All Fall Down (12 page)

M
elanie maneuvered her Jeep into one of the parallel-parking spots in front of Whistlestop headquarters. Mind racing with what Sugar had told her, she shifted into Park and cut off the engine.

She had three dead men. All batterers. All men who had slipped through the fingers of justice. All dead by different but bizarre twists of fate. All victims, in a strange way, of their own weaknesses.

She reviewed the facts in her head. A cokehead overdoses on a drug he had no business having, let alone snorting. A heart patient becomes the victim of the very substance he takes to protect him. A man deathly allergic to bees gets killed trying to avoid being stung while driving.

Was there a connection between the three deaths? Or were they nothing more than a weird coincidence? Or divine retribution?

Melanie rested her head against the seat back. She closed her eyes, sorting through her thoughts and feelings, acknowledging that she believed the deaths were not accidental. She believed these men were murdered. All by the same hand.

All by the same hand. If she was right, that would
mean a serial killer was operating in the Charlotte area, targeting abusive men.

Melanie shook her head, also admitting how far-fetched others would find her theory. How hard to swallow. There had to be something that linked the three men to the killer. She had to find it.

She flung open the car door just as Bobby emerged from the building. “Bobby,” she called, excited. “We have to talk.”

He strode toward her. “Fire that wagon up. They've got a suspect in the Andersen case. Chief wants us there when they question him.”

“Let's go.” She slammed her door and restarted the Jeep's engine, pulling away from the curb the moment Bobby was inside. “Who've they got?”

“Name's Jenkins. The guy who threatened Joli the night she was murdered. He resurfaced a couple nights ago. The bartender recognized him and called the CMPD.”

“Resurfaced at the same club?” She shook her head. “Either this guy's innocent or he's a complete moron.”

“They ran a check on him through the computer, found he has priors. Robbery, aggravated assault. No convictions. Mr. Jenkins, it turns out, has a problem controlling his temper. Last brush with the law came when he broke a pool cue over somebody's head. Apparently, the guy questioned his sexuality.”

Melanie frowned, thinking of the profile Connor Parks had created. The description of this man had never fit for her. Now that they had him in custody, he fit even less. He sounded like the antithesis of the
handsome, smooth talker Parks had described. “And they think he's her killer?”

At the doubt in her voice, Bobby lifted a shoulder. “He seems like a natural to me. He had motive. He was there that night. He threatened her.”

“We'll see,” she murmured, unconvinced. “I'll be interested to hear what he has to say for himself.”

They rode in silence for awhile, Melanie navigating the sometimes-tricky late-afternoon traffic. Even though they were heading through the heart of Charlotte, the landscape had the feel of a much more rural community than it was. Expansive rather than congested. Perhaps because the city, with its gently rolling hills, was so green, perhaps because it was a clean city, one beloved and cared for by its citizens in an old-fashioned way.

Melanie turned onto South Davidson, the Law Enforcement Center in sight now. Located in Government Plaza—which housed all the city-county buildings—the LEC was a fancy name for police headquarters.

“I covered for you, by the way,” Bobby said. “Told the chief you were checking a tip that came in on the Andersen hot line, and that you'd gone out on a call and would meet me at CMPD headquarters. Lucky for us both you showed up.”

She sent him a grateful smile. “Thanks, partner. I owe you.”

“You want to tell me what's going on?”

“Remember the story in the paper yesterday about Jim McMillian's death?”

“Sure.”

“I realized last night that what was bothering me wasn't that both his and my father's deaths were similar, but that three accused batterers were recently dead, all the victims of freakish accidents.”

“Now you've lost me. What other batterers?”

She explained, beginning with the case that had come her way and finishing with her conversation with Sugar that morning. Melanie swung into the LEC parking area, chose a spot and cut off the engine. She looked at her partner. “That's three, Bobby. Three batterers, all dead of freakish twists of fate.”

He drew his eyebrows together. “What are you saying? That those three deaths are related?”

“Hell, yes, that's what I'm saying.” She glanced away, then back at him. “Don't you see it, Bobby? Don't you see how natural, how logical a conclusion I'm drawing?”

“I don't know, Mel. Truthfully?” She nodded; he rubbed a hand along his jaw. “I think you're stretching. How are these men related?”

“They're all batterers who've gone unpunished for one reason or another. And they all died under rather bizarre circumstances.”

“Yeah, but they were all from different walks of life, they lived and worked on different sides of town, their ages, educational backgrounds, socioeconomic groups were all differ—”

“I get it,” Melanie said, cutting him off, frustrated. “My theory has more holes in it than a block of Swiss cheese.”

“Hey—” he held up his hands in a mock surrender
“—don't kill the messenger. If you think I'm a tough jury, just picture the chief's response.”

She opened the vehicle's door and stepped out. Bobby did the same, and they started toward the building, an impressive one-hundred-forty-thousand-square-foot concrete-and-glass structure. “Saving my butt again, are you?”

“Somebody's got to.” He grinned as she held open the door for him. “Besides, I've gotten kind of used to having you around. Life's never dull.”

“Thanks. I think.” They stepped into the LEC lobby, the cool of the air-conditioning enveloping them. They moved toward the elevators, passing the colorful fresco by world-renowned artist Ben Long. Melanie glanced at the work. She enjoyed his bold style, one that combined both classical and modern elements.

“Besides,” Bobby continued, as they moved into one of the cars. “I'm not saying you're wrong, just that you haven't sold me yet. Do a little more digging, see if you put anything else together, then present it to the chief.”

“Hold the elevator!”

Melanie caught the doors, forcing them to spring back open. Connor Parks stepped on. He had a champagne bottle tucked under his right arm. He smiled. “Hello, Sweetpants. Taggerty.”

Bobby choked on a laugh. Melanie narrowed her eyes, irritated. “What are you doing here, Parks? I'd heard that Cleve Andersen had your butt booted off the case.”

A smile tipped the corners of his mouth. “Funny,
I'd heard the same about you. I guess we're both getting thrown a bone today.”

Melanie acknowledged a twinge of admiration mixed in with her dislike for him—the man was one cool customer. Melanie cocked an eyebrow and indicated the bottle of wine. “Celebrating the bone or a conclusion to the case? Or do you simply prefer not to drink alone?”

The last was low—she had meant it to be. It hit its mark. His jaw tightened. The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. The three stepped out and into the hallway. Down to the right, several people milled about, including Steve Rice, Parks's superior. He motioned for Connor to hurry.

Parks met her eyes. In his she saw that whatever discomfort she had caused him had given way to amusement. “It's a prop, doll. Watch the big boys work. You just might learn something.”

As he started to walk away she stopped him, irritated but unable to quell her curiosity. “That's the same brand of champagne we found at the Andersen scene.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “See? You're learning already.”

“Y
ou're late,” Rice said as Connor approached.

Connor glanced at his watch. “Considering you called and invited me to this shindig less than twenty-five minutes ago, I'd expected a different greeting. Something along the lines of ‘Thanks for risking your life to get here so fast, Con.”'

“You sober?”

“Fuck you.”

The SAC narrowed his eyes. “Are you?”

“Yes, goddammit. I'm sober. Twenty-two miserable days' worth. And counting.”

“Good. I'm sitting in on the interrogation, just to add a little heat. You'll observe. I want you to note every breath this guy takes. They think he's the one.”

“Sure you're comfortable with this, Steve? Not afraid I'll jeopardize anyone's life or career?”

“You want in on this or not?”

“Hell, yes, I want in on it.” He handed him the bottle. As Melanie May had noted, it was identical to the one found at the Andersen murder scene. “You've got the other props?”

“Got 'em.”

As if cued, Pete Harrison and Roger Stemmons
strolled over. “Hello, boys,” Rice said. “Why don't we see if we can get Mr. Jenkins's ass to pucker.”

Minutes later, Connor strode into the room where the suspect's interrogation was being viewed via video. He saw that May and Taggerty were in place at the table. With them, also facing the monitor, sat a representative from the district attorney's office and a handful of other cops.

He took the seat next to Melanie. In the other room, Jenkins waited. Connor's first look at the suspect confirmed what he had already known from verbal descriptions—Ted Jenkins wasn't their man. He didn't fit the profile. Although not physically unattractive, he had “loser” stamped all over him—from his unshorn, wavy brown hair to his sleeveless muscle shirt and the cigarette tucked behind his ear. He looked like a laborer or a dropout, a far cry from the yuppie executive Joli would have been drawn to.

Rice and the two investigators took their places. Pete Harrison set the champagne bottle on the table along with a stack of manila file folders. Jenkins looked sick with nerves, even though he hadn't been asked one question yet.

Connor bent and spoke close to Melanie's ear. “Notice where Harrison put the bottle, just at the corner of Jenkins's vision? If he's guilty, he's not going to be able to ignore it. He'll keep turning his head to look at it. He'll start to sweat, his respiration will increase.”

“What's with the file folders?”

“Dummies. Labeled with Jenkins's name but filled
with blank paper. To give the illusion that we've amassed a great amount of information on him.”

She looked unimpressed. “And these are your big-boy, FBI tricks?”

“As a matter of fact. Developed by Special Agent John Douglas, of the Investigative Support Unit at Quantico.”

She had obviously heard of Douglas, considered by many to be the nation's foremost authority on crime-scene analysis and criminal profiling, and her expression changed subtly. “Maybe I will learn something, after all.”

Past the initial introductions, the proceedings began in earnest, and Connor turned his full attention to them.

“What's with the bubbly?” Jenkins asked, motioning with his head to the bottle.

“Why don't I ask the questions, Ted,” Pete Harrison said, taking the lead. “Where've you been the past four weeks?”

“Nowhere.” He rubbed his hands along his thighs. “Just hanging out.”

“Nowhere?” the investigator repeated. “Just hanging out?”

“Yeah,” he said defensively, looking at Stemmons, then Rice. “What's wrong with that?”

“What you mean to say is, you've been lying low.”

“No.” He swung his gaze back to Harrison.

“Why haven't you been in to see us?” This from Stemmons.

“Wh-why should I have been?”

The police exchanged glances. “Oh, I don't know.
Maybe because a woman you were hitting on, one who rebuffed you—”

“—rather brutally—”

“—was murdered. That very night.”

“That had nothing to do with me!”

“That night in the bar, you threatened her. Didn't you, Ted?”

“N-no.”

“We have witnesses. You told her ‘she'd be sorry.' Isn't that what you said?”

“Yes, but I…I didn't mean anything by it.” He swung his gaze pleadingly between the three men. He looked like a rabbit who'd been cornered by two wolves.

Connor frowned.
But after his initial interest in the wine bottle, he seemed unaffected by it.

“Maybe I should have a lawyer.”

“That's your right,” Harrison said. “If you think you need one?”

The man hesitated, then shook his head. “I don't have anything to hide.”

“I'm glad to hear that, Ted.” Harrison smiled reassuringly. “Let's get back to the night Joli Andersen was killed, to your argument with her. You told her ‘she'd be sorry.' If you didn't want to hurt her, why'd you say it, Ted?”

“I was mad.”

“Mad? Our witnesses said you were furious. So furious your face turned red and you began to stutter.”

“Yeah, okay…I was pissed off…she made fun of me. In front of everybody. But I didn't…I wouldn't actually…hurt her.”

The investigators exchanged meaningful glances. Stemmons leaned toward Jenkins. “I understand, man,” he said, keeping his voice low and reassuring. “She was a foxy babe, you just wanted to get close to her. She had no call for what she did. Calling you a loser like that.”

He lowered his voice even more. “I would have been so pissed, I'd have just wanted to shut her up. Any way I could. Is that the way you felt, Ted? So furious that you could put a pillow over her face, just to shut her—”

“No! I was angry! It was just talk. Saving face, you know?” He wetted his lips. “Yeah, I wanted her to shut up. But I…I just said that thing about…about making her sorry and left.”

“But you came back later?”

“No.”

“You came up to her in the parking lot.”

“No! I never saw her again. I swear.”

“We have a witness who says differently. We have a witness who says they saw you approach her in the parking lot.”

“That's not true!”

“They said you followed her to her car.”

He shook his head wildly, looking halfway to tears. “I didn't.”

“You were the last person to see her alive, Mr. Jenkins. The very last person.”

“No!” He jumped to his feet, visibly shaking. But not with rage, Connor saw, with terror. “I want a lawyer. I didn't see her again after I left the bar, and I'm
not going to say another thing until you get me a lawyer!”

Several minutes later, Harrison, Stemmons and Rice entered the room. “Well?” Harrison asked. “What do you think?”

Connor turned away from the monitor. “He's not the guy.”

“What makes you so sure?” the assistant district attorney asked.

“Because he's a loser, just like Joli called him that night. Look at the way he's dressed. His haircut. What kind of car does he drive? A piece-of-shit Ford or a Chevy truck? She wouldn't have had a thing to do with him.”

The attorney stiffened. “I hardly think a victim chooses her murderer.”

“You'd be surprised how many times a victim unknowingly does just that. But what I'm referring to is that we established that Joli Andersen went willingly with her murderer to that motel room. She wanted to be there, with that man. And that man was not Ted Jenkins.”

“The whole thing in the bar,” Bobby Taggerty piped up, “it could've been an act. A ruse to throw people off. They rendezvoused in the parking lot later.”

“But why?” Steve Rice asked. “Neither was married. They didn't work together. As far as we know so far, Jenkins and Andersen had never met before that night. Why play a game like that?”

“He's not the guy,” Connor said again. “After the initial question about the champagne bottle, he seemed
to forget it was there. If he'd used that bottle in the manner it was used on Joli Andersen, he wouldn't have been able to take his eyes off it. Hell, he probably would have gotten a hard-on.”

The ADA released her breath in a huff. “That's disgusting.”

“Yeah, it's disgusting. We're talking about a man who brutally murdered, then defiled another human being and got off on it. What did you expect? A sonnet?”

“I've got to agree with Parks,” Rice said. “Jenkins was right-handed. Studies show that when right-handed suspects look to their left when replying, they're generally recalling the truth. When they look to their right, they're fabricating. Jenkins is right-handed, yet throughout the interrogation he looked left when replying.”

“He didn't kill Joli Andersen,” Connor said flatly. “Keep looking.”

Harrison made a sound of frustration. “I like this guy. He had motive, he's got a history of violence, he acted guilty as hell.”

“Go ahead, then,” Connor muttered sarcastically. “Play this out. It's only the taxpayers' money and that poor schmuck's life you're dicking with.”

“Parks,” Rice murmured, his tone low, warning.

Connor ignored him. “Go ahead, guys. Pretend this is a viable lead. It'll make you look like your heads aren't so far up your asses your eyes'll be brown forever.”

“You might be wrong,” Melanie said softly. “Your profile might be wrong.”

He looked at her. “I'm never
that
wrong, Officer May. Never. Excuse me.”

He stepped out of the room and waited, knowing that his boss would be right behind him. He was.

“You just can't play it smart, can you?”

Connor shrugged. “What can I say? I'm flawed.”

Rice shook his head. “You're worse than flawed. You're a pain in the ass. But you're a talented pain in the ass. Too good at what you do to be sitting home watching daytime TV.”

“It's more stimulating than you'd think.”

The SAC lowered his voice. “How have you been?”

“All right.” Connor didn't look at him, he found suddenly that he couldn't. Because it was a lie. The last month had been a nightmare—he'd been alone with himself and his own thoughts, without even booze to dull the pain.

“I want you back. I need you back. The Bureau needs you back.”

“But?”

“But it's not enough that you're sober, I need you to be performing at a hundred percent.”

“Don't want much, do you?”

Steve smiled without humor. “Greedy bastard, aren't I? Call me when you're there.”

Connor watched as the other man disappeared into the viewing room, then turned and started down the hall. He wouldn't be calling; Rice had set up an impossible scenario for him. Until he discovered what had happened to his sister, he would never be one hundred percent again.