In Case of Carnage Page 6

  Bill stood. He opened the door a few inches.

  Officer Silverman was standing in the hall.

  “You have that water?”

  The recruit handed Bill the plastic water bottle he’d been holding.

  “Thanks.” Bill closed the door. He placed the drink on the table in front of Randolph. Bill sat down without saying a word.

  Randolph picked up the bottle. He unscrewed the cap. He took a deep swig. He caught Bill’s bulldog stare out of the corner of his eye. “Why is he here?”

  “Detective Hendrix is here to assist me in the investigations of the murders of Nadine Simmons and Janice Kipper.”

  Bill glared at Berg.

  “Am I a suspect?” Randolph’s hand trembled as he put the plastic bottle on the table.

  “Not necessarily. More of a person of interest.”

  “Just so you know, I have nothing to hide.” Randolph squirmed in his chair.

  “Why so fidgety?” Bill asked, considering himself as much a part of the interrogation.

  “I’ve never been in a police station before.”

  Berg spoke in a calming voice. “I could see how it might be intimidating. Relax. It’ll all be over before you know it.”

  Randolph took a deep breath. He kept jiggling his foot.

  “So, Randolph, I take it you’re not a family man?”

  “No, I live alone.”

  “Just for the record, what do you do at the Regal Arms Apartments?”

  “Custodial work, light maintenance. I also take care of the landscaping.”

  “Mowing the lawn.”

  “That and—”

  “So you must have the run of the place. Do you have master key, let’s say, to the laundry room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about to the tenants’ doors?”

  “If there’s an electrical or plumbing problem they need me to fix, I go into their apartments when they’re at work, so I don’t disturb them.”

  “And the tenants trust you?”

  “I’m bonded. I’m not going to steal anything.”

  “Well, I should hope not. Did you know Nadine Simmons?”

  “I knew her.”

  “She was a resident at the Regal Arms for over ten years, correct?”

  “Yeah, the old biddy,” Randolph replied gruffly.

  “I gather you didn’t like her much.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why?”

  “There was no pleasing her. She’d nag me every chance she got, bitching about everything. I’d be going up there almost every day, changing fuses. She’d want me to keep adjusting her thermostat because it was either too hot or too cold. I’d constantly have to unclog that damn toilet of hers.”

  “That must have driven you crazy.”

  “You bet it did.”

  “Isn’t that your job? To fix things?” Berg gave Sikes a little shrug.

  “She did it on purpose. There would have been nothing wrong with the thermostat if she had just left it alone. I don’t know how many times I told her not to dump her damn cat litter down the toilet. She must have owned every imaginable kitchen appliance ever made. It was no wonder she kept blowing fuses.”

  “Well, the building is old.”

  “I keep it up.”

  “Ever wish Nadine Simmons would move out?”

  “She was never going to move.”

  “Did she ever complain to the super?”

  “About what?”

  “You.”

  “What if she did?”

  “Could be why you stabbed poor Mrs. Simmons in the laundry room. Don’t you think it was rather mean, stuffing her body into the dryer?”

  “I never killed her.”

  “Let’s talk about Janice Kipper for a moment. You knew her, right?”

  Randolph looked down for a second before replying. “Sure. Three-ten.”

  “Ever speak with her?”

  “Sure, a few times.”

  “Ever been in her apartment?”

  “Once, to replace a wall socket. She overloaded it with her computer stuff, almost caused a fire.”

  “Mind telling me where you were on . . .” Berg paused to flip open the file. He gave the report a quick perusal before continuing. “November fifth, between the hours of eight and twelve? The night Janice Kipper was strangled in her apartment.” Berg slapped the file closed.

  “I was downstairs watching TV.”

  Bill leaned across the table. “Was there anyone with you at the time who could corroborate your story?”

  “No, I was alone.”

  Berg glared at Bill, a reminder that he was the one asking the questions.

  “You’re positive? You didn’t leave for any reason?” Berg narrowed his eyes at Sikes.

  “Like I said before, I was watching TV.”

  “You’re sure?” Berg persisted.

  “Yes! How many times do I have to tell you guys? What? You don’t believe me?”

  “Well, let me just say I’ve been doing this for some time now, interrogating suspects—”

  “Wait a minute,” Randolph interrupted. “I thought I wasn’t a suspect!”

  “Sorry, I meant in my line of work. There’re a few things I’ve learned—like how to know when someone’s lying.”

  “You mean like a lie detector test?”

  “Well, not exactly. I can tell by the way a person reacts to a question. You know, their body language, facial expressions. Like, for instance, their eyes, which are always a dead giveaway. It has to do with how the human brain works. When a person is asked a question and tells the truth, the eyes always shift to the right. It’s a subconscious reflex, like how your leg jumps when the doctor taps your knee with the little hammer—something beyond your control.”

  Bill wondered if Berg was exaggerating to intimidate Randolph.

  Berg paused to lean forward. “But if the same person is asked a question and he lies, his eyes drift to the left. Strange how that works, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I’ve noticed your eyes have a tendency to shift to the left whenever you answer my questions.” Berg placed his hand on Randolph’s knee.

  “I’m nervous, okay?”

  “No, I think you’re lying.”

  Randolph jerked away to escape Berg’s touch. He tried scooting his chair back and hit the wall. “I swear, I’m telling the truth.”

  “Randolph, please. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

  “Shouldn’t I be getting a lawyer?”

  “Are you asking for one?” Bill asked. He knew if Randolph insisted that an attorney be present, Berg would have to honor his request, ending the session.

  Randolph paused to gather his thoughts.

  “If you’re innocent, you should have nothing to hide,” Berg said. “Asking for a lawyer suggests otherwise.” Berg edged his chair a little closer.

  “But I didn’t do it. I keep telling you, I was in my room!”

  “There you go again, looking to the left.”

  “I can’t help it! I’m scared!”

  “Your eyes. They’ll betray you every time.”

  “I get this tic when I’m nervous. Can we just stop? I need to think.” Randolph rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. He rocked slightly, muttering to himself.

  Berg leaned forward. “Let’s just say, hypothetically, you did kill Janice Kipper.”

  Randolph raised his head. “But I just told you—”

  Berg stuck out his palm, silencing Randolph. “Please, just humor me for a moment. If you did, we would need to substantiate your guilt, wouldn’t you say?”

  Randolph gave the detective a wary nod. He picked up his bottled water.

  “From our forensic reports, we know the killer is right-handed.”

  Randolph looked gloomily at the plastic bottle in his right hand.

  “Our profiler believes the killer is antisocial, most likely an introvert
, a loner, much like you.”

  “Since when is living by yourself a crime?”

  “No one said it was. It’s also suggested the killer has a score to settle and hates women. Do you hate women, Randolph?”

  “No!”

  “So, let me take a wild guess. You let yourself into her apartment when she wasn’t there. Tampered with . . . what? A light switch? Messed up her toilet so you would have to come up to fix it?”

  “I did no such—”

  “Randolph! You took the master key from the cabinet in the storage room, snuck in, came up behind Janice Kipper, and strangled her!”

  “No, I didn’t!”

  Bill slid the case folder over to himself and flipped through the pages.

  “Did it make you feel like a man?” Berg was having fun. “Did it get you off?” He clamped his fingers like a vise on Randolph’s right kneecap.

  Randolph grimaced, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Let go! You’re hurting me!”

  “I know. It’s amazing what a little bit of pressure can accomplish.” Berg squeezed harder.

  “Please stop!” Randolph yelled.

  “Come on, Randolph! Confess!”

  Bill had seen enough. “Let him go, Berg!”

  Berg lifted his hand. He pushed back his chair.

  “I’m going to be sick!” Randolph clutched his stomach. He put his head between his knees.

  Bill stood and opened the door. “Better get him to the restroom quick, before he pukes!”

  Officer Silverman hurried in. He collected Randolph as he began to gag and ushered him from the room.

  “Well, it won’t be long now.” Berg sat back in his chair with a big grin on his face.

  Bill frowned. “You really think Randolph is our killer?”

  “Guilty as sin.”

  “Anyone who knew where the master key was could have taken it.”

  “He’s our man. You watch. When he comes back, I’ll squeeze a confession out of him.”

  Bill glanced down at the case folder. “You read my partner’s report in its entirety?”

  “Pretty shoddy police work. Be happy I solved your case for you.”

  “You did read that Janice Kipper worked for your police station uptown? Her job was transcribing cold cases, which she did mostly from her apartment.”

  “So?”

  “Ever meet her?” Bill sat back, crossing his arms.

  “Sure, in the morgue.”

  “You know, there’s no mention of the master key in my partner’s report.”

  “So, what of it?”

  “How’d you know where it was?”

  “Randolph must have mentioned it.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “So, what are you implying, detective? That I killed those women?”

  “Might explain why you suddenly wanted to take over this investigation—steer it in the wrong direction.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Is it? Were you afraid Janice Kipper was going to come across something incriminating about you in one of those cold cases? A loose end, perhaps?”

  “I’d stop if I were you,” Berg threatened.

  “You thought by murdering Nadine Simmons you would throw us off, make us think there might be a serial killer loose, when you strangled Janice Kipper. Nice touch.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Am I?”

  “I’m warning you, Hendrix. One more word—”

  “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “You’re wrong!”

  “You didn’t kill Nadine Simmons and Janice Kipper?” Bill persisted.

  “No! I didn’t!” Berg replied indignantly.

  “Then why do you keep looking to the left?”

  6

  CASE NUMBER: 18-03-241

  Hank and Jackie were walking Bella by the fenced-off community pool when Hank spotted something in the street next to the curb. He reined Bella in and bent down to retrieve the item.

  “What did you find?” Jackie stared at the laminated card in his hand.

  “A Kaiser Permanente medical card belonging to a person named Kelly Rice.”

  According to the card, Kelly was a twenty-year-old female.

  Jackie gazed down at the pavement bordering the curb. “There’re more.”

  Hank handed the looped end of Bella’s leash to Jackie. He started collecting more of the cards, which were scattered on the side of the street. He gathered up a State Farm insurance card, a dental card with Kelly’s name on it, a library card, a San Jose State University student ID card with her name and picture, along with a membership card for the YWCA.

  “Someone must have stolen her purse,” Hank said, “tossed out what they didn’t want, and kept her driver’s license and credit cards.”

  “Poor girl must be frantic.” Jackie gave Bella some slack to sniff the base of a tree.

  “I’d hate to see her become a victim of identity theft.” Hank stooped to pick up a book of matches with “Third Street Bar & Grill” stenciled on the front. He flipped open the cover. The pack was full with a handwritten phone number on the inside flap. He slipped the matches into his trouser pocket.

  * * *

  On the way back to the house, Jackie glanced over at Hank. “You don’t think anything happened to her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’s hurt.”

  “Most likely she pulled up to a light,” Hank said, “and some guy opened the passenger door and snatched her purse off the seat. Happens all the time. This is why I’m always bugging you to keep your doors locked when you’re out by yourself.”

  “What if they stole her car?”

  “Jackie, I’m sure she’s fine.”

  * * *

  When they returned home, Hank got on the phone to notify the police. Normally, he would have called Bill at the station, but as Hank was on administrative leave pending the Internal Affairs investigation of the hitchhiker shooting, he thought he would do what any law-abiding citizen would do and dial the non-emergency contact number 3-1-1. He spread the cards out on the kitchen counter.

  When the dispatcher answered, Hank explained that he’d found identification cards belonging to someone else and wanted them returned to their rightful owner. The dispatcher told Hank a patrol car would be sent over. After a couple more questions, he thanked Hank for taking the initiative to call it in. Hank never mentioned he was a cop. He hung up the phone.

  Ten minutes later the phone rang. Hank answered. A woman told him she was outside to pick up the ID cards.

  “That was fast!” Hank hung up. In his haste to scoop up the cards, he swiped most of them onto the floor. He gathered the spilled cards and the ones still on the counter, then raced from the kitchen through the living room, dodging furniture like a slalom skier. He bolted out the front door.

  A police cruiser waited at the end of the driveway. Hank handed the short stack of plastic cards through the open window to the female police officer. As he’d never personally worked with the officer, he introduced himself as a fellow cop.

  “Where did you find these?” she asked.

  “By the Cabana Club.”

  The officer pulled up a GPS map on her computer screen. Hank pointed to the street where they’d found Kelly Rice’s property.

  The officer thanked him, and Hank watched the patrol car pull away.

  * * *

  Hank sat at the kitchen table. Jackie dried a glass and put it away in the cabinet. She hung the dish towel on the oven handle. She studied him for a moment, then asked, “What’s with the look? Is something wrong?”

  “Now you’ve got me doing it. I can’t stop thinking about the girl.”

  That evening, Hank and Jackie stayed up later than usual to watch the Eleven O’Clock News, managing to stay awake for the thirty-minute broadcast.

  When the news ended, Hank switched off the television. “Well, no reports of a missing person.”

  Jackie took a dee
p breath. “Thank God.” She got up from the couch and traipsed off to bed.

  Hank stared at the blank TV screen. He was dead tired, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep. He turned off the lights and followed Jackie upstairs.

  * * *

  The next morning, Jackie stood at the stove, watching four eggs bobbing about in a pot of boiling water. Hank sat at the kitchen table, flipping through the morning-edition newspaper without purpose. Finally, he gave up. He closed up the paper, folded it, and slipped the rubber band back on like the paperboy. He tossed it on the table and said, “I think we should try contacting Kelly Rice ourselves.”

  “Maybe she’s listed.” Jackie turned off the burner. She went over to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat next to Hank.

  Reaching from his chair, Hank pulled open a cabinet drawer. He took out the telephone book and placed it on the table.

  “Hank, why don’t we just go on the Internet and look her up? Wouldn’t that be faster?”

  “Not necessarily. The phone book offers a shorter, more organized list, and we won’t have to deal with popup ads trying to sell us something and slowing down our search. If this doesn’t pan out, then we’ll try the Internet.” He opened the directory to the residential section under “R.” He saw an entire column of customers with the last name “Rice.” None with the first name “Kelly,” though there were three with the first initial “K.”

  Hank dialed the first phone number, while Jackie leaned in to listen.

  “Hello?” a tired voice answered.

  “I was wondering if I may speak with Kelly.”

  “Who?”

  “Kelly Rice.”

  “You must want Karen.”

  “Sorry, I must have the wrong number.”

  Hank tried the second number.

  “Yeah?” a man answered.

  “Hi, I’d like to speak to Kelly.”

  “This is Kelly. Who the hell is this?”

  Hank hung up.

  “That was rude.” Jackie made a goofy face.

  “Last one.” Hank punched in the phone number.

  This time they hit pay dirt when Hank asked for Kelly.

  “What do you want her for?” the grumpy woman snapped.

  “Can I please talk to Kelly?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Why not?”