The May Day Murders (8 page)

“
Again, a lot of
speculation, I see. What about the lipstick and the message he
left? Where did he get the lipstick, anyway?”

“
From Marsha’s purse—we know
that for a fact. Her purse was found, opened, lying on the end
table on the other side of the sofa. That was one of the first
indications that the killer wasn’t interested in taking anything
because all of Marsha’s credit cards and money—around $150.00 in
cash—was untouched. Dave confirmed that the lipstick was hers and
that she always carried it in her purse.”

“
Is that where Marsha
normally kept her purse?” Sam inquired.

“
I knew you were going to
ask that. The answer is no, it isn’t, and yes, I’ve already asked
Dave where she usually kept it—no doubt your next question. She
usually kept it on the dining room table. Now, go ahead and say
what I think you’re going to say.”

Sam was undaunted by Roger’s brashness.
“That definitely strengthens my theory, doesn’t it? The dining room
table is completely out of sight from the living room and the
kitchen. The killer would never have spent precious time searching
for a tube of lipstick after having just murdered Marsha and no
doubt wanting to split the scene ASAP. But he didn’t have to,
because he already knew where Marsha kept her purse. Which
indicates that her assailant knew this house and Marsha’s habits
quite well. She had to have known this bastard, Rog! Either that,
or he sure did a bang-up job of casing out this house and its
occupants before coming here that night to carry out his
crime.”

Roger drained the last of his Jack
Daniels and stared at Sam. “I’m actually starting to think you may
be absolutely right, buddy—you’re making me a believer. The
question now is: which is it? And either way, which ever it is, we
still don’t have jack shit to go on.”

Sam sighed. “I realize that. But it
does give us a little insight into this prick. We know that he’s a
clever sonofabitch beyond question—not to mention
meticulous.”

“
That’s a fact,” Roger
agreed.

“
What about the message? Any
guesses?”

Roger shook his head. “Nope. “May Day…” The only thing that comes to mind is the international
distress call for help. And the first of May—that spring
celebration or whatever the fuck it is. The killer’s writing of
that on Marsha’s tits after murdering her makes no sense at all, in
light of the former—she was already beyond help. The first of May
could be significant, though. But in what way? Who the fuck knows?
Nope, buddy. That’s got me completely stymied.”

“
Still think he could be a
serial killer?”

“
Fuck if I know. I’ll tell
you the truth, and I’ve been saying it all along. Until Tommy
Bradley talks to us, we’re just pissin’ in the wind on this case.
All we have is a bunch of goddamn theories and two items of
physical evidence: hair and cum. Big deal! We don’t even have a
concrete motive yet, unless we want to believe that this was sheer
rape and murder for the fucking fun of it—something for some sick
ass to do on a lonely Wednesday evening. We need that kid to talk,
Sam. That’s all there is to it.”

“
Which could be weeks from
now, you’ve been informed. What are you going to do in the
meantime, Roger?” Sam asked purposefully, just to put him on the
spot.

Roger felt the pressure and looked at
his friend determinedly. “Well, we’re going to have to ask some
people some more questions, for one thing. Canvass the neighbors
again, just in case they’ve recalled something that might have
slipped their minds when we last spoke to them. We’ll check and see
if there have been any reports of prowlers in a twenty-block radius
of this neighborhood in the last couple of weeks, too. And, it
looks like I’m going to have to ask Dave some painfully personal
questions about his wife—which I really hate to do. Find out if she
was truly as faithful to him as he’s been leading us to believe,
and ask him if she ever had any opportunities to play around on him
that he can think of. He’s probably going to hate my ass for doing
it, but we’ve got to check out every possibility, eh
buddy?”

Sam grinned, pleased to hear that his
friend wasn’t going to let him down. Roger was a man of his word,
if nothing else. “That’s right, Detective Hagstrom. And if you need
any help with the legwork, I’ll gladly offer my
services.”

“
I’ll let you know.” He
glanced at his watch and said, “Why don’t you take your pictures so
we can get the hell out of here. I’m getting thirsty.”

Sam looked around the room and said,
“Fuck it. Let’s just go.”

Roger was tempted to rib him, but
decided not to. “Want to hit the tavern and tie one on?”

It only took Sam a second to think
about it. “Lead the way.”

CHAPTER 5

Ann stood in the doorway staring at her
sleeping daughter and debated whether or not to wake her up. It was
tempting, just to get back at her for coming home so late last
night and worrying her half to death. But she relented when she saw
how peaceful her daughter looked all snuggled up with her head
buried underneath her pillow. She turned and quietly closed the
bedroom door behind her.

She crept down the stairs and went into
the kitchen, wrote Amy a quick note, then gathered up her things
and headed out the front door. It was noticeably cooler than it had
been the day before and the sun was shining brightly as she got in
her car and started it up. As she was backing out the driveway, it
suddenly dawned on her that she’d forgotten to call Mr. Ogilvy
about fixing the floodlight in the backyard and made a mental note
to call him the moment she got back home. The supermarket wasn’t
far, only a few blocks away, so Ann drove slowly, taking in the
quiet peacefulness of the neighborhood on a Sunday
morning.

Ann waited for a traffic light to
change then made a right onto High Street. She reached the
supermarket in another three blocks and pulled into the parking
lot, relieved to find that there were only a dozen or so cars
parked outside. Since moving to Columbus, she’d gotten in the habit
of doing her grocery shopping on Sunday mornings since it was
rarely crowded then. Shopping had a certain therapeutic value to
it, she had learned long ago. It helped to get her mind off things
that were troubling her.

She went inside, grabbed a shopping
cart, then spent the next half hour or so meandering through the
aisles. When she was finished, she headed for the least crowded
checkout line and waited.

There were only a couple of customers
ahead of her: an elderly woman with a nearly full cart, and the man
standing directly in front of Ann, who had only a few items. She’d
seen the man before, last week in fact, and she remembered him
because he was wearing the exact same thing he’d worn last Sunday—a
gray wool suit and no overcoat. Her hunch was that he had just
gotten out of church and had stopped by to pick up a few things
before going home. He was strikingly handsome, she had to admit;
tall, muscular build, with neatly styled longish blonde hair. His
eyes were green, she recalled. A very dark, rich shade of green as
stunning as it was unusual. He was probably about forty she
guessed, and appeared fit and youthful with his trim, athletic
physique and bronze, tanned skin—no doubt the result of numerous
trips to a tanning salon.

The elderly woman was unloading her
cart and taking her good old time about it. Ann heard the man in
front of her sigh impatiently. She observed the handful of items
he’d placed on the conveyer: a pound of ground chuck, a package of
hamburger buns, a jar of pickles, a head of lettuce and a six-pack
of Coke. Glancing over at the express lane, she wondered why he
didn’t simply go over to it instead of putting up with the old lady
like this, and then noticed that there were a half dozen people
standing in line there.

The checkout girl was quickly losing
her patience as she was being forced to wait while the elderly
woman took each item out of her cart, one by one, and set them on
the counter for her to scan. The woman was old, granted, but far
from feeble. Ann deduced that she was the type of ancient hag who
seemed to wear her general contempt for the world on her sleeve and
was thoroughly enjoying what she was doing. She saw the twisted
smirk on her face each time she leaned over her cart to retrieve
the next item. She could almost envision the old lady sliding in
behind the wheel of her ‘68 Oldsmobile when she was finished here
and purposely driving fifteen miles an hour all the way to her home
just to tie up traffic.

The man sighed again, and began tapping
the lid of the pickle jar nervously with his fingers. Although his
back was to her, Ann could almost see the subtle scowl on his
handsome face as he waited his turn. Suddenly he glanced back,
apparently to see how many more people were being held up by this
woman. He smiled a little when he saw her, shrugged his shoulders
in a gesture of hopelessness, and turned around again. Ann had
smiled back at him, unable to resist the temptation. His demeanor
was quite charismatic.

When the woman had finally placed the
last of her groceries out on the counter to be scanned, she took
out her well-worn billfold and produced a wad of one-dollar bills
then started counting them out. When she had at last counted out
the thirty-eight ones she needed, she fumbled through her change
purse to cover the sixty-four cents and handed the coins to the
checkout girl, snatched her receipt, then went on her merry way.
Ann began taking her groceries out of the cart as the man stepped
forward to be checked out.

“
Sorry for the wait, sir,”
Ann heard the checkout girl say to him.

“
That’s quite all right—it
wasn’t your fault,” the man replied good-naturedly. His voice was
deep and pleasant, with the slightest trace of an English
accent.

“
Nine fifty-three,” the girl
told him.

Ann watched as the man handed her a
ten-dollar bill. “Out of ten?” she said. “Thank you sir. Have a
nice day.”

“
You, too,” he replied. He
picked up his bag and headed for the door.

Ann resumed taking out her groceries
and noticed that the man had forgotten the six-pack of Coke. The
checkout girl noticed it at the same time. “Sir! You forgot—” she
shouted, but the man was already out the door.

Ann hesitated a second, then peered at
the checkout girl. “I’ll take it out to him.”

“
Thanks, I really appreciate
it,” the girl said, relieved.

Ann swooped up the Coke and ran out the
door. She spotted the man just as he was about to get into his car.
”Sir!” she called after him.

He turned around as Ann continued
running toward him. “You forgot this,” she said, holding up the
six-pack of Coke.

The stranger smiled at her and said,
“Oh, thanks! This is what happens when you’re in a hurry, I
guess.”

When she drew up to him, breathless,
Ann handed him the Coke and said, “I’m sure that woman in front of
us wasn’t much help either.”

He grinned. “Hell could have frozen
over in the time it took that old biddy to get those groceries out
of her cart!”

Ann laughed and said, “I’d better get
back inside.”

He seemed disappointed. “Thanks again,
uh …”

“
Ann.”

“
Thanks, Ann. It was very
kind of you.”

Ann nodded, then turned to
leave.

“
Wait a second,
Ann.”

She turned back around.
“Yes?”

“
This may sound terribly
forward of me, but I’d really like to repay you somehow for your
kindness. Like dinner, perhaps?”

Ann suddenly felt uncomfortable. She
replied, “That’s not really necessary …”

“
Jerry. Jerry Rankin. I’m
sorry—that was very rude of me putting you on the spot like that,
and I see now that you’re married. Please accept my apology,
Ann.”

Ann glanced down at her wedding band
then back at him. He seemed genuinely embarrassed and in fact,
ashamed of himself for hitting on her. Ann realized that she could
simply let him go on thinking that she was married and that would
be the end of it but for some reason, she didn’t. “I’m
divorced.”

Instead of looking relieved, Jerry
Rankin frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ann. I’ve just recently
become a widower and have a pretty good idea of what you must be
going through. My life hasn’t been the same since I lost Marie… it’s been a very difficult adjustment to make.”

Ann felt a wave of pity. “I’m sorry
too, Jerry. I might as well be honest with you—I was the one who
wanted the divorce– but it hasn’t made it any easier to ‘adjust,’
as you put it.”

He suddenly glanced at his watch.
“Listen, Ann. I’m running late for an appointment and I know you
must go back inside, but I would be delighted if you’d reconsider
my offer.”

Before Ann could object, he reached
into his breast pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to
her.

“
If you should change your
mind, or simply want to chat sometime, just give me a call, okay?
No catch, no strings.”

Ann stared at the card for a moment,
then took it from his proffered hand. “I’ll think about it, Jerry.
But I can’t make any promises.”