by David Archer
She clicked the next link, but it was even more distorted than the first one. She went through them, one by one, some of them better and some of them worse. Each of them was distorted in a different way, as Herman, the program Indie used for her hacking and cracking, had tried different algorithms to undo the damage done by the sender.
It was the eighth photo that suddenly made them stop and stare. It was almost perfectly clear. “Okay,” Sam said, “I'm thinking you were right. I don't know who she is, but I swear I've seen that face before.”
“Yeah,” Indie said, “same here. I don't know her, but I know I've seen her somewhere. TV, you think?”
Sam nodded. “Could be,” he said, and then he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, can Herman do facial recognition? Would he be able to spot other pictures of this woman?”
Indie made a face. “He can do basic stuff. If we had an idea of some website where we might find more pictures of her, it's possible. Got any ideas?”
“Not right at the...” He suddenly froze and looked at her, and together they said, “Facebook!” Indie turned back to the computer and set Herman to scanning female Facebook members within fifty miles, using his facial recognition algorithms to look for pictures that resembled the woman like the one on the screen.
“Done,” she said, “but I'm sure it's gonna take a while.”
Sam nodded. “That's fine, at least we're doing something. Send that one to Karen, and let's see about the others.”
Indie nodded, emailed the picture to Karen Parks, and then put the second photo into her scanner. She captured the image and told Herman to apply the same algorithm used on the one they'd chosen, and a moment later, the new, less-distorted picture began to appear. It took a moment for it to come into focus completely.
This was the other woman. Once again, Sam had the nagging feeling that he should know her, but his memory was failing him. Indie stared at it for a few seconds, then shook her head. “Nothing. You?”
“This one doesn't even look familiar. I wonder how I'm supposed to find people from messed-up photos, when I have no clue who they could be even when the photos are unscrambled.”
Indie added it to Herman's facial recognition queue, then sent it to Karen and loaded the last photo. Herman did his thing, and the image came in. They were looking at the almost perfectly clear face of a man in his fifties.
Sam let out a low whistle. “Okay, this guy I know,” he said. “That's Caleb Porter; he was a lawyer here in town, ‘til he got nailed for embezzling millions of dollars from a few of his clients. He sold off everything he had and managed to pay them back, so he only served about a year in prison. When he got out, though, it turned out he'd found Jesus in the joint and he started a church out in Aurora. Super guy. His church makes a lot of money, but he's well known for giving it all away, everything but what he needs to keep it going.”
Indie nodded. “I know him,” she said. “Kenzie and I stayed at their shelter for a little while, but the way they're set up, you can only stay two weeks at a time. I got into one of the others that didn't have that restriction, so I never went back, but I can tell you that the people there are as good as they come. They treated us great, and the ladies cried when I had to take Kenzie and leave.”
“Well, at least it gives us a place to start. I wish we knew which one of these people would be first on the list. Send that to Karen, and ask her to call me when she gets it. I doubt she's even out of bed yet.”
Indie nodded and did what he said, then looked up at him. “Where do we go from here, Sam? Any ideas?”
Sam sat and thought for a minute. “Well, I'm guessing that the killer expected us to unscramble these photos, so he'd guess that I'll know Porter, I think. He might think I'd know them all, but I doubt it; he'd want to choose people that would make this harder for me, not easier. By putting Porter into the mix, he's probably expecting me to focus on him as the one I know best.” He ran his hands over his face and sighed. “I wish we had any other leads on the women. I'm pretty sure one of them will be first.” He sat forward again, and said, “Let's see if we can put together anything about this guy's MO. Let's look at all unsolved murders over the last fifteen years, I'd guess about a fifty-mile radius.”
Indie typed at Herman and turned him loose. The screen began to fill with links as he found things that matched her search parameters. Indie looked at Sam. “I told him to check news sources, but also to scan through police files. Sometimes they don't let any information out about certain cases, and if this guy has a specific MO, they might have a file on him.”
“Karen didn't think so, but she isn’t in cold cases. If our guy did something in her district in the past two years, she'd have a file on it, for sure, but anything older than that would go to the basement.” The basement was a police nickname for the cold-case squad, based on the fact that their office was down in the lowest level of the building.
“Okay, it seems kind of odd,” Indie said, “that she'd assume the police wouldn't have come across this guy, somewhere along the line, doesn't it?”
“I think she's basing her assumption,” Sam said, nodding, “on the fact that there hasn't been any sort of press activity regarding a long-running series of related killings. There's no doubt police have come across his individual killings before, but the cases haven't been connected, whether from lack of due diligence on the part of the officers involved, or simply because they just didn't seem to be related for one reason or another. If Karen doesn't know of any such related cases, we're gonna have to assume he's slipped through the cracks, somehow.”
“Okay, so I let Herman do his thing, then. Any guidelines you want me to give him?”
“We're gonna get a lot of results; we need to think of ways to filter them down. Let's start with any files closed by exception. What that means is that the cops know who did it, but there's a reason they can't make an arrest. Could mean there isn't enough evidence to get a conviction, or that the evidence was compromised and can't be used, or even that the killing was sanctioned by the government.”
“Okay, we'll cut those out,” Indie said. “How about if we eliminate all files with a prime suspect, too? Most of those would probably be right, wouldn't they? So they wouldn't be our guy, right?”
“At least some of them, yes. What we need are the ones that happened here in our area with no known motive, no suspects. We can look for patterns in them, see if anything seems to fit this guy.”
Indie tapped keys for a few seconds, and then hit the enter key. “Even for Herman, this will take a little time,” she said. “What else can we do?”
Sam thought. “What about the note?” he asked. “Think your super scanner can find anything on it?”
“Let me try.” She took the note from its envelope and laid it on the scanner. A moment later, it began to hum as the light moved down it. It took almost five minutes to scan the whole thing and render the image. Once again, it was far larger than a normally scanned document, and Indie began moving it around as she studied it for anything that might lend a clue to where it had come from or who had sent it.
“There's little bits of stuff all over it,” she said, “but I don't know what it is. We could send it to a lab for analysis, but that would probably take weeks...”
“We don't have weeks,” Sam said, “and I have more confidence in you and Herman than in the police lab. I've seen the mistakes they can make that let criminals walk free, so I'd rather trust you with this.”
Indie looked at him. “I can't do all the things they can do, though, Sam,” she said. “There may be chemical residue on this that could tell us exactly where it came from.”
“And the lab took samples from it last night, remember? They did enough tests to say there was no DNA on it, so I'm sure they have enough samples to check for chemicals and such. Tell me what you think you're seeing.”
Indie turned back to the screen, hiding the smile she couldn't contain. She stared at the screen as she manipulated the image, watchin
g the dots and blotches that represented the impurities in the paper.
“That looks like a crystal, maybe salt or sugar. Our guy might have put this together while he was eating dinner.”
“That doesn't help us. What else do you see?”
“Well, that could be a speck of black pepper, which fits with salt and sugar. Could mean he was eating, or having a cup of coffee. Let's see what else I can find.” She continued scanning the document, moving it around on the screen so that she could see it all. There were several other spots that seemed to catch her attention. “Look at this,” she said. “It's a discoloration of some sort, not sure what it is. Any ideas?”
Sam stared hard at the screen. “I'm not sure,” he said. “Almost looks like a blot of mustard, don't you think?”
Indie shrugged. “Could be. Definitely looks like mustard. It's just that it's so small, that's what makes it hard to tell.”
“So, what we’ve got is evidence that our perpetrator was having lunch somewhere,” Sam said. “I'm thinking that he wasn't at home, simply because most people would be more careful at their own homes then they would be at a restaurant or someplace like that.” He leaned in closer to look again. “Yeah, looks like mustard to me.”
Indie moved the image around some more, and pointed out a few other spots that seemed unnatural. After a moment, she pointed to another one. “Here's one,” she said. “That's a fiber from something, and I would bet that it's from a pair of gloves. Seems like we have a man who likes to eat with gloves on. Wonder how many restaurants see that on a daily basis?”
“Okay, now that's interesting,” Sam said. “I would have expected him to use rubber gloves, or plastic, but not cloth gloves that would leave fibers behind. That seems like a pretty amateurish mistake.”
Indie nodded. “It does, doesn't it? The trouble with that is, we are dealing with a serial killer who has not been caught in 15 years, or so he says. That makes it seem pretty unlikely that he would make such a stupid mistake. Sam, I think he deliberately threw you a clue, here.”
Sam shrugged. “Not much of a clue, when I don't have any way to identify what kind of fiber it is. Unless you or Herman can do so in some magical way that I'm not aware of?”
“Nope, sorry,” she said. “Our magic doesn't go that far, I'm afraid. Best I can do is point these things out and let you figure out what to make of it. Remember, you're the private investigator, here, not me. It's up to you to play Sherlock Holmes. I'll stick to being Watson.”
Sam laughed. “Well, it doesn't tell us a whole lot, but it does give us something to work with. I can ask Karen to have officers checking with restaurants to see if they remember someone eating with gloves on last night. You never know, they might come up with something that way.”
Sam took out his phone and dialed Karen's number. As he'd half expected, it went to voicemail. “Karen, it's Sam. Listen, Indie found a fiber on the note that looks like it might have come from a nice pair of gloves, and there's salt and pepper and a splotch of mustard on it, too. Wonder if you can get someone checking restaurants, see if anyone recalls seeing someone eating a sandwich or hotdog or something with gloves on, or putting gloves on after eating. Thanks, let me know.” He hung up.
With nothing more to go on, Sam decided to pay a visit to the preacher, Caleb Porter. He told Indie where he was headed, had her print out copies of the note and photos to take with him, then kissed her goodbye and went out through the garage to get his Corvette. As he backed out of the garage, he noted that the air was cooling off; fall was upon them, and when you’re a mile high, that means winter isn't that far away. He rolled the window up, but didn't turn on the AC as he usually did. Just letting some air come through the vents was cool enough.
2
The ride to Pastor Porter's church wasn't a long one, and Sam was there in just about forty minutes. The church was in an old factory building, one that Porter had talked a former client into donating, and then managed to get volunteers to contribute time and money on the remodeling. Sam knew that many people considered him a con man, but apparently, this particular prophet managed to keep some honor in his home town, because he had more than a million dollars a month coming through his offering plates.
The church was said to be “always open,” so Sam parked the Vette as close to the front doors as he could, then used his cane as he walked up to it. A tall man inside opened the door for him and asked if he could be of service.
“Possibly,” Sam said. “I'd like to see Reverend Porter. My name is Sam Prichard, and I'm a private investigator.”
The man's eyebrows went up. “Oh-oh,” he said, “don't tell me the Pastor's in some kind of trouble.”
Sam smiled. “Not that kind, anyway. I'm not here to investigate the church or Reverend Porter, just to ask him some questions that might help on a case I'm working on.”
The man stuck out a hand and Sam shook it. “In that case, I'm happy to take you to him. I'm Darrel Unger, by the way, a Deacon here. Follow me, he's in his office.” Unger led the way down a long hall, and turned to look at Sam over his shoulder as they walked. “Is this connected to one of our church members? I'm not asking what it is, I'm just curious.”
Sam grinned; he'd known a lot of curious people over the years, and in his experience they always wanted desperately to know whatever it was they swore they weren't trying to find out. “I'm afraid I can't say,” he replied honestly, and Unger sighed and nodded, continuing on in silence.
They came to an area that had several offices laid out rather nicely, and he led Sam to the biggest of them. The sign on the door said, “Rev. Caleb Porter, DD”, and Unger knocked politely before pushing it open. Porter sat at a desk inside, a Bible open in front of him. He looked up and smiled, and Sam thought the smile seemed quite genuine.
Unger said, “Caleb, this is Sam Prichard, a private investigator. He said he wanted to ask you a few questions about a case he's working on. I hope it's okay I brought him in?”
Porter smiled and rose, and Sam was struck by his height; the preacher stood a good four inches over his own six-foot frame. Sam had the fleeting thought that everyone in the church took growth hormones. “Of course it is, Darrel,” he said. “Come in, Mr. Prichard, have a seat.” He looked at the Deacon. “Thanks, Darrel, that'll be all.”
Sam took a chair that faced Porter's desk, and the preacher sat down in his own again. He glanced at his Bible and read aloud, “And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell.” He smiled up at Sam. “I've found that the Lord speaks to me through His Word in very personal ways, sometimes. I woke up this morning with that verse going through my mind, and haven't been able to shake it. I was just sitting here reading the whole passage and praying about it when you arrived. I know who you are, of course; your reputation precedes you.” He stood again and came around the desk, extending his hand. “Caleb Porter, formerly a sinner, later a prisoner, and today a servant of Jesus Christ. What can I do for you, Mr. Prichard?”
Sam smiled, liking the man despite himself. “Reverend...”
“I don't care much for titles,” Porter said with a grin. “Just Caleb will do fine.”
Sam inclined his head in thanks. “Caleb,” he began again. “Then it's just Sam, for me. I'm here because I was given some pictures last night, and a note that says the people in them will be murdered over the next couple of days, unless I can find and stop the killer. The pictures were distorted, the faces unrecognizable, but my wife, who's an absolute genius with computers, managed to unscramble them, and one of them—” he held it up “—looks a lot like you. What do you think? Is this a photo of you, Sir?”
Porter leaned forward and looked closely, but did not attempt to take the photo from Sam. “That's one of my old publicity shots, from last year. They took out the background – it was taken right here in this office – but that's me, all right.” He stood straight again, then leaned back against his desk. “Ironic, i
sn't it? I wake up thinking about not fearing death, and then learn that someone wants to kill me.” He closed his eyes and stood there for a moment, then opened them and looked at Sam. "Mr. Prichard,” he said, “do you know Jesus?”
Sam smiled. “I do,” he said. “Sometimes I'm pretty sure He wishes I'd be friendlier, but we do talk a lot.”
Porter smiled. “Good. I'd hate to face Him and have Him ask me why I didn't ask you that question before I died. Now, what can I do to be of assistance to you?”
“Well, to be honest, I'm hoping you might have some idea of who it is that might want to kill you. I doubt this person is actually connected to you, since most serial killers choose victims they don't know personally, but I can't be sure of that, so I'm trying to cover all the angles.”
Porter sucked in his bottom lip and shook his head. “I could probably make a list of people who might not mind all that much if I died, but I don't think they'd actually take any action.”
Sam nodded. “I didn't really think so, but I'm trying to hit all the possibilities.” He showed the preacher the photos of the two women. “Any chance you recognize either of these ladies?”
Porter took the photos and looked at each one closely, but shook his head. “I don't think so. The second one looks a little like one of the ladies in our congregation, but I can't say it's her. Doris Blevins is her name.” He turned and went to a bookshelf, then withdrew a large book and flipped through its pages. “Here she is,” he said. “This is our yearbook from last spring. This is Doris, right here.” He held the book out and pointed at one photo.
Sam looked at the one he indicated, and then at the one in his hand. “No, I don't think that's her,” he said. “I wish it had been, that would make my job easier.” He looked up at the preacher. “So, the question that remains, then, is where are we gonna hide you for a few days? The killer says he's going to kill one of the victims around one AM tomorrow morning, and each of the other two twelve hours apart after that. If I don't stop him by the third one, he says there will then be a fourth, but he won't give me any leads at all on that one.”
