The touch of murder, p.18
The Touch of Murder, page 18
And for once, Cole knew exactly where he was going.
It was time to have a chat with Randall Byers, a.k.a. Randall Furlow.
It was time to find out why Freddie Furlow’s son had changed his last name.
Chapter 40
“Well, that went about as well as expected,” Veronica said as she stepped into the precinct.
She was sweating and so was Freddie.
Captain Bottel, on the other hand, was calm and collected.
Officer Court Furnelli fell somewhere in between.
They’d made a simple call to the public, asking if anyone had seen anything suspicious on the night of the murders. Asking if anyone had seen the victims.
Speaking to the public with the media as the intermediary was always a crap shoot. The press refused to just relay the message, they had to flavor it with their own insight. They had to. And this invariably affected the nature of the calls they received.
Most were meaningless. Some were deranged.
But rarely—very rarely, a tip came in that led them to something. Most often, these were issued by reluctant individuals who were convinced that what they’d seen was irrelevant, but a friend or family member had convinced them to call in anyway.
In essence, a call to the public was an act of sheer desperation.
But there was no denying that’s exactly what they were: desperate.
They had nothing. Three mutilated bodies, a specific and horrific MO, but no links between the victims.
No suspect.
And, to complicate things, there was also Bobby Harvey and Sylvia Decker who had teamed up to murder the latter’s husband in a warped and frankly poor attempt at a frame job.
The calls would soon come in, but filtering through them was a job for the junior staff—not Veronica and her team. And they couldn’t count on their plea accomplishing anything other than Captain Bottel’s desire to be seen as the man in charge, even if it had been Veronica who had done most of the speaking.
“I cross-referenced the names of everyone involved in Jake Thompson’s arrests with Cooper Mills and also looked into Frank Klarno’s social media presence like you asked.”
Veronica stared blankly at Court. All of them had taken a two-hour hiatus between discovering the new victim and the press conference. Veronica had spent half of that time napping and the other half trying to make herself look halfway presentable.
Judging by their change in appearance, she suspected that Court and Freddie had done something similar.
Yet, she felt more lost than before the rest and icy shower.
“Frank who?”
“Oh, shit, my bad,” Court scratched the back of his neck. “While you were—”
“Who’s Frank Klarno?” Veronica interrupted.
“The third victim. I managed to get into his phone and ID’d him from that.”
“Frank Klarno,” Veronica repeated out loud. It didn’t ring a bell. “You were saying something about a connection?”
Court looked uncomfortable.
“I wish—nothing. Frank is a woodworker, Jake a drug dealer, Cooper an accountant. No real links, so far as I could tell.”
“And Frank has no record?” Veronica asked, recalling that the man’s fingerprints hadn’t pinged any database.
As they spoke, Veronica led Freddie and Court further away from the captain, who was still staring out at the last few reporters who were packing up their things.
“No record.”
Something in Court’s voice made her stop and look at the officer.
“But?”
Court shifted weight from one foot to the other.
“But Frank was no saint, that’s for sure. I found a lot of pictures of women on his phone. A lot.”
Veronica cocked her head.
“Underage women? Snuff films? Rape? Torture?”
She was rattling off everything she could think of, but with each word, Court just shook his head.
“No—no, nothing like that. Actually, most, if not all, of the pictures were sent by the women themselves. That’s what it looks like, anyway. Everything appears completely consensual.”
“I don’t get it then.”
“Frank was married, Veronica,” Freddie spoke up. “And infidelity is a sin.”
In her mind’s eye, Veronica saw the word ‘sinner’ written in blood on the side of the school.
“Damn. Alright, who knew about this, then? Who knew about Frank sleeping around?”
Neither man had an answer.
“His wife? A friend of his wife? Could still be a cop. Or a PI,” Veronica offered. She was just rambling now. “Stalker? No, that doesn’t make sense. Who would know about all these men’s sins? Who would want to punish them for it?”
“A priest?”
Veronica looked at Court. More like glared at him, judging by how he reacted.
“Sorry,” the man said. “I just thought—
Freddie broke the tension by exhaling loudly.
“Maybe—but I don’t know. I’ll tell you what, it’s not the rent-a-cop, though. He’s clean. The security guard just likes to post about his job. Mostly of overworked people and their fancy cars. Just got lucky with Cooper.”
That was a strange way of putting it, Veronica thought. Not so lucky for Cooper.
She ground her teeth. Usually, she was good at keeping her frustrations at bay.
But usually, they didn’t have a fucking psycho turning sinners into angels on the loose in Greenham.
“What in the actual fuck, Freddie? Who is this guy? And what does he want?”
“I think he wants to punish people.” Court again. The man had a habit of saying what they were thinking, but he wasn’t adding anything productive.
None of them were.
They were just waiting for the unsub to strike again and hoped that he screwed up this time.
Or that the killer decided to call Captain Bottel’s tip line and confess.
Yeah, sure. Like that was going to happen.
Veronica let out a long, prolonged sigh. She closed her eyes and placed a cool palm on her forehead.
“I guess… I guess there’s only one thing to do now.” She opened her eyes and looked first at Court then Freddie. “Let’s go tell another woman that her husband has been murdered. And that we have no fucking idea who killed him.”
***
To his credit, Officer Court Furnelli offered to break the devastating news to Karen Klarno. Deep down, Veronica wanted to say, “Thanks, go right ahead,” but this was her responsibility—hers and Freddie’s.
They were the lead detectives on this disaster of a case.
The odd thing was, Karen behaved almost identically to the way Sylvia Decker had, even though the latter had orchestrated her husband’s murder.
That was grief for you. Unpredictably predictable.
This time, Veronica stayed well back from the woman, not wanting to be another shoulder to cry on.
She didn’t want to share the woman’s grief.
Freddie filled this void, which was more typical of their arrangement. Still, he looked shaken.
No matter how many times you dealt with death, you never became comfortable with it. Maybe if you were a mortician, maybe if you dealt with bodies day in and day out, but not if you were a cop. You could depersonalize as much as you want, but, at the end of the day, the body was still a person.
Had been a person.
Freddie, running on no more than a couple of hours of sleep, clearly hypoglycemic, was having a rough go of it. It didn’t help that he’d been out of the game for six months and this was what he returned to.
After her multiple hiatuses, the department had eased Veronica back into the fold—or at least they’d tried to.
Not so with Freddie.
Veronica wasn’t sure if she should be grateful or insulted.
“Frank was a good man,” Karen whined between sobs.
Was he, though?
Frank had dozens of lewd images from other women on his phone. And while there was no universal litmus test for the goodness of a man or woman for that matter, this didn’t seem to be a good starting point.
A good man? Probably not.
As if reading her mind, Karen’s eyes drifted over to Veronica. Perhaps she saw something in the detective’s face, or perhaps she only wanted to associate with a woman, hoping that they could relate on some genetic level.
Sorry, Karen, you picked the wrong broad.
“Before you say anything,” Karen began, her voice strangely calm, “I am aware of Frank’s indiscretions. And even though adultery is a sin, he was seeking absolution.”
It took all of Veronica’s will power to keep a straight face. The last photo, a woman doing squats wearing nothing at all, had been sent to Frank’s phone just two days ago.
“I’m not here to judge,” Veronica said. “We just want to find out who did this. Can you… can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Frank?”
A laundry list of potential suspects appeared in Veronica’s mind: and every woman who sent a photo, every potential husband or boyfriend of said woman, was at the top.
In total, Court had counted seventy-eight photographs from sixty-three different women on Frank’s phone.
Sixty-three.
Including significant others, which pushed the number of people that they had to talk to to well over a hundred.
“I don’t. I don’t know who would want to hurt Frank. He was a good man.”
The woman’s conviction was odd. Was she being defensive? Trying to protect her husband’s name? Or was she embarrassed?
“Did Frank receive any threats?”
“Threats?” Karen started to cry again as she shook her head. “No, no threats.”
There were so many more questions that Veronica wanted to ask, primarily related to Frank’s potential relationship with either Jake or Cooper, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
She had a sudden urge to get out of there.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“If you think of anything, please give us a call,” Freddie said, sensing Veronica’s urgency. He offered Karen a card, but she was too distraught to take it.
He placed it on the table and then together they saw themselves to the door. Veronica reached for the knob and then stopped.
Something was niggling at her.
Something that Karen had said was stuck in her brain.
“Mrs. Klarno?”
Karen turned slowly. Freddie, who had been behind her, slid to one side. In the past, she would have to walk around her partner to see, but not anymore. It was a testament to how far the man had come.
“Yes?” Karen wiped her face.
Veronica hesitated, and then it came to her.
And even though adultery is a sin, he was seeking absolution.
“Are you religious?”
As if Veronica had just blasphemed, the woman felt the need to cross herself before answering.
“Yes. I’m Catholic and so is Frank.”
Is not was.
Veronica’s pulse quickened.
“May I ask which church you attend?”
“Grace Community. It’s not far from here. Why are you asking about my church?”
“Looking for a new parish myself,” Veronica lied.
Karen’s mood lifted.
“Oh, Grace is fantastic. And Father Murphy is a very kind man.”
“Thanks.”
Freddie looked at her, but Veronica didn’t meet his gaze.
Instead, she turned her thoughts inward.
And to the word that had appeared above each of their victims: SINNER.
Jesus, why didn’t we think of this before? It was staring us in the face all along.
“What’s up?” Freddie asked once they were outside.
“I think I might have just found out the connection between our victims,” Veronica said. This revelation should have felt good. But it didn’t. It made her feel dirty and Veronica frowned deeply. “I hope you’re ready to confess, Freddie, because if I have to do it, we’re going to be at Grace Community for a week.”
Chapter 41
Cole observed the Byers’ residence from his car window. Inside were three occupants: the young man from the red-light camera footage, his mother, and another young man who appeared even more on edge than the first.
Susan, Randall, and Kevin Byers—all of whom had gone by the last name ‘Furlow’ for a time.
Freddie’s ex-wife and two estranged children.
Cole’s research revealed that both of Freddie’s sons had petitioned to change their surnames to their mother’s maiden name about ten years ago. The reason for this change intrigued him, but for now, Cole’s priority was to exonerate Dylan. He still wasn’t sure how all these pieces fit together, but the timing of Dylan’s arrest and the interaction between first Freddie and the DEA Agent and then with his son was intriguing, to say the least.
Perhaps even ‘coincidental’. And years in Internal Affairs had taught Cole that coincidences—true coincidences—were exceedingly rare. If someone in the precinct reports a pair of panties missing and the next day you catch a lieutenant sniffing underwear?
What were the chances that they were his? That he was just obsessed with his own musk?
Randall left the house about half an hour after his mom. Sporting a neatly pressed polo shirt and gray slacks, Cole would bet his designer shoes that the young man was off to work. Randall left on foot, and mindful not to tip off Kevin Byers of his presence, Cole waited until Randall was out of sight of the house before following him.
“Excuse me!” he called out, waving an arm. “Randall? Randall Byers?”
The jumpy young man turned, tensing as if preparing to flee.
Cole put on his most soothing expression, a skill he’d honed over time when dealing with people who were naturally suspicious of his intentions and position.
“Hi—it’s Randall, right?” Cole displayed his badge, which hung from his neck. “I’m a friend of your father.”
Randall’s face shifted from fear to concern.
“Is he okay?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to alarm you—he’s fine. In fact, Freddie’s lost a ton of weight. That heart attack was probably the best thing that ever happened to him.”
Now, Randall’s expression hardened.
“Then I have nothing to say to you.” He turned to leave but Cole, still smiling warmly, grabbed his arm.
“I’m sorry, I just… I have a few questions about what you were doing with DEA Agent Troy Allison the night your dad had his heart attack?”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
Randall squirmed, but Cole squeezed the man’s thin triceps even harder.
“Right, I understand you’re late for work and I don’t want to hold you up. Really, I don’t want any trouble. I just want to know why you were with the DEA when your brother has a history—”
Randall snarled and instead of trying to squirm free, the man flipped the script and grasped Cole by the collar of his shirt.
“If you want to know about my family, why don’t you ask Detective Furlow? Me, my mom, and my brother have nothing to say to you.”
Randall shoved Cole. It wasn’t particularly hard, but Cole let go and stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” Cole said, maintaining his calm expression. He raised his hands. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Stay away,” Randall warned.
Cole watched the man go, making no attempt to follow. While he generally didn’t like judging a book by its cover, Randall’s behavior was suggestive of something.
Had he hit a nerve? Maybe. Probably. But what had he said that set Randall off? Was it the DEA comment? The mention of his father?
No, that’s not it, Cole conceded.
When Randall was out of sight, he returned to his car parked outside the Byers’ home.
It was his brother—Randall got squirrely when I mentioned his brother.
Kevin Byers was taller than his younger sibling but also leaner, which was saying something. He had the look of someone on the verge of addiction, if not already there.
Strung out.
Anxious.
Kevin left the house at 9:22, scanning the quiet suburban street as if expecting someone. At 9:34, that someone arrived.
A black Mercedes with tinted windows so dark that it was impossible to see inside—even the front windshield was blacked out—pulled up to the curb.
Again, Kevin’s eyes darted up and down the street, this time most likely searching for cops.
Personal experience shaped their expectations of what police looked like. For a man like Kevin Byers who grew up with his father as a detective, he had his own assumptions. If he noticed Cole at all, with his dark, neatly styled hair, square jaw, trimmed beard, and handsome features, he didn’t see a cop.
He saw a lawyer, actor, or businessman.
But not a cop.
Kevin got into the passenger seat of the Mercedes and the car drove off. A few minutes later, Cole followed. As their destination became clear—Needle Point—a hypothesis about what had happened to Dylan Hall began to form in his mind.
Still circumstantial, no doubt, but the circumstances were far from ideal.
In fact, they were downright terrible.
Especially when considering Detective Freddie Furlow’s involvement in Dylan Hall’s increasingly complex case.
When Veronica asked him to do whatever it took to exonerate Dylan, she likely meant working long hours, spending cash, greasing wheels, pulling favors. That’s what most people meant—work hard, spend money, do some digging. Get the job done.
The problem was, once Cole Batherson started digging, he wouldn’t stop until the hole had been completely cleared out.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
He was beginning to suspect that this hole wasn’t hiding gold coins or crypto keys. Cole was slowly starting to think that this hole was actually a grave. And if he kept digging, nobody was going to be happy with the bones he unearthed.
Least of all, Veronica Shade.
