The Coldest Fear Read online

  “So you don’t know if she found out who her parents were?” Jack asked.

  “I know she was on to something. A couple of weeks ago she told me she was going to see an attorney.”

  “Where did she get the idea to see Lenny Bange?” Liddell asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure if she brought his name up or if I did,” JJ lied. He had suggested Lenny because he wanted an excuse to get to meet the man. Lenny Bange was connected, and not just in Evansville and Shawneetown. He had “businesses” all over the place. A man could get rich working for Lenny Bange. But he would never tell these two detectives any of this. They were cops, just like him, but they were outsiders.

  JJ continued, “He’s been around town a little and seems to be doing all right for himself.” He made his hand into a gun and pointed it at the ceiling, and said, “Bang, bang, bang.”

  “Why would she need an attorney?” Liddell asked JJ.

  “I don’t really know. She seemed to think that she was going to need one.” JJ looked at them seriously and said, “Is that important? I mean, is that a clue or something?”

  The visit with Aunt Elmira was useless. She was suffering from dementia and couldn’t even remember that Jack and Liddell were detectives from Evansville after being told so repeatedly. There must have been a small part of her in there, however, because when they left her alone in her room she was rocking gently in her chair with tears running down her heavily lined cheeks.

  When JJ had introduced the two Evansville detectives to his former classmates and told them about Cordelia they both broke down and cried. They were only slightly more helpful.

  Lisa had gone to high school with Cordelia but had moved away until she landed the job at the nursing home. She hadn’t seen much of Cordelia for the last year, but when Jack broached the subject of Cordelia hiring an attorney there was a light of recognition at the name of Lenny Bange. She denied knowing the man except for the catchy ads, but she confirmed that Cordelia was obsessed with finding out who her parents were, and if she had siblings.

  Abby was a hairdresser turned medical assistant who had kept in touch with Cordelia more closely. She said Cordelia was very secretive and had kept it quiet if she was hiring an attorney. It was obvious that she knew the name of Lenny Bange in a more personal way than she let on, but there was no way to force the information out of her.

  Jack gave both the women a business card and asked them to let them know if Aunt Elmira had anything else to tell them. Both women seemed to think that was funny, and left the business cards lying on the breakroom table where they had been sitting.

  As they exited the house JJ took a can of tobacco out of his back pocket and stuck a pinch under his lip. “Any of that help you guys out?”

  Jack shook his head. “I’m not sure, but I think we need to go and see Jonathan Samuels,” Jack said.

  “No problemo,” JJ said, and got up. “Let me tell Abby we’re leaving.” He hurried back into the nursing home.

  “Telling the women to keep their mouths shut about Lenny,” Liddell said.

  Jack nodded.

  The little writing table was butted against the wall under Arnold’s bedroom window. On top of the table were a new laptop computer and his spiral reporter’s notebook. The notebook was open to the pages where he had written the things the voice had said to him over the telephone. The anonymous source had been dead-bang accurate on both of the murders.

  He had considered going to Murphy and telling him about the calls, but he knew that his editor would kill him if he did so. In fact, Mr. Robertson had as much as ordered him to “keep his trap shut.” Arnold felt that this went against the ethics of professional journalism, but if he made Robertson mad he might lose his job. If he lost his job he would lose any chance of ever being with Bernice.

  The phone rang.

  “Hey, Arnie,” Larry Jansen said. “Got something for you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The moon was full and high in the cloudless sky, where it was surrounded by a reddish hue. The cornstalks in the fields had already dried to a crackling brown and Halloween was only a week away. Hunter’s moon, Jack thought as JJ drove slowly through the downtown area and south toward the river through farm fields that smelled of earth and dampness. Except for the throaty roar of the car’s big engine, the night was quiet and they had not passed another car along this stretch of road.

  “Cordelia and Jon moved out here about a year ago,” JJ explained, breaking the silence. Liddell rode in front with the seat pushed all the way back to allow for his long frame. Jack said from the backseat behind JJ, “You say there is an apartment building out here?”

  JJ laughed. “Yeah. Barry Dimmett and his brother Larry took over their dad’s farm when he died.

  Liddell mouthed the words Barry and Larry to Jack and grinned.

  JJ continued, saying, “And they sold twenty acres to a developer from overseas. I guess they thought an apartment complex was a great idea, but it never caught on and so most of the apartments are still empty. There were supposed to be four buildings, but after the first one didn’t rent out I guess they gave up.”

  Mistaking the other men’s silence for interest, he continued. “So Bob Daywalt—he owns Daywalt Pharmacy in town—bought the ground and is going to turn it into a subdivision.”

  “Does he have a brother?” Liddell asked, and Jack punched the back of his shoulder.

  “I mean, how long before we get there?” Liddell said and looked at his watch. It was almost nine o’clock and they were getting nowhere.

  “We’re there,” JJ said, and turned down a gravel drive that ran between withered brown cornstalks.

  He drove another hundred yards and the land opened up into a large graveled parking lot that surrounded a two-story wood-sided building. No lights were on, and there were no cars in the parking area.

  JJ said, “Cordelia’s car ain’t here. Jon’s car neither.”

  “Well, we’re here. Might as well check,” Jack said, relieved for a chance to stretch his legs.

  They knocked at the door to Jon Samuels’s apartment, and except for a dog barking from somewhere inside, there was no sign of life. They tried several other doors of apartments where lights were burning, but no one answered.

  “Jon must’ve got himself a dog,” JJ said, then, “So where to next?” His eyes were wild with anticipation. This was his first big case.

  “Well, Lieutenant,” Jack began, “we need to get back to Evansville, but we’d appreciate it if you would look at the list of friends that Aunt Elmira gave us to make sure the phones and addresses are correct.”

  JJ’s face dropped like a kid who had just had his puppy taken away. “You don’t want me to talk to them for you?”

  Jack and Liddell exchanged a look. Neither could think of a reason that JJ couldn’t interview other friends, and it would save them another trip back to this weird little town.

  “If that wouldn’t be imposing?” Jack said, and JJ’s face lit up.

  “Great! I mean I got lots of things to do n’ stuff. But if you need any more help, just call. I’m always happy to help a fellow detective out. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I find out.”

  “Also, let me give you the coroner’s number in Evansville,” Jack said, and handed JJ a card with Lilly Caskins’s number on it. “Give that lady a call. Think you can identify the body?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Detective Jansen told him that Detectives Murphy and Blanchard had gone to Shawneetown to check out Cordelia Morse’s past. Along with the other information he’d come into possession of, Arnold started thinking that maybe there was a good follow-up story in Shawneetown. He felt a little guilty about benefiting from the death of the unfortunate young woman, but, he thought, Was it my fault that she was killed? No, it wasn’t. Besides, the story would be a better follow-up than the one he had planned.

  Jansen had given him the name of the chief of p
olice and the lieutenant who formed the entirety of the Shawneetown Police Department. Arnold called the police station about nine o’clock that evening and left a voice message. He received a return phone call from Lieutenant JJ Johnson less than thirty minutes later.

  An hour after that call Arnold arrived at the Shawneetown police station. He found Lieutenant J. Johnson, leaning in the doorway of the trailer in full uniform with sunglasses pushed up on top of his head even though it was pitch black outside. Arnold noticed a huge lump under JJ’s lower lip, and for a moment thought maybe the man was deformed until he saw JJ spit into a Styrofoam cup.

  JJ chauffeured him around, speeding around corners and cutting down alleys until Arnold thought he would wet his pants, but it had paid off. He didn’t get to meet Aunt Elmira because of the late hour, but he met someone more valuable . . . Jonathan Samuels.

  The killer watched Arnold and the skinny policeman go into the upper apartment. He almost laughed at the idea that Arnold Byrum had unknowingly saved Jonathan Samuels’s life. If that damn cop wasn’t present he might still go over there and whack the reporter and the queer. But the cop was a different thing. Maybe later.

  Jon Samuels was a problem. He shouldn’t be allowed to talk to Murphy, but now the reporter got involved and whatever Samuels knew would end up in the newspaper so what purpose would it serve to kill him now?

  The lights were on inside, and the door stood open to Jon’s place. There were no other cars in the parking lot. No one appeared to be home. The building was hidden from the road by cornstalks and so distant from other neighbors that no one would hear the screams.

  This is so tempting, he thought, and smiled. Only one way to decide. He took a coin from his pocket. Heads I kill them all. Tails they live another day, he thought, and flipped the coin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The moon was full and high in the sky when Jack pulled into the gravel lot behind his cabin. Susan’s little Honda del Sol was parked, and with a cop’s habit he felt the hood. It was cold so she had been here awhile. Probably asleep, he thought. It was late. He hadn’t called except once that morning to make a date that he hadn’t been able to keep. In fact, he hadn’t even called to tell her he wasn’t going to be there.

  He looked across the river at the intermittent lights marking other small cabins along the banks of the Ohio on the Kentucky side of the river. He’d met some of their residents over the summer, on the sandbars that skirted the shoreline. They were mostly good folks who just wanted to live and have fun. He wondered what kind of person could stalk them like game. Kill and mutilate them without any feeling. And he wondered why this killer was sending these messages to him.

  He made a mental note to talk to Susan about this. She had a right to know that some psycho had started communicating with her boyfriend. He wondered how she would feel about that. Would she leave him? Would she help him find this scumbag? He believed she would do the latter. She was beautiful, athletic, and great in bed, but she was as tough as they came and this killer would not want to mess with her. Still . . .

  Jack trudged up the porch and the moment he entered the cabin he knew something wasn’t right. It was too dark. He always left a night light on in the bathroom, and a small electric candle in the kitchen window. One that Susan had bought him.

  He drew his Glock .45 and crouched inside the doorway, trying to discern any movement in the cabin. Something made a shushing noise from the bedroom, so he moved that way. As he rounded the corner of the doorway he saw the candle being lit. Susan lay on top of the sheets, wearing one of his T-shirts and panties. On the table next to the bed was a tray of cheese and a bottle of red wine called Ménage à Trois, his favorite.

  He started to speak and she put a finger to her lips. “Just come to bed. Even warriors have to relax.”

  There were at least two things Jack knew about Susan Summers. She was never wrong, and her smile could melt an ice floe.

  Jack awoke to the sound of a small engine puttering along the shoreline. He’d drunk too much, and for some reason gone to sleep in the rocking chair on his front porch. The porch was littered with the slaughtered remnants of almost a full case of Guinness, and it must have gotten cold outside because he had pulled a plastic tarp over himself. He pushed the tarp onto the deck and got up, stretching his aching joints.

  Where is Susan? he wondered, and then remembered that she had gotten called in to work. He had to smirk at that, because that was what always happened to him, and he was the one that was leaving in the middle of the night.

  After she left he had walked out to the porch and had a few beers. What was it? he thought. About two in the morning. Something about a parolee being arrested for breaking up a biker bar hunting for his errant girlfriend. The parolee had been arrested and of course someone had to prepare a warrant for the “retaking of an offender.” Apparently she was still dealing with the detainee.

  He tried to remember if he had talked to her about the situation that was developing with the killer and asked for some help on this one. Maybe ask her to get Dr. Don Schull to assist again. Schull was a retired forensic psychologist but still dabbled in the trade from time to time. Did I even talk to her at all?

  He entered the cabin and spotted a note on the kitchen table. It read: I’ve got coffee ready. Also there are some leftover goodies in the fridge. And yes, I’ll help you, but I have someone different in mind than Dr. Schull.

  Now it came back to Jack. Susan had said that Dr. Schull was in Thailand with a girlfriend. What’s up with that? he wondered. And who was she referring to? Who did she have in mind?

  He poured himself a cup of coffee and then took a quick shower.

  Thirty minutes later he was sitting in the chief’s office, with a pain in his neck and cramps running down his back from sleeping in the uncomfortable wooden rocker.

  “How did he get this?” Chief Pope asked.

  The chief was referring to yet another front-page story by Arnold Byrum. This time Lieutenant JJ Johnson was being quoted as assisting Evansville detectives Jack Murphy and Liddell Blanchard in their serial killer investigations. Jonathan Samuels had also been interviewed and although he hadn’t said much, it was obvious that the police hadn’t talked to him first. The end result was egg on the face of the Evansville Police Department.

  Captain Franklin stared at the floor, leaving Jack to answer the question. Liddell had escaped this meeting by being needed in Crime Scene to sign for some evidence.

  “We have no proof, Chief,” Jack said. They all knew that Larry Jansen was the leak in the investigation, but they needed some type of proof before the chief could take any type of disciplinary action. And even with proof, it would be a difficult task to punish Detective Larry Jansen, because he was under the protection of the mayor and was presently in the hospital for medical tests. Supposedly he’d had a mild stroke.

  “I called Lieutenant Johnson in Shawneetown this morning,” Jack said, “and he told me that Arnold Byrum showed up shortly after we left last night. We probably passed him on our way back to Evansville.”

  “It’s not like it was being kept secret, but no one knew you and Liddell were on your way to Shawneetown,” Captain Franklin said. “Have you been turning reports into Central Records?”

  Jack nodded in the affirmative.

  “Well, there you go,” Franklin said. “Anyone with clearance could read the reports, and you probably mentioned somewhere that Cordelia Morse was from Shawneetown and that you had been unable to contact the next of kin.”

  “So we still can’t finger Detective Jansen for the leak?” the chief said to no one in particular. “Okay, so what about this Jonathan Samuels? How did Arnold find him and we didn’t?”

  “I’ll take the blame for that one, Chief,” Jack said. “I had his name on the list of people we were going to contact, but it was getting late, and the town was zipped up by the time we finished interviewing the aunt at the hospital. It was my decision to call it a night and return later.�
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  To Jack’s surprise the chief smiled at him, and said, “Scooped by Arnold Byrum. You’ll never live it down, Jack.”

  If another officer had said that, Jack would have told them to take a flying leap. But you don’t talk to the chief of police that way. “I’ll get on it right away, Chief,” Jack answered.

  Captain Franklin was trying to suppress a grin as he said, “Maybe you should take Arnold with you.”

  “Will that be all?” Jack asked.

  “Get back to work, Detective,” Chief Pope said, and as Jack closed the door behind him he could hear them laughing. Outside the chief ’s conference room Jack looked around to be sure he was alone before muttering, “Bite me. All of you.”

  Jennifer Mangold looked up and said, “Excuse me?”

  “I said, ‘Fine by me. How about you?’ ” Jack lied.

  “What’s up, pod’na?” Liddell asked, after seeing the look on Jack’s face.

  Without looking over, Jack said, “I’m going to cook his goose.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “And I’m going to skin the one that’s leaking to him,” Jack added.

  Liddell had the morning newspaper on the seat next to him. The headlines this time declared, SERIAL KILLER VICTIM WAS SEARCHING FOR PARENTS.

  “So we missed talking to a couple guys? So what?” Liddell asked.

  Jack looked over at his partner and seeing the grin on his huge face he could feel his anger slowly draining. “So, I don’t like people leaking things involving our case. Especially when we missed it the first time. And how did Arnold find him?”

  Liddell laughed out loud. “The great Jack Murphy has been aced by Barney.”

  “Oh, now don’t you start up, too,” Jack said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX