The River Girls

by Melinda Woodhall

  “Jankowski, you and I will start working up a summary of the investigation status, and write up an initial profile of the offender,” Nessa said, her blue eyes trained on his, waiting for a reaction. “Chief Kramer wants an update by end of day. He wants to know if we need an assist from the FBI on this one.”

  Jankowski’s phone buzzed on the table in front of him, and he peered down at a text message that had popped up on the screen. He straightened in his chair and picked up the phone, scrolling down to see the entire message.

  “It’s Alma Garcia from the CSI team. She says she has news on the river girl investigation.”

  “Good name,” Ortiz said, as everyone else in the room stared at Jankowski. “The River Girls Investigation. I like it,”

  Jankowski ignored the comment. “They’ve lifted a latent print from the belt used to strangle Brandi Long. Looks like they already got a hit in IAFIS.”

  Adrenaline raced through Nessa’s veins. She’d had little hope they could even obtain a usable print from the murder weapon, much less a print that would find a match in the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System.

  “Well, who matched the print? Who’s the perp?” Ingram demanded. “Don’t keep us in suspense, Jankowski.”

  “She didn’t say.” Jankowski started to repack his backpack. He looked up at Nessa’s flushed face. “She wants to see us in the CSI lab. Now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The WBPD crime scene lab was modest compared to the polished, high-tech laboratories depicted on prime-time crime dramas, but Alma Garcia kept it immaculately cleaned and organized.

  Jankowski could see that the white counters and cabinets held a bewildering range of equipment and supplies. He could identify the laboratory microscope, mass spectrometer, and fingerprint development chamber, but was clueless as to the function of several complex looking machines that had been added since the last time he’d had reason to visit Alma.

  “So, Alma, we’re dying to know what you’ve found,” Jankowski said, looking around the small lab as if the identified perpetrator might be in the room.

  Nessa hovered at his right shoulder, her eyes wide with anticipation. But Alma’s expression made Jankowski’s heart drop. He could see in the technician’s downcast eyes that the news wasn’t going to be all good.

  “Well, we managed to lift several really good latent prints off the buckle,” Alma said, moving to a computer monitor in the corner.

  “The results came back from IAFIS pretty quickly. They found one potential match, and I’ve done the comparison.”

  She stepped aside so that Jankowski and Nessa could see the screen. Two fingerprints were positioned side by side, and various points had been plotted on the whorls, arches, and loops.

  “It looks like the latent print from the belt buckle matches a print found at another crime scene.” Alma held her hand up as if to stop the questions she knew were coming.

  “Before you ask, I don’t have all the details of the scene, but I was able to look up the basics because the file was stored in our system. It’s a Willow Bay case. An unsolved homicide from 2006.”

  Jankowski felt the breath leave his lungs and was having a hard time drawing in another one. “A cold case homicide in Willow Bay from twelve years ago? Linked to these new homicides?”

  “Who was the victim?” Nessa asked. “Please tell me it wasn’t a Jane Doe.”

  “No, it wasn’t a Jane Doe.” Alma’s voice was somber. “The victim was a woman named Natalie Lorenzo. You’ll see pretty quickly in the file that she was known to the police as a drug user. She’d also been picked up for solicitation.”

  “Where was she found?” Jankowski asked. “Where was the disposal site?”

  “A motel down by the old canal,” Alma said. “It’s all in the report, but it looks like one of the motel rooms was the scene of the homicide. The body was left at the site. No attempt to move the body or cover up the crime. The M.E. estimated that the victim died about twenty-four hours before being discovered by the cleaners.”

  “I think I know the motel. I’m not real familiar with the place, but something does strike me as coincidental,” Nessa said, and Jankowski wondered if she was thinking the same thing that had come to his mind.

  “That canal leads out to the Willow River,” Jankowski said, raising his eyebrows at Nessa. “Is that what you were thinking?”

  “Bingo, Jankowski,” Nessa said, flashing a sarcastic smile. “Guess we’re both real detectives now.”

  “There’s another coincidence that’s even more significant,” Alma said, pulling up a digital image of Natalie Lorenzo’s death certificate on the computer.

  Jankowski scanned the document. “I’ll be damned,” he whispered, as Nessa gasped beside him. The cause of death had been listed as homicide by ligature strangulation.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Jankowski arranged the files on the table, making room beside him for Nessa’s laptop. She’d been quiet ever since they’d left the crime lab and headed back to the briefing room to work on the offender profile and case status report for Chief Kramer.

  Jankowski wasn’t sure if she was pissed off with him again for some reason, or if she was just busy mentally processing the information Alma had shared. It was a lot to take in. Two murders and a missing girl in one week that were linked to not one but two cold homicide cases? Not a usual occurrence in Willow Bay.

  “You okay, Nessa?” Jankowski asked. He braced himself for her usual sarcastic comeback.

  He knew Nessa didn’t like him, but he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps she thought all the detectives resented having a woman in the previously all-male department. Or maybe it was just him. Maybe it was personal.

  “Sure, I’m swell,” Nessa said, her tone distracted. “Just trying to figure out what the hell has been going on in Willow Bay these last twelve years. Cause someone has been killing young women and we didn’t even know about it.”

  “We don’t know that for sure. The print at the motel is an unexpected piece of evidence but it isn’t proof that the same person who killed Natalie Lorenzo killed Tiffany Clarke or these other girls.” Jankowski gestured to the pictures on the wall.

  Nessa walked to the board and taped up a fifth photo. It was another mug shot. Natalie Lorenzo stared out of the photo with miserable, bloodshot eyes.

  Limp brown hair fell past her thin shoulders. According to the date, the mugshot had been taken only weeks before Natalie had been killed. Jankowski imagined he could see the shadow of death in her eyes.

  Nessa picked up a dry-erase marker and began writing on the whiteboard above the row of photos. She stepped back to let Jankowski read what she had written.

  “The River Girls Task Force,” he said, nodding slightly. “I guess that name will do as good as any other.”

  “Ortiz came up with it, but I think it fits. It puts the girls at the heart of the investigation, not the killer. I prefer it that way.”

  Jankowski narrowed his eyes at the mention of Ortiz. All the women at the police station swooned over the young detective, who fancied himself a real ladies man. Maybe Nessa had the hots for him, too. Maybe all women were liars and cheats like Gabby. His mood darkened at the thought of his estranged wife.

  I’m sure Nessa’s husband would love to know she’s got a thing for hunky Detective Don Juan.

  He watched Nessa write River Girls Task Force: Do Not Disturb on a piece of paper. She walked over to the door to the briefing room, stuck the sign on the door and closed it, then walked back into the room and sat down next to Jankowski.

  “Okay, let’s work on the profile first,” she said. “You type, and I’ll talk.”

  Jankowski smothered the spark of indignation that her words aroused. He wondered what Nessa would do if he tried to order her around like that. Probably file a sexual harassment complaint with Internal Affairs. No, he’d just have to take her attitude in stride. He wasn’t sure what she was trying to prove, but he didn’t have time
to get involved in a pissing contest with Nessa.

  Between this investigation, which was heating up fast, and the personal problems he had been dealing with out of the office, he couldn’t afford it. He needed to stay focused and keep his emotions in check.

  “So, let’s document what we know so far about the offender,” Nessa said, standing and pacing around the room.

  “We know that he targets young, white females, possibly intravenous drug users, and dumps his victims by the river, most likely trying to conceal them in water,” Jankowski said as he typed.

  “But what about Natalie Lorenzo?” Nessa asked. “She wasn’t dumped.”

  “I just don’t get the feeling that Natalie was a victim of the same killer,” Jankowski said, “The M.O. doesn’t match.”

  “Okay, what are the differences? What’s bugging you?” The words didn’t seem like a challenge. Nessa looked genuinely interested.

  “Well, Natalie was found naked inside a motel room. The others were found outside or in the water, and they all had clothes on. So, either the killer didn’t undress them or decided to redress them.”

  Jankowski opened the file on Natalie Lorenzo and flipped a few pages. He saw from the copious notes in the file that the lead detective on the case had been Nessa’s previous partner, Pete Barker. Back then he’d been partnered up with Ingram.

  “Yes, it says here she was sexually assaulted. Semen was recovered, but they didn’t get a hit on CODIS when they ran it through in 2006. From what Iris has reported on the other cases, there was no evidence of recent sexual assault on the victims, and no semen or biological evidence has been found.”

  Nessa cocked her head as in thought. “Sure, there are some differences, but maybe Natalie was his first victim, and maybe he changed his M.O in the meantime to better hide his crimes.”

  “I guess it’s possible it’s the same guy, but the evidence we have so far doesn’t support it,” Jankowski said, wishing he could add that his gut also didn’t buy it, but he knew that would sound ridiculous.

  He’d always believed that only detectives that didn’t want to take the time to collect and evaluate evidence relied on their guts or their instincts. Now wasn’t the time to change his mind.

  Just follow the leads. Work the evidence, he told himself.

  “I hear you,” Nessa said, rubbing the back of her neck as if in pain. “But what else do we know? Any idea on a motive for this guy?”

  “Well, if we could establish that there had been a relationship between the offender and one or more of the victims, we may be able to figure out his motive,” Jankowski said. “Although if this perp is a true serial killer, there may not be any relationship or link between him and his victims at all.”

  “I went to a conference a few years back in Tampa. One of the FBI profilers gave a presentation on the motives behind serial killings. It was creepy, but I did learn a lot. Some of it kept me up at night for weeks after.” Nessa continued pacing as she spoke.

  “According to the presenter, most serial killers have a sexual motive.”

  “Well, if we leave Natalie out of the equation, there’s no evidence of sexual interaction between the offender and the victim,” Jankowski pointed out.

  “No, we have no evidence of sexual penetration,” Nessa agreed, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean the motivation isn’t sexual. His drive to kill could be based on sexual fantasies or inclinations that don’t involve penetration.”

  “Of course, there are other types of motivation. Anger. Jealousy. Revenge,” Nessa continued, sitting in the chair opposite Jankowski.

  “We had a case up in Atlanta where the serial offender was killing people that worked at the hospital where his father had died. He believed the hospital staff were all responsible for his dad’s death, so he was hunting down doctors and nurses and shooting them execution-style. Four people died and two were wounded before we figured out what was happening and why.”

  “So maybe our offender hates drug addicts or prostitutes?” Jankowski suggested, considering the idea. “Maybe he had a bad experience with a pro? Maybe she laughed at his…well, his lack of size? Or maybe he was turned down by some teen-age girl?”

  Nessa rolled her eyes and snorted.

  “Most men have had bad experiences with teen-age girls when they were in high-school, but, yes, maybe something like that is driving him. Making him mad enough to hunt down and kill girls that live a certain lifestyle or girls found in certain locations.”

  “Or maybe the guy is just downright crazy,” Jankowski said, his head starting to pound. “Maybe our perp is mentally ill.”

  “The FBI guy at the conference said that very few serial killers are actually diagnosed as mentally ill or psychotic.”

  “Okay, so what about the oldest reason in the book. That is other than a sexual motive,” Jankowski said, thinking of the adage they always brought out in investigative training courses.

  “And what’s that exactly?” Nessa asked, eyebrows furrowed.

  “Greed,” Jankowski said, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together in front of Nessa’s face. “Follow the money…isn’t that what they always say? Maybe what our guy is doing is based on a financial motive.”

  “Like what…he’s a hitman? He gets paid for killing helpless teen-age drug addicts?” Nessa’s voice was heavy with skepticism.

  “Well, no. More like, maybe these girls threatened the guy’s income. Maybe he’s the supplier or the pimp, and they have put his income stream at risk.”

  As he was saying the words, Jankowski thought of the special investigation he had been working before he’d been pulled off and assigned to the River Girls Task Force. The feds were sure that a drug and human trafficking ring was trying to expand its Miami operations. They believed that police departments in various small towns in south Florida had been infiltrated and were helping the traffickers move their products.

  And they aren’t wrong there, Jankowski thought. But that’s nothing I can tell Nessa. And it can’t have anything to do with the river girl killings, can it? Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure.

  Nessa opened her mouth to offer a rebuttal, but then closed it. She shrugged and sighed again. “So, we tell Kramer we need an FBI assist? Maybe ask for a profiler to help us figure out who we should be looking for?”

  Jankowski hesitated.

  What exactly will the feds find once they start poking around?

  He needed time to think this through, and in the meantime, he definitely needed a cup of black coffee and some ibuprofen.

  “Let’s wait until we’ve had time to properly go through Natalie Lorenzo’s file,” he said, not meeting Nessa’s eyes.

  “See what Ortiz and Ingram can find to link Tiffany Clarke to the other victims. See what leads Reinhardt may be able to give us. I think we need to give our team at least another day before we ask Kramer to get us some help from the feds.”

  He lifted his gaze to Nessa’s face. She seemed to be considering his words, her head cocked as she looked at him. Finally, she nodded and picked up a file.

  “Okay, then let’s get to work. We have a lot to do in the next twenty-four hours.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Hope and Devon had devoured the grilled sandwiches, washing the food down with gulps of freshly-squeezed lemonade. Their excitement about the end of school and the start of summer was contagious, and Eden was drawn into their chatter, momentarily forgetting her worry about Star and the task that lay ahead.

  “Why did school start to be fun just before summer vacation?” Hope asked, turning the pages of her yearbook, and reading the end-of-year messages written by friends in playful, looping handwriting. Eden could see that several messages had smiley faces or hearts next to them.

  “Will you miss all your friends?” she asked, liking the shy smile that played around the girl’s mouth. “Or is there someone special you’ll miss the most?”

  “She’s gonna miss Luke Adams the most,” Devon offered up with a laugh. “
She’s got a major crush on him.”

  “I do not have a crush on Luke.” A pink flush spread over Hope’s cheeks as she looked down, still wearing the shy smile. “He’s just a…friend.”

  “Yeah, a boyfriend,” Devon teased and began dancing around the kitchen singing, “Hope has a boyfriend! Hope has a boyfriend!”

  “Devon!” Eden admonished. “Don’t tease your sister.”

  But Devon had already reached the stairs and was bounding up toward his room, still singing loudly.

  “So, is it true, Hope?” Eden asked, her voice soft. “Is this boy Luke your boyfriend now?”

  Hope looked down at the table, biting her bottom lip, a habit she’d gotten from her mother. Mercy had always done the same when she’d been embarrassed or unsure what to say, and Eden’s heart ached at the sight. The girl’s innocent young face was so like Mercy’s had been at that age.

  Mercy had possessed a fragile, almost ethereal beauty that had drawn attention wherever she’d gone. And as a teenager she’d been just as sweet and shy as Hope was now. Eden felt tears prickle as she put her hand over her niece’s hand and squeezed.

  If only you could be here now, Mercy, to see your beautiful girl growing up.

  “Well, I do like him,” Hope finally said, still staring at the table. “And he said he likes me.”

  “He did? When did he tell you that? What did you say?” Eden asked, her eyes wide.

  “It was after school on Friday, when he signed my yearbook. I said I liked him, too. But now that it’s summer and all, I don’t know if I’ll even get a chance to see him for ages. I mean I want to but…” her voice faded as she glanced up at Eden.

  “Do you think he’ll still like me once summer’s over? Do you think he’ll meet some other girl?”

  Eden paused, not sure what to say. She knew that Mercy had cared too much about what Preston Lancaster had thought, had sacrificed too much for what he had wanted. The magnitude of what she’d sacrifice for him still infuriated Eden, and it made her scared for her young niece. She feared giving the impressionable young girl the wrong message.