“The second victim was Mary Ann Johnson. Since both Maria and Mary Ann start with ‘M’ we thought maybe there was some weird link but after the third, Terry Symes, and now Elizabeth, we don’t think that has any legs. As for Johnson, she either let the guy in her house or left with him. Some joggers found her in the park, laid out in the grass. Body was washed beforehand just like the first one. Her wrists were cut to the bone. She was loaded with the same shit that killed Ventana and had a slicing wound near her throat where Gupta found a puncture mark. Gupta thinks that’s where the drugs were injected. He couldn’t find it on Ventana, probably because of the way her throat was cut. Same kind of hairs left on her body as Ventana.”
Puccinelli put up a photograph of a young woman lying on dirt, her chest slit open from her throat to the top of her pubic area. “Terry Symes was the last one. Like Johnson, she either met this guy somewhere or she was taken out of her house. Best guess is she left the house with this guy because her keys were still inside. Why she let this guy in we have no idea. There was no sign of forced entry.
“Same kind of cut on her throat as Johnson and in the cut Gupta found a small puncture left by a syringe. She was also washed down with bleach like the others.”
He paused to look around the room. “Again we found several hairs on her breast, which looks like his calling card. If she was sexually assaulted we can’t find any indication of it so a so motive is unclear, but her clothing was off—why, we just don’t know. There’s one more thing. These women weren’t just dumped where we found them. They were displayed—carefully laid out—so the killer wasn’t in a hurry.
“The rest of the bad news—there’s no DNA, maybe because he washed every one of the victims down with bleach. My guess is he was wearing gloves the whole time but he definitely made sure there was nothing for us to find.”
Puccinelli placed his pointer on the table. “Sheriff, every one of the men here has been working day and night on these cases along with all the other detectives who got pulled off of burglary and anywhere else we could find them. What I just told you—that’s all we know. We have three women dead, all between the ages of twenty-four and twenty-eight, and a fourth case that we think is related but we haven’t found the victim—yet. He’s obviously kept each victim in a location where he doesn’t expect to be seen or he’s keeping them in a vehicle, but we have nothing—nobody saw them leave or saw a vehicle. Nothing. All we know for sure is that somewhere toward the end of the twenty-four-hour period after they disappear, they show up dead and they’ve been dead for four or five hours. He must expect them to be found, so we can speculate that he picks the location where he leaves them because he expects activity. Based on the pattern, if he has our new victim we’ve got until tonight to find her alive.”
Puccinelli paused, leaving an opening for questions or observations from the assembled detectives. All he received were stony faces. They all understood what they were facing.
Detective Bennie Washington broke the silence. A former college running back, Detective Washington weighed every bit of 235 and even the growing roll around his middle looked hard. He had a leathery dark brown complexion with gray hair peeking through a tight buzz cut. He was a man other men deferred to in part because of his bulk but also because his voice betrayed an edge of controlled menace.
“Sheriff, all of us been working day and night on this case along with all the other detectives who got pulled from anywhere we could find ’em. We looked at the background of each of these women.” He threw his pen down on the notepad in front of him. “So far, the only thing we can come up with for certain is that each of them either opened the door for this guy, or they stopped for this guy, or he met them someplace. The obvious thing is that the two women who were at home either knew this guy or they had no reason to be afraid of him. Now that don’t make a lot of sense that they had no reason to be afraid of him unless for one thing.”
Washington looked around the room before adding what they had already whispered to one another. “Another thing, Mover, we can’t figure out why that other gal, Ventana, and now this Elizabeth Garrett, would have stopped for somebody at night unless they recognized his car or— well, if they thought he was a cop. Same with the women who opened their apartment doors.”
Sheriff Bekin closed his eyes. Washington added, “Sheriff, something about how this guy talked or how he looked made those women feel safe. We’re thinking maybe this guy is either dressed like a cop or maybe he even is a cop.”
The other sheriff’s detective at the table, Thomas “T. J.” Longworthy, wasn’t known as somebody who talked a lot. An Oklahoma boy, he wasn’t an intimidating man to look at, but whenever he worked on a case, he was known to be like a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t let go and he didn’t give up. Now he spoke up in a slow drawl. “Sheriff, this Maria Ventana, she gets described the same way by everyone who knew her. She was bright and well-liked, and cautious. Sounds just like Garrett.
“But one thing that stands out. Both Johnson and Symes lived alone. Ventana had a live-in boyfriend and Garrett still lived with her parents so it makes sense that this clown wouldn’t have gone to their homes because there might have been somebody there. That means he must have known enough about them to be aware of that, and second, he was either waiting for them to drive by or he followed them, so it just isn’t likely he picked any of them at random. The best guess is that for some reason they all had to have come across him in some way. But what it is that links each of them to him, that’s the key and that’s what we haven’t been able to figure out.”
Mover’s body slowly turned until his eyes focused on Ernie Garcia. The voluble Mexican American had developed a reputation as a careful investigator who traveled easily between the Mexican-American community and the non-Hispanic community. As usual Ernie had remained silent, listening intently before forming an opinion. “Ernie?” Mover recognized from experience that Ernie’s perceptions were always worth hearing.
Ernie slid back his chair and crossed his arms against his chest. “Well, we know that all three women were injected with the same kind of drug combination. We know that combination is on the street because it’s been seized from a number of drug dealers and a few junkies. So one question is where did the drugs come from?”
Picking up the thread, Puccinelli added, “Find the source and maybe we find the buyer?”
Ernie nodded. “Maybe there’s something specific about the drug mix. Maybe somebody’s been buying this stuff who is isn’t your usual junkie.” He scanned the men around the table, then continued. “Next, I don’t think a black man did this. The pattern doesn’t fit for me, and the African-American hair on the bodies is too obvious. The hairs were right there where we couldn’t miss them and the rest of the bodies were clean, so I agree the hair is just to screw with us.” He looked around the table. All heads were nodding.
“Third, if it’s a cop, then he could be shaking down junkies. You know, he makes a stop and takes their drugs. Maybe tells them he’s going to let them go this time but they owe him a tip or something.”
Washington put the period on Ernie’s methodical analysis. “Fucking junkies would wet their pants thinking he did them a favor even when they’d want to spit on him for taking their dope. But then, he doesn’t dump the drugs or turn them in. I don’t think a cop would be making buys around here, but I guess it’s possible, and no junkie’s going to use his drugs to kill some woman. Our guy isn’t an addict. Whoever did this maybe isn’t a bottom-feeder, but he knows where they swim. We need to find out real quiet whether a cop’s been seizing drugs without making an arrest. Some of these guys might know.”
Mover shrugged and shook his head. His voice came out in a growl. “I don’t think this is a cop but if it is . . .”
The sheriff’s voice trailed off before he took a long look at the men seated around the table. “If this asshole is a cop then we need to take him down, and I don’t care what you have to do. Just do it.” His voice raised, he co
ntinued, “Ask our people which dealers they think may be putting this shit on the street and maybe we can narrow down where the perp got it. Then we go to those dealers and tell them we just want to know if they’ve heard of anybody unusual buying this drug or if they’ve heard any rumors about somebody shaking people down for drugs. Have them ask around. Pull in all the markers on our snitches, anything we can get.”
Mover hesitated, weighing the possibilities. “We need to check the evidence locker for drugs that’ve been booked in. Make sure it’s all there. Maybe somebody’s taking this shit out of evidence bags and using it. If this is a cop . . .” He shook his body from side to side. “Fuck.” He spit the expletive out of his mouth like a gunshot.
Mover slowly inhaled before he spoke again, making a sound like a sucking vacuum. “When you squeeze the dealers, don’t be gentle. I don’t give a shit whether they admit what they do and we can’t use it. Tell them we already know what they do or we wouldn’t be talking to them in the first place. No Miranda rights, no nothing. Just get it out of them, and make them know that if we find out they knew something and they didn’t give it to us we’ll fuck them over every time they walk out their door from now until they got six feet of dirt over their faces.”
Everyone around the table remained silent. Jamison was aware that each of them knew the gravity of the situation and understood what the rules were—there were no rules.
Swiveling his chair, Mover turned back to Ernie. “Any other thoughts?”
“Well, if this guy’s a cop,” Ernie replied, “he either showed up in a uniform or flashed a badge. If he stopped the cars, then he had to have a red light or something that made them think he was a cop. But that assumes they thought he was a cop. Doesn’t have to be a cop. Maybe they all knew him and either let him in because he was familiar to them or they recognized his car?” Ernie paused, his hand absently sliding the photographs around.
“We need to check all the sheriff’s logs to see if any patrol units were in the vicinity at the time these women got snatched.”
O’Hara interrupted. “Enough with the speculation.” His voice was rough with frustration. “We’re down to hours if we want to find Garrett alive. Tomorrow we could be tripping over another body. Why don’t we go over our background check again on every one of these women, where they went to school, to church, work, gym, all of it? Maybe there’s something we missed, some crossover between them. Matt Jamison and I will work the Garrett case with Pooch.”
O’Hara was giving Jamison a rope to pull himself into the case if that’s what he wanted, but Jamison realized that if the Garrett case was blown, he could wrap that rope around his neck. At the press conference when the tough questions were asked, everybody would be looking at him.
But O’Hara was right. Jamison nodded. He was in.
The sheriff shoved his chair back, slowly raised his bulk up, and placed his hands on the table. “Pooch, you divide these cases up, get the background checks on the three dead women we got and look to see if there’s anything that may be a common factor. Hell, maybe they all had traffic tickets from the same cop. Maybe they shop at the same damn store. Whatever. Get any other detectives you need to help.”
Mover gave a forced smile that looked more like a grimace from acid indigestion. He couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. Jamison could feel the temperature drop as he realized that Mover was setting him up.
Mover raised his voice, and pushed a thick finger in Puccinelli’s direction. “I want you to handle the Garrett background personally and take O’Hara and the DA over there with you. I don’t need to tell you what’s going to happen if we don’t find that girl before midnight.”
Mover then snapped his finger in Jamison’s direction. “And you tell your boss that if this all turns to shit and that girl turns up dead, then one of you better be standing next to me at the press conference after we find that body.”
Chapter 9
As they walked slowly back to the district attorney’s office, Jamison waited for either O’Hara or Garcia to say something, but neither of them said a word. Finally he blurted out, “Was there some reason you decided that it would be a good idea for us to help do the background on Garrett? I mean, she’s the only one who may still be alive and now if something happens to her Bekin’s going to punt and say the DA’s men were on that case.”
“Boss”—Jamison rolled his eyes because of the inflection—“we figure out what happened to Garrett and we’ll have proven that we belong right next to the sheriff’s people when there’s a major investigation.”
Jamison snorted derisively. “Yeah, and if we don’t find her, then who’s going to take the fall?”
Ernie stopped walking. “Garrett—Garrett’s going to take the fall.”
That stopped Jamison and O’Hara in their tracks. He was right. Credit or blame weren’t an issue here. O’Hara simply nodded. Jamison felt his face redden. As usual, Ernie had little to say but when he did his words resonated.
Minutes later Pooch joined them and they sat in Jamison’s office, sifting through a stack of sheriff’s reports. They had been through them before, but looked again knowing sometimes your eyes missed something. Not this time; they discovered nothing new that caught anybody’s attention. O’Hara read from one of the reports that two of the victims had received traffic tickets in the last year, but they were from different cops. The others had no traffic records, so he continued, “They all went to different high schools. Symes and Ventana graduated the same year as Garrett. Johnson was a year behind them. All of them went to Tenaya State University at the same time. Maybe they met one another there?”
Jamison bit down on his pen before pulling it out of his mouth. They didn’t have time to waste on unlikely possibilities. The minutes on Elizabeth Garrett’s life could be literally ticking down. They had to pick something with real potential. He laid the pen down on his legal pad. They had to start somewhere.
As he listened to the seasoned detectives, Jamison felt some reassurance. At least his instincts were in sync with theirs. “The girlfriend. What do we know about her?” Flipping his notebook open, Pooch ruffled through several pages before stopping. “She didn’t have much to give me when I talked to her. She said they had dinner at the Packing Shed Restaurant. Apparently Garrett suddenly changed her mind about spending the night with Ewing and she was going home to get some sleep.”
Jamison was familiar with the restaurant. “Where her car was found seems out of the way if she was driving home from the Packing Shed.”
“Maybe she got lost, missed her turn after a few drinks in her,” O’Hara suggested. “Who knows? She didn’t call her parents and tell them her plans had changed and that she was coming home but it was late and maybe she didn’t want to wake them. Anyway, let’s get Ewing where we can talk to her again. Women share things with girlfriends that they don’t share with parents. Maybe she knows something that we haven’t heard. We’ll talk to her parents after we talk to her.”
They glanced discretely at their watches, the metronome cadence of the mental countdown ticking inside their heads.
Elizabeth Garrett was staring at the man sitting at the edge of the bed. The throbbing, dull headache reverberated inside her head, bouncing back and forth across her skull like a thudding tennis ball. Her throat burned from last night when she woke up to blackness and screamed. He reached for her hand as she pulled back, sitting up straighter on the bed. She could feel her entire body convulse as he leaned over her. The only sounds she heard were her rapid breathing and inside her head the sound of her own heartbeat.
Cheryl Ewing sat in the district attorney’s office. She seemed nervous to Jamison, as she looked around at the beige walls of the room used to talk to witnesses. It wasn’t set up like an interrogation room; the chairs were more comfortable and the atmosphere wasn’t designed to intimidate. Pooch had gone to the Packing Shed Restaurant in hopes of picking up some information while the other three questioned Ewing. He had called O’Hara t
o report that he was still digging but while the bartender remembered the women, nobody had seen anything unusual. He would head back as soon as he talked to one more waitress.
They tried not to do anything to make Ewing any more nervous. Before they had even started she was twisting her hands back and forth, rubbing them and looking at the floor, then the table, anywhere but directly at them. An attractive brunette with dark brown eyes, Ewing worked as a personal shopper for Macy’s. Based on conversations with Pooch, they quickly established that she had been Elizabeth Garrett’s senior year roommate. It was likely that she would know more about Elizabeth’s private life than either of her parents.
Jamison chose to watch while O’Hara led the questioning. He didn’t have a feel for Ewing yet. Besides, he wasn’t that much older than her and age often added a little more authority, especially when an older person was talking to a younger person.
O’Hara quickly moved through the preliminaries, keeping the tape recorder to the side where it would be as unobtrusive as possible. Not only did a tape recorder make people nervous, it distracted them and O’Hara had no time to waste.
“Cheryl? May I call you Cheryl?” O’Hara kept his voice low and smooth. Talking to women required special skills. O’Hara had explained to Jamison that with women you needed to be a bit more oblique in your approach than with men. Over the years he had found that with a man you could move right to the point, but with women they only got to the point when they were ready; pressing them only made it more difficult to get where you wanted to go. “Just like in marriage,” O’Hara always laughed.
“Cheryl is fine,” she replied. “So like I told Detective Puccinelli, we were going to spend the night at my place. Beth said she didn’t have to be at school at eight in the morning that day. They had, you know, like some kind of teacher meeting or training thing and she said she had a substitute. So we thought it would be okay to maybe do more than we usually would on a work night, you know? But then she said she was fighting a cold and decided to go home. That’s it. Believe me, I wish I could tell you more.” Her eyes began to fill up with tears.
Fractured Justice Page 6
