha Bradley, on the other hand, had been
virtually unharmed physically, with the exception of the marks left
on her neck from strangulation. The killer’s M.O’s just don’t
jibe.”

“
But Marsha had been
threatened into submission, we’ve more or less surmised. Because
she feared for Tommy’s life,” Sam pointed out.

“
You’re missing the point,
Sam. Serial killers usually duplicate their M.O.’s quite
faithfully, especially in sex crimes such as these. Sara’s murderer
obviously wanted her to hurt—he deliberately tortured her before
doing her in. Marsha’s assailant, however, was merciful in this
regard. Had it been the same guy, Marsha most likely would have
been beaten to a pulp, too.”

Sam grunted. “This sounds like some
overpaid profiler’s pat theory, to me. I’m sure it isn’t carved in
granite.”

“
You’re right; there are
exceptions to every rule. I’m just saying that there are some
arguable discrepancies between the killer’s M.O. in each case. The
similarities certainly outweigh them, though. And as I already told
you, I think that the same guy probably murdered them
both.”

Sam took a sip of coffee and said,
“This is really scary. If it really is the same guy who killed
Marsha and Sara, that puts a whole new perspective on
everything.”

Roger’s expression turned grim. “Sure
does. If this is indeed the case, it brings up the obvious question
of why the murderer zeroed-in on these two particular ladies. In
other words, what was his motive?”

“
And who might be the next
in line,” Sam added solemnly.

“
Well, before we start
pushing the panic button we need to confirm that the two murders
were committed by the same person. Fortunately, that shouldn’t be
hard to do. I’m having the lab send the hair and semen samples to
Mancuso so he can have them compared to the samples he has. If the
DNA’s match, we will have at least gotten that much
established.”

“
And in the meantime?” Sam
asked.

“
In the meantime we’re going
to find out what these characters have been up to,” Roger replied,
gesturing toward the copies of the yearbook Sam was
holding.

Sam studied the faces again. Of the
four graduates presumably not still living in Smithtown, he knew
only two—and hadn’t seen either one of them since high school over
twenty years ago. The other two didn’t look familiar at all and
judging by the scholastic achievements listed under their pictures,
which was zip, neither of them had apparently spent a whole lot of
their time within the hallowed halls of Smithtown High.

“
Are you going to question
everyone here?” he asked Roger.

“
Yeah, every single one of
them—including the locals.”

“
How will you track down the
ones who aren’t still living in the area?”

“
Well, first we’ll go over
records at the post office and the courthouse. Check out change of
address records, census reports, and so on. We’ll also enter their
names in the computer and see what we come up with. If none of this
pans out for someone in particular, we’ll try locating any of their
friends and relatives who might still be living in town and go from
there. We’ll find them all, eventually. I just hope it happens soon
enough.” he added uneasily.

Sam nodded. Although he already knew
the answer to his next question, he asked it anyway. “And what
about the press?”

Roger shook his head. “Mum’s the word,
still—the chief has already informed me.”

Sam groaned in protest.
“Why?”

“
For the same reasons as
before,” he replied. “Listen, buddy. Thompson still doesn’t want to
incite any unnecessary panic here. So far, we know nothing more
than we did before except that two female Smithtown residents, one
of which hasn’t lived here in two decades, have been raped and
strangled to death in their homes. Everything else is pure
conjecture. Why stir up the dirt now? But I promise you, the minute
we find out who murdered Marsha Bradley, you can get them presses
rolling. Fair enough?”

Sam didn’t like it, but at the same
time had to agree that printing an article about the cases based on
pure speculation wasn’t a good idea. Maybe in the New York Post or
the Daily News it would float, but definitely not in the
ultra-conservative, play-by-the rules Smithtown
Observer
.
Which brought something else to mind. “How is the New York press
dealing with Sara Hunt’s murder?” he inquired.

“
From the way Mancuso spoke,
there’s been little press coverage of the case. Apparently there’s
been a bumper crop of murders in the Big Apple lately and the cops
are under a lot of pressure, so they’re going with the attitude
that they don’t have time to spare for press conferences when they
could be out on the streets catching criminals instead. Evidently,
it’s working.”

Sam made a mental note to check out the
last few weeks’ editions of the New York Times, Post, and the Daily
News to see what had been written regarding Sara Hunt’s
murder.

“
One thing puzzles me, Rog.
How come nobody here was informed of Sara Hunt’s death until today?
You’d think that someone would have been notified before
now.”

“
Hell if I know. The only
thing I can figure is that Sara apparently no longer has any ties
to Smithtown; family or otherwise. She wasn’t born and raised
here—her family is originally from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania—and she
only lived here for a couple of years. Her family moved back to
Pennsylvania not long after Sara’s graduation.”

Sam vaguely recalled now that Sara Hunt
had been “the new kid in town” when she started attending Smithtown
High her junior year. He said, “She surely made some friends while
she was here, though. In fact, I seem to recall that she hung out
with Marsha Bradley occasionally, if I’m not mistaken. At any rate,
I’d like to at least let the town know that Sara Hunt is dead. It
may be old news, but I certainly think it’s worthy of
mention.”

Roger thought it over and said, “Okay,
go ahead and do it. I don’t think Thompson will give a shit. But
don’t even hint that there might be a connection between the two
murders. All right?”

“
Gee, thanks for letting me
do my job, good buddy! I’m forever grateful,” Sam jabbed. In a more
serious tone he added, “I won’t tie them in, don’t worry. I’ll just
go with the angle, ”Former Local Woman Found Murdered In New York,”
or something to that effect. I’d like a recent picture of her
though, and some background info if you’ve got any
there.”

Roger leafed through the stack of
papers lying on the desk and pulled out the New York police report.
“I’ll make a copy of this report for you. As for a picture, I’ve
already asked Mancuso to send me everything he has as soon as he
gets a chance. There’ll probably be a picture of some kind
coming.”

“
Okay.”

“
By the way, when are you
going to be done writing the other article? Thompson’s been
breathing down my neck to get Marsha’s file back from
you.”

“
I’m going straight over to
the paper and finish it after I leave here. I’ll drop the file off
on my way home,” Sam promised.

“
Okay. I’m going to take
MacPherson and go question some of the Bradley’s neighbors. I’m
holding off on questioning Dave again until tomorrow. Give the poor
guy a chance to get settled back into his home.”

Sam nodded in agreement. “Christ, I
really feel for the guy. Imagine going back to that house and
trying to get on with your life after what happened
there.”

“
I’d sure hate to be in his
shoes right now, no doubt. He’s got to deal with his kid too,
remember. It’s times like this when I feel thankful I’ve never
gotten married. All I’ve gotta do is worry about my own fat ass and
nobody else’s,” Roger declared.

Sam said, “But the good definitely
outweighs the bad in having a family. I wish I still had
mine.”

Roger shrugged. “I know you do, buddy.
At least they’re still among the living.”

“
Thank God for that. Well,
I’d better get moving. This article isn’t gonna write
itself.”

Roger scooted out of his chair and
stood up. “I’ll make those copies for you.”

“
These too,” Sam said,
handing him the copies of the yearbook.

Roger smiled, headed for the door, and
led Sam over to the copy machine. When he was finished, he handed
the completed copies to Sam and said, “Classified info,
remember.”

“
Right. Catch you later,
Roger,” he said, then made his way out of the Smithtown Police
Department.

CHAPTER 7

On Thursday evening, Ann sat at the
kitchen table and fumbled with the business card, trying to decide
whether or not to call him. It had been a slow week at the office
with plenty of time for her mind to drift, and what time hadn’t
been spent mourning Marsha Bradley had been spent thinking about
Jerry Rankin. Karen’s incessant urging had also come into play—to
the extent that Ann now practically felt obligated to call Jerry
just to make Karen happy and to be done with it once and for all.
Heaving a nervous sigh, she reached for the phone and dialed his
number. After four rings she started to hang up, half hoping he
wasn’t home. Then he suddenly answered.

“
Jerry Rankin,” he
said.

Ann forced herself to speak. “Uh,
Jerry, this is Ann—we met on the parking lot at the supermarket
last Sunday?”

“
Ann, yes—what a pleasant
surprise! I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to call.
How are you?”

“
Fine,” she replied,
suddenly feeling a little more at ease. His cheerful voice with
that irresistible English accent had a reassuring quality to it.
“And how have you been?”

“
Very well, thank you,” he
replied. “I’m so delighted you called, Ann. To be real honest, I’ve
spent this entire week thinking I was a bit too forward last Sunday
and deduced that I must have scared you off. I’ve always felt a bit
awkward meeting someone for the first time like that anyway, and
almost always manage to somehow put my foot in my mouth, as was the
case that morning.”

Ann gave a little laugh. “I don’t do so
well myself, as you might have noticed.”

“
I thought you handled it
wonderfully—anyone else probably would have told me to take a hike
under the circumstances. I’m truly flattered that you’ve given me
another opportunity to talk to you again.”

Ann gushed, wondering if he was really
as sincere as he sounded. “Were you late for your
appointment?”

“
Almost, but I managed to
make it just in the nick of time. I was showing a house in
Muirfield to a client who was sort of, well, the pushy type. He’d
insisted on seeing this particular house on Sunday morning at
eleven-thirty and I already knew I’d be pressed for time anyway
because of church services, so I sort of fouled myself up by trying
to fit in the grocery as well. Looking on the bright side, though,
I wouldn’t have met you otherwise, so I have no
regrets.”

“
I was a little curious why
you were shopping in my neighborhood when I noticed that the
address on your card was on the other side of town. Your church
must be close by, I assume,” Ann said.

“
Yes, it’s just a few blocks
north of the supermarket.”

“
And do you work out of your
home exclusively, or do you have an office as well?”

“
Just my home. I’m an
independent broker and really have no need for an office,” he
explained.