Nowhere to Hide by Nancy Bush

Decatur’s and Tripp’s bodies had turned up, Wes had kept Sheila’s picture on his desk, a reminder. Now all three victims’ photos were on the board with pertinent data about each crime listed beneath them. Everything else was in the file.
    â€œAll three of them frequented bars,” September pointed out.
    â€œWho doesn’t?” Gretchen stood up and stretched. “I mean, yeah, some people have problems with alcohol and all that, but these three women . . . that doesn’t seem to be relevant with them. They were looking for a good time. Even Glenda, she just liked to dance.”
    â€œI was thinking that . . . maybe he picked Glenda after I talked about Frank Navarone in that interview with Pauline Kirby.”
    Gretchen frowned. “You think you influenced him?”
    â€œShe was killed that night. My interview ran at ten, and Auggie and I were called to her apartment the next morning. The neighbor saw the open door.”
    â€œHuh.” Gretchen thought that over, then asked, “What’s Sheila Dempsey’s husband’s name?”
    September looked down at the notes. “Greg Dempsey. Sheila’s parents live in Portland. Diane and Rick Schenk.”
    â€œLet’s start with hubby. I like the idea of a face-to-face. Get something going. It’s been like a morgue around here.”
    George showed up, yawning as he settled his bulk into his desk chair. “You guys are sure early.”
    â€œNo, George. You’re late. Again,” Gretchen said.
    â€œShut up, Sandler,” he said without heat.
    â€œGet yourself some coffee and try to be nice.”
    He gazed at her blandly. “Like you are?”
    Gretchen’s mouth turned up at the corners briefly.
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    The Dempsey home was a modular house in a park of many such homes. Most of them were trimmed and tidy, but Greg Dempsey’s was rampant with dandelions, the lawn brittle and bleached tan, the asphalt drive cracking at the edges and one big chunk of it had fallen and tipped into the yard. The front gutter had a big ding in it, as if struck by a rock, and when September rang the bell the plastic covering fell into her hand, exposing hanging wires. She knocked loudly twice instead.
    â€œThink he’s mourning his wife’s death or just your average slob?” Gretchen asked.
    â€œGuess we’re gonna find out,” September said as she heard heavy footsteps just before the door swung inward.
    Greg Dempsey was somewhere in his mid-thirties with lanky, dirty-blond hair and that super-thin, fragile look of someone who’d been sick a long time or an inveterate junkie. He eyed them speculatively as both September and Gretchen introduced themselves and pulled out their identification.
    â€œMore cops? I thought I was done with you guys.” He swung the door wide and walked back inside.
    September started to step inside, but Gretchen held out an arm and called, “May we come inside, Mr. Dempsey.”
    â€œSure. Whatever.”
    â€œYou never know,” Gretchen said in an aside to September. “You find something in the house, try to arrest the guy. His lawyer says in court that you weren’t invited in. Unlawful search and all that. Besides, it’s polite.”
    â€œOkay.”
    The living room smelled like sour beer, which wasn’t a surprise given the cans that were tossed into every corner and spilled off a table onto the matted carpet. Dempsey was sprawled on a couch, staring at a television that had been muted. “What do you want to know now?” he asked.
    â€œWe’re heading up the investigation of possibly three women, maybe more, who’ve been killed in essentially the same manner,” Gretchen said. “Your wife is the first that we know of. We were hoping you could just fill in a few things for us.”
    â€œMe and Sheila were done,” he volunteered. “Kaput. She’d moved on. Kicked me out of the