Total Immersion, page 10
Sam approached Bobby, wrapped his arm around his shoulders, and led him toward the front door. “I don’t think you had anything to do with it, but let me leave you with a few words of advice. Next time an officer or a detective, such as myself, comes here to investigate the murder of one of your tenants, you should keep that big mouth of yours shut, because one day it’s going to get you into a shitload of trouble.”
“Understood,” Bobby said, spitting into his cup.
“Now, who found the body?”
“The cops. Ms. Thompson smelled something wicked, and I called the cops.”
“I’d like to speak with Ms. Thompson, if that’s all right with you.”
“Shit, man, I’ll drag my fucking wife and kids in here if that’s what you want.”
“Let’s start with Ms. Thompson,” Sam said, smiling.
“She’s in 118.”
“Lead the way, Mr. Griss.”
[][][]
"He was always saying the sickest things to me. He was disturbed. I mean really disturbed,” Kate Thompson said, her jaws in constant motion as she chewed away on a wad of thick, pink gum. Her bleach-blonde hair, black roots, tight tank top, and heavy makeup suggested hooker, but her sweet, almost naive voice was in odd contrast to her smutty appearance.
Sam sat across from her at her small kitchen table while Tommy and Bobby stood against the sink and refrigerator, respectively.
Kate continued, “One night when he first got here, I was walkin’ down the hall with a girlfriend, and he pulled down his pants and showed us his cock. He was always high; not booze high, but drugged up high. A real perverted freak. Like scary.”
Sam unfolded his tablet and called up the Kevin Fields file. “Now, Ms. Thompson . . .”
“Kate.”
“Kate. Even though the body was found on Wednesday morning—”
“I smelled a real bad stink and called Mr. Griss,” she said, glancing up to Bobby with a sour expression.
“Yep, that’s right,” Bobby confirmed. “Told me Thursday. Woke me up, in fact.”
Sam took a frustrated breath and continued. “I know all that. Let me finish, please. We estimate the time of death to be between ten p.m. and two a.m., Saturday night into Sunday morning. Were you home that evening?”
Kate tried to think back. “Yeah, I didn’t feel good and cancelled my dates. Just hung out, watched some TV.”
“Your bedroom wall is right up against Kevin’s living room, right?”
“Correct-o-mundo,” Bobby spouted.
Sam threw Bobby a look that sent his eyes straight to the floor.
Sam turned his attention back to Kate. “Did anything unusual happen that Saturday night?”
“In this building?!” Kate said with a laugh. “What isn’t fucking unusual!”
Sam didn’t want to lead her. “Did Kevin have any friends over that night?”
“I don’t think so?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he was always a loudmouth when he had some girls or those creepy buddies over. The walls in this shithole are pretty thin.”
“Did you hear anything strange that night? Any unusual noises? I want you to think back real hard for me.”
Kate closed her eyes. Tommy watched as her mouth continued to chew away on that helpless piece of gum.
“Oh, oh, oh, wait a minute,” she said, popping her eyes open. “I was reading a book, and I remember he had his TV on. It was one of those twenty-four-hour religious shows. Christian Broadcast channel or some shit. You know, those preachers who tell you they’re best buddies with Jesus, and if you send them some money, they’ll reserve a seat for you in heaven. I know their voices because I’ve fucked most of ’em. You know those scam artists I’m talkin’ about?”
“Which ones you fuck?” Bobby asked, intrigued by the conversation.
Sam didn’t want to lose the moment and pointed an angry finger at Bobby. “Out!”
Bobby turned like an admonished child and sulked out of the kitchen.
“Okay, Kate, Kevin’s TV was on . . .” Sam said, keeping the focus. “How long did—”
Kate started bouncing around in her chair. “Oh, oh, now it’s coming back to me. I did hear something strange a little while later.”
Sam knew what was coming next.
“About what time?” Sam asked, prodding her along.
Kate had to think about that one. “I think around ten-ish. I think.”
“Why ten-ish?”
“Because he had finally turned off that fucking TV. I was just about to call Mr. Griss, and then it just went off.”
“Go on,” Sam said. “What happened next?”
“I was just starting to doze off. You know, when you’re like awake, but not awake. There’s a word for it . . .”
“Twilight,” Tommy said.
Kate turned her attention to Tommy. “Hey, that’s the first thing you’ve said. I thought you were deaf or something. I was in, like, twilight when I heard it.”
“Was it a scream?” Sam asked.
“Maybe it was his head landing on his dick?” Bobby called out from the living room.
“Nooo!” she replied in a sarcastic tone. “It was just a loud sound. Not like a human sound.”
Sam pressed for more detail. “Was it several sounds or just one long one?”
“Just one and not real long. Just sorta long, but not real long.”
Tommy glanced over to Sam. The old man had heard three distinctive sounds.
“Did it sound like a gunshot?” Sam asked, hoping to zero in on something.
Kate bit down on her lower lip, and her forehead crinkled up. “No, I’ve heard a lot of guns go off around here, and it didn’t sound like that. It seemed to have more of an echo to it. Like a WHOOSH noise.”
Kate gestured with her hands, and said again, “Like a longish WHOOSH sound. You know what I mean. WHOOSH! WHOOSH!! Like that. WHOOSH!”
Whoosh meant little to Sam. “How ’bout when somebody uses a drill to tighten the lug nuts on a tire?” he asked.
“I don’t know what lug nuts are. I’ve never driven a car.”
Tommy jumped in. “Was it like an electric screwdriver?”
“Sorta. I can’t explain it. Like WHOOSH, you know. One big whoosh . . . Shit, I’m sorry.”
Sam wasn’t going to get much more out of her, but the link she established was crucial. He pulled a card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
“Why don’t you think on it for a couple days. If something grabs you, give me a call right away.”
Sam gave Tommy his “Let’s split” look and made his way out of the kitchen.
As Tommy followed, Kate grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t I get a card from you, cutie?”
“Actually, I don’t have a card,” he said, blushing. “But I could give you my home phone number . . .”
Sam poked his head back into the kitchen. “Let’s go, Thomas.”
Tommy hesitated.
“Now, please.”
Tommy glanced from Sam to the salacious Kate, back to Sam, and then back to Kate, and said, “Just call Mr. Knight if you have any further information. Thank you, Ms. Thompson.”
As they exited the apartment building, a window on the second floor broke open and Kate stuck her head out. “Hey!” she yelled, still chewing away.
Sam and Tommy looked up simultaneously.
“If you find the guy who did it to him, tell him thanks, and give him a big, wet kiss on the lips for me! He’s a fuckin’ hero!”
fifteen
The rest of the week brought little in the way of new information. Sam and Tommy spent days checking out various cutting tools. From hacksaws to chainsaws; gas-powered, hydraulic, electric, laser—you name it, they saw it. Nothing matched the vague sound descriptions or produced the kind of heat necessary to initiate the cauterizing effect so vividly displayed on both victims.
They oversaw an effort, headed up by Buzz, to identify a suspect from security camera footage taken on the night of both murders. The areas where Fields and Meyers were living were both in poorer neighborhoods that were not equipped with many cameras, and the footage they did find yielded no information worth pursuing. Security drone footage also came up empty.
Sam briefed Gannon and pushed to categorize the case as a serial investigation, but Gannon was hesitant for all the wrong reasons. “Maybe we shouldn’t bust our butts on this one,” he said, only half-joking. “It’s not like he’s taking out priests or little old ladies.”
Sam countered with his mantra on the dangers of vigilantism, but Gannon didn’t budge. He carefully covered his ass and finally rejected Sam’s plea, claiming the media would only exploit the vigilante serial killer angle, whose victims were rapists and sadists who’d managed to escape any serious punishment.
Sam reluctantly agreed, not wanting to build his killer into some kind of anti-hero, but without the extra manpower, the investigation was going to need a big break, a mistake, or a miracle to bring it to a close quickly.
Sam spent several days running down possible connections between Meyers and Fields. Everything was checked and rechecked: schools, places of work, possible one-time neighbors or drinking buddies, served time together, shared the same parole officer, sentenced by the same judge . . . nothing matched.
Their victims were also cross-referenced. Again, no connection. From all indications, these two men had absolutely nothing in common, aside from their desire to torture innocent women and the deviously tormented method in which they both met their maker.
[][][]
Sam squinted at the bright noon sun, which was glaring in the reflection of a large bay window as he and Tommy stood in front of the two-story home of Nancy and Brad Farber. Drones of every size buzzed high above the upperclass suburban neighborhood.
“Wonder what the odds are this is our boy?” Tommy asked.
“Zero, or I would have been here sooner,” Sam responded. “He wasn’t in the country when Fields was murdered. United had him listed on flight 413 arriving from Germany landing at O’Hare that morning. Security cameras confirmed it.”
Sam turned to Tommy. “Always go in knowing more than they think you know.”
Tommy nodded, taking a mental note.
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t hire someone to do the dirty deed,” Sam continued, and rang the doorbell. “But I don’t think so.”
A few seconds passed, then several electronic locks from inside the house disengaged, and Brad Farber opened the door.
He was average-looking, and dark bags under his eyes added years to his face. He held out his hand. “Mr. Knight?”
Sam shook his hand. “You’re a very difficult man to get ahold of.”
“I’ve been away on business. Come on in,” Brad said.
Sam and Tommy walked down the long entryway and into the living room. Pictures of Nancy and Brad decorated the walls.
It was a nice-sized home, but little had been done in the way of furnishings.
There’s a coldness to this place, an emptiness, Tommy thought, reminding him of Sam’s house.
“Can I get you guys anything to drink?” Brad asked as Sam and Tommy took a seat on the dark brown sofa.
Tommy shook his head and Sam said, “No, we’re fine, but thank you.”
Brad took a seat across from them as Sam broke the ice. “I just—I just want to say how sorry I am about what happened to your wife. I can’t imagine how painful this has all been.”
Brad squirmed in his chair. “She just couldn’t get over it. We, well, we tried everything. We moved several times, counseling, drugs for the depression. It overwhelmed her. It destroyed her. It’s been two years, and I miss her so much.”
Sam’s mind raced with images of Jenny, anger welling up inside him. He knew to keep his heart out of it. Stay cold, he thought. Brad Farber was a possible suspect in the murder of Kevin Fields and Bernard Meyers, however highly unlikely, but if he did turn out to be their killer, Sam didn’t know if he should arrest him or hug him.
“Do you know what he did to her, Mr. Knight?” Brad asked in a tense voice filled with rage.
Sam had read the original reports. The assault was vicious, and Sam didn’t want to hear the gruesome details again. “Yes. I read the files.”
“He didn’t even have the decency to kill her.”
Tommy could barely stand the awful tension that suffocated the room. The intermittent silence was the worst part.
“If you’re here to tell me that he’s landed himself back in jail, quite frankly, I don’t give a shit.”
Sam shook his head. “No, he’s never going back to jail. Kevin Fields was found murdered in his apartment ten days ago.”
Sam watched closely as years fell off Brad’s face; he soaked in the good news and chuckled to himself. “There is a God after all. I’m surprised no one told me. Ten days ago?”
“Honestly, until I was handed the case, nobody seemed in a rush to solve it, knowing the history of this scumbag. I got it because I didn’t want to take a vacation.”
Brad let out a relieved laugh and clapped his hands together.
He is either an innocent man or one hell of an actor, Sam thought. Brad Farber would forever be in debt to the hero who took out Kevin Fields, but, Sam concluded, he was not their killer.
“So, what’s there to investigate?” Brad asked, still beaming, that exhilarating sense of closure, of redemption, coursing through his veins.
“We think his murder might be linked to another murder in Gary, Indiana,” Sam said, carefully watching Brad’s face for any tells.
Brad showed nothing beyond utter joy.
“Was it painful?” Brad asked.
“Was what painful?” Tommy asked.
“His death. Was it painful?”
Sam smiled. “Yes, it was slow, and horrifically painful.”
Brad lit up like a Christmas tree, stood, and started to pace. “I can only imagine what you’re thinking. I know I’m a suspect—that’s why you’re here—but I’m a lawyer and I can prove my whereabouts on the night of the murder. I’ll fully cooperate with anything you need from me, but I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I’ve thought weekly, daily, hourly about killing that fucker myself.”
Brad took a seat back in the chair and continued, “Now, if you don’t mind indulging my dark side, please tell me exactly what happened to that miserable piece of shit.”
Sam shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help himself. He only hoped one day someone would come knocking on his door and give him a blow-by-blow description on how the monsters who butchered his wife and unborn baby were slowly tortured and murdered themselves.
Sam even called up the autopsy photographs; an added bonus for a man who had lost so much and waited so long to hear such glorious news.
[][][]
Sam and Tommy walked out of the house and into the bright sunlight. Sam felt an instant kinship with Brad Farber. They both belonged to a club no one ever wanted to be part of.
Nancy had lost the baby to a miscarriage only weeks after the attack, and had fallen into a deep state of depression that lasted until she swallowed a handful of pills and slit her wrists.
It must have been worse for Brad, Sam thought. He had lost Jenny in seconds. Brad, on the other hand, had to sit by helplessly and watch his wife fade away. Like a slow-moving cancer that attacked her body without remorse. But the end result was the same: demons had left two lonely men in their violent wake, and condemned them to suffer a lifetime of grief, pain, and anger.
“You think it was a good idea to show Mr. Farber the file?” Tommy asked as they walked down the sidewalk to their car.
“No, but he needed it, and I would stake my life on it . . . he’s not our boy.”
Tommy nodded in agreement. “I feel the same way. He’s not that good of an actor to mask it over. His answers were too honest.”
“That’s exactly how I see it. Although I’ve bumped into my share who can pull one over on you.”
“I’ll tell you this, Sam,” Tommy said as they approached the car. “It’s a sad, sick world out there, and the older I get, the more disgusted I become with human beings.”
Sam didn’t respond. There was simply nothing else to add.
sixteen
The driverless CTA bus came to a stop at Fifth and Ryder, a mostly blue-collar part of town that consisted of low-rent apartments and older, smaller homes that had seen better days. The large doors split open and passengers filed out one by one.
Travis limped down the black, rubber stairs, and made a little hop to the sidewalk. A foster care parent had snapped his left leg through repeated blows from a two-by-four when he was seven. Doctors repaired his leg with a series of metal screws that allowed him to walk with a limp, but the pain never went away.
His difficult life began in the womb of a prostitute. She gave birth in a dingy whorehouse, wrapped her newborn baby boy in a brown garbage bag, and dropped him into a city dumpster. If it weren’t for a transient who heard the muffled cries of a discarded human being, Travis Taylor’s life would have been short.
As an infant, he was riddled with health problems, and classified as “damaged goods” by prospective parents who were looking only for the best, brightest, and healthiest of babies.
Travis Taylor did not fit any of those criteria.
From the age of one month until he was released, Travis floated through eighteen homes, ten schools, and even attended an experimental orphanage. It was there where a vicious beating from two bullies left him partially deaf.
The deafness turned the already quiet child into a complete recluse. By the age of fourteen, he rarely spoke, and when he did, it was only to ask an occasional question.
