random killing? There are indications that it was not
.
On 21 October of last year, the body of Emily Reinhardt, 24, was discovered in a second-floor room at the Quality Inn on Euclid Avenue. On 23 December, police say, the body of Maryann Milius, 22, a bank teller living in Bedford Heights, was found in an abandoned warehouse on the city’s near east side. Her body had been severely battered, her throat cut
.
Although Cleveland police have not yet confirmed that they are treating these three murders as the work of a serial killer, according to Captain Randall B. Elliott of the Homicide Unit, the similarities are growing as the investigation continues. Capt. Elliott said that a taskforce – to be led by Detective John S. Paris – was being formed to catch the killer or killers. The details surrounding the
[see serial/3b]
And all of it above the fold.
Paris had found out that he was to lead the task-force at five-thirty that morning, when Elliott had awakened him and briefed him over the phone, prior to the
Plain Dealer
hitting the stands. It was nice to see it confirmed in print, though, Paris thought – right there on the front page, right over a double order of blueberry pancakes in the back room at Eddie’s on Coventry. It seemed his appetite had returned with a vengeance after only one night of not drinking himself into a coma.
He returned to the front page and began to reread the article. He looked at his name in print and wondered if Beth was reading about him at that moment. If she was proud of him. If she was pointing it out to Melissa.
He also wondered if someone else had had the chance to read it. He wondered if the tall man in the Irish walking-hat was sitting somewhere at that moment – perhaps in a little Italian bakery on Murray Hill, or in a booth at the Detroiter, or maybe even at the other end of the back room at Eddie’s – and perusing the article over his scrambled and sausage.
The
Plain Dealer
was on the story full press, with three writers contributing to the lead story, and a pair of sidebars. There was even a graphic of the city with each of the three crime scenes depicted with a star.
‘You’re gonna get fat eating that shit.’
The voice came from behind him. Paris spun around. It was Tim Murdock, one of the best detectives in Beachwood, ex of the Third District, and Paris’s senior by one year at the academy. ‘Timmy,’ Paris said. ‘What’s doin’, big man? How goes the rat race?’
Murdock had taken a .38-caliber slug in his shoulder three years earlier – a drug shoot-out at the Carver Estates. He had arms the size of a football player’s thigh and a complexion like a Maine shrimper, but his grip was weak because of his torn-up shoulder. Paris could never remember if he was supposed to squeeze his hand hard or go easy on it when they shook. He usually opted for both, always waiting for Timmy to double over in pain, clutching his shoulder.
‘Fucking rats are still winning, Jackie.’ Murdock slipped into the booth and tried, unsuccessfully, to get the waitress’s attention. ‘Congratulations on getting lead dog,’ Murdock said. ‘Is Dietricht gonna shit a potato or what?’
Bobby Dietricht was the Homicide Unit comer. He had his gold shield before he was thirty and had designs on captain by forty. It was just this kind of task-force that would have saved Bobby Dietricht a year or two on the ladder. But Captain Elliott didn’t care too much for Bobby Dietricht, and Paris got the call.
‘Thanks, Timmy.’
‘Play this smart, Jack.’
Paris smiled. ‘I got two till my twenty, man,’ he said. ‘After that, I’m out.’
Murdock laughed and called for the waitress again. ‘What the hell are you gonna do off the force, Jack? Go security? Go PI? I don’t think so, buddy. You’re too much like me. Blue all through. Just another lifer.’ The waitress finally came over, took Murdock’s order, grabbed his menu and walked back to the kitchen. Murdock lowered his
.
On 21 October of last year, the body of Emily Reinhardt, 24, was discovered in a second-floor room at the Quality Inn on Euclid Avenue. On 23 December, police say, the body of Maryann Milius, 22, a bank teller living in Bedford Heights, was found in an abandoned warehouse on the city’s near east side. Her body had been severely battered, her throat cut
.
Although Cleveland police have not yet confirmed that they are treating these three murders as the work of a serial killer, according to Captain Randall B. Elliott of the Homicide Unit, the similarities are growing as the investigation continues. Capt. Elliott said that a taskforce – to be led by Detective John S. Paris – was being formed to catch the killer or killers. The details surrounding the
[see serial/3b]
And all of it above the fold.
Paris had found out that he was to lead the task-force at five-thirty that morning, when Elliott had awakened him and briefed him over the phone, prior to the
Plain Dealer
hitting the stands. It was nice to see it confirmed in print, though, Paris thought – right there on the front page, right over a double order of blueberry pancakes in the back room at Eddie’s on Coventry. It seemed his appetite had returned with a vengeance after only one night of not drinking himself into a coma.
He returned to the front page and began to reread the article. He looked at his name in print and wondered if Beth was reading about him at that moment. If she was proud of him. If she was pointing it out to Melissa.
He also wondered if someone else had had the chance to read it. He wondered if the tall man in the Irish walking-hat was sitting somewhere at that moment – perhaps in a little Italian bakery on Murray Hill, or in a booth at the Detroiter, or maybe even at the other end of the back room at Eddie’s – and perusing the article over his scrambled and sausage.
The
Plain Dealer
was on the story full press, with three writers contributing to the lead story, and a pair of sidebars. There was even a graphic of the city with each of the three crime scenes depicted with a star.
‘You’re gonna get fat eating that shit.’
The voice came from behind him. Paris spun around. It was Tim Murdock, one of the best detectives in Beachwood, ex of the Third District, and Paris’s senior by one year at the academy. ‘Timmy,’ Paris said. ‘What’s doin’, big man? How goes the rat race?’
Murdock had taken a .38-caliber slug in his shoulder three years earlier – a drug shoot-out at the Carver Estates. He had arms the size of a football player’s thigh and a complexion like a Maine shrimper, but his grip was weak because of his torn-up shoulder. Paris could never remember if he was supposed to squeeze his hand hard or go easy on it when they shook. He usually opted for both, always waiting for Timmy to double over in pain, clutching his shoulder.
‘Fucking rats are still winning, Jackie.’ Murdock slipped into the booth and tried, unsuccessfully, to get the waitress’s attention. ‘Congratulations on getting lead dog,’ Murdock said. ‘Is Dietricht gonna shit a potato or what?’
Bobby Dietricht was the Homicide Unit comer. He had his gold shield before he was thirty and had designs on captain by forty. It was just this kind of task-force that would have saved Bobby Dietricht a year or two on the ladder. But Captain Elliott didn’t care too much for Bobby Dietricht, and Paris got the call.
‘Thanks, Timmy.’
‘Play this smart, Jack.’
Paris smiled. ‘I got two till my twenty, man,’ he said. ‘After that, I’m out.’
Murdock laughed and called for the waitress again. ‘What the hell are you gonna do off the force, Jack? Go security? Go PI? I don’t think so, buddy. You’re too much like me. Blue all through. Just another lifer.’ The waitress finally came over, took Murdock’s order, grabbed his menu and walked back to the kitchen. Murdock lowered his
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