Killer Dreams Ch. 06-10

"And it will get worse," Hank replied.

Chapter 8

Detective Maloney glared at Hank, wanting to keep the meeting on track. "Yvonne, what did the coroner's office say?"

Detective Garber opened a manila folder with pictures from the autopsy. "The coroner ruled the death a homicide."

"No shit," Hank muttered under his breath.

"Cause of death was blood loss from a stab wound penetrating her uterus. The carvings on her breast and stomach came from the same knife used to kill her. Bruising and abrasive wounds on the wrists and ankles show she was conscious and struggling during the torture."

She suffered alone. "Yvonne, were there any defensive wounds?" If her attacker was an intruder, she might have tried to fight him off.

"Nothing. Nothing on the arms or hands and nothing under the fingernails."

"So she went voluntarily into the bonds," I replied.

"Or Tracy was drugged or overcome before she could put up a fight," Yvonne said. "The blood test results are due today. We should have the final report at three. The coroner will release Miss Hardin's body to the family when the report is complete, and the lead detective authorizes it."

James looked around the room. "Any reason to hold it after the autopsy?" No one said anything. "Yvonne, let the coroner know she can release her when done." She nodded her agreement. "Jack, what about the crime scene? What is BCA telling us?"

Jack Parker looked down at his notebook. "It's a tale of two rooms," he started. "Lars and Tracy entertained often, but her cleaning service hadn't been there for ten days. The glass and stainless furniture in her condo had tons of fingerprints. The ladies she invited for the watch party and her fiancé have all provided fingerprint and hair samples, so we are working on the ones we can't identify."

"What about hair or DNA?"

"BCA collected DNA samples from glasses in the kitchen sink, plus the bathrooms and her bedside table. The team collected hair samples from the kitchen and the hardwood floors. It will be a week or so before we get all the results. There was a lot of evidence collected."

Captain Cullen grimaced. "What about her bedroom? Was there anything there?"

"Blood typing showed all of the bloodstains were from the victim. There is no evidence the killer got cut or injured, consistent with the autopsy results showing no defensive wounds. No bloody fingerprints, and only her fingerprints on the murder weapon. There were smudge marks, indicating the killer was wearing gloves." Double crap. If we had a bloody fingerprint or his DNA, the case would be a slam dunk as long as the killer wasn't OJ Simpson.

"Hair or fiber evidence?"

"They collected a lot of it," Jack said nervously. "That's the problem."

"What do you mean," the Captain said.

"Sir, the victim was found on the bed. The covers and flat sheet had been torn off and tossed in the corner before she was tied down." I knew all this from the crime scene photos. "The crime scene technicians said they found at least a dozen distinct hair colors and types on the sheet and the body."

Oh, FUCK! The others were processing that information. Hair evidence on the bedspread was one thing; under the sheets was another. The Captain's jaw fell. "What are you trying to say?"

"She had more than one partner, sir. Maybe she had an open relationship? Or maybe she was into that kinky shit and invited people over? There could be a lot of suspects."

"And if this gets out, the press will be all over it," Maloney said.

"It's worse than that, sir," I volunteered. The brass looked at me in shock. What could be worse than the possibility that your victim was involved in bondage parties with multiple people? I pointed to one of my printout pages. "In the book, the killer collected hair from his barber shop and intentionally spread them at the crime scene. It fucks with the evidence collection and inserts reasonable doubt if caught. The DNA they can track down all has that barber in common. He's just one of many people whose hair got stolen by the killer. Meanwhile, DNA records cannot identify a dozen more people who might have been there. It sets up the TODDI defense."

"The Other Dude Did It," County Attorney Klinesmith said in response. "It's devious as hell, but it would work. Lacking other evidence tying him to the crime scene, I wouldn't have enough to indict him. If it went to trial, it could create reasonable doubt."

"Yes, sir. It gets worse."

Maloney's shoulders slumped. "How the fuck could it get worse than having a dozen suspects, Talia?"

I looked over at Jack. "Do you have a good picture of her bedside table?" He nodded and slid over a photo. He'd mentioned they found a glass on it; the picture showed a heavy-bottom glass tumbler. "Did you notice anything about this glass?"

"It was nice and heavy. When I opened the evidence bag, I could smell the whiskey."

"Did you find other glasses like it in the kitchen or the bar?"

"I don't know. Why?" He started going through the crime scene photos he had.

"In the book, the killer sits at a bar next to one of the senior partners in the victim's law firm. He swipes the used bourbon glass, puts it in a baggie, then leaves it on the table next to the victim. The best DNA evidence at the scene points directly to a rich and powerful lawyer in her office. He becomes the prime suspect in the murder of his junior associate. The carvings on her body point to someone obsessed with her, and that usually means someone she knows."

"Jesus," Michael Klinesmith said. "He sets up a fall guy?"

I nodded. "And it might be you, sir. You ran the office she worked at and were in close contact with the victim."

"I'm married!"

"So was the man in the book that got set up. Office affairs happen all the time, so denials don't work well. Give Jack a sample of your DNA and get fingerprinted, just in case."

The County Attorney leaned against the wall, shaking his head. "I haven't been at a bar in over a week."

"That doesn't matter, sir. This guy could have been planning this for months." He looked like he was going to throw up. "Sir, what is your drink of choice?"

"Single malt Scotch, usually Macallen."

The rest of the meeting didn't go any better. Detective Ferguson gave an update on the surveillance video. "We've got nothing," he said. "The security video is all routed to the main entrance security desk. The computer used a removable hard drive to store the data, with the disc drive swapped out every Friday. The new unit failed that night. The security officers on the weekend didn't know how to fix it, so they sent a note to the landlord. There's nothing there to recover."

"And no backups?"

"No, sir. It's a dedicated system not connected to the Internet. I'm still gathering videos and cutting them up to show pedestrian traffic in or out of the building. Detective O'Donnell is working on a list of vehicles parking nearby or going in or out of the parking garage. My biggest problem is that I still don't have a suspect description other than David Hardin, and I didn't see him."

When everyone had updated the group, Detective Maloney made a few changes to the assignments. "Talia, I need you to put together all the background information on David Hardin that you can find. Find everything from when he and Tracy met until the night of the murder. Yvonne, you do the same thing, but from Tracy's side. Make sure you compare notes often and bubble up any suspects or helpful information you might find." We both wrote down our assignments. "Hank, you'll work the fiancé, family, and friends. Ask them about stalkers, former boyfriends, or anyone who might have an obsession with her or seems weird. Make sure you ask whether they have read David's books, especially if they are big fans."

I had an idea. "Sir, what about the David Hardin fan club? If our killer is obsessed with his books, maybe he's active on there? Or maybe he contacted David's publicist or the publishing house?"

"Good idea. I'll park that here until someone frees up." He put that on the board, along with some other ideas. "Anything else?"

I just HAD to raise my hand. Detective Maloney rolled his eyes as he looked at me. "Any OTHER good news for us, Talia?"

"The killer in the book wanted the cops to look bad," I said. "He used the press and the rumor mill to ramp up the pressure on the detectives. The longer we ran around like chickens with our heads cut off, the more fun he had with it. This murder is the lead story on every newscast in town, and it's already going national. He won't be satisfied until it is the lead story on NATIONAL news, and not just for one day. He gets off on the coverage, the speculation, and the idea he's a criminal mastermind who can't get caught."

The Captain looked like he'd just tasted something nasty. "How does he do that?"

"The killer had a camera as well, sir."

Chapter 9

David Hardin's POV

1 Mile South of Castle Danger, Minnesota

Western shore of Lake Superior

Tuesday, September 21, 2021

Breathe in through the nose. Blow out through the mouth.

I paid attention to the depth of the rocks beneath me as I swam through the water at six in the morning, the sunrise bright over the big lake. The water was clear and cold despite the late season, around forty-five degrees. Lake Superior drops off quickly in this area. A hundred yards offshore, and you could be in two-hundred-foot depths. That pushes the waves close to the rocky shore. If I swim in too shallow a water, I get rolled by the surf or bounce off the rocks and boulders. If I no longer see the bottom, I'm too far out for comfort while swimming alone. I don't want a long swim to safety if I get a cramp or my leg gives out. If I were to drown, they'd never find the body.

"WOOF! WOOF!" I stopped swimming and began treading water, looking through my swim goggles towards the shore. My Border Collie, a five-year-old named Rocky, was perched on a boulder and trying to get my attention. The boulder marked the northern border of my property and the turning point for my morning swim. Just past the boulder was the limit to his free run of the shoreline, enforced by an invisible fence system.

I turned around, heading back to the southwest. From the rocks below my home, where I could safely enter the water to the turn, was two hundred and thirty-four yards. Up and back took me about nine minutes, which was more than enough time in the cold. I swam in the lake every day I could safely enter the water, usually starting in April and ending in October. The cold-water swims woke me up in the morning. It also had numerous health benefits.

Rocky followed me back, making his way along the broken shoreline. Border collies are intelligent dogs, as evidenced by NOT following me into the freezing water! It wasn't warm enough out to run around with wet fur.

I pushed through the last of my swim, finally standing on the shallow ledge of rocks below my home. I stood in the chest-deep water, looking up at my hiding place from the world. Walking out of the water, I spotted a cameraman with a telephoto lens on the road beyond my house. I ignored him and dried myself off with the towel I'd left on a boulder. I wasn't embarrassed about my body, though I'd rightly claim 'shrinkage' if my trunks clung too tightly in the shot. I stayed active, ate well, and was in better shape now than when I was a cop.

The photographers showed up occasionally, accompanied by reporters with their interview requests. I was a minor celebrity in the big scheme of things, a successful murder-mystery novelist with four New York Times bestsellers, ruggedly handsome according to my fan mail, and on the good side of forty. I rarely left home and only did a single press event for each book, making me as much of a mystery as my books.

I liked it that way. I had three good friends. My first partner on the Minneapolis Police was one. Larry Miller saved me from a downward spiral that threatened to consume me. The second was my editor; Valerie Nolan recognized something in me and encouraged me to complete my first novel. Rocky was the third and best of my friends, given to me by Larry to be my constant companion.

I picked my way up the rocky shore to the stairs leading up to the deck. I opened one of the sliding glass doors and stepped inside. Three floor-to-ceiling glass panels on tracks formed the entire east wall of the room; in warmer weather, all could push to the side to open up the space. This morning, the wind was out of the west, the cool breeze giving me a sixty-degree morning. The air temperature could drop into the forties with a simple wind shift from the lake, which is why you'd see tourists in bikini tops with hoodies always ready during the summer. My pool room gave me a stunning view of the beach and across the lake. I could barely make out the Wisconsin shoreline in the distance.

The cold swim was enough to get my blood pumping, but ten minutes in the water wasn't enough of a workout. I didn't have an outdoor pool or hot tub installed when I built my custom lake home after Bloody Knife became a bestseller. You'd only have a few months to use it in this climate. Instead, I had them build a large exercise room lined with redwood, sliding glass, and skylights. The walls and foundation were well-insulated, and radiant-floor heating kept it comfortable year-round. A universal weight machine and a rowing machine sat on slate floors on the back right, while a four-person hot tub sat near the door to the main house on the near right. The entire left side held a sunken swim spa, set up so I could swim towards the lake without ever getting there. It was eighteen feet long, five feet deep, and held an underwater treadmill and variable-speed paddlewheel. I could swim at any speed, from a relaxed backstroke to an Olympic crawl, the speed automatically changing if I got too close to either end.

Clicking on the remote for the entertainment system sent Billy Joel's "Live at Shea Stadium" playing on the 80" television near the hot tub while room and underwater speakers ensured I'd hear it all. Rocky stayed outside, lying down near the steps to watch the beach. I rinsed myself off in the shower by the door, hung my trunks over a heated towel rack to dry, then stepped into the pool. The controls kept it at a comfortable seventy-seven degrees. It felt a lot warmer as my body adjusted from the cold lake. I started the spa, setting the controls for a thirty-minute swim pace.

I pushed my body hard in these swims. Swimming and rowing were among the few aerobic activities I could do after my shattered pelvis. Hiking was a struggle, while running and biking were out of the question. The swim spa and my sea kayak were my go-to ways of staying in peak shape. I rarely used the underwater treadmill anymore, though it had been daily therapy early on.

I finished up and moved to the hot tub, relaxing to the sound of New York State of Mind. I'd designed this spa with my body in mind, creating a spot on one side just over five feet deep. I could stand straight while numerous jets massaged the aches from my lower back, hips, and legs. After ten minutes, I was relaxed and ready to take on my day. I took another shower, pulled on my robe, let the dog in, and headed into my bedroom.

Dressing in jeans and a Minnesota Twins T-shirt, I moved next door to my office. The large desk formed a semicircle in front of the picture window overlooking the lake. Rocky jumped up on the padded leather bench under it, taking advantage of the pillows to keep an eye on the backyard. Bookshelves lined the wall, while the back of the room had a small bar with a hotel-sized refrigerator, cabinets full of snack foods, and the awards and honors I'd achieved in my life. It was an interesting mix; a picture box with my MPD badge and retirement photo sat next to the framed NY Times page when I first hit #1 in Fiction. Next was my diploma from the University of Minnesota, then a photo of Northside Midwatch from a few months before I got shot. In the center was a wedding photo, showing Tracy shoving a piece of cake in my face while I delicately fed her banana cake from my hand. Another photo showed me in a wheelchair next to Tracy as she received her law license.

So many memories, yet only the cleaning lady ever saw them. My home was my sanctuary from the world, and remaining here was the best way to keep her safe. I didn't even have a car; I'd use Uber the rare times I had to go somewhere in person. I would email a grocery order weekly to a store in Two Harbors for delivery. Uber Eats could bring meals from nearby restaurants if I didn't want to cook. I'd grown comfortable in my isolation, my wealth allowing me to make the most of my self-imposed prison.

Yesterday's weather was perfect for kayaking, so I'd taken the long paddle up the shore to Split Rock Lighthouse. The thirteen-mile paddle took a lot out of me, so after taking some photos from the water, I returned south to Gooseberry State Park. I went upriver to the first set of falls, then stopped to look at agates where the river dumped into Lake Superior. On the way back, I took my time and pulled into any shoreline that looked promising for agate hunting. I stopped at Grand Superior Lodge for dinner, enjoying a steak and a Castle Danger Brewing Company Aurora IPA. Few people were around on a Monday, and no one recognized me. By the time I'd gotten home last night, all I wanted was a soak in the tub and bed.

As a result, I hadn't checked my phone messages or email since early Monday morning. I found smartphones overly distracting, and I despised social media. Instead, I used two pay-as-you-go phones I kept on silent in a desk drawer. One number was known only to my two friends, while the other was for contacting local businesses. After all, you couldn't get pizza delivered without a callback number.

I sat at my custom desk chair, turned on my computer, and adjusted the volume of the entertainment system. While it booted up, I opened the drawer. The blinking light on one phone showed I'd missed a call.

I opened the personal flip phone. My eyes got wide at the number shown on the screen. EIGHTEEN voicemails were waiting on a phone where only two people had the number! Who the fuck died? The Pope?

I listened to the first message from Larry, telling me to call him back immediately. After two more increasingly urgent messages, I got a message from Valerie. "David, it's Val. We need to talk soon. You need to put out a statement about Tracy."

I felt my stomach flip as my computer finished booting up. The story was all over the Internet.

Tracy was dead, murdered in her Saint Paul condominium. Details were sketchy, but 'sources close to the investigation' leaked that she had been sexually tortured and stabbed.

Just like my dream.

Chapter 10

Sergeant Larry Miller's POV

Minneapolis Police, Fourth Precinct

Tuesday, September 21, 2021

I knocked on Lieutenant Franklin's door just after three in the morning, wanting to catch him before my watch ended. You never knew if things would go to shit later. "Sir?"

"Come in, Larry." It had been another rough night in North Minneapolis. There was a drive-by shooting just after midnight. The shooters missed the gangbangers hanging out in the front yard, but a six-year-old girl was in the hospital. One of the 9mm rounds went through the wall of her bedroom.

"I hate to spring this on you, but I need tomorrow off," I said as I handed him a deduct slip.

"This have anything to do with David Hardin?"

I couldn't get anything past him. "Yes, sir. He isn't answering his phone, and I'm worried about him."

He looked at the sheet and sighed. "You should be. The press is all over this one, and we both know he'll end up being a person of interest. Ex-husbands in murders like this always are."