Blood Stone

by Michael Lister

  “We’re gonna need some additional help for the legwork,” Frank said. “I can get a few more GBI agents, but we’ll have to use some of the other agencies too. We need people at every funeral, visitation, and graveside service. We need someone working with a family member or close friend to identify anyone who doesn’t belong. We need a photographer taking pictures.”

  He paused, but by the time I had looked up from the notes I was taking, he had started again.

  “We’ll need more help with the door-to-door where the victims lived—see if any neighbors saw anyone hanging around or anything out of the ordinary. We need to beef up patrol in the park. We need to—”

  “They’re not going to close the park?” Erin asked.

  He shook his head. “The best we could get them to do is include a warning in our statement to the media.”

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  “Said if we catch this guy quickly, it won’t be a problem.”

  “Then that’s what we need to damn well do,” Joe said.

  “We’ve got to beef up security and patrol,” Frank said, “but we need to be investigating too. We need to gather information about everyone who we know has been in the park during this time. There won’t be a record of most visitors, but anyone who had to register—in the inn or campground—anyone who paid with a credit card. We need to go through all the souvenir pictures that’ve been taken. We need to interview every worker, every hotel guest, every camper.”

  “I was thinkin’,” Joe said.

  “God help us all,” Walt said.

  “The char mark and smoke smell on the victims . . . I’m thinkin’ our guy’s a camper.”

  Frank nodded. “Or is using a campsite. It’s definitely where we have to start.”

  “I think I should go undercover,” he said.

  “How’s that?” Bud said.

  “I think I should camp in the park,” Joe said. “I’ve got all the equipment. I know how to camp. I could keep an eye on things, investigate without anyone there knowing I was.”

  Frank looked at Bud. Bud was already nodding.

  “I like that idea,” Frank said.

  “Me too,” Bud added. “Good thinking, Joe. We’ll still need you doing other duties during the day, but . . . if you’re willing to camp there for the next few days . . . that’d be great.”

  “Happy to do it,” he said.

  “I think we need to do that and continue with the sting operation,” Erin said. “Things like that are our best chance of catching him. We’ve got to be active and move fast. And don’t you dare tell me it’s okay for Joe to be out there in harm’s way but not me.”

  “It’s different,” Bud said. “Joe isn’t out there as bait. He’s not the killer’s type.”

  “He ain’t nobody’s type,” Walt said, smiling his big small tooth smile. “’Cept maybe one of his barefoot cousins.”

  “Okay,” she said. “It’s cool. I get it.”

  “I’m not saying no,” Bud said, “just . . .”

  “Here’s somethin’ for y’all to think about,” Walt said. “If y’all don’t do the sting operation . . . she’s just gonna go out there by herself on her own time and run, so . . . it’d be better to have us out there with her.”

  “That true?” Frank asked her.

  She smiled. “I’d rather not discuss what I do on my own time. It’s personal and private.”

  “Okay, Uncle,” Bud said. “We can do it, but only on select times and with plenty of support team cover. I don’t want to have to put up a memorial to one of my officers in the squad room. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, as the others nodded.

  “The yes, sir is a nice touch,” he said. “Especially as you’re forcing me to do what you want.”

  “Okay,” Frank said. “I’ll split up the tasks and do some recruiting and create teams assigned to each task. Here’s what we can start with right now.”

  19

  That evening I ran into Summer Grantham at the Stone Mountain Inn.

  “We were right,” she said, frowning.

  As if her uniform, she was dressed in a classic rock tee, blue jeans, and Keds sneakers. Like her shoes, the blue Stones t-shirt had a British flag on it. Her blond hair was in a ponytail, and her pale roundish face looked far younger than she really was. In fact, everything about her was cute and youthful.

  “What’re you doing here?” I asked.

  “I work here,” she said. “I’m one of the night managers. My shift starts in a few hours. You got time to sit a minute?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She led me out of the back of the hotel lobby and into the courtyard where we sat on a bench not far from the pool.

  “Why are you at work a few hours early?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Nothing better to do,” she said. “Trying to stay close to the . . . action. See if I can pick up anything. I don’t know. Is it true y’all’ve found four victims so far?”

  I nodded. It was information that would be going out in the press release tomorrow anyway.

  “There are more,” she said. “I hope y’all are still looking. I’m not sure there are more here—in the park—but he has more victims.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  “We’ve got to stop him,” she said. “He’s not gonna stop if we don’t.”

  The backdoor of the lobby swung open and a young black man stuck his head out. “Summer, get in here. You’ve got to see this. We’ve got a serial killer here at Stone Mountain. An honest-to-God serial killer.”

  We ran into the lobby and joined a small group of staff and guests gathered around the TV.

  Daphne Littleton was in the foreground of the shot, the north face of the mountain in the background behind her.

  “. . . an active serial killer situation,” she was saying. “Some in law enforcement have dubbed him the Stone Cold Killer because of his method of murder. He’s actually using the mountain itself as a weapon, plunging the poor victims to their terrifying deaths. Four so far. Again this is a WSB exclusive. I’m Daphne Littleton.”

  I shook my head as the people in the small group around me gasped and reacted to the report.

  As soon as the report ended, my radio began to go off. It was Bud summoning us to his office.

  “What the hell?” Bud said.

  “Ask him,” Walt said, nodding toward me.

  “Why him?” Frank said.

  “She’s his buddy. He owed her a story from some previous deal they worked on together.”

  I was shocked at what Walt was doing, but I shouldn’t have been. Instantly self-conscious and defensive, I could feel my heart rate rising as the sting of embarrassment spreading across my face.

  “She the one who helped on the Cedric Porter case?” Frank asked.

  I nodded.

  “Did you give her the story?” Bud asked.

  I shook my head. “She came in where we were eating lunch today and told me she’d heard something about the case and reminded me that I owed her,” I said. “Everyone here heard what I said. Then when I went to the restroom later she was in there waiting for me. Said the same stuff. I told her I couldn’t give her anything and I didn’t. Whoever she got all that from, it wasn’t me.”

  “Y’all were in the bathroom together and she has all this inside information,” Walt said, “and you didn’t give it to her.”

  “Did you tell anyone about it?” Bud asked. “At least let Frank know she was—”

  I shook my head. “I was going to, but haven’t had a chance yet. Everyone saw her approach me—”

  “Not in the damn bathroom we didn’t,” Walt said.

  “How long has it been since lunch?” I asked. “Six hours? More? You think I gave her all that info at lunch and she just sat on it for over six hours?”

  “She could’ve been verifying it,” Walt said. “Or waiting for the evening news.”

  I thought about her asking for Walt’s number, and though I
didn’t give it to her—I only had the station number, which she already had—I wondered if she had spoken to him. Or more importantly if he had spoken to her.

  I shook my head. “She wouldn’t have waited and even if they did wait for the evening news, it would have been the top story at five. She got this info this evening—after our meeting this afternoon. She got it from somebody in there, but it wasn’t me.”

  “I hope not,” Bud said. “I hope she didn’t get it from any of us.”

  “She didn’t,” Joe said.

  Erin nodded. “None of us would give her anything and I don’t believe John did.”

  “I know the two GBI agents didn’t,” Frank said.

  “That leaves the park PD guys and the sheriff’s investigators.”

  “Well, whoever it was,” Frank said. “It’s out now and we’ve got to deal with it.”

  20

  “The hell was that about?” I asked.

  I had caught up to Walt as we were walking out of the building. The only other person around was Erin and she was up ahead of us.

  “Whatcha mean?” he said.

  “I didn’t talk to the reporter,” I said. “But if you thought I did, why not come to me? Ask me about it first?”

  “You damn sure did talk to that reporter,” he said. “Twice.”

  Erin slowed her pace to let us catch up to her.

  “I meant I didn’t tell her anything about the case.”

  “All I know is what we all saw and that’s all I said in there.”

  “But . . . why not ask me first? Why not give me—”

  “I don’t know you,” he said. “I don’t owe you anything. Far as I’m concerned you’re a punk ass kid who shouldn’t be involved in any of this.”

  Erin moved over in between us. “Walt, that’s enough.”

  “I’m serious. You actin’ like I should know you wouldn’t give info to the press. But I don’t know that. I don’t know you. We just started working together. It’s not personal. Don’t take it personally. But think about it. We see you talkin’ to a reporter at lunch and she says you owe her, then that evening she’s reporting about our case on the news . . . what the hell am I supposed to think? Tell me that. My job means something to me. I’m not gonna do anything to jeopardize it. If you’re straight you’ll be down with that. You’ll get it. If you’re not, well, fuck you.”

  “Okay,” I said, “If I take you at your word—something you’re not willing to do for me—then I get where you’re coming from and I appreciate it. I didn’t tell Daphne Littleton anything about our case. Not a word. And I wouldn’t. This case means more to me than . . . It’s not just a job to me. And the truth is, I feel the same way about the person who did as you do me. So I get it.”

  “Whatcha mean if you take me at my word?” he said. “How else could you take it?”

  “Seriously?” I asked. “Like you’re the one who talked to her—like you said you were going to—and now you’re trying to cover your tracks by blaming me.”

  “Walt’s a good man,” Erin was saying. “An honest cop.”

  We were standing outside the station in the cool darkness, the traffic moving through the little downtown area thinner and slower and more intermittent now.

  Walt had just left. I was still angry and frustrated and embarrassed.

  I had lingered hoping to talk to Erin about it.

  “He’s concerned about his job, but he’s concerned about the case too. That was his version of doing the right thing. He doesn’t trust easily. You’re the new guy and we did all see you talking to the reporter, who seemed to know you quite well and did say you owed her. He’ll cool down and over time he’ll start to trust you. But it will be slow. It’s just the way he is.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “I know he made the joke about gettin’ with her, but . . . that was just talk,” she said. “He didn’t mean anything by it. He’s got a girlfriend he adores. He’d never do anything to jeopardize that. It’s just his way. Just . . . bravado.”

  I nodded again. “I honestly didn’t tell her anything,” I said.

  She nodded. “It’ll come out who did,” she said. “Almost always does.”

  21

  I met Ernestine Campbell at Scarlett’s, and I had an ulterior motive for doing so.

  Ernie was a middle-aged black woman with an athletic build, especially for her age. She had a background in psychology and for the past decade had been applying it to forensics.

  I had met her at some of the road school training sessions the FBI had put on for area law enforcement agencies and we had connected over the Atlanta Child Murders case.

  I had asked her to meet me here because, like Margaret, her partner had died recently and she was single.

  “I saw the news segment on two,” she said. “No controlling this thing now.”

  I nodded and frowned. “We didn’t even get a full day with the details.”

  “Which are what exactly?”

  “Four young women abducted while jogging at Stone Mountain,” I said. “All killed near the time of their abduction. All with small cuts. All naked. All washed. All bound at the wrists and ankles. All smelling of smoke and at least two with charred marks on their skin. All killed by being thrown off the mountain.”

  “And they’re all similar?”

  I nodded again. “All young, athletic . . . longish light brown or dark blond hair. All pretty but plain—and I guess more attractive than pretty. Wore little to no makeup. Seemed to be sort of loners.”

  Susan arrived with our drinks—coffee for me, a glass of chardonnay for Ernie.

  “Thank you,” I said. “How’s your day going?”

  “It’s okay. Long. I’m tired, but . . .”

  “Where’s Margaret?”

  “She’s already gone. Why?”

  “Was gonna introduce her to Ernie.”

  “Why?” Ernie asked. “She a single lesbian too?”

  I smiled.

  “He means well,” Susan said.

  “It’s sweet,” Ernie said.

  “Margaret, my aunt, is an alcoholic. She’s barely surviving. I wouldn’t wish her on anyone right now.”

  “I thought dating a beautiful, together, psychologist would be just what she needed,” I said.

  Susan looked at me and narrowed her eyes. “And what would Miss Ernestine get out of it?”

  I shrugged. “Free drinks? Carnal pleasure? I don’t know.”

  “Bless your heart,” Ernie said. “Such a sweet boy.”

  “Sweet and slow,” Susan said, and moved away.

  “How are things between you two?” Ernie asked.

  I frowned. “Not great.”

  She nodded knowingly. “A relationship hasn’t fixed your issues, has it? Why would you think it would Margaret’s?”

  “That’s just the special kind of fool I am, I guess.”

  “Go visit with your young lady for a few minutes and let me look over the case file, then come back and we’ll talk it through.”

  “The Stone Cold Killer, huh?” Susan said.

  “Bet you anything Daphne gave him that name herself.”

  “You sure you’re up for this . . . after . . .”

  I was leaning over my side of the bar and she was leaning over hers. Meeting in the middle, we were speaking quietly so that the handful of regulars around the bar couldn’t hear us. The jukebox was playing so I was pretty sure our conversation was private.

  I nodded. “Happiest I’ve been in a while.”

  “Oh, that’s what a girl wants to hear.”

  “You know what I meant,” I said.

  “I think you said exactly what you meant,” she said.

  “I didn’t come over here to argue with you,” I said. “But it seems like that’s all we do these days.”

  She shook her head. “That’s a glass-half-empty take on the situation. We’re just both tired and stressed and don’t get enough time together.”

  “Speaking
of . . .” I said. “How late you working?”

  “I told you,” she said. “Margaret’s already gone. I’ve got to close. It’ll be late.”

  “Then I guess I’ll go back out to Stone Mountain when I leave here,” I said. “We could’ve just met out there, but I wanted to see you—at least for a few minutes.”

  “And try to setup Ernie and Margaret. Don’t forget that. Though . . . if you’re so unhappy in our relationship why would you wish one on anyone else?”

  “I’ll need more time,” Ernie said. “And more info as it comes in . . . to do an actual profile, but . . . there’s the basic, obvious stuff. He’s a white male. Most of these type killers tend to hunt within their own race. Probably between eighteen and thirty-five. Most are. He’s nocturnal—most of what he’s doing is at night. He’s strong, athletic, probably a runner himself, but definitely in shape. He’s patient and careful. I’d say he’s on the mid-to-upper end of the age range and he probably holds down a job—nothing too demanding but he functions just fine in society behind his mask of sanity. If the typical pattern holds, he’s probably applied for a law enforcement job or will at the very least try to help with the investigation in some way—especially now that it’s so public. Pay close attention to your tip line calls or eye witnesses. He’ll probably be at more than one crime scene or area of interest and will be anxious to explain why he is. Obviously the mountain has significance to him and the things he’s doing with the victims are ritualistic, but . . . the manner of murder is . . . cold, impersonal. He’s got a knife, but he doesn’t kill them with it, just cuts on them a very small amount. Stabbing them or cutting them to death and then throwing them off the mountain would be far more fulfilling to a certain type of sadist. We’re gonna have to think about why he’s doing what he’s doing. What need does it meet in him? What purpose does it serve in his narrative? I’d say he’s above average intelligence . . . and experienced . . . It’s taken a lot to get him to where he is now—many other acts, crimes, experimentation. It’s interesting that there’s no sign of sexual assault. I’d say these are sexually motivated crimes, but—”