by James Swain
“I’ll do whatever you want, Muriel,” he said.
“Call her back. She needs you, Ken.”
His wife pulled the cordless phone from her robe, and went inside. He punched in Vick’s cell number from memory and heard the call go through. Rachel Vick belonged to the spirited crop of recruits who’d joined the bureau after 9/11. Rachel was smart and brash and wanted to change the world. She’d started as a field agent in Jacksonville, then transferred to North Miami to work under him. Vick was ambitious, and did not hide the fact that she wanted to become a profiler one day, and move to D.C.
Vick answered on the first ring. He could hear the tremor of excitement in her words. “Another violent teenage boy has been abducted in Fort Lauderdale,” she said.
“Same abductor as before?” he asked.
“It appears so. The boy’s name is Wayne Ladd. He’s seventeen, and matches the profile of the other two victims.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Ladd was being dropped off for an anger management class at a rehab facility this morning,” Vick said. “The abductor took Ladd from the parking lot, and killed the driver when he tried to interfere. A surveillance camera from a convenience store across the street captured the whole thing. I need you to come here, and watch the surveillance tape. I think I know who the abductor is.”
Now he understood the excitement in Vick’s voice. She wanted confirmation. “Who do you think it is, Rachel?” he asked.
“Killer X.”
Linderman sat down on a metal chair on the balcony and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Killer X had been murdering prostitutes in Broward County since the mid-1980s, slicing their throats and tossing their bodies away like trash. To date, over fifty deaths had been attributed to his lethal hand. As killers went, he was an enigma. He left no meaningful clues or fingerprints, and had never contacted the police or the media to boast about his crimes. Few details were known about him, except that he was a man. Every profiler in the FBI had studied the case at one time or another, and no one had been able to stop him.
“Killer X slits the throats of his victims, all of whom are women,” he said. “This abductor is shooting violent teenage boys. It’s not the same perp, Rachel.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not. I’ve studied thousands of serial killers. The motives behind the crimes are different.”
“I found a link. Please come, and see for yourself.”
Vick was pleading with him. Deep down, Linderman wanted her to be right. It would get a horrific killer off the streets, and be a great boost for her career. Only his gut told him Vick wasn’t right. Serial killers did not shift gears.
“You’re absolutely certain about this,” he said.
“Yes. I’m positive it’s him.”
“All right. Tell me where you are.”
She gave him the address, and he promised to be there in a half hour. Going inside, he took a shower and threw on his suit. As he was knotting his necktie, he noticed Danni’s photo gone from the dresser.
“Muriel?”
He found his wife at the kitchen table holding Danni’s photo in her lap, her body racked with sobs. He held her until she stopped crying, then went to see Vick.
Chapter 2
Every county in Florida dealt with juvenile offenders differently. Some put the offenders on house arrest and made them wear electronic monitoring bracelets on their ankles. Others sent the offenders to boot camps, where they lived in bunk houses and drill sergeants turned their lives into living hell. In Fort Lauderdale, offenders were entered into a rehabilitative program called Harmony.
Harmony was an ugly pile of burgundy stucco on the west side of town, its neighbors a nasty biker bar and an Asian massage parlor that took all major credit cards. It was a seedy area, and Linderman found it hard to believe that sending a problem kid there would change him or her for the better, unless the idea was to scare them straight. The street had been cordoned off, and he showed his credentials to a patrol officer before being allowed to enter.
He parked his SUV at the curb and got out. The slain driver’s body lay beneath a white sheet on Harmony’s front lawn. Dried blood stains raced across the grass to the side parking lot, where a pair of gloved CSI technicians from the Broward Sheriff’s Department scoured the area for clues. Vick stood beneath the building’s shade, awaiting his arrival.
“Who moved the driver?” Linderman asked by way of greeting.
Vick stepped out from the shade. She was dressed in a navy pants suit the same color as a cop’s uniform. She was small, and wore heels to compensate for her size. Her sun-streaked blond hair was cropped short, the effect almost boyish. She wore little make-up, yet still managed to look stylish and pretty. Had a badge not been pinned to her lapel, she could have passed as a teenager.
“One of Harmony’s counselors did,” she explained. “The fire ants were attacking him, so the counselor dragged him onto the lawn.”
Florida was like the jungle; when people died outdoors, critters began to eat them.
“How badly was the crime scene compromised?” he asked.
“It’s worthless to our investigation.”
He knelt beside the dead driver and lifted the sheet. The victim was a balding, overweight white male in his late 40s, his shiny head covered in angry red bites. His neck had been sliced, the coagulated blood around the wound stretching from ear-to-ear. Criminals called it giving someone a necklace. He was having a bad day, but nothing like this poor son-of-a-bitch.
“What’s his story?”
“His name’s Howie Carroll. He’s been a Harmony driver for five years,” Vick said. “Carroll was supposed to deliver Wayne Ladd to his anger management class this morning at seven-thirty. One of Harmony’s counselors found Carroll’s body in the parking lot. The counselor assumed Ladd had killed Carroll, and called 911.”
“Why did the counselor think that?”
“Last year, Ladd shoved a bayonet through his mother’s boyfriend’s heart. He’s a violent kid,” Vick replied.
“Just like the first two victims.”
“Yes. They both killed adults in their early teens.”
He stood up, and had a look around the Harmony property. Daylight abductions were rare. It told him that the perp had little, if any, regard for the law.
“Any witnesses?” he asked.
“The manager of the Magic Mart across the street witnessed the killing,” Vick said. “It was also captured on the store’s outside surveillance camera.”
“Is this the tape you told me about?”
“Yes.”
“Still convinced he’s Killer X?”
“I sure am.”
The excitement was still there in Vick’s voice. She’d hooked a live one, and now wanted help reeling him in. She’d given Linderman something to feel good about, and he felt the dark clouds that had been circling around him slowly lift.
“Where’s the manager now?” he asked.
“Inside the store. A homicide detective is getting a statement from him.”
“Let’s go talk with him.”
The Magic Mart was an ice box, the aisles crammed with bags of potato chips and cases of discounted beer. Behind the counter stood a skinny Latino wearing a brown smock with the name Juan stitched in white letters above the breast pocket. Beside him stood a chunky white male with blown-dry hair and an off-the-rack suit whom Linderman assumed was the homicide dick. Both men looked up.
“Why, hello Rachel,” the detective said, flashing a smile.
“Hello, Roger,” Vick replied. “Detective Roger DuCharme, this is Special Agent Ken Linderman, supervisory agent for the FBI’s Child Abduction Rapid Deployment unit in North Miami. He’d like to speak with the manager.”
Linderman liked the formality in Vick’s voice. Firm but polite. DuCharme glanced warily at him as if sizing up an opponent, then dipped his chin. Linderman didn’t like the vibes the detective was giving off, and nodded ba
ck.
“Mr. Gonzalez doesn’t speak English very well, so you need to go slow with him,” DuCharme explained.
If Linderman had learned anything living in South Florida, it was that the vast Latino population spoke English better than people thought. He faced the manager and smiled pleasantly. “Good morning. Please tell me what happened earlier.”
Gonzalez appeared eager to get away from DuCharme. Coming out from behind the counter, he led the FBI agents to the front of his store, where he pointed across the street at the Harmony building.
“This morning, I see a big man on the sidewalk over there,” Gonzalez said. “I think he maybe Cuban or Puerto Rican. A van come into the lot, and the big man run over to it, and wave to the driver like something wrong. The driver get out, and the big man grabs him like this.” Gonzalez mimicked putting someone in a choke hold. “He puts a knife to the driver’s throat, and cuts him bad. The big man jump into the van and punches the boy. Then, he take off. I feel bad for driver — you know?”
“Did you know the driver?” Linderman asked.
“Oh, yeah. He come into the store many times. Nice guy.”
“Anything else you remember?”
“It happen so fast, it didn’t seem real. You know?”
“The man was quick.”
“Oh yeah.” Gonzalez snapped his fingers. “He kill him just like that.”
“I’d like to see the surveillance tape,” Linderman said.
Gonzalez locked the front door and led them to a storage room where a TV and VCR sat on a desk. Linderman pulled up a chair, as did Vick, while DuCharme stood behind them working a piece of gum. Gonzalez pressed the Play button on the VCR.
“You watch,” Gonzalez said.
The TV came to life. A surveillance tape showing the front of the Magic Mart started, the Harmony building and parking lot visible across the street. Stamped in the bottom right corner of the tape was the date and time. The tape had been taken at 7:30.24 that morning.
A figure appeared on the sidewalk in front of Harmony. A tall, broad-shouldered Latino male wearing a floppy white hat, wraparound shades, and an embroidered white Guayabera shirt with matching white cotton pants. The Guayabera was a traditional Cuban shirt, and worn pulled out.
The tape continued to roll. At 7:33:10, a van driven by Howie Carroll pulled into the Harmony lot, and parked by the building’s side entrance. In the backseat sat a teenage boy plugged into an iPod whom Linderman assumed was Wayne Ladd. The boy had a mop of black hair, and seemed to be lost in the music on his iPod.
The man in the Guayabera made his move. Entering the parking lot, he waved to Carroll while pointing frantically at the hood of the van. Carroll got out of the van to have a look. Drawing a knife from his pocket, the man in the Guayabera put Carroll in a choke hold. He fumbled for a split-second, then slit Carroll’s throat in one swift motion. Wayne Ladd watched through the window, his eyes bulging. The man in the Guayabera jumped into the van, and clubbed the teenager to the floor with his fist. Getting behind the wheel, the man in the Guayabera closed the door, and sped away.
Linderman checked the time stamp. 7:33:27. Seventeen seconds and change. Not one wasted movement or step had been taken.
“Show me the link,” he said.
Vick rewound the tape. Again, they watched the killing.
“Watch when he fumbles,” she said.
Linderman watched. The man in the Guayabera tried to grab Carroll’s hair as he slit his throat. Only Carroll was bald, and nearly slipped free.
“He tried to grab his hair, and jerk his head back before he killed him,” Vick explained. “It was an instinctive reaction.”
Vick was right. Not many killers slit their victims throats. The man in the Guayabera had done this many times before.
“I think you’re onto something,” Linderman said.
Vick’s face lit up. “You do?”
“Yes. Let’s see how many more clues he left.”
They rose from their chairs. DuCharme stood behind them like a statue.
“Pretty scary guy,” the detective said.
Linderman did not like working with people who stated the obvious. Their stunted imaginations did nothing but impede the investigative process. He decided to give the detective a chance to redeem himself.
“How do you think our killer got here?” Linderman asked.
“Come again?” DuCharme said.
“His mode of transportation. Did he walk, come by bike, take a bus? Whatever he used, it’s likely someone saw him.”
“I never thought of that,” DuCharme said.
Linderman had heard enough. He told DuCharme he wanted a copy of the tape, then grabbed Vick and headed outside.
“This is a huge breakthrough,” Linderman said, standing beneath the store’s awning. “We’re not going to talk to anyone about it.”
Vick’s spirits crashed. “We’re not?”
“No. The media would have a field day, and that will only impair our ability to catch this guy. Think of the headlines. Serial killer abducts boy, murders driver in broad daylight.”
“So I shouldn’t refer to him as Killer X.”
“Not until after we catch him. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Our killer looked fresh. I think it’s reasonable to assume that his mode of transportation had air conditioning,” Linderman said.
“Do you think he came by bus?”
“Yes. He could have taken a taxi, but that would have meant exposing his face to the driver. This guy’s smarter than that, don’t you think?”
“He’s above average IQ, but unbalanced,” Vick said. “Did you see what he did to the driver after he killed him?”
Linderman spotted a covered bus stop two blocks away. He started to walk in that direction. Vick heels clopped on the pavement as she fell in line.
“No, what did he do?” Linderman asked.
“He kissed the top of the driver’s head as he slit his throat,” Vick said. “He was saying goodbye to him.”
Linderman had seen that, but wanted to see if Vick had noticed it.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“The killer’s shirt was embroidered. A Guayabera can be bought plain, or with embroidery. His clothes were also spotless. I think he’s narcissistic.”
“That’s good. What else did you see?”
“That’s it.” She hesitated. “Did I miss something?”
“Yes.”
Vick did not respond. He waited until they were at the bus stop before telling her.
“He’s driven a van or bus before,” Linderman said.
“How can you tell?”
“The doors on vans are tricky to operate. Our killer closed the door on the first try. He may have been a driver once.”
Vick’s shoulders sagged, and she let out a deep sigh. She was a perfectionist, and would flog herself for the rest of the day over this.
“I missed that,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We all miss things.”
Chapter 3
Linderman called the Broward County Transit System on his cell phone, and listened to a creepy automated voice tell him the times the various buses made their rounds. Hanging up, he said, “A bus comes to this corner at ten minutes intervals starting at six a.m. Call the Broward cops. Someone needs to talk to the bus company’s drivers. Maybe one of them saw our killer.”
Vick put in a call to the Broward Sheriff’s Department. She was not happy with herself, her mouth turned down in a frown. Linderman wanted to tell her to stop pouting — even the best agents missed things — but knew it wouldn’t do any good.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
He crossed the street. The pavement burned his soles like hot coals. Inside a convenience store he pulled two sodas from a cooler, and put one against his scalp.
He paid with a large bill. His change came back a dollar short. He showed the cashier his badge, and watched the young man visibly
shrink behind the counter. In his late-twenties, with jet black skin, and a sing-song Caribbean accent.
“Your name,” Linderman said.
“Ariel,” the cashier replied. “Is that a policeman’s badge?”
“FBI. Feel up to answering some questions?”
Ariel grew even smaller. “Yes, of course.”
