Radiant sun poured through Sam’s bedroom window when he finally decided to get up. He’d heard the phone ring earlier and his answering machine come on, but he hadn’t been able to make out whom the caller was or what he was saying. He’d felt too wasted to get up and check it out at the time but now realized that the call might have been important and that he’d better go see what it was all about.
He was definitely hung over in a very bad way and it wasn’t until he rolled over onto his back and saw Shelly Hatcher lying fast asleep beside him that the events of the following night began registering in his groggy head. She lay with her back facing him and the covers drawn up to her waist. Sam sat up and pulled the covers over her shoulders before slipping quietly out of bed. After throwing on a pair of sweats, he left the bedroom and made his way to the den.
When he pressed the message replay button, Roger Hagstrom’s gruff voice crackled through the tiny speaker:
“Get the fuck out of bed, ya drunk!” his old friend chided. After a short pause, he continued: “I’ve got a ton of shit to tell you man, so give me a call as soon as you get your sick ass out of bed. It’s 8:42 now and I’ll probably be at the station by the time you hear this. Call me there.”
Sam glanced over at the clock. Just past noon. He immediately picked up the phone and dialed the number for the Smithtown Police Department.
“Detective Hagstrom, please.”
A moment later his friend answered.
“Hagstrom.”
“What the hell are you doing back from N.Y.C. already?” Sam said.
Roger’s voice was low as he spoke. “It’s a long story, but in a nutshell there was a lot more happening here than there was there, so I took the first flight out this morning.”
“What happened?” Sam asked. He could tell by his friend’s tone of voice that he was onto something major.
“I can’t tell you right now-I’m in the middle of a briefing. Can you get down her in say, a half hour or so?”
“No problem. Can you give me a hint? Something to do with the Bradley case?” Sam prodded, feeling a surge of adrenalin kick in, in spite of his hangover.
“Could well be,” Lieutenant Hagstrom replied in his typically vague fashion. “I’ll fill you in when you get here. Gotta go.”
He hung up the phone.
Wondering what the hell had come up to get the normally complacent Roger Hagstrom so fired up, Sam made a beeline for the kitchen and quickly got the coffee brewing. He suddenly recalled that Shelley Hatcher’s car was mired-up in his driveway and that it would have to be moved before he could go to the police station.
He went back into the den to get a cigarette and stood there for a moment debating what he was going to do about Shelley and her car. He wanted to meet Roger ASAP and find out what was going on but he also wanted, no, needed to take a hot shower so that he could feel at least halfway human again. He wasn’t going to have enough time to get Shelley’s car out of the mud and shower unless the road had by chance dried out enough to enable him to get the car out under its own power. The first priority, Sam decided, was to drive the Jeep down and check out Shelley’s car.
He started to leave the room and stopped himself cold as he realized that he was going to need Shelley’s car keys, which most likely were in her purse. He didn’t particularly want to go rummaging through Shelley’s purse without her knowing it, so it looked like he was going to have to wake her up after all. He’d wanted to avoid awaking Shelley any sooner than needed and Sam now seriously considered why this was so. The reality of having to confront her after last night, perhaps..?
Yup. You got it.
Sam let out a groan and made his way back to the bedroom. Shelley was still fast asleep when he entered. He walked quietly over to the side of the bed and touched her shoulder.
“Shelley?” he said softly.
She mumbled something and opened her eyes. She smiled when she saw him.
“Hi,” she whispered sweetly.
Even after a long and crazy night of heavy drinking and unbridled sex, Shelley Hatcher still looked like a million bucks. Her silky blonde hair partially covered her lovely face and her deep blue eyes were just as wide and enchanting as they’d been the night before. Her full lips still had that sultry, seductive look that he had always found hard to resist.
“How are you feeling?” Sam asked, testing the waters.
She feigned a groan and replied, “Tired, but content. Last night was wonderful, Sam,” she purred with a playful grin.
“I have to agree with you there,” Sam said, knowing full well that he meant it. How the holy hell he was going to deal with all of this later, he didn’t have a clue. “Unfortunately, I have to go into town on some business now, so I’m going to try and move your car out of the way. Where are the keys?”
Shelley thought a moment before replying. “I left them in the ignition. I figured they probably wouldn’t get very far if somebody tried to steal it. But you can probably drive around it, Sam. It’s sort of off to the side in a ditch.”
Great, Sam thought. “Do you need to be anywhere in the next couple of hours or so?”
“No, I don’t have any plans.”
“Good. Then why don’t you just go back to sleep and I’ll take care of your car when I get back,” he suggested.
Shelley grinned. “I sort of hoped you would say that.”
Sam just smiled and said, “Okay. I’m going to take a quick shower then shove off. Just make yourself at home and I’ll call you if I’m going to be any longer than a couple of hours.”
“Thanks, Sam.” She sat up and gave him a kiss, the sheet falling down and exposing half of her luscious body. The kiss was short, but long enough to remind Sam of what had happened the night before.
“See you later,” he said, almost regretfully, before turning around and leaving the room.
Roger Hagstrom was standing beside his unmarked car when Sam pulled into the Smithtown Police parking lot. He pulled up beside his friend and rolled down the window.
“What’s shakin’?”
Roger came over to the Cherokee. He looked as though he’d been put through a wringer. “I need to get the hell out of here for a while. Had lunch yet?”
“Fuck, I haven’t even had breakfast yet!” Sam said.
“Let’s go over to the K amp;L, then,” Roger said as he walked around to the other side of the Jeep and got in.
Roger fumbled for a cigarette in his coat pocket, lit one up and looked over at Sam grimly. “Before you start grilling me, I’d better level with you first. Thompson’s in a real fucked up mood and just ordered me, in so many unpleasant words, to refrain from leaking police business to the press-referring of course to your ass. He’s at the end of his rope with the Bradley case and has decided to take it out on yours truly-like I’ve been just sitting around with my finger stuck up my ass all this time or something. Anyway, he has somehow managed to find out that I’ve let you have copies of the police reports and he’s ultra-pissed about that too. The chief is a real prick when he gets into this mode, as you well know. So, to make a long story short, we’re going to have to start being a little more discreet from here on out before the son of a bitch decides to fire my ass.”
“Great,” Sam groaned as he pulled out onto Court Street.
What Roger had just told him didn’t surprise him-it had happened a few times before in the past. The chief of police usually gave Roger Hagstrom considerable slack as far as Sam’s tagging along was concerned, but he had his limits. Especially when things weren’t going particularly well, as they apparently weren’t now.
“At any rate,” the detective continued, “I’ll start at the beginning. New York was a real bitch, any way you look at it. I met with the infamous Lieutenant Mancuso at his precinct and you might say that the two of us didn’t exactly hit it off together. The guy’s one of those arrogant Italian Stallion types who gets off on bossing everybody around, if you know what I mean. So here I am, Mister Small-Town Cop in the Big City, and Mancuso is constantly reminding me of my minor existence in the huge scheme of things-not in his words so much as in his goddamn condescending demeanor.
“Anyway, once we finally got down to business, he lightened up on me ever so little. I guess my natural charm and charisma eventually wore him down, eh? We went over our respective reports and theories on the Bradley and Hunt murders and then interrogated the witness who had claimed that he’d seen a man on the fire escape outside of what he believed to be Sara Hunt’s apartment on the night she was murdered. This guy lives across the alley from Sara’s apartment building-about a hundred yards away. He told us that he just happened to be looking out his window when he noticed a man climb out of the window and stand on the fire escape for a couple of minutes. He couldn’t see very well-it was late and pretty dark then-but he was able to make out some of the guy’s features.
“The man was fairly tall, about six-two, Caucasian, medium build, and had long, dark hair and a beard. He was wearing an overcoat, like a London Fog, and had a small carrying case of some kind slung over his shoulders-possibly a camera or binocular case. The man looked real suspicious, the guy said, because it seemed more than obvious that he didn’t want to be seen by anyone. He kept looking around nervously and kept his back glued to the wall. After a couple of minutes, the man went back inside and closed the window, then pulled down the blinds.
“The witness kept watching after the man had gone back inside. About a minute or so later, he saw several bright flashes of light come from the window-like a camera flash going off. He said that he observed five or six flashes within the span of a couple of minutes, then no more after that.”
“I knew it!” Sam exclaimed. “The bastard was taking pictures of the body, wasn’t he?”
Roger eyed him curiously. “Yeah, I’d say that’s a very strong possibility. Are you going to tell me now that you already had that figured out?”
Sam nodded excitedly. “I was comparing the crime scene photos of Marsha’s and Sara’s bodies yesterday evening and noticed how the positions were practically identical. Then it suddenly dawned on me that the killer had purposely arranged their bodies that way because he wanted an identically composed shot of each victim. I must admit that I was a little surprised nobody had noticed it before,” Sam added just a little too smugly.
Roger cast him a wry grin. “Hate to rain on your parade, buddy, but Mancuso had already made that very same observation prior to our interview with this guy. Gotta admit, I was pretty pissed off at myself for letting it slip by, but what the fuck? It gave Mancuso another feather in his cap while helping to boost my ratings as Mister Small-Town Cop at the same time,” Roger added acidly. “At any rate, this witness’s account more or less corroborated both yours and Mancuso’s hunch that the murderer might have taken some pictures at the scene.”
Sam could tell that his friend was taking his own oversight a little too hard, so he chose not to gloat. “The important thing is that we’re finally starting to get somewhere with this thing. But why in the hell did this witness take so long to come forth? This information surely would have helped a lot more a month ago,” Sam said as he pulled into the K amp;L Restaurant parking lot.
“Apparently he didn’t want to get involved at first, but his conscience eventually got the best of him. So he finally called the police-anonymously, I might add-and Mancuso managed to talk him into coming into the station to talk about it. You know, it never ceases to amaze me how people never want to get involved in a criminal investigation. One of the tenants in Sara Hunt’s apartment building also came forward with some pertinent information just recently, as a matter of fact.”
Sam pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine.
“What do you mean? Another late witness?”
Roger nodded. “Better late than never, I reckon. Anyway, Sara Hunt apparently had a nasty habit of turning up her stereo really loud whenever she listened to music, according to this neighbor of hers. On the night she was murdered, it had been cranked up to the max, so this guy, some crotchety old-timer who lived on Sara’s floor, started beating on Sara’s door and threatened to go tell the super if she didn’t turn it down. Sara had had run-ins with him before over her music and it soon became obvious to this guy that she wasn’t going to comply since she never responded and the music kept on blasting. So, he finally informed her through her door that he was going to get the super.
“As it turns out though, the old geezer had just been bluffing. He returned to his apartment instead of blowing the whistle on Sara. A few minutes later, however, someone did finally turn down her stereo.”
“Someone?” Sam said.
“We think it was the murderer who turned it down.”
Sam stared intently at his friend. “What makes you think that?”
Roger opened the car door. “Let’s go in and order some grub, then I’ll tell you. I’m famished.”
Sam nodded. They went inside and chose a table near a window away from the small lunch crowd. After placing their orders, Roger resumed the conversation, keeping his voice low.
“We’ve come up with a theory of what might have happened the night that Sara was murdered,” he said as he lit up another cigarette. “When the neighbor came to Sara’s door complaining about the loud music, we think the murderer just so happened to be in the process of strangling her at that very moment. The music of course probably drowned out any sounds of a struggle. And because of the murderer’s preoccupation with Sara, he was unable to turn down the stereo and avoid a possible confrontation by the super if and when he arrived. Once he had strangled Sara to death, the murderer ran over to the stereo and turned it down, then made a quick exit through the window onto the fire escape; no doubt praying that the neighbor had only been bluffing about calling the super. Once he was fairly certain that the super wasn’t going to show up, he went back inside and wasted little time in taking a few quick shots of Sara’s body before splitting the scene. We’re fairly sure that he fled through Sara’s door, just as he had entered, because the first witness said that he had continued watching the fire escape for at least an hour or so and never saw him again. Gutsy son of a bitch, eh? You’d think her assailant would have tried to make it out by the fire escape instead of risking being seen by the tenants.”
Sam shook his head slowly. “No shit. This bastard is as lucky as he is gutsy. What about the lipstick mark? Do you suppose he was unable to finish his little message on Sara’s body because he started getting a little panicky?”
Roger nodded. “Yup, that’s my guess. Everything sort of all falls into place when you think about it. Up until the moment when the neighbor knocked on Sara’s door complaining about the music, this guy evidently had everything pretty much under control. But once that happened, it threw the murderer’s game plan off and forced him to hurry up the process.”
“So this guy isn’t quite as slick as he must think he is,” Sam declared.
“Not in Sara’s case, at any rate. But don’t forget Marsha Bradley. Not a single slip-up there… so far,” Roger reminded Sam.
“That’s true,” Sam agreed.
“But he sure is one scary son of a bitch. What keeps going through my mind is that he had to take pictures of Sara Hunt’s body-like he was going to do it no matter what the risk might be. Couldn’t let it slide…”
“I know what you’re saying,” Sam said. “You’d think he wouldn’t have bothered. Apparently, those pictures meant a lot to the sick bastard.”
The waitress came with their drinks. Roger took a gulp of his coffee and said, “The times all match up with our theory, by the way. The man across the alley spotted the murderer on the fire escape at approximately the same time Sara’s neighbor knocked on her door bitching about the music. That’s how we came up with the theory in the first place. But of course it is only a theory and we’re still no closer to catching the perp than we were before. All we really have is a vague description of the guy, and that’s pretty damn weak at best. I mean, how many tall white guys with long dark hair and a beard are there in this country, you reckon?”
Sam nodded as he sipped. “I see what you mean.”
“So all of this information is for the most part useless, unfortunately. So imagine how Lieutenant Mancuso is going to feel when he learns that Mister Small-Town Cop just may have a suspect in mind.”
Sam nearly choked on his coffee. “What?”
The detective grinned smugly. “That’s right, Bucko. Like I told you earlier, there’s a lot more happening here in tiny Smithtown than there is in The Big City.”
Roger Hagstrom certainly had a flair for the dramatic, Sam thought to himself. It was just like him to wait until the last possible moment to divulge the crux of a matter. “What in the hell are you talking about, Rog?”
His friend ceremoniously stubbed out his cigarette and said, “One of my men called me at my hotel room early this morning. It seems that our little Smithtown Class of ‘70 yearbook investigation has yielded a possible suspect after all.”
Sam mentally raced through the senior pictures in the yearbook, wondering who it would be. “Who, Roger?” he asked.
“You ain’t gonna believe it, I can tell you that,” his friend replied.
“Who is it, goddamn it!” Sam snapped impatiently.
Roger stared directly into his eyes. “Stanley Jenkins.”
Sam pictured the horn-rimmed bespectacled geek with the 4.0 average and laughed out loud. “You’ve got to be kidding! Stanley Jenkins?”
“That’s right, buddy. And please, hold off on your understandable skepticism until I’ve finished. Because even if Stanley ends up not being the man we’ve been looking for, I’m sure that you will at least be appreciably impressed with his rather interesting and colorful past since graduating Smithtown High.”
Just then, the waitress came with their food. Sam waited until she had served them then said, “Let’s hear it.”
Roger took a gargantuan bite of his hamburger and washed it down with coffee before speaking. “After graduation, Stanley Jenkins enrolled at a little college in Indiana called Fountainhead Institute of Technology. I’ve never heard of the place before, but apparently it’s somewhere near the Ohio border, not far from Dayton. Anyway, as you recall, Stanley was a bona fide egghead and this college has a rather impressive engineering department. So Stanley chose to go there, as engineering was his major.”
Roger paused for another bite, then added dryly: “Stanley never made it past his freshman year.”
Sam took a half-hearted bite of his BLT. “Go ahead.”
“Well, Stanley was anything but a model student at Fountainhead, believe it or not. He apparently turned over a new leaf after high school and decided to go the full hippie route: grew his hair long, discovered psychedelic rock music, and took lots and lots of drugs. Acid seemed to be his drug of choice. Not unlike us, he partied a lot and studied very little-became a regular guy on campus in the early 70’s, in other words. That is to say, Stanley tried to become a regular guy, but of course it never really happened. You know that old saying: ‘once a nerd, always a nerd.’ Stanley Jenkins was really only a hip and cool guy in his own mind but that persona never really came across to anyone else who knew him, if you catch my drift.
“Anyway, Stanley evidently wanted to make up for lost time from his high school days. He started asking out every beautiful chick on campus with hopes of having better luck than he’d had in high school, now that he was suddenly so hip and popular in his own mind. But unfortunately, he got shut down every time-just like high school. There was one girl in particular he had his eyes on. Her name was Cindy Fuller. A real knockout, from what I’ve been told.”
“Wait a minute, Rog,” Sam interjected. “Before you go any further with this fascinating story, do you mind telling me how in the hell you found all of this out?”
“A real stroke of luck, that’s how. Tom Slater-you know him, the rookie who just joined up last year-is the officer I assigned to track down the men in the yearbook. When Tom discovered that Stanley Jenkins had a police record in Epson, Indiana, he nearly flipped out. Coincidentally, Tom’s older brother had gone to Fountainhead the same time Stanley had. Most of this dope, Tom got from his brother. Now, can I continue before I get any further ahead of myself?”
Sam nodded with a laugh. His friend was really on a roll.
“Thank you. So this Cindy Fuller babe was a real fox and Stanley had zeroed-in on her. He asked her out countless times, got turned down just as many times, then apparently became downright obsessed with her. He started stalking her-hanging around her dorm all hours and following her to her classes-that kind of shit. The guy wouldn’t let up on her despite her constant refusals to go out with him. Then, one night, Stanley sort of flipped out.”
Roger paused long enough to gobble down a fistful of fries, then said, “He tried to burn down her fucking dorm!”
“What?”
“Stanley was tripping on acid one night and I guess he figured that if Cindy Fuller wasn’t going to play ball with him that he might as well make her pay for it. So he took a can of gasoline, poured it in under the crack of her door and all through the hall of her dorm, and lit a match. He was caught almost immediately by campus police, who saw the flames and Stanley running like a bat out of hell away from the scene.”
“What happened to Cindy Fuller?”
“Her room was empty when this all happened so nobody got hurt. They had the fire under control within minutes and the whole thing was basically a farce. But it could have been much more serious.”
“So what happened to Stanley?” Sam asked.
“He was charged with aggravated arson and attempted murder. He got himself a good lawyer who pushed for a temporary insanity plea, citing that Stanley was under the influence of a hallucinogen at the time and not in his right mind. A psychiatric evaluation was ordered and that’s when things really started getting ugly for poor Stanley.”
Sam lit up a cigarette. “What happened?”
“They determined that Stanley Jenkins was psychotic and a sociopath, among other things. The judge, who didn’t like Stanley in the first place-I guess Stanley was less than agreeable throughout the proceedings-ordered him to a minimum of one year in the nut house.”
“Whoa!”
“It gets even juicier. Stanley was committed to the Indiana State Hospital and remained there for four fucking years before they finally let him out. That was in ‘75… May First, 1975, ” Roger added, winking at Sam.
“ May Day! ” Sam exclaimed.
“Interesting, eh? Now get this: there has been only one person as far as we know who has heard from or seen Stanley Jenkins in the last fifteen years, and that would be his mother. And that was in 1980. Since then, it appears as though Stanley Jenkins has dropped off from the face of the earth.”
Sam said, “You’ve already talked to his mother?”
“Briefly,” Roger replied. “Ironically, Slater had already telephoned Stanley’s mother once before when we first started investigating the yearbook pictures. The records had shown that Mrs. Jenkins had moved in with her sister in Cincinnati shortly after her husband passed away back in ‘74 so Tom had called her to inquire about Stanley’s whereabouts. She’d told him that he was living in California and that he was working for a chemical firm there. After a few more questions, Tom was satisfied that Stanley was probably clean and not worth pursuing as a suspect, so he thanked Mrs. Jenkins and scratched him off the list of potential suspects. Then, Stanley’s record suddenly showed up last night-so we naturally had a renewed interest in him. And now Mrs. Jenkins suddenly has a totally different story…”
“What did she tell you?”
“When I called her, I immediately got the feeling that she knew we were going to call her again-call it ‘investigative intuition,’ for lack of a better word. Anyway, she hesitantly admitted that she had lied before-that she really didn’t have any idea where Stanley could be now. She told me that the last time she’d heard from him was back in 1976. He’d sent her a postcard from Vegas-she wouldn’t elaborate on what the postcard said. Then she suddenly asked me why I wanted to know and I just told her that we were conducting an investigation, but didn’t give her the specifics. I asked her if she had any idea, even the slightest hunch, where we might be able to locate Stanley and she promptly said ‘no’ and hung up on me.”
“Damn, this is getting weirder by the minute.”
“No shit. When I tried calling Mrs. Jenkins back, surprise of surprises, she didn’t answer the phone. It’s starting to look like she’s hiding something and we just may have to go down to Cincinnati to persuade her to be more cooperative. At any rate, that’s more or less where we stand now.”
Roger Hagstom sat and stared at Sam expectantly like a victorious general on a battlefield.
When it became apparent that he had no more to say, Sam said, “Is that it?”
His friend’s eyes widened. “ ’Is that it?’ Is that all you can say? Hell, you’re almost as bad as that cock-headed doubting Thomas I work for!” Roger snapped in a voice that was too loud.
Roger Hagstrom’s face flushed as he looked around and saw that half the restaurant was now staring at him.
Sam waited a moment for everything to calm down again then said, “Jesus, buddy, I didn’t mean to get you all bent out of shape! I was just wondering if there was more to the story, that’s all.”
Roger collected himself. “That’s cool-I guess I was just a little pissed that your reaction to all of this seemed about the same as Thompson’s. He thinks I’m jumping to conclusions just because I haven’t been able to come up with any concrete leads on this goddamn case yet. But look at the facts! We know that the murderer is pretty damn smart, right? Stanley Jenkins is intelligent, if nothing else. Hell, the bastard was a model student in high school, for chrissakes! We also know that whoever killed Sara Hunt was tall with long dark hair. Stanley is over six feet tall if he’s an inch. Granted, he was a lanky son of a bitch and wore pop bottle eyeglasses back in high school, but people do change considerably in twenty years; he’s probably put on weight and wearing contact lenses now. And what about ‘ May Day? ’ Doesn’t it seem just a little too coincidental that the murderer left behind those words on Marsha Bradley’s body and that May Day just so happens to denote the day of Stanley Jenkin’s emancipation from the loony bin?
“But by far, the most incriminating evidence is the marked page in the yearbook and the fact that Stanley knew both women; not to mention his damning psychiatric profile and the fact that he’s a psychotic, flipped-out lunatic who spent four years in a mental institution for stalking a beautiful chick and trying to torch her just for refusing his advances. Hell, what more do we need?”
“Evidence,” Sam replied flatly. “I’m no lawyer, but I know enough about criminal law to see that all you have is speculation and a bunch of circumstantial evidence in both of these cases. And you can’t arrest and convict somebody solely on that shit.”
“You’re forgetting something, Sherlock,” Roger smiled. “We’ve got the hair and semen samples as evidence. And that’s all it would take to convict.”
This had slipped Sam’s mind. Somewhat embarrassed, he said, “You’re right… That’s why you’re a cop and I’m not. And I have to agree that it looks like Stanley Jenkins could possibly be the murderer. But tell me, honestly, Roger. Would you ever in your wildest dreams believe that he is capable of sadistically raping and murdering two women in cold blood? Jesus, he’s the last person I’d ever suspect in this case. He was such a fucking… nerd!”
“No doubt about that,” Roger nodded in agreement. “I’d never have guessed him to be the type, either. But by the same token, who would have ever thought that he would grow his hair long, drop acid, and try to set a school dorm on fire? Those are documented facts.”
“Good point. I guess my biggest problem with all of this is why? Why would Stanley Jenkins murder Marsha Bradley and Sara Hunt? What was his motive?”
Roger heaved a long sigh. “Hell if I know. But I’m gonna find out, by God. In the meantime, I’ve got a lot of questions to ask a lot of people once we locate them.”
“What people, for instance?” Sam asked.
“The psychiatrist who handled Stanley’s case, for one. Plus Stanley’s lawyer and Cindy Fuller. And his college roommates, if he had any. Also any friends and acquaintances he might have had while living in Vegas. It’s going to take a lot of down and dirty police work, but I’m convinced that there is someone, somewhere who knows Stanley Jenkins and what he’s been up to for the last twenty years.”
“Sounds like that could take a long time,” Sam said.
“It will, no doubt. But it has to be done. We’re also working on a computer-enhanced photo of how Stanley might look today to show to little Tommy Bradley. I forgot to mention that the little tyke is finally beginning to snap out of it, from what I’ve heard. I think Dave is going to give his consent to let us interview him soon, in fact. And if Tommy actually saw his mother’s murderer and can give us a positive I.D. on him from the computer photo of Stanley, we’ll be in business. Then, maybe the chief will get off my back and eat a little humble pie. Damn, I can’t think of anything I’d rather like to see right now!”
“Have you let Mancuso in on any of this?” Sam asked.
“I’d like to wait until I have a little more to go on, but that wouldn’t be right. I’m going to call him as soon as I get back to the station. No sense in fucking around with egos and all that bullshit,” Roger said. He smiled slyly and added, “Still, it would be nice to confirm my theory before I filled him in-just so he’d realize that we’re a little more on the ball than he gives us credit for back here in Small Town, USA.”
“I almost hate to mention this, but isn’t there a possibility that Stanley Jenkins might be dead?” Sam said.
“That has crossed my mind, of course, and we’re checking up on it now, as we speak. I’ll bet he ain’t, though.” Roger finished off his hamburger and said, “Did you have any luck with Sara Hunt, by the way?”
Sam shrugged. “No, I didn’t learn a damn thing. She just didn’t live in Smithtown long enough to make oodles of friends, I reckon. Some of the people I talked to remembered her, but that was about the extent of it. I called Ann as well, but she told me that as far as she knows, Marsha hadn’t kept in touch with Sara since high school.”
“Actually, that’s good to know. Dave Bradley told us the same thing-that he was fairly certain Marsha hadn’t had any correspondence whatsoever with Sara all these years. Which would indicate that whatever connection there may have been between Marsha Bradley and Sara Hunt had been established back when we were all in high school. Mancuso has spoken to Sara’s parents of course, and they, too, have no knowledge of their daughter having been in contact with Marsha Bradley. In fact, they couldn’t even recall ever meeting Marsha Bradley when Sara was living here, so the girls must not have been too awfully close to one another.”
“That’s not surprising. Sara Hunt was always sort of a snobbish bitch, if you ask me. Ann couldn’t stand her, either. Not exactly Miss Popularity, as I recall.”
“Hell, maybe there isn’t any real pertinent connection between the two women; other than the simple fact that they had known each other in high school. We need to get more dope on Stanley Jenkins. That’s all there is to it.”
“I can give you a hand,” Sam offered.
“I’ll let you know on that,” Roger replied tentatively. “For the time being, it’s all pretty much going to be just routine police work. Besides that, you’re better off staying in the background for now. In fact, if Thompson finds out that we’ve had this little chat, he’ll blow a goddamn gasket.”
“I don’t know why he’s so fucking paranoid,” Sam retorted. ”Surely he knows that McNary censors practically everything I write, anyway, even if I were stupid enough to try and print anything about this investigation. Where’s the trust?”
“Thompson has a real problem with the press-you know that. And that’s why your boss is such a puppet. He sucks Thompson’s ass.”
Sam grinned. “You know, I’ve always wondered about those two. You don’t suppose they’ve got something going, do you?”
Roger guffawed. “Never gave it much thought. They would make a cute pair though, now that you’ve mentioned it.”
They both laughed as Roger picked up the check, surveyed it, and laid a tip down on the table. “I’ve got to head back to the station,” he said, standing up.
Sam let his friend pay the check and followed him out of the restaurant. When they were inside the Jeep, Roger said, “Where were you when I called, by the way? And don’t tell try and tell me that you were in the sack with some chick!”
Sam started the engine. “Actually, I was.”
Roger gaped at him. “No shit?”
Sam peered over at him and said, “You seem surprised-I’m not a fucking monk, you know!”
“You haven’t exactly been Joe Stud, either. So who, may I ask, was this babe? She must really be a fox to be able to get you to break down your self-imposed post-divorce virginity, I’d think.”
Sam backed out of the parking spot and onto the street.
“Ironically, the same fox who got me there in the first place,” he said.
“You’re shitting me! Shelley Hatcher?”
“The one and only,” was Sam’s reply.
“This, I’ve got to hear,” Roger stated with relish.
“Not much to say, really. Shelley dropped by the house last night at around two in the morning and said that she wanted to show me her portfolio. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew, we were rolling around on the floor. That’s about the extent of it.”
“Whoa, I’m stunned!”
“Gotta admit that I’m a little surprised myself. Besides the craziness of the whole thing, I actually enjoyed every minute of it.”
“Hell, who wouldn’t? Shelley Hatcher is a fucking knockout!”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Sam said. “I meant that I actually don’t have any regrets that it happened. No guilt-you know-Ann and all?”
“What’s there to be guilty about, for chrissakes? You aren’t married to Ann anymore. You’re free as a fucking bird. You shouldn’t feel guilty because you didn’t do anything wrong in the first place, you lucky son of a bitch. There just might be some hope for you yet!”
His friend’s encouragement was infectious. A grin came to his face as Sam said, “Well, I don’t exactly feel like going out and shooting myself, that’s for sure. Shelley Hatcher is actually a pretty decent girl-has a good head on her shoulders for a twenty-year-old living in this fucked up generation. Maybe I feel like I should feel guilty more for what Shelley Hatcher is: the girl who broke up my marriage.”
“Fuck that! That’s all water under the bridge, man!”
“I realize that; but at the same time I’m trying to look at it from Ann’s point of view. She’d shit a golden brick if she ever found out.”
“You worry too much, buddy. First of all, how in the hell could she find out? She’s a hundred miles away! And second of all, how do you know that Ann isn’t playing the field herself nowadays? Hell, maybe she’s actually decided to get on with life instead of living day to day in the past like your sorry ass has been doing. Ever think about that?”
Actually, he hadn’t. Ann had spoken very little about her personal life since moving to Columbus, he now realized. And he hadn’t exactly been pumping her for information in that regard either; probably because he knew that if Ann actually was going out with someone, he wouldn’t particularly want to know about it.
“Okay, you’ve made your point,” he told his friend. “Ann could be fooling around with someone and I no doubt would be the last one in the world to know about it.”
“So there you are. My advice is to quit worrying so goddamn much and stop and smell the coffee once in a while. Go for it! Enjoy yourself for a change!”
“You’re right, and I know you’re right. I guess I just feel a little weirded-out, that’s all.”
“Because you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a good time.”
“I reckon so,” Sam confessed.
“Is Shelley still at your place?”
“Yeah. Her car’s stuck in a drainage ditch in my driveway. Why?”
“Because if I were you, I’d keep her there for a while, if she’s willing. Get back on the track and leave the past behind while you’ve got the chance. Jesus, Sam! If I had that chick hanging around my doorstep, I sure as hell wouldn’t send her home!”
Sam laughed. “I’ll give your worldly advice some serious consideration, Doctor Hagstrom. In the meantime though, I’m going to run a few errands while I’m in town and think all of this out. Ain’t got a drop of liquor in the house and I’m down to my last egg.”
“Sounds like my place,” Roger said as Sam pulled into the police station parking lot.
“Keep in touch,” Sam said as Roger started to get out. “When are you taking a day off, by the way?”
Roger opened the door and said, “You mean there’s really such a thing as that?”
“At least you’re getting paid scads of overtime.”
“Fuck, they’ll probably screw me out of that, too.”
With that, Roger Hagstrom got out, slammed the door and headed toward the station.
As he drove away, Sam Middleton had a lot on his mind.
An hour later, as he pulled up beside his house and got out of the Jeep, Sam wondered if Shelley was still in bed asleep. His question was answered when he reached the front door: Shelley was standing just inside the doorway, apparently awaiting him. Her face was white as a sheet.
“What’s wrong, Shelley?” he asked uneasily as he stepped inside and set the groceries on the floor.
She stood rigidly and looked away from him as she spoke. “Ann just called,” she announced dismally.
Sam felt his pulse quicken and his heart skip a beat. “What did she say?” he asked, hoping rather futilely that whatever had been said by his ex-wife had been said to his answering machine, and not to Shelley Hatcher.
Futile, indeed.
Suddenly, Shelley broke down. “You’re going to hate me!” she cried. “I should have never answered the phone!”
Sam felt his blood pressure go up 20 points, but he struggled to keep calm. “What did she say, Shelley?”
Again, Shelley looked away from him. “She asked for you. I told her you weren’t here,” she began slowly. Then she faced him again, tears streaming down her lovely face. “She knew it was me, Sam!”
She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. “I’m so sorry, Sam. It looks like I’ve screwed you up again,” she sobbed.
Sam patted her back halfheartedly. “How do you know that Ann knew it was you?” he asked lamely.
Her muffled reply was, “Because she said, ‘This is Shelley Hatcher, isn’t it?’ I froze up, Sam, and couldn’t answer. Then she yelled ‘slut!’ and slammed down the phone.”
Sam was speechless. His anger at Shelley’s answering the phone in the first place was offset by his own stupidity for not telling her before he left to let the answering machine field any calls he might have until he returned. But utmost in his mind was the overwhelming guilt he now felt and how incredibly small and fiendish he must now look in Ann’s eyes now that she knew he had been with Shelley Hatcher, of all people.
There is no way out of this, he thought. He’d been caught red-handed yet again and Ann was never, ever going to forgive him.
Shelley Hatcher is bad news…
Remember telling yourself that, asshole?
Sam’s immediate impulse was to run to the phone, call Ann, try to explain. But there wasn’t anything to explain.
Jesus Christ! he thought. Was he not the most luckless son of a bitch on earth, or what?
Shelley’s incessant sobbing prevented him from flying totally off the handle. Again, just like the first time, she wasn’t to blame for this and Sam knew it. He’d given into temptation, again, and now he was going to have to face the consequences… again.
And now, in spite of his anger and frustration, and as ironic as it was, he realized that he felt even worse for Shelley Hatcher than he did for himself. He held her tight and felt the odd and impulsive urge to kiss her, which he did. Then he talked to her, gently, and eventually managed to calm her down somewhat. Then he took her by the hand and led her to the bedroom, where they spent the remainder of the afternoon making wild and passionate love.