The May Day Murders (24 page)

Sam brought the magnifying glass away
and stared intently at Chief Frank Thompson. “This isn’t a dud,
Chief,” he declared. “It’s an actual exposed photograph taken in
Marsha Bradley’s kitchen.”

The chief’s eyes widened.
“What?”

“
Here, take a look for
yourself.”

The chief walked around the desk. Sam
handed him the magnifying glass and pointed at the faint dark area
of the photo.

“
See this dark area, Chief?
If you look at it under the glass you can just make out the wrought
iron trim of the overhead light fixture in Marsha Bradley’s
kitchen. You can even see where the frosted glass in the housing
butts up against it if you look closely enough.”

The chief looked through the glass a
moment and let out a gasp. “I’ll be damned! It
is
a light
fixture—no doubt about that. But how do you know it’s the one in
Marsha Bradley’s kitchen?”

“
I’ve been in the Bradley
house and I’ve seen it there, that’s how. It’s pretty damn unique,
which is probably why I recall it.”

Thompson eyed Sam approvingly. “Quite a
penchant for detail, Sam.”

Sam shrugged. “A photographer has to be
observant.”

“
Let me see,” Roger said.
Thompson handed him the print and magnifying glass. “That does look
like the kitchen light fixture, no doubt about it. But what’s all
this white shit in the rest of the picture?”

“
That ‘white shit’ is most
likely the photographer who took the picture, Rog,” Sam
stated.

Roger stared at his friend. “What do
you mean?”

“
I’d like to hear this,
too,” Thompson said.

Sam said, “The white area is actually
the blown-out image of something. And my guess is that the
photographer, who we now know is Stanley Jenkins, was standing
directly in front of the camera when it went off. There’s a fuzzy
outline along the image of the ceiling light fixture—that’s an out
of focus portion of Stanley’s body which is totally over-exposed
due to the fact that he was bathed in the light from the camera’s
flash. This would make him appear washed out and white in the
photo. The tiny image of the ceiling light however is in perfect
focus because the lens of the camera was preset for infinity—or at
least a distance of fifteen feet or so.”

“
I’m confused, Sam,” the
chief said. “What makes you so sure that Stanley Jenkins was
standing in front of the camera when it went off? Couldn’t it have
been something else, or someone else?”

“
It’s possible of course,
but it’s not in the odds. I have a theory, chief, that’s why I’m
pretty sure it’s Stanley in the foreground.”

“
Let’s hear it.”

“
I’m quite familiar with the
kind of Polaroid camera that took this shot. It’s an older model
that they no longer make—I own one myself. It is in fact the only
model that uses this particular format of film—they do still
manufacture the film, by the way. Artists often use this old film
format because the emulsion can be manipulated. Anyway, this model
of camera can be used with an optional self-timer—you know, so you
can get into your own pictures if you can run fast enough to get
into the scene before the shutter goes off. We now know that this
shot was taken in Marsha Bradley’s kitchen but what we don’t know
is why. My theory is that Stanley wanted to take a shot of Marsha
Bradley while he was in the act of raping her. Otherwise, why else
would he take a picture in the kitchen? Marsha’s body was found in
the living room and we can more or less assume that the wacko
probably took some “after” shots just as he had with Sara Hunt up
in New York. But what about taking some “during” pictures, just for
the hell of it? Marsha was raped in the kitchen against the
counter; you’ve already determined that. So Stanley decides he
wants a shot or two of himself in the act. So what he does is force
Marsha to wait helplessly near the kitchen counter while he rigs up
his Polaroid camera on a tripod and aims it at her. Then after
everything is composed and in focus, Stanley engages the self-timer
button, presses the shutter release button, then runs over and does
whatever his sick mind desires to poor Marsha. The camera fires and
he has his shot.

“
But when he took this
particular shot, he forgot to engage the self-timer before pressing
the shutter release button. In fact, if memory serves me, this is
most likely the first shot he took. Because once you’ve flipped the
self-timer button on, it remains on until you flip it off. So once
Stanley got everything all set up, he stood in front of the camera,
pressed the shutter release button and
CLICK!
He’s got a
beautifully blown-out, out-of-focus shot of himself still standing
there in the foreground. And in the corner of the shot is the only
other element not blocked out by Stanley’s blown-out, out-of-focus
body: the crisply rendered light fixture mounted on a white
ceiling.”

Thompson scratched his head. “Not a bad
theory. Not bad at all.”

“
It may also explain why he
chose the kitchen to commit the crime,” Sam said. “The kitchen is
the only large room in the Bradley house that faces the hillside
out back—no one could see the flash going off from the front of the
house. Furthermore, Stanley must have discovered that the
perspective afforded by shooting through the doorway into the
kitchen from the living room was perfect for his ‘artistic
intent’.”

“
Good point, Sam,” Roger
said. “All of the bedrooms upstairs have windows facing the
cul-de-sac. Not to mention that they were covered by sheer curtains
if I remember correctly.”

“
What about the living
room?” Thompson asked. “We’re assuming that he photographed
Marsha’s body after he strangled her, and those windows face the
front of the house as well.”

Roger said, “Yeah, but they were
covered by heavy drapes, which were drawn the night of the murder.
You know, another thought just occurred to me. We now know that
Stanley went back into Tommy’s bedroom after he murdered Marsha
since this print was found there. The question that suddenly comes
to mind is
why?
”

“
Excuse me for asking, but
what difference does any of this make?” Sam asked. “You already
know that Stanley did it so why the big mystery about this
Polaroid?”

Thompson replied, “Let me explain
something about police procedure, Sam. Yes, we now know that
Stanley committed the murder, or murders, I should say. But we
still have to find the sonofabitch and build a case against him. In
order to do this, we’ve got to investigate everything we have on
hand to establish among other things motive and opportunity as well
as try to get an idea where he may have gone from here. This
Polaroid is important to the case because we now know, thanks to
your expertise, that he owns a particular model of Polaroid camera
that uses what I assume would be a relatively uncommon type of
film—it surely must be uncommon if they no longer make the camera
that uses it. We can now attempt to trace where he bought the film
for the camera by checking out any stores that carry that
particular type of film and show Stanley’s picture to the store
employees in the process. Maybe someone will remember his face.
This information could lead to his whereabouts prior to and
possibly after the crime was committed. At least we have something
to go on now.”

The Chief took a sip of his coffee and
added, “It’s been nearly a month since Marsha Bradley’s murder.
Jenkins could be anywhere now—hell, Timbuktu for all we know. And
he’s already proven to us that he knows how to lay low. He’s
somehow managed to disappear completely out of sight for fifteen
years, for chrissakes! We now have an APB out on him but that’s not
going to be enough. In order to nail the bastard we’re going to
have to be smarter than him—piece the puzzle together and determine
what his next move is going to be. This fucker is crafty—sly as a
fox—and he’s going to slip away from us for good if we don’t start
getting a handle on what in the hell he’s up to here. Are you
beginning to catch my drift?”

Sam nodded. Again, he was starkly
reminded of the fact that he was a journalist and not a cop. “What
about the press?”

Thompson smiled. “I was wondering when
you were going to ask that. That’s the other reason why I invited
you here.”

Chief Thompson pulled out a document
from a manila file folder on the desk and handed it to Sam. “This
is a computer enhanced photo composite of what Stanley Jenkins may
look like now. Write a follow-up story and put this photo along
side it, Sam. We’d like to see it in the paper ASAP. Detective
Hagstrom will tell you what you can and cannot divulge in the
article. There’s obviously a few things we’d like to keep to
ourselves for now, as you can probably imagine.”

Sam looked at the document. It was
impressive—effectively depicting what Stanley Jenkins might look
like today after having aged twenty or so years. In the top photo,
he was shown with long dark hair, glasses and a beard. In the
bottom photo, short hair, no glasses and clean-shaven.

Sam said, “I assume you’ve cleared all
of this with McNary.”

“
Yes, I have. I told him to
give you carte blanche, but I’m trusting you not to include
whatever Lieutenant Hagstrom orders you to omit.”

“
Fair enough,” Sam said. He
turned to Roger. “What about New York? Have you talked with Mancuso
about these latest developments?”

Roger nodded. “I’ve filled him in.
We’re also in the process of issuing a press release to the
AP.”

“
This is pretty damn big,
Sam,” Thompson declared. “There’s a serial killer loose who we know
so far has committed two murders in two different states within as
many weeks. That pretty much makes this more than just a local
problem. And believe it or not, we want media exposure on these
cases. It may make Jenkins think twice before striking again
anytime soon, and buy us some time to nail him in the
meantime.”

He glanced at the wall clock then
looked over at Detective Roger Hagstrom. “I’ve got to go out and
brief those men now. Why don’t you go over the press release with
Sam, quickly I might add, so we can get cracking on this
thing.”

Okay, Chief.”

Thompson shook Sam’s hand. “Thanks,
Sam. Keep this man in line, okay? He’s a damn good detective when
he’s not drowning himself in a bottle of scotch.”

Sam saw Roger scowl out of the corner
of his eye. “Don’t worry about Roger, Chief. He’s got things under
control.”

Thompson grunted, then turned and left
the office.

“
He’s a bigger drunk than I
am,” Roger quipped as he warmed up his coffee. “Let’s go to my
office where we can smoke.”

Sam followed Roger Hagstrom to his
office. The two lit up cigarettes and sat down at the
desk.

“
Damn, I’m beat,” Roger
complained. “I got a grand total of three hours’ sleep last night.
And that’s the most I’ve had in as many days.”

“
Life’s a bitch, eh? But at
least you’re getting somewhere on this case.”

Hagstrom nodded. “True. And when it’s
finally over I’m going on the biggest drunk you can
imagine.”

“
I’ve seen your drunks, Rog,
and the scary thing is I can imagine!”

“
This one may surprise even
your sorry ass!”

The detective took a drag and gulped
his coffee before slumping back in his chair.

“
At any rate, here’s the
scoop. I was actually able to contact Stanley’s mother again
earlier today—saving me a trip to Cincinnati, thank God—and leaned
on her big time before she could start trying to snow job me again
like she had during our last conversation. I promptly informed her
that withholding information in a murder investigation could get
her in serious trouble. She of course was taken aback by the word,
‘murder’ and asked me if Stanley was in some kind of trouble. I
told her that he could be and her attitude changed dramatically.
She mumbled something like, ‘money is the root of all evil,’ and I
asked her what she meant by that. She told me that at one time
Stanley was loaded and that ‘all of that money probably went to his
head.’ Apparently, when his father died, Stanley cashed in on a
small fortune as a result of Mr. Jenkins’ generous life insurance
policy. This was not long after Stanley had been released form the
state hospital.

“
Then, to put it simply,
Stanley took the money and ran—left home. He didn’t tell his mother
where he was going, only that he was ‘finally going to get himself
straightened out.’” For months, his mother never heard a word from
Stanley. Until a nearly a year later that is, as I told you
before.”

“
When she received the
postcard from Vegas?”

“
Not a postcard after all,
but a letter. She had lied to me before about that. It was a letter
that came with a cashier’s check for $25,000 made out to Stanley’s
mother. She read the letter to me over the phone. It said something
like ‘here’s a little money to help you out, Mom. I struck it big
on the tables and I’m heading to L.A. to spend it. Don’t worry
about me, I’m fine, but I’ll be even better once I put this money
to good use.’”

“
Hmm. I wonder what he meant
by “putting this money to good use?” Sam said.