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“Yes, and the two detectives that had gotten these three more recent cases are working now on the other seven. They will be fresh eyes on those cases.” She said, walking back over to the wall.
“There isn’t a lot to go on, is there?” Les asked, suddenly overwhelmed. What a nightmare. How could these people make heads or tails of this mess?
“No, no clear motives. No connections between any of the victims. I’ve been checking, none of them live close to each other. None go to the same bars, or affiliated with each other in any way.” She shrugged.
“So, the killer is choosing each of the victims by his own method. Something about each of these men has made him kill. Could they all just be opportunity killing?” Les wondered out loud.
“Naw, he was outside each of their homes, knowing they were either coming home or would be coming home. He knew that they were out drinking or playing poker or what ever each of the victims had been doing before they were murdered.” Olivia said.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. How else would he know to be there at the right time and the right place? So, he stalked his victims.”
“Exactly. For how long, we don’t know. Did the men come across our killer at a restaurant or store? Is the killer a waiter or cab driver? Meeting these men in passing? Had they insulted the killer?” Olivia postulated.
“Jesus, what a puzzle.” Les whistled and shook his head.
“Yeah, that’s an understatement.” Olivia laughed, but without humor.
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Jasper Irons walked down the aisles, whistling a soundless tune. He was hungry but didn’t know what he wanted. He was usually more decisive and his constant companion was not. It was the same old story, should I eat this, no you shouldn’t. Well hell, I want to eat that, and you’ll pay for that later. Back and forth. Push me, pull you. A tug of war, his brain constantly fought, especially when it came to eating. He wanted to eat sweets and sugary things, but his constant companion was more for healthier things. And really, salty things. Snacks. Healthy or not.
He saw the rack of peanut butter cookies he was particularly fond of and got a pack. Thank Christ, he wasn’t allergic to peanut butter. The grocery store wasn’t hopping busy, which was a surprise. He was usually getting pissed off at slow pokes who wandered the aisles in a stupor. He rounded a corner with his buggy and saw a man jerking a six-year-old boy by the arm.
“I told you to shut your fucking mouth. I don’t want to hear your whiny-ass bullshit.” The man snarled into the child’s face and smacked the hell out of the kid, knocking him down on the floor. Jasper froze, his nostril’s opening wide and the scent of blood filled his head. It was like a fog, that went in through his nostrils and flowed over his brain.
The man looked up at him, startled at having hit his kid in front of a witness. Then he tried to blunt his way through it, hoping, Jasper thought, to make him turn away.
“What the hell are you looking at mister?” The man asked aggressively.
Jasper didn’t say a word, he stood, staring at the man, his eyes locked and fixed on the now growing red face. The man jerked the kid up and pulled him out of the aisle and Jasper blinked.
“What an asshole.” He said to himself out loud. He turned and walked out of the store, leaving his half full buggy sitting abandoned. Jasper went to his car and got in and sat. That tug of war started again. Should I kick that asshole’s ass? No, he’s a loser. Push me, pull you. Five minutes passed and Jasper saw the man and his kid come out.
It wasn’t a big parking lot and Jasper watched as the man got into his pea green Ford, shoving the kid in ahead of him and the two plastic grocery bags. He watched as the car pulled out and Jasper turned on his car and followed. He was well back and it wasn’t difficult. Within five minutes, the pea green car turned down a street, then another and then it parked in a driveway of a mid-century ranch style home.
Jasper kept driving and passed the green Ford at the ranch style house. He drove back to the store and went back in. His buggy was still there and he finished up his shopping, a soft smile on his face. He hummed a little tune to himself.
Ϫ
Olivia arrived home, she was tired, but felt like the first day on the task force had gone well. Les was an intelligent man and didn’t seem to want to showboat. That was good. She’d also met Rachael Weaver and the woman had been a snotty bitch. She was sure that things would have gone differently with Rachael Weaver.
“Mom!” Abigail cried, running from the kitchen to hug her mother. Gail, was her hugger and Olivia leaned down to kiss the nine-year old’s dark head. Her daughters had taken after their father with their dark hair and eye color. She had red hair and green eyes, the Irish side of her lineage. Her older daughter, Charlotte was now becoming too dignified for outrageous demonstrations of affection. She was three years away from being a teen. She was still in the kitchen but called out the obligatory, hi mom.
“Where’s your dad?” She asked Gail.
“He’s out back, he’s setting up the sprinkler for the roses.” She chirped happily.
Jeff Shin was an orthodontist, she’d met him thirteen years ago when she’d decided she was tired of her crooked and jacked up teeth. It had been love at first sight for them both. They had dated for all of six months before they got married. Jeff was as passionate about Olivia as he was his roses. She didn’t resent the competition.
“Any homework?” She asked her hugging daughter, who still had her slender arms wrapped around her waist.
“Yeah, but I already did it.”
“Yeah, she already did it.” Charlotte said in a slightly snarky tone. Olivia gave her a look, and kissed her older daughter on the head. Charlotte smiled, slightly ashamed of herself.
“Where’s Bob?” She asked both girls.
“Out with daddy. He was chasing Tubbs and so dad said Bob need to work off some energy.” Gail informed her, her hands on her hips. Bob was a mutt they’d gotten last year at the shelter. He was a sweet dog, but not the brightest bulb in the pack. Tubbs was a fat loquacious feline, that put up with Bob, until Bob stepped over that invisible kitty line. Then the cat smacked the hell out of the dog. Tubbs could only put up with so much and she knew that Bob was still a puppy, but still, a girl had her limits.
Olivia went out to the back yard and Bob came running up to her. Bob was frenetic, not having seen Olivia for eight whole hours. She squatted and petted the dog, who nearly swooned with happiness. Then Bob took off, running around the perimeter of the fence in a fast dash. She walked over to Jeff, who hadn’t set up the sprinkler, but was in fact watering his roses.
“Hey babe, how was your day?” He asked, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
“Good, got the task force off the ground. Hopefully we can figure this out.” She said, giving her husband a hug, while trying not to get sprayed.
“What are you hungry for?” She asked. They took turns cooking dinner and sometimes brought home something from take out.
“I set out some hamburger meat, I was thinking about grilling some hamburgers.” Jeff said and grinned at his wife.
“Cool. I’ll go do up some beans and a quick potato salad. Do you know if we have frozen corn on the cob?”
“Sure do, babe. Just enough.” He said, walking down the line of rose bushes.
She snorted, he was in his own little world with his roses. She looked over and Bob was still running the perimeter of the fence. She shook her head and went back inside.
The world was a crazy place, a violent place. She’d seen plenty of it in her work. But in this house and this home, there was a certain simple and boring kind of life and love. It wasn’t fancy, but it was solid and it was a comfort to her. Tubbs was now on the counter, helping Charlotte do her homework. She smiled. Her girls were growing up, but if Olivia could help it, she’d keep them a little younger than a lot of the kids out there. There wasn’t any need to rush them to adulthood.
THREE
Les sat relaxing on the leather couch, watching tv, eating some stir fry he’d whipped up. It was a fast and quick meal and he liked Asian cuisine. He didn’t consider himself a bad cook, in fact, watching videos, he’d taught himself how to cook pretty good. He rarely watched news, since that was his business. He was channel surfing. His modest apartment was neat. He had book shelves that lined one wall. He had his model boats there, he’d built them when he was a kid, and up until he was in his twenties. He’d even had offers from others, wishing to purchase them.
His specialty was shrimp boats, he loved the lines of them, and had used balsa, poplar, alder and pine to build his boats. Donovan had also taken him a time or two on the boats when he’d worked on them. Les loved being out on the water, feeling the ocean spray on his face and the sun beating down. Those were some wonderful memories he had, and he’d once thought about working on them, but writing had changed his life.
His grandfather had passed down his model building tools. His passion for building the boats had eventually quieted, but he had the fruits of his labors on the shelves. They were beautiful works of art. He was very proud of them. He’d won several contests with them. He rarely parted with them, only selling when the price was too good to pass up.
Donovan had despised the boats, and each one that Les had made, Donovan had destroyed. Les suspected that Donovan was jealous of his talent. Determined not to let Donovan win, Les kept at it, making them over and over. Donovan tired of the destruction game and left Les’s boats alone. Leslie had considered that a hard-won victory. Les smiled at the memory, it was one of the very few that he could smile at.
When Les had been seventeen, a senior in high school, Donovan had come to the school. He’d embarrassed Les, and as all teenagers will do, Les had defied Donovan in public. Enraged, Donovan had beaten Les in the halls of his high school, in front of students and teachers, who were stunned. Donovan had been arrested and sent to jail. That had been the best day of Leslie’s life, because Donovan never came home again.
Donovan was kept in jail without bail until the fast and decisive trial. Donovan was sentenced to three years for assault. With a broken jaw and his stepfather gone from the house, that was another victory. Within a year of his imprisonment, Donovan had been beaten to death by a fellow inmate, a well-deserved comeuppance and couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Les’s third victory. From there, life looked up for Les.
Les had been overweight as a child and teen, he’d found comfort and succor in food. With his jaw wired shut, he’d shed the pounds and never looked back. He still enjoyed the occasional dessert, but he knew the benefit of healthy eating and running, especially after he’d stopped drinking. He worked out three days a week, he’d gotten better at keeping that routine after getting off the booze. He did not however, turn down a Krispy Kreme doughnut, ever. That was an unpardonable sin.
Settling on HGTV, Les sat back to enjoy his meal. He was still boggled over the godsend he’d been handed. He was in on the ground floor of a task force that was looking for a serial killer. He knew this was something rare. He promised that he’d not let anything out, no details. He’d written up his first article, and he called it an exposé on a killer as well as the white washed version of the very first murder of the ten so far.
His article had hailed with glowing words, the fine efforts of lead Detective Olivia Shin, Detective John Littleton and Detective Peter Brightwater. Also, under the exceptional command of Chief Bart Skilter. He went on to say in his article, that he would be assisting the detectives in the hunt for the man or woman, since he wanted to be fair. There were bare facts and with only the names of the victims were given. Since they didn’t want the killer to know what the police had in the way of evidence, all of that was kept out of the article, though Les kept the information for a book that he planned to write later on.
It was a fluff piece, he knew, but in reality, and in the long run, it wasn’t. Because if and when they found the killer, Les knew that all bets were off when he wrote the rest of the story. Because he had intimate details of the murders, he would have to wait until after the trial to write all. Les knew that when he finished the very final article, readers would know his name, because he planned to write an eloquent piece. He smiled at the thought, he was a good writer and he knew it.
After he’d finished eating, he washed up his dishes and went back into the living room to look over his notes. He propped his stockinged feet on the coffee table and relaxed. He flipped through the notes and made annotations. Olivia was a sharp detective, she’d picked up and put all of this together. Les knew that Skilter would take credit, but he’d seen her hand all over the task force. When he wrote his book, he’d make sure she got her fair share of the credit. Also, he’d make sure in his articles as well.
There was no motive that anyone could see. He read over the family life for each of the victims. Olivia had let him sift through the files and all the initial interviews with the victim’s families. Some went to church, while others did not. Nothing stuck out. Each man had children, and a wife. The only thing that screamed out to Les, was that each man went out to a bar or some event and when they came home, they were killed. He made a notation, that perhaps the killer frequented bars. Maybe he followed them home. But then, he noted that the bars were scattered all over Charleston.
Was the killer a drifter? What had caused him to accelerate the frequencies of the killings? Was he getting a taste for it? Olivia said it wasn’t sexual. Could the guy be homosexual? Could he be heterosexual? But no, it really didn’t matter, because sex wasn’t a factor. Was the killer in fact black? Or, like Olivia thought, white? Was the man a racist or did he hate racists?
Les sat back and let out a long breath. He felt a shiver go through his body. The killer was a vicious son of a bitch. He wished he could get the image of the crime scene photos out of his mind. Christ. He wondered if Rachael were as squeamish as he was? He’d tried not to react too much, he didn’t want to seem weak before all the detectives. He’d just never seen anything like that in his life.
He hoped he wouldn’t have nightmares. That was all he needed. He couldn’t numb himself with drinking anymore. He’d promised himself to live a sober life. Those images had shaken him deeply. He didn’t even like to watch horror movies. But this guy was the real deal and he wasn’t in a movie and he wasn’t make-believe. The bastard was hunting down men and killing them violently.
He got up and went outside, the air was heavy and pulled at him. It was early evening and the temperature was starting to go down, but there was no sign of fall weather. He snorted. The northerners came in droves during the winter. He’d seen them walking around in shorts for Christ’s sakes. It must be a hell of a lot colder up north for them to wear light clothing in Charleston in December and January. He’d seen their temperatures and couldn’t even imagine what negative thirty was like.
He laughed and shivered at the thought. No, he was a southern boy, and he’d stay down here, heat or no heat, humidity or not. Besides, that was what air conditioners and central air were for. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, blowing a plume of blue smoke away from him. He swatted at a mosquito. He wondered idly if they had mosquitoes up north?
Ϫ
Olivia pulled up to the Peach family home. Les rode shotgun. It was a modest home. Both walked to the house and Olivia rang the doorbell. A woman, Les saw, Liza, he remembered from the file, answered the door. Twenty-five-year-old widow of Roger Peach. They had a four-year-old daughter, Jane.
“Hello Mrs. Peach, I’m Detective Shin, I’d called yesterday.”
“Oh, yes. Please come in.” She said and stepped back to let Les and Olivia into the home. They saw Jane watching cartoons, and playing with a doll. Les noted that it was a neat little home. With family photos all around. No pets.
“Mrs. Peach, this is Les Pigg, he’ll be taking notes. He is here to help us sort things out and hopefully find the person who killed your husband.” Olivia said softly, so the little girl couldn’t hear.
“Alright, why don’t we go in the kitchen? Can I get you something to drink?” She asked.
“No, thank you.” Les said and Olivia shook her head. They sat down at a small round table, it had a doily style tablecloth. There was an owl set of salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table.
“We’ve gone over your statement that the officers took the morning of the murder. I understand this is still fresh, and that is why we are here. I am so sorry for your loss. I’m hoping with your help, we can make a little bit of progress towards solving this.” Olivia said softly.
Les noted that Mrs. Peach was dry-eyed. Her face was calm and for such a recent murder, he could see no grief in her face. He wondered at it and would ask Olivia about it later.
“Mrs. Peach, I’ll be asking you pretty much the same questions you were asked the morning of the murder. You said you weren’t here, that you were at your parent’s home? Do you know if your husband was here at home or if he’d gone out while you were gone?” Olivia asked.
“That’s right, I took my daughter, Jane, to see her grandparents. Roger had mentioned something about maybe going out. But I don’t know if he did or not.” She said.
As the women spoke, Les took notes. He watched her face and her body language. She didn’t seem to be overly distressed. He wasn’t even sure that she should be overly upset. She was young and pretty though.
“Do you know which bar your husband would more than likely go to if he did? We believe he went to a bar.”
“He likes to frequent Fast Jack’s bar on East Bay street. He also liked the Piano Bar on East Bay as well.” She said.
“Did he frequent either of these establishments a lot?”
“He went usually mid-week, and then on the weekends sometimes.”
“Did you ever go with him?” Olivia asked.
“No, he liked going by himself or with his buddies, for boy’s night out or football. You know, to watch it at the bar.” Liza said shrugging. Les noticed that the woman bit her nails. They were chewed down to the quick. That wasn’t unusual. Ross was a big chewer.
