Morgan nodded. He had an idea where this was going. “What do you think?”
“Maybe he’s right.” Gary began to pace the room, folding his arms and lowering his head. “But I could live without the pressure. Can you imagine if I investigated but never got the answers I wanted? I’d have to go the rest of my life knowing I failed to avenge Carrie.”
“I get it,” Morgan said, now folding his arms too. “Don’t forget about Hannah either. I know she’ll understand what you’re going through, but she probably won’t like being a sounding board to your feelings about a past love.”
“Right.”
Morgan sighed, glancing over his shoulder at the nearby officers. The room was growing quiet now, and the coroner was probably due any minute. Whatever they had to discuss, that curtain would need closing fast. “I’m guessing the reason you summoned me here was to put me on the case. Is that it?”
“How would you feel about that?”
Morgan wasn’t sure, and that probably showed in his hesitation. As always, he wanted to help his best friend, and it just so happened that homicide investigation was his specialty, but what if he suffered the same problems as Gary? Morgan had only met the victim on a handful of occasions, but what if his loyalty to Gary stood in the way? Not only that, but if he failed to get answers, would it drive a wedge into their friendship? “I don’t know. I mean, there are other detectives in the department. Can’t they just—”
“It has to be you, Morgan.”
“Don’t first-name me, pal. You’re above that.”
Gary grunted, wiped his eye, and gave a semi-genuine half smile. He stopped in front of the window, his lanky frame hunched over his folded arms as his chest rose and fell in heaves. “Look, you’re a damn good investigator, and I know you get things done. The captain doesn’t always agree with me on that, but even he can’t deny the results.”
Morgan nodded. “I’m flattered. What does he have to say about me taking this case?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Jesus, Gary.”
“But he will.”
“When?”
“Soon. The point is, I have a personal attachment to this case, and I want it solved. If it’s left in the hands of a second-rate detective and these morons, it’ll just end up another unsolved investigation.” Gary hiked a thumb over his shoulder at the officers. “We have some evidence to get you started on, and I’ll even pay you for your services.”
Morgan rubbed his eyes and checked his watch—one hour had passed since he’d left Rachel. That bath of hers was sure to be cold by now, so it wasn’t like he was getting home in time anyway. “What kind of evidence?”
Gary looked up, excitement flashing in his eyes. “A baseball cap was found in the bathroom. From a pizza place. Tell me you’ll look into it. Please, Morgan. If ever I needed help from you, this is the time.”
The pressure was already becoming too much, but Morgan was hardly the type of guy to let down a friend when he was in need. With that in mind, however, the problem remained that this case wasn’t necessarily solvable.
But should that keep him from trying?
“Okay,” he finally said, ignoring Gary’s hopeful grin. “I’ll give it my best shot, but I’m not making promises, and I won’t take your money. If that much is clear, then I’ll start right away, but you have to remember I can only do my best. Do we understand each other?”
“Definitely. Thank you, Morgan.”
Morgan sighed. “Let’s take a look at that evidence.”
Chapter Four
The killer stood among the crowd, reveling in the glory of his kill. There were so many people around, and it was all because of him—all because of the work he’d done on Carrie Whittle. The police would have no clue either, as he’d been so careful at the scene.
Although there was that one thing…
Leaving the pizza hat at the crime scene was hardly his crowning moment, but everybody made mistakes. This was one that could cost him dearly, he knew, but at least he could learn from it and move on. Sure, the police now had his fingerprints, and probably hair from the hat, but at least they weren’t in the system. As far as he knew, that was.
The people around him shuffled, making way for newcomers on the scene. From where he stood, beginning to perspire among the ever-shifting collection of spectators, the killer saw a familiar face approach the tape. There was no telling quite how he knew him, but the killer had one of those feelings—a knowing that’d been buried in his past. Maybe they’d crossed paths once or twice in their younger years, or maybe he’d just seen the guy on the news before, but he definitely recognized him somehow. And if the man recognized him too?
The killer shrunk back between the civilians.
After showing his detective badge to the officer, the man went into the house, ushering a tall, well-built black man through the doorway. This face was new to him. He couldn’t have been a cop—the way he followed the leader made him appear far too detached for that—so maybe he was a hired hand. Or worse: an apprentice.
Whoever they were wasn’t important. What was important was the work he’d just done. After stabbing the husband and discovering he was still alive, he’d moved on to the wife, who’d stumbled into the hallway and had all of three seconds to understand what she was seeing. The man she’d married was bleeding out all over their hideous rug, and she wouldn’t be far behind. From there, he’d chased her into the dining room and grabbed her hair, yanking her onto the floor. The killer had mounted her, taking his knife to her face and making some adjustments. Even if she’d lived through that, she probably wouldn’t have wanted to; he’d taken away her beauty, which was the only thing to redeem her foul attitude. The killer had enjoyed every second of taking that away from her, laughing at her howls and screams as he sliced those perfect cheeks right off her horrified face.
“Move it, people.”
The strong, authoritative voice of a police officer broke his trance. The people around him—the sheep—shuffled and pushed, stepping back only when two officers and a wooden barricade forced them to. The killer moved with them, enjoying the excitement of the murder scene, grinning at the flashing red and blue that lit up everyone’s faces. It was the blue of something pleasant, like the ocean, but the red was deep like blood, and it took him back to the moment he’d completed his surgery.
He had stabbed Carrie in the stomach. Multiple times, in fact, but not before dragging the husband in to watch. Mr. Handsome had scowled, wheezed, and cried as his wife was killed in front of him, and then his time had come. Only minutes later had the killer abandoned the uniform and returned to see his work incognito.
It was a beautiful memory he would hold dear, but he couldn’t linger on it too long. There was more work to do, after all, and if he focused too much attention on this one, he was sure to make a mistake with his next victim, and she wasn’t too far away.
Not far at all.
Chapter Five
Morgan supposed it was time to get to work. It’d been months since his last case, and perhaps that had contributed to his stagnation. Unemployment—at least, not having a current case to focus on—could be torture on the mind. On the other hand, it gave him time to spend with Rachel. When she wasn’t running a charity event anyway.
Gary had given him all he needed to start: a look at a baseball cap from Pizza Palace. The officers who found the victims’ bodies had found it in the bathroom, and it matched the bag and empty box found in the hallway. The presumption was that the killer had either dressed as a pizza delivery guy to gain entry to their home, or he was an incredible dumbass who happened to leave some easy evidence lying around.
Morgan doubted it was the latter.
While Gary held a temporary suspension on the evidence, Morgan had time to reach Pizza Palace before the police did. The building was only a few blocks away, sitting on the corner with a wide double door and plenty of room to sit and eat. The inside gave a rich aroma of hot cheese and bread, m
aking Morgan’s stomach growl like a feral dog. His watering mouth made him forget that he’d already eaten tonight, but he wasn’t here to eat so much as he was to work. That much was easy to remember.
Customers brushed past him as he approached the counter and asked to see the manager. The black-haired, crow-faced man behind the counter paused before responding, as if a poor choice of words could put him behind bars.
“Who’s asking?” he finally said.
“Morgan Young. I’m a PI.”
“Well, he’s not here.”
“He’s not?”
“Did I stutter?”
Morgan checked over his shoulder to ensure he wasn’t holding up a line, but he also knew there was only a certain amount of time before the police arrived, and if they didn’t cause difficulties for him, he didn’t know what would. “Look, nobody wants to talk to the cops if they can help it—I get it—but a married couple was murdered tonight, and one of your worker’s hats was found at the crime scene. Do you realize how bad that looks?”
The man’s face grew deep red. He rested his hands on the counter, squeezing his fingers—all the traits of a guilty man, or could it simply be that he was anxious of police involvement? A storm of officers would be bad for business, and they both knew it.
“I’m the manager,” he confessed.
“Pleased to meet you.” Morgan stood up straight. “Do you know of any reason why the hat might be at the crime scene?”
“Not a clue.”
“How many employees do you have, Mr.…?”
“Morales. And I have six employees.”
“Where are they tonight?”
“Here. Why?”
“Every one of them?”
“What is this, Twenty Questions?” Mr. Morales snapped.
Morgan took a deep breath. People could be difficult, that was no secret, but fatigue was coming for him, blurring his vision and making him weak. The enticing smell wasn’t doing much to help either. “I just need to get the facts straight.”
Two customers shuffled in, and Mr. Morales gave a short wave as if he knew them. It was like a signal that he wouldn’t be long. He sighed. “My nephew, Rico, recently requested a new uniform. He said it was stolen, but I guessed he just left it at home and didn’t want to take the blame, you know?”
“Is he here now?”
“In the corner.”
“Mind if I talk to him?”
Mr. Morales shrugged. “Don’t take too long. It gets busy soon.”
“Thank you.”
Morgan left the counter and glanced around the tables. As promised, a young man who looked just like his uncle sat in the corner booth. He wore a crisp, new Pizza Palace uniform that was yet to be ironed, and he stared at Morgan with the same black-ringed eyes as Mr. Morales. “Are you Rico?”
“Who’s asking?”
The bluntness of his reply told Morgan he’d found the right guy. Without asking or waiting for an invite, he slid into the booth opposite the boy, keeping his hands clasped in front of him. It was an easy technique he’d learned from a reputable detective many years ago—when suspects are being questioned, they like to see your hands. It relaxes them, lets them know you’re not about to pull out a gun or a pair of handcuffs.
“Your uncle tells me you had a uniform vanish on you. What can you tell me about that?”
Rico stared over Morgan’s shoulder at his uncle, then returned his attention to the subject at hand. “Just that. I came in to pick up my paycheck, and my uniform was on the hanger. My uncle asked me to start work early, so I went for my uniform, but by then it’d gone missing.”
Morgan kept his voice low and soft. “When was this?”
“What does it matter?”
“Two people were murdered tonight, and the killer was wearing your uniform. Trust me, it matters.”
Rico’s eyes widened. He shook his head from side to side. “What? I—I didn’t do it.”
“I know you didn’t,” Morgan said. “Your uncle already told me you were here all night. But let me give you a piece of advice: if you’re this uncooperative when the police come asking questions, they won’t be looking in your favor.”
“What am I supposed to do, then?”
“Start by answering the question.”
“What was it again?”
Morgan shifted in his seat. “When was the uniform stolen?”
“Uh… Yesterday.”
“What time?”
“Late afternoon. Why?”
Morgan craned his neck and studied the walls, scanning around for a security camera. To his relief, he found two. One was by the front door looking down at the entrance, while the other kept a watchful eye on the counter. “Do those work?” he asked, pointing.
“Not the one above the door. That’s just to scare thieves.”
“It didn’t help, did it?” Morgan said, smiling.
Rico smiled back, displaying a plethora of black and yellow teeth. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but the joke seemed to settle him, even if only a little. He pointed back at the camera with one hand that shook like a leaf in the fall wind. “That one works. My uncle was getting fed up of staff taking money from the cash register, so he keeps it on.”
“Can’t say I blame him. Where do you hang your coats?”
“Over there.” Rico adjusted his pointed fingers to a wall opposite the camera.
Given the circumstances, Morgan didn’t have much faith in his abilities to track the killer, and his typical luck meant it’d probably turn up nothing, but he couldn’t help smiling at the glimmer of hope this had given him. “Kid, go and get your uncle.”
Rico crooked an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because I need to see that footage.”
Chapter Six
Mr. Morales—a skeptical-looking man who held his cards too close to his broad chest—led him into the storage room where an old fifteen-inch TV hummed in the far corner. He flicked on the light and gestured for Morgan to come in, shoving aside stacks of empty boxes and kicking lunchtime debris to one side. “I don’t know what you hope to find.”
“Just find me yesterday’s tape. I’ll do the rest.”
“The tape should still be in the VCR. You just have to hit ‘Play’.”
“Thanks,” Morgan said.
“Hey, uh… listen.” Mr. Morales sniffed and shifted his weight to the other foot. His eyes swept to the door before they returned to Morgan’s feet. It seemed this man would look anywhere to avoid eye contact. “My nephew—he’s not in trouble, is he?”
“Does he have any reason to be?”
“No. He’s a good kid. But what if the cops pin this on him?”
Morgan understood. As a black kid in the neighborhood he grew up in, he’d been blamed for more than his fair share of local crimes: breaking and entering, pickpocketing, and even one very brief accusation of assault. He was innocent, of course, and had gone out of his way to prove that. Morgan often wondered if that was what had started him on his course for private investigations. It sure seemed like it.
“Does your camera have a time stamp?” he asked.
Morales nodded. “Sure. Why?”
“Then he’ll be fine. I’ll leave the tape when I’m done. Show it to the police.”
“Gotcha.”
Morgan stepped past the man and knelt in front of the waist-high TV. Morales took the hint and left soon enough, without saying another word. Morgan, meanwhile, rewound the tape to the appropriate time, going ten minutes too far and deciding to let it catch up naturally.
The first thing he saw was Rico coming in through the staff entrance just like he’d said. He had a spring in his step that day and had no problem showing his face to the camera. A more suspicious detective might read too much into that, but Morgan knew better. He continued watching as Rico headed into the back. It felt like an eternity for another person to enter the picture, but when he did, it was a relief and a disappointment at the same time.
Morgan gnawed on his k
nuckles, leaning in close as if it would fix the poor screen quality. He watched, his heart pounding while a hooded figure entered the establishment and approached the counter. For a moment it looked as though he were going for the unattended cash register, but instead, he stepped around the counter and reached straight for the uniform hanging from the dry-cleaning rail—cap included. Who’d have known at the time that something as trivial as a uniform theft would have such dire consequences? Did the killer know all along? He must have—otherwise he would’ve stolen more than just some clothes.
But that left another big question.
Why here?
Morgan huffed, a cramp seizing in his legs as the man on the screen ran back outside. The hooded man—or woman, but more likely a man judging by his build—crossed the street and headed into an alleyway that was barely visible through the footage. It wasn’t much to go on, but there was a chance he might find something. If not, he’d have no choice but to let Gary down gently. That wasn’t what he truly wanted, but at least he could still catch the tail end of Rachel’s birthday… maybe.
With nothing left to see, Morgan hurried back down the narrow staircase and arrived back on the shop floor. The place had livened up during his short time upstairs, just as Morales had said it would. Morgan found him at the counter, serving four customers at once while barking orders at Rico. Morgan caught his attention and gave him a thumbs-up, then made a swift exit before the temptation to grab a slice seized control.
The fresh night air hit him like a brick. He sucked in a large breath and crossed the street, looking back at Pizza Palace to confirm the angle was right. While a police cruiser turned onto the street and headed toward the pizzeria, Morgan found the correct alleyway and ducked inside, using the flashlight on his phone to brighten the area.
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 49
