Opening Moves

  79

  Three names appeared on all three lists: Janelle Warner, Andre Demell, and Richard Basque.

  Just three names.

  The violent nature of the crimes made it highly unlikely that a woman would be the killer. Yes, we would speak with Janelle, but I wanted to start with the two men on our list.

  “Which one first?” I asked Corsica. “Demell or Basque?”

  “Let’s go with Mr. Demell.”

  We asked the receptionist to try his office number, but when she consulted her appointment book, she informed us that he would be out most of today meeting with some of their clients.

  “But he is here in town?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  We set up an appointment for four thirty.

  Janelle Warner would meet with us at one fifteen.

  “What about Richard Basque? Is he in?”

  The receptionist sighed and I got the impression she was growing tired of helping us, which didn’t bother me one bit as long as she got us the meetings we needed.

  She rang Basque’s office, spoke for a moment on the phone, and then announced that he would be out in a minute. Somewhat impolitely she flicked her hand toward the chairs in the reception area. “You can have a seat if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Corsica told her with a slight touch of attitude. “If it’s only going to be a minute.”

  I folded up the flight manifests and slid them into my pocket.

  And thought of the best way to frame the questions I was going to ask Mr. Basque.

  80

  12:25 p.m.

  4 hours until the gloaming

  Basque stepped through the doorway.

  Caucasian. Late twenties or early thirties. Perceptive, turquoise eyes. Handsome. Dressed GQ-esque in a charcoal suit and tie. Six-two, athletic build, dark hair. A confident, endearing smile.

  If he really was the “Maneater of the Midwest,” he was not all what you might envision when you pictured a cannibalistic murderer.

  Or, well, maybe he was.

  Even though it wasn’t by any means fair to make the comparison, with his good looks and charming smile, Basque reminded me of the quintessential psychopath Ted Bundy—the clean-cut, all-American, articulate, smiling, serial killing, homicidal maniac.

  We greeted Basque and he led us to his office on the second floor.

  After we’d all taken a seat, he let his gaze pass from me to Corsica and then back to me. He smiled. “Can I have my secretary bring you anything? Coffee? A glass of water?”

  “No, thank you.” I still wasn’t really sure how to address the issue that this guy just happened to keep showing up in cities scattered throughout the Midwest right around the time women were disappearing or showing up dead.

  But I didn’t have to try to figure out how to be polite because Corsica cut to the chase for me: “We’re investigating a series of homicides.”

  “Homicides.”

  “Yes.”

  He waited for us to elaborate.

  I said, “Do you know a woman named Juanita Worthy?”

  He thought about it, shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Who is she?”

  “A woman who was killed in Illinois.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Corsica spoke up, “What about Marianne Lojeski?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Bruce Hendrich?”

  He looked at us quizzically. “Honestly, I don’t know any of these people and I’m not entirely sure why you’re asking me if I do.”

  I thought about bringing up the flight manifests, but as long as he was denying knowing any of the victims there might be a better approach. “Mr. Basque, would you be willing to share a copy of your schedule with us? Your days off? Your personal calendar?”

  It would have been easy to miss.

  It happened for only an instant, but it did happen.

  His gaze flickered cold and an icy intensity fell across his eyes, one so stark and soulless that it actually sent a shiver through me, but then, in the time it takes to blink, he collected himself and offered us a smile that looked remarkably genuine. “Certainly. Now, tell me, why are you asking me this?” He raised an eyebrow, asked lightheartedly, “I’m not a suspect, am I?”

  I let Corsica answer. She folded her hands, laid them gently on her lap, repeated the same words she’d told his boss earlier, “By no means. We’re simply pursuing every possible lead.”

  “I see.”

  I took a few minutes to ask about his business trips to Ohio and Illinois and if he knew anything about the Hayes or Westin kidnappings here in Milwaukee this week. He shook his head and told me that, no, he did not—other than what he’d heard on the news—but that he genuinely wished there was some way he could help.

  He sounded like he meant it and he wasn’t in any hurry to get rid of us. He didn’t seem nervous or intimidated, was pleasant and cordial the whole time. And for some reason, even though I hated the idea of going with my gut or letting unfounded assumptions guide me around, the more personable and patient he was, the more I found myself thinking he was guilty.

  Finally, when we had no more questions, he brought me a copy of his personal schedule and wished us well in our investigation, then gave me his card. “If there’s anything I can do for you, feel free to call. I’ll do whatever I can to help make sure you get this monster before he commits any more crimes.”

  As soon as we were outside the building, Corsica said, “It’s him.”

  I agree, I thought.

  “I think we need a little more evidence before we can arrest him,” I said.

  “Alright, then.” She opened up the car door. “Let’s go get it.”

  Since leaving for the store, Joshua had decided to take only one of the children.

  It would be easier to handle that way. And besides, the more he thought about the logistics of it, the more he realized there really was no compelling reason to take them both.

  So.

  The boy.

  He would take the boy and leave the girl at the school to be picked up by her mother.

  He paused as he walked down the children’s shoe aisle at Kohl’s.

  He needed something to hold the proof he was sending the sergeant.

  A shoebox would be just the right size.

  He chose one and carried it to the checkout counter.

  “Will this be all, sir?”

  “Yes. Just that one pair.”

  He paid for the shoes and went to the school to get the boy.

  Corsica read me Basque’s work records as I drove back to HQ.

  According to his personal schedule, the time he took off corresponded with twelve of the disappearances and both of the homicides.

  I don’t like to jump to conclusions, but I’m not stupid. This guy was looking really good for these crimes. Almost too good.

  Prove it wrong; don’t assume.

  We radioed ahead to the team to have them dig up everything they could on Richard Devin Basque.

  “I want it waiting for me when we arrive,” I said.

  81

  Inside the department again, the task force reconvened.

  Before we launched into examining the background information on Basque, Ralph, who’d just returned from Fort Atkinson, filled us in on Browning.

  “I’ll make this quick,” he said, “’cause I know we gotta get to Basque: Browning denied knowing anything about Griffin’s involvement. Might have been telling the truth, but when I took a careful look at his employment record, I saw—well, guess where he used to work?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Horicon. At the time of Mindy Wells’s death. He was the officer assigned to signing items into and out of the evidence room.”

  Just thinking about Mindy’s death cut into me, and the fact that a police officer might have known something about her killer and done nothing about it, leaving him free to kill again, cut into me even more.

  “He’s being questioned abou
t it by the DA as we speak. Oh, and this might be a bit of good news. Sergeant Carver and his team over in Fort Atkinson found a journal hidden beneath a loose board in the kitchen of that farmhouse near the landfill.” Ralph held up two fingers. “Jenna and Mindy, that’s it, the only two homicides written about in the journal.”

  “Griffin told me there were others,” I said. “That there are always others.”

  “Bragging?” Ellen suggested. “Narcissism? According to what you told us, it fits right in with his personality.”

  I hoped she was right. It sounded strange to say in reference to the death of anyone, but if those were the only two girls whom he’d killed, that would at least be one thing to be thankful for.

  In either case I was confident that the Fort Atkinson PD wouldn’t let this thing rest until they’d found out the true extent of Griffin’s crimes.

  We turned our attention to Basque.

  “Alright,” I said to the team. “Tell me everything we know about him.”

  We went through the peripheral stuff first—where he’d lived, worked, gone to school, all in the Greater Milwaukee area. He had an off-the-charts IQ. He was single, never married, no known children. He had a gym membership downtown, paid his taxes on time, donated regularly to three different charities.

  Thorne shook his head. “This guy’s something else. A perfect record, not even a parking ticket.”

  “And he’s never lived in the Franklin Heights area?” I said, trying to tie all the investigative threads together.

  Lyrie answered. “No.”

  Ellen looked anxious to share what she’d found. “When I was calling around checking on his work, I learned who his temp had been for a couple weeks in September. Filled in for his secretary.” Whether she intended to or not, she gave a dramatic pause. “Colleen Hayes.”

  Okay, now that was interesting.

  I recalled what we’d learned earlier. “She said she found Griffin’s catalog in a trash can at work.” I looked around. “Who has that copy of Griffin’s subscription list?”

  Gabriele jogged to the other room and returned with it, scanned it, and said, “Yeah, Basque’s on the list. He’s a subscriber.”

  That was it. “We need to have another chat with this guy.”

  But when we tried his office we found out he’d left for the day. The receptionist didn’t know where he’d gone.

  “Let’s get a car to his house,” I told Thorne. “I’m not sure if we have enough to bring him in for questioning, but we can give it a shot. Maybe find out something before he lawyers up. We might have rattled him when we visited his office. He could have taken off.”

  “I’ll put out an APB,” Thorne said. That could create a legal mess to mop up later if this ended up being a dead end, but I trusted Thorne to handle it and I was glad he was ready to make the call.

  Earlier, Corsica and I had set up a one-fifteen appointment to have a talk with Janelle Warner, the other Hathaway & Erikson employee who’d flown with Basque and Demell. However, right now I didn’t want to leave headquarters. Ellen offered to go over there with Corsica and talk with Ms. Warner, hoping she might be able to tell us something about Basque’s behavior on their trips.

  As they were getting ready to go, we received word that Calvin had arrived and was in the lobby. “Call him in,” I said. “I want to get his take on this too.”

  82

  1:25 p.m.

  3 hours until the gloaming

  Joshua entered the school.

  “Yes?” The secretary at the front desk was a stern-looking woman with a single eyebrow that bridged across both of her dark, scolding eyes. “May I help you?” Somehow she made it sound like a reprimand rather than a question.

  He showed her his credentials, then told her the children’s last name. “I’m afraid I have to deliver some bad news regarding their father. He’s been in an accident.”

  “An accident?” Her voice had softened only slightly.

  “He’s at the Milwaukee Regional Medical Center.”

  “What happened?”

  “A car accident. It’s quite serious, I’m afraid. Their mother is there with him now. She asked me to come by and speak with the children.”

  “We can’t release students to anyone who’s not family or who’s not on their emergency contact form,” she replied.

  “No, I’m not here to take them home. Their grandmother will be by shortly. But their mother wanted to make sure it would be me rather than their grandmother who told them. I’m sure you understand.”

  Before she could reply, the principal poked her head out of the office door behind the reception desk and asked her to pick up some payroll forms from the central office.

  After the principal had closed the door again, the secretary hesitated for a moment, but at last reached across her desk, picked up a visitor’s tag, and handed it to Joshua.

  She told him which rooms the boy and the girl were in. He thanked her, and as he pinned the tag to his shirt, he headed down the hall toward room 118, Tod’s second grade classroom.

  He would take the boy, exit through another door, and leave the girl here.

  We filled Calvin in as comprehensively and yet as quickly as we could on the different aspects of the case.

  He reflected on what we’d said. “And the mattresses? Nothing in that part of the city?”

  Gabriele shook her head.

  “Maybe you don’t need to look at places that sell mattresses, but places that use them, that use mismatched ones. From what I’ve heard, the West Reagan Street neighborhood is low income, has a high population of vagrants. Are there any homeless shelters in the area?”

  “I’ll find out.” I grabbed a phone book and it took only a moment to look it up. “West Reagan Street Mission is only three blocks from the train yards. The ad here says they have beds available, free job training, medical care and meals.”

  “Try them,” Calvin said. “See if they might’ve perhaps received a recent donation to purchase new mattresses and, if so, who donated the money or picked up the old ones. Even if we don’t get a name, that’ll give us a date to work with.”

  I tracked with him. “Then we can check moving truck rentals that week.”

  “It’s always about timing and location,” he noted contemplatively.

  I nodded for Gabriele to make the call even as Radar, who’d been working down the hall, came hurrying toward us. “I came up with someone who might be the next pastiche. David Spanbauer. He was a serial rapist, killed three people. Very disturbed, and Isle did one of her true crime books on him.”

  Yes, that was a good thought. “He was caught up in Appleton, wasn’t he?” I said.

  “Yeah. I’m not sure about the exact address.”

  “Find out. Call the Appleton PD. Have them send a car over to stake out the location.”

  Two cases.

  The homicides. The abductions.

  Related? Unrelated?

  I still couldn’t tell.

  Somehow, unimaginably, they seemed to be both.

  “Let’s not forget the Oswalds.” I was thinking this through, processing it aloud. “We need to get a car to…” I ran through the pertinent locations in my mind: The intersection of Highways 18 and 83 where they first encountered the police…Meadowbrook Road where they shot Captain Lutz…the residence where they abducted Judy Opat…the bank they robbed in Wales…the corner of SS and Oak Street where they ran the roadblock.

  Which one?

  Which one?

  Screw it.

  All of ’em.

  I gave the word, the squads were dispatched.

  Gabriele, who’d been on the line with someone from the West Reagan Street Mission, hung up. “They got a donation to purchase new mattresses a week ago.”

  “Who was it from?” Calvin asked.

  “Anonymous.”

  Of course.

  “Who picked up the old mattresses?”

  “The guy I spoke with didn’t know.”

>   Thompson used to patrol that neighborhood and would have been the guy to send, but he was out checking on leads in the Franklin Heights area. I said to Lyrie, “Get to the mission. Talk to the other staff, the homeless guys. Somebody knows who took those old mattresses.”

  He nodded, then left.

  Gabriele offered to contact moving companies and see if she could get names of people who’d rented out a truck one week ago.

  “Perfect.”

  Calvin was busy at his computer, plugging in information. I sat down beside him and told him all the sites the team had pulled up regarding Basque’s known activity nodes.

  I wanted to see if his geographic profiling approach could come up with an anchor point for the Maneater, and if it did, if Basque’s home would be anywhere near it.

  83

  2:25 p.m.

  2 hours until the gloaming

  Sergeant Brandon Walker, or Radar as he preferred to be called by his friends, was at his desk making calls to Basque’s work associates at Hathaway & Erikson, trying to find out if anyone knew where he’d gone this afternoon, when one of the officers who worked the front lobby walked up to his desk carrying a package the size of a shoebox.

  “This came for you. It was left in the lobby. No idea who it’s from.” He shook the box a little and there was a soft, dull thud as whatever was inside it bumped against the sides of the box. “You want me to trash it?”

  “No. I’ll take it.”

  Radar accepted the package and the other officer returned downstairs.

  Radar studied it.

  The box was wrapped in what appeared to be the same type of butcher paper that was left in the boxcar where Adele Westin was found. Words on the top: “Attn. Sergeant Walker. Open at once.” No return address.

  He flipped it over.

  Another note, written neatly in black Magic Marker: “This is from the person on the phone.”

  Radar blinked, looked around the room.

  A moment later his desk phone rang. He stared at it unbelievingly, then at the words on the package.