Chapter Twenty-three
Tuesday, June 29
9:25 a.m.
She placed the bag of donuts on Sam’s desk and sat down. In her wildest dreams she could never have imagined the kind of upheaval she had witnessed at the police department that morning.
“Good morning, Elise. To what do I owe this honor?”
She looked up at her boss and shrugged.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.
“There’s been another murder.”
Sam’s mouth dropped open, disbelief in his eyes. “When? Where?”
“Last night. A few blocks from the boardwalk,” she said. “They found him lying next to his car.”
She watched as Sam sat down and rested his head in his hands. He looked so tired and sad. She opened the bag of donuts in front of her and offered him one.
“For me?” Sam asked.
“Yup. I figured you could use a surprise. I’m just sorry it had to come with such horrible news.”
“So am I.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a chocolate-covered donut. “Who’s the victim?”
“His name is Scott Levine and he’s from Ocean Point.” She reached into the bag on the floor by her chair and pulled out a tall cup of coffee for Sam and a cup of hot chocolate for herself.
“Scott? Man, I know him,” Sam said in disbelief. “He’s in my critique group.”
“He was a writer too?”
“Yeah, he was almost done with a mystery novel he’s been working on for over a year. He was positive it was going to be the one that made him famous.”
She studied her boss as he spoke, trying to get a read on how close the two had been.
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
“It’s okay. We were in the same group but we didn’t really hang out together. Scott was kind of a tightwad.” He wiped a drop of coffee off his lip and continued. “He was one of those guys obsessed with money.”
She was glad to hear they weren’t close. Somehow, the thought that Sam had been directly affected was more than she could handle right now. She took a quick sip of hot chocolate and selected a glazed donut for herself.
“Hot chocolate?” Sam asked with a grin.
“Yup.”
“It’s almost July, Elise.”
“Chocolate is never out of season.”
They both sat in silence for a few moments, each deep in thought. Sam finally broke the quiet.
“So how’d you find out about Scott?”
“I stopped in at the police station this morning before I picked up the donuts,” Elise said. “I wanted to check the police logs so that I wouldn’t have to worry about them on deadline day.”
“Good thinking.”
“Anyway, the station was just crazy. Everyone seemed to be in a panic, not knowing what to do or where to start. I pulled one of the interns aside and that’s when I found out about the victim. Apparently the medical examiner’s preliminary report indicates that the same type of weapon was used on Scott as the other three murder victims.”
Sam set his coffee cup down and leaned forward in his chair.
“I imagine the F.B.I. will be getting involved here soon. Four murders in as many weeks is usually the work of a serial killer. And it won’t be long after that before the big national news magazines start working our turf.”
She hadn’t thought of that. The last thing she wanted was for a big-name magazine to come in and show them up.
“Is there something that—”
A knock at Sam’s door prevented the conversation from going any further. Debbie, the receptionist, stood in the doorway.
“Yes, Debbie?”
“There’s a call for Elise on line three. The guy says he’s the one who found the body last night.”
Sam pushed his phone toward Elise and motioned for her to take the call there.
“I’ll be right here if you need me,” he said reassuringly.
She was glad Sam was there. Sitting in a classroom listening to a teacher talk about situations like this was not the same as actually being in the middle of it. She hoped his presence would keep her from screwing it up somehow.
She picked up the phone and pressed line three.
“This is Elise Jenkins. I understand you found the murder victim’s body last night, is that right?” Elise asked, smiling gratefully at Sam as he pushed a notebook and pen in front of her.
She listened carefully to the voice on the other end of the telephone. The young man was obviously on a high, pumped up by the firsthand information he had.
“You found him at eleven thirty . . . four blocks from the boardwalk . . . head wound . . .”
She wrote quickly, trying to keep up with everything she was hearing.
“His finger was what? Where were you when the police made that remark?”
She saw Sam’s quizzical look and knew her last few comments had caught his attention.
“Thanks so much for calling. Can I have your name and number in case I think of any further questions?” She jotted down the man’s information then looked up at Sam quickly. She mouthed a “wow” and rolled her eyes upward.
“What did you get?” Sam asked as she returned the phone to its cradle.
“This guy, Mark, said he found the body last night around eleven thirty. He was out walking his dog at the time. He said the victim had a massive wound to his forehead. What’s interesting is he noticed that the victim’s right index finger was extended outward, as if he were pointing at something.
“When the police arrived on the scene, he overheard one of them commenting specifically about the finger. Apparently the odd position of Scott Levine’s finger was exactly the way they found each of the other three victims.”
“Wow is right.”
“I just don’t understand why Detective Burns never mentioned the finger similarity after the other murders,” Elise said curiously.
“More than likely they are holding that piece of evidence back as a way to weed out the real killer.”
“Maybe. But now that I know, I’m going to ask Mitch about it and see what he says.” She stood and headed for the door. “If he asks me to keep it quiet though, I think we should honor that request.”
“Absolutely. I want to see this nutcase caught as much as the next guy and I’ve been around the block enough times in my career to know that what we do can impact a case significantly. I want it to be in a positive way.”
She marveled at his calmness. Most editors would be screaming at everyone to get out there and get the story. But Sam was a human first, an editor second. And it was why she had clicked with him immediately. “Well, I’m gonna get back to work now.”
“Hey, Elise, thanks for the coffee and donuts,” Sam said. “I’m really glad you came here. You’re doing a great job.”
When she returned to her desk she picked up the telephone and dialed the Ocean Point Police Department. She asked for Detective Burns and then waited.
“Detective Burns.” His voice sounded distracted. He was under so much stress right now and she could hear it in his voice.
“Hi, Mitch. It’s Elise. How are you holding up?”
“I don’t know. I just want to catch this creep before another person has to die.”
“I just got a call from the guy who found the body last night. He told me the man’s right index finger appeared to be pointing outward.”
“Damn!”
“He said he overheard someone in the department commenting that it was just like the other victims.”
“Damn it!”
“I take it that wasn’t meant for anyone else’s ears?”
“No, it wasn’t . . .”
“Don’t worry, Mitch, I won’t print it.”
She could hear the audible sigh of relief from the other end of the telephone.
“You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that, Elise. You’re truly a class act, you know that?”
She could feel her face beginning to warm. “What could he have been pointing to?”
“I don’t know. I’ve looked at the crime scene photographs over and over again trying to figure out what each of the victims could’ve been pointing to and it’s different in every case.”
“Could the killer be posing their finger like that?” Elise asked. She moved her index finger around while they spoke.
“I’ve thought of that. Maybe it’s a calling card,” Mitch said. “Very often serial killers leave a kind of calling card behind.”
She stared at her finger as she stretched it straight out over and over. Maybe they weren’t pointing at all.
“I’m looking at my finger right now. Maybe they aren’t pointing but rather using their finger to indicate the number one.”
The complete silence that followed made her wonder if they had been disconnected. But just as she prepared to hang up she heard the sound of life on the other end.
“This whole time I’ve been beating myself up over what each victim could have been pointing to, and never once did I consider that possibility.”
“But what could number one mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but I’ll let you know when I come up with something.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks for the call. It feels good to talk to someone about this and you may have really helped me out with this whole finger thing.”
She hoped so. He obviously needed a break.
“You’re going to solve this, Mitch. I just know it,” she said softly. “Take care, okay? And I’ll talk to you soon.”
“I hope so.”
10:35 a.m.
“One . . . one . . . one.” He looked down at his own finger and repeated Elise’s suggestion over and over to himself.
It was funny how each body shot looked so different to him now. Finally free of the pointing idea, he could consider everything in a completely new light. He grabbed his recorder and turned it on.
“Maybe the victims were trying to give some sort of clue as to who did this.” He grabbed the full body shot of the first victim, Susie Carlson. “But she was facedown. The medical examiner was certain she had not seen her attacker. And if he was right about that as I’m sure he was, then the victim would have been unable to leave a clue.”
He pulled the list of suspects out of his wallet and unfolded it. His eyes lingered over each name.
“I can cross Madame Mariah off the list because she never left her booth last night,” he said, lining through the psychic’s name. But just because she didn’t do it herself didn’t mean she couldn’t have hired someone else to do her dirty work. He rewrote the psychic’s name.
The next person on his list was Daniel Johnson. He had seen him at the boardwalk last night. But so was the last person on his list—Chief Maynard.
“He’s gotten his extra cops, so the motive would have to be wrong,” he muttered quietly under his breath. “But there’s still the humiliation he suffered at the hands of a psychic.”
He crossed out the original motive and replaced it with a single word: Revenge.
Elise’s voice raced through his mind, his words echoing hers. “One . . . one . . . one.” He looked again at his finger as he spoke, envisioned what he would mean if he used a gesture like that.
“Oh, my God. Could it mean first? As in first pier?”
It was as if he had been hit with a bucket of cold water. The file on Johnson and Associates he had requested sat on his desk, untouched. He flipped it open and began reading in earnest.