Victory glanced at the rhinoceros head mounted on the wall and frowned. “It wouldn’t be so swell if I had to take this hideous decadence as part of the deal. I couldn’t.”
After they exchanged a few quick pleasantries with a couple of local cops they knew, Victory found Detective Lynch. He was tall and slim, wearing an over-sized black T-shirt and faded jeans. His gold shield was clipped to his leather belt next to his weapon and cell phone.
“Detective Lynch, I’m Victory McClane. This is my partner, Ryan Slater.”
Lynch nodded. “Good to meet you both. Just got off the phone with the M.E. It’ll be another half-hour or so before he gets here.” He ran his fingers through his short-cropped hair. “You know, I’ve been doing this gig for a lot of years. Never seen anything as perplexing. Not entirely sure why you guys got called in, though.”
“Early speculation about domestic terrorism. NSM, that sort of thing.”
“The National Socialists? Yeah, crossed my mind. Or any radical group, really. The guy offended just about everybody. A genuine equal opportunity offender.”
Victory scanned the scene to see if anything stood out. The room was obsessively neat and clean, other than the dead guy in the chair. A single shell casing was on the rug, tagged with an evidence marker.
“Who found him?” Ryan asked.
“Couple of our locals. One of his producers called it in. Said Bullington was a no-show for his radio show. The producer called him and didn't get an answer, which was apparently unheard of too. Our guys did a welfare check, busted in, and this is the mess we ended up with.”
Victory’s attention traveled to the large African-American male with a quarter-size hole through his right temple. A chunk of his skull was gone. The flesh around his eyes was bluish-black and swollen shut. She noted the gunpowder burn surrounding the bullet’s entry point. Shot at close range. One hand was holding a bag of Cheetos. The other hand was inside the bag.
“Obviously, nothing’s been moved since your guys arrived,” she said.
“Just the gun, dusted for prints. The media’s gonna get hard over this so we’re acutely aware that no screw-ups can taint the investigation.”
Victory and Ryan peered inside the snack bag at Bullington’s hand still clenching a handful of Cheetos.
“We look bad enough already with The Wrapper still not apprehended. People aren't too keen about a serial killer roaming the streets. We sure don't need to be adding insult to injury. Guess you guys are on the same carnival ride?”
Now the detective was annoying her. Victory stood ram-rod straight. Ryan stepped in before she had the chance to say something confrontational.
“It’s more common to finish your snack before doing yourself like that.”
“Sloppiest staged suicide I ever saw.” Lynch shook his head. Yet…not a single damn sign so far of anyone being in here but him.”
“No maids, cleaners with access?” Ryan asked.
Lynch shook his head again. “None on duty, and none with keys as far as we’ve been able to find out so far. All employees are being checked out.”
Victory looked at the Glock in the open drawer of the end table. “Gun been fired recently?”
“Yup. And no prints but his own. The weapon's legit, too,” Lynch said. “Registered to Bullington. He was apparently shaken by death threats from the National Socialist Movement. Can't blame him. They're as crazy as he was.”
Victory was aware of the neo-Nazi group, the largest and most active group in the country. She had heard the FBI had launched a hate crime investigation into the NSM immediately after the threats against Bullington. Had the NSM made good on their threat?
Ryan looked at Lynch. “Anyone from the NSM been contacted yet?”
“Still working on it. Nobody answers their phone in the middle of the night anymore, ringers are off—well except for us. You haven’t seen the weirdest part yet. Come with me.”
They followed the detective into the hallway.
“Our guy had one hell of a security setup. This is just the secondary system.”
Lynch headed to the stair railing and yelled downstairs. “Hey, Tomlin!”
“Yo.”
“Make that call again, will ya.”
“Sure.”
Lynch rejoined them. “Step back into that doorway for a moment, would ya?”
Victory glanced at Ryan. He shrugged, unsure what to expect either. They moved back into the antechamber doorway and waited. Lynch stepped into the doorway across from them.
A few moments passed, then the lights in the hallway turned off. Red dual-beam lasers crisscrossed the length and width of the hall and reflected off the glistening black marble floor.
Ryan’s eyes widened. “Now there’s something different.”
“Bet you haven’t seen anything like this in a private residence. I sure as hell haven’t,” Lynch said.
“Guess he took the threats seriously. How ironic that the best security system hadn’t kept the man safe,” Ryan said.
“That’s not actually irony,” Victory pointed out.
“What? Sure it—”
Lynch cut in. “You’re going to want to cover your ears now.”
Victory’s eyebrows rose.
He swiped his hand through the lasers and tripped the ear-splitting alarm. Victory and Ryan quickly covered their ears. A few beats passed, and the alarm shut off and the lasers disappeared.
Lynch leaned against the doorframe. “Security company's logs show Bullington arrived home at four-forty-three pm. He reset the main alarm at that time and called to activate the secondary at seven-fifteen.”
“Can they verify it was Bullington who called?” Ryan asked.
The hairs on the back of Victory’s neck prickled. A whispery sound filled her ears, like light wind through brittle leaves. Something touched her face. She raised her hand to her cheek but there was nothing there. Her gaze darted between Ryan and Lynch. They were oblivious to what she had experienced. McClane, keep it together. You’re just tired.
“It could have been the killer,” Ryan said.
“What?” Victory tried not to sound alarmed.
“Computerized voice-print technology. The system won’t activate if it’s not Bullington,” Lynch explained.
Victory’s hands turned clammy. She was still shaken by what she had experienced. “Windows? Doors?” she asked as she stripped off the gloves and stuffed them in her coat pocket.
Lynch shook his head. “No forced entry. Locked and barred.”
“Has his next-of-kin been contacted?” Victory asked.
“Not yet.”
She didn’t want the media to find out before the victim’s family had been notified. “Okay, we’ll take over from here. Thanks for all your help.”
“You bet. And you’re more than welcome to this one. Consider this your official invite.” Detective Lynch scratched his head. “But tell me—how the hell did the perp get in and out of a house locked up tighter than Fort Knox?”
CHAPTER THREE
The faint light emanating from the rusty and dented light fixture precariously dangling from the ceiling, cast a dusty halo against the warehouse floor. The man zipped up the white HazMat-type protective suit, then bent and secured the Velcro strips tight around the matching booties. He stared through the clear visor at the four industrial space heaters. They were on wheels, situated around a battered wooden chair. A few feet away on the floor, sat a giant roll of bubble wrap and a large bottle of baby oil.
As he stepped into the light, shadows danced throughout the open space and crept up the cement walls. He clutched the rectangular remote control in his gloved hand and tapped one of the four red buttons.
One of the heaters clicked on and roared like a hurricane, as a brilliant, orange-reddish glow flashed through the front of the metal grill. A rat the size of an overstuffed kitten scampered by and disappeared into the darkness.
One by one, he turned on each of the heaters and watched the glo
w encircle the chair like spotlights being prepared for the main stage attraction to appear. Sweat streamed down the back of his neck, along his hairline and dripped between his shoulders, soaking his T-shirt. His eyes roamed to the built-in metal cage, and then to the young woman sitting on the floor, hunched over, shivering, wearing only a black bra and panties.
Adrenaline raced through his body.
The woman lifted her arms and clutched the bars of the cage with both hands. She moaned as she tried to stand, but she was too weak from the Rohypnol he’d put in her drink.
She raised her trembling head. Strands of hair stuck to the side of her face. Terrified green eyes stared back at him through the bars, and he tasted her fear.
✽ ✽ ✽
Victory’s cell phone shrilled. She stirred in bed, and eventually opened her eyes. Sunlight poked through the ends of the blinds. She squinted at the clock on the night table. It read 7:33. Groggy, she reached for her phone, answered the call, and closed her eyes again.
“Remember what Lynch said last night about turning your ringer off? That man’s on to something,” she said.
“Sadly, not possible in this business, Vic.”
“Hmm. I’ll be in around noon, Ryan. Tell that to anyone who asks, okay?”
“Says she’ll be here in a few hours, sir.”
Her eyes popped open. “What? Who are you talking to?”
“Victory, hi. Get your boots on now. A few hours is not going to cut it.”
It was her boss, Joe Mains, agent-in-charge of the Cincinnati field office. His voice sounded pinched and edged with concern.
Victory jerked upright in bed. “The Wrapper? He didn’t.”
“He did. Late last night.”
“Where?”
“Daniel Drake Park.”
Her heart sank. She threw aside the feather duvet and scrambled to her feet. “Are you sure?”
“No doubt about it. Just got the call from Cincinnati homicide. Female, brunette, in her twenties,” Mains said.
A shot of sympathy zapped through her veins for the unknown victim. Another young woman was dead at the hands of a demented monster.
“Damn it.” She paced the bedroom in the dark, dressed in panties and a baggy T-shirt—the same shirt her husband wore the day before he had died. “He’s never killed this close to the anniversary date. Something has set him off. A trigger. Something real or a paranoid delusion. But what?”
“Beats the hell out of me. The sick bastard has some deep issues going on. Maybe he’s taunting us. Or worse…stepping it up.”
Victory had her doubts. “There’s been too long of a cooling off period between kills for him to be stepping up his game.”
Six months had passed since The Wrapper’s last victim, and the tenth anniversary of his first kill was a couple of days away. There was a fifty-fifty chance he’d kill again on the anniversary, unless he could be stopped before then. Victory was determined to be the one put a stop his murderous rampage.
Back in her Quantico days with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, she’d profiled numerous serial offenders. This guy was different. He wasn’t a thrill killer and there wasn’t any evidence of rape. No semen. That didn’t mean his victims hadn’t been sexually assaulted. By the Wrapper’s sickening brutality these killings said, ‘I’m going to erase you’. It was pure revenge.
“Well, I guess it’s possible,” she said to Mains, “but let’s pray this isn’t his new pattern, otherwise more women will turn up dead within days.” Victory rummaged through her dresser drawers, pulled out a pair of black cargo pants and a gray chenille sweater. She tossed them on the bed. “Has our team been notified?”
She wanted the ERT, the Bureau’s Evidence Response Team, to work the scene as they had in the past. Consistency of the evidence collection was priority number one. They couldn’t afford any screw-ups. Solving this case was too important to the Bureau, to the public, and to her.
“They’re on their way. Ryan will already be there,” Mains said.
“Be there in a half-hour.” Victory ended the call and hurried into the bathroom. She turned on the sink faucet and splashed icy water on her face. After brushing her teeth, she twisted her long red hair into a ponytail and secured it with an elastic band.
While Victory dressed, the same disturbing questions played over in her mind. Why brunettes with green eyes in their twenties? What was the significance? A woman who’d rejected the killer in the past? A girlfriend? An overbearing or abusive mother? None of the victims knew each other. Their only connections were similar physical traits, and the killer had dumped the bodies in parks in Cincinnati and Cleveland. Her teeth sank into her lower lip. She didn’t have the answer, let alone any evidence to work with, at least not yet.
In the bedroom, she opened her top dresser drawer, grabbed her leather hip holster and put it on under her sweater. Instinctively she reached for her Glock 22 semi-automatic. Her throat constricted. Beside her weapon was the Carnegie Medal for acts of extraordinary heroism given to her for her husband after his death.
As much as she didn’t want to think about Cleveland a year ago and, how her marriage had ended, tragically, it was always in the back of her mind like an open book stuck on the same page. Would she ever have the strength to turn the page?
“Don’t allow the past to defeat you,” the Bureau’s shrink had said.
What did he know about loss anyway? He hadn’t experienced her pain, loneliness, guilt, and anger. She stuffed her gun into her holster and closed the dresser drawer.
✽ ✽ ✽
Thirty minutes later, Victory arrived at Daniel Drake Park. Her stomach clenched at the six inches of snow that had already fallen. The crime scene could be a disaster. She drew a heavy breath, exhaled, and got out of her vehicle. A stream of police vehicles and blue and red flashing lights lit the way while a police helicopter circled like a predator, its bright searchlight sweeping the area.
She spotted Ryan talking to an elderly woman with her dog. The woman left as Victory approached.
“Disposed of in plain sight again, I hear.”
Ryan glanced at her. “As many indignities as he could think of. He’s so, so angry.”
“He could be just taunting us. Rubbing it in. Why girls with these specific features? Why always dumped in a park?”
Seven others. Gruesome images of their burnt bodies would forever be imprinted in her mind. She’d never forget the victim’s names or the looks of sadness and loss on their loved one's faces.
“There’s something to the fact he dumps some of them in Cleveland and the rest here. It’s the only variation.”
Clearly, his chosen dumping ground was significant to him. Why? Victory ran the killer’s profile through her mind, a preliminary profile she’d put together based on the little she had to go on after The Wrapper’s first three victims. The killer more than likely had resided in Ohio all his life, was at least six feet tall, in good physical shape, attractive, and the killings probably weren't motivated by sex.
“It’s something,” Victory said.
They walked together toward the police barricade.
“By the way, how’s Jade doing these days?” Ryan asked.
He’d deliberately changed the subject to cut the tension, the nervous rush they always felt at a Wrapper crime scene, not sure what to expect, and hoping it wasn’t worse than they’d imagined. They’d graduated from the academy together and she knew her partner well. Not only was Ryan like a brother, he was her best friend. He’d even passed up a promotion in Cleveland to follow her to the Cincinnati Division after Josh had died.
“She’s doing well. A typical twenty-three-year-old enjoying college life. I can’t wait to see her on my birthday. I really miss the kid.”
“It’ll be good to see her.” Ryan pointed. “Nice to see the damn media whores are out in full force.”
A police barricade had been erected to hold back the onslaught of reporters. As Victory watched, the mob shifted to the right. He
r muscles tightened. They’d been spotted.
Ryan glanced at her. “You ready?”
No. She detested the media, especially after Cleveland. Wasn’t it enough she blamed herself for her husband’s death?
“Let’s do it.” She inhaled an unsteady breath and let it out.
A young male reporter recognized Victory and raced toward her, shoving a microphone at her.
“Agent McClane, has the victim been identified? Are you any closer to catching The Wrapper?”
“Obviously, the investigation is in the preliminary stages. There’s certainly nothing yet to indicate the same perpetrator is responsible.”
“So, you think it might be a copycat?”
“I didn’t say that either. We’ll be having a press conference later, once we know more. Thank you.” Victory pushed the microphone away and the reporter got the message to back off. They continued walking through the mob of reporters.
A male CNN reporter shouted, “Was the victim wrapped in bubble wrap like the others?”
Yes. And doused with baby oil and sedated with Rohypnol. Specific facts that only four people were aware of; Dr. Moore, Ryan, Detective Sean Brody, and herself. She had fiercely guarded those details because the last thing they needed was a psychotic copycat killer to deal with. Ignoring the question, Victory and Ryan kept moving. They’d almost made it to the far end of the barricade when a woman sprung silently from the shadows like a wild cat, with her cameraman.
Victory immediately recognized Melissa Mann, the obnoxious reporter from WKRC-News 1, dressed in a white faux-fur coat and matching hat with a large rhinestone tacked on the side. She looked like a glammed-out snow rabbit. Victory winced. This wasn’t her first run-in with the reporter and it wouldn’t be the last.
Ryan held out his arm to block the reporter. “No unauthorized personnel past the tapeline. You’re well aware of that, Melissa.”
Melissa ignored Ryan and held her ground. She thrust a wireless microphone in Victory’s face. “It’s been ten years and now eight victims, Agent McClane. People are terrified. Are you making any progress at all in The Wrapper case?”
Deadly Shadow Page 2
