Hank stood up and moved around his desk, holding out his hand. “Great, Sandy. Good to see you. Let me get another chair.”
Sandy shook his hand. “No, it’s okay. Please. I can stand.”
“Feebs are used to having to stand up in other people’s offices,” Karen said.
“Ha, ha.” Sandy leaned against a filing cabinet as Hank perched on the corner of his desk. “I saw the photos from your crime scene this morning. We need to talk.”
Hank liked Sandy, and there were no qualifications about it. The FBI special agent was smart, personable, and very, very patient. At five feet, seven inches he was a small man, only four inches taller than Karen, but he shared her passion for physical fitness and moved with quiet confidence. He didn’t bother to hide his affection for Karen and his tolerance of her fiery personality, which earned him top marks in Hank’s book. Today, however, his usual good humor was missing.
“Talk about what?” Hank asked.
“I think the guy who killed Theresa Olsen this morning may be the same guy who’s killed six or seven other women of similar appearance in other states, using the same or very similar MO. The press is calling him the Rainy Day Killer.”
Hank sat back. It was not good news to be told that a serial killer had moved into his jurisdiction, and Hank took a moment to think about it. He vaguely remembered the nickname, but had read little, if anything, about the previous cases. “How sure are you?”
“I’m not an expert,” Sandy said, “but I’m the NCAVC coordinator for our office, so I keep up on the files and talk to the Quantico analysts on a regular basis. I’ve seen pictures of his previous victims, and I’m afraid to say they look a lot like yours.”
As a coordinator of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, Sandy processed all requests for assistance made by local and state law enforcement agencies to the FBI center’s four units which included, of course, the famous Behavioral Analysis Unit responsible for crimes against adults, including serial, spree, and mass murders.
“Who’s the analyst assigned to the case?” Hank asked.
“Ed Griffin.”
Hank knew Griffin, having met him while on course at Quantico many years ago when he was a young detective and Griffin was an instructor at the academy. “Maybe we should talk to him. If he’s available and we need him, we’d go through you?”
“Yeah.” Sandy took out his phone. “I can give him a call right now to see if he’ll take a quick look. He can tell us if you should put in a request for service.”
Hank looked at Karen, who shrugged. He looked at Horvath.
“Sure, go for it,” Horvath said.
Sandy looked up the number and called it. Griffin answered on the fourth ring, just before it went to voice mail. Sandy identified himself, explained the situation and who was in the room with him, and asked Griffin if he’d be available for a meeting.
“Unfortunately,” Griffin said, “I’m in London, delivering a paper at a conference. London, as in England? In fact, I was still on stage answering questions when you called. It’s early evening over here.”
“Oh God, I’m very sorry.”
“Relax,” Griffin replied easily, “you had no way of knowing. I was glad to have an excuse to cut it short and let the next guy have the podium. These things drag on forever if you let them, and I’m getting hungry. You said Hank’s there now?”
“Yes, do you want to talk to him?”
“It would be a pleasure.”
Sandy handed the phone to Hank. “He’s in the UK,” he explained.
Hank put the phone to his ear but said nothing, as Griffin was talking to someone at the other end.
“No no, I’ll send you a copy as soon as I get back. I’ll even autograph it for you, how’s that? Okay. Look, I’ve got to take this. It was nice meeting you. Yes, likewise, I’m sure. Hank, are you there?”
“Yes,” Hank said. “Sounds like we caught you in the middle of something.”
“No problem, my friend. It’s been a while.”
“Yes, it has. Should we call back another time?”
“No, just somebody sponging a copy of my first book. It’s out of print and hard to find, except in my basement, of course, where I keep tripping over boxes full of the damned thing.”
“Sandy thinks you might need to look at a homicide we caught this morning.”
“Yeah. He thinks RDK may have moved into your fair town, does he?”
“RDK?”
“Give me a moment.” Noises came over the line suggesting that Griffin was moving to a quieter spot to continue the conversation. “Look, Hank,” he went on after a moment, “I refer to him as RDK in my notes and whatnot for the sake of convenience, but I apologize. I don’t like to use the term in conversation because it’s not only disrespectful to his victims, but those kinds of nicknames and acronyms turn these guys into celebrities and anti-heroes, and that’s not what I want to do, by any stretch of the imagination.”
“I understand, Ed. How long will you be out of the country? Do you think you’ll be able to help us with this?”
“I’m flying back on Friday. Unfortunately, I’m not as young as I used to be, so when I get home I’m going to have to crash for a while to deal with the jet lag. You’re not far from Quantico, an hour and a half, I think it is, so I could drive over on Saturday. Will that be soon enough?”
“I’ll take it,” Hank said.
“Sandy can explain what you need to do in the meantime. Tell me something, have you had any contact yet with anyone claiming responsibility for your victim?”
Hank frowned. “Contact? No, not at all. Why?”
“Oh. Yeah. It just happened this morning, right? Sorry, I’m a little tired. I’m like a good French wine, Hank. I don’t travel well. This guy tends to contact local law enforcement, but it’s still too soon for that. I’m getting ahead of myself. Just continue your regular investigative process, work with Sandy on the service request, and I’ll see you Saturday. Sound okay to you?”
“Sounds fine, Ed. Thanks.”
“No problem. Hand me back to Sandy, and take care of yourself.”
Hank returned the phone to Sandy, who listened and nodded as Griffin explained what he wanted in terms of first steps.
When Sandy ended the call, he exhaled loudly. “Okay, Hank. Let’s get started.”
5
Wednesday, April 24: afternoon
Grateful that Hank was the one stuck with the paperwork and red tape, Karen and Horvath made good their escape and drove down to Thomas Jefferson Elementary School in Springhill. Karen drove the unmarked Taurus. Horvath, because he’d agreed to attend the autopsy of Theresa Olsen at four o’clock, followed in his personally-owned vehicle, a red 1974 Triumph Spitfire. School buses lined the curb in front, waiting to pick up their loads when the bell rang at three o’clock, so Karen took the narrow alley between the school and the rowhouse next door, parking in the lot at the back. Horvath pulled in next to her and got out. As they strolled toward the rear entrance, Horvath buttoned his suit jacket and self-consciously touched the knot of his tie.
“Got your invitation,” he said. “Thanks.”
Karen rolled her eyes. “You mean Lane’s invitation. You’d think she was the one getting married.”
“Hey, it’s nice of them to pay for everything. You have to admit. My parents wouldn’t do that.”
“Whatever,” Karen shrugged. Their buck, their wedding.”
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it.”
She whacked him on the elbow. “No problem. They only invited a thousand frigging people.”
He opened the back door for her with his other arm, flexing the one she’d hit. “Sorry to hear that. What a nightmare.”
“I know. They must have me confused with Princess Kate.” Karen stepped into the corridor and held up her badge to the middle-aged woman who was minding the door in anticipation of dismissal time. “Detectives Stainer and Horvath, GPD. Where’s the
principal’s office?”
“I’m Assistant Principal Miller,” the woman said, leaning forward to stare at the badge. “May I help you with something?”
Karen shook her head. “What’s the principal’s name?”
“Mrs. Audrey Humphries. She’s likely busy right now.”
“Where do I find her?”
Miller pointed. “Down the hallway and turn right, all the way to the end. The office is on the right.”
They walked past a couple of closed classroom doors and turned right at the main hallway that ran the full length of the building.
“I hated school,” Horvath said. “Grade school, anyway. Little kids can be really vicious.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I thought you and Mandy would jump at the chance for a weekend getaway. It’s only three or four hours from here.”
“Mandy and I, we’re not doing so hot right now.” Horvath glanced at his reflection in a large glass display case.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I thought we had an understanding, but she started seeing some guy she works with. She was always bitching about my hours, that I cancel out on stuff, blah blah blah.”
“So you dumped her.”
“She dumped me. On Saturday.”
Karen grinned up at him. “You’re just too pretty for them, Horvath. They hate the competition.”
“Hey!” Horvath looked hurt. “What a thing to say.”
“Don’t sweat it. They’ll be kicking down your door, guaranteed, as soon as word spreads you’re back in play. Right? Am I right?”
Horvath opened the office door and gestured her inside, his lips peeling back in a fake grin.
They signed the visitors’ log on the counter and were shown into the inner office of Mrs. Audrey Humphries, a tall, slender African-American woman in her late thirties. They sat down in the chairs she offered and Karen once again took the lead, explaining the reason for their visit and their need to ask questions about Theresa Olsen. Her identity had not yet been made public, she explained, but it would be released to the media during a press conference at three o’clock this afternoon.
As she listened, Humphries slowly leaned forward, covering her mouth with her right hand, elbow on her desk. Her eyes slowly closed. Tears began to run down her cheeks.
Karen gave her a few moments to recover.
Humphries leaned back, opened a drawer, and took out a box of tissues. She grabbed a handful and pressed them to her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Karen said. “I understand how upsetting it is, but we need to ask a few questions right now.”
Humphries blew her nose and straightened abruptly. “Of course. Forgive me. It’s the very last thing I expected you to come in and tell me. I heard the report on the news this morning, and Miss Olsen has been absent without an explanation since Monday, and we’ve been trying to reach her, but never in a million years would I have put the two things together. It’s inconceivable. Completely horrible.”
“How well did you know Theresa?”
“Not very well. She was young and inexperienced, but she was completely relaxed in the classroom. A natural. She was quiet, sweet, and had a very pleasant disposition. She was going to make an excellent teacher. The children loved her. They’ll be devastated when the news comes out. We’ll have to arrange for counseling right away.” She picked up a pen and wrote it down on a lined pad next to her telephone.
Horvath turned a page in his notebook. “We understand she was friends with another teacher here. Melanie?”
“Melanie Peters teaches Grade Four, but I don’t know if she was friends with Theresa. I don’t know either of them that well.”
“Is Peters here today? Could we talk to her?”
Humphries picked up the phone, the pen still jutting from between her fingers, and spoke to her secretary. As soon as she replaced the receiver, they heard the page go out over the public address system.
“Were there any reports of Theresa having problems with anyone?” Karen asked. “Male teachers here, or men coming onto school property to see her? Boyfriends, anything like that?”
Humphries shook her head. “Not at all.”
“I saw cameras at the front and rear,” Karen said. “I take it that you could supply us with video footage going back a week if we got a warrant for it.”
“In response to a court order, yes, we could do that.” She made another note on the pad, then shot a look at Karen. “Do I need to be worried? Is there a security problem I need to know about?”
“Not that we’re aware of,” Karen replied. “We’re just trying to cover all the bases.”
“Well, I need to cover the bases, too,” Humphries shot back. “As you saw, we haven’t yet converted to a buzz-in door system, which is currently only a priority in middle and high schools in this city, nor do we have an SRO assigned to us, for the same reason. We have a bit of money for the camera system and that’s it. Until and unless our budgeting changes next year, elementary schools will continue to be regarded as lower risk comparable to the higher grades.”
“You don’t have access to a school resource officer?” Horvath asked, referring to the program in which uniformed police officers were present in some schools in the city, often once a week, to provide a variety of preventive and counseling services.
“No. As I said, the funding isn’t there right now to include elementary schools in the program. The focus currently is on adolescent students and bullying, where retaliation has more potential to be violent, and while I agree with that policy, it leaves us out in the cold, trying to make do and praying that what happened in Connecticut won’t happen here. I’ll have to talk to the board security supervisor but the bottom line is, there’s nothing currently in place.” Her shoulders slumped. “We’re probably going to be barraged by the media, on top of everything else. I need some help right away. My God.”
Horvath glanced at Karen, who nodded. “We’ll look into it from our end,” he said. “We’ll have them send a patrol car over in the morning before school starts.”
“Thank you.” Humphries looked up at a knock on her door. “Yes?”
The secretary opened the door. “Miss Peters is here.”
“Ask her to wait in Mrs. Miller’s office.” Humphries stood up and looked at Karen. “Is there anything else? I need to make some phone calls.”
“Not at the moment.” Karen gave her a card. “Please let us know if you think of anything else that might be important.”
Humphries was tough and very professional, but Karen saw the emotion coming to the surface as they shook hands.
“Damn it, Detective,” Humphries said quietly, locking eyes with her, “this is epidemic. We can’t escape it any more. No woman is completely, ever, 100 percent safe, no matter how careful we are. Does that bother you as much as it bothers me?”
“You have no idea,” Karen replied.
According to Melanie Peters, she and Theresa Olsen occasionally ate lunch together and had met for coffee once or twice on weekends, but other than that were not especially friendly. She knew nothing about Theresa’s other friends, didn’t believe she had a boyfriend, knew of nothing out of the ordinary that had happened recently to her, and had had no contact with her after three o’clock last Friday afternoon when school was dismissed.
They let her go, burned another half hour questioning support and building staff still on the premises, and found themselves out in the parking lot with their hands in their pockets.
“That didn’t get us much,” Horvath said, leaning against his car.
“I know. She was like a damned ghost girl, here five days a week and nobody knows the first thing about her. We probably would’ve gotten more from her kids than from the adults.”
“No thanks,” Horvath said. “I’d rather interview bikers on death row than a bunch of little kids whose teacher just got raped and murdered by a psychopath.”
“Yeah, well, pray it doesn’t come to that.” Karen slapped the palm of her hand
down on the roof of the Taurus. “Rain’s stopped, let’s walk around the corner to her place.”
“Fine by me.” Horvath led the way across the parking lot. In the narrow laneway between the school building and the rowhouse, he glanced down at her.
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
“What kind of question?”
“Promise you won’t hit me again?”
“Sure,” Karen said easily. “Ask away.”
“I notice your language has improved a little these days. Usually it’s fuck this, fuck that, fuck the other thing. Is something wrong? Maybe, you know, I could help?”
Karen laughed. “Fuck off, Horvath. For your information, I’m trying to clean it up until I get this wedding over with. I seriously doubt the new in-laws would appreciate the rougher edges of my personality. But thank you for noticing.”
Horvath turned right, onto the sidewalk. “You’re welcome.” He slowed, looking around the street. “So, every day after work she makes this walk home. Since the FBI analyst wants a full victimology report, this is a good idea. Walk a block in her shoes.”
Karen glanced over her shoulder at the school. “The front camera only gets the entrance, and probably the sidewalk and the street right in front. We could see traffic passing, but not what’s parked down here.”
“Wonder if it’s always jammed like this. There isn’t an empty spot on the entire block.”
“Usually you got parents camped out picking up their kids,” Karen agreed, “but these cars look like they belong to people living here, or visiting. Nobody waiting behind the wheel.”
“If he was surveilling her before he grabbed her, it’d be tough to do it on this block,” Horvath said.
“Yep.”
They reached the corner and turned right onto North Clanton Street. Theresa’s address was four doors down, on this side. Traffic was more brisk here, and there were more empty parking spaces. Karen jumped over a puddle in the middle of the sidewalk. “It rained all weekend,” she said. “Did it rain Friday night?”
“No,” Horvath said, stepping over the puddle, “I don’t think so.” He led the way up the sidewalk to 1175 North Clanton Street, the second of four rowhouse units on the block. A police cruiser occupied the parking spot directly in front. Inside the front door was an enclosed entry with two inner doors, one leading to the upstairs unit and the other into the downstairs unit where they found two uniformed officers with a short, stubby woman in an ankle-length, flowery print dress and sandals.
The Rainy Day Killer Page 3
