Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 02 - Love Can Be Murder (24 page)

Jo let out a puff of air and felt the adrenaline flow through her. “Holy crap! I read about Johnson in the paper. Wait, was he the cop that killed Bishop?”

“Yeah, he was. That’s why I remembered the case without having to look it up. We’re reviewing every damned case Johnson was ever involved in, to make sure there was no improprieties. What a nightmare.”

“Sorry to hear it Alex.” She paused, and then added, “Well, to be totally honest, I’m not really sorry. I think you just proved a theory of mine. Where can I find Johnson?”

“He’s being held at the Hennepin County Jail. Glad I could help.”

Jo smiled at Alex’s sarcasm. She didn’t blame him. The court dockets would be a mess for years to come, once the lawyers started claiming their clients were framed by a crooked cop.

* * *

Jo was in an interrogation room with Ben Johnson. He stared at a spot on the table in front of him and mumbled, “Why would I tell you about the drug raid on Bishop’s house? Read the police report. It’s all there.”

“What if I could get you a lighter sentence in return for your cooperation on my investigation?”

Officer Johnson looked up from the table and his eyes narrowed, “Maybe I should talk to my attorney first.”

Jo stood up and made a show of packing up her files. “You know, I don’t think I have the time to deal with a dirty cop like you, after all. I’ve obviously made a mistake.”

“Wait. What do you want to know?”

Jo sat back down and took out her notepad. “Let’s start with how you knew there were drugs in Bishop’s house?”

The cop sat back in his chair, and fidgeted with the zipper on his prison-issued jumpsuit. “They were there because I put them there.”

Jo blinked. “The whole thing was a set-up? Who hired you?”

“First, you got to tell me what’s in it for me.”

Jo sighed. “I will put in a good word with the DA for you. The FBI carries some weight in her office. Now, who paid you to frame and kill Robert Bishop?”

Johnson smirked. “It was that state representative that was found dead in the Capitol a couple of weeks ago. If you ask me, he got what he deserved.”

Jo’s heart pounded and she leaned forward in her seat. “Did Freemont tell you why he wanted to get rid of Bishop?”

“He said there were some loose ends from his past that he needed to tie up. Said Bishop was blackmailing him. He paid me seventy-five grand to make the problem go away. I knew what he was asking me to do.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Turners Bend

March

The excitement of the previous week had turned into a buzz filled with tension and frenzy the day before the premiere. The two beauticians at Harriet’s House of Hair were booked solid with customers wanting upsweeps. In the FBI office above, Agent Masterson was briefing the newly arrived agents. Chief Fredrickson and Chip were invited to relate the details for the next day. When they were finished, Masterson took over with her usual no-funny-business style.

“We now have confirmation that the body in the silo is that of Tracy Trent. Here is a ten-year-old photograph of our suspect, Elizabeth Brown, and here is an age-updated, computer-generated image of what she might look like now. We expect the town to be crowded with movie goers and media people. Every venue needs to be closely watched, every suspicious person detained. State Patrol will check the license plate of every vehicle entering the town. Remember that young women and possibly teen girls are the killer’s targets. If this woman is in Turners Bend, I want her found and apprehended before another woman is abducted. She has murdered five times and tomorrow is the day the madness ends.”

Chip and Fredrickson passed the photo between them. “Wow, she’s not what I expected at all,” said Chip, as he gazed at the picture of an attractive, middle-aged woman with shoulder-length, medium brown hair, dark eyes and sweet smile. “Guess I shouldn’t stereotype women coaches.”

“Sure doesn’t look like a woman with a hot temper,” said the chief. “Looks more like the woman on a Betty Crocker cake mix box to me.”

“Looks can be deceiving, Chief. I’ve seen plenty of baby-faced killers in my day,” said Masterson. “Oh, by the way, we weren’t able to trace your phone call with the mechanical voice you received. It was from one of those throw-away cell phones. We do know the phone was purchased in Ames last week. The second it’s turned on we should be able to triangulate the location.”

She grabbed her vibrating phone for a call. Chip observed a tiny crack in her demeanor as she listened, and muttered “Damn, damn, damn.” She asked a series of rapid fire, where, when and who questions, then hung her head after she disconnected to compose herself before continuing.

“I have to leave for Iowa City immediately for damage control. Someone on the police force leaked the Tracy Trent story to the press, including a tie-in to the Turners Bend body. Things are about to blow-up and tomorrow this will be headline news across the country. Chief, prepare for a media flood of national reporters, photographers, gossips, and thrill seekers. This town and Iowa City are going to be swarming like a hornets’ nest. Trent was a popular radio announcer and interest in her disappearance has never waned.”

Masterson took out a key and opened a desk drawer. She withdrew a shoulder holster and revolver, removed her suit jacket and strapped it to her side. Nodding to one of the agents, she said, “Klein, you’re in charge here while I’m gone.”

Turning to Fredrickson, she added, “Chief, listen to me very carefully. You are going to tell the press that this is an ongoing investigation, you are cooperating with the FBI, there is no confirmed connection between the two murders and you have no further comments at this time. Do you understand?”

The chief stood and, almost shouting, said, “Yes, Ma’am.”

After leaving the meeting, Chip wandered over to the Bun. It was full of unfamiliar faces, except for one. Iver was behind the counter pouring coffee and nuking cinnamon rolls. Chip joined him.

“Jeez, Iver. What are you doing here?”

“My house is like a chicken coop today. Mabel was up all night making alternations and now the place is full of hens having their final fittings. I came here to relieve Bernice, so she could join them. Mabel was ‘letting out the bust darts’ on Flora’s dress. I don’t know what in the hell that means, but the image I have is pretty hysterical.”

“Who are all these customers?”

“Most of them are with the press crews, I guess. They’ve blocked off Main Street with all their vans. The chief or Jim should be out there getting the traffic flowing.”

Chip began to survey the women scattered throughout the café, searching for the face he had just seen in the photograph. She wasn’t there. Most of the women were twenty-something with blonde, asymmetrically cut hairdos, wearing brightly-colored wool blazers. Reporters, he assumed. He was struck by a sick feeling … one of them could end up a victim of the serial killer.

“Where’s lover-boy Lance and your spitfire agent?” asked Iver, as he started another pot of coffee.

“He called from Des Moines this morning. He went to the airport to pick-up Lucinda and my parents. My parents arrived on time, but Lucinda’s plane was delayed out of JFK. I pity the poor airlines that caused Lucinda Patterson to be late, and I pity Lance who has to wait in the airport with my parents …my nattering mother and my father, the doctor who waits for no one.”

“Remember what I said the day you put your car in the ditch, about your relationship with your father? My pa was sort of like yours, a hard-nosed Norwegian who made a lot of money farming, but not the easiest guy to get along with. As kids my brother, Knute, and I hated him and feared him, but as the old man began to fail, he softened. Or, maybe we softened. Whichever, it doesn’t matter. Our last few years with him were good, and I miss the old coot like hell. End of story.” Iver blew his nose on a big red bandana and switched topics, leaving Chip to ponder his story.

“Well, I hope Miss Lucinda’s bust darts are okay, cause I tell you, Mabel’s got no time to fix them,” Iver said, chuckling and returning to his jovial self.

Bernice returned. She had been to Harriet’s before work and her hair looked like a bakery shop confection. She carried a clear plastic bag, which contained her gown, a gold satin, full-length dress.

“Thanks, boys, I can take over now.”

Iver removed his apron and returned it to Bernice. “Where to?” he asked Chip.

“Let’s get out of here and check on how things are at the Bijou.”

Iver and Chip crossed the street, squeezing between vans and stepping over cables. The door of the Bijou was open, and as they approached the smell of burned popcorn wafted into the street. Inside the theater it looked like a disaster zone.

“What happened?” asked Chip.

“We were popping a test batch, and it didn’t turn out too good,” offered one of the volunteer concessionaires. “We’re going to give it another go.”

As they moved through the lobby another odor assaulted their nostrils. “Phew, what’s that smell?” Iver asked.

They followed their noses to the men’s bathroom, peeked inside the door marked Gents and saw a denim-covered butt sticking out of one of the stalls.

“George, that you?” Iver asked.

A voice echoed out of the stall. “Yup, it’s me. Crapper over-flowed this morning. I just about got it fixed. Think we’re going to need some air freshener, though.”

* * *

Chip’s head was pounding as he drove home. He felt like he was on a ship going down in flames. The scenes in the FBI office, the Bun and the Bijou were straight out of B-Grade movies. He took a stiff drink of bourbon and waited for the arrival of his parents. He had gone all day without thinking about Jane. He stretched out on the couch and quelled his thoughts by imagining what she might look like in her ball gown. He grabbed his cell phone to call her, checked for reception and got no bars on his phone, just what he would expect on a day when the Titanic was headed for an iceberg and the passengers were clueless as to the perils ahead.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Mind Games

Minneapolis & Shakopee, Minnesota

Early August

Jo Schwann called Frisco as soon as she climbed into her SUV. She turned the AC on high while she waited for the detective to answer.

When she heard Frisco’s voice on the line, she immediately said, “Frisco, you’re not going to believe this, but Freemont paid to have Bishop killed.”

“No friggin’ way! How d’ya figure that out?”

Jo quickly ran through her conversation she’d had with the crooked cop.

“Man, when the pieces come together, they really come together,” Fisco said.

“What do you mean?”

“I found some interesting details myself. Guess who was a regular visitor of Bishop’s when he was an inmate at the Chesapeake Detention Center in Baltimore. Marjorie Payne, ace reporter.”

Jo was shocked. “I did not see that coming!”

“Me, either. She was working for WBAL-TV in Baltimore at the time. She supposedly was working on a three-part series on Bishop and his life of crime, but it never showed up on television. So, I did some more digging. Marjorie Payne lived in Baltimore the same time as Bishop. Then, shortly before Bishop moved to Minneapolis, Payne took a job here with KSMN-TV.

Jo leaned back into her seat. “I wonder what she and Bishop talked about.” Jo thought for a moment and then continued. “Do you think there was more than a professional connection between Payne and Bishop?”

“I wondered that myself,” Frisco said.

Something clicked in Jo’s brain. “Frisco, hang on a sec. I have an idea.”

Jo dug into her briefcase and pulled out her files on their case. She sorted through the documentation until she came to the DMV photo of the teenaged Michelle Bishop.

Next, she turned on her tablet and pulled up the website of Payne’s TV station. She clicked through the links until she came to the promo shot of Marjorie Payne. She held up the DMV photo and compared it to the one of Payne on her screen.

Other than the hair color and a few years in age difference, the two women in the photos looked strikingly similar. She could feel her heart pounding. “Frisco, is there any possibility that Marjorie Payne really could be Michelle Bishop?”

“Whoa! But how could she have pulled that off without someone noticing? And why would she?”

“As to why, Michelle had a rough family history. Maybe her big brother Robert filled her in on their mother’s murder. Who would want to be a part of that family tree?”

“But why would Marjorie willingly trade identities with her?”

Jo studied the pictures again. “I don’t think it was done willingly. Remember the Baltimore cold case we found a few weeks back about the unidentified female who died of a shotgun blast to the face, just like our vics? Wouldn’t Marjorie Payne have been about the same age as that victim at the time?”

“Yeah, I guess, but I’m not following the connection.”

“What if that victim was the real Marjorie Payne and Michelle Bishop or her brother killed her, so that Michelle could assume her identity?”

Jo could hear Frisco’s whistle through the phone. “You think?”

“There is something not right about Bishop’s connection with Marjorie Payne. Also, I’m looking at the old DMV photo of Michelle Bishop right now. She sure looks an awful lot like Marjorie Payne. We can have the Baltimore PD run a DNA test to verify.”

“A DNA test will take some time, though.” Frisco sighed, “This just keeps getting better and better. Man, this is turning into a real shitstorm.”

The corners of Jo’s mouth turned up into a wry smile. “Funny, my boss used that same expression … even before we suspected the Payne link. Now, how are we going to prove it?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Fisco said and paused. “I … Hey, Jo, can you hang on a minute? I’ve got a call on the other line.”

The detective was gone so long that Jo wondered if they had lost the cell connection. She was about to hang up and call Frisco again when he came back on the line and said, “Got another one missing.”