Cold Case Squad

by Edna Buchanan

  It appeared as though she had been about to bathe when surprised by the killer, who attacked her there, then dragged her into the bedroom and onto the bed.

  On the wall between the bathroom and the bed, a picture frame hung askew. An old wedding photo was visible behind the cracked, blood-smeared glass. The woman petite, the man tall and handsome in uniform, circa World War II. Someone injured had fallen against it during a struggle.

  “No,” Stone said quietly. “This is too messy. Way too messy. It’s not him.”

  “Hell, I was hoping you’d want to take it off our hands.”

  “Got anything?” Stone asked.

  “She’s a widow. Neighbors say there’s a grandson, late teens or early twenties, might be into drugs. A new handyman did some repairs around the house last week. The victim’s car, ten-year-old blue Ford Taurus, is missing. We put out a BOLO.”

  “Did you find the knife?” Stone asked. “Is it from her kitchen? Any burglaries, rapes, or attempts in the neighborhood lately?”

  “I just got here,” the detective said.

  Stone’s eyes roved the room one more time. The clothes she had planned to wear, a dress and fresh undergarments, were draped across a chair back, freshly polished shoes placed neatly in front. She had plans, he thought, somewhere to go, people to see.

  “Looks like you’ve got his DNA, footprints, probably even fingerprints. Hope you find him fast.”

  “I’m on it,” the detective said. “Good luck with yours.”

  Stone left, relieved that the elusive killer he was seeking hadn’t struck again. Frustrated, that like the killer in this new case, he was still unknown and free out there somewhere.

  The photo lab was deserted after 6:00 P.M. Stone spread the eleven-by-fourteen enlargements he’d ordered across a long conference table, studied them, reread the reports, then studied them some more.

  Most of the images were in color. Each crime scene had been photographed repeatedly from different angles.

  Stone peeled off his jacket, loosened his tie. Arranging each set of photos in sequence, he posted the most similar shots from each scene on a large cork bulletin board that ran the length of one wall.

  All spinsters or widows, the victims ranged in age from seventy-two to ninety-three. All were scrupulously clean, as though washed. Their hair had been trimmed, their nails clipped. The earliest victims were dressed in fresh nightgowns, the more recent were wrapped in white sheets. The killer had posed them in similar fashion, face up, sheets covering their bodies, hands positioned as though in prayer. The only contradictory clue was a small amount of dirt, less than a handful found under their heads, in their hair, on their pillows. Analyzed, it matched nothing in or around their homes. It did not appear to have come from their own yards. No evidence of forced entry into their homes. None had been raped. The killer had left no DNA or fingerprints.

  The first victim, Tessie Bollinger, age seventy-four, died in Paterson. So did the most recent, Margery DeWitt, age eighty-seven.

  He killed Gertrude Revere, ninety-one, in Cleveland. Jean Abramson, of Chicago, was ninety-three. He strangled Estelle Rudolph, age seventy-seven, in Detroit, and Patricia Lenoy, age seventy-two, in Boston. Erna Dunn, in Philadelphia, was seventy-nine. Della Golden died in Memphis at seventy-two.

  Their homes had not been ransacked. Nothing seemed to be missing. All the killer took was their lives. A sick son of a bitch, Stone thought, but so clever that it took all these years before anyone became aware that the cases were linked and the work of a single serial killer. He was unique. Few serial killers successfully continue their deadly odysseys for so long. Time will mellow a murderous rage. But this man was still killing. If he began in his teens he’d be in his forties by now. He could be older. He could be anybody.

  Geographic profiling didn’t work. The man was a shadow. He covered the map, his victims separated by many miles, jurisdictions, and years. There wasn’t even proof he was a man. But female serial killers are most often black widows or baby killers.

  Stone opened his notebook to read again his list of what the victims shared in common. Alone, they were lonely. Trusting and too friendly to strangers. The task force had discovered little else. There seemed to be a breakthrough when they learned that the late husbands of two of the women were retired military. But no others had military ties except for one who had lost her only son in Vietnam.

  Bollinger, in Paterson, was first, Meadows in Miami was second. Number nine, the most recent, was again in Paterson. What if the killer was retracing his steps, repeating his pattern? Miami would be his next stop. He could be here now, Stone thought.

  Energized by a sense of urgency, the detective paced back and forth in front of the pictures, studying them.

  He finally took them down and posted the next set.

  He liked working alone, or with Pete Nazario. He had never felt comfortable with the FBI. And they clearly weren’t comfortable with him. He’d been given the courtesy because he had linked the cases. But the agents mistrusted Miami Police, disliked sharing information, and showed little respect for him because he was only twenty-six and lacked experience.

  The lack of respect was mutual. He’d been skeptical of their famous profiling techniques. Of course the murderer was a loner. Serial killers don’t operate in crowds, not successful ones anyway. Of course he had problems with women. He was killing them.

  What do you expect, he thought, from bureau profilers who had described the Beltway Sniper as a lone white man, when the shooters proved instead to be two blacks?

  Stone found a coffeemaker on a corner table. Bitter dregs in the bottom. He discovered cups and supplies in a cabinet, brewed a fresh pot, and filled a flowered mug with JANICE painted on it. He restudied the pictures and reread the reports as he drank.

  He’d even researched the phases of the moon in search of a ritualistic link. Nothing. The timing seemed random. He had killed on every day of the week but Saturday.

  Head aching after his third cup of coffee, Stone felt a nagging yet elusive hunch, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  He switched photographs again, to long shots from across the victims’ bedrooms. He walked by them, paused to look back at the Paterson picture on his right, then at the Detroit photo to his left. He set the coffee cup down harder than intended. A wave of the scalding brew slopped over the edge and onto the counter. He didn’t notice. He was checking the bedroom shots in Cleveland, Boston, and Miami.

  “Damn. Why didn’t I see that?” He reached for the telephone. “Hey, Naz, it’s me. I need you to come down here and look at something.”

  “What time is it?” Nazario sounded fuzzy, as though he’d been asleep.

  “I don’t know.” Stone glanced impatiently at his watch. “Three o’clock?” He sounded surprised.

  “Oh, Jesus. Where’re you at?”

  “The photo lab at the station.”

  “Did you go home? You still there? Up early? Out late? What the hell are you do—”

  “How quick can you get here?”

  “That’s me behind you, walking in the door.”

  Nazario was wearing khakis and a rumpled white guayabera.

  Stone looked startled. “How’d you get here so fast?”

  “Not much traffic at this hour, and I floored it.”

  “No doubt something chasing you again. You find the sarge’s car?”

  “Yeah. Just in time. He’s embarrassed, so don’t broadcast it. Looks like Connie took the FOP symbol off the tag and parked it in a loading zone. So they were about to tow it. Hope you didn’t wake me up to ask that.” He squinted at Stone. “What the hell are we doing here?”

  “Look. Look at these.” Stone motioned to the photos. “Tell me if you see what I see.”

  The nine enlargements were shot from across the rooms toward the foot of each victim’s bed.

  Arms folded, Nazario studied each in turn, thick brows furrowed.

  His eyes narrowed on the third pass.
“I’ll be damned. I see it! ¡Dios mío!”

  Chapter Three

  EARLIER THAT EVENING

  The shadows of the long driveway are cool and fragrant and I am grateful to be home, even if it is temporary. The quiet only seems lonely because I’m accustomed to domestic chaos, Connie, the kids, their friends, even Max, the big, dumb sheepdog. I welcome this solitude and time to think.

  Thank God for Nazario. Connie would not have answered a question from me. So he called to politely inquire if she had “borrowed” my Blazer. She said she didn’t know what he was talking about. He thanked her, said goodbye, and turned to me, his spaniel eyes sad.

  “She took it,” he said.

  He then called the private number of Jennifer, the drama queen, and only other family member old enough to drive. My daughter answered the same question the same way. He said goodbye, and turned to me.

  “She had nothing to do with it.”

  So, we deduce that unless one of Connie’s girlfriends is an accomplice with enough chutzpah to snatch a car out of the police parking garage, my wife is most likely the lone perpetrator. She would have driven her own car downtown. It’s not easy for one person to jockey two automobiles around. That involves some legwork, and Connie is an unlikely pedestrian in Miami’s summer heat. We might get lucky. Maybe the Blazer isn’t all that far away.

  Hotshot ace detectives like us are trained to seek justice, scoop dangerous killers off the streets, and otherwise preserve the peace. Instead, we are on the trail of my wacko wife.

  We check dead-end streets within a half-mile radius of the station. On the third or fourth try, there it is, backed into a loading zone, a ticket on the windshield and a tow truck driver about to hook it up.

  Nazario is a good man who won’t blab this around the station. I owe him.

  My new address is this stately Miami Beach mansion, Casa de Luna. Old Spanish-style architecture, elegant and graceful, built in the twenties. Renovated, updated, restored, and refurbished, inside and out, no expense spared.

  Wealthy residents inclined to travel and concerned about home security sometimes offer a policeman free lodging in servants’ quarters, a guest cottage, or garage apartment. As the old mansions give way to high-rises, hotels, and loft apartments, such deals are hard to find and much coveted by cops who are separated, single, or about to be. The homeowner enjoys peace of mind and the policeman enjoys a free pad, the key word being free because cops in my situation are usually stone broke or about to be.

  Bullets, bribes, and brutality allegations are not the only occupational hazards in police work. Booze, broads, and busted marriages are just as common. I teetered at the brink a time or two but never thought I’d fall, or that if I did I’d have the luck to land in one of these cushy deals.

  The Blazer is emitting a peculiar odor, so I leave the windows open a crack when I park. Probably the submarine sandwich I picked up on the way home.

  I take a deep breath and stand in the driveway drinking in the soft air, enjoying the salty breeze off the sea just across the Intracoastal Waterway and Collins Avenue, and wonder what it’s like to be the man of this house.

  The owner of this multimillion-dollar chunk of real estate is W. P. Adair. He’s Wall Street rich, robust and full of life for a man in his sixties. He stays on the go, skiing, mountain climbing, and sport fishing. His young wife is his third or fourth, and a knockout.

  I met them the first time I came here, to ask some questions about the murder, now solved, of an old business associate. As we talked, Adair’s tall, tanned young wife, Shelly, sauntered by in a white thong bikini, headed for the Olympic-size pool.

  “My kids give me hell,” he said, offering me a drink, “but can you picture me with a woman my own age? I can’t. They’re old ladies, for Christ’s sake! They don’t want to ski, sail, or go deep-sea fishing. I don’t feel a day over forty. I need somebody to raise hell with.”

  We drank to that. The man likes to play. He can afford to pay. More power to him. They left two days ago to spend the summer in Italy.

  Of course, there is no free lunch. The devil is in the details. Strings are attached. I ride herd on the landscaper, the twice-a-week maid, the car washer, and the man in charge of keeping the infinity-edge pool pristine. And, should a hurricane threaten, God forbid, my job is to secure the place. All a small price to pay for secret sanctuary from a wife gone wild.

  I climb the tiled stairs, use my key, and punch in the alarm code. Originally built for a live-in housekeeper, my apartment is above the four-car garage. A rear staircase connects it to the kitchen of the main house.

  I take off my gun, stash it in the top of the closet, set the paper bag containing my meatball sub on the table, grab a beer from the fridge, and carry it back downstairs to give the grounds the once-over. This place, on nearly two acres, is one of the biggest private residences in Miami Beach, where real estate prices are in the stratosphere. My plan is to walk Casa de Luna’s north forty morning and night to be sure nothing is amiss.

  I circle the house first. Doors and windows all secure. Night birds sing, fountains bubble, and the pool gurgles as I walk past the night-blooming jasmine to check out the garden. Suddenly I am startled by a furtive move. I am not alone. Glowing eyes in the dark watch my every move.

  “Hey. Who the hell are you?” I ask. “What are you doing here?”

  He leaps gracefully down from the latticework, runs toward me, and presses his face to my shoe.

  “Get outta here.” I shake my foot free.

  Instead of retreating, he coils himself around my ankle. “Cut that out!” I’m annoyed, until I realize he’s obviously at home.

  He murmurs, trying to get my attention.

  “Holy shit, they didn’t tell me about you.”

  Damn. Adair and his bride neglected to mention this member of the household.

  I continue on my rounds. He leads the way, tail straight up, busily skirting the pool, past the fountain, along the north wall, through the garden, down the driveway, then back to the house. He scampers ahead and bounds up the stairs ahead of me.

  “You must be hungry.”

  I frown as he springs onto the table to investigate the bag containing my sandwich.

  “Come on.” He follows me across the hall and we descend the back stairs to the high-tech granite and stainless steel kitchen of the main house. My search of cupboards, pantries, and cabinets yields nothing.

  “Some detective I am,” I tell my companion. “How’s about you showing me where they keep the cat food. Fetch! Go on, fetch.” Instead, he watches me and waits, tail twitching.

  He sits on the table eating his half of my meatball sandwich from a saucer while I sit in a chair at the other end with mine and the Miami News. He’s not crazy about the tomato sauce but tears into the meatballs and cheese.

  I watch him eat and wonder how he lost the tip of his left ear, hoping he hasn’t been maimed on my watch. This could be a valuable, pedigree show cat, an exotic breed worth big bucks.

  “What happened?” I ask. “Trouble with a broad? I know how that is.” On closer inspection the injury appears old and well healed.

  He drinks water daintily from a cereal bowl, then jumps down to start the figure eights around my ankle again.

  I never liked his kind. Me, I’m a dog person, at least I was until we got Max. Connie and the kids always wanted an English sheepdog. He’s got pedigree papers and everything. But he’s not like a real dog. The big, worthless shaggy monster has a face so full of hair he can’t see in front of him. He costs a bundle to feed and is too damn dumb to even raise his head when you call him. Only thing he ever barks at is a cat. He wouldn’t bark at a burglar unless the son of a bitch brought a cat with him.

  I sigh, let this cat out, and get ready for bed.

  I put my wallet on the nightstand and remove the latest picture of the kids. Jennifer is sixteen, her brother, Craig, Jr., thirteen, and their sister, Annie, just turned eleven. I made it to the delivery roo
m for the first two but missed the last one. Caught a triple homicide that night and was tied up until the next morning. I prop the snapshot against the lamp. Jenny is wearing her red-and-white cheerleading uniform, her smile bright and confident. Just like her mother’s when we met.

  Alone in the double bed, I wonder again how it came to this. Did the job destroy my family life? Or did I? Were we always doomed? Is Connie alone in our bed right now, thinking in the dark, asking herself the same questions? Is there a way to make it up to her? Or is it already too late?

  Connie always had her quirks, they were part of her charm. I played left end on the varsity football team at Miami Senior High. She transferred in from Homestead High in her sophomore year, made cheerleader right away. Short with shiny dark hair and bright brown eyes, exactly my type. We were inseparable from day one. The guys were all jealous. Later she pinned the badge on my uniform when I graduated from the academy and stepped into the whirlwind. Tough time to be a cop in Miami. Opposing armies in the cocaine wars invaded the city. We had the Mariel boatlift, Rastafarians, Santería, and the cocaine cowboys. They all came together like the perfect storm, bringing riots and the highest murder rate in the nation. More than 630 men, women, and children murdered in a single year, more than a quarter cut down by automatic weapons.

  Scores of cops were lost to bullets, stress fatigue, drugs, or corruption. A lot of people were killed. Some are still walking around. Money and temptation were everywhere. Guys from my academy class were arrested for everything from drug trafficking to rape to racketeering and murder.

  Writers said Miami was like Dodge City, the Wild West. They were wrong. Dodge City was never as violent as Miami.

  I couldn’t have survived it all without Connie. Once I got into homicide, I was never home. A few times we talked about taking the kids and getting the hell out. But we hung in. We are natives. I loved the job. We loved Miami and each other. Then, seven years and three kids into the marriage, I caught a case that changed it all. Teenagers abducted on a first date. Both shot in the head. Sunny, the girl, about the same age my Jenny is now, was raped. She barely survived. Ricky Chance, the boy, died. For weeks I went home only to shower and change.