WMC - First to Die

by James Patterson

  ChapterSS

  "I GOT A HOMICIDE HERE that fits the pattern of what you've been dealing with," McBride explained. "GSWs," McBride continued, "both of them. Gunshot wounds right between the eyes." He described the quick but grotesque deaths of Kathy and James Voskuhl, killed at their wedding at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. This time the killer hadn't even waited for the wedding to end. "What kind of weapon your guy use in Napa?" McBride asked. "Nine millimeter," I told him. "Same." I was reeling a little bit. Cleveland? A voice pounded inside me. What the hell was Red Beard doing in Ohio? We had just made the breakthrough, found out where he was casing his victims. Did he know that? If so- how? Cleveland was either a copycat killing, which was entirely possible, or this case had just broken wide open and could lead anywhere. "You have crime-scene photos there, McBride?" I asked. McBride grunted, "Yeah. Got them right in front of me. Nasty. Sexually explicit." "Can you get me a close-up of their hands?" "Okay, but why the hands? "What were they wearing, McBride?" I heard him shuffling through photos. "You mean rings?" "Good guess, Detective. Yeah." I was praying that it wasn't our guy. Cleveland… it would shatter everything that made me feel we were close to him. Was Red Beard taking his killing act across the country? A minute later, McBride confirmed exactly the thing I didn't want to hear. "There are no wedding bands." The bastard was on the move. We had a stakeout going where we thought he might show up, and he was two thousand miles away. He'd just murdered a couple at their reception in Ohio. Shit, shit, shit. "You said the bodies were found in a sexually explicit position?" I asked McBride with dismay. The Cleveland cop hesitated. He finally said, "The groom was shot sitting on the John. We found him there. Sitting up, legs open. The bride was shot in the stall, too, as she was coming in. There was enough of her brains on the inside of the door to confirm it. But when we found her, she was facedown. Uh, her face was stuffed between his legs." I was silent, forming the image in my mind, hating this cruel, inhuman bastard more every day. "You know… fellatio style," McBride finally managed. "There's a few things my investigators want to ask you." "Ask me yourself. I'm gonna be there tomorrow."

  Chapter54

  SIX-THIRTY THE NEXT MORNING, Raleigh and I were on our way to Cleveland, of all places. McBride met us at the plane. He wasn't how I had imagined him. He wasn't flabby, middle-aged, Irish Catholic. He was was intense, sharp boned, maybe thirty-eight, and black. "You're younger than I thought." He smiled at me. I smiled back. "And you're definitely less Irish." On the way into town, he brought us up to speed. "Groom's from Seattle. Had something to do with the music business. Worked with rock bands. Producer… marketing guy. Bride grew up here in Ohio. Shaker Heights. Father's a corporate attorney. Girl was cute, redhead, freckles, glasses." He pulled a manila envelope off the dashboard and tossed it over to me in the passenger seat. Inside were a series of glossy eight-by-elevens of the crime scene: stark, graphic, somewhat resembling old photos of gangland rub outs The groom was sitting in the stall with a surprised expression and the top of his head blown off. The bride was slumped over his lap, curled in a pool of blood, hers and his. The sight of the couple filled me with a cold dread. As long as the killer was in northern California, I felt we had him contained. Now he was on the loose. We grilled McBride about the venue- how the victims might have ended up in the men's room and what security was like at the Hall of Fame. Each answer I heard convinced me even more that it was our guy. What the hell was he doing here? We pulled off the highway at Lake Shore Boulevard. A modern skyline rose all around us. "There she is," McBride announced. From a distance, I saw the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame glinting up ahead like a jaggedly cut jewel. A twisted killer had struck in the city's most celebrated venue. By now, he might already be back in San Francisco. Or Chicago? New York? Topeka? Planning another gruesome double murder. Or maybe he was in a hotel room across the square, watching us arrive. Red Beard could be anywhere.

  ChapterSS

  IT WAS THE THIRD TIME in two weeks I had to go over a harrowing double-murder scene. McBride walked us up to the second floor and through an eerie, empty atrium devoid of pedestrian traffic to a men's room blocked off by crisscrossing yellow crime tape and cops. "Public bathroom," Raleigh said to me. "He's getting nastier each time." This time there were no bodies, no horrifying discoveries. The victims had long been transferred to the morgue. In their place were grim outlines of tape and chalk; gut-wrenching black-and-white crime photos were taped to the walls. I could see what had happened. How the groom had been killed first, his blood smeared on the wall behind the toilet. How Red Beard had waited, surprised the bride as she came in, then moved Kathy Voskuhl into the provocative position between her husband's legs. Defiled her. "How did they both end up here in the middle of their wedding?" Raleigh asked. McBride pointed to a crime-scene photo on the wall. "We found a smoked-down joint next to James Voskuhl. Figured he came here to cop a buzz. My guess is the bride came in to join him." "No one saw anything, though? They didn't leave the reception with anyone?" McBride shook his head. I felt the same smoldering anger I had felt twice before. I hated this killer. This savager of dreams. With each act I hated him more. The bastard was taunting us. Each murder scene was a statement. Each one more degrading. "What was security like that night?" I asked. McBride shrugged. "All exits except the main one were closed down. There was a guard at the front desk. Everyone from the wedding arrived at the same time. A couple of half assed guards floating, but generally at these affairs they like to keep a low profile." "I saw cameras all around," Raleigh pressed. "They must have some film." "That's what I'm hoping," said McBride. "I'll introduce you to Sharp, head of security. We can go over that now." Andrew Sharp was a trim, wiry man with a square chin and narrow, colorless lips. He looked scared. A day ago he had a fairly cushy job, but now the police and the FBI were all over him. Having to explain things to two outside cops from San Francisco didn't help matters. He brought us into his office, popped a Marlboro Light out of a pack, and looked at Raleigh. "I got a meeting with the executive director in about eight minutes." We didn't even bother to sit down. I asked, "Did your guards notice anyone unusual?" "Three hundred guests, madam detective. Everyone congregated in the entrance atrium. My staff doesn't usually get involved in a whole lot except to make sure no one with too much to drink gets too close to the exhibits." "What about how he got out, then?" Sharp wheeled around in his chair, pointing to a blowup of the museum layout. "Either the main entrance, here, where you came in, or one we left open off the back verandah. It leads down to the Lake Walk. There's a cafe there during the summer. Mostly it's blocked off, but the families wanted it open." "Two shots fired," I said. "No one heard anything?" "It was supposed to be a high-class crowd. You think they want my guards milling around? We keep two, three guys to make sure overzealous guests don't wander into restricted areas. I should have guards patrolling the corridors down by the rest rooms? What ya gonna take, toilet paper?" "Security cameras?" Raleigh asked. Sharp sighed. "We've got the exhibition halls covered, of course. The main exits… a remote sweep of the Main Hall. But nothing on the corridor where the shooting took place. Nothing in the crapper. Anyway, the police are scanning tape with members of each family as we speak. It would make it a helluva lot easier if we knew who the hell we're looking for." I reached into my briefcase and took out a copy of a bare bones artist's sketch. It showed a thin face with a jutting chin, hair combed back, and a lightly shaded goatee. "Why don't we start with him."

  Chapter56

  MCBRIDE HAD TO BE BACK in the office for a press briefing on the investigation. I needed to figure out why the killer had come to Cleveland, and what, if any, connections there were to our murders back in San Francisco. The next step was to talk to the parents of the bride. Shaker Heights was a posh, upper-end suburb in the height of midsummer bloom. On every street, green lawns led up to graceful, tree-sheltered homes. One of McBride's men drove me out while Raleigh went back to the Lakefront Hilton to meet with the family of the groom. The Koguts' home was a warm redbrick N
ormandy under a canopy of tall oaks. I was met at the door by the older sister of the bride, who introduced herself as Hillary Bloom. She sat me down in a comfy, picture-filled den: books, large screen TV, pictures of the two of them as kids, weddings. "Kathy was always the rebellious one," Hillary explained. "A free spirit. It took her a while to find herself, but she was just settling down. She had a good job- a publicist for a firm in Seattle. Where she met James. She was just coming around." "Coming around from what?" I asked. "Like I said- she was a free spirit. That was Kathy." Her parents, Hugh and Christine Kogut, came into the room. I witnessed the glazed, bewildered shock of people whose lives had been shattered. "She was always in and out of relationships," her mother eventually admitted. "But she also had a passion for life." "She was just young," her father said. "Maybe we spoiled her too much. She always had an urge to experience things." In her pictures- the wispy red hair and dare-me eyes- I could see the same joy for life the killer had obviously seen in his first two victims. It made me feel sad, weary. "Do you know why I'm here?" I finally asked. The father nodded. "To determine if there was any connection to those other horrible crimes out west." "So, can you tell me, did Kathy have any connection to San Francisco?" I could see a cast of grim recognition creep its way onto their faces. "After college, for a few years, she did live there," her mother said. "She went to UCLA," her father said. "For a year or so she stayed in Los Angeles. Tried to catch on with one of the studios. She started out with a temp job at Fox. Then she got this publicity job in San Francisco, covering music. It was a very fast life. Parties, promotions, no doubt a lot worse. We weren't happy, but for Kathy, she thought it was her big break." She lived in San Francisco. I asked if they had ever heard of Melanie Weil or Rebecca Passeneau. They shook their heads. "What about any relationships that might've ended badly? Someone, who out of jealousy or obsession, might've wanted to do her harm?" "Recklessness always seemed like a basis for Kathy's relationships," Hillary said with an edge. "I did warn her." Her mother shook her head. "She always wanted to do things on her terms." "Did she ever mention anyone special from the time she lived in San Francisco?" Everyone looked at Hillary. "No. No one special." "No one stands out? She lived there for a while. She didn't keep up with anyone after she left?" "I seem to remember her saying she still went down there every once in a while," her father said. "On business." "Old habits are hard to crack." Hillary smirked, with a tightening of her lips. There had to be some connection. Some contact from the years she had spent there. Someone came all the way here to see her dead. "What about anyone from San Francisco invited to the wedding?" I asked. "There was one girlfriend," her father said. "Merrill," said her mother. "Merrill Cole. Shortley, now. I think she's at the Hilton, if she's still here." I pulled out the artist's sketch we had of the killer's possible appearance. "I know it's rough, but do you know this man? Someone who knew Kathy? Did you see anyone like this at the wedding?" One by one, the Koguts shook their heads. I got up to go. I told them if anything came to mind, regardless of how small or insignificant, to get in touch with me. Hillary walked me to the door. "There is one more thing," I said. I knew it was a long shot. "By any chance, did Kathy buy her wedding dress in San Francisco?" Hillary looked at me blankly and shook her head. "No, from a vintage shop. In Seattle." At first, the answer deflated me. But then, in a flash, I saw that this was really a connection I was looking for. The first two murders had been committed by someone stalking his victims from afar. That's why he found them in the way he did. Tracked them. But this one, Kathy, she had been chosen in a different way. I was certain that whoever had done this had known her.

  Chapter57

  I DROVE STRAIGHT TO THE HILTON on Lake Shore Boulevard and was able to catch Merrill Shortley just as she was about to depart for the airport. She turned out to be stylish, maybe twenty-seven, with shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair tied back in a bun. "A group of us were up all night," she said, apologizing for the swollen lines around her face. "I'd like to stay on, but who knows when they'll finally release the body. I have a one-year-old." "The Koguts told me you live in San Francisco." She sat on the edge of the bed across from me. "Los Altos. I moved down two years ago, when I got married." "I need to know about Kathy Kogut in San Francisco," I explained. "Lovers. Breakups. Someone who might have a cause to do this." "You think she knew this madman?" Her face was clenched. "Maybe, Merrill. You can help us decide. Will you help?" "Kathy hooked up with guys," Merrill said after a pause. "She was always free about things in that way." "Are you saying she was promiscuous?" "If you want to see it that way. Men liked her. There was a lot of energy going on back then. Music, film. Alternative stuff. Whatever made her feel alive." I was getting the picture. "Does that include drugs?" "Like I said, whatever made her feel alive. Yes, Kathy did recreational drugs." Merrill, though pretty, had the hard-edged face of a street survivor who had remade herself as a soccer mom. "Anyone come to mind who might've wanted to hurt her? Someone who was overly fascinated? Maybe jealous when she moved on?" Merrill thought a bit, shook her head. "I don't think so." "You two were close?" She nodded. At the same time, her eyes hooded. "Why did she move away?" "She landed a great job. Must've seemed like she was finally climbing the ladder. Her father and mother always wanted that. The Shaker Heights thing. Look, I really have to catch a plane." "What are the chances Kathy was running away from something?" "You live the way we lived, you're always running from something." Merrill Shortley shrugged and looked bored. There was an attitude, a coldness about Merrill I didn't like. She still surrounded herself with the cynical aura of a dissolute past. And I had the suspicion she was withholding something. "So what'd you do, Merrill? Marry the dime-bag mambo king of Silicon Valley?" She shook her head. Finally, she smiled thinly. "Fund manager." I leaned forward. "So you don't remember anyone special? Someone she might've kept up with? Been scared of?" "Those years," Merrill Shortley said, "I have a hard time remembering anyone special at all." "This was your friend," I said, my voice rising. "You want me to show you what she looks like now?" Merrill stood up, stepped over to the dresser, and began to pack a leather bag with toiletries and makeup. At some point, she stopped and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Then she looked over her shoulder and caught my eye. "Maybe there was this one guy Kathy was into. Big shot. Older. She said I'd know who he was- but she wouldn't give me a name. I think she met him through the job. As I remember, he was married. I don't know how it ended. Or who ended it. Or if it ever did." My adrenaline began to flow. "Who is he, Merrill? He might have killed your friend." She shook her head. "You ever see this man?" She shook her head again. I pushed on. "You're the one friend from back then she invites to her wedding and you never met him once? You don't even know a name?" She gave me a cool smile. "She was protective. She didn't tell me everything. Scout's honor, Inspector. I assume he was a public figure." "You see her much in the past couple of years?" Merrill shook her head again. She was being a real bitch. New money in Silicon Valley. "Her father told me she still used to come to town. On business." Merrill shrugged. "I don't know. I have to go." I yanked open my bag and removed one of the crime scene photos McBride had given me, the one of Kathy, wide eyed, slumped in a bloody heap in front of her husband. "Someone she knew did this. You want to be met at the plane and thrown in a holding cell as a material witness? You can call in your husband's lawyer, but it'll still take him two days to get you out. How would the tech-fund crowd react to that news? I'm sure I could get it in the Chronicle." Merrill turned away from me, her chin quivering. "I don't know who it was. Just that he was older, married, some big `:21' time SOB. Kinky, and not nice about it. Kathy said he played sex games on her. But whoever he was, she was always quiet about it, protective. The rest you'll have to do on your own." "She still continued to see this guy, didn't she?" I was starting to put it together. "Even after she moved to Seattle. Even after she met her husband." She gave me the slightest smile. "Good guess, Inspector. Right up to the end." "How close to the end?" Merrill Shortley picked up the phon
e. "This is four-oh two. Checking out. I'm in a rush." She stood up, slung a Prada bag over her shoulder, an expensive-looking raincoat over her arm. Then she looked at me and said dryly, "To the very end."