Blood Trails

by Michael A. Black

  After all, Dix reflected, he was taught by the master.

  But his ebullience was short-lived. He’d been poring over this new file for hours, and still didn’t have the slightest idea where or how to begin. Maybe he had lost more than just a step or two. Maybe he just didn’t have it anymore. Whoever had been committing these new crimes had certainly studied Laird’s old ones. That much was obvious, but Dix suddenly realized he didn’t have the resources he’d once had. He wasn’t a copper anymore. He was just another fucking civilian. Where could he go from here?

  A vague idea floated in front of him: if he could find out who had access to the original file, it might lead somewhere. But how could he do that? He’d probably have to leave that one for Colby to figure out, and pry it out of him later.

  Dix looked at the chart he’d been working on when he’d fallen asleep. It compared Laird’s actual murders to the ones done by this new killer.

  He and Colby hadn’t known about all of Laird’s handiwork when they’d chased him from that seedy hotel. That all came later, when he began singing, as part of his plea bargain. Show us where you stashed the Swanstrom twins, in exchange for us taking the death penalty off the table.

  What had that damn State’s Attorney been thinking? The twins were already dead by the time the offer was made. If it had been the real old days, Dix would have gotten the answer out of Laird real quick, even in a hospital room. Dix sighed. But this sure ain’t the old days anymore.

  And then it had gotten worse: that fancy mouthpiece, Fontaine, had secured the sweetest deal for Laird; He’ll tell you about his other crimes, the locations of other victims, in exchange for immunity. So you can put the family’s minds at ease. Give them closure.

  Immunity…they gave him the deal, and Laird started talking up a storm. By the time they realized what kind of monster they were dealing with, it was too late. The State’s Attorney had already signed off on it.

  Yeah, a whole shitload of unsolved homicides got closed, but Dix suspected the families got little satisfaction. Closure was one thing, retribution was another. Plus, at the time, they guaranteed that Laird would spend the rest of his life in a prison cage. Boy, did they get taken.

  Chapter 8

  As the elevator in the Federal Building made its ascent up to the fifth floor, Colby glanced at his watch to verify that it was eight-fifty-one. He was early and feeling relatively comfortable with the copycat file in his leather valise, tucked securely under his arm. He’d found it last night on his desk, right where Dix said it was. But something bothered him. While looking through it, he realized that some of the reports had been re-stapled, leaving an extra set of twin holes in the upper left corner. He couldn’t remember if it had been like that before, or not. Could it be a sign of some kind of incremental disorder, like a warning light flashing on his dashboard, and then fading out? It could also mean that, unbeknownst to him, Dix might have somehow copied the file. That could explain who leaked the info to Carmel Washington.

  But it didn’t matter. Colby felt good. The workout he’d taken after finding the file had done the trick, purging all the residual alcohol from his body. Hitting the bags always proved beneficial for him. He’d boxed Golden Gloves in high school, and won his division. The small, gold boxing glove medal sat buried in his dresser drawer somewhere, but he’d never forgotten it. And this time he was able to imagine SAIC Pearson’s face in front of each punch.

  The elevator doors opened and he strolled forward, smiling and ready to go a couple more metaphorical rounds with the uptight fed. When the secretary smiled and allowed him to pass without even a question, he took it as another good sign. Maybe, she read my book, he thought.

  As he went through the door he was pleasantly surprised to see Leslie there, talking to Pearson. Like déjà vu. He moved down the hall toward them and nodded.

  “Where’s the briefing at?” he asked, pointing at his watch. “I heard it was at nine sharp.”

  If Pearson was irritated, he didn’t let on. Instead, he cocked his head toward Leslie.

  “Detective Colby, you remember Detective Labyorteaux, of—”

  “Toronto PD,” Colby finished for him. Then, turning to her, said, “I hope you enjoyed your first night in Chi-town.”

  Now it was her turn to smile and nod.

  “Actually,” Pearson said, leaning forward a bit. “The proper title is Toronto Public Services.” He cast a knowing eye at Leslie, then turned back to Colby. “The briefing’s in the conference room at the end of the hall. We have coffee in there, too.”

  Colby considered another smart-ass comment, like asking if it was real coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts, but figured he’d better not. After all, he was right where he wanted to be: about to get an update on the progress in the investigation.

  Pearson started down the hallway and Leslie followed, glancing back over her shoulder at Colby.

  He caught up to her with two elongated strides. “So, you back for directions?” he asked. She nodded and shot him a lips-only smile.

  A Canadian Mona Lisa. Although he certainly didn’t mind her being there, it struck him as a bit strange. An anal prick like Pearson wouldn’t normally allow someone not connected to the investigation to sit in on one of his briefings.

  Pearson paused at the door and held out his hand, ushering Colby and her into the room, which was already filled with people. The blinds on the far side had been closed, shutting out the morning sunshine. Agent O’Keefe was standing off to the side, and Colby counted half a dozen more suits. But that didn’t surprise him half as much as seeing the big, grinning face staring at him from the other side of the long, wooden table—Bosworth, with a half-eaten chocolate-frosted donut on a small paper plate in front of him. He smiled, showing traces of yellow dough along his gum line.

  “Hiya, Colby,” Bosworth said, popping the rest of the donut into his mouth and not bothering to worry about the little bits that shot out as he continued talking. “The LT thought you might need a back-up on this task force thing, so here I am.”

  Colby was about to say it wasn’t an “ass force,” but Pearson jumped in saying how grateful they were to have two experienced CPD detectives working with them on this investigation. His double-talk rang in Colby’s ears as he sat down.

  Pearson moved to the front of the room. A laptop rested on the table next to him. He tapped his pen on a lectern and, as if on cue, O’Keefe stepped over and turned down the lights.

  “Shall we begin?’ Pearson said, as he picked up a remote. An overhead projector came to life, illuminating the image of Morgan Laird’s old mug-shot.

  “I’m sure that most of us know who he is,” Pearson began. “But for the sake of overall clarity, I’m going to review everything.”

  He was obviously somebody who liked to hear himself talk.

  “Twenty-eight years ago,” Pearson continued, “this man, Morgan Laird, committed numerous murders in this region, the extent of which was not known until his subsequent apprehension.”

  It’s called an arrest, asshole, Colby thought. Otherwise known as, good police work. What’s next? A second later he found out.

  “Although he was a suspect in the kidnapping of the Swanstrom Girls, Laird was initially charged with aggravated battery to a police officer, and attempted murder when he was taken into custody,” Pearson said, flipping the remote to go to the next image: a black and white picture, obviously scanned from the newspaper, showing Laird in a wheelchair, being pushed along a sidewalk by a trio of uniformed officers, one of whom was carrying a shotgun. Pearson turned slightly, and the edge of the projected light partially illuminated his face. “Needless to say, Laird, a derelict, was indigent, and had to be appointed counsel.”

  He flipped to the next image. Lance Fontaine, resplendent in a three-piece suit, his long hair brushed back, stood looking dapper by a bookcase full of law books, holding a pair of glasses. Enter asshole number two, Colby thought.

  The picture was at least twenty-plus years old. Pears
on had done his research, but how was this history lesson relevant to what was going on with the new homicides?

  “In this case,” Pearson said, “Mr. Lance Fontaine, fresh out of law school and seeking to make a name for himself, stepped forward to represent Laird pro-bono. His motivation was unknown, but as an outspoken critic of what he called ‘brutal police tactics,’ perhaps he felt a compulsion.”

  Colby felt his irritation ready to boil over. He knew that the shyster had represented Laird for one reason, and one reason only: an opportunity to get in front of the news cameras on a heater case. Colby felt like saying something, but he knew that Bosworth would immediately relay anything untoward back to Kropper faster than Morse code.

  “So,” Pearson continued, flipping to the next image, “Fontaine, despite what we, as law enforcement officers might think of him, did his job, and did it well.”

  Colby braced himself. He knew what was coming next.

  Another image shot onto the screen: a newspaper headline reading, CHILD-ABDUCTOR SUSPECT PLEA BARGAIN.

  “As you probably already know,” Pearson said, “Laird was a suspect in the case of missing twin sisters, age ten. Since there was hope the girls might still be recovered alive, the state’s attorneys immediately entered into negotiations with Laird and his attorney.”

  He clicked to the next image. This one said, TWINS FOUND DEAD.

  “In exchange for taking the death penalty off the table, Laird agreed to tell where the girls’ bodies were.”

  A subsequent image showed a crime scene photo of Elsa Swanstrom being removed from a fifty-gallon metal oil drum.

  Colby averted his eyes, although the image had been indelibly burned into his nightmares for almost three decades. Could he have done anything differently back then?

  Another image materialized, showing a close-up facial from the autopsy. The child’s eyes were closed, and she looked angelic lying on the cold, metallic surface.

  “Even though the girls were both deceased when they were recovered,” Pearson said, “negotiations didn’t stop there.” He paused, his face still partially lit up from the light from the projector. “One of the problems of making a deal with the devil, so to speak, is that you never know what you’re going to get. And we really can’t blame the police and prosecutors for this.”

  Colby heard someone barely control a derisive sounding snort. It had to be Bosworth, the prick.

  “In exchange for immunity on his previous crimes,” Pearson said, “our friend, Mr. Laird, began singing like a canary.”

  Pearson flipped the remote again and another headline materialized: LAIRD CONFESSES TO MORE KILLINGS.

  “Laird’s attorney said his client wanted to help the families of missing loved ones find closure.” Pearson paused and flipped through several more crime scene photos of unearthed graves in desolate fields. “Regardless of our skepticism about Laird’s sudden altruism, he did lead authorities to the graves of three more missing victims.”

  The next image showed another headline, MORE BODIES FOUND, along with a grainy newspaper photo of Laird in a wheelchair in a grassy field, surrounded by police.

  “It wasn’t until then that the enormous scope of the man’s monstrosity became apparent.” Pearson clicked to another image of a headline: SERIAL KILLER’S PLEA BARGAIN STANDS.

  “At the time, the prosecutors thought that Laird would be spending the rest of his life behind bars.”

  Colby noticed Agent O’Keefe moving toward the lights. She turned on half of them. Pearson left the last image projected against the screen. “However, we now know, that Laird was eligible for ‘good time credit’ for time served while being a model prisoner. That meant that he got one day off his sentence for every day served, so long as he didn’t get in trouble.” He paused and tried for an ironic expression. “I mean, really, how much trouble could a man in a wheelchair get in at Stateville? Look at how much fun Richard Speck had inside. Ever see those videos he made?” Pearson shook his head. “And, for whatever reason, the parole board felt that a man in a wheelchair, now suffering from emphysema, was no longer worth keeping behind bars. In fact, it was costing the taxpayers more money to keep him inside.”

  Colby had had enough. “We all know he’s out. Have you considered looking at him as a suspect for these copycat murders?”

  Pearson frowned. He obviously didn’t like being thrown off his game.

  “I’ll get to that,” he said, the irritation creeping into his tone. “But right now I want to bring everyone up to speed on the Laird case, if you don’t mind. It’ll help if we’re all on the same sheet of music.”

  “That was my case,” Colby said. “I should be doing that.”

  “Take it easy,” Bosworth said. “Maybe you can see where you messed up.”

  Colby felt his face flush. This was like pouring salt on a reopened wound.

  Pearson must have realized he’d lost his rhythm because he licked his lips and shot a glance at O’Keefe, who turned on the rest of the lights. “Let’s all take a five minute break.”

  Colby stood up, glancing at Bosworth. The big man snorted a laugh and went to the table with the donuts and coffee.

  Colby took a deep breath, restraining himself from going over to give Bosworth a good gut punch. He exited the room and joined the procession heading to the men’s room. But since he didn’t feel like standing around with the rest of the guys, he took a detour and went to the water fountain. After taking a long drink, he straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and saw Leslie standing a few feet away. Her dark eyes were scrutinizing him.

  “Enjoying your visit to the US?” Colby asked, not knowing what else to say.

  She smiled again. Nice teeth. Real nice teeth. “So far, so good,” she said. “I’d feel a bit better if I were making some progress in my own investigation, though.”

  It struck Colby as strange once again that Pearson had her sitting in on what was apparently an unrelated case. “Yeah, a homicide, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I’m sure Agent Pearson will go the extra yard to get you all the assistance you need down here.”

  “I hope so.”

  After the break, Pearson glossed over the latter facts of the Laird case, ending with Fontaine finally obtaining Laird’s release on parole eight months ago, citing that “the man was no longer a threat to society.”

  A smaller, sub-headline appeared on the screen: Morgan Laird Granted Parole.

  “And, not so coincidentally,” Pearson added, “this was about the same time that the first copycat homicide occurred.”

  A new image of a farm house projected onto the screen.

  “This was a double homicide that occurred on September sixteenth.” He flipped the remote and another image shot into place of a dangling man, suspended from the cross beams of a barn. He flipped to another image, this one of the knot securing the rope to the rail. “A clove-hitch. Just like,” Pearson flashed to the next image, another knot, “this one, from the original crime Laird confessed to in Monticello, Indiana. Same M.O., same set-up of the bodies.” He flashed through a series of images contrasting the two crime scenes. “This is nothing most of you don’t already know, if you’ve had time to go through your case file packets.”

  Yeah, Colby thought, doing a slow burn again. Nothing we don’t know.

  “The two most recent homicides show a bit of promise, however,” Pearson said, his face twisting into a wry smile. “This one,” the image showed the partially clothed body of a young man, “is that of Benjamin Pike, a young homosexual prostitute that Laird admitted killing in an alley in Uptown.” He paused. “Despite his numerous incarcerations, Laird was apparently very homophobic. I suspect this might be related to latent tendencies on his part.”

  Skip the psychobabble, and get on with it, Colby thought.

  “And this is the copycat crime scene.” A new image appeared, looking strikingly similar to the previous one. “This victim was also left in an alley
in what has come to be known as Boys Town. He was homosexual, young, but apparently not a prostitute. His name was Jonathan Watts, age twenty-two.” He flipped to a new image of a young woman, tied to a bedpost in a grotesque position. “I have something more to tell you about the Watts crime scene, but first, this one also has something of interest. You’ll notice the similarity,” the image changed, but not the subject. “Laird’s handiwork. Linda McKenny, circa nineteen-eighty-seven.” He flipped back to the previous one. “Copycat, October 12th, this year, Kelly Turner.” Pearson motioned and O’Keefe switched the lights back on. The fed glanced at Colby as he reached under the lectern and withdrew a copy of Blood Trails.

  Colby grimaced. He knew what was coming next.

  “I’m sure all of you are familiar with this,” Pearson said, holding the book aloft. He turned to a section bookmarked by a yellow sliver of paper and began reading. “The investigating officers found a partially smoked cigarette butt at the crime scene. It was a Pall Mall, and the lab techs managed to get a blood type off it. A-Positive, the second most common type.” Pearson paused for a moment, then resumed. “However, if the DNA technology we have today, had been available back in eighty-seven, this bit of trace evidence could have identified Laird, and put him at the crime scene.” Pearson looked at Colby. “Nicely written, Detective.”

  Colby nodded, feeling his face burning again. Bosworth’s puss had a big, stupid-looking grin plastered all over it.

  Pearson closed the book and said, “Now this is where it gets interesting for us. The copycat killer also left a partially smoked Pall Mall cigarette butt at this scene, too. In the exact same spot as in the original.” After a significant pause, during which he looked at each person sitting around the table, Pearson answered the question burning in everyone’s mind. “And, yes, we were able to recover enough trace saliva to do a DNA test.”