by Erik Carter
Dale looked back to the photo. A woman’s torso. Decapitated and legless. Wearing a T-shirt and underwear. Lying in a pool of blood.
“Her name was Paula Willet,” Higgins said. “She worked in one of the spas. General labor—cleaning, office work, that sort of thing. Killed at the spa, in the basement with all the pumps. So, that’s federal property, a federal crime. She lived in a trailer park north of town. Had troubles with drugs.”
“Drugs, huh?” Dale said. “ Maybe her dealer?”
“HSPD tells us that not too many methamphetamine dealers leave notes behind when they knock somebody off.” He pointed a finger toward the folder. "Keep flipping.”
Dale flipped through some more gruesome images of Paula Willet’s torso, and came to an image of crude handwriting written with brushstrokes.
That was written on the wall of her trailer’s kitchen. In the girl’s blood.
“Eliot Ness…” Dale said. “He’s been dead for almost twenty years.”
“And how does he connect to someone who chopped up Willet?” Higgins said.
“Well, Hot Springs had speakeasies and strong connections with gangsters like Al Capone and Lucky Luciano during prohibition. And since Eliot Ness is most famous for being the incorruptible law man fighting Capone with his Untouchables, that might seem like the obvious connection. But I think there's something more subtle.” He flipped back to the images of the body, leaned in close, squinting. “These marks on the skin … chemical burns?"
Higgins nodded, his tired, old eyes opening a bit wider. “Well, yes, but how the hell did you figure that out from one photo?”
“Not only did The Cleveland Torso Murderer cut people apart, just like this,” Dale said, pointing to one of the images of Paula Willett’s torso. “But the killer put a chemical treatment on some of the victims skin.”
"My god," Higgins said, shaking his head.
Nash leaned in closer, looking at the images. Then he glanced up at Higgins. “And the Elliot Ness bit of the message is how you knew this was related to the Torso Murderer?”
“That’s right,” Higgins said. “But don’t ask me how. One of my guys figured out the connection.”
Dale filled in the details for Higgins. “When the murders happened, Eliot Ness was the director of public safety for Cleveland, which put him in authority of the police department. And since the victims were low-income individuals, Ness burned down the shantytown where the killer was finding them.”
Dale opened the second folder. There were no photos on top, just papers. “No images of the second victim?”
“Well…” Higgins started and scratched his chin nervously. “She was just found this morning, about 5 AM. That’s why it was such late notice when we reached out to you. The second victim, Jenna Mancini, would’ve died some time late last night, but no one found her till this morning. The body was on the back side of the businesses on the private half of Central Avenue. Behind the Italian restaurant where she worked. When our photographer got there … he just couldn’t do it. He left. Said he’d be back later.”
Dale pulled out the first folder again. "The same guy who took these photos?”
Higgins nodded.
“It was worse than this?”
Higgins nodded again. “He eventually came back. Got the pictures. They're still developing. But … I think it would be better for you to go take a look for yourself anyway.”
“Fair enough," Dale said. "But here's the problem. The BEI’s a consulting agency, and protocol requires me to have a federal liaison to begin a case. Last I heard, the ISB agent, Greg Fulton, isn't here yet.”
Higgins shook his head. "He's not.”
“Hmm…” Dale said and looked around the room. He was anxious to get started on the assignment, and there was no indication of when Fulton would arrive. He looked around the room. “A ranger could be my liaison for the time being. Mind if I take one of them off your hands until Fulton arrives?”
Higgins hesitated in that same grumpy-old-near-retirement sort of way. “Well, I don’t see why not. Of course, I’ll have to find a volunteer. Which might be a chore. And then there’s the paperwork, which I’ll—”
Dale hopped up on the nearby desk. He stuck a pair of fingers between his lips and whistled.
Loudly.
Everyone going about their work stopped what they were doing, stared in disbelief at the stranger standing on one of the desks.
“Excuse me,” Dale shouted. “The name’s Dale Conley. I’m with the DOJ. I’m sure you’re all aware of the serial killer in town, and I’m sure you all want to catch him just as badly as I do. I’m looking for one law enforcement ranger who’s willing to join me right now to help find the bastard.”
A tall ranger in the back waved.
“Well, I sure would like to lend a helping hand.”
Dale gave him a finger pistol.
“Done.”
He hopped off the desk.
The man approached. He was about six-foot-two and had a loping gait, a bit clumsy. He smiled broadly. To his side was a boy of about five, clenching his hand.
“Ernie Plunkett,” the man said, offering his free hand.
Dale shook it.
“Dale Conley. And this is my expert consultant, Nash Harbick.”
Plunkett looked down at the boy and smiled bigger.
"And this is Ricky,” Plunkett said. He had a northern accent. Minnesota or Wisconsin, perhaps. “Say hi to Agent Conley and Mr. Harbick, Ricky.”
Ricky gave a small wave then hid behind his father's leg, peeking out with one eye.
Plunkett had large ears, receding hair, and a big, wide smile, which, coupled with the overall friendliness and slight homeliness, made him look rather like a gregarious toad.
“I was going to have the next couple days off. I’m sure Connie—that’s my wife— will be disappointed, but she won’t mind since I’ll be helping to catch the killer. Everybody in town is just worried sick, don’t ya know?” He turned to Higgins. “Is this okay, boss?”
Higgins shrugged and turned, walked away.
“Whatever.”
Chapter Eleven
After Ventress let out another disgusted groan, Nash wondered how the woman was going to get through the rest of this little trial she had set up. If Nash was going to tell the full story of what had happened in Hot Springs that led to Dale abducting Mira Lyndon, there were plenty more details to be shared.
And Ventress already looked like she was going to explode.
Every time Nash mentioned one of Dale‘s actions there was a scoff or a sigh or a toss of the hand or a rubbing of the temples. And with each of these reactions, her tension seemed to ratchet up a little bit more.
She was annoying Nash. Her attitude was both icy cold and boiling hot at the same time, and it was very evident that she felt like she was above everyone else in the room.
Nash really wanted to see her in pain.
“So that’s how Ranger Plunkett got mixed up in all this?” she said. “With Conley making up his own rules on the spot. Jumping on a desk, for Christ’s sake. After, I might add, chasing someone through the Grand Promenade, creating panic in a tourist town already on the edge due to a roaming serial killer. The person you and Conley chased down was probably just another tourist himself. Idiots.”
Nash chuckled. “I don’t think most Hot Springs tourists keep their binoculars trained on the front entrance to the NPS office. Or try to impale strangers with a huge shard of broken glass.”
He responded with some attitude this time. Earlier, he’d hated himself for shrinking beneath Ventress’ authority so much, and as her questioning continued, he realized that her supremacy was just as much feigned as it was real. And he wanted her to know that he’d caught on to her.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Harbick,” she spat and turned to Fulton. “Of course, Conley would never have had a reason to bring Plunkett on board if you’d shown up on time. Care to explain yourself?”
Fulton sat taller and straightened his tie. “Thanks for finally giving me a chance to speak.”
Ventress scowled at him.
“I got here as fast as I could. Had to finish up in Bozeman,” Fulton said. His voice was deep and silky smooth, the perfect complement to his tailored suit and immaculate grooming. “I was only a day behind Conley anyway—if the guy could have just waited on me. As I’m sure you know, the ISB resources can get stretched thin at times.”
“Excuses sound best to the numbnuts who’s giving them, Fulton,” Ventress said. “And because of your ineptitude, Conley pulled Plunkett into the case.” She whipped around to Taft. She was evidently through with Fulton already. “I thought your agents always have to be paired with another federal agent.”
“That’s true,” Taft said. “But sometimes other federal law enforcement officers who technically aren’t special agents fill the void.”
“Have any of your team ever worked with a park ranger before?” Ventress said.
“Not during my tenure, no.”
“And have any of your agents ever picked their own liaison before?”
“This would be a first,” Taft said.
“Unbelievable. You know, Taft, I think you’re just as culpable as anyone else here. If you hadn’t stroked Conley’s massive ego for so many years, letting him run around like a spoiled child, then he might not have flipped his lid and kidnapped the Lyndon girl.”
Taft leaned forward, putting one hand on the table and pointing at Ventress with the other. “You don’t know shit. None of us do. And like Harbick, I trust Conley’s judgement.”
“Of course you do,” Ventress said and rolled her eyes. She approached Nash again. “So you, Conley, and Plunkett formed your ill-fated team. What was the first course of action?”
“We went to see a body.”
Chapter Twelve
Dale walked with Nash, and Plunkett on the Bathhouse Row side of Central Avenue, the same sidewalk where he and Nash had been a couple hours earlier. And though it was still a lovely atmosphere, Dale didn’t feel quite as elated and wide-eyed as he had the first time.
Once someone tries to impale you with a massive piece of broken glass, it kinda sours you on a place.
The weather, too, had soured. The temperature remained comfortable, but those gray clouds that Dale had noticed earlier had completely overtaken the sky. All trace of blue was now gone. Still, there were plenty of tourists out and about, and, likewise, Plunkett’s smile was also at odds with the gloom. He was waving his hand grandly left and right, and he’d been giving Dale and Nash an introduction to the city, repeating much of the information Dale had relayed to Nash earlier. Nash was probably bored out of his mind.
Plunkett had the ideal demeanor for this sort of thing—contagious enthusiasm and that big, lovable, toad-like smile—so much so that Dale began to wonder why Plunkett had chosen to become a law enforcement ranger. His temperament seemed more suited to an interpretive ranger. He would make a perfect one.
“…so while that side of the street is private property,” Plunkett was saying. “We’re on federal land right now. Even though the functioning spas are privately run, they belong to the government, leased out.”
“You lived here all your life, Ranger Plunkett?” Dale said.
“Oh, no. Not from here originally. I’m from Brainerd, Minnesota. I’ve been here a while, though. Fifteen years. And it’s Ernie. But don’t call me Ernie either. My friends call me Ern. You can call me Ern.”
Dale laughed. “Sure thing, Ern.”
“First names okay?”
“Of course. That’s my preference too. I’m Dale.”
Ern turned to Nash.
“Nash.”
Ern smiled.
They approached the spa in which Dale and Nash had chased the stranger. A couple law enforcement rangers were by the broken window, which was already covered with a sheet of plastic. One of the rangers was interviewing a woman, while the other inspected the window.
“That’s the Fordyce where you two had your little misadventure,” Ern said, looking at it as they walked by. “Beautiful, isn’t it? It had been the most elaborate and most expensive of the bathhouses. And then it ended up being the first one to shut down. Isn’t that always the way? Darn shame. Closed in 1962. I’ve heard rumors that we—the NPS, that is—are thinking about turning it into the visitor center. Wouldn’t that be something?”
He looked away from the Fordyce and to the other side of the street. He pointed to the left, once again in a very tour guide manner.
“Time to head to private property,” he said. “Time to see Jenna Mancini.”
After they had crossed over to the commercial side of the road, they continued on to the back end of the row of pretty boutiques and pastry shops and jewelry stores that lined Central Avenue and faced Bathhouse Row. There was a street back there—Exchange Street—so while it wasn’t a true alley, it had all the trappings: brick walls, steel utility boxes, barred windows, metal service doors, dumpsters and trash cans. On the opposite side of Exchange was a stone retaining wall and a hill with houses perched on top.
They went to the back side of an Italian restaurant called Allesandro’s, where they met with their contact, an HSPD detective. Crime scene tape squared off the area, blocking Exchange Street. The body was on the ground, covered by a blanket. A bloody knife was a couple feet away, and next to it was a yellow plastic evidence marker with the number 1 on it.
Detective Bill Sadler had smiled at the group when they approached, but it was clear that he was beginning to tire of the situation he’d found himself in and, perhaps, all the other agencies involved with a crime scene that would have been his alone under normal circumstances.
He was very short—about five-foot-seven—and his skin was tan in a natural, non-suntan-oil sort of way. He must have been somewhere between thirty-five and forty, but he had one of those faces that looked older than it was—overly lean and a bit sunken. He had waves of dark blonde hair and bright blue eyes that Dale imagined were quite friendly on a normal, serial-killer-less day. His suit pants were dark brown corduroy, flared, and his tie was yellow, and all of it was cheap and wrinkled.
The group stood by the back wall of the restaurant, which was painted white. The paint was thick after years of reapplications. A message was painted in blood, which looked bold against the white paint. The letters were two-inches tall.
“The Axeman of New Orleans,” Dale said.
“Come again?” Sadler said. He had a Southern accent.
“Serial killer. Late 1910s. New Orleans. Six proven victims. After he’d gained a reputation and the city was in a state of fear, he published a note like this in the newspapers,” Dale said and pointed to the message on the wall. “He gave a date and time when he would kill again, but he said he’d spare anyone who was at a place where a jazz band was playing. As you can imagine, the whole city was alive with jazz that night. And no one was murdered.” He pointed at the message again. “Hence, Too bad she wasn’t playing jazz.”
Dale turned and glanced toward the body. The blanket rustled gently in the breeze. He looked from Nash to Ern and then to Sadler.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
Sadler took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and put them on as he stepped toward the body. He knelt down, placed a hand on the blanket—and paused. He looked up at them with a sad little shake of his head.
“Brace yourself.”
He pulled the blanket back.
Dale recoiled.
Plunkett stepped away.
And Nash just looked on.
Dale’s hand was on his mouth, and after he’d taken a couple breaths, he turned back around to find Nash still staring at the body. He was looking at it in the same way he’d looked at the photos of the first victim back at the NPS office.
A blank stare. No apparent reaction.
Dale turned his eyes away from Nash. But he didn’t look back down to the body. He lo
oked up. Into the gray sky.
He was stalling.
Finally, he took another breath, held it for a moment, and looked to the ground.
The body was splayed about five feet away from the back door to the restaurant. The neck was cut completely through, all the way to the vertebra, and above this, there was a mangled mass of tissue and blood where the face had been. Concave. As though she’d been bashed in. From this destroyed area, spread out in all directions, was shiny, curly black hair.
The hair was long. It would have gone halfway down her back. It was bright and lustrous in a way that comes only from careful attention—expensive shampoos, the right hairsprays. Jenna Mancini’s hair surely had been one of her favorite features. At a minimum, she’d taken good care of it. Those small fingers—spread on the rough cement, nails painted red—had worked conditioner or mousse or something into that hair. Spreading it from root to tip. Recently. Perhaps within the last twenty-four hours. There was a small ring on one of those fingers, the right pinky finger, and Dale wondered what it had meant to her. Sentiment or just fashion? Had it been a gift, or did she buy it herself? Did she get it in town at one of the many—
He brought his train of thought to a screeching halt.
It had been a while since Dale had worked a gruesome case like this, and one of the rules that he’d set up for himself—one of the standards he used to get through something like this—was to disassociate himself with the reality of a body, the person who been in the form. It was hard for Dale to shut that part of himself down, but in a situation like this, he had to turn off his compassion to do compassionate work. It was a willful and purposeful paradox.
He glanced over at Nash again. Nash was still looking down at the body with that blank expression. Which bothered Dale. It was disturbing. Yet it wasn't the lack of expression that concerned Dale so much as the fact that the stare was uninterrupted.
