Seeking Twilight Ch. 02

"Oh, uh, yeah. I'm just really tired; I didn't sleep well at all last night."

"Okay," Marley said, turning to John, "I got your message and put in a call to Moira down at the Medical Examiner's office. She said that they had just gotten the body in and are going to start the autopsy a.s.a.p. She said she'd call back when she knew anything."

"Good. She say anything else?" John asked.

"Yeah. Chief of police just called a press conference, and Bert is sending Reggie," explained Tina.

The Bert and Reggie to whom she referred were Bertram Garvey, Editor-in-Chief of the paper, and Reginald Brianski, a reporter for the paper. The news was a disappointment to John and a surprise to Tina.

"Wait, Bert is completely pissed at Reggie for screwing up the Martin Taylor story. Why in the hell would he send Reggie to the press conference and not Denny?" Tina asked.

"Well, probably because Denny's been hiding out in here." said Marley, without anything even resembling tact.

"No, I mean--"

"Don't worry about it, hon," Denny said, cutting Tina off. Denny almost never cut Tina off, and, when he did, it was because he knew what he was saying.

"I'm sure," he continued, "that Bert probably thinks that this press conference is just some P.R. gimmick by the police administration, otherwise he would have sent Jeff or Charlie. No, we've got the upper hand here; especially Marley's friend gets back to us before the conference."

A slight, sly grin crept across Denny's face as a plan formulated in his head

"If we can know what no one else knows before the police want us too, we'll . . . I'll own this story, and Bert will have no choice but to give me the front page."

"Well, you guys should get going," Marley said, "The press conference is in less than an hour. I'll have Moira call you when she gets back to me."

Moira Sodeski had been Marley's college roommate freshman year, and, although they had taken much different career paths, they had remained friends to this day. Since graduating, Moira had become Barry's personal assistant, which was basically a glorified secretary position. The only thing that made it bearable was the fun and pleasure she took leaking confidential information to Marley. Moira was, at that moment looking over the autopsy reports that Barry had asked her to type, and listening in over the intercom as Barry reviewed his findings with Jones and Kaldwell.

"Meet Derek Fenton."

"Fenton?" Jones asked, "As in Carl Fenton?"

Barry nodded. Kaldwell, meanwhile, was beginning to feel a bit left out as Barry and Jones each seemed to know what the other was thinking, and, although she felt more and more inept and naïve with each question, she couldn't help but ask, "Who?"

"Carl Fenton, attorney for Gustafson, Gustafson, Gustafson, and Fenton." said Jones.

"You left out a Gustafson," interjected Barry, "You left out the most important one, too."

"Shut up, Barry." Jones said, and then turned back to Kaldwell. "Anyway, he's a big time, hot shot defense lawyer and a pain in the ass of every cop in the department."

"So, this is his kid?" Kaldwell asked.

"From the Abercrombie and Fitch to the Tau Kappa Theta ring," Barry remarked, handing the ring to Jones.

"Aw, and I didn't get you anything."

"Oh, it gets better. Our boy here," Barry said, double checking his records, "popped a .37 blood/alcohol level."

Kaldwell decided to attempt to join in the retort.

She remarked, "So you found a little blood in his alcohol."

"Very little blood. There was even less left in him than in Martin Taylor," said Barry, looking to Jones.

Jones caught the look. And he was missing almost ¾ of his blood, Jones thought.

"Wait, so . . ." Kaldwell mulled it over in her head, swimming in thought.

"What happened to all that blood?" she asked. "Crime scene was clean. No trace."

Barry, deciding to have a little fun with his explanation, held his hand up, tipped his head back, and made a gulping sound as if he were chugging an invisible drink.

"What!?" exclaimed a dumfounded Kaldwell.

Barry went back to his desk and pulled a particular autopsy photo from the Martin Taylor murder file. When he came back to the body, he lined the picture up next to the wounds on Derek Fenton's body.

"Look at this, on both bodies, these were the only wounds. See the bruising between and around the punctures on both bodies? It's identical, and so is the female DNA in the saliva I found around the wounds."

"Nice use of a visual aid," quipped Jones.

"Thank you."

"So," said Kaldwell, still unsure, but trying desperately, "You mean she just sucked their blood out?"

"Sort of," Barry said, trying to give Kaldwell credit, "but not exactly. Both times she bit directly into their jugulars, so the pressure would've pushed the blood out of each of their bodies as spray. She would've had to be locked onto them like a leech to keep the blood from escaping."

Kaldwell nodded, finally understanding it.

Jones, who had run out of smart ass remarks (at least for the moment) suddenly felt overtaken by a sense of urgency. He knew that they had a lot to do and had better get to it.

"Okay," he said, taking charge, "we've got two victims so far--"

"That we know of," Barry said, cutting him off.

"Yes, that we know of. So, same M.O., one week apart, attention to methodology--"

"Serial Killer," Barry cut in, again.

Jones knew that Barry was right. He'd worked a couple of serial cases in Chicago, but that had been eight years ago, and he hadn't seen anything this serious in Minneapolis. He tried to remember the procedures.

"You run that DNA through the system?" he asked

"Yeah, I got nothing back. No hits from any database."

"We've got to find out if she's done this before," Jones said, slowly remembering what to do, "If she did, there'll be a pattern. If not, we'll have another dead kid in here in less than a week."

"That quickly?" Kaldwell asked.

"Well, look at the two cases," said Barry, "There is no change in M.O., no change in methodology. Beginning serial killers almost always make mistakes, but she hasn't. She knows what she's doing, so she must have done it before."

"It's only a question of where, how long ago, and how many times," Jones added.

"If she's only done this once before," he continued, "and it was more than a week before Martin Taylor, then she's accelerating, which means we're under a time crunch."

Barry followed Jones' train of thought.

"And if she's done this a number of times, then she has a pattern, and we need to know what that is," he said, "Of course, we'll also need a workable timeline."

Jones looked at Kaldwell as he grabbed the ring.

"Which means that we'd," he said to her, "better go talk to witnesses before we do anything else, and we should start by going back to school. Later Barry."

Jones tossed the ring back to Barry as he and Kaldwell turned to leave.

"Later Jones. Try not to shoot any frat boys," Barry called out.

Kaldwell looked back to Barry as she and Jones exited the morgue, then turned and shot Jones a questioning look. Jones just shook his head as they headed out of the crime lab. As they left, neither of them had noticed as Moira had dashed from the door outside the morgue back to her desk. She watched the two detectives leave, then e-mailed Marley, forwarded the message to John on his P.D.A.

John was, at that moment, standing outside of the Minneapolis City Hall with Denny, waiting for the press conference that had been called by the Police Public Relations Manager Stephanie Reece. While John was reading the e-mail from Moira, Denny was trying to avoid being noticed by Reggie, not so much because Denny didn't like Reggie, but because Reggie despised Denny.

For the first nine months that Denny had worked for the "Star Tribune", Reggie, who was a ten-year-veteran of the paper, had acted as a mentor to Denny. That all changed in mid-April when Denny got a tip while Reggie was out and grabbed up the scoop out from under Reggie's nose. Shortly after that, Reggie's work had begun to slide, and his behavior had become, as most had observed, odd.

Denny had noticed Reggie skulking around the steps closer to the podium as he and John had, as nonchalantly and inconspicuously as possible, walked up to City Hall. Denny tried desperately to not be nervous as he and John milled around the sidewalk in front of the building. When he read Moira's e-mail, however, his attitude changed. He suddenly felt an urge of confidence and a sense that he knew exactly what to do.

When P.R. Manager Reece arrived, she was accompanied by Police Chief Jordan Waltrep and Homicide Captain Roland Jacobs. Among the grumbles that riddled the crowd of reporters, Denny knew he heard Captain Jacobs name mentioned at least a dozen times.

"I wonder if they're putting two and two together," he said to John.

"If they are, they're probably coming up with 'purple' as the answer," John remarked, "Looks like they're starting."

Denny agreed as he watched Chief Waltrep take the podium.

"Good afternoon," he said, "At 6:30 a.m. today a body was found downtown who appeared to have been murdered sometime last night. We know the identity of the victim, but we are not releasing any information about him or the crime at this time. Miss Reece will now take your questions."

He stepped back from the podium as she stepped forward and called to a reporter in up front.

"Joseph Cotton, Post Bulletin. Can you tell us anything else about the victim, such as his name, who his family is, or the way in which he was murdered?" asked the reporter.

Rookie, Denny thought.

"Actually, when Chief Waltrep said that we weren't releasing any information about the victim or the crime," Reece replied calmly, "he meant, of course, except the victim's name, who his family is, or the way in which he was killed. I can tell you that we will be releasing the victim's name once the victim's family has been notified. Any other facts will be disclosed to the press at the appropriate time."

The buzzing of the reporters at this answer almost drowned out Denny's own thoughts as he tried to keep from smiling smugly to himself. He watched as, question after question, other reporters were either given a creative run around or shot down directly. Then, finally, when the other reporters seemed to have exhausted their questions, Denny's hand shot up.

"Yes, you in the back," responded Reece.

The head of every reporter spun around to see who was asking a question.

"Dennis Jenkins, Star Tribune. Have detectives found any similarities or connections to the Martin Taylor murder?" Denny asked.

Reece looked to Captain Jacobs, as though the question had been completely unexpected, to which Jacobs replied with knowing head shake.

Reece turned back to the podium and said simply, "I'm sorry, we can't answer any more questions at this time. Thank you."

She, Chief Waltrep, and Captain Jacobs all turned and headed back into City Hall as the crowd of reporters erupted in chatter. Denny stood back, feeling very satisfied with himself until he caught a very suspicious glare from Reggie. He grabbed John and they rushed back to John's bike to get ahead of the crowd and get back to the paper.

After receiving a rather steely-cold glare from Miss Reece and a few choice words from the Chief about 'keeping the officers under his command in line', Captain Jacobs returned to his office, where he was met by Jones, Kaldwell, and Barry, all with whom he was thoroughly displeased.

"If it looks like I'm walking funny," he said to them, "it's 'cause I've got the Mayor, half the City Council, and a dozen reporters up my ass. Now I need to know what the hell is going on and fast. I've fired more people than you in the time it took me to say all that so tell me something that I didn't know 5 hours ago."

Before anyone else had a chance to process the barrage of language that had just erupted from the Captain, Kaldwell answered, "Caffeine is a diuretic and can contribute to hypertension, ulcers, and irritable bowel syndrome."

The Captain stared at her blankly, but almost murderously for a moment, and then looked at Jones.

"She's your partner for 5 hours and already she's a bigger smart ass than you," he said, then, before they had a chance to respond, "Shut up and talk to me."

Knowing the Captain was not in the mood; Jones began "The ring Barry found led us to the Tau Kappa Theta Fraternity house."

"Smelled like day old, beer battered socks," Kaldwell remarked.

"Anyway, we talked to the four guys that the victim had been with at the bar," Jones covered, shooting Kaldwell a glare as if to say, "Not now!" which she completely misses.

The Captain missed it too, but asked, "Anyone see anything?"

"Yeah, they saw Fenton sexually harass a waitress, and then get thrown out of the bar by Andre the Giant," said Kaldwell.

"They didn't say that it was Andre the Giant, just that it looked an awful lot like him," Jones corrected.

"Which was true," Kaldwell added.

"Which part?" asked the Captain, ignoring the banter that he knew he would never get away from.

"The whole thing," said Jones.

Kaldwell elaborated, "Yeah, we went to the bar, talked to everyone there. Their stories all mesh."

"And the bouncer really did look like Andre the Giant," added Jones, to which Kaldwell remarked, "No accent, though."

Captain Jacobs was now getting impatient with their inability to focus.

"They tell you anything else?" he asked, visibly annoyed.

"Yeah, after Fenton picked himself up off the sidewalk, the bouncer saw him flirt with and start making out with some girl. Then he saw them duck down the same alley we found Fenton in this morning," Jones said.

"The bouncer give you anything on this girl?"

Kaldwell explained, "He was vague, said it was dark, but that he could tell that she had long blonde hair and was wearing something--"

"Tight and black," guessed the Captain, cutting Kaldwell off in the process, then added, "Just like in the Martin Taylor murder."

"Which makes her our primary suspect," said Kaldwell.

"Yeah," Jones agreed, "Too bad we don't know who 'she' is."

"We just know that," Barry explained, to a number of 'Oh, I didn't even realize you were there' looks, "Martin Taylor is her first with this M.O. I ran the specifics through every criminal database in the world and this one is new. Some distant matches, vague connections, but nothing close. Easy to narrow down, too, since it's a woman."

"Excuse me?" Kaldwell asked

"Most serial killers are white men 18 - 35, and most of the rest are white men over 35. Female serial killers, of any age, are rare," Barry elaborated, to which the Captain said, "But we've got one."

He thought about it for a moment, mulling over the proper course of action, and then said the one thing he didn't want to.

"We should consider contacting the feds."

"What? Why?" Jones and Kaldwell asked at the same time.

"Because we are not trained to deal with a serial killer," the captain replied to their protests.

Seeing that this answer was still upsetting to Jones and Kaldwell, Barry suggested, "We should contact Mike."

"Good idea," the captain agreed.

"Who?" asked Kaldwell.

"Michael Striegle. He's an F.B.I. Field agent out of Rochester, and an expert in criminal psychology," Barry explained.

"He worked with us on the Jack Richards disappearance," said Jones, admitting to Kaldwell, "He's good, cooperative."

"Alright. Jones, get a hold of Mike," the captain ordered, kicking the trio out of his office, and then adding, "And nobody talks to the press!"

But, of course, it was too late. Denny had the information he needed to write the story no one else had, and he used it to turn in the very story he felt could make his career.

However, later that afternoon, Denny was feeling less confident. At the moment, he was waiting to talk to Bert about his story, which, for him, was very worrisome. Not that Denny was afraid of Bert, quite the contrary. Bert had always been nothing but nice to Denny since he had started at the paper. It was just that Denny had seen and heard Bert chew out, yell at, and generally verbally lynch many a reporter. That combined with a general fear of authority had kept Denny on his toes whenever Bert was around.

Today was no exception. At that moment Denny was sitting just outside Bert's office, watching Bert's door shake with every yell and shout that came from within. Denny was so enthralled with the shaking of the door, in fact, that it not only distracted him from how nervous he was, but it then startled him so much when the door swung open and Reggie came storming out that he almost ell out of his chair.

Reggie slammed the door behind him, fuming and grumbling to himself, not even noticing Denny. Moments later, the door opened again, and Bert said simply, but somewhat cold and indifferent, "Well, come in."

Not even waiting for Denny, Bert tiredly walked back to and plopped down in the high-back leather chair behind his desk, facing away from it. Denny timidly rose from his chair and followed Bert into his office.

"Have a seat," Bert said without turning around.

Denny quickly and nervously sat down in one of the two chairs that faced Bert's desk. The room was quiet for what was, for Denny, a nerve-wrackingly long moment, and then Bert turned around to face Denny, and dropped Denny's article on his desk.

"This is going to piss off several of people," he said.

"All the right people," replied Denny, suddenly finding courage in his employer's presence.

Bert, however, was skeptical of Denny's newfound bravery, and decided to test it.

"You're not afraid of getting the entire police department angry at you, not to mention, city, county, and state officials?" Bert asked, to which Denny quickly replied, "Since when do we work for the police, I thought they worked for us."

A smile crept across Bert's mouth. He could see Denny getting gutsier with each answer. He picked up Denny's article from his desk and read the title aloud.

"'Twilight Stalker Strikes Again!' Taking the liberty of naming the killer?"

"I think it adds something to it," Denny replied, "I wanted to call her the 'Night Stalker' but that was already taken."

Bert chuckled to himself.

"Its good work, kid," he said, "in fact, it's good enough to get you off of the human interest beat. I want you all over this story, and I want our paper to stay ahead of the game on this one."

"Yes, sir."

"You made some good ink today, son, just don't screw it up. Now get the hell outta here."

Denny hopped up out of his chair and dashed for the door. He went back to Tina's office, where she, John, and Marley were all waiting to hear about what had happened. He walked in, trying to keep a straight face as he slouched and tried to look crestfallen. They all turned and looked at him when he walked in, watching as he plopped down on the decrepit leather loveseat in Tina's office that had been a graduation/new-job gift from her publishing mogul father. After a moment of awkward silence, Marley finally asked, "Well, what the hell happened?"

Denny looked up at his friends, face droopy. Then, he simply smiled and said, "No problem."

Denny could only sit and laugh as his friends burst out in all number of profanities. Marley was still swearing under her breath as they left the office. They returned to their cars and headed back to their neighboring apartments. The four of them had dinner together as they usually did at John-and-Marley's, then Denny and Tina headed back next door to call it an early night.

As Denny began to drift off and the rest of the day faded away, an echo grew louder in his head, an echo that had been floating around in the back of his mind since that afternoon, the last thing that Bert had said to him, "You made some good ink today, son, just don't screw it up."