“Over the course of F’s healing, she started to understand more of her own self-worth and how badly James had been treating her. Then, rather than feeling threatened and even angry about James’s new girlfriend, she started to worry about her. Jaylin, she told me, was very sweet. But also a bit shy, introverted. F was concerned that against a man as violent and dominating as James, Jaylin wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“So you reached out to Jaylin?” Rainie asked. “Said hey, hear your boyfriend is a brute. Wanna discuss?”
Rebecca smiled. “Actually, F arranged our first meeting. The three of us, in a bookstore off campus. Where both could feel safe enough to talk.
“In the beginning, Jaylin was quiet. F shared her story. What had happened to her. Which was difficult, exposing what to her still felt like shame. Jaylin mostly listened. She seemed compassionate, to genuinely feel bad for what F had gone through. But I would say she already had that internal guard up. ‘This is sad and sounds awful, but I’m sure my boyfriend will never do that to me.’”
Quincy and Rainie both nodded. They had heard that story before.
“I thought that might be the end of things. I congratulated F on her courage. Kept working with her on her healing. As for Jaylin, I gave her my card, told her she was welcome to call anytime. But later I saw that she’d slipped the card into the trash on the way out. Not the first time in my line of work.”
More nods.
“Jaylin called me three weeks later. Turns out, she has a photographic memory. And she hadn’t wanted the card to be found on her, because she was already starting to understand that Duchovny had a temper and just what kinds of things might set him off.”
“She wanted to end the relationship,” Rainie said softly.
“If only it were so simple. She wanted to keep the boyfriend she loved. The strong guy, the sexy guy, the guy who made her feel like a woman who didn’t just read great adventures, but who lived them. The explosive boyfriend, though. The one who put his fist through the wall of her apartment. Who swung a lamp at her head after he showed up drunk two hours late for their date and she told him she wasn’t going out with him. That guy was a problem.”
“You started meeting with her,” Quincy said.
“I made myself available. I got her information on safe houses. I walked her through various options, the safest options for ending the relationship. Beginning with getting her to understand that the most dangerous moment in these relationships is the moment the woman announces she wants to leave.”
“Is that what you were doing in the computer room?” Rainie asked. “Plotting Jaylin’s escape?”
“I thought that’s what we were doing,” Rebecca said. “But when I arrived, Jaylin said James had found out what was going on. According to him, F had called him directly and told him that Jaylin was leaving him, possibly in the hope that James would be so furious he’d dump Jaylin and come crying back to F instead.”
Quincy nodded, watched Rainie wince. They had both seen such things before. Some people’s desire, need, to further their own pain and punishment . . .
“Do you think F really called him, went behind Jaylin’s back?” Quincy asked.
Rebecca shrugged. “I think anything’s possible. People are complex, and these kinds of relationships . . . If only there were an on/off switch. But here’s the interesting part: James didn’t lose his temper. He’d come to the library with Jaylin that night. He’d said he’d hang with her while she worked on her paper, then they were supposed to go to a bar.”
Quincy and Rainie nodded.
“Except the moment they were alone in the computer lab, Duchovny announced he’d really come that night to let her go. He wasn’t the right guy for her. She could do better. So that was it. It had been fun. Good times. Great ride. Good-bye. And then he left.”
Quincy frowned. This he couldn’t picture. “Duchovny just . . . walked away.”
“Took the high road,” Rebecca assured him. “Jaylin was still trying to process it when I got there. But definitely James had spoken to F. He knew all about Jaylin’s growing fear of him and his temper. Her secret plans to try to end things. And rather than drop the hammer, or take some kind of stand, no way, no how, over my dead body, he . . . let her go. No big whoop, he told her. Have a nice life.”
Rainie turned to Quincy. “Duchovny broke up with Jaylin? Why wouldn’t he just admit that to us?”
“Guy clearly has an ego,” Quincy said mildly. “And for the record, saying he ended things with his girlfriend that night would only make him a bigger suspect. Because, of course, a good detective would have to wonder if Jaylin hadn’t actually broken up with him, leading him to take revenge. Duchovny might be a brute, but he clearly isn’t stupid.”
“I think he cared about her in his own way,” Rebecca spoke up. “Enough that he was willing to let her go, do what was right for her, instead of taking what he wanted for himself. Though, that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have changed his mind later. I’d advised Jaylin not to be alone for the near future. Maybe take a trip home for the weekend. Make sure she had friends and family around her at all times. Just in case.”
Rainie looked at the woman. “Why didn’t you come forward sooner?” she asked Rebecca. “Why are we just hearing about this now?”
Rebecca smiled apologetically. “Technically speaking, the hotline, my job, are confidential and anonymous. Hence the Erin Pizzey ID to use in public situations. Please understand that anonymity isn’t just for my sake, but to help protect the students who meet with me. Can you imagine the consequences if the jealous hothead learned his lover was last seen with the university’s expert on domestic violence? Things can turn ugly fast.”
“But Jaylin was dead. Isn’t that cause to break confidentiality?”
“I still had F to consider. Also, the police were already looking at James as a suspect, based on his violent history. I didn’t have anything to add to that. He made no specific threat to Jaylin and, if anything, had given the end of their relationship his blessing. If James had done it, I figured the police would find evidence. Then when week turned into week . . .
“I didn’t know what to think. Everyone said she was strangled. That there wasn’t any sign of battery or assault. To be honest . . .” Rebecca shook her head. “I didn’t know what to think.”
“When did you last see Jaylin?” Quincy asked.
“Shortly before midnight. She said it was time to lock up the computer lab. She gathered up her things. I followed her out the door. She pulled it shut. Checked that it was locked.”
“Was she wearing a coat?” Quincy asked.
“No.”
“Shoes?”
“Um . . .yes. White sneakers. Nothing fancy. Dressed for comfort.”
“What happened next?” Rainie asked.
“I wanted to grab a book while I was there, from the third floor, but I didn’t want Jaylin to exit alone, not until we knew more about James’s true intentions. I’d made the offer to walk out with her, when the security guard showed up. He said he’d escort her out.”
Quincy stilled. Beside him, he felt Rainie’s corresponding quiver. This was it. The moment that made cases.
“Describe the security guard,” Rainie said quietly.
Rebecca laughed. “That was the irony. He was such a skinny little thing. Hardly a match for a guy like James. Why, the guard couldn’t even look Jaylin in the eyes. He just kept staring at her shoes.”
* * *
Quincy and Rainie reentered the second interrogation room five hours later, Rainie once more with a manila file in hand, but this time filled with an entirely new batch of photos.
Quincy walked in first, partially obscuring Rainie from view. He remained standing until Rainie had taken her seat. Then he pulled out his own chair.
Duchovny had been turned loose. Santana. Their mysterious witness nu
mber four. Now, only one remained.
Ringham had his head folded into his arms on the tabletop, ostensibly trying to rest. When they walked in, he straightened up, appearing both sullen and sleepy.
“Fifteen minutes after midnight,” Rainie stated. She slapped the folder down on the metal table, causing Ringham to flinch. “That’s what time you logged out the night Jaylin Banks died. Fifteen whole minutes after your shift ended. Why so late, Ringham? Did it take you that long to find your jacket?”
Ringham scowled, scrubbed at his pale face. “Whaddya mean so late? I had to talk to my replacement, gather my things. Takes some time.”
“Really? Because according to the logs from other evenings, you usually hightailed it out of the library by twelve oh five. But that night . . . Twelve fifteen. Ten extra minutes. What were you doing for those ten minutes?”
“Seriously? You’re busting my chops because one night I ran ten minutes late?”
Rainie stared at him. Then she opened the file, and without ever taking her eyes from Ringham’s face, began laying out a fresh series of photos.
These ones weren’t glossy, but simple, computer-printed black-and-whites.
When Quincy had first reviewed the cold case, his initial suspicion had been a sexual fetish.
Foot fetish, in particular. Unfortunately, the ME hadn’t thought to swab Jaylin Banks’s toes for saliva. An oversight in Quincy’s mind. That was why he and Rainie had made sure to force their suspects to look at the multiple pictures of Jaylin’s body, to see who reacted to the images of her bare feet. The lack of response had been troubling until Rebecca had unwittingly revealed that Jaylin Banks’s killer hadn’t been into toes after all, but sneakers. A killer, with a passion for ladies’ white tennis shoes.
“Sneakerheads,” Quincy spoke up, softly now, jerking Ringham’s head toward him. The man didn’t glance up, though. His gaze remained riveted on the images Rainie was still laying out on the table. Photo after photo of various brands of white gym shoes. Rainie saved the best for last. A single shot of plain white Keds, such as the pair Jaylin Banks had been wearing the night of her murder.
“Trading, collecting, selling sneakers has become a one-point-two-billion-dollar industry. And not just brand-new limited-edition Nike high tops still in their original packaging, but used tennis shoes as well. Ones worn by celebrities, with their pedigree attached. Or rare sizes of iconic styles. Sneakers have become the baseball cards of the millennials. Because some people love them that much.”
Ringham remained fixated on the images, his breath shallow in his chest.
“You don’t trade them,” Rainie spoke up bluntly. “You just collect them. Women’s plain white tennis shoes. We know, Ringham. There are two major dealers in the Boston area. Two hours ago, we e-mailed them your photo. Both recognized you instantly. You like to visit the trade shows and acquire women’s sneakers. In particular, you like Nikes and Keds. Which, for certain models, can be worth quite a bit of money. Except you don’t care about iconic styles, or limited editions, or fancy pedigrees. No. You want, you need, you must have women’s white running shoes. The dealers knew all about you, Ringham. Including just how much you’re willing to pay for pairs of used shoes that are worthless even to sneakerheads.”
“You noticed Jaylin,” Quincy picked up. “You followed Jaylin. You became obsessed with Jaylin. Caught loitering four times outside her apartment. Pretty girl, of course you noticed her. That’s what we all thought. That’s what you let us think. Because it wasn’t Jaylin you wanted. It was her shoes. Her plain white Keds. Her favorite shoes, which she wore every time she came into the library.
“You liked those shoes, didn’t you, Ringham. You wanted those shoes. You needed them. But how to get them?”
“You returned to the computer lab after Santana logged on duty,” Rainie stated. “You knew he’d walk the ground floor first, giving you precious minutes. Finally that older woman would be gone, and you’d have Jaylin to yourself. Actually, the woman was still there. But then she saw your guard uniform. Perfect. You could walk her friend out. You could protect Jaylin from her evil boyfriend.
“Did it make you pause at all? This chance to actually do the right thing, be the hero you dreamed about being?” Rainie gave the man a disappointed look.
While Quincy said: “Obsessions are too strong. You know that. So Jaylin’s companion left, and you opened the door to the stairwell. You invited Jaylin to walk down first. And then you attacked from behind, the only way someone like you would have the courage to take on an opponent. Standing one step above, you were in the perfect position to reach out, grab her by the throat, and squeeze. One minute. Two. Three. Then, just like that, it was over. She was dead. You slid off her shoes, tucked them into your own bag, and exited the building. Ten extra minutes. Not much time at all, to kill a woman, and walk away with what you really wanted. Ladies’ white gym shoes.”
Ringham didn’t say anything. He licked his lips.
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren executed a search warrant on your apartment an hour ago,” Quincy continued. “You know what she found in all your closets, piled behind the furniture, stuffed beneath the bed? Tennis shoes. Hundreds of pairs of white sneakers. One of those pairs is Jaylin’s. You know it. I know it. It’s only a matter of time now.”
“It’s okay,” Rainie said softly. “We understand. It was her fault. She never should’ve worn those shoes.”
Ringham’s gaze darted up, narrowed in on Rainie’s face.
“Were they as good as these ones?” Rainie stuck out her right foot. Where she’d exchanged her black pointed high heels for a pair of shocking white Keds. Brand new. Fresh out of the box.
Ringham didn’t even hesitate. He lunged for her foot. Rainie kicked out and caught him squarely under the chin. He went down. She shoved back her chair, rose to towering above him.
She kept her newly acquired sneakers in his line of sight as she said, “Tell us, Ringham. Tell us exactly what you did to Jaylin Banks that night.”
And staring at the canvas sneakers, he did.
* * *
Detective D. D. Warren followed up days later. When Rainie and Quincy were back home in Oregon, dealing with more mundane matters such as how to get their thirteen-year-old foster daughter to complete her latest homework.
After Ringham’s confession, the Boston police had continued their investigation. Follow-up with his female neighbors had revealed that yes, now that the detectives mentioned it, their white running shoes had gone missing while Ringham lived nearby.
Perhaps even more disturbingly, however, they’d found a video collection. Of various 1980s aerobic tapes, edited down to show just the participants’ feet, dozens of white gym shoes, dancing in place.
Given the full weight of evidence, Ringham had plead guilty. Which saved Jaylin Banks’s family the trauma of sitting for hours in a courtroom, hearing how their bright, beautiful daughter had been killed for her taste in classic sneakers.
Author’s Note
Most of my novels have been inspired by real-life cases, and, sadly, this short story is no exception: a killer with a shoe fetish took a young woman’s life in 1984. Fortunately, the investigators prevailed, identifying the perpetrator and finding justice in a case where the truth truly was stranger than fiction.
For more real-life-inspired suspense, check out my latest novel, Right Behind You, where Quincy and Rainie take on a spree killer with the help of their foster daughter and an expert in fugitive tracking. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did researching it!
Read on for an early look at Lisa Gardner’s next thriller
RIGHT BEHIND YOU
On sale January 31, 2017
Had a family once.
Father. Mother. Sister. Lived in our very own double-wide. Brown shag carpet. Dirty gold countertops. Peeling linoleum floors. Used to race my Hot Wheels down thos
e food-splattered countertops, double-loop through ramps of curling linoleum, then land in gritty piles of shag. Place was definitely a shit hole. But being a kid, I called it home.
Mornings, wolfing down Cheerios, watching Scooby-Doo without any volume so I wouldn’t wake the ’rents. Getting my baby sister up, ready for school. Both of us staggering out the front door, backpacks nearly busting with books.
Important to read. Someone told me that. Mom, Dad, grandparent, teacher? Don’t remember now, but somewhere I got the message. Book a day. Like an apple. So after school I headed off to the library, sister still in tow. Read some books, ’cause God knows we didn’t have any fruit.
I liked Choose Your Own Adventures. Each scene had a cliffhanger ending, where you had to decide what would happen next. Turn left in the forbidden temple or turn right? Pick up the cursed treasure or walk on by? In the Choose Your Own Adventure books, you were always the one in control.
Then I’d read Clifford the Big Red Dog to my little sis. Not old enough to read yet, she’d point and laugh at the pictures.
Sometimes, the librarian would sneak us snacks. She’d say stuff like, Someone left behind their bag of chips. Would you like them? I’d say, Nah. She’d say, Go on, better you than me. Potato chips aren’t good for my girlish figure.
Eventually my sister would grab the chips, eyes greedy. She was always hungry back then. We both were.
After library, home.
Sooner or later, always had to go home.
My mom had this smile. When she was in the right mood, having a “good day,” oh, that smile. She’d ruffle my hair. Call me her little man. Say how proud she was of me. And hug me. Big, strong hugs, envelopes of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. I loved that smell. I loved the days my mother smiled.
Sometimes, if things were going really well, she’d fix dinner. Spaghetti noodles with ketchup—that’ll leave a stain, she’d cry gaily, slurping up noodles. Ramen noodles with scrambled eggs—dinner for fifteen cents, now we’re living the dream, she’d declare. Or my favorite, Kraft macaroni and cheese—it’s the nuclear orange color that makes it special, she’d whisper.