More Twisted

ranting. If he has any questions he’s going to ask them politely and carefully—he’ll want some detail but not too much; that’d arouse suspicion.” Altman gathered up this stack—about ten letters—placed them in an evidence envelope and handed them to the young detective. “Over to the county lab, stat.”
    A man stuck his head in the door—Detective Bob Fletcher. The even-keeled sergeant introduced himself toCarter. “We never met but I spoke to you on the phone about the case,” the cop said.
    “I remember.” They shook hands.
    Fletcher nodded at Altman, smiling ruefully. “He’s a better cop than me. I never thought that the killer might’ve tried to write you.”
    The sergeant, it turned out, had contacted Carter not about fan mail but to ask if the author’d based the story on any previous true crimes, thinking there might be a connection between them and the Strangler murders. It had been a good idea but Carter had explained that the plot for Two Deaths was a product of his imagination.
    The sergeant’s eyes took in the stacks of letters. “Any luck?” he asked.
    “We’ll have to see what the lab finds.” Altman then nodded toward the author. “But I have to say that Mr. Carter here’s been a huge help. We’d be stymied for sure, if it wasn’t for him.”
    Appraising Carter carefully, Fletcher said, “I have to admit I never got a chance to read your book but I always wanted to meet you. An honest-to-God famous author. Don’t think I’ve ever shook one’s hand before.”
    Carter gave an embarrassed laugh. “Not very famous to look at my sales figures.”
    “Well, all I know is my girlfriend read your book and she said it was the best thriller she’d read in years.”
    Carter said, “I appreciate that. Is she around town? I could autograph her copy.”
    “Oh,” Fletcher said hesitantly, “well, we’re not going out anymore. She left the area. But thanks for the offer.” He headed back to Robbery.
    There was now nothing to do but wait for the lab results to come back, so Wallace suggested coffee at Starbucks. The men wandered down the street, ordered and sat sipping the drinks, as Wallace pumped Carter for information about breaking into fiction writing, and Altman simply enjoyed the feel of the hot sun on his face.
    The men’s recess ended abruptly, though, fifteen minutes later when Altman’s cell phone rang.
    “Detective,” came the enthusiastic voice of his youthful assistant, Josh Randall, “we’ve got a match! The handwriting in one of Mr. Carter’s fan letters matches the notes in the margins of the book. The ink’s the same too.”
    The detective said, “Please tell me there’s a name and address on the letter.”
    “You bet there is. Howard Desmond’s his name. And his place is over in Warwick.” A small town twenty minutes from the sites of both of the Greenville Strangler’s attacks.
    The detective told his assistant to pull together as much information on Desmond as he could. He snapped the phone shut and, grinning, announced, “We’ve found him. We’ve got our copycat.”

    But, as it turned out, they didn’t have him at all.
    At least not the flesh-and-blood suspect.
    Single, forty-two-year-old Howard Desmond, a veterinary technician, had skipped town six months before, leaving in a huge hurry. One day he’d called his landlord and announced that he was moving. He’d left virtually overnight, abandoning everything in the apartment buthis valuables. There was no forwarding address. Altman had hoped to go through whatever he’d left behind but the landlord explained that he’d sold everything to make up for the lost rent. What didn’t sell he’d thrown out. The detective called the state public records departments to see if they had any information about him.
    Altman spoke to the vet in whose clinic Desmond had worked and the doctor’s report was similar to the landlord’s. In April Desmond had called and quit his job, effective immediately, saying only that he was moving to Oregon to take care of his elderly grandmother. He’d never called back with a forwarding address for his last check, as he said he would.
    The vet described Desmond as quiet and affectionate to the animals in his care but with little patience for people.
    Altman contacted the authorities in Oregon and found no record of any Howard Desmonds in the DMV files or on the property or income tax rolls. A bit more digging revealed that all of Desmond’s