Chapter Twenty-Seven
On the sidewalk, Jamie stared up at the Savannah-Chatham Metro Police Department. Hands clenched, he took another step toward the door and stopped. What if I’m wrong? I have no actual proof. He gritted his teeth. Just because there was a drop of blood in the sink, that doesn’t mean it belonged to Mrs. Gretzner’s missing toy poodle. And keeping a neat bedroom isn’t a crime.
Jamie pivoted away from the police station and headed back to the parking lot. Rounding the corner, he headed for his beat-to-shit, dark-blue Chevy Camaro. He paused, ran a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes, and stared at the car he’d bought in Texas five years earlier. A good investment at the time, it just needed a little work. On February fourteenth, the day after he’d made the purchase, the first murdered girl had been found. Mangled. Heart missing.
The last week of February, he’d rebuilt the engine, and the second girl had been discovered in an ally, her heart gone as well. The act of violence had been so heinous the media had jumped on it. With the two murders committed in February—the first on the commercialized holiday—and both hearts taken, they’d dubbed the culprit The Valentine Killer.
Two months later, Jamie had saved enough to recover the seats and replace the carpeting. Two days after he’d finished the job, another murder. The remains of a high-school girl had been dumped behind a donut shop.
Then the damned transmission had started slipping. He’d barely been able to shift into Drive. After he’d gotten the car back from the shop, four days passed before the next girl had been found in a local park.
At the time, Jamie had sworn off any more repairs. If he quit fixing up the Camaro, then maybe girls would stop dying. With the engine and transmission both rebuilt, he’d decided to gas it up and drive until the damn thing fell apart.
But of course, the Valentine Killer hadn’t stopped. A total of eight girls had their hearts removed before he’d ridden shotgun in the coroner’s van to the outskirts of Hill Country to pick up the Valentine Killer’s body.
Which he’d dropped.
He shuddered, still unable to remember exactly what happened in the cave.
Turning, Jamie walked back to the police station. It didn’t matter he possessed no evidence. If he was wrong about Brent, then fine. But if it turned out he was right, then his coming forward might matter a great deal. Hell, if a roommate or next-door neighbor had come forward with concerns about the Valentine Killer, maybe some of those girls would still be alive.
Jamie pushed through the police department entrance and approached the desk. A thin, dark-skinned woman with large brown eyes looked up from the computer terminal.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes.” Jamie pushed his bangs off his forehead. “I, um, need to talk to someone. An officer.”
“Okay.” Her gaze narrowed as though weighing the importance of his request. “What’s it regarding?”
“Well, I know it’s going to sound crazy.” He forced a smile in an attempt to calm his nerves. “I think my roommate might be doing stuff he, uh…shouldn’t.”
“Are we talking drugs, prostitution, theft? What exactly?”
“I’m not sure.” Twisting to peer over his shoulder, he scanned the bored faces of the couple sitting in chairs against the wall. Why were they here?
“Sir.” The female officer’s curt tone drew his attention. “You need to be more specific so I can direct you to the right person.”
Jamie moved closer, and the woman in uniform tensed. Damn, does she think I’m going to attack her? Forcing another smile, he placed his hands on the counter where she could see them.
“I didn’t want to broadcast it.” He spoke in a hushed tone and tilted his head toward the bored couple. Leaning forward, he stared the female officer in the face. “I don’t know for sure, but I think my roommate might be involved in a murder.”
Her brown eyes widened, and she reached for the phone. “Yeah, I got a guy down here you need to talk to.” She glanced at Jamie then at her computer monitor. “Okay. I’ll send him up.” She replaced the handset and turned to him. “Go up those stairs to the next floor and sit on the first bench to the right. Someone will take your statement.”
“Thank you.” With a nod, he headed for the stairs. A bead of sweat snaked between his shoulder blades. No turning back now.
On the next floor, he located the bench and sat. No sooner had his butt hit the hard, polyurethane-coated wood than an officer approached. Tall and built like a defense lineman, the guy strode toward him with an air of serious professionalism that would compel any criminal to think twice.
“Detective Dauscher.” He stopped in front of him. “And you are?”
“Jamie Bennett.”
A uniformed officer trudged past them, pushing a skinny guy through the foot traffic. Shiny metal handcuffs dangled from the dude’s thin wrists. Gaze focused on nothing, his head lolled about while the officer steered him down the hallway. How would the guy make it down the stairs without breaking his neck?
“Mr. Bennett.” Detective Dauscher’s gruff tone brought Jamie’s attention back to the matter at hand. He gestured toward the doorway he’d just exited. “If you’ll come this way, we can sit and talk in a more private area.”
Following directions, Jamie walked down an aisle in the middle of a sea of desks. Detectives and officers moved about. Phones rang. An indistinguishable buzz of conversation pervaded the room while other people gave statements, made complaints, or sat mute and handcuffed.
Unnerved by his surroundings, Jamie sank onto the heavy wooden chair adjacent to the detective’s metal desk. How many people have sat here before me?
“So, Mr. Bennett.” The detective dropped into his seat and rolled up to his desk, the wheels grinding over the linoleum flooring. “How can I help you today?”
“Well.” Jamie glanced around the room then back at the detective. “I think my roommate might be involved in a murder. Or something.”
“Or something.” Other than his keen gaze, the detective’s face was unreadable. “Why don’t you tell me what brought you here today?”
“Now that I’m sitting here, I’m not so sure.” Jamie shook his head. “It sounds kind of crazy.”
The detective’s eyes narrowed. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Bennett?”
“I’m a trauma nurse over at Emory.”
Detective Dauscher raised a brow. “A job like that would require someone who was pretty well educated, levelheaded.”
“Yeah. I suppose.” He’d worked with the coroner while completing his education. Thought the experience would do him good. Man, he’d been wrong about that.
“So, tell me. Why do you think your roommate is involved in a murder?”
“Well.” Jamie drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk. “For starters, his room is immaculate. I don’t mean clean and neat, I mean obsessive. Bed tucked so tight you could bounce a quarter off it, shoes lined up in the closet, shirts and pants pressed and hanging on the closet rods.” He shook his head, held up a hand. “I know. Cleanliness isn’t a crime. But this isn’t just tidy. It’s freaky clean. He even has a pad and pen set parallel to one another on the desk, and they’re always positioned perfectly in the center.”
The detective nodded. “Like you said, ‘not a crime.’ Hey, my mom’s got a bit of the OCD.”
“Does she have a gym bag with a bloody shirt stuffed under her bed?”
Eyes wide, the detective leaned forward. “Come again.”
“Okay, so I poked around in his room. He’s a new roommate.” Jamie shrugged. “I don’t know the guy. Figured if he has nothing to hide, then no big deal. Right? Well, I was turning to leave and tripped over a gym bag poking out from beneath his bed. I think he stole it from me.”
“Why would you think that?” the detective asked.
“It looked just like mine. From the broken zipper to the missing logo on the front pocket.”
The guy picked up his pen, tapped it on the desk pad. “Did you consider maybe he borrowed it?”
“Yeah. But he didn’t ask, and it kinda pissed me off. So, I opened it to dump his stuff out on the floor so he’d know I’d found it. I mean, if he steals my stuff, what’s he gonna say about me going through his room? Am I right?”
The detective gave a slight nod.
Jamie took a breath in preparation to share what he’d found. No way in hell he was going down for something his roommate did. Better to have it all on record. “When I looked inside, I found a shirt with blood spattered all over it.” He shook his head. “At the time, I thought maybe he did some boxing at the gym. Bobbed when he should’ve weaved and took one to the face. You know? But now I’m thinking different.”
“Why so?”
“He works at a bar in Savannah, though at the moment I don’t remember the name. Don’t hardly ever see the guy. You’d think that’d be great.” Jamie rubbed his chin. “Kinda strange. My neighbor across the hall, Ms. Gretzner, thinks he’s nice enough. Of course today I learned her pup’s missing.”
“Her dog’s gone?” The detective’s brow furrowed, and he made a note on a pad. “Run off a lot?”
“First I’ve ever heard. The little old lady loves that mutt. Moochie.” Jamie snorted. “Some kinda tiny poodle. Like a fuzzball on a leash. Yaps at everything. Seems like it’s all she has left in the world.”
The detective made another note.
“Okay.” Jamie peered out the window. Should I say anything about the rubber band on the bathroom floor? He clenched his jaw. No. Brent probably just missed the trashcan. Jamie turned back to the hulking detective. “So, I had a headache big as all hell and half of Texas this morning.”
“Noticed you had a drawl.” Detective Dauscher gestured toward him with his pen. “Nice shirt. That where you’re from?”
“Yes, sir.” Something in Jamie’s head whispered for him to tread with care. The detective was being too friendly. “Born and raised.”
“My partner’s from Texas, too. Says unless you’re a Texan, you ain’t been blessed by God.”
A laugh gurgled up Jamie’s tightened throat. “Ain’t that the truth?”
Detective Dauscher tapped his pen on his pad again. “So, anything else bother you about your roommate?”
“Just the thing that brought me here today.” Jamie’s mouth went dry beneath the detective’s judicious stare. Oh, shit. Does he think the term roommate is a ruse used to cover an admission of guilt? “As I stated, I had a migraine this morning and went to take some ibuprofen. When I was getting a glass of water, I noticed a spot on the drain board side of the sink. Don’t know why, but I swiped it with my finger.” Jamie swallowed. “Blood.”
“Another accident?” The detective jotted on the pad.
“Don’t know. Could be.” Jamie glanced toward the window again. Sunlight streamed through, bright and clear. “Or Moochie.”
Detective Dauscher tilted his head, stared at Jamie through narrowed eyes. “You think your roommate killed your neighbor’s dog? Why?”
“Why he’s obsessive about his room and his clothes and then leaves a spot of blood in the sink?” Jamie shrugged. “I know. I don’t have any proof of anything, and it all could be explained away easy enough. But I’m here, doing what my conscience says I should. Now that I have, it’s in your hands.”
The detective nodded. “And your roommate’s name?”
“Brent Carver.” Jamie gave him his phone number and address for good measure—just in case the guy decided to follow up.
Detective Dauscher rose, his chair squeaking with relief. He held out his hand. “Well, thank you for coming in, Mr. Bennett. There does seem to be a few curiosities about what you’ve said. We’ll poke around, see if we come up with anything.”
Jamie shook his hand, relief lightening the guilt from his shoulders. “Thank you, Detective. I surely do appreciate it.”
Exiting the police station, Jamie reveled in the warmth of the sun that contrasted the crisp breeze of spring. If Brent Carver turned out to be another Valentine Killer, at least Jamie’s conscience could be clear. He’d shared his concerns with the police, handing it over to them to deal with—or not.
As he strode down the sidewalk toward his beat-to-shit Camaro, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Something in his head told him to look up. Jamie craned his neck.
Standing in the window above him, Detective Dauscher stared back at him.