Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  “Why Nap?” Zach asked.

  “He is—was—a brilliant legal mind.” The redhead rolled his water bottle between his palms. “The rest of them never would have helped me.”

  “Did you talk about anything beyond school?” Beck asked.

  “Not much. Like I said, he wasn’t into interpersonal relationships. It wasn’t a buddy-buddy situation. We weren’t bros.”

  Beck pulled out a small notebook. “What did you talk about?”

  “Criminal Procedure.”

  “I got that. Other than Criminal Procedure.” Beck had that I’ve had it up to here expression. “Look. We’re trying to figure out who killed your classmate. A little help would be appreciated.”

  Kurzweiler seemed to have an internal debate, frowned, and shook his head. “Okay. This one time we had a couple of beers after studying. He said during his internship last summer he’d gone with Day—the D in BFD—to the Colorado State prison. Nap bragged to me he’d gotten to talk to Xavier Darling alone while Day was using the can.”

  The hair stood up on the back of Zach’s neck. Alone. Jesus. “That happened just once?”

  “No. Sounded like three or four times.” He held up a hand, palm out. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know what they talked about. With Darling, I didn’t want to know. That guy’s not right in the head.”

  Zach could certainly understand the sentiment. “Did Nap have any friends at BFD?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  But Kurzweiler hadn’t been there to observe. That was still a question mark.

  Beck clicked his pen. “Where did you meet for these study dates?”

  “They weren’t dates,” Kurzweiler growled in a low voice. He darted a glance at the site and then glared at Beck. “They were tutoring sessions.”

  Zach checked the skeletal house. About half a dozen workers, equally divided between men and women, pounded and sawed. One of the men on the porch stared at Kurzweiler, then at Zach, then away. A boyfriend?

  “Okay,” Beck said. “Where did you meet?”

  “A coffeehouse, usually. Twice, we met at the student union. That’s where we had the beers.”

  “Never at your place?”

  “No.” Kurzweiler scowled. “And never at his place. Always in public.”

  A jealous boyfriend. Zach asked, “Did he ever talk about Omaha?”

  “Not a word.”

  “What did he drive?” Zach recalled Hogan saying Nap’s car in Omaha still had temporary plates.

  “Seemed like he had a different car every month.”

  “Like a fancy new car or a rental?” Beck asked, putting away the notebook.

  “No. They were always dark-colored beaters.” Kurzweiler smiled faintly. “I remember thinking it was pretty strange for a rich guy.”

  A supply of murder mobiles. Evidence gone every time he traded them in. Zach kept his voice level. “Did you ever ask him about the cars?”

  “Nah. Figured he had a reason. Probably had a Ferrari tucked away for special occasions.” Kurzweiler drained his water bottle and stood. “That about it? I need to do some work before noon.”

  Zach could feel Kurzweiler’s attention wandering toward the house. “Anything else about Perny ever strike you as odd?”

  “There was one thing. Probably doesn’t mean anything.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nap said any attorney worth his salt would know criminal procedure inside and out, like he did.” Kurzweiler gave a crooked smile. “He believed a well-prepared attorney could commit the perfect crime.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sitting across a tiny café table from Zach, Beck toyed with his sandwich. They’d chosen to eat on the patio outside Zaidy’s Deli. The breeze was pleasantly warm and fragrant with kosher meat. Ordinarily, Beck liked pastrami and Swiss on rye, but today it tasted like sawdust. He broke off a piece of crust and tossed it to the sparrows hopping around on the pavers. The birds twittered and flapped their wings, squabbling over the food.

  After talking with Kurzweiler, Beck had suggested they break for lunch and regroup, talk things over. So far it was a solo venture. On the drive to the deli, Zach had fallen silent, staring off into the distance and immersed in his own reflections.

  “What are you thinking?” Beck asked, tossing a napkin over his sandwich.

  “We’re not going to find the Follower by investigating Perny.”

  Beck stared. They’d invested a ton of time and energy pursuing that possibility. When Beck said the Follower and Perny must be acquainted, he had been sure it was the right direction. He swallowed his frustration. “That’s pretty pessimistic.”

  “It’s realistic. We’ve just spoken to the guy who likely knew him best, and Kurzweiler barely knew him. If Perny was acquainted with the Follower, it was a covert relationship.”

  “At least Kurzweiler talked to us. The attorney at BFD wouldn’t give me the time of day. No pun intended.” Beck watched the birds pecking at crumbs on the patio. “We could try talking to the baristas at the coffeehouse where Kurzweiler met Perny for their study appointments, see if Perny ever met with anyone else there.”

  “I doubt Perny would meet with a fellow serial killer for coffee.”

  In spite of himself, Beck smiled. “True.” There must be someone out there who knew Perny, right? “I’ll check in with Hogan and see if he’s had any luck finding friends of Perny’s in Nebraska.”

  “Sure.” Zach lapsed into silence, staring into the distance. Serious-contemplation mode again.

  Another attempt at conversation couldn’t be any worse than the quiet. “What are you really thinking?”

  “There might be one person Perny talked to.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Xavier Darling.” Zach’s tone was calm, level.

  Aw, hell. Beck didn’t like where this was going. He kept his expression neutral. “Meaning?”

  “Perny had time alone with Darling at the prison. Maybe Darling intuited Perny’s predilections and threatened him with exposure unless Perny did what Xav wanted.”

  “Which was…what? Sending valentines to you?”

  “Yeah, in part.” The blue of Zach’s eyes blazed in the sunlight. “Maybe Xav wanted a vicarious thrill and directed Perny to kill Jane Doe 114.”

  That theory spun them off into a whole new direction. “I thought you said Perny was very rigid, very compulsive. JD 114 was nothing like Perny’s other victims. Plus he didn’t have her driver’s license or some other souvenir. I’m not a profiler, but I can’t picture Perny making such a drastic departure and then going on to kill that girl in North Platte. I still think JD 114 is the Follower’s.”

  “True. JD 114 is likely a Follower victim.” Zach frowned and twisted his Styrofoam cup on the tabletop. “But why was she left at Perny’s dumping ground? There’s a reason she was dumped there.”

  “Okay. What’s the reason?”

  “Excellent question. And I don’t know.”

  Never a good sign when Zach said I don’t know. Beck pressed on. “What does your profiling experience say?”

  “It says killers learn from their encounters and adapt,” Zach said testily.

  Beck took a mouthful of soda. It wasn’t like Zach to be irritable while discussing a case—even this case. But now there was potential involvement from Xavier Darling. When it came to that particular subject, Zach’s skin got pretty thin.

  Beck said carefully, “It’s a complicated case.”

  “Complicated?” Zach huffed. “This assignment has more twists than a roomful of corkscrews.”

  Beck knew Darling brought out a self-protective prickliness in Zach—a defense mechanism after Darling had nearly killed him two years ago during a competency exam. Last fall, Zach had had a face-to-face meeting with Darling—across Plexiglas, but still eye to eye. Beck had seen firsthand how that interview triggered Zach’s need for an urgent shower immediately afterward. That was followed in short order by the request for an in
tense intimate encounter with Beck. It had been…daunting.

  The situation had weirded Beck out until he’d seen the naked fear in Zach’s eyes and the need to overwhelm it with physical sensation. The trust it had taken to expose that raw emotion had made Beck fall harder for him.

  Now, though…Zach wasn’t being completely candid. When it came to Darling, Zach left his objectivity in the dust.

  Beck cleared his throat. “Annika Unger’s service is this afternoon.”

  Zach looked up. “Are you going?”

  “I don’t want to, but SJ wants a Denver PD presence.”

  “I’m surprised the ME agreed to release the body.”

  “Elmo said they’d gotten everything they could.” There hadn’t been much, with the weathered bones and lack of trace evidence.

  “What time is the service?”

  “Three.”

  Silence. Zach’s shoulders had a defensive hunch.

  “You want to come along?”

  In a flat voice, Zach said, “I’ll go if you want me to.”

  Annnd…that was a no. Not exactly the hoped-for response, but there was little point in arguing about it. Attending a funeral wasn’t exactly quality time. Still, Beck would have liked the company. “No, it’s okay. There’s plenty to be done on the case.”

  Zach relaxed and gave a hint of a smile. “Okay. I’ll meet you at home, and I’ll make dinner.”

  Better than nothing. Beck summoned a grin. “Deal.”

  * * * *

  He should have gone with Beck. Zach glanced at the clock for the fifth time in the past ten minutes. The funeral for Annika Unger had been underway for thirty minutes. Attendees would pay their respects at the chapel; no burial-site service was planned. The remains would be cremated and returned to her parents for private interment.

  No matter how many bodies Zach had seen, there was something about a funeral that got under his skin. It wasn’t the remains or the loss of life. Those were silent, static.

  It was the mourners, all the outpouring of grief and sorrow in salty tears and tortured moans. It was the empty phrases used by those who spoke but hadn’t known the deceased. It was the visual of a box descending into the dark earth…

  Darkness was the worst of it. No wonder the Victorians had left a bell tied to the fingers of their corpses. He shivered. Ever since the encounter with Xav-D two years ago had left him temporarily blind, Zach couldn’t tolerate blackness.

  He’d see Beck soon enough. In the meantime, there were the crime-scene photos of JD 114 to get through and case notes to finish. If the photos weren’t adequate, the girl was still at the Omaha morgue.

  The first images were of the crime scene; those he shuffled through. The day had been overcast and the light flat, precluding detail. A pale body casually displayed faceup, no posing. Next were the morgue photos. The hole in the girl’s chest took center stage, a gaping wound revealing the missing heart and the cleanly incised margins left behind.

  The Follower was technically skilled; they knew that from Perny’s and India’s autopsies as well. Was the Follower a doctor? A mortician? Who else knew how to do such work?

  Otherwise, JD 114’s body was pristine. No carving of messages into the skin, no notes left in the chest cavity. She was simply…heartless.

  The next photos were taken with the application of various types of light and revealed no figures or marks. No number zero.

  Beck had said, “It’s almost like he’s saying, ‘You’re not mine. You don’t count. You don’t deserve a number.’”

  Was Beck’s proposal correct, that JD 114 didn’t count?

  Zach flipped to the photos of the girl’s face. She appeared paper white, eyes small slits, her mouth barely open. Blonde hair with dark roots, a cleft chin, straight nose, and delicate eyebrows. Zach felt a tingle of recognition.

  Dark roots… If she were a brunette, would she look familiar? Zach grabbed the picture and went to find their computer guru.

  * * * *

  “A little darker on the hair.” Zach squinted at the oversize monitor as Ernie, computer maestro, modified JD 114’s features. She now had a rosy complexion, hazel eyes, and a more normal-appearing mouth. Ernie had turned her pale locks a rich brown.

  “How’s that, Dr. Littman?”

  Not quite right, somehow. “Can you make it look like her hair is tucked behind her ears?”

  “Sure.” The mouse slid, clicked. “Okay.”

  The tingling increased. Somewhere in his brain lay the answer. He just had to dig it out.

  “Would you like a print of the full-frontal face and the profile?”

  “Please.”

  The printer hummed and spit out the images. After thanking Ernie, Zach headed back to the conference room. Had the girl been acquainted with the Follower?

  Who are you?

  * * * *

  Murder leads were born of the victim, those who knew the victim, and the crime scene. In Beck’s experience, funerals ranked low as a source of information. Having been in the ICU recovering from a gunshot wound, Beck had missed Dan Halliday’s funeral.

  If he didn’t hustle, he’d be late. The sun cast sharp-edged shadows around carved granite. Crown Hill Cemetery was Denver’s high-end resting place. The burial ground spread out in all directions, genteel turf populated by monuments, memorials, and mausoleums. The place featured a towering formal chapel, but the Ungers had chosen an unassuming out-of-the-way chapel.

  A mob of press stood outside, jostling for position. Maybe that was responsible for the choice of the small church.

  Beck badged a door watcher and stepped inside. He stopped to get his bearings. Dim and cool, the tiny chapel held, at most, fifty people. Stained-glass renderings of pastoral scenes leaked watercolor tints onto the pews. Unseen speakers played an instrumental hymn. The cloying scents of carnations, wood soap, and vague mustiness brought it all back in a heartbeat. Funeral.

  The only thing missing was the slightly sweet smell of melting beeswax candles.

  God, I hate this. It would have been easier with Zach there. The thought of all the bodies that had lain here, blanketed with blossoms and platitudes before being laid to rest, made his stomach tighten.

  Dearly departed. Dust to dust.

  Dead.

  Knock it off. It was just a ceremonial closure for a family who might never face Annika’s killer in court. He plucked a cream-colored program off the table inside the door.

  At the front, a small white casket draped with pale roses sat before the lectern. Disarticulated bones didn’t take up much room. On the easel next to it was an enlarged photo of Annika. Poor kid.

  In the front pew, the Ungers were attired in traditional black, whispering in that hiccuping way that went along with crying. Poor parents.

  Everything about the situation sucked.

  Former football stars acted as sentries at the front and side doors. There wasn’t a single camera or microphone in sight. The press had been banished to wait outside. In theory, the perpetrator might attend today—returning to the scene of the crime and all that—but Beck couldn’t see it happening with this much security in place. Unless the killer was family or a close friend, he wouldn’t get past the defensive linemen at the entrances.

  Beck spied Van in the back row and slid in next to him. SJ must’ve prevailed on him too. Softly Beck said, “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “Likewise.” Van glanced to the side. “Weren’t you in the field?”

  Field of falling expectations, maybe. “Yeah. But I said I’d—”

  The music ground to a halt, and they directed their attention to the front. A minister entered from stage left and cleared his throat.

  Matt wrapped his arm around his wife, and her shoulders shook. Low-pitched sobs came from that direction.

  “We are gathered here today to remember the life of Annika Unger…”

  The sobbing increased. Beck gripped the edge of the pew and closed his eyes. Marybeth and the boys had had t
o endure this and more when Dan had died. Death, burial, and posthumous survival, all because Beck hadn’t drawn his weapon fast enough to save Dan.

  Beck hadn’t expected the kid to pull a gun, let alone open fire. Unbidden, the images played in his head. Dan firing a shot, then a bullet spinning him around, scarlet spraying from his neck. Blood everywhere.

  Beck’s heart thundered, a clamor to go with his encroaching shortness of breath. Fire erupting in Beck’s shoulder, white-hot and nauseating, sending him to his knees. A pool of deep red, spreading, while sirens wailed in the distance…

  No. Not real. Beck forced his eyes open. Jesus, that hadn’t happened for months; only the occasional dream about the shooting remained. He wiped his face and willed his heart to settle down. After a deep breath, he sneaked a look at Van, who had his lids lowered. Had he seen Beck’s quiet little breakdown?

  Would he tell?

  For the remainder of the service, Beck kept his eyes open and on the clergyman. An eternity later there was an “Amen.” The casket was whisked out the side door. A waiting hearse would deliver Annika for cremation. Would they have a ceremony at the columbarium at some point? The last thing Beck wanted was to pursue the Ungers through every stage of their grief.

  Beck and Van remained seated and scoped out the exiting crowd. Somewhere in the throng of press outside was a plainclothes police photographer/videographer.

  “Thank God it was short,” Van said as they followed the last mourners out of the chapel. He squinted up at the sky. “Nice day, anyway.”

  “Yeah.” In contrast to the solemnity of the occasion, it was a lovely day: warm, dry, and clear. A day made for picnics, not funerals. They headed down the steps.

  “Hey, can I bum a lift downtown from you?”

  Beck eyed him warily. “You really need a ride?”

  “Richfield dropped me off. He’s interviewing someone while I fulfilled my obligation.”

  Okay, that sounded legitimate, not like a come-on. “Sure. It’s a motor-pool car, though. Computer in the front seat.”

  “No problem.” Van shoved his hands into his pants pockets. As though trying to reassure Beck, he flashed a dazzling smile, the kind that had sold Beck on getting involved with him previously. Not as nice a smile as Zach’s, though. If Van started in on the seduction crap, Beck would make him hitchhike to the station.