Page 36 of No Surrender
“Thompson was the main driver for the hospitality worker shuttle that picked up at the hotels and restaurants after hours. Used to call it the ‘waitress bus’ back in the day. He wasn’t the only driver, but he tended to draw the night shift more than other people. Which provided the opportunity—he was someone the riders were familiar with, and he knew where to find vulnerable young women in the wee hours of the morning on their way from the shuttle stop to their apartments.”
“And no one questioned him?” Ross’s voice clearly showed his frustration.
“Oh, I questioned him several times,” Gordon replied. “But he was a smart bastard. Slick. Almost like he was playing cat and mouse with us. All I had was circumstantial evidence. We even searched his apartment, but if he kept trophies from his kills, he didn’t hide them there.”
“Is he still alive?” Vic sincerely hoped karma had caught up with Thompson, even if the police didn’t.
Gordon shook his head. “Thompson had an aggressive type of liver cancer. Killed him within a month of when the last girl went missing. Wonder of all wonders—that’s when the disappearances stopped.”
Vic knew that he should have been glad that the killing spree had ended, but the victory felt empty since Thompson hadn’t been called to account for his crimes.
“Did he have any helpers?” Ross asked. “Were there people you thought ought to have seen something but who either played dumb or might have been an accomplice?”
Gordon nodded and gave a wolfish smile. “Good…you’re sharp. Nice to know the younger generation is on the ball.”
Vic was thirty-two, and he guessed that Gordon was more than twice his age, so youth was relative.
“Shawna Stinson managed an apartment building popular with service workers because it was cheap and close to the shuttle station. She had a reputation for being a busybody and sticking her nose into her renters’ business. But when it came to the women who went missing, she swore she didn’t have a clue.”
“Yeah, that’s not suspicious at all,” Ross muttered.
“I know—right?” Gordon replied. “I think she was either scared or paid off, and my bet is the latter.”
“She still around?” Vic asked.
Gordon shook his head. “She was older then, and it’s been a while. Died about twenty years ago. I don’t think she actively set the victims up. But I do believe she knew or suspected who the killer was and refused to help.”
“Anyone else?” Vic pressed.
Gordon frowned. “There was a janitor who gave me the creeps. That’s very un-scientific, but you seem like good detectives to me, so you’ll know what I mean about going with your gut. He split the night shift between the shuttle station and the bus depot. Squirrely little guy, full of questions, always under foot. Maybe he was just bored, but he seemed a little too interested in what we were doing.”
“Interested, how?” Ross’s eyes narrowed.
“He was just a kid—probably in his early twenties at the time. But whenever we turned around, there he was, eavesdropping and pretending to mop. I ran a background check on him, talked to his boss, checked him out. Nothing unusual. But he tripped all my alarms. When we interviewed him, he swore he hadn’t seen anything. But he asked questions all the time about the investigation. Maybe I’m just a bitter old codger—I totally am—but I swear he always sounded like he hoped the killer was giving us a run for his money,” Gordon replied.
“That sounds like our fanboy,” Vic said. “Except I think he’s acquired some new skills since then.”
“What do you mean?” Gordon eyed Vic curiously.
Vic hesitated, unsure how much to say, then plunged in. “Remember—I’m the guy who’s engaged to my psychic partner, so that counts as full disclosure. We think that our fanboy picked up some witchy talents that have enabled him to send cursed items to people important to the Slitter trial to take them off the game board.”
“I’ve seen the news—you think that’s what’s behind what happened to the D.A. and the judge?”
Vic and Ross nodded. “Simon checked the items that triggered the events. Definitely malicious magic. But the Slitter didn’t send them. So…”
“The janitor’s name was Bert Judd. Wasn’t from around here, but to my knowledge, he’s still alive and still in South Carolina,” Gordon said. “I kept tabs on him for a long time, but everything was quiet. If you’re looking for a fanboy, I’d start with him.”
“I have a friend who’s an FBI profiler,” Ross volunteered. “I asked him for information to better understand what kind of person becomes a serial killer groupie. Once he gets back to me, Judd is going to the top of the list.”
“Judd isn’t a janitor anymore. He runs a janitorial service company,” Gordon said. “But from what I’ve been able to track, he favors occult and conspiracy channels on some of the dodgier social media. So the idea of him trying to put a hex on someone who was causing problems for his idol seems entirely in character to me.”
Gordon rubbed the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache. “I’m going to have nightmares again, I’m sure of it.”
Vic’s ears pricked. “Are the bad dreams a constant, or did they get worse lately?” He figured it was a toss-up on whether their line of work caused permanent PTSD or that the dreams had another, darker cause.
Gordon frowned. “You know how the job goes. Can’t unsee that stuff.”
“We think there might be dark magic involved that feeds off fear,” Vic said, not ready to bring up the idea of a “creature.” “Sleep problems have become an epidemic since the Slitter trial started ramping up.”
