Evil Like Me Page 3

  “No shit, Baily!” Wilcox slammed his longneck to the table. “What in the hell’s the matter with you? Don’t you think you should have led with that little piece of information?”

  “It seems way more important now, after talkin’ about the four cases.”

  “Shut up, Baily. How did they die?”

  “Oh God. Double homicide.”

  Wilcox’s cigarette hung on his lip. “I’m going to shoot you in the face. Someone needs to take your kind of stupid off the streets.”

  “Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

  “Just tell me how the adoptive parents were killed.”

  “Get your gun out,” Baily mumbled as he stared at the page. “The father was stabbed in the back, and the mother was …”

  “Strangled!” Wilcox sucked a half-inch off his cigarette with his eyes burning a hole through Baily. “Do you read? Did you read before coming here to interrupt my dinner?”

  “I scanned it. I was runnin’ around pullin’ it together. Everybody was givin’ me shit.”

  Wilcox took a deep breath. His opinion of youth had once again been substantiated. They don’t have a clue. “What else do you have?”

  He pulled a page from Deckle’s file. “This is a copy of the email I got before coming here. I stuck it in your file and did not look at it.” Baily read to himself. His eyes moved from the page to the Wilcox.

  Wilcox grabbed the paper. “Says the investigating officer is a Deputy Carl Bennet—first on the scene. He found Arnold Keller on the front porch, a bowie knife in the center of his back. Bennet went in the farmhouse. It was a shambles—drawers pulled out and upside down on the floor, bookshelves emptied, torn cushions off sofas and torn mattresses off beds. Bennet found Alma Keller in a bedroom.” Wilcox squinted. “Coroner ruled death by affixation, strangulation.”

  “You think Keller killed his parents?” Baily asked.

  Wilcox kept reading. “Says Keller was in Maryland at the time. Atoka County Sheriff kept the case open three years. They think the double homicide was likely a home invasion gone bad. No suspects. Cold case.”

  “And what do you think?” Baily asked.

  “It’s not a home invasion. You don’t tear into cushions and mattresses when you’re robbing someone. They were looking for something. Alma and Albert Keller were executed.” Wilcox leaned over the table. “You got any other bombshells to share, Detective Baily?”

  “Keller’s a genius.”

  “Really. Now there’s another useless piece of information.”

  “There’s a notation in the Stringtown police report. Hunter Keller took an IQ test his senior year in high school. His IQ was listed as unmeasurable. It made the Stringtown newspaper. He got a ribbon at the county fair.”

  “You think it might be a little bit odd that our squirrely eyewitness is a genius working in a secondhand bookstore, and his parents were killed like our four homicides?” Wilcox punched speed dial—the ME office. “Maybe Petty’s got something. She sent brain tissue to D.C. on all four victims. Said she saw something peculiar. I have no clue what that means.”

  Baily read from the file. “‘Multiple lesions found on a normal amygdala of a healthy male are linear in nature.’”

  The phone rang. “Stop reading and start pulling this shit together,” Wilcox barked.

  Baily deserved it. Under Wilcox’s stare, he gathered the loose papers and stuck them in the Deckle file. A file on the bottom of the stack slid off the table and exploded on the floor, and paper and photos skidded across the grimy cracked linoleum.

  Wilcox waited for someone to answer the phone as he glanced down at a photograph centered in the only light. “Baily, what’s that?” Wilcox picked it up and held it to the lamp.

  “Crime scene pics from the four homicides.” He kept scooping papers and pictures. “It’s okay. They’re labeled on back so I won’t get them mixed up.” Baily stuffed the last fistful into the file and joined Wilcox. Both stared at the one picture. “That one is from the Hudson crime scene. People just standin’ outside the White Station Tower watchin’ the medical examiner’s people remove the body. Always draws a crowd.”

  “Look closer, Baily. What do you see?” Wilcox asked.

  Baily squinted. “I see a bunch of white people drinking and rubbernecking. They’re holdin’ their bottles smilin’ and havin’ a good ole’ time.”

  “You’re a racist, Baily.”

  He laughed at the crusty homicide detective who saw racism in everything.

  “This is not a black/white thing, Detective Wilcox. It just so happens in this picture you got a bunch of white people standing around without a care in the world. They’re oblivious to the fact that some poor bastard got killed. They’re not thinking about the hell the guy went through, or the mama who’s gonna have her heart broken. Your right. All I see is a bunch of cold white people enjoying their special evening entertainment.”

  “Okay, now set aside your judgments. Take a close look at each face in this picture. Do your damn job, Detective Baily. Tell me what you see.”

  Baily grabbed the picture like a kid forced to take his medicine. Wilcox gave up on the ME office and pocketed his cell. Petty was still in her meeting and now no one was answering the phones at the county morgue.

  “Holy shit!” Baily sat down dazed. He swallowed hard with his eyes fused onto the photograph.

  “Now tell me what you see, Detective Baily.”

  “In the crowd, on the back row, I see Hunter Keller.”

  Three

  “Is this other stack of pictures from the Derby case?” Wilcox asked. Baily kept staring at the picture in his hand.

  “Snap out of it, son. Are these pictures from the Derby case, a simple yes or no?”

  Baily nodded. “I can’t believe I missed this. You’re right, I am racist.”

  “Stop pouting and look at the Pemberton photos.” Wilcox fanned through his stack like he was hunting for the aces in the deck.

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch. Keller’s standing outside the Sterick Building. He’s at the bus stop across the street.” What in the hell are you doing at my crime scenes?

  Baily’s head hung over his handful of photographs. “He’s here, too.”

  Wilcox punched MPD on his cell. “Jennifer, I need to send a car to Hunter Keller’s place. Address’s on file. Eyewitness to Deckle homicide. I want the man watched until I get there. Under no circumstance let him leave. If he comes out of his apartment, pick him up for questioning. I don’t have enough to hold him, but I got to talk to the guy.”

  Baily slouched back in his chair.

  “Snap out of it,” Wilcox barked.

  “I’m useless.” Baily pined as he dropped his head. Wilcox smiled at the broad shoulders and bald patch shining under the hanging lamp. “I can’t believe I’m a racist,” Baily muttered.

  “Hell, Baily. You know black people aren’t racist.”

  “Stop. I’m serious.” He stuffed pictures into the file and sat up straight in his chair.

  “Look, if it helps any I’m racist too. We’re all racist, judgmental pricks to some degree.”

  “What you just said makes no sense,” Baily said.

  “It’s human nature to think you’re better than everyone else. We think we got all the answers. We are the smartest and fairest person on the planet. Truth is that none of us have all the answers. We’re all trying to figure out life. We have our fears, skeletons in our closets, and crosses to bear. And to make it worse, we’re all at a different place in our life.” Wilcox rubbed his face like he just rolled out of bed. “I can be an asshole at times, but I mean well. I try not to be judgmental. I don’t care anything about color or race or gender or anything. I care about right and wrong. I care about stopping bad people from hurting good people—simple as that.”

  “That’s different. Everyone knows you’re an asshole.”

  “Shut up, Baily. I’m giving you some fatherly advice.”

  “I’m just sayin’ yo
u’re not racist. Some people are racist, but I never thought I was one of them.”

  “You met Elliott Sumner. He’s the guy who opened my eyes. You know why he’s the most successful forensic investigator out there?”

  “Easy. Everyone knows the guy’s a genius with a photographic memory.”

  “Nope. You’re wrong. He’ll tell you. It’s because he knows how to focus. The man’s got self-discipline. He told me anyone can do what he does. He simply eliminates mental clutter, all the meaningless bullshit. He’s a master at it. Sumner said human emotions and opinions are major detractors from finding truth where facts exist. People are so busy with the bullshit that they lose the ability to recognize reality. When you lose touch with reality, you’re totally lost in a complex world. Then it only gets worse.”

  “Guess that makes sense,” Baily said.

  “Good talk. I gotta go.”

  “Wait,” Baily said. “We need to work these four cases together.”

  “Don’t even go there.”

  “Why not? It makes perfect sense.”

  “No, it makes imperfect sense. It is a bad idea. I work alone. You would slow me down. I will work the Deckle case and you will work the Hudson case. When and if they connect, that’s when we get back together. Right now we got nothing but pictures of a nut in a crowd and some scary-looking, white, dead people.”

  “These cases are connected and you know it. I’ll do whatever you tell me. I’ll play second fiddle. You’re the boss.”

  Wilcox sucked his cigarette reaching for his keys and eyeing Baily. I do need someone to go to Stringtown to do some digging. I’m not looking forward to that drive. If Keller’s a serial killer, I’m gonna have a chase on my hands. Gonna need help building the case.

  Alex flashed in his mind. The raw pain washed over him taking his breath. “No Baily. I work alone.” Wilcox saw Alex hanging in the Memphis public library naked, tortured to death. They used Alex to get to him. I can’t be the reason someone else dies—never again.

  Wilcox dropped a twenty on the table. “I’m picking up Keller for questioning. You can sit in on the interview. That’s it, Baily.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Baily got up and blocked Wilcox’s only path out of Lamplighters. Baily was a head taller and hundred pounds heavier. “These cases are connected. If Keller’s the monster we think he is, there will be more killings. You can’t let your feelings get in the way of the right decision.”

  “Move out of my way or I will shoot you, Baily.”

  “Not working together puts innocent lives at risk, Detective Wilcox.”

  “Move now,” he demanded with his hand on Baily’s rock hard chest.

  “Give it a week. If Keller’s not the one, I disappear and you go back to being an asshole.”

  “This is the last time I’m gonna politely ask you to move your fat ass out of my way.” He pushed, but Baily didn’t budge.

  The rookie detective, rooted to the floor like a giant oak, said, “A smart man once told me good detectives put aside emotions and opinions. They focus on reality where facts live. They are not distracted by personal shit.” Baily leaned into Wilcox’s face. “This is the right thing to do. Give it a week. You’re in charge of everything. Let’s find out if we got a serial killer.”

  Wilcox stared. The son of a bitch has a point. I gotta vet Keller before he has a chance to kill again. Nothing else should matter. Keller’s now the prime suspect. Hell, he’s the only suspect. Wilcox picked up the empty longneck like a club. I can’t lose another partner. But I can’t let a serial killer get away.

  “We work one week,” Wilcox said. “It’s enough time to vet Keller.”

  “Agreed.” Baily relaxed his muscles—no longneck upside the head. He brushed off Wilcox’s lapel. “French fry salt on your blazer, sir.”

  Wilcox slapped his hand away. “No touching. And you say nothing about this arrangement to Cottam. I don’t need him thinking I’m taking on a partner, because I’m not.”

  “Yes sir.” Baily turned and gathered up the files. “The director will think you’re being a team player. It will keep him confused for a week.”

  “You’re already pissing me off.”

  “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you continue to look like a pain in the ass, sir.”

  Wilcox rolled his eyes and focused. “You go to Stringtown tonight. I want to know everything about Keller’s parents and the day they were killed. You better be able to answer every goddamn question I have when you get back. I want to know Keller’s whereabouts on the day they died. That means you check it out and get a hundred percent confirmation.”

  “I will handle it,” Baily said.

  “Find Atoka County Sheriff Bennet. Tell him we got homicides in Memphis that may be a possible connection to the Keller family killings. You say nothing about Hunter Keller. You let him bring up the guy and just listen.”

  “I gotta get a look at those police files,” Baily said.

  “Bennet should open them to you if you do your job right. He’ll think we can help him solve his cold cases, probably the only homicides in his county for a hundred years.”

  “I’ll go to the Keller farm myself, poke around some.”

  Wilcox did not let on he was pleased Baily thought of it himself. “After you get backstory, spend a day at the farm, alone. Take time to look at things from multiple vantage points. Reconstruct the crime scene. Talk to neighbors, teachers, shopkeepers, and people around town. Stringtown is a small place. Everyone knows everyone.”

  “I’ll find someone who knows Hunter Keller’s life story, learn more about his abandonment. It could be an important part of the puzzle—who found him and what they were doing out at midnight in a snowstorm.”

  “Find out if they were close to the Kellers. What was the connection? Trouble is they might not be alive today.”

  “It is going back thirty-five years,” Baily said.

  “If Hunter Keller is a serial killer, his making started back then.”

  “Most people will be dead or old as hell,” Baily said. “I may get my hands on some physical evidence from the Keller family homicides.”

  “Probably tucked away in a dusty evidence room. They should have the knife. If we’re lucky we may be able to get DNA. And their clothing, the killer, or killers, had to be all over them. Back then they weren’t thinking DNA.”

  “Should I ask for copies of the autopsy reports for Dr. Petty to look at?”

  “Hell yes,” Wilcox said. “She can tell us if there are forensic connections. We got matching ‘unidentified’ DNA off our four victims. If it matches with the Kellers, we got something important.”

  “How do I take this trip? Director Cottam will ask questions.”

  “You say you got a family matter. Stay away from the details. Fill out the paperwork. Cottam doesn’t see that stuff. If he notices you’re gone, I’ll tell him I took on the Hudson case to help.” Wilcox looked down at the photo of Keller standing outside White Station Tower. He grabbed it. “I’m holdin’ onto this one.”

  They walked out the backdoor of the Lamplighter. Their two-hour talk felt like ten minutes. Bumper to bumper cars had filled the small parking lot squeezed between three two-story brick buildings. When Wilcox lit his cigarette, an engine started a half block down the side road. They watched the old sedan roll past their parking lot. The car lights were off.

  “What in the hell was that about?” Baily asked. He pulled out his gun and ran to the road. Wilcox didn’t move except to puff on his cigarette and smile.

  Baily returned with his gun dangling at his side. “You gonna shoot a car?” Wilcox chided.

  “Yeah, if it shot at me first.”

  “You young cops are all alike,” Wilcox sighed.

  “But did you see that? It was an old model sedan like the one Hunter Keller had described. And what the hell, no lights all the way down the road. Normal people don’t drive like that. Very strang
e.”

  “The clock is ticking, Baily. A storm is rolling across Arkansas. We have no time for lame distractions. It has been three days since Deckle died. If the twenty-day rule holds, we got two weeks and three days to solve this thing before someone else dies.”

  “I understand,” Baily said as he holstered his gun.

  “Go to Stringtown tonight. I’ve got a date with Hunter Keller—if he’s still in town.” And I need my PI to check out some people like no one else can.

  “Someone was out here waiting for you,” Baily said. “Your picture was on the front page of The Memphis Tribune today—the Donald Deckle homicide you said you would solve. Maybe someone doesn’t want you to. Maybe that someone was parked out here waiting for you to come out alone.”

  “If any of that’s true, they’ll be back. Enough talking. I want you to focus, Baily. Go to Stringtown.”

  Four

  Dr. Petty stared at the threaded parchment graced with a gold flaked government seal. The four paragraphs were ominous and vague on purpose. If this is big enough to get the attention of a U.S. Attorney General, she thought, what kind of hell has found its way to Memphis?

  The old refrigerator motor, perched on dusty grease laden springs, wobbled in the crawl space behind her office wall. It struggled to keep twelve bodies cold in the next room. The rumbling shook her diplomas and framed certificates and the picture of a younger Petty with her eye in a microscope—a departing gift from her staff at the Institute of Forensic Science. They did not want her to leave Dallas. Now, she was a million miles away from those memories. Dr. Petty was more than ready to take the chair of chief medical examiner.

  After scrutinizing the letter, she again studied her three visitors from Bethesda, this time with even more discerning eyes. Drawing upon her eidetic skills, she revisited each spoken word and subtle clue since they had taken a seat on her sofa. Petty would miss nothing going forward. She was very good at solving puzzles. Now, the forensic sleuth would find the guarded portal into their secret world.

  Dr. Swenson’s rigid posture relaxed when he removed the small leather notebook from his coat. With the smile of a child, he cradled it on his lap like a kitten. The sealed letter from the attorney general seemed to empower the odd, little man. Petty observed the subtle facial transition as he moved to the next level of revelations. Assessing Dr. Swenson’s authenticity was as important to her as the information he would deliver for the federal government.