Girl Most Likely

Twenty-Three

Keith was riding in the front seat — which was a good thing, since the back was caged in — of a Dodge Ram four-door pickup, white with GALENA POLICE markings. He was in clothes his daughter had sent over, a CUBS sweatshirt, jeans, running shoes, and lined jacket. Behind the wheel was Patrol Officer Cortez, a short, sturdily built attractive young woman in her midtwenties.

This was Wednesday morning, cold and clear, and Keith had been picked up by Cortez (sent by Krista) at Midwest Medical Center, after a long wait for a doctor to look him over and a nurse to have him sign all the necessary release documents.

He’d been required to be taken by wheelchair to the front door and out to the waiting vehicle. He thought about bitching, then decided to enjoy the ride. He was a little high from the pain meds and didn’t mind at all.

“Officer Cortez,” Keith asked the pretty police officer, “what is your first name?”

“Maria, Mr. Larson.”

“Make it Keith. Maria is a nice name. Did you ever see West Side Story?”

She nodded, her eyes on the road. They were in fast-food alley now. “Yes. It’s a little racist, don’t you think?”

Keith winced inwardly. Political correctness would be the death of them all.

He said, “It’s of its time. But ‘Maria’ is a lovely song.”

She shrugged. “Your daughter... Chief Larson... wanted me to fill you in on some things.”

He was glad she had identified Krista as both his daughter and the chief, otherwise he might have been really confused.

“Please do,” he said.

“I was in Prairie du Chien yesterday,” she said. “Checking out the Braggs. Their alibi?”

“Yes?”

“Something funny there. Not ha ha funny. Strange. Odd.”

“Which is?”

“Mr. Bragg has a cabin, all right. Or at least there’s a cabin at that address. A gentleman is living there, a Mr. Clauson, who is also a teacher, but not a coach. He teaches art at Prairie du Chien High. I spoke to him, after school. At the cabin. He was evasive at first.”

Keith smiled. “But you persisted.”

“I did. He invited me in after an unproductive session on the porch. He gave me coffee and, I think, the truth. The cabin belongs to Coach Bragg and Mr. Clauson. Coach Bragg lives with Mr. Clauson during the summer months, school vacation. Did I mention the cabin is not in town, but a few miles outside?”

“No.”

“Well, it is. A few miles outside of town.”

They were driving through a residential area now, nicely wooded, with bed and breakfasts popping up like friendly rustic mushrooms.

“The coach joins Mr. Clauson,” she said, “on occasional weekends during the school year and during various vacations and breaks.”

“I see. Where does Mrs. Bragg fit in?”

“She lives elsewhere. With a woman in Dodgeville, which is nearby. The woman’s name is Melissa Adams. She’s a gym teacher, too. Girls’ gym, like Mrs. Bragg. When I say they live together, Mrs. Bragg and Ms. Adams, I mean in the summer months and weekends and such, like Coach Bragg and Mr. Clauson? I believe what’s going on is clear.”

He raised a hand. “So do I. Officer, please keep this information to yourself.”

“I will, Mr. Larson.”

“Keith.”

“I will, Keith. The chief, who I informed of this, has already instructed me likewise. Your daughter?”

“Right. I know.”

With the bridge over the Galena River up ahead, Cortez took the left onto Main Street.

“Also,” the officer said, “I should mention I’ve attempted to interview Dawn Landry, David Landry’s wife?”

“‘Attempted’ sounds like you haven’t got it done.”

“No I haven’t. I just was unable to connect with her on Monday and was in Prairie du Chien on Tuesday. I’ll be following up today. She’s the last of the first round of interviews.”

Keith thought for a moment. “Hold off on that. I’ll handle that interview.”

“I’ll have to get that okayed by the chief.”

“Do that. She’s my daughter, you know.”

When they rolled past the Jasmine Peterson crime scene, the area nearest the minipark (already bordered with a red “no parking” curb) was closed off and crime scene tape was posted from there to the edge of the grass. Several yellow evidence markers were in place. A chalk outline indicated where the young woman had fallen, and died. Three CSIs in blue jumpsuits were packing up their toolbox-like kits. Several of Krista’s officers were still on the scene.

At the station, Cortez dropped Keith off and he went in the front way, through the reception area, buzzed through by clerk-dispatcher Maggie Edwards.

From her chair at the reception window, Maggie looked over and pointed past him. “Your daughter’s in interview room A. She said to tell you to duck into the observation booth.”

“Who is she interviewing?”

The redheaded dispatcher smiled. “That ex-beau of hers — Jerry. He’s such a nice boy.” The smile vanished. “He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?”

“Hmmm. If they’re in there patching things up...”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think she’d want me watching.”

Maggie looked startled for just a moment, then smiled big. “You are a bad man, Keith Larson.”

“Not the first woman to make that observation, Maggie.”

In the shallow, unlighted nook behind the one-way mirror, Keith stood and watched. The eight-foot-by-ten interview room was home to a rectangular pine-topped table with chairs for four, light green walls, a window with its blinds shut, a big-screen TV over some low-slung cabinets, a clock, and a wall locker for officers to stow weapons during the interview.

Only two chairs were in use. Jerry — his unbrushed dark curly hair and extra-scruffy beard as if he’d been hauled out of bed and dragged here — wore a pale blue shirt and pale white expression. His hands were folded and he was leaning forward, his body posture suggesting he was begging police chief Krista for his life.

He kind of was.

“I was home last night,” he said, sounding pitiful. “I was watching a movie! My folks went out for dinner. They took the car! I don’t have a car right now — you know that.”

Keith had apparently missed the part where Jerry was upset that his latest girlfriend had been murdered.

Krista, businesslike, asked, “You were home all evening? By yourself?”

He shook his head more than was necessary. “No. Mom and Dad came home shortly after eight. You can check with them.”

“Your parents are your alibi.”

Keith smiled to himself. Using the word “alibi” would rattle Jerry’s cage. Innocent or guilty, Jerry squirming a little was fine with him.

“Yes,” Jerry said, exasperated. “My parents. Do I have to tell you they’re honest, upstanding people? A banker? A librarian?”

“No. But you have an apartment downstairs at their house. An entrance of your own. After they got home, you could have borrowed their car without asking. Slipped out. Slipped back.”

Jerry’s expression was so pained Keith almost felt sorry for him. “You can’t think this of me! That I would... Jasmine’s a sweet girl... I would never... she doesn’t deserve...”

He covered his face. He was crying.

This Keith didn’t enjoy at all.

Krista pushed a box of tissues across the table to Jerry. He used several, to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. His embarrassment embarrassed Keith.

His voice came back softer. Less shrill. “My folks came home around eight, eight fifteen. I was just finishing up a movie — Red Sparrow. Jennifer Lawrence? They yelled down and said they were home. I answered. I yelled up that if they wanted to watch something with me, all it would cost was Mom making some popcorn.”

“Did they take you up on that?”

He nodded. Swallowed. “Yes. They’ll tell you as much. You won’t have to prompt them in any way. It’s the truth and that’s how they’ll tell it.”

“What did you watch together?”

“Game Night. It’s... really funny.”

“Netflix?”

“Blu-ray. I can’t prove that last night’s when we watched it, or even that we watched it together. But that’s the truth, too.”

Keith exited and asked Maggie to get him the numbers of Jerry’s parents at their various places of work. She provided that, Keith made the calls, and when Krista emerged from the interview room, leaving Jerry behind, Keith told her he’d verified Jerry’s alibi.

She shrugged. “I believe him. Let him sit awhile. He was crying again.”

“For himself or Jasmine?”

“I’d like to think for Jasmine.”

“But you don’t really.”

“No.”

Maggie, at her window, called over to Krista, “The Illinois crime scene investigator is waiting in your office, dear! Hope it was all right to just send him in like that.”

“Thank you, Maggie,” Krista said. “That was fine.” Then she motioned to Keith to join her.

He did, saying, “You let Maggie call you ‘dear’? Aren’t you the chief?”

“Yes. And at least I’ve broken her of calling me ‘honeybunch,’ if you’re wondering about my ability to maintain discipline.”

Deitch was the only officer in the bullpen. Keith nodded to him and he nodded back, looking frazzled.

Keith asked her, “Everybody else at the crime scene?”

“Or home grabbing a couple hours’ sleep,” she said. “I worked everybody all night, canvassing South Main. Needed to catch the apartment dwellers before they went to work, and see if anybody heard or saw anything.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“Nice to know you can scream on Main Street and nobody notices.” Or maybe cares, he thought.

In the office, just inside, Eli Wallace was seated at the mini conference table at right, his arms folded, his body leaned back, eyes closed. The African American CSI in the blue jumpsuit was snoring softly, his thick mustache riffling in the self-created breeze.

Keith said, “Kind of a shame to wake the little darling.”

Eli’s eyes popped open and he shook his head, clearing it, and said something rude to Keith that should never be spoken in front of a man’s daughter, especially if she is chief of police. Keith and Krista laughed and sat at the table, her opposite the CSI, Keith next to him.

“Put in a long night, did you?” Keith said.

“Might say that,” Eli said. “Anyway I wasn’t relaxing in a hospital bed being waited on, like some people I know. How you feeling?”

“Not bad. Excellent drugs. Wrapped up like this, I look twenty years slimmer. Your team about done?”

He nodded. “Rest of the work’ll be at the lab back in Rockford. We’ve recovered some items that might be useful.”

“Oh?”

Eli nodded. “We checked the trash bins. Plenty of those to go through.” He gave Krista half a smile. “You guys keep your little town nice and clean for the tourists.”

“Part of why they keep coming back,” she said. “Find something interesting?”

“Two somethings. A hooded raincoat, black, with plenty of blood spatter. Not much doubt the source of the latter. Also a butcher knife. Blood-smeared. Almost certainly the murder weapon.” Eli shifted in his seat. “You’ve got a problem, Chief.”

Krista said, “You think?”

“I think. This appears, strongly — as if I have to say it — to be the same perpetrator. The stab wounds this time are mostly on the back. The previous homicide, of course, the blows came from the front. Same is true of the Clearwater homicide.”

Keith said, “A shift in MO?”

“Not really. Blood trail on the stairs — wrought iron and wood, alongside the corner building — indicate the incident began at the landing. The killer was waiting outside the victim’s apartment, tucked in the recession of the doorway. The first blow caught her in the left arm.”

Krista said, “She saw him and reacted.”

The CSI nodded. “And fled, running down the steps. The killer pursued and caught up with her and the attack came from behind. Knife plunged deep, half a dozen times. A savage assault, like the Lund woman.”

“Right there on Main Street,” Keith said. “With a high risk of potential witnesses.”

Eli tapped his nose — the “on the nose” gesture. “That’s the other obvious aspect here.”

Krista frowned. “What is?”

Keith sighed and said, “The killer is devolving. Accelerating. Six months between the first and second kill. Three days between the second and third kill. Precision planning for the first two kills, more on the fly for this one.”

The CSI was nodding. “There’s a real danger to the community. You need to call in the state police investigators. And Major Case Assistance. ASAP.”

Krista said nothing.

Keith said, “We’ll give that serious consideration, Eli. Thanks. You heading back to Rockford now?”

Eli frowned a little. “You changing the subject on me, Keith?”

“Maybe. Where we go from here is the chief’s call, and I’ll consult, of course, which is my job. You’ve done yours and we appreciate it.”

Keith stood, smiled, extended his hand and Eli, his expression wary, shook Keith’s hand, then stood himself.

“Oh-kay,” Eli said. “And, yes. I’ll be in Rockford. I hope you don’t need me... I’ll let you know our results.”

Eli closed the door behind him.

Keith said to Krista, “You should eat. I’ll take you to lunch.”

She was studying him. “You want to talk, don’t you?”

“I want to talk.”

But they didn’t talk on the way to Otto’s Place, which would still be open for lunch for another twenty minutes. He was thinking and so was she. In the few days since Astrid’s murder, the number of things they had to consider had accumulated into a dizzying spire of suspects, suspect alibis, and an increasingly out of control madman.

Otto’s wasn’t busy. They hung their coats up, found a corner table, then ordered bowls of turkey-and-black-bean chili and glasses of iced tea. Now they talked.

Keith asked, “What does Jasmine’s murder mean to this investigation?”

Krista thought for a moment, then said, “She’s not from the Class of ’09.”

He shrugged. “She was at the reunion.”

“But we think the motive of the killings lies in the past. And the first murder was six months ago. Was Jasmine a cold-blooded, coldhearted attempt to throw us off the track? To muddy the waters with...”

“Blood,” he finished. “Maybe. And to provide us with a good suspect in Jerry Ward. My suspicion? This is a premeditated killer. He or she will have established that Jerry would be home without an alibi. That the parents would be away, stranding Jerry without a car. The lack of a car, however, was something we might well dismiss — a killer can always find a way to get to a killing.”

“But Jerry’s mom and dad double-crossed our killer,” she said. “They came home early. They in fact spent the evening with their son, and are not likely types to cover for him in a situation like this.”

Keith frowned, shook his head. “Was trying to frame Jerry enough of a motivating reason? Certainly confusing the issue alone, to maybe throw us off some, wouldn’t inspire it.”

She leaned toward him. “What made the killer, so careful, so controlled in the planning of these acts, suddenly take a risk like striking in public? On Main Street of all places?”

“That’s the only silver lining in this very dark cloud,” he said, with a tight smile. “It means we’re getting close. It means the investigation has lit a fire under our quarry.”

Krista’s eyebrows went up. “So who was Jasmine in all of this? What marked her a victim?”

“When we answer that,” he said, “we’ll know who we’re looking for.”

Their tea came.

Krista smirked humorlessly and said, “Don’t you think we can rule Chicago out? And even if we’re wrong to do so, we’re covered — your friend Barney is networking with Booker. With luck those two creeps who jumped you will sell out who hired them.”

“Don’t count on that,” he said. “Even today, the Outfit is scarier than anybody in law enforcement.”

He sipped the tea. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Speaking of Chicago,” he said, looking at the caller ID.

REBECCA CARLSON.

He excused himself and went outside.

“Hi,” he said. His breath was visible in the cold; he didn’t care.

“Hi yourself. Are you okay? Are you in the hospital? Did you break anything important?”

“Yes. No. And nothing important except your heart.”

She laughed at him. “Heal up and come see me.”

“How did you know about this?”

“You’re in the news and I am the news. Listen, my news is that I’ve connected with a researcher of Astrid’s.”

“On the sexual predator story?”

“No, the Daniel Rule Meets the Mob exposé. My pretty nemesis had some good stuff. I’m picking up where she left off, and my ex has agreed to let me, and to air it when I’m done. Of course, I’ll need to talk to you, since the two Salerno guys sitting in the Galena jail are your handiwork.”

“Maybe, but my bruises and broken rib is theirs. Don’t get yourself killed like Astrid.”

“You don’t really think the Chicago end of this is what caused that, do you?”

“No, I don’t. Neither does my daughter, and she’s smarter than both of us. But people have been known to die in Chicago under sketchy circumstances.”

“Really? I try not to cover unhappy news like that. Ciao.”

“Did you really just say ‘ciao’?”

She laughed. “I did. Aren’t I just the worst?”

Rebecca clicked off. He smiled at the phone and clicked off, too.

When he got back to their corner, the chili had come. He broke some crackers up and dropped them in. Had several spoonfuls of the stuff. Great. The simple act of eating something that tasted good seemed like such a privilege, suddenly.

Krista, between spoonfuls, asked, “So I need to call the big boys in, huh? Like Eli says?”

“No, and not the big girls either. Not today. This is a key time for you, honey. This is the first big thing that’s come along since you made chief.”

Obviously surprised and pleased by this, she said, “Right, and I don’t want to screw it up. Many more dead bodies on Main Street and they’ll take me down on littering.”

He dropped his spoon and took her hand. “You need to step up. We’re close. Very close. If we haven’t wrapped this up by tomorrow this time, yes. By all means. Call Major Case Assistance. Call whatever cavalry you want. But right now, we have another shot at this.”

“We do?”

He nodded. “Have your people assemble all the suspects. Do it at the Lake View Lodge, in the banquet hall again, if it’s not in use — Landry will cooperate. And I want his wife there — she’s been slippery. We need Frank and Brittany Wunder. Your friends Josh and Jessy. The Braggs. Everybody else has alibis that seem to hold. But if we don’t shake the killer out of this bunch, we can try again with the others — Jerry, Chris and Tyler, Ken Stock and his wife, Alex Cannon and the entire Chicago Outfit. Can you make that happen, honey? Can the chief of police gather the suspects?”

“Like Charlie Chan?” she asked.

“Just like Charlie Chan.”

She shrugged. “Okay, Pop,” she said, and started in on the rest of her soup.