The Front Range Butcher Page 6

  “Thank you,” I said, while shaking his hand. “My name is Jarvis Mann.”

  “Come in.”

  He motioned me through the door. The entryway, vast with vaulted ceilings, reached for the heavens. I entered and was startled when, staring me in the eye, was a full-length version of me, a huge, ornate mirror on the wall hanging directly in front of me. To the right sat more stone, with green vine-like plants growing on them, the sound of circulating water running via a waterfall. The floor was beige marble, which appeared to run through the whole first floor, including a stairwell that wrapped around the vine covered stone, up to the second floor. I’d only seen a small portion of it and decided it was already larger than my home office.

  “What an exquisite house you have,” I said in awe.

  “Thank you. I’m Clark,” the man offered. “You said you had some questions about the previous owner, Simon.”

  “Yes, I did. Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?”

  I followed him into a family room, with two flowered love seats, two beige chairs and a beige curved sofa which occupied the large room. More stone graced the walls, this time holding a fireplace. Staring out through a large window with an unobstructed view of the open area of the back, I saw pine trees and grass stretching for miles it seemed. I’m sure if I watched long enough I’d see a deer or two, as they were known to roam the area.

  “This place is huge,” I said, while sitting down on one of the love seats. “Must have cost a pretty penny.”

  “Well worth it, for the peace and quiet. No traffic or city noise. Only the wind and wildlife to deal with.” Clark answered as he too got comfortable on the seat opposite me.

  I knew the price of the house, as I’d found an old listing on it. Cost was around two million. I doubt I could afford the electric bill, let alone the mortgage and taxes.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

  “Just short of a year. Took a while to close out the deal. Had to do some hard negotiation on the price.” He shifted his body finding a comfortable position and then crossed his legs.

  “What type of work do you do?” I asked. My investigative senses were hard at work.

  “Day trader. I work from home, as does my wife. Lots of money to be made on Wall Street.”

  Lots of money to be lost as well! I thought snidely.

  “I’d go crazy sitting at a desk on a computer all day.” I said, enjoying the softness of the love seat.

  “To tell you the truth, I go a little wacko some days myself.” Clark liked using his hands while he talked, making wide gestures. “Especially when the market is fluctuating. But here I can step outside, smell the fresh air and go for a jog to release the stress.”

  Even though I was a city person, I could easily give it all up to live up here under the right circumstances. Though in my profession that wasn’t likely, unless I won the lottery.

  “Tell me about what it was like buying the house from Simon?” I asked, searching for more background. I’m not sure what it would tell me that I didn’t really know, but other perspectives were always important. You never knew what you might unearth.

  “I never dealt with him, only his real estate agent and his lawyer. Mostly the lawyer, who was a hard nut to crack. At times I wanted to knock him upside the head.” He made a slapping motion while saying it.

  I laughed. “Lawyers are always a treat. Do you remember his name?”

  “Not really. I disliked him so much, I erased it from my memory. It was White something or other. But he dressed sharply and talked like he went to a high-brow school back east.”

  “How long did the negotiations last?”

  “Several months. They had only one other interested buyer and he didn’t have the financing to close the deal.” His legs must have gotten tired, as he uncrossed them.

  “Did you know about the owner’s health issues?”

  “No. It never came up. They said he was selling to move to a smaller house.”

  Most anywhere would be smaller than this place. I’m sure he didn’t want them to know about his health issues, as it could be used as leverage by the buyer. That is if, his health issues were real.

  “Any complications with the house when you moved in?”

  “House was clean when we got it. Nothing left behind we had to deal with. Inspection showed it in excellent shape.”

  “Any oddities in the house? Something out of the ordinary you wouldn’t expect to find in the design?”

  Clark thought about that question for a minute, leaning forward on the sofa. I could tell by his face something had come to mind.

  “Two things actually. One was in the basement. There was a large room down there, totally sound proofed with thick layers of insulation. Way more than the rest of the house. No windows to the outside world, and a metal door with a heavy-duty lock on it. It was as though he was trying to keep someone from getting into it.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. I wanted to see that basement.

  “Or keeping someone in the room,” I mused.

  Clark’s eyes lit up but he frowned. “Wow, I never thought of it that way.”

  “What was the second thing?” I asked, hoping for more revelations.

  “There was a security camera in that room. It was still mounted on the wall. I don’t know what it was connected to, as the wires lead out of the room to the first floor but not attached to anything. It was like they forgot about it and just left it behind.”

  A sounded proof room and a camera. This certainly fit around what The Butcher would be using. It was important information I was pleased to learn.

  “You mind if I see this room?” I asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice.

  He nodded but looked apologetic. “I can take you down, but we remodeled, so it’s not laid out the same. I can try to give you an idea of the way it was designed before the changes.”

  We went through the equally spacious and elaborate dining area and kitchen, then down some stairs. The basement didn’t cover the entire length of the house, maybe three quarters of the size, which still made it huge. As we hit the bottom of the steps, we came to an entertainment room, with a pool table, large flat screen LED TV, gaming system and chairs, while two more sofas aligned one wall. The floor had a short pile light brown carpet, with thick pad you could feel by the softness. There were a couple of small windows that let in light on the short side of the wall. We walked towards the end of the space, where we found three large pillars and a beam providing support for the ceiling. Way to the back was a laundry area that housed a chute where the clothes dropped into a basket right next to the front-loading washer and dryer. There was a walled off area, that Clark said was for storage. He walked off where the walls were originally placed, making for a much larger room, but with no windows. I pictured the space in my mind, thinking over how it could have been used. Soundproofing would appear to be overkill for storage. It had to be for privacy, making sure whatever went on in there was not heard. A perfect den for killing someone, slowly.

  “Not sure what it was for,” said Clark. “But I couldn’t image living or sleeping in there. I’d go insane.”

  Could have been the idea, I thought, starting to feel that I was in the right place.

  “How old is this house?” I asked, hoping to connect to the earlier murder timeline.

  He thought it over, counting to himself. “Just short of twenty years if I recall correctly.”

  Damnit, I was pissed. This couldn’t have been where The Butcher had brought his victims, for it didn’t fit into the timeframe of the earlier murders. Unless there were others we didn’t know about. The wooded area out back would have been a suitable place to bury bodies, I noted. But the killer had never hidden his victims from the world around, enjoying basking in his killing glory. Still I decided not to spook Clark with that thought.

  “Anything else odd about the room you can recall?” I asked, trying once again to find any link that would place Simo
n as the killer.

  “Now that you mention it, I do remember one thing. Might be nothing since the house was cleaned. But this room down here smelled…how should I put it…antiseptic? As if it had been cleaned more thoroughly than the others. I know it sounds odd, but I remember we had to open the door and the downstairs windows to air it out, for the smell was extremely strong, and we didn’t like it. Took a few days to clear out.”

  Antiseptic meant clean. Cleaned to remove evidence, would be my first thought. I’d doubt we’d ever know what evidence for certain. Though I had learned a few things, after leaving I was perturbed I’d not found a smoking gun definitively linking The Butcher to Simon.

  Chapter 12

  Jonas had a man inside the Lakewood police department who had provided him with information through the years. Today we were planning on meeting at Kendrick Lake Park. He wanted to be away from prying eyes and ears, for leaking information to non-police personnel is often frowned upon. He didn’t want me to know his name and would find me from my description given to him by Jonas. The secret rendezvous reminded me of the movie All the President’s Men. Hopefully I was Robert Redford, as I figured I was the handsome one in the movie, ready to meet the secretive Deep Throat, played by Hal Holbrook. A little political intrigue was good for the soul.

  I found the parking area, placing my helmet and jacket on the seat before tying it down with a cargo net. In front of me was the Kendrick Reservoir, the smell of water and fish permeated the air, which was unpleasant, but bearable since I grow up with it back in Iowa. To the left was a playground, with the sound of children laughing and enjoying themselves while their parents observed and worried about their child falling. It was a fear I’d never experienced. Who knows, maybe someday!

  I started walking, following a concrete trail, past some massive cottonwood trees, a couple of porta-potties, and over a walking bridge. I was supposed to stand in the middle of the bridge, with my arms on the railing, and wait. More secret spy stuff. I did this for fifteen minutes before a man approached me. If this was real spy stuff, we’d have a secret passphrase we’d have to share. Instead he just said my name.

  “Jarvis,” he said. “Shall we take a walk?”

  He was a shorter man than I was, and slender, with receding graying hairline. He was carrying his jacket, the cuffs rolled up on his white cotton dress shirt, his blue tie loose around his neck. Though it wasn’t an overly warm day, he appeared to be sweating through his shirt. Be it nerves or poor underarm deodorant, I hoped he would get comfortable and talk without fear.

  “Jonas says I should talk with you,” he said. “Took some convincing, but I’m here. Says you can be trusted.”

  “My lips are sealed. Just two buddies going for a stroll. I could have brought my fishing gear and we could see what is biting.”

  He ignored my humor, which was par for the course. I often wasn’t as funny as I thought.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What can you tell me about The Front Range Butcher?”

  “Past or present?” He looked around making sure no one heard the phrase.

  “Both, if you were involved on both cases.”

  “Gave me nightmares, but yes I was there on the original case. Sick bastard, what he did to those ladies. I’m sure Jonas has given you lots of information about him.”

  He looked down at his feet while talking, keeping a fairly slow pace. I had to slow down mine to match.

  “He did. But I like to hear it first-hand. Often spoken thoughts reveal more than written ones. When were you first brought onto the case?”

  “The third murder on the original case. Lakewood woman, so our department was called when her skin was dropped off. When it was deemed the cases were connected, a task force was formed shortly after, along with the FBI. I was assigned to work it for the city of Lakewood.”

  “And you’re working on the current case?”

  “Not as much as in the past. I’m simply providing consultation, so I’m in the loop on what is going on.”

  I couldn’t tell by his tone if he was happy or mad not to be as involved. A case like this can be a career builder or killer. And a personal nightmare to deal with. I decided not to dig too deeply into his personal thoughts on the matter.

  “Any patterns to the murders?”

  “Beyond the stripping of the skin and most of victims being female, not much. He has found them in various parts of the Front Range, never seeming to repeat himself. The women have been of all races, sizes, and hair color. Their personal status has been married, divorced, single, with and without boyfriends. The murders coming about three to four weeks apart, though there were longer stretches. Always leaves the bag of skin on the doorstep of someone the victim knows. The loved one, family member or friend, finds a note telling them who it is and where to find the rest of the body...”

  “No DNA to work with?”

  “Nothing of substance. He cleans everything he leaves behind thoroughly. And if there is any, it is corrupted with the victims’. But with the early murders, DNA was still in its infancy. And, with these new victims, nothing has been found that is helpful.”

  We walked on slowly, and passed a man fishing on the shoreline of the lake. He was all decked out in fishing gear complete with a traditional floppy hat covered in various flies pinned to it. He nodded his head in greeting and gave a no luck answer when I asked if the fish were biting.

  “You had a suspect for the first murders. Tell me about him?” I asked once we were out of earshot.

  “Simon Lions. Seen acting suspicious if I recall correctly. This was ten or so murders in, with the public being more careful and watchful for suspicious behavior. We were getting a lot of tips, the task force and the FBI, who had mostly taken over by then. Many were nothing and following all of them really took a lot of time. The FBI made us do most of that work. Too trivial for them, the idiots. Never liked working with them, but they have resources the local cops don’t.”

  He stopped for a minute, shifting his coat to his other arm, removing his tie and releasing another button on his shirt. He was not doing well with the sun baring down on him, sweat beading up on his forehead. Probably spent too much time behind his desk in the cool of the air conditioning.

  “Anyway, when we got the tip on Simon, it seemed promising. Spotted in the area of one of the victims before she disappeared. He was brought to the station and interrogated. He was evasive but seemed to enjoy toying with us on certain questions. Liked dancing around the answer with questions of his own, and not answering our questions directly. Cocky S.O.B, if you ask me.”

  Cocky and smart, it would seem, though I kept it to myself.

  “Once his lawyer came down, he was released,” he continued. “We started watching him, but he had connections and they started putting pressure on us to leave him alone. Cries of harassment and all that crap. Wouldn’t allow us to pursue him like we wanted. I know Jonas did his own following, including hiring a PI, but he didn’t find anything, and gave up. Simon was our only solid lead. Eventually the murders stopped and, with no solid evidence, the case went cold.”

  “You must have dreaded dealing with the politics on a case like this?” More reasons why I was glad I wasn’t a cop.

  He looked up, anger in his eyes. “I hated it. One minute they want the murders solved, the next they said to leave a suspect alone. I wanted to quit a couple of times, but I hung in there.”

  “Did you have any opinion on if Simon was the murderer?” I asked curiously.

  “I liked him for it,” he said, the anger subsiding. “Instinct told me it was possible. But I had no proof and neither did anyone else. At least proof that would hold up in a court of law.”

  “What about these new murders? Are they really an exact match to the old ones?”

  He nodded while answering. “Yes, in almost every way. If it’s not the same killer, he sure knows a lot about the first ones, which is baffling and a little frustrating.”

&nbs
p; “And if it was Simon, it couldn’t be him now, for he suffered a stroke and can’t move well enough to be involved.” I probed for confirmation.

  “That is what I understand. As I said, I’m not as connected this time. It was tough being on the case all those years ago. I’m happy I’m support this time and not front line. The Lakewood police and FBI are wanting fresh eyes looking over everything. We are there to answer questions about the past crimes, give details when necessary, but that is it. Some of these younger cops and agents don’t like reading through all the material. Easier for them to ask us, than dig through the mounds of reports.” His level of anger increased again. “Pick our brains and then shuffle us out of the room. Many of them don’t have any respect for us older cops, which pisses me off!”

  We had walked quite some ways along the path, the full length circling the entire lake, which was a fair distance. Much of what he told me lined up to what I’d heard from others and read about. Not a lot of new information, but confirmation from another opinion nonetheless. He turned around and pointed to head back, only having a brief time to talk.

  “Did you work with a Detective Blayne Jones?” I wanted to confirm his level of involvement.

  “Sure. Didn’t like him much, he left Lakewood for some reason. Not sure where he is now.”

  “Not one of my favorites either. He is a Captain now for Denver PD. I talked with him a few days ago. Told me as much as he could. Sounds like Jones was heavily involved when working on the original case.”

  “He was. Not sure he brought much to the case though. Many of us felt like we were spinning our wheels, waiting for the next victim to show up. I do know he got tired of the political BS as well and wanted out near the end.”