I had enjoyed getting to know and work with these guys, and though they were all between five and ten years older than I was, I felt accepted by and a certain camaraderie with them.
I was learning their why—why they did this job, what had first drawn them to it—and was growing to respect and appreciate them. Erin’s younger sister had been killed by a drunk driver when she was a teenager, and though she didn’t actually come out and say it, I gathered from what she’d said that she too had been a victim of violent crime. My guess was a sexual assault. Joe’s stepdad had been a security guard most of his life. Walt’s older brother had gotten in a gang when he was young and had been killed in a drive-by, and him being a cop was the culmination of his choosing away from the path his brother had taken.
We didn’t have much in common and wouldn’t have hung out together otherwise, but a bond was forming and I was enjoying both the belonging and sobriety I was experiencing.
“I think we should all be plainclothes as long as we’re on the task force,” Joe said.
“Then talk to Bud,” Walt said. “Not us.”
“Think I will.”
“And your white ass best not show up wearing a rebel flag t-shirt or some shit like that,” Walt said, smiling to expose more of the spaces between his small teeth. “What the hell kind of plain clothes you got anyway? Flannel and camouflage?”
“What’s wrong with that?” Joe said. “Whatta you got? Some Michael Jackson sequined pants and one glove shit?”
“Oh, ’cause I’m black. I get it,” Walt said, his deep voice rich with sarcasm. “Good one.”
When Daphne came in, she walked directly over to me.
“Hey John,” she said.
I stood and spoke to her, hoping she’d leave it at that and move along.
“Mind if I join you guys?” she said.
“We were just about to leave,” I said. “We have a meeting to get back to.”
“Is it about the serial killer?” she asked. “I hear Stone Mountain has a serial killer. Just like in the movies.”
Daphne had dyed blond hair and wore too much makeup. She had a great, natural body and was fairly attractive—though she looked better on camera than in person. A good bit older than me, she had often been flirtatious or actually somewhat sexually aggressive with me, and I wondered if it was just her way of being in the world.
“We can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” I said. “You know that.”
“Off the record,” she said. “Just background for—”
“There’s no such thing,” Erin said, her voice flat and stern. “Would you excuse us please? We need to finish our lunch and get back to work.”
It was interesting to see the two women juxtaposed the way they were. They both wore too much makeup, but couldn’t have been more different. One had TV looks, the other the plainness you’d expect in a uniformed female cop, but whereas there was something decidedly fake about Daphne, even in her plainness and unflattering uniform, Erin was the more authentically attractive of the two.
“Sure, okay,” she said. “John, my number’s the same. Use it. You owe me and if this is what I think it is, it’s what I want to cash in my marker on. And don’t forget . . . I can help y’all. Just let me know what message you need to get out there and—”
“Have a nice day,” Erin said without meaning it.
Daphne nodded without seeming offended and left.
“How do you know her?” Walt said. “She’s . . . sexy as . . .”
“Yeah,” Joe said, “I got something she can report on.”
“What,” Walt said, “an investigative series on limp dicks?”
Joe’s pale, thin face flushed with embarrassment and anger, and his narrowed eyes seemed to turn black.
It wasn’t the first time Walt had alluded to Joe’s impotence—something that seemed to be common knowledge at the station—but I had never seen Joe react with such anger or embarrassment, and I tried to change the subject.
“She covered the LaMarcus Williams and Cedric Porter cases,” I said. “I helped Frank some with them.”
“I heard you did more than help,” Erin said, and I could tell from her awkward glances that she was trying to change the subject off of Joe’s impotence too.
“How’d you and Frank become such pals?” Walt asked.
“Family friend. He and my dad are . . . have worked on some cases together.”
An awkward silence followed, during which everyone either ate another bite or took a sip of their soda. Eventually, Joe seemed to calm down some.
“Your dad’s a cop too?” Joe asked.
I nodded. “Sheriff in Florida. Helped some with the Ted Bundy case.”
“Just remember,” Walt said. “You’s a private citizen when you helped out on them other cases. You’re a cop now. No media. No exceptions.”
I shook my head. “I won’t say anything to anybody,” I said.
“Nobody sayin’ you can’t get freaky with her,” he said, “just use your mouth for other things ’sides talkin’. Make her think you’re gonna give her some info if she gives you some . . . then be all like psyche.”
I shook my head again. “Not interested,” I said. “She’s not—”
“You sayin’ she’s fair game? ’Cause I will use that little maneuver on her fine ass, I kid you not.”
Erin shook her head. “It’s not worth it. Stay as far away from her and others like her as you can. You can thank me later.”
“You serious?” he said. “Weren’t you and ol’ redneck Joe here tryin’ to get me out of my uniform before she walked up?”
“Actually, that was just Joe, but while we’re on the subject, I wasn’t saying don’t get with another cop,” she said. “Not at all. I’ll bring the cuffs and you bring the nightstick.”
“Fuck that,” he said. “I saw how long you ran the other night. Couldn’t keep up with you. ’Sides . . . not exactly sure what you got in mind with a damn nightstick.”
“It’d be worth getting in shape for,” she said. “I kid you not. And if you don’t want me using the nightstick on you just say so.”
“I don’t want you using the nightstick on me,” he said.
“Hey, I’m already in pretty good shape,” Joe said. “Just sayin’ . . .”
“You’re not in as good shape as you think you are,” she said.
“Skinny don’t equal strength or endurance, white boy,” Walt said.
I was mildly amused by their banter, but it also gave me a strong sense of trepidation.
We were a small group of inexperienced, immature young people playing at being cops. We were no match for the madman throwing the bodies of young women off the side of the mountain.
When I went to the restroom a short while later, Daphne Littleton was waiting on me.
“I meant what I said, John. I want this one. Bad. And you owe me. You told me you’d pay me back someday. Well, today is that day.”
She was one of the most openly ambitious people I had ever encountered. It was raw and exposed and though I found it indecent and embarrassing, there was a certain honesty and integrity to it.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” I said. “You shouldn’t have come here like this—done this in front of my colleagues.”
“Sorry, I didn’t think that part through, but . . . doesn’t change anything.”
“It does for me. I would have worked with you to the extent I could. I would have given you what I could have that didn’t jeopardize the investigation, but now—because you’ve called me out in front of everyone—I can’t give you anything.”
“You need to think about this, John. It’s not just that you owe me. It’s not just that I can help you. I can hurt you. You don’t want me as an enemy.”
“You need to think more long-term,” I said. “We’ll be able to help each other in the future. Don’t set fire to all the bridges just yet. Walt Thurman, another officer in our department, just expressed interest in helping you.”
“He’s just horny.”
“You sayin’ you can’t make that work?”
“Hasn’t worked with you so far,” she said. “Still say we could be awfully damn good together. I know I’m a little older than you, but . . .”
My guess was that she was in her early thirties—over a decade older than me.
“. . . that’s okay,” she said. “I could teach you things.”
“I’m sure you could,” I said, “but I’m with someone.”
“So? I’m not proposing marriage, just some fun. You ever have any of that?”
“Yes,” I said. “With my girlfriend.”
“Okay,” she said. “But think about it. For now . . . give me whatshisname’s number and don’t forget you still owe me. Big time. I’ll take a kiss and a confirmation we’ve got a serial killer, too.”
17
“I asked Gerald to come give us a summary of what we know so far,” Frank said. “The more we know from the outset the better our investigation will be and the quicker we’ll catch the guy doing this. Please take notes. We need to all be on the same page for this.”
Bud had welcomed everyone to his department then turned it over to Frank.
In addition to everyone we had before, we were joined by a couple of other GBI agents, Bobby Meredith and an additional Stone Mountain Park cop, and two sheriff’s investigators from the counties where two of the victims were from.
Our group was growing, as I knew it would, and as word spread about what we were dealing with, it would only get worse.
We were packed into the too-small conference room—some of us at the table, others at seats along the wall, others standing, at least two guys mostly out in the hallway, their heads hovering in the doorway.
“This is all very preliminary,” Gerald said. “But like Frank said, the more you can know now, the better. We’ll give you updates as we can. There’s things I can’t tell you because we just don’t know yet, but what I do tell you today are things we know to be true. Okay?”
Several of us nodded.
“Okay, so . . . we’ve found four victims so far,” he said, “and we’ve identified them as four missing young women from the metro area. There could be other victims—ones we don’t know about because they weren’t reported missing or . . . who knows, so we have a team continuing to search the park.”
Frank cleared his throat and said, “We’ve identified the bodies of Cheryl Carver, Paula Nichols, Shelly Hepola, and Kathy Dady. We believe all four women were abducted while jogging in Stone Mountain Park.”
“Yes,” Gerald said. “Each victim was—”
“Let me—sorry to interrupt again, Gerald,” Frank said, “but let me say just a few things more first. Okay?”
“Of course.”
“I know I keep saying this,” Frank said, “but I’m gonna keep on saying it. Not a word of this leaves this room. Don’t talk to reporters. Don’t talk to your friends. Don’t even talk to your mama about this. Understand?”
Everyone nodded.
“I mean it. If you talk, you’re not just off the task force, you’ll be brought up on disciplinary charges and could even lose your job. It’s that serious. Now . . . I know some aspects of this are new to some of us. This is a rare and strange thing we’re dealing with here. Some of you may have worked the Atlanta Child Murders a few years back, but this isn’t something we get every day. What we’re dealing with is a serial killer. This particular kind of killer has certain patterns and predictable behaviors. He commits a series of murders, usually with a similar type of victim, but unlike a mass murder—like James Huberty at the San Diego McDonald’s—the serial killer’s murders are more spread out with time in between, known as a cooling-off period. And unlike most other murders, a serial killer often kills strangers, chosen for some motive that is not obvious to us. Okay, Gerald, I won’t interrupt again.”
“No, it’s good,” Gerald said. “Good foundational stuff. Okay, so what we have here in this case are four victims so far—all joggers jogging around Stone Mountain when they were abducted. They’re all around the same age range—eighteen to twenty-six—all have a similar build and look—thin, athletic, long straight hair, sort of what you might call plain-looking girls. Athletes.”
“There’s something about them—the way they look, act, move, speak, run, walk, play with their hair—something that draws him to them,” Frank said. “They are his type. It’s the only reason they’re part of his series.”
“Each victim was dropped from the mountain,” Gerald said. “They were all alive when they went off the mountain, and though they each had a few small cuts from a knife, it was the fall and impact that killed them.”
“Fuck,” Walt said.
“Yeah,” Joe added. “Can you imagine the terror of being pushed off a mountain and falling to your death?”
“Can you girls hold it down?” one of the sheriff’s investigators said. “I’m trying to hear what the man has to say so we can catch this prick.”
“I gotcha prick,” Walt said.
“Your girls, too,” Joe added.
Ignoring them, Gerald continued. “All the victims were bound at the ankles and wrists and the wrist bindings are part of a long lead rope, as if he pulled them around—perhaps walking them up the mountain or something like that. Two were found on the ground and two were caught in tree branches. They were all nude.”
“Have we recovered any of their clothes or belongings so far?” Frank asked.
Gerald shook his head. “Nothing. Not a shred from any of them.”
I thought about what Summer had said about two of the girls not being grounded or touching the ground. As usual she had been right. She had an incredible gift.
“A serial killer often keeps a memento from his victims,” Frank said. “A trophy from his kill or more likely an item that reminds him of the kill so he can relive it over and over and fuel his fantasies with it. Maybe he’s keeping all their belongings as part of that.”
“What about their vehicles?” Erin asked. “If they were abandoned in the park, why weren’t we notified? Why didn’t four abandoned vehicles raise an alarm for—”
“None of them were left in the park,” Gerald said. “The killer must have moved them after he killed the young women. They were found all over the metro area. In fact, the searches for these missing persons have been centered around the areas where their cars were found.”
“There is no sign of sexual assault on any of the victims,” Gerald said.
“I thought serial killers were sexually motivated?” one of the GBI agents said.
“Not always, no,” Gerald said. “Of course, the crimes can be sexually motivated without the killer having sex with the victims, but no, not all serial killers are sexually motivated.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Learn something new every day.”
“All of the victims were killed around the time they were abducted,” Gerald said. “I mean within a matter of hours. He doesn’t keep them long. Long enough to perform his rituals with them—whatever all he’s doing, we don’t know yet—and to get them up the mountain and do whatever he does up there with them. Again, we’re talking hours not days.”
“Wonder what he is doing if he’s not raping them,” Walt said.
“I look forward to asking him,” Frank said.
“One of the things he’s doing,” Gerald said, “is washing them. He’s bathing them and washing their hair before making them plunge to their death.”
“Any sign they were drugged?” Bud asked.
“Toxicology’s gonna take a while, so . . . don’t have an answer to that one yet.”
“Any physical evidence been found?” I asked. “Footprints? Fingerprints? Hair? Fibers?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. The bodies have all been cleaned, the hair washed. So they’ve not yielded up any trace evidence of any kind. As far as footprints or . . . We don’t know exactly where he dropped them from—just that it was a
different place each time. But even if we did, it’s doubtful we’d find any prints. The granite itself wouldn’t hold a print, so it’d have to be one of the few areas of indentation where dirt has collected, but then how would we know it was the killer’s and not a tourist’s? As far as where the bodies were found . . . there’s no evidence that the killer visited those areas. Haven’t found anything to suggest anyone has.”
Frank said, “We’ve had teams searching the mountain—both the top as well as around the base and the park police are helping us with a thorough search of the park.”
At that Bobby Meredith, the large, goofy park police liaison, half stood and gave a little wave.
“We’re nowhere near done with the park,” Frank continued. “Gonna take a while. But so far we haven’t turned up anything.”
There were a few nods, but no one spoke.
“Anything else before we let you go?” Frank asked.
Gerald seemed to think about it. “Ah, yes. Just one thing. Even though the killer washes the bodies, they smell of smoke and at least two of the young women had char marks or soot on their skin, so he’s keeping them close to a fire or . . . somehow fire or ash is involved.”
I immediately began thinking what I bet everyone else was thinking at that moment—Stone Mountain Park has the largest campground in the state. There was a good chance the killer was camping in the park or at least using a campsite to do what he was doing to them.
18
“We’ve got to move fast on this thing,” Frank said. “Word’s going to get out and then it’ll be a circus. Reporters. Other cops wanting in. Armchair detectives. Psychics. We’ll lose all control.”
When Gerald left, several of the other cops did too, including the other GBI agents and the two Stone Mountain Park police.
We were back to our core group.
Bud noted and reiterated what Frank had just said, adding, “We have hours, not days before there’ll be a very bright light pointed directly at us.”
The two middle-aged men made an interesting pair. Though roughly the same age, though roughly in the same profession, they appeared to be from different eras. Bud, with his black trousers, white shirt, black tie and shoes, gray crewcut and big black horn-rimmed glasses, looked like a 60s era G-man. Frank, with his navy blue pants, light blue Oxford button-down, too wide red tie, military style haircut, and brown semi-casual dress shoes looked like a conservative politician serving in a southern state house or a girls basketball coach at a junior college.
Blood Stone (John Jordan Mysteries Book 17) Page 6
