Daddy's Little Killer

by LS Sygnet

  "Wait a minute. The chief of police is trying to outrank the commissioner?"

  "Chief of detectives," he clarified with a dark scowl. "Jerry Lowe is technically over all the detectives in Darkwater Bay."

  "So he's your boss too."

  "I answer to Lieutenant Finkelstein."

  "And he reports to Lowe?"

  "She. I guess."

  "Detective Briscoe, why are you so reluctant to share your opinions with me? I thought you planned to be blunt."

  "About the case at hand, yes."

  "How was that case closed but not closed?" My temples started throbbing from playing twenty questions with the reluctant detective. If this was blunt, evasive was going to be sheer hell.

  "The detectives on that case –"

  "Out of Central Division?"

  "Yeah, back before it had gone to complete shit. The detectives on that case had a suspect, gathered evidence against him and arrested his sorry ass. Then during an evidentiary hearing, the judge threw out the bloody clothing because there was evidence that the blood might've been planted."

  "What evidence?"

  "I don't know. Some chemical or some such found in the vials used to collect blood evidence."

  Ethylene-diamene-tetra-acetic acid, or EDTA, was a chemical added to laboratory vials to prevent blood from clotting. It had been infamously found in another case wherein acquittal was the end result, in the prosecution of O.J. Simpson.

  "The detectives at central, were they the kind who would plant evidence to make sure their perp didn't walk?" I thought of Danny Datello and Hardy's opinion that the detectives at central were a little too myopic where he was concerned.

  "Flynn Myre, in my opinion, is too stupid to plant his ass in a chair, let alone evidence. Johnny Orion on the other hand …"

  "Dirty cop?"

  Briscoe snarled, "He'd no more plant evidence than he would piss on his mother's grave. I trained that young man, and he was a fine detective."

  "Was?"

  "He left the department."

  "Volitionally?"

  "I ain't sure that means what I think it means, but if you're implying that Johnny got fired, he didn't. He walked away with his dignity intact."

  "It was a simple question, detective. I have no opinion of the man either way. I don't know him, or you, or anyone out here for that matter."

  "Except for Winslow."

  Why he could spit out her last name but continued to ma'am and doctor me to death seemed a bigger mystery to me at the moment. Maya was at least five years my senior. Maybe blonde wasn't such a good color for me after all, although Todd seemed to like it well enough. Maybe Briscoe was just annoyed that another outsider was being brought into his territory.

  "I had very few brief and professional encounters with her in the past few years," I struggled to push the bristling tone back into my brain where it belonged. If Hardy wanted me working with these people, it wouldn't do well to alienate any of them until I had a better lay of the land. "I would hardly consider that contact enough to say that we know each other well or in the context of friendship, Briscoe. I meant no disrespect to your friend."

  "I shouldn't have barked at you," Briscoe muttered low. "It's just that Johnny took the blame for a whole lot of shit that he didn't do. Folks at central practically crucified him in the middle of the street, and to my way of seeing things, they would've never got close to Masconi without Johnny's hard work."

  "I take it Masconi was the suspect who walked after the evidence was excluded."

  "That's right."

  "And where is Mr. Masconi now?"

  "Nobody knows. He left town after his brush with justice and nobody's seen or heard from him since. You ask me, his former employer might've had a thing or two to do with that."

  "And?"

  "And what?"

  "Who did he work for?" Precognition tickled my brain. This was what George meant. That rush to judgment. Still, if Briscoe's affirmation was on cue, it was a disturbing link.

  "Danny Datello."

  Bingo.

  "Do we know if this latest victim can be linked to Mr. Datello?"

  Briscoe chuckled. "Hell, you didn't have to ask who he was. That tells me a lot, Dr. Eriksson. But to answer your question, I'm not even sure we know for a fact who the victim is tonight. On account of the fact that she ain't got a face left to identify or fingers to print."

  "Good point. So how bad is this turf war going to be when you show up with another outsider, former FBI to boot?"

  "No shit?"

  "Not even a skid mark," I said dryly. "Or didn't George tell you that I recently left the bureau?"

  "The old goat said you had cred, but he never mentioned you was FBI."

  "I'd suggest we keep that as quiet as possible for now, detective. In the meantime, maybe you can tell me something. I was here for a couple of weeks several years ago. I don't remember it being this foggy."

  Briscoe's belly jiggled. "Ah hell, honey. Fog is what we're second most famous for. Half the time it feels like you're living in a cloud on top of the Himalayas. I surely do hope you brought a coat."

  "Isn't this springtime?"

  "Yeah, but we end up wearin' gear year round out here. It's soggy and wet every day. You're gonna freeze your tush off in that get up." He gestured toward my spring suit, a light wool and cotton blend. "I'd suggest something leather to cover anything you wear. Keeps the dew out."

  "I'll keep that in mind, detective."

  I signaled again and wound away from the freeway into an affluent neighborhood. Heavy ground fog notwithstanding, the crime scene came into view easily enough. Red and blue lights penetrated the haze in an eerie glow. All was not well on Templeton Lane tonight. I parked behind one of the patrol cars illuminating the neighborhood.

  "Ready?" Briscoe asked after a brief struggle out of the car.

  My eyes were already devouring the scene. Three men were on the front lawn arguing. One wore a dark jacket with the letters CSD emblazoned on the back. His index finger punctuated the air in front of another man's nose – older, maybe Briscoe's age, in a long trench coat, with a nice spare tire circling his waist. Beside him, jet black hair, sparks from the eyes, another trench coat with a badge clipped sideways on his lapel was a younger, leaner man. Silver-haired fox from CSD seemed to be losing the battle.

  Yellow strips of crime scene tape cordoned off the front yard. Uniformed officers were perched against vehicles on the street.

  Under the pale glow of a single bulb at the front door stood another. This one was a rumpled sentry, his coat hem torn and hanging haphazardly on one side, wrinkles from head to toe. His tie was askew, and even from a distance, I could see spots that were not part of its design randomly scattered across the surface. A thin sliver of wood rolled between his lips from one side to the other and back again. His arms crossed over his chest, but one fist thumped irregularly against his side. His hair was jet black, and the narrow slit of his eyes would likely disguise the color even when I was close enough to see them. His face was thin, gaunt, a man who didn't overindulge at the table. From a distance, he wouldn't have been half bad to look at if he bulked up a bit and took better care of himself.

  My eyes narrowed. Central Division's finest.

  Briscoe's speech played rapidly through my mind. Lieutenant somebody was his commanding officer. So where did that leave my old undergrad pupil Captain Martin?

  "Briscoe?"

  "Yeah."

  "What division is Rodney Martin working out of?"

  His fingers bisected my upper arm. "You know Martin?"

  "Not in the way you associate with the word. I was getting my PhD and Rodney was an undergraduate in one of the psychology classes I taught on occasion. George mentioned that he's a captain now."

  "He is," Briscoe said. "At Central Division. He tells these buffoons what to do."

  "I take it those three are detectives out of central."

  "That older dude is Matt Rogers. The slick bastard is
his partner Jim Daltry."

  "And who is the one from CSD?"

  "Lieutenant Ken Forsythe. He's the commander of our Crime Scene Division."

  "I see."

  "Not to taint your perspectives of all this, Eriksson, but Forsythe is one of the good guys. Not that my opinion counts."

  "And the one guarding the door?"

  "None other than Flynn Myre."

  My eyes wandered across the lawn a second time, taking in more than the immediate area. Light hair was illuminated blue and red in turns. Broad, hulking shoulders on an enormous physique stood with his back toward me.

  "Briscoe, who are the uniformed officers detaining?" As I spoke, he turned toward me. My jaw dropped.

  "That's Johnny Orion. I didn't mention he's the one who found the victim tonight."

  And here I thought Todd might be wondering why I vanished without a trace. Todd. Todd Hunter aka Johnny Orion stood not more than twenty yards away from me, staring with as much shock as I felt. Clever name, Orion the Hunter. I wasn't the only one telling lies. Anger and humiliation mingled bitterly on the tip of my tongue. I swallowed it, put it away with the rage that would be unleashed in due time. I was after all, a chip off the old block, daddy's little killer.

  Chapter 6

  I turned away quickly. Shit! If Briscoe noticed my reaction to Orion, he didn't say anything.

  "We might have a hard time getting inside if they won't let CSD in there," Briscoe said. "Shall we, Eriksson?"

  "Not without Forsythe." I ignored the urge to hop in the bubble car and race back to the airport at its top speed of fifty-five. What was Orion really doing in D.C.? Had I been suckered into coming here after all? The bits of truth I shared about my father churned in my gut, a stinging hornet's nest of swelling nausea.

  "I'll introduce you." Briscoe cupped my elbow and led the way toward the ongoing argument dead center on the lawn. I could still feel Orion's eyes burning through my back, but was determined to ignore it. I had a right to be here. From the look of things, Orion was nothing if not a person of interest in the case, perhaps even the prime suspect.

  Dirty cop. Nobody will believe anything he says about you, Helen. Stop worrying about Todd and his lame attempt to lure you into bed. For all you know, that's all it was. A chance meeting between two lonely people. The part of my psyche that tries to soothe me into complacency more often than not simply pisses me off.

  Bullshit. My brain was screaming at it's kinder cells. Dad's opinion on coincidence was that there was no such thing. I didn't want to believe. I don't want to believe. Am I really so off my game that I missed all of this? Warning signs were screaming at me from the get-go, from the moment those thugs grabbed me in the hotel lobby.

  I groaned softly. Should've called hotel security to verify that story. Orion could've set up the whole scenario to get close to me. Stupid! Stupid, Helen!

  "Forsythe," Briscoe nodded curtly, "Daltry, Rogers."

  "What the fuck are you doing here, Briscoe?" Rogers dismissed me with barely a glance. "And who's the broad?"

  He was certainly old enough for that particular sexist slur to be part of his vernacular. "Eriksson," I said, thrust a confident hand forward, "Dr. Helen Eriksson. I'm a criminal profiler. Commissioner Hardy asked me to take a look at the crime scene. If you gentlemen will excuse us, I believe Lieutenant Forsythe and I need to look inside the house. Shall we, lieutenant?"

  His eyes tightened in an expression of admiration, perhaps of my grit or my shrewd side-step of the ongoing battle for control. He stepped around Rogers and fell into cadence at my side.

  "George did a good thing getting some outside help."

  "Thank you. I haven't signed the contract yet. I suppose you could say this is my job interview."

  He laughed softly. "Leave it to Hardy." Humor evaporated as quickly as it appeared. "Did Briscoe tell you why this is such a mess?"

  "The old case? Hmm," I nodded. "If I have to get physical to get past Myre at the door, do you think it would help or hurt my chances of getting a contract in Darkwater Bay?"

  "It might get you a medal, maybe a parade."

  "He's as incompetent as he looks?"

  "Oh yeah," Forsythe exhaled his opinion on a sharp breath. "I doubt he'll put up a fuss. He might think he's on par with Rogers, but the guy is a complete moron."

  I followed Forsythe up the sidewalk to the front door.

  "Myre," Forsythe greeted with a curt nod. "This is Dr. Helen Eriksson. She's a criminal profiler George hired to help us close this case once and for all. He wants her to take a look at the scene."

  "Then let her go look," Myre chewed the stick of wood between his teeth lazily. A few words came to mind. Caricature. Cliché. Inspector Clouseau. Keystone cop.

  "Detective Myre, under no circumstances will I enter a crime scene alone. Whoever ordered you to prevent the crime scene from being properly processed should be fired," I said. "Lieutenant, after you."

  Myre's jaw dropped. The toothpick bounced off the concrete.

  "You'll want to retrieve that, Flynn. We wouldn't want your DNA processed as part of a crime scene."

  I grinned at the remark and followed Forsythe into the house. The humor faded, replaced with a heavy metallic odor. Iron and honey. Thick, sweet, cloying. Forsythe paused and pulled out shoe covers and nitrile gloves.

  "Have you got experience at fresh scenes?"

  Translation: are you going to toss your airplane peanuts all over the crime scene when you see how disgusting this is going to be?

  "Enough to have a cast iron stomach. This isn't the first time I've seen the end result of a decapitation, lieutenant. Don't worry about me."

  "There's heavy saturation of blood. She's been here awhile."

  It was an odd moment for Todd to pop into my thoughts. Tony was his mentor. Tony Briscoe perhaps? Was there a kernel of truth in what Orion told me, or was it all honeyed lies?

  I slipped on the shoe covers and gloves. "Do you think anyone has taken Orion's statement?" I asked.

  "That's the one thing you can count on," Forsythe said. "They'll have him cuffed and under arrest before we're out the door."

  "Probably." I followed him through the spacious foyer through and arched doorway into the living room. The lights were on. "I wonder if Orion lit the place up or if the lights were already on when he got here. Do we know if he knew who he was coming to see tonight, if this is our victim's home?"

  "I haven't talked to him. It was pulling teeth to get Rogers to budge about letting me in here before Lowe called."

  "Where is the intrepid chief?"

  "Nobody knows … Jesus." Forsythe stopped short on the shag carpeting. The victim lay on her back in front of a large coffee table, as promised, sans head and hands.

  My eyes darted to the surroundings. Yes, there was plenty of blood, but it was pooled around the stumps where head and hands once were. "She wasn't dismembered until after she died."

  "No, she wasn't. I was expecting a blood bath in here to be honest. I'd say it's a refreshing surprise, but this is … wow. Déjà vu."

  "You were at the Bennett crime scene?"

  He nodded. "I wasn't a lieutenant yet. Plain old detective at the time. What do you make of this Dr. Eriksson?"

  Three stacks of magazines, each three high were piled neatly on the coffee table. The sofa cushions were arranged from end to end in pristine form. There wasn't so much as an overturned lamp or knickknack out of place. The body wasn't posed per se, just laid out on the floor in the center of the room where the dismemberment had taken place. The victim's blouse was torn open. Tiny pearl buttons peppered the floor, but none of her clothing appeared to be removed. Damaged yes. I stepped closer.

  Everything was as it should be. Nothing inside out.

  "Have you got a pen light?"

  Forsythe handed it over.

  I lifted the skirt gingerly. "No panties. It looks like there's semen dried on her thighs." My nostrils revolted. "Postmortem loss of body fluids. The medical
examiner will have to determine if there was a sexual assault. I can't see anything else without moving her." I dropped the skirt.

  "She should be here any minute. When we heard what we were looking at on this one, the big guns all got called out." He paused and stared at me. "What do you think?"

  "There are no signs of struggle. I didn't notice any sign of forced entry at the front door. We should probably look at the other points of entry. It looks like she was killed, then dismembered. Why take the head and hands?"

  "He did that the last time too. Brighton Bennett's head and hands were never recovered."

  It screamed trophy. Then again, fifteen years ago, removing the head and hands was an easy way to delay identification. It hadn't prevented it from happening quickly for the Bennett girl though.

  "What led the investigation to look at Masconi in the other case?"

  Forsythe scratched his head. "Well, if I recall, a number of women came forward after the fact and claimed sexual offenses committed by Masconi in the workplace. Five or six girls, if memory serves. They claimed they were too afraid to come forward prior because he was the boss."

  "Briscoe said he worked for Danny Datello."

  "He did, managed Datello's casino out on Hennessey Island."

  "Hmm."

  "What are you thinking?"

  "I'm curious if Datello did anything to help defend his employee."

  "That I can't tell you. Myre or Orion would know the particulars about how all of that unfolded. Although I'm not sure which of them would be more cooperative."

  "I heard Orion left the department a bitter man."

  "He did. Flynn Myre's still pretty defensive about the whole thing, despite the fact that Orion's resignation all but vindicated him. I guess a man never gets over being wrongly accused."

  "Do you think Orion planted evidence against Masconi?"

  "Johnny? I doubt it. In my opinion, that fiasco could've been cooked up by Masconi in order to save his own ass. Johnny cared too much about justice to take matters into his hands that way. He believed that the system wouldn't fail."