The FBI Thrillers Collection(147)
“And there were no strangers in the area the week before the murder? The day of the murder?”
“Oh sure. There were pizza deliveries, a couple of Seventh-Day Adventists, a guy canvassing for a local political campaign,” said Mason, a younger man who was dressed in a very expensive blue suit and looked as tired as his partner. Savich imagined that when they took roles, Mason was the good cop and Dubrosky the bad cop. Mason looked guileless and naïve, which he probably hadn’t been for a very long time.
Mason gave a defeated sigh, spreading his hands on the tabletop. “But nobody saw anyone at the Lansky house except a woman and her daughter going door-to-door selling Girl Scout cookies. That was one day before the murders. That doesn’t mean that UPS guys didn’t stop there a week ago, but no one will even admit that’s possible. It’s a small, close-knit neighborhood. You know, one of those neighborhoods where everybody minds everybody else’s business. The old lady who lives across the street from the Lanskys could even describe the woman and the little girl selling the cookies. I can’t imagine any stranger getting in there without that old gal noticing. I wanted to ask her if she kept a diary of all the comings and goings in the neighborhood, but Dubrosky said she might not be so happy if I did and she just might close right up on us.”
Captain Brady said, “You know, Agent Savich, this whole business about the guy coming to the house, getting in under false pretenses, actually coming into the kitchen, checking before he whacked the families to make sure they had a toaster and a low-set big gas oven didn’t really occur to anyone until you told Bud Hollis in St. Louis to check into it. He’s the one who got us talking to every neighbor within a two-block radius. Like Mason said, there wasn’t any stranger, even a florist delivery to the Lansky house. Everyone is positive. And none of the neighbors seem weird. And we did look for weird when we interviewed, just in case.”
Savich knew this of course, and Captain Brady knew that he knew it, but he wanted the detectives to think along with him. He accepted a cup of coffee from Mason that was thicker than Saudi oil. “You are all familiar with the profile done by the FBI after the first murders in Des Moines. It said that the killer was a young man between the ages of twenty and thirty, a loner, and that he lived in the neighborhood or not too far away, probably with his parents or with a sibling. Also he had a long-standing hatred or grudge or both toward the family in Des Moines, very possibly unknown by the family or friends of the family. Unfortunately this didn’t seem to pan out.”
“No shit,” Dubrosky said as he tapped a pen on the wooden tabletop. “The Des Moines cops wasted hours and hours going off on that tangent. They dragged in every man in a three-block radius of the house, but there wasn’t a single dweeb who could possibly fit the profile. Then it turned out that the Toaster wasn’t just a little-time killer, he’s now a serial killer. Thank God we didn’t waste our time going through that exercise. You people aren’t infallible.” Dubrosky liked that. He looked jovial now. “No, this time you were so far off track that you couldn’t even see the train. Like the captain said, we did talk to all the neighbors. Not a weirdo in the bunch.”
“Actually, on this case, we’re not off track at all,” Savich said. “Believe me, it’s astounding how often the profiles are right on the money.” He was silent a moment, then said, “Now, everyone agrees that the same guy murdered all three families. It makes sense that he had to visit each of the houses to ensure that there were both a toaster and a classic full-size stove/oven combo that sat on the kitchen floor. And not an electric stove, a gas one. There were delivery people all over the neighborhoods in both Des Moines and in St. Louis, but the truth is no one is really certain of anything. By the time they acted on the profile theory of the killer living in the neighborhood, there wasn’t much certainty anymore about any repairs or deliveries. Nobody remembered seeing anybody.”
“Good summary, Savich,” said Dubrosky.
“Bear with me, Detective.” He took another drink of coffee. “This stuff is so potent, I bet it breeds little cups of coffee.”
There was one small smile, from Sherlock.
Savich said, “You guys have done hours of legwork here and you did it immediately. You’ve proven that there wasn’t a repairperson or a salesman or even a guy whose car broke down and wanted to phone a garage near the Lansky house. So then we come back to the basic question. How then did he get into the Lansky house? Into the kitchen specifically so he could make certain they had all the props he needed?”