Lucky Thirteen (The Raiford Chronicles Book 1)

by Janet Taylor-Perry

  Ray’s summation of the FBI men took thirty seconds. With some relief, the detective said, “Good to have you fellows. Maybe now we can get a little more work done.”

  He reached the credenza behind his desk and distributed a stack of files among the three. “Get busy.” he said dryly. “The table in the room across the hall is available.” He stood and rolled the portable white board with all the victims’ information on it toward the door so he could transfer it to the other room. He was tired of looking at it.

  “That’s all the space we get?” asked Agent Dantzler.

  Ray explained, “We’re not set up for what we’ve been given, gentlemen. There was only one other detective here before Chris came. Baker is handling all the other cases and running gofer for us. That’s why I asked for you. We don’t have the space or the manpower. At least you get the coffee pot,” he finished.

  Chris put in, “We’ll leave both doors open so we can holler and run back and forth.”

  “I see your situation.” Dantzler nodded his understanding. “We’ll make do. Is the coffee fit to drink?”

  “It is if Chris made it,” replied Ray.

  “Guilty!” She raised her hand.

  The three agents retreated to their assigned area, but the traffic and voices between the two rooms became frenzied. Even with all the activity, Ray kept a constant watch on the clock. At eleven, he leaned on Chris’s desk and whined, “He’s still not here.”

  “Relax, Ray,” she bit, irritation with her partner showing. “He’ll come. Something might’ve happened to delay him.”

  To take his mind off his brother, the detective ordered pizza delivered on the department’s tab. As the pizza arrived, Brian Baker stuck his balding, sandy-haired head in Ray’s office. Baker, a little older and a little heavier than Ray at thirty-five, five-eleven, and hundred ninety pounds had been Ray’s original partner as a rookie patrolman. “Y’all got a sec?” he asked, his hazel eyes looking askance.

  Ray almost choked. He stammered, “What is it? Is there a guy out there that looks like me?”

  “No,” Baker replied. “I hate to bother you, but my gut tells me you need to know this.”

  Gusting a sigh, Ray said, “Please, tell me Larkin Sloan’s body hasn’t been found.”

  “No, that’s not it, but I have twelve cases that are really strange. I don’t know if this is coincidence or connection to your case, but you need to know.”

  “Hold up. If this is connected, you might as well tell it once. Let’s step next door, and you can meet the FBI boys.”

  Grabbing a few folding chairs, Ray, Chris, and Baker joined Dantzler, Swift, and Journey. Ray introduced his former partner as Baker brought a stack of files with him and snagged a slice of pizza and a Coke.

  After choking down some food, he leaned back and commented, “Keep eating guys and gals while I unfold a tale of the macabre for you. You can decide whether it’s connected to your own horror story.”

  He took a swig of Coke and began. “The first thing that arouses my suspicion is the dates of death: November 22nd, December 15th, January 1st, February 2nd, February 20th, March 21st, March 23rd, May 1st, June 21st, July 4th, August 1st, and September 23rd.”

  “What the hell?” Ray shouted. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner with this? Those are the exact same dates my victims died.”

  “Yeah, I know. Man, you’ve been pulling your hair out over these women. My vics are all nobodies, drug addicts, homeless guys, or mentally unstable. They’re all different and insignificant, but it’s been plaguing me. It’s just too coincidental to be coincidence.”

  Ray whispered, “Walter Bertram’s one insignificant schizophrenic,” and shot Chris a knowing look.

  Chris prompted, “Baker, tell us more.”

  “Okay. All my guys were found within five miles of your vics. It’s just that they all died differently.” He spread out folders.

  “Victim number one was a homeless John Doe who was bludgeoned to death. One blow tells us somebody strong hit him and also knew exactly where to bash him to kill with one whack. Frontal lobe might not have been instantly fatal, but behind the ear—Doc said he was dead in seconds. A mass transit bus driver discovered the body under a bridge one mile from the cemetery where your vic was found.

  “Victim number two was a known bipolar named Chase Perineau. He was discovered shot in the head with the gun in his hand by his sister at his home, four miles from your vic number two. The M.E. ruled him a suicide.” Baker shrugged.

  “Vic number three is Bob Jones, a known heroin addict. He was found at home by his neighbor. His apartment is five miles from the cemetery. He has been ruled an accidental overdose.”

  Agent Journey abandoned his pizza and leaned forward in undivided attention.

  Baker continued, “Number four is Benton Campbell, a homeless man who frequented the missions and soup kitchens. He was found in the street gutter two miles from the cemetery by the street sweeper. His throat had been slit by a very sharp instrument, probably a scalpel.

  “My fifth victim is another homeless John Doe. He was suffocated with a garbage bag and left propped against the dumpster at the mortuary next door to the cemetery to be found like trash by the trash collector.

  “Six is a known meth addict and dealer, George “Baby” Bates. He was found by a group of kids in the driveway of a crack house three miles from the cemetery. He was shot in the back of the head execution style. Could it be drug or gang related? Sure. Still, the timing intrigues me.”

  By this time, even the skeptical Lawrence Dantzler had stopped eating and hung on Baker’s every word.

  “Seven is probably the most senseless in the group. He’s Dwayne Jolly, a mentally challenged man who lived in a group home half a mile from the cemetery. They always put these poor less-fortunates, who really try to be as normal as possible, in the worst locations because we normal folks are scared of them. Don’t get me started on that. My younger brother has Down’s, and it pisses me off when people treat him badly.” He waved a hand. “Anyway, the other residents of the home witnessed Dwayne being run over in a hit-and-run by a stolen black SUV with tinted windows. Of course, none of them could identify the driver, and the car had been reported stolen at least twelve hours before the incident. Moreover, there was not a speck of evidence in the vehicle when it was discovered. As a matter of fact, it appeared to have been detailed, and parked around the corner from where it was stolen.” Baker took a gulp of Coke.

  “Eight is John Weems, another homeless victim. He was found in his cardboard dwelling on the main homeless drag three miles from the cemetery. Routine patrol of the area found him with an ice pick through his temple.

  “Number nine is another homeless John Doe. He was strangled with a wire and found on a park bench across the street from the cemetery by a morning jogger. He was just a kid. The coroner guesses sixteen or seventeen since all his wisdom teeth hadn’t erupted. Hispanic, maybe illegal.

  “Frank Dozier is number ten. A veteran of the Gulf War, he was a homeless drunk. He was found in the parking lot of a liquor store four miles away. He had drunk a cocktail of booze and antifreeze.”

  “Homeless veterans piss me off,” Chris muttered and received affirming nods all around. “You’re on a roll, Baker. Don’t let me stop you.”

  “Tim Bourbon, a known schizophrenic, is the eleventh victim. He lived in the same apartment building as Bob Jones. Another resident found him hanging in the laundry room. Of course, he has been ruled a suicide. Scratch marks on his neck from his own nails, make me think otherwise. The M.E. says maybe he changed his mind, but it was too late. Could be, I guess.” He squinted his eyes in skepticism.

  “Last, is one more homeless John Doe. He was stabbed multiple times and found near Catholic Charity Hospital, which is only two and half miles from the cemetery. It appears he was trying to get to the hospital. A woman walking her dog found him. There was a trail of blood leading from the cemetery gate. You did touch on this one, Ray. Y
ou thought he might’ve witnessed something.”

  “Yeah, I remember that one.” Ray nodded.

  Baker passed around his files. “As you can see, there’s no racial discrimination or age discrimination. I’ve marked on this map where all the bodies were found.”

  Ray reviewed the evidence along with the FBI. The detective looked up. “I would say my killer has recruited multiple accomplices and then gotten rid of the witnesses. I’ll be damned if the next one dies.” Ray looked at Chris and pure rage showed in his face. “Baker, you’re my original partner, and now, I believe, you’re our new partner. You’re a part of this team now. There is definitely a connection here.”

  15

  Profiling a Killer

  “I agree,” commented Agent Journey. “Let’s look back at your victims, Ray. All of them had their throats cut by a very sharp instrument, maybe the same scalpel as Baker’s number four. Access to a scalpel indicates someone in the medical or scientific community.” He grimaced. “Every woman had her blood drained. We could be looking at a blood sacrifice of some kind.”

  “Sacrifice?” asked Ray.

  “Yeah. Don’t interrupt.”Journey held up his hand. His assertive response was the second step in proving to the cynical detective he was not a nerd. “All of them were dressed in a white dress that could be used as a wedding dress. None of them were married, and none of them were sexually assaulted.

  “Each one was placed reverently in the cemetery. That indicates a respect for the victims.”

  Ray snorted. “Respect?”

  “Reverence even,” the profiler asserted. “The bizarre aspect is the painting on the shaved pubic area. The drawings are strange. Chris, I saw you with one of these on your computer screen when we arrived. What have you found out about these drawings?”

  “Well, some of them have an obvious relationship to the date of death: Thanksgiving—a cornucopia; New Year’s—an hour glass; Groundhog Day—a hedgehog; Easter—an up-side-down cross, although it was early this year and fell in March; May Day—a maypole; Independence Day—a flag. I don’t have a clue what the others are,” she responded.

  “Obviously,” continued Journey, “the dates are significant.” He tapped the documents in front of him with the pen he held, and then chewed the end of his pen, grating Ray’s nerves. The detective let out a long impatient sigh.

  Journey looked up. Ray spread his hands in question.

  “Oh, sorry,” Journey said as he realized all eyes were on him. “Holidays?” The word sounded like a question.

  “I had that thought, too,” said Ray. “What holiday is celebrated on August 1st?”

  “Ask Jeeves,” quipped Baker.

  “What?” asked Ray.

  “My kids use the computer to find answers like that,” replied Baker. “Go to askjeeves.com and type in your question.”

  Ray jumped from his chair and ran to his computer. He was redirected to ask.com. He zipped back across the hall fifteen minutes later with a printout. “Fooyay! August 1st is called Lammas. It’s a Wiccan sabbat as are all the others we didn’t know. February 2nd and May 1st are also Wiccan sabbats, Imbolc and Beltane. We have the spring and fall equinoxes and the summer and winter solstices. I would never have realized the significance of these dates.” The detective gripped the papers and shook them slightly as he looked around the room. “December 15th is Yule. It’s the pagan holiday for which the Catholic Church more or less established Christmas so pagans would convert.”

  “Great!” Journey’s cry sounded like a cheer. “Now we have something to work with. Some of the other dates are significant, too. April 15th is tax day.” He snorted slightly. “Warped sense of humor to take the little rich girl on tax day, and September 1st was Labor Day this year as well as Easter falling on March 23rd. You’ve got a real sicko on your hands, Ray.” He leaned back and steepled his fingers, putting the tips of his index fingers to his lips. “I’m going to say the first part because it’s the norm. Your killer is probably a white male between twenty-five and forty-five. That’s the profile of most serial killers, but it is not written in stone.”

  The agent leaned forward onto his elbows resting on his thighs. “Your guy is way above average intelligence, probably well educated. He’s very religious and was most likely raised Catholic. Somewhere along the line he became disillusioned with the church and explored alternative religion. He apparently appreciates Wiccan beliefs and probably dabbles in the occult—maybe more than dabbles. He’s very patriotic. There’s a good chance he’s former military.” He lowered his hands. “I say that because of the choice of weapons on his accomplices, a garrote and an ice pick, as well as a high-powered hand gun on the drug dealer. Has the slug been traced to any particular gun?”

  Baker shook his head negatively.

  Journey pushed against his thighs, bringing himself up straight. “He’s very strong. He has moved bodies alone and delivered a death blow with one lick. And he’s charismatic. He can get these men to help him.” Journey’s thin eyebrows disappeared behind his glasses as he thought. “Hmmm?”

  “What does ‘hmmm’ mean?’” asked Ray.

  “I had a fleeting thought this case could involve a woman.”

  “Why?” Ray asked, pinching his temples with a finger and thumb. No headache, please.

  “Well, to get these men to follow…” Journey began.

  “The promise of drugs, healing,” Ray argued.

  “Could be, but let’s not rule out a woman as unusual as that is. Remember that there was no sexual assault. Whatever is going on here, it’s not about power. Rape is about power. The way the bodies were treated after death shows great respect, even admiration, for the female victims. On the other hand, your killer hates men. Their corpses were treated with disdain.” Journey sat up very straight. “The lack of sexual assault could indicate a woman or a homosexual or somebody that just can’t get it up. Too, Wicca is what modern day witches are called. It’s a recognized religion and actually celebrates Nature. However, most of the people I’ve met that really hold to Wiccan beliefs are female.” He held up one hand to preclude Ray’s argument. “There are some men, but it really seems to appeal to women, maybe because they see Nature as a goddess. Nonetheless, the killings of the women are ritualistic, a religious sacrifice. So, this person has totally perverted all the religions involved. Your killer is a Wiccan wannabe because if he or she really was serious about the craft, he or she wouldn’t be killing anybody.” He let out a low whistle.

  “My biggest dilemma is determining how the female victims were chosen.” He scratched his head. “All the males had a need or illness that could be used and manipulated. The promise of healing or a home, as you said, Ray, is a big incentive. Your killer chose men that society holds in low esteem, men nobody would miss.”

  Journey scrunched his face in thought. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a black ponytail holder, and gathered his long hair into a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

  Okay. So he’s brilliant. Ray raised an eyebrow. “What else is on your mind, Steve?”

  “I’m thinking.” He rubbed his hand across his lips several times. “There’s some correlation in having suffered or sacrificed something. Several of the women worked in a service-related capacity. Look here.”

  The profiler pointed to several names. “The first woman must have suffered greatly after the car accident that left her scarred. The nun’s heart must have been broken after being jilted at the altar.”

  He wagged his head. “The Waters woman sacrificed for her country. The social worker helped people. Even your latest victim, the missing woman, had a really rough childhood, and she’s a teacher, which is service oriented.” He emitted a low growl. “Damn! It’s so disconnected.”

  Ray grunted, “That’s what I’ve been saying for months.”

  Journey shrugged. “Your notes indicate some of the women weren’t very hospitable, like your reporter. I don’t know, Ray.” The profiler grimaced. “The good news
is that your Larkin Sloan has until Halloween.” He closed the file with authority. “That’s the biggest Wiccan holiday of all. It’s the Celtic New Year. If this has some link to the occult, your killer might have figured she has a gift that might make connecting with the spirit world more profound.”

  “She sings,” Ray said. “But I couldn’t find a ‘talent’ for any of the others.”

  “Not that kind of gift,” Journey clarified. “Something that would make her ‘spiritually’ special. Wiccans believe this holiday coming up is when the veil between this world and the other world is thin. Your missing woman has until Halloween.”

  “Eleven days,” mused Ray. “God, I hope we find her before that, and I have a good idea who the other male victim will be.” He looked at Chris again. She gave him an encouraging nod.

  He nodded back and said, “Gentlemen, I have another unbelievable story to tell you.”

  16

  The Man in the Mirror

  Larkin stretched and yawned as her eyes opened slowly. She actually felt rested. Looking around briefly, she realized it must be afternoon as the shadows were already long. She sat up. “Ray!”

  “Huh?” he asked groggily

  “Wake up!” she said frantically.

  “What’s wrong?” Blue eyes stretched open, wide awake.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Oh, my God!” Ray shouted as he looked at his watch he had taken when he went home. “How could I have slept so long?”

  Larkin calmed down. “It’s all right.” She looked at her wrist. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

  Ray had run an extension cord to the basement from an outdoor outlet and attached a multi-plug to which were hooked a lamp, a coffee pot, a toaster, and a small refrigerator. Last night he had added a small space heater for the wine cellar was quite chilly. Except for the refrigerator and the lamp, they plugged in the appliances as needed since the wiring in the building was antiquated and potentially hazardous.