“Did the factory press charges for the threats?” I ask.
“Fired him, but there were no charges filed.”
“Any arrests?”
“Four. Two were domestics. One for slugging a guy in a bar in Columbus. The other he pulled a knife on a guy in a bar in Kingsport, Tennessee.”
“Sounds like Mr. Brower has a penchant for knives.”
“And bars,” Skid interjects.
“Not to mention a problem with women,” Glock adds.
I nod. “You got a current address?”
Glock rattles off the address of a downtrodden apartment complex on the west side of town.
“He ever work at the slaughterhouse?” I ask.
“HR says no.”
“See if he’s got a juvie rec. I’ll pay him a visit.”
Glock looks mildly concerned. “Alone?”
“We don’t have the manpower to work in teams.”
“Chief, with all due respect, this guy seems to have problems with women in places of authority.”
“Yeah, well, I have my .38 to back me up in case he mistakes me for the weaker sex.”
Skid gives a raucous laugh.
Impatient, I tap my pen against my notes. “What about Donny Beck?” I ask Glock.
“Squeaky clean.”
“Go talk to his friends and family. I’ll rattle his cage a little. See if he has an alibi.”
He gives me a thumbs-up.
I transfer my attention to Skid, who’s slumped in his chair like a sleepdeprived tenth grader in study hall. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair looks like it hasn’t been washed for a couple of days. He hasn’t shaved. He straightens when I address him. “I want you to finish interviewing the rest of the people at the bar. And I want background reports on the Horners.”
“You think they—”
“No,” I cut in. “But we leave no stone unturned.”
Skid nods.
“Lois and Mona can help you guys type up your reports,” I say. “Document everything.”
I contemplate my team. All three men are good cops, but only two are experienced. I have a good bit of experience myself. But mine is mostly limited to patrol. I worked a total of four homicides during my stint in Columbus.
“Recap.” I lean back in my chair. “People of interest?”
“Scott Brower,” Glock says.
“The three condom guys,” Skid adds.
“Donny Beck,” I say.
T.J. pipes up. “The Slaughterhouse Killer.”
If I totally dismiss the old case, I risk appearing incompetent. “I pulled the file,” I say. “Doc Coblentz is sending the complete autopsy reports. I’d like for each of you to familiarize yourself with the details of the case.”
Glock nibbles the cap of his pen. “Let’s say it is the Slaughterhouse guy. What’s up with the lapse in activity? And wasn’t the Roman numeral IX carved into the last victim?”
“So what happened to ten through twenty-two?” Skid asks no one in particular.
“Maybe he’s been a busy boy somewhere else,” Glock surmises.
“Or he wants the cops to think that,” T.J. offers.
I cut in before the conversation takes a turn I don’t want it to take. “I’ve got some database queries going for similar crimes. If he changed locales and used the same signature, we’ll get a hit.”
“He could have been arrested on some unrelated charge,” Skid puts in. “Went to jail, did his time, and was recently released.”
I meet his gaze. “Follow up on that. Check with DRC.” DRC is the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections. I hate wasting his time on a ruse, but I have no choice. “Get a list of names for all male inmates released in the last six months, between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five years of age.”
Skid looks like a gas pain hit him. “That’s a lot of names.”
“Ask DRC to narrow it down for you. They keep statistical information on parolees. Check males with two or more violent offenses, especially sex crimes and stalking. Start with the five surrounding counties, then expand from there. Include Columbus, Cleveland and Wheeling, West Virginia. I’ll call Sheriff Detrick about getting you some help. In the interim, I’ll okay Mona and Lois for overtime.”
He nods, but looks overwhelmed by the task I’ve put before him.
I scan the room. “The victim’s clothes were not found at the scene. That means he either discarded them, left them at the murder scene or he’s keeping them.”
“You mean like a trophy?” T.J. asks.
“Maybe,” I reply. “Something to keep in mind.”
I glance at my notes, realize I’ve covered everything I wrote down. “Mona and Lois are working on getting the old file room set up as our command center. It might be a while before all of us are here at the same time again. We may have to do most of our communicating via phone. As always, mine will be on 24/7. Until we catch this son of a bitch, I expect the same from you.”
All nod in agreement.
“Does anyone have anything they want to discuss before we adjourn?”
T.J. is the first to speak. “Do you think at some point you’ll call BCI or FBI for help, Chief?” All eyes land on him, and he flushes. “I’m not saying we aren’t capable of doing this on our own, but our resources are limited here in Painters Mill.”
“Yeah, who’s going to round up all those loose fuckin’ cows while we work the case?” Skid offers with a smirk.
T.J. holds his ground. “There are only four of us.”
The last thing I want to do is involve another agency. But law enforcement protocol dictates I do. My team expects it. I must have their respect to be effective. My credibility depends on my doing the smart thing.
But I can’t ask for help at this stage. As much as I despise lying to them, I can’t risk some deputy or field agent figuring out that sixteen years ago I shot and killed a man, that my family hid the crime from the police and swept the entire sordid mess under the rug.
“I’ll make some calls,” I say, being purposefully vague. “In the interim, I’ve activated auxiliary officer Roland Shumaker.”
“Ain’t seen Pickles since he shot that rooster,” Glock says.
“He still dye his hair Cocoa-Puff brown?” Skid wonders aloud.
“I expect you to treat Officer Shumaker with respect,” I say. “We need him.”
The men’s expressions indicate that for now they’re satisfied with the way I’m handling the case. Two years ago that wouldn’t have happened. I’m Painters Mill’s first female chief of police. Initially, not everyone was happy about it. The first few months were tough, but we’ve come a long way since then. I’ve earned their respect.
I know from experience cops tend to be territorial. These men do not want some other agency horning in on the investigation. On the other hand, if the killer strikes again, I’ll have another death on my conscience because I didn’t do my job the way I should have. It’s an unbearable dilemma.
I think of the press release I’m about to write and fight a slow rise of dread. Steve Ressler isn’t the only media I’ll be dealing with in the coming days. As soon as word of this murder hits the airwaves, I’ll have reporters from as far away as Columbus skulking around town, looking for photo ops.
“Let’s go get this animal,” I say.
As the men file from my office, I can only hope none of them look hard enough to find the whole truth.
CHAPTER 9
