He wrapped his hand with a napkin from the convenience store that sat on the hood near the hardening remains of his burrito.
Now, he thought, I say it’s time to move on to Houston and go to work. Time to get back to the goal of ridding mothers and potential mothers from the face of the earth before there are millions of fucked up Ricky Lee Charneys burning their hands near lakes. Time to pluck those oh so delicate orbs from their sockets and see how fucking sexy they look then.
All supporting this motion say aye.
Aye!
All opposed say nay.
The eyes had it.
CHAPTER 18
Harlson sat behind his desk in the police station, glancing at his wristwatch.
9:45AM
He kicked back in his swivel chair. He had fifteen minutes until FBI agent Thomas Lubin was set to arrive with his entourage. Harlson looked around the squad room, which was fairly quiet that morning since a good portion of the officers on the daily roster were already out on the streets. A few detectives were pouring over paperwork at their desks or hurriedly completing delinquent reports.
Captain Thadius Fowler had the blinds to his office closed, which suited Harlson just fine. He couldn’t stand gazing up at that porky, pale windbag, anyway.
Harlson was convinced that he could have had Fowler’s job if he was as willing to kiss the commissioner's ass as often as Fowler did. Harlson had seniority, but he also had the pride of not being a brown-noser.
He noticed Sergeant George Skinner checking the daily roster posted on a huge bulletin board.
Skinner was a decent cop who followed procedure like it was religion. He was a family man, and he stayed out of the department politics, adhering to a self-imposed moral code that his superiors agreed would never put him in the position of a major advancement.
He was a rare breed of blue-collar cop- an honest man who always paid for his coffee and never took advantage of being a cop no matter how tough times got.
Harlson really respected him for that.
“Hey, George,” Harlson called across the room. “How’s the wife? Does she still call out my name in her sleep?”
George regarded Harlson, and then he smiled and walked toward Harlson’s desk.
“Only when she’s having a nightmare,” George replied, leaning his ass on the desk next to Harlson.
George had light hair and a youthful complexion. He wore glasses and he looked a bit on the nerdy side. His sociable face took on a shade of concern. “Geez, Will, you look terrible. Are you feeling okay?”
“Just having a bout with that stomach virus that’s going around,” Harlson said, reassuringly. “I’ll be right as rain by tomorrow."
"Try a B12 shot. They are miracle workers," George advised. Then he rose. “I better grab my partner and hit the streets. Take care, Will.”
“Same to you, sport,” Harlson said, watching George leave the station.
The door to Captain Fowler’s office opened, and Fowler’s fat face protruded through the doorway.
“Harlson,” he called. “Come in here for a minute.”
Harlson groaned. What the fuck does that guy want? he wondered. Christ, he had to be in the conference room in five minutes.
He went to the office and he stepped inside.
Fowler sat behind his desk, which was kept in fairly decent order, a few open files spread over the monthly planner in front of the captain. The walls to Fowler’s office were bare, with the exception of a portrait of the captain winning a marathon, to benefit some charity, when he was a fairly young man. Harlson didn’t know what peeved him more: the captain being a major ass-kisser or an organized cop.
Fowler was fat. The man was pushing well over two hundred pounds on a frame barely six feet high. He was bald on top. A bandage covered a scrape above his forehead. Though clean and presentable, he always seemed somewhat unkempt to Harlson.
“What can I do for you?” Harlson asked, arms crossed at his chest.
“Have a seat,” Fowler offered politely, motioning to the plain, wooden chair positioned in front of his desk.
“I only have a few minutes to spare before Agent Lubin arrives,” Harlson said.
“I won’t keep you long,” Fowler promised, glancing down at the report in front of him. “So, Lucas Glover didn’t come up with anything, huh?”
“Nothing that will help at this point.”
Fowler closed the file and he looked up at Harlson. “I’m going to be honest with you, William. The mayor is breathing down the commissioner’s neck, which means he’s breathing down mine. Now, I’ve shuffled all of your present cases between Hughes, Teague and McGuire. I want all of your attention focused on the Keepsake Killer. We have to bring this bastard in. When Lee Brown was elected mayor, yet again last year, it took a lot of pleading and promises on the commissioner’s part to convince him that we all deserved our jobs. He has it in for us over this case. We bring in the Keepsake Killer in a timely fashion or there will be dire consequences. I want daily reports from you. Daily.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Harlson said, standing to leave.
“Yeah,” Fowler said, put off. “You do that. Well, I’m off to meet the mayor for a business brunch. Let me know how the briefing goes. And, William, you’re looking pretty peaked. You should play a few holes with the commissioner and me soon. Get a little sun.”
“No, thanks,” Harlson said, opening the door. “Golf sucks.”
***
Lucas was standing near Harlson's desk when he saw the detective emerge from the chief's office.
"You been waiting long?" Harlson asked.
"Nope. Just got here," Lucas assured him.
“Let’s get over to the conference room,” Harlson suggested, leading Lucas to the corridor. “We’ve got a busy morning ahead of us.”
“What’s the plan?” Lucas asked.
“We’re meeting with the FBI. We’re going to reexamine all of the evidence, then let you have a go at some of the victim’s personal articles. Can you handle that?”
“Sure,” Lucas said, sidestepping a convoy of cops in a hurry.
Harlson pulled open the door to the conference room and he ushered Lucas inside. Five people were seated at the long, brown table in the middle of the beige-walled room.
A whiteboard had been erected behind the table. Lucas studied the people assembled in the room: one black man, one white man, both dressed in dark, conservative suits. Their perfect grooming indicated FBI. One pretty young woman in a jacket and skirt, bland and grayish in color that also signified FBI. One Hispanic woman in a loud floral business blouse and a large sunburned man whose western suit and white cowboy hat advertised that he was a Texas Ranger.
The group was filling coffee cups from the metal pots at either end of the table and they were chattering among themselves. Harlson, with Lucas in tow, approached the lead FBI agent who was a stout, thoughtful looking character with curly brown hair.
The man’s thin lips wore a warm, reassuring smile that sparked off the determination in his eyes.
“Agent Lubin,” Harlson interrupted the man, who was conversing with the timid-looking female agent. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet. Special Agent Thomas Lubin, this is Lucas Glover. Lucas, this is Special Agent Lubin, the Field Case Officer for this investigation.”
Lubin gripped Lucas’ hand in a firm handshake. “I’ve heard a lot about you from the department. It’s a pleasure to have you on our team,” Lubin said, nodding slightly and jerking Luke’s arm vigorously.
“Thanks,” Lucas replied.
“Let me introduce you to the rest of the crew,” Lubin offered, patting Lucas on the back.
“Could I have everyone’s attention, please,” Lubin spoke in a booming voice that drowned out pleasantries and comments on the escalating summer heat.
“I would like for everyone to meet Lucas Glover, a psychic assistant to the department who has had a very respectable track record with missing persons. From this m
oment on, Mr. Glover is to be considered a cleared insider to this case. Please oblige him in any request he may have of you,” Lubin announced. “I’ve read several of Mr. Glover’s books and I have every confidence that he will be an invaluable asset to our team.”
Lubin turned his attention back to Lucas. “This is Special Agent Sally Lane,” Lubin said, pointing to the agent in the gray suit. Her hair was pulled back by a headband.
Lucas looked at her more closely.
The woman was attractive, with soft features that radiated a natural blush and a facial structure that reminded Lucas of Greta Garbo- from the petite smudge of her nose to the mysterious dark eyes of hers that searched the psychic. She had a penetrating stare that sought you out- held you spellbound until she had extracted all she could to formulate her impression of you.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Agent Lane said, lightly grasping Luke's hand. Her eyes still held his. “I’ve read your books, too. I think you’re a fascinating man.”
“Thank you,” Lucas said, miserably tearing himself away from those sensual eyes when he remembered that he was a married man.
Lubin continued the introductions, motioning to the black agent seated at the conference table. “This is Rodney Stuart, one of the best workaholics in the forensics field.”
Stuart was a tall, well-built man who wore glasses and had a very short haircut. Rather than stand and walk across the room, he held up his hand and said, “How’s it going?”
“The charming lady next to Agent Stuart is Dr. Evelyn Perez, police psychologist.”
Perez, a hefty, middle-aged woman with a serious set to her features that offered no pleasantries, other than the barest curl of a smile, nodded at Lucas and she muttered something scarcely audible, that Lucas thought was simply, "Hello.”
“And at the end of the table we have Texas Ranger, James Whittley. Officer Whittley is handling the manpower on Interstate 45.”
Whittley was a stern-looking man with a weathered face and a jaw that looked as strong as concrete. He was somewhere in the area of fifty, and his silent presence carried an air of iron-fisted experience and impatience at sitting at a table when there was a killer to be dealt with. Whittley was extremely husky, the sort of husky that could put a stout man in the hospital.
“Hey there,” Whittley said, with an emotionless expression that dared not betray any observation.
“Now that the introductions are out of the way,” Lubin said, sharply clapping his hands, “let’s get down to the nitty-gritty.”
Lucas and Harlson took their seats. Lubin continued to stand, motioning to Harlson.
“We were all acquainted with Detective Harlson at our last briefing. I think I speak for everyone present when I say that it’s good to have an officer of your caliber on this case. I read your history on the force, which could have given the Donnelley directory a run for its money in sheer width. I couldn’t help but notice in the reports that you are considered somewhat of a lone wolf. I hope we can stay in synch on this one, detective,” Lubin said politely, staring directly into Harlson’s eyes.
Harlson returned the smile, lighting a cigarette though there wasn’t an ashtray on the table.
“If you can keep up with me,” Harlson replied.
Lubin regarded Harlson for a moment, his ever-present smile wavering slightly.
He nodded respectfully at the detective. “We’ll certainly try. I realize that this case has been handed down to all of us this year, and I hope that everyone in this room realizes that the only way to stop this madness is to work together. The track record of this investigation is very intimidating, but we all have a fresh perspective that might enable us to accomplish what those who were on this case before us could not.”
Lubin finally sat down. “Now then, on to the first order of business," he said. "Agent Lane, if you would be so kind as to tell us what we know about the killer.”
Agent Lane opened a manila folder and she sifted through paper. “We haven’t been able to come up with anything more than in the previous years of this investigation. We did find a strand of his hair near the Lopez murder site last month. After analyzing the hair, we determined him to be a Caucasian somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty to seventy years old.”
"That was all we were able to get?" Lubin asked.
"Hair is generally a very overvalued DNA sample," Sally explained. "Results are limited depending on the concentric layer present in the evidence. We were dealing with the cortex and we scraped it for all that we could."
"I just have to say this for the record," Whittley said. "Sixty to seventy years old? That's a pretty ripe age. I am ten years from the big six oh and I can guarantee you that I am not strong enough to do what this crazy bastard does to his victims. You sure that test of yours was accurate?"
Sally nodded, confidently.
"We also performed a microbial analysis on some alanine we found in a bite mark," Agent Stuart added. "Our killer is a senior citizen."
"The AARP would be proud," Harlson chimed in.
"While it may be hard to believe that someone in his age range could be so physically strong, we have to trust the evidence," Lubin reminded everyone. He turned to Sally. "Please continue."
“By examining his stride,” Agent Lane said, “we can put his height at between six foot three to five and his weight at approximately two hundred pounds. And this is all we can determine about the killer at this stage. We have actually managed to find prints at six of the murder sites in the past two years. Unfortunately, according to our computers, the killer doesn’t exist. No priors.”
“Very good,” Lubin said, directing his attention to Agent Rodney Stuart. “What do you have for us at this juncture, Rodney?”
Agent Stuart sighed and he rubbed his weary eyes. “I’ve been burning the midnight oil on Tonya Lawley, but I haven’t been able to come up with anything more than the usual results. I can tell you that the killer uses a blade approximately eleven inches in length, three inches in width. He carries the knife in a leather sheath. He seldom uses a gun anymore and he never leaves ammo in the remains when he does. He takes the heads of his victims at least half the time. We don't know why he doesn't always take the head. He also takes their limbs and sections of flesh and meat cut from their backs, flanks and haunches. So, we all have a good indication of what that means, although we have been instructed not to use the c-word."
"We don't need an all out panic out there," Lubin said. "That's how innocent people start getting shot in the streets."
"His primary weapon is the knife," Agent Stuart continued. "Sometimes, he tears his victims open with his teeth. On the Lopez victim, our man bit her on her left breast, two centimeters above the nipple. All of his teeth are pointed. The marks are not the work of dentures, however. I would say the killer's teeth have been crudely filed. You know, if this son of a bitch ever stepped outside in broad daylight, he wouldn’t be that hard to spot.”
“The night can conceal many mysteries,” Lubin rang in. “And when the night is gone the killer has miles of heavy forest to retreat into. Needle in a haystack.”
Lubin looked to Ranger Whittley. “Your turn, James.”
Whittley shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’ve got as many men as I can spare cruising from here to Huntsville. The Highway department is out there too. The killer’s latest victims have been found in areas between Houston and Dickinson, so I’ve got the majority of my crew closer to Houston. This bastard snuck into our backyard when he killed Tonya Lawley, so now I’m going to pull my men closer to the city. The only problem with that is that now the killer will probably strike further up 45. I’ve tried to second guess him before, and I’ve found that’s impossible. It’s almost as if the guy knows where we’re going to be.”
Sixth sense, maybe? Lucas wondered. He wasn’t going to bring up the possibility right now, though.
“Anything else, James?” Lubin asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” the big man replied.
/> Lubin nodded and then he turned to Dr. Evelyn Perez, who was dropping two antacid tablets into a glass of water. “Evelyn?”
Dr. Perez frowned. “The only thing I can offer is my confusion at the killer’s methods. I mean, his psychosis seems to run in a cycle. So I compared the victims to lunar phases on the nights that they were killed. The Keepsake Killer's victims during a new moon are killed in traditional ways. But, as the month progresses, as the full moon draws closer, he seems to grow in savagery and he tears into his victims like a wild beast. That transition- cutting them up and working on them like a butcher. Then, suddenly, he attacks his victims claw and tooth, leaving a chaotic path to contradict his earlier patience and accuracy.
“Now, if he constantly changed his MO, I could chalk that up to psychotic genius. But his sickness has only two real stages. Two manifestations. Cycles. I thought about moon cycles, and at first I discounted one. When a killer follows a moon cycle, the crimes almost always occur on a lunar event. Then I realized that he didn’t follow the traditional cycle. Full moons definitely affect sociopaths. That’s elementary stuff. But his savagery grows or shrinks by the measure of the moon.”
“So what are you implying, Evelyn?” Lubin asked.
“Clinical lycanthropy. I think our killer believes himself to be a werewolf, or some other type of non-human animal,” Dr. Perez replied. "But there isn't the usual inner conflict or a sense of schizophrenia at work here. He is at peace with himself. This is indicative of a belief system that was instilled in him. The Keepsake Killer takes lives, no matter what the lunar phase. This is a very unusual cycle."
Lucas suddenly thought of his nightmare. The waiter with a wolf’s head. He thought of the late Bertha Hobbs, shouting about a wolf before being committed. What he believed had been a fruitless first stab at the case might have given him something after all.
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