“They are. Come on in. Close the door behind you.”
She hesitated as though assessing whether it was safe to be behind closed doors with him.
“That was the mayor,” Nick explained. “He wanted to know if I’m going to have an arrest made by Friday, so he won’t have to cancel Halloween.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Pretty much what you just heard. The boxes are here under the window.” He rolled his chair around to point to them, then kept it there to stare out the window. He was tired of cloudy weather. Sick of rain. He couldn’t remember the last time there’d been a full day of sunshine. It was as though all of Sarpy County were trapped under one of those glass globes. The kind you shake and it snows. Only here, you shake it and the clouds rolled in, over and over again—the same clouds, rounding the globe and passing over again.
O’Dell was on her knees. She had several box lids off and files scattered on the floor around her.
“Can I get you a chair?” he offered, but made no motion to leave his own.
“No, thanks. It’ll be easier this way.”
She looked as though she had found what she was looking for. She opened the file and began scanning the contents, flipping pages, then settling on one. Suddenly, her entire face went serious. Her eyes darted over the page. She sat back on her feet.
“What is it?” Nick leaned forward, trying to see what had grabbed hold of her so intensely.
“It’s Jeffreys’ original confession, right after his arrest. It’s very detailed, from the kind of tape he used to bind the hands and feet to the carvings on the hunting knife he used.” She spoke slowly, continuing to scan the document.
“Okay, and Father Francis said Jeffreys hadn’t lied. That means the details are true. So what?”
“Did you realize that Jeffreys confessed to murdering only Bobby Wilson? In fact,” she said, flipping through several more pages, “in fact, he was adamant about having nothing to do with the other two boys’ murders.”
“I don’t remember hearing any of that. They probably thought he was lying.”
“But if he wasn’t?” She looked up at him, her brown eyes haunted by something more than the file she held.
“Okay, if he wasn’t lying, and he did kill only Bobby Wilson…” Nick didn’t finish. Suddenly, he felt sick to his stomach, even before Maggie finished his sentence.
“Then the real serial killer got away, and he’s back.”
CHAPTER 27
Christine hoped Nick didn’t detect the relief in her voice when he called to cancel dinner. If this new lead panned out, she’d be working late to claim yet another front page on tomorrow morning’s paper.
“Can we do it tomorrow night?” he asked, almost apologetic.
“Sure, no problem. Is something big going down tonight?” she added, just to push his buttons.
“This newfound success of yours is ugly on you, Christine.” He sounded tired, drained of energy.
“Ugly or not, it feels wonderful.”
“So this number the paper gave me, it sounds like a cellular?”
“Yep, just one of the perks of my new, ugly success. Look, Nick.” She needed to change the subject before he asked where she was or where she was headed. “Can you please bring your sleeping bag tomorrow night when you come over? Remember, Timmy asked if he could borrow it for his camping trip?”
“They’re going camping on Halloween?”
“They’ll be back Friday night. Father Keller has mass. Remember, for All Saints’ Day? Will you remember the sleeping bag?”
“Yes, I will.”
“And don’t forget Agent O’Dell.”
“Right.”
She turned the corner into the parking lot as she flipped her cellular phone closed and shoved it into her purse. Nick would be furious if he knew where she was.
The four-story apartment building looked run-down. The bricks were weathered and chipped. Rusted air conditioners hung out windows, clinging to rickety brackets. The building looked out of place in an old neighborhood of small, wooden-framed houses. Despite being old, the houses were well kept. Their backyards were filled with sandboxes, swing sets and huge old maples perfect for tree houses and hammocks.
The air filled with the smell of burning wood from someone’s fireplace. A dog barked down the street, and she heard the tinkling of a wind chime. This was Danny Alverez’s neighborhood. Danny’s shiny, red bike had been found leaning against the chain-link fence that separated the apartment’s parking lot from the rest of the neighborhood. It was right here that the horrors of his last days began. Here in a place he had come to take for granted as safe.
Inside the main entrance a heavy metal trash can held open the security door. It overflowed with cigarette butts falling onto the floor. Christine stepped carefully.
The elevator smelled of stale cigarettes and dog urine, and she eyed the stained carpet. She pushed the button for the fourth floor, stabbing it two, then three times before it lit up and the doors whined shut. The elevator rattled, shook and wheezed. She started to push the open-door button when the elevator finally started up slowly. Pulleys ground and whined.
She hated elevators. Hated small places. She should have taken the stairs. Her eyes searched for the emergency phone. There wasn’t one. Seconds flew by and the light above showed only that she had reached the second floor. She punched three, hoping to cut short her trip, but the button crumbled into pieces. Frantically, she picked up the bigger pieces and began replacing them into the frame like a puzzle. Two stayed, one fell down into the hole, the others fell back to the floor. The elevator jolted to a stop, and finally its doors screeched open. Christine squeezed through before they were completely open.
She stopped in the hallway, leaning against the dirty wall, waiting to catch her breath. The light was dim, the carpeting filled with more stains. Again, the smell of dog urine mixed with the scent of old, musty newspapers and someone’s burnt dinner. How could anyone live in a hole like this?
Apartment 410 was at the end of the hallway. A hand-braided welcome mat lay outside the scratched and battered door. The mat was clean, spotless.
Christine knocked and held her breath to avoid the hallway’s suffocating odors. Several locks clicked inside, then the door opened just a crack. A pair of hooded and wrinkled blue eyes peered at her through thick glasses.
“Mrs. Krichek?” she asked as politely as possible while holding her breath.
“Are you that reporter?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. My name is Christine Hamilton.”
The door opened, and she waited for the woman to back out of the way with her walker.
“Any relation to Ned Hamilton, owns the Quick Mart on the corner?”
“No, I don’t think so. Hamilton is my ex-husband’s name, and he isn’t from around here.”
“I see.” The woman shuffled away.
Once inside, Christine was accosted by three large yellow and gray cats rubbing against her legs.
“I just fixed a pot of hot chocolate. Would you like some?”
She almost said yes, then saw the steaming pot on the coffee table where another large cat helped itself to several licks off the top.
“No, thank you.” She hoped her voice disguised her disgust.
Other than the cats, the apartment smelled much cleaner than the hallway. The ammonia of a hidden litter box was obvious but bearable. Colorful afghans and quilts were draped over the couch and a rocker. Green plants hung above the windows, and crocheted doilies dotted an antique buffet and secretary’s desk. Both tops were filled with black-and-white photos of servicemen, a young couple in front of an old Buick and three colored photos of a little girl at various stages of her life.
“Sit,” the old woman instructed, backing herself into the rocker. “Oh, the pain in this shoulder,” she said, rubbing the bony knob sticking up through her sweater. “Such pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Her bones did look brittle. Knobby knees stuck out from under her plain cotton housedress. Her round face twisted into a permanent scowl. Her brilliant blue eyes were magnified and distorted by the thick wire-rimmed glasses. Her white hair was twisted neatly into a bun, clasped by beautiful turquoise hair combs.
“It’s hell getting old. If it wasn’t for my cats, I think I’d call it quits.”
Christine sat and watched her navy skirt fill with cat hair. Two of the cats still circled her legs while one jumped onto the back of the couch to take a closer look.
“Rummy, get down from there,” the woman scolded, waving a bony finger at the cat. He ignored her.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Krichek. I don’t mind,” she lied. “I’d like to get right to what you saw the morning Danny Alverez disappeared. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No. Not at all. I’m glad somebody’s finally interested.”
“The sheriff’s office has never come here to question you?”
“I called them twice. In fact, just this morning before I seen your article. They hemmed and hawed like they think I’m making it up or something. So, then I called you. I don’t care what anybody says, I seen what I seen.”
“And just what did you see, Mrs. Krichek?”
“I seen that boy park his bike and get in an old blue pickup.”
“Are you sure it was the Alverez boy?”
“Seen him dozens of times. He was a good little paperboy. Brought my newspaper all the way to my door and laid it on my mat. Not like the kid we have now. He steps off the elevator and tosses it down here. Sometimes it makes it. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s not easy getting this walker through that doorway. I think your paper should make sure those kids do a better job.”
“I’ll let them know. Mrs. Krichek, tell me about the pickup. Could you see the driver?”
“No. It was still dark out. I stood right at that there window. Sun was barely coming up. He pulled into the parking lot so that the passenger’s side was all I could see. He must’ve said something to the boy, 'cause Danny leaned his bike against the fence, came around and got up into the pickup.”
“Danny got into the pickup? Are you sure the man didn’t grab him and pull him in?”
“No, no. It was all quite friendly—otherwise, I would have called the sheriff sooner. It wasn’t until I heard Danny was missing that I put two and two together and called.”
Christine couldn’t believe no one had checked out this woman’s story. Was she missing something? The woman was old, but her story seemed believable. She stood and went to the window the woman had pointed to. Below was a perfect view of the parking lot and the chain-link fence. Even someone with poor vision could make out the events Mrs. Krichek had described.
“What kind of pickup?”
“I know little about cars and trucks.” The woman hoisted herself back into the walker and shuffled her way over to join Christine. “It was old, royal blue with paint chipped and some rust. You know, on the bottom part. It had running boards. I remember ‘cause Danny stepped up on it to climb in. And it had wooden stock racks, homemade ones on the back. The kind farmers put on when they’re hauling something. Oh, and one of the headlights wasn’t working.”
If the woman was senile, she had a creative imagination. Christine jotted down the details. “Were you able to see any of the license plate?”
“No, my eyes aren’t that good.”
A screen door slammed below, and a little girl raced out into a backyard on the other side of the fence. She jumped onto a swing and called out to the man who followed. He had long hair and a beard and wore blue jeans with a long tunic-like shirt.
“They just moved in last month.” Mrs. Krichek nodded down at the pair as the man pushed the little girl, and she squealed with delight. “The first day I saw him, I tell you I thought I was looking down at the Lord himself. Don’t you think he looks like Jesus?”
Christine smiled and nodded.
CHAPTER 28
Maggie watched Nick step carefully around the piles she had scattered all over the floor of his office. He cleared a spot and set down the steaming pizza and cold Pepsis. Then he joined her on the floor, his long legs stretching out next to her. A foot almost brushed her thigh. All day she had found herself acutely aware of his presence. She thought she was too tired to feel, but then her body surprised her every time his elbow accidentally brushed her arm or his hand grazed her thigh while he shifted the Jeep into gear.
She had removed her shoes hours ago and had sat on her feet until they fell asleep. Now she massaged them one at a time while she read the coroner’s reports on Aaron Harper and Eric Paltrow, the two dead, little boys whom Jeffreys may have erroneously been convicted of killing.
The pizza smelled good despite the gruesome details she read. She glanced up to find Nick watching her rub her feet. Immediately, he looked away as though she had caught him at something. He popped open a can of Pepsi and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” This time she was actually hungry. The ham and cheese sandwich from Wanda’s had sat on a plate with only two bites removed when young Deputy Preston had finally volunteered to take it off her hands. That was hours ago. Now it was black outside the window. Phones down the hall had quieted. Staff had thinned out. Some had been sent home to rest while others were sent back out to search for a little boy who seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
Nick lifted a thick slice of pizza, pulling it expertly away so he didn’t lose the cheese. He plopped it down onto a paper plate and handed it to Maggie. She could smell green peppers, Italian sausage and Romano cheese. He had done good. She bit off more than she should have, dripping cheese and sauce down her chin.
“Jesus, O’Dell. You’ve got sauce all over your face.”
She licked the side of her mouth while he watched.
“Other side.” He pointed. “And on your chin.”
Her hands were full of pizza and coroner reports. She licked at the other side while she fumbled for a safe spot to set something down.
“No, higher,” he still instructed. “Here, let me.”
As soon as his thumb touched the corner of her mouth, her eyes met his. His fingers wiped at her chin. His thumb rolled over her lower lip where she was certain there was no sauce or cheese. In his eyes she saw that he felt the unexpected surge of electricity, too. His fingertips lingered longer than necessary on her chin, moved up, caressed her cheek. His thumb took its time to leave her lip and wipe the corner of her mouth. Completely surprised by her body’s reaction, she shifted away, just out of his reach.
“Thanks,” she managed to say, now avoiding his eyes. She practically flung the plate with pizza to the side, grabbed a napkin and finished the job, rubbing harder than necessary in an attempt to wipe away the electrical current.
“I think we might need more napkins and Pepsis.” Nick scrambled to his feet.
Maggie looked up at him, and he seemed flustered. From the small refrigerator in the corner of his office, he pulled two more cans and added napkins to the pile already on the floor. This time when he sat down, he kept more distance between them. She noticed his charm had been put on hold, his flirting almost nonexistent since he had discovered she had a husband. So the touch, the caress had caught him off guard, too.
“There are so many discrepancies,” she said, trying to get her mind back on the coroner’s reports. “I don’t know why anyone believed Jeffreys killed all three boys.”
“But don’t serial killers change the way they do things?”
“They may add things. They may experiment. Jeffrey Dahmer experimented with different ways to keep his victims alive. He’d drill holes in their skulls that would incapacitate them but keep them alive.”
“So maybe Jeffreys liked to experiment, too.”
“What’s unusual here is that the Harper and Paltrow murders were almost identical. Both were bound, hands behind their backs, with rope. They were strangled and their throats slashe
d. The chest wounds resembled each other almost exactly down to the number of puncture wounds. The same knife was used to carve the X’s. Neither boy appeared to have been sexually molested. Their bodies were found in different remote areas near the river.”
She referred to several documents laid out in front of her, leaning carefully so she wouldn’t soil them. In the last hour she had started to feel the full impact of her exhaustion. Her eyes blurred as she looked over the coroner’s scratchy notes. George Tillie had not been as precise as he should have been. The Paltrow report was the only one to mention the body being clean with little residue found. None of the reports indicated a smudge of oil on the forehead or anywhere else on the body.
Maggie glanced at Nick, who slumped against the hard credenza and rubbed at his eyes. His hair was tousled from too many reckless run-throughs with his fingers. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing muscular forearms. He had gotten rid of the tie and had undone several buttons on his wrinkled shirt, exposing enough of his chest to distract her. She shook her head, grabbed a report off the floor and tried to stay focused.
“The Wilson boy, on the other hand—”
“I know,” Nick interrupted, sitting forward. “His hands were bound in front with duct tape, no rope. He was stabbed to death—no signs of strangulation. His throat wasn’t slashed. A hunting knife was used. Though there were plenty of puncture wounds…”
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two puncture wounds, but no carving.”
“The Wilson boy was also sodomized, repeatedly.”
“And his body was found in a park Dumpster, instead of by the river. Jesus, this stuff makes me sick to my stomach.” He shoved the pizza aside, grabbed his Pepsi and emptied the can, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay, there’s a lot of differences, but couldn’t Jeffreys have changed things? Even the sodomy, couldn’t that be seen as…I don’t know…an escalation?”