The Love Killings (15 page)

CHAPTER 34

Lester Snow had vanished. The ten men in black suits who worked for the funeral home were still here in the graveyard and inside the church, cleaning up. But Snow was gone.

Matt looked through the large pane glass windows in the church and saw a hearse heading north on Valley Forge Road. Exiting the building, he ran into the parking lot and climbed into the Crown Vic. The camera crews were here, milling about and packing up their gear. Matt eased the car through the crowd as quickly as he could. When he finally reached the street, he made a left and gunned it up the hill.

The hearse was about two hundred yards ahead, making a right onto another narrow country road. Within a quarter mile, Matt had closed the distance and began riding his tail. Once he confirmed that Snow was behind the wheel, once he saw the undertaker’s face in the side mirror, he slowed down and followed at a distance of twenty car lengths or so.

These were quiet neighborhoods and tree-lined roads in the middle of the day. There was no reason to not ease off the gas and give the undertaker some room. Matt lowered the window a few inches, lit a cigarette, and settled into the driver’s seat. He didn’t know the area very well. Still, he had a decent feel for where the church was located in relation to the Holloways’ mansion and the Wawa Market off Sugartown Road. He knew all three were very close, within a few square miles, and that Snow was working his way toward Route 30, a.k.a. Lancaster Avenue, the strip of highway that followed the railroad tracks and snaked through the entire Main Line.

Matt noted the Wayne Library as Snow finally reached Lancaster Avenue and made a right at the light. A few blocks later, he pulled into the lot at the Lester Snow Funeral Home. Matt followed him around back and parked before the loading docks as Snow climbed out of the hearse.

“Mr. Snow,” he said. “May I have a word with you?”

Snow gave him an odd look, but finally nodded. “Sure,” he said quietly. “But let’s do it inside, okay?”

“Okay,” Matt said.

The undertaker smoothed back his white hair, then led the way up the steps and to the rear entrance. They passed through a room that was dimly lit and appeared to be refrigerated. When Snow opened a thick door and flooded the room with light, Matt saw ten coffins set on wheeled gurneys against the far wall. He noted the ID tags and followed Snow into the hall.

It was warm in here, and he was grateful for it. He could hear music in the building. Snow held a bony finger to his lips, calling for silence as he spoke in a voice that was barely audible.

“There’s a memorial service underway. We need to be quiet.”

They walked down the hallway, the carpet thick and plush and absorbing any sound of their footsteps. They passed a display room filled with coffins varying in style and, Matt guessed, price. When they reached the source of the music, Matt peeked inside the large room before Snow could get the set of double doors closed. There were at least seventy-five people seated in the room, and the memorial service had a theme to it like he’d read about in LA.

The casket was open, and the middle-aged man inside had the look and feel of a wooden mannequin with marbles in his eyes. He was dressed in a golf shirt and pants, his casket designed to mimic a golf cart. Beside the casket, a set of old golf clubs stood on a spread of artificial grass.

Snow finally got the doors closed, then gave Matt a nervous look and showed him into the room next door. It was about the same size as the room they’d just passed, and there were a large number of folding chairs set in rows here as well. Matt glanced around. The walls were painted gold. When he turned he noticed a Christmas tree with lights and decorations and wrapped gifts standing beside an electric fireplace with fake logs.

Snow turned and looked at him as he shut the door. The worry was still there, and seemed to have intensified over the past few minutes.

The undertaker cleared his throat. “Your name again,” he said in a quiet voice that quivered. “I’m sorry.”

“Matt Jones.”

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

Matt shrugged like it was nothing, moved over to a seat, and sat down. “I couldn’t help noticing how worried you looked during the service. I figured there had to be a reason and wanted to ask you about it.”

“Why does there have to be a reason?”

“Because this wasn’t your first funeral service. You’ve been in business for forty-five years. I’d like to know what’s wrong.”

Snow’s eyes got big as he considered the situation. He took a deep breath and sat down on a chair across the aisle. Snow couldn’t seem to look him in the eye anymore, and Matt sensed that his hunch was about to pay out.

“Nothing’s wrong, Detective.”

“I’ve got eyes, Mr. Snow. Something’s bothering you. Something’s going on.”

The undertaker gave him a quick look before his gaze dropped down to the carpet. “It’s an internal matter,” he said.

“I wish it could be an internal matter, Mr. Snow. I really do. But this is a homicide investigation. A mass killing. There’s no such thing as an internal matter. I need to know what’s going on, sir.”

The man shook his head, still eyeing the carpet. “But you see, I’m not sure that it was anything at all.”

It hung there for a while. Matt glanced at the Christmas tree, noticed the natural scent of pine in the air, then turned back.

“You just said that you’re not sure if it was anything at all. It’s the word
it
that concerns me, Mr. Snow.”

The undertaker appeared upset. Matt could see him trying to reel it all in, his eyes wagging back and forth across the carpet like a dog’s tail. He let out a sigh and lowered his voice.

“I just had the feeling that the Strattons had been disturbed in some way.”

A long moment passed, the scent of the Christmas tree vanishing in its wake.

“Tell me what you mean by disturbed.”

The undertaker finally met his gaze. “It’s just a feeling,” he said. “I have no evidence. I’m just glad it’s over. I’m glad they’re in their final resting places and hope that the entire family is finally at peace. That’s a beautiful churchyard, don’t you think?”

A feeling. A hunch. The possibility that the Strattons’ corpses had been disturbed in some way.

“You called it an internal matter. What about your employees?”

“I was just trying to avoid your questions. Everyone who works here has been with me for a long time. Like I said, I can’t put my finger on it. It’s just a feeling I had.”

Matt didn’t know how far to pursue this right now. The details of both crime scenes were still confidential.

“Let me ask you something, Mr. Snow.”

“Anything, Detective.”

All of a sudden the undertaker seemed eager to please, like the weight he’d been carrying had finally been cast off his shoulders.

“You’ve been in the funeral business for a long time.”

“Yes, I have.”

“How many times have you worked on someone who was murdered?”

The undertaker thought it over for a moment. “Now that you mention it, not many.”

“What’s that mean?”

“To tell you the truth, the Strattons might be the first.”

“What about car wrecks, anybody who died in a violent accident or house fire?”

“Too many to count, Detective.”

Matt stood up and thanked the undertaker for his time. The only thing he knew for certain was that Lester Snow hadn’t been influenced by the way the Strattons had died, and that he was lying. Blood and gore wasn’t an issue here. The issue was limited to the worry showing on the undertaker’s face at the funeral service. And now the relief he was exhibiting as he thought he’d succeeded in deceiving Matt and ending the conversation.

Matt stepped outside and started around the building to his car. He had asked Snow a direct question and the man had lied to him and wasn’t about to give it up. Not today anyway. Not without something more to force his hand.

Matt shook his head. Someone had done something to the Strattons’ corpses, and it left a really bad taste in his mouth.

CHAPTER 35

Matt cruised down the hill on Matsonford Road and made a left when he reached County Line. As he backed off the gas, he glanced at the clock on the dash. It was only four thirty, but already dark.

He spotted the Stratton mansion on the other side of the stone wall, idled down the drive, and parked beneath the trees. The media had pulled out, which didn’t surprise him. But so had the men in black uniforms carrying rifles, and this did. He didn’t see any sign of law enforcement on the property. No one was keeping an eye on things anymore.

He got out of the car and gazed at the death house, all those dark windows. When his cell phone rang, he saw Kate Brown’s name on the face.

“What’s up, Kate?”

“Where are you?”

“At the Strattons’.”

“Why?”

Matt gazed into the backyard. “I wanted another look.”

She didn’t say anything for several moments. When she finally spoke, her voice had changed and become softer.

“Is this what you had to take care of? Is this why you wanted to be alone?”

Matt started to nod, then caught himself. “Sort of.”

“I’m sorry, Jones. I should’ve guessed.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Kate. Let’s hook up later.”

“Okay,” she said. “Sounds good.”

She hung up. Matt slipped the phone into his pocket. He wasn’t thinking about Brown, or even the undertaker. As he stood before the death house, his mind was fixed on the sight of the Strattons’ new graves and the sound of those two violins wafting through the churchyard. That grim feeling of stillness.

That was the moment Matt knew that he had to forget about the crimes Jim Stratton had committed, the things he had done to his patients for the sake of money. Seeing those five fresh graves cut into the earth was the moment Matt had signed a personal contract with each one of the five victims. The contract covered the Strattons as well as the Holloways, no matter what kind of man David Holloway had been. No matter how much Stratton and Holloway deserved to pay for their crimes. But even more, the contract no longer required Rogers’s or Doyle’s approval or even permission. If the FBI and the Department of Justice wanted to drive up the wrong road, so be it.

Matt didn’t care anymore. He was in the hunt for the duration, no matter how things turned out.

He stepped onto the porch, punched in the combination on the lockbox, the California penal code for murder, one-eight-seven, and plucked out the brass key. He was in, and after he pushed the door open, he returned the key to the box and switched on the foyer lights.

The Strattons might be buried in the ground at old St. David’s Church, but their ghosts were still here. And the haunting stillness of the graveyard couldn’t compare to the weight of the silence permeating the Strattons’ home. Matt noted the smell of rotting blood still cascading down the staircase from the second-floor landing. The harsh odor seemed to have backed off some, but was still very much here.

He walked into the library, looking for the framed picture Dr. Baylor had said he touched. He found it hanging over a long, narrow table on a wall beside the fireplace. Slipping into a pair of vinyl gloves, he switched on the lamp, glanced at the magazines and art books on the table, then checked the picture frame for fingerprint powder. Rogers’s report had been correct, the frame dusted. And Dr. Baylor had been right as well. Behind the glass was a sheet of newspaper from the
Philadelphia Inquirer
’s society page. Jim Stratton, MD, had sponsored a charity event for one of the hospitals in Center City—a golf match at his country club for kids with cancer. But the article that filled page one and continued on page three was really focused on Stratton’s generosity and his life as a well-regarded physician, a husband and father. There were photographs of the family in the backyard and by the pool, along with a shot of their Georgian mansion here in the heart of Radnor.

In spite of the contract Matt had made standing before their open graves—his personal commitment and mission—he found the article difficult to read and finally stopped.

Jim Stratton, MD, was a piece of human garbage, and dwelling on it couldn’t be good for the case.

“Interesting reading, isn’t it?”

Matt froze. It was Dr. Baylor, and he sounded close—within ten feet right behind his back.

Baylor chuckled. “My first thought when I read that piece was that Jim Stratton, MD, might be the son of God making his return to earth after more than two thousand years. Sweet Jesus, he’s back.”

Matt turned. The doctor was standing in the living room cloaked in darkness. His Glock 17 appeared to be up and ready, the muzzle poking through the gloom into the light and pointed directly at Matt’s heart.

The doctor stepped out of the shadows and through the doorway, the light from the table lamp raking across his body. “It’s unbelievable, isn’t it? The games people play in order to hide who they really are. I’m afraid I’m going to need your pistol, Matthew. I’d appreciate it if you’d turn around and lean against the mantel for a moment or two.”

Matt nodded without saying anything. As he leaned forward and grabbed hold of the mantelpiece, he could feel the doctor lifting his .45 out of its holster and quickly patting him down. It was a textbook body search, so well done that Matt had a hard time believing that the doctor hadn’t been a cop in one of his many identities.

“What are you doing here?” Matt said.

“I thought it might be a good time to catch up.”

“But how did you know I’d be here?”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Let’s just say that I’ve got eyes here and at the Holloways’. It’s the only safe way I have of making contact with you. In this case, I followed you from the funeral home. Thanks,” he said in a lower voice. “I’m finished.”

Matt turned and watched Baylor slip the .45 into his coat pocket and take a few steps back, the Glock still pointed his way.

“Do I really need to hold you at gunpoint, Matthew?”

Matt shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Matt could tell that his response had surprised Baylor. The doctor smiled and gave Matt a long look as he lowered the Glock 17 to his side.

“Something’s happened,” the doctor said. “What is it?”

Matt sat down on the couch. “The semen found in Tammy Stratton wasn’t yours.”

“I’m well aware of that,” he said. “But you’ve got DNA. You’ve got a match. Whose semen is it?”

Matt met the doctor’s gaze. “Her son’s.”

“The thirteen-year-old boy?”

Matt nodded and settled into the couch, measuring Baylor as the doctor sat down on the arm of a leather chair and appeared to be thinking it over. Matt couldn’t believe that he was dealing with a monster, that he was using a monster, that he needed a monster. A memory surfaced. He had been packing his bags for the trip to Philadelphia and his supervisor, Lieutenant Howard McKensie, had been mocking him. How did McKensie put it?

You’re not ready for a case like this, Jones. You’ve still got monsters swimming in your head
.

Baylor got up and walked over to the window. “The way the boy had been draped over his mother’s body, I was afraid this would be the case. When you get the results from the Holloways, it’ll be the same.”

“I think so, too,” Matt said. “And you were right about Rogers and Doyle.”

“Right about what?”

“They want it to be you. Anything that points in another direction will never make the file.”

“You confronted them?”

“I thought I had to when the DNA results came in.”

The doctor shook his head, the glint his eyes bright and wild. “Matthew Trevor Jones,” he said. “What happened?”

“Exactly what you’d expect. But later that night, I confronted Dr. Westbrook on his own.”

“The profiler from the FBI. I read about him in the newspaper.”

“I cornered him on the street. I asked him what a profile would look like if you weren’t in the picture.”

“I already know what it looks like. That’s why I tried to warn you at the Holloways’.”

“How could you know?”

“Look at the crime scene, Matthew. What need was the killer trying to fulfill? Look at the boys. The mothers. Dad and his daughters stripped of their clothing and holding hands as they watched. Let me guess what Westbrook told you. If it’s not me, then you’d be looking for a young man in his twenties. A young man who probably still lives with his mother and doesn’t have much money. That’s why he’s taking bigger risks and picking on the wealthy. He’s a young man who undoubtedly spent his entire life as a victim of sexual abuse. And don’t kid yourself, Matthew, it has to be sexual abuse because he’s forcing the boys to have sex with their mothers. Like I said before, this one’s different.”

The doctor met his gaze and smiled. Matt flinched, but managed to catch himself halfway through. It wasn’t Baylor’s smile. It was his eyes. For one short moment, the doctor had the look of a predator. For ten, maybe fifteen seconds, his eyes had gone dead. Matt could remember the photographs of Adam Lanza and Dylann Roof that he’d found on the Internet this morning. The doctor seemed to share the same psychotic look, but somehow had the ability to turn it on and off at will.

Matt took a deep breath. When he glanced at his hands, his fingers were trembling slightly. It was the unpredictability of the man, he thought. The idea that at any moment—

Matt cleared his throat. “It gets worse,” he said.

Baylor was staring at him, and Matt guessed that he’d noticed his reaction.

“Worse?” the doctor said carefully.

“I just came from the funeral home. Someone’s messing with the corpses.”

“Did the undertaker say that?”

“He mentioned it, then wrote it off.”

“Did you believe him?”

Matt shook his head. “Not when he tried to back away. Someone messed with the Strattons’ bodies. Whether or not it’s the killer is another story.”

“Oh, it’s him, Matthew. Trust me on this. It’s him and it fits.”

“How?”

“I’ll let you figure that out.”

The doctor glanced at Matt’s hands, then met his eyes again. When he spoke his voice was dark and frightening.

“Are you better now?”

He’d noticed. “You mind if I smoke?”

“Would it matter?”

Matt dug his cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one, and crossed the room to the fireplace. The doctor was staring at him again, his eyes focused and glistening in the light.

“You know he’ll never stop, don’t you, Matthew. He’ll keep going until he’s either captured or killed or blows up like a shooting star. And it’s not what I read in the newspapers. It’s not that he likes it. It’s that he can’t control himself anymore. He’s playing out his own life. He’s dreaming about his escape to a better life. And somewhere deep inside he knows with absolute certainty that he’ll never make it. He’ll never get there. He’ll never have the life he wants and needs. That’s where the anger’s coming from. The rage.”

Matt couldn’t tell if Baylor was talking about the killer or himself. Either way, he wanted to get out of here. He tapped the ash from the head of the cigarette into the fireplace and took a quick hit. When he finally checked on Baylor, he caught the doctor eyeing him again and realized that the dread had returned, but was stronger now. It suddenly occurred to Matt that the reason he hadn’t been afraid of the doctor on the night the Holloways were murdered was probably due to the shock of the crime itself. The sight of a mass killing, an entire family. The blowback had dulled his consciousness, his senses. But not tonight. Not with the doctor glaring at him like a leopard eyeing prey. Yet Baylor was the only person in the world whom he could talk to. The only person who understood that someone else was out there. The only human being he knew who had an
insider’s view
of committing an actual murder.

Matt took another hit on the Marlboro. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“I found out something about my family. My mother.”

The doctor nodded slowly. “What did you find out?”

“Her father was a big guy on Wall Street, just like my father. He was running a Ponzi scheme with his business partner and it fell apart. A lot of people lost everything they had. A lot of people got hurt.”

“What’s his name?”

“Howard Stewart. He’s dead. His business partner shot him after an argument. He waited until my grandparents fell asleep, then broke into the house and murdered them in bed. I couldn’t find my past because my mother’s name had been changed to protect her and her brother and sisters from the scandal.”

“When did this happen?”

“A long time ago. My mother was just a girl.”

Dr. Baylor moved back to the chair, sat down, and crossed his legs. “What’s your question, Matthew?”

Matt turned and looked at him. The doctor’s face was in shadow, masking his eyes.

“You know who my father is,” Matt said.

“I knew the minute you walked into my office.”

Matt took another drag on the Marlboro. “Why didn’t you go after him? Why didn’t you do to me what you did to those four girls?”

The doctor shrugged. “That’s easy. Those girls were loved by their parents. They were the only real thing their parents ever had. Take them away, and what are their parents left with? The money they stole. Some faint memory of a time when they cared about something more than themselves.” Baylor leaned forward, the light from the lamp striking his face. “Your situation is entirely different, Matthew. Your father, M. Trevor Jones, the King of Wall Street, wouldn’t mourn your death. He’d celebrate your passing. That’s the only explanation for why you were shot by that man on top of Mount Hollywood. Your father is trying to keep a secret. You’re working a headline case, your name’s out there, your picture’s in the newspaper, on TV and the Internet, and he’s getting nervous. His best option, his only option, is to have you killed before anyone figures out what he did to you and your mother.”

Matt flicked the butt into the fireplace. “Maybe,” he said. “But my father’s a bigger symbol of greed than anyone you hurt. He might even be the most self-centered person in the world. He’s a textbook narcissist. I spoke with an LAPD psychiatrist during my recovery. I never mentioned anything about my family, but we talked about narcissism because everyone you hurt was a narcissist. He said that it’s reached the point of becoming an epidemic. Everyone is out for themselves and couldn’t care less who they hurt or what it takes to get what they want. It’s something short of being a human being. It’s a mental illness that wipes out evolution in favor of the knuckle dragger. He said that most shrinks won’t even take them as patients because their disease can’t be cured. They like being animals. They enjoy it. That’s why I wonder why you spared my father. Why didn’t you do everybody a favor and just kill him?”