He squeezed her hand. “Be happy, then.”
7
Thursday, April 25: late morning
The ninth floor was a busy place this morning. In the interview room at the end of the hall, Detective Frank Kaplan was interrogating a teenaged suspect from a downtown drive-by shooting while his partner, Detective Harold Belknap, questioned a witness at his desk in the Homicide bullpen, not far from Hank’s office door. The witness, a friend of the victim, was upset and very loud. On top of that, Warren Seed, a cranky young detective from Robbery, had come all the way down from the other end of the floor to complain to Horvath at the top of his voice about his raids on their coffee.
As icing on the cake, building maintenance had chosen this morning to change all the ceiling fluorescent light tubes. A guy in coveralls with a visitor’s badge pinned on his chest pocket walked through Hank’s open door without a word, set up his aluminum step ladder, flicked off the light switch inside the door, and climbed up to remove a ceiling light panel. Dead insects pattered on the top of Hank’s filing cabinet as he lowered the panel, propped it on its end against the filing cabinet, and proceeded to remove the light tubes which, as far as Hank could tell, were still working just fine.
Hank turned a set of photographs face down on his desk and switched on a reading lamp. He was going over the autopsy report on Theresa Olsen, sent to him this morning by Sarah Chalmers. Tipping up the folder to prevent its contents from being seen by the man on the ladder, he continued to skim through the report.
Chalmers had confirmed that time of death was between 7:30 p.m. and 9:30 p.m. on Tuesday, April 23. Cause of death was ligature strangulation as a result of pressure obstruction of the larynx, producing asphyxia. This finding was supported by significant multiple injuries to the larynx, a fractured hyoid bone, bruising and some slight rope abrasions around the neck, and conjunctival and facial petechiae. The ligature was judged by the pattern and size of the markings to have been natural-fiber, three-eighths-of-an-inch twisted manila rope.
Manner of death, Chalmers concluded, was homicide. Place of death was unknown. Regarding the latter point, lividity suggested that death occurred while the victim was lying on her back, and that she apparently remained in a supine position, legs and arms straight, for approximately an hour after death, during which time lividity began to fix. That the victim was moved after death was therefore obvious, because the lividity markings on the limbs did not match the position in which the body was discovered.
Examination of the gastro-intestinal tract revealed no signs of solid food consumption for at least fifty hours before death. There was evidence of mild but not severe dehydration, and tests suggested the victim may have consumed glucose-replacement liquids during that time period.
Penetrating genital injuries were discovered that were consistent with repeated sexual assault. Inspection of the mouth revealed no lacerations, hairs, or fibers. Chalmers had washed the mouth cavity, and the washing tested negative for spermatozoa, as did anal swabs and vaginal washing.
The entire body showed evidence of having been cleaned by the killer, and traces of a commercial detergent soap with bacterial disinfectant were recovered.
Abrasions and contusions on both wrists and ankles confirmed prolonged and repeated confinement with plastic locking straps.
Removal of both breasts was post-mortem and—
Hank became aware that someone was speaking his name. He looked up and saw Horvath in the doorway. The detective ducked aside as the worker returned with fresh fluorescent tubes and noisily climbed back up the ladder. Hank closed the file folder and set it aside.
“Sorry to bother you,” Horvath said, glancing at the man on the ladder. “I’ve got our reports.” He waved the folders in his hand.
“Just a minute.” Hank stood up, gathered up the stuff on his desk, and headed for the door.
The worker came down off the ladder and nodded at him. “Won’t be too much longer, Chief.” He grabbed his ladder and scuffed it across the carpeted floor to Hank’s desk, above which was another light panel.
Hank led the way out into the bullpen. Thankfully, Belknap had walked his witness down to the elevators, and the noise level had dropped significantly. Kaplan was still in the interview room. Karen was down at the lab. The other desks were vacant because currently there were no other detectives in Homicide to sit at them. He dropped the autopsy file on Karen’s desk and sat down. Horvath perched on the corner and handed his file folders to Hank.
“We finished up the victimology report, since you wanted to send it to Quantico today. Along with that, there are reports from the responding officers,” Horvath ticked it off on his fingers, “our notes and sketches from the dump site, witness statements from the school principal and a teacher who knew her slightly, a list of male school employees, a witness statement from the Banks woman, the comp sketch of the guy she saw, photos from the dump site, et cetera, et cetera. Stains is trying to shake loose some lab reports as we speak.”
The worker strode out of Hank’s office with the old fluorescent tubes from the light fixture above Hank’s desk. He walked between the desks to a pushcart parked in front of the gun lockers on the far side of the room, removed fresh tubes from their cardboard sleeves, and strolled back into Hank’s office.
“Bottom line?” Hank asked.
“A shy, quiet kid with no friends to speak of, no social life, no boyfriend. No indication of trouble with the parents or other relatives whatsoever. No problems reported in her past that we could find. Clean record. Driver’s license, but no vehicle. Reasonably physically fit, rode the bus on a monthly pass to go shopping and stuff, had a bicycle that was kept locked at the back of the building and looked like it was being used. Ate sensibly and didn’t consume alcohol or drugs. At least, we didn’t find anything in her apartment at all. Not even beer. Aspirin in the medicine cabinet was as strong as it got.”
Another worker wandered into the bullpen. This one wore a Department of Public Works identification card on a lanyard around his neck. He saw the pushcart in front of the gun lockers and looked around. Hank caught his eye and pointed at his office.
The man nodded and sauntered over, sticking his head in the door. “Where’s the other guy?”
“On the tenth,” came the reply from above Hank’s desk. “I’ve got this floor almost done.”
“Need any more tubes?”
“Nope. Got enough.”
“Sounds good.” The man slapped the door frame, turned away, winked at Hank, and headed back down toward the elevators. On the way, he passed the mail clerk, who was heading toward the bullpen with his cart.
“Sometimes,” Horvath said, “I think we might as well be working at the bus station. It’d be a hell of a lot quieter.”
The man switched on the lights in Hank’s office and came out carrying his ladder. “Thanks, Chief.” He headed down the corridor leading to the interview and observation rooms.
Hank gathered up his stuff and went back into his office. He sat down at his desk, dropped the pile in front of him, and turned off the desk lamp.
Horvath leaned against the door frame. “I don’t want this to be a self-fulfilling prophecy,” he said, “but from what I’ve heard so far about this serial killer, I’m starting to think it may have been him. It looks absolutely, completely random. The father’s no good for it, the men at her school are all coming up with alibis, and there are damned few other candidates. It doesn’t feel like someone she knew. It doesn’t feel personal, it feels completely impersonal.”
“It’s too early to tell,” Hank said. He tapped the stack of files. “This is still preliminary.”
Horvath held up a palm. “Understood. Absolutely. Like I say, I don’t want to fall into some self-fulfilling prophecy where we decide it was some elusive serial killer nobody can catch and the case never gets closed. I don’t—”
“Excuse me,” said a voice.
Horvath turned around.
The mail clerk wa
s standing behind him with a package in his hands. “This is for Lieutenant Donaghue.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Horvath took the package and put it down on the desk in front of Hank.
It was a manila cardboard carton, twenty-two inches by eighteen inches by ten inches. A shipping label with a bar code was stuck on top, generated from the website of the local courier company who had delivered it. The lid was sealed shut with clear packing tape. Oddly, the carton was also secured with manila rope, passed lengthwise and widthwise around the box and tied with a knot at the top.
Hank reached for the carton, puzzled. His attention suddenly gravitated to the manila rope, which looked as though it might be three-eighths of an inch. His hand hovered above the box as he stared at the rope, holding his breath. A faint humming came from the newly-replaced fluorescent lights above his head. Air gently buzzed through the vents. Horvath shifted his weight. A clock on the wall above his filing cabinet ticked.
Hank slowly withdrew his hand and picked up the phone. He punched a speed-dial number and stared at Horvath, who frowned, puzzled.
“Tim,” Hank said when the call was answered, “can you send Butternut up to my office right away?”
He listened for a moment and compressed his lips. “No, I understand, but could you please ask her as soon as she’s done the next one to put it on hold and come upstairs immediately?”
Eyes still locked on Horvath’s, Hank nodded. “Yes, it is. I think you could definitely call it an urgent priority. I think the Olsen killer just sent us a package, and I think I know what’s in it.”
8
Friday, April 26: early morning
As he was getting out of the airport limousine with Meredith in front of the departures entrance of the Glendale International Airport, Hank’s cell phone vibrated. He took it out, looked at the call display, and walked a few steps away as the driver began to remove Meredith’s baggage from the trunk.
“Donaghue.”
“The package connects to the victim, Theresa Olsen,” Tim Byrne said without preamble. “Fingerprints on the driver’s license and credit cards, hairs; the report will include everything. It’s her stuff. Clothing, shoes, handbag. We’ll wait on the test results, but the breasts are obviously hers, too. The son of a bitch.”
“Thanks, Tim.”
“Marcotte’s processing the DVD, but I’m not hopeful. We’re not getting anything connected to this bastard. No prints, no hairs, no fiber, no DNA traces, no nothing. Zip. Not on the clothes, the wallet, her keys, or the plastic container he put the breasts in.”
“I understand, Tim.”
“We viewed the DVD. Marcotte’s pretty upset. This bastard’s inhuman. He’s talking directly to you, Hank. Where are you now?”
“At the airport. I’ll be downtown later this morning.”
“I’ll see you when you get here,” Byrne said. “I’m going to get some breakfast. Not that I’ve got any appetite left.”
Hank put the phone away and told the limousine driver to wait. He walked Meredith as far as the security checkpoint in the departures area on the upper level before saying goodbye. They embraced and kissed. He watched her push aside a lock of hair and felt again a selfish sense of relief that there would be a continent between her and a serial killer who preyed on blonde women.
“I called Karen to tell her I wouldn’t be back in time for her wedding,” she said.
“Just as well. It might have given you ideas.”
She touched his cheek. “I’ll miss you. Stay out of trouble.”
“No promises. Give my best to Patsy.”
Patsy Wallace, Meredith’s cousin, was the closest family member she had left. They stayed in touch, speaking every other week on the phone. On Monday, Meredith had received a call from her Uncle Donald, telling her that Patsy had been struck by a car in Sonoma, California, where she lived. She was in hospital, Donald said, with serious injuries. Seventy-four years old and living in a residence for seniors, Donald didn’t know what was going to happen to Sherry, Patsy’s twenty-two-year-old daughter. Sherry had Down’s Syndrome and lived at home with Patsy, who had never married.
Meredith managed to speak to her cousin on Wednesday. She’d been moved out of intensive care into a room in the hospital, but was still in serious condition with a broken pelvis, broken leg, and a fractured skull. The conversation was brief. Patsy was groggy from the after-effects of a concussion and the pain medication she was receiving. Her attending physician happened to be in the room at the time, and she spoke to Meredith afterward. Patsy was stable and would recover. The doctor went on to explain that she’d made a few calls to ensure that things would be taken care of in the short term. A neighbor in Patsy’s building was looking in on Sherry. The bookstore Patsy owned in Sonoma, her only source of income, would be kept open by her two employees. Her cousin would likely remain hospitalized for at least two weeks, however, if not longer. Things were still very much up in the air.
Meredith promised to fly out as soon as possible. She’d stay with Sherry until Patsy came home, and would remain after that for as long as she was needed. Sherry often spent time with Patsy in the bookstore during the day, so Meredith and she could do the same.
It was an early flight, departing at 6:50 a.m., and would be a long one. She had stops in Dallas and Los Angeles before she would transfer to an Alaska Airlines Dash-8 to complete the final leg to Santa Rosa, where she had a rental car waiting for her. She would drive down to Sonoma from there. She was an experienced traveler, but she knew she’d be tired by the end of the day.
“Will you visit the winery?” Hank asked.
“Probably.”
Meredith was a native of Napa County and grew up on a winery in the Carneros region, east of Napa, owned and operated by her parents. Former beatniks from wealthy families in San Francisco, they’d used inherited money in the early sixties to buy an estate that had fallen onto hard times. Discovering an unsuspected talent for wine-making, they began to turn out superb lots in the varietals that made Carneros famous—pinot noir and chardonnay. Their only child, Meredith grew up in what was for her a veritable paradise. She had fond memories of the early-morning fog and the cool, persistent wind blowing off San Pablo Bay. In the afternoon, she could see as far south as San Francisco Bay from one side of the hill, and across the broad expanse of the valley from the other side.
Yes, she’d probably take Sherry for a little drive while she was there, and they’d probably take a run across the county line into Napa for a quick look at the Casa Carneros estate.
“I love you,” Hank said. “Come back.”
Meredith laughed, a little sadly. “Oh, I will. Don’t worry about that, darling.”
9
Saturday, April 27: mid-morning
“I’d like to welcome everyone here this morning,” said Deputy Chief Douglas Barkley, standing at the end of the long cherry wood table. “I’m very grateful to Supervisory Special Agent Ed Griffin for coming down from Quantico to help us with this very difficult and horrifying case.” He nodded at Griffin. “I imagine this isn’t quite what you expected to be confronted with, a board room filled with senior management giving speeches and all that, but I assure you as soon as we’re done speaking, our intentions are to get the hell out of here so you folks can get the job done and nail this son of a bitch.”
Barkley paused to allow the nervous chuckles and coughs to work themselves out. “I think it’s a good idea that Commander Martinez has turned over her board room to the team for the duration of this investigation, and I’ve told her I’ll authorize any expenditure within reason to make sure it meets your requirements while it serves as your war room. I’ve also told her that while you’re occupying hers, she can have the use of mine on the second floor for her meetings. During off-hours, of course.”
Another wave of polite laughter rippled around the room. “A special welcome not only to SSA Griffin but also to FBI Special Agent in Charge Marie-Louise Roubidoux and Special Agent John Alexande
r. On my left, going down the GPD side of the table, is Deputy Chief Alonzo Philbin, Officer Eleanor Montgomery, Commander Ann Martinez, Detectives Horvath and Stainer, and at the end of the table Lieutenant Donaghue, the lead investigator. To his left, on the FBI side of the table, Captain Michael Turcotte, who’s in charge of our Criminalistics section. Mike, I hope you’re not thinking of defecting because, believe me, after eighteen years with the Bureau I can tell you personally that the grass is definitely not greener on the other side of the table.”
When the laughter had run its course, he said, “I’m about to sit down and shut my mouth, but before I do, I just wanted to thank you all for giving up such a beautiful Saturday morning to attend this meeting. For most of us, it’ll be very brief, but I think you’ll agree, very necessary. In a case like this, it’s essential to straighten out the respective roles and responsibilities vis-à-vis local law enforcement and the Bureau, and I think it’s very important to take a few minutes right up front to make sure we’re all on the same page. With that in mind, I’ll ask SAC Roubidoux to say a few words.”
Barkley dropped his bulk into his chair and grabbed his cup of coffee as Roubidoux, a small, precise woman in her mid-forties, got to her feet and removed her reading glasses.
“Thanks, Deputy Chief. We’re very glad you asked us over this morning. I’ll let SSA Griffin speak for himself, of course, but as far as the Glendale city field office is concerned, we’re more than happy to provide whatever advice and guidance we can to your investigative team. Special Agent Alexander will be your primary point of contact, but I’m also available at any time if Sandy can’t be reached.”
She touched the back of her carefully-styled dark hair. “Having said that, I can’t spare Sandy or any other agent from their current workload for active participation in this investigation. There’s a possibility you may want to set up a joint task force with police departments in other cities who have open cases on this UNSUB. If so, Sandy can help you and SSA Griffin set it up, but beyond that, he really won’t be able to give you any assistance in terms of the investigation itself.”
The Rainy Day Killer Page 5
