Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1)

by Douglas Wickard

  “That’s when they get careless.” Dan chimed in. He finished his beer and wiped the leftover froth from his mouth on his jacket sleeve.

  “Absolutely. They fuck up, plain and simple. And that’s when we need to be on our toes. Be smarter than they are.” Wright waved down the barmaid. Again. “Excuse me. Hey, Honey, excuse me.”

  “All right, all right, I’m coming. Another round?”

  “Another beer, please, for the gentleman. I’ll take one too. On my check.” Pause. “Oh, what the hell, some more peanuts too, while you’re at it.” Wright checked around to see if any nosy patrons were loitering about before pulling the photographs out onto the bar. “No color prints?”

  Dan sorted through the pictures. “Guess not.”

  “You people certainly aren’t used to this sort of thing, are you?”

  “That’s why we have people like you.”

  “Locals usually can’t wait to get us out of their hair. They’re so afraid we’ll take the credit, like that really matters to us. If you could see the backlog of dead cases we have yet to wade through…”

  “We all know, hell, it was taught to us at Quantico, it’s usually the local police that apprehend the suspect. That, persistence, and a lot of help from ordinary citizens.”

  “We basically come in and just give you guys the addresses and telephone numbers.”

  “Ah, there you go again.” Dan gave Wright a friendly nudge on the shoulder. They chuckled. It was a guy moment. Like Wright was already a buddy. A comrade. A partner. Wallace. It brought back memories. Wallace’s dry sense of humor, his sarcastic comments. A pang of emotion welled up in Dan’s throat. He swallowed it back with another mouthful of cold beer.

  “Just kidding!” Wright snickered as he fanned the photos of the first female victim out in front of him. Her legs were spread-eagled, each ankle secured to two separate posts. Both hands were tied together and attached to another wooden stake above her head. “What’s particularly telling is the way her legs are separated. Spread out.” The girl’s body was badly decomposed. Ribs poked out through stretched skin. Her face was drawn to the side, covered with leaves, dirt and debris. Beside her was the vacant sight of the second victim. “Not a pretty scene.” Wright shook his head. “Did you ever identify the girl?”

  “Nothing yet. We checked up and down the east coast, missing persons, all that. It’s only been three days since we found the body.”

  “This isn’t a pissing contest but I’ve seen worse.” Wright zoned out for a second. He went somewhere far away. The only noise was the steady drone of the television screen above the bar and the intermittent sucking sound coming from the CO2 machine. Wright returned and landed on the prints as if he’d never left. “If you look at this photograph, there’s more going on here than a staging element.”

  They studied both pictures, carefully examining each detail, straining their eyes in the recessed light.

  “Organized killers are methodical. They painstakingly plan their attacks, choosing their victim’s, allowing their fantasy to simmer and boil, fester until finally a stressor occurs. They lose their job, break up with a girlfriend, whatever. Then bang… they can’t stop themselves!”

  “The fantasy’s been playing out in their head for so long, over and over again, that finally it just overpowers them. They have to act it out in the real world.” Dan repositioned himself closer on the barstool, enjoying this one-on-one contact. This one-on-one attention.

  “Correct. And, fortunately for us, they always leave something behind. The best evidence is found at the crime scene. In this particular case, it’s blatantly obvious. Not only did the PERP leave a signature card, but also, he staged the entire elaborate scenario. These posts are positioned in a certain way…”

  “Also, both victims had writings placed in small vials and inserted into their, well… The second girl had “for her sins,” and the first had “for his sins.”

  “How was it written? With what? Was it sent for analysis?”

  “We sent it to Columbia for processing.”

  “Columbia?” Harry groaned. “From now on, Detective Hammer, I give you full permission to send any and all things of this nature directly to the Smithsonian. In Washington. They have the best Forensics Laboratory in the country. In the world possibly. If you ever have a problem, call me. I have many friends up there. Columbia.” Wright shook his head.

  “My guess, he used a syringe,” Dan interrupted. He understood Wright’s frustration. He felt just as dissatisfied with the backwardness of their system. “The wording was inscribed with the victim’s blood.”

  “To divert attention. Like Phillip, the ambulance driver. That kid was definitely set up, Detective Hammer.”

  “You can call me, Dan.”

  “All right, Dan. We’re dealing with one complex, brilliant, wonderfully manipulative psychopathic mind here.”

  Wright went back to the shots, pointing out the victim’s genital area. “I believe the mutilation aspect of the crime is personal. Particularly since the attack was directed at the female reproductive organs.”

  “Could this be how the guy gets off? Sexually, I mean.” Dan thought back to the autopsy protocols. He did try to prepare himself somewhat for Wright. “No semen was found, inside, on, or around the victim.”

  “Eliminating the female genitalia of the girls he abducts could be considered, although uncharacteristic, a sexual offense. It doesn’t always have to be penetration to be sexual. The more violent the act, the more mentally ill the PERP. That is generally the rule of thumb.”

  Dan nodded.

  “That could be a consideration,” Wright continued. “A fair amount of scenarios can and do take place against women who have been sexually assaulted, or molested, or even killed, without any evidence of violent sex, semen or penetration. In many cases, more than I care to admit, the act of penetration is enough. By anything. I’ve seen the whole gamut, umbrellas, sticks, even a baseball bat for God’s sake. All of this has to do with the PERP, unfortunately acting out his sexual fantasies against women.”

  “The second victim had puncture wounds to her left breast. Pin pricks. Peculiar though, they were solely on one breast and only to one girl.”

  “Further disrespect. My first take would be this person is young, late teens, early twenties, since he picks relatively low risk victims, teenage girls. He lives with a family member or relative in the general neighborhood and knows the surrounding area. He has difficulty in relationships, obviously with women, stemming from an unsatisfying relationship with his Mother…”

  “Always blame the Mother…”

  “He frequently visits hospitals. Could be a diabetic or have a chronic disease, asthma or allergies perhaps. He could also work a job in the healthcare industry, but I doubt it. Another piece of information and quite possibly the most important is this guy gets off on control. Playing God. He enjoys it! I get the feeling these victims are his first time out. But, it wouldn’t hurt to find out what VICAP brought back.”

  “No similarities. I received the report yesterday. It’s there somewhere, with the rest of your papers, along with the release signature.”

  “He’s clean, neat, almost to the extreme. He’s personable, mobile, able to work a good job and adaptable. He will have some abhorrent, hateful aversion toward the female body, particularly the genital area. Why else would he destroy the vagina the way he does? But, as I said, all this information could be very misleading. A setup intended to take police in the exact opposite direction. A direct ploy to lead us away. Clever. Cunning. And smart. We’re not just dealing with anybody here.”

  Dan glanced at his watch. Already past five.

  “I better get going. I’m babysitting tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “Alexandra, my princess. I showed you her picture earlier.”

  Wright scooped up the crime scene photos and papers and neatly arranged them back into the envelope. “I remember.”

  “She’s pretty
special. You have any photographs of your kids?”

  “Used to. Tons of them. Now, we keep snapshots of their kids. We get our daily dose when they come to visit. That’s our reminder.”

  Dan threw a twenty on the bar and grabbed his jacket. “Can’t be late. My ex-wife, you know?”

  “Guess that story is for another time.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Harry.”

  Before leaving, they toasted one another with empty mugs but full smiles.

  5:36 PM

  48

  “Stay, Jake. Stay.”

  Janice issued the command, holding onto Jake’s collar firmly. He responded by sitting down, of course, in the driver’s seat. Jake. She complimented him on his obedient nature. “Good boy.”

  Across the parking lot was Dr. Garrison’s apartment complex. Janice shielded her eyes from the late afternoon sun. In all the excitement, she’d forgotten her sunglasses. Damn.

  Jake looked at her, his ears flopped back and forth, his tongue panted rhythmically. He too, was intrigued with the area, hoping for an opportunity to explore the neighborhood. Janice still felt a pang of guilt, leaving Jake alone in the apartment, all by himself, while she soaked up all sorts of intimate affection and attention from Lisette. So today, after her walk along the Battery, she didn’t feel quite up to dumping the poor baby back at the house. Instead, she proposed a little outing. A day trip. Frisbee tosses on the beach. One of Jake’s favorite sports.

  The orange, Day-glo Frisbee rested on the passenger seat floor as a reminder of good things to come. First things first. Jake needed some water.

  Janice rolled down the front window an inch or two. She wanted some air circulating in the car. As she crossed the parking lot, she looked back to check on him. She entered the pool’s changing room. At the sink, she let tepid water turn cool before filling up Jake’s plastic bowl. Back at the car, Jake was more than happy to slurp up some water, slopping it everywhere. Janice slammed the door and locked it.

  Before, she sat in the car waiting for about twenty minutes. For what? She didn’t really know. Maybe she was nervous. Feeling slightly stupid. At one point, she left the complex and drove to the nearest 7-11. Her idea was to call the Hospital and have Dr. Garrison paged. She wanted to find out if she had returned. If she was there. Or if she had left again. Who knew what she intended to find out? The staff kept her on hold for a long time before Janice finally hung up, impatient and frustrated. Before returning to Dr. Garrison’s complex she bought a pear flavored Snapple and Big Red chewing gum.

  Earlier, she tracked down the rental car Dr. Garrison was driving from an Alamo dealer in Goose Creek. It was a smallish dealership, located near the local municipal airport in a cramped parking garage. The manager, Will, was more than happy to go against company policy and show off his customer service skills to assist Janice. If only there’d been something to assist her with. The information Dr. Garrison gave was standard, usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was all legit. Right down to her chicken-scratch signature on the registration. She used her own name, supplied a driver’s license from Massachusetts and cinched the deal with a green American Express card, Sydia Garrison prominently displayed at the bottom of the card with the appropriate MD after her name.

  Janice felt slightly perplexed, not to mention, disappointed. She was expecting the Doctor to have used some exotic alias, and it turned out to be, well, nothing. But being the intrepid reporter she was, she felt inclined to push her bad luck even further and make the trip back to Folly Beach. The worst that could happen was Jake would finally get the exercise he missed yesterday. At one point, she thought about calling Louis to let him know where she was. With each dismal disappointment she encountered, she began feeling silly at her own instincts, blaming it on one too many Movie of the Week murder mysteries or reading far too many crime novels.

  She passed a metal trash container that read: KEEP THIS AREA CLEAN. Respectfully, she deposited her empty Snapple bottle in the receptacle and walked up the winding sidewalk, manicured with lovely green grass and tiny purple flowers. She stood at the bottom of the stairwell for a few seconds, contemplating her next move.

  What am I doing here?

  Turn around and go back, stupid. You have not done anything wrong or illegal. Yet.

  What would be the point if she didn’t finish what she started? Follow her instincts. The work, the risk, everything would fly right out the window. Besides, she was too damn proud to accept defeat. Stubborn was a better descriptor. Always the sucker, Janice worked better on a dare. Thrived. Give her a deadline. A challenge. That crazy competitive thing, again. She enjoyed taking chances, even if they were risky. No, she had crossed that line now and there was no way in hell she was backing down. Not now. Or ever, for that matter. Even if she was wrong, who would know?

  Jake?

  She took the stairs to the second level. Apartment 427. Jake wouldn’t care if she fucked up. She could mess up big time and he would still love her. For always. At the top of the landing, she turned around and leaned down to check on her car. There he was, sitting there, in the driver’s seat, watching her as she disappeared out of sight. She waved to him. He barked a few times, pressed his snout up against the slight slit in the window, and licked at the wind.

  “Shhhh! Keep it down.”

  She pulled the pair of yellow Rubbermaid gloves from her coat pocket, the ones she purchased at the 7-11. No way did she want any fingerprints hanging around for identification. She positioned herself in front of Dr. Garrison’s door. She looked around, up and down the corridor. She tried acting inconspicuous, even though what she was about to perform was very conspicuous.

  Yellow?

  Why didn’t the company make flesh-toned gloves?

  She pulled a pointy, thin pick from her windbreaker, sighed deeply and rapped a few times on the door. And waited. Nerve-wracking tension. Nothing. Another heavy exhale before she began prodding the bottom lock, swiveling the pick around in its chamber. Hopefully, it was the only one secured. Positioned at eye level was a deadbolt. If that was locked, she was calling it quits. Enough Nancy Drew for one day! Within seconds, Janice heard the familiar clink of latches disabling and turned the doorknob.

  Yes!

  The lock opened. A jolt of cool air assaulted her as she entered the apartment and shut the door. Quickly. The faint smell of perfume or something sweet and fragrant emanated from the apartment. A girly girl’s pad, she thought to herself.

  Thank you, Jesus.

  And dark. The shades were drawn. The lights were off. Not a lot of warmth was exuding from the room, either. Everything looked pretty much the same as it did the last time she’d visited. She tiptoed into the kitchen. Same. Neat, overly orderly and white. Sterile. Like an Operating Room, except without the benefit of bright florescence.

  The door to the bedroom was ajar. Janice peeked in. The blinds were closed. Afternoon sunlight seeped through the cracks. The room was pristinely clean. The bed was made up with expensive, pressed, cotton sheets. Name brand, European. A white, fluffy comforter fell like a soft cloud over the top. Four plump pillows rested at the head. Made with dedicated, perfectionist care, the sheet ends were tucked firmly under the mattress; expert hospital corners with flawlessly squared folds. Her Mother used to make her use them. She hated it. Her feet could never breathe. Now, she made a habit of always pulling the sheets out at the bottom of her bed before getting in. She slept better.

  To the right was a desk created from one large piece of white Formica. Medical reference books lined the wall. Physician’s Desk Reference, Gray’s Anatomy, Surgical Procedure Manual. Made sense.

  She was a Surgeon, after all.

  The walls were bare. No paintings. No tchotchkes. No personal touches here or there. Not even a posed, fake family photograph. Anywhere, for that matter. Janice had seen model apartments exhibiting more warmth and coziness. Even showrooms at Macy’s were more inviting.

  Janice was getting antsy, frustrated. Here she was, infiltra
ting a possible suspect, expecting to find dead bodies in the closets, souvenirs in the drawers, all kinds of serial killer paraphernalia, and instead she found a compulsively clean apartment of a workaholic.

  Boring.

  What was she expecting? A fifth year Surgical Resident who spends most of her waking hours at a Hospital. In the Operating Room, whether she needed to or not. She opened a few drawers of the dresser, just for shits and giggles, while she was here, anyway. Neatly placed in perfect rows as if on display at Victoria’s Secret, were panties and bras. She closed the drawer. She opened the sliding mirrors of the closet. A long line of hangers hung on the rack, all of them pointing in the same direction, each article of clothing individually protected in thin plastic covering. Weird. Janice glanced up at the three shelves. Empty, except for a couple of shoeboxes packed one on top of the other. Good brands, too.