Private Sector

by Brian Haig

  “Why are your people the most motivated?”

  “Because we believe in Jason.”

  “I see.” I asked her, “Why do you believe in Jason?”

  “Well . . . he’s just . . . extraordinary. For the past four years the entire telecommunications industry has been crashing. Dozens of companies have folded into bankruptcy. It’s survival of the fittest, and we’re not only the fittest, we’ve actually stayed profitable and growing. Jason’s a genius.” She studied my expression and said, “But you’re skeptical, aren’t you?”

  “Reserving judgment.”

  “I have no problem with that. I’ll have a packet delivered that contains our annual statement and a few articles about the company. Read them. If you’re still ‘reserving judgment, ’ or have questions, call me. We’ll talk about it . . . perhaps over lunch tomorrow?”

  It would be discourteous to not at least come up with a few questions to discuss with Miss Tiffany.

  But we continued our tour, waltzing through more operations rooms and offices, and ended up at a product display that Tiffany explained was a revolutionary video compression and decompression system. This was a way of crushing billions of bits of information, like voices, or pictures, or whatever, a sort of digital trash compactor, converting it all into light and zapping it down a fiber-optic line, and then yanking all those crushed bits out of the compactor and restoring them all to their former, wrinkleless glory.

  This was how I understood the lecture, anyway, but I ordinarily am bored to tears by these sorts of discussions. This whole digital age schmiel—I mean, it’s a wonderful thing, right? Without it, I wouldn’t get all those football games piped into my TV on Sunday afternoons. But spare me the frigging details, you know? But that offer of three-quarters of a million a year in salary and bonus did stiffen my interest in matters technological. Tiffany’s presence sort of stiffened something else.

  But all good things must come to an end, and she next deposited me back in the conference room. The packet she promised

  arrived shortly afterward and gave me something to amuse myself with as the accountants chattered and babbled.

  At four o’clock the door opened again and I looked up, hoping to see my new friend. But it wasn’t Tiffany, it was a receptionist from downstairs, escorting a nasty little runt who looked amazingly like Daniel Spinelli in a very bad mood.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A MAJOR POLICE CONVENTION WAS BEING HELD AROUND A LONG, SHINY black limo. A platoon of Virginia state troopers, and scads of uniformed and nonuniformed locals, were being bullied around by short-haired, clean-cut guys in gray and blue suits who might as well have “FBI” stamped on their foreheads. Fifteen news vans and an army of reporters, cameramen, and photographers stood in a raucous pack being briefed by a good-looking Fed in a natty suit. Several news helicopters circled overhead.

  Only two things draw reporters in such numbers—free booze and a particularly raunchy death.

  I stood beside Spinelli in the small parking lot abutting the Iwo Jima monument, and it struck me that the statue hadn’t attracted such a crowd since the day it was unveiled. Five minutes after we arrived, a taxi stopped on the road above us and Janet Morrow stepped out. I had followed Spinelli over in my leased Jag, which was really convenient because it meant I had an escape.

  Anyway, I watched Janet walk down the hill, and I sensed from her expression that we shared the same deduction—someone profoundly newsworthy was experiencing rigor mortis inside that limo. Flies, after all, will flock to any corpse. Reporters are slightly more discriminating.

  Spinelli stared gloomily at his own feet, jaw muscles bunching and unbunching, and I was left with the impression that he was annoyed with me, very annoyed with her, and his balls were really on fire about that limo. But I didn’t press him. When one is standing beside a man who looks pissed and has a gun, patience tends to be a particularly worthy virtue.

  Janet nodded politely at me and said to Spinelli, “Who died, Danny?”

  He ignored her question and stiffly instructed both of us, “Follow me.”

  He led us directly to the limo, flashing his badge and cursing at a pair of naive state troopers who foolishly tried to stop him at the yellow crime scene tape. The front and rear doors of the limo hung open on the hinges. We went first to the driver’s door, where I noted a heavy Hispanic man in a dark suit curled up on the floor. A small dribble of dark, dried blood ran down his forehead, and there appeared to be a swath of black electrical tape over the wound.

  Next we peered inside the rear doors, where a young woman’s upright, naked body was sprawled across the backseat. Her position, like Julia Cuthburt’s, appeared to me to have been posed, her arms and legs spread wide apart—a bizarre display of complete vulnerability, and possibly another message to the police. Her ankles and wrists were chafed and raw, and a lipstick tube and hand mirror lay on the floor. As I mentioned, she was naked, and clothing articles were also on the rear floor, but were folded and stacked neatly, by her killer, the circumstances suggested. She had apparently been tied up and had struggled fiercely, yet no rope or other restraints were present that I could see. The killer, as before, was tidying up the loose ends and leaving no clues. In fact, I suspected the reason he had parked the car on the tarmac was to ensure there’d be no footprints for forensics to pick up.

  I bent forward and examined the female victim more closely. Numerous bruises were evident on her torso, arms, and legs. Also, I observed some scorch marks on her arms and torso, made by something small and red-hot; possibly a lit cigarette, possibly a lighter. Her skin was waxy, and the inside of the car smelled awful, understandably, as her body had begun to bloat with gas. From these indications, she and the driver had been dead at least twelve hours. The female victim was brunette, quite pretty, and vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t place her. Ending the description, and apparently her life, her head was twisted to the right at a wildly unnatural angle. Her death mask, if you will, was a snarl.

  “Know her?” Spinelli asked Janet.

  She failed to reply.

  In fact, her head was still inside the car, inspecting the murder scene. It struck me that Spinelli had brought us here and arranged this viewing to elicit shock or astonishment. His expression indicated that he was now both angry and frustrated.

  “I asked, did you know her?” he repeated.

  Janet peered over her shoulder and replied, coolly, “Everybody knows her, Danny. Carolyn Fiorio.”

  Sounding quite annoyed, he repeated, “Do you know her?”

  “I’ve seen her on TV and read about her in magazines. That’s all.”

  “You, Major?”

  “I’ve heard of her. The talk-show chick, right?”

  Back to Janet, he asked, “Did your sister know her?”

  “If she did, I wasn’t aware of it.”

  He chewed on something, possibly his tongue. “Come with me,” he ordered. So we did, following him to a clump of oak trees about fifty yards away from the corpses in the car. He looked around to make sure he wasn’t overheard.

  He picked at something on the tip of his nose and stared menacingly at Janet. “Fiorio was supposed to be at some big shindig last night at 7:15. The limo was ordered by her network staff and picked her up at the studio, about five after. The dead guy on the floor, that’s Miguel Martinez . . . wife, three little kids, the regular driver. When she never showed at her gig, her studio was contacted, the studio called the limo service, and the limo service tried to contact Martinez on the car radio. About midnight, the studio called the D. C. cops and reported her and the limo AWOL. Three hours ago, the NBC and CBS D. C. affiliates got an anonymous call saying the car was here.”

  His tone as he described this hinted that we were high up on his shit list, or low on his popularity list, though in his case there might be no distinction.

  Janet started to say, “I—”

  His finger shot up to her face. “You listen to me, lady.”

 
; “I’m listening.”

  “You know things—I smell it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “My ass is on the line here. As the investigating officer of the first murder, I’m part of this task force, and I’m catching a world of shit. So quit fuckin’ me around.”

  Janet calmly replied, “What is it you think I know, Danny?”

  “Don’t play that game with me.”

  “Game?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “No, enlighten me.”

  He kicked a clod of dirt with his foot. We actually get instruction on this at law schools; how to piss people off. Miss Morrow, I suspected, got very good grades.

  He was frustrated and said, “Don’t you get it? There’s been two more murders since your sister. We don’t get this asshole off the street, there’s gonna be more.” He gave her a probing look and added, “Come on. You know somethin’, don’t ya? Tell me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ah, fuck.”

  So we stood like this, Spinelli, Janet, and I for thirty more seconds with nobody saying a word. An acorn fell from a tree and

  landed at our feet. A plane left a long contrail in the sky.

  Janet finally said, “The same guy, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, same friggin’guy.” He added, “We timed her death at around nine last night. Like your sister and Cuthburt.”

  I said, “And you think the killer was the one who called NBC and CBS?”

  “That’s what we think.”

  Janet said, “So he’s deliberately turning up the heat on you. He chose Fiorio because she’s a celebrity. He’s drawing his own publicity to force you to publicly acknowledge that there’s a monster on the streets.”

  He did not need to answer this, and he didn’t.

  “But why?” Janet wondered. She stared at the black limo and answered her own question. “Because he wants to sow panic.”

  Spinelli pointed a finger at the gaggle of reporters. “It’s coming.”

  “What else?” Janet asked as I stared at her in astonishment. She now had Spinelli answering the questions. She said, “Come on, Danny, what have you not told us about?”

  “The prick disclosed all kinds of shit to the press, so you’ll hear about it anyway. Numbers were inked in on the victim’s palms. Your sister was one slash ten, Cuthburt was two slash ten, and Fiorio is three slash ten.”

  She crossed her arms and asked, “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  He shrugged, but to be clear on this point, I asked, “He’s numbering them?”

  “Yeah. Also, he’s whackin’ the donkey on them.”

  Janet gave Spinelli a stern look and asked, “On Lisa, too?”

  “On yer sister’s trouser leg, we found sperm. But we got a big problem . . . and you won’t be hearin’ this one on the news.”

  “Go on.”

  “The DNA’s different.”

  “Different? . . . explain different.”

  “Hey, I know. Weird.” He added, “The sperm on Captain Morrow don’t match the sperm on Cuthburt. And there’s sperm on Fiorio’s leg, too. We’ll know by tomorrow whether it matches the sperm on yer sister or Cuthburt. But right now, we’re assuming we got a pair of idiots.”

  Janet pondered this a moment, then said, “That doesn’t make sense, Danny. The profiles for serial sex killers point to loners and social misfits. They regard these events as very intimate.”

  “I read the trade manuals. But it is what is.”

  She asked, “Any pubic hair at either scene?”

  “Only the victim’s.”

  She was shaking her head. “That doesn’t make sense either.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I suggested, “Unless the killers, you know, shave.”

  Spinelli gave me a startled look. “Yeah. We hadn’t thought of that, you know, guys shaving down there. I mean, what kind of guy. . . ?”

  I walked around a moment, trying to think about this newest development. I said to both of them, “So the killer knew Fiorio had this big event last night, like maybe it was publicized ahead of time?” Spinelli confirmed this with a nod, so I continued, “He probably tracked Fiorio for a few days and learned that she used a limo service. He waited outside her studio until the limo pulled up.”

  Spinelli pointed at a spot between his eyes and informed us, “Martinez got there about thirty minutes ahead of schedule, called his dispatcher, and waited a block or two from the studio. Our guess is the killer walked right up to the car window, like he needed directions or a light, and Martinez, not knowing any better, opened it. Probably the gun was silenced. The powder burns on Martinez’s forehead indicate it was fired about three inches away. The barrel was pointed downward, like Martinez was looking up, and the killer wanted the bullet to go straight down the throat and into his chest cavity, but not exit, you know, so it didn’t leave a big mess Fiorio might notice when she got in. He even slapped a piece of electric tape over the hole, to keep blood from seeping out.”

  “The type of pistol?”

  “From the hole under the tape, we’re estimating a forty-five.”

  “At point-blank range, directed straight down?”

  “Right.”

  “Expert technique and expert choice of weapon. The slow velocity and large caliber assures catastrophic damage. Probably used a soft bullet, so it didn’t ricochet off any bones, exit his body, and create a big mess.” He nodded as I added, “He probably held the door as she got in the car.” I asked, “Time of death, around nine, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And we saw what they did during their two hours together.”

  Janet considered this, then suggested, “He apparently likes to get to know his victim. Or he likes his victim to get to know him.”

  Spinelli said, “Different things.”

  “Yes, they are. . . and I’d guess the latter,” Janet replied. “That he ejaculates afterward indicates . . . what?” She considered her own question, then said, “Cuthburt and Fiorio were bound and tortured. God knows what he intended for Lisa, probably some variation of that treatment. He breaks their necks because it’s manual, personal . . . the final domination. The climax must come right after he kills them. He never got to torture Lisa, and he still ejaculated.”

  “You keep saying he,” Spinelli noted. “You doubt there’s two of them?”

  “I definitely do doubt it.”

  “Explain the DNA difference.”

  “I can’t. But the whole act fits the silhouette and pattern of a killer who operates alone. The domination, time spent with the victim, the sexual release afterward, everything.”

  He said, “Maybe two assholes formed some kind of bond. They coordinate, but act separately.”

  She was shaking her head. “What are the odds of two of these maniacs getting together?”

  He said, “Well, the FBI’s got a coupla their profilers studying this thing. We’ll have an assessment from the pros tonight.”

  I said to Spinelli, “Anything else?”

  He regarded us closely, apparently concluded we were lost causes, yet could not resist one more shot. He said, “Yeah. If either one of you’s holdin’ back on me, I swear I’ll fry your balls.”

  I nodded, then escorted Janet back to my car. Oddly enough, my respect for Spinelli was growing. Respect; not affection. Cops are trained to analyze the facts and reach conclusions. But the really good ones have a nose for the invisible and a sort of intuition about people, and Spinelli was right—Janet was withholding something.

  But not only from him. And I’d had enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  He fingered the photograph of Anne Elizabeth Carrol even as he maintained a studious ear on the television coverage of Carolyn Fiorio’s gruesome murder.

  The coverage was pleasingly pervasive: constant chatter on the news channels;a jarring succession of those pesky special reports everywhere else. Cold shock
was the general mood. Every station made note of the awful irony that mere minutes before her appalling death Fiorio had taken a bold stand against the death penalty. Two stations promised instantaneous documentaries that night on her life and many impressive accomplishments. The one at 9:00 P.M. sounded more intriguing and he made a mental note to catch it. He had been using the remote to switch back and forth. His thumb eventually got so damned tired that he settled on CNN for its fifteen-minute updates.

  The FBI Director had looked huffy and pink as he had galloped through the crime scene, preening for the cameras and struggling to create the impression that he and his Feds would nip this nasty thing in the bud.

  Pictures of that long black limo had been shown from every conceivable angle and direction. Knowing the cargo made it appear gloomy and funereal. The local limo companies were about to encounter a cruel drop in business, he was willing to bet. The news helicopters circled overhead, mechanical vultures that showed shot after shot of cops milling around, jotting notes, taking foot imprints, stuffing their heads inside the limo, trying futilely not to look as generally befuddled as he was confident they were.

  It didn’t help matters any when the FBI rolled out that smooth-tongued devil to spin the story. Hilarious really, watching him wriggle and squirm. He looked like he’d been kicked in the ribs when the reporters from NBC and CBS assaulted him with insights they just weren’t supposed to know. The FBI spokesman had finally seen it was a lost cause and fled from their incessant cameras and piercing voices.

  The journalists were infuriated and emotional. Fiorio was one of their own and had died cruelly. A journalist gets it and the damned apocalypse has arrived. The bunch of phonies. More than a few were calling their agents and begging for a chance to fill her spot, dreaming of that six-million contract. Damned shame what happened to poor old Carolyn Fiorio, but hey, the world must go on.

  The face he was looking for popped onto the screen and he jerked the volume back up. Jerry Rosen, CNN’s man on the spot, was peering into the camera, frowning grimly, and saying, “. . . and the police have only now admitted the connection between the three murders. Sources have told us that Carolyn Fiorio was brutally tortured and sexually assaulted before the killer broke her neck. The first victim, Lisa Morrow, apparently escaped the torture, perhaps because the killer feared detection. But the second victim, Miss Julia Cuthburt, was also tortured and sexually assaulted.”