RCC03 - Beneath a Weeping Sky (52 page)

Tower pursed his lips. “So they broke up?”

Renee nodded. “Yes, I’d say so. And did you notice the timeframe?”

“Yeah, right around the time of the Patricia Reno assault.”

“A relationship ending
could
act as a trigger,” Renee said.

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“I’m not,” she answered. “A breakup is no small thing, but it just didn’t seem like enough of a cataclysmic event to send a man over the edge all by itself. Not a man who has been simmering but remaining under control for eight years.”

“It seems like a perfectly logical trigger to me.”

“Well, either way, that’s why I looked at Jeffrey Goodkind a little more closely. I called Men Only and posed as a wife wanting to bring my husband in. I told them Jeffrey had helped us out last time and asked if we could have him again. The manager said that would be no problem.”

“So he still works there,” Tower observed. “No job loss for a trigger.”

“No. And again, depending on how important his job is or isn’t, getting fired or laid off might be a big deal or might mean absolutely nothing.” Renee put a check mark next to that item on her notepad. “But I had to eliminate it.”

Tower nodded. “That’s just good investigative technique. Process of elimination.”

“Problem is, I was running out of things to eliminate.”

“I run into that sometimes, too,” Tower said ruefully.

“Then,” Renee said, “I asked myself what the biggest stress-related event in a person’s life might be. And then it all made sense.”

Tower twirled his finger in a hurry-up gesture.

“Death,” Renee pronounced.

“Huh?”

“Someone dying is the greatest stressor for most people,” she explained. “So I checked the
River City Herald
obituaries for anything related to Goodkind.”

Tower raised his eyebrows hopefully, but Renee shook her head.

“Nothing there. But when I didn’t find anything, I tried a Lexis-Nexis search on the last name. There were a lot of hits, but I started with Pacific Northwest cities like Portland and Seattle.”

“That’s a lot of work,” Tower said. “How’d you manage that so fast?”

Renee tapped her computer. “Once I had the articles, all I had to do was tell the computer to search for a mention of Jeffrey Goodkind in any of them.”

Tower thought about it for a moment, then nodded his understanding. “Because he’d be listed as a surviving family member in an obituary, right?”

“There’s hope for you yet, John,” Renee said with a wink. “That’s exactly right.”

“So, what did you find?”

“In the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
, I found an obit for Cora Goodkind who is survived by her only son, Jeffrey Goodkind.”

“Amazing,” Tower said. “Before computers, that would have taken days.”

Renee shrugged. “Maybe. Before computers, the networks were people-based. If I didn’t have this here,” she tapped her monitor again, “then I’d have to know a guy at the Seattle PI. I’d make a phone call and he’d get back to me.”

“Still, it wouldn’t be as fast.”

“Probably not. It is pretty amazing.” She leaned back in her chair and looked at Tower. “But what’s more interesting is the date on that obituary.”

“Let me guess,” Tower said. “She died around the beginning of March this year.”

“February 27
,” Renee reported. “Which, coincidentally, was around a week before –”

“Before Heather Torin was attacked,” Tower finished.

“Exactly,” Renee said. “And the death of a mother, particularly one that he likely had issues with would definitely qualify as a trigger.”

“So the death of his mother sets him off,” Tower said, theorizing. “Then he manages to control it again, holding it together for at least another month. But maybe he’s acting hinky or something, because the girlfriend dumps him. And that pushes him over the edge.”

“With the pressure of the mother’s death behind it, I think that’d do it.”

Tower reached out and rested his hand on Renee’s shoulder. He gave her a squeeze. “Renee, you are magnificent.”

“I know,” she said.

Tower turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Men Only,” Tower said. “Sealed file or not, I want to have a chat with Mr. Jeffrey Goodkind.”

0956 hours

Katie pulled up in front of her house and parked her Jeep. She cast a look at the dark red brick of the little home, enjoying the comforting sensation that the familiar sight gave her.

“Be it ever so humble,” she whispered sleepily. Emotion welled up in her chest. Small prickles of tears stung her eyes. Surprised at her own emotion, she turned off the ignition and wiped away the beginnings of tears.

I’m just tired. Tired and glad to be home.

She exited the Jeep, and walked around to the rear. Exhausted from working all night and now with a belly full of breakfast, the task of hauling in her luggage seemed herculean in nature. She considered leaving it for later, but opened the back hatch of the Jeep, anyway. She gathered up all of the luggage, setting it on the damp asphalt of the street while she closed and locked the hatch. Then she trapped one of the smaller bags beneath her armpit, took a bag in each hand and made her way to the front door.

Katie remembered what Chisolm told her at the hotel and again at breakfast.

“Maybe this guy’s gone and maybe he isn’t,” the veteran officer said. “But you need to keep your guard up.”

Katie didn’t want to admit to anyone that while she resented the protective measures while they had been in place, she suddenly felt a sense of vulnerability now that they were removed. That fact, in turn, made her a little bit angry at herself. How did it make sense for her to complain about something on the one hand, but then be glad for it at the same time? And then be mad about both?

Don’t try to understand everything, Katie.

Chisolm didn’t seem to have any difficulty understanding the paradox. He gave her a reassuring pat on the hand at the breakfast table. “You’ll be fine,” he told her. “You’re a warrior.”

That was another instance in which she’d felt emotion welling up inside her, unexpected, uncontrolled. Having the consummate warrior tell her that he looked at her as a peer gave Katie a greater sense of satisfaction and accomplishment than anything her bosses could have bestowed upon her. Respect was hard enough to get from fellow cops. Throw in being female and it got to be about three times as hard. But she had Thomas Chisolm’s respect, and you didn’t get any higher than that.

“Thanks,” was all she’d been able to manage at the diner table, but she supposed that there really wasn’t anything more that needed saying.

At her front door, she set down the bag in her right hand and unlocked the door. As she swung open the front door, the familiar smell of her home washed over her.

Katie smiled and stepped inside. She needed a shower and then a good day’s sleep, but she was home.

0957 hours

He watched her step through the front door of her house. Excitement buzzed through his limbs like an electric current.

“Wait,” he whispered, shifting his aching erection to one side.

She worked all night. She just had sex, then ate breakfast. It only made sense that she’d be going to bed. So he’d wait a few minutes. Let her settle in. Doze off. He’d catch her still half-asleep, so that she would wonder if the cold of his knife against her throat and him thrusting inside her was real or only just a nightmare.

And then she’d find out.

“Wait,” he whispered again. “Just a little while.”

1008 hours

Tower flashed his badge at the store manager. “I’m looking for Jeffrey Goodkind,” he said.

The manager, a tall, effete man that reminded Tower more of a mortician than a suit salesman, leaned forward to inspect Tower’s badge and identification. Satisfied, he replied, “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Goodkind is not at work today.”

“When does he work again?”

“He was scheduled to work today, but he has not yet arrived.”

Tower’s eyes narrowed. “Did he call in sick?”

“No.”

“He just didn’t show?”

The manager nodded. “Yes.”

“Is that normal for him? To just not show up?”

“No,” the manager conceded, then shrugged, “although, he has been acting strangely of late.”

Tower raised his fingers to his face and rubbed his chin. After a moment, he realized that he was mimicking one of Browning’s habits. Dropping his fingers, he asked, “Strange in what way?”

The manager shrugged. “He has just seemed a bit pre-occupied. Not as attentive to his work.”

“Do you know what’s been going on in his life?”

The manager’s eyebrows shot up in horror. “Oh, no. Jeffrey is quite private and I would never think to pry.”

Tower suppressed a sigh. Then he asked, “Does he have a locker or a work station?”

“Not really. He has his own drawer at the salesmen’s desk, though.”

“I’d like to see that, please.”

The manager hesitated. “Do you have a search warrant?”

“Do I need one?” Tower shot back.

The manager pressed his lips together, considering. Then he said, “No, I suppose not. Right this way.”

He turned and walked toward the rear of the store. Tower followed. As they passed the last rack of suits, a series of photographs lined the hallway that led to the back room where the manager was headed. Large block letters proudly pronounced, “OUR SALES TEAM IS HERE TO SERVE YOU!”

Tower slowed, his eyes passing over each photograph. When he reached the one labeled “Jeffrey Goodkind, since 1993,” he stopped.

A photograph of Mr. Every Other White Guy stared out at him from inside the frame, a practiced smile on his lips.

And at that moment, Tower knew for sure.

1011 hours

The pressure was too great. He couldn’t wait any more.

Staring at that hateful little brick house, his hands trembled. The pungent smell of his own sweat filled the cab of his car. He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, trying to force himself to wait a few more minutes.

He glanced down at the passenger seat. The silver blade of the Buck knife radiated a cold light back at him.

The time for waiting is over.

Pick up the knife.

Go inside. Lay the whammo on that arrogant bitch. Slice her. Gut her.

Kill Katie. Kill that cunt.

Kill Cora
.

He gave a short shake of his head, trying to clear his mind. He had to be careful. He couldn’t let his rage get in the way. He couldn’t let his mother turn his victory into another defeat by taking away what he most wanted.

Fear.

Control.

Pain.

Vengeance.

Somewhere deep inside the icy core of his soul, he felt a small flickering warmth spring to life. Katie was the only one who had thwarted him since he had become a real man. She was the only one who had defied him. Since that night on Mona Street, he’d heard his father’s mocking laughter in every voice. Worse yet, he’d seen his mother’s hard features in every line of Katie’s face. Just like his mother had done when she attacked him and tore away at his sexual power, Katie’s defiance and her escape robbed him of his manhood. It stripped him of what he’d become.

She had to pay.

His mouth curled into a cold smile. He’d send Katie to hell, where she belonged. Right next to his mother.

“I’m coming,” he whispered, and got out of the car.

1017 hours

“Adam-254, Adam-251?”

Gio reached for the microphone. “Fifty-four, go ahead.”

“Assist the detective. Contact Ida-409 at the west end of Corbin Park.”

Gio clicked the mike, signaling he copied the call. A second click followed, presumably from Ridgeway. Gio was close to the park and drove there in a matter of a couple of minutes. As he turned off Post and into the wide lanes at the west end of the park, he was surprised to see Ridgeway already there. He pulled his car alongside.

“You got here quick,” he said.

Ridgeway grunted back.

“Ida-409?” he asked Ridgeway. “That’s Tower, right?”

Ridgeway nodded, but didn’t say a word.

Gio suppressed a sigh. Instead he said, “You take an oath of silence or something?”

“No,” Ridgeway answered, “but sometimes I wish you would.”

“What’s up, Grumpy Gus?”

Ridgeway’s bleary-eyed stare answered Gio’s question.

“Nothing’s up,” the veteran officer said through gritted teeth. “I’m just tired.”

Gio nodded an apology. Ridgeway accepted it wordlessly and leaned his head back against the headrest.

It was at times like this Gio missed their fallen comrade, Karl Winter the most. Winter knew how to listen, especially to Ridgeway.

The best he could do was sit next to him and know when to remain silent.

1020 hours

He strode down the alley like he owned it.

He
did
own it.

He
was in control.

At her small back gate, he unlatched the clasp and slipped into the yard as quietly as he could. He clutched the Buck knife in his right hand, the blade hidden by the cuff of his white shirt. The weight of the cool metal reassured him.

Confident, he walked to her back door. At the door, he peered through the small glass panes into the house.

No activity.

He strained his ears, listening for movement.

The patter of water and the rumbling whine of plumbing filtered toward him. He glanced at the marbled, frosted window a few yards to his right. Condensation formed on the outside of the window and the glass had a hazy film of steam covering it.

She was in the shower.

Perfect.

Without hesitation, he drove the metal butt end of the knife into the small glass pane in the lower left corner of the back door. He was rewarded with shattering shards of glass. Flipping the knife around, he used the blade to clear out the four-by-four-inch mini-pane of any remaining glass. Then he reached through and fumbled for the lock inside.