by Rick Murcer
Sophie pulled open the door without a hint of hesitation.
“Freeze!!” yelled Manny.
The air came alive with the fetid odor of fresh blood. Instantly, he wanted the truth before him to live as an illusion. But it wasn’t an illusion.
Dropping his arms, he realized he wouldn’t need the gun for this one, none of them would. His heart was already coming apart.
Agent Corner gasped an involuntary, shocked breath.
“Oh my God,” escaped Sophie’s mouth.
Detective Christina Perez hung from the crossbar of the closet, secured with a white nylon rope that ran under her arms. Gray duck tape stretched across her swollen mouth. A black rose extended up from under the rope with the petals touching her bloody left cheek.
Crimson trails ran down her face and covered her naked chest. Bite marks jacketed her face and breasts; part of her right ear was missing.
Only that wasn’t the worst, not this time.
Manny’s gaze had settled on her face, hoping to see some flicker of light in her eyes.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Christina Perez’s beautiful hazel eyes were no longer there.
CHAPTER-51
The U.S. Coast Guard Medevac Helicopter became a small, opaque speck as Manny watched it race north through the cloudless Caribbean sky. Forty or fifty rubbernecking passengers stood behind the restraining ropes, each one positive they knew the inside skinny behind the helicopter’s appearance. The official word was a heart attack involving one of the elderly guests. He wished that had been it, with all of his heart.
Detective Perez was alive--barely. She had lost a lot of blood and was in critical condition. Luckily, she had blood type “O” positive, the most common human blood type, and Dr. Kristoff was able to administer transfusions while Captain Serafini put in the call for the chopper. The doctor’s fast work had probably saved her life, for now. He prayed she would make it and prayer couldn’t hurt. He was at least sure of that much.
Manny didn’t recall seeing anyone, still breathing that is, as wrecked as Perez. Her skin, the nonmutilated part, matched the white terrycloth robe that he tore from the top of the opened closet to cover her disfigured body. And what could match the spectacle of her empty eye sockets?
Her chances were not good, but she was a fighter and fighters hung in there. He had seen it before. There was no way of measuring the human will to survive. Some seemed hell-bent and unusually determined to see their families or even to tend to something unfinished. Some didn’t.
On top of that, it was fairly obvious that she had been the target for a terrible message, a dare. The killer was trying to say something, but, so far, it escaped Manny.
Looking to the cloudless sky, he gritted his teeth. He wanted the memory of Detective Perez’s closet to disappear, eternally erased. But he knew those stubborn images lived a life of their own. When they decided to stay, they caused many a cop to drink too much or swallow too many pills. But he’d never thought that way. He only thought of making the killer pay.
The investigator in Manny Williams shifted into full gear and the questions rushed him like waves to the beach.
Why leave her alive? Why was the murdering piece of garbage changing the pattern? She was messed up, very messed up. But not to the extent of the other three women, except for the eyes. Was he interrupted? That didn’t seem likely. He wouldn’t have had time to put her in the closet the way he did. He purposely stopped the maiming short of killing her. To what end? Was he attempting to prove he could do whatever, whenever he wanted?
Dr. Kristoff was positive she hadn’t been raped. There was no tearing of the vaginal tissue and no bruising around the thighs. He admitted that his examination was hurried and he had her life to worry about. The rape kit results would confirm or deny the doctor’s suspicions.
These creeps often escalated their perverted rituals to the next level, and Peppercorn’s “dating” habits had been way out there, but he wondered for the hundredth time if he could be responsible for this kind of maiming.
He pulled down his sunglasses and walked toward the railing. The killer hadn’t taken “souvenirs” before. At least, no keepsakes they were aware of. Maybe he was taking pictures of the murdered victims before, and now that wasn’t enough.
The thought of the killer breaking his pattern was chewing at his twisted insides like a bad meal. Did he subconsciously want to be caught? What exactly was the reprobate bastard thinking? Figuring out this guy was like trying to set Picasso to music.
The perp was a killer of passion. He seemed to thrive on raw emotion and uncontrolled anger. Smart, but emotive.
Was this a part of his evolution or was he deliberate in this change-up? Cold, calculating, intentional didn’t fit this MO. But serial killers never followed the rules. They reveled in their own reality; whatever they perceived that to be. They used whatever they deemed necessary to use. Like Christina Perez’s Smith and Wesson .38.
The sending of a message?
Was his arrogance starting to rise to the surface? He thought so.
He could almost hear the murderer laughing.
Manny took a deep breath and leaned over the veneer railing, taking in the glassy ocean. The cruise ship was carving through the water like an arrow through air, and he smelled the salt water as the persistent, summer breeze carried it.
He would have really gotten into this vacation. He wagged his head back and forth slowly--part in frustration, part in disappointment. One more payback to collect on.
Maybe Louise could salvage something out of this wreck, but that was going to get tricky. It was clear that things weren’t safe and they had to be more careful.
Manny zeroed back to the killer, to his apparent message of superior intellect. He thought himself uncatchable, and why not? They had squat. There were no real clues. No suspects. No mistakes. Only dead bodies littered around the Caribbean.
Just as Perez was being rolled out of the room on the ship’s gurney, Richardson had come back from canvassing the rooms on Deck Six. He said that no one saw anything except an older gentleman just stepping out from his room. He told him a tall room steward was knocking on that door, or at least close to it. Richardson would check it out and let them know. Manny knew it would be a dead end. The killer must have somehow gotten his hands on a room steward outfit.
Real careful. Real smart.
Manny wasn’t sure, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the lab reports came back with little or no help. Lynn’s recovered body, after a day in the ocean, wouldn’t be much help either.
As Manny stared at the raised veins on the back of his hands, his mind assumed the mush position. He had examined each scenario a dozen times. Maybe more. Nothing clicked and he wasn’t used to that.
He squinted in the direction of the horizon and watched as a line of brown-winged pelicans gliding in perfect formation dove and dipped leisurely, yet with precision, into the blue Caribbean water, never warning their unsuspecting prey. Boom. It was over. The fish never knew what hit them. It brought new meaning to the term survival of the fittest.
Never warning their unsuspecting prey.
The truth hammered him like a jarring uppercut. Manny straightened up and blinked his eyes.
“That’s it, my God, that’s it!”
He ran along the hardwood deck toward the polished glass elevators.
He had to get to Christina Perez’s room.
Agent Tucker and Alex were giving it the forensic once over, and he needed to be there. There was no question in Manny’s mind, not anymore. The killer had left them a message, and he was sure it wasn’t an invite to dinner. The unsub was telling them, somehow, who was going to die next.
CHAPTER-52
The huge, yet graceful, pelicans dove into the deep and seconds later emerged with their hard-earned prize, their catch of the day, much to the killer’s delight. They abided by no laws, adhered to no rules, just simple survival of the fittest. It was a panacea that he eagerly embra
ced and understood on every level. Weakness would be disposed of and the strong would live as gods, should live as gods.
The weak existed only to submit to men like him. It was now a way of life etched forever in his way of thinking. His religion.
Nature had intended it, no doubt. It was how things worked, and men like him seemed to be the only segment of the human race to understand and accept the perfect harmonic that life sang.
Ironically, his kind was deemed less than human by those who embraced some kind of moral compass.
“Moral compass my homesick ass,” he snapped. These were the same men and women who were caught doing the Nanny or the pool boy, and stealing from their congregations.
He took another long drink from his new favorite drink. He was pleased with himself, very pleased. He had left them a map, a clue to figure out what was next. Hell, he even wanted them to find it. But alas, it just wasn’t going to happen. The morons couldn’t find their asses with both hands.
How could they figure it out? He was he and they were they. But in the off chance that they, maybe Williams, did catch on, it would be too late. This story was going to be written on their watch. Their pathetic watch.
“How important am I now?” he raged.
The killer reached for the Smith and Wesson that was in Detective Perez’s holster not two hours before. The gun’s woodgrain handle and steel surface felt cool against his fingers as he turned it over. He had never used a gun before, never needed to. He aimed the polished weapon at the smudgeless mirror, put his long finger on the trigger, and levered the safety switch to off. His hand was as steady as a surgeon’s.
Slowly, patiently, the pressure from his strong finger tightened. Little by little. Sweat trickled down his temple. He was going to do it! He was going to fire the gun right through the mirror. Ecstasy ran amok through his tensed body.
How good was this going to be?
Then, at the last possible nanosecond, he eased the pressure, removing his finger from the trigger.
A picture is worth a thousand words and the picture in the mirror had revealed a hideous, unexpected truth. The dreamlike image of him pointing a gun at himself had startled him. For a brief, dread-filled moment, his plan evaporated. His skin crawled, and his ever-present confidence stumbled. The unyielding vision created by the gun and the mirror had spoken. He realized that he could die. A fortunate guess, leading to a lucky shot by one of the law enforcement imbeciles, could undo everything he had worked for.
Eventually, he turned away from the mirror and slid the gun into the waistband of his shorts. The doubt had dissipated. Nothing could go wrong. Not for him. Not on this trip.
He never made mistakes. He wasn’t about to start now.
CHAPTER-53
“We haven’t found anything weird. Nothing that looks like a message, a clue. Not a damn thing.”
Manny caught the not-so-subtle hint of exasperation in Agent Tucker’s voice.
“It’s been like freaking Grand Central Station in this room and it makes the going slow, so just hang on to your asses.” Tucker’s eyes burned holes through the three impatient detectives.
“Okay, okay. But we don’t have all night.” Manny looked down at his watch. 6:35.
Sophie, Agent Corner, and he were bunched in the hall just outside Christina Perez’s cabin.
Corner faced Manny. “Are you sure about this? It just doesn’t make sense to start leaving obscure clues and covert messages now. It means he’s changing MOs. It’s rare, these people don’t do that. It’s not who they are.”
The faint odor of the lemon carpet cleaner lingered in the hallway as Manny pulled in a long breath and looked intently at the FBI agent.
“I’ve been running this over and over in my mind.”
“Great, we’re in trouble now,” said Sophie.
“Just listen.”
“Sorry. I’m antsy and could use about nine Long Island Ice Teas.” Sophie looked at Josh. “I’m a lot of fun when I’ve had too many. Want to see?”
“She means with her husband,” said Manny.
“No I didn’t, but he could come to, I guess. Ever partied with a hot Asian woman?”
“Uhh, well, I think we should try to catch the killer first, don’t you?” asked Josh, his face turning red.
“Alright then. It’s a date, FBI man.”
Manny cleared his throat. “Like I was saying, maybe he’s evolving. Changing as his needs escalate. It happens. Some serial killers even stop killing because the thrill is gone. Granted, most stay at it until they’re caught. But once in awhile, their mind goes in a different direction. These assaults appear to have been attacks of passion, pure rage. He loses it. The biting, the close-up style of killing, the rapes, and even the control he craves with postmortem sex could all be part of it, of him.” Manny furrowed his brow and dove deeper. “How about the way he holds the victim’s heads facing him so he can watch them die? I think it might be some off-the-wall, bizarre expression leading to a way of closeness most of us don’t understand. It’s a connection with intimacy, his understanding of it, anyway. His actions are all produced from sadistic compulsions that he has to act out. But maybe it’s not enough anymore.”
That was it, wasn’t it?
He looked back to Sophie and Corner. “Maybe new thrills are the order of the day. It’s rare, but not without precedent.”
Corner’s eyes narrowed as he searched Manny’s face.
“You really think this guy could be changing his approach? And that he’s now in it for the chase?”
“I don’t know. There have been cases where the killer turns up the thrill with risky stuff. How about Son of Sam? Jack the Ripper sent letters to Scotland Yard for the sole purpose of mocking them. It had apparently evolved into a sick game for him. Some experts think that the Ripper’s type of communication is a perverted cry for help. I don’t. I think it’s a way to turn up the heat, the danger. The thrill is another way for him to win, or maybe to lose. But mostly these guys have to win. Its part of their persona derived from abnormal perversion they saw or were a part of somewhere along the line. Like the molestation Peppercorn experienced. They shut out all emotion. It makes them free. Sociopaths.”
“Thank you Dr. Manny Freud,” ribbed Sophie. The three laughed, in spite of themselves and the situation.
“Maybe a little guilty of over analyzing, but I believe everything I’ve said to be true about these guys. But there could be something else going on here. By breaking the pattern, he could be trying to confuse us, to get us to chase our tails. What if this guy wanted us to think these were crimes of passion? Choosing random acts of violence because it fits the known profile. What if he’s always had a hidden agenda?”
Sophie wagged her head slowly. “Like what? I mean why go to all that trouble?”
“I don’t know. Ego? Religion? Revenge?” said Manny.
“If he did have a different agenda, like you suggest, this would be a hell of a way to hide it,” interjected Agent Corner. “You don’t have any proof. Besides, let’s face it. No one really knows why these psychos do what they do, right?”
“True. But if I’m right, he believes he can do anything he wants, and we can’t do a damn thing about it. The man’s condescension has grown to the point he believes he can send a message, and we won’t find it. Even if we do, we’ll be too late. He wants more out of this ride. It’s like the rush of his compulsions are now secondary to something else. I mean look, he didn’t rape Perez and she’s still alive.”
“The adrenaline rush to keep us tied up is now driving this guy?” Sophie asked as her eyes filled with doubt. “I don’t know, Manny. I kind of agree with Josh, it seems to be too much of a swing.”
“I know it doesn’t make much sense, but it could be true.” Manny flipped his hands in the air. “To this point, the guy was at least somewhat predictable, but now its way out of whack. This sure as hell isn’t textbook. At least none I’ve read.”
“Man. You made my head
hurt. I could really use those drinks about now,” moaned Sophie.
The three detectives stared at the floor in tense silence, the air conditioner throbbed its peculiar cadence from the ceiling.
Doubt abruptly stole some of Manny’s certainty. He had been so sure of himself when he left the Sun Deck. He could be wrong. Maybe there is no message. Maybe this murderer is exactly like he described; a total sociopath. If that were true, then what?
“It’s almost like there were…” started Manny.
“Hey! You guys need to see this, NOW,” yelled Alex from the bathroom. “Right now!”
CHAPTER-54
Sophie squeezed into the small bathroom, and Manny and Josh pressed as close to the entrance as the space would allow.
Alex was under the stainless steel sink, down on all fours, with his ample backside high in the air. Manny suppressed a grin at what could have been the first real reason to laugh all day. He filed Alex’s position away as a point of reference for when this was over.
“You know, with one of those butt-burner machines, you’d have a pretty good ass. For an older man,” said Sophie.
“Do you think so? And what the hell do you mean older?”
“You know, way over forty.”
Alex waved his hand. “Just stick with the case, got it?”
“Damn, you’re no fun. Okay. What is it? What did you find?” questioned Sophie.
“Something that shouldn’t be here,” he huffed.
The CSI was reaching into the farthest, shadow-covered corner, small chrome tweezers in his thick fingers. The miniature jaws of the pinchers were fastened securely around a small morsel of material. Alex backed out from underneath the sink, grunting like an old hog. Sophie stepped back into the small shower stall to avoid Alex’s four-limbed shuffle. It was about the only way two people could fit into the undersized room.
Alex stood up, breathing hard, and flexed repeatedly. There were two distinct bone-cracks as the CSI’s vertebrae protested. “I need to lose some weight,” he complained.
