Scott Wittenburg - The May Day Murders

A disguise? he thought. Was it possible that Stanley had somehow transformed himself into a totally different looking person? So goddamn different that no one could even suspect that he was one in the same person?

How could he? It would be impossible!

Wouldn’t it?

What about Michael Jackson? Sam thought. He’d had so many plastic surgeries that he no longer resembled his former self.

Plastic surgery.

What if somebody wanted to drastically alter his appearance through plastic surgery? A person who had access to a large sum of money and an agenda that warranted such a drastic change? A person who could go even further and work out in a gym, pump himself up, color his hair, etc. etc.

Certainly not impossible…

One thing at a time.

Sam began dialing the number for the station again when he noticed the blinking light on his answering machine. He nervously pressed the button for playback as he continued dialing.

“Yo, buddy,” Roger Hagstrom’s voice blared out. “I’m back in town. The trail in L.A. was cold as ice so I came back here. I miss those California babes already! Found out some damn interesting shit about our man, though. Call me at the station if you get home before six-otherwise, call me at home.”

The desk sergeant came over the phone.

“Detective Hagstrom,” Sam said.

Sam tapped his fingers nervously as he waited for his friend to get on the line.

“Hagstrom.”

“Have you got the Polaroid they found at the Bradley house handy?”

“Yeah, it’s around here somewhere. What’s up?”

“Find that print and I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Wait, Bucko! You mind telling me what you’re up to?”

“I’ll tell you when I get there. All I can say is if I’m right about this, and I hope to hell that I’m not, we’ve got to get our asses into gear!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Roger said.

“Just find that Polaroid, Rog. I’ll see you in a few.”

He hung up and dialed Ann’s number.

“ This is a recording. The number you have dialed…”

Fuck!

Sam reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet and located his ex-wife’s new unpublished phone number. He dialed the number and let it ring a dozen times before slamming down the receiver.

She’s in the country with Rankin! he suddenly recalled.

Or should he say, with Stanley Jenkins?

Amy was most likely at a friend’s house, he could only pray.

Feeling like he was moving in slow motion, Sam grabbed the Polaroid and sprinted toward the front door before stopping himself halfway Fingerprints!

Although the Polaroid no doubt was already peppered with his own prints and Amy’s as well, there was still the slim chance that Rankin’s prints would still be distinguishable. Sam grasped the print by the edges, went into the kitchen and found a ziplock bag. He carefully dropped the print into the bag, sealed it and made his way out of the house.

As he tore out of his driveway, Sam could feel his heart pounding in his chest. As much as he prayed that he was wrong about all of this, he had the unsettling feeling that he wasn’t and there was good reason for it. If Jerry Rankin were indeed Stanley Jenkins, it would explain a lot of things-the most obvious being why the son of a bitch hadn’t been identified by a single solitary soul in all of this time. Because Stanley Jenkins no longer looked at all like Stanley Jenkins! He had somehow managed to transform himself into and entirely different person-that person being Jerry Rankin.

The same bastard who had just happened to magically show up in Ann’s life at around the same time that Marsha Bradley had been murdered. His disguise was apparently so flawless that Ann didn’t have the slightest suspicion that Rankin could be Jenkins!

But the $50,000 question was why? Why was Rankin/Jenkins dating his ex-wife? What could be the reason for it? If he wanted to murder her, why would he go through all of this rigmarole instead of simply doing as he had with Marsha Bradley and Sara Hunt?

Sam had no idea. It made no sense whatsoever. In fact, it made even less sense the more he thought about it.

He pulled out onto the highway and floored the accelerator. Within a mile he was doing over seventy-five and didn’t give a shit. One solitary thought played over and over in his mind as he sped toward Smithtown:

Ann is alone in the country with a murderer and the bastard is going to kill her…

Ann couldn’t help but smile to herself as she caught Jerry glancing down at her legs yet again. A week ago this would have made her feel uncomfortable or perhaps even paranoid. But she realized now how absolutely puritanical it had been of her to get upset over something so trivial and she knew that Karen, as usual, had been right all along. Men are going to stare at you from time to time and it’s certainly nothing to get all up in arms over. Besides the fact that Jerry Rankin was a gentleman and someone she could trust, she’d also discovered that she actually enjoyed teasing him just a little bit. It was nice having a man admire her every once in awhile-it made her feel younger and more appreciated.

The white knit mini dress she was wearing could easily have fit into the fashion scene twenty years ago, in fact, she could recall having one much like it back when she was in high school. Jerry had gone bonkers when he had come by to pick her up and first saw her in it and she realized now that although jeans and a sweater may have been more appropriate for a drive though the country on a chilly fall day, she liked the way the dress made her feel almost like she was a schoolgirl again.

“Are you warm enough?” Jerry asked. “I can crank up the heat a bit if you’d like.”

Ann looked over at him. “No, I’m fine. The scenery sure is gorgeous, isn’t it?”

Jerry glanced out the driver’s side window and replied, “It certainly is. It starts getting much hillier the closer we get to Hocking County. It will be even more breathtaking there.”

“How much longer until then?”

“About twenty minutes or so.”

Ann stared out the window and sighed to herself. She hadn’t felt this content in a long while and she knew she had Jerry Rankin to thank for it. After the incident the night before with Larry Underwood, she’d since wondered how she would ever have handled it if Jerry hadn’t been there. If it weren’t for him, in fact, the Underwood boy would never have been caught in the first place and God only knew what else could have happened.

But her greatest relief was just knowing that she and Amy were safe now-no more worrying about strange noises out in the yard or obscene phone calls in the middle of the night. She had already convinced herself that Larry Underwood had also been the obscene phone caller even though he had denied it. After all, it was just a little too coincidental that the calls started at around the same time that she had thought she’d heard him prowling around in the backyard. She also felt that the calls had seemed to be directed at Amy and not herself, because whenever she had answered the phone, the caller had hung up on her once he realized it wasn’t Amy on the other end. With the exception of the night Jerry had been over when he had called, that is. And that, Ann believed, had been a fluke-most likely because Larry had mistaken her voice for her daughter’s.

What a scary young man, she thought to herself with a shiver.

She was very proud of Amy right now-she had managed somehow to still have a great time at the dance in spite of last night’s nightmarish incident. Plus, she had come home on time-well, only a half hour late-and it appeared that she had behaved herself as well. She had been intoxicated in a sense, but not from alcohol or drugs. Instead, she appeared to be on a natural emotional high from the apparent good time she’d had with Jason on her very first real date. As it turned out, Jason ended up being a very nice, responsible young man and Ann was certainly thankful for that.