Chuck Hustmyre - A Killer Like Me

Back in the Homicide office, Murphy stacked the six divorce files in the center of his desk. He opened the top file and started reading. He planned to go through each one, reading every document line by line. There had to be something he had missed.

Murphy was just opening the second file when the steel back door to the Homicide office banged open. He couldn’t see the outer door from his desk, but he heard the clang through the open squad-room door. He also heard the sound of boots rushing through the outer office. Seconds later, Doggs and Calumet burst into the squad room.

“We got him!” Joey Dagalotto said. He was carrying a folded computer printout in his hand. “We got the son of a bitch.”

Murphy felt his heart dive into his stomach. With conscious effort, he plastered a smile across his face. “Tell me.”

Calumet was carrying a brown accordion file folder. “We don’t actually have him. Not yet, but we think we know where he lives.”

After taking a deep breath, Murphy said, “Where?”

“In Mid-City,” Doggs said. “On South Saint Patrick Street.”

Murphy knew exactly where South Saint Patrick was. A few years ago his mother had gotten mad at her priest, and for months she had insisted that Murphy take her to Sunday Mass at Saint Anthony’s at Canal Street and South Saint Patrick. It was less than a mile from the Homicide office.

“You got a name?” Murphy asked.

“Richard Lee Jeffries,” Calumet said as he pulled a black-and-white blowup of a driver’s license from the folder and laid it on Murphy’s desk. The picture showed a thin, sallow-faced man in his late twenties or early thirties, with light-colored hair and dark eyes. He had a scar above his right eyebrow, just like the man the Lucky Dog vendor had seen running from the Red Door Lounge fire.

“What have you got on him?” Murphy said, feeling that if his heart sank any lower into his bowels he was going to have to go to the bathroom and crap it out.

Doggs unfolded the printout and read from it. It was a rap sheet. “White male, age thirty. One arrest, booked five years ago for obscenity.” The detective looked up at Murphy. “He wasn’t convicted and he got the charge expunged, but it was never cleared out of MOTION. We pulled a hard copy of the report from records. Someone spotted him jerking off in his car outside an elementary school. He was so busy pulling his pud that he didn’t see the cops roll up, and they caught him with his dick still in his hand.”

“You tracked him from the tire tread?” Murphy said.

Both detectives nodded.

“His mother bought them,” Calumet said as he flipped through a slim police notebook. “Mildred Jeffries, age fifty-eight, lives at one twenty-seven South Saint Patrick. Four months ago she had a set of Aquatred Threes put on a gray Honda Civic. Registration on the car comes back to her at that address. We ran the address, like you said, and came up with an ID on her son.”

Doggs was jumpy, eager to talk. “We went by the house. It’s a double. We knocked on both doors but no one answered. There was no car in the driveway, but fresh oil on the concrete indicates someone usually parks there.”

Murphy took a couple more deep breaths to calm down. “So all you’ve got so far is a weenie wagger whose mother bought a set of tires four months ago.”

The two young detectives looked as if Murphy had just handed them shit for a snack. Calumet spoke up. “He works at the clerk of court’s office, and the killer’s last two victims were recently divorced. We figure he might be using the clerk’s divorce records to select his victims.”

Murphy’s stomach dropped into the basement. These kids were good. The police department didn’t even have access to a database that showed where someone worked. “How do you know he works at the clerk’s office?”

“A buddy of mine in the Warrant Division dates a girl at the Police Foundation,” Calumet said. “He called her and got her to run Jeffries through the foundation’s computer system. They subscribe to a bunch of commercial databases that can pull up all kinds of information on people: places of employment, magazine subscriptions, professional licenses, real-estate holdings. She was on the road evacuating, but she pulled over and ran it on her laptop through a wireless Internet connection.”

Leave it to NOPD, Murphy thought, to have less access to computerized records than the civilian-run Police Foundation. He knew he had to get control of this situation. Left on their own, Doggs and Calumet would probably have Jeffries in custody within the next hour.

“Just because he works at the clerk’s office,” Murphy said, “and his mom bought a set of tires doesn’t make him the Lamb of God.”

“But you think he’s worth checking out, right?” Doggs said.

Of course I do. Which is why I have to find him first.

Murphy nodded. “Absolutely. You guys did a great job. Just don’t be surprised if your first suspect doesn’t pan out.”

“What about getting a search warrant for his house?” Calumet said.

“The city is under a mandatory evacuation order,” Murphy said. “Where are you going to find a judge?”

“I don’t know,” Calumet said, “but we’ve got to do something. I’ll go in without a warrant if I have to.”

That was the exact right answer, and Murphy knew it. In a kidnapping case like this, where there was a chance to save the victim’s life, exigent circumstances trumped the Fourth Amendment requirement for a search warrant. Fortunately, Calumet and his partner were too green to be sure of that. Murphy was the seasoned veteran.

“This is a death-penalty case,” Murphy said. “Ten years from now everything you do today is going to wind up at the U.S. Supreme Court. You’ve got to go by the book on this one.”

“He might have the mayor’s daughter in that house,” Calumet said.

Murphy shook his head, knowing he had to downplay the exigency of the situation. “I doubt it.”

The two detectives looked at each other, then back at Murphy. “Why?” Doggs said.

“He only held one victim, and that was just long enough to set up his video camera and cut off her head. The mayor’s daughter has been missing for almost forty-eight hours. She’s dead. We just haven’t found her body yet.”

“So what do we do?” Doggs said.

Murphy needed to keep them busy and out of his way. “We’ll try to get a search warrant. Type up an affidavit with a summary of all ten murders we suspect him of. Leave off the arson. Wrap it up with the letters to the newspaper, the finger, which we know came from the victim under the overpass, and the mayor’s daughter. Mention the videos. And make sure you include the cause of death and the physical evidence from each scene to prove that we can link them. Then write up a brief biography of your suspect… what’s his name?”

“Richard Lee Jeffries,” Calumet said.

Murphy nodded. “Jeffries, right. Make sure you explain how you came up with the tire information. Everything hinges on linking Jefferies to the tire track.”

Doggs and Calumet were both nodding, but Murphy could tell they thought he was overreaching. And they were right. For a search warrant, all they needed to do was tie Jeffries to one murder. The rest could come later.

“Look,” Murphy said, “I know you guys probably think all this paperwork is bullshit, but one day your affidavit is going to get an anal exam from a bunch of highly motivated, very skilled, pro bono, anti-death-penalty lawyers who have had months to study it. If there’s a single flaw in it, they’ll find it. It’s called attacking the four corners. You’re not getting a warrant for a chop shop, looking for a couple of stolen Chevys.”