Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel) (31 page)

Mann nodded and Blaak went to fetch Haynes. A close friend of Mann’s in school had been a stutterer. One of the best friends he had ever had until a move separated them. Once you got past the shyness, he could usually overcome the stutter and he bet this Haynes was the same. All he’d need would be some confidence.

Mann straightened his desk while the three men made their way to his office. He drank the last, warm, flat mouthful of his Pepsi and wished he had another. When they arrived in the office, he stood to shake hands.

“Lieutenant Mann, sir, this is Mr. Haynes,” Blaak said.

“Mr. Haynes, thank you for coming in.”

“Please, c...c...call me Bert, Lieutenant.”

“And, you can drop the lieutenant. Name’s Gregg. I won’t waste your time because I think we’ve already given you the run around.”

“I did have s...s...some trouble getting anyone to listen. I think what I have is important.” Mann noticed Haynes’ timidity. He was not snide or condescending. Mann could see that Haynes believed in the information he possessed. He just wasn’t so sure he could convince others.

“From what my detectives tell me, it is,” Mann said. “Of all the tips we get, I have had exactly one person brought in to see me this week. That’s one person counting you.”

It took a moment for Haynes to see Mann’s point. Then, he smiled and his increased confidence was evident in that smile.

“I hate to take up more of your time but could you go over it once more for me. I am very interested in what you have. I understand you work with computers.”

“Yes,” Haynes said, “Computer art and graphics mostly. Retouching photographs, lots of model work, turning the incredibly beautiful into perfection. I also put something into a photo or take it out. I do movie work as well, getting into some video but I prefer stills. I have also done some reconstructive work. Putting a face on a skull to help identify a body. But some of our proudest work is with missing children. You might have seen some of the work we have done. The computer ages a picture so that a child who has been missing for a number of years can be more readily recognized. The computer does a lot of the work but there is an art to tweaking the filters.”

Blaak looked at the patrolman who returned the puzzled glance. The stutter was gone and only reappeared occasionally as Haynes spoke to Mann.

“This one picture stuck in my mind because it was of a girl on the swim team, not a grad picture. To be honest, the girl was quite good looking. The picture he gave me was labeled ‘Pool Princess’.”

They were in the evidence room. Mann and the two detectives had been joined by any of the other ranking members of the Task force that were available. At first, Haynes had slipped back into his stutter as the room filled. Eventually, he calmed himself by speaking directly to Mann and ignoring the others.

“And those are the other pictures?”

“Yes, sir. I pulled them off the computer and printed copies. I can print more copies.”

Haynes handed them over to Mann. Mann took them and mixed them up. He began looking through the stack of computer generated pictures. To him, they looked like a cross between grainy black and white photographs and drawings. He passed by the first two and stopped at the third.

Over the course of the investigation, Mann had spent hours looking at the various photographs of the victims. He had looked for some common thread, something that had triggered the killer into picking them. He knew their faces as well as he knew Dani’s. Maybe better. He had no difficulty recognizing Lionel Hart. The nose was bigger, the chin slightly longer, but the likeness was there. No denying it. Not brothers but maybe cousins. This bit was wrong or that, but they were close enough.

Mann grabbed a magnet and used it to put the computer picture under Hart’s.

The rest of the detectives crowded behind Mann to look at the resemblance. Murmurs rose as Mann pinned up the next photograph under Andrea Seymour’s picture. He worked through the stack of pictures until he had a computer picture hanging under each of the photographs of the victims, except Gabel.

“Son of a bitch. We got him!”

*

“Sorry Gregg, the building isn’t there. Nothing by that number on the block.”

Mann let his shoulders sag. Haynes had already told him as much but they had to check it out themselves.

“So, he used a false name and address. It was too easy.”

“And, he paid cash,” Haynes added. “I can tell you what he looked like.”

“That is going to have to do, for now. You realize that you may have to testify?”

“I’d do it gladly. That guy used me. I get s…s…sick just thinking about him c…c…coming back to my shop. I mean I could have ended up like that poor newspaper reporter.”

“All right. I want to take you down to our artist and get a sketch done.” Mann lowered his voice. “I’d like you to keep this under your hat, right now. We don’t want to spook the killer. I also don’t want to put you in danger.”

“Don’t worry, you aren’t going to s…s…see me on the news. S...s...should I be worried? I mean, is he going to c…c…come after me or my wife?”

“I doubt that very much,” Mann said, not very convincingly. “Just in case, I’m going to assign you some protection. It will also give us the chance to stake out your business in case he comes back for more pictures.”

“Thank you. Now, about the pictures? Naturally, I know you want them but would it be possible to get a receipt and a statement that they will remain my exclusive property with all rights?”

Mann stared at Haynes. He knew exactly what was going through the man’s mind. The dollar signs floated to the floor every time the man blinked. Normally, Mann would be furious. But with their first break in weeks coming from the man, how upset could he get?

Preston stood across the street from the bar. In some ways, it was foolish to return but he knew he would find a target here. Looking carefully both ways, he darted across the street and went into the entrance of the
Short Sell
.

He instantly remembered Kraemer and felt himself get hard. He could hear sound of the baseball bat on the bare skin and the crack and crunch of bone. The moaning sobs as he slid the flute up his ass. The tearing sound as he hammered it deep and blood gushed out the metal tube.

He stopped and took a deep breath. He had to calm down. He was rock hard and it wouldn’t be the first time he had spontaneously orgasmed just thinking about the killings.

God, he needed another.

If only he knew then what he knew now.

Wendy had been so much fun. She had struggled and fought but, eventually, she had given in and realized what she had been missing all these years. She had tried to hide it but he knew she had several orgasms.

There was still the other one’s wife. She and her new born child were waiting for him. He would not disappoint them.

As though waking from a dream, he suddenly looked around, not really sure where he was. He guiltily scanned the crowd to see if anyone had noticed him.

And that was when he saw the mop of red hair bob across the room.

Ellen Hutchison. Little, sweet, Ellen Hutchinson. Lousy, slutty, Ellen Hutchinson.

He remembered Ellen Hutchinson. He remembered her well. How could he forget that little stuck up snob?

He smiled a genuine smile at the bartender and ordered a draft. He had been right all along. Kraemer had not been one-time luck.

Close to the financial district with its leeches and cowards, the bar was perfect.

And, Ellen Hutchison was perfect.

God, how he had loved her.

Every boy wanted her but he truly loved her. Not just for her red hair and cute little figure. Not just because she lived in a big house. Not because her father was important. Not because she had a pool with a curvy slide that water ran down.

He loved her because of what she was – not who she was.

At least, what he thought she was.

He had been wrong.

Ellen was no different than all the rest and maybe even worse than the rest.

In the same class since kindergarten, he had seen her every day at school for years. Every summer, he would ride his bike past her house a hundred times, hoping to glimpse her behind the high, cedar hedge that surrounded the back yard of their big white mansion. That is what it looked like to him, a mansion with its two car garage and intercom system at the front door. Each fall, he would pray he would be in her class again. Hope that this would be the year he was invited to her house, invited to that all important pool party.

He had been to her mailbox so many times in the dark of night.

For years, he had been her secret admirer. He had written her letter upon letter, always typing them on his old manual typewriter. He had to make sure she was in love with him before he revealed himself. He kept the stream of letters pouring into her mailbox. Many times, he would include a poem. Some, he would copy out of books, some he wrote himself. His words were parts of him, sent to win her. He gave her a piece of his soul in every letter.

Finally, he sent her a box of Turtles on Valentine’s Day. Not one of the little boxes. This box had cost him a week’s pay from his paper route. This was to be the final step.

The next day, he was sure he would hear how she felt. Sure enough, she brought the box of chocolates to school with her. He was so proud. Then, she started passing them out. She gave away his present.

She didn’t like Turtles, she said. She laughed at the note that had accompanied the candies. She told everyone that he must want to fatten her up so she was the same size as him. Only a fat cow could ever love a tub like him. All her friends laughed with her.

That was when he realized that she knew who he was. She had known all along and was laughing at him. They were all laughing at him.

But, he would have the final laugh. He would deliver the punch line and it would be a belly buster.

She was still here. She belonged with this crowd.

The stench of abused power surrounded them like flies on dog crap on a hot summer day. They insulated themselves with material things. They could not face the real world and expose their lack of morality. They wore their Armani suits like armor, protecting themselves from truth. Their daily trade was lies. The truth lost in a web of deceit and money.

They were pretenders. Killer instinct? They maimed, wounded and killed with a fountain pen. They destroyed lives but from a safe distance. They did not have his strength, his resolve, his drive. They might kill second hand but, cowards that they are, they could not face the truth of their actions. They could not accept the blood that is on their hands. Their money washed their hands clean every time.

He welcomed the blood and was proud of the sticky red stuff. Would wear it proudly, his clothes drenched in the copper smelling liquid of life and death.

He was the one with the killer instinct.

God help him but he hated them all. He wanted to wipe them all from the face of the earth and start all over.

When Ellen left, he waited for a moment before getting up to follow her home.

By the time he made it to the sidewalk, she was gone. Tail lights from a cab flared up the street as it made a right.

He had missed her. Not that it mattered. Not tonight.

Her time would come soon enough and the little redhead would learn of her foolishness.

Mann was flipping through the pictures, looking at the faces, trying to memorize them. More and more, the faces had come to resemble the victims. Others had spent time looking through the rest of the pictures supplied by Haynes. They had played a game of seeing if the pictures resembled anyone they knew.

For several days, they had been tracking down leads at the school. So far, there was nothing. With no names to go with the pictures, they were still trying to identify the year they came from. The fire had destroyed all the year books that had been stored at the school. They were working on getting copies from other sources but it was slow going. They couldn’t go public for fear of driving the killer underground.

Until they hit on a year, narrowing down a suspect from the school register was going to be next to impossible. All the same, the complete record of enrollment was being fed into the computer. It would pull names out of the list and compare them to the lists of suspects, run down criminal records,
etc.

All that took time and there was no guarantee that the killer went to that school during those years. Haynes had not seen the book and had no idea what school the pictures came from. For all they knew, the killer could have picked up the year book at a garage sale.

But, Mann’s gut told him they had the killer. He was right in their sights, just waiting to be picked up.

Mann thought about how the killer would pick his victims rather than why.

If he wanted to find these people, how would he go about it? These victims came off the streets. He chose these victims. Found them somehow. The hospital, Leantown, the University. No connections.

Mann laid the pictures out in front of him in their proper order. Then, he tried to think like a psychopath.

An hour later, Mann still had the pictures laid out in front of him.

He decided that if he was the killer, he would want to have the pictures with him at all times. There were too many pictures to hope to be able to remember what they all looked like. No matter how many times he looked at them, he would want it there instantly when he noticed a potential victim.

Mann could envision the killer carrying the pictures around like a family album and standing on street corners, sitting in bars, waiting and watching. Some progress. All they had to do was watch for someone consulting a book of pictures.

No problem.

He left the warehouse with the file folder of pictures under his arm. Picking a busy corner, he stood against the building. As people went by, he tried to see if he recognized any of the pictures. Constantly referring to them, he missed about seventy five percent of the people that went by.

He was jostled by a large man with a pizza box. The pictures slid out of the file folder and scattered on the sidewalk. Mann quickly stooped to gather them up before the hot wind took them. Cursing, he straightened and found a recessed doorway to stand in.