The Killing Room

by Gerri Hill

  “Are you kidding me? You and Michele?”

  “Can we get out of here, please?”

  She nodded. “Okay. Sure.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I swear, Nicole. It’s after six. You can’t keep doing this every night.”

  Nicole looked from her computer to Catherine, frowning as Catherine walked into her room. “I’m not working. I’m reading the paper.” She sat back, cocking her head. “Catherine, one of our group sessions about three years ago, wasn’t there a woman named Sandra Poole?”

  “Three years ago? I can barely remember one session ago, much less three years,” she said, as she shook her head. “Why?”

  “They found a body at the airport. Raped and strangled,” Nicole said. “Sandra Poole. The name is so familiar.”

  “Get up.”

  “What?”

  “Let me check the accounts.”

  “I know how to check the accounts, Catherine,” Nicole said as she moved her chair out of the way, releasing the mouse to the other woman.

  “Right. I’ve seen you muddle through it, and I’d like to get home within the hour.”

  “Funny.” But she watched as Catherine quickly pulled up their accounts.

  “I’ll just do a search. It’ll be easier than guessing what year.”

  “I didn’t know I could search all the years at once,” Nicole said. “I thought you had it broken down.”

  “It is, and I’ve shown this to you before. Just click ‘combine’ and it re-sorts them into one file.” Which it did. “How do you spell it? E on the end or not?”

  “Yes.”

  It only took a second before a file for Poole, Sandra was pulled up.

  “Damn,” Nicole murmured.

  “You think it’s the same person?”

  Nicole stared at the picture of Sandra Poole, a woman in her forties with bleached blond hair. Then she read the brief notes. Raped by her husband, beaten. Two weeks in the hospital. One suicide attempt. She looked at Catherine. “Let’s hope not. Nobody deserves that twice in one lifetime.”

  ———

  Jake twirled the beer bottle in her hand, watching as Rick peeled the label off of his.

  “It just hit me, you know.” He finally looked up. “We have nothing in common.”

  “You must have something in common. You got married,” Jake reminded him.

  “I know you told me it was too soon. Please don’t bring that up again.”

  Jake motioned for the waitress to bring them two more, then turned her full attention on Rick. “When did this suddenly hit you, Rick?”

  He shrugged. “I’m sitting at home one night, listening to her go on and on about the latest house they’re decorating, and I realized… I didn’t really like her,” he said quietly.

  “Are you shitting me, man?”

  “And I don’t think she likes me, either,” he added.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I talk police stuff, she freaks out, thinks I’m going to get killed. She talks decorating shit, and I want to throw up.”

  Jake smiled. “Rick, she’s a woman. They’re going to talk decorating shit.”

  “You don’t.”

  Jake arched an eyebrow. “You want to date a lesbian?”

  He let out a deep breath. “No. But you were right two years ago when you said I should wait. I mean, here she was, this beautiful girl, all the guys loved her… and she wanted me.”

  “Damn ego,” Jake murmured. “I told you.”

  “Yeah. I remember your words, Jake. No need to go over it again.”

  “Have you talked to her about it?”

  He shook his head, pausing as the waitress brought them fresh beers. “No. Hell, we don’t talk. We tell about our day, that’s it. Then we sit in front of the TV, me thinking about you, wondering when the hell you’re coming back, and she’s looking at decorating magazines.”

  Jake reached across the table and took his hand. “I missed you, too.”

  He looked up, and Jake was surprised at the tears in his eyes.

  “I just didn’t have anyone to talk to, you know. And you’re like… my best friend, Jake.”

  “I swear, Rick, if I were straight, I’d be all over your ass.”

  He grinned. “Don’t sweet-talk me.”

  Jake squeezed his hand, then pulled away. “You could have called me anytime, you know. I get service up there.”

  “I know. But I knew you wanted some alone-time, away from all this. I didn’t want to lay my shit on you, too.”

  “You’re right. I needed some time alone. Had to get my head straight.”

  “And did you?”

  Jake shrugged. “Enough. I still have… well, I still have dreams.”

  “About the kid?”

  Jake nodded.

  “But the shrink cleared you.”

  “I didn’t tell her.”

  “Oh, Jake. Shit, I know you. You’re not talking this out with anyone, are you? You’re dealing with it all inside that little head of yours, and the only outlet is your dreams.”

  “Why, Dr. Chase, how very astute of you,” Jake said dryly.

  Rick leaned forward. “Why didn’t you tell her about the dreams?”

  “Well, for one thing, she wouldn’t have cleared me to come back, and I needed to come back. And you’re right. Maybe the dreams are an outlet so maybe it’s not such a bad thing.”

  It was Rick’s turn to take her hand. “It wasn’t your fault, Jake.”

  “We don’t really know that, Rick. We’ll never know that.”

  “Jake…”

  “No. It’s okay. I’ve accepted that. The dirt bag is dead, the kid is dead, and Officer Perkins is dead. Hell, I should be dead, too. It was one big shooting fest.”

  “You almost were,” Rick reminded her.

  “Yeah. But thanks to my partner’s famous tourniquet, I survived.”

  “Jake… wasn’t your bullet. You’ve got to let it go.”

  Jake’s eyes held his. “Ricky, for the rest of my life, I’ll never be able to let it go.”

  Rick shook his head. “You can’t carry that weight with you, Jake. It’ll just make you crazy. And don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind that the next time, you might be afraid to pull your weapon, to use it. Enough of the guys have talked about it. But I told them I’d rather have you watching my back than any of their sorry asses.” He drained the last of his beer and twirled the bottle in his hands. “You love me just like I love you. We’re not going to let anything happen to the other. No matter what.”

  Jake couldn’t help but smile. God, could she have a better partner?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Cheyenne gave her such a forlorn look as Jake put her outside the next morning that she very nearly let her have run of the duplex. But, hell, she never knew what time she’d get home. So, she leaned down and looked the dog in the eye.

  “I promise. This weekend, we’ll head out of town and do some hiking. Deal?”

  She nearly laughed as Cheyenne cocked her head to the side, ears raised.

  “Yeah, I know. You understand every word.” She affectionately rubbed the dog’s ear. “I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.”

  She caught her reflection in the window as she walked through her small duplex, pausing to look around. She’d lived here the entire time she’d been in Denver, and it still didn’t feel like home. It was sparsely furnished, just enough to get by. And most of her personal things, mementoes and such, were at the cabin. No, it wasn’t really home, it was just a place to be. She flipped her keys in her hand absently, suddenly missing the cabin, wondering when she could find a long weekend to drive up there.

  It was barely after seven o’clock and traffic was nonexistent as she made her way to the station. She stopped long enough to get coffee and a muffin and still made it in by seven-thirty. Her squad room was quiet, and she used the time to read over the ME’s report on Sandra Poole. As she read, she tossed her muffin in the trash,
having lost her appetite. The woman hadn’t just been raped. She’d been sodomized and nearly ripped open from the force.

  “Goddamn bastard,” she whispered, as she closed the file. Then she pulled up Helen Thornton’s ME report, comparing the two. Raped, strangled. Not sodomized. Might be different perps. But she didn’t think so. She didn’t really believe in coincidence.

  “Hey, McCoy.”

  Jake looked up from the file, smiling as Belcher walked in. “Good morning.”

  “Glad you’re back,” he said as he walked over to get coffee.

  “Thanks.”

  She’d always gotten along fine with Belcher. In fact, she’d been partnered with him the first couple of weeks. But, he’d taken a leave when his wife had their first child, and the lieutenant had paired her with Rick instead. And that was all it took. She and Rick had hit it off, and when Belcher returned, the lieutenant reshuffled, leaving her and Rick together.

  “We all found out Rick was a whiney ass,” he said as he walked over. “Never heard a grown man pine so much for his partner.”

  “Probably because no one else would work with him.”

  “You’re okay, right?”

  She nodded. “Thanks Belcher. I’m fine.”

  “Good.”

  Belcher was a good cop, although she often wondered why he chose Special Victims. He was the only one of them who had kids, the only one married, other than Rick. She raised her eyebrows. Of course, that might change. But Belcher was all about his family. She wondered how hard it was for him to work the cases that came their way. Especially the ones involving kids.

  The rest of the group came in, one by one. Gina Salazar, the only other female, nodded at her, her long, black hair tied in her familiar ponytail. They weren’t what Jake would call good friends, but they got along well, well enough for an occasional beer after work. Gina’s partner, Mark Simpson, walked by a second later. He was as fair-skinned as Gina was dark.

  “Where’s Chase?”

  “Late I guess.”

  “Well, I think you guys should take a look at a case we had several months ago.” He perched on the corner of her desk, stirring his coffee slowly. “Dead end. It happened about a month before your… ordeal,” he said. “Middle-aged woman found in her apartment, raped and strangled.”

  Jake nodded. “Yeah, I remember. But she was at home. Our victims have been dumped.”

  He shrugged. “You still might want to check it out. We had zero leads. No prints, no threats, nobody saw a thing. We’ve tabled it. There’s not shit to go on.”

  “Okay. I’ll take a look.” She glanced up. “You’ve got it in the system, right?”

  “Yeah. It’s updated. What little there is. Shelly Burke was her name.”

  She scribbled down the name, then turned back to her own files, looking for more similarities between them. Rick finally called. He was stuck in traffic. She cradled the phone against her shoulder as she shuffled the two files.

  “Well, I’ll spend this time getting the files in the system. Jesus, Rick, I hate paper files.”

  “Quit your bitching.”

  “Hey, listen, Simpson told me about a case of theirs that they had several months ago.” She looked at the file. “June fifth. You might remember. Middle-aged woman found in her apartment.”

  “Oh, yeah. Raped.”

  “Strangled, too.”

  “They got suspects?”

  “No. It was clean. I’m going to check her background, see how close it is to ours.”

  “Okay. We’re starting to crawl, so I guess the accident is cleared.”

  “Be careful. See you in a bit.”

  “Roger that. I’m out.”

  Jake laughed as she hung up. God, she’d missed Rick’s radio talk that he generally saved for the phone. Her smile faded when she pulled up the old case and saw that Shelly Burke was also a previous victim of rape. She was found in her bathtub, half-filled with water, nude.

  “What the hell is going on?” she murmured as she searched Medical. No semen found on any of the victims. No prints. No rope fibers. No nothing. It was as if they’d been… washed. “Is that possible?” She picked up the phone, calling the ME’s office.

  “Monica? It’s McCoy with Special Victims. I need you to pull a couple of posts.”

  “Sure, Jake. Names?”

  “Sandra Poole and Helen Thornton.”

  “Okay. But Thornton, that was awhile ago. Didn’t we send that over?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got the brief version. But I wanted the full report, need to add it to her file here.”

  “I see. And what are we looking for?”

  Jake smiled. “Soap.”

  “What?”

  “Soap, Monica.”

  “Jake, the ME’s report will not just say ‘soap’.”

  “Then do me a favor and grab Dr. Benson and ask her if there was goddamn soap on the victims.”

  “You don’t have to yell at me.”

  Jake leaned her head back, staring at the ceiling. What the hell is soap made out of? “Not yelling. Monica, the victims were clean. No prints, no fibers. No clothes. My little brain thought maybe they’d been washed. So I called you, the queen of secretaries over there, hoping you could tell me. If you can’t, do you mind e-mailing me the entire ME report on our two vics?”

  “Much better, Jake. You’re learning to ask nicely. And I will e-mail you the reports so that you can Google all the big words.”

  “Very funny. It’s a wonder you still have a job.”

  “Same to you!”

  Jake had half a mind to slam the receiver down when she heard Monica’s quiet laughter. She smiled instead.

  “I missed you, too, Monica.”

  “Ah, Jake. It’s been so boring without you to torment.”

  “Well, I’m back. And you’re still in fine form.”

  “That’s all I wanted to hear. Write this down. Triclosan. They both had traces of it on their skin.”

  “What the hell is triclosan?”

  “Why don’t you Google it?”

  “I swear, Monica, one of these days…”

  “You keep promising me that, sweetheart, but so far, you’re all talk and no action.”

  “You couldn’t handle me.”

  “Try me.”

  Jake couldn’t hold her laughter any longer and Monica joined in. “God, I’ve missed this.”

  “Me, too, you old fart. I’m glad you’re back, Jake. We need to get lunch sometime.”

  “Yeah, I know. I owe you several.”

  “You owe me thirteen.”

  “Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’ve been keeping count?” Jake asked, as she did a search for triclosan.

  “Okay. I’ve sent you the reports. What else can I do for you?”

  “Well, fuck me,” Jake murmured. “Triclosan. Active ingredient in antibacterial soap,” Jake said.

  “Glad I could help.”

  “Thanks, Monica,” Jake said absently as she hung up, her eyes scanning the article. Triclosan was found not only in antibacterial soaps, but also in some mouthwash and toothpaste. She opened her e-mail and printed out the two ME reports on their victims, then pulled up the case file on Shelly Burke. It was neat, Gina’s doing, most likely. She clicked on the ME’s report and scanned it, her eyes widening when she read that traces of triclosan were found on the victim’s skin.

  Lieutenant Gregory tapped her on the shoulder, startling her. She looked up from the file long enough to nod.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “He was caught in traffic, there was some accident.”

  “What you got, McCoy? Anything good?”

  She leaned back and nodded. “Triclosan.”

  He frowned. “What the hell is triclosan?”

  “It’s used in soap. Specifically, antibacterial soap.”

  “And?”

  “And all three victims had traces of it on their skin.”

  “Three? Last count, we had two.”

/>   “Simpson and Salazar had a case a few months ago. He told me to take a look at it.”

  “Oh, yeah. That was right before your… shooting. They had nothing.”

  “All three victims had been previously raped. Thornton and Poole, by their husbands, and Burke, by a boyfriend. All were in their forties.”

  “And what you’re saying, with this triclosan, that they’ve all been… cleaned?”

  Jake shrugged. “Even if that’s the case, it doesn’t really help us much, other than link the three. Still no suspect.”

  “Okay. If they’re linked, we pull Simpson and Salazar in and the four of you work this. The last thing we need is a goddamn serial killer picking off middle-aged housewives.” The lieutenant turned, nearly bumping into Rick as he hurried to his desk. “And we don’t have time for you to be late, Chase.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry. I-70 was backed way the hell up.”

  “I warned you not to move to the suburbs.”

  Jake and Rick watched his retreating back then looked at each other. “What the hell’s wrong with him?”

  Jake shrugged. “Serial killer.”

  “Serial killer? Two vics don’t make a serial killer.”

  “We got three. Simpson and Salazar’s is a match.”

  Rick leaned back in his chair, looking at the paper Jake had handed him. He raised an eyebrow at the word circled in red. “What the hell is triclosan?”

  “Soap.”

  “So they were clean people. What’s your point?”

  Jake leaned back, too, twirling a pen in her hand. “I may not have a point. Maybe you’re right, and they were just clean people. But triclosan is the active ingredient in antibacterial soap. Most commonly found in hand soap. Which would lead you to think that their hands would show traces of it, not their bodies, although it is also found in some bath soaps.”

  “Uh-huh. And how do you know all this?”

  Jake grinned. “Google.”

  Rick shook his head. “You can’t believe everything you read on the Internet, Jake.”

  She sat up again, leaning on her desk. “Listen, they were all too clean. No prints, no smudges, no fibers. Hell, no clothes. They were raped, but there were no fluids.”

  “And you think our guy washed them?”

  “Why not?”