by Lutz, John
“Here’s part of what I have,” she said, when the waiter had faded away and was again slouched with his fellow anarchist at the back of the diner. “Through my sources on the NYPD, I obtained this crime scene photo.” On the table she laid a photograph of the dusty partial footprint on the tiles inside the door of Coop’s cottage. “Notice the distinctive crisscross design on the sole.”
“I have,” he told her. “How is it you have sources in the NYPD?”
“I’ve done plenty of research there for my mystery novels, made plenty of good contacts.”
Coop noticed she hadn’t said friends. Well, he knew the difference himself.
“Here’s what else I have,” she said. Next to the first photo she laid another.
At first Coop thought it was just another shot of the footprint in his cottage, only from a different angle. Then he realized that the crisscross-patterned sole print was on a marble floor and in a layer of what might have been finely granulated sand. The metal tracks of a sliding door ran across the top of the photo. This one hadn’t been taken in his cottage. It was only a partial, and faint, but it did look similar to the footprint found at the cottage, the print probably left by Bette’s killer.
He looked up at Deni. “Where was this taken?”
The startled expression on his face must have been just what she was hoping for. She grinned and said, “Long ago and far away. At another homicide scene.”
“Give me the facts and save the hype, will you?”
“Sorry, but you’ll admit this is pretty dramatic.” She was still smiling, aiming the bright ferocity in her dark eyes at him. “Same shoe, same killer.”
“Same kind of shoe,” Coop said. “Maybe. Neither footprint is clear.”
“Clear enough,” Deni persisted.
Coop knew she was right. Or maybe he wanted to believe that. It was at least something that had to be considered. “Where was the second photo taken?”
“Two years ago in Sarasota, Florida, at the scene of Marlee Clark’s murder.”
“The tennis star?”
“The same.”
“Then the Sarasota police are aware of the footprint.”
“They saw it, all right. But they didn’t think it was important. And it didn’t fit their theory of the crime, or the person they arrested and who was later convicted.”
It was coming back to him now. The case had been widely covered in tabloid newspapers and the more sensational TV news shows, which had played up the sex and scandal. Deni Green was probably planning to give the Clark murder more of the same treatment in her book. What did she have in mind for Bette? Coop’s stomach tightened. He asked, “Wasn’t Marlee Clark killed by a woman?”
Deni Green nodded, keeping her chin down and grinning up at Coop in a way that made her look especially malicious. “Clark supposedly was killed by Sue Coppolino, her lesbian lover. They arrested her even though her shoe soles didn’t match the footprint. They had plenty of other evidence against her, the way she’d been sneaking on and off the property, conducting a secret affair with Marlee Clark. The prosecution said the murder was the result of a lovers’ quarrel. Coppolino was convicted.”
“Then most likely she did the deed.”
“Typical cop thinking,” Deni snapped, irritated. “Tell you one thing—she didn’t kill your daughter. She’s in the penitentiary in Florida. Your daughter and Marlee Clark were killed by this guy, the one who left these footprints.” She tapped the two photographs with the back of a knuckle, but Coop didn’t look down at them. He was draining his coffee, thinking he might be leaving soon. He was about through with Deni Green.
“You’re building a lot on this similarity. What possible connection could there be between my daughter and Marlee Clark?”
“I thought maybe you could tell me.”
“There’s none that I know of,” Coop said. “Bette wasn’t even a tennis fan.”
“I still think they were killed by the same person.”
“On the basis of a similar footprint?”
“And the fact that in each case there was powder residue that was most likely from latex gloves.”
“Latex gloves are worn for everything from cleaning the sink to brain surgery, by millions of people. And whatever brand shoe made those prints, there were probably thousands of them sold.”
“They look to be pretty much the same size,” Deni said.
“The approximate size millions of other men wear. Including me.”
“There’s something else,” Deni said.
Coop was sliding out of the booth, but her tone stopped him. He watched her open a briefcase and take out an envelope from which she drew an eight-by-ten photo. Her movements were slow, grudging almost. He realized she hadn’t intended to show him this. Not yet. Coop’s heart began beating faster as she laid the photo down in front of him. He had to make an effort to look at it.
It was a photograph of Marlee Clark’s body as it had been discovered in her condo, laid out as if asleep. The eyes were closed and the young, pretty face looked peaceful. The long red hair that had been the tennis star’s trademark was fanned out carefully as if to frame her face. Only the bloodstains on the fabric, crimson in the police photographer’s flash, showed she was dead.
Deni was talking. “The prosecutor said the way she was laid out was additional proof she’d been killed by her lover, who was sorry for what she’d done. I expect the NYPD is saying the same kind of thing about your daughter.”
Coop didn’t reply. He was jolted by the photo but he resisted the implication. “Bette was strangled. If I remember correctly, Marlee Clark was hacked at the base of the neck.”
Deni shook her head as if firmly denying the sophistry of a recalcitrant student. “It doesn’t matter. The point is that no wound shows when they’re laid out. The killer had closed your daughter’s eyes, right?”
“Yes.” As well as her mouth with its swollen tongue. He fought back the image forming in his mind.
“He doesn’t want anything to spoil the peaceful effect.”
“He’s a psycho, a serial killer,” Coop said. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
Deni nodded.
So this was what Deni was after, he thought. Another blood-soaked madman who would be her own personal discovery. With luck he’d make her rich and famous. As far as she was concerned, Bette was only a number. Victim number two.
If she was number two. “Have there been other, similar murders?”
Deni sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, Coop. You’re making me show everything and we haven’t even struck a deal yet.”
Coop waited.
After a moment she shrugged and opened her briefcase again. “Oakland, California. Thirteen months ago. Her name was Ofelia Valdez.”
The photo showed a woman lying on her bed. In the background was a nightstand covered with small framed photographs of smiling people. The victim was young, pretty, not particularly Latin-looking in spite of the name. The hair spread on the pillow was light brown. The eyes were closed. She was wearing a long frilly nightgown. It was impossible to tell how she had been killed.
“Her neck was broken,” Deni said. “One sharp twist from behind. Our killer’s strong.”
A different method again, Coop noted. But that was only his professional mind talking, while he stared helplessly at the photo of the woman who had been posed much as he’d found his daughter. Deni held out another photo. She was quickening the pace now, sensing that she was winning him over. “This one’s from five years ago on Long Island. Ellen Banta.”
This woman was lying on a sofa. Its tan suede looked expensive, as did her gray silk blouse. The hair spread around the head was black tinged with gray, this time. Ellen Banta had been about forty, he judged, and she hadn’t worried about dying her hair. It was a strong-featured, vital face that seemed to retain life. She looked as if she were going to wake from her nap any minute and exercise or go sailing.
“The method?” he asked.
/> “Knife. The wound’s at the back, of course.”
Coop stacked the pictures and pushed them away. He’d seen enough. “So why isn’t the FBI looking for this guy?”
“Because in each case the local cops made the same mistake the NYPD is making in Bette’s case,” Deni replied. Knowing she’d hooked him, she was paying attention to her food for the first time. She used the flat of her knife to mash and spread the cream cheese on her bagel. “The Oakland cops arrested Ofelia Valdez’s ex-husband. They had to let him go because they didn’t have enough evidence. But they were sure he did it. When he died in a car accident three months later, they closed the case.”
“And Ellen Banta?”
“She was a Wall Street hotshot who’d made a fortune and retired at thirty-five. Never married or had kids. Her younger brother inherited everything. Naturally the cops liked him for the murder, especially when they found out he was chronically unemployed and had a couple of drug arrests. Again, though, they were never able to make a case.”
“Were both victims killed in their homes?”
Deni raised her eyebrows. “You ask all the right questions. No, neither one was. Ofelia Valdez was at her ex-husband’s house. They still slept together sometimes. A lot of divorced couples do, but most don’t like to talk about it. In fact the cops couldn’t find anybody Ofelia had told. That’s why the cops arrested her ex. Who else would have known where she was staying the night? But he’d gone to work at three A.M., loading trucks at UPS, and they could never figure out how he snuck home to kill her.”
“And Banta?”
“Well, Ellen was a sports nut, but she really liked to eat. Every few months she’d sneak away to a fat farm, live on rice cakes and carrot juice, and sweat the pounds off. She didn’t want anyone to know. Always told people she was off scuba diving in the Bahamas or someplace.”
“So let me guess. She was at this fat farm when she was killed, and only her brother knew where she was?”
“Actually, they were never able to prove he did know. But he was her closest living relative, so they figured he’d be the one she told.” Deni paused. “You see the pattern? Five years ago, two years ago, thirteen months ago, and then your daughter. There’s the shoe print in the cases of your daughter and Marlee Clark, and latex glove powder all over the bodies in all the murders. Like most serial killers, this one is compelled to kill with less time between victims. And of course there are probably more victims we don’t know about, and he’s operating on an even more accelerated timetable. In each case the local cops assumed it had to be a lover or family member or close friend, because the killer showed such an intimate knowledge of the victim in the way he got at her.”
Coop nodded. He saw the pattern, all right. Both patterns. “Valdez was sleeping with her ex-husband; Banta didn’t advertise the fact she was going to a fat farm; and Marlee Clark was in her high-security condo, so it had to be somebody who knew how to sneak past the alarms and cameras. And my daughter was at my cottage, and the only way for the killer to know that was if she’d told him.”
“Exactly. That’s why you went to Haverton yesterday, wasn’t it? To find out who she’d told? Did you have any luck?”
“According to your theory, how do you—” Coop began.
“You cops. Ignore the question and ask one of your own. Is that something they teach you at the police academy?”
“According to your theory, how do you figure the killer learned his future victims’ secrets?”
“My guess is he’s a Ted Bundy type, a charmer who insinuated himself into the victims’ confidence and affection.”
“That’s only speculation.”
“I’m going to test it, though. If Marlee Clark knew someone like that, her lover Sue Coppolino probably also knew him, or at least met him. I managed to arrange an appointment to question Sue Thursday in Florida. Want to come along?”
Coop wasn’t sure of his answer. “You’re doing all this because you think there’s a book in it.”
“Of course. I’m a writer. Are you afraid of what we might find out about your daughter?”
A woman who sensed weakness. And exploited it. “It isn’t that,” Coop said. Not entirely that.
Deni’s lips curled into a half smile. “Then come along.” It was a challenge. “It’s in both our best interests to work together on this. We can be a team, pool our resources and talents. You think like a cop, and I think like a writer. You have cop connections, I have connections that aren’t all cops or criminals. My guess is you’re not exactly computer literate. I can work the Internet like a wizard and find out anything.”
Coop knew she was being reasonable, but he didn’t trust her. She was hoping to write a sensational best-seller, and she wouldn’t care whom she trashed along the way.
But maybe she was on to something, and had information he wasn’t aware of. He had little choice but to team up with her, at least until her avenue of investigation arrived at a dead end.
“If we’re going to work together,” Coop said, “I want to know everything you know. Organize it and make copies, put it in a file folder and get it all to me; then we’ll meet and discuss the case.”
“Will I know everything you know? I have to point out that so far I’ve been very forthcoming with you, Coop, and you’ve told me diddly-squat.”
“Am I right in assuming you need me more than I need you?”
“I get the point,” Deni said, making it clear that she didn’t like the point or maybe didn’t even necessarily agree with it.
“I might be retired, but I can’t go around blabbing certain police business or I’ll lose my credibility and sources. You should understand that.”
“I do,” Deni said. “We’ve got ourselves a deal.” She extended her hand and they shook on the agreement.
Coop noticed her hand, broad with blunt fingers, nails chewed almost to nonexistence. And with the strength of a man’s.
“There’s something else obvious about this killer,” Deni said. “Ellen Banta was killed in New York, Marlee Clark in Florida, Ofelia Valdez in California, and your daughter was killed in New York. This killer began in New York, though he probably killed elsewhere for years, and now he’s come home.”
Coop was afraid she might be right.
“See,” she said, guessing she’d been a step ahead of him, “you’ll find that I’m an asset.”
As well as a liability, Coop thought.
He watched her grin and tear into her bagel as if it were alive and might escape.
She hadn’t mentioned any plastic saints. And he couldn’t.
Chapter Ten
The Night Caller had read all the available material on the subject, how law enforcement defined serial killers, how they divided them into “organized” and “disorganized” types by analyzing crime scenes, how they worked up psychological and physical profiles that usually turned out to be amazingly accurate. Or so they said.
From the much maligned point of view of the killer, there were, of course, some common denominators that simply couldn’t be avoided. But there were others that were controllable. Variables could be introduced, as well as misleading consistencies. Then the threads the police sought, the compulsions that must be served, would be lost in the maze of conflicting and misleading information.
It was not, for instance, always necessary for a serial killer to use the same sort of weapon or dispose of bodies the same way, to be known as “the .44-Caliber Killer” or “the Hillside Strangler.” How many different types of firearms there were! How many different ways and places to dispose of bodies!
How many different kinds of cutting instruments.
Cut to the chase. Shortcut. Cutlery.
The Night Caller opened Georgianna’s kitchen drawers until the overhead fluorescent fixture’s pale glare glinted off a clutter of bright steel blades.
What would it be? A chef’s knife? No, that was too similar to a previous deletion. A paring or steak knife? Their blades were short,
flexible, and uncertain. An ice pick? Possibly, possibly…. But what was this? A sharp edge that cut, a cutting instrument, a cutter that could cut through metal—a hand-operated can opener. Here was a change yet not a change in modus operandi. Once a manual can opener snagged skin, entire sections of flesh could be peeled off, in layers if necessary, vital organs exposed.
Messy? Of course messy. But controllable. The victim could be unconscious in a bathtub, heartbeat and blood flow minimal. Initial cutting could be done underwater. If she regained consciousness, shock would immobilize her. The face needn’t be touched. That was important. And when the moment was right and true, a dull but sufficient consciousness could be induced, and the union and instant would occur even through the paralysis of shock. All pain, all destruction, would be beneath the surface, leaving the ritual intact and the moment complete.
Georgianna would suffer, but that was a necessary variation on the theme. It would appear to the police that her murder was the work of a vicious sadist, yet she would be perfect and at peace beneath the time and above the blood.
The Night Caller lifted the can opener from the drawer, then experimented with its long lever, observing its clamping action at the cutting wheel. Excellent. And there in the drawer was a heavy steel mallet for tenderizing meat. Perfect! Not for tenderizing, but for effecting unconsciousness with a precise and single blow. After unconsciousness, and what followed, the cutting and misdirection could begin, the creation of a truly red herring. The police would never have seen such a red herring!
But it would all happen under careful control. None of the red must get on clothes. The basin would be for washing away minor stains afterward.
The Night Caller carried the can opener and mallet into the bedroom and laid them on top of the bureau, then began to undress.
As time passed, this seemed a better and better plan. Since this murder was one of practicality and precaution rather than urgency, and out of sequence, it would serve well to divert the authorities. Not only would the MO be altered, but the assumed motive as well. The Seattle police would see the murder as impulsive rather than logical and systematic, or a combination of both. The police would be searching for a mindless ghoul, not a killer who was educated and sophisticated. Nobody liked being cubbyholed. Compulsions could be harnessed. Needs could be met without categorization.
