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Gilbert and Singleton were the last to leave the scene. Gilbert had stopped thinking of it as a crime scene since there was no evidence that any crime had been committed here. Unless there was an ordinance against open flames near piles of old wooden furniture in the basements of apartment buildings. There probably was one, now that he thought about it, but it wasn’t worth staying at work until -- Gilbert glanced down at his watch -- 2:37 A.M.
Gilbert had stayed with Singleton and his team as they photographed, bagged and cataloged everything they could in the basement and up in the fourth floor apartment. It was time consuming work that could easily spell the difference between a case that stood up in court and one that failed on a technicality. Gilbert was impressed with Singleton and his team. He made sure to tell him so.
By the time they were finished, the most interesting thing they recovered from the scene was the book. It was interesting, but Gilbert wasn’t sure yet if it was a clue for use in his ongoing murder case.
He shook hands goodbye with Singleton, pushed open the apartment building’s front door and headed out into the night.
Only a gentle breeze blew now and it didn’t seem as cold. Before it left, the wind had spread a light sheen of snow over the neighborhood. The white crystals that covered the roadway and small yards that fronted the other apartment buildings diffused the glow from the streetlights and made everything brighter, like a night under the full moon he remembered from the small farm town he grew up in. But there was no moon out tonight.
Singleton passed him and moved on down the front stairs, promising to call him tomorrow with any results or insights. Gilbert mumbled his appreciation and followed. At the bottom of the steps, something stopped him and he turned around to regard the building.
It could have been any one of a dozen similar multifamily dwellings in this part of town, with nothing to distinguish it from the others but the numbers on the wall beside the glass front door. But there was definitely something different about this one. This one was home to a man who had dreamed up the name of an 18-year-old murder victim while allegedly sleepwalking in the basement of his building, five stories below his bed.
He got behind the wheel of the Ford Crown Victoria the city had provided for him and fired up the engine. It took a second for the wipers to clear the snow crystals off the windshield. The apartment building came into view as the thin black wipers drove away the snow. It stood there silently, giving up no secrets. He pulled out into the street and headed home.
In truth, it was all but inconceivable that there was any connection between the man who lived in this building and the murdered girl, Gilbert admitted to himself. Eagen could have heard her name on the news and then wrote it out of his subconscious later. The murder, at least the information that had been released about it thus far, had made it into the papers. At least one reporter was still working on the story, if tonight’s visitor was any indication. Logic told him that Eagan could not possibly be connected, but protocol demanded that every lead be investigated.
In a flash, he was back in school. Step one: list the known facts.
Fact one: Paula Kelly, 18, left a high school sporting event to walk home, was reported missing approximately 48 hours later, was located approximately 72 hours after that by a janitor employed by the school in an outbuilding used by the high school to store track and field equipment. She was dead.
Fact two: The manner of her death and subsequent dismemberment were such that the killer could only have been a complete sociopath, almost certainly insane. It was a messy, disorganized crime scene that didn’t fit the profiles of professional murderers. If it was a crime of passion, the passion was extreme anger and it had lasted a long time.
Fact three: No one present at the game, working at the school or living in her neighborhood had seen or heard from her anytime after the game ended that Friday night.
Working under the assumption that anyone capable of committing such a violent murder may have a history of mental instability and prior convictions, the detectives ordered a list of all known offenders and had begun to work it down, checking alibis with the goal of flagging anyone who didn’t have a good enough story about where they were that Friday night. So far, they had uncovered no leads. But there were plenty of names on the list and the work continued.
What they did have was plenty of forensic evidence, including a large amount of DNA information that the lab assured them belonged to someone other than the victim. There were also a number of partial fingerprints in the blood splattered around the shed. It appeared that the killer wore no gloves. No matches to either the partials or the DNA had been uncovered in the local database, nor those of the state police or the FBI. The work continued.
So far, everything he’d learned and experienced about police work had taught him that anything that happened, at least in our modern world, left behind clues. All one had to do to solve any crime was to systematically obtain the clues and decipher their meaning. The more clues you could collect, the faster you could solve the case.
Of course, it always helped if your perpetrator made mistakes. That could quickly reduce the time it took to move from crime scene to collar to arraignment. Anyone who had already made as many mistakes as were present at the crime scene would, sooner or later, make more. Then, they would have him.
Of course, his own history had taught him that solving a case and convicting criminals were not the same thing. Sometimes, you had all the clues and you knew exactly what had happened but you still couldn’t convince a prosecutor, a judge and a jury to return a guilty verdict. There was still the shadow of a doubt to contend with. That shadow had cost him someone very special once.
Well, technically, that wasn’t true, he reminded himself, hearing the voice of Dr. Willenshow as he did so. He hadn’t seen his therapist in many years and, as far as he knew, no one knew of that old relationship. It was buried deep in the protected court records of a minor. But occasionally, the good doctor’s voice would remind him of important things. In this case, he was reminding him that the case in question had unraveled because the police had done a piss poor job of collecting the evidence at the crime scene. The jury was left with no option but to admit that the prosecution’s case was drenched in doubt. That killer had gone free.
But he had been a killer. Of that, Rob Gilbert had absolutely no doubt.
Years of therapy, college training, experience as a beat cop and plenty of time now separated him from that old case. It had also prepared him to work on the case before him now. And in this case, it seemed, the detectives had another clue. Maybe.
Approximately three weeks after the murder of Paula Kelly, her name had been written on a scrap of parchment by a man who lived on the other side of the city while he was allegedly sleepwalking. How was Eagan connected? What was really written in the notebook? Were the other names also victims? Was Eagan crazy? If so, it could explain his ability to create both a chaotic crime scene and a perfectly organized apartment. If he was involved, why would be surrender himself to the authorities.
The not knowing was starting to eat at him. They needed to know more about this man, Eagan.
With a start, Gilbert released his accelerator, letting his vehicle coast down the empty street. For a moment he was disoriented. This wasn’t his neighborhood. Then he saw the police station building coming up on the left. He shook his head. Damn lucky, he thought. Driving without paying attention is a great way to get killed. He pulled into the lot and parked. He needed coffee, and answers. He exited the car and entered the building.
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