Chapter 22 – November 10, 1993 – Sergeant Aileen Taylor
“Sir, could I have a moment of your time?” Sergeant Taylor stood in the doorway of Lieutenant Johnson’s office with a stack of folders and papers in her arms.
The lieutenant was an average-looking man.
Average height, average build, dark hair that refused to succumb to male pattern baldness.
Dull blue eyes. Sergeant Taylor was shocked he was only in his late thirties, as he seemed older.
She would’ve assumed he was pushing fifty.
He spent his whole adult life in law enforcement, whether it was volunteering as a first responder out of high school, to going to the police academy, and finally working his way through the chain of command to become a lieutenant.
She didn’t have many run-ins with him, so she knew he didn’t expect to be seeing her bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first hour of the morning.
She was tired, despite the adrenaline of her case keeping her eyes open.
Running on the fumes of her discovery and the excitement of finally having enough to show the lieutenant, with the help of nicotine and caffeine.
She’d been up all night putting the narrative together.
“Take a seat.” He motioned toward the chair in front of him. The chair was nothing fancy—a high-backed wooden seat with a beige cushion on the back and the seat itself. Neutral to match the decor and the lieutenant’s personality.
“I think I’ve solved the case,” Sergeant Taylor explained, setting a file down on the desk as she took her place in the chair.
The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “You think, or you know?”
Sergeant Taylor could imagine she looked like she was coming in with her tinfoil hat on, claiming aliens had kidnapped and murdered her brother. He was keen on confidence, and she winced when she realized she wasted a few minutes of his time by saying “think” rather than “know.” “Can I show you?”
Lieutenant Johnson picked up the top folder, and a black-and-white picture of a young woman fell out. Before he could lean down to grab it, Sergeant Taylor beat him to it.
Linda Zaleski. Hers was the picture that kept her up at night.
The picture was set down, and Lieutenant Johnson gave her a stern glower. “This isn’t relevant. The assault case is months old. Hell, everything in this folder is older than that. You’ve been assigned two cases that actually have relevance in this town. Did you even start those?”
“It is relevant,” Sergeant Taylor spoke up, ignoring the real question. She never had a problem speaking up to her superiors, and that was theoretically part of the reason she was fired years prior in Chicago. “Hear me out.”
Leaning back in his chair, the lieutenant waved his hand for her to continue. However, Sergeant Taylor knew she had a short window to convince him this was worth his while.
“When Bruce Miller came to us about this assault, I was able to track the suspect down to the motel with Janet’s help,” Sergeant Taylor started. “Erich Zaleski, she knew from his ID when he checked in. With that, his birthdate, and his address on the ID, I was able to get loads of information.”
She picked up another folder and handed it across the table to the lieutenant. “It sounds like I’m wasting my time, I get that. Why all this work for one assault in our town? Because something about it rubbed me the wrong way. I couldn’t give up on my bad feelings about him. I’m a cop, after all.”
“You’re seriously trying to get me to look into a man who was here for one night because of a bad feeling?” The lieutenant scoffed, taking the folder and opening it. “Not only is he from New York and not within our borders… that’s just ridiculous.”
As he opened the folder Sergeant Taylor prepared, he was greeted by highlighted records, a birth certificate, and about five different pictures taken at different ages.
The child was the spitting image of the woman in the mugshot Sergeant Taylor showed him moments ago.
He had dirty blond hair slicked back for one picture, the same jawline, though considerably less set by stress, and the same dull, defeated eyes.
There was a cursive “watermark” on the top left corner: Sacred Heart Adoption, 1983.
The child couldn’t be older than eleven.
The other four pictures were similar to the first, though the child grew older.
Sergeant Taylor could see by the distant fog in the lieutenant’s eyes and the way his nostrils flared as he flipped through the pictures that she was losing him.
He tossed them on the desk, shaking his head.
“Taylor, I expected more from you. I gave you a chance despite your harrowing record in Chicago, and you’re blowing it. ”
“There’s more, sir,” Sergeant Taylor defended herself.
“You’re only looking at the foster care folder.
The one you were holding on to moments ago had his mother’s information.
But I’ll get back to that later.” She cleared her throat, reaching for the next manila folder.
“His record started when he was released from juvie.” She opened it, plucking the single photo out.
It was the same boy. She passed it over to the lieutenant.
The boy had an intimidating appearance to him that gave Sergeant Taylor full-body chills when she first found it.
Cold, edgy. The hair slicked back in previous photos seemed to be less tame, strands falling across his right eye, much like the woman in the mugshot from the first photo.
His jawline was chiseled and considerably sharper compared to his younger pictures, showing more of the woman from the first picture.
The date in block letters on the back of the photo read “October 27, 1987.” Intake day.
“His brother was adopted immediately after being brought in by CPS, since his father signed off on his rights. This brother was well-behaved and easygoing according to written accounts, whereas most of the records I found on Erich showed him to be stubborn and independent. Some of the files were marked to never be reopened, but that’s beside the point.
” The lieutenant passed the photo back, and she tucked it back into the folder, pulling out a thick stack of papers.
“I’ve heard enough, and the answer is no.
I’m not chasing a man who stole car radios as a kid because of your bad feeling.
This isn’t worth our time. Bruce has obviously healed and more than likely forgotten about it, anyway.
” He reached into his pocket to pull out a box of Marlboro cigarettes and a lighter.
“Go back to your office and work on that burglary case. I’ve been waiting on it since last week. We’re done here.”
Sergeant Taylor’s eyebrows furrowed as she gripped the next folder, standing up and slamming it down on the desk.
“Kellan Stewart. Age thirty. He was last seen at Toni’s Pub in Ann Arbor, Michigan, on August 20, 1989.
Found dead behind the dumpster of the same bar, with exactly thirty puncture wounds to the chest and arms. Witness says he was playing pool with his regular group of friends, and one outsider, and not one witness recognized the outsider.
No one knew this kid’s age or name. One witness described his interaction with the stranger: ‘Young, tall, light brown, possibly dark blond hair, quiet. Cold, light-blue eyes. Wouldn’t tell me where his parents were.
’ He didn’t trust this kid and told his buddies to stay far away.
Kellan didn’t listen. The bartender didn’t serve him but agreed to the description. ”
The lieutenant ignored her as he flicked the lighter, lighting his cigarette and bringing it to his mouth. He looked up at her from his hunched position at his desk, an eyebrow raised. Sergeant Taylor caught the warning: let’s see how far she would push it.
“Eddie Thornton. Age forty-seven. Last seen at Mitch’s Corner in Springfield, Ohio, on August 27, 1989.
Found dead in a ditch down the road from Mitch’s.
Exactly forty-seven puncture wounds, killing wounds to the heart.
” Sergeant Taylor spread out the pictures of the crime scene on Lt.
Johnson’s desk. “Witness says he was playing a card game with a young man who claimed to be from out of town. Dark blond hair. Icy blue eyes. Tall. His friend Eddie was talking to a beautiful young woman seated at the bar. Young, pretty. He left the pub with her. His new ‘out-of-town’ friend left their game soon after. He never saw either of them again.”
“Enough.” Lt. Johnson tried again to get her to stop with the case. He flicked the ash from the tip of his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk, the lingering smoke drifting up to the ceiling.
Sergeant Taylor remained persistent. “Joe L’acroix.
Age forty-two. Last seen at The Goal Post in Four Corners, Florida, on September 30, 1989.
Found dead three days after his disappearance in a swamp near the bar.
Exactly forty-two lacerations, killing lacerations to the heart.
No witnesses or friends went to the bar with Joe, but the bartender confirms he had a small crowd and was intrigued by two newcomers.
He refused to serve them since he determined the ID for an ‘Erick Zalewski’ was a fake.
Want to take a guess at what his description of ‘Erick’ was? ”
Angrily snuffing out his cigarette with a huff, the lieutenant made eye contact with Sergeant Taylor.
“What are you looking for from me? If anything, this has crossed numerous state lines, and it sounds like a serial killer. You have nothing recent, no killings here in Norwald, just a measly assault and a misspelling of a name of someone who matches the description Bruce g—”
Sergeant Taylor cut him off, her eyes shimmering with pride in her hard work.
She wasn’t seated in the chair anymore as her hands were planted on the lieutenant’s desk, leaning forward over the manila folders.
“There are three more unsolved murder cases from 1989 to 1990 with similar stories and witness descriptions. Not to mention pickpocketing and identity theft. We have every reason to pursue this case, even if it’s alongside the FBI, and I’d be happy to give you everything I found.
And while we’re on that subject… I’d like to circle back to the first mugshot of the woman I showed you.
Plus, I have leads on the woman Bruce described as well.
You’ll want to buckle up for that one, sir. ”