The Aftermath

31

Detective John Roads was in a rough mood Thursday morning. He was later than he wanted to be to the office, but not as late as he was known for. Roads wanted to be there before 9:00am so he could be prepared for Tom Blake's interview. Since he didn't set an exact time, Blake might show up anytime before noon. Roads expected him to wait until the last minute, but Blake was ex-military and they could surprise you with promptness.

Roads hitched his pants up as he came through the door of the station and headed for his desk on the second floor. He nodded to a few of the officers he recognized on sight, and didn't nod to several others he also recognized on sight. On the second floor he hit the bathroom, washed his face and wiped down his scalp. After taking a quick swig from his flask, he pushed out the door and made it to his desk.

As promised there was a fax on his desk from FBI Cyber super-cop Hank. Roads smiled and read through the report. Most of the details were computer geek stuff, but it did have some pertinent information about the Internet cafe. That could keep until after the interview.

Roads had an uneasy feeling about the event last night. His instincts were telling him that CoronorKiller@yahoo.com was not Tom Blake, or at least, not Tom Blake last night. The twinge was not comfortable. If it wasn't Tom Blake last night, then that would lead to the idea that Blake had a partner. The idea of taking on a partner was against the profile of a serial killer. They were normally loan wolf types.

It wasn't' unheard of however. For example, Angelo Buono and Kenneth Bianchi -- Hill side stranglers of Los Angeles. Ottis Toole and Henry Lee Lucas also fit the bill. But Blake didn't feel like the kind of guy that would take on a partner. For one thing, he wasn't stupid. Blake was a smart man, and smart men didn't leave witnesses to the crimes they were committing -- not even willing partners.

Roads couldn't put a finger on what motivated his instincts to come to this conclusion. There was the use of 'we' and 'our' in the Instant Messages, but that wasn't the issue. That was too obvious and easy to ignore. No, it was something else and it was much more concrete than a personal claim.

Roads put down the report and got a cup of coffee from the break room. He was going over this set of reasoning, mixed with objecting instincts, when someone in the break room said the words "I'll take that bet." With that clue his instincts voiced their concerns.

When Roads called Blake last night, he heard in the background the sound of chips and someone saying "Call." Blake was at the poker table last night, not downtown. The realization was like a small jolt to his spine. Sure, Blake could have driven really fast and gotten there before Roads called him, but why would he? Roads didn't even know he was going to make that call until his fingers were dialing the number. There was no reason to have an alibi last night. Besides, the casino would have been the worst alibi. The casino cameras would be able to track him from the parking lot all the way to the poker table, with exact times.

Roads left the break room, and slumped down into his chair. His hands, working on their own fumbled a cigarette out of his pack and stuck it in his mouth.

So, Blake wasn't CoronorKiller@yahoo.com last night. Where did that leave the case?

Roads couldn't get his head to picture Blake with a partner. The idea just didn't work.

CoronorKiller@yahoo.com was the same address used for the email Blake allegedly received Wednesday. The same email was the first indication that Beth Blake's blood was the blood used to vandalize Blake's house. Even the police lab didn't know it was her blood for sure until hours after Blake reported the email. So, where did that leave this case?

Shit.

Roads shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was too good of a detective to ignore facts. He couldn't simply put these things out of his mind and refuse to see them. They were there, and they all said that Tom Blake didn't vandalize his own home, and wasn't the one at the Internet Cafe last night. A quick check on the video would verify that much. Consequently, since it was Mrs. Blake's blood on the walls -- Blake probably didn't kill his mother either.

The only qualifier here was that Blake didn't have a partner.

Roads shook his head. He didn't have any proof or even really good hints that Tom Blake wouldn't have a partner, but his insides told him Blake simply would not do so. He knew the man. Roads had followed him, harassed him, and harried him. Roads knew the man well. Blake was too smart, too cautious and too much of a loner to have a partner.

Fuck!

Roads chewed on the filter of his cigarette and then set it on the desk. No matter which angle he came at this set of facts, it all came to the same conclusion -- Tom Blake didn't kill Beth Blake.

"Must have been a real shocker to Mrs. Blake." Roads mused.

Another pesky thing this meant was Detective Green, asshole that he was, was right. "That just sucks donkey dicks."

Roads looked up and saw one of the secretaries coming to his desk with a folder. He straighted up a little.

"Here, from Oceanside PD." The secretary told him, and flopped it on his desk. She then turned and walked away. Roads watched her ass as she retreated to the safety of mainstream office life, and then looked at the folder.

"Speak of the devil." Roads murmured and opened it up.

The file was the crime scene report from Detective Green. Most of the things Roads already knew and he scanned through the uniform's reports. Guys in uniform were morons. He didn't need to bother with those reports.

He came to one section though that dealt with vomit found outside of the house, roughly five feet from the front door. Roads sat up and read that section again. He then reread the officer's report.

The first uniform officer on the scene stated that he asked the security guard who discovered the body, about the vomit in the yard. The security guard said that he puked in the toilet.

Roads' mind grabbed a hold of this detail with claws and fangs.

The cuts and techniques of the mutilation of Mrs. Blake were professional, and dispassionate. There were no hack marks, no hesitation cuts. The cuts were clean, and done by a trained hand. Roads remembered that, but he thumbed through to the autopsy report to verify these details.

Roads' scalp was crawling with electricity as his mind put together the puzzle pieces. "Guys who can kill this way, don't run outside and puke their guts out." Roads said softly. "Son of a bitch. The bastard has a partner. Fuck me running."

Every instinct he had about Tom Blake was in complete denial of this set of evidence. Roads read, then re-read the reports, looking for the owner of the puke. It had to be a uniform, or one of the news crew maybe -- except no, the puke was on the grass when the first officer arrived on the scene. "Fuck."

Could he really be that far off on his read of Blake? The facts were telling him so.

"Alright. I'm wrong somewhere. Either Blake has a partner or Blake didn't commit the murder." He said to himself, leaning back in his chair while picking up the chewed cigarette and putting it back in his mouth.

Blake was interrupted in his thoughts by the ring of the telephone. "Homicide, Roads speaking."

A female voice said, "The captain would like to see you in his office please."

"Tell him I'm on my way."