Sam stared blankly out the window at the frost on the ground, the morning rays of sun just now beginning to melt it away. As he leaned over the kitchen sink, he felt a relentless throbbing in his head and wished to hell the coffee would finish brewing and the aspirins he’d taken would start kicking in. He had a hangover of mammoth proportions.
He hadn’t tied one on in a long time. In fact, the last time he’d gotten that shit-faced was the last day he’d stayed over at Roger’s place. Since then, he’d kept sober for the most part-no more than a couple of beers before going to bed. Roger Hagstrom couldn’t stop at two drinks to save his life.
Sam had acquired this little house out in the sticks for a number of reasons. He knew he could never go back to the one he and his family had lived in before-the memories and the ghosts would have made it unbearable. It had been a handsome house-an old Cape Cod on the north end of town that he’d renovated exactly to his and Ann’s specifications. It had been their dream house, and they’d spent nearly as much money over the years making it everything they’d ever wanted as they had on the original mortgage.
Once the divorce proceedings began, he’d moved in with Roger until he could find another place to live. He had learned about this humble abode from one of the employees in the advertising department at the Observer, and had driven out here to the rural countryside to check it out. From the moment he’d first laid eyes on the little cottage nestled in a hollow between two steep hillsides, he knew he wanted it. The asking price was a steal, especially taking into account that the deed included ten acres of nicely wooded land. But the house had been in bad need of repair. This hadn’t been a problem though, he had in fact looked forward to a project that would help take his mind off the divorce.
It was secluded here, and he liked that. The only thing standing between his house and Route 52 was his land and the road linking them together; a quarter mile of winding, bumpy terrain. His closest neighbor was over two miles away, as was the nearest convenient store-the only drawback to the whole arrangement. But he’d learned to deal with it.
The coffee maker fell silent. He took a mug out of the cupboard, filled it up, and carried it with him into the den. Plopping down on the sofa, he took a cigarette out of the pack lying on the coffee table and lit it up before stretching out his long legs.
Sam spent a lot time in this room. Not only was it bright and sunny, it afforded the best view in the house. Outside he could see the brightly colored leaves on the trees that sprawled up the north slope of the hillside and the winding creek that cut between the hills through his backyard, forming a natural boundary between his property and the state forest. He peered across the room at the typewriter on top of his cluttered desk. He had purposely left the last page of his manuscript he’d worked on in the carrier as a constant reminder of yet another ambitious project he’d started up and never finished, hoping that some day he would feel the inspiration to take up where he’d left off. Then he thought about Marsha Bradley’s murder and the article he had to write for Monday’s paper, realizing that his book would remain pigeonholed for at least one more day. Perhaps even forever…
His thoughts shifted to Ann and Amy, wondering what they were doing that very moment. Amy would no doubt still be asleep, he thought with a grin. Ann would be awake though-she was an early riser. He recalled how she was always the first one up in the morning when they were still married, how the coffee would already be brewed, and the way she would be puttering around in the kitchen when he would finally saunter in, still half asleep. And never once had she failed to greet him with her familiar bright smile and cheery, “good morning, dear…”
Sam closed his eyes to blot out the memories. Was he ever going to get used to this? he wondered. Hadn’t he suffered long enough for his screw-up? Hadn’t he been a good husband and father up until that one little fall from grace with Shelley Hatcher? She had meant absolutely nothing to him-she was just a young, perky temptation who had thrown herself at him one too many times until he’d finally given in to his animal instincts. What normal, red-blooded male could have resisted?
This one should have. That was more than obvious now.
He gulped his coffee and took another long drag off his cigarette. Nothing good had come from his romp in the hay with Shelley Hatcher. He had lost his family, couldn’t add a single coherent sentence to his manuscript, and Shelley had ended up losing her job at the paper and leaving town. He felt bad about that-she hadn’t really done anything wrong. But McNary had wasted no time in firing her from the Observer, citing that the publicity of the affair was bad for business. After all, he couldn’t continue employing a young woman who was a bona fide house wrecker. It was a damn shame, too. Shelley had shown great potential as a photojournalist. She was aggressive, creative and a fast learner. Only problem was that she was a fast lay as well.
He hadn’t slept with anyone since Shelley. Six months, he counted on his fingers. Divorced and celibate at forty. And now he was living like a hermit in the sticks of Seleca County. What was his next move in life? Become a monk? Or a hopeless drunk?
Sam gazed out the window again. A squirrel sitting on a fencepost was cutting on a beechnut that it held in its paws. The squirrel could see him but wasn’t intimidated in the least. It merely sat there chomping away at his nut, probably wondering how much longer before he had start to storing the things away for the winter.
Sam stubbed out his cigarette, stood up and went back into the kitchen to warm up his coffee. He plotted out his day, deciding that after breakfast he’d take a shower then drive into town to work on the Bradley story. He had just replaced the coffee carafe when the phone rang. He went back into the den to answer it.
“Feeling crispy this morning?” Roger’s voice asked, gruff but alert.
Sam feigned a groan. “I’ve felt better. What in the hell are you doing up so early? I thought you worked the afternoon shift today.”
“Something’s come up. I think you ought to come down to the station ASAP-you’re gonna want to hear this.”
“What is it?” Sam asked.
Roger sighed impatiently. “We got a call from the New York P.D. earlier this morning. It may be something, or it may be nothing. I’ll explain when you get here.”
“Something to do with the case?” Sam asked, feeling his pulse quicken.
“Possibly. Just get your ass down here and I’ll give you the details.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Sam said before hanging up the phone.
He drained his coffee, went into the bathroom and washed up, dressed and was out of the house in five minutes.
When he arrived at the Smithtown Police Department, Sam could see Roger Hagstrom in his office huddled over some paperwork. He walked up to the desk sergeant, Mark O’Brien, greeted him and made his way over to Roger’s smoke-filled cubicle. His friend looked the worst for the wear and apparently had been rousted out of a coma-like sleep and ordered to come down to the station by the chief. He was unshaven and still wearing the same clothes he’d worn the night before.
“Yo,” he greeted as Sam strode in.
“Rough night, eh?”
Roger glanced up at him and grimaced. “You don’t look so hot yourself. But it was a pretty decent drunk, you gotta admit.”
“Yeah, but we’re paying dearly for it now. What’s going on?” Sam asked, sitting down on the other side of the desk.
“Do you remember Sara Hunt?”
Sam thought for a moment then replied, “Yeah. She graduated in our class at high school. Then her family moved away not long afterwards.”
“Well, she’s dead. Murdered in New York City a few weeks ago,” Roger declared grimly.
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Jesus! What happened?”
Roger Hagstrom lit up a Camel filter, glanced down at the report he had been reading and peered across his desk at Sam.
“Raped and strangled.”
He studied the incredulous look on Sam’s face before continuing.
“I’ll give it to your from the beginning: we got a call this morning from a Lieutenant Mancuso of the N.Y.P.D. He told me that he was following up on a homicide investigation he’s been working on and was requesting our cooperation. He went on to say that Sara Hunt’s body had been discovered in her apartment by her roommate at around 2:30 a.m. Her assailant had entered her apartment, beat the shit out of her, raped and strangled her, then left her apartment without having been seen or heard by a single solitary soul in the building. Not a single clue to his identity had been left at the scene. No prints, no murder weapon, nothing. All the murderer left behind were a few strands of hair and his semen, deposited inside and upon Sara’s body.”
Roger took a drag, exhaled and resumed. “Mancuso suspects that Sara had known her assailant. Although the lock on the door of her apartment building had been broken and non-functional for several weeks prior to her murder, the door to Sara’s apartment showed no signs of being tampered with, indicating that she most likely had invited her assailant inside.” He paused a moment and yawned. “I need some more java. You want some?”
Sam nodded. “So this Lieutenant Mancuso thinks that Sara Hunt’s killer is the same guy who killed Marsha Bradley?”
Roger stood up. “Hold your horses a second and I’ll explain. Mancuso didn’t even know about Marsha Bradley’s murder until I told him.” He walked over to the coffee maker and poured Sam a cup, warmed up his own then went back over to his desk.
“I’m confused,” Sam said.
Roger sat back down with a groan. “Mancuso called us on a lark. He said that evidence has been so scarce in the case that he and his men were scouring every potential piece of evidence. They’d found a Smithtown High School yearbook stashed away underneath Sara’s bed and hadn’t thought much of it at first, but later on discovered that a page of the yearbook had been marked with a tiny piece of paper tucked just out of sight.” He shuffled through the papers piled in front of him and handed Sam a couple of documents stapled together. “He faxed these to me.”
Sam looked over the documents. In his hand were copies of two consecutive pages of The 1970 Smithtown High School yearbook depicting a couple dozen graduating seniors’ headshots in alphabetical order, beginning with “Jamison” and ending with “Martin.”
Roger said, “Mancuso wants us to do a background check on all of these people-the males, that is. He wants to know where they are now, what they’re doing, and most importantly, if any of them have a police record. It was after he’d made this request that I mentioned the Marsha Bradley case, noting the uncanny similarities between her case and Sara Hunt’s. He was quite interested, to say the least.”
Sam looked over the individual names and accompanying pictures, silently counting up how many were males. “Nine guys,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, and I can account for five of them already. You probably can, too.”
“Let’s see… Tony Jamison, Bob Jones, Bill Kellerman, Dick Korns-they all still live in Smithtown,” Sam said.
“You forgot Harold Justice-he works at the Seven Eleven in Milford.”
“Didn’t know that.”
“So that leaves us with four guys that we might have to do a little digging up on,” Roger said. “Anyway, Mancuso admitted that the yearbook angle is a long shot and the odds are slim that any of these guys are linked in any way to Sara Hunt’s murder. But it’s definitely a good thing he followed up on it, as it turns out. Otherwise, he may have never found out about the Bradley murder, and we probably wouldn’t have learned out about Sara Hunt. Now we have two murder cases that are not only curiously similar to one another, but involve victims who we know for a fact had at one time been Smithtown residents.”
Sam’s eyes widened as this correlation suddenly sank in. “Jesus, Rog! There has to be a connection! Look at the odds-”
“Wait-it gets even more interesting,” Roger interrupted. “There was a lipstick mark on Sara Hunt’s left breast.”
Sam gasped. “No shit?”
“I shit you not. And a lipstick vial, presumably Sara’s, was found near her body. It looks as though the murderer started to write a little message and changed his mind for some reason or another. Maybe he had to make a sudden getaway.”
“What does this Mancuso think about all of this?”
“He just about lost it when I told him about Marsha and the lipstick message. He thinks there’s a very good chance that the same guy did them both in.”
“And what do you think?”
“Hell’s bells-I agree! But not quite 100%, though. There are a few things that don’t quite stack up.”
“Like?”
“For one thing, it just doesn’t seem feasible that it could be the same guy. New York City is over five hundred miles away. The murders took place only weeks from one another. Unless this guy had a perfect game plan devised, I don’t see how he could possibly pull off both murders so goddamn flawlessly in such a tight time frame. Furthermore, who ever killed Sara Hunt had beaten the mortal shit out of her. Mancuso told me she had bruises and contusions all over her body-excessive ‘excessive force’ was how he put it-much more than was needed for Sara’s assailant to have his way with her. It’s more than obvious that this bastard wanted her to suffer a helluva lot before murdering her. Marsha Bradley, on the other hand, had been virtually unharmed physically, with the exception of the marks left on her neck from strangulation. The killer’s M. O’s just don’t jibe.”
“But Marsha had been threatened into submission, we’ve more or less surmised. Because she feared for Tommy’s life,” Sam pointed out.
“You’re missing the point, Sam. Serial killers usually duplicate their M.O.’s quite faithfully, especially in sex crimes such as these. Sara’s murderer obviously wanted her to hurt-he deliberately tortured her before doing her in. Marsha’s assailant, however, was merciful in this regard. Had it been the same guy, Marsha most likely would have been beaten to a pulp, too.”
Sam grunted. “This sounds like some overpaid profiler’s pat theory, to me. I’m sure it isn’t carved in granite.”
“You’re right; there are exceptions to every rule. I’m just saying that there are some arguable discrepancies between the killer’s M.O. in each case. The similarities certainly outweigh them, though. And as I already told you, I think that the same guy probably murdered them both.”
Sam took a sip of coffee and said, “This is really scary. If it really is the same guy who killed Marsha and Sara, that puts a whole new perspective on everything.”
Roger’s expression turned grim. “Sure does. If this is indeed the case, it brings up the obvious question of why the murderer zeroed-in on these two particular ladies. In other words, what was his motive?”
“And who might be the next in line,” Sam added solemnly.
“Well, before we start pushing the panic button we need to confirm that the two murders were committed by the same person. Fortunately, that shouldn’t be hard to do. I’m having the lab send the hair and semen samples to Mancuso so he can have them compared to the samples he has. If the DNA’s match, we will have at least gotten that much established.”
“And in the meantime?” Sam asked.
“In the meantime we’re going to find out what these characters have been up to,” Roger replied, gesturing toward the copies of the yearbook Sam was holding.
Sam studied the faces again. Of the four graduates presumably not still living in Smithtown, he knew only two-and hadn’t seen either one of them since high school over twenty years ago. The other two didn’t look familiar at all and judging by the scholastic achievements listed under their pictures, which was zip, neither of them had apparently spent a whole lot of their time within the hallowed halls of Smithtown High.
“Are you going to question everyone here?” he asked Roger.
“Yeah, every single one of them-including the locals.”
“How will you track down the ones who aren’t still living in the area?”
“Well, first we’ll go over records at the post office and the courthouse. Check out change of address records, census reports, and so on. We’ll also enter their names in the computer and see what we come up with. If none of this pans out for someone in particular, we’ll try locating any of their friends and relatives who might still be living in town and go from there. We’ll find them all, eventually. I just hope it happens soon enough.” he added uneasily.
Sam nodded. Although he already knew the answer to his next question, he asked it anyway. “And what about the press?”
Roger shook his head. “Mum’s the word, still-the chief has already informed me.”
Sam groaned in protest. “Why?”
“For the same reasons as before,” he replied. “Listen, buddy. Thompson still doesn’t want to incite any unnecessary panic here. So far, we know nothing more than we did before except that two female Smithtown residents, one of which hasn’t lived here in two decades, have been raped and strangled to death in their homes. Everything else is pure conjecture. Why stir up the dirt now? But I promise you, the minute we find out who murdered Marsha Bradley, you can get them presses rolling. Fair enough?”
Sam didn’t like it, but at the same time had to agree that printing an article about the cases based on pure speculation wasn’t a good idea. Maybe in the New York Post or the Daily News it would float, but definitely not in the ultra-conservative, play-by-the rules Smithtown Observer. Which brought something else to mind. “How is the New York press dealing with Sara Hunt’s murder?” he inquired.
“From the way Mancuso spoke, there’s been little press coverage of the case. Apparently there’s been a bumper crop of murders in the Big Apple lately and the cops are under a lot of pressure, so they’re going with the attitude that they don’t have time to spare for press conferences when they could be out on the streets catching criminals instead. Evidently, it’s working.”
Sam made a mental note to check out the last few weeks’ editions of the New York Times, Post, and the Daily News to see what had been written regarding Sara Hunt’s murder.
“One thing puzzles me, Rog. How come nobody here was informed of Sara Hunt’s death until today? You’d think that someone would have been notified before now.”
“Hell if I know. The only thing I can figure is that Sara apparently no longer has any ties to Smithtown; family or otherwise. She wasn’t born and raised here-her family is originally from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania-and she only lived here for a couple of years. Her family moved back to Pennsylvania not long after Sara’s graduation.”
Sam vaguely recalled now that Sara Hunt had been “the new kid in town” when she started attending Smithtown High her junior year. He said, “She surely made some friends while she was here, though. In fact, I seem to recall that she hung out with Marsha Bradley occasionally, if I’m not mistaken. At any rate, I’d like to at least let the town know that Sara Hunt is dead. It may be old news, but I certainly think it’s worthy of mention.”
Roger thought it over and said, “Okay, go ahead and do it. I don’t think Thompson will give a shit. But don’t even hint that there might be a connection between the two murders. All right?”
“Gee, thanks for letting me do my job, good buddy! I’m forever grateful,” Sam jabbed. In a more serious tone he added, “I won’t tie them in, don’t worry. I’ll just go with the angle, ”Former Local Woman Found Murdered In New York,” or something to that effect. I’d like a recent picture of her though, and some background info if you’ve got any there.”
Roger leafed through the stack of papers lying on the desk and pulled out the New York police report. “I’ll make a copy of this report for you. As for a picture, I’ve already asked Mancuso to send me everything he has as soon as he gets a chance. There’ll probably be a picture of some kind coming.”
“Okay.”
“By the way, when are you going to be done writing the other article? Thompson’s been breathing down my neck to get Marsha’s file back from you.”
“I’m going straight over to the paper and finish it after I leave here. I’ll drop the file off on my way home,” Sam promised.
“Okay. I’m going to take MacPherson and go question some of the Bradley’s neighbors. I’m holding off on questioning Dave again until tomorrow. Give the poor guy a chance to get settled back into his home.”
Sam nodded in agreement. “Christ, I really feel for the guy. Imagine going back to that house and trying to get on with your life after what happened there.”
“I’d sure hate to be in his shoes right now, no doubt. He’s got to deal with his kid too, remember. It’s times like this when I feel thankful I’ve never gotten married. All I’ve gotta do is worry about my own fat ass and nobody else’s,” Roger declared.
Sam said, “But the good definitely outweighs the bad in having a family. I wish I still had mine.”
Roger shrugged. “I know you do, buddy. At least they’re still among the living.”
“Thank God for that. Well, I’d better get moving. This article isn’t gonna write itself.”
Roger scooted out of his chair and stood up. “I’ll make those copies for you.”
“These too,” Sam said, handing him the copies of the yearbook.
Roger smiled, headed for the door, and led Sam over to the copy machine. When he was finished, he handed the completed copies to Sam and said, “Classified info, remember.”
“Right. Catch you later, Roger,” he said, then made his way out of the Smithtown Police Department.