by Leslie Wolfe
“Grab a seat, Doc,” Michowsky offered, “and have a bite. You look like you need it.”
Doc Rizza sat with a long sigh, more like the groan of tired bones and a weary soul.
Gary’s phone rang, and he took the call immediately on speaker.
“Go for Michowsky and crew.”
“Yeah, this is Bateman. One of our informants said he knows this guy, Matthew Dahler. He said Dahler was looking for something really exotic, and one of his buddies finally got it for him.”
“What was it? Wasp venom?”
“Huh? No, but close. It was platypus venom. This gangbanger said the dealer brought it straight from Australia.”
Doc Rizza covered his mouth with his hand.
“Can you get to the guy who sold it to Dahler?” Tess asked.
“Don’t assume I didn’t try, but no. You know how these things work. A guy says he knows a guy who knows a guy, when, in fact, your informant could be the dealer himself, doing you all the favors he’s ever going to.”
“Turn up the heat on your guy, Harvey, please,” Tess insisted. “We need more than hearsay to hold up in court.”
“Yeah, I know. One more thing. This guy said he heard the venom was sold for $145,000, and Dahler paid in cash.”
“Precisely $145,000? Not 150 grand?” Tess probed.
“Yeah, precisely that, for about two ounces of venom. That could be something, if you guys tie this amount to his accounts somehow.”
“Keep looking,” Michowsky said. “Maybe there’s more.”
The call ended, and Tess leaned back in her chair, thinking. The unsub was evolving, further perfecting his sadistic methods, and bringing a new dimension to his knowledge of toxins, venoms, and pharmaceuticals. Who would have that? Who knew that the platypus is venomous? A scientist? No, he couldn’t be a scientist. The typical psychopath is not dedicated to science; he can’t be. There’s no emotional reward for the hard work that goes into becoming a scientist. Psychopaths are like asphalt rollers. They go over anyone and everything to achieve their goals. They level everything in their path, but they don’t work hard. They’re predators, not builders. Then what? What kind of psychopath would even go that far to gain what, a different flavor of pain? Like trying a different flavor of ice cream?
The new data supported her theory that the unsub was perfecting his methods, in search for the ultimate—what? Revenge? Maybe… punishment? Also possible. Who does that, though? Who spends countless years and endless resources to perfect such a method? When in theory, at least, the sexual sadist gets his release relatively quickly. From that point of view, the unsub was an artist, seeking perfection, while finding pleasure in raping and torturing women along the way. This psychopath had turned sadism into an art form, and he was still working on his masterpiece.
She shuddered, feeling the tickle of fear at the back of her head and a chill down her spine. The burning sensation on the left side of her neck came back with a vengeance, and she rubbed it forcefully, almost angrily.
Silence took over the room for a while, with the exception of keyboard noises.
Then Doc Rizza spoke, in a quiet, loaded tone.
“Do you guys know what the platypus venom does?”
No one replied.
“It’s one of the very few hyperalgesics known to man, and it’s very effective.”
“In English, Doc, please,” Michowsky said, not raising his eyes from Dahler’s financial statements.
“It’s the exact opposite of an analgesic or pain killer. It increases the perception of pain, making it stronger, more acute, excruciating. Platypus venom irritates nerve endings, making them hypersensitive.”
“It’s not deadly?” Tess answered, her eyebrows raised.
“No. It just makes the victim feel pain hundredfold, whatever that pain might be.”
37
Exit Strategy
The sun peeked from behind the trees, shooting sharp orange rays into the conference room, dulling the image displayed on the TV. They worked in silence, occasionally interrupted by the popping of yet another soda can or the rustling of papers. After a long, exhausting night, they still had very little information. Not nearly enough for a blanket warrant.
Tess had retrieved Dahler’s financial statements in her analysis software and massaged and filtered them in any way she could think of, but there were no large cash withdrawals. Nothing more than the occasional few hundred dollars any individual needs. So where was Dahler getting hundreds of thousands in cash from? He hadn’t liquidated any assets, sold any stock, boats, or vehicles. His paycheck was a hefty, biweekly deposit into his checking account. His financials were clean as a whistle and annoying as hell.
“I’m not getting it,” she sighed and stood abruptly, pushing the chair back and trotting in place a little to get the blood flow restored in her numb legs. “I’m not seeing where this man gets his cash from.”
“How much does he spend each month? On average?” Fradella asked, his eyes still affixed to a screen loaded with social media profiles.
“Um, about 350 thou,” she replied, already intrigued. How the hell didn’t she think of it? “You’re a genius, Detective Todd Fradella,” she said, smiling widely.
“Huh?”
“He spends more than enough to cover that, and more. But everything he spends leaves a paper trail here… it’s legit. Nothing even remotely interesting here, except,” she said, tapping her palms against the table in an improvised drum roll, “he’s apparently a very bad gambler. He loses about $250,000 each month at the same casino.”
Her noisy enthusiasm failed to wake Doc Rizza, who’d collapsed a couple of hours earlier, with his head on his folded arms on the table. It was his second night in a row without any rest.
“So?” Michowsky asked. “Do you think he’s what, laundering his own money?”
“Exactly,” she said, feeling invigorated, but lowering her voice to almost a whisper after giving the doc a quick glance. “I think he’s not such a bad gambler after all, but everything he wins he cashes out, instead of returning to the same account. We need to test this theory.”
She turned to Officer Brooks, who was scrolling through endless lists of property listings.
“How are you doing on property searches?”
“I’m done with Florida, and it’s a lot. Under the family name, they own a gazillion things, but even under Matthew Dahler’s name, or his name plus associates, there are more than 10 listings.”
“Shit,” Tess mumbled. No way they could get warrants for everything and execute them at the same time. Julie could be held anywhere on those properties, or even elsewhere if they were out of luck. “Why don’t you park that for a while and do a little field assignment for me?”
He hopped to his feet, excited.
“Awesome! What do you need?”
“I need you to go to Casino Real in Miami Beach and confirm my theory about Dahler’s winnings. Does he pull out cash? I’ll give you the dates he last gambled there. Ask to see the videos and find out how much he cashed out. Find out how he does it.”
“It’s almost 9:00AM,” he said, “they could be closed.”
“Bang on some doors, wake some people up, will you?”
“Sure will,” he replied and cantered out the door.
“Speaking of video,” Michowsky said, rubbing his tired eyes with his fists, “I forgot to tell you, the guys we sent to Exhale to find Dahler on the videos came back empty. They lost him in the crowds and couldn’t determine when he left the club or with whom.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tess snapped, then calmed herself somewhat. “Yeah, you forgot, okay, you told me. Did they lose him at about the same time Julie vanished?”
“They said they lost him more than once, leading them to think the entire video angle is just unreliable, and that’s that. They think they saw Dahler in the club at 11:27PM, which is much later than Julie’s last timecode.”
“What?” she growled between clenc
hed teeth. “And you forgot to tell me? You know what that does to our theory?”
“Look, I’m sorry… I guess it didn’t stick in my mind because they weren’t sure it was him. The operating word here is, ‘think.’ They think they saw him, but they’re not sure.”
She scoffed and rolled her eyes.
“Fantastic. We need to get that video to our analysis lab, to get it cleaned up and enhanced. If that was Dahler on it, more than an hour after Julie vanished, we might be chasing the wrong guy.” She clasped and unclasped her hands together, then rubbed them angrily. Her sore neck called for attention, and she rubbed that stretch along her hairline a few times, getting insufficient relief. “Dahler still feels right, though. I know it’s him, damn it. How does he do it?”
“What if he drugs them?” Doc Rizza spoke quietly, lifting his head from the table with a groan. “What if he dances with them or approaches them, then pokes them quickly, they faint in his arms, then he waltzes right out the door, carrying his passed-out girlfriend?”
“You think that could be done?” Tess asked.
“There were trace chemicals in Sonya’s bloodstream consistent with a strong, fast-acting sedative, an anesthetic actually. It kept bugging me, because it didn’t make any sense.”
“Let’s walk through this,” Tess said, going to the front of the table, where she had room to move. “He approaches the girls, or they approach him. He asks them a couple of benign questions, prequalifying them. If they fit his desired profile, he dances with them, and pokes them while on the floor, where no one sees anything.” She stared intently at the ceiling, visualizing the scene. “Brilliant,” she whispered. “Then suddenly the girl’s in his arms, where he holds her tight until she’s out completely, pretending they’re dancing. Then he walks out the door with her, but—”
“Why don’t we see him carrying Julie on the video, right?” Fradella asked. “We looked at every second of the entrance video and Julie wasn’t in any frame of that video.”
“He’s a regular,” Michowsky added, “he knows the place inside and out. What if he—”
“Uses a service door?” Tess interrupted. “Yeah, that fits. Let’s see what service doors can be accessed from inside the club and what video feeds cover them.”
“Give me a couple of minutes,” Fradella asked, and started typing fast.
Tess paced the room anxiously. She felt that excitement she always sensed when she was within reach of catching her man. Like a predator herself, her nostrils flared with excitement, and her heart beat fast and strong, eager to finish the hunt. Soon, she’d be able to put together the final pieces of the puzzle and find Julie. With every fiber in her body she hoped Julie was still alive, and whatever had happened to her could be healed, forgotten somehow.
“Got it,” Fradella said, and projected the video feed on the TV screen. “See here? This is the back entrance to the kitchen and bar area. There’s no direct camera above that entrance, but this side parking one covers it. Julie vanished from the hallway video feed at 10:16, right? Watch this at 10:22PM.”
The grainy, dark video feed showed a man supporting a woman who walked with difficulty. She was closer to the camera than he was, partially covering him, obliterating his face. He supported her with his arm around her shoulders, and, even in the bad quality video, they could see the woman was wobbly and unable to walk on her own. Her legs buckled at every step, and her head leaned on the man’s shoulder.
The two silhouettes didn’t enter the main parking lot, well-lit and filled with cameras, and Tess mumbled an oath. Instead, the man went across the alley and unlocked a truck using his key, not the remote. He loaded the woman onto the back seat of the truck, then locked it, again using his key. Then he went back into the club, through the same door as before.
“Ah,” Tess gasped, “that’s his alibi, right there. That’s why he shows up on the cameras an hour later. He’s cool, this guy. Can you imagine? She was right out there, in the car, for more than an hour. He’s gutsy. All right, it’s time to visit the Dahlers.”
“There’s no stopping you,” Michowsky asked, “is there?”
“No, but you could stay here, Gary. Knocking on the Dahlers’ door could prove to be a career killer. Let’s minimize the damage.”
Michowsky grabbed his car keys and caught up with her before she got to the staircase.
“In for a dime, in for a dollar,” he said with a tired smile. “But you’re driving. My back’s still killing me.”
38
Ex-Girlfriend
Tess started the engine and cranked up the air conditioning. Midmorning, and it was already torrid, the humidity making it much worse. She yearned for a shower with every pore of her sweaty skin and wished for a fresh change of clothes. There was no time for that though, not while Julie fought for her life, at the whim of a sadistic serial killer.
“You sure about that?” she asked Michowsky, before pulling out of the parking lot. “Coming with me on this house call?”
“Yeah. We got to do what we got to do in this line of work. You don’t get a pass; I shouldn’t get one either.”
“This is not a pissing contest, you know,” she said softly. “It’s okay to sit one out when it’s lethal, when you can afford it.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, letting out a long sigh, “as long as you remember we don’t have much. Even that video, there’s no way to say that was Dahler, and that truck wasn’t his car either. There are no trucks registered to him. We still have zilch.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’ll be gentle.” She snickered. “You know, as much as it could surprise you, I also want to keep my job.”
“Really?” he quipped. “You could have fooled me.”
“Ah, shut it, Michowsky.”
The rode in silence for a few seconds, but it was a different silence. The air between them was a little lighter than before.
Michowsky’s phone rang, and he recognized Fradella’s number.
“What’s up?”
“I found an ex-girlfriend of Dahler’s, Jennifer Alvarez. I think you should see her before you go to Dahler’s house.”
Tess frowned.
“Why? Talk to me.”
“On her Facebook account, pictures of her and a younger Matthew Dahler stop a few weeks before her financial situation drastically improved.”
“As in…? she won the lottery? or some hush-hush money?” Michowsky asked.
“I’m guessing settlement, and a big one.”
“Any trace of that info anywhere? Court documents maybe?” Tess probed. “I’d love to have something I can use.”
“None of that, no, and I checked. But a lottery winner would post more stuff on Facebook after she got rich, not less. She stopped posting anything altogether for months.”
“Did you get her financials? How big a settlement are we talking about?”
“Five million dollars, seven years ago.”
Michowsky whistled, then gave Tess the thumbs up, a smile of excitement twitching his lips.
“Send her address to my phone,” Tess asked.
“You got it.”
Seconds later, a chime and Michowsky grabbed Tess’s phone.
“Turn around,” he said, “she lives in Coral Gables.”
It took Tess 20 minutes to cross through the dense traffic, using her flashers and horn without hesitation. Sunday mornings were the worst. Rush hour was no longer contained to two time frames, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Flooded with tourists, the coastal traffic turned into a bumper-to-bumper exercise in frustration.
Finally, on South Bayshore, Tess pulled to an abrupt stop in front of the covered entrance to a high-rise, oceanfront condominium. It seemed like déjà vu: the building, the lifestyle, the entrance lobby, even the smooth elevator ride.
“You notice?” she asked.
“Yeah, Julie lives like this, her girlfriend too,” Michowsky replied.
“But this is Jennifer’s lifestyle after the settlem
ent,” Tess thought out loud.
“Yeah,” he said, and rang the doorbell at apartment 1704.
Tess pulled her badge and positioned it in front of the peephole, as soon as she heard footsteps behind the door. Then she heard the deadbolt unlocking and the door chain being removed.
The woman who opened the door was dark-haired, tall, and slender, with the sun-kissed skin tone Latinas have, only somewhat pale. Her face held an internal sadness, and her eyes were sunken, as if they’d seen images and witnessed things that couldn’t be unseen, couldn’t be undone. One look at Jennifer Alvarez, and Tess knew she’d found one of Dahler’s earlier victims.
Jennifer let them in without a word, and they took seats on deep, leather armchairs.
“What can I do for you?” she asked softly, after the introductions.
“We need your help with some information,” Tess asked, as gently as she could. “What can you tell us about your relationship with Matthew Feldman Dahler?”
Jennifer flinched as she heard his name, and her pupils dilated. It was an infinitesimal move, but Tess caught it, knowing to look for it, to expect it.
“There’s nothing to say,” she replied, averting her eyes. “We used to date, then we broke up. Years ago.”
“How was your relationship with him?”
“Um, really, there’s nothing I can say. Just a relationship, I guess.”
Her shoulders were hunched and her head lowered, under the burden of an unspoken shame, a terrible secret.
Tess watched her turmoil and decided to take a different approach, instead of threatening her with obstruction of justice.
“Did you sign an NDA?” Tess asked gently. Settlements always came with paperwork.
She nodded quietly.
“You know, no one can come after you if you speak with the authorities, Ms. Alvarez,” Tess explained. “Those NDAs are meant to prevent you from speaking with the media. They’re meant to prevent gossip, slander, and stuff like that. You can talk to us, and you should.”
