No Place to Die (3 page)

Four hours later, I climbed the stairs back up to my office in the Homicide Unit on the third floor of the police headquarters building on Washington Street in downtown Phoenix. The lieutenant’s door was standing open, and as I reached the reception area, he looked up from the report on his desk, put down his reading glasses, and waved me in.

The lieutenant, Russ Martin, was a twenty-two-year veteran of the force and had been head of the Homicide
Unit for the last five years. His hair, which had once been as thick and dark as my own, was now thinning and flecked with gray. But six mornings a week, he began his day in the gym, and even at fifty-two he remained in excellent physical shape. He pointed me toward a chair in front of his desk, and I said, “What’s up?”

Toying with a pencil, he said, “Beverly Thompson’s picture hit the airwaves first thing this morning. So far we’ve had fourteen callers claiming to have seen her within the last twelve hours in locations from Tucson all the way up to Prescott. Patrolmen are following up on all the local reported sightings, and we’re coordinating with police and sheriff’s departments in the outlying areas. Doubtless, as the day progresses the number of calls will escalate, but we don’t have anything that looks solid yet.”

With the pencil, he tapped the report he’d been reading. “Ballistics says the bullets we got out of David Thompson match the slugs they recovered from the elderly woman that Pierce and Chickris drew last Friday. It looks like the same shooter did both her and Thompson.”

“Any obvious connection between the Thompsons and this other woman?”

“None that I know of,” he sighed. “But the report just landed on my desk ten minutes ago. Obviously the cases are related, though, and the four of you will need to work them together. You’re senior; I’d prefer that you take the lead.”

He paused for a moment, toying with his glasses and staring at the photo of his wife and three kids that sat on the edge of the cluttered desk. Then he looked back to me. “That said, Sean, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to ask. Are you sure you’re up for this?”

I’d been waiting for the question for the last couple of months and was surprised only by the fact that it
had taken him this long to ask it. Certainly it was a fair question, especially under the circumstances. The department was now confronted with a complex investigation that would inevitably attract a great deal of attention in the media, and his ass would be on the line much more so than mine. He needed to know—and had every right to demand—that his lead investigator would be tightly focused on the case and capable of performing effectively.

I certainly understood that if I were too distracted to give the case the time and attention it demanded, my record to date would be of absolutely no consequence. The lieutenant would have to assign the overall direction of the investigation to someone else. I waited a moment myself, then looked him in the eye and gave him what I hoped was an honest answer.

“Yeah, Lieutenant, I’m up for it. And I promise to let you know the second I feel that I’m not.”

“Okay then,” he said. “Doyle is back from vacation tomorrow, but Riggins won’t be back from his father’s funeral for another few days. So until Bob gets back you can use Doyle as well.”

I pretended to think about it for a moment, then said, “I don’t know, Lieutenant. Are you sure that’s necessary? Why don’t we see what McClinton, Pierce, Chickris, and I can do with this thing over the next few days? Then you could evaluate the situation, determine whether you think we need any additional help, and decide at that point who might be the best addition to the team based on where we are.”

The lieutenant shook his head. “Look, Sean. I know you have your issues with Doyle, and I’m not suggesting that I don’t understand where you’re coming from. But you need to set all that bullshit aside. Whether either of us likes it or not, Doyle is still assigned to this unit. Beyond that, you know damned good and well that you’re going to need all the manpower you can
get on this thing. Certainly you can find some way to use him productively at least for the next few days. In the meantime, you need to get on it.”

The lieutenant gave me a copy of the ballistics report, and twenty minutes later, Maggie and I were holed up in the squad’s conference room with Elaine Pierce and Greg Chickris, the team that had caught the case of Alma Fletcher.

Chickris was the youngster of the unit. Tall and rail thin, he was a former college golfer who, in spite of the demands of the job and a young family, still somehow maintained a three handicap. Pierce was divorced, in her midforties with two teenage kids—a stocky bottle blonde who’d come into the Homicide Unit about six months after me. Her aggressive nature complemented her partner’s more laid-back personality, and the two of them had a very good record of clearing cases. I asked Elaine to bring Maggie and me up to speed on their case.

She flipped open the folder in front of her and without looking at it said, “The vic is Alma Fletcher, sixty-four, a retired third-grade teacher, married to Robert Fletcher, also sixty-four. He works for a small insurance agency in Glendale. He found his wife in the living room when he got home from work about six o’clock on Friday evening. She’d been shot twice—one in the head and one in the heart. Either one would have gotten the job done.

“The ME puts the time of death at about ten thirty that morning. The husband has a concrete alibi—he got to work at eight, and people put him there all day until he left at five. The two had been married for thirty-nine years, and all their friends say that the marriage was rock solid. We found no evidence of any discord, no financial problems, nothing to suggest that the husband might have had any reason to hire the job done.
He’s clearly devastated, and we’ve ruled him out as a possible suspect.

“The victim was not sexually assaulted, and nothing was taken from the home. Neither the husband nor any of the woman’s friends could think of anyone who might have been even slightly angry with her, and so we haven’t been able to come up with anything that might even remotely resemble a motive. None of the neighbors saw anything unusual the morning of the killing—no strangers in the area, nobody selling magazines door-to-door, or any such thing.”

“Did the techs give you anything?” Maggie asked.

“Nada,” Greg sighed. “At least not yet. They found no prints that didn’t seem to belong there, but they did get some hair and fibers, and if we come up with a suspect maybe we can match them up to him. Of course it’s also possible that the guy’s had a prior conviction, in which case we may already have his DNA.”

“We should get so lucky,” Pierce and I said, almost in unison.

Arizona had begun collecting DNA samples from convicted sex offenders in 1993. Gradually, the list of those required to give samples had been expanded, and since January 2004, everyone convicted of a felony in the state had been required to submit a sample. Thus, DNA collected at a crime scene could be compared to the samples on file in the state’s database or in CODIS, the FBI’s database of DNA samples collected from criminals nationwide.

As Greg suggested, it was possible that our killer was a prior offender and that he might have been required to submit a DNA sample. Unfortunately, in the normal course of things it would still be several days before the tests would be completed and we’d have an answer one way or the other. In the meantime, we’d have to pursue the investigation using more traditional techniques.

Looking to Elaine, I said, “Do we know how Fletcher’s killer got in?”

“We’re assuming that she let him in. There was no sign of a forced entry, so we figure that he rang the front doorbell. She answered it, and he backed her into the living room and shot her.”

“Did anyone report seeing an unfamiliar vehicle in the neighborhood that morning?” Maggie asked. “In particular, did anyone notice a black van?”

Greg shook his head. “Naturally, we asked about strange vehicles, but no one indicated that they saw one.”

“Still, you’ll want to go back and ask them again,” I suggested. “We believe that last night the guy was driving a black van that looks like it might belong to a tradesman of some sort. Maybe one of Fletcher’s neighbors saw it but didn’t realize the significance. If so, there’s at least a chance that we can get a better description.”

“Sure,” Elaine agreed.

“In the meantime,” I said, “we need to dig into this woman’s life and see where it intersects with either David or Beverly Thompson. So far, we don’t know which of the Thompsons was the killer’s real target. Was he after her and the husband blundered into it, or was it the other way around? I’m assuming the killer didn’t simply pick these people at random. There must be some connection that ties Fletcher to one or possibly both of the Thompsons.”

“How do you want to carve it up?” Greg asked.

“You guys go at it from Fletcher’s side; Maggie and I will go at it from the Thompsons’. Assuming that they weren’t related in some way by blood or marriage, the most obvious question is, was Fletcher a client of Beverly Thompson’s or perhaps a patient of David Thompson’s? There’s gotta be a link there somewhere. Let’s find it.”

Greg rose to get out of his chair, but I waved him back down. “There’s one other thing,” I sighed. “Chris Doyle is back from vacation tomorrow. The lieutenant’s going to assign him to work with us until Bob gets back from his father’s funeral.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Oh, that’ll be a big fuckin’ help. Even if Doyle
is
back in the building tomorrow, he’ll still be on vacation, and the lieutenant knows that as well as all the rest of us. The time we’ll have to spend babysitting that asshole is time that we could be spending doing something productive.”

Pierce and Chickris understood Maggie’s history with Doyle almost as well as I did, and none of us was going to dispute her observation. Unfortunately, though, the lieutenant had left us little choice in the matter. I shrugged and said, “Sorry. But whatever the case, that’s the situation we’re in. So obviously the best thing for all concerned would be for us to get out there, find our killer, and rescue Beverly Thompson before the close of business today. Then we won’t have to worry about Doyle.”

While Elaine and Greg went off to reinterview Alma Fletcher’s husband and friends, Maggie and I decided to start with the staff at David Thompson’s office. Maggie said that she wanted to hit the john before we left, and I nodded my acknowledgment. Five minutes later, she returned and said, “Are you ready to roll?”

“Yeah. Who’s going to drive?”

“To Scottsdale—at this time of the day? Are you fuckin’ kidding? You drive.”

I could’ve pulled rank and insisted that she do it, but I enjoyed driving and found it oddly therapeutic, even in the congestion of the Valley’s traffic, and especially on a day as beautiful as this. As we walked out of the station into the dry desert air, the temperature stood somewhere in the high sixties and a brilliant sun
punctuated the cobalt sky. Slipping on my sunglasses, it struck me that it was an altogether far-too-perfect day for the task that lay ahead of us.

My department ride was a Chevy Impala, two years newer and a lot more reliable than Maggie’s. As the engine sprung to life, so did Angie Stone, singing “Love Junkie” on the CD changer I’d surreptitiously installed in the trunk.

“Hey! Not bad for a middle-aged cracker,” Maggie laughed, cranking up the volume.

“Fuck you, Maggs,” I responded as I pulled out of the lot and accelerated onto Seventh Avenue.

Beverly Thompson came slowly awake again a little after nine o’clock, Thursday morning, still a bit groggy from the aftereffects of the chloroform. For the briefest moment she thought that she was waking from a horrible nightmare, but then she flashed again on the image of David slumping to the floor of the garage. In the same instant, she felt a sharp twinge of pain between her thighs, and she realized that the nightmare had been all too real.

Her captor had loosened her clothes, pushed them out of his way, and raped her three times during the course of the night, slamming himself into her with an intense anger that he refused to explain. Obviously he knew who she was and expected that she should know him. But he didn’t look at all familiar to Beverly, and he refused to tell her his name or to explain why he had kidnapped her and murdered her husband.

She had cried through most of the night—harder
during his assaults—but it failed to move him at all. If anything, the man seemed to take a grim satisfaction in her pain, and in response to her tears, he drove himself into her even harder.

At around four in the morning, he had finally stopped. He unlocked the handcuff that bound her left wrist to the wall at the head of the bed and removed the rope that restrained her left leg. Then he pulled a cheap thin blanket over the two of them and fell asleep on the bed beside her. After that he left her alone.

The bedroom door was cracked open, and she could hear him now, moving around in one of the other rooms. She heard what sounded like a cupboard door closing and the sound of dishes clinking against each other. A minute or so later, she heard footsteps moving back toward the bedroom. She closed her eyes and turned her head away, pretending to be asleep, and praying that the man would not assault her again.

He came into the room and she heard him set two items on the small nightstand next to the bed. Then he sat down on the bed and grabbed Beverly roughly by the shoulder. “Wake up, princess,” he said. “Time to rise and shine.”

She turned to look at him, feigning that he had awakened her. He waited until she appeared to be fully awake, then said, “Okay, sweetheart, I’ve got places to go and people to see. You’ll have to live without me for a while.” Pointing to the nightstand, he said, “Your breakfast is served.”

Beverly glanced over and saw a bowl of what appeared to be granola mixed with almonds and raisins, floating in milk; a spoon; a paper towel folded in half, apparently to be used as a napkin; a large glass of orange juice; and two bottles of water. She looked back at her abductor, who was taking a ring of keys from the pocket of his jeans. Stretching over her, he
unlocked the handcuff from her right wrist. Then he took her by the hand and pulled her slowly to her feet.

“Time for a quick tour,” he said.

Beverly was now tethered only by a cable made of braided wire that had been sheathed in plastic and bolted to the cuff that gripped her right ankle. The cable looked to be about fifteen feet long, and the other end was anchored into the floor near the foot of the bed.

With her free hand, Beverly quickly buttoned the top two buttons on her blouse and pulled her skirt back down, covering herself as best she could while the man led her across the bedroom and into a small bathroom, the cable dragging across the floor behind her. The bathroom, like the bedroom, had been completely insulated, and a piece of plywood had been nailed over what was apparently a small window above the dingy toilet.

The cable was long enough to allow Beverly to reach the toilet and the small stained sink next to it. A washcloth and a bath towel, both of which might once have been white but which were now frayed and gray, had been draped carelessly over a towel bar next to the sink.

Beverly’s captor was dressed this morning in a pair of clean blue Levi’s and a sleeveless green T-shirt imprinted with the logo of a local gym. As she surveyed the bathroom, he spun her around and grabbed her hard by the shoulders. Once sure that he had her full attention, he said in a harsh voice, “Okay, Beverly, you listen to me now like your life depended on it, because believe me, it does. While I’m gone, you need to be a good girl. Stay calm and quiet, and don’t do anything that might attract attention to yourself.”

Gesturing at the insulation, he said, “Even if you were to shout yourself hoarse, no one would be able to hear you, besides which, this house is in the middle of
one of the city’s highest-crime neighborhoods. On the off chance that anybody did hear you, the odds are very good that it wouldn’t be somebody whose acquaintance you’d want to make, if you get my drift. And even if you were lucky enough to attract the attention of somebody who might call the cops, you wouldn’t want that to happen either.”

Pointing back to the bedroom door, he continued, “If you haven’t already noticed, that door is the only way in and out of here. What you can’t see from the inside of the room is that the door is wired with explosives. I’m going to arm it when I leave. If the cops or anyone else opens that door, this house—and you and them along with it—will be blown to hell and back.

“So believe me when I say that it’s in your own best interests for you to just sit here quietly and mind your manners while I’m out. You can reach the john and the sink. There’s enough water there to get you through the day, and that should be all you need. We’ll have a late lunch when I get back, and then maybe we can think of some way to amuse ourselves through the afternoon.”

Tearing up again, Beverly tried to shrink away from him. “Who
are
you?” she pleaded again. “Why are you doing this to me?”

The man shook his head. “You know, Beverly, my feelings are starting to be hurt real bad. I was sure you would have recognized me by now, but I think I’ll let the mystery build a little longer. Perhaps it’ll come to you.”

Still gripping her shoulders, he pulled her close again and forced a hard kiss on her. Releasing her, he stepped back and shook his head. “Jesus, babe, you’ve got a serious case of morning mouth there. I didn’t even think about getting you a toothbrush and some toothpaste. I’ll pick some up on the way home.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing in the bathroom. She watched as he crossed
the bedroom to the door. He gave her a small wave, then closed the door behind him. Beverly heard him lock the dead bolt from the other side, and a couple of seconds later, she heard a small metallic click that sounded as if it came from somewhere near the top of the door. Then everything was quiet.