Without Warning (14 page)

“You want to set it up, or should I?” I asked.

“It’s your show. I’ll be there, but people are going to want to hear from you.”

He was right, but that wasn’t why he wanted to stay in the background. He wasn’t sure how this was going to end, and if it ended well, he’d move to the front. While people were still getting murdered, and the capsule killer was out there, he wasn’t about to stand in the spotlight.

I scheduled a press conference for one o’clock, and spent my time until then focused on two things. First, and most important, was trying to figure out who might be the next victim. I really didn’t know any little girls in town, not in any way that they could be personally connected to me.

I had spoken about safety at the school a few times, but that didn’t seem like it was something that the killer could latch on to. My sister lived in Wisconsin, but she and her husband had one child, a boy. I had a couple of second cousins that had little girls, and I called them and told them of the situation.

I didn’t want to scare them, since I had little reason to believe that they would be the targets, especially since they both lived on the West Coast. But I called their parents anyway, and of course in the process scared them half to death.

My other focus was on what had to be a leak in the department. Matt Higgins was just getting too much information too quickly. I didn’t blame him; that’s what reporters are supposed to do. But his revelations had been damaging, especially the latest one.

I called Hank in and told him I wanted him to elevate to a top priority the discovery of who was leaking the information. I didn’t have much to tell him in terms of suggestions to get it done, other than to check phone records in and out of the precinct, to see if any went to the
Journal
or to Matt’s private phones.

I called the media to the press information office at city hall. It’s a drab, windowless room in the basement, but I didn’t expect that to defuse the energy. The town was upset, and the media would reflect that. It certainly wasn’t just the local media; the national cable networks were out in force, as were major newspapers from around the country. The story had been determined to have “juice,” and they were going to play it for all it was worth.

I was heading into a train wreck, and I knew it. The truth was that I basically had nothing to say that would make anyone believe I was on top of the situation.

Because I wasn’t.

The room was packed with media people. There was just one camera, but it was serving as a pool camera for everyone, since the room was small. I saw Katie near the front, sitting with Matt.

When I reached the podium, I was surprised to see that standing next to the mayor was Special Agent Sean Bennett. I went over to him, and he said, “You go first.”

Which I did.

“Thanks for coming. I understand that the story in the
Journal
today has caused understandable concern within the community, so I’d like to speak to that. We have no specific threat information; we are simply asking that everyone take proper precautions. The citizens of our community are always protective of our children; we ask that you be even more vigilant until this case has been resolved.

“Every person in our department is working on this case, and the FBI has deployed significant manpower to the effort as well. We will catch the perpetrator, that much is certain. But you can be our eyes and ears, and in the process help us do our job.

“Someone out there knows something, or has seen something. You may not even realize it, but it’s a fact.”

I gave out a tip line number to call, which had been active for days. Tips had been pouring in, but so far none of them had led anywhere. Nothing we had seemed to lead anywhere.

I turned the podium over to Agent Bennett, who didn’t have much more to say than I did. He pledged the full resources of the Bureau to the investigation, but made it clear that he was new to the party. I was actually pleased that he was there, since he could take part of the brunt of the barrage that was to come.

The questions that followed were, in fact, difficult, mainly because we had no answers to them. They reflected the frustrations and fears of the town, and while I tried to sound reassuring and in control, the substance just wasn’t there.

We were floundering, and everyone knew it.

Katie and Matt hadn’t spoken before the press conference. They had planned to, but Matt was out in the field, working the story, and he went straight to hear Jake without going back to the office. All he had a chance to say to her was, “We need to talk.”

She was not looking forward to the conversation. Her position as the editor of the
Journal
was colliding on a consistent basis with her growing relationship with Jake. She couldn’t and wouldn’t give up her role as a journalist, nor did she want to stop seeing Jake.

The frustrating part was that everyone was simply doing their job. She, Matt, and Jake were all doing what they were paid to do, but that was obviously not good enough.

Her instincts told her that Matt’s cryptic comment meant the pressure was going to be increased even further, and as she neared the office there was the temptation to turn off and head to Canada. Or beyond.

Matt was waiting in her office when she got there. “I’m sorry I didn’t show you today’s story before I put it to bed,” he said. “There just wasn’t time.”

“You need to make time,” she said. “I was clear about that.”

He nodded. “I hear you, and it won’t happen again. But because you didn’t see it, I left something out. Something important.”

“What’s that?”

“The people that were killed were all connected to Jake, and—”

She interrupted him. “What do you mean?”

He explained the connections briefly; it had been in the story, but not mentioned explicitly.

“What’s your point?”

“Well, in and of itself that is significant. But Katie, it’s the relationships he had with them that might be even more important.”

“Relationships?”

He paused for a moment, considering his words. “I don’t want to overstate this, so let me just say that except for Votto, the guy who dug the hole, Jake had a reason to be holding a grudge against every one of them.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Well, in no particular order, George Myerson screwed up an insurance claim on Jenny’s death that cost Jake fifty grand. Charlie Price was a guy Jake wanted behind bars, but he couldn’t make the charge stick. Jake was even rumored to have punched him out.”

He paused for a moment, as if giving Katie time to digest the import of what he was saying. “Bill Norris was in the army with Jake, and they had a fight in a bar, a bad one. And Jenny … that’s the most obvious one … she cheated on him.”

“What about you?” she asked, pointing out that Matt was an intended victim. “Why should Jake have a grudge against you?”

“I’ve thought about that, and I’m not sure I know the answer. My best guess is he didn’t like things I had written in the past. I wrote the stories about Jenny’s murder; maybe he thought I was taking your side … Roger’s side.”

Katie was for the moment taken aback by what he was saying, but it soon gave way to annoyance. “What the hell are you saying, Matt? That Jake is getting revenge by killing all these people? And for some reason he anonymously put what he was going to do in the capsule?”

Matt shook his head. “No, I’m not saying that at all. But maybe somebody is doing this on Jake’s behalf, without his knowledge. Maybe he’s exacting the revenge he thinks Jake is entitled to.”

“You can’t possibly believe that.”

“Katie, I say this respectfully, but you’re missing the point. It doesn’t matter what I believe; right now that’s not my job. It’s not our job.”

“You’re lecturing me on what our job is?”

It was his turn to be annoyed and assertive; being deferential was getting him nowhere. “I guess I am. Because our job is to gather the facts and report them, not to analyze what they mean. The facts themselves are the news.”

“It will come off as if we’re suggesting that Jake might be a killer. A serial killer, no less. It will look like we’re raising the possibility that he killed his own wife.”

He shook his head. “That’s not how I will write the story, Katie. You know me better than that.”

She didn’t answer, so he continued. “Do I have your permission to go forward with this?”

“No. You can write it, but it doesn’t go in the paper, or on the website, until I approve it. And I’m not close to assuring you that I will.”

“Fair enough. I’ll write it and give it to you.”

He left her office, and Katie was positive that he would start writing immediately, and would give it to her soon. What she didn’t know was what the hell she would do with it.

Sometimes my mind clears suddenly, for no apparent reason. I don’t know how it happens, but without trying, I’ll see things from a different perspective. And this was one of those times.

I had been attempting, unsuccessfully, to figure out which little girl might be in danger, when it hit me that the opposite was true. When the killer wrote, “Sleep tight, little girl,” he could well have been saying that the next murder was going to be committed to somehow protect them.

“Frank Granderson.” I said it out loud, although I was alone in the office. It sounded right, so I added, “Shit. It’s Frank Granderson.”

I opened my door and yelled out for Hank to come in. Once he did, I said, “I want to know where Frank Granderson is.”

It took a second for the light to go on in Hank’s eyes, but then he said, “Damn. That could be it. I’m on it.” He left as quickly as he came in.

Seven years ago, Frank Granderson worked as a janitor in a day care center in Tompkins, about thirty minutes from Wilton. I was working as a state cop then, just starting out and getting my feet wet.

There was a report that a six-year-old girl had been molested, and that Granderson was considered a suspect. There was no physical evidence against him, and the little girl was unable or afraid to testify.

Workers at the center strongly believed that Granderson had done it. My partner and I went to his house to question him, but he didn’t answer the door, even though a light was on and his car was in the driveway.

We didn’t have a search warrant, and we were about to leave when we heard what sounded like a child’s screams coming from inside the house. I made the decision that a crime might be in the process of being committed, and we knocked the door down and entered the house.

Granderson was watching a DVD on television of the most vile child pornography imaginable, and the screams were coming from a young girl on the video. Granderson saw us, and got up from his chair in what I considered to be a threatening manner.

My first punch was easily enough to knock him out, but I followed with two more. I have no doubt that I would have killed him, had my partner not intervened. And I have to admit that I remain sorry that he did.

Our actions badly damaged any chance of a prosecution. The way we entered caused the evidence we gathered to be tainted, and my attacking Granderson in the way I did further negatively impacted the chances for a conviction on the molestation charge.

Granderson wound up pleading to a child pornography charge and served three years. It put him permanently on the sex offender list, with the restrictions that came with it. The result was deeply unsatisfying to me, and I blamed myself.

For a number of years afterwards, I kept tabs on him loosely. He served his time, and underwent extensive counseling and therapy. I could find no evidence that he continued to commit crimes, but I didn’t believe that he was cured. Finally, I lost track of him, but it had bugged me on and off ever since.

Hank came back in and said, “Last known is a trailer park outside of Waterville.”

“How recent?”

“His counselor said it was still good as of three weeks ago. He’s going to meet us there.” As part of his parole as a sex offender, Granderson had to report in to a counselor, who monitored his progress. Counselor to sex offenders is not a job I would seek out.

I nodded. “Let’s go.”

Waterville is only a half hour from Wilton, but the address was on the opposite side of town, so it took us a little longer to get there. The counselor, Phil Manning, had arrived at the scene well before us, since he lived in Waterville.

“He’s not home,” Manning said. “I called the car wash where he works, and he never showed today, without calling. It’s happened before, so when he shows up they’re going to fire him.”

My instinct said that we should enter the trailer, but it was that same instinct that had screwed up the prosecution all those years before. I turned to Hank. “Let’s check out the perimeter.”

My plan was to look in through all the windows, and hope that we’d find something that would give us a valid reason to enter. The third window, toward the back, had something that might fit the bill … a bullet hole.

“Hank,” I called, and he came over. I was looking into the window, but the darkness inside made it impossible to see anything. Hank ran to the car to get a flashlight and came back.

The flashlight had a powerful beam, but it wasn’t necessary in this case. Granderson’s body was no more than six feet from the window. He was face down, with a large bloodstain on his back. Technically, since I couldn’t see his face, I was only assuming it was Granderson, but it was a pretty good bet.

There was no doubt that this time, unlike all those years ago, I could legally enter his home, without permission.

His bloody dead body made it reasonable to assume probable cause that a crime had been committed.

We all entered the trailer, and Hank and I turned the body over, while Manning stayed back. Rigor mortis had started to set in, but there was no decomposition. If I had to guess, I would have thought he had been dead less than twelve hours.

Had I figured out what the capsule prediction meant yesterday, Granderson might have still been alive. It was unlikely that the knowledge of that was going to keep me up nights.