Melissa pulled into the Garden Park Condominium complex in Hopkins, the last known address of Frank Atkins.
She got out of the car. The sun had already begun its descent toward the horizon, but the humidity in the air held the heat index at well above ninety. Plenty of people crowded in and around the condo community’s nearby swimming pool, but when she scanned their happy faces, she didn’t spot Frank among them.
She turned toward the condos themselves, a series of two-story brick buildings outfitted with Cape Cod-style wood siding along their upper levels in an apparent effort to add curb appeal to the property. Frank lived in unit six of building 920. With no security door to impede her progress, Melissa marched directly inside and checked the mailbox cluster to her left. She counted eight units per building, four upstairs and four down. She located the box for number six and found “Atkins” on the ID label.
Good, he’s still here.
From the information she’d received, she knew he hadn’t married, lived alone, and had kept little contact with his coworkers after he retired. She hoped he’d be cooperative.
Only a second or two after she knocked on his door, the lock clicked and the door opened. It separated only a few inches from the jamb, still tethered by a chain lock.
Atkins peered out at her through the crack, and Melissa smiled in greeting, partly out of courtesy but also to hide her surprise. Although she recognized him right away, he looked far different from the photo she’d seen on his book: his hair had grayed; his face appeared unseasonably pale; he’d grown a salt and pepper mustache. All those things might have been expected, but the black patch over his left eye took her off guard.
“Frank Atkins?” she asked. Her gaze darted to the narrow shaft of pink scar tissue that traveled from behind the eye patch and down the side of his face.
“Are you a cop, or are you selling something?” the man asked.
Melissa smirked at the cynicism in his comment and produced her identification. “I’m Detective Melissa Humble with Hennepin Co—”
“I don’t do case consultations anymore,” he cut in.
“I’m afraid that’s not what I’m here for,” Melissa rushed on when he began to close the door. “I’m investigating a missing person’s case I think you might have some information about. Can we talk?”
He opened the door wider. “Who’s missing?”
“Do you know a Judge Jerald Anderson?”
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. What does his disappearance have to do with me?”
“We found your phone number on a piece of paper in his office,” she replied. “It was stuck on the inside cover of a copy of your book, A Killer’s Shadow.”
His expression sagged at the mention of the book’s title. “Really?” he answered. “I’m amazed there are any copies left out there. Most of them were pulled from the stores a few months after the release date. It wasn’t a popular subject.”
“It must appeal to some people. We found the receipt from the book dealer in New York that Mr. Anderson special-ordered it from, an occult shop called The Dark Alter. He paid a pretty hefty price for it: five hundred dollars.”
The man’s eyebrows went up, but his face remained slack.
“From what I can tell, the Judge intended to contact you about something regarding its subject, which is another thing I’d like to discuss with you. Do you mind?”
“I suppose not,” he replied. “Hang on.”
He closed the door to let her in, but Melissa perceived a noticeable pause before the chain lock disengaged. It wasn’t an elongated lapse of time, just a second or two, but on impulse her hand glided to her belt holster and affirmed her weapon’s presence before the door came open. Her thumb flicked off the safety strap.
Frank opened the door and invited her inside.
Despite the clean white walls, the inside of the apartment was painted with shadows. Blinds covered all the windows in the living room and dining area, and the hallway on the far side of the living room appeared equally dim. Even in shadow, Melissa noticed Frank kept a clean house. The living room contained only enough furniture for a single occupant, but the tidiness of it compared to the sight of a freshly turned hotel suite.
Frank invited her into the living room and motioned for her to take a seat on the couch. Across from her stood a simple entertainment center housing a DVD player, VCR, and TV. Two open-faced bookshelves made up the lower half of the unit, each crammed to capacity.
Though she couldn’t read the title of every volume in the case, a majority of the books appeared centered on the subject of obscure religions and other strange practices. The names of cultures ranged from American Indian, to Babylonian, to Aboriginal, to some she’d never even heard of. The titles African Cults, Pacific Myths, Shinto Gods, and Zoroastrianism reminded her of the superstitiously oriented works she’d seen in Judge Anderson’s den.
Frank sat down at the other end of the couch. “All right, Detective, how can I help you?”
“Mr. Anderson seemed to have developed a recent fascination with Kale Kane,” she explained. “Along with your novel, we found a scrap book of various newspaper clippings about him. It was all current stuff, mostly articles written the day after Kane’s death, but Anderson had added notes in the margins that suggested he’d contacted the doctor from the St. Peter’s Asylum who pronounced Kane’s time of death, along with the county medical examiner who released the body. I spoke with both of them earlier today, and they remembered Anderson’s phone calls quite clearly. They told me he’d requested autopsy reports on Kane, proof he was dead—as if he didn’t believe it—and that he’d demanded to know where the body had been taken, even though neither of them had that information.” She studied him for a breath of silence then added: “They also remember talking to you about the exact same subjects.”
She paused to read his reaction, but Frank had broken eye contact at the mention of the asylum and now his gaze remained directed at the carpet. She found it ironic he’d revealed so much information through his body language alone. Originally, she believed if he had something to hide he’d know precisely how to do it, since he’d been a cop himself and knew all the signs. Instead, his fidgety movements and mild hesitations made it unmistakably obvious something about her visit bothered him.
“Still don’t know who I’m talking about?” she asked.
“I already told you I don’t,” he answered. “But I may know what he was looking for.”
“Tell me.”
His head came up and despite his civilian status the expression on his face reminded her he was an experienced detective. His look of weakness had vanished, and the switch in control between them happened in a heartbeat.
“You haven’t read my book yet, have you?” he asked.
“No,” she admitted. “I haven’t had the time.”
He nodded, as if she’d given the exact answer he expected. “Okay, here’s the short version: Along with my telling of the overall investigation, I revealed my belief Kane hadn’t worked alone during his crime spree. He had help.”
Frank Atkin’s statement jolted Melissa with the mental equivalent of a high-speed collision. The whole time she’d been considering the possibility of having to track a copycat, not a cohort.
For a moment, words failed her.
She cleared her throat. “I thought it was proven Kane was a loner.”
“That’s what we all thought at first,” Frank replied. “But if you look at the complexity of some of his crimes, weighed against his intelligence and education, there’s no question he had help.”
“Was this theory pursued?”
Frank shook his head. “Not officially. I didn’t come to this conclusion until after the case had been closed, and by then nobody wanted to hear about a potential reenactment of the Kane killings. Hell, they didn’t even want to think about it. Eventually, after I was unable to reopen the case through departmental channels, I started looking into things on my own time.” He spread his hands in front of him, as if watching sand slip between his fingers. “There simply wasn’t enough evidence to name a suspect.”
“What made you reevaluate your initial judgment of him?”
“Security systems,” he replied. His gaze reconnected with her eyes. “Locks did nothing to stop this man. He got through everything from household deadbolts to state-of-the-art electronics. It was the same with cameras. In every scenario where Kane encountered surveillance systems, all the cameras failed, capturing nothing but static. It didn’t matter if it was film in a standard VCR or a digital recording on a hard drive. And whatever was done to them stumped the pros we brought in to figure it out.
“Medical records show Kane suffered from mild retardation, not to mention having visual dyslexia. He dropped out of school after the seventh grade. Put simply, he didn’t have the brains or the skills to execute such jobs.”
Frank traced his scar with one finger while he spoke. “There was also something odd about his victims,” he added. “Kane would abduct a person from a high-rise downtown condo one day, then switch to picking off transients or runaways from the interstate. Inconsistencies like that led me to believe he was after certain individuals, not random victims like some of the profilers suggested.”
Melissa nodded thoughtfully. “Why go through all the trouble to sabotage security systems and risk working in confined environments like apartment buildings? Why not stick to remote locations, away from help or potential witnesses?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, if you’re correct, then this accomplice has been the real threat all along.”
Frank shook his head with a stern look of disagreement. “No. No way. Kane had help, but it was a team effort. If there’s one thing I learned from his history, it’s that he was rotten from the start. He liked to slaughter cattle as a child; collected knives and pitchforks; tortured other farm animals. He even gathered road-kill off the street like some people pick up fascinating stones. Sure, there might have been someone to help him figure out the more complicated ends of certain situations, but he was evil to begin with. I saw it in his eyes.”
“When was that?” Melissa asked.
He laughed without humor. “When he came back from the dead.”