by Josh Lanyon
“Yes, you did always say that,” Kennedy agreed. Jason knew him well enough by now to know when Kennedy was being sardonic.
Gervase also recognized Kennedy’s sarcasm. His eyes kindled with irritation, but he restrained himself, instead reaching for his coffee cup and drinking from it.
That tensions were running high was understandable. They were now past the initial forty-eight. For local law enforcement forty-eight was the magic number. Most homicides were solved within that initial time span—or at least the information vital to solving the crime was provided within that window. Cases that didn’t resolve within the initial forty-eight might drag on for weeks, months, even years…or might never be solved.
From the FBI perspective, they were just getting started. The Bureau usually wasn’t even called in until well after the initial forty-eight hours had passed.
The real problem here was they had no idea when the unsub might strike again. Pink had waited years after Honey. And less than two weeks after Ginny. What his accomplice or apprentice might choose to do was anyone’s guess.
Kennedy said, “The problem with trying to match this scenario with your pet theory is that it doesn’t fit the profile. The Huntsman’s accomplice wouldn’t be someone who lures his victim into accompanying him. There is no coercion, no coaxing. Part of the pay-off for this offender is the abduction itself. The ability to overpower and take his victim against her will. That’s always been a fundamental component of these crimes.”
Gervase set his cup down. “We don’t know that. You said yourself we’ve got two different offenders. What worked for one might not work for the other.”
Kennedy gave an impatient shake of his head but didn’t bother to explain. Jason understood though. The police chief was talking about a leopard changing its spots. In this case the spots were psychological markers, but they were just as indelible.
“So we’ve got the same basic MO but two different profiles. Makes sense to me,” Gervase said.
“It makes sense to me too,” Boxner said.
“Our boy is having trouble shooting straight. Or shooting at all.”
Jason took that opportunity to look back at Boxner. “Now that I can see.” When he faced forward, Kennedy was watching him. His expression was unamused.
Gervase said mildly, “Unless this is the return of the Huntsman—and he’s really off his game.”
Kennedy grinned. It was a sharp, white smile. Dangerous.
Gervase grinned too. “Just sayin’.”
It was a long day.
There was a new stack of witness statements to go over as one by one the uninvited guests at Rebecca’s party were tracked down. Jason and Kennedy divided them up, but nothing stood out.
“She was a wild kid,” Jason said. “Not a bad kid.”
“No. Not a bad kid,” Kennedy agreed. “Spoiled. And not smart enough to know when to be afraid.”
That last would be the fault of Rebecca’s parents, who were at that moment down the hall in the chief’s office, demanding progress. Rebecca had grown up believing there was nothing money couldn’t buy because her parents believed there was nothing money couldn’t buy. Including justice.
There were some things no amount of cash or credit could put right.
When the final witness statements proved to be a dead end, Kennedy turned his attention back to tracking down Coral Nunn and Dr. Jeremy Kyser.
Or tried. Nunn was not talking to the FBI, and Kyser’s old number was disconnected. He did not appear to have a new number.
“He’s written three books,” Jason informed Kennedy, studying the iBooks listings. “Voices in the Dark: One Hundred Interviews with Death Row Inmates, Necrophilic and Necrophagic Serial Killers: Case Study Analyses, and the ever popular and bestselling Monsters Among Us: An Introduction to Psychopathy, Perversion, and Lust Homicide.”
“Sex sells,” Kennedy said absently.
They worked through the morning without much to show for it, but that was to be expected at this juncture of the investigation.
A little after one, Kennedy said, “You want to grab some lunch?”
Yes. He did. Jason said firmly, “I’ll get something later.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Kennedy said—and left Jason to it.
When Jason did finally step out for lunch about half an hour later, he called SAC Manning and explained the investigation appeared to be progressing, though not quickly, and he felt his own presence was unnecessary.
“I can’t agree with that, erm, conclusion, West,” Manning said. “I wouldn’t have assigned you to this case if I hadn’t believed your, erm, presence was necessary.”
“Sir, I’m not being falsely modest here. Kennedy has this under control. I’m not exactly sure what happened in Wisconsin—”
“I’ll tell you exactly what happened,” Manning cried. “That arrogant asshole nearly wrecked the investigation. He threatened to punch a county sheriff in his—and I quote—fat fool face on national TV. National TV, West. The governor’s own son-in-law.”
“Ah,” Jason said.
“And then he refused to apologize.”
“I see.”
“He is not a team player. He’s…” Words failed SAC Manning. He said, “The only reason I can, erm, sleep at night, West, is because I know you’re on the scene, I know I’ve got some, erm, insight, some intelligence into whatever happens from someone who is, erm, a team player.”
“Sir, you need someone here from the BAU. You need someone who can really assist Kennedy—not that he needs it—and I need to get back to my own team. My own duties.”
“I can’t trust anyone from the BAU,” Manning said. “No one in the BAU is going to report back to me if Kennedy, erm, steps out of line. No one in the BAU is going to help me build a case for, erm, disciplinary action against Kennedy.”
Neither am I.
Jason didn’t say it. Part of being a team player was knowing when to keep your mouth shut. In any case, Manning was still talking. As the Mannings of the world were wont to do.
“Besides which, West, you know as well as I do that all members of the, erm, ACT are subject to being, erm, moved to other units when and as needed. It’s part of your, erm, brief.”
Yes. That was true. As understaffed as the Art Crimes Team was, and as important as their work was, they were widely viewed as desk jockeys who could be shuffled from department to department as needed. Cogs in the wheel.
“How long before the case wraps up?” Manning asked briskly into Jason’s silence.
“There’s no way of knowing, sir. It could be weeks. The unsub is out there. He could strike again. It’s not like we’re closing in on him.”
“Good,” Manning said. “The longer you work with Kennedy, the more potential, erm, documentation. Documentation is everything. Remember that. You’re smart, you’re ambitious, West. You’re going places. And I’m going to owe you a favor after this. Now I’m afraid I’m running late for a, erm, meeting. I thank you for this, erm, update.”
And with that, Manning rang off.
Good? Manning considered a serial killer running loose good news because it afforded more opportunity to build a case against one of the Bureau’s most effective agents?
Jason tossed the rest of his sandwich in the trash and walked back to the police station.
When he reached the office he was sharing with Kennedy, Kennedy glanced at him and frowned. “Everything okay?”
Three days ago this much indication of interest or even awareness would never have happened.
“Yeah.” Jason sat down. “I want to look at the original crime scene photos.”
Kennedy’s brows rose. “Do you?”
What was that careful tone supposed to mean?
Well, okay, maybe Jason knew what it meant. It meant Kennedy was vaguely aware of Jason’s sensibilities. And so what?
Jason said, “The mermaids. I want to see what I can find on them. There’s got to be an angle there.”
&nbs
p; “I agree. We were never able to find it.”
“This is what I do. This is my turf.”
Kennedy went swiftly through the crime scene photos and handed over a stack. Jason accepted them without comment. He got it—and appreciated that Kennedy was sparing him from seeing what had been done to Honey. It didn’t matter how hardened you were, how jaded you grew, it was always different—always going to be terrible—seeing someone you knew as the victim of violence.
He found a magnifying glass in desk drawer and began to go over the photos of Rebecca’s crime scene with careful, painstaking attention, focusing on every detail of the mermaid charm.
Round, three-dimensional, highly polished…no more than two inches tall. He reached for one of the older photos.
He felt a jolt as he studied the small, pale, circular carving. He knew this one. Recognized it as the charm that had hung from Honey’s key ring. Remembered it so vividly, he could almost feel the delicate cut of the tiny fish scales beneath his fingertips.
He closed his eyes. Opened them. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by memory or emotion. He reached for the next photo. This mermaid was a fraction smaller and carved from a darker material. The shape was more oval than round. The style was the same, but the face and the scales on the tail were slightly different from Honey’s mermaid and slightly different from Rebecca’s.
Not mass produced then. Hand carved.
He laid all six photos in a row before him. Yes, they were different, but not that different. And as far as the naked eye could tell, these were by the same artist.
The hair on the back of his neck rose.
Was it possible this artist was still out there?
“Find something?” Kennedy asked.
Jason looked up blankly. “What?”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m almost positive it’s the same artist.”
Kennedy seemed to be waiting for more. “Okay,” he said when Jason didn’t continue.
“They’re all different, but the workmanship is so unique, so distinct. I’d swear it’s the same artist.”
“So the question is how did the unsub get hold of another mermaid charm?”
“Yes. Or…yes.” Was that the question? Probably. It was certainly a good one. How the hell had Rebecca’s murderer obtained one of these mermaids ten years after the last killing? Jason said, “I think if we knew who this artist was…”
“You think the artist himself is involved?”
It was sort of unnerving the way Kennedy instantly jumped to where Jason’s thoughts were headed even as Jason was deciding on a direction. “I don’t know. Why shouldn’t he be out there?”
“You tell me.”
Jason gazed at Kennedy. “You—the taskforce—never connected him—or her—to the crimes. Maybe this person was unaware her work was linked to a series of homicides. She might live out of state. She might live in another country.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“Or she might not.”
Kennedy was still watching, still waiting. For what? Some brilliant deduction? Some sign Jason was going to be of actual use in this investigation?
“Not all the original victims were found with mermaid charms,” Kennedy said. “Only five of the girls had them. We couldn’t be sure if the other charms were lost or if no charms were left at the scene. The first victim’s b—”
“Honey,” Jason said.
Kennedy gave him a quick look. “Yes. Honey Corrigan was not found with a mermaid. Correction. Her mermaid was hanging on the keychain in her car. In fact, that particular connection wasn’t made until some months after the Bureau joined the taskforce.”
“She’d bought that charm a few weeks before she…”
“Right. The others were purchased by Pink. He bought the last four mermaids in Simpson’s shop. You see the problem. There’s a six-year gap. Honey didn’t buy her charm from Simpson because Simpson didn’t own the gift shop at that time.”
“Who did own the shop?”
“Bethany Douglas. She moved to Oregon after she sold the shop to Simpson.”
“Douglas? Is she related to Patricia Douglas? Rebecca’s best friend? The girl she quarreled with Friday night?”
Kennedy looked startled. “I don’t know. I didn’t make that connection.” The look of surprised approval in his gaze made Jason feel warm.
And then like an idiot for being flattered.
“Was the Douglas woman questioned?” he asked.
“Yep. She was elderly and in poor health. She believed the charms were made by a local artist. She believed the artist was a woman, but she wasn’t sure and couldn’t remember the name or any details. She said Simpson had all that information. Simpson insisted there was no information to be had.”
“That should have sent up some flags.”
“It did.” Kennedy’s expression was wry. “Until we talked to a bunch of people who corroborated the gift shop’s ledgers and records were in complete chaos by the time Simpson stepped in.”
“Hm.” Jason stacked the photos and began sorting through them. “So Honey has a mermaid on her keychain, but then no mermaid turns up again until Jody. Then no mermaid until victim number six, Susan Parvel. And the remaining victim had a mermaid.”
“Correct.”
“And now Rebecca.”
“Again correct.”
“Got it.” Jason picked up the magnifying glass and resumed his examination of each and every mermaid.
Very interesting. Not at all typical New England nautical folk art. These almost reminded him of netsuke. Japanese miniatures sculpted out of ivory, shells, hardwoods, gemstones, or ceramics.
The subject matter was not typical of traditional netsuke though. At least he didn’t think mermaids figured largely in Japanese mythology.
Either way, he kept coming back to his conviction this was distinct craftsmanship. This was the work of an artist.
He was jolted out of his thoughts as Kennedy pushed back his chair and rose, saying, “I’m going to check out the original crime scenes.”
“Okay.” Was Kennedy expecting to pick up psychic vibrations or something? Or did he think it would be possible to pick up some overlooked clue this long after the fact?
Some of what Jason was thinking must have shown on his face because Kennedy added, “Mostly I need to clear my thoughts. Stretch my legs.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Right.”
That was clear enough—and a relief, of course. Jason had not expected that they would spend another night together. Had not been hoping for it. Had, by maintaining a cool distance, tried to convey he would not be open to it. So it was weird to feel that jolt of letdown.
He listened to Kennedy’s footsteps die out down the hallway and then turned on his laptop and began to search the web.
No joy.
Was it possible that Pink had acquired additional mermaids?
No. They would surely have turned up at his house. They’d have been used as evidence during his trial. They’d have been too important not to use. One reason they hadn’t been placed into evidence at Pink’s trial was the uncertainty of where they fit in. Not all of the victims had been found with mermaid charms.
You never wanted to enter anything into evidence which might lead in an unpredictable direction.
Anyway, no. The mermaids had been purchased through George Simpson’s gift shop. That mysterious old stock Simpson had been unable to match to a vendor.
What if Simpson was lying? He’d come under suspicion for some reason, and it had to be for more than owning the shop where the mermaid trinkets were sold. What if he had carved the mermaids himself and lied about it?
No. If Simpson had that kind of skill, there would be physical evidence of it. Plus, Honey’s purchase of the original mermaid messed up the timeline. Right?
Jason made a mental note to check Simpson’s file for himsel
f, see how he had first come under suspicion—and why those suspicions had been ultimately dismissed.
In the meantime…he used the office printer to scan a few of the photos and then emailed them to his list of dealer and gallery contacts.
They might get a hit right away or not at all. Probably not at all if these really were the work of a local artist or a gifted amateur.
Again, if that was the case, someone on the original taskforce should have recognized the work of a local craftsman. These carvings were exquisite.
Memorable.
Which gave him hope one of his own contacts might recognize the craftsmanship—or be able to point him in the direction of someone who would.
He felt instinctively that if they could just locate this mysterious artist, they would be one step closer to finding their killer.
Chapter Fourteen
“Goodnight,” Officer Courtney called when Jason left the quiet station house that evening.
“Night,” Jason returned.
That night the parking lot was nearly empty, an indicator Chief Gervase and his department had resigned themselves to the long haul and were trying to pace themselves.
Jason turned left and headed up Main Street, walking until he came to the General Warren Inn.
“I took your laundry up to your room,” Charlotte told him when he stopped by the lobby.
“Thanks.”
She looked like she had been crying. Her voice wobbled as she asked, “Do you know where Tony is?”
Proof of his preoccupation, it took Jason a minute to remember Tony McEnroe. “No,” he said. “Did he make bail?”
“Yes.” Charlotte started to add something, but her father called from the back office, “Charlie, can I see you for a moment?”
She threw Jason a look of frustration, but answered docilely, “Yes, Daddy.”
Jason left the lobby.
As usual no one was in the swimming pool, and most of the rooms were dark. Certainly there was no lamp shining behind the curtains in Kennedy’s room. Was he still prowling the countryside, visiting old crime scenes?
Jason let himself into his room. He was tired, and his headache was coming back, but he needed to eat and the idea of hanging around his motel room was just depressing. He showered, put on clean jeans and a fresh shirt, and headed over to the Blue Mermaid.
