Final Price

by J. Gregory Smith

  “Can’t be worse than poker night.” Nelson chewed on a fingernail.

  In the headquarters building, the two went to the outer office where “Colonel Byrd” was stenciled on the door. Chang removed his Smokey Bear hat, and they waited.

  Patty, the civilian assistant, returned to her desk outside the office. “Can I get either of you anything? Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Nelson spoke instantly.

  Chang cringed inside. Nelson never learned.

  Patty picked up the phone. Chang could hear the buzz on the other side of the frosted glass door.

  “Go right in. I’ll bring your drink.”

  They walked into the office and took the two seats arranged in front of the desk.

  “Detective, Mr. Rogers. Let’s get started.” Colonel Byrd stared at Chang from across his huge desk. He was a large man with a shaved head, wide nostrils, and bushy eyebrows. The first time Nelson saw a picture of Byrd, he told Chang it looked like two caterpillars crawling across a pink bowling ball. Sitting in Byrd’s office, Chang said a quick prayer to his ancestors that today Nelson would keep the image to himself.

  Pictures of Byrd with politicians and other police officers shared the wall with citations and awards. He seemed to know all the right people.

  “Detective Chang gave me your background, but I’ll say it’s unconventional to involve a civilian, and I’m a conventional guy.”

  Byrd tapped his pen against his teeth. Chang couldn’t remember if he was an ex-smoker or not.

  “Rogers, if half of what the detective says is true, I’m impressed. ‘Can’t judge a book by its cover’ comes to mind.”

  Byrd’s pause grew into an uncomfortable silence that Chang finally took to mean he should begin.

  He went over the murder timeline and their theory about a single killer.

  “I’ve read the reports—different weapons, ethnicities, motives. What makes you think they’re connected? And why does that weasel at the Daily Post seem to agree?” Byrd leaned back in his chair. Tap, tap, tap…

  “I wondered myself, sir. I’ll find out.” Chang explained that they thought anger drove the killer and that the bizarre food uses were part of a ritual.

  “Interesting, but I still don’t see how you connect the dots to all three cases.”

  “I’ll cover the physical evidence. Nelson will review behavioral impressions based on our years of experience. We have shoe prints from all three crime scenes. The tread patterns are different, but they’re all the same size. No fingerprints, but we have similar hair and fiber from all three scenes. DNA should be back in another week or two.

  “In the two cases where the victims were tied up, we found the same brand of duct tape. The one time he used handcuffs, they were the cheap kind that come from a magic or gag shop.” Chang paused.

  The door opened, and Patty came in with Nelson’s coffee. Nelson yelped when he scorched his tongue. Byrd covered what Chang was sure was a smile.

  When Chang described the bloody footprints at the Hubberts’ and the overlooked valuables, Byrd seemed to take notice. He leaned forward and put his pen on the desk.

  “But this doesn’t explain what the victims have in common, why the guy is doing this, and the million-dollar question, what’s next?” Byrd looked over at Nelson.

  Nelson stood. He faced Byrd, but Chang was sure he really stared at the wall. “More killings.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “That’s it?

  A drop of sweat crept down Nelson’s temple. “We’ll learn from each crime scene until we nail the guy.”

  Byrd’s voice rose. “You always speak in riddles?”

  Nelson looked crushed. Not the home run Chang hoped for.

  “If you’ve never chased one of these guys, it can seem more random than it is.” Nelson stopped when Byrd glared at him.

  Careful. Byrd’s ego was famous. So was his temper.

  “I may not have worked my way up in New York City, but I didn’t get this position by my looks.” Byrd’s voice dropped near a whisper.

  No, thought Chang, your uncle was a state senator.

  Nelson leaned over the table and took another sip of the coffee. “Ouch.” He put the cup down.

  “Colonel, here’s my picture of the perp so far. Based on composite profiles of serial killers, this one’s in his twenties, almost certainly white, has no significant relationships, especially romantic ones. Probably sexually dysfunctional and moderately successful in his job at best. His inadequacy drives him to express himself in ways that make him feel powerful.” Nelson closed his eyes, and Chang saw Byrd frown, but he was riveted.

  “He’s venting a lifetime of rage at what he sees as symbols of his anger or perhaps the objects themselves. Don’t yet know what he’s angry about, but he’ll get worse.”

  “How do you mean?” Byrd leaned toward Nelson, who opened his eyes.

  “Look at the pattern. The first crime was a double, but he shot helpless victims in the head from behind. Whatever he was doing with the food was important to him. After his ritual, he killed them.” Nelson paused. Byrd looked skeptical.

  “Move up a week to the Patel murder. You know the facts. The killer took precious time to smash a lemon into the dead man’s face. Why? He needed more violence. This time he looked his victim in the eye first. That’s significant. Still, only two events. We weren’t sure until the third crime scene.”

  Now Byrd was rapt.

  “Last Monday. Again a double killing. Much more violent. The killer controlled his victims and enjoyed it. The autopsy shows that Mr. Hubbert had almost two bags of corn chips in his stomach. Mrs. Hubbert was suffocated. After she was dead, he jammed a loaf of French bread down her throat. Food again. Why? We still don’t know, but a ritual plays through all three killings, only this time he forgot to stick to his plan. No theft.”

  “What do you mean?” Byrd began to chew his pen.

  “It didn’t go the way he expected, and he got mad. You see what he’s capable of when he’s angry.” Nelson gestured to the grisly color photo of Doug Hubbert’s crushed skull.

  Chang reviewed the sequence of events and why they thought Doug put up a fight. Byrd listened, which gave Chang hope.

  Nelson closed his eyes again. “He crossed a huge line, killed up close and personal. No shooting. He bashed a man’s brains in, got splashed with blood and gray bits. Did he panic? No. He went upstairs, washed his hands in the master bathroom, walked to the closet, and we think stole a shirt. He would have brought his own if he planned on wet work.

  “You might leave at this point…Does he? No. The luminol shows he went back to the basement and stopped on the stairs. Couldn’t resist a final peek. That, Colonel, is what scares me the most.” Nelson opened his eyes.

  “You both think he’s going to get more violent?”

  Chang stood. “He likes the power. When he’s in control, I wouldn’t put anything past him. He did a quick kill on Mr. Patel, who you’ll notice wasn’t helpless. When he killed the Hubberts, he had time to play out his fantasies through his ritual. He is one of these guys who gets hooked on the rush, maybe even gets off on it. He’s going to need more and more to do the job. Killers evolve and refine their technique, which might explain some of the differences in weapons.”

  Byrd wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Anything else?”

  Chang wished he could see Byrd through Nelson’s eyes. “We still don’t know how he chooses his victims, but it isn’t random. I don’t think it’s racially motivated. He doesn’t display any of the skinhead-type trademarks, he leaves no telltale graffiti, and his last victims were white.” Chang knew that in Delaware it was almost impossible to find three groups of people with no connections whatsoever.

  Byrd looked hard at Chang. Several seconds ticked off the wall clock before he spoke. “If I agree to let you pursue this, what’s next?”

  “With your permission, Nelson would work as a consultant and help me pull out
the details that will break the case.” Chang felt a spark of hope.

  “Won’t we break it without a civilian?”

  “Colonel, if I may.” Nelson interrupted. “This killer is going to keep it up until he’s caught.”

  “And?” Byrd sounded impatient.

  Chang said what he knew Nelson wouldn’t. “Without Nelson’s help, it will take longer. More people will die.”

  “I’ll think it over and let you know. Until then, Detective, work this case yourself and through the proper channels, understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.” But that didn’t mean he agreed to comply. Sometimes Asian nuance could be useful.

  CHAPTER 23

  Call Back

  Chang’s house, Sunday night

  Chang wiped his sweaty hands and picked up the receiver again. He dialed, paused. Deep breath. His finger stabbed down on the last number. It rang once. Twice. Maybe she’s not home.

  He heard the connection, and a sleepy voice made his heart hammer.

  His mouth felt like cotton. Forgot the water. “It’s me.”

  “Travis?”

  The name felt like a punch in the gut. “Paul.”

  “Jeez. I’m sorry. You woke me up.”

  It was barely after eleven. Chang heard the flick of a lighter before Colleen inhaled. He pictured how sexy she looked when she did that.

  “I can call another time.”

  “No. Got an early flight is all. You okay?”

  “Not me. A case.” Chang outlined the murders and the too-quick media appearance.

  “Flannigan, huh? Cranky goblin?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Only met him once. He was drinking his way out of a job by then, but he’s still a legend around here.” She sounded awake now. He loved that honeyed voice except when she used it to yell at him.

  “He’s staging a comeback. I think he wants this case for a springboard.”

  Chang heard Colleen blow out smoke.

  “You’ve got a pit bull on your hands, sweetie.”

  Chang knew it was a throwaway term, but it warmed him to hear her say that to him.

  “If I were you, I’d work the leaker side. Flannigan wouldn’t crack if you sicced your mom on him.”

  “There’s a thought.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  Chang knew Colleen was only being polite. “She has good days and bad.”

  “Not sure what’s worse.” That husky laugh again. “And Shu?”

  For an instant he thought she said, “And you?” but she’d already asked him. Tell her anyway. “Strong as ever. He’s training me again. It’s working better than any therapy would have. I feel like a new person. You’d be surprised.” Stop babbling!

  “That’s great.” Fake enthusiasm over ice.

  He had gone too far. Chang punched himself in the leg and focused on the pain.

  “Yeah. Want me to tell him Careen says herro?” Shu never minded her jokes.

  “Sure. Hey, when I get back I’ll ask around about Flannigan, okay?”

  “I’d appreciate it.” Chang resisted the urge to offer dinner.

  “Well, nice catching up and all, but I gotta get my beauty sleep. Give me a buzz next time you’re in the city.” Chang said he would. He figured she knew he was lying. He didn’t need a face to go with a name like Travis.

  Sleep was out of the question. Chang spent the remainder of the night with the facts of the cases. His search through his notes for a common thread only yielded a headache. He skipped the aspirin and went straight for the jar of Shu’s version of Tiger Balm. “Work better but smell like yak in heat.” Shu didn’t exaggerate, but it banished the pain in Chang’s temples.

  Chang meditated, drank ginseng tea, and stared at the crime scene photos. His imaginary canoe leaked, the tea left a bitter taste, and the photos swam in front of his eyes, but he pushed his ex-wife out of his mind for a few hours.

  He was never lonely in the dark. The innocent dead filed in to accuse him. The Tongs’ sister. Her face would drift among the masks. He tried and failed to forget her name…Tao, means long life. The gods laughed at him.

  Most of all he could count on Jennifer Topper for an almost regular nocturnal visit. The real estate mogul’s daughter was never far from his mind.

  Maybe it was those damn missing-person posters. David Topper must have plastered half of Manhattan with them. Killer had to see them. Right under her name and photo, in big letters: “GREEN EYES.” Like that was unique. They were in the end, weren’t they? Chang could still see those disposable wraparound sunglasses on Jennifer’s face. The forensics guys called them geezer shades. They looked out of place on the smooth-skinned young girl. She could have been a passed-out party gal in her tennis whites, stoned and asleep on the tennis court that morning.

  But she wasn’t. He knew she was not some spoiled rich kid the day she invited him to speak to her class about investigations. Chang never forgot the lunch he ate with her in the school cafeteria afterward.

  She’d told him about “Saving Face,” the foundation she begged her father to create and fund. She became personally involved and helped arrange flights and corrective surgeries for Chinese children born with facial deformities. She told Chang that she saw them during a tour of China when she was fourteen and couldn’t forget them. Jennifer said that after that experience was when she knew charity balls and fundraisers weren’t going to be enough. She needed to help on a more personal level.

  Jennifer was the kind of person who made a difference. Half the people Chang saved didn’t seem worthy of the effort. David Topper cancelled funding a month after she was killed. “Couldn’t bear the memories,” he’d said.

  Chang remembered the dew in her hair. After they removed the glasses, he saw the fuzzy green tennis ball pieces in place of her eyes. That’s what stuck in his mind.

  Enough. Chang wrenched his mind back to the case and jotted down some of the most fundamental things the three victim sets had in common. Had he missed something obvious?

  Food, was that the common link? Did they share a favorite restaurant? The Nguyens and Mr. Patel sold food and didn’t strike Chang as the types who would have eaten out very often. Certainly the Hubberts were interested in food.

  All the victims lived in Delaware and were killed late at night. Why? Did they reside near where the killer lived or worked? The ages of the victims ranged between their thirties and forties.

  They all owned their homes. So? They bought things and sold things in some capacity. Something about that twitched his radar, but what? Everyone buys things. Some sell, others just throw things away or donate them. Everyone buys things…He jumped when the phone rang. It wasn’t Colleen.

  CHAPTER 24

  In the Bag

  Monday morning

  “One of these days you’re going to get tired of being right.” Chang relayed to Nelson over the phone what the duty officer just told him. Another victim.

  “Where?”

  “It’s on an estate in Greenville, out Route 52 near the state line. I’m on my way now. Meet me up there. You’ll see my unit at the entrance. I’ll wait.”

  “You got the okay from Byrd?”

  “He hasn’t said no.” Not yet.

  “I’m to stay away until he makes a decision.”

  “That was before we got a new case.” No time to argue.

  “He needs control, maybe more than you. It’s written all over him. We don’t want to make him mad.”

  Chang squeezed down on the cell. He eased off before he crushed it. “That’s my problem. Are you coming or not?”

  “Half an hour.”

  Chang knew Confucius never said, “It is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission,” but he thought the sage would approve anyway.

  Chang met Nelson at the entrance to the estate. The iron gates opened to a long driveway. Along the way he could see a small carriage house and atop the hill a huge stone mansion with tall chimneys at both e
nds. Fingers of ivy climbed up one side.

  “You made good time.” Chang watched Nelson duck under the yellow tape.

  Nelson’s head swiveled during the walk up the driveway. Halfway to the carriage house two evidence techs unpacked their kits from the crime scene investigation van. Chang led Nelson over to meet them.

  Chang introduced William Logan and Theodore Bristol. “Nelson’s an experienced profiler. Treat him as an authorized consultant.”

  “Just call us Bill and Ted. Everyone else does,” Bill said.

  “Whether we like it or not.” Ted flashed a friendly grin. His hair looked like a Brillo pad.

  “Spotted something on my way in.” Nelson pointed toward a stand of trees off the driveway about fifty yards from the carriage house. “Look between the trees and the driveway. You’ll see tire tracks in the soft dirt. Killer must have parked there and snuck up to the house on foot. Try to get some footprints, at least the size.”

  Bill and Ted looked to Chang. “Go ahead. My say so,” Chang said. Everyone lived in a CYA world.

  “We’ll start with photos. If there’s an impression big enough, we’ll go for a plaster cast.” Ted picked up an evidence kit.

  “I want to know if footprints lead up to the house and not straight up the driveway like a normal person would walk. Do we have a clear fix on time of death?” Chang itched to get inside.

  “No later than Saturday night,” Bill said and joined Ted. They moved toward the tracks.

  Chang turned to Nelson. “We got word this morning from the victim’s boss. He decided to check on the victim after he didn’t come in or call. He said that was very out of character. The door was unlocked, and he saw the body.”

  Nelson took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. He leaned over the doorknob and sniffed. “Lotion. Did the witness touch the victim or walk around the place?”

  “No, our guys told me he took one look and backed out. He’s over at Troop One to give a statement.”