Opening Moves (37 page)

The small congregation sat behind folding tables with Styrofoam cups of coffee in front of them.

All of the people, besides Joshua, worked for the mission or were transients who’d known Petey. And yet, because of his past involvement with the center, Joshua did not stand out.

The question that seemed so hard to answer gnawed at him: “What kind of a God could ever forgive someone who’s done the things you’ve done?”

And the answer he tried to cling to: “What kind of a God would he be if he couldn’t?”

The Reverend Hezekiah Tate, the African-American preacher who’d started this shelter for the homeless more than thirty years ago, walked slowly to the front of the cafeteria, greeted those who’d come, unfolded his weathered Bible and laid it on the antique lectern he always preached from.

After a few brief opening remarks, he started in with his “word from the Lord.” He spoke with the honest intensity, the intonation, the cadence of a veteran black preacher. “We all have choices that we face in this life. Petey had choices. I have choices. You have choices.”

Yes, and you have chosen evil, Joshua. You will have to answer for that, you will—

“Scripture is clear that we are each responsible for our own choices. No one can take credit for the godly works of another; no one will bear the blame for another’s ungodly acts. And this has been true, this is true, this will always be true. Amen?”

The small group of homeless people knew Tate, knew the way he preached, and chimed in, “Amen.”

“In Ezekiel eighteen, and verse four, we read that the word of the Lord came to Ezekiel and said unto him, ‘The soul that sinneth, it shall die.’”

It shall die, Joshua.

You shall—

“‘If a father shall beget a son that is a robber, a shedder of blood, and that doeth the like to any one of these things…’”

A shedder of blood.

Like you, Joshua.

A son.

Who is.

A shedder of blood.

“‘Shall he then live? He shall not live: he hath done all these abominations; he shall surely die; his blood shall be upon him…The soul that sinneth, it shall die.’”

Tate emphasized that last word, let it ring and echo through the room, then went on. “‘The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father, neither shall the father bear the iniquity of the son: the righteousness of the righteous shall be upon him, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon him. Therefore repent, and turn yourselves from all your transgressions; so iniquity shall not be your ruin. Cast away from you all your transgressions, whereby ye have transgressed; and make you a new heart and a new spirit.’”

Repent, Joshua, it’s not too late. You have to—

“And where does this new heart and this new spirit come from?” Reverend Tate asked rhetorically. “Only through faith
in the grace of God
, only through mercy
at the hand of God
, only through hope
in the Son of God
. Amen?”

“Amens” from the ragtag congregation.

“As the Lord told Ezekiel in the thirty-sixth chapter, the twenty-sixth verse: ‘A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh.’”

Tate’s voice took on a flavor of fire born of love. “This new spirit comes to us only
from
God and is a gift
of
God and draws us closer
to
God. Amen?”

More amens. Two disabled vets, one of whom was missing a leg, and both of whom lived under an I-94 overpass, lifted their foam cups in an impromptu toast to the preacher.

Tate wrapped up his brief but passionate homily: “This new heart, this new spirit, this new hope, come to all who will turn to the Lord to find forgiveness and atonement for their sins. This, Petey did right here in this very cafeteria, one month ago. And this you can do today, if you have never done so before. Right here, in the same place where Petey was saved, you can be too.” He took an expectant breath. “Let us pray. And let us take responsibility for our sins, let us bring our hearts to God, let us trust in the Lord Jesus Christ, the one whose blood—”

—Blood. Always blood—

“—cleanseth us from all sin.”

Tate began his prayer by referencing St. Paul’s conclusion about the struggle against his sinful nature: “Who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord…”

As Reverend Tate went on, Joshua felt the crushing weight of his past, of his choices, nearly smothering him.

He had to leave.

So, while everyone else’s eyes were closed and heads were bowed, Joshua slipped out of the cafeteria. He made it to his car before he started to cry. And there he prayed and prayed, begging the God who had spoken those words to Ezekiel so long ago to speak to him today.

“A shedder of blood shall not live. He hath done all these abominations; he shall surely die; his blood shall be upon him.”

He tried to grab hold of hope, but the promise of a new heart, a new spirit, a gift offered, was overwhelmed by a palpable darkness, one that felt almost visceral and alive, a consuming presence sliding into his heart, rising above the moment and muscling its way into his soul.

Joshua ended his prayer.

Wiped away his tears.

It was too late for redemption.

He left to pick up the shoebox.

78

Corsica and I were almost to the offices of Hathaway & Erikson, LLC.

Everything was cycling around inside my head: the abductions, the murders, the unsolved missing persons cases. All seemingly intertwined, yet separate. Depending on how you looked at it, they were all one case, or more than a dozen.

How all that worked, I wasn’t quite sure.

Corsica spoke up, interrupting my thoughts. “I heard about you and Taci.”

“What?”

“You and Taci. I heard what happened.”

“Oh.”

“People talk. You know. You two have been together for a while. I…Well, we heard it from one of the doctors who works over there at the medical center.”

“I see.”

I pulled onto the road that would take us to the acquisitions firm. As far as I was concerned, we couldn’t get there quickly enough.

“It’s hard,” Annise said. “Going through something like that.”

I could hardly believe she was talking to me like this. We’d never before spoken about anything remotely personal and I really had no idea how to respond.

She went on. “Just wanted you to know, I feel for you. I know you cared about her.”

I pulled into the parking lot.

“Thanks.”

“You don’t have to hate someone for loving something else more than you. You know?”

I was about to say that I didn’t hate Taci, that I would never hate her, but I stopped myself short. I figured Annise must certainly know that. “Thanks,” I said again.

“Okay.” And then the conversation I never would have expected was over.

Though I might not have liked Annise very much, might never like her very much, as we left the car, I realized I was ashamed that I’d never tried to understand her. But she had just now, in her own way, tried to understand me.

Inside the building, we showed the receptionist our IDs and when we requested to speak to someone about their corporate flights to out-of-state accounts, she directed us to the senior vice president, a woman named Faye Palmer.

Palmer’s corner office was stylish and yet simple. The window peeked out over a parklike employee break area outside. Everything about Palmer seemed to say “high-level corporate VP”: designer pants suit, stylish hair, a pleasant yet brisk and professional demeanor.

She got right down to business. “So, how exactly can I help you, Detectives?”

I told her forthrightly about the flights, asked her for the names of the people who’d been aboard them.

She tapped a finger against her desk but gave no indication that she was going to grant the request. “And you’re certain that someone on these flights is involved in some way in these crimes?”

“By no means.” Corsica’s voice was unequivocal. “We’re simply pursuing every possible lead.”

After evaluating that, Palmer nodded and went to her file cabinet. It took her a little while, but at last she produced a manila folder—I just couldn’t seem to get away from those things this week. She shuffled through the sheets, then pulled out three.

I could tell she was about to glance them over, but then without doing so, handed the pages to me.

She must have noticed my surprise that she didn’t look at them. “I don’t want my perception of any of my employees to be shaded,” she explained, “even marginally, with unfounded suspicion. I’m sure you’ll let me know if you find anything regarding any of them.”

“I’m sure we will,” Corsica answered.

We thanked Palmer for her help and excused ourselves from her office.

I could barely contain my curiosity as we returned to the reception area.

Finally, when we were alone and in a corner of the room, I held up the papers, and Corsica and I examined the names.

79

Three names appeared on all three lists: Janelle Warner, Andre Demell, and Richard Basque.

Just three names.

The violent nature of the crimes made it highly unlikely that a woman would be the killer. Yes, we would speak with Janelle, but I wanted to start with the two men on our list.

“Which one first?” I asked Corsica. “Demell or Basque?”

“Let’s go with Mr. Demell.”

We asked the receptionist to try his office number, but when she consulted her appointment book, she informed us that he would be out most of today meeting with some of their clients.

“But he is here in town?” I said.

“Yes.”

We set up an appointment for four thirty.

Janelle Warner would meet with us at one fifteen.

“What about Richard Basque? Is he in?”

The receptionist sighed and I got the impression she was growing tired of helping us, which didn’t bother me one bit as long as she got us the meetings we needed.

She rang Basque’s office, spoke for a moment on the phone, and then announced that he would be out in a minute. Somewhat impolitely she flicked her hand toward the chairs in the reception area. “You can have a seat if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Corsica told her with a slight touch of attitude. “If it’s only going to be a minute.”

I folded up the flight manifests and slid them into my pocket.

And thought of the best way to frame the questions I was going to ask Mr. Basque.

80

12:25 p.m.

4 hours until the gloaming

Basque stepped through the doorway.

Caucasian. Late twenties or early thirties. Perceptive, turquoise eyes. Handsome. Dressed
GQ
-esque in a charcoal suit and tie. Six-two, athletic build, dark hair. A confident, endearing smile.

If he really was the “Maneater of the Midwest,” he was not all what you might envision when you pictured a cannibalistic murderer.

Or, well, maybe he was.

Even though it wasn’t by any means fair to make the comparison, with his good looks and charming smile, Basque reminded me of the quintessential psychopath Ted Bundy—the clean-cut, all-American, articulate, smiling, serial killing, homicidal maniac.

We greeted Basque and he led us to his office on the second floor.

After we’d all taken a seat, he let his gaze pass from me to Corsica and then back to me. He smiled. “Can I have my secretary bring you anything? Coffee? A glass of water?”

“No, thank you.” I still wasn’t really sure how to address the issue that this guy just happened to keep showing up in cities scattered throughout the Midwest right around the time women were disappearing or showing up dead.

But I didn’t have to try to figure out how to be polite because Corsica cut to the chase for me: “We’re investigating a series of homicides.”

“Homicides.”

“Yes.”

He waited for us to elaborate.

I said, “Do you know a woman named Juanita Worthy?”

He thought about it, shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Who is she?”

“A woman who was killed in Illinois.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Corsica spoke up, “What about Marianne Lojeski?”

He shook his head again.

“Bruce Hendrich?”

He looked at us quizzically. “Honestly, I don’t know any of these people and I’m not entirely sure why you’re asking me if I do.”

I thought about bringing up the flight manifests, but as long as he was denying knowing any of the victims there might be a better approach. “Mr. Basque, would you be willing to share a copy of your schedule with us? Your days off? Your personal calendar?”

It would have been easy to miss.

It happened for only an instant, but it did happen.

His gaze flickered cold and an icy intensity fell across his eyes, one so stark and soulless that it actually sent a shiver through me, but then, in the time it takes to blink, he collected himself and offered us a smile that looked remarkably genuine. “Certainly. Now, tell me, why are you asking me this?” He raised an eyebrow, asked lightheartedly, “I’m not a suspect, am I?”

I let Corsica answer. She folded her hands, laid them gently on her lap, repeated the same words she’d told his boss earlier, “By no means. We’re simply pursuing every possible lead.”

“I see.”

I took a few minutes to ask about his business trips to Ohio and Illinois and if he knew anything about the Hayes or Westin kidnappings here in Milwaukee this week. He shook his head and told me that, no, he did not—other than what he’d heard on the news—but that he genuinely wished there was some way he could help.

He sounded like he meant it and he wasn’t in any hurry to get rid of us. He didn’t seem nervous or intimidated, was pleasant and cordial the whole time. And for some reason, even though I hated the idea of going with my gut or letting unfounded assumptions guide me around, the more personable and patient he was, the more I found myself thinking he was guilty.