Lethal Confessions (42 page)

The manager wore a Hawaiian print shirt over white chinos and held a coffee mug. “What’s this about?” he asked as he made a vague gesture toward the sofa. He looked to be in his late forties, heavy-set but in good shape. “What’s going on?”

Amy had to look up into Kiernan’s eyes. The man had to be close to a foot taller than her. “Been watching any TV, Mr. Kiernan? Or reading the local papers? Maybe you saw the police composite that all the stations have been broadcasting?”

Kiernan nodded warily. “Okay, I get it. Yeah, I saw it in the paper this morning at breakfast. Some of the guys thought it looked kind of like our equipment manager.”

For a second, Amy was speechless. “Did any of you consider the possibility of giving the police a call?”

Kiernan made a dismissive hand gesture. “Why? Jason, a serial killer? Jesus Christ, he’s a great kid. A totally normal guy who keeps his head down and goes about his job.”

Struggling not to bite the guy’s head off, Amy took a seat on the sofa. Poushinsky took the opposite end. Kiernan pulled over the chair from the desk.

“Gardner left the hotel last night. Where did he go and why?” Amy asked.

Kiernan nodded. “To be with his sister. She’s been sick for a long time with cancer. Jason said he got a call from the hospital yesterday telling him she probably had only a couple of more days. He wanted to be at her bedside, so of course I gave him the time off.”

“Which hospital?”

“One in Fort Myers.”

What bullshit.
“Do you have any evidence that Gardner actually went to Fort Myers?”

Kiernan gave her a sardonic smile. “Detective, I’m a baseball manager, not a babysitter. If a player or one of my staff tells me he needs some time off, I don’t put a private detective on him.” He took a big swallow from his coffee mug.

“Did he leave a contact number?” Poushinsky asked.

“Well, he gave me the name of the hospital.”

“Which is?”

He shrugged. “I can’t remember right now. He said it was a cancer center, though.”

“No cell phone number?” Amy was increasingly infuriated by Kiernan’s
laissez-faire
attitude.

“I can get it from the office if I need it.”

Amy blew out a heavy breath. “You don’t seem too concerned about being able to get hold of your equipment manager,” she said for no particular reason. This guy irritated her so damn much, though. His attitude gave the impression that Gardner was wanted for a speeding ticket, not mass murder.

“Jesus, he’s the fucking equipment manager, not our cleanup hitter. We can get along without him fine for a couple of days.”

“Well,” Amy growled, “you’re going to have to get along without him for a very long time, since the next time you see Jason Gardner he’ll be doing a perp walk into one of the county courthouses.”

The manager, clearly unfazed, shook his head. “No way. I don’t believe it. Jason didn’t murder those women. Not unless he’s the best actor in the goddamn world. He’s just a normal kid. A nice kid.”

Amy shook her head in frustration. “See, that’s the thing about serial killers, Mr. Kiernan. They appear perfectly normal to most people. That’s why they sometimes get to run up long strings of kills without being caught.”

“Yeah, well…” Kiernan began.

Amy cut him off. “Your normal kid has been brutally murdering women right under your nose,” she said, unable to resist giving Kiernan another shot. “I suppose you wouldn’t happen to know where Gardner lives?”

He blinked. “No idea.”

Amy handed him her card. She’d get Gardner’s address from McNamara—the team office would surely have it. “Needless to say, if Gardner contacts you, or anyone else on the team, you’ll call me—”

“Right away,” he said. Now he was finally starting to look worried.

After Amy thanked him, she and Poushinsky headed downstairs. As they reached the lobby, she pulled out her phone, praying McNamara or somebody would still be in the office.

“Should we hang around and talk to some of the players?” Poushinsky asked.

“Waste of time. If Gardner talked to them, he’ll have fed them the same bullshit he gave Kiernan.” She muttered curses they strode out the entrance. “Could you call HQ and get somebody to fax copies of Gardner’s picture to every hotel and motel in the county as soon as it arrives?”

“Will do.”

“Meet you at the car,” she said as she dialed the St. Lucie Mets office and reached McNamara.

“Detective Robitaille again, sir. We just talked to your manager. Jason Gardner checked out of the hotel last night after telling Kiernan that he had to go to Fort Myers to be with his dying sister.” She didn’t bother to mask her incredulity.

“Really?” McNamara said, obviously surprised.

“We need his home address.”

“Give me a second.” The phone clattered as he set it down.

“Okay,” he said a moment later. “It’s in Hobe Sound.” He gave her the street and number.

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Jesus,” McNamara exclaimed, “you really think Jason—”

“Yes, we do,” she said, and hung up.

She hurried to her car. “It’s Hobe Sound.”

Poushinsky flipped open his notebook. “The Jason Gardner in Hobe Sound drives a 2007 Ford Expedition. Black.” He read off the tag number.

“Get a BOLO out on it, fast,” Amy said. She roared out of the lot, gripping the steering wheel hard. “It’s great that we know where he lives and what he drives. But my gut says he’s bolted, Poushinsky. And it sure as hell wasn’t to Fort Myers.”

Thursday, August 5

6:35 p.m.

Since Hobe Sound was north of the line dividing Palm Beach and Martin counties, Amy had to call the Martin Sheriff’s Office to rush a search warrant for Gardner’s house. She’d reached Christie Dale on her cell, and Dale had quickly agreed to dispatch patrol cars to secure the scene and find a judge to sign a warrant.

When Amy and Poushinsky arrived, two Martin cruisers were already parked in front of the house. Amy did a U-turn and stopped directly across the dead-end street. As she and Poushinsky got out of the car, Ryan and Washington pulled up in front of them.

The short street dead-ended at the FEC railway tracks a few dozen yards to the west. Route AIA ran parallel to those tracks, not far in the distance. The whole area seemed on the down-scale side. Ironically, less than half a mile to the east lay Jupiter Island, home to a horde of celebrities and business barons living on palatial estates. The two areas might as well have been on different planets.

Gardner’s shabby, white and blue-painted bungalow looked deserted. Next door, a man in a wifebeater shirt peered out between parted curtains. A bunch of kids ran through a sprinkler in the yard on the other side. Amy caught the scent of barbecue in the air, reminding her that she’d been running on caffeine and nothing else for hours.

While Poushinsky checked in with the Martin deputies, Amy brought Ryan and Washington up to speed. She kept one eye on the bungalow all the time. She knew they’d have to take care when they approached the house. If it had been in Palm Beach’s jurisdiction, she’d have had no choice under PBSO protocol but to call in their tactical squad to breach and secure the premises, but this was Christie Dale’s show.

Three minutes later, Dale and her partner O’Byrne drove up in an unmarked car. In a crisp, white cotton shirt and new-looking blue jeans, the tall, lithe Martin detective made Amy painfully aware of how ragged and tired she felt.

Get a grip, Robitaille. You can sleep when this is over.

The detectives shook hands. “We got the warrant,” Dale said.

Amy nodded. “You sure you don’t want our tactical team in here? The place looks deserted, but that doesn’t guarantee that Gardner isn’t holed up in there with big-time firepower.”

Dale glanced at her partner. A small grin quirked the corner of O’Byrne’s mouth.

“We’re good to go,” Dale said. “You guys take the front, we’ll take the back?”

“Works for me,” Amy said.

Poushinsky jogged to the car and retrieved their vests. Once everyone was suited up, Dale motioned for one of the deputies to follow her, and she and O’Byrne dropped into running crouches and headed for the side of the house. In a handful of seconds, they’d disappeared around the carport.

Guns out, Amy and Poushinsky approached the front door from either side at wide angles. From behind their car, Ryan and Washington took up firing positions, as did the remaining deputies.

“Jason Gardner?” Amy shouted. “This is the police. Open the front door and come out with your hands in the air.”

Nothing.

Amy repeated the instructions and waited fifteen seconds. “Go,” she ordered Poushinsky.

He used a Halligan bar to force the door open. Amy heard the back door crash open as she slipped inside, flashlight and gun clasped in front of her. With Poushinsky right behind, she probed the small living room. “Front room clear,” she shouted.

Dale’s voice followed immediately. “Kitchen clear.”

The Martin detective edged into the hall as Amy glanced left toward what appeared to be two bedrooms and a bathroom. With a hand gesture, she indicated Dale should take the first room on the right. Amy moved forward three steps and beamed her flashlight into a small bedroom on her left. She glimpsed walls covered in posters and a single bed tucked in the corner of the room. Empty. She yanked open the door of the small closet. “Bedroom one clear,” she called out.

“Bedroom two clear,” Dale echoed.

The bathroom at the end of the hall was empty, too. The detectives gathered in the kitchen. When Poushinsky switched on the overhead light, the neatness of the place became apparent. In spite of its age and dowdiness, Gardner had kept his house clean and tidy. No dishes in the sink, no food on the counters, and the walls, floors and appliances were free of visible stains. The place looked barely lived in. Amy had a hard time envisioning this house as the scene of gruesome torture and murder.

Dale yanked her cell phone from its hip holster. “A team from our CSU has been standing by. They’ll be here in five minutes, tops.”

“We need them to check for trace evidence, of course, but this isn’t a crime scene,” Amy said. “Gardner wouldn’t have taken his victims here. Not with neighbors so close. Those folks could probably hear Gardner snoring through these flimsy walls.”

She turned to the other Palm Beach detectives. “Let’s take a closer look around. Jenn, DeSean, take the second bedroom and the bathroom. We’ll take the first bedroom.” Ryan and Washington moved off.

“He’s got a hideaway somewhere,” Dale said.

“I agree.” Amy headed down the hall, grabbing latex gloves from her pocket. At the door of the first bedroom, she reached in and flicked the light switch.

She almost laughed. “Wow,” Poushinsky muttered from right behind her. “Teenage boy-dom. Where’s the Xbox?”

Glossy posters of baseball players and stadiums covered at least seventy percent of the room’s wall space. Above a white, three-drawer dresser, Amy recognized Alex Rodriguez in Yankee pinstripes.

“Check out the big one right behind the bed,” Poushinsky said.

Amy swung around. “
Calice
.”

Luke Beckett smiled at her. The giant poster captured him resting on one knee on the grass of some stadium, propping himself up with a bat. He had slightly shorter hair in the poster, and a less intense tan, but otherwise looked exactly as he did today. Either it was a fairly recent photo, or the man wasn’t aging much.

Poushinsky grimaced. “He’s a goddamn Luke Beckett fan boy, for Christ’s sake.”

Amy’s gut twisted. “I’m glad Beckett isn’t here to see it. It would make him puke.”

Her partner picked up a framed photo, a five by seven. It was the only item on top of the dresser. “Our boy and his daddy, or so it would appear.” He handed it to Amy. “Unless the kid’s coach is a pervert.”

“Damn, Poushinsky,” Amy muttered, grabbing the frame. A burly, middle-aged man in a baseball jacket had his right arm tightly wrapped around a boy in a red and white uniform. The kid looked maybe thirteen or fourteen. He clutched a trophy in one hand and a bat in the other. “It’s his father, obviously. He’s the spitting image.”

“See the little stand at the bottom,” Poushinsky pointed. “It looks like it says Louisiana Babe Ruth Baseball…I can’t read the smaller print below that.”

“Looks like a happy kid with a proud dad,” Amy said, wondering how it could have gone so wrong for Jason Gardner. Was the father still alive? What about his poor mother? ” She set the photo back down on the dresser.

Amy pulled open the top drawer, finding a few pairs of underwear and socks. The second drawer contained three pairs of white baseball pants and a pair of jeans. The bottom drawer was nearly empty save for a couple of pairs of jock shorts and three porno DVD’s.

“Look at this,” Poushinsky said after opening the closet. Amy and Dale both peered inside as he took a step back. Tee shirts, at least ten of them, were hung neatly on hangers. Poushinsky poked them apart with a gloved finger and read out the logos. “Jupiter Hammerheads, Tampa Yankees, Dunedin Blue Jays, Bradenton Marauders, Lakeland Flying Tigers, Brevard County Manatees, Fort Myers Miracle, Charlotte Stone Crabs, Clearwater Threshers, St. Lucie Mets. He’s got almost the whole Florida State League covered here.”

“Jackets and caps, too,” Amy said. Several jackets of different materials hung from the single rod. The shelf on top was filled with caps and hats.

“Serial killer and big-time baseball nut,” Dale snorted.

Amy shook her head. “These are part of his M.O. They’re props he uses to relax the victims and make them feel he’s one of them.” She picked through the tee shirts. “There’s no Palm Beach Cardinals shirt here, though. He had that one on when he bought the flowers from Jodie Jamison, so he’s either got it with him now or he’s ditched it.”

“He probably ditched it after he killed Megan,” Poushinsky said. “With all that blood…”

M.L.’s image jumped into Amy’s head. Her sister sometimes wore a Palm Beach Cardinals tee—one of Justin’s shirts that came down past her mid-thigh—and a horrifying possibility made her stomach clench.