Cutting Loose, page 19
“There’s something that’s being forgotten. The girl in the barrel.”
A shiver shot through Emmett. He knew instinctively that Kramer was making his move.
“Sure, that’s important, but first we need Monckton,” said Emmett.
“My point is―the size this case has become. Emmett, you’ve done good work. And I want you to play to your strengths. Which means detective work, not running down a fugitive.”
“This is my case, Gil.”
“It’s our case. We’re a team, Emmett.”
The wind was sucked out of Emmett. This had happened to him before. Captain Buck Soto had taken him off a case at a similar juncture, but that was justified, and Emmett knew it. This was different. This was Kramer wanting the prize.
“Consider the many threads to this case. There’s Monckton and Astaire. There’s the murdered girl. There’s Mead. There’s the secretary, Marcia Bailey. There’s a pile of documents from Mockton’s office and condo. This is a wide-ranging case that needs overview. This is what is going to happen. I am taking personal charge of this investigation. Mack, you will lead the hunt for Monckton, and you, Emmett, will take the lead on the potential serial murders. And Les, if you’d be kind enough, I’d like your people to look at the documentation and to provide whatever manpower you can. My guys will supplement when necessary. Les, are you okay with that?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s it guys.”
“All right,” said Jacks after a moment, standing up. “Good luck to you all, and let’s get going.”
Kramer remained in his chair as the others left. Only Emmett remained.
“Yes, Emmett, what can I do for you?”
“Gil, I’m asking you to reconsider this decision. I feel I have the right to take this all the way, to stay with Monckton.”
“Are you questioning my judgment, Emmett?”
“Questioning? No, Gil. I’m just asking you to take another look. That’s all.”
Kramer leaned back.
“No, my decision is final. And my reasons are sound. You’re not a team player, Emmett. And this one, now, is pure team work.”
“I work fine with others, Gil.”
“Emmett, you did good work pursuing Monckton, that’s a given, but the moment you had to direct other agents here in Nashville you fucked up and Monckton flew the coop. You’re out, Emmett. But look, there’s important work to be done in your present assignment. It’s of equal importance.”
“The thing with Monckton happened before we’d gotten organized.”
“You’d been in and out of Nashville often enough. It happened on your watch. Don’t tell me different.”
“I’m not trying to pass the buck, Gil. I’m just saying the situation was not clarified.”
“It was plenty clarified.”
“I―”
“You what? You want to go over my head? Please don’t, Emmett. It wouldn’t work out well for you.”
Emmett looked him calmly straight in the eye, and Kramer tossed a pen on the desk, his face red with anger.
“You’re a loose cannon, Emmett. You’re an embarrassment. The media have you pegged right. You’re trigger happy. You march to your own drum. Fine a hundred years ago, not fine now. We have laws, we have a Constitution.”
“The first day we met, Gil, I knew you were an asshole.”
“Get the fuck out before I take your badge.”
ELEVEN
The next day, back at his desk in Masonville, Emmett opened the murder book on his Jane Doe, then saw there were printouts in the fax tray. He brought them over to his desk and flipped through them. One was from Salinas PD, California, giving the details of a homicide that a detective there had thought might be relevant. The unnamed decedent was a female in her late twenties who was found about ten miles south west of Salinas. The body was in a barrel, and the detective, Morris Lieber, included a note saying that yes, it was a stretch, but perhaps worth a look.
Emmett called Lieber’s number, and a colleague said he would leave a note on his desk. He started again at the beginning, looking at every document in sequence. The question that had always nagged at him was why Monckton’s fingerprints had been found in that file in the barrel if he had not committed the murders―and Emmett was fairly certain he had not. Though you could never say never, Emmett felt that Monckton did not belong in that category.
Monckton and the killer must have come into contact, and their effects must have been mixed together at some point. Top of any list would be Lindemann and Astaire. Lindemann was dead, and there had been no recorded female serial killers. Had Lindemann committed the murders before his death? That was not possible: the barrel in the Krugers’ garage had been there only six years, and Lindemann had been dead for thirteen.
The phone rang and Emmett picked up.
“Morry Lieber here.”
“Hi, Morry. Thanks for getting back to me.”
“That’s okay. How can I help?”
“I’m just reaching, looking for something. What can you tell me about your decedent?”
“Other than what’s in the fax, not a lot. Like it says, late twenties according to the anthropologist. Cos all we had were bones. She’d had dental care, teeth straightened, so not a street person. White, five feet five, dark hair. Oh, one thing. Did I include the reconstruction?”
“Uh . . . no.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll send it across soon as we hang up.”
“What kind of reconstruction?”
“Yeah, there’s this, like, forensic artist who rebuilds faces―it’s a new thing―putting Play-Do or whatever on the actual skull. The thickness of flesh at each point is known, give or take. So he made her likeness that way, put a wig on, some makeup, lit it the right way, took a picture, and voilà. You got her image.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It turned out pretty well. Kinda spooked me when I first saw it. Mind you, guy’s a sculptor by training.”
Emmett, twenty minutes later, was rereading the Gottfrieds’ statements when the fax machine began to chug. He went over to it and watched the image emerge and drop into the tray.
He stared at the face in amazement. The woman could have been the sister of his Jane Doe. He took the photo from the murder book and laid it next to the photocopy. The cast of the eyes was the same, and the shape of the face. Either the two women were related or the killer had a specific type he was drawn to. A jury would need evidence to support the connection, but as far as he was concerned, it was solid. Who was this guy?
He took down his copy of the file on Max Lindemann from a shelf, put it next to the murder book and began to look through it. After an hour, half-way through, he sat back wondering where he could go with this line of thought. There was no history of sexual transgression. Statements taken showed that he was sexually voracious, but that was not a crime―and, in any case, Lindemann was dead: this was a waste of time. For all that, it would not hurt to take a look. The link might explain the fingerprints, and the link with California.
There was an article he remembered reading a few months before that said a biographer was working on a life of Lindemann. Emmett was fairly sure he had cut it out and added it to the file. If he had, it would be the last document―and there it was, at the bottom, a story in the El Paso Times that had originated in the Los Angeles Times.
The reporter, Martin Acland, had interviewed a well-known true-crime writer, James R. Pickering, who had covered Charles Manson, Ed Gein, David Berkowitz, and a string of other celebrated killers. Pickering claimed to have uncovered evidence that the police had missed. It sounded as though he was trying to create interest in the project, but Emmett had heard no more about it. Perhaps Pickering had decided finally there was not enough meat there to make a book. He had been sleuthing in San Luis Obispo and Monterey, where Lindemann had lived while in California. It was Monterey where he had stayed the longest time, and Pickering told Acland he had talked to people who remembered him.
Acland bulked out his story with a rėsumė of Lindemann’s career and his death in the explosion in Delaney. Emmett returned the clipping to the file, then spent a few minutes on the phone until he had the name of Pickering’s agent, a Zack Cordman. Emmett grabbed his hat and went to a cafė nearby where he knew they had a payphone and made the call. A secretary put him through. He gave Cordman a false name, said he had information on Lindemann, and asked for Pickering’s number. Cordman gave it, and Emmett rang. There was no answer, so he left a message. He ordered egg and beans, hoping Pickering would respond soon. Chico was refilling his cup when the phone rang.
“Jim Pickering. You left a message. Dave, right?”
“Right. Uh, I’m a freelance reporter doing a story on Lindemann and the other two. Where they are now.”
Pickering laughed. “That bone has been picked pretty clean.”
“I read Acland’s piece on you. The book you’re writing.”
“Yeah. I was gonna call it ‘The Delaney Quest’. But there’s a surfeit of books on them. I decided against.”
Emmett knew he had an opening.
“So, look, then, it’s not like I’m poaching. I just need a hook for a story.”
“Okay. I met with a few people.”
“Yeah?” Emmett said. “What, like, neighbor, postman, doctor, dentist?”
“Neighbors, sure. He was a wild guy, drove them nuts with his parties, the smell of dope. Dentist no, doctor, yes. In fact, he changed doctors. I don’t think the FBI knew about the first one.”
“Could you give me his name?”
“That’s a big ask, Dave.”
“I get that, Jim, but you’re dropped the idea of a book. And, I mean, Lindemann is dead. It can’t hurt.”
“Give away my research? I don’t think so.”
“Not like the doctor can change the past . . .”
Pickering blew air, then said, “Jesus, okay. Arthur L. Fryxell, 83 Cypress Street, Monterey. If you write your piece, give me a mention.”
“Sure. His neighbors―”
“Forget it, Dave. That’s all you get.”
“Okay. Good luck with your present project.”
“Yeah.”
Emmett knew he would have to go out there to talk to Fryxell. On the phone, you could get a chilly response; there, in person, looking at the guy, you had a better chance, and this was an opening he would not let go. The crazy thoughts racketing around in his head could be settled one way or another.
The budget for the team looking for Monckton was large; a lot of people were involved. His team was little more than himself and the few agents he could call on when necessary, so the cost of a plane ticket to California was small beer. Kramer was still in Nashville, which meant Emmett had no need to get clearance from him. He booked a ticket and next day, at 8 o’clock, he was in line at the airport.
TWELVE
“This is a novelty―a guy on the table, and, I’ll be frank, it doesn’t really work for me. It’s kind of a curve ball. A male body? I can’t get into it emotionally. Chicks―their legs, their flesh, their . . . I mean, the whole chick thing, it’s . . . man, exhilarating. And the look in their eyes. The shaking, the pleading. But life is a journey, and I’m learning. A lot of it is the same, and that’s inevitable. Even if the buzz isn’t there, there’s still plenty to pique my interest. I mean, you’ll never be bored doing this.
“So, an embalmer. I feel a sense of kinship. Familiarity with death is unusual nowadays. Centuries back, when all you’d get for some shitty disease was, maybe, a potion made of herbs―man, people really were familiar with death. Now, it’s all tidied up. How often does the average guy see a dead body? I mean, you’d expect, by the law of averages, to see someone drop dead on the street now and then. But it never happens. People get checkups, know when they’re sick, doctor says stay home. It’s never, like, hey―check out the dead guy on the bench. But you―it’s your bread and butter. All day, every day―stiffs. Must get like death is normalcy and life is a temporary aberration.
“Jimmy, oftentimes I can relax, take a few days to enjoy the situation. But not this time. This time, I need to get my skates on. So, look, excuse me if I’m a little brusque.
“You were in Appelbaum’s condo, right? Man, I wish you’d been working for me. But those are the breaks. The way this all happened―it’s bizarre. I mean, finding Appelbaum. Not that I’ve found him exactly―he’s in the wind again. He was always smart. I’ve been looking for him for a long time. And I’m closer than I’ve ever been. But so are the cops. Yeah, they’re looking for him too. But you know all about that. This guy Touchette, I’m hearing, likes to talk. Likely he’s told you all he knows. But it’s what you know that’s on my mind just now.
“Okay, Jimmy, that was a scalpel blade under a fingernail. Just so you know where I’m coming from. To, like, say hi.
“I hear you, Jimmy. You’ll tell me everything. That’s a good attitude. We can work together. That way I don’t need to remove body parts.
“Listen, I’m gonna roll a smoke. I’m rationing myself―five a day. You know a spooky thing, Jimmy? About me? I’m dead. Um hmm. Deceased. No one’s looking for me. You know how I died? I was blown up by a bomb thirteen years ago. Know who says so? The FBI. And they can’t be wrong. Big, big case. Maybe the biggest ever. Lot of books been written, documentaries on the tube. The remains of the bomb are in the FBI Museum. Sure are. Right next to Hoover’s cocktail dress.
“First, I get to Sol. He’ll lead me to Carey. That will be a day to savor. They ran out on me, Jimmy. Left me behind. How can people do a thing like that? All this time, I’ve been looking―all this time. When I get her on a gurney, I’ll whittle away at her till she’s a bloody stump. But still breathing. What’s life without ambition, Jimmy?”
“Little coffee break there, Jimmy. Where were we? Yeah, Sol’s condo. Look, you’re a bright guy. I need leads, anything you found up there that can help. Anything that puts me closer. Think back, anything at all. That way, this might end well for you. Hear me? No promises, but if you do your part, who knows? There may be smiles after the tears.
“I’m gonna calm you down now, Jimmy. Your brains won’t work when you’re this way. Shot of sedative to get your head straight.
“Know how I found him? Carey once told me she’d move back to Texas one day. My thinking was, maybe she’d stay in touch with him. So, that’s where I went. Big state. A lot of looking. Okay, a little injection, right there. Give it a moment. Thought I’d never get lucky. Both of them street smart, high IQs. Chances of finding them, slim to none―I knew that. But I never gave up. Then, two months ago, after thirteen years, I catch a break. All that time. There in a paper is an article about Johnny Cash. Standing to one side in a photo is this guy Appelbaum, says he’s a talent agent in Nashville. I’m thinking―wrong state. Plus, it doesn’t look exactly like Sol, guy looks too old, wrong everything, but the height is right. So, you’re saying, the height? That’s what you’re going by? But, a crazy thing, Jimmy―Sol knew a guy named Appelbaum. Kind of a guru. Way back, Jimmy, there was this notion that some special guys had wisdom. You could go sit at their feet and imbibe their enlightenment. Yeah, it was bullshit, but that was the Sixties for you―nutty ideas coming out of the woodwork. So, there was this guy Appelbaum. He may have been a con artist but he had a line of talk. Sol was into it, thought this Appelbaum was onto something. Who knows? Maybe he had something to say. He had this, like, group thing, where you’d go along, listen, maybe say something yourself, maybe not. He’d ask for contributions at the end for expenses. To me, the whole thing was a scam, but, like I say, who knows? So, this Appelbaum. Did Sol take his name as some kind of, I guess, a tip of the hat? It’s a reach, for sure, but with nothing else to go on, I think, okay, take a look. What have you got to lose?
“Say what, Jimmy? You want to help? I know, and that makes me happy. Feeling calmer now? Floaty kind of sensation?
“So, I get this, like, fixation that Appelbaum could be Sol. That he’s had work done on his face, a lot. I locate more photos of him. Blow the face up to life size. I’m jazzed. It really could be him. How much can they do to the basic skull? There’s got to be a limit. Some measurements gonna stay the same, ’less you talking a head transplant. Eye sockets to front teeth. Cheekbone to cheekbone. Size of ear. Lot of stuff. Relative distances. I keep comparing. Maybe yes, maybe no. Nothing that says, you’re plain wrong, pal. I do my homework, find out what I can. And I see another crazy thing, Jimmy―there’s no information that goes back farther than a handful of years. Finally, I make a decision―and check into a motel in Nashville. Then rent this place. Not perfect, but it’s okay. I don’t have all my equipment, but there’s a craft store just two miles away.
“See, there’s stuff I know, Jimmy. I know you and Touchette work for Wetherspoon. Now, I have a question―do you know who Appelbaum really is? No? Sure about that? Nothing up there in his condo? Real sure about that? I been calling him Sol, haven’t I? Sol who? Last name. Any ideas? No? Really no? Cos if you know, you’d have told Wetherspoon. Still no? Jimmy―don’t kid a kidder. You swear. Uh huh. Okay, we can go back to that. But listen, Jimmy, there’ll be things you learned up there. That’s inevitable. Shrewd guy like you. Don’t make me mad by saying no. What? I see thinking going on there behind the eyes. Come on now, fess up, Jimmy.
“A name? You have a name for me? Jimmy―that’s great. Let me get a pen and pad. You’re gonna call it out, slow. Okay.
“P,r,u,e,t,t. Have I got that right? Just the surname? Good. So it rang bells? I get it. There’s more? Listen, better I turn on a tape recorder so I don’t miss anything. Gimme a moment. Jimmy, it’s good working with you.”
He was eating steak fajitas under a thatched canopy at the side of a dusty road outside Smyrna, Tennessee. It was a place he had stopped at a few days before when there was a handful of truckers at the tables. This time, he was the only customer. The waiter refilled his coffee cup and, at five minutes before the hour, he went inside to pay. At 2 o’clock, he was looking at cards pinned on a board by the phone. When it rang, he picked up the receiver.
