The Cruelest Cut (11 page)

Maddy absolutely refused to have a police officer stay with her. Bill Goldberg had halfheartedly attempted to get her to change her mind, but in the end she was like any other reporter Jack had ever met—hardheaded and secretive. She had finally said that, as she wasn't under arrest, she was going back inside to change, and then go to work, and would they all please leave her alone.

Jack and Liddell met Captain Franklin on the street and stood around their cars discussing their next move.

“What do you think?” Franklin said, and looked around to be sure no one else was listening.

“I think they would sacrifice their own mothers for a personal interview with the killer,” Liddell said.

“You talked to the station manager, Goldberg. Do you think they will keep their word and cooperate with us?” Jack asked the captain.

“He was lying through his teeth,” Franklin said conspiratorially, “but there's not much we can do about it.”

“I wonder what Maddy was whispering to him about?” Liddell said.

Jack thought again about the Channel Six vehicle speeding off after meeting with Goldberg. Could have been on a hot call. Maybe the mayor had gotten caught skinny-dipping in the Civic Center fountain. Probably not.

Franklin's phone rang. “Excuse me a minute,” he said and walked a few feet away. He came back and handed the phone to Jack. “You need to take this,” he said.

“Detective Murphy,” Jack said, and then, “Wait a minute. Let me get something to write on.” He fished through his jacket and found a coffee shop receipt and a pen. “Okay, go ahead, Sheriff.” He wrote a couple of things on the paper and then flipped the phone shut and handed it to Franklin.

“That was Sheriff Tanner Crowley. Dubois County,” Jack said. “They're working a murder scene at a cabin near Patoka Lake.”

“So?” Liddell asked.

“The killer left a message in blood for me.”

“How do they know it was for you?” Liddell asked.

Jack looked at Franklin. “He wouldn't say. Captain?”

Franklin looked at his watch. “It'll take you about an hour to get there the way you drive.” It was about an eighty-mile trip to Patoka Lake from Evansville. “Keep the wheels on the road, Jack,” he said. “And call when you know something. Liddell can take over here.”

Franklin walked away, and Liddell turned to Jack, saying, “Give me the keys to your Cherokee, and you can take my unmarked car. I'll leave your Jeep at the station and drive your unmarked until you get back.”

“Good idea,” Jack said and traded keys.

“You always get to go on the trips. How come I never get to go?” Liddell complained.

“Keep an eye on Maddy, will you, partner?” Jack asked.

“If you don't hurry, she may beat you there,” Liddell answered.

 

Interstate 64 runs east–west at the northern edge of the county. Jack went up U.S. Highway 57 and then turned east toward Louisville. He opened his phone and dialed the number for Sheriff Crowley. When he came on the line, Jack asked some questions he hadn't previously thought of. Crowley said he'd get back to him.

Jack was just passing the Interstate 164 bypass near the Vanderburgh County limits when his phone rang.

“Murphy,” he said, listened, and then said, “Damn!”

He told the sheriff where he was, hung up, and stepped it up. Eighty. Ninety. At one hundred-ten miles an hour he set the cruise, turned on the wig-wag lights, and gripped the wheel. Traffic was light but would be getting thick with morning work traffic soon.

Crowley had told him that they found a note, stuffed in the victim's throat, just like Jack had told them. But they were hesitant to remove it until their coroner arrived.

Crowley hadn't told him much except to get his ass over there and answer some questions, and Jack could understand where the sheriff was coming from. It was an election year. Dubois County had a small sheriff's department, and Crowley was hoping to have a handle on this before the state police got involved. Once the state police got there they'd start ordering the sheriff and his men around, and Crowley would probably like to get the credit himself.

About twenty minutes out he began looking for Exit 57 that would take him north on 231 through the little town of Huntingburg. That route would take him off the interstate, but if traffic was light he would pass through Birdseye, English, and St. Anthony, and come out at the spot the sheriff had chosen for the meet.

He spotted Exit 57 too late and had to stomp on the brakes. He took the right ramp to the top, then turned north onto State Road 231. Less than a mile down the road he spotted a cow standing in the road; then a couple of deer darted across his path. Up ahead was a black buggy being pulled by a pair of horses.
Should have stayed on the damn interstate.
He reluctantly reduced his speed to sixty-five, then to forty-five, and then he was in Huntingburg. Rush-hour traffic was an oxymoron.

Liddell and Franklin had set up a loose surveillance team on Maddy Brooks, but it wouldn't be easy. She was within her rights to refuse protection from the police, as crazy as that sounded, and could even file a complaint or federal charges for violating her civil rights. And that posed a problem. Franklin needed experienced detectives because of the nature of the assignment, but Deputy Chief Dick had interceded and selected the two newest detectives for the job. Franklin hoped he had made it crystal clear to the two men that they were to observe and report and not talk to her.

Then Liddell got down to the tedious work of going through the records once more. He had not even made a dent in them, and wasn't really sure what he was supposed to find. He'd been at it about ten minutes and was hoping that Jack would call soon to let them know what was going on in Dubois County, when Captain Franklin came in with an embarrassed-looking Detective Jansen following close on his heels.

“You won't need to finish that, Liddell,” Franklin said.

Liddell looked from Franklin to Jansen. “I think I should do this myself, Captain,” he said, casting a furtive glance at Jansen. Not that he wanted to do Jansen any favors by keeping him from a grunt job—he just didn't trust him.

Franklin said, “I want you to meet your new help,” and a smallish young woman stepped from behind him. Liddell hadn't noticed her come into the room.

She smiled and extended a hand. It was very soft, but her grip was strong. Her skin was the color of yellow coal, with dark hair and even darker eyes that bordered on black. Without waiting for Franklin to introduce her, she confidently said, “My name is Angelina Garcia. I'm a civilian intel analyst for the Vice squad.”

Franklin added, “And the best damn computer operator you will ever meet.” He then turned to Garcia and Jansen. “I want you two to take all of those files”—he indicated the folders covering Jack and Liddell's desktops—“and come with us.”

Jansen let Garcia pick up the majority of the files, and he reluctantly picked up the rest and followed the trio down the hallway.

“Where we going, Captain?”

“Chief's conference room,” Franklin answered. “He's given us his rooms until this is over.”

Liddell grabbed the stack of files from Garcia and, piling them on top of Jansen's, said, “You heard the captain. Let's go.”

 

A desk had been brought inside the chief's conference room, and several computer and telephone lines had been set up in preparation. Power cords snaked along the walls and under the thirty-foot-long conference table.

“I'm moving into the chief's office temporarily,” Franklin said.

“Where's the chief going?” Liddell asked.

Franklin allowed himself a tiny smirk. “He's going to take the deputy chief's office temporarily, and the deputy chief is going to be working out of the Vice unit for a while.” Liddell raised his eyebrows, and Franklin continued, “To gather intelligence for us.”

“I see,” Liddell said. The chief had effectively neutered Double Dick while making it look like he had given him an important job.
That's why he's the chief,
Liddell thought.

“Show me what you've got. And call me Garcia,” Angelina said to Liddell.

Liddell explained what the stacks of files were and briefed her about the notes that were found at the scenes of the murders. He also told her about the corresponding notes sent to Maddy Brooks at Channel Six and about the ties to Mother Goose nursery rhymes.

“Mother Goose, huh?” Garcia said. “Where's the book?”

Liddell promised to bring her the stack of books that Jack had gotten from Katie. “Are the books important?” he asked.

“Don't know that yet,” Garcia said and looked thoughtful. Then she asked, “And your partner is going to yet another murder scene?”

“Yeah,” Liddell answered. “Patoka Lake area.”

“Be sure you tell me what he finds there as soon as possible,” she said and picked up the nearest stack of files and set them on top of a desk. To Jansen, she said, “I'll work here, if that's okay, and you can have that end of the table.”

He grumbled and excused himself to go to the restroom.

Liddell started to pick up the other pile, but she put a restraining hand on his arm. “I'm quite capable of doing this work, Detective. You catch this bastard and leave the paperwork to me.”

“If Jansen gives you any problems, call me,” he said.

Garcia threw her hair back and laughed. “I can take care of that pip-squeak, Detective Blanchard,” she said confidently.

He could get to like this little dynamo. “Okay, Garcia. You can call me Liddell.”

She smiled and then ignored him totally as she lit up her monitor and got to work.

Jack had entered the lake region, but it took him almost five minutes to locate the sign that pointed left to Panther Creek. He took this road for about a hundred yards, and when he turned into the lot he got a clear view of part of the lake. The water was deep blue and green, and the sun sparkled off its surface. He pulled up behind a brown and tan Jeep Cherokee marked
DUBOIS COUNTY SHERIFF
and came to a stop.

The man inside pulled himself from the Jeep, and it rose several inches. Sheriff Tanner Crowley was a big man. He wasn't fat. He might have been in his fifties, but he looked strong and fit.

Jack rolled his window down as the big man came up to his car.

“Murphy?”

“You got me,” Jack said. “You Sheriff Crowley?”

The sheriff nodded his head and grinned a little. “Your captain said you were a smart-ass. Is that right?”

“Guilty as charged, your honor,” Jack said.

“You 'n' me'll get along just fine,” Crowley said. “Call me Tanner.” He put out a large hand, and Jack shook it.

“You will want to ride with me. Some of these roads are not fit for travel except in a four-wheel drive, and we got a little piece to go to get to the cabin.”

Jack got in the passenger side of the Jeep and was surprised at how roomy it was even with all the radio equipment and a computer mounted between the seats. A 12-gauge Winchester pump shotgun was mounted above their heads in an electronically locked quick-release carrier above the windshield. A half-dozen pairs of handcuffs and ankle cuffs stood up in a wooden box between the seats.

The sheriff saw Jack eyeing the box of handcuffs and said, “It's a quiet little county most of time. At least until a bunch of drunked-up fishermen start tearing the place apart.” Jack could understand that. He was an avid fisherman himself and was known to have a drink or two—or twenty—when he was out on the water.

Tanner drove expertly down a path that led into the woods and back out onto a gravel road. “Shortcut,” he said as they bounced over some small downed trees. He consulted a GPS mounted to his dash and said, “We should just about be there,” and cut the wheels sharply off the gravel road and into the woods. They traveled uphill a hundred yards or so and made a sharp right turn, traveling along a shallow stream and coming out below a gravel parking area. Jack could see two other sheriff department SUVs and a huge, white Ford pickup with monster tires parked in the lot.

As Tanner parked, a deputy ran up to the car. This one was as big as Tanner but younger. They talked for a minute, and Tanner introduced them.

“This is detective Murphy from Evansville,” he said to the deputy, then to Jack, “This is my chief deputy, Mark Crowley.” Tanner saw Jack's expression and said, “Yeah, he's my son. You gonna say something smart-ass about it?”

“I just want to get back to the road before the banjos start playing,” Jack said with a grin.

“Hear that, Mark?” Tanner said.

“Yeah, Sheriff, he's a hoot,” the younger Crowley said.

“Why don't you fill him in on the way, Bubba?” Crowley said to his son.

He actually called him Bubba,
Jack thought, but didn't interrupt.

They walked up a gravel path. The sheriff had said it was about fifty yards to the cabin, and Jack wondered why they had parked so distant from the crime scene. As they walked farther down the path and into the woods, it became clear to him. He'd seen an SUV with K-9 markings parked in the outer perimeter. They must have brought the dog out to see if they could get a direction of travel on the killer.

“Dog do any good?” Jack asked.

Mark Crowley answered, his voice sounding hollow. “Dad'll fill you in on that. You probably should look at the scene first.”

They arrived at the front, wraparound deck of the cabin. An older deputy stood just outside the front door with a notebook in his hand. The deputy's uniform was faded to the point it was almost colorless, but Jack was impressed to see he was wearing a Glock .45 in a Class III retention holster.

The older deputy's name tag read
VODKA WILSON
, and although Jack thought that was quite a remarkable name, he was glad the older man wasn't Grandpa Crowley. Even nepotism had to have limits.

They walked onto the deck, and Vodka was already writing in his notebook. “This the guy, Sheriff?” Vodka asked without looking up.

“It wasn't me. I got witnesses,” Jack said, holding his hands in the air, to which the older deputy chuckled, then coughed into his cupped hands like he would spit out a lung.

“Gotta quit smoking,” Vodka said when he recovered enough to speak; then to the Crowleys he said, “His captain was right, Sheriff. He's a real smart-ass.” He then wiped his right hand on his pant leg and held it out to greet the newcomer.

Jack would have liked to glove up first, but he reluctantly took the offered hand. He was a guest here, so it wouldn't do to be rude. As he shook hands, Jack wondered how many people the captain had talked to. Probably everyone on the lake knew he was a smart-ass by now.
I'm going to have to talk to Captain Franklin about this slander when I get back,
Jack thought.

 

Every light in the cabin was on in addition to several work lights on tripods set up to illuminate the body. The lights were so glaringly bright, the body so badly abused, that Jack winced at the grisly scene. During the ride to the cabin the sheriff had informed him that the victim was a white female about twenty-five years old and that she had been employed by St. Mary's Hospital in Evansville. She was found by a female friend who had come to visit her at the cabin at about three o'clock that morning.

“This is exactly how her friend found her,” Mark Crowley said.

“Is she still here? The friend?” Jack asked. He hoped she was available to answer a few questions. Like, why was she going to the cabin at three o'clock in the morning?

“Well, that's part of the weirdness we got here,” Mark answered. “Our office got the call from a pay phone in Evansville at four thirty-five this morning. A female caller. Said she wanted to report a murder. She wouldn't give her name at first, but the deputy finally convinced her we needed to talk to her, and she agreed to talk to you.”

“Me?” Jack said, surprised. “Why me?”

“Her name is Janet Parson. She's a nurse, a physical therapist of some type. Works at the same hospital as the victim. She says she knows you,” Mark answered.

The name sounded familiar to Jack, and then he remembered that when he had been in the hospital, his physical therapist was named Janet. Her name tag had read
JANET
:
R.N
., and he had kidded Liddell that the R.N. stood for “Retired Nazi.” Liddell thought she had a cute butt, but Jack was so busy screaming profanities during the treatments that he hadn't noticed.

“So why did she leave the scene and drive all the way back to Evansville?” Jack wondered out loud. Both Crowleys just shrugged.

“She's on her way back here,” the sheriff said. Just then they heard tires crunching in the gravel, and Deputy Vodka Wilson stuck his head in the doorway.

“Sheriff,” he said in his gravelly tone, “I think that ‘friend' a' hers is here.” He made little quotation marks in the air with his fingers when he said “friend.”

Sheriff Crowley told him to have someone hold her at the outer perimeter until they were done inside and they would talk to her. The deputy relayed the sheriff's orders to someone, and the door closed again.

The men went back to examining the body.

“We got a name on the victim yet?” Jack asked. It occurred to him that he hadn't asked yet.

“Yeah,” Mark Crowley said. “Her name is Tisha Carter. She's a nurse. Unmarried, no kids. A deputy is trying to run down family and history, but you know how it is when you have to go through another agency to get info.” Jack nodded. He knew how bureaucracy slowed things down to a death rattle.

The body was in the center of the one-room cabin, hanged by the neck from a wood ceiling beam in a kneeling position. She was facing away from the door. Her hands were tied behind her back with a cord that looked similar to the one around her neck, and she was partially clothed in a bloodstained white garment that might have been the top of her nursing uniform. Long bloodstained gashes in the clothing suggested she had been slashed with some type of long-bladed instrument. The skull showed through several gashes in the top of her scalp. She was naked from the waist down. Her feet were bare, and the soles of her feet had gashes in them.

Just like the Lamar child,
Jack thought. He pointed to the blood pooled around the body. “It looks like she was overpowered right here. Maybe strung up before she was killed, because all the blood is beneath her.”

“Yeah, that's what we figured, too,” Mark Crowley said. “The killer hacked her to death while she was hanging. Some kinda sword or something. Then he gutted her.”

Sheriff Crowley looked pallid. “She was probably dead before most of this was done, don't you think?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, but he didn't believe it. For one thing, her pants were gone, suggesting a sexual assault before the murder. But he didn't want to suggest that yet without more evidence.

Mark Crowley squatted down and pointed to some marks in the pool of blood that encircled the body. “There are some spots here that look like bare footprints.” Jack looked at where Mark was pointing and thought he could make out some depressions that would be consistent with a set of toes and maybe a heel.

“The size of that print is bigger than this little gal's foot,” Sheriff Crowley said. Mark nodded in agreement.

“I found several more, I think,” Mark said. “It looked like someone was walking around the body barefoot.”

“Admiring his work,” Sheriff Crowley offered.

Jack inched his way around to the front of the body and had to get on his knees to look up into the victim's face. It was remarkably free of blood except for the tip of her nose.

The sheriff nodded and said, “Remember I told you that there were a couple of things really strange about this?”

Jack nodded, wondering how much stranger the sheriff imagined things could get.

“There are a couple more things.” He pointed at the wall behind them.

Jack stood up and saw a forty-two-inch, flat-screen television mounted on the wall. It was turned on, and something was smeared on the screen. Jack walked over to it and saw that there were words written in something red and sticky. He could make out the words:

 

You killed her

Jack

 

Without taking his eyes from the screen, Jack asked the two men, “How'd you know I was the right Jack? It wasn't just because the victim was from Evansville. Or because the witness wanted to talk to me. Was it?”

The younger Crowley pulled a small, plastic envelope from his pocket. Inside was a business card and the back of it was smeared with blood. The front of the card read
Detective Jack Murphy
. It was his business card.

“Where?” Jack asked.

“Stuck to the television screen.”

“So, I'm a suspect?” Jack said, only half-jokingly.

Sheriff Crowley leaned in and said in a low voice, “I've heard stories about you, Murphy, and I know you're a hard man. But you better be careful.” He and his son looked at each other, and then Tanner said, “This kind of shit don't happen in my county. It's a quiet place.”

“Except for drunken fishermen,” Jack corrected.

“Yeah. Except for them,” Tanner Crowley said, shaking his head. “But the state police will take this scene over pretty soon, and if they found this,” he said, nodding toward the business card, “they'd tie you up in so much red tape you wouldn't be able to do what you do best.”

“I haven't been doing too hot, so far,” Jack said.

Mark Crowley looked at the television screen. “Whatever you're doing—or whatever you've done—is pissing this guy off. I'd say he wants to kill you or get you to kill him, you know?” He opened the front door, and they walked onto the porch.

Sheriff Crowley let out a long sigh and looked at the sky. “Cheese 'n' crackers,” he muttered, and put a big hand on Jack's shoulder. “This guy has probably hightailed it back to your neck of the woods. I got no problem with however you plan on handling him in your own county. Hell, I wish you'd kill the son of a bitch if you want the truth.”

“What are you going to tell the state police?” Jack asked.

“Hell, boy, they think we're a bunch of dumb rednecks down he'ah,” he said with an exaggerated hillbilly accent. “I ain't telling 'em shit. It'll be their case soon, so fuck a bunch of state cops.”

Jack looked down at the sheriff's SUVs on the perimeter and a familiar face peered out of one of the windows.
Janet. Retired Nazi,
he thought, and walked down the steps.