The May Day Murders (14 page)

Out of curiosity, Sam went through and
counted up how many homicides had been reported on that particular
day and came up with seven, including the execution-style slaying
of a notorious Mafia crime boss. Of all the murders, that
particular one had by far received the most press coverage. No
wonder there had been so little interest in Sara Hunt’s murder, he
thought with a wry grin. Not only had she just been one of several
other homicide victims in the city that day, she had been upstaged
by a more “newsworthy personage” as well.

He shoved the newspapers off to the
side and opened the manila folder containing a copy of the police
report. Lying on top was the eight-by-ten publicity headshot of
Sara Hunt that Mancuso had sent. Sam was surprised at how little
she had aged since high school as he stared at the black and white
image, wondering skeptically how recently the photo had been taken.
Her hair was jet black, in a bob, and her face showed very few
lines and wrinkles. Her eyes were large and dark; her smile
revealed a set of near-perfect pearly whites. She looked good—in
fact, beautiful—and not a day over twenty-five.

He turned the promo shot over and read
the résumé pasted to its back. Sara had been a theater major at
Pitt and there was a list of plays she’d been in while at college.
Below was a list of the theatrical productions she had appeared in
since moving to New York as well as a handful of television
commercials she’d done.

Sam turned to the police report and
noted the similarities between Sara’s murder and Marsha Bradley’s.
Both women had been raped and strangled. Both were believed to have
been strangled to death by a thin cord-like object from behind. And
both had been found totally nude with lipstick marks on their
breasts, or on only one breast in Sara’s case.

Sam turned to the Xerox copies of the
photographs taken at the crime scene and examined them closely.
Then something dawned on him. Excitedly, he pulled out the police
file copies of Marsha Bradley’s case which he had kept for himself,
then set one of the photographs of Marsha beside Sara’s.

It was uncanny. Although the quality of
the copies was poor and the camera angles differed somewhat, it was
more than obvious that the relative positions of both bodies were
virtually identical. Both were lying flat on their backs on the
floor, their arms outstretched, their legs spread-eagle, and their
eyes opened and frozen in terror …

The body positions were mirror images
of each other!

Sam realized that even if the hair and
semen samples hadn’t been compared and matched, any idiot could
plainly see that both women were murdered by the same person. The
pictures were proof positive.

He stubbed out his cigarette and lit up
another one. Staring pensively at both photographs, he wondered why
the murderer had taken the time and effort to meticulously arrange
his victims’ bodies in identical positions. They almost looked as
though they were …

Posed.

A light came on in his head.

The murderer had arranged
the bodies in this way so he could take pictures of
them!

What a sick fuck, he
thought.

And what a meticulous son of a
bitch!

But why had he done it? As a visual
reminder of his escapades?
Every picture tells a
story?

Or was there more to it than
that?

Sam retrieved the copies of the
yearbook and stared at the pictures again. Simple logic now told
him that none of these men seemed likely suspects, taking
everything into account. The murderer was clever and fastidious,
carefully thinking through his game plan in advance. He was
relentlessly thorough and thus far, hadn’t knowingly been seen by a
single solitary soul who could positively identify him. Neither of
Sam’s “prime suspects,” Ernie Jones and Clyde Kastings, was bright
enough to carry out these two murders without leaving some kind of
trail behind …

Sam heaved a heavy sigh of
hopelessness. All of a sudden, the whole yearbook angle seemed like
a dead-end street—for more reasons than just one. It had dawned on
him before that even if the murderer were pictured here, why would
he allow such an obvious slip-up to occur? It didn’t fit into his
modus operandi at all.

Sam gathered up all the papers, piled
them into a haphazard stack and shoved them off to the side. Maybe
he was giving this bastard more credit than he deserved. Maybe he
really was pictured in the yearbook and had actually fucked up.
Maybe Sara Hunt had managed to mark the pages while the prick
wasn’t looking and now he was gonna get nailed. Maybe, maybe, maybe
…

He took a final drag off his cigarette,
coughed, and stubbed it out with a vengeance. Running his hands
through his long hair, he listened to the rain pelting down outside
and began wondering why he was so caught up in all of this.
Granted, he was personally involved and wanted nothing more than to
see this asshole caught and fried, but how much was he really
contributing? He wasn’t a cop, had no capacity as a cop, so why
didn’t he simply just let the police do their jobs instead of
sitting here pretending that he was Colombo? Was it because he had
nothing else to do in life? Because it helped take his mind off Ann
and Amy and how miserable his life had become since he’d lost
them?

The answer to all of the above was yes,
but there was more to it than that. He didn’t like the uneasy
feeling that Ann might somehow be in danger—that she could possibly
be involved in this in some way. He had first gotten that feeling
when Marsha had been found murdered, but he simply refused to allow
himself to get paranoid at the time. But now that Sara Hunt’s
murder had cropped up, the feeling had resurfaced. And now that it
was confirmed that both women had been killed by the same man, the
feeling had suddenly become substantiated. And the fact that
several hundred miles didn’t seem to stop this lunatic from killing
wasn’t helping much either. Columbus was only ninety miles away…

Sam started to pick up the phone to
call Ann but stopped himself. He wanted to hear her voice, to be
assured that everything was okay. Then he recalled their
conversation earlier—how distant she had sounded at first, as if
she were annoyed at him for even calling her in the first place.
Her mood had changed somewhat after he had told her about Sara
Hunt, but he could still sense more than a trace of detachment in
her voice throughout the rest of the conversation. It was as if she
would really prefer that he back off and let her live her own
life—that his services were no longer needed …

Fuck it, he thought to himself. She’s
on her own now, buddy. You’ve lost her forever. And your kid. And
as much as you want to pretend that you still have a role in their
lives, it just ain’t so. You fucked everything up a while back and
now you’re history.

Suddenly the idea of getting sloshed
came to mind and it appealed to him in a big way. There really
wasn’t anything else to do; his drinking buddy was in New York City
doing his thing, his ex-wife and child were in Columbus doing their
thing, and here he was in the sticks of southern Ohio with the rain
pouring down on a dreary Friday night and a twelve pack of Rock in
the fridge.

So it seemed only fitting that he tie
one on …

CHAPTER 9

Ann stared at herself in the mirror,
straightened up her hair for what seemed like the hundredth time
and glanced over nervously at the clock on her nightstand. It was
7:55. In a last minute panic she brushed her shoulder-length auburn
locks for the last time then carefully examined her makeup before
stepping back and eying the rest of herself in the full-length
mirror. She was wearing a plain gray skirt with a navy blue silk
blouse. She realized that the outfit was a bit on the conservative
side, but that had been her intention. She didn’t want to look
flashy on her first date with Jerry Rankin. She was nervous enough
as it was, and the last thing she needed was to feel like she was
being gawked at all evening.

Just as she had expected, Amy hadn’t
bothered to ask her who she was going out to dinner with when she’d
come home after school to get ready for the football game. Oddly,
Ann had been a little disappointed—she would like to think that her
daughter might at least be a little curious about her life once in
a while. But this was typical Amy behavior nowadays—so wrapped up
in herself and her own plans that her mother may just as well not
exist.

The doorbell suddenly rang and Ann’s
heart skipped a beat. She took one last look at herself and
realized in horror that she looked like a middle-aged
schoolteacher. Shrugging her shoulders in exasperation, she turned
and headed down the stairs. She paused at the living room window
and peaked through the curtains long enough to spot Jerry Rankin’s
BMW parked behind her car in the driveway. She went over to the
door and opened it.

“
Good evening, Ann,” Jerry
greeted. He was dressed casually, she noted in relief, wearing a
tweed sport jacket, sweater, and a pair of khaki
Dockers.

“
Hi, Jerry,” she said
nervously. “Come in.”

“
Thank you,” he smiled. He
stepped inside and glanced quickly around the room before looking
her over approvingly. “You look wonderful, Ann.”

Ann blushed. “Thanks. I wasn’t quite
sure how to dress—you never mentioned where you were taking
me.”

“
I’m sorry,” he said. “But I
wasn’t sure what kind of food you liked, so I decided to wait and
see if maybe there was somewhere in particular you’d like to
go.”

“
I like all kinds of food.
And as far as restaurants go, I must confess that I haven’t been to
all that many since moving here.”

“
In that case, how does
Italian sound to you? I know of a marvelous Italian restaurant in
Dublin,” he offered.

“
I adore Italian
food.”

“
Then it’s settled,” he
smiled. “Your house is charming, by the way.”

Ann strode over to the hall closet to
get her coat. “Thanks. I’m still not quite done furnishing it
yet.”

“
I love these older homes. I
live in a relatively new house and it doesn’t have half the
character of this one. My neighborhood also leaves a bit to be
desired. Hardly any trees, no sidewalks, and everything is so
bloody new—too new.”

Ann returned, carrying her coat. “I’m
only renting, unfortunately. I have an option to buy,
though.”

“
Here, let me help you on
with that,” Jerry offered.

He took her coat and Ann slipped into
it. “Is that your daughter?” he asked, glancing over at Amy’s
school picture on the mantle.

“
That’s my little girl,” Ann
replied.

He went over for a closer look. “She’s
lovely. Why, she looks just like her mother!”

Ann blushed again. “Maybe after you’ve
tacked on a few decades or so.”

“
You certainly don’t look
old enough to be mother to a teenager, Ann. It’s quite
remarkable.”

“
Your flattery is a little
overwhelming, Jerry,” Ann replied cynically.

He turned and stared into her eyes, his
handsome face wearing an expression of sincerity. “I’m being quite
honest, Ann; I’m not trying to embarrass you. I tend to be very
straight-forward at times and say what I feel when I feel it. I
hope that doesn’t put you off.”

His tone of voice almost made it sound
like an apology—he apparently sensed that she regarded his
compliments as so much bullshit. Ann said, “I appreciate honesty
and frankness, Jerry. It’s been a long time since I’ve been
complimented so much. I guess I’m just not used to it.”

“
You’d better start getting
used to it, then. Otherwise, I’ll find myself biting my tongue an
awfully lot,” he declared with a grin.

Ann chuckled. “I’ll try to,
Jerry.”

“
I’d like to meet her,” he
said, his eyes returning to Amy’s picture.

Ann replied, “Unfortunately Amy’s not
here right now—she’s at the school football game. Maybe some other
time.”

“
I’d like that … Well,
shall we go?”

“
I’m ready,” Ann replied,
heading toward the door. Jerry followed her outside and stood by
while she locked up. When they reached his car, he opened the door
and waited until Ann was inside before walking around to the
driver’s side and getting in.

“
Nice car,” Ann
commented.

“
Thanks. I prefer sportier
cars actually, but this one accommodates my clients quite
nicely.”

“
What kind of real estate do
you handle?” Ann asked as Jerry started the car and backed out of
the driveway.

“
Mostly residential, a
little commercial. I lean more toward the speculative market.
Condominiums in particular.”

“
I see.”

It started to drizzle and Jerry turned
on the wipers. They drove several blocks in an awkward silence. Ann
noticed that Jerry was tapping the steering wheel with his fingers
and suddenly realized that he was probably more nervous than she
was. This made her feel more comfortable for some reason. She
assessed how things were going so far and had to admit that she
felt fairly at ease in Jerry Rankin’s company. He looked even more
handsome than she remembered him looking the day she’d met him at
the supermarket and she was impressed with his impeccable manners.
Sam had only opened a car door for her a handful of times in all
the years they’d been married. And two of those rare occasions had
been on their wedding day …