Chapter 11: Captain Hollins

So far as the FBI can determine, there are four Mr. Television victims:

> Mildred Hawkins, a Northland waitress found by the banks of the Missouri river. She was the first. The first that we know about anyway. Two dogs. Rabies. TV tie-in: “Borderland”.

> Alice Rancher, a Pembroke teacher whose posed body in a red dress was placed in Loose Park. “Hinterland”. Tentative cuts around her eyes.

> Juanita Gomez, a maid at the Westin Hotel. Found near an abandoned meatpacking plant off Southwest Boulevard. Razor-slashed with microscopic wool fibers along the cuts. “Peaky Blinders”.

> Anita Bloomfield, part time whore, buried in a shallow grave in Swope Park. Missing eyeballs. “Marcella” and “Dicte”. And, it is now believed, “Wallender”.

A weeks-long investigation would reveal no links among the four of them. Oscar Norville apparently chose his victims at random. Because they were handy, because they were available at the time. Because they were women.

Sandra and her team did everything by the book. Warrants, custody procedures, rights read and signed off on. No suspect-questioning until a defense attorney was present.

Oscar Norville didn’t have a lawyer so the FBI interrogators had to wait until morning when a capable legal defense team could be assembled. The question-and-answer sessions, each of them, would be videoed and simultaneously recorded by a court stenographer.

Now that the FBI knew that Oscar Norville was Mr. Television, the after-action reports evolved from a trickle to a torrent. The questioning in Wichita went from friendly to ... more intense.

Norville still refused to speak to anything remotely related to the murders. But he was reasonably talkative about other things. A forensic psychologist flew in from DC and spent a week and a half talking with him, evaluating, analyzing.

Dr. Deborah Norton gave an executive summary at the beginning of her written report. Nothing judgmental, emotion-free, just the facts, ma’am.

“Laverne Norville kept her son, Oscar Norville, in diapers until he was almost seven years old. Until he turned four, she duct-taped him to a highchair whenever she left the house. A television set was on 24 hours a day.

“Laverne Norville had sexual intercourse with her brother, Omar, in front of Oscar on a regular basis. She also inflicted corporal punishment to the boy every day of his life. Until he grew large enough to fight back. Or tough enough, he never did grow to even average size. The boy was stunted — physically, emotionally, intellectually. Oscar Norville is a victim.”

Laverne had disappeared when Oscar was 14. That same year her brother, Omar, was shot and killed by an intruder.

Ash Collins may have decided to give Vanessa the FBI’s Civilian Genius Award. It could have been Sandra Fleming’s call though. Either way, it was well earned and much appreciated.

I do know that it was Bulldog Bannerman who brought Mayor Tom Lynch into the ceremonial process. Sandra would make the presentation, but the mayor would make the speech.

It was December so the City Hall steps wouldn’t do. Thus, the large, handsomely furnished conference room. Sandra didn’t object to moving the party from her office to a more media-friendly spot — the more eyes, the more press coverage, the better for her. For her career.

Oscar Norville was still mute, but the evidence was accumulating. DNA traces from all four victims had been found ... some in his van, some in the subbasement of Moriarty Funeral Home. Where it’s believed he had murdered three of the women. The first victim, Mildred Hawkins, had been killed by dogs. Location unknown. But her DNA had been found in the EconoLine van.

It was that funeral home, Moriarty Brothers, the owners, who were the big losers in this particular PR campaign.

The award ceremony was a public celebration of law enforcement. It had happened under Tom Lynch’s watch; another in the plus column for his governorship run in a couple of years. That he and the FBI were completely independent of each other wasn’t mentioned by either party.

Tom has never thanked me for making that problem with his daughter go away. Amelia. Amy. Never even acknowledged that I knew anything about it. And I believe that this is very much a positive. Not only because of my growing balance in the Favor Bank, but because it means, sort of, that I’m a player in certain Kansas City circles.

Not, certainly not, in Bulldog’s class. But the mayor’s casualness means I’m one of the boys. So to speak.

Of course Mayor Lynch took the exact opposite tact with Vanessa. And he’s good at sharing the spotlight. Especially with someone so gorgeous, so telegenic. But, credit due, he was also effusive with Sandra Fleming.

Walker, Pilar, and I watched from the front of the spectators rows. Vanessa, wearing a sleeveless black dress from Gap, stood facing the mayor and Sandra. In those red heels, she was right at six feet. Glowing. She wore her hair up, exposing that long, strong, slender neck. A glittery, ornamental comb — like a flamenco dancer — was festooned in her thick, black hair.

Cameras lined one end of the conference room. A big story, a feel-good story, the end of a horrific crime wave. It would play huge here, but have some national legs as well. Mr. Television.

The mayor opened the ceremony, made a short speech congratulating Sandra, then turned to Vanessa. Smiled, “It’s no coincidence that the FBI named it the Genius Award.”

Then he outlined her magical leap of faith.

The part of the televised event that I remember, even more than Sandra’s putting the ribboned medal around Vanessa’s neck, was the mayor’s litany of what Vanessa had put together.

> “Borderland” — rabies.

> “Hinterland” — posed body in a red dress.

> “Peaky Blinders” — concealed razors.

> “Marcella” — body wrapped in plastic, shallow grave.

> “Dicte” — eyes stolen for corneas.

To add solemnity, he called out the name of each victim, asked for a moment of silence four times. He knows his way around a podium, our mayor.

Graciously, he left the key detective show for Sandra to cite.

She looked serenely into the center television camera — agents who are fast-tracked are media-trained, media-savvy. She said, “It was one thing — one remarkable thing — for Vanessa to make the initial association. To equate the real-life murders here in Kanas City with those obscure European crime shows.”

She smiled at Vanessa, “But you went even further — your intuition of the killer’s next steps allowed us to identify certain professions, to narrow our search fields.”

Her smile broadened as she turned to the line of cameras, “Vanessa Henderson developed a premise — through “Wallander” — that a killer with medical knowledge, and some skills, could well be involved. And that turned out to be true. It became a major factor in our investigation.”

She ticked off the shows that Mayor Lynch had cited — “Borderland”. “Hinterland”. “Peaky Blinders”. “Marcella”. “Dicte”. Then said, “Those were a look back; a link to what had already happened. “Wallender” was predictive. It allowed us to leap ahead, to anticipate. And that’s how we caught our suspect.”

Sandra Fleming lifted the ribboned medal above her head, “Vanessa Henderson, it is my honor to present you with the rarely-bestowed FBI Civilian Genius Award. You have more than earned it.”

A lot of applause, some damp eyes.

Vanessa was radiant. She usually is.

Of course, no one mentioned that the FBI had been tracking European noir ever since Vanessa and I first brought it to Sandra’s attention. Nor was the fact that selling body organs was still in Norville’s fever-dream stage. Anita Bloomfield’s eyeballs were never found.

Nor were the rabid dogs that had ravaged Mildred Hawkins.

The Oscar Norville case was like any other major one — loose ends, unanswered questions, dead ends.

But the Vanessa theme was too good a storyline. Print the legend.

Walker: “Yo.”

Pilar: “Yo.”

Mr. Striker and I headed toward Italian food. I, for one, was famished. And thirsty. Matt was either holding up better or hiding it. I said, “Hurry.”

Filomena overlooks the C & O Canal. Chesapeake and Oregon. The joint is kitschy and touristy. Pasta mamas at work in the windows and an over-the-top festive atmosphere. Still, if I trust the guy with restraints, why not food?

Maybe it’s Ohio.

We parked in the garage across the street and my mind drifted, just for a mo ... I’d meant to change the sheets back at Matt’s. Oh well. After dinner. He keeps a generous supply of clean linens, definitely a plus in my book.

Matt parks the same way I do — backing into the space. A little more trouble, but an easier exit. After wine consumption. In fact, it’s true without alcohol too. A little more work up front, then it’s a snap to drive away. Deferred compensation, something I’ve been experimenting with. Off and on.

Matt was greeted with “Signore!” And cheek kisses. Many cheek kisses. We were whisked away to a corner table in a relatively secluded spot. A bottle of Barbaresco Ovello from Cantina del Pino appeared as we sat down. Showing off, I said, “Piedmont. Excellent.”

I knew that only because Euforia specializes in Italian regional food, mostly Piedmontese. And wine.

Matt smiled at me and that dour face just lit up, “I forgot about Vanessa. She’s been schooling you.”

“Maybe it’s the other way around.”

He nodded judiciously, just as if that might be possible.

I never did see a menu; that was for out-of-towners. Which, technically I was. But I was with a definite townie. The night just sped past. Prosciutto & Persimmon. Burrata & Baby Beets. Spicy Grilled Wild Calamari. To start.

I noticed, for the second time, a slight tremor in Matt’s left hand. He automatically put the palm of his right hand over it for a few moments. Not trying to hide it, I don’t think. I had the impression that the gesture was ... calming, soothing. Odd.

An emergency wine replenishment.

Rather than entrees, we were served tiny plates. Like a chef’s tasting menu, but without all the folderol.

A portly gent in a tall, white toque stopped by. He and Matt exchanged lively greetings. In Italian. WTF? Matt hasn’t even graduated high school. Hidden depths.

Matt smiled, “Winter, this is Giuseppe Ricci. He does some cooking here. Giuseppe, Winter Jennings.”

I love it when a polished man makes a fuss. Over me. Giuseppe bent down to kiss the back of my hand. He didn’t raise my hand, he properly bent down to buss it. Then, theatrically, he kissed his own fingertips, gestured at the ceiling, “Signora Sexy!”

Which, roughly translated, means “My, what a fascinating and intelligent dining companion you have, Signore Matthew.”

More food started appearing.

Tortellini Alfredo with Baby Back Ribs. Giuseppe Grilled Pork Belly & Sweet Sausage. Branzino in Salt Crust. In our defense ... well, two things. They were tiny plates and we skipped dessert.

Perhaps ‘skipped’ isn’t the operative word. ‘Took home’ is probably a better descriptor. Mini Lemon & Thyme Bundt Cake. Apple & Hazelnut Ciambella.

I hugged the dessert boxes like twin babies. It was about 10:30, starting to cool off.

Call it cold. Calculated. I call it savvy. Gertie and I orchestrated the Genius Award publicity to include Euforia. Example:

“Vanessa Henderson, owner of the wildly popular Brookside eatery, Euforia, was awarded...”

Matt fobbed the Audi doors to unlock them from around 15 feet away. A chirp, a click, lights flashed. And then Matt hip-checked me to the floor, “Down!”

A gunshot registered at the same time that the backdoor window of his car exploded above my head.

Matt yelled to his left, back in the direction we’d come, “I’m a cop!”

Still on my stomach, I stretched up and opened the driver’s door. The interior light flooded over me and a second shot shattered that window. Staying as low as possible, I reached over the seat and popped the button near the gearshift. Lunged for the handle of Matt’s Sig Sauer. Yanked it out and slid back out, facedown on the greasy cement floor.

I elbow-crawled toward the front of the Audi, looking under the car to my left. Hoping like fuck to see feet. No luck.

Matt hissed, “Stop, Winter.” No way.

I inched forward until I could see around the dark sedan about 10 feet to my immediate left. I couldn’t spot anything that resembled a human silhouette in the dark spaces between the dim pools of light cast from the ceiling. I closed my eyes for a few moments to clear them. Pressed my eyelids tightly with my left hand.