Primed to Kill

It gave him an idea. Manipulation was more her suit than his, but it was a way.

"Hon, I am going to the car. Stay here." He went to the garage, found the file on the rapist, and brought it to the table.

Josh inhaled. "The captain appreciated your prime theory about the rapist."

Why was he bringing that up? Was he trying to keep a semblance of control by bringing up work? Linda said nothing, but wondered.

"This is the file on the rapist. Look at the location of the murders, all the paperwork. See if you can figure where he will be next month when his next attack is due. Just look at it."

"NOW? You want me to study a case, NOW?" she asked. She was mystified. She'd done it before, studied a case. Once it lead to an apprehension. More often it did not.

"Yeah." Just that and no more. Had her affair not mattered, now that he thought about it? She could not understand. She was sure he loved her. Positively loved her. She saw the emotion and wondered that she cared for his pain rather than feeling any of her own.

"Are you okay, Josh?"

He shook his head. "I want to shoot you. I want to strangle you. I want to screw you--but I know you probably have him in you. I can't deal with you now. So you look at the file, and I'll get myself under control."

"I don't know if I can focus on paperwork..." Josh just looked at her as if he was going to commit one of the first two acts he'd listed.

"Okay, okay, I'll look," she agreed. She opened the file and started distributing pages around the table. Josh sat for a few minutes, considering her and the situation. He made another coffee, noticed his hand shaking, and watched his fingers open. He dropped the cup which shattered on the floor. Linda jumped a foot in her seat.

"Sorry, I'll clean it up, you keep looking." He used paper towels and a mop, but when he finished the floor felt sticky. He made another cup, and sat down watching her work.

Linda pushed sex and Perrino and Josh and marriage and all of it aside and looked harder at the file. Just another sudoku problem, she thought.

It was where the murders happened that stuck in her mind. She stared at the locations--there was something there. It was there. Something. Like when you see some moves ahead in chess and know you will win. She looked at the DNA reports, the dates, the color of the perp's hair (dark brown), 10 shoe size, probably a 16 neck (tag found beside one of the victims), nothing nothing nothing. Back to the map. Independence, Twain, East St. Louis, St. Louis, nowhere, Minnesota... She was about to dismiss that last but it stuck. No, what is that town, really? Wykoff. Nowhere, MN. A crossroads, probably. Why did he kill a girl from Wykoff? How did he meet her? There is nothing there, but Linda knew the name. Why did she know the name? She closed her eyes and concentrated on what she knew of rural Minnesota. It was a full minute when she got a picture of her dad rolling a strike.

Bowling alley. There's a bowling alley in Wykoff, actually part of a bar and grill. Her father played tournaments 20 years ago. He was a good bowler, but never won a big tournament. He'd driven up to Wykoff to a tournament, the last tournament before her mother left them. That's why she knew the name.

Oh, why had she screwed Perrino? He looked good. And he had no moral thing against fucking, that was sure. But he was a jerk, she knew, had known, and she had thought that an advantage. She knew her mind was wandering.

The case. Look at the case.

No, put them in the order of occurrence, all of them: Independence (South African white girl); Twain (Asian girl); Wykoff (librarian); St. Louis (sex toys); East St. Louis (Guinevere); Kansas City, Kansas (mature woman); Twain (gothic); Paducah, Kentucky (black girl).

Why two in Twain? There is a bridge here. A factory producing wood cabinets, panelling, pressboard. A flooring/panelling business. 35,000 people. Fast food. Two motels, she thought, and she grimaced, remembering both. Another small town across the river, with one motel.

Paducah? What's in Paducah?

Linda sat back and closed her eyes. Usually she could find connections in things. She seemed to be able to remember the minutiae that other people did not. She'd forget the army base outside a town but remember that they had 24 traffic lights, forget the hospital and remember the founder's history. For some reason she hooked things into memory better than other people, and worse. Her mom had been frustrated by her poor grades in school; she remembered almost everything others let go, but then associated strangely. She could finish any problem in arithmetic, but not like she was taught. She didn't add, she put things together and recounted. It made her slow but usually right. It was not a way to do well on a test--but the year they identified her problem, she'd gotten three of 11 problems correct. But she'd only done three.

She remembered Mom, and how Dad cried when he read her note. She wondered if Mom knew how she'd hurt him.

Much as Linda had just hurt Josh. But Josh was a tough guy, right? Linda had a clenching in her middle since Josh had sat her down, and as she looked at the back of her eyelids she realized it was either guilt or fear. Compassion, for Josh? Or something. She knew she'd hurt someone who did not deserve it. And she knew he'd never get over it. And in some way it mattered to her. That was strange.

There had been a purity to Josh's love for her. He wanted her in every way, every way that every other man wanted her and the way every woman wanted to be loved, too. Why had she played with that guy? Why didn't she care about the second part?

Paducah has a large wood panelling distribution center. A hub, for this part of the country, anyway. Twain had a large producer, and some subsidiary industries. Wykoff had nothing?

"I need my laptop," she said to Josh. Josh nodded. She was back in a minute, typing. Wykoff in Wikipedia: 444 people live there. It took her another minute and she pulled out her phone and called a number.

"Hello. I'm calling about the old bowling alley you have there? I can't find it online."

She listened for a bit. "When was that?"

She nodded. She wrote down a date. "What happened to the lanes?" Some time passed.

"Do you know who bought the wood?" she asked.

"Thanks. Is there any other business... No, sure. Thanks again."

"I think I'm getting it. Josh, I think I'm understanding..."

She saw he was thinking about them. "I'm so sorry. Really."

"I've supported you. You've stayed home to write and you've sold a few stories but...I've supported us," he said without focus, as if his world were crumbling. She realized it was. She'd feel bad about that sometime, she was sure.

"I wanted a family, but you kept putting it off to get that novel done. Now..." He shook his head.

He really did love her, she thought. Strange idea, that someone could love her. When did she stop loving him? Had she? Had she ever loved, really? When had she started thinking he was stupid? Why?

He roused himself. "So, tell me what you're thinking. About the rapist."

"I'm thinking he's involved in the wood business. Twain, Paducah--there are wood distribution centers, panelling factories and distributors. In Twain it's practically just the factory and the panel business, and the panel business is so much smaller. I think Wykoff caps it: I think he has something to do with redistributing bowling lanes. Wykoff only has 400 people in it, and some more in the surrounding area. Their victim was the library girl? She commuted to another town to work. Anyway, the month before the murder, their bowling alley was demolished. The lanes were sold off first--the lanes are very sought-after in some markets for replacement floors, wall panels, quality stuff. Very hardy. I need to look into Independence and KC yet, but I'm betting someone either bought the wood our guy was selling or he found some more wood for sale--another alley demolished, something like that. Maybe he checks up on installations. I'm guessing there's something in each place just before the murder. Job finished, he finds the girl, kills her, and moves on. He probably finds them in less secure places, places without cameras. If he sees a security setup, he just goes somewhere else."

She looked pensive. "Oh, he might use the library to find girls with the right name. Not sure but that might work. You might want to check here with the factory and panel businesses. They probably know him even if he doesn't work for them. Or have had contact."

"So do you have any conjecture as to where he might be going next month?"

"I'd guess he's doing a job in that town right now. So look for a bowling alley demo, or sale, or someone installing a specialty floor. And then look at the buyer/sellers. I'd bet he just hangs around after for a while. He does not want to be hasty. He knows all the evidence is piled up but you have no record of him."

"How's he just hang around? We've checked motels and got nothing."

"Maybe he has a camper. Lots of camping even near the cities. He'd not be obvious, hardly any problem registering--heck, some campgrounds are free and don't even have registration. Or tent camping in a national forest--free, again, and little control or registration. Or he could park in a Walmart lot by the trucks. Down a deserted dirt road. Anywhere."

She looked down. "Uh, I'm gonna go shower. Can we talk more, later? I am so, so sorry. Very." She knew those were the things to say, yes she did. She watched Hallmark Channel some.

"I'll bet you are," Josh said, looking right at her, feeling the pain, knowing she did not feel any.

She left the room and went up the stairs.

*

Josh had realized shortly after they were married that she did not feel like other women feel. It had taken him some months to realize she thought she had manipulated him into marriage. She did not think she needed him, she did not worry about losing him, she did not love him in any regular sense of the word.

She's a sociopath of some sort, he'd realized, and it explained the lack of emotion at emotional times. She'd taken the death of her father as a matter of fact, almost like she was not affected, as if it was of no matter. The man who devoted his whole adult life to raising her, who held her and was perhaps out of his element in trying to be father and mother to her. But who loved her in that pure and complete way fathers can love daughters. Perhaps that caused it--some sort of double bind, probably initiated by her mother's decampment.

He remembered her strange emotional distance another time. She'd called him once two years ago and said she was driving to the hospital, she was having a miscarriage. The child he'd wanted more than anything, that they'd delayed for years, lost. He arrived in her room before the operation, and she was sitting in bed reading a magazine. She was upset at the cramping, but nothing else seemed on her mind. Josh had kissed her, but that was that. She was light-hearted, even asked if he'd like to try a recipe listed on one page, sometime. They could try for a baby again, someday, but she'd get back on the pill when the doctors said. This was enough, for now. He remembered her another time being fascinated watching a linebacker break his leg on tv; it had made Josh sick to his stomach but she ran it back and forth a dozen times in slow motion.

He wondered why she'd married him. Did he remind her of Dad? Did it seem an easy way to get support while writing her novel? (Could a sociopath produce a novel with understanding of normal emotions?) Did honesty mean anything to her? Could she be faithful? Did he want to have children with someone who could not love in the normal sense? Is there principle in her? Morality?

Her personality was focussed. It was as if she'd seen how you should act, how you should feel in any situation, and then she acted that way. She was ingenuous, in many ways. It explained her willingness to spend nearly a decade working on a book he'd never seen, accepting his support as her due. She did not seem concerned about Perrino now at all, and her concern for Josh was minimal, as if she were going through the motions because she knew how she OUGHT to feel. Perhaps she feared losing Josh's support, which might mean she'd have to work. He knew she didn't love the other guy. Or any guy.

He knew it would not go away. He had wanted her to see a psychologist for years, but he did not know how to get her to go. Now he would give her an ultimatum: psychologist, psychiatrist, or divorce tomorrow. Perhaps it would not matter, in any case. He saw his marriage as a train wreck and the first car had just jumped the track. He slept in the spare room, the one he'd planned on fixing up for a child someday.

*

He contacted Twain Wood Building Products, the major employer in the town since the airplane factory shut its doors. He spoke with several of the marketing and production managers. Three of them identified the same person when he mentioned bowling lanes. The man was an independent supplier to homebuilders and rehabbers, buying bowling lanes, hiring people to carefully take one up and deliver it to the buyers. Some people loved that wood for their homes, and he had created a niche for himself. His name was Michael Juvenal, and he was not on any fingerprint database, DNA database, or any other Josh could find.

But they had a description, nondescriptly speaking. About five ten, slightly thin, wire rim glasses, dark brown hair parted on his right, dark eyes, right handed, (which they knew from the murders), wore black gym shoes in casual clothes, often a sport coat without a tie, short sleeve button down shirts in summer. One guy thought he drove a Mustang, another thought he drove a Dodge Charger. He checked the databases, and he had a car license plate in Missouri, a home address south of St. Louis, and a Mustang. He checked the home address and saw it on Google.

He next called the county engineers of the counties in which the murders had occurred. Homebuilding, remodelling, and bowling alley demolition all required permits. He found a bowling alley that was being torn down in a week not in one of those counties but in one across the river from Twain in Illinois. He contacted the sheriff of Pike County to get his opinion.

"Sheriff Jones, I'm Josh Mitchell, a detective over here in Twain."

"What can I do for you, Josh?" The sheriff of a small county probably did not have a lot of deputies, so Josh was happy to deal with the head guy.

"I'm working on the serial rape-murderer. I have a conjecture."

"Yeah. A lead? We haven't had an incident over here, but are you projecting?"

"I have no proof, no solid evidence. But, you have a bowling alley coming down in a week or two."

"Yeah, you think it's connected?" the sheriff asked.

"Yeah, I have a...consultant...who thinks the guy might be involved in buying and selling used flooring from bowling alleys. I have a name, a guy named Michael Juvenal, who might be buying the flooring over there. I'd like to come over and see if he's around. He's not in any of the usual databases. I can't even find an address nearby."

"Mike Juvenal. Never heard of him. Why don't you come over and we'll run up there. It's out of town at a little crossroads. I don't think they've started on it yet, permits just went out."

"I'll be there first thing in the morning."

"Hey, uh, Josh? The consultant is your wife, huh?"

Busted. It's not that unusual for a wife to give her detective husband advice. "Yeah. She's good at getting over roadblocks."

"Bring her along, if you'd like."

"Not sure that's a good idea," Josh said.

"Up to you."

Josh headed home and found Linda at her computer at the kitchen table, writing away. He wondered if she really was trying to write a novel. "Hi, Honey," she said.

He sat down and said, "Linda, I've decided something. I am willing to stick with our marriage a little longer, as long as you pay steady visits to a psychologist or psychiatrist. Beginning as soon as we can make an appointment."

"You mean a marriage counselor, right?" she said.

"Not really. I mean a psychologist or psychiatrist. If one specializes in marital issues too, that would be okay. But I want you to see one about you."

She was fuming. "You asshole! You think I had an affair because I'm crazy???"

"No, I think you're a sociopath."

Which brought her to a sudden stop, because she could see the symptoms in herself. She knew she didn't feel like other people. And she was smart in unusual ways; other people would feel sad now, she would think. Other people would feel glad now, she'd know.

Josh went on, "Take it or leave it. I need to know if you can be lived with. I needed your fidelity. I need it again, all the time. You are the most beautiful woman around, men will continue to hit on you. I need to know if you can be trusted. Ever. If you do not agree to these terms today, I will see a lawyer and file for divorce. Tomorrow."

She did not like the ultimatum, but agreement would at least delay the end of the gravy train, so she assented. I gave her a list of five psychologists/psychiatrists. She looked them up on the internet and chose a woman. Josh called immediately and made the appointment for two days from then, for both of them, in the morning.

"Uh, Linda, I'd like you to go with me tomorrow. To work. I'm heading across the river to Pike County, where a bowling alley is being torn down in a week. Sheriff actually suggested you might come along. Maybe you'll have some insight."

She was startled.

Josh said, "Except for bringing home some cases for you to give me a new idea, I've kept the job strictly mine. I don't know if the department has a policy against this sort of thing, but since I am checking out your theory and you might gain some insight, I decided to just do it and suffer any consequences. If you'll come."

"I'll do it. It might be a gas."

Josh wondered if she had an ulterior motive.

They drove across the Twain TransMississippi Bridge at 7 the next morning. At 7:45 they were in Sheriff Jones's office, sipping Starbuck's coffee and discussing the case. Sheriff Jones (call me Terry, please, when he saw Linda) felt that Juvenal might show up at the alley, but was more likely to make his deal at the offices of the real estate dealer, a guy named Bob Jones who just happened to be the sheriff's brother. "Called Bob last night, to find out who the realtor was, and he said it was him. He's coming by in a few minutes to discuss possible buyers. He says he has been contacted about selling the wood, but he didn't remember the guy's name. He has his card, though."

"We don't get over here very much," Linda said, avoiding the fact she'd been in the Elegant Rooms a day ago, "so tell us: where would a guy go to find a murder victim?"

Jones considered. "There are some bars. A dance club that'll let anyone in most nights. Restaurants. Lots of churches." Josh hadn't thought of churches.

Josh said, "We believe the next attack will be next month--if he follows the pattern we've distinguished. Usually about a week after his business is concluded. We also think he is likely to find a girl with a name starting with S. First name. We conjecture that he uses the work locale to find the victim, decide on the tactic, and then either stalk her or set his plan in motion. He has killed in their homes, usually. The one was in an abandoned building in a woods."

Linda spoke up. "I think he likely finds them in bars. All the other victims were known to visit bars in the weeks before their murders. Even Wykoff, the librarian, she actually lived above a bar, although she rarely went in it."

"You know," Josh said, "which bar is he most likely to visit if he's as unfamiliar with Pike as we are, and his business is at the realty office and the bowling alley?"