by C. Gockel
“She had to be dead before he did it right?” Fiscus said. “I mean, she had to be dead, right?”
“Goddess I hope so,” she said, hating the doubt Fiscus had just managed to stir in her brain.
“Yeah.”
She pulled her eyes away from what was left of Jenny Lovett to study the walls. The sick bastard had tortured and killed eight women in the past three weeks. He always left a message of some kind as his calling card. This time he had painted the walls with Jenny’s blood. Chris had never seen graffiti anything like this, and she hoped she never saw it again.
“Could be he’s trying to prophecy or something. Maybe he used the blood in a ritual. He’s never done it before though.”
Fiscus paled further. “You don’t think he’s magi—”
“No,” Chris snapped, cutting him off before he could say it. “Absolutely not, and I better not suddenly hear that making the rounds at Central either.”
Fiscus acknowledged the threat with a grimace. If even a rumour of magi involvement came to light, her investigation would come under White Council scrutiny. The council of magicians would land on her like a mountain, and with them the Feds. She would lose the case for a certainty, but more than that, her career could come to an abrupt end just for hinting at magi involvement, or letting others hint at it. It was a bloody miracle that the Feds hadn’t already taken the case. She frowned, not for the first time wondering why they hadn’t. Serials like the Ghost attracted Feds like flies to shit.
“Her head was on the dressing table over here,” Fiscus said pointing at a puddle of blood. “We put it back with the rest of her after the photographers were done. It seemed the right thing.”
“That’s okay,” she reassured him. “I couldn’t have left it there either.”
She studied the mirror hardly recognising the pale and haunted reflection as herself. She looked terrible. “Was she… I mean was it… the head looking at the mirror?”
“Yeah. What does it mean?”
“Vanity maybe. I don’t know. This is my third headless corpse today.”
“No shit?”
“Nope.”
“Could it be related?”
“I don’t think so.”
Chris would have escaped the bedroom then, but John chose that moment to come back in.
“Raz is on his way up,” he said as he entered. “He was downstairs talking with Joseph.”
She waved a hand at the walls. “This stuff is pretty freaky. Do you recognise it?”
“No, do you?”
“I think he might fancy himself as some kind of poet.”
“I wouldn’t know—”
“I would,” Raz said as he entered. “And he’s no poet. The sick prick is just some kind of nut that gets off on tearing the throats out of women and taunting us. When I find him, I’m going to make him have a chat with my stunner on max.”
“You can have him after I’m done,” Chris said. “I get first crack at him.”
Raz frowned. “How do you figure?”
“I rank you.”
“Only by a couple of weeks,” Raz protested.
“A couple of weeks or a couple of days, it’s all the same. I rank you so I get first crack.”
John shook his head. “We’ve got to find the sonofabitch first.”
Raz held up a vid camera. “Yeah, about that. I want some pictures of the walls. I know some people who might recognise some of this stuff.”
“Do you recognise it?” Chris stressed.
“Kind of. I think it might be based on the Book of Revelations. It’s part of the Christo holy book, you know the Bible?”
Chris shook her head. “If you say so. How does that help us?”
“I’m not sure it does. I’m not saying he’s a Christo or that he prays to the hanged god, but if I’m right these writings are prophecies about Armageddon—the end of the world. At least that’s what it reminds me of. They don’t look the way I remember.”
“You’ve read it then, this Bible thing?”
Raz looked embarrassed. “Don’t tell anyone.”
John looked as amazed as Chris felt. There were hidden depths to Raznik that she was only just beginning to uncover. Raz and John went to work with the camera and Chris decided to head downstairs to interview the muscle Sollis had hired. Tim Granger was the one who found the body. He might know something.
13
Investigations
Captain Stokes read the report and nodded. “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with Jacob.”
“He said he might have a lead on the third guy—a pimp by the name of Anton Chase. I can check in with him now and then—”
“I said yes, Chris. Jacob is more than capable of handling it. He could have had his gold shield a long time ago, but fool that he is, he wanted to stay in uniform.”
“But why?” She couldn’t understand anyone not wanting to be a detective.
Cappy shook his head. “I can’t say as I understand it myself. He tried to explain it to me once. Something about his brother and how he died on the job. You did know his brother was killed in the line of duty?”
“I heard.”
“It has something to do with a promise Jacob made to him before he died; something about taking over for him. You know how serious Jacob takes stuff like that.”
She nodded. If Jacob said something, you could lay money on it being true. If Jacob promised something, all nine hells would freeze over before he broke it and that was a fact.
“If Jacob chose Goodchilde to train,” Cappy went on. “The kid must be something special. I had better keep my eye on him. I don’t want to lose him to Newton or Hollenbeck.”
“Not very likely surely?”
“I’m not taking the chance. Meaweather knows Jacob, and he’s pulled some stunts in his time. I could tell you stories… but I won’t.”
Maeweather was currently commanding officer of Newton Community Police Station. There was friendly rivalry between them and most of the other captains.
“Do you want me to tell Jacob?”
“I’ll do it. I haven’t spoken with him in ages. It will be good to see him again.” He put the report aside and leaned back. “How are we doing on the Ghost?”
Chris sighed. “Do we have to call him that?”
“Not if you can give me his real name. No? Then the Ghost he shall be, unless you have a better suggestion.”
“How about Mister X?”
“Don’t like it.”
“Or the perp?”
“Too many perps around here already.”
She scowled. “Okay, Ghost it is. Raz has been working with a guy he knows over at Valley College. I’ve got to say that I don’t like the way things are going there.”
“In what way not like?”
“Jenny Lovett was murdered in a room at the Sutton Hotel. She was ripped to pieces and her blood used to write all over the walls.”
Cappy grimaced. “I read your report.”
“Raz recognised some of the graffiti as coming from this Book of Revelations thing, only it didn’t. When he showed his friends the photos—”
“He did what? Are you telling me Raz has been showing evidence to someone outside the department?”
“I gave him the okay, Cappy. We weren’t getting anywhere. I’ll take responsibility. The guy’s name is Radthorne, Michael Radthorne. He’s a professor of anthropology over at Valley College. Radthorne brought in Jennifer Lockstone to help him. Raz says we can trust them. He’s over there right now.”
She shifted uncomfortably at the look Cappy gave her. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair in silence and she began trying to think of an argument strong enough to placate him. Before she could come up with anything, he stopped the annoying drumming and leaned his elbows on his desk.
“Okay, I’ve heard of Lockstone, but I want to be notified before you bring in any other civilians on this case. You know what we’re dealing with as far as the media is concerned. The m
ore people you bring in, the greater the risk of a leak.”
“Okay. We really do need them on this. Radthorne seems to think that we might be dealing with more than one perp.”
Cappy’s eyes sharpened. “Oh?”
“I don’t say I agree with him. In fact, I don’t agree with him, but his reasoning is hard to refute assuming he’s right about the writing we found. Statistically it’s unlikely that a serial killer like our Ghost will share his kills. A one in ten chance.”
“There was Charles Starkweather and Carol Ann Fugate,” Cappy pointed out. “What about the others?”
“Sante and Kenneth Kimes, Gary and Thad Lewingdon, Alton Coleman and Debra Brown, and there was Lawrence Bittaker and Roy Lewis.”
“Why does Radthorne think we have a serial team?”
“Because of what was written at the scene of Jenny Lovett’s murder for one thing. There was a lot of weird stuff; ramblings about Satan walking the streets of Los Angeles, dead men coming back to life. All kinds of crazy stuff. It’s not what was written so much as how it was written that has got Radthorne so worked up.”
“The blood you mean?”
“Not that. The handwriting for one, though how he can tell Jenny Lovett’s murderer is left handed is beyond me. Our people are still on the fence about that. They say the sample is too small. They wouldn’t be able to tell much even if the perp hadn’t used blood and his fingers to write with. The thing is, Radthorne says that Sheryl Adams was killed by someone right handed. Patsy Jordan too.”
“Victims one and two. Weren’t they the ones—”
“Yeah,” Chris said grimly. “That’s what has me weirded out by Radthorne’s idea. The Ghost likes blond women. All of the victims were blond except for Patsy Jordan and Sheryl Adams who each wore a blond wig. Added to that circumstantial bit of evidence, is the fact the Ghost rips out his victims’ throat with, the coroner says, his teeth like a vamp.”
Cappy nodded. “Except victims one and two showed evidence of a knife being used.”
“Exactly! The coroner says he still used his teeth…” she felt faintly sick at the thought. “He ate some of Patsy and Sheryl’s throat after they’d been cut and they were probably dead. A vampire won’t do that. They can’t digest solids. Vampires can’t eat anything at all or they’ll get really sick. They can die even. The cuts were from left to right on the victims and inflicted from behind. Meaning the perp was probably right handed, but maybe he wasn’t too. Maybe he’s just ambidextrous.”
“Crap on toast. You didn’t tell Radthorne did you?”
“Of course not,” she lied. She had told him, but not until after he had made his presentation.
“So he found the odd ones out just by comparing the writings?”
“It seems like it, but there’s something else. We both know that serial killers escalate right?”
“Right.”
“Our only witness, Karen Sykes, was attacked first—at least we think she was first. Ghost hasn’t tried to hide the bodies and no one else has come forward. Karen was first, but she got away after a brief struggle. The first victim, the first dead victim, Patsy Jordan, was attacked with a knife and killed, but the thing was badly executed. Defensive wounds, blood and flesh under her nails, the whole bit. Patsy struggled and Ghost was sloppy. Patsy died hard. Then Sheryl Adams is attacked with a knife—neatly this time. She dies without a struggle. The third victim, Susan Winslow, is attacked and killed, but Ghost doesn’t bother with a knife. He’s better now, more confident. His learning curve is steep as hell. The fourth and fifth victims died without a struggle. Six and seven were found dead in hotel rooms and so was number eight, but she wasn’t like the others. Jenny Lovett was literally torn apart. I think he might have entered a new phase. We’re behind the game, Cappy. All we’ve learned might be useless if he’s escalated to a new or different level.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that. All we can do is keep working the evidence. When the next body turns up, we’ll know.”
“I hate this.”
“It’s the nature of the beast. We catch serial killers when they make a mistake. So far he hasn’t made even one.”
“Not quite. Karen Sykes survived.”
“Our only witness, but even with the description she gave us circulated by the newsies, no one has come forward.”
Chris shook her head absently. “That still amazes me. How can a guy look like he does and not be recognised? He’s an albino! I mean, I can’t even go down to the local deli without someone recognising me as that cop on the news. He has to eat, right? He must have a job, neighbours… friends?”
Cappy rubbed tired eyes. “I don’t know, Chris, but someone knows him. There must at the very least be a neighbour—someone who is protecting him because he or she just knows it’s all a mistake and their albino friend must be innocent. Such a quiet sort, they’ll say. Never hurt a fly. Helps take out the garbage.”
“Yeah.” She stood and made to leave. “I’ll keep you informed, Cappy. I’ll leave you to tell Jacob about his case.”
Cappy nodded and turned his attention back to the reports he had been reading.
Chris returned to her desk to brood. She idly played with the keyboard of her computer and then shoved it aside in annoyance. She was waiting for another murder she realised. She needed another murder to catch Ghost. It made her mad as hell knowing that without another body on the ground they wouldn’t catch the bastard. He could stop at eight and never be caught, but he wouldn’t do that. She hoped he wouldn’t and that made her feel guilty. Another hooker would die, and she would be glad because it would give her another chance to get him.
No, he wouldn’t stop until she stopped him. She usually had a sense of these things. It was sometimes spooky how she could get inside a perp’s head, but Ghost was different. She couldn’t read him. She couldn’t get a sense of what he was thinking except for the obvious compulsion to kill blond hookers. Maybe he had a wife, maybe she was blond. Or maybe his mother was a hooker and she was blond, or maybe his sister was. Maybe, maybe, maybe!
“Goddess, I need something concrete!”
“Try one of these,” Baxter said gesturing at his lunch. He was sitting at his desk across the aisle scarfing down ham and cheese on rye. “I swear this cheese must be as hard as concrete.”
“Heh,” she snorted.
She rummaged in the drawer of her desk and pulled out a street map. She stared at the eight red crosses not really seeing them but rather seeing the pitiful remains of the Ghost’s victims in their places. She had done this so many times now that she didn’t really need the map anymore. She could see the damn thing in her head.
The map was creased and worn where she’d folded it and refolded it trying to make it cough up some answers, but she just couldn’t see it. She flipped open the little electronic notebook that she kept with the map. It had notes taken from reports the task force had assembled on the victims and their deaths. Cappy had given them Interview Room 4 to use as an incident room, and ordinarily she would have made use of it, but Raz and Matt were still with Radthorne over at Valley College. John was attending the autopsy of Jenny Lovett and Chris was happy to leave him to it. She had attended the others with him, but Cappy had wanted to discuss Jacob’s case and her report. She was grateful for the excuse not to go. She had seen enough autopsies to know they gave her bad dreams for nights after.
So then, the task force, such as it was, was otherwise occupied and the incident room was empty. At least out here she had company. Besides, she knew all the data the room contained intimately well. She had helped compile it. She watched Baxter eating and contemplated picking a fight with him. If she snatched the apple from his lunch, he was sure to get upset. No, she didn’t have the energy to fight. All she wanted to do was pound the street for an hour or two like her uniform days. See the sights, chat with old acquaintances, and breathe the pollution for a while. John would go ape-shit if she went alone though. Her eyes narrowed and she quickly sw
ept the map and notebook into the open drawer. She locked it and rose to her feet.
“Hey!” Baxter snarled. “Give me that!”
Chris held the apple out of his reach. “I’ll trade you for it.”
“Gimme it before I hurt you.”
“Nuh-uh, the apple for an hour of your time.”
Baxter grinned. “I knew that you secretly lusted after me. I knew you couldn’t hold out forever.”
She snorted and tossed the apple to him, and then sat on the corner of his desk. “Want to go bust a few heads with me?”
Baxter beamed. “What a charming offer. Is this a date?”
“In your dreams. The others are all busy and I’m going stir crazy in here. We could walk around some dark alleys, maybe hassle some pimps, a few pushers—”
“Hookers?” Baxter said eagerly.
“There might be one or two early risers, yeah,” she said with a grin. It was early yet for the lot lizards to be out, barely after one in the afternoon and most worked nights. “What do you say?”
“I say: lead the way.”
“Great.” She grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair.
They made their way out to the parking lot. Chris instinctively headed for her car and Baxter went along. Everyone knew she got nervous when others took the wheel. They climbed in and she pulled out of the lot and into traffic to head south. Karen Sykes had been attacked and pulled into an alley while walking along South Union Avenue. She headed that way without even planning it.
