Cold Hit

by Stephen J. Cannell

  “Has he been hitting you?”

  “I wish it was that easy,” she answered. “I need for this to be over. I need to move on.” There was finality and a brief shudder as she said it. This suicide attempt was an ending for her, a door closing.

  “He’s got a brother. Don or something? He never talks much about him. Lives in Torrance, right?” I asked.

  “They don’t get along much anymore.”

  “I’m taking him there anyway. Give me the address and while I’m on my way, call Don and give him a heads-up. Tell him I need Zack to stay put until I can figure something out.”

  She promised to call, wrote down Don Farrell’s address, and handed it to me. I walked back to the car and got in. Zack was slumped against the door.

  “I’m taking you to your brother’s house,” I said.

  He didn’t reply, so I put the car in gear and headed off to Torrance. As we pulled up onto the freeway, I turned to look at him. The overhead lights played over his face, strobing across a swollen landscape of depression and despair.

  “Have you been hitting Fran?” My voice was so soft it was barely audible.

  He sat quietly for a long time. I didn’t think he had heard me. “When I was little, my father…” Then he stopped.

  “What? What about your father?”

  “What you are and what you become is written in the Big Book before you’re even born. It’s in your DNA. There’s no way to alter destiny,” he whispered softly.

  14

  As it turned out, John Doe Number Five from Canoga Park was really Patrick Collins from Seattle. Some off-duty officers from the day watch scored the ID by showing his picture to the homeless miscreants around the freeway on ramp. He was a regular fixture on that corner.

  I learned all this when I got to Parker Center at nine the next morning. The detectives assigned to the new Fingertip task force had already taken over an empty cube farm that was to be our new, designated area on the third floor. The space was available in the overcrowded administration building because it was about to go under construction as a computer center. Deputy Chief Ramsey had run the contractors off and temporarily given the area to us. Two dozen detectives from five citywide homicide divisions were milling about, industriously moving ladders and fighting over the few window desks left behind by the contractors. Claiming prime office space was an important first day priority in task force geopolitics. The less desirable, center of the room locations were relegated to underachieving latecomers like me.

  The detectives who were there had also commandeered the few available chairs and determined that Patrick Collins had no outstanding warrants by running him through our database, CID, and the National Crime Index computer. They had to use their cell phones because we still weren’t hooked up to the main switchboard. Under all the bustle there was organized excitement here. Movie and book deals hovered on the horizon.

  A swift, connect-the-dots series of phone checks quickly confirmed that Collins was an Army medic in 1970, assigned to the Big Red One, the First Combat Infantry Division in Vietnam. Thirty years before he took up residency under the overpass he had also been a resident of Seattle, Washington, where his seventy-five-year-old parents still lived.

  As the task force milled and joked, a shrill whistle suddenly sliced through the confusion, bringing the volume down instantly. “Everybody, shut the fuck up!” an unfamiliar voice shouted from the back of the room.

  I was still standing in the threshold, carrying my murder book and Rolodex, feeling out of it, like a kid on the first day of kindergarten, when the sea of humanity in front of me parted and I was looking at a pale, narrow-shouldered man with blond-red hair of a strange orange hue. He had it chopped short and his gray eyes glared through wire-rimmed glasses. A big, black gun rig hung upside down under his left arm like a sleeping bat and screamed asshole. My guess? The ranking fed.

  “Okay,” he said as soon as it settled down. “Everybody, we’re meeting in the coffee room in thirty. Bring an open computer file, an open mind and a chair.”

  Already, I was hating this guy. I turned to a detective standing beside me and asked, “Who’s he?”

  “Dat be muthafuckin’ Judd Underwood of da muthafuckin’ FBI,” the cop said in a theatrical whisper.

  More furniture arrived ten minutes later on rolling dollies. Somehow I ended up with the worst desk. A dented, gray metal monster with a bottom drawer that was jammed and wouldn’t shut all the way. A perfect place for our sacrosanct murder book. I lost a frantic game of musical chairs and ended up standing.

  I knew a few of the other cops in the room. Mace Ward and Sally Quinn were from the Valley Bureau. Mace was a weightlifter with steroid cuts, who shot anabolics but had a furious hatred of junkies. His mild-mannered partner, Sally, resembled a kindly homeroom teacher until you noticed her kick-ass green-brown eyes that were hard and flat, and the color of bayou mud. I’d worked an Internet sting with both of them a few years ago when I was in Van Nuys.

  Ruben Bola and Fernando Diaz were a Cheech-and-Chong homicide team from the old Newton Division, an area so rife with violent crime it was known citywide as Shootin’ Newton. It had been reorganized into part of the Central Bureau but the old station house down there was still a hot spot. Wisecracking Ruben was smooth and cool, so he was Suave Bola. Fernando was round and loud, with a chunky diamond chip crucifix, making him Diamond Diaz. There were a few other familiar faces whose names I couldn’t remember. Some were playing Who Do You Know; some were wondering aloud who was going to be in charge of solving the phone problem. The rest of us were still trying to find a chair and an open mind to bring to the coffee room.

  The briefing started exactly on time. Judd Underwood had scrounged a blackboard from someplace and moved the vending machines out of the room. He had all five morgue photos of the Fingertip murder vics taped to it with dates and locations. While we settled in, he kept his back to the room, frantically scribbling on the blackboard like some harried criminology professor getting ready for class. Even after we moved inside pushing the few available rolling chairs, he didn’t turn. For some unknown reason, under each photo, he was writing the lunar phase for the corresponding kill, which was puzzling because our unsub was on a fourteen-day calendar, not a lunar cycle.

  For those who keep track of such nonsense, Manhunter, the 1986 motion picture adapted from the Thomas Harris novel Red Dragon, was about the FBI Behavioral Science Unit and featured a serial killer who killed on a lunar cycle. In one scene, the FBI hero actually stated that the moon had a powerful effect on most nut-job killers. Not exactly earthshaking news since Luna is both Latin for moon and the root word for lunatic. I couldn’t help but wonder if Underwood was about to reenact a scene from that film.

  Finally he turned and faced us, the chalk still in his hand. “Good morning,” he said, softly.

  He was such an obvious asshole, nobody answered.

  “My name is Judson Underwood.”

  And then, so help me, just like it was the first day of school, he turned and wrote it on the blackboard.

  “D-E-R-W-O-O-D,” he announced over the chalk strokes. “I’m a GS-Fourteen and the ASAC of the local FBI office here in L.A. I specialize in criminal behavioral science and serial crime profiling.”

  He finished by writing GS-14, ASAC, and BEHAVIORAL SCIENCE with a flourish in chalk, then he underlined it before turning again to face us.

  “I run kick-ass units, so if you’re a slacker, get ready for an ass kicking. Around here, brilliance will be expected, excellence will be tolerated, and standard work will get you transferred out with a bad performance review.” He looked around the room. “Are we all square on that?” Nobody answered.

  “Good. In case any of you humps have problems with an FBI agent running a city task force, you should know I’ve been asked to head this show by your Director of Field Operations, Deputy Chief Michael Ramsey. I’ll handle the investigation; he’s going to handle logistics and communications.”

&nbs
p; That fit my take on Great White Mike. If the case tanked, our media-savvy deputy chief would be perfectly positioned in front of the TV cameras to point an accusing finger at the entire task force, including our new, narrow-shouldered, kick-ass FBI commander.

  “To begin with, we’re gonna have some rules,” Underwood said. “On this task force, nobody hoards information. Everything is written down and e-mailed to me daily. All facts, wit lists, and F.I. cards are in my computer at EOW.”

  For those unfamiliar with cop acronyms, F.I. stands for Field Interview, EOW for end of watch.

  Underwood cleared his throat and continued. “We’re going to have full disclosure. I don’t ever want to find out that some piece of this case was not transmitted, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Woe be it to the detective who neglects to include everything in his daily report. Are we all completely square on this condition?”

  Now everybody nodded. They all smiled and looked very pleased with this rule. A few even muttered, “Thank God for that.”

  But you can’t fool me. It was just stagecraft. Both of the previous task forces I was assigned to had started with the full disclosure speech. From this second on, everyone in this room would be lying and hoarding like crack whores. It was a career case—the fast lane to the top of the department with big money stops at the William Morris Agency and CAA. It was a chance to become famous and add that new game room onto the den.

  “Let’s begin with the givens,” Underwood pontificated. “Given: we have five DBs, all males, all mid-fifties to mid-sixties. Given: all have been disfigured with their fingertips amputated at the distal phalanx of each digit. Given: all five vics have a symbol mutilation carved on their chests, an act of homicidal rage. We now know this symbol represents an approximation of the Combat Medics insignia. The first four bodies were on a two-week clock, then it dropped to seven days. That roughly corresponds to Lunar Phase Three of the calendar. I’ll pass out a lunar chart to help you with lunar phases. From this point forward we will run all time frames on both a lunar, as well as a standard calendar. I know technically, these murders don’t appear to be lunar phase killings, but it has been my experience that the moon exerts a powerful psychological pull on abnormal psyches and that most irrational acts have metaphysical constructs.”

  Right out of Manhunter. Sometimes I’m so good at reading assholes, I surprise myself.

  “Using the moon as well as a conventional calendar could yield insights,” he finished. “Are we all square on this?”

  A few cops nodded but most were looking down, not engaging his eyes.

  “Okay, moving on then,” Underwood said. “This last killing, Patrick Collins, shortens the time frame between events to a four-day clock. That means he’s only off lunar phase by a scant two days, well within a predictable margin of error depending on TOD estimates.” TOD stood for time of death.

  Underwood went blithely on. “The fourth John Doe, the one found at Forest Lawn Drive, appears to have been beaten first, then shot. What this means is, our unsub is closing to a lunar cycle as well as degenerating badly, becoming more violent and increasingly dangerous.”

  I needed some air, but I was stuck. As Underwood droned on, my mind started to wander. I had been instructed by Captain Callaway to keep Forrest in the serial case despite my growing suspicion that he might be a copycat. Cal also instructed me to keep this theory to myself. However, if we pulled Forrest out of the Fingertip case, it would shred all this lunar nonsense. But, for reasons of my own, I decided to hold on to my suspicion….Was that hoarding? Should Istart thinking about getting a book agent?

  Judd Underwood raised his voice, bringing me back. “Most serial criminals are underdeveloped personalities who crave authority. Very often we find they have tried to become police officers or often impersonate police and will frequently attempt to insert themselves into the investigation. So look closely at anyone calling in with tips or questions and report them directly to me.”

  “I’d like to report Detective Diaz.” Ruben Bola grinned. “He’s an underdeveloped personality; he volunteered us for this case, and when it’s a full moon, this Cuban asshole goes into Santeria mode and starts killing chickens in the backseat of our Crown Vic.”

  The room broke up, but Underwood wasn’t smiling.

  “Are these murders in some way amusing to you, Detective?”

  “No, sir.” Bola pulled his smile down as Underwood continued.

  “Crack wise again in one of my briefings and I’ll talk to your supervisor. This unit will not engage in comic nonsense. Is that absolutely clear?”

  The room sobered quickly as Underwood gave us his best Murder One stare.

  “So, ladies and gentlemen, if we’re through making stupid jokes, I’d like to bring this into sharper focus. The murdered men are selected at random. Victims of opportunity. The beating of John Doe Number Four found at Forest Lawn Drive, along with the mutilations, in my opinion, indicates severe sadosexual rage and a disorganized killer.”

  I disagreed, but I didn’t raise my hand or shoot my mouth off. I just wanted to get out of here.

  Underwood continued. “Since females constitute less than five percent of the known serial murderers and because they are rarely known to mutilate, I’m predicting that our unsub is male.”

  Finally, I agreed with something this dink was saying.

  “Further, since the mean age of all serial killers is twenty-five, and because disorganized killers tend to be younger, I’m going to subtract two years. This takes the profile on the unsub’s age down to twenty-three. Are we all square on that?”

  Nobody said anything, but a few in the room nodded. Again, I showed my maturity and held my silence.

  “Generally there is an inverse relationship between the age of a serial killer and the age of the victim,” Underwood pontificated. “The reason for this is serial murder is generally a desperate act by an unsub who has lost control over his everyday life. He’s stressed out, so domination and control are big motives in the crime. Young unsubs are generally more worried about controlling their victims, and often target the old and infirm, people they feel they can dominate. Because of this, I’m lowering the perp’s age again, this time to twenty.”

  He looked at us. “This is pretty damn important stuff. Aren’t you people going to take notes?” All over the room keyboards started clicking.

  “Regarding the matter of modus operandi where the unsub covers the victim’s faces, I have a theory on that.” The typing stopped until Underwood went on. “The unsub covers the eyes because I think our killer believes he is ugly. He might even be disfigured. He’s embarrassed of his appearance and doesn’t want his victims to stare at him, even in death.”

  Another beat right out of Manhunter, and just for the record, that wasn’t part of the MO. It was part of the killer’s signature—a completely different category.

  “So pulling it all together, my preliminary profile says we’re looking for a possibly disfigured twenty-year-old white male with sadosexual rage against older males, probably father substitutes.” Underwood looked around the room. “Questions or comments?” he asked, obviously not expecting any.

  “Agent Underwood?” someone asked. I wondered what idiot would prolong this silly meeting by asking this asshole a useless question. Everybody turned around and looked in my direction. Naturally, the idiot was me.

  15

  “You’re Detective Scully, one of the original primaries on this. Am I right?” Underwood said, glaring.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked down at a roster sheet. “Where’s your partner, Detective Farrell? How come he’s not here?”

  “My partner’s out running down a lead. He’ll be along shortly,” I lied.

  Underwood looked thoughtful, then agitated, then like he was about to pass gas. “Well, what is it?” he finally asked impatiently. “What’s your question?”

  “I’ve been on this case for seven weeks and I’ve given it a lot of thought. I’m
not sure I agree that the unsub is a disorganized killer.”

  “You’re not?” Agent Underwood sneered. “And this insight, I presume, is a result of your endless study in the field of criminal psychology.” A snooty tone rose out of him like swamp gas fouling an already overheated, sweat-filled environment.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Because, Detective Scully, when an unsub kills an older person in a murderous rage, then mutilates and takes fingers off, we’re looking at a sadist who is psychologically and pathologically immature, probably just a few years past puberty.”

  “I just don’t think these are disorganized crime scenes,” I persisted. “The unsub moves the bodies and dumps them at secondary sites. That indicates a high level of sophistication. The killer seems very knowledgeable about police techniques. This act of dumping is analogous to cleaning up after the murder. He’s disguising evidence, even leaving the body in flowing water to eliminate trace evidence. That’s pretty smart. I think that constitutes organized, postoffense behavior.”

  Underwood just stared. Since all the eyes in the room were on me, I lurched on. “Further, while there is certainly rage involved with these murders, in my opinion the mutilations are not rage based. He’s removing the fingertips so we can’t get prints and identify the victims. Since the chest mutilations are postmortem wounds, they don’t necessarily indicate rage. I think he’s labeling these victims with this. For that reason, I have him classified as organized and older, maybe even thirty or thirty-five. He knows what he’s doing and he’s been at this for a while. I don’t think these homeless men are victims of opportunity as you suggested, but victims of choice. The different geographical locations all over town indicate he’s searching for a victim that suits a certain profile. We need to look closely at the victimology. Something about these particular homeless men drew him to them. Maybe something as simple as the signs some were holding saying they were Vietnam vets. I think it’s also possible he’s a transient who has committed similar murders in other cities.”