Sam pulled off Route 52 and proceeded to make his way down the winding, slippery road. Rain was coming down in buckets and there was a thick dense fog setting in as he navigated the Jeep effortlessly through the quarter-mile long quagmire leading to his country home.
When he pulled up beside the house and cut the engine, he could hear the roar of the swollen creek over the din of the pelting rain. He grabbed his briefcase, opened the door and bailed out, holding the briefcase awkwardly over his head. He slammed the door shut with his foot and bolted toward the porch, deftly side-stepping the puddles along the way. Once inside, he made his way into the den, set the briefcase down on his desk and emptied out its contents before plopping himself down in the swivel chair.
Fridays were always hectic at the paper, but the latest developments in the Bradley murder case had made this a particularly grueling one. Roger had received another call from Lieutenant Mancuso of the N.Y.P.D. earlier that morning. The DNA samples taken from Marsha Bradley’s body had been compared to those taken from Sara Hunt’s body. Lieutenant Mancuso had called to report the results: a perfect match.
It was conclusive now: Marsha Bradley and Sara Hunt had been raped and murdered by the same man.
Roger told Sam that he was flying to New York to compare notes with Mancuso and to go over another lead that had just cropped up regarding Sara Hunt’s case. Evidently, someone from her neighboring apartment building had called the police and informed them that he’d seen a man lurking on the fire escape outside Sara Hunt’s apartment on the night she’d been murdered. The witness had been summoned into police headquarters and his claim was substantiated. The police were just in the process of working with the witness and a sketch artist to try and put together a composite photo of the suspect when Mancuso had called.
Roger had asked Sam to do a little investigation of his own while he was in New York. He wanted him to call Ann and ask her if she’d ever known Marsha Bradley to have been in contact with Sara Hunt recently; and if so, when, and in what respect. Roger had already interrogated Dave Bradley. He’d told Roger that as far as he knew, Marsha hadn’t seen nor heard from Sara Hunt since high school. Roger wondered if perhaps Ann might know something that Dave Bradley didn’t.
After hanging up from talking to Roger, Sam had promptly called Ann at the travel agency where she worked in Columbus to fill her in on the latest details of the case. She had been stunned to learn of Sara Hunt’s murder and Sam could sense that his ex-wife was as troubled over this new twist in the investigation as he was. It was all hitting just a little too close to home for comfort and they both knew it. Sam asked Ann if Marsha had ever mentioned Sara Hunt in any size, shape or form since high school. She replied that she hadn’t, but went on to say that Marsha had hung out with Sara Hunt for a brief period near the end of their senior year at high school. Ann had always felt that Sara didn’t particularly like her, and as a result, she and Marsha had ended up having a temporary falling out in their friendship during this period. The three of them simply couldn’t get along with each other, Ann explained. At any rate, Marsha eventually quit chumming around with Sara and started hanging out with Ann again. In all that time since, Marsha had never so much as breathed Sara Hunt’s name to Ann.
At first Sam was relieved when he heard this. It meant there was still the slim possibility that there wasn’t any concrete connection between Sara Hunt’s murder and Marsha Bradley’s-except for the fact that they had both been murdered by the same person. Maybe it was just pure coincidence they had both once lived in Smithtown. Hell of a slim one, he had to admit, but nevertheless a possibility.
Then he thought: who am I trying to kid? Every indication so far suggested that the murderer had personally known both Marsha Bradley and Sara Hunt. And the only connection between the two women appeared to be that they had attended the same high school over twenty years ago. This implied that the murderer had most likely lived in Smithtown around the same time as well.
And that wasn’t good at all…
He mustn’t upset Ann needlessly, Sam had resolved. There still wasn’t anything in the case to indicate that she was in any kind of danger, but he cautioned her to be on her guard nonetheless. Afterwards, just as he started to hang up the phone, Ann had suddenly stopped him. She started to say something, then cut herself off. She told him never mind, that it wasn’t anything important. Ann had frequently done this sort of thing as long as he’d known her and it never failed to pique him. He had pressed her to tell him what she’d started to say but she wouldn’t relent, so he’d ended up getting pissed off and hanging up on her.
Sam took out a cigarette and lit it up. It wasn’t until after he had called Ann that everything really started sinking in. There was a murderer on the loose who had killed two Smithtown women in cold blood; and one of them just so happened to be his wife’s best friend. And, his wife’s best friend had at one time befriended the other victim. These were documented facts now-not idle speculation. And the implications were almost as scary as the facts themselves. Whom ever it was that had raped and murdered Marsha Bradley and Sara Hunt had known them both personally-he was certain of that now. And odds were, unless something came up to prove otherwise, the murderer knew Ann, too.
Sam leafed through the contents of his briefcase until he found the copies of the marked pages in Sara Hunt’s 1970 Smithtown High School yearbook and studied them. He looked over the nine graduating seniors’ headshots, wondering if one of them might be a cold-hearted murderer. Although Roger hadn’t brought it up earlier, Sam was certain that he too now realized the sudden significance of Lieutenant Mancuso’s half-hearted hunch. For not only had this evidence resulted in tying in two related murders, it may very well end up pointing to the murderer himself.
The five men still living in Smithtown had been checked out and interrogated by the police, and every one of them had clean records and solid alibis for the night Marsha Bradley had been murdered. This narrowed the potential suspects down to four, and the police were having a tough time discovering their exact whereabouts. All they knew for certain at this point was that none of the four men had local criminal records.
Sam still remembered two of the men, and neither seemed likely to be the type capable of rape and murder from his recollection of them in high school. Stanley Jenkins had been a nerdy, straight-A student; the type who wore thick horn-rimmed glasses, had zero personality, and made everyone sick because the teachers loved him-he always did his homework and excelled in academics. Buford Jackson, the other one, was a black guy who was as big as an ox, dumber than a coal bucket but one of the funniest, most likable guys in the entire class. Buford was probably either working somewhere as a laborer with a wife and ten kids, or doing stand-up comedy on the Holiday Inn circuit.
The remaining two men both looked like they were capable of almost anything sinister-even murdering their own mothers. They were what all the kids back then referred to as “hoods.” Both wore scowls instead of smiles in their class photos. Both had “automotive class” listed as their only academic credits. And both had probably packed switchblades whenever they decided to show up at school. Ernie Jones and Clyde Kastings: two guys you definitely didn’t want to bump into after school had let out for the day…
And both prime suspects, in Sam’s book.
As he scrutinized their faces, he wondered what possible motive one of these men could have to rape and strangle Sara Hunt in New York City, then two weeks later travel the five hundred miles to Smithtown to do the same to Marsha Bradley. It seemed incomprehensible the more he thought about it. Yet, it had happened. And there had to be reason.
What was the link between Sara Hunt and Marsha Bradley?
He set the yearbook copies aside then began reading over the articles written in the New York papers regarding Sara Hunt’s murder. Just as Lieutenant Mancuso had mentioned, the press coverage had been uncharacteristically lacking-in fact, damn near pathetic. The only articles covering the murder had been written the following day; there had been no follow-
up. Details were scarce in all three of the articles, particularly the one in the New York Times, which had been little more than a cursory obituary: ASPIRING ACTRESS FOUND MURDERED
New York City detectives reported that the body of Sara Marie Hunt, 39, was discovered in her Soho apartment by her roommate at approximately 2:30 A.M. Tuesday morning. Miss Hunt was reportedly beaten, sexually assaulted, and strangled to death by an unknown assailant who remains at large. Police say the incident is under investigation.
Miss Hunt, formerly of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, had lived in New York for the past ten years and appeared in a few off-Broadway productions as well as some local television commercials. She was employed part-time as a waitress at a Greenwich Village restaurant at the time of her death. She is survived by her parents, William and Clare Hunt, of Harrisburg.
Sam skimmed over the articles in the Post and the Daily News next. With the exception of the bolder headlines and wordy journalism, neither of the tabloids offered much more information concerning the murder, other than the fact that the police were refusing to release any specific details pertaining to the case at this time.
Out of curiosity, Sam went through and counted up how many homicides had been reported on that particular day and came up with seven, including the execution-style slaying of a notorious Mafia crime boss. Of all the murders, that particular one had by far received the most press coverage. No wonder there had been so little interest in Sara Hunt’s murder, he thought with a wry grin. Not only had she just been one of several other homicide victims in the city that day, she had been upstaged by a more “newsworthy personage” as well.
He shoved the newspapers off to the side and opened the manila folder containing a copy of the police report. Lying on top was the eight-by-ten publicity headshot of Sara Hunt that Mancuso had sent. Sam was surprised at how little she had aged since high school as he stared at the black and white image, wondering skeptically how recently the photo had been taken. Her hair was jet black, in a bob, and her face showed very few lines and wrinkles. Her eyes were large and dark; her smile revealed a set of near-perfect pearly whites. She looked good-in fact, beautiful-and not a day over twenty-five.
He turned the promo shot over and read the resume pasted to its back. Sara had been a theater major at Pitt and there was a list of plays she’d been in while at college. Below was a list of the theatrical productions she had appeared in since moving to New York as well as a handful of television commercials she’d done.
Sam turned to the police report and noted the similarities between Sara’s murder and Marsha Bradley’s. Both women had been raped and strangled. Both were believed to have been strangled to death by a thin cord-like object from behind. And both had been found totally nude with lipstick marks on their breasts, or on only one breast in Sara’s case.
Sam turned to the Xerox copies of the photographs taken at the crime scene and examined them closely. Then something dawned on him. Excitedly, he pulled out the police file copies of Marsha Bradley’s case which he had kept for himself, then set one of the photographs of Marsha beside Sara’s.
It was uncanny. Although the quality of the copies was poor and the camera angles differed somewhat, it was more than obvious that the relative positions of both bodies were virtually identical. Both were lying flat on their backs on the floor, their arms outstretched, their legs spread-eagle, and their eyes opened and frozen in terror…
The body positions were mirror images of each other!
Sam realized that even if the hair and semen samples hadn’t been compared and matched, any idiot could plainly see that both women were murdered by the same person. The pictures were proof positive.
He stubbed out his cigarette and lit up another one. Staring pensively at both photographs, he wondered why the murderer had taken the time and effort to meticulously arrange his victims’ bodies in identical positions. They almost looked as though they were…
Posed.
A light came on in his head.
The murderer had arranged the bodies in this way so he could take pictures of them!
What a sick fuck, he thought.
And what a meticulous son of a bitch!
But why had he done it? As a visual reminder of his escapades? Every picture tells a story?
Or was there more to it than that?
Sam retrieved the copies of the yearbook and stared at the pictures again. Simple logic now told him that none of these men seemed likely suspects, taking everything into account. The murderer was clever and fastidious, carefully thinking through his game plan in advance. He was relentlessly thorough and thus far, hadn’t knowingly been seen by a single solitary soul who could positively identify him. Neither of Sam’s “prime suspects,” Ernie Jones and Clyde Kastings, was bright enough to carry out these two murders without leaving some kind of trail behind…
Sam heaved a heavy sigh of hopelessness. All of a sudden, the whole yearbook angle seemed like a dead-end street-for more reasons than just one. It had dawned on him before that even if the murderer were pictured here, why would he allow such an obvious slip-up to occur? It didn’t fit into his modus operandi at all.
Sam gathered up all the papers, piled them into a haphazard stack and shoved them off to the side. Maybe he was giving this bastard more credit than he deserved. Maybe he really was pictured in the yearbook and had actually fucked up. Maybe Sara Hunt had managed to mark the pages while the prick wasn’t looking and now he was gonna get nailed. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
He took a final drag off his cigarette, coughed, and stubbed it out with a vengeance. Running his hands through his long hair, he listened to the rain pelting down outside and began wondering why he was so caught up in all of this. Granted, he was personally involved and wanted nothing more than to see this asshole caught and fried, but how much was he really contributing? He wasn’t a cop, had no capacity as a cop, so why didn’t he simply just let the police do their jobs instead of sitting here pretending that he was Colombo? Was it because he had nothing else to do in life? Because it helped take his mind off Ann and Amy and how miserable his life had become since he’d lost them?
The answer to all of the above was yes, but there was more to it than that. He didn’t like the uneasy feeling that Ann might somehow be in danger-that she could possibly be involved in this in some way. He had first gotten that feeling when Marsha had been found murdered, but he simply refused to allow himself to get paranoid at the time. But now that Sara Hunt’s murder had cropped up, the feeling had resurfaced. And now that it was confirmed that both women had been killed by the same man, the feeling had suddenly become substantiated. And the fact that several hundred miles didn’t seem to stop this lunatic from killing wasn’t helping much either. Columbus was only ninety miles away…
Sam started to pick up the phone to call Ann but stopped himself. He wanted to hear her voice, to be assured that everything was okay. Then he recalled their conversation earlier-how distant she had sounded at first, as if she were annoyed at him for even calling her in the first place. Her mood had changed somewhat after he had told her about Sara Hunt, but he could still sense more than a trace of detachment in her voice throughout the rest of the conversation. It was as if she would really prefer that he back off and let her live her own life-that his services were no longer needed…
Fuck it, he thought to himself. She’s on her own now, buddy. You’ve lost her forever. And your kid. And as much as you want to pretend that you still have a role in their lives, it just ain’t so. You fucked everything up a while back and now you’re history.
Suddenly the idea of getting sloshed came to mind and it appealed to him in a big way. There really wasn’t anything else to do; his drinking buddy was in New York City doing his thing, his ex-wife and child were in Columbus doing their thing, and here he was in the sticks of southern Ohio with the rain pouring down on a dreary Friday night and a twelve pack of Rock in the fridge.
So it seemed only fitting that he tie one on…