The Rainy Day Killer

by Michael J. McCann

  “I hate the accordion,” Griffin said.

  McLeod nodded. “Me too.”

  Since they seemed to be getting into a groove, Griffin touched him on the elbow and turned him away from the board. “You guys obviously have security cameras all over the place here. How about getting us a copy of your feeds from last Thursday? It could be very important to the investigation.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that without a warrant,” McLeod replied. “Company policy. I’d get fired in a heartbeat.”

  “A warrant won’t be any problem,” Hank said, unperturbed. “We wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble. If Liz Baskett wanted to busk here last Thursday but couldn’t get on the schedule, you said she’d be allowed to play outside the east entrance? That right?”

  “Yeah, exactly. There’s a bit of overhanging roof when you walk outside, and they’re allowed to do their thing under there. We let them stay a couple of hours, then one of our security guys asks them to leave. If they stay too long, we get loitering complaints from customers, irregardless of their licenses. We move them out and give somebody else a chance.”

  Hank looked at the schedule for today. There were several blank spots. Someone named Keyton was performing in the north court at the moment. Taking out his notebook and pen, he jotted down a few notes.

  “We’re worried that the young lady’s killer might’ve snatched her right here from the mall,” Griffin said. “If it comes out later, it could cause a big public relations problem for your company. It’d help the lieutenant if he could get out ahead of the curve.”

  Hank closed his notebook and reached into his pocket for the composite drawing of the Rainy Day Killer. He showed it to McLeod. “We’re looking for this guy. We’d like to confirm on the video that Ms. Baskett was here at the mall last Thursday, but we also want to find out whether this guy was here.”

  McLeod stared at the drawing. “I don’t know. I worked on Thursday, but I wouldn’t remember. Hundreds of people come in and out all day.”

  “That’s why we need to see the video.”

  McLeod hesitated, wrinkling his brow again. The office door opened behind them. They turned around as a young man in a security guard’s uniform walked through the office without looking at them, heading for a room at the back. McLeod looked at Griffin and shrugged. “I can’t burn a copy right now, but I can ask Warren to play it back. You’re welcome to watch over his shoulder, in case you see anything you might need to subpoena from us later. For evidence. Whatever you guys do.”

  Griffin looked at Hank. “I don’t mind, if you want to call for the warrant and look around.”

  Hank nodded. “Karen will come down and relieve you as soon as she can.”

  “Whatever.” Griffin turned to McLeod. “So introduce me to this Warren guy.”

  Hank left them and walked back out into the mall. He was closest to the east entrance, so he headed in that direction first, removing his cell phone and calling Karen as he walked.

  “I’m at the morgue,” she said. “They’re putting her through x-ray right now, but I thought I’d stick around in case they find anything more this time. Horvath’s downtown with Montgomery, checking out the hotline tips. They’re getting a ton of calls, and he wanted to look through the slips.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll give him a call and have him do the warrant. You stay with the body.”

  “Roger wilco. You looked good on TV at noon. Very captain-like.”

  “Don’t start on that.”

  “I’ll call you when I know more.” She ended the call.

  Hank speed-dialed Horvath. It rang a number of times, and when Horvath finally answered it, his voice sounded harried.

  “Yeah, Hank. Can you hold a minute?”

  “Sure,” Hank said, but Horvath had already lowered the phone and was continuing the argument he’d been in the middle of when Hank called.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, “it’s already done. If she says no one called it in, then there’s nothing she could do. You know that.”

  Hank could hear Cassion’s voice replying to Horvath, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  “With all due respect, Captain,” Horvath said, “we need to focus on what’s in front of us now and not start flaming Missing Persons for something they couldn’t—”

  Cassion’s voice rose angrily. “—incompetence!”

  “Jim,” Hank said, trying to get his attention.

  “She’s not incompetent,” Horvath argued, “they just didn’t get a report on the vic. End of story.”

  “Jim,” Hank repeated, stepping into the doorway of a vacant unit and cupping the phone with his free hand. “Jim!”

  “No, it’s not like that at all,” Horvath was saying.

  “Jim!”

  “Sorry, Hank,” Horvath said, coming back on the line, “the captain and I are—”

  “Put her on.”

  “Sure, just a moment. Captain, it’s Lieutenant Donaghue.”

  Cassion took the phone. “Donaghue, give me a sit-rep.”

  “I’m following a lead. What’s going on?”

  “I’m heading into a briefing with the chief, and I’d like to be able to say we’re on this guy’s ass already.”

  “Helen, we checked with Missing Persons multiple times Friday and Saturday. There were no reports anywhere close to the victim profile, let alone for this specific individual.”

  “I find that hard to believe, Donaghue. We’ve been broadcasting this guy’s MO all over the city for nearly a month. I can’t believe someone didn’t report her missing. Winston fucked it up—”

  “The victim was a loner,” Hank interrupted. “I interviewed her building super. Nobody there knew her well enough to care if she went missing. Her family’s in Colorado. I’m at the mall where she busked right now to see if anyone here knew her at all, but the bottom line is, she was a high-risk victim with no known personal attachments and, apparently, poor awareness of personal safety. Low-hanging fruit, to cross us up after all the high-risk crap he’s been pulling. Do you need Horvath right now?”

  “Horvath? What for?”

  “For the briefing.”

  “Why would I need him for that? What I need is to hear you’ve got a solid lead on this UNSUB.”

  “Detective Stainer’s pulling footage from the Urban Eye camera covering the plaza,” Hank said. “I’m at the mall in Springhill right now”—he caught himself before mentioning Griffin’s name—“and I need Horvath to get a warrant for their video surveillance system. The victim was a busker licensed to perform here, and we think there’s a possibility this is where the suspect grabbed her. We might get lucky.”

  “Okay,” Cassion said, sounding mollified, “okay, that’s good. Maybe people working in the stores saw something. You could question them. Maybe they remember seeing the UNSUB with her. Show them the composite.”

  “Good idea,” Hank replied, patiently. “I’ll follow up on that. You saw the media statement?”

  “Yeah, you went out with the victim’s ID and connected it right away to the Olsen case. Are you sure that’s wise? Won’t it piss him off?”

  “It shouldn’t. He’s been through this before, and remember, he wants to elevate the fear level in the community. It’s one of his sources of gratification.”

  “Right, I know that.”

  “Assure the chief that we’ve got a day, maybe two or three, before we receive his package with Liz Baskett’s effects and body parts. He probably won’t call before that, so there’s a bit of time for us to do our job and get ahead of the curve. Tell the chief we’re on top of it.”

  “Okay. I hope Bennett’s not too worked up over this. I heard the mayor already called to give him shit.”

  “The chief can handle it, Helen. It’s what he does for a living.”

  “Yeah, but you know how they like to pass the stress down the line.”

  “You’ll be fine. Assure the chief the unit’s working twenty-four-seven following up on all leads.
He’s more interested in how you’re doing than anything else, Helen. He knows we’re working it hard. Project your usual self-confidence, and it’ll go well.”

  “You don’t have to coach me, Donaghue. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Good to hear. Put Jim back on.”

  When Horvath came back on the line, Hank told him to secure a warrant for all video surveillance records at the Southpoint Mall for the past seven days. He gave Horvath the name of the property management company, the name of the general manager and operations manager, and told him to bring the warrant down as soon as he had it in his hands.

  “I’ll bring Mickey. Look, Hank,” he lowered his voice, “I’m friends with Sharon Winston, and she doesn’t deserve to be flamed by senior management over this. You checked with her, I checked with her, Stains checked with her. We drove her nuts, and there was nothing. I was just coming out of Montgomery’s office and Cassion was here in the hallway blowing her frigging horn to What’s-his-name, the chief’s EA—”

  “Glennon.”

  “Yeah, him, about how she should’ve never turned her back on Missing Persons, Winston’s a fuck-up, and—”

  “Jim,” Hank interrupted, “it’ll be fine. Cassion just over-reacted a little. She’s fine, now. Winston’s ass is covered. Look, I need you to get that warrant ASAP and get down here to this mall to secure the video. Griffin’s viewing it unofficially right now, but I need you here to establish chain of custody, okay?”

  “Absolutely,” Horvath said. “I’m on it.”

  Hank ended the call and resumed his walk toward the east entrance. The mall was very quiet, with few shoppers that he could see, and he imagined that the various stores were struggling to make their rent each month, given the current state of retail in the country. He reached a broad intersection. To his left, a corridor ran down to the east mall entrance. Straight ahead, he saw the check-out lanes of the Shoppers grocery store. A woman pushed a cart filled with plastic sacks between the metal stiles and headed down toward the exit. Idly, as though putting in time while his wife shopped, Hank stuck his hands in his pockets and followed her, glancing up at another dome camera about halfway down.

  He walked through the double set of automatic glass doors and found himself outside under the truncated overhanging roof McLeod had mentioned. There was no video surveillance camera out here.

  A young man huddled in the corner, smoking a cigarette, a guitar hanging by a brightly-colored strap around his neck. His guitar case was open, the bottom spattered with coins and a few folded one-dollar bills. A city license, plasticized, was propped up at the wide end of the case. With his wool sweater, headband, and scruffy beard, he looked like a refugee from a Scooby-Doo cartoon.

  “Rough weather,” Hank said, feeling in his pocket for his bill clip.

  “You’re telling me.” The kid pitched away his cigarette and pulled the guitar around.

  “Are you here often?”

  The kid shrugged, sliding his left hand up and down the neck of the guitar, as though double-clutching before fingering a chord. “Time to time.”

  “Were you here last Thursday?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  Hank took the photo of Liz Baskett from his jacket pocket and held it out. “Know her?”

  The kid nodded. “She’s damn good. Who’s asking?”

  Hank held up the wallet containing his badge and identification. “She was murdered this weekend. Do you know if she was here last Thursday?”

  “Ah, fuck.” The kid shook his head. “Ah, fuck. She was sweet. What a fucking shame. No, I wasn’t here, so I don’t know if she was. Tommy would, though.”

  “Tommy?” Hank put his wallet away and slipped the photo into his pocket.

  “Tommy Keyton. He’s playing center stage right now. You could ask him. He was, you know, interested in her.”

  Hank remembered the surname from the schedule board in the office, and he assumed that center stage referred to the area in the north court that the general manager had set up for the use of the buskers.

  He took out the composite of the Rainy Day Killer. “Ever seen this guy around?”

  The kid stared at the picture, and shook his head. “Looks like a mean fucker. That him? The guy who did it?”

  “He’s someone we’re interested in talking to.”

  “I haven’t seen him, but that don’t mean much. I don’t make a lot of eye contact when I’m here, know what I mean? I just play and let the coins fall where they may.”

  Hank smiled. “You any good?”

  The kid pulled out a pick that was wedged between the strings at the head of the guitar and launched into the opening chords of “A Horse With No Name.”

  Were all the kids into retro folk rock these days? Hank’s fingers found his bill clip and removed the top bill. He dropped it into the guitar case without looking at it.

  “Twenty,” the kid said. “Righteous.”

  Hank went back inside the mall and headed for the north court. Tommy Keyton was another twenty-something musician trying to make ends meet. He wore a black sports jacket, a white shirt, blue jeans, and Nike sneakers. A good-looking young man, he was tall and slender, and his wispy blonde hair, high forehead, and mutton-chop sideburns reminded Hank of a young Stephen Stills. He was playing a six-string Yamaha guitar and singing a song Hank didn’t recognize.

  Because the mall was quiet, he had no audience and his open guitar case had very little cash in it. Hank took out his bill clip, found another twenty, and dropped it into the case. Keyton’s eyes checked out the denomination, flashed up to Hank’s, and then he nodded without skipping a beat in the song he was singing.

  When it was finished, Hank took a step closer. “Are you Tommy Keyton?”

  “That’s right. Tell me you’re from a record company.”

  “Sorry.” Hank showed him his badge and identification. “Lieutenant Donaghue, GPD. Were you here at the mall last Thursday?”

  “Yeah, but not to play. Why? Some kind of trouble?” Tommy stepped down from the little stage.

  Hank took out Liz Baskett’s photo. “Know her?”

  Keyton took the photo from him. “Yeah, that’s Liz.” He looked at the photo for a long moment, then frowned. “Why’re you asking?”

  “She was murdered over the weekend,” Hank said, taking back the photo. “We’re trying to trace her movements on Thursday, which is the last time she was seen.”

  Keyton swung the guitar strap over his head, put the instrument into a small folding metal stand, and sat down on the edge of the stage. He covered his face with his hands. His shoulders moved up and down.

  Hank gave him a few moments, then sat down beside him. “Was she here on Thursday, Tommy? It’s important to us to verify that.”

  Keyton nodded, then dragged his fingers down over his face to remove the tears and shook his head. “Sorry, man. I really liked her. I thought maybe we would. . .”

  “Were you seeing her? Going out with her?”

  “No, nothing like that. I was taking it slow, looking toward the future. She wasn’t into relationships at all, just her music. But we were friends. What happened to her?”

  Hank hesitated. It was obvious he didn’t follow the news and hadn’t heard the morning report of Liz’s death. There was something about this kid that he liked, a vulnerability and sensitivity that radiated from him in waves and filled the music that Hank guessed he’d written himself. He knew there was no way to avoid hurting him.

  “We think someone may have taken her from here last Thursday. Her body was found downtown this morning, at city hall plaza.”

  “Why? Why would someone do that? I don’t understand. She was gentle and shy, she didn’t mean anyone any harm.”

  “Did you see her here last Thursday? Anything you can tell us may help us find the person who did this.” He took out his notebook and pen.

  “Yeah.” He jammed a thumb into the corner of his eye to wipe away another tear. “I knew she’d be here, outside.
She wanted to upgrade her recording software, but it was going to cost two hundred bucks, and she needed to raise the cash. The old walrus, Johnson, was hogging center stage all day, so she decided to play outside. I came around because I wanted to see her.”

  “Why was that? Something specific?”

  Keyton stared at his boots. “No, I just wanted to talk to her. She composed her own stuff too, and I wanted to run a few ideas past her. I have a music degree, but she’s self-taught. It’s her lyrics that really shine, and I thought maybe we could do a few songs together. Plus, I knew she was putting together a demo, and I was going to tell her I’d play rhythm for her and do some background vocals, if she wanted.”

  He fell silent, eyes closed.

  “Tell me about Thursday,” Hank prompted.

  “I got here a bit late, about eleven. She was already here, but she wasn’t making anything. The rain was a bitch. She was soaked because it was blowing in under the roof. Nobody wants to be out there in bad weather, but she was desperate for the money. I hung around with her, but we didn’t really talk very much. A few people came in, but nobody was paying for play. Weather like that, everybody’s head’s down and they’re walking too fast to see you. After a while she said screw it, let’s go get a coffee. So I came inside with her and we hung out at the food court for a while. I bought her coffee and something to eat. Then I had to go. I had an ophthalmologist’s appointment. I need glasses.”

  “About what time was this?”

  Keyton shook his head. “Not sure, some time around noon, I guess.”

  “What did Liz do?”

  “She went back outside. She was determined to raise some cash.”

  Hank took a moment to catch up on his notes. “Was there anyone else here who might have talked to her after you left? Any other buskers?”

  “No, just old man Johnson, and he doesn’t talk to us. He calls us snotty-nosed punks, the bag of pus. Sorry.”