Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“Katie, stop.” He adjusts the front of his pants, and I bite back a smile.
“Such a good boy. You do deserve a treat, don’t you?”
“Why is this working?” he mutters, turning up the radio.
I lift my arm and start to stroke his hair. “So well-trained.”
He laughs, smacking my hand away. “The she-devil is back. You always have to win, don’t you?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I’m not a loser who gets off on dog cosplay.”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see.”
“Okay, back to business. Anthony is coming over tonight. He’s apologetic, so please can you be open to hearing him out before you rip him a new one? We need his help to work out whether Connor Maddox did this.”
“If he behaves, I’ll behave.”
◆◆◆
I don’t particularly like the term alpha male because of the bullshit Andrew Tate-yielding nonsense it springs up. However, Jonesy and Anthony prowling around each other as they both aim to contain their strong dislike for one another does remind me of two lions circling each other.
“Your place is looking great, Katie,” Anthony says, lifting a foot over his knee.
I widen my eyes at Jonesy, telepathically telling him to fix his face. “Thanks, Jonesy has been helping.”
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor. Anthony is on the couch, and Jonesy is sitting, legs man-spreading on the armchair like he’s trying to push it apart. Anthony gives him a nod, and silence descends.
“I’m cracking open the beers. It’s as tense as an English lesson in here,” Jonesy mutters.
I snort, and Anthony relaxes the second Jonesy leaves the room.
“You look better,” he says, his voice softening.
“Wow. What a compliment.” I laugh.
He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. I’m guessing we have him to thank for that?”
I don’t want to lie to him, and now that things seem to be moving beyond physical with Jonesy, I need to be clear with Anthony.
I swallow down a lump in my throat, hoping that this doesn’t mean the end of our friendship. “I didn't mean for it to happen.”
“I know . . . Jesus, Katie.” He pulls his foot down from his knee and leans his elbows on his thighs. “I just wish it were different, but I’m glad you’re happier. You’re not walking around like the cutest zombie now that you’re getting some sleep.”
I scoff, thinking of all the names Jonesy calls me that have not once included the word cute. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me cute before.”
“Shut up, don’t lie. He must call you that all the time.”
“Honestly . . . Anthony, I don’t think we know each other as well as you think we do.” I laugh again. “Jonesy mostly calls me princess, but in a derogatory way, or she-devil. He even called me a dog earlier.”
His nostrils flare, my admission inciting a rage in him almost immediately. “He what?”
“No . . . it’s not like in a bad way, it’s just teasing. And I give as good as I get.”
“She gives worse than she gets, actually,” Jonesy says, handing us each a beer. “In the scoreboard of our bickering, Katie wins eighty percent of the time, I would say.”
“And you . . . like this?” Anthony asks me.
I shrug, giving Jonesy a small smile. “Yeah, I do.”
“Alright, let’s get on with it, and you two can make googly eyes at each other later.”
I snap out of it with a shake of my head, placing my beer on the coaster. “You have the autopsy reports?”
“Yes.” He lays them out across my coffee table, and we all huddle together to review.
Jonesy on Anthony’s right, and me to his left.
"Victim one was killed just under twelve months ago. The second, eight months ago, and the most recent was approximately one month ago. We think he had to have contained it in the warmer months so he could dig the ground.”
“Right, that would put a sense of urgency into it. And that’s if he isn’t dumping the bodies elsewhere in the winter months,” I say, thinking about the logistics of changing MO for someone who commits crimes like these.
It could be opportunistic, but I’d say from the way the bodies were buried, probably not.
“Exactly. So why did you want to know the timelines?”
Jonesy leans in. “Hannah Spears, the girlfriend. She told us he had spent every night at her house for over a year. That’s two bodies that can’t be accounted for in that time frame. She would have noticed him leaving.”
“He could have drugged her?” I suggest.
“We found no evidence of drugs at the house. It seems the women went willingly, or maybe they were threatened with bodily harm if they didn’t comply.
But no drugs. The autopsies may have missed it due to the rate of decomposition, but given that we’ve found no other evidence, it’s not a working theory,” the detective says.
“But the girlfriend . . .”
“He could have drugged her, but did you get that vibe from her?” I look at Jonesy, and he runs a hand over his beard. “She was so confused. Her relationship with him doesn’t match this person,” I say, taking a pull from my beer.
“Unless he’s a completely different person with her, but I doubt that after years, something wouldn’t have slipped through the cracks.” Jonesy huffs, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his thighs.
“So if we run on the theory that Connor Maddox didn’t commit this crime .
. . who would have done it? Because they would need access to the yard, Maddox’s clothes, and knowledge that he was out that night.
” Anthony mimics Jonesy’s position, and I fight the urge to smirk.
These two are actually kind of similar. I squash the thought before it grows legs and starts running.
“Okay . . . Connor left to go back to his girlfriend’s place at midnight,” I say, eager to get a grip on the timeline.
“And the murder took place at twelve forty-five, which was forty-five minutes after he left,” Anthony adds.
Jonesy frowns, picking up a still shot from the CCTV of the man confronting the victim. “So the theory is he was waiting around in the car park for the victim to leave?”
“But the person in the footage was wearing Connor’s clothes,” I add.
“Someone who was on that night out could have drugged Connor. We’re still waiting on those results to come back, and then, whilst he was unconscious, switched clothes with him, and then switched them back?
It seems far-fetched.” The detective flips through a couple of pages until he lands on the photos of Maddox’s clothing that night.
Sprayed with blood, it seems almost impossible that it wasn’t him.
“It does, but really, they’d only need to change the shirt and put his baseball cap on. The footage was shit,” Jonesy says.
“And before you ask.” I look pointedly at the detective. “The motive would be that Connor was supposed to be getting a promotion. It was due to be announced on the Monday after the murder took place.”
“Right . . . so maybe one of his friends was jealous. Maybe they didn’t like that he had received a promotion over them?”
I think back to the conversations we had with each of the men we interviewed.
Not a single one of them displayed any kind of malice.
They were hurt, devastated, but mostly concerned for Connor.
They couldn’t believe he had committed this crime, and they wanted to prove that to me and to anyone who would listen.
“There were two older guys at the bar that night.” I flick through my notes. “Travis Marrs and Hunter Abrahams. Do we know their ranks? Maybe they felt overlooked for a promotion. Given that they are older. Maybe they didn’t like a younger guy coming in and getting promoted above them.”
“It’s possible . . . I’ll check their ranks in relation to Connor’s,” Jonesy says, pulling out his phone.
“Marrs was on a training exercise when we tried to interview him for our reports. Abrahams was delayed because of the fire at the base. Anthony, did you manage to speak with them at all?”
“Yes, Marrs is an odd guy, early forties. Hasn’t done particularly well in the military. Registered address is his family home in Uki. He used to live on the base, but he was requested to find alternative accommodation after an altercation with his roommate.”
“Do we know what the altercation was?”
“The report was confidential, so the military wouldn’t release it. We didn’t push it because we weren't looking in that direction.”
“Will you be able to get it?” I ask Jonesy.
“I won’t have access to any personnel files unless they’re assigned therapy sessions with me. But I can ask around.”
“Maybe . . . what about the other guy?”
“Abrahams, thirty-six years old. Seemed to latch on to Marrs early on, and it’s affected his career ever since.
A whiny guy, he seems to think the world has it in for him.
Had strong opinions on women in the military, women in general to be honest. He seemed like a loudmouth, not typical for someone who kills someone like that.
Not with that level of precision. The guy in the video didn’t even flinch when he got covered in blood.
A loudmouth is just that, all mouth.” I trust Anthony’s opinion.
He doesn’t have the training that Jonesy and I have, but he’s got a lot of practical experience working with people.
Especially people who have committed awful crimes.
“Okay, so if we look at Travis Marrs, we need to know where he’s living, where he is right now, and who he spends time with. Then we can look at interviewing him as soon as he’s back from his training exercise.”
“So our new theory is that Marrs, knowing that Connor spends all his time at his girlfriend’s house, snuck into his backyard and buried the bodies of victims there on more than one occasion?”
There’s a brief pause before we all laugh.
“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous,” I say, taking another pull of my beer.
“It does. And it probably isn’t Marrs or Abrahams, but there’s something missing here. Maybe we’re just missing the motive for Connor. Maybe that’s the problem.” Jonesy ponders.
“Maybe. You have another interview with him, right?” Anthony asks.