The Coldest Fear (28 page)

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Authors: Rick Reed

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller

BOOK: The Coldest Fear
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CHAPTER
SEVENTY-THREE
Jansen drove down alleys the last two blocks before reaching Arnold's house. A few minutes ago he'd seen a marked police car, and knew that he was on borrowed time. The chief would have every reason to believe that Jansen was the leak to the news media, and he was probably going to be taking a forced vacation if they caught up to him.
He didn't know what he expected to find at Arnold's, but he knew the reporter was hiding stuff from him. The direct approach hadn't worked, so now it was time to do it his way. A little breaking and entering wasn't against his principles.
He parked in a gravel pull-off in the alley a couple of houses down from Arnold's backyard and reached in the glove box, retrieving the little leather case he kept there. Sticking this in his pocket, he did what he had known so many others shouldn't do. He looked around to be sure no one was watching. The cop in him knew that doing so was tantamount to saying, “Watch this. I'm about to commit a crime.”
Satisfied that he wasn't being observed by nosy neighbors, Jansen walked to Arnold's back door. He would have knocked first, but he knew that Arnold's mother was upstairs somewhere—sleeping, he hoped—and he didn't want to get into a shouting match with the old bag. She might call 911 and the shit would really hit the fan.
No, this is a covert operation,
he thought and smiled at the idea. There was something cool about being on the sly.
The back door had the regular locks on it. One on the door handle, and a dead bolt. He prayed Arnold hadn't locked the dead bolt. He pulled the leather case from his pocket and retrieved his lock pick, a plastic card that resembled a credit card, but was more pliable. He had been given the plastic card while he was in the Army. He had been Army CID, counterintelligence, in his younger days. CID Officer Larry Jansen had been a pro with lock picks, but he had found that the plastic card had gotten him through most locked doors.
He slid the plastic edge of the card at an upward angle just below the door handle and was relieved when the door slid open. He stood with his ear to the crack, listening, but the inside of the house was eerily quiet.
Jansen slipped inside, and quietly pulled the door shut behind himself.
What are you hiding, Arnold?
he thought.
 
 
Chief Marlin Pope sat on the sill of his office window and rubbed at his forehead. Outside the window people walked with purpose along the wide sidewalks, and across the busy four-lane Martin Luther King Boulevard heading for destinations unknown but seemingly more important than the drama that was playing itself out inside this room. Jack couldn't help but wonder how they could be so impervious to the fact that a serial killer was among them. It could be anyone. The guy in the wild plaid-checkered shorts with the stained and tattered wifebeater. The woman in the gray pleated skirt with matching top and leggings who was gripping her purse so tightly to her chest he hoped there was nothing sharp inside it. Or maybe it was the shriveled homeless creature, sexless and ageless, begging for dimes or dollars, and spitting a viscous black matter into a white Styrofoam cup.
“You think the killer is out there, Jack?” Tunney said.
Jack looked at Tunney and wondered if the man's mind was ever in the off position. Tunney appeared so calm and relaxed, even when he was talking about someone's face being removed with an axe. But Jack could sense the hum of the gears grinding inside the man's mind, could almost see the pulse in his neck. Tunney lived for this. He was always on the scent.
I'm not much different,
he admitted to himself.
“Are you married, Agent Tunney?” Jack asked.
There was a slight tic at the corner of Tunney's eye before he answered. “No,” Tunney said.
The two men locked eyes. They both had monsters in the closets. Both had minds hardwired to seek and destroy. Both knew that this life would never be conducive to a lasting relationship, and so they had chosen to be the wolves instead of the sheep. Protecting the flock from predators, but earning a reluctant gratitude that masked fear instead of respect or love. Everyone knew that wolves were only good for one thing. And in that way they both shared something in common with the monsters they hunted.
The Evansville police chief brought the conversation back on track. “The Illinois trooper who's investigating the Samuels case called and said the autopsy is scheduled for this afternoon in Gallatin County,” Chief Pope said to those gathered. Liddell was slumped in a large leather chair near the door. Captain Franklin sat near Angelina Garcia in front of the chief 's large desk. Jack and Tunney were standing, looking out the window by which the chief still sat.
“Do you want one of us to attend?” Jack asked. He was thinking that it might be a good idea, but he knew that Zimmer was a very competent investigator. Armed with what Tunney and Jack had provided, Zimmer should be able to handle the autopsy without their presence.
“I need you here, Jack,” Franklin said. “From what you said, the Illinois trooper is pretty sharp.”
Liddell grinned. “He's a little Jack.”
“Okay, I think it's time to get back to work,” Pope said, shooing them out.
As they were leaving the chief 's outer office his secretary stopped them.
“I have a call for you, Jack,” she said and handed the receiver to him.
“Murphy,” Jack said. He listened and then handed the receiver back to Jennifer and turned to face Liddell and Tunney.
“What is it, pod'na?” Liddell asked.
“Lenny Bange is dead.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-FOUR
Lenny Bange, like a lot of Americans, lived well above his means. Or at least it appeared so to Jack as he arrived at the crime scene. Johnson Place was an area of Evansville that could have been another part of the country, like maybe the mansions in Santa Monica, or the million-dollar chateaus in Palm Beach. What was missing in acreage was more than made up in the beautiful and expensive materials used to build the massive structures that were considered singlefamily dwellings in Johnson Place.
Lenny's house sat on a one-hundred-by-one-hundred-foot lot with no grass except a small strip across the front the size of a stripper's panties. Every inch of parking was taken by police emergency and crime scene vehicles. Yellow and black crime scene tape was strung around the periphery. Jack and Liddell ducked under this as they approached Sergeant Walker at the front entrance.
“Notice anything, pod'na?” Liddell said to Jack.
Jack looked around. You didn't have to smell the money to know it was everywhere.
“If we were anywhere else there would be a crowd gathered. I haven't even seen a curtain twitch,” Liddell explained.
“Maybe they're all at work,” Jack suggested.
“You think these people work?”
“Lenny Bange lived here,” Jack pointed out. “He worked.”
“He was an attorney, pod'na. That ain't working.”
Jack looked around at the drawn curtains of the surrounding houses. “Well, one thing's for sure. We probably won't have any witnesses.”
Liddell nodded. “Let's see what Walker has for us,” he said.
As they approached the door Jack noticed someone sitting on a small bench, bent over with his head cradled in his hands. A uniformed officer was nearby and said, “Lenny's son.”
Jack barely recognized the pale-faced young man whom he had met in the elevator in Lenny Bange's building.
“Manny, right?” Jack asked and extended a hand.
The young man tried to smile, but his lips quivered and he just nodded as tears streamed from his eyes. He buried his face in his hands again and moaned.
“He found the old man . . . I mean Mr. Bange,” the uniformed officer explained.
“I'll talk to Manny,” Liddell said and took out his notebook.
Jack turned to continue to the house when Manny called out to him.
“You find the monster that did this, Jack,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I will,” Jack assured him.
“You find him and kill him!” Manny said, and then broke down into sobs.
 
 
Walker met Jack and Liddell at the door. He was wearing white cloth booties, blue nylon gloves, and a surgeon's mask pulled down under his chin.
“This is the worst yet,” Walker said.
They entered, staying close behind the crime scene sergeant as they were led to a bathroom in the back of the home. They were led through the front foyer, and off to the left, Jack could see a room that must be a library. It held more books than Jack had ever read in his life. All hardcover. Most leather-bound editions.
Law library at home,
Jack thought.
The living room had an immaculately clean white carpet. Jack noticed that there was very little sign of foot traffic on it. He guessed that what was there had been trampled down by the first-responding officers.
Walker noticed Jack looking at the carpet and said, “I spoke to the officers that arrived first. They came in the front door and walked across this carpet, but they swear there were no footprints in it when they came in. Their impression was that the rug had been vacuumed recently and no one had walked on it.”
Jack nodded.
The living room led to a hallway. To the left was a massive dining area with a table larger than the conference table in the chief 's complex at police headquarters. To the right was a bathroom. Sergeant Walker stopped and said, “His son found him in here this morning a little after seven o'clock.”
Looking through the doorway at the congealing mess that had once been Lenny Bange, Jack understood why Manny had been so upset.
The bathroom was as large as the living room and kitchen of Jack's cabin combined. In one corner was a whirlpool tub that would accommodate two adults. Above the tub was a bank of opaque windows and a shelf full of sex toys. Next to this was a shower stall that was comprised of free-standing glass walls. Jack could see Lenny Bange's body, his back to Jack, propped in a seated position against the glass. The inside of the glass was covered with streaks and smears of something dark.
“The killer finished him off in the shower,” Walker said.
Jack and Liddell looked questioningly at him, and Walker continued, “It looks like the initial assault was in the bedroom down the hallway, and he was forced or dragged into the bathroom shower. All the blood is contained inside the shower.”
Jack looked back down the hallway, but didn't see any signs of a struggle. Several paintings on the walls depicted colorful outdoor and wildlife scenes. Nothing was askew or on the floor. There were no smears or traces of blood on the walls. At least not that he could see.
“You think he was forced into the shower?” Liddell asked the question that Jack was thinking.
“His pajamas are on the floor of the shower. Looks like they were cut or torn from his body after he was hacked to death,” Walker explained.
“Oh,” Liddell said. “Continue, oh wise one.”
“You won't be talking so cute after you see the body,” Walker said.
“Which is when?” Jack asked.
“We've already processed the pathway,” Walker said, meaning that they had examined the area that detectives would need to cross to look closer. He led them inside the bathroom and then asked the tech who was still photographing the body to step out.
 
 
Jansen crossed the kitchen, stepping lightly, listening for any sound that might tell him if Arnold's mother was awake, or worse yet, downstairs. The house was small and had an odd smell to it, like stale fish.
Probably just old-lady smell,
Jansen thought. He had to give Arnold credit for taking care of a sick mother and keeping a halfway clean house. He wasn't doing such a good job with his own sick wife.
He had only been in Arnold's bedroom one time, and that was because Arnold had asked for his help to mount a large corkboard on the bedroom wall. He knew there was an upstairs, and a basement, but he had never been outside the kitchen except for that one time, almost two years ago. He had never even met Arnold's mother, just heard Arnold refer to her. And from what Arnold had said, she was quite the bitch.
Jansen's wife had been diagnosed with lupus four years ago, and she had been fighting an uphill battle against the symptoms. Two years ago she had given up and stayed in bed almost all the time. He'd hired a housekeeper at first, but when it was obvious that she needed more help than that he had hired a sitter to come in and take care of the wife and the house. It was costly, but in his own way, he still loved her. Sure he was cheating on her, but a man had needs.
Satisfied that he was alone downstairs, he made his way toward the kitchen door that he knew led to the living room. Before he left the kitchen he saw it. On the edge of a wooden chair next to the spick-and-span kitchen table, a small hand axe with a gleaming sharp blade lay on a dishtowel.
“What the—” Jansen said, as he heard a sharp sound.

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