The Perfect Impression

by Pierce, Blake

  “I want to tell you,” he admitted.

  “Then go ahead,” she said.

  “I found another, older case that makes me think there might be a pattern.”

  “Back up,” she said. “You’ve been so cagey that I don’t have enough details about the first case to know what might constitute a pattern.”

  “Right,” he said, remembering how little he’d told her. “So the original case that caught my eye was from last month and involved a twenty-six-year-old female named Jenavieve Holt. She had portions of her skin sliced off in what appeared to be a methodical manner. Also, it looks like she was awake the whole time.”

  As he spoke, something in the back of Jessie’s brain lit up, like a dim bulb slowly flickering to life. She said nothing as he continued.

  “It seemed very meticulous,” Ryan said, “as if the killer had planned the thing well in advance and taken his time. Even as a stand-alone murder, it was troubling. But it felt like it was conducted with such confidence and patience that I doubted it was the first time the killer had done something like this.”

  “Good instinct,” Jessie said, waiting to see where he would go with this.

  “So I started looking through other recent cases and found one that had fallen through the cracks. About four months ago, a young guy named Hartung was found in a similar situation—skin cut off in long pieces, also seemingly while he was still awake.”

  “Why did it fall through the cracks?” Jessie asked.

  “Because on the way to the morgue, the driver got in an accident and the van caught on fire. By the time they got Hartung’s body, it was burned to a crisp. The autopsy was useless. Worse, the accident obscured the horror of the killing. There was an internal investigation. It turned out the driver had been drinking. That whole mess took precedence and the file got buried under more pressing ones, so the final medical examiner’s report, complete with the original crime scene photos, wasn’t filed until the day before yesterday. I got it a few hours ago. And it looks just like the Holt case. In both instances, it appears that the killer used something like an X-Acto knife.”

  The dim bulb of familiarity in Jessie’s head suddenly started blazing. She heard herself gasp slightly. Ryan looked up at her.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I have to show you something,” she said, getting up and leading him down the hall to her study.

  It hadn’t always been hers. Neither had the house. This used to be the home of Garland Moses, the most celebrated criminal profiler on the West Coast for over a quarter century and Jessie’s personal mentor.

  He had willed the house to her upon his death, which occurred at the hands of her ex-husband, Kyle Voss. Kyle was also responsible for stabbing Ryan in the chest. Ryan, along with Jessie and Hannah, had barely survived that encounter. Kyle did not.

  They arrived at the door to the study and Jessie used the handprint verification pad to unlock it. Once inside, Jessie moved over to the safe hidden in the wall behind the large, framed print of the Bogart movie The Big Sleep. She pulled out a thick file and dropped it on the desk between them.

  Merely looking at it made her uneasy. Suddenly whatever remaining sleepiness she’d felt was gone. That file held a record of evil even she had rarely seen and just touching it made her want to shower.

  “This material was here when I moved in,” she said. “It’s Garland’s. You won’t be shocked to learn that he held onto a few files for cases he was never able to solve. Some are from his days as an FBI profiler. A few are from his time consulting for LAPD after he was technically retired. Most are just a few pages long, synopses really; except for this one.”

  “What is it?”

  “You remember the Night Hunter, right?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Ryan replied. “You don’t have to be a profiler to know that case—notorious serial killer who wreaked havoc along the eastern seaboard for years in the 1980s and ’90s.”

  “Correct. And you know that Garland spent his last years at the Bureau hunting for the guy, found him in fact.”

  “That’s where he got all those scars,” Ryan recalled, clearly thinking of Garland’s dead, vulnerable body on a medical table at the morgue after his death. He’d been covered in them.

  “Yes,” Jessie confirmed. “He eventually caught up to the Night Hunter. Unfortunately, the killer got the upper hand on him. He surprised him in his own condo, capturing and torturing Garland for two days, almost killing him before he was able to free himself and use the killer’s own machete against him before the man escaped into the night. Garland gave him several deep gashes on his limbs and sliced a cut horizontally along the guy’s entire forehead. He always thought one of the reasons the Night Hunter bailed that night was that he was half-blinded by the blood pouring into his eyes.”

  “I thought that the authorities said that he likely died of his injuries in their fight,” Ryan said.

  “They did,” Jessie replied, “but if this file is any indication, Garland wasn’t so sure.”

  “Okay,” Ryan said slowly. “But where are you going with this? Even if he had survived his fight with Garland, wouldn’t he be in his seventies by now? And why would he suddenly start killing again? Besides, I thought the Night Hunter was more of the dismembering type, what with the machete and all. This doesn’t seem like his M.O.”

  “All excellent points,” Jessie said as she rifled through the file and pulled out a sheet of paper near the end. “And normally I wouldn’t have even thought to connect them, except for this.”

  She tossed him the page and waited while he read it, watching his eyes grow wider the further along he got. When he was done, he looked up.

  “Why have I never heard about this before?” he asked.

  “Because it could never be verified so it didn’t go in the final report,” she told him.

  According to the notes, after the clash with the Night Hunter, Garland found an address written on a piece of paper that had been taped to his medicine cabinet mirror. He figured it was left by the Night Hunter for the authorities to discover when they found his dead body. When investigators went to the address, they found a murdered woman who looked like her skin had been peeled off with an X-Acto knife.

  “So did Garland think that the Night Hunter had changed techniques?” Ryan asked. “That he was going to switch everything up after he killed the profiler chasing him, so he could start fresh?”

  “Hard to say for sure,” Jessie said. “That’s possible. Or maybe he was training a protégé to take over in case he didn’t survive his attack on Garland. Either way, they never found another murder that matched that original X-Acto killing—until now.”

  “So it could be the Night Hunter,” Ryan offered. “Or it could be a protégé. Or it could be someone who was doing research on Garland Moses, read this file, and was inspired—some kind of copycat.”

  They sat quietly in the study, pondering the possibilities. Jessie couldn’t decide which was more troubling to her. A protégé or copycat, especially one new to the system, would be hard to identify and eager to make a bloody mark on the city. But a return of the original Night Hunter meant they were dealing with a methodical, patient killer who had escaped capture for decades.

  Both were nightmares that filled her with dread while simultaneously making her blood boil. Before either could say anything more, Jessie’s cell phone rang. It was Captain Decker. She showed Ryan the screen. He frowned.

  “Kind of late,” he said, noting the time. It was almost midnight. Jessie shrugged and answered.

  “Hi, Captain,” Jessie said. “Everything okay?”

  “There’s been a murder on Catalina Island,” he said without preamble. “It’s a rich victim at a fancy hotel. Headquarters specifically requested us. Apparently, a bigwig from the hotel is a generous LAPD donor. It’s not our typical case but I’m not in a position to be turning down requests from HQ these days.”

  “Sir—” she started to say before he cut her of
f.

  “HSS is being asked to take this on and I don’t need to remind you how badly we need a win these days,” he said. “Besides, apparently the sheriff out there is overwhelmed and understaffed. He asked for a profiler to assist, one who could get there quick and participate while ‘maintaining a small footprint,’ whatever that means. Everyone on the team is assigned to a current case so I thought of you. Can you do it?”

  Jessie tried to set aside her surprise at such a sudden, late-night request to scour her memory for all her recollections about the island.

  “Hunt,” Decker said urgently. “I need an answer fast. If you say no, I’ve got to scramble on this one.”

  “That’s an hour’s boat ride, isn’t it?” Jessie said.

  “We have a helicopter on standby. It can get you there in twenty minutes. Like I said, we’re already behind the eight ball on this. Can I count you in?”

  “Can I pick my partner?” she asked.

  “No partner,” he said sharply. “There’s not enough time. And remember, we’re pushing the ‘small footprint’ thing. Other than local law enforcement, you’ll be solo on this. Can I count on you?”

  “I don’t even know what the case is,” she protested.

  “I don’t know much either,” he admitted. “But I figured that since you’re on semester break, you had the time.”

  “You’re keeping tabs on my school schedule?” she asked, slightly stunned.

  “I keep tabs on everything, Ms. Hunt. You know that,” he told her. “Anyway, there’s a squad car waiting outside your place to get you to the heliport. I can tell you what I know on the drive over.”

  Jessie looked over at Ryan, who had heard everything.

  “Don’t say no for logistical reasons,” he said. “If you’re interested, go. I can make sure Hannah’s squared away. Hell, since it’s a weekend, she’ll probably sleep till noon anyway. Don’t worry. I’ve got things covered on the home front.”

  She couldn’t help but feel a surge of adrenaline as she answered Decker.

  “Tell the officers I’ll be outside in five minutes.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The wind was biting.

  Even with the helicopter doors closed and her thick jacket, Jessie felt chilled as they tore through the air, a few thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean. It didn’t take long to see the twinkling lights of Avalon, the only town of note on tourist-centric Catalina Island.

  As the copter approached the heliport, she hoped that her assigned liaison, Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department Detective Colby Peters, could offer more details than Captain Decker had. All he knew was that a female guest at a ritzy hotel had been found naked in bed, with a knife in her chest.

  The copter began its descent, zipping past the island’s most iconic landmark, the Catalina Casino, a massive, oceanfront structure that had never actually allowed gambling but had been employed as an elaborate theater and event venue since 1929. Jessie remembered taking a tour of the ornate, Art Deco building on her one visit to the island, back when she and Kyle were dating, long before she knew her future husband was a murderous sociopath.

  The helicopter passed over Avalon Bay, high enough to avoid waking the people sleeping in the fancy yachts below, before hovering over the helipad and gently touching down. As the rotor slowed, Jessie saw a man in a jacket emblazoned with the sheriff’s department logo wave at her from a safe distance. She waved back, waiting for the blades to come to a full stop. When they did, the pilot opened the door, gave her the backpack she’d brought along, and pointed her to the man she assumed was Colby Peters.

  She zipped her jacket up to her neck in a likely fruitless attempt to stave off the bitter, middle-of-the-night January cold on an exposed island. As she walked over, she saw that Peters was better prepared for the elements. His puffy jacket looked cozy and he had on gloves and a watch cap on under his sheriff’s cap. She’d never met the guy but the scowl on his face suggested that he wasn’t exactly enthused to be assigned to this job.

  “Deputy Peters?” she asked when she was close enough to be heard over the nearby crashing waves.

  “Detective Peters,” he corrected sharply. “I assume you’re Hunt?”

  “Call me Jessie,” she said, hoping to get off on the right foot.

  “Let me fill you in on what we’ve got,” he replied, not making the same offer to go by first names as he motioned for him to join her.

  He moved over to a golf cart parked on the sidewalk and indicated for Jessie to get in the passenger seat. She’d forgotten that there was a strict limit on both the size and number of cars allowed on the island and that many folks got around in these carts. She’d thought it was charming on her previous visit, but tonight she longed for an enclosed vehicle. Peters, who appeared oblivious, launched in.

  “The victim is Gabrielle Crewe, age thirty-three. She was found in her suite at the Paragon Hotel, where she was staying with her husband, Steve, and some friends. They were on a group weekend outing. The body was discovered by one of them, Melissa Ferro, whose suite was next door. Ferro said the door was slightly open. A room service waiter secured the suite until we got there. The husband was in the bar at the time. Before he lost it completely, I got him to look around the suite. It doesn’t seem anything was stolen.”

  “When was she found?” Jessie asked as Peters tore down the narrow street, populated by closed shops and open bars, occasionally weaving to avoid a drunk reveler on the main drag that ran alongside the harbor front.

  “The call to the station came in at eleven twenty-four p.m. We’re only a three-minute drive away. When we entered the room at eleven thirty-one, pallor mortis had just started to set in. I doubt she’d been dead more than a half hour at that point.”

  They veered off the main drag and headed inland. Without the lights of a major street, the island was draped in darkness. Jessie didn’t know how Peters could see where he was going. He made a sharp right turn and then a left before hitting another straightaway. In the distance, Jessie saw a large complex that she assumed was the Paragon Hotel. When Peters pulled into the driveway and hit the brakes hard, she knew she was right.

  From the outside, the place had the look of a New Orleans French Quarter hotel, covered in ornate grillwork designs, with long, narrow balconies on all the upper floors that ran the length of the building and were adorned with hanging plants and planter boxes full of flowers.

  “We’re here,” he said, hopping out. “How do you want do proceed?”

  “Where’s the body?” Jessie asked him.

  “She’s waiting for you in the room,” he replied. “Do you want to see her first or talk to witnesses?”

  “Depends,” she told him. “Are the witnesses all being held separately from each other?”

  “All the potential witnesses and friends are away from the other hotel guests in a ballroom with hotel security but they’re not being kept apart from each other.”

  Jessie didn’t love that. The more these people interacted, the less distinct their recollections would get. It might also allow a suspect to glean information he or she shouldn’t have.

  “Let’s deal with them first and then check out the body. We can return to do full interviews afterward. Lead the way.”

  Peters marched through the lobby, unconcerned whether Jessie was keeping up. As they hurried through the cavernous central lounge, she tried take in her surroundings. To her surprise, it didn’t match the exterior at all, instead going for more of a Polynesian look.

  The ceiling had exposed dark wood beams, separated by what she appeared to be a faux-thatched roof. Multiple fans hung low, though they were unmoving considering the season. All the furniture was wooden and seemingly hand-carved. The floor was comprised of a composite meant to look like stone pavers. They walked up the stairs to the second floor, where a scared-looking young man stood outside a large, closed door.

  “This is Tommy,” Peters said. “He’s a bellman here and graciously offered to make sure no one e
ntered or left the ballroom other than for restroom visits. Tommy, this is Jessie Hunt. She’s a fancy LAPD profiler, here from the mainland to offer her expertise. Anything notable happen while I was gone, Tommy?”

  Tommy, a wisp of a kid who looked a special shade of pale, shook his head. Jessie did her best not to let Peters’s jab get to her. He pushed open the doors to reveal about twenty people, all casually milling about, some chatting at a few of the bare banquet tables. There was a woman nursing a baby in the corner. A gangly, scruffy-faced security guard stood at one end of the room, scrolling through his phone. Jessie’s heart sank.

  “We need to separate everyone,” she said.

  “Even the couples?” Peters asked.

  “Even the couples, especially the ones the victim arrived here with. No more than one person per table. If we need to use a second room, let’s do that.”

  Peters looked at her skeptically and she thought he might object.

  “It’s your show,” he finally said before turning his attention to the assembled, who were all now staring in their direction. “Okay, everyone, listen up. I know you’ve been waiting around. But you’re going to need to wait a little longer. We’ve brought in a big gun from the city to help question you. But she insists that all of you need to separate until we can talk to you individually. That means everyone. Friends, couples—no one sits together anymore. No one talks to each until we’ve talked to you. If that means some of you have to be moved to a secondary ballroom, I’m sure Stone can help facilitate that, right, Stone?”

  The security guard who had been on his phone nodded reluctantly.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “I mean it,” Peters added. “Conversations end now. If you persist, Ms. Hunt here may have you tossed in the pokey. We all understand each other?”

  There was a general collection of nods amid the unhappy frowns. Jessie bit her tongue, fighting the urge to ream Peters out then and there. Even before she’d started her interviews, he’d managed to create animosity toward her among the witnesses. This case was going to be hard enough to solve without having hurdles thrown in front of her by her supposed partner.