by Ivan Bering
The young woman is in the Intensive Care Unit which is one of the floors where money has been invested. The place is spotless, bright, no chipped corners or stained walls, looks like a mission control center. The nursing station is a large circular affair in the middle of the floor with all the patient rooms radiating out from this nucleus like spokes of a wheel. From the center hub nurses can see every patient as well as monitor their vital signs on the multitude of over-sized screens, all very impressive.
Karen, without the demands of a husband or family, has been putting in long hours. This particular case really pisses her off. This guy is cruel, sloppy and a narcissist who doesn’t give a damn. He wants a reputation as a great lover and then proceeds to rape and beat the women to death. Only two were fortunate to survive, the last one in the next room.
I didn’t plan to interview the victim; I wanted a private discussion with Karen and here is where she spends her free time. I’m concerned about her obsession with the case. Was she losing her objectivity?
Karen is a number of years away from retiring, but has property on the coast and uses her vacation time getting it ready for occupancy. She is an excellent planner and problem solver who will find some less demanding work on the coast. I’m not too sure I’m her favorite detective, let alone her first choice as a supervisor. Jesus, I hope I didn’t make a pass at her in the last 12 months. I can’t remember!
I’m trying to keep the smartass stuff to myself. Actually it is not proving too difficult. As we review all the victims and each attack, I find myself slipping into the routine, absorbing details, excluding the outside world, full focus on the killings. It is good to be back. It’s been a long time.
“Charlie, listen I am really pleased that you are now in charge. Why are you looking at me like that? I mean it. I know you can be a real jerk at times, but that comes with being a male. I want to catch this guy and I know you’ll be a big plus for us.”
I’m a little shocked. “Thanks, you may not appreciate how much that means …I “
She wouldn’t let me finish. No time for a private chat with this fireball.
“No more, let’s get back at it. We all know your situation and we’re on your side. You see this package? Just came over a few minutes ago. This is from your FBI friend, the sound technician or whatever he does. He told me he was able to clean up the tape and thinks 100% what we hear will be accurate. Almost as unbelievable is how fast he responded; he must really owe you a big favor. One day and he cleaned up the recordings.”
She unwraps the package then loads the edited recording for playback. She was able to record four different statements the poor woman blurted. The slurred words sounded like someone mumbling with a mouth full of small stones; a broken jaw and multiple facial injuries will do that. In fact, I don’t know how this last victim survived.
“Your sound technician reconstituted each of the four recordings to a point where most words are recognizable. At least that is what he told me. Next, he rearranged the sentences and phrases to develop a logical sequence. He says we now have a recording which sounds like a victim’s statement.”
She pushes a few buttons and the small portable unit delivers an excellent sound quality which surprises us both. I think we owe the FBI big time on this one.
The voice is not the girl’s but some type of computer generated sound.
It doesn’t sound too strange; it sounds like a young woman, under stress, and there are gaps, like she is thinking about the next string of words. This is more than I expected.
“ The taxi was a dark color…I think a dark green…..he had on one of those old-fashioned cabbie hats……it was pulled down and I couldn’t see his face…..the cabbie opened the back door …….. I was just settling into the back seat ….I was looking down …a sharp needle or dart hit my neck…. it felt like my head exploded ……….I don’t know how long I was out………..when I came to it was dark …really dark...that’s all I could see………..he was already on top of me…I couldn’t see his face ……….I was facing down in the back seat …one door was open because my feet were outside ….…I could feel the breeze…………he tore off my pants and held an enormous knife against my throat ……….….I could feel him enter me and then he leaned down close to my ear and whispered very, very softly… I could barely hear him………. if you want to live you do as I say……..when I squeeze your right shoulder you cry out, ‘Horny Harry you are the best’……….when I squeeze your left shoulder you cry out, ‘I love you’….and you had better be loud and convincing……then he straightened up and started laughing and calling me names, like ‘sweetie and lover’…………..he squeezed my shoulders and I cried out as loud as I could and used all the phrases he wanted me to ….he seemed to love it because he got more excited and laughed even louder……..then he was finished and put away the knife and I thought I had survived……………..he turned me over and start hitting me with his fists …..….it felt like someone was hitting me with a rock….. I passed out ..”
Karen is stunned. “Unbelievable. Goddamn unbelievable. I thought we would be waiting a couple of weeks to get her statement. She thought she was getting into a regular cab –––that I’d guessed, but all the rest is new.” We play it a number of times. It’s a lot of new information, but I’m not sure how it helps.
There is something bothering me about the recording, and I start my pacing routine. Karen leaves to get coffee. While I am waiting and pacing, I hits me. I know what doesn’t fit.
Karen gives me a coffee and sits on a window sill; I give her me observation. “One of the weird things about this is: he appears to be playing to an audience. Why does he bend down and whisper in her ear? She said she could barely hear him. Why not just tell her what he wants her to say or do? Only the two of them are in the cab. Why not just tell her? Why the soft whisper? Was there someone outside the cab? Someone outside would not hear the soft whispers, just her loud declarations of love.”
“Charlie, you think this guy has a partner, watching and listening, getting off on this charade of a seduction? You’re not suggesting another couple? Or the same two as doing the hotels, are you?”
I leave Karen without any answers. I’m still in running mode, not the best mode for analysis. Not much is making sense. I want to say: it feels like the world is falling apart and then it comes to me. It is: every day the news media reminds us of our environmental hell.
CHAPTER 12: Stephen AT HOME
His wife said he looked like a confident pundit, and the public agreed.
Stephen married immediately after university to his high school sweetheart, a girl who almost matched his intellect, but more importantly, for him: Stella was raised in an upper-class home. She knew all the accepted protocols and nuances demanded at this level of society and enjoyed the social and career climbing game.
While Stephen pursued his career, they raised a son and daughter, both now independent and working miles from home base. His legal career was a standard progression: a prosecuting attorney, a criminal defense lawyer, partner in a law firm and finally a position on the bench, with a reputation as a thorough and formidable presence.
With Justice Reborn came his last promotion as the Judge of Sector 14, a position so new and ill-defined even the people who appointed him did not fully understand it. Not everyone at Regional, which was the administrative body supervising six different Sectors, was in favor of his appointment. Some felt he was too quick to look for opportunities to assist the accused, and this was not an attitude which Regional wanted in the new take-no-prisoners world.
After years of dealing with miscreants, lawyers, and detectives Stephen had developed an uncanny ability to read and assess people, often in a matter of minutes. Did this skill fail him when he selected his Board? Doug Brewster, head of Legal, had the legal expertise, but Stephen began to understand the man’s ambition could be a problem. The Chief, Duncan Stirling, projected a calm, stable persona, reflecting tradition and firmness but lacked
the imagination to deal with the changing world. Jacob Konahouse, in charge of Prisons, was not qualified, but there had not been a choice for his position.
Dr. Kate’s appointment had been problematic, and he had not been sure she would accept. They had a history, only known by a few of their closest friends. It had been one of the few times Stephen lost control and took inordinate chances with his marriage and career. The passion had been overwhelming, suffocating any reason he tried to bring to the situation. The affair’s whirlwind start, the extreme emotions, and the abrupt ending were all part of his unrelenting memories.
But he had a more immediate problem: the Dr. Max case simmered as Legal meticulously crawled over the girl’s accusation and Max’s priors. Although the man was a national figure, the incident occurred in his Sector: he would be expected to resolve the issue.
# # #
His house was in the southwest corner of the city. The neighborhood, although not zoned for the rich and famous, was certainly a prestigious community. His home reflected his status and matched the community in appearance and size. Stella had supervised every step of its construction and monitored its maintenance and that of their meticulous yard.
She knew what his position demanded and made many sacrifices to keep him on an even keel. Although she felt unappreciated, she knew this was not a novel emotion for most women in her setting. Stella told Stephen he was lucky he had her, and he agreed. Stephen walked in the side door from the garage. “Stella, how much time to I have?”
“Damn it Stephen, don’t start multitasking again. Not tonight. There is life beyond your Board. I have the Marshalls coming over before we leave, so hurry and get dressed. This is our Symphony night, and you can’t leave early. We are going to supper right after the performance, and it’s going to be a full night with no shop talk.”
Stephen started to reply but thought it would just trigger more comments. He ran up the stairs; his shirt, tie, and suit were waiting on the bed. Steve used to enjoy Stella’s organizational skills and her take charge approach to their social life and their home. After his appointment as Sector Judge, there was less time available for a social life. This reduction upset Stella, who enjoyed being with a crowd and all the associated glamor; as the decline grew her frustration blossomed. Stephen knew their relationship was sliding and resolved to make more time. This resolution got destroyed on a daily basis as each new crisis erupted.
As he showered and dressed his mind still raced with the implications of the S3 problems. Maybe he should have informed the Regional Director; instead, he had decided to keep the issue within the Board. If confronted at a later date, he would argue it was a procedural problem which, at the time, he was sure would be resolved.
Besides, to inform the Region would have created alarms which would give opponents to Justice Reborn more ammunition. This was solid reasoning as long as all the S3 issues were procedural problems; but, if the memory streams were not duplicates, the Regional Director would be furious.
Normally Stephen would have warned the Region but recent exchanges with the Region left him uncomfortable. At times it appeared the Region already knew about incidents before he reported; their response had been too fast and too well prepared, not a simple reaction. In some ways this was a test to see if the news reached the Region before he told them. The risk appeared reasonable as long as the science of the S3 interrogation remained solid with no flaws.
While he was dressing, Stella was downstairs giving instructions. The distance between them was too great, and he could not unravel the words. Finally she yelled up the stairwell.
“Stephen, hurry down the Marshalls are here. We’re starting on some cocktails.”
He had finished dressing but couldn’t stop reflecting on the rapid changes in his life. Justice Reborn provided him with significant power and authority; but, he felt compassion should be part of the equation, and he thoroughly reviewed each recommendation.
“Damn it Stephen, aren’t you dressed?”
Steve was already on his way down when the yelling occurred. “Hi, Marilyn, George. Great to see you; let me get my drink.”
They exchanged some local gossip, and the ladies retired to touch up their makeup. Stephen and George took their drinks outside onto the deck. George was a real estate developer and kept a close watch on public attitudes and tastes. His next question came as a surprise. “Steve, are you aware of some of the rumors circulating about the S3 Interrogation?”
Steve’s years of experience allowed him to maintain his poise and relaxed manner. “Nothing has reached me. What is it? Is there a sexual component?”
“You think all business men are only interested in money or sex. Right? Don’t grin at me. No….it was not about sex. The rumor is; some of the interrogations have proven unreliable or faulty. It’s a hot piece of gossip all over the office. I heard it a few times. It is coming from our sales staff who work in Sector 13.”
Stephen retained his composure, tasted his drink and gave a small chuckle. “Oh, that one from Sector 13. It’s been around for the past week. The opponents of Justice Reborn pull that rumor out of the hat about every four or five weeks. It’s a tactic which tries to create doubt and confusion without having to prove anything. You can take my word: the memory scans are solid.”
Stephen and George were close friends, but nothing would make Stephen leak a Board secret. Friendship seemed to be sliding along with his marriage. Was he prepared to sacrifice everything? Friends and relatives didn’t understand he couldn’t trust anyone outside his tight legal circle. Had he become too cautious? No, it wasn’t possible to share these issues with family and friends. The system demanded a tight lid.
Stella came to get them. The alcohol had softened her, and she leaned on Stephen and held his arm. “Well George, have you been able to get Stephen in the mood?”
Both men smiled. George probably understood Stephen as well as anyone, and he sensed his friend’s withdrawal. There seemed to be a regular pattern; any discussion, beyond superficial comments, about Justice Reborn, and Steve quickly changed the subject. It left the impression Steve’s friends couldn’t be trusted to understand the implications or gravity of the new system of justice.
George thought about Stella’s complaint: Stephen was thoroughly entangled in his new appointment, marriage and friendship slipping off the table.
CHAPTER 13: Charlie’s Log: At the Hotel
I’m on my way to the Ritz to meet Wes. And yes, I’m late.
This hotel is now confirmed as the location of the fifth serial killing. Although I am sprinting from one place to another, I feel better. This is what I need: a full workload, a challenge, pressure and the company of a team. It’s late in the day. I should have been there hours ago.
Wes and I worked numerous homicides; we’re close for various reasons, but I think he is most grateful for one unofficial sting. Early in Wes’s career, his good looks and a few too many beers resulted in an affair. He wasn’t married at the time, but Mrs. Alice Price, wife of the Chair of the Police Commission was. At first Wes enjoyed the excitement of an affair with an older woman and the attention of someone placed so close to the top of the pole. The crash came when Alice declared her love and her plan to divorce her husband; she was adamant. My stunned partner pleaded for help.
I literally forced Alice to meet me, my excuse: I felt obligated to warn her about Wes. I didn’t give her a chance to decline but launched right into my pitch. Wes was AC/DC and rather reckless with his sex life, AIDS certainly a possibility for any partner. She became outraged and proclaimed Wes had nothing to do with her, and, in any case, she didn’t believe me.
I played my trump card and dumped the pictures on the table. There was a naked Wes and another man as his company, also without clothes. Each picture presented a different position or a different angle, the light and focus not great, but the situation was obvious.I pressed. “My recommendation get a blood test as soon as possible. For your husband, best to wait to see if it wil
l be necessary, and be grateful if you are not infected. These pictures and the enclosed note warned about unprotected sex with this detective. I think the anonymous sender is the other man in the picture, angry because Wes found a younger man.”
By the next day she refused to answer any of Wes’s calls; he was delighted. It only cost him a few hundred dollars for my friend to doctor a series of photos.
Of course our relationship goes beyond this incident; he was a real strength in the weeks after the accident which killed my family. Millie, his wife, who was in our car when the crash happened, is still wrestling with depression. Wes rarely talks about her problems. In the days after the accident, Wes, teaming with Monk, took charge. Between the two of them they looked after the myriad of details associated with these types of bloody disasters.
Wes is the lobby waiting. The place presents as you would expect from a five-star hotel, a large rotunda, opulent with thick carpeting, many plants, bright lights and well-dressed people, representing a contemporary cross section of the affluent.
In the lobby is a huge fountain, spraying water about 20 feet in the air, the water falling back into a circular basin filled with various marble nymphs, a centerpiece for the hotel. There are numerous staff ready to be of assistance, adroitly located to be available but not obtrusive, most wear the brilliant gold hotel vests. At the north end is a bank of elevators all with clear glass facing the lobby, providing a view as you ascend to your floor, not for the vertically challenged. Not your first choice as a murder scene but intriguingly close to the location where Horny Harry dumped his last victim.
The forensic team is upstairs scouring the room, the hallway, the elevator and the stairs. At this stage the crime scene is prime. The victim will not run away but once the body has been moved and all the evidence gathered, the scene is lost forever. We only have one opportunity to assess the location as it now exists, hence the extreme time and care with the scene.
