Barry Friedman - Dead End (14 page)

“Uh-huh, a hardware salesman in Canton and a guy
from Talmadge who’s a clothing salesman. He’s also a gambler.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you found that your
killer knew all his victims. What I’m saying is that these may not be random
killings.”

“What’s the other thing that puzzles you?”

“You can account for murders on the seventh of
each month except February, right.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s not likely that he would miss one month.
Someone with a compulsion like your killer is on some kind of mission: holy,
satanic, sexual, who knows. He’s got to account for the seventh of every month
until he fulfills whatever his end is.”

“You think we’ve missed one?”

Sussman nodded. “I think you’ve overlooked
February’s member of your Murder-Of-The-Month Club.”

Again Maharos started to get up. Sussman went on.
“One other thing. I’m going to stick my neck out and make a prediction. The
next one is going to be the culmination of whatever this character’s mission
happens to be. It seems to me that he may have been building up to the next
one—which, incidentally, may be the last.”

“Why’s that?”

“July seventh. Seven-slash-seven. Seventh day,
seventh month.”

“Call Stark County Sheriff’s Office,” the message
on Maharos’ desk read. He found it when he returned, following his conference
with Dr. Sussman.

He phoned Vandergrift. “What’s up?”

She sounded excited. “I think we’ve got our
February connection.”

For a moment the meaning escaped him. Suddenly,
it registered. “You’ve filled in the February homicide?”

“Can you meet me here. We’ll have to go down to
Parkersburg and check it out.”

“West Virginia?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, it occurred to me that we had been looking
only at the Ohio homicides that fit the M.O. On a hunch, I got a computer run
of the homicides under investigation by county sheriff’s offices in the other
states through which Interstate 77 passes. I found that a guy named—“ He heard
the rustle of papers. “—Abelson was killed in what appeared to be a traffic
accident just off State Route 68, just a few miles from I 77 near Parkersburg.
West Virginia. At first, it looked like a routine one-car accident. The car was
found burning in a ravine, the investigating sheriff thought it had gone out of
control and crashed. There were two badly burned bodies in the wreckage.”

“Two?”

“Uh-huh. Abelson and a married woman—not his
wife. When the coroner autopsied the bodies, he found that they had both been
shot before they burned. The man had been shot twice in the back. The woman was
shot in the head.”

“When did this happen?”

“February seventh.”

On the way to Parkersburg early the next morning,
he filled her in on his meeting with Dr. Sussman. When he had finished, she
said, “So the psychologist thinks July seventh will be the Big One. Wonder what
that means.”

“Who knows. Every homicide is a big one to the
victim. You don’t get much deader whether you die in May or in July.”

“What about his idea that the killer is on some
kind of mission?”

“That’s his theory. We won’t know until—or
unless—we figure out if all these victims have some connection,” said Maharos.

Maharos and Vandergrift had not been together
since the night she had prepared dinner for them in her condo. The wine and
candlelight had been prelude to what they both knew would happen. By dessert
time, they were two consenting adults tearing off their clothes and falling on
the bed.
 
They had spoken on the phone
several times since, but it had been all business. Now, driving down to West
Virginia in the unmarked detective’s car they both carefully avoided any
mention of that evening until they had gotten the discussion of their
investigation out of the way.

For several minutes, while Maharos drove along
the freeway, they both fell silent. Then, as though on signal, they started
speaking together.

They laughed. Vandergrift said, “You first.”

Maharos said, “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much
for years, as I did last Monday. I’m looking forward to Saturday. I want you to
meet Annie.”

“I feel the same way about Monday evening.” She
smiled.

“What’s funny?”

“Anyone listening to us would think we’re a
couple of adolescents talking about our date last Saturday night.”

He nodded. “It isn’t easy being work-mates and
playmates at the same time. First time for me.”

“Me too. That’s one reason I never dated any of
the deputy sheriffs I work with. Somehow with you it seemed, well, different.
After all, it’s not as though we’re in the same department. I mean this is
really a temporary arrangement—you and me as partners.”

Maharos grinned. “And here I thought my
love-making had impressed you. Oh well, I guess I’m just good for a one-night
stand.”

She punched his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

They crossed the bridge over the Ohio River at
Marietta, and a few miles below the West Virginia border reached Parkersburg.

In the Wood County Sheriff’s Office the deputy
who was on duty at the reception desk told them that the sheriff was out.
However, he had left word that they were to be taken to Deputy Sheriff Aaron
Lincoln who was in charge of investigating the Abelson case.

Lincoln was a tall black man with a build like a
wide receiver. The copper-colored, football-shaped trophy engraved “MVP” on the
bookcase behind his desk, was a reliable clue to his having been a pretty good
one. He followed Maharos’ gaze to the trophy. “That’s from last year’s Copper
Bowl game. We won.”

“Copper Bowl?”

“The cops against the sheriffs. We play every
year.”

Vandergrift said, “Cutsie name, Copper Bowl.”

Lincoln smiled. “Nothin’ cutsie about the way we
play it.”

Maharos looked at the man’s biceps bulging at the
edges of his short-sleeved uniform shirt and could believe it.

“What can you tell us about the Abelson case?”

Lincoln read from a thick manila folder lying on
his desk.

“Theodore Abelson, 43, Caucasian, resided in
Lubeck, that’s a couple of miles south of here. Divorced. Abelson worked as a
salesman for Halliday Ford. He had been in this area about three years. Moved
here from Canton where his ex-wife still lives. She’s re-married.”

At his mention of Canton, Maharos and Vandergrift
looked at each other.

“Frances Salter, nee McGuire, 40, Caucasian. Resided
at 833 North Chelsea, Parkersburg. Married. Worked as secretary-bookkeeper at
Halliday Ford for nine years. Husband Charles Salter, unemployed. Worked as
driver for PTS, that’s Parkersburg’s local bus line, until terminated for DWI
on 20 December. Present whereabouts unknown. Last seen in Parkersburg on 1
February. Is currently subject of APB, wanted for questioning in homicides of
Abelson and Mrs. Salter.”

Maharos interrupted. “Was he reported missing
before his wife was killed?”

“No.” He went on. “At 11:10 p.m., 7 February, a
motorist on State Route 68, two miles west of I 77, near Vienna, observed
flames in a ravine fifty yards from the highway. He stopped and, looking down,
saw a car on fire. Neither the driver or any other person was in the vicinity.
He assumed that there were people in the car but because of the fire, he was
unable to get close enough to render aid. He drove to a farmhouse one mile from
the scene, roused the occupant and phoned the Wood County Sheriff’s office. A
deputy in Vienna responded at 12:08 a.m., extinguished the remaining fire and,
removed the bodies of a man and woman, later identified as Abelson and Salter.”

Lincoln took from the folder a small packet of
papers stapled together. “Here’s the medical examiner’s report. It’s got a lot
of big words I can’t pronounce so you’d better read it for yourself, if you’re
interested.”

Maharos placed the report on the edge of
Lincoln’s desk and he and Vandergrift pulled their chairs up close so they
could read it together. Polaroid photographs mounted on pages in the report
depicted the bodies, most of the skin burned black. Fragments of charred
clothing hung off the corpses. Another group of pictures had been taken after
the burned clothing had been removed, and segments of skin that had been
protected by clothing stood out as stark white in contrast to the blackened
portions.

They shuffled rapidly through the pictures until
they came to the pages on which were mounted close-ups of the gunshot wounds.
The woman had been shot once, through the back of the head at the base of the
skull. Her head had not been burned in the car fire, and a dark circlet
surrounding the bullet entry site represented powder burns indicating that she
had been shot at very close range. The bullet had exited through a ragged hole
in the right cheek.

When they came to the close-up of Abelson’s
gunshot wounds, Maharos and Vandergrift huddled closely, their heads touching.

The photos showed the characteristic two entry
sites: one over the base of the neck, the other between the shoulder blades.
The signature wounds.

One additional photo showed an exit wound in
Abelson’s neck.

Maharos said, “Did you recover the bullets?”

Lincoln said, “Yeah. The pathologist got one from
Abelson’s body that had not exited. I think it was in his breastbone. We
recovered another in the car wreckage. We’re not sure which of the bodies it
passed through.”

Vandergrift said, “There were two exit wounds, so
one bullet is missing.”

“Right. We went through what was left of the car
but couldn’t locate it.”

Maharos said, “What about the ballistics?”

Lincoln shuffled through the papers in the folder
and pulled out a report from West Virginia State Crime Laboratory. It described
the deformed bullet fragments and their markings. They had been shot from a
.25
 
caliber gun, probably a Beretta.

Vandergrift said, “First time he’s used a Beretta,
isn’t it?”

Maharos said, “Yeah.” He turned to Lincoln. “No
match on the ballistics?”

Lincoln shook his head. He looked from Maharos to
Vandergrift. Puzzled. “How come you’re interested in this case, and what did
you mean, ‘First time he’s used a Beretta.’?”

Maharos said, “Didn’t your chief tell you? I
explained it to him when I phoned down last night. We’ve got a couple of
homicides in Ohio with M.O.s that fit these—at least Abelson’s.”

Lincoln said, “Nobody told me nothin’ about that.
Sheriff Smith was already gone when I came on watch. He just left word that
you’d be here and that you wanted to go over the file. Nothin’ about why. What
do you mean, ‘a couple of homicides’? You think Salter’s runnin’ around the
countryside shootin’ up others besides his wife and her friend?”

“We don’t think it was Salter,” said Vandergrift.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“We don’t know who it is, but I doubt if it’s the
husband. Abelson was probably the target. She just got in the way.”

Lincoln looked at Maharos for confirmation and
got a nod.

Maharos and Vandergrift went over the file, but
there was little else of interest to them. Abelson had no family or close
friends in Parkersburg. He was living in a house he had rented shortly after
arriving from Canton three years before. He had no police record, his credit
rating was unblemished.

They asked Lincoln for photocopies of the file
and waited while they were made.

On their way back to Canton they made plans to
look up Abelson’s ex-wife, find out if she had any knowledge of a relationship
between Abelson and the other victims.

“Sussman was right. He predicted there would be a
February victim,” said Maharos.

“Actually, we’ve got a bonus,” said Vandergrift.

“Bonus?”

“Uh-huh. The woman. If Sussman is right about the
killer aiming for seven victims, he’s already met his quota.”

“Well, only Abelson had the signature. I think
you put your finger on it when you told Lincoln that Abelson was the target. Mrs.
Salter happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.”

Vandergrift said, “You know, there’s one thing
that’s puzzled me. We haven’t really discussed it.”

“What’s that?”

“All of these murders have taken place on country
roads. We’ve assumed that the killer somehow gets into the victim’s car and has
him drive to where he kills them. He leaves the body in the car. How do you
figure this guy gets back?”

Maharos said, “That’s bothered me, too. One way
would be to have an accomplice who follows the car with the victim and the
killer. After the job is done, they ride back to town.”

She shook her head. “I don’t buy that. Serial
killers are loners. I can’t imagine this one being different.”

“I don’t think much of that idea either. Of
course, he could always get on the road and hitchhike, but these killings have
all taken place at night and I can’t imagine anyone stopping on the freeway in
the dark to pick up a stranger, can you?”

“No. How about this: the killer parks his car at
a predetermined place, off the side of the country road where he had decided
he’s going to take his victim. He does it in daylight then hitches a ride back
to where he’s going to pick up the victim that night.”

“That’s a possibility, but it’s still taking a
chance he would get picked up by a sheriff or highway patrol officer for
hitchhiking on the freeway.”

Vandergrift laughed. “Reminds me of the riddle
where this farmer has a fox, a chicken and a bag of grain. He wants to take
them across a river in his canoe.”

Maharos said, “Yeah, I remember. He only has room
for one of the items at a time, besides himself, in his canoe. He can’t leave
the fox alone with the chicken because it will eat it. If he leaves the chicken
alone with the grain, you know what will happen to the grain. The puzzle is:
how to get all the items over to the other bank. Did you ever figure it out?”

“Sure. The farmer bought a bigger boat.”