Cavanaugh Pride

by Marie Ferrarella

  The M.E. had determined that she’d been dead approximately thirty-six hours and that her murder had occurred at a location somewhere other than the site of the Dumpster.

  Like the others, she’d been strangled but not sexually violated. Also like the others, she was blond, slender, under the age of forty and with no known family in the state.

  And that was where the connection appeared to end. Again.

  “Now we’ve got an equal number of women from both walks of life,” Frank observed with a mounting feeling of disgust. “Five of each.”

  He’d long since discarded the notion that the women were picked at random solely for their looks. The fact that the victims had no families in the immediate area was too much of a coincidence.

  “Somehow, some way, the killer knew his victims.” Frank repeated the obvious out loud for what seemed like the umpteenth time. “He studied them before he moved in for the final kill.”

  Hill frowned, moving out of a C.S.I.’s way as the latter searched the scene for anything out of the ordinary that could be tied to the murder. “Hey, it sounds plausible, but—”

  “I know. How?” Angry at the way the killer seemed to be thumbing his nose at them, Frank looked at the assembled team. “I don’t have an answer. Yet,” he emphasized. But he was going to find one, he silently vowed, and soon. “So we start at the beginning. Sanchez, canvas the area. Maybe someone saw something. A car that shouldn’t have been there, someone lugging a rolled up rug. Something, anything that stood out or struck them as off or odd. Riley,” he turned to his sister, “you and Hill go to Geneva Labs and see if anyone there can shed any light on Anastasia’s lifestyle after hours. Get a list of the doctors she gave out samples to on a regular basis.”

  Julianne looked at him. “You think this could be the work of a doctor?”

  “Right now, I don’t know what to think,” he said honestly. “But I’m open to anything.” He got back to assignments. “I’m going to check out the victim’s apartment.” The address he had was for a trendy part of the city, a newly built apartment complex directly across from a popular, recently expanded shopping center. “Julianne, you’re with me.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Frank caught his sister’s badly hidden smile. Now wasn’t the time to take her aside and ask questions as to what she thought she knew. Everything else, including his personal life, was going to have to be placed on hold until they got this maniac off the streets. At this present pace, it wouldn’t be long before he was killing a woman a day.

  “Okay, people. We’ll compare notes when we get back to the precinct,” he told them. “Now let’s go get this bastard.”

  The apartment complex where Anastasia had lived boasted several pools and Jacuzzis, two fully equipped exercise rooms and a “common” area that was anything but. It was the last word in single living and Julianne sincerely doubted any space went for under three grand a month.

  It struck her as a sinful waste of money.

  Their latest victim’s apartment was located in one of the complex’s corners. It came with a view of the shopping center’s imported Ferris wheel.

  “My God, I didn’t think anyone short of a celebrity lived like this,” Julianne murmured more to herself than to Frank as the landlord unlocked the door to Anastasia’s apartment.

  She took a moment to look around and get her bearings. Spacious with cathedral ceilings, the split-level living quarters were completely done in white, from the rugs to the walls to the furniture.

  The landlord backed away, taking his leave as he said something about needing to rent the apartment out as soon as possible.

  “I feel like I’m lost in a blizzard,” Frank commented with a shake of his head. Then he looked down at the floor again. “At least anything out of place will be easy to spot. I’ll take the bedroom,” he told her. “You take that room.” He nodded toward what appeared to be a guest room. It was furnished in white as well.

  The guest room doubled as an office. Maybe she’d get lucky and find something, Julianne mused. Pulling on her rubber gloves, she sat down at the snow-white desk and opened the deep, single side drawer. The drawer was heavy, filled with folders. All white, all neatly labeled. Julianne went through them one at a time.

  For the most part, the folders contained current receipts obviously saved for tax purposes. Behind the folders was an array of expanding manila envelopes. Those housed tax forms from the previous years. They covered the last five. Her time with Geneva Labs, Julianne thought.

  She flipped through the collection methodically and noted that four of the 1040 and 540 packets had been handled by a firm called Myers and Sons. The most recent one, however, carried the stamp of another accounting firm, Harlow & Higgins. Beneath the stamp was an all but illegible signature.

  Julianne stared at it, trying to make out the person’s name. She angled it for better light.

  “Anything?” Frank asked, walking in. “All I found out was that our victim had a taste for expensive clothes and even more expensive lingerie—lots of it. I’m hoping you had more luck.”

  “Probably not,” Julianne answered. She was acutely aware of the scent of his cologne as he stood behind her chair, looking over her shoulder. Trying to block it out, she held up the tax forms. “Until last year, Anastasia had her taxes done by the same firm.”

  Curious, Frank asked, “What happened last year?”

  “She switched. I have no idea if that means anything or not.” She held up the back side of the 1040 form so that Frank could get a look at the signature of the man who’d prepared it.

  Tax accountants. Now there was an angle they hadn’t explored. Did that sound as desperate as he thought? Frank felt as if he was clutching at straws, but who knew? Wasn’t it about time that someone besides the serial killer got lucky?

  He squinted at the signature, then looked at Julianne. “Who did the other women’s taxes?”

  She didn’t remember finding any tax forms, but then, she hadn’t looked. “I don’t know.”

  They had nothing else to go on. This was as good as anything. “Let’s find out.”

  Four trips to four different upscale apartments later, they had their answer. And a possible reason for some excitement.

  Each of the dead career women had had their taxes done by the same firm as the last victim: Higgins and Harlow. Not only by the same firm, it turned out, but also by the same senior accountant: Gideon Gifford.

  “Think that’s the connection between murders?” Julianne asked, almost afraid to hope as they left the last apartment.

  “Any connection at this point could be something,” he told her.

  “Okay,” she agreed, “Let’s say it is. But how does that connect with the five prostitutes?” God, but it killed her to have to include Mary in that group. “They wouldn’t even file tax forms, much less make use of an accountant.”

  Frank started up the car. “That’s what we need to find out,” he answered. He set his mouth grimly. “Maybe Mr. Gideon Gifford can shed some light on that little detail for us.”

  Gideon Gifford was an amiable middle-aged, slightly overweight man who wore rimless reading glasses. His somewhat faded brown hair was receding daily, leaving him with an ever expanding forehead. In the middle of wrestling with a complex computation, he seemed relieved to take a break.

  His smile was wide and welcoming as the firm’s administrative assistant brought them into the man’s office.

  Unlike the accountants who did their work while housed in small, mazelike cubicles scattered throughout the floor, Gifford had a corner office with a panoramic view of the city’s skyline.

  On his back wall were a number of framed photographs strategically arranged and permanently freezing Gifford with prized clients and a number of other, famous people, one of whom Frank recognized as the last mayor of Aurora. There were also framed diplomas, one from Stanford and another from Yale’s graduate school.

  Next to those were plaques commemorating his selfless go
od works for the Boy Scouts, his local church and a several other organizations to which he’d either donated a good deal of his time or money—or both.

  Gifford’s desk had several more framed photographs, but these were more personal. They were of his family. A wife, two daughters and a son. There was also a dog. In all, it looked like the perfect American family.

  “My wife gets the full credit for the way the kids turned out,” Gifford joked. “I put in long hours and don’t get to be home as much as I’d like. I’m planning on cutting back,” he confided to Frank.

  Frank noted that Julianne was oddly quiet and wondered why. “What changed your mind?” he asked the man, pretending to be interested.

  Gifford grinned. “Heard that song the other day, the one that goes nobody ever died saying, ‘I should have spent more time in the office.’ It suddenly hit me that the song could have been about me.”

  Gifford went on talking, answering Frank’s questions, including mentioning his whereabouts the nights of the deaths, and volunteering more information than was called for. And then he lowered his voice and confessed that part of his reason for wanting to cut back was because he’d realized that four of the women who’d been murdered had been his clients.

  “I’m not normally superstitious,” he quickly explained. “But I’m beginning to think that maybe I’m bad luck. My wife tells me I’m crazy, but…” His voice trailed off as he shrugged.

  “Your wife’s probably right,” Frank told him easily. Because, for now, he had no more questions, just points to ponder, and because Julianne had remained silent through the entire interview, Frank said goodbye and left Gifford’s office.

  Julianne lengthened her stride to keep up with him as they walked out of the building.

  “After a while, I started to get the impression that I was questioning the male version of Mother Teresa,” Frank commented.

  “Maybe that was what he wanted you to feel,” Julianne suggested. She’d spent the whole time studying the man, listening to his answers. Watching his body language as he spoke. Searching for inconsistencies.

  “Maybe,” Frank allowed. He couldn’t help wondering what was going on inside her head. “You were awfully quiet back there.”

  She had her own agenda to attend to. “You were doing fine without me.”

  No, there was more to it than that, Frank thought. He was willing to bet on it. “He had a plaque on his wall from St. Vincent de Paul’s Homeless Shelter for his hours of selfless work.”

  Their eyes met just before she got into the car. “I know.”

  “You’re not buying into it?” he asked.

  Buckling up, she waited until Frank had gotten in before continuing. She answered his question with a question of her own. “Did you notice his eyes when he was talking?”

  Looking in the rearview mirror, Frank backed out of the parking space. “No.”

  “I did. They were flat. Inscrutable. Eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul—unless you don’t have one.”

  The way she said it, Frank had the impression that she considered Gifford to belong to that group. Before he could ask what made her think so, she began telling him a story.

  “I once knew a boy with eyes like that, back when I lived on the reservation.” She stared straight ahead, remembering. “Richard Eagle. He was a few years older than I was at the time.” She took a breath before adding, “He took extreme pleasure in torturing and killing animals.”

  They both knew that those were the classic signs of a budding serial killer. “What happened to him?”

  “He disappeared after killing a dog that belonged to one of the tribe’s elders.”

  Frank spared her a glance. Her expression gave nothing away, forcing him to ask, “Did this Richard Eagle run away or—?”

  She had her own theories on that. The reservation was a law unto itself, and the outside world couldn’t interfere.

  “Nobody ever said,” she told him, then added, “but if I had to guess, I think it was probably ‘or.’” A hint of a satisfied smile played on her lips. It was obvious, though she said nothing more, that she thought that justice had been served.

  “Gideon Gifford?” the director at St. Vincent de Paul’s Homeless Shelter repeated the name less than half an hour later. His round face lit up. “Sure I know him. Gideon’s one of our best volunteers. Probably the best one,” Wilcox amended. “Shows up when he says he will. Stays later than he has to.” He sighed, looking over his shoulder at the chaotic common room where several of their current homeless people were gathered. “I wish I had a dozen of him.”

  Not if he turns out to be who we think he is. For now, Julienne kept the comment to herself.

  Frank gave voice to her thoughts, though his words were only audible to her. “You might want to change that wish.”

  The director wrinkled his wide forehead, apparently hearing only Frank’s tone but not what he’d actually said. “What?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nothing. Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

  The director stared after them, obviously confused as to why the detectives had come by and then only asked him about his star volunteer. Shrugging, he turned away and walked into the common room.

  Frank said nothing until they were outside and sitting inside the car again. They were both thinking the same thing. He could feel the tension and excitement. Their eyes met and he was the first to say it.

  “That’s our connection between the victims,” he declared with a note that was equal parts triumph and relief. “Gideon Gifford.”

  The next five hours were spent back in the squad room. Frank put himself and all the task force team members to work gathering every single available shred of information that even hinted about Gideon Gifford. But the more they gathered, the less likely it seemed that Gifford was their suspect. There was no police record, no traffic tickets. Not even a minor moving violation.

  From all indications, Gideon Gifford had led an exemplary, pristine life.

  Hill leaned back in his chair. It squeaked in protest as he laced his fingers together above his head and sighed in frustration.

  “You sure this is the guy?” he asked Frank. “I’m about ready to believe that the man walks on water when he isn’t turning it into wine.” Frowning, he tapped his monitor. “He was voted Man of the Year at his church three years in a row—beating out the minister.” Turning his chair around, he looked over toward Frank. “We bring this guy in for questioning, the whole community’s going to be outside the precinct with torches and pitch forks.”

  “There has to be something,” Frank insisted. He knew what he saw on his own screen and he knew what his gut was telling him. That the two didn’t add up. There had to be something, however minor, that gave Gifford away. “A man doesn’t just get up one day after leading a supposed model life and say, ‘I think I’ll become a serial killer today.’”

  “Here’s a thought,” Sanchez volunteered, having come across the same blank wall. “Maybe this Gifford’s not our killer.”

  Julianne looked up. For the most part, she’d been silent since they’d returned to the precinct, choosing instead to concentrate on searching for the needle in the haystack.

  “No, he’s our killer,” Julianne underscored with quiet feeling.

  Riley sighed. “We’re going to need something beyond a gut feeling.”

  “Yeah, but if we start asking around about him, someone’s going to tip him off and he’ll go into lockdown mode,” Frank pointed out, chewing on the problem that was staring all of them in the face. “If we’re right—and I think we are—he’s killed ten women—”

  “That we know of,” Julianne interjected grimly.

  “That we know of,” Frank echoed. “You just don’t escape detection this long without being very, very thorough.”

  Swinging her chair around to face the man who had caused her to redefine her world last night, Julianne asked, “What do you have in mind?”

  The answer was very sim
ple. “We need to catch him in the act.”

  “What, tail him until he goes to kill somebody?” Riley asked.

  “No.” That would take too long and if Gifford thought he was being watched, he could just bolt. There was an easier, riskier way. “Now that we know his type we give him someone to focus on.”

  “You mean to kill,” Julianne corrected.

  He didn’t want it put in those terms. “It’s a sting.”

  It took her less than half a second to raise her hand. “I volunteer,” Julianne offered.

  Frank shook his head. “Sorry, Gifford already knows you. We can’t take a chance on his realizing that we’re on to him,” he reminded her. “Besides, you’re not his type.”

  He was looking pointedly at her long, black hair.

  That wasn’t a deterrent. She thought of Mary. “All I need is a blond wig.”

  “Why go with a wig when you already have a blonde?” Riley injected, flipping her hand beneath her blond hair to make it flare out.

  His immediate reaction was to say no. Frank didn’t want to use either his sister or Julianne, but he knew he couldn’t allow his personal feelings to get in the way. This was police business and the public’s welfare was at stake.

  He looked at Riley. “You sure you’re willing to go through with this?”

  “Hell, yes,” Riley said with feeling. “I want this killer off the street. Now. And if I can help to get him that way, all the better.”

  “I’ll dye my hair,” Julianne said suddenly. The other four people in the room looked at her.

  “Julianne—” Frank began.

  He was about to point out the reasons against it. She didn’t give him a chance. “No offense, Riley, but I’m guessing you’ve never really been poor a day in your life.”

  She’d lost him. “What does that have to do with it?” Frank asked.

  “Simple.” She was talking to Frank now, pleading her case with passion. “She might not be convincing. I know what poverty feels like. What being desperate feels like. And most of all, I know what it means not to have anyone to turn to for support. You’ve always had your family,” she said to Riley and then turned back to Frank. “We’ve only got one shot at this guy, Frank. He smells anything out of the ordinary, he’s gone. Which means that he’ll be free to start all over again somewhere else. I didn’t say anything when we went to his office. He doesn’t even know what my voice sounds like. You did all the talking,” she reminded him. “Please, Frank, I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important. I owe this to Mary. I want to nail this creep to the wall.”