The River Front
1 The Invalid Marathon Runner
Dianne ran uphill toward a tall scrawny old man that carried a long walking stick and was descending along the trail. The winding trail was little more than a path that was originally formed over the years by the deer.
It was clear to her that he was not going to step off the trail to let her by. She was tempted to run into him and knock him over. She thought better since he was at least twice her size, armed with his walking stick, and coming down hill.
At the last moment he stepped to one side. She was so surprised that she forgot to thank him. She heard him shout “thank you” behind her. Yeah, you too, she though with a snarl running through her mind. Then she let out a verbal growling snarl. She so hated to be corrected by ignorant adults.
Where the trail reached the peak and turned along a ridge to the right, she normally turned and went back the way she had come up. She did not want to catch up to the old man, so she went to the right along the ridge. This was a rougher and more difficult return route. There was a small stream that was impossible to cross without getting her shoes wet.
She was wearing her new shoes that she had scrounged and saved for. Saving for them had taken her almost two years.
She was not about to get them wet.
When she got to the stream she stopped and took off her shoes and socks and waded across the cool clear stream.
The water felt great.
She sat down with her feet in the water and thought about her parents.
Neither of her parents were aware that she had bought the shoes. They knew she ran every day and had questioned whether she was getting her homework done.
She did both.
Her parents were aware of her running ability and quietly encourage her to keep doing it. They were barely getting by and seeing her daughter seemingly happy and prospering in school and its activities helped ease their financial frustrations.
Her running had caught the eye of the track coach. She had put Dianne on her long-distance running team.
Her art had caught her art teacher’s eye. He had encouraged her and had sponsored her in several art shows.
Dianne embraced the help coming from school more than the questions and what she interpreted as a lack of support from her parents.
Dianne though of her mother as a borderline alcoholic. Her mother’s drinking was the cause of many arguments that went on with her father.
Her father was a UPS delivery driver. She thought that the work kept him in decent shape and that he made enough so that they should have been moving up the economic ladder. She blamed her mother’s drinking and spending habits that ensured that the family would be renting the same house that they had been renting since the two had been married.
Dianne was ecstatic when she received a scholarship offer from a small college in the northeast. It was known for its track team and for turning out artists and art curators.
She eagerly moved from the Ohio to the Northeast.
Her time at the University was a blur but she became her own woman. She made few friends but did well in her classes and excelled in the long-distance running.
The running kept her in shape, and since the scholarship was based on her athletic ability it made it possible for her to stay at the university.
Her painting skills were good, her other skills such as pottery, carving, and metal working were adequate, but they were of little interest to her.
It soon became clear that she loved to curate and organizing the numerous tasks associated with the role. She excelled in organizing exhibits and writing the labels that explained and interpreted the art. She knew that she had found her career knitch. It was a realization that eased her mind.
She noted that she was not a fast enough long-distance runner when in several marathons, she ended up in the middle of the pack. She learned she was an endurance runner when she placed third in a thirty-five-mile ultra-marathon. She was now looking toward trying out a hundred-mile ultra-marathon. She knew she had a chance to be number one or two at the worst. She could run all day. She knew that if she finished first a few times she would be able to land some advertising spots that would lead to an income that would eliminate the need to get an eight to four curator’s job.
Graduation came too quickly. She landed a position in a small art museum in Kentucky and accepted it when it became apparent that she had only received the one offer.
She laughed at her lifestyle changes. She had grown up in Ohio. She had found herself in the Northeast and was now going to make her living in Kentucky.
At least the area around the small town had large hills that were almost small mountains and provided her a good training area to prepare her for long-distance running.
She ran the Cincinnati Flying Pig marathon and did well enough in it and two other marathons that she got accepted to the Boston Marathon.
Preparing for the Boston Marathon became her singular focus. Work did not suffer but it always seemed to last too long. She craved the wind blowing through her hair as she ran.
Her Boston Marathon was memorable. She had not expected to be in the top running group but did come in the top twenty percent group.
She celebrated by having a lobster dinner at a harbor side restaurant.
The visits to at least a half dozen museums made the trip memorable. It motivated her to seek a more challenging curator position.
On her return from the Boston Marathon, she took several classes at the University of Kentucky and sent out numerous job applications.
She felt lucky to be interviewed and then landing the curator’s position at the Taft Museum of Art in Cincinnati.
Things seemed to be going up for her.
As part of her acceptance of the Taft Museum job offer, she negotiated time off to run in the Chicago Marathon. She had been planning on it even before running the Boston Marathon. She had been in training for the entire time since then.
She rented an apartment within walking distance of the Taft Museum. The work was pleasant, and the work atmosphere was positive, but she worked so she could run.
Her move to Cincinnati had eaten up her savings so she contemplated postponing her Chicago Marathon participation.
She ran the Circleville Ultra-Marathon as a warm-up for the Chicago Marathon.
She was elated to come in second. She was disappointed that there were no advertising offers.
She then focused on the Chicago Marathon and ran all the hills that Cincinnati and the surrounding area provided.
She felt super about her chances at placing high in the marathon. She had been running faster and she was in the best shape of her life.
She took time off and drove to Chicago and stayed far enough from the race area to get a hotel at a reasonable price. This event was going to zero out her savings and most probably max out her credit card, but she was sure it would be worth it.
On the morning of the race, she took a taxi to the starting point. She was feeling great and hoping to place in the top ten percent of the participants. She knew that the Chicago Marathon was one of the biggest races and attracted many of the top runners from around the world. Her goal was to do well enough so she could land a few sponsors that would provide the money to equip and pay for her formal training.
She was so motivated that it gave her an adrenaline high.
She was far enough back in the pack that when the sound of the gun signaled the start of the race, she had to wait for those in the front to start moving before she had a chance to take a step.
This slow start raised her level of anxiety.
Once the field spread and the running began, she continually passed runners and worked herself toward the front of the group.
The runners began to thin out and maneuvering room allowed her to continually move toward the front. Soon she was sure she was closing in on the top ten percent. This group was in a long thin line.
Her movement forward continued until she approached a group all wearing the same team outfits that were spread out in a flat line that kept other runners like herself from moving beyond them.
She worked back and forth behind them trying to break through.
She was frustrated and super mad.
This was a team tactic to allow one of their team members somewhere ahead toward the front to do well.
By marathon rules, it was also supposed to be illegal.
She saw an opening and made a move to get through. Suddenly she felt someone step on her heel. Her forward step was missing the leg that had been stepped on. She saw the street curb coming up at her. She heard the cracking of bones as she hit the curb hip first and then her head hit, and the world went black.
When she opened her eyes, she felt the air being delivered to her nose. She realized that she was in a hospital bed.
She was immediately angry. That runner had stepped on her foot. He not only should be disqualified but punished. She intended to sue.
She called the marathon organizer to file a complaint on the runner that tripped her. She told them that she wanted his name and that she planned to sue him or her.
The organizer replied that the accident had been recorded. It clearly showed that she had stepped in front of the runner in question and that the blame for the accident was hers.
After a brief shouting match, she hung up.
She was beyond being angry. She was furious and she vowed that somehow; she would get even.
Her vow portended something well beyond getting even and subsequent events would slowly turn that vow into something more sinister than getting even.
She remained in the hospital for more than a month.
She hired a driver to drive her home in her car. Paying for a month of parking once again made her angry.
She was in a wheelchair and unable to stand and walk. The surgeon that had repaired her hip informed her that she would most likely never run again.
This made her angrier. It was like being told that she had lost her best friend.
He connected her with a Cincinnati doctor to guide her rehabilitation.
Dianne was determined to return to running. She worked hard to make a comeback.
She slowly lost perspective and her connection with reality.
The pain subsided to the point that it allowed her to work but her mind became focused on her need to get even with the runner that had shattered her hip and her dreams.
She began to build the scenarios that would provide her with revenge against the long, distance male runners. In her mind that was made up by an army of guilty people. In her mind they were men that did not care about other people.
Her success in school was her ability to compartmentalize and organize each part of her life and work. This compartmenting capability helped her split her focus between work and getting revenge.
She set herself on the path to learn all she could about areas in Cincinnati where long distance runners practiced.
The river front path was only a few blocks from the Museum. She decided that she needed to get a first-hand look at the layout of the that path.
Still in her wheelchair, she wheeled the entire ten-mile length of the path.
She had a clear goal in mind and scouted out the spot where she planned to carry out her first act of revenge.
She also had no intention of getting caught. She made sure that she would be able to get to the spot she picked and then afterward retreat and leave without a trace of being there.
She did physical practice run throughs of what she planned to do. After several weeks she felt confident that she could pull off her first act of revenge.
She then selected the sites around Cincinnati and the nearby communities. Hyde Park, The Little Miami Trail, The Union Cemetery, and The Loveland Bike trail were on her list. She visited each multiple times.
At each location she selected the specific spot where her revenge would be carried out.
Her physical condition slowly improved.
She had no clue that her mental state was slowly deteriorating. Her reality changed without her knowing.
Her pain slowly decreased to the point that she was able to take a few steps.
The diagnosis from her doctor that she was making great progress bothered her. She could barely walk. If walking a few steps was great progress, then to her running became such a distant goal that it took her farther into her mental abyss.
She retreated farther into her world of getting even. A psychiatrist would have diagnosed her as a psychopath.
Now her twisted mind led her to believe that it was ok because she was just getting even by killing male runners.
She had identified the locations where she would take action.
Now she concentrated on the ways she would take the action. She needed a way that would make it impossible for her to get caught.
She thought about what she was good at and how her current capabilities could be leveraged. When her imagination produced the vision of how she could carry out her revenge she let out a laugh.
She went to the grocery store and bought two musk melons.
She drew a face and ears on each melon. She had selected an art pencil as her weapon of choice. Properly used, it would be inconspicuous, silent, and immediately effective.
Every morning, she practiced rapidly pushing her pencil into the spot on the melon ear that represented the ear canal. She would then eat the practice melon. A month later, after going through so many melons that she had lost count; she felt that her technique had been perfected.
She figured that the timing was right since she was sick of eating the melons.
The sound of her voice as she cackled with glee at the thought made her stop and look at herself in the mirror. She had expected to see herself as a witch!
Location and method in hand, she now needed to select and learn the timing of the target runners.
Each evening, she sat on the new river front family swings. She always took an end swing and parked her wheelchair to her right.
She spent the next month alternating sitting on the River Front family swings and sitting at Hyde Park’s Crystal Lake in her wheelchair. She identified the runners who ran later in the evening. This was a time when each park emptied and often had no other persons but the lone runner.
She soon narrowed her target to two runners in each location.
For the next month she verified the habits of the runners she had zeroed in on. She meticulously logged their time and the variation of their time.
She also kept a keen eye for other people that wandered through the park.
She was ready and only needed to pick the date.
Luck seemed to set the opportune time for the first kill. An art appreciation fund raiser was scheduled for the coming weekend. This seemed to be a perfect cover and alibi.
She fashioned the agenda to provide a forty-five-minute window for her to execute her scheme.
She set up a drawing contest in which she too would participate. She sketched most of her entry and put it aside. She would step out when no one was paying attention and be back for the judging of the entries.
On the evening of the event, she talked to all the potential donors and introduced the contest. The top ten winners would be recognized in the Cincinnati Enquirer.
She made sure the event photographer got several shots of her talking to various dignitaries.
Finally, the moment for her to play out the river front scenario arrived.
She did not rush but quickly made her way to the river front location. She had made sure there were no security cameras on the route she took.
Her worry vanished when she observed her target run by on the way to Paul Brown stadium. His timing was perfect.
She set up her easel and placed her almost complete sketch on it. She looked around the green to ensure there was no one in sight. She walked over to the wall and as she leaned on it to relax, she dropped one of her pencils.
She looked over the wall but could not see it.
She had a moment of panic. She looked over the wall again but could not see the pencil she had dropped.
She had brought several and as she spotted her target returning, she stepped in front of the easel holding her spare pencil in hand.
She waited until it would be impossible for the runner to stop before stepping back from the easel as if to admire her work.
She was surprised at the force of the impact and would have been sent flying, but the runner caught her and together they staggered and recovered from the impact.
She laughed and asked him if he would be kind enough to render his opinion of her drawing.
The runner stepped away from her toward the easel to look.
He smiled and was just turning to say something when she rammed the pencil into his ear.
He dropped immediately. He was dead before he hit the ground.
A surge of energy went running up her back and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
She quickly posed him in the most embarrassing fashion that she could think of.
She looked around. Seeing no one she quickly sketched the runner onto her easel.
Then she quickly packed her sketch and easel and made her way back to the museum.
She made it back with ten minutes to spare.
She set up her easel and contest sketch and asked everyone to place theirs around the room.
Her boss and several of the crew judged the sketches. Her entry was not part of the contest, but she got several compliments on the sketch and one patron bought it as part of his donation to the gallery.
She knew that she would never be connected to the scene she had left at the river front. She smiled a enjoyed a silent cackle.
2 First Case
Her body’s reflex to the ear splitting, ahooga, ahooga, blasting in her left ear launched Alex out of her bed into the dark abyss of her bedroom.
She pawed in the darkness for the phone that continued to assault her senses. She had specifically selected this sound for the calls coming from the police dispatcher. She wanted to ensure that she would immediately come awake. She gave a brief, “what’s up” and listened as the dispatcher clarified that Alex and her partner were at the top of the call list. The dispatcher simply said, “there is a dead person in the River Front Park, near the Roebling bridge.”
Alex came awake immediately.
This would be her first experience with leading a meaningful investigation. She and her partner had both recently joined the Cincinnati police department.
She wondered how many people had died in the park.
Was it the first?
She checked to make sure her partner had been notified and then hung up and turned on the lights.
Still barely dressed she walked to the kitchen and punched the coffee pot’s brew button. Having coffee ready to brew was a practice she had started at Northwestern when she studied late into the night.
She and her partner had never worked an actual case together. She had learned from Trey that he had accepted the job offer as a way to escape what he expressed as the crazy people in Minneapolis.
He was more experienced in police work then she was but had opted to accept to be her second on their two-person team.
He was the more experienced cop, but she immediately recognized that he was on the edge of a breakdown, and he was probably drinking too much.
She learned that he had suffered PTSD from his experience in Iraq.
She knew that she would need to develop their working relationship and it would begin in earnest on this case. It was her hope to create the kind of teamwork that would take them to the head of the detective force.
She had scored one of the highest passing grades in her shooting qualification and her marshal art skills had been noted on her record.
She was petite but had trained herself to the point that she feared no one.
She also made the point of taking command of the situation when called upon.
She dressed in her bicycling clothes and rolled her bicycle out of her apartment door. She and her bike made the trip to the station every morning. It was a short five-minute ride to the station. She laughed about the fact that her “parking space” was closer to the revolving door than the Chief’s.
She went into the lady’s locker room and quickly changed into her field clothes comprised of a black pants suit and black leather shoes. The shoes were no nonsense black leather walking shoes.
She was now wide awake and ready for business.
She went to the dispatch area and checked about the information coming from the park. She learned that the crime unit had taped off the area, was examining the body, and taking pictures.
The reply to her question, to the dispatcher, about the number of killings in the park was that in his fifteen years on the force he had not heard of any.
Alex was sipping on her second hot cup of what was supposed to be coffee but tasted more like a sharp bitter brew of acid, when a disheveled Trey enter the detective bullpen. She groaned as she remembered that she had looked that way until she had taken responsibility and command of her life. He had the look as if he were recovering from too much drinking.
A flag went up in her mind. She chose not to say anything and concentrated on getting him up to speed and ready to get to the park.
After a quick briefing, she led the way out to their car. It was a well-kept black Ford, but it was the oldest car assigned to the detective squad. The cars were assigned based on seniority and organizational rank. She and Trey were at the bottom of the pyramid. The age of the car meant little to her. She had an old car at home that she loved.
The Chief had commented that she was lucky to have been assigned a car at all. She had laughed and replied that she would be fine riding her bike if that was what he required.
His reply was simply, “I want more out of you than riding your bike can deliver.”
She looked over at Trey slouching in the passenger seat and asked if he was “Ok.” His simple nod and his downward gaze told her that he was not “OK.”
She drove to the park and led the way to the crime scene.
She had been told by Bill, one of the senior agents, that a crime scene work box would be required and useful. He had complemented her on being willing to listen to him when she asked to get a list of what should be in the box.
She went shopping for the items but decided that she wanted as light of a box as possible. When she was packing and organizing her box, Trevor, Bill’s partner, pulled out a shiny stainless steel, crime scene work box and commented that his team had not scrimped on their box.
He pointed to and made a comment about the cheap blue plastic box she was packing.
Alex walked over to Trevor’s box, picked it up and dropped it with a loud clank. She commented that Trevor’s team had done so little field work that they never had to carry it for any length of time.
She went on to look at Bob and thanked him for being kind enough to let her audit the box. She made the point that her cheap plastic box, and its cheap contents could be held up by one finger.
“Can you do that with yours,” she asked?
Bob gave a small chuckle and suggested they all drop the box competition and that he was thinking of getting his team a green plastic box.
Alex had realized that the Chief had been standing in the door to his office, watching the exchange among the three of them.
Now at two thirty in the morning, Alex was carrying her light blue box to her first crime scene. She was pleased with her decision of making her box as light as possible.
When she got close to the yellow barrier tape, the scene of the body on the walkway stopped her in her tracks.
She heard Trey quietly mumble that he had come to Cincinnati hoping to get away from the crazies.
The scene of a dead male with his penis pierced by a pencil pinning it up on his stomach and pointing to his belly button took her breath.
She put her poker face on, and recovered her composure, but her eyes were glued to the scene.
She looked around and noticed that all the police members were similarly distracted by the scene.
She approached the body as the medical examiner began his field examination. She asked if he had determined the time of the killing and got the answer that it had most likely been around nine in the evening on the previous day.
She went on to ask the cause of death and was surprised that the pencil was probably the weapon.
The coroner pointed to the blood dripping from the ear.
Alex was surprised to see so little blood but as she looked closer, she noticed that a cotton swab had been pushed into the ear. This was a surprise. It meant the killer had carefully planned and prepared for the kill. It also told her that the killer had not wanted to get blood on himself.
Alex counted out the paces as she walked toward the stadium to the where the yellow tape was placed. She then walked toward the Roebling Bridge to the boundary of the other yellow tape. She then walked out on the grass to the limit of the tape.
Then she walked toward the river. She realized that the distance to the wall was half as far as the other three distances.
She stopped for a moment to speak to the two officers who had been the first on the scene. She complemented them on tapping off the area but inquired why they had not taped off the area toward the river. They responded that they thought the wall made a good barrier to keep people away from the body. She nodded and thanked them again as she went to the wall.
She leaned out toward the river and looked on the ground on the other side of the wall. It was hard to see anything, the lights from the other side of the river and the lights in the park gave enough light for her to know that there seemed to be quite a lot of stuff on the ground. But it was all in the shadows and impossible to distinguish what the articles might be.
She looked over at Trey and realized that he had not moved. She called out to him and watched him react as if he had been sleeping. She knew she would have to address his behavior. She needed his full attention.
She asked him for some gloves and a flashlight. He responded immediately and got gloves and a flashlight for himself as well.
Alex stayed on the park side of the wall. She asked Trey to go to the river side.
The beam of her powerful flashlight was narrow, and the pencil tucked in a crack near the base of the wall made its appearance like an eel in the dark crack of a coral reef.
Once again, Alex stopped breathing as she slowly played the light over the pencil. She quietly called out to Trey. He followed her beam and carefully reached his gloved hand to retrieve the pencil. He picked it up and placed it into the evidence bag that Alex was holding open.
“Thank you, Bill, for making sure I was ready,” flashed thorough her mind.
Thank you for reading this far