Black Frog, page 14
Patty Crown paused, and Anne could hear rustling paper in the background.
“Let’s see… the next cluster is in southern Illinois – Carbondale, Cape Girardeau, Murphysboro, the following year. Three rapes, this time all at night and the victims carefully selected – he’s refining his attack strategy – still cropping ears. Then, just six months later, in the Park City area east of Salt Lake City, three rapes in a period of five weeks, and now he has started to brand, but the brands are not numbers, it looks like a cattle brand – a stylized ‘WCF.’ Then there’s a gap of several years – we probably are missing one or more clusters, and he pops up suddenly in Virginia – down around Williamsburg – two William and Mary coeds raped and branded with the ‘WCF’ in just a week, and by now he’s using Ketamine and a big knife.”
Patty Crown paused again, probably consulting her notes.
“Then, about three years ago, he drops off the radar completely, until now. Judging from the numbers ‘9’ and ‘10’ on your victims, there are two or three other clusters in the last several years that we haven’t yet picked up, the ones including the brands ‘1’ through ‘8.’ I’m still trying to identify the likely missing clusters but it won’t be that easy, given the seeming random nature of his movements around the country and the way he abruptly appears and disappears.”
With a growing sense of dread, Anne interrupted Patty’s narrative.
“Patty, Cowboy broke into my home Monday night. Fortunately I woke up, but he ran before I got a shot at him. Looks like I may have attracted his interest.”
“Jesus Anne, you need protection, and you may not have much time to catch the Cowboy before he moves on. It’s not clear what determines how long he stays in an area, or how he selects his victims. But what is clear is that he doesn’t stick around long – a month or so in any one locale. Do you have any leads?”
“We’ve got nothing Patty. Not a thing. He probably drives, or drove, a white Ford Ranger pickup, but we have no recent sightings, so he might have ditched it or left town already. We also have a vague description – average white male, maybe in his 30s, long greasy hair, rodeo belt buckle, cowboy snap shirt, maybe a gimpy leg. That’s it.”
“Send me what you have Anne – to me directly, not to the ViCap, and also any DNA you’ve recovered – both from the rapes and your break-in. I’ve asked investigators who worked the other clusters to also send DNA and prints. We should be able to get solid forensic links between the clusters.”
“I’ll get our lab to get the DNA samples down to you as quick as we can. We didn’t recover any prints – which is surprising. He isn’t reluctant about DNA – of course he wants to impregnate his victims, but why then be so careful about prints?”
“He must be pretty confident we don’t have his DNA on file,” Patty replied. “But must also know that his prints are in records somewhere – a run-in with the law or military records, probably.”
“Another avenue we can take on the DNA,” Patty added, “is to work the publicly accessible DNA databases like Ancestry.com – maybe we can identify a relative of Cowboy and work toward identifying him that way. And I’ll also drill down on the first cluster along the border– looking both for any likely candidates who have a record of rape or other crimes against women, and any clues about what ‘WCF’ might stand for. The belt buckle and snap shirt fits with the branding – maybe he’s from Texas.”
Patty said that she would send the files on the earlier clusters to Anne as email attachments, and then asked directly.
“Anne, you are going to get round the clock protection, right?”
“Well, I doubt the sheriff will go for that, but I just acquired a live-in state police detective, so my evenings are covered. I’ll see if I can get someone assigned to partner up with me during work hours until this is over.”
“Make sure it happens Anne. This Cowboy character has gotten very good at what he does – he’s a seasoned predator – careful, methodical, and very dangerous.”
Cowboy decided he didn’t like the parking place on Main Street. People walking by and passing in cars could get too good a look at him and the Chick Magnet. So he moved over to the Rite Aid Pharmacy parking lot, picking a spot way in the back next to an area of dense bushes and out of range of the security cameras. Angling his side mirror and rear view mirror, he had good sight lines to the entrance to the sheriff’s office and Anne’s Toyota Land Cruiser and was partially shielded from view by vegetation.
Cowboy had been parked there for a few hours when shuffling footsteps and the sound of someone slapping the side of the car with their hand woke him from a light doze. Suddenly someone placed their hands on the driver’s side door and looked in at Cowboy. The man wore a grease-stained florescent orange baseball hat that advertised “The Pub.” His fingernails were broken and dirty and he had open sores on the back of his hands. Cowboy immediately thought “meth head” and his guess was confirmed as the man began speaking rapidly, slurring his words, and exposing a mouth of rotten and missing teeth.
“Hey man. Waddayagotforme? Where’s Junior? This the Chick Magnet. I knew it right off.”
Looking into the back seat, the man grew suspicious.
“What the fuck? Where’s Junior? You steal this car? This is the Chick Magnet man. Look. I can still see the name.”
Moving his hands over the area where Cowboy had scraped off the words “Chick Magnet,” the man leaned in the driver’s side window.
“Hey fucker, Waddayagotforme?”
The meth head had recognized the car, appeared to know the original owner, and likely where he had lived - and where Cowboy was staying. He had also gotten a good close-up look at Cowboy. It was just bad luck – for Cowboy and definitely for the meth-head. What were the odds of running into someone who recognized the car from decades ago? Oh well, Cowboy thought. In a smooth, practiced movement he unsheathed the Ka-Bar combat knife and swung it in an arc across his body, jamming it into the base of the man’s neck just above his clavicle. The knife went in smoothly, up to the hilt, and Cowboy pushed hard with it against the man’s sagging body before he withdrew the blade. The man fell back into the bushes, and the bright pumping stream of arterial blood arced up and back, spraying the bushes next to the car as the meth-head disappeared into the vegetation. Cowboy looked in the rear-view mirror again – no one else was visible in the parking lot. Slipping the bloody Ka-Bar into the almost empty pretzel bag, he dropped it on the floor on the passenger side, leaned out the car’s window to make sure no blood had spattered on the driver’s door, and then drove slowly out of the lot.
15
Emma
Wednesday
Emma had called and made an appointment to interview Sheriff Hudson at eleven on Wednesday morning and had driven down to Dover-Foxcroft from Greenville in plenty of time. She decided to stop in at the Rite Aid Pharmacy beforehand to pick up a few things. Exiting the drug store with her purchases, she dropped them off in her car and then walked across the parking lot toward the sheriff’s office. Emma paused at the cross street that ran between the drugstore and the sheriff’s office and county court to let a black Honda drive by, and Cowboy looked directly at her from twenty feet away as he slowly passed in the Chick Magnet. Emma had never seen the man before but froze, drew a sharp breath, and felt her heart rate abruptly increase as she returned his stare. It was the same autonomic reaction that she had had the previous summer when she had turned a corner on the Appalachian Trail and come face to face with a large black bear that took a long look at her before shuffling off the path and down a steep embankment. Emma waited until Cowboy had driven out of sight before continuing across the street and climbing the stairs to the sheriff’s office.
Sheriff Hudson came out from behind his desk to shake her hand, and with a puzzled expression, looked over her shoulder.
“No photographer? I figured you would want to take my picture for your profile of me.”
“Sorry sheriff – no photographs. It’s not really a profile, just some background questions for you. OK if I sit down?”
“Of course, have a seat.”
Hudson looked surprisingly polished this morning, likely in anticipation that he would have his picture taken for a glowing profile in the Boston Globe. He had gotten a haircut from Andy, “The Barber,” down the street at Sweet Lou’s barbershop, and his uniform was clean and pressed, with nary a food stain to be seen. Now he was frowning, and as Emma set her recorder down on his desk and turned it on, her first question did not improve his mood.
“Sheriff, why aren’t you cooperating with Detective Bateman’s homicide investigation? Doesn’t county law enforcement usually team up with the state police on such cases?”
Not taking his eyes off Emma’s tight T-shirt, and apparently not noticing the tape recorder, the sheriff responded.
“Well honey, aren’t you awfully young to be asking such questions? I don’t know about other counties degree of cooperation with the state police, but we do, sometimes, but not always. Right now we have a really full plate with important ongoing investigations.”
“What’s more important than murder?”
Smiling now, leaning back and shifting his gaze up to meet Emma’s stare, Hudson replied in a condescending tone.
“Well, decisions about manpower allocation can be quite complex – not something you could easily understand – lots of different variables involved.”
“Why not give the job to Investigator Quinn? She did a great job teaming up with Detective Bateman on that serial murder case a while back.”
“Little Annie? She actually played a small role in that investigation and had to be rescued from the killer. The media, like Bateman, were infatuated with her looks and inflated her role to make the story more dramatic. Unfortunately she believed some of the hype and has been puffing herself up ever since. I’ve put a stop to that though – she’s handling things more appropriate to her gender and skill set now – domestic disputes and women’s issues. And to be honest, I’m not sure she’s really cut out for law enforcement.”
“If she’s such a poor performer, why have I heard rumors that Senator Collins has invited her to serve on a blue ribbon task force that’s being formed down in Washington?”
Sitting forward now, placing his hands palms down on his desk, Hudson blustered.
“I haven’t heard anything about that. I don’t believe it. What task force?”
Smiling broadly, enjoying herself now, Emma let the silence build as she casually scratched her leg.
“Oh, I heard it has something to do with the struggles women face in traditionally male-dominated professions, like law enforcement. I’m surprised she hasn’t mentioned the invitation to you. You will support her participation, won’t you?”
Squinting, looking at Emma, then down at the recorder, Hudson carefully replied.
“My office is always pleased to contribute our expertise to any of the senator’s initiatives.”
“Do you think Investigator Quinn - ‘Annie’ as you call her, will bring much personal experience of difficulties in the workplace to the taskforce, Sheriff Hudson?”
Crossing his arms in a classic defensive body language gesture, Hudson frowned.
“We pride ourselves here in the sheriff’s department on our support and encouragement of all minorities, including women and the disabled.”
Clearly angry now, Hudson started to rise, indicating an end to the interview. A sudden commotion outside Hudson’s office was followed by the appearance of Jim Torben in the doorway.
“Sheriff, you need to come next door to the Rite Aid – there’s a body.”
A small crowd had gathered at the rear of the Rite Aid parking lot and were trying to get a better look at a body hidden in the bushes – just a foot wearing a worn out sneaker could be seen projecting out over the curb. A uniformed sheriff’s deputy who was trying to shoo people away looked relieved as Torben and Hudson pushed through the crowd, followed closely by Emma, who quietly started taking pictures of the foot, the assembled gawkers, and the police. Looking distinctly uncomfortable with being out of his office and actually involved, up close, in what appeared to be a crime – a killing, Hudson looked completely adrift as Jim Torben turned to him for instructions. Recognizing the blank expression on Hudson’s face, Torben pulled him aside.
“Sheriff, maybe I should take charge of the investigation here while you return to the office and contact the state police through official channels. I’ll secure the crime scene and get in touch directly with Detective Bateman, who can probably get here pretty quickly.”
Hudson nodded.
“Torben, I am giving you complete authority on this – you contact Bateman and I will inform the Major Crime Unit in Bangor that you will be our man on the investigation – this is too close to home, and we need to be involved. Whatever you want, you got it. Any other people you need, you got em.”
Resisting the urge to salute, Torben responded, “Yes sir,” and watched as Hudson walked quickly back across the street and into the sheriff’s office and courthouse.
Emma had overheard the exchange and approached Torben. She was going to tell him about the scary man in the black car she had seen drive away from the crime scene a short time ago, but then paused and decided not to. Maybe the man she saw was involved in the rapes. Maybe she could track him down on her own and get his story.
Emma hung around the parking lot for another hour or so, taking video she thought local TV news teams might want, until the evidence response team and Peter Martell arrived and started processing the crime scene. When the body was removed, she checked her watch and realized she would have to hurry if she was going to be on time for her meeting with George, Virginia Breen’s brother. For some reason he had agreed to talk to her only on deep background, with no mention of his name, and in an out of the way location. They had agreed to meet by the Sebec Village Reading Room, right next to the dam, on the way up to the north shore of Sebec Lake.
She drove down the hill and around the corner into Sebec Village a few minutes late, and George was standing next to his car as she pulled up next to him. He hurriedly climbed in her car, looked at his watch, and then instructed her to turn right on a side road that followed the south shore of the river downstream from the dam. After a few hundred yards he said she could pull over, and she turned off the car and pulled out her recorder.
“No. No. No recording. No photos. No names. No record of this conversation ever took place. I’ll tell you some things about my sister and her business dealings, and you’ll retell the narrative that she and I agreed upon before her death – that she forced me out of the company, and I have absolutely no knowledge of what she was up to the last few years. Agreed?”
“Sure. I can do that. But why did you even agree to meet with me if I can’t tell your story?”
“You are telling my story. And it’s a story that will help to keep me alive. It’s also a good story for you to embrace if you have any sense. I didn’t want you poking around and maybe finding out something, or suggesting something in your articles, that might give people the wrong impression – that I know stuff I don’t.”
“O.K. So tell me the real story – what really happened between you and your sister?”
“Well, everything had been going great – business was good. Sis had a real gift for identifying properties that would increase in value over the near to mid-term, and we were making lots of money. And then purely by accident I stumbled on some documents that showed she had gotten herself involved in some big money dealings with questionable people and hadn’t told me anything about it. I confronted her and she blew me off – saying if I was afraid of taking risks I could simply pretend I didn’t know and take a back seat in what was being planned.”
Emma nodded encouragement, and George took a deep breath and continued.
“She hadn’t named any names but I already had a pretty good idea of the kind of people she was probably getting into business with, given the bank transfers out of Cyprus. So I told her I didn’t want to be in the back seat or anywhere remotely close to the deal she was planning and I didn’t want to know anything about it or the people involved. Not a thing. Nothing. She just laughed, and we agreed she would buy me out. It was a good deal for me – the terms were very generous, and I took the money and never looked back.”
“What now?” Emma asked.
“Here’s what happens now, Emma. You say in your articles that I left the company long before Virginia got involved in this activity, and you and I both get to live long healthy lives. These are not people to fool around with. Look what happened to my sister.”
“But what’s the deal she was getting into? Who were her business partners?”
“No. You don’t want to know. I honestly don’t know, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. My clear and sincere message to you is to steer clear of that line of inquiry. You won’t learn much in any case, and you could put both of us at risk.”
Disappointed that George had nothing to offer other than a vague warning about bad people, Emma dropped him off back at his car and started the hour drive back up to Greenville. Brushing aside his warnings, she was already thinking about how to try to get access to financial information about Virginia Breen’s shady business deals.
