Stalking Susan (27 page)

CHAPTER 39

R
edding had a head start so he beat me to the weapon. By the time I was even part of the race, he was pointing the barrel at my chest. We both breathed heavily. My heart pounded. His hand was bleeding, so was my nose.

“I’m not going to die on the home farm, am I?”

Redding didn’t answer, but his eyes narrowed.

Now seemed a good time to try lying. “I told the news desk during that phone call if they didn’t hear from me in an hour, they should call the cops.”

“You’re bluffing.” Psychiatrists can always tell.

Now seemed a good time to try establishing a dialogue.

“Killing other women won’t bring back your wife.”

But I had seriously misjudged his motive. That was understandable, because murder motives are sometimes learned only after the perpetrator is identified and questioned. I never anticipated his next words.

“I don’t want to bring her back. I want to be the one to kill her. For betraying me.”

Susanna…an accused adulteress…
Oh my God, he was executing women for the sin of adultery—his wife’s adultery—under the biblical law of woman as property of man. Talk about objectifying women.

“You’re killing other Susans because your wife cheated on you?”

“It was an insult to my skill as a therapist. Do you think I didn’t see my peers snickering behind my back?”

I don’t think he actually expected me to answer, which was good because I couldn’t. All I could think about was him seeking out surrogate Susans to strangle for revenge against his philandering mate. That she was already dead didn’t seem to satisfy him.

“I fantasized about what her last breath sounded like. I deserved to know. She belonged to me.”

He described first seeing Susan Chenowith waitressing at the diner one year to the day after his wife’s murder.

“She brushed against me while pouring coffee. On purpose. I noticed her name on her uniform. It seemed a sign: a Susan sent to me on the anniversary my Susan was taken.”

I disliked blood or I could have shot myself with Boyer’s gun months ago and no one would have challenged the medical examiner’s ruling of self-inflicted. But as I listened to Redding’s homicidal ramble, I realized I wanted to live and was willing to fight for tomorrow. If Redding wanted to stage my death to look like suicide, he could fire only one round and his aim had to be perfect. Should I gamble my life he couldn’t pull it off?

“On a whim,” he went on, “I waited outside for her shift to end.”

I nodded in what I hoped he would take as compassion and rushed him for the gun.

I had the advantage of surprise, but he had the advantage of having a finger on the trigger. He fell backward as I struggled to turn the weapon away from me. A loud blast halted our wrestling match. Blood seeped into the carpet around our bodies. I remember praying, let it be his blood, not mine.

It was.

Redding bled from a stomach wound. Although his face clenched in pain, his fingers still clung to the semiautomatic.

“So much for making it look like suicide,” I said.

“Actually, I was leaning toward a botched burglary.”

Uneasily we chuckled, but the laugh hurt him. He didn’t seem so crazy anymore. Now seemed a good time to offer help. “Let me call an ambulance.”

He shook his head and pointed the weapon at my chest.

“Okay, you’re the doctor,” I said. “What’s your medical opinion?”

“The patient will outlive you.” I didn’t like that prognosis, but I knew better than to argue with a man holding a gun. Besides a bullet in the gut, I tried to gauge Dr. Redding’s other weaknesses. By trade, he liked to listen and talk. I also knew he liked to show off.

“Tell me about the raincoat.”

“I already did.”

“That was very clever of you. I bet you laughed about our late-night walk for days. Did you know about the blue button? That’s what broke the case open.”

“No. The button surprised me. Quite impressive on your part. That’s when I decided to get to know you better.”

Garnett was right. I was a dolt. Redding had wanted to stay close to the investigation.

“So you put the raincoat on Susan Moreno’s body and took her necklace.”

“I took a special interest in that patient because of her name. As the anniversary date grew closer, I determined she was the next one. For her therapy, I offered to meet after hours, to coach her on how to stay straight.”

No surprise she had walked into his trap. After all, look at me.

“That phone call I had earlier,” I told him, “it wasn’t the station. Her old boyfriend recognized you from that news clip of us together.”

“Now you know why I’m camera shy.”

I didn’t know much about stomach wounds, but I hoped if I kept Redding talking, he might bleed to death before he could pull the trigger.

“Were you lying about your own suicide watch? When you checked yourself into a clinic?”

“That made me realize I didn’t really want to stop. I just didn’t want to go to jail. I decided to vary my method. To pass off a murder as a suicide is an accomplishment.” At his reference to Susan Niemczyk’s homicide, the corner of Redding’s mouth curled up, like a cross between Mona Lisa and the Big Bad Wolf. “That’s when I knew the police would never catch me.”

“But ultimately you did stop.” I tried stressing the positive. “Until Susan Victor.”

“No. I didn’t stop.” He sounded proud. “You just didn’t find the others.”

The others. No one would probably find me either. The blood stain on Redding’s shirt was spreading, and he had to be growing weaker. I knew it. He knew it. He needed to pull the trigger soon, before he passed out. I silently debated how much longer I could play Scheherazade with the most important interview of my life.

“Come, I have something to show you,” he said. “You drive.”

Leaving the house was riskier for him than for me. Usually an abductor takes his victim from a public place to a more private setting. That spells trouble for the victim because more privacy means less chance of rescue. Redding might have a secluded gravel pit in mind, but he’d have to get me there first. Past other people. With his bullet wound, he couldn’t carry my body. Damn if I’d end up like that TV anchorwoman in Iowa. Ten years later, still missing. Better closure for my parents to bury me in a marked grave. Whatever plan Redding had before, I felt certain he was now improvising.

“Can’t we take your Beemer?” I asked. “I don’t want blood in my car.” A joke might catch him off guard. Nope.

He wobbled as he stood, pressed the gun against my back, and pushed me toward the stairs. “I purposely took the bus so no one would notice my car parked by your house.”

When we got downstairs, he made me fold up the
SUSANS
board with his name on it. “Put it in the backseat.”

I picked up my purse off the kitchen counter while he stuffed some dish towels in his shirt to absorb the blood. He grabbed his coat and we exited through the back door. The sky still held a half hour of daylight, but the street and surrounding yards were empty. Where were the paparazzi when I needed them?

If ever I wished Mrs. Fredericks would peek out her window, now was the time. Most likely she was tuned to
Desperate Housewives,
oblivious to her own desperate neighbor.

CHAPTER 40

M
y car keys were caught in the clutter of my purse. As I groped for them, my fingers brushed against my mini tape recorder. Surreptitiously, I pressed
record
, to make an audio record of our drive, or at least the first thirty minutes of it. As we got inside the Mustang, I slipped the recorder on the floor under my seat. If the police found my car, they’d find a concrete clue that pointed to a specific suspect. I made a special point to call Dr. Redding by name, so the cops would know the identity of my abductor.

“Where are you taking me, Dr. Redding?” I asked.

“Fasten your seat belt,” he instructed me. I don’t think he was concerned for my safety; he was concerned I might leap from the moving vehicle and leave him to die in a fiery car crash. “Keep your hands on the steering wheel.”

My right hand had powder burns and my thumb knuckle had suffered a small gash from the gun’s kick. I was in considerably better physical shape than my captor, riding shotgun, bleeding like an ulcer. But he had the confidence that comes from being armed and dangerous.

“Here, put this on.” He handed me a
VOTE SUSAN
campaign button. I didn’t need to ask where he got it.

“Please, Brent, not that. I didn’t even vote for her when she was alive.”

“Put it on now, or I’ll put it on you later.”

Obediently I pinned the button to my sweater. “You know journalists aren’t supposed to support political candidates.”

“I offered to make a contribution to her campaign,” he said. “When I explained who I was, she understood why I wanted to meet in private and avoid publicity.”

No use thinking ill of the dead.

“Now give me your wedding ring.” He said the words calmly, like he was asking me to pass the salt or the sports section.

“No. You can’t have it.”

“But I insist.” He emphasized the seriousness of his request by waving my husband’s gun. “I might need it next year.”

The emotional response would be to spit in his face. The rational response would be to hand over the ring. Boyer’s gun. Boyer’s ring. Boyer would want me to buy time.

I wished my knuckles were swollen, but the ring slid off easily. Redding placed my gold band on his left pinkie and held up his hand, fingers spread wide. When he pressed his fingers together, my wedding ring and his touched each other, making a soft, metallic clink.

“Now start the car.”

I backed out of the driveway and pulled up to the stop sign on West Fiftieth. “Which way? How about the hospital? They could stop the bleeding.”

“Head to the freeway,” he said, “35W South.”

That gave me just over a mile of residential streets. Once we got on the freeway, I’d have fewer options. I needed a strategy fast, because having hope is not the same as having a plan. I recalled Garnett saying something about how most serial killers are caught either during a routine traffic stop or when a victim escapes.

Redding’s blood dripped on the dark carpet of my car. Between those splotches and the congealing pool in my bedroom, the forensics team would have plenty of evidence. Little chance his DNA would be on file, but fingerprints might eventually point them in his direction, if I couldn’t.

“And you lured Garnett there?” An idea took form in the back of my mind. A long shot, but right now what wasn’t?

“Yes. That was a nice touch. It turned out better than I had dreamed. I thought I’d have to call some anonymous tip line and report seeing his vehicle in the park late that night. You were a big help.”

I ignored his verbal jab as we approached Nicollet Avenue. “How’d you get his glove?”

“He dropped it that night when we met outside your house. I thought it might come in handy.”

I stopped for the light. A traffic sign warned no right turn on red, and that bought me valuable seconds of plotting time. The windshield was starting to steam up. I made a big point of wiping the windows to improve my visibility. Redding scowled and hit the defrost button.

“So what do you want to show me?” I asked.

“You’ll see soon enough.”

I hit the gas a bit to drive uphill, then inched the speedometer higher as we cruised downhill, over Minnehaha Creek. I accelerated until I was fifteen over the limit and hoped that would be enough as we passed a bank of trees at the end of the bridge. I was counting on one of Minneapolis’s finest still being on speed trap duty.

“Did I ever tell you I’m afraid to fly?” I changed the subject to distract him from our change in speed.

“A good therapist could probably help you with that.”

The squad clocked me. I saw police lights in my rearview mirror but didn’t slow down until he gave me a shot of his siren.

“How fast were you going?” Redding’s voice cracked.

“I don’t know. Not so fast. I’m nervous is all.”

The patrol car stuck tight to my bumper as I turned onto Diamond Lake Road. We were almost at the freeway entrance. If I didn’t stop now, we’d be in a slow speed chase like O.J. Simpson.

“Pull over. But play it very cool, or I’ll kill you both. How’d you like another cop widow out there?”

That perspective changed things.

The officer had either run my plates, memorized them, or was a loyal Channel 3 viewer, because he greeted me by name. His smile stretched so wide, I imagined the euphoria he would experience when he waved my ticket at Chief Capacasa to claim his reward. He gave my passenger only a perfunctory look. Redding’s coat was draped over his lap, hiding his wound and his weapon.

“Going a little fast, Ms. Spartz?”

“Was I, officer? I’m so sorry.”

I fumbled with my wallet and purposely dropped my driver’s license onto the floor. I unhooked my seat belt to reach for it, scraped it back and forth against the bloody carpet, handed it to the officer, and watched him head back to his squad.

“Why’s he so smiley?” Even Redding noticed the young officer’s enthusiasm.

“Probably just excited to be ticketing a TV celebrity. Something to brag about at the precinct.”

But the bounce in his step slowed as he reached his squad door. I figured he must have identified the sticky substance on my license.

“Don’t make him suspicious,” Redding said. “If he asks you to step outside the vehicle, I will shoot him. And then you will have two dead lawmen on your conscience.”

This was his first reference to my guilt over my husband’s death since I had confided in him that night in the park. I decided not to remind him that I’m not responsible for the actions of a madman. And for the first time since Boyer’s murder, I believed those words.

“Stay calm,” I said. “I’m just going to take my ticket and apologize. Don’t freak if he asks for an autograph.”

“I’ll bet he has kids. Maybe a little boy with a toy badge who wants to be a cop when he grows up, just like daddy.”

Shit.

I kept my eyes on the side mirror, watched the cop rest his hand on his holster and glance backward. It was now or never. I slammed my purse against Redding’s stomach and the gun while jerking the car door open with my other hand. The next three seconds felt like thirty. Everything seemed to transpire in slow motion. By the time I heard the shot I was rolling on asphalt. Screaming in pain. Or was it fear?

The officer, on one knee, yelled, “Drop it! Drop it! Drop it!”

More gunfire. Breaking glass. Hysteria. I swear the cop fired at the car. But later Chief Capacasa told me Redding blew his brains out against my dashboard. I really wish we had taken his BMW.