Читать книгу The Pearl Drop Killer - Joshua Questin Hawk - Страница 7

back on the job

donovan and macbride arrive at the station, walk down a small corridor and up to the four-and-a-half-foot-tall check-in desk with a small swinging door off to one side and a long wooden bench on their right.

Maria Ramirez, a young girl looking right out of high school and just shy of five feet nothing, with black hair, sits at the check-in desk, with four other Deputies around her. She runs around the desk and hugs Donovan. The others clap to celebrate his return.

“Okay, okay. Back to work. It’s not like he is the prodigal son or something,” MacBride says.

“You’re back?” Maria asks, stepping back some.

“For this case, I think,” Donovan says, looking back at MacBride.

MacBride points, keeping him moving, and they continue through the bullpen. A few of the Deputies welcome him back with pats on his shoulders and handshakes. He notices O’Malley’s desk. It is the messiest one in the place, with two used coffee cups and what looks like eggs, maybe his breakfast in a box, except for a small area in the top right-hand corner with a single picture frame of Roberta, his wife of twelve years. She is a young Hispanic woman in her forties, with dark hair. There are also two wallet-size pictures. One is of an eight-year-old boy, brown-haired, in a blue-and-white Little League uniform and kneeling with a bat. The other is of a young girl, about seven, in a white ballet leotard and with blond hair.

Donovan looks across, seeing his old desk, which is now Stein’s new one. The desk is immaculate, still not lived in since she just started as a Detective a couple months ago. He looks around for an empty desk.

“This way, Mister,” MacBride says, walking past him and into the empty office next to hers along the back wall.

“I’m moving up in the world,” Donovan says, entering the room.

“Like you said, we’ll see,” MacBride says, watching him sit down behind the desk.

“This could work,” Donovan says, sitting back in the chair, finally in his Father’s office.

Maria enters with a cup of coffee. “Here you go, Sir, black as you like it.” She turns and sees the look on MacBride’s face and hurries out.

“Where do you want to start?” MacBride asks.

He looks out into the bullpen, seeing a blond male Deputy. “Hanson!” Donovan yells, moving around the desk toward the door.

Charles Hanson, early thirties, with corporal stripes, was the one with Duke when he and MacBride arrived at the crime scene. “I need everything on Sherman’s Forest, any recent deaths and missing person reports of young women and teen girls, say sixteen to thirty…within the last six months,” Donovan orders. Hanson nods and runs out.

“Well, just move right in,” MacBride says.

Both laugh, and she leaves. Donovan grabs his old white board from out in the bullpen, a long table sitting up against the wall, which had a list of Deputies’ names and shift times, their roll sheet.

He erases it and pulls it back into his office and writes “14 female bodies, 16–25 years old, black/white dresses, pearldrop necklaces” along the top of the board. I have seen these outfits with pearls before, he told himself and writes “Left hands cut off like Surgeon” on the lower right side of the board.

“Already down to business. I like that,” O’Malley says, standing in the doorway.

Donovan pauses, looking over the board, and turns back toward him. O’Malley hands him a few brown folders, “First reports from the scene. Stein will have the rest and photographs soon.”

“Good. Have you been able to let the Ranger know I wish to talk to him?” Donovan asks, taking the folders.

“I am to meet with him at the Ranger’s station at two p.m. I will have him here at eight a.m., when he gets off shift.”

“Good,” Donovan answers, skimming through the first folder.

“I meant what I said, T. It’s good to have you back.”

“I hope Dana is working out,” Donovan says, still not looking up at him and, leaning against his desk, reads one of the files.

“She’ll be fine. She’s a good Detective.”

“Good Detective?” Donovan says, looking up at him finally. “You said a woman could never be a good Detective well enough for you while you were on the job.”

“Yeah, I know, but she was a good help on many cases while she was still in academy. Guess you mellowed me.”

Donovan drops the files on the desk behind him, and O’Malley sits on the long old, worn-out green fabric couch which looks as if it could have been here back in his Father’s day.

“How long did the Forensic Anthropologists say they needed for their analysis?” Donovan asks.

“A few days, same as Alice,” O’Malley answers as he puts his feet up on the small wooden coffee table.

“Get me the photographs as soon as you can,” Donovan says, moving back behind his desk.

O’Malley stands quickly, thinking he could have sat for a time, and then walks out after remembering Donovan was always focused when on the job.

Hanson returns with two file boxes. “Here you go, Sir. One is of missing persons, teens to thirties, over the last six months. The other is of Jane Does, deceased last six months. There is not a lot here. The papers on top are of the Sherman’s Forest with maps. It has only been a park for about twenty years. Before that, the land was owned by the Sherman family.”

“Any of them left?” Donovan asks, still skimming one of O’Malley’s folders.

“Old Lady Sherman is still alive. She’s in her eighties now and lives in the old house, north of the park, with her Daughter, who would be fifty something now, and a few Nurses. There is a Granddaughter, but no one has seen her for a couple years,” Hanson says, skimming the first pages of the file.

“Any more information you get on the family and the Granddaughter, let me know,” Donovan says, looking up at him.

“Yes, Sir,” Hanson says and leaves.

MacBride returns, seeing the board and boxes. “One thing I did like about working with you, you never left a stone unturned,” she says. She is not sure if he was listening and leaves.

Stein enters, wheeling a dolly with five boxes. “Here are my preliminary reports, other than the M.E.’s and the Anthropologists’. The photos are in the front of each folder as Duke instructed. Forensics should be back in a day or two according to Mac.”

“You have copies?” Donovan asks, looking up.

“Yes, copies have been made.”

“Good. Missing persons and death notices of teens and woman up to thirty,” Donovan says, placing his hand on one of the boxes Hanson gave him. “Start comparing photos from the crime scenes. Pull any Deputies you need.” He’s still reading over reports O’Malley gave him.

Stein adds the two boxes to the others on her dolly, leaving the maps and family papers on his desk, and wheels them out into the conference room. She pokes her head out and sees two female Deputies and three other males standing by the coffee maker near the long table across the room.

“You, five, in here. Scott, coffee, two sugars.” They all shift into the conference room. Scott, the red-haired Deputy corporal first seen at the crime scene makes the coffee and joins them.

Donovan steps out of his office, sees Stein instructing the Deputies on matching photos and reports to missing and deceased victims, and joins MacBride in her office. “Stein seems quite capable.”

“Top of her class at the academy. FBI asked for her personally, but she wanted a small town to start in,” MacBride answers, still signing reports.

“Kind of how you started out,” Donovan says.

“Yes. Did you need something?” she asks, still without looking up at him.

“I have been thinking. I’d buy you dinner so we can start over.”

“No strings attached?”

“Not from me, but you know your Dad.”

“Will I need a witness?” MacBride finally looks up at him.

*****

The sun is now setting through the repaired window of the Roadhouse Grill. MacBride finds one table in the middle, set with a white tablecloth. The pool tables in the back and down a few steps are covered. The lights for the booth sections are off, and two long-stemmed white candles flicker in the dimmed light. Donovan comes from behind the bar and is now clean-shaven and wearing a nice blue suit and white dress shirt with no tie. MacBride has changed too and is now wearing a blue spaghetti-strapped sundress that hangs down past her knees and two-inch heels.

“We are busy tonight, but I think I could squeeze you in, Madam,” Donovan says, trying to be very professional, taking her hand and guiding her to the table. He still loves her.

“Sit her already, you bum! Dinner’s getting cold,” Jock calls out from the kitchen. They can tell he does not wish to be there. She laughs. He helps her with her chair and sits himself.

“So what’s the catch, Donovan?”

“You came and apologized, and I was an ass. So I thought I would try to make it up to you,” he says.

Jock drops two plates of spaghetti on the table. “Will you two stop shadow dancing, kiss and make up already.” He grunts and returns to the kitchen.

“Stay in the kitchen, old man, or leave!”

“Donovan!”

“Sorry.”

“What have you come up with so far?” she asks, trying to change the subject.

“Dana has done a good job, and her team has already found five of the missing young women and have matched them to five of our victims.”

“That’s good. What’s your next step?” she asks, eating some of the spaghetti. She wants to keep him talking so he does not upset her Father or his cooking.

Pouring some red wine, he says, “I instructed her to take a few Deputies and talk to the families and learn what they can about the missing women—anything of the last days of each of the women, what each was up to at the time they were reported missing or anything out of the ordinary.”

“That’s good.”

“O’Malley has set up a time tomorrow for us to meet with the Ranger at the station around eight a.m.”

Jock starts cleaning glasses behind the bar. “Should I lock up?”

Both snicker. Donovan turns around to face him. “You may go, Jock. I’ll lock up, and thank you.”

Jock shrugs his shoulder, grunts, grabs his cap from his back pocket, and exits through the front door. MacBride is smiling as Donovan turns back.

“What? What did I do now?” he asks.

“Nothing. I do feel better now that you’re on the case. I do hope you can forgive me for the termination.”

“I don’t blame you. I do blame the city council, the Mayor, and the Sheriff. I do understand their reasons and that the families wanted answers, which I did not have, but investigations take time.”

“Any help you need from me?” she asks, sipping some wine.

“Just keep the press and council off my ass till I know a bit more after all the autopsies and family interviews. For now, ‘It’s an ongoing investigation. Once we know something, we’ll let you know.’ That is the party line—no special interviews with the press or council, and inform the department for me?”

“I can do that.”

His phone rings; he pulls it from his right coat pocket. “Hello? Okay, on our way. Duke just found three more bodies. O’Malley and Stein are on their way.”

“Where?”

“Sherman Cemetery.”

They quickly clean up and run out. Jock comes out from the kitchen after using the side door. “I have been cleaning up after her since she was in diapers. Nothing new…”

MacBride slowly drives her black sedan up the path through the cemetery gates, past two Deputies, to a second area that is taped off, with vehicles and flashing lights. Deputies are searching the grounds. O’Malley is leaning against his SUV, looking over his small notebook. There are two black vans across from him. He puts his notebook back in his left coat pocket and quickly pulls out a flask, takes a quick swig, making sure no one sees him, and then puts it back.

“Duke said three more?” Donovan asks as he puts his jacket on and MacBride slips on flats.

“Sorry to interrupt your date this way. Alice has not moved anything and is waiting.” They follow O’Malley up the hillside over many flat headstones where Stein and Roberts are waiting near a large headstone that reads:

Sherman family

Horace “The Ol’ Jackal” Jackson Beauregard Sherman

1925–1990

Two twenty-something women and an eighteen-year-old lay in a row. The twenty-something women are in black dresses on either side of the one in white. The eighteen-year-old has both her hands.

All three are wearing a teardrop pearl necklace. Roberts is waiting on her knees near one of the women in black, across from them as they come up. Stein and Scott are near the headstone. Scott is holding an oversized camera with a large flashbulb unit connected to a long metal bar on its base.

Roberts points at the woman nearest her, then the one past the younger one. “These two have been dead about ten hours. Rigor is subsiding…the other one has been dead less than five hours. Rigor is still active.”

Donovan steps over near Roberts, looking over the bodies, and pulls out gloves.

“We were about to move the bodies and see if anything falls out like the first one,” Stein says, waving at two Techs who bring in two gurneys and body bags.

“Start with these two”—Donovan says, waving at the two in black dresses—“since they’re the oldest.”

Roberts and a male Tech slowly take the first woman by the shoulders and legs, pick her up, and place her on the gurney into a body bag. Nothing drops. He wheels the gurney away, and another Tech helps Roberts with the other woman. Still, nothing falls, and the Tech wheels the gurney back.

“You got photos of the woman before I got here?” Donovan asks, looking at Scott.

“Yes, and once they are moved, I will get the ground where they were lying.” Scott moves around Stein, near the remaining body, and waits.

“Get a few of the headstone also, please,” Donovan says as the first Tech returns with another gurney, and Scott nods. Roberts and the first Tech pick up the last woman, but this time, there is a surgical hacksaw in a plastic bag under her body, drenched in blood. They all look at each other and then back at Donovan. Roberts and the Tech place the young woman on the gurney. Donovan and the others move in closer.

Scott snaps a few pictures as Donovan gracefully picks up the bag by the handle and hands it to Stein.

“Get this to Mac and see if we have prints.”

Scott snaps a few more pictures of the ground and then moves over to the headstone. Donovan looks around some more, scanning the scene, taking a hard look at the headstone, and then returns to the SUV followed by O’Malley and MacBride.

“Who called it in?” MacBride asks.

“The Night Watchman.” O’Malley points over at the uniformed guard wearing black pants, a white dress shirt, and black hat and tie. He is well into his sixties and is standing near one of the patrol cars in front of O’Malley’s SUV. “Tell them again what you told my partner.”

The old man is leaning over the car and wiping his mouth after vomiting. “I was doing my rounds and saw something or someone lying over there by the tombstone. I thought it was kids screwin’. We’ve had them before and have caught many lately—boys and girls, and just girls. When I walked up, I could tell it was three girls. I called out, told them to leave, but they didn’t move. I flashed my light and saw those eyes, those dead eyes, the missing hands, and I ran. I read about the ones in the newspapers you found in the forest and called you, guys.” He wipes his mouth again and stands up straight.

Donovan moves back to the SUV. Stein has now returned. O’Malley and MacBride follow.

“Three more tonight. Isn’t that odd?” Stein asks. “Thought it was one at a time. That’s how the forest was.”

“The suspect is getting bold and desperate,” Donovan explains, looking at O’Malley. “Now that Camille has put it out there, suspects love the fanfare.” He looks around at the small group gathering behind the tapeline, scanning the faces in the crowd.

“Fanfare?” Stein asks.

“Serial killers love the show. They love being the center of attention. Some even work themselves into a case. Now that Camille has reported the bodies, the suspect will escalate and will be looking at the press for more attention by way of the women. Match these to the missing and deceased. They should be the most recent ones. Let me know exactly when there are any more current ones,” Donovan explains as MacBride and Stein nod in agreement, and O’Malley lets out a heavy sigh. Like Donovan, he does not like the press and does not wish to talk with Camille, but he knows he will have to, and soon.

“Meet you both back at the station, T?” O’Malley asks as he climbs into the SUV, and Stein moves around to the other side.

“In a bit. I’m going to meet someone first,” Donovan says as O’Malley waves and drives off.

“Who are we going to meet?” MacBride asks, climbing back into her car.

“Not meet, just look in on. I want to drive up to the old Sherman Estate.”

MacBride drives slowly through the open gates of the Sherman Estates—a high-arching metal gate with sherman along the archway at the top—and around a long driveway up to the Sherman house. A large fountain sits near the house in the roundabout of the drive. The sculpture shows two cherubs kissing and peeing into the fountain but with their penises smashed off, leaving only a slit for the water to exit.

MacBride is shocked upon seeing it but also disgusted by it. Lights are on in one of the upstairs bedrooms above the living room and the living room on the right side. They can tell two are in the bedroom upstairs by figures moving around. One stands and jumps from time to time. Donovan rolls down his window and hears a smacking noise and then “Thank you, Ma’am. May I have another?”

His eyes narrow as the car comes to a stop, and he watches the upstairs window. He motions to MacBride to stay back in the car so they can be quick about it. He climbs out and walks up the oversized porch. Two wicker chairs and a table sit off to his right and a wicker swing off to his left. Dirty and dusty, he can see that the porch has not been used for many years. At over two hundred years old, the estate is one of the oldest ones in town.

He slowly looks into the first-floor window. He sees an old woman in her wheelchair near the fireplace and nude. Age has not done her well for eighty. Then he hears another smack. “Thank you, Ma’am. May I have another?”

He glances up.

“And who’s a good little girl?” another woman asks.

He chuckles, looks back inside. A woman in her forties enters the room, wearing only a white Nurse’s cap, white stockings, and white Nurse’s shoes. “Is this better, Ma’am?” She dances naked for the old woman and turns around, pushing her ass out.

The old woman squeezes and fondles it. In a low and groggy voice, she says, “Yes, baby, yes. Shake it like Momma likes it.”

Donovan shakes his head slowly and returns down the steps, hearing another smack from upstairs. “Thank you, Ma’am? May I have another?”

“Good girl. Who’s a good girl?” the other woman asks.

“What did you see?” MacBride asks as he opens the door.

“One old kinky bitch fondling her Nurse’s ass,” he says, locking his belt in place.

“And what was that from upstairs?” MacBride asks with her eyes wide open from his comment.

“A woman getting whipped by another woman and asking for more,” he answers, waving her to drive off.

“Yeah, that’s one kinky old bitch.”

“And family. I believe Old Lady Sherman and her Daughter are into BDSM with other women. Not sure yet how it relates to the case or if it’s just a coincidence that the bodies were in Sherman’s Forest and the new ones tonight in the Sherman’s cemetery. I am starting to think someone is trying to tell me something,” Donovan says as if talking to himself, looking back through the side mirror.

“You don’t believe in coincidences,” MacBride says, looking back in the rearview mirror as they exit the gate of the estate.

“True.”