The City PI and the Country Cop

Chapter 2-3

Detective Slater did call, somewhat to Teague’s surprise, to set up another meeting for that evening. Teague had thought the detective would brush him off. “This is off the record,” Slater told him in no uncertain terms before asking Teague to meet him at a local diner across town from the precinct.

Teague arrived to find Slater seated in a booth well away from the front window. He slid in across from the detective, ordering coffee when the waitress arrived.

“When I said this is just between you and me,” Slater said, “I meant it. There are two reasons I’m willing to talk to you about this. One, it is a cold case, not an ongoing one. Secondly, is the fact that I know you were right when you said you could do things that I, as an officer of the law, can’t.” He smiled dryly. “I’m a realist if nothing else. Not that the information I’m going to give you will be of much use I’m afraid. But I’ll also put you in contact with the detective handling the killing in Faircrest. I’ll warn you, he’s a hardnosed SOB who will probably tell you to get lost, but it’s the best I can do for you.”

“Thanks. If he does, then he does. That’s the name of the game as they say. So, what do you have for me?”

“This.” Slater opened the briefcase that Teague could just see was sitting on the seat beside the man. Taking out a slim folder, he handed it to Teague “The details about the deaths are all there, including everything we held back when they happened. They show that the murder of your friend was done in exactly the same fashion as the others, down to the way he was strangled. It’s not pretty, as you’ll see from the crime scene photos.”

Teague looked around to make certain no one was watching before opening the folder. For the moment he skipped the written information, going directly to the photos of the bodies as they’d initially been found. He sucked in a deep breath. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, it’s bad,” Slater agreed.

The picture, obviously a photocopy of the original, showed a young man’s body, naked, lying at the foot of a large tree. His wrists and ankles were lashed together behind his back, hog-tying him. The killer had fastened a second, heavier rope around his neck. It’s free end, at the point when the photo was taken, hung limply over the branch of the tree. It didn’t take much imagination to understand that the killer had pulled the boy up by it, thus strangling him to death.

Teague repressed a shudder, saying, “From what you told me, the strangulation was slow.”

Slater nodded. “The coroner estimates that the killer probably pulled him off the ground until he was almost dead, let him down, and did it again. Four times in the case of the young man in that photo. Five when it came to Chris Frye. Possibly because he was lighter than the other two boys so the killer was able to play with him longer before tiring.”

“The bastard did more that sodomize and strangle this one,” Teague said tightly as he studied another photo of the young man’s body. There were what appeared to be several cigarette burns on his back, arms, and the soles of his feet.

“The county coroner said that was done before the killer started hanging Barry—that’s the boy’s name. More torture before killing him. It was the same with the two other boys. That’s one bit of information that was held back.”

“What kind of sick son-of-a-b***h are we dealing with here?”

“Given that all three boys were gay, and hustlers, you tell me.”

“Obviously he hates gays, but why go to such extremes? Who did what to him to make him take his hatred out this way, by torturing them so horribly?”

“When we catch him, we’ll ask,” Slater replied sardonically.

Teague looked at the pictures of the second boy, and then, reluctantly, at those of Chris. If you had listened to me…Damn it, Chris. You didn’t deserve this. None of you did. “All right. How does the murder of the kid in Faircrest differ from these?”

“For starters, there were no cigarette burns.”

“Info that wasn’t given to the press, you said. So the fact there weren’t burns fits with the Faircrest killer being a copycat, not the original killer—or he’s his student.” Teague frowned at that last thought. “I presume the detective in Faircrest…What’s his name?”

“Hoyt Newman.”

“I presume Detective Newman agrees there might be a copycat at work.”

Slater snorted. “Newman doesn’t agree that the murder has anything at all to do with our serial killer. As far as he’s concerned it’s coincidence and nothing more despite the fact that the victim was found in a dense forested area along the river just outside of town, hogtied, sodomized, and hanged.”

“Literally hanged?”

“Yes. He wasn’t on the ground the way these victims—” Slater tapped the file, ‘‘—were when they were discovered.”

“Another variation. Still, that doesn’t mean it isn’t the original murderer. If he is in his fifties or older he might not have the strength to semi-hang the victim several times before going for the coup de grâce.”

Slater smiled. “Coup de grâce. I like that. And you have a valid point. That takes a fair amount of muscle.” Slater drummed a tattoo on the table. “I don’t like the idea of an apprentice.”

Teague snapped his fingers. “Apprentice. That’s the word I was trying to think of. Be that as it may, if he does have one, why wait twenty-seven years to start up again?”

“Perhaps he was in prison. Or he moved on to somewhere else and started over. Although if that’s the case he also changed his MO. I’ve run everything through the NIBRS data system and came up with no true matches. The closest, although Newman would disagree, is Lee Grimes. That’s the name of the kid whose case he’s handling.”

Changing the subject somewhat, Teague asked, “What are the chances I can talk to the detectives who handled these three cases?” He pointed to the file.

“Slim to none, unless you like to travel or have an in with God,” Slater replied. “Two of them are dead and the third one retired and moved to Florida.”

Teague chuckled. “Isn’t that what all retirees do? Do you have a phone number for him?”

“I’ll check when I go back to the station in the morning.”

“Thanks.”

“What are your plans now?” Slater asked.

“Spend the rest of the night going through all the information you brought me. If you come up with a number for the detective in Florida I’ll call him. Then I’m going to head to Faircrest.”

* * * *

By the time Teague had finished reading through the file on the serial killer murders he was even more disgusted and dismayed than he had been originally.

He put you through hell, Chris. You and the others. How can someone be so full of hate that they’ll torture and kill an innocent kid? Okay, perhaps innocent isn’t the right word, all things considered. But none of you were really criminals and you weren’t harming anyone. You were just doing what it took to keep body and soul together the best that you knew how.

Setting the file aside, Teague started off into space, remembering the last time he’d seen Chris. They were in Teague’s car, in the lot outside the bus station. Chris was hyper, talking about his future.

“I’m going to go to, maybe Los Angeles. See if I can break into the movies.”

“Porn movies,” Teague replied, laughing when Chris flipped him off. Then Teague sobered. “I wish you’d stay here. I can get an apartment with the money I’ll make working for Mr. Graham at the hardware store. Hell, I can pick up extra cash at the Creamery in the evenings. I bet Ms. Alison would hire you there, too.”

“Not happening,” Chris had stated. “I’m over it. There’s no future here and besides which I want to get as far away from family as I can. Yeah, Mike’s a good guy but he doesn’t get it. This town is so…small town.” He gazed out the car window for a long moment before turning back to Teague. “You need to leave too before you turn into Mr. Graham or some other tired old man. That’s all there are here, Teague. Old, tired people who don’t know there’s a world out there if they’d only explore it. That’s not going to be me. No way, no how.”

Teague wanted to hug Chris at that point and tell him it didn’t have to be that way. But he was tired of arguing with him. He knew he’d never win. “Take care of yourself,” he said softly. “And keep in touch.”

“Yeah. Will do.” Chris glanced around before leaning in briefly to brush a kiss over Teague’s lips. “I promise.” Then he was out of the car, his backpack swinging over his shoulder as he almost ran into the bus station.

* * * *

That was the last time I saw you. You never did keep your promise. You just…vanished. How the hell did you end up here, and dead? Teague opened the folder, taking out the picture the coroner had taken of the then unidentified teen who was Chris Frye. So young. So beautiful. Well, not in this photo, but you were. Once. I’m going to find the bastard who killed you, Chris. Somehow, I will.