by P. D. Martin
I pick up the photo of her dumped body. I imagine Jean on the gurney. A gurney? That would tie in well with the lividity evidence—a totally smooth surface—and it would put the killer at the right angle for the stab wounds too.
I imagine her dead, on a gurney. The killer cleaned up his handiwork. He washed her cuts and scrubbed her down hard, ensuring that any traces of him were removed. He is thorough, so thorough that he even scrubbed at her fingernails and toenails and then cut them back. Sam’s notion that he’s got medical training comes to mind. Or perhaps it’s his law-enforcement training—knowing that a single pubic hair on Jean’s body could convict him. I wonder if his DNA is on our files, part of VICAP. Perhaps he’s been caught before and wants to avoid a return trip to prison.
I move on to Teresa and, once more, I imagine that I’m in the scene.
The killer watches her, following her daily movements. She has regular routines: gym, work, self-defense classes. The regularity is perfect. And just like with Jean, habitual visits to her apartment are part of his routine. He feels powerful roaming freely in his victim’s apartment, just as though he really was her boyfriend. He can do anything. Anything he wants.
She leaves work late, 9:00 p.m., and he’s waiting for her in the building parking garage. It’s deserted. She walks from the elevator to her Mercedes, her high heels keeping a regular beat on the concrete floor. He watches her in his rearview mirror and when she’s close enough he opens the door and gets out of his van. He’s parked right next to Teresa. He reaches inside his shirt pocket and brings out his ID.
He spins his story and she becomes upset. He tells her that something has happened to her sister. But then he slips up. She backs away from him and runs to her car. But it’s too late. Just as she clicks the automatic locking system and pulls on the door handle of her car, he lunges at her, grappling her in a bear hug. Her briefcase and handbag go flying in different directions. She screams and he moves his hand to her mouth, pinching her nose at the same time. Her scream is stifled before it has time to reach its crescendo. She brings her heel down hard on his foot, elbows him in the stomach, and then goes to hit him in the groin.
It’s a standard self-defense move. But Teresa misses her mark. He is too fast for her. He has her up and in the back of his van in less than thirty seconds. He climbs in the back with her and secures her gag and bindings, tying her hands to a railing in the back of the van. She’s his.
I pick up the photo of Teresa the way she was found, dumped in Cedarville State Forest. I imagine him taking her there, a silhouette lowering the body carefully to the ground. He positioned her with her knees up and falling to one side, her arms fanned outward to waist height, and then her head turned a notch. This positioning is his signature. Every body was found in the same posture, even Jean who was in the back seat of the stolen car. But what does it mean? They look as though they’re sleeping. Perhaps it’s related to the notion of the women as his girlfriends. This way, he hasn’t killed them, they’re just asleep—dormant in his life because he’s finished with them and ready to move on to the next girlfriend. Yet he doesn’t close their eyes…people don’t sleep with their eyes open. I glance at my watch and realize time is passing fast. I must look at Susan’s file—perhaps I can find some answers there. I try to imagine her abduction and reenact it in my mind.
Susan is walking to her car, just like Teresa. Again the killer is parked next to her. He comes toward her, flashing his ID. He spins his story again. Something about one of her employees gone missing. Susan accepts the story—after all, he is a cop—and jumps in his car. Just like Jean he drives Susan to his location.
Strapped to his table, Susan breaks early. Earlier than the others. She begs for her life, begs for release. She does not hope to negotiate or escape. He has complete control over her and only he has the power to release her. For better or worse, this means she is dead sooner than the others. She only lasts three days. She cries and begs for her life and he gags her to stop her incessant whining. His patience is stripped bare. He’s already started staking out his next victim, Sam, so it’s easy for him to kill Susan. It takes him one step closer to Sam, just what he wants. He slashes Susan’s throat—he’s done with her. His special place is silent once more.
I notice from the police reports that many of Susan’s friends and colleagues commented on how she came across hard and tough but was really a pussycat. The killer didn’t get what he’d bargained for.
I look at my watch—it’s 4:30 p.m. and I haven’t really got any further, except for confirming he does use a badge. On a scrap piece of paper I write down some additional information.
Either is, or poses as cop or other law-enforcement official
Took Jean and Susan away of their own free will under false pretenses
Teresa was suspicious of his cover story—there was evidence of a struggle
Follow up body positioning
Follow up breaking-and-entering evidence (Was he in their apartments?)
Follow up video footage from parking lot
Then I write underneath in large letters and circle it— What if Sam doesn’t break? What will he do???
I close my eyes for a moment. I think about Sam. Where is she? What’s he doing to her? To date, my visions have been random, but I need to control them. I’ve got to at least try to induce an image. I slow my breathing down and clear my mind. I’m rewarded by an onslaught of images.
She’s on the killer’s gurney, tied up. She has her head turned to the side, as far as it will go. Her eyes are tightly closed and tears run down her cheeks. Her arms are taut, struggling against the ties. Then the image zooms out and I see him, on top of her. He wears a balaclava and his pelvis moves up and down.
I jerk my eyes open and the image disappears.
“Oh God!” I take a deep breath but no air reaches my lungs. I run from the project room to the toilets, just making it in time for the bowl to catch the contents of my stomach. The smell of bile, milk and vomit rises and I lurch again, bringing up the rest of the caramel macchiato and my morning’s fruit salad. I haven’t been able to eat anything else today. Not since I found out about Sam.
I sink to my knees and a whimper escapes my lips and then turns into silent yet guttural crying. A few quick in-breaths are the only sounds that give away my grief. Tears stream down my face. I let the sobs come, yet they give me no relief, no sense of emotional release.
I try to reassure myself. It might not be a vision, even though I was trying to induce one. It might be me reenacting my worst fears. Then again, it might not be. Bile rises again, but I have nothing left in my stomach.
We have to find him. We have to get this bastard. I grit my teeth, all I can think about is revenge. I want to kill the bastard, or better yet, make him suffer. I shake with rage. I need to get myself together. I have to focus on the case. The clock is ticking. I swallow my tears, grief and anger, pushing them down inside me. Control. It’s about control. I’ve got to get myself together before the team returns.
In the project room ten minutes later I hope I look the model of composure. I study my list and feel slightly discouraged. It’s not really any more than what Sam came up with.
I rest my head in my hands and close my eyes. A few minutes later I look up to see Josh hovering over me. Yet again he entered a room without a sound.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Fine. Sorry, I was just thinking. About the profile.”
“Did you come up with anything?”
“A few little bits. What about you?”
“The VICAP stuff looks really good. We’ve definitely got a few matches, including some in Arizona.”
My phone rings. “Agent Anderson.”
“Hi, Sophie, it’s Janet.”
“Hi, Janet. What’s up?”
“I’ve got your appointment with Dr. Rosen set up. You’re seeing her at ten tomorrow morning.”
“Surely this can wait until we find Sam.”
�
�Rivers told me you’d say that. I’m sorry, Sophie, but you have to keep the appointment, no matter what. Rivers and Pike are both insisting that everyone in the unit is assessed because of Sam’s disappearance. Even I’ve got to see Amanda.”
“But Janet—”
“I’m sorry, Sophie. They’re not accepting any buts.”
“Fine… Fine. Bye.” I try not to take it out on Janet.
“What’s up?” Josh asks.
“I’ve got my appointment with Amanda tomorrow.”
He rolls his eyes. “Me too. I’m up for two in the afternoon. When’s yours?”
“Ten tomorrow morning.” I shake my head. “Finding Sam is a hell of a lot more important than going to see some shrink,” I say. “Even if it is Amanda.”
Josh strokes my hair and then puts his arm around me, giving me a squeeze. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” I say, not wanting him, or any man, to touch me. Not when all I can think about is what that bastard is doing to Sam.
CHAPTER 12
The rest of the team files in.
Krip sits next to me and the pungent smell of stale tobacco brings my nausea back.
O’Donnell strides across the room. “Okay, let’s get this started. You first, Couples.” He sits down. “Anything from Sam’s place?”
“Not good news, I’m afraid,” Sandra says, smoothing her hair down behind her ear and opening her notepad. “No prints except Sam’s and Sophie’s on the profile. Same with all the files. And the files match the inventory exactly.”
We’re all silent. We were hoping for a lead. I was hoping for a lead. I slide my ring on and off my finger. How can this be happening?
“Okay. Marco, let’s hear about VICAP. Tell me you’ve got some good news.” O’Donnell rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and his glasses move up and down.
“The VICAP guys have sorted through the database matches on the new search and done a first cull. We’ve got lots of hits.” Josh passes out copies of the VICAP report. “That’s good news,” he says, looking at O’Donnell.
We each end up with what looks like at least fifteen pages.
Josh does a quick double-click of his pen. “The report shows all the computer matches, and the guys have highlighted the ones they think are probably our perp. There are a few that have been logged from Arizona, which would correspond to our writing analysis.”
An elimination process.
O’Donnell flips to the first page. “So, let’s go through them.”
“I had a quick glance before I came over here,” Josh says. “I think we’ve got at least ten definite matches.”
Flynn flicks through the pages quickly and then returns to the first one. “Our perp’s a busy boy.”
Flynn’s right. If this is our killer, he’s gone from three vics in D.C. to a long, murderous history. The body count is rising.
“Very busy. Across at least three different states over the last eleven years,” Josh says. “And these are only the murders that have been logged on the database by the cops.” He waves the printout in the air. “We’ve still got a hell of lot of states and individuals that aren’t on the bandwagon.”
“Those pesky cops, hey?” Jones says.
“I wonder if he moves for work—his paid work—or for his charming hobby,” Krip says.
“That’s a question we need to answer,” O’Donnell says, pointing his finger at Krip.
I don’t think Krip will be trying too hard to answer any questions.
I stand up and walk toward the window, partly to get away from the smell of tobacco, and partly because sitting still is making my skin crawl. I stare at the D.C. skyline. From here I can see the Washington Monument and the top of the Smithsonian.
I turn around and lean on the window. “I definitely think our guy is either in law enforcement or poses as a cop. I had another look at the crime scenes and both Jean and Susan went willingly with their attacker.”
Flynn raises his hands behind his head and leans back. “That’s more likely than him knowing his victims. We’ve run down all the girls’ acquaintances and there are no matches, no common friends. If they knew him, they would have been seen with him.”
“What about security footage from the parking lots?” I ask.
Flynn furrows his brow and his blue eyes fix on me. “No good. Our perp tampered with the cameras. The one in Teresa’s lot was reported as malfunctioning two days before, and Susan’s the day before she was nabbed.”
“So he’s cased the scenes. There must be some footage of him from earlier, at least from the days the cameras malfunctioned,” I say.
“We’ve been through that footage several times. Nothing looks suspicious. No vans, either. Maybe once we’ve got a suspect we can run them against the tape to place them at the crime scene. But with no suspects, we’ve got squat.” Flynn casts his eyes down and leans forward on the table again.
“VICAP,” O’Donnell says, refocusing the group’s attention on the report.
I sit down. I’ll have to put up with the smell of Krip.
We go through the VICAP notes, crossing out murders that are definitely unrelated.
After much discussion—and nearly one and a half hours—we are down to a list of fifteen murders, including the two in Chicago. We’ve included one the VICAP guys didn’t think was relevant and taken out two, but other than that our lists match. I move over to the whiteboard and write it up.
1995–1996: 3 in Arizona
1997–2000: 6 in Michigan
2000: 1 in Florida
2001–2005: 2 in Chicago
2006: 3 in Washington
“Corresponds with the notion of him moving around,” Couples says.
Josh scribbles on his pad. “Yeah. I think we can assume he lived in these states during the crime periods.”
“Except perhaps Florida,” Flynn says. “We’ve only got one murder down there.”
Krip swings his chair from side to side. “A holiday fling perhaps.”
“That would make sense. That one’s in January. He may have gone down for some sun,” I say.
Couples reads down the list. “And the last Michigan one was after the Florida murder. In May.”
“So let’s assume our guy hasn’t lived in Florida, but he’s probably lived in the other four states. Agreed?” O’Donnell says. We all nod or verbalize our agreement. “And are we happy that all these murders are definitely the work of our killer?”
“Yeah. We’ve got the body positioning in all of them,” I say.
“But…” Jones flicks through the notes. “His MO’s changed.”
“Not surprising,” Josh says. “He’s been refining his art. He also keeps the girls for longer now.”
“And he never went for career girls until the past few years,” Flynn says.
Couples follows his lead. “His first victim, in Arizona, was a schoolkid. Only sixteen.”
I glance through the victim list. We don’t have detailed information or photos, but it’s obvious from what we do have that the age of the victims has been increasing. He also started off with high-school students, college girls and a few full-time workers, but more transient girls. A pattern. The only one who doesn’t fit this trend is the second victim in Arizona. She was twenty-five at the time and worked as a shop assistant. Even had a husband.
“Except for the second murder, the ages have gradually increased, and the targets have changed,” I say, my voice quickening with the promise of a lead. “We’ve got five students, a waitress, one unemployed woman, and this last girl in Michigan worked at a shoe store, but she’d only had the job for three weeks. Then suddenly in Chicago there’s a shift in his victim type. He’s gone from women who are generally high-risk victims—naive, transient, etc.—to the low-risk victims, women who are more career focused. A receptionist and a personnel officer in Chicago and then here in D.C. he’s gone for the real go-getters.”
“So why the change?” Couples as
ks.
There’s silence for a moment.
“He went to college in Michigan,” Josh says. “Probably a graduate program, given his current age in the profile.”
“Of course,” I say. “That fits perfectly. He thinks of these women as his girlfriends and as he moves up the social and professional ladder, so do his victims.”
“This is getting good,” O’Donnell says, taking off his glasses. Even Krip seems interested and leans forward in his chair.
We’re interrupted by a phone ringing. It’s Sandra’s.
“This might be something,” she says. “Couples… Uh-huh… Yep… Right… No, of course they didn’t report it. Thanks.” She hangs up and then addresses us, quickly pushing her hair behind her ears. “Sam’s neighbors from below did hear noises on Wednesday night at around ten forty-five. In fact, they even thought they heard a scream.”
“Goddamn it,” Flynn says, expressing what we all feel. “When will people learn to report this kind of shit?”
People often hear things, bad things, and don’t report it. They don’t think it’s any of their business.
“At least we know when she was taken,” Jones says, lifting his pen from the doodles on his pad.
I’m not comforted. If she was taken on the Thursday, it would have given us more time.
After a minute of silence O’Donnell speaks. “So, where were we? That’s right, college in Michigan. Getting good.”
And with that we go back to the guy’s homicidal history.
“So our suspect list is every male who studied in the state of Michigan,” Krip says. “Not exactly a small sample to investigate.”
Couples drops her pen on top of her notepad. “He’s right.”
I stay positive. This is a break. “It’s a start, at least. A good start.”
Josh smiles at me.
I look at him, part of me longing to touch him even in all this mess. And then it hits me. “Hey, didn’t you study in Michigan, Marco?” I make sure I use his last name.
