The City PI and the Country Cop (2 page)

“Did the murders all take place in or around
Collingswood?”

“They were all in Grande County, but that
covers a large area—partly mountain, partly flatland. Collingswood
is the county seat.”

“When and where was this newest killing?”

“Two days ago, in Faircrest. It’s about four
hundred miles south and west of Collingswood, on the other side of
the Continental Divide. Here, let me show you.” Teague got his
laptop from his desk, setting it on the coffee table so they could
both see the screen. Then he booted it up and went online to a map
site.

“Halfway across the country from here,” Jake
commented, studying the map.

“Not quite that bad. It’s around eight
hundred and—” Teague used the directions function to check, “—fifty
miles. And Collingswood is closer. Only six-fifty.”

“Can you fly into both cities?”

“Fly or drive. I haven’t decided which yet.
“

“But you
are
going out there. I
suspect you’ll want to have a face-to-face with Detective Slater
before you do anything else.”

“Definitely.”

“What about reciprocity? Will your Missouri
license be accepted there?”

“Colorado doesn’t require a PI to be licensed
so I’ll be good in that respect.”

“Interesting. Lucky for you.”

“No kidding.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Yesterday?” Teague replied with a small
smile. “No, actually I was thinking Thursday. That will give us
time to make certain we have all the bases covered on the cases I
was working on and,” he smiled dryly, “for me to decide if I do
want to drive.”

“It will give you more freedom and it’s
cheaper than renting a car after you get there. When you’ve talked
to the detective you might find you want to visit the other towns
where the original killings occurred.”

“Very good point. Guess I’d better take the
Trek into the garage in the morning to check the brakes and
tires.”

* * * *

Teague spent Wednesday with his team, going
over everything that needed to done at the agency. He put Jake in
charge during his absence, which went over well with the other
investigators. Jake was not only competent but well-liked, even by
the old-timers who worked for Teague.

With that accomplished, Teague picked up his
car, which had needed new tires, and went home to pack. After a
good night’s sleep, he took off on Thursday morning, heading to
Collingswood. Just over eight hours later he was checking in at a
national chain motel.

When he got to his room, the first thing he
did was call Detective Slater at the police station. The man wasn’t
there so Teague left a brief message asking him to return his call,
telling him it was related to the murder of Chris Frye.

Fifteen minutes later, while he was still
unpacking, Detective Slater called back.

“How can I help you, Mr. Donovan?” Slater
asked.

“We spoke approximately two years ago about
the serial killings involving Chris Frye. It was soon after his
remains had been identified and given to his brother.”

Slater paused, and Teague had the feeling he
was trying to remember the call. Then the man said, “Yes, I recall
the conversation. You wanted to know the details.”

“I still do.”

“Why?”

Surprised at the question, Teague replied, “I
gather you’re not aware that there was another killing, four days
ago on the other side of the state, which closely resembles the MO
of your serial killer.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about it. But there are a
couple of differences.”

“Such as?”

Slater chuckled. “You should know how we
work. We hold back information and to be honest I see no reason to
tell you, even though you are a PI, if I remember correctly.”

“I am.” Teague drummed his fingers on his
thigh. “Would it be possible for us to talk in person sometime
tomorrow?”

“I take it from that statement you’re in
town?”

“Yes. I’m at the Courtyard.”

There was another pause before Slater said,
“Come in at nine. Do you know where the precinct house is?”

“No, but I can Google it.”

Slater laughed. “How about I give you the
address. We’re not that far from where you’re staying.” He did,
then without further ado said that he’d see Teague in the morning
and hung up.

At least he didn’t shut me down. Now the
question, how much can, or more to the point, will he be willing to
tell me.

* * * *

Teague asked the same question of the
detective once they were seated in one of the interrogation rooms
Friday morning. They were using it because it was the only private
place available at the moment.

“How much will I tell you about the cases?
That’s debatable. Why should I reveal anything?”

“Good question,” Teague replied with a small
smile. “First off, I knew Chris Frye before his death. We were good
friends and I feel somewhat responsible for what happened to
him.”

“How so?”

Teague explained and when he finished Slater
said, “From the sound of it, he would have left town even if his
aunt hadn’t found out about him. Sure, maybe you were complicit in
that but I doubt you could have changed his mind.”

“I know I couldn’t have,” Teague told him
dryly. “I tried hard enough, though.”

“So you said.” Slater leaned back, studying
him. “If I tell you what we know, what do you plan on doing with
the information?”

“Honest answer? Compare it with whatever I
can get the detective in Faircrest to tell me about his case, and
go from there.”

“Don’t you think I’ve already done that,”
Slater said with some asperity.

“I’m sure you have, but sometimes it takes a
fresh set of eyes to see how things might mesh. From what you told
me when we talked two years ago you were living and breathing the
cases even though you knew they were cold. I suspect you still are
or you wouldn’t have agreed to talk with me.”

Slater shrugged. “When I get time I do go
over everything again, looking for something, anything, we might
have missed. I’ve re-interviewed anyone who knew the two boys—the
ones we were originally able to ID—in the time span before their
murders. The problem is, after nearly thirty years…” He spread his
hands.

“Yeah. If they did know something back then,
they’ve undoubtedly forgotten it by now. Things like who each of
the boys ran with.”

“From what I do know about them,” Slater
replied, “they were both gay, they were runaways, and they hustled
to stay alive.”

Teague sighed. “That undoubtedly fits Chris,
too. The hustling part. Though how he ended up here…”

“A question I for one don’t know the answer
to. Possibly he hitchhiked and got dropped off here. That’s how one
of the other boys ended up in Wellsburg.”

“What about the third boy?”

“From what little we could find out, he just
showed up one day in Laport. That’s about five miles west of here.
Wellsburg’s twelve miles to the north.”

Teague nodded. “So the killer could have been
living in the area.”

“That was what the detectives thought back
when the killings happened, but whoever he is, he knew enough not
to leave us any clues.”

“And now he might be back at it again.”

“I told you, there are differences in the MO
between our murders and the one in Faircrest.”

“A copycat then?”

“Always a possibility. What was done to that
boy matched the info that was made public. The sodomizing, the way
he was tied up, the fact that he was gagged, although in his case
the gag was an old rag not…” Slater shook his head.

Teague chuckled. “Almost let something out
there? Now if I was going to guess what, I’d say…the victim’s
underwear, or socks.”

“Good guesses, but I’m not going to confirm
either one.”

“Why not? It’s not as if I’m going to run to
the newspaper with it. Or with anything else you tell me. I’m
smarter than that and I have a vested interest in finding the
killer—if it is the same man.”

“He’d be in his early to late fifties by now,
at least,” Slater said. “A bit old to be able to kidnap a teen.
Even one who’s not in the best of shape from living on the
street.”

“I agree. The chances are it
is
a
copycat. Are there any similarities between the newest murder and
the others that weren’t let out in news reports?”

Slater looked as if he didn’t want to answer,
leading Teague to believe there were. Finally Slater nodded,
adding, “But I’m not going to tell you what.”

“Something to do with the objects used?”

“Since the coroner couldn’t determine what
those were with any certainty—no.”

“With how they were strangled? I know a good
ME can tell if the person doing it was right or left-handed.”

“Not even that because…”

“Leap of logic maybe,” Teague said. “They
were hanged?”

“Yes and no.”

“You’re going to make me drag this out of you
word by word, aren’t you?”

“Not really, because I have no intention of
telling you any more than I have.”

“Damn it!”

“Look, Mr. Donovan, you may be a very good
private detective. In fact, from what I’ve found out about you,
you’re an excellent one and you’re well respected by the police in
your city. But that doesn’t negate the fact that you’re a
civilian.”

“And God forbid a civilian should try to help
the police find a killer.”

“Is that what you want to do? Help us? Or do
you want enough information so you can, with luck—and that’s what
it would be—find and deal with the man yourself?”

Teague gave a brief nod. “That thought had
occurred to me. However, I’m not stupid. Finding him will take more
than just me. The only advantage I have over the police is that I
can skirt the letter of the law to find out what I need to. You
can’t. That is, I can if you tell me the parts of the story I’m
missing.”

“Let me think about it and I’ll get back to
you.” With that said, Slater stood. “I have other things I need to
take care of involving present cases.”

“Understood.” Teague took out a business
card, circling his cell phone number. “You can get in touch with me
here.”

* * * *

Detective Slater did call, somewhat to
Teague’s surprise, to set up another meeting for that evening.
Teague had thought the detective would brush him off. “This is off
the record,” Slater told him in no uncertain terms before asking
Teague to meet him at a local diner across town from the
precinct.

Teague arrived to find Slater seated in a
booth well away from the front window. He slid in across from the
detective, ordering coffee when the waitress arrived.

“When I said this is just between you and
me,” Slater said, “I meant it. There are two reasons I’m willing to
talk to you about this. One, it
is
a cold case, not an
ongoing one. Secondly, is the fact that I know you were right when
you said you could do things that I, as an officer of the law,
can’t.” He smiled dryly. “I’m a realist if nothing else. Not that
the information I’m going to give you will be of much use I’m
afraid. But I’ll also put you in contact with the detective
handling the killing in Faircrest. I’ll warn you, he’s a hardnosed
SOB who will probably tell you to get lost, but it’s the best I can
do for you.”

“Thanks. If he does, then he does. That’s the
name of the game as they say. So, what do you have for me?”

“This.” Slater opened the briefcase that
Teague could just see was sitting on the seat beside the man.
Taking out a slim folder, he handed it to Teague “The details about
the deaths are all there, including everything we held back when
they happened. They show that the murder of your friend was done in
exactly the same fashion as the others, down to the way he was
strangled. It’s not pretty, as you’ll see from the crime scene
photos.”

Teague looked around to make certain no one
was watching before opening the folder. For the moment he skipped
the written information, going directly to the photos of the bodies
as they’d initially been found. He sucked in a deep breath. “Holy
shit.”

“Yeah, it’s bad,” Slater agreed.

The picture, obviously a photocopy of the
original, showed a young man’s body, naked, lying at the foot of a
large tree. His wrists and ankles were lashed together behind his
back, hog-tying him. The killer had fastened a second, heavier rope
around his neck. It’s free end, at the point when the photo was
taken, hung limply over the branch of the tree. It didn’t take much
imagination to understand that the killer had pulled the boy up by
it, thus strangling him to death.

Teague repressed a shudder, saying, “From
what you told me, the strangulation was slow.”

Slater nodded. “The coroner estimates that
the killer probably pulled him off the ground until he was almost
dead, let him down, and did it again. Four times in the case of the
young man in that photo. Five when it came to Chris Frye. Possibly
because he was lighter than the other two boys so the killer was
able to play with him longer before tiring.”

“The bastard did more that sodomize and
strangle this one,” Teague said tightly as he studied another photo
of the young man’s body. There were what appeared to be several
cigarette burns on his back, arms, and the soles of his feet.

“The county coroner said that was done before
the killer started hanging Barry—that’s the boy’s name. More
torture before killing him. It was the same with the two other
boys. That’s one bit of information that was held back.”

“What kind of sick son-of-a-bitch are we
dealing with here?”

“Given that all three boys were gay, and
hustlers, you tell me.”

“Obviously he hates gays, but why go to such
extremes? Who did what to him to make him take his hatred out this
way, by torturing them so horribly?”