Worth Killing For Read online

  “Maybe we should tell someone else, like a teacher. They could help us,” Julia said.

  “Anyone who comes down from the school is going to call social services or the police,” Ben said. “They’ll see Daddy has a record, and if they show up and we’re alone, or if Mom is passed out drunk, they’ll put us all in foster care. They’ll split us up and I won’t be able to take care of you. I need to make sure we stick together.”

  “What are we going to do?” Julia asked.

  “I’m not sure. But we’re going to be all right. I don’t know how, but we will.”

  Julia needed to find her center, so she reached into her bag and eased out her wallet, finding her safe place, two small pictures she carried with her always.

  The first photo, now a small, weathered square, was Ben’s fourth-grade school picture, the one police had used in his missing person’s photo. In the picture, Ben’s jet-black hair was shiny and his large, dark eyes turned up on the ends, just like their mother’s had. Ben smiled with an air of confidence in the picture, even though he and the rest of the Gooden family were dirt-poor back then, despite Duke’s big dreams. Julia felt her face flush in embarrassment as she recalled how everyone in Sparrow seemed to know her mom bought her and Ben the cheapest of cheap sneakers at the A&P grocery store when the Goodens could afford it.

  The second photo was one she had taken of her two sons at the beginning of the summer during a getaway to Lake Huron. Logan was trying to smile in the photo, but every mother knows her child’s true face. Julia recognized the trace of hurt still lingering in Logan’s expression, even though Julia knew he was trying to be the good boy, and not show the hurt he was feeling inside over the loss of his father.

  Most people thought Logan looked like Julia, but Julia knew her oldest son was a dead ringer for Ben. In contrast, her three-year-old son, Will, was blond and fair, taking after David. Julia allowed herself to feel the tender ache of residual memory of her and Ben as she looked on lovingly at the picture of her two boys. Logan had his arm around Will’s waist in the photo, her oldest son already understanding his lifetime responsibility to watch out for his younger brother.

  A fierce sense of protectiveness almost overwhelmed Julia as she took in the image of her little boys. In the past, Julia had fought to the death for her children, and she knew she’d do it again, over and over, as long as they would be safe. How Duke and Marjorie Gooden could carelessly abandon their own flesh and blood like they were worthless pieces of trash, especially after Ben was abducted, would never be anything Julia could ever understand, let alone forgive.

  Julia slid the pictures back into her wallet and reached for her tape recorder and old-school reporter’s notebook. It was go time, whether she was ready or not.

  The crime scene was cordoned off in a large, deep square. Julia had purposely parked on the other side of the large lot, away from the majority of the cop cars that were parked along Gilbo Avenue. She’d worked the crime beat long enough to know most of the players, but some of the newer cops who felt like they had something to prove would likely block her from entering the crime scene, while the veterans usually let her in, at least momentarily.

  Dry weeds from a rainless summer scratched against Julia’s calves as she picked her way under the yellow tape and followed what looked like a man-made path toward the far end of the lot, where Angel Perez’s body likely lay.

  Six cops stood in the near distance, a few were huddled over the body, and another small group was gathered around Chief John Linderman, who was impossible to miss with his bright red hair and physique that could intimidate Andre the Giant. Navarro was on the periphery of the group talking to a medical examiner from the coroner’s office.

  Linderman, still a street cop at heart, made Julia in an instant and signaled with a slight nod of his head for one of the officers in the huddle to go deal with her.

  Linderman’s pick, Navarro’s partner, Detective Leroy Russell, approached Julia and greeted her by tapping a finger against his watch. Russell was in his early fifties and had worn a Mr. Clean buzz cut since Julia had first met Russell some twelve years earlier.

  “I was wondering when you were going to show. I was given orders to keep the looky-loos and the press out, but Linderman says if you have a specific question, he’ll talk to you, but you need to make it quick before the media vultures get here, you not included, of course.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “You okay, Julia? You look kind of, what’s the word my mom used to say? Peaked. That’s it. Your kids all right?”

  “Everyone is fine,” Julia answered, and switched gears so Russell wouldn’t pry any further. “Have I told you how happy I am that you’re back at work?”

  “I cut my medical leave short. I had no choice. Ray would have gotten his ass shot out on the street without me. How are you and my partner doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Julia. I’ve known for a while. Ray didn’t tell me, if that’s what you’re thinking. The guy is smiling all the time now, and he’s usually a sullen, brooding bastard, even on his best days. The only time I’ve ever seen him this happy was when the two of you were first together when we were all kids. Okay, when you and Ray were kids.”

  “Ray and I are just friends.”

  “It’s me you’re talking to here.”

  “You’re a bad liar, Russell. Did Navarro say something to you?”

  “Ray didn’t tell me. I swear. I saw you guys a couple of months ago outside of Ray’s building after I’d gotten out of the hospital. I thought I’d surprise Ray and take him out to dinner for saving my life in the Packard Plant. I pulled up across the street from Ray’s place just as the two of you came out. I saw Ray walk you to your car, and he didn’t exactly give you a kiss like he’d give his cousin, if you know what I mean.”

  “Mouth shut on this, Russell. I’m asking you as a friend. My kids have been through a lot, and I don’t want the word to get out before I tell them first.”

  “You got it. I’m happy for you guys.”

  “There’s a dead man over there. Let’s shelve the conversation about my personal life, okay?”

  “Just trying to lighten the mood. Crime scenes are kind of a downer, in case you haven’t noticed, and we’re going to be here for a while.”

  “Do you have a profile on the killer yet?” Julia asked.

  Russell looked over his shoulder at the chief.

  “Let’s walk and talk. Make it fast.”

  “I understand there have been other victims killed with a bow and arrow, but this is the first one in a long time. Is this a copycat, or do the police think the killer came out of hibernation?”

  “We don’t know for sure. Linderman says there were three people who died the same way, all male. The first body was found around thirty years ago.”

  “There was nothing about this in the press. I checked on the way over here. Not one story. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. Ask Linderman. He was working patrol when the first body was found. Corporal Stanger jogged the chief’s memory when we got the call about Perez’s body. Same type of kill like the one he saw when he was starting out on patrol.”

  The two walked in silence as they approached the body of Angel Perez, who was lying on his back, facing the sky. Angel’s eyes were open wide, as if still chronicling the horror of the last moments of his life. His hands were curled into clawlike fists and lay posed in a crisscross fashion over his stomach. A thick patch of dried vomit caked the right side of his face, and Angel’s T-shirt was stained red, the darkest bloom coming from the area surrounding the left part of his chest.

  “Run-DMC. They played the Palace last summer,” Russell said.

  Linderman shot his detective a look and then gave Julia a slight nod of recognition.

  “Miss Gooden. You seem to be under the impression that you’re an honorary member of the Detroit Police Department,” Linderman said. The chief wore one of his trademark suits
. This one was dark blue and was undoubtedly soaking up the scorching sun. But the elements didn’t matter. Linderman always made it a point to dress the part of the boss, lest anyone forget.

  “Not at all, sir. I’m just trying to figure out what happened to Mr. Perez,” Julia answered.

  “That’s our job. You’re not allowed here, Julia. You know that. But if you’ve got a question, ask it now,” Linderman said, and motioned for Julia to follow him, away from his officers and the unobstructed view from Gilbo Avenue, in case another member of the press showed up and caught Linderman possibly giving the scoop to the competition.

  “I understand this may be the work of a serial killer who’s been dormant for a while. Is that right?” Julia asked.

  “I’m not going to bother asking who your source is on this. But what I will ask is that you wait to write anything about a possible serial killer angle until after Councilman Sanchez’s press conference.”

  “I can’t do that, Chief.”

  “I’m not a fan of bargaining over a dead man, but I’ll give you something if you hold off. Edgar is a mess about his nephew. Angel’s girlfriend is pregnant, and that boy had a bright future ahead of him. He was about to graduate from community college next month, and then he was going to work for Edgar in City Hall. It’s a damn tragedy for that family. I gave Edgar my word I’d try my best to keep the possible connection to the other victims away from the media until he had the chance to do the press conference. Edgar wants the killer found, no doubt, but he doesn’t want the memory of his nephew to get lost in the ‘serial killer on the loose again’ headlines that you people are going to run.”

  “I don’t want to disrespect the victim or his family, but you and I both know how this works. If I know something and don’t write it, and I get beat by the competition, I’ll have hell to pay. I need something more than that.”

  “You hold off until Edgar gets his chance to memorialize his nephew to the public, you’ll be the one breaking the story. I’ll make sure none of my guys leak it. You have my word. You can use me as an unnamed, high-ranking source in the department, and I’ll fill in some of the blanks. Deal?”

  “I’m trusting you that the story won’t get out,” Julia conceded. “What do you know about the killer?”

  “Right now, we think it could be the same person who killed three other victims spanning over several decades. It was a good call by one of our corporals who put it together. Granted, it’s been a long lapse between the last killing and Angel Perez, but I’ve seen almost every way a person can be murdered, and I can safely say a bow and arrow is not a typical way to kill someone as a preferred method.”

  “You think the person who did this is a hunter? There are plenty of people in Michigan who bow hunt.”

  “Whatever he is, he’s an expert. To kill a person with an arrow and hit them in about exactly the same spot in the chest each time takes remarkable skill and practice. The big link will be what we find in Mr. Perez’s toxicology report.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Not that the victims took willingly. The other three victims all had traces of arsenic and Rohypnol in their systems.”

  “Rohypnol. That’s better known as ‘roofie,’ right?”

  “The one and only. The date rape drug.”

  “You think the victims met the killer in a bar?”

  “I’m not sure with Mr. Perez. But it’s highly unlikely with the other victims.”

  “When was the first man found?”

  “Not a man. It was a teenage boy. Vietnamese kid. Back in the summer around thirty years ago, my partner and I were on patrol and took a call about a really foul smell coming from a Dumpster behind the old Tiger Stadium. We found the kid. He was maybe fourteen years old. We were never able to get an ID on him. We didn’t have the missing persons’ databases that we have today, but my partner and I searched everywhere. The Vietnamese community here is pretty tight, but no one knew the kid.”

  “So someone local is lying to cover it up, or the victim is from somewhere else.”

  “That was our theory back then. Two years after the Vietnamese kid, we found another body. This time the male was a little older, seventeen and small, like Perez and the first victim. His name was Jackie Morgan and he was a runaway. His mom was a crackhead and was too stoned to report her own son missing.”

  “You said there was a third victim.”

  “That’s the first long break. Another victim was found in ninety-eight. Stephen Johnson. He was a male prostitute. His body was found dumped in an abandoned lot in Highland Park. Same cause of death, same type of vic, small guy, dark hair.”

  “The media never picked this up. Three killings, the victims murdered in a ceremonial style with a bow and arrow, and no word gets out to the public that there may be a serial killer on the loose in Detroit? If the victims were related to a city councilman or the CEO of Ford, is that the only way they’d be worth a story?”

  “There was press coverage, but only news briefs that ran about the three victims. The chief at the time didn’t want the bow-and-arrow information out there because he didn’t want to give the killer any glory that might fuel him to kill again.”

  “I don’t buy that. You need to let the public know.”

  “Nothing was covered up here by the department, and I don’t want that angle coming out.”

  Julia didn’t respond to the chief’s veiled threat, because if she found out there was a cover-up in the department for any reason, she wouldn’t hold back.

  “Like you said, the time between when the male prostitute was killed and now Angel Perez, that’s a long time,” Julia said.

  “Off the record, we’re looking at guys who served lengthy sentences for other crimes who may have been popped loose recently.”

  “So the cops catch the killer for something else, the killings stop for all these years because he’s in jail, and Angel Perez gets murdered because the guy is finally free to start up again?”

  “It’s a theory,” Linderman said.

  Navarro broke from the medical examiner and made a beeline in Julia’s direction. Julia felt a small strum go off inside her, not because she was worried about dealing with Navarro in a professional setting. They’d worked together for years, both as a couple in the early days and then later as friends, and never had they once crossed a professional boundary. Julia’s internal reaction over seeing Navarro was completely visceral. After more than twelve years of knowing him, Navarro still had a way of making Julia feel like a high-school girl head over heels with her first big crush.

  “Hey, Julia. I need to break up your sidebar here with the chief,” Navarro said. “Don’t turn around, but I’m pretty sure I caught the reflection of someone across the street on the second floor of that blue house, the one directly across from us. I think the guy’s got a camera.”

  “A photographer?” Julia asked. “He’s not with me. If he snuck in there to get a shot of Angel Perez, you know my paper doesn’t run pictures of dead bodies. Not in good taste.”

  “You and Russell checked that house when you were knocking on doors, talking to neighbors?” Linderman asked.

  “Yeah. No one answered,” Russell said as he sidled up to his partner. “The place is a dump and smells like cat piss. We figured it for abandoned. The guy snapping photos probably did, too, and found an opportunity to be an asshole.”

  “Circle the place from the back, get inside with Navarro, and see what you got. If it’s a photographer trying to snap pictures of the body, don’t let him leave without erasing the memory card on his camera,” Linderman said.

  “You think it could be the killer?” Julia asked.

  “No. I doubt he’d be dumb enough to stick around and take pictures to chronicle his work with a swarm of cops around his kill,” Linderman answered.

  Navarro motioned for Russell and then the two got into their unmarked Crown Victoria, which Julia knew was a decoy move. She figured the partners would likely drive a couple of blocks un
til they were out of sight, and then backtrack by foot to the blue house, jump the fence to the rear yard, and then enter through a back window. She’d been on a few stakeouts with the duo to know their MO as well as she knew her own.

  Julia started to come up with her next question for Linderman, but the sudden image of Duke’s face staring back at her in the gas station stopped her cold.

  (“I’m trying to build something for this family and all you do is just tear it all down.”)

  “Is that it, Julia? You come up with anything else, call me or Navarro.”

  Julia scrambled to go back to her center, but her father had once again tripped her up. She cursed herself under her breath as Linderman walked away, and felt ashamed that she had broken a cardinal rule. When you’re on the job, leave your personal business at home.

  “Hey, man, don’t touch the camera!”

  The front door of the two-story blue house across the street banged open and a man with dark hair that fell to his shoulders and a tall, ropy build came out. Navarro was a half step behind him, carrying the photographer’s camera in one hand and the collar of the photographer’s shirt with the other, as Russell took up the rear.

  As the man approached, Julia realized he wasn’t a familiar face from the usual players in the local freelance photography pool, the majority of them former staff shooters at major daily metros who were now scrambling to make a living after getting laid off from the still-smarting newspaper industry.

  Julia placed the photographer with the thick mane of dark hair for midthirties. He had large, brown eyes, an olive complexion, and full lips that almost looked like they would be better suited on the face of a woman.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” the photographer protested, trying to grab his camera back from Navarro.

  “Trespassing,” Navarro said. “That’s thirty days in jail.”

  “Come on, man,” the photographer pleaded. He looked over at Julia and his eyes lit up, as if he were just handed a “get out of jail free” card before his slow walk to the electric chair. “That’s Julia Gooden. I’m with her.”