After our meeting ended, we parted ways with the group. Frank, Henry, and Shawn discussed the direction the people with the wagon had come from and turned on when the witness saw them, then we left. As I sat in the passenger seat, I checked my phone for the addresses of the two men in question.
“Looks like Conrad Beaumont’s home is the farthest away. Let’s hit his place first and then cut back.”
“Roger that.”
I stared out the window as Frank drove. We were both quieter than usual.
“Something occupying your mind?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just wondering what kind of trigger sets crazy in motion. I mean, isn’t it usually a traumatic event that turns a person into some kind of bloodthirsty lunatic?”
I sighed with a shrug. “Statistically, yes, but that doesn’t take into consideration the most well-known and notorious killers in the historical archives. The majority of them killed simply because they wanted to know what it was like and decided they enjoyed it. Some people, as the movie says, are natural-born killers.”
“True, but that story was about guys who had traumatic childhoods.”
“I’m going by the title only since it was a movie and a fictional one at that.” I glanced down at the phone on my lap. The GPS was guiding us closer. “Turn north two blocks up on South California Street and then go about a half mile. The address is just north of Kelly Park on West Fortieth Street.”
“Got it.”
Moments later, we arrived at an attractive redbrick upper and lower duplex. From the address we’d found for Mr. Beaumont, his residence appeared to be the lower unit. Frank parked along the curb in front of the home, and we took the short sidewalk to the stoop. We gave the door several knocks then waited.
After the second round of knocks went unanswered, I craned my neck past the shrubs and toward the living room window. “Doesn’t seem like he’s home. Maybe Gary Fowler was right.” I smirked. “I guess it’s that crime-fiction-writer instinct.” The words were barely out of my mouth when the door to the second floor creaked open.
“You looking for Conrad?”
I thought it a strange question since there was no other reason we would be knocking on Conrad’s door, but I replied politely that we were.
The woman who came down to check our intentions introduced herself as Judy Compton. She pointed above her head. “I live upstairs.”
Another obvious statement.
“Conrad isn’t home.”
We waited for something more, but I saw that wasn’t going to happen without some prodding. We didn’t have time for back-and-forth one-liners.
“Ma’am, we’re detectives from the police department. Do you know where Conrad is?”
“Sure. I took him to the airport myself last Wednesday around seven p.m. His daughter went into labor two weeks early and had complications, so he left for Pittsburgh that night.”
We thanked her and took the sidewalk back to the cruiser. That bit of information had just eliminated Conrad Beaumont from the pool of John Doe possibilities.
With a grunt, I settled into the cruiser’s passenger seat and fished my phone out of my pocket. “Okay, let me pull up the address for Miles Jamison.” I plugged that into the GPS map route, and we were off to the Royal Arms apartment complex three miles south and a mile east.
Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the four-building complex, each holding twelve units. Another building centered between the apartments appeared to be their recreation center, and bocce ball and shuffleboard courts were located next to it in a covered area outside.
“Is this a fifty-five-plus apartment complex?” Frank asked.
“Don’t know, but it looks like one.” I glanced down at the address then checked the letters above the entrance to each building. I pointed at the second building on our left, the closest one to the rec center. “He lives in that one, in apartment number three. I guess the B represents building number two.”
Inside the front door was a vestibule holding a wall-mounted intercom with each tenant’s call button. I looked at the third one down—Miles Jamison.
“This is it. Let’s see if anyone answers.” I pressed the button, and seconds later, a man’s voice asked who was there. I shook my head—another dead end. We introduced ourselves and asked for a minute of his time. I wanted to see how closely Miles resembled our John Doe. It would give me an idea of other people’s perception of facial similarities and could possibly keep us from running in circles.
Mr. Jamison said he would come to the vestibule. I couldn’t blame him and didn’t expect him to let two strangers in without proof that we were the detectives we said we were.
It took only a second before a man who looked very similar to our deceased showed up in the hallway and walked toward us. At the glass door, he asked to see our IDs before opening it. We complied, and he pulled the door toward him and allowed us through.
“Less crowded here if somebody needs to get in.” He pointed at a small loveseat against the wall across from the bank of mailboxes. “What can I help you with, Detectives?”
“First and foremost, thank you for giving us a few minutes of your time,” I said. “Just to be sure, you are Miles Jamison, correct?”
“I was the last time I looked in the mirror.” He grinned.
Other than his eye color and the fact that he appeared a few inches shorter than what Don had documented as John Doe’s height, I could see how Lois Porter might have thought Miles was our deceased man. “You know Lois Porter, right?”
“Lois, yes, of course. She used to be my neighbor. Did something happen to her?”
Frank picked up where I left off. “No, she’s fine. Actually, she thought something might have happened to you, so we stopped in to do a welfare check.”
He looked puzzled. “Why would she think that?”
We didn’t want to tell him she thought he was dead, so I just said she had a concern since they never talked anymore.
“Well, that was really nice of her, and maybe I should give her a call. I appreciate you taking the time to stop by, and as you can see, I’m doing okay.”
Frank pulled a card from his pocket. “If you ever need the police, Mr. Jamison, we’re here to help. Thanks for your time.”
With a handshake, we left and returned to the cruiser.
“Guess that puts us at zero leads,” I said as I buckled my seat belt. “Let’s go back to the station and review what we do and don’t have.”
Frank snickered. “That’ll take all of two minutes.”