Frank Zafiro - Beneath a Weeping Sky

“There’s hope for you yet, John,” Renee said with a wink. “That’s exactly right.”

“So, what did you find?”

“In the Seattle Post-Intelligencer , I found an obit for Cora Goodkind who is survived by her only son, Jeffrey Goodkind.”

“Amazing,” Tower said. “Before computers, that would have taken days.”

Renee shrugged. “Maybe. Before computers, the networks were people-based. If I didn’t have this here,” she tapped her monitor again, “then I’d have to know a guy at the Seattle PI. I’d make a phone call and he’d get back to me.”

“Still, it wouldn’t be as fast.”

“Probably not. It is pretty amazing.” She leaned back in her chair and looked at Tower. “But what’s more interesting is the date on that obituary.”

“Let me guess,” Tower said. “She died around the beginning of March this year.”

“February 27,” Renee reported. “Which, coincidentally, was around a week before — ”

“Before Heather Torin was attacked,” Tower finished.

“Exactly,” Renee said. “And the death of a mother, particularly one that he likely had issues with would definitely qualify as a trigger.”

“So the death of his mother sets him off,” Tower said, theorizing. “Then he manages to control it again, holding it together for at least another month. But maybe he’s acting hinky or something, because the girlfriend dumps him. And that pushes him over the edge.”

“With the pressure of the mother’s death behind it, I think that’d do it.”

Tower reached out and rested his hand on Renee’s shoulder. He gave her a squeeze. “Renee, you are magnificent.”

“I know,” she said.

Tower turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Men Only,” Tower said. “Sealed file or not, I want to have a chat with Mr. Jeffrey Goodkind.”

0956 hours

Katie pulled up in front of her house and parked her Jeep. She cast a look at the dark red brick of the little home, enjoying the comforting sensation that the familiar sight gave her.

“Be it ever so humble,” she whispered sleepily. Emotion welled up in her chest. Small prickles of tears stung her eyes. Surprised at her own emotion, she turned off the ignition and wiped away the beginnings of tears.

I’m just tired. Tired and glad to be home.

She exited the Jeep, and walked around to the rear. Exhausted from working all night and now with a belly full of breakfast, the task of hauling in her luggage seemed herculean in nature. She considered leaving it for later, but opened the back hatch of the Jeep, anyway. She gathered up all of the luggage, setting it on the damp asphalt of the street while she closed and locked the hatch. Then she trapped one of the smaller bags beneath her armpit, took a bag in each hand and made her way to the front door.

Katie remembered what Chisolm told her at the hotel and again at breakfast.

“Maybe this guy’s gone and maybe he isn’t,” the veteran officer said. “But you need to keep your guard up.”

Katie didn’t want to admit to anyone that while she resented the protective measures while they had been in place, she suddenly felt a sense of vulnerability now that they were removed. That fact, in turn, made her a little bit angry at herself. How did it make sense for her to complain about something on the one hand, but then be glad for it at the same time? And then be mad about both?

Don’t try to understand everything, Katie.

Chisolm didn’t seem to have any difficulty understanding the paradox. He gave her a reassuring pat on the hand at the breakfast table. “You’ll be fine,” he told her. “You’re a warrior.”

That was another instance in which she’d felt emotion welling up inside her, unexpected, uncontrolled. Having the consummate warrior tell her that he looked at her as a peer gave Katie a greater sense of satisfaction and accomplishment than anything her bosses could have bestowed upon her. Respect was hard enough to get from fellow cops. Throw in being female and it got to be about three times as hard. But she had Thomas Chisolm’s respect, and you didn’t get any higher than that.

“Thanks,” was all she’d been able to manage at the diner table, but she supposed that there really wasn’t anything more that needed saying.

At her front door, she set down the bag in her right hand and unlocked the door. As she swung open the front door, the familiar smell of her home washed over her.

Katie smiled and stepped inside. She needed a shower and then a good day’s sleep, but she was home.

0957 hours

He watched her step through the front door of her house. Excitement buzzed through his limbs like an electric current.

“Wait,” he whispered, shifting his aching erection to one side.

She worked all night. She just had sex, then ate breakfast. It only made sense that she’d be going to bed. So he’d wait a few minutes. Let her settle in. Doze off. He’d catch her still half-asleep, so that she would wonder if the cold of his knife against her throat and him thrusting inside her was real or only just a nightmare.

And then she’d find out.

“Wait,” he whispered again. “Just a little while.”

1008 hours

Tower flashed his badge at the store manager. “I’m looking for Jeffrey Goodkind,” he said.

The manager, a tall, effete man that reminded Tower more of a mortician than a suit salesman, leaned forward to inspect Tower’s badge and identification. Satisfied, he replied, “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Goodkind is not at work today.”

“When does he work again?”

“He was scheduled to work today, but he has not yet arrived.”

Tower’s eyes narrowed. “Did he call in sick?”

“No.”

“He just didn’t show?”

The manager nodded. “Yes.”

“Is that normal for him? To just not show up?”

“No,” the manager conceded, then shrugged, “although, he has been acting strangely of late.”

Tower raised his fingers to his face and rubbed his chin. After a moment, he realized that he was mimicking one of Browning’s habits. Dropping his fingers, he asked, “Strange in what way?”

The manager shrugged. “He has just seemed a bit pre-occupied. Not as attentive to his work.”

“Do you know what’s been going on in his life?”

The manager’s eyebrows shot up in horror. “Oh, no. Jeffrey is quite private and I would never think to pry.”

Tower suppressed a sigh. Then he asked, “Does he have a locker or a work station?”

“Not really. He has his own drawer at the salesmen’s desk, though.”

“I’d like to see that, please.”

The manager hesitated. “Do you have a search warrant?”

“Do I need one?” Tower shot back.

The manager pressed his lips together, considering. Then he said, “No, I suppose not. Right this way.”

He turned and walked toward the rear of the store. Tower followed. As they passed the last rack of suits, a series of photographs lined the hallway that led to the back room where the manager was headed. Large block letters proudly pronounced, “OUR SALES TEAM IS HERE TO SERVE YOU!”

Tower slowed, his eyes passing over each photograph. When he reached the one labeled “Jeffrey Goodkind, since 1993,” he stopped.

A photograph of Mr. Every Other White Guy stared out at him from inside the frame, a practiced smile on his lips.

And at that moment, Tower knew for sure.

1011 hours

The pressure was too great. He couldn’t wait any more.

Staring at that hateful little brick house, his hands trembled. The pungent smell of his own sweat filled the cab of his car. He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, trying to force himself to wait a few more minutes.