Damn! Double damn!
Maleah believed Albert Durham. He didn’t know Jerome Browning, had never met him, and was not writing his biography. One glance at Derek told her that he, too, believed Durham. So where did that leave them? Definitely with more questions than answers.
“Won’t y’all come in,” Durham said. “I have iced tea, fresh lemonade or I can stir up some cocktails, if you prefer.”
“Thank you,” Maleah said. “We’ll forgo any refreshment, but we would like to talk to you about this mixup.”
Derek followed her into the large living room /dining room and kitchen space. The walls were pale yellow, the floor covered with beige tile, and the furnishings were a mix of new and antique, decent quality but not expensive.
“Have a seat.” Durham indicated the sofa. He took the brown leather recliner.
They sat on the sofa, side by side, Maleah on the edge of the seat cushion, Derek reclining, settled and relaxed.
“I suggest y’all start by telling me why you believed I was writing a serial killer’s biography,” Durham said.
“I’ve been to the Georgia State Prison to visit Jerome Browning, who during a murder spree a dozen years ago was known as the Carver,” Maleah explained. “He told me himself that Albert Durham was writing his bio and had personally interviewed him.”
“The description the guards gave us of the Albert Durham who visited Browning fits your general description,” Derek added.
Durham rubbed his chin, scratching his fingers across several days’ growth of gray-brown beard stubble. “I have no idea about this other Albert Durham. All I know is that I’ve never visited anyone in prison and until you mentioned his name, I’d never heard the name Jerome Browning.”
“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but . . .” Maleah paused, waiting to observe Durham’s reaction and when his expression remained neutral, she continued. “If I give you the dates when a man calling himself Albert Durham visited Jerome Browning, do you think you could tell us where you were on those dates?”
Durham smiled. Maleah thought he had a nice face. Not handsome by any means. A bit weathered, as if he spent a great deal of time outdoors. And kind eyes. A soft blue-gray. The deep-set wrinkles of a longtime smoker crisscrossed his forehead and curved alongside his mouth and into cheeks.
“You want me to provide myself with an alibi,” Durham said.
“Yes, I suppose that’s what I’d like for you to do,” Maleah told him. “That way we can verify there’s no way you can be the Albert Durham we’re searching for in connection to our case.”
“Certainly. I understand. And if you’ll give me those dates, I’ll check my calendar. Since I keep a date book, I should be able to tell you what you need to know.”
Maleah reached into her pocket and pulled out a notepad filled with scribbled notes. She called off the dates. Durham pursed his thin lips as he listened.
“The dates that you mentioned are easy enough for me to remember. I spent six weeks in Japan and was there on those dates.” When Maleah and Derek stared at him questioningly, he added, “I was doing research on the subject of my next biography, Emperor Hirohito, who ruled Japan during World War II.”
“An interesting choice for a bio,” Derek said.
“My father was a WWII veteran and I’ve always been fascinated by that era,” Durham said. “To verify where I was, I can let you take a look at my passport, and I can probably dig up credit card statements that show my expenses while in Japan, including hotels and restaurants.”
“That would be great, Mr. Durham,” Maleah said. “And I apologize for having to ask you to do this.”
“No apology necessary, Ms. Perdue. If someone has been using my identity for any reason, especially to commit a crime, then I want them found and stopped as much as you do.”
“More than likely the man we’re looking for chose your identity because you’re a biographer,” Derek said. “For his own reasons, he needed to be able to pass himself off to Jerome Browning as a writer interested in gathering information for a biography.”
Durham rose. “I keep my passport with me when I travel, even in the U.S. I never know when I might want to take a jaunt down to the islands for a few days. I can show you the passport, but I’m afraid I’ll have to send you copies of my credit card bills when I return home.”
“I’ll leave you my business card,” Maleah said. “I’ll contact you if we need them and you can e-mail them to us.”
While Durham disappeared into one of the bedrooms, Derek and Maleah stood and looked out the windows at the Atlantic Ocean.
“How do we even begin to find a man with no name, no face, and no ID of his own?” Maleah asked. “He used Durham’s name and undoubtedly disguised himself to look like the real Durham.”
“We’ll start with a profile,” Derek told her. “Now that we know who this man is not, we can begin figuring out who he really is.”
“He’s smart, whoever he is. Apparently, he fooled Browning, who may be a psychopath, but is far from stupid. And he’s led us on a merry chase while he eliminated the only two other people who might be able to tell us something about him.”
“With Wyman Scudder and Cindy Di Blasi both dead, that leaves only Jerome Browning. If Browning really has no idea that the Durham who interviewed him was a phony and had no intention of writing his bio, he may be willing to give up some information once he does know the truth.”
“He won’t give it up without a price,” Maleah said.
“Yeah, with a guy like Browning, there’s always a price to pay.”
The real Durham cleared his throat as he returned to the living room. “Here you are.” He opened his passport and handed it to Maleah.
She looked at the stamped dates for Durham’s entry and exit from Japan, which proved he was out of the country on the dates that Albert Durham had visited Jerome.
“Thank you, Mr. Durham. We appreciate your cooperation.”
“May I ask y’all a question?” Durham asked.
“Yes, certainly,” Maleah replied.
“Why do you think this man who visited a convicted serial killer has been impersonating me?”
Maleah and Derek exchanged a how-much-do-we-tell-him glance.
Then Derek made the decision for them. “We believe that this man is copying Jerome Browning’s MO and has become a copycat killer. By posing as a biographer, he was able to elicit details of Browning’s murders from him, enough so that he could replicate those murders as closely as possible.”
Durham’s eyes narrowed, furrowing his brow. His mouth turned down in a pensive frown, deepening the grooves around his mouth. “And this man is using my name.” He looked right at Derek. “My God, you have to find him.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Derek said. “The entire Powell Agency is working toward that goal—finding the copycat killer and stopping him before he kills again.”
“How many people . . . ?” Durham swallowed. “How many has he killed?”
“Five.”
“Did one of the victim’s families hire your agency?” Durham asked.
“In a way,” Derek said. “You see, each victim was connected to our agency, either an employee or a relative of an employee.”
“Then finding him is as important to you as it is to me. It’s personal.”
“That’s right.”
Durham nodded. “I wish there was more I could do to help you, Mr. Lawrence . . .” He glanced at Maleah. “And you, Ms. Perdue.”
“We appreciate your cooperation,” Maleah told him.
Durham studied Derek for a minute and then said, “Derek Lawrence. Hmm . . . why does your name sound so familiar?”
Before Derek could respond, Durham snapped his fingers. “Derek Lawrence, former FBI profiler. You’re a
