Scott Wittenburg - The May Day Murders

Sam nodded with a laugh. His friend was really on a roll.

“Thank you. So this Cindy Fuller babe was a real fox and Stanley had zeroed-in on her. He asked her out countless times, got turned down just as many times, then apparently became downright obsessed with her. He started stalking her-hanging around her dorm all hours and following her to her classes-that kind of shit. The guy wouldn’t let up on her despite her constant refusals to go out with him. Then, one night, Stanley sort of flipped out.”

Roger paused long enough to gobble down a fistful of fries, then said, “He tried to burn down her fucking dorm!”

“What?”

“Stanley was tripping on acid one night and I guess he figured that if Cindy Fuller wasn’t going to play ball with him that he might as well make her pay for it. So he took a can of gasoline, poured it in under the crack of her door and all through the hall of her dorm, and lit a match. He was caught almost immediately by campus police, who saw the flames and Stanley running like a bat out of hell away from the scene.”

“What happened to Cindy Fuller?”

“Her room was empty when this all happened so nobody got hurt. They had the fire under control within minutes and the whole thing was basically a farce. But it could have been much more serious.”

“So what happened to Stanley?” Sam asked.

“He was charged with aggravated arson and attempted murder. He got himself a good lawyer who pushed for a temporary insanity plea, citing that Stanley was under the influence of a hallucinogen at the time and not in his right mind. A psychiatric evaluation was ordered and that’s when things really started getting ugly for poor Stanley.”

Sam lit up a cigarette. “What happened?”

“They determined that Stanley Jenkins was psychotic and a sociopath, among other things. The judge, who didn’t like Stanley in the first place-I guess Stanley was less than agreeable throughout the proceedings-ordered him to a minimum of one year in the nut house.”

“Whoa!”

“It gets even juicier. Stanley was committed to the Indiana State Hospital and remained there for four fucking years before they finally let him out. That was in ‘75… May First, 1975, ” Roger added, winking at Sam.

“ May Day! ” Sam exclaimed.

“Interesting, eh? Now get this: there has been only one person as far as we know who has heard from or seen Stanley Jenkins in the last fifteen years, and that would be his mother. And that was in 1980. Since then, it appears as though Stanley Jenkins has dropped off from the face of the earth.”

Sam said, “You’ve already talked to his mother?”

“Briefly,” Roger replied. “Ironically, Slater had already telephoned Stanley’s mother once before when we first started investigating the yearbook pictures. The records had shown that Mrs. Jenkins had moved in with her sister in Cincinnati shortly after her husband passed away back in ‘74 so Tom had called her to inquire about Stanley’s whereabouts. She’d told him that he was living in California and that he was working for a chemical firm there. After a few more questions, Tom was satisfied that Stanley was probably clean and not worth pursuing as a suspect, so he thanked Mrs. Jenkins and scratched him off the list of potential suspects. Then, Stanley’s record suddenly showed up last night-so we naturally had a renewed interest in him. And now Mrs. Jenkins suddenly has a totally different story…”

“What did she tell you?”

“When I called her, I immediately got the feeling that she knew we were going to call her again-call it ‘investigative intuition,’ for lack of a better word. Anyway, she hesitantly admitted that she had lied before-that she really didn’t have any idea where Stanley could be now. She told me that the last time she’d heard from him was back in 1976. He’d sent her a postcard from Vegas-she wouldn’t elaborate on what the postcard said. Then she suddenly asked me why I wanted to know and I just told her that we were conducting an investigation, but didn’t give her the specifics. I asked her if she had any idea, even the slightest hunch, where we might be able to locate Stanley and she promptly said ‘no’ and hung up on me.”

“Damn, this is getting weirder by the minute.”

“No shit. When I tried calling Mrs. Jenkins back, surprise of surprises, she didn’t answer the phone. It’s starting to look like she’s hiding something and we just may have to go down to Cincinnati to persuade her to be more cooperative. At any rate, that’s more or less where we stand now.”

Roger Hagstom sat and stared at Sam expectantly like a victorious general on a battlefield.

When it became apparent that he had no more to say, Sam said, “Is that it?”

His friend’s eyes widened. “ ’Is that it?’ Is that all you can say? Hell, you’re almost as bad as that cock-headed doubting Thomas I work for!” Roger snapped in a voice that was too loud.

Roger Hagstrom’s face flushed as he looked around and saw that half the restaurant was now staring at him.

Sam waited a moment for everything to calm down again then said, “Jesus, buddy, I didn’t mean to get you all bent out of shape! I was just wondering if there was more to the story, that’s all.”

Roger collected himself. “That’s cool-I guess I was just a little pissed that your reaction to all of this seemed about the same as Thompson’s. He thinks I’m jumping to conclusions just because I haven’t been able to come up with any concrete leads on this goddamn case yet. But look at the facts! We know that the murderer is pretty damn smart, right? Stanley Jenkins is intelligent, if nothing else. Hell, the bastard was a model student in high school, for chrissakes! We also know that whoever killed Sara Hunt was tall with long dark hair. Stanley is over six feet tall if he’s an inch. Granted, he was a lanky son of a bitch and wore pop bottle eyeglasses back in high school, but people do change considerably in twenty years; he’s probably put on weight and wearing contact lenses now. And what about ‘ May Day? ’ Doesn’t it seem just a little too coincidental that the murderer left behind those words on Marsha Bradley’s body and that May Day just so happens to denote the day of Stanley Jenkin’s emancipation from the loony bin?

“But by far, the most incriminating evidence is the marked page in the yearbook and the fact that Stanley knew both women; not to mention his damning psychiatric profile and the fact that he’s a psychotic, flipped-out lunatic who spent four years in a mental institution for stalking a beautiful chick and trying to torch her just for refusing his advances. Hell, what more do we need?”

“Evidence,” Sam replied flatly. “I’m no lawyer, but I know enough about criminal law to see that all you have is speculation and a bunch of circumstantial evidence in both of these cases. And you can’t arrest and convict somebody solely on that shit.”

“You’re forgetting something, Sherlock,” Roger smiled. “We’ve got the hair and semen samples as evidence. And that’s all it would take to convict.”

This had slipped Sam’s mind. Somewhat embarrassed, he said, “You’re right… That’s why you’re a cop and I’m not. And I have to agree that it looks like Stanley Jenkins could possibly be the murderer. But tell me, honestly, Roger. Would you ever in your wildest dreams believe that he is capable of sadistically raping and murdering two women in cold blood? Jesus, he’s the last person I’d ever suspect in this case. He was such a fucking… nerd!”

“No doubt about that,” Roger nodded in agreement. “I’d never have guessed him to be the type, either. But by the same token, who would have ever thought that he would grow his hair long, drop acid, and try to set a school dorm on fire? Those are documented facts.”