Play To Kill

by P. J. Tracy

  'I'm working another angle,' Grace replied, never taking her eyes from her screen.

  'Okay, I'll tackle that one…'

  And so it went.

  Ten minutes later Harley clapped his hands together and shouted, 'Hallelujah! I got a Bert on a liquor license for Medford. Place is named Chesterfield's.'

  'You have a number for Medford Police?' John Smith had his cell phone flipped open, and started punching in numbers as Harley rattled them off.

  Grace sighed and rolled her chair back from her desk, although she kept her eyes on the monitor. 'Wait. You need to see this first.'

  FBI Agent John Smith watched, mystified, as the others rose slowly from their stations and moved toward Grace's desk. No questions, no uncertainty. If Grace MacBride said they needed to see something, they dropped what they were doing and moved. Grace's screen was blacked out, her hand poised over the mouse. She looked up at them one by one. 'Are you ready for this? It isn't pretty.'

  Smith said, 'Go.'

  The film was remarkably steady and clear; obviously not produced by some cheap handheld. The camera panned around a thick forest of pine trees surrounding a deserted parking lot, one security light towering on a single pole, spreading a wash of blue-white glow over the night scene. Zoom to door, the darkened neon sign overhead.

  'Wait,' Harley stabbed at the screen. 'Does that say Chesterfield's? Looks like a "C," then an "H'

  'We'll check it later,' Grace said. 'Just watch.'

  A woman came out of the door, closed and locked it behind her, then walked out into the lot. She paused once to look up at the sky and smile, then walked a few more steps forward and stopped dead.

  'She saw the camera,' Annie whispered.

  And then in the next split second, almost before they had time to process what they were seeing, a shadow moved into frame from the darkness at the side and the gleam of a knife appeared at the woman's throat. They saw only a masculine arm wrapped around her shoulders, and the metal of the knife.

  'Jesus,' Roadrunner whispered.

  'Don't,' the woman said, and the camera saw her eyes, and the tears welling. 'Don't hurt me.' And then, bizarrely, 'It's my birthday.'

  'This is horrible,' Harley said quietly, and then their eyes flickered as the action on the film stuttered forward. There was a struggle, a short scream, and at the end of the fevered action, the woman was on the asphalt with her knees folded sideways, a massive choke chain around her neck, a leash attached to it. She gagged as the leash was pulled and the collar tightened, then she was dragged out of frame.

  'Dear God,' Annie whispered. 'What's he's doing…?'

  Grace held up one finger as the film wobbled and then jerked wildly. 'He's repositioning the camera for the next scene.'

  And now they saw the woman sitting in front of a small car, her knees tucked up to her chest, her arms spread in a cross, tied to the bumper. The leash was fastened to pull her head backwards, exposing her neck. The man's back came into view as he approached her, the flash of the knife swishing back and forth, threatening her, coming closer and closer while the camera watched, and the woman, God bless her, made no sound. The tears streamed down her cheeks, reflecting in the light of the security lamp overhead, but she was in the moment, watching her assailant, ready to fight, and waiting for her time.

  Annie closed her eyes.

  'Don't, Annie,' Grace said quietly. 'You'll miss who she is.'

  The woman sat curled on the pebbled surface of the parking lot, watching the knife swish back and forth, closer and closer to her neck, but by God she wasn't going to give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing her terror, and when the moment came, her cowboy-booted foot kicked out and connected between her assailant's legs, and with his squeal of pain a triumphant exhalation spilled out of her mouth.

  'God DAMN you stupid smelly BITCH!'

  And now Grace closed her eyes, because she'd already seen what came next. She'd already seen the flash of the knife at the woman's throat and the spill of blood that flooded her neck, and she didn't want to see it again. Ever.

  The screen went black, and no one said anything for a long moment. Finally, Agent Smith turned away from Grace's station and walked back toward the table by the window that had become his place. 'I'll call Medford,' was all he said. He used the landline, and when someone answered, he put it on speaker. 'This is Special Agent Smith of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'd like to speak to the officer in charge.'

  'You got him,' a gravelly voice replied. 'Chief Frost here, and - mister, I've got my hands full this morning. Can I get back to you?'

  'I don't think so, Chief Frost. I'll fill you in on the back story later; for right now, I'm advising you of a homicide committed in your district last night at a place called Chesterfield's.'

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a long moment. 'Who did you say you were?'

  'Special Agent Smith of the-'

  'I'm going to have to verify that with a callback to your office.'

  Smith winced. 'I'm not actually in my office at the moment…'

  'Uh-huh. Well, where are you now, Mr. Smith? Perhaps we could meet and have a little talk in person.'

  Smith never lost his temper. You weren't allowed to do that in the Bureau, but this yahoo was wasting precious time…

  'He thinks you're a nutcase,' Grace said.

  'Or the killer,' Annie added.

  Grace picked up the receiver on her phone. 'Chief Frost?

  This is Grace McBride of Monkeewrench in Minneapolis. We sent you a copy of our software two days ago.'

  'Oh, hey. Yeah. It was delivered yesterday. Thanks for that. But I'm a little confused here. First I'm talking to some guy claiming to be a Fed, now somehow you're on the line…'

  'He is a Fed, Chief. He's in our office and we have you on speaker. We're working with the Bureau on some homicides with a Web connection, and we just finished watching a film of a murder in the parking lot of Chesterfield's.'

  You just watched the film? You mean, like, a movie?'

  'It's on the Internet.'

  'Okay, sorry, but this is a little hard to believe…'

  Grace closed her eyes. 'The woman was tied to the front bumper of a Ford Tempo and her throat was slashed.'

  'Jesus.'

  'Listen, Chief, we'll e-mail you the details as soon as we hang up, but right now you need to get your men out there to contain the murder scene while it's still fresh, and Agent Smith wants the local FBI in on the investigation.'

  Chief Frost sighed and cleared his throat. 'I got no problem with the Feds joining in, but there's no murder. There was an attack, but the woman survived, at least so far. She's in ICU, hanging on by a thread - and I want a copy of that film right now.'

  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  The downpour had finally stopped and the sun was peeking out between the lingering shreds of storm clouds by the time Gino got his return call from Ole Olssen. They started out the conversation by continuing their recipe argument, which didn't sound like it would end anytime soon, so Magozzi took the opportunity to get up and move his body.

  He was almost to the front door of City Hall when Chelsea Thomas suddenly hurried in, carrying a laptop. She was wearing her hair down today, and there were streaks of platinum in it that he hadn't noticed yesterday when it had been coiled up in a bun. She caught sight of him and gave him a slight smile, but her eyes were troubled. 'Do you have a moment?' she asked without preamble.

  'Of course.'

  Her expression turned sheepish. 'First of all, I'm really sorry about last night…'

  'I'm not.'

  'I've never been able to hold my liquor. It's one of my many flaws.'

  'Some men might consider that an asset.'

  The smile flashed, then disappeared again. She was FBI this morning. 'Is there someplace private we could talk?'

  'Would an empty interrogation room work?'

  'Perfect.'

  Gino was still talking to Ole
Olssen as the pair passed through Homicide, and his brows shot up curiously when he saw Chelsea. 'The guy on the phone is my partner, Gino Rolseth.'

  Chelsea gave him a little wave, and Gino beamed at her, the way he always did whenever he saw a pretty face. 'He needs to be in on this.'

  Magozzi raised his brows, then pointed at Gino and jerked his thumb toward the interrogation room. Gino held up one finger and nodded. As they settled into chairs and waited for Gino, Magozzi said, 'I was actually going to call you. I assume you know that Monkeewrench found pre-posts on all five of your murders, plus our river bride and two more you don't have bodies for yet.'

  She folded her lips together and glanced at the doorway. 'Things are changing fast, but I'd like to wait for your partner so we only have to do this once.'

  Gino appeared in the doorway, approached Chelsea with his hand extended. 'Gino Rolseth. And you're FBI.'

  Chelsea stood up and shook his hand, reminding Gino that he was older than she was, and that once there was a time when standing to greet an elder was a sign of respect. 'How did you know?'

  'Gotta tell you, you don't look like a Fed, but the suit's a dead giveaway.'

  She tipped her head and gave him a deadpan look. 'I have a python miniskirt at home.'

  Gino's brows crept up a notch. 'A Fed with a python miniskirt. That kind of gives me reason to live.'

  Magozzi cleared his throat in what he hoped was a very professional manner. He felt a little like he did when Charlie the Stupid Dog forgot he was there and jumped all over Gino to lick his face. It wasn't that he had any lustful intentions toward Chelsea Thomas, except for the kind any man would have unless he was dead; it was just that men, even best friends, were in constant competition, and it always seemed like he was losing.

  Chelsea walked to the door and closed it, then started unpacking her laptop. 'I understand both of you saw the Cleveland film.'

  Gino slumped into a chair and grunted. "Yeah, and we're still wishing we hadn't.'

  She nodded. 'Agent Smith and I have agreed that you should see the rest of the films.'

  'Oh, yippee.'

  'We'd like a homicide detective's perspective on the scenes. A fresh eye. Also, Agent Smith said you'd all agreed to share information.'

  Gino raised his brows 'Whoa. We thought he was kidding. Well, now that we're all warm and fuzzy and playing nice, here's something for you to take back to Smith. One of the pre-posts Monkeewrench found involved a possible homicide up north…'

  'City of Big Water. That was the old one from January, right?'

  'Right. I don't know if anyone's had a chance to look for posted film on that, but Grace asked us to check with the locals up there, see if we could match a body.' He flipped open his notebook. 'So I just got off the phone with my guy in Duluth and he said there were no homicides in January, just accidentals - a drunk snowmobiler decapitated himself on a barbed wire fence, a skier smacked into a tree, an ice fisherman fell into the drink and froze to death. Standard stuff, he said…'

  Chelsea made a face. 'Decapitation by barbed wire is "standard stuff"?'

  'Happens all the time. I take it you didn't grow up here.'

  'Southern California.'

  'There you go. Anyhow, nothing happened on any golf course, either, which we figured would fit with the "hole in one" message in the post. But here's something interesting. On February 1st, about thirty miles north of Duluth, they found a snowshoer dead at the bottom of a cliff on the North Shore of Lake Superior.'

  Magozzi said, 'Sounds like another accident to me.'

  'That's what I thought, but then Ole told me the guy was impaled on one of those ice spikes they get up there when the wind blows into shore.'

  Magozzi grimaced. 'Poor bastard.'

  'Actually, not really, according to Ole. The guy did time twice for child molestation. A real scumbag, and I hope he suffered. Anyhow, the cop Ole talked to said it looked like somebody had taken a big donut holer to him once they pulled him off the spike. Colorful language, huh?'

  Magozzi's face went still. 'Hole in one.'

  'Exactly what I was thinking. Of course, there were never any suspects because it was ruled accidental, but given the guy's past, there could actually be a lot of suspects. They're going to beat the bushes for us and do interviews with the guy's friends, family, colleagues, parents of his victims, like that. Maybe something will pop to connect the dots.'

  Chelsea was sitting very quietly at the table, looking down at her lap as she listened to two homicide cops talk horror shop.

  'Are you okay?'

  She glanced up to see Magozzi's look of concern. 'Fine.' She flipped open her computer, then pulled up a list of the pre-posts and spun the screen to face Gino and Magozzi. 'Look at these - exactly as they appeared on the message boards.' She watched their expressions change as they read and reread the list. 'Revealing, isn't it?'

  'Hmph,' Gino grunted, squinting at the screen. 'Look at that. They all start with city of something, and they've all got typos in the same places. Like a signature, almost, which is pretty compelling support for my traveling-serial-killer theory.'

  Chelsea gave Gino a look he couldn't read, but it felt like he'd been slapped by a kitten. 'You need to see all the films now. Watch them as if you were responding to the crime scene, investigating'

  After fifteen brutal minutes watching human beings kill other human beings, Magozzi felt like somebody had taken a donut-holer to him. 'Jesus.'

  Gino put his head down and rubbed his eyes, as if to wipe away the unpleasant visuals that were flashing behind them. 'No way all those were done by the same killer.'

  Chelsea nodded like a teacher who had heard the correct answer. 'And the film I'm going to show you next clinches it.'

  Magozzi winced. 'Oh, Christ. There's a new one?'

  'There were two warning posts without a corresponding video showing up on line, remember?'

  'Yeah,' Gino said. 'Our North Shore Popsicle was one of them.'

  Chelsea flinched a little at the phrasing. Yes. The other was "City of Roses, Bert's barmaid, near deer," posted just last night, so Monkeewrench went after it full bore, thinking there might be a chance to save a potential victim. Unfortunately, they found the film on MySpace this morning'

  Gino rubbed at his eyes again, half-hoping he could blur his vision so he didn't have to see too much. 'So why does this film clinch the multiple-killer angle?'

  'For one reason: because the victim is still alive. You'll see the other reasons when you watch the film.' She pushed a key combination and angled the laptop so Gino and Magozzi had a clear view of the screen and she had a clear view of their faces.

  Reading people and the acts of people was as much of part of Chelsea's job as it was any cop's. She'd always thought it was pretty funny that her superiors thought she was a genius at it. All you had to do was pay attention. In profiling you looked at what they left behind; with suspects and witnesses you listened to what they said, and watched their faces when they weren't talking. That's all there was to it.

  She'd counseled enough agents when things went south for them to recognize the patterns you saw only in law enforcement types and military men. Those were the ones whose jobs mandated a kind of emotional lockdown that made reading their faces a real challenge, and Gino and Magozzi were better than most.

  They both had their stone faces on, which was pretty common for homicide cops looking at a scene. Most of the time they looked as dead as the victims, with no giveaway facial-muscle movement, no nervous tics or lip-pursing, none of the blinking-neon-sign clues. But their pupils still dilated or contracted, and their breathing patterns changed, and those things told you a lot.

  To the casual observer, Magozzi and Gino looked utterly emotionless, but Chelsea saw the signs of extreme tension when they watched Marian cross the parking lot; the stunned surprise when the attacker grabbed her; the frustration and the rage when they saw her tied to the bumper; and then the transparent jubilation when Marian kicked her atta
cker between the legs.

  'Oh, goddamnit to hell,' Gino groaned at the end, when the blood started to flow. 'Goddamnit, goddamnit. For a minute there I thought she was going to walk away.'

  Magozzi was shaking his head. 'I can't believe she survived that.'

  'Barely,' Chelsea said. 'She survived the attack, but the doctors aren't optimistic about her surviving the next forty- eight hours. Right now she's comatose.'

  'Are they copying you on reports?'

  'Yes. The Chief of Police out there' - she consulted a handwritten note - 'Chief Frost, is in contact with Agent Smith, and bending over backwards to cooperate. This was a pretty shocking crime for that area, so he was more than happy to have some Federal help. There was nothing of note in the first-responder report; the bar is about a half mile from the closest residence, so there was no one around to see or hear anything. We have local agents assisting with crime scene, but no reports on that yet. It could take forensics into the night to cover the parking lot and the bar. If anything significant turns up, they'll give us a call; otherwise they'll fax all the reports when they finish up, probably tomorrow.'

  Gino blew out a sigh. 'She's the first woman victim that we know of.'

  'And the guy talked,' Magozzi added. 'None of the others did that. Not to mention that he didn't hang around long enough to make sure she was dead. This one was a newbie.'

  Totally different from the others,' Gino growled. 'This bastard was into the fear angle. That's what gets him off. None of the others did that.'

  Chelsea said, 'They all kill very differently. Take Cleveland, which was fast and obviously fueled by rage; then the Austin stabbing, where the wet work was excessive and slow, suggesting prolonged pleasure; then the Seattle shooting, completely hands-off…'

  The Bureau's had these films for a while,' Gino interrupted. 'Didn't they already figure that out? I mean, I'm just a ham-and-eggs homicide cop, but it was pretty damn obvious to me.'

  'Look at it from where they started. All they had was a couple of films, then a couple more. There are hundreds of homicides in this country every day. It wasn't unreasonable to assume that certain killers would start showing their home movies on the Web just like everybody else. We didn't know they were connected until Monkeewrench found all the pre-posts written in the same format.'