Scott Wittenburg - The May Day Murders

“Good point. I guess my biggest problem with all of this is why? Why would Stanley Jenkins murder Marsha Bradley and Sara Hunt? What was his motive?”

Roger heaved a long sigh. “Hell if I know. But I’m gonna find out, by God. In the meantime, I’ve got a lot of questions to ask a lot of people once we locate them.”

“What people, for instance?” Sam asked.

“The psychiatrist who handled Stanley’s case, for one. Plus Stanley’s lawyer and Cindy Fuller. And his college roommates, if he had any. Also any friends and acquaintances he might have had while living in Vegas. It’s going to take a lot of down and dirty police work, but I’m convinced that there is someone, somewhere who knows Stanley Jenkins and what he’s been up to for the last twenty years.”

“Sounds like that could take a long time,” Sam said.

“It will, no doubt. But it has to be done. We’re also working on a computer-enhanced photo of how Stanley might look today to show to little Tommy Bradley. I forgot to mention that the little tyke is finally beginning to snap out of it, from what I’ve heard. I think Dave is going to give his consent to let us interview him soon, in fact. And if Tommy actually saw his mother’s murderer and can give us a positive I.D. on him from the computer photo of Stanley, we’ll be in business. Then, maybe the chief will get off my back and eat a little humble pie. Damn, I can’t think of anything I’d rather like to see right now!”

“Have you let Mancuso in on any of this?” Sam asked.

“I’d like to wait until I have a little more to go on, but that wouldn’t be right. I’m going to call him as soon as I get back to the station. No sense in fucking around with egos and all that bullshit,” Roger said. He smiled slyly and added, “Still, it would be nice to confirm my theory before I filled him in-just so he’d realize that we’re a little more on the ball than he gives us credit for back here in Small Town, USA.”

“I almost hate to mention this, but isn’t there a possibility that Stanley Jenkins might be dead?” Sam said.

“That has crossed my mind, of course, and we’re checking up on it now, as we speak. I’ll bet he ain’t, though.” Roger finished off his hamburger and said, “Did you have any luck with Sara Hunt, by the way?”

Sam shrugged. “No, I didn’t learn a damn thing. She just didn’t live in Smithtown long enough to make oodles of friends, I reckon. Some of the people I talked to remembered her, but that was about the extent of it. I called Ann as well, but she told me that as far as she knows, Marsha hadn’t kept in touch with Sara since high school.”

“Actually, that’s good to know. Dave Bradley told us the same thing-that he was fairly certain Marsha hadn’t had any correspondence whatsoever with Sara all these years. Which would indicate that whatever connection there may have been between Marsha Bradley and Sara Hunt had been established back when we were all in high school. Mancuso has spoken to Sara’s parents of course, and they, too, have no knowledge of their daughter having been in contact with Marsha Bradley. In fact, they couldn’t even recall ever meeting Marsha Bradley when Sara was living here, so the girls must not have been too awfully close to one another.”

“That’s not surprising. Sara Hunt was always sort of a snobbish bitch, if you ask me. Ann couldn’t stand her, either. Not exactly Miss Popularity, as I recall.”

“Hell, maybe there isn’t any real pertinent connection between the two women; other than the simple fact that they had known each other in high school. We need to get more dope on Stanley Jenkins. That’s all there is to it.”

“I can give you a hand,” Sam offered.

“I’ll let you know on that,” Roger replied tentatively. “For the time being, it’s all pretty much going to be just routine police work. Besides that, you’re better off staying in the background for now. In fact, if Thompson finds out that we’ve had this little chat, he’ll blow a goddamn gasket.”

“I don’t know why he’s so fucking paranoid,” Sam retorted. ”Surely he knows that McNary censors practically everything I write, anyway, even if I were stupid enough to try and print anything about this investigation. Where’s the trust?”

“Thompson has a real problem with the press-you know that. And that’s why your boss is such a puppet. He sucks Thompson’s ass.”

Sam grinned. “You know, I’ve always wondered about those two. You don’t suppose they’ve got something going, do you?”

Roger guffawed. “Never gave it much thought. They would make a cute pair though, now that you’ve mentioned it.”

They both laughed as Roger picked up the check, surveyed it, and laid a tip down on the table. “I’ve got to head back to the station,” he said, standing up.

Sam let his friend pay the check and followed him out of the restaurant. When they were inside the Jeep, Roger said, “Where were you when I called, by the way? And don’t tell try and tell me that you were in the sack with some chick!”

Sam started the engine. “Actually, I was.”

Roger gaped at him. “No shit?”

Sam peered over at him and said, “You seem surprised-I’m not a fucking monk, you know!”

“You haven’t exactly been Joe Stud, either. So who, may I ask, was this babe? She must really be a fox to be able to get you to break down your self-imposed post-divorce virginity, I’d think.”

Sam backed out of the parking spot and onto the street.

“Ironically, the same fox who got me there in the first place,” he said.

“You’re shitting me! Shelley Hatcher?”

“The one and only,” was Sam’s reply.

“This, I’ve got to hear,” Roger stated with relish.

“Not much to say, really. Shelley dropped by the house last night at around two in the morning and said that she wanted to show me her portfolio. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew, we were rolling around on the floor. That’s about the extent of it.”

“Whoa, I’m stunned!”

“Gotta admit that I’m a little surprised myself. Besides the craziness of the whole thing, I actually enjoyed every minute of it.”

“Hell, who wouldn’t? Shelley Hatcher is a fucking knockout!”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Sam said. “I meant that I actually don’t have any regrets that it happened. No guilt-you know-Ann and all?”

“What’s there to be guilty about, for chrissakes? You aren’t married to Ann anymore. You’re free as a fucking bird. You shouldn’t feel guilty because you didn’t do anything wrong in the first place, you lucky son of a bitch. There just might be some hope for you yet!”

His friend’s encouragement was infectious. A grin came to his face as Sam said, “Well, I don’t exactly feel like going out and shooting myself, that’s for sure. Shelley Hatcher is actually a pretty decent girl-has a good head on her shoulders for a twenty-year-old living in this fucked up generation. Maybe I feel like I should feel guilty more for what Shelley Hatcher is: the girl who broke up my marriage.”

“Fuck that! That’s all water under the bridge, man!”

“I realize that; but at the same time I’m trying to look at it from Ann’s point of view. She’d shit a golden brick if she ever found out.”

“You worry too much, buddy. First of all, how in the hell could she find out? She’s a hundred miles away! And second of all, how do you know that Ann isn’t playing the field herself nowadays? Hell, maybe she’s actually decided to get on with life instead of living day to day in the past like your sorry ass has been doing. Ever think about that?”

Actually, he hadn’t. Ann had spoken very little about her personal life since moving to Columbus, he now realized. And he hadn’t exactly been pumping her for information in that regard either; probably because he knew that if Ann actually was going out with someone, he wouldn’t particularly want to know about it.