“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.
“Hell if I know. Maybe he planned on investing it in the stock market-or the drug market, which wouldn’t surprise me. At any rate, we’re going to do some nosing around in Vegas and L.A. to see what we can find out. Surely someone must have come in contact with Stanley at one time or another while he was living in either city. We’re also working on tracking down Cindy Fuller to see if she could enlighten us on Stanley’s possible whereabouts. Who knows, maybe he even took another stab at winning her heart since his release form the nut house after conceding that setting her dorm on fire hadn’t been a happening way to create a strong and lasting relationship. We’re dealing with a loony here, buddy, and you gotta go a little crazy yourself in order to catch a crazy,” Roger declared.
His friend’s statement suddenly registered in Sam’s mind as he realized what he was implying here; that Stanley Jenkins is a certified nut case and totally unpredictable. Without reason, logic and rationale on your side, you’ve got to use “alternative means” in order to make some kind of educated guess at what was on this demented killer’s mind. Those means would be to attempt to try and think like an insane person would think, given his known profile. No small order, indeed, Sam thought. And if nothing else, it certainly left one with some chilling possibilities of what may happen next…
“What about the state hospital? Couldn’t you get some help from the doctors there? Maybe get an idea of what was on Stanley’s mind while he was receiving treatment?” Sam asked his friend.
Roger shook his head slowly from side to side. “Already tried that route-no luck. Patient confidentiality has put a quick end to that possibility before it ever got started.”
“You’re kidding! You mean they won’t tell you anything even though it’s all but a fact that Stanley Jenkins is a fucking murderer? I thought you could force doctors to release their records when it involves a murder case!” Sam exclaimed.
“That’s not enough to do it. Only when a patient/suspect has knowingly threatened to murder someone does patient confidentiality go out the door. And that’s not the case we have here. It’s a bitch, I know, but it’s the fucking law.”
Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How could a murder suspect be protected by the law when it was more than apparent that he had murdered someone, for chrissakes? It made absolutely no sense at all, especially considering that the murderer was still at large and most likely would kill again. The information that one of Stanley’s former doctors could offer may well mean the difference between life and death for some innocent, law abiding person.
“And they call that justice?”
“There ya go…”
“Well, what about Tommy Bradley, then? Have you shown the computer composite of Stanley to him yet?” Sam wanted to know.
“Glad you asked, before you give yourself a coronary. The kid is apparently in much better shape now and we’ve cleared the way to show him the composite and interview him tomorrow morning. That could well ice this whole thing if he positively ID’s Stanley Jenkins.”
“That’s some good news, at least. But even if you get a positive ID and confirm the murderer, it’s not going to help you catch the sonofabitch. Which reminds me-what’s the dope for the press release? I want to get started on that thing and get Stanley’s mug out for the world to see so we can nail him.”
Roger thumbed through some papers on his desk and handed Sam a document. “Here’s the official statement. As you can see, we’ve pretty much let the cat out of the bag there. You can embellish it to some degree of course-the only thing the chief’s really concerned about is the details of the pending investigation. You now know the specifics, Sam, so be sure not to put in anything that might tip the creep off. That’s all.”
Sam looked the press release over and nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m actually impressed; this is surprisingly honest and straightforward for a change. Finally, the public can be adequately informed of what is really happening in this town.”
“I thought you’d approve.”
Sam stood up. “I’d better get moving. I think I’ll stop by the office and pick up all the shit I need then take it home-we can’t get this out until tomorrow evening’s paper anyway. As excited as I am about writing this article, it would figure that I’m going to have to do it while I’m dead beat.”
Roger Hagstrom grinned. “I don’t suppose Shelley Hatcher has anything to do with that.”
“Let’s just say she hasn’t helped any,” Sam replied as he turned to leave.
“You’re one lucky sonofabitch. Take care, buddy.”
“You, too,” Sam said as he went out the door.
He stopped by the Observer and collected all the files and documents pertaining to Marsha Bradley and Sara Hunt’s murder investigations. Before leaving, he ran into the sports writer, Al Clarkson, and briefly told him what he’d just learned at police headquarters. Al’s reaction, as expected, had been that of absolute shock.
The sun was just setting over the western foothills as Sam drove home. It was one of those spectacular late autumn sunsets, the sky bursting with radiant hues of yellow, orange and magenta gradually giving way to a deep shade of cold blue. He reached over and turned on the heater as he felt the chill of the crisp evening air and decided that tonight would be as good a time as any to break in the fireplace. He’d been looking forward to firing it up ever since he’d first laid eyes on it last spring.
He pulled into his driveway and retrieved the mail from his mailbox before continuing on to the house. Once inside, he brewed a pot of coffee and ate a cold chicken sandwich. Afterwards, he went into the den to get a fire started in the fireplace and noticed the tiny light on the answering machine flickering. He played back the message:
“Hi Sam-it’s me. I thought you’d be home from work by now but it looks like you’re not. I just called to thank you for a wonderful weekend-I really had a great time! Hopefully, we can do it again sometime soon. I know you told me you needed some time to think things over and I’m sorry to bother you like this, but I just couldn’t help it. I miss you already! Oops, I shouldn’t have said that, should I have? Oh well, sorry about that. I’ll go now before I make you mad. Feel free to call me if you happen to get the urge, okay? Otherwise, I’ll try calling you later in the week. Love ya, Hon! Bye-bye.”
Sam couldn’t help but smile to himself as he listened to Shelley Hatcher’s message. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours since she’d left to go back to Ashland, KY and already she was pestering him. It was beginning to look like the girl was more hung up on him than he’d ever imagined.
He went back over to the fireplace and finished stuffing in the kindling wood then placed a few medium sized logs on the grating. He struck a match, lit the crumpled newspapers and watched as they caught fire and ignited the kindling. Once the fire was burning steadily, he went over to his desk, sat down and turned on the computer.
Sam sat and stared thoughtfully at the computer screen, recalling the past weekend. Shelley had ended up staying over Saturday and that night proved to be every bit as wild and crazy as the night before had been. The next morning, or rather, afternoon, he had awaken feeling not only severely hung over but surprisingly at ease for a change. Shelley Hatcher and his desire to be with her had somehow prevailed over Ann and everything that went along with his former wife. For the first time since the divorce, he felt content-not so much because of what he’d done with Shelley Hatcher this weekend but more of the fact that he had actually done it in the first place. There was a difference.