Death Angel (22 page)

Carl hurried across the room to the
telephone, punching the number for Bob Jackson. “Keep this under your hat, but
we’ve ID’d the jogger. His name is Walter Hepburn, the guy who discovered
Jennifer Warner’s body.”

There was a moment of silence and then
Bob came back on the line. “What can I do for you?”

“I want you to pull the logs on
Hepburn’s phone. From the time of the Warner girl’s death. Get the phone number
from Bea. She’s with Hepburn’s girlfriend. You better check the girlfriend’s
phone, too. With this new wrinkle, I’m wondering if he might have tried a spot
of blackmail.”

“And ended up not rich but dead? Okay,
Carl, I’ll make it a priority.”

“Call me if you turn up anything.”

Carl remained in the conference room,
making notes and working out ideas in his own mind. He tried not to look at his
watch, but couldn’t help be impatient. It was an hour before Diego
returned.
 

“Lemme get a cup of coffee, Chief.”
Diego unbuttoned his shirt collar with one hand while he poured a cup with his
other. He took a sip then grinned at Carl. “It was Hepburn all right.
Fingerprints from the apartment match the body.”
 

“What’s his place like?”

“It’s a two-flat over on Stonewood. He
lived upstairs. We went through it and sealed it until we have more time. The
gal who ID’d him lives a block away from his place. She’s in her late thirties,
very stylish. She was at work. Didn’t hear the news right away. Tried to call
him, and when she didn’t get an answer decided to check with us. She’s pretty
broken up about it.”

“How serious was the relationship?” Carl
asked.

“According to her, they were planning on
marriage.” Diego looked skeptical. “The neighbors that I talked to said Hepburn
had a long line of girls but never took the plunge. They thought Hudson could
do better. Referred to him as the ‘used car salesman type.’ Definitely a
negative response.”

“What else did Miss Hudson have to
say?”
 

“She said Hepburn jogged every day. Same
time. Same route. When he found the Warner kid’s body, it really spooked him.
Didn’t jog for a week. When he went back to it, he changed the time. Instead of
leaving the house at six, he left at four. Joe Moore and I took turns running
what we figured was his route to the murder scene. Took anywhere from twenty
minutes to a half hour.”

“If he left at four, it puts him at the
scene four-twenty to four-thirty?”

“That’s what we figure.”

“It’s consistent with the M.E.’s report
as to time of death,” Carl said. “Good job, Diego. Hold on to Miss Hudson long
enough for me to get a statement ready.”

Carl worked up a statement giving
limited details of the identification. He was tempted to hold back the
information on the role that Hepburn had played in the first murder, but suspected
that Miss Hudson wouldn’t be quite so reticent. Better if the information came
from the police. He showed the statement to Bea, and suggested she handle it
with Failing in publicity.

Back in the conference room, Carl
reviewed the sketchy information on Hepburn. Much as he hated to make a snap
judgment on the dead man, he had to admit it was definitely within the realm of
possibility that Hepburn might have tried to blackmail the killer. And if he
had, it was a fatal mistake.

After a cursory knock, the door to the
conference room opened and Bob Jackson entered. Carl raised both eyebrows when
he saw that Bob wasn’t wearing his suit coat and his tie was undone, flapping
against his white shirt like a banner.
 

“Was the blackmail angle a guess, Carl?
If so, you must be psychic.”

Bob pulled chairs away from the table so
that he could lay out a series of computer printouts. Circled and highlighted
entries were visible on the top page of each stack. When the papers were lined
up to his satisfaction, he beckoned Carl to join him.

“These” — he tapped the first pile
— “are the calls made from Walter Hepburn’s phone since the Warner kid’s death.
We ran the numbers through the computer to see if there was a match to anyone
involved in the case. No match. I even went through the calls made from his
girlfriend’s apartment.” — he tapped the second pile — “Also nothing.”

He pushed the first two piles into the
center of the table. Picking up the next set of printouts, he set them down in
front of Carl.

Bob was a puzzle freak, which was one of
the reasons he was good on a case. He enjoyed explaining his thinking processes
although Carl might have preferred a more succinct summary.

“I decided to attack it from the other
direction.” He tapped the pages in front of Carl. “These are the outgoing calls
from the Mayerling offices for yesterday afternoon. Nothing significant. These
are the incoming calls. Nothing particularly interesting except a call at five
after three. It was from a pay phone in a strip mall at the corner of Stonewood
and Saratoga. The mall is next to the two-flat where Walter Hepburn lived.”

“Bingo,” Carl said, his tone
reverential.

Bob tossed the printouts into the center
and pulled over the last set. “This is a log of the calls made from the pay
phone yesterday afternoon. The circled one is a call to a direct line at the
Mayerling offices at five after three.”

“Whose line was it?”

“Richard Warner.”

Sixteen

“D
amn it, Bob
! It can’t be Richard Warner.”
Carl felt as if he’d been personally betrayed.

“Why not?” Bob was clearly baffled by
the about-face. “You were the one who was pushing to hang the guy.”

“I changed my mind.” Carl clamped his
jaw shut.
 

“As Diego would say, ‘Have you got some
bug up your ass?’”

It was so rare for Bob to speak crudely that
it jolted Carl, releasing his frustration. “This morning when it looked like we
might have a random killer on our hands, I practically apologized to Warner for
doing my job. I even went outside with him to talk to the press. We stood
together, looking for all the world like the Corsican brothers, joined at the
hip.”

“That about it?” Bob had a smile on his
lips but the sympathy in his eyes was evident.

“Okay. Let’s get to it.” Carl pushed his
fingers through his hair and shook out the stiffness in his shoulders. “Are you
absolutely certain that the call from the pay phone to Mayerling’s was taken by
Richard Warner?”

“Yes. It was his direct line. His
assistant was in his office when the call came in and said he left immediately
after that.” By way of explanation, Bob added, “I gather since his daughter’s
death, the entire office is sensitive to Warner’s every move. The assistant was
worried that something else had happened because right after he left, Kate
Warner called and was surprised not to find him at the office.”

“Take a look at this,” Carl said, as he
pointed to a series of circled entries. “Five calls were made from the pay
phone to the Warner house. The first call was at two o’clock and the rest were
fifteen minutes apart. I thought it was strange that Mrs. Warner knew exactly
the time that Mayerling called her. The fifth call to the Warner house from the
pay phone was at three o’clock. If Kate knew the calls were coming every
fifteen minutes, she would be waiting for another call to come in at three
fifteen. She would be watching the clock, which would account for her accuracy
on the time that Mayerling called.”

“I wonder if she spoke to the caller and
if she knows his identity.”

“His or her identity,” Carl said. “Other
than the proximity to his residence, we have no proof that the calls were made
by Walter Hepburn. At this point it’s nothing but a guess.”

“Agreed.”
 

Eyes intent on the texture of the
carpet, Carl paced across to the windows. “Let’s assume for the moment that the
caller is Walter Hepburn. He’s trying to get in touch with Richard Warner. He
calls the house but each time Mrs. Warner answers. Finally he calls the office.
Warner answers and Hepburn identifies himself and makes arrangements to meet
because he has information about the murder. Sound plausible so far?”

“Yes and no.” Bob moved the phone
printouts aside and leaned one hip on the end of the table. “This morning we
pretty much agreed that the jogger was caught unawares. So it doesn’t look like
a meeting.”

“OK, so what if Hepburn says he’ll meet
him in the woods after his jog? Warner goes early and kills him before the
scheduled meeting.”

“It still won’t work,” Bob said. “Unless
Warner is acquainted with Hepburn, he wouldn’t know that the jogger was the
right guy.”

“Hepburn’s picture was in the paper.”

Bob shrugged and nodded his head. “Not
bad, Carl. Might have even happened that way. We got any proof for this ‘Grimm
fairy tale’?”

“Not yet. I’ve got Tony checking the bar
in the train station to see if anyone remembered seeing Warner there.” He
looked down at his watch. “It’s six o’clock now. Everyone’s due back here to
touch base at eight. Why don’t we grab something to eat? Are you hungry?”

“Yes. As long as it’s not Mexican.” Bob
rebuttoned his collar and tied his tie. “We going to work all night?”

“As long as we’re making progress we’ll
stick with it.” Carl could feel the tension in his neck muscles. “There can’t
be any mistakes on this one. I have no intention of railroading Richard Warner
if he’s innocent. But if he’s guilty, by God, I’ll nail that bastard to the
wall.”

He was restless. Unable to sleep. He
opened the outside door and slipped into the darkness of the night. The heavy
air surrounded him, clinging to his bare arms and legs. Sweat mingled with the
humidity.

He’d always loved summer. A pear tree
grew at the far end of the empty field behind the house. He’d burrow up inside
the leafy heart of the tree. Once there, he could see to faraway places, could
imagine exotic sights, and could relax in the safe shelter until he heard the
voice.

If he heard the voice when he was in the
tree, it was easy enough to slide down into the tall grass. He’d lay on his
belly, soaking up the warmth of the earth. Smelling the moist, loamy smells and
hearing his heart pound with fear.
 

In the grass, his father couldn’t find
him.

He could change position when the
stumbling footsteps came too close. And if he got lost in his thoughts, as he
had once, he could always outrun the old man.

Usually when his father called his name,
he snarled it like a curse.

The angry voice meant only a beating.
His mother said it would make him stronger. Easy to say when she wasn’t the one
getting beaten.

It was the soft, cajoling voice he
feared.

When he was a child, he hated the
night.
 

He never heard him enter the room. He
would be deeply asleep, dozing off from sheer exhaustion while he listened to
the infinite shifts and movements inside the house. He’d strain to hear and try
to quiet the heavy pounding of his heart, and when nothing happened his terror
would fade and he’d slide into sleep only to wake with an awareness of his
father’s presence.

In the morning his mother would turn her
eyes away from his, ignoring the swollen eyelids and painful movements. She
would move silently around the kitchen, flinching at every sound as if afraid
it would draw attention to her existence. His father read the paper with total
absorption.

It was difficult to know which one he
hated more.

Now when the restlessness was on him, he
tried to get outside, embracing the darkness, able to move in it with a
fluidity that was lacking in the daylight. At the corner of the street, he
stopped. The night air was warm. Not as fierce as the daytime. He opened his
mouth, drawing in the heat, storing up the warmth for the cold times, the early
morning hours when the memories of childhood returned in torturous dreams.
 

A trickle of sweat snaked down behind
his ear, rolled to the back of his neck, and then slid down his spine to pool
at the elastic waistband of his shorts. He shivered, reminded of how wet he’d
been coming out of the woods.

The experiment had been a success. He
had tried to be analytical and stay in the moment. He had been satisfied with
the results even though he had not experienced the same sensory high that he
had the first time.
 

He walked briskly through the night air,
going over every detail, trying to discover the area of discontent. He heard
again the rhythmic slap his footsteps had made as he ran along the trail.
Smelled the wet decay rising from the muddy ground. Felt the muscle strain as
his arm swung back. Saw the lips of the jogger open in a cry of agony as the
bones of his face crumbled with the force of the blow. And then he knew what
was missing.
 

He had not seen the jogger’s eyes.

It was the visual record of pain that
was missing. His own pain had always been muffled
 
— he never heard it. In the morning the pain
was only a buried memory, so he could not see it in the mirror. He needed to
see the pain. It gave it reality, a personal verification.