Scott Wittenburg - The May Day Murders

“Good point, Sam,” Roger said. “All of the bedrooms upstairs have windows facing the cul-de-sac. Not to mention that they were covered by sheer curtains if I remember correctly.”

“What about the living room?” Thompson asked. “We’re assuming that he photographed Marsha’s body after he strangled her, and those windows face the front of the house as well.”

Roger said, “Yeah, but they were covered by heavy drapes, which were drawn the night of the murder. You know, another thought just occurred to me. We now know that Stanley went back into Tommy’s bedroom after he murdered Marsha since this print was found there. The question that suddenly comes to mind is why? ”

“Excuse me for asking, but what difference does any of this make?” Sam asked. “You already know that Stanley did it so why the big mystery about this Polaroid?”

Thompson replied, “Let me explain something about police procedure, Sam. Yes, we now know that Stanley committed the murder, or murders, I should say. But we still have to find the sonofabitch and build a case against him. In order to do this, we’ve got to investigate everything we have on hand to establish among other things motive and opportunity as well as try to get an idea where he may have gone from here. This Polaroid is important to the case because we now know, thanks to your expertise, that he owns a particular model of Polaroid camera that uses what I assume would be a relatively uncommon type of film-it surely must be uncommon if they no longer make the camera that uses it. We can now attempt to trace where he bought the film for the camera by checking out any stores that carry that particular type of film and show Stanley’s picture to the store employees in the process. Maybe someone will remember his face. This information could lead to his whereabouts prior to and possibly after the crime was committed. At least we have something to go on now.”

The Chief took a sip of his coffee and added, “It’s been nearly a month since Marsha Bradley’s murder. Jenkins could be anywhere now-hell, Timbuktu for all we know. And he’s already proven to us that he knows how to lay low. He’s somehow managed to disappear completely out of sight for fifteen years, for chrissakes! We now have an APB out on him but that’s not going to be enough. In order to nail the bastard we’re going to have to be smarter than him-piece the puzzle together and determine what his next move is going to be. This fucker is crafty-sly as a fox-and he’s going to slip away from us for good if we don’t start getting a handle on what in the hell he’s up to here. Are you beginning to catch my drift?”

Sam nodded. Again, he was starkly reminded of the fact that he was a journalist and not a cop. “What about the press?”

Thompson smiled. “I was wondering when you were going to ask that. That’s the other reason why I invited you here.”

Chief Thompson pulled out a document from a manila file folder on the desk and handed it to Sam. “This is a computer enhanced photo composite of what Stanley Jenkins may look like now. Write a follow-up story and put this photo along side it, Sam. We’d like to see it in the paper ASAP. Detective Hagstrom will tell you what you can and cannot divulge in the article. There’s obviously a few things we’d like to keep to ourselves for now, as you can probably imagine.”

Sam looked at the document. It was impressive-effectively depicting what Stanley Jenkins might look like today after having aged twenty or so years. In the top photo, he was shown with long dark hair, glasses and a beard. In the bottom photo, short hair, no glasses and clean-shaven.

Sam said, “I assume you’ve cleared all of this with McNary.”

“Yes, I have. I told him to give you carte blanche, but I’m trusting you not to include whatever Lieutenant Hagstrom orders you to omit.”

“Fair enough,” Sam said. He turned to Roger. “What about New York? Have you talked with Mancuso about these latest developments?”

Roger nodded. “I’ve filled him in. We’re also in the process of issuing a press release to the AP.”

“This is pretty damn big, Sam,” Thompson declared. “There’s a serial killer loose who we know so far has committed two murders in two different states within as many weeks. That pretty much makes this more than just a local problem. And believe it or not, we want media exposure on these cases. It may make Jenkins think twice before striking again anytime soon, and buy us some time to nail him in the meantime.”

He glanced at the wall clock then looked over at Detective Roger Hagstrom. “I’ve got to go out and brief those men now. Why don’t you go over the press release with Sam, quickly I might add, so we can get cracking on this thing.”

Okay, Chief.”

Thompson shook Sam’s hand. “Thanks, Sam. Keep this man in line, okay? He’s a damn good detective when he’s not drowning himself in a bottle of scotch.”

Sam saw Roger scowl out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t worry about Roger, Chief. He’s got things under control.”

Thompson grunted, then turned and left the office.

“He’s a bigger drunk than I am,” Roger quipped as he warmed up his coffee. “Let’s go to my office where we can smoke.”

Sam followed Roger Hagstrom to his office. The two lit up cigarettes and sat down at the desk.

“Damn, I’m beat,” Roger complained. “I got a grand total of three hours’ sleep last night. And that’s the most I’ve had in as many days.”

“Life’s a bitch, eh? But at least you’re getting somewhere on this case.”

Hagstrom nodded. “True. And when it’s finally over I’m going on the biggest drunk you can imagine.”

“I’ve seen your drunks, Rog, and the scary thing is I can imagine!”

“This one may surprise even your sorry ass!”

The detective took a drag and gulped his coffee before slumping back in his chair.

“At any rate, here’s the scoop. I was actually able to contact Stanley’s mother again earlier today-saving me a trip to Cincinnati, thank God-and leaned on her big time before she could start trying to snow job me again like she had during our last conversation. I promptly informed her that withholding information in a murder investigation could get her in serious trouble. She of course was taken aback by the word, ‘murder’ and asked me if Stanley was in some kind of trouble. I told her that he could be and her attitude changed dramatically. She mumbled something like, ‘money is the root of all evil,’ and I asked her what she meant by that. She told me that at one time Stanley was loaded and that ‘all of that money probably went to his head.’ Apparently, when his father died, Stanley cashed in on a small fortune as a result of Mr. Jenkins’ generous life insurance policy. This was not long after Stanley had been released form the state hospital.

“Then, to put it simply, Stanley took the money and ran-left home. He didn’t tell his mother where he was going, only that he was ‘finally going to get himself straightened out.’” For months, his mother never heard a word from Stanley. Until a nearly a year later that is, as I told you before.”

“When she received the postcard from Vegas?”

“Not a postcard after all, but a letter. She had lied to me before about that. It was a letter that came with a cashier’s check for $25,000 made out to Stanley’s mother. She read the letter to me over the phone. It said something like ‘here’s a little money to help you out, Mom. I struck it big on the tables and I’m heading to L.A. to spend it. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine, but I’ll be even better once I put this money to good use.’”

“Hmm. I wonder what he meant by “putting this money to good use?” Sam said.