Forbidden Birth

by William Rubin

  “Ya think so?”

  “How else do you explain multiple pieces of evidence on the same case walking off at once?”

  “It’d make sense. Maybe Durand had someone on the inside the whole time. That’d explain how he’s kept ahead of us for so long. What do you want to do about it?” Kennedy said with a tilt of his head as we headed south on Lexington Avenue.

  “Blumenthal, Kelly, and Spatick are keeping close tabs on me. For some reason, they want me off the Durand case. Maybe it’s political. The case’s been enough of an embarrassment after the arrest and subsequent release of Doctor Dietz, and they just want it to go away. But I can’t let this one go, Kev. Durand is a nut job. Leave him be and there’s no telling what else he’ll do.”

  “And it’s personal,” Kennedy said as he stopped abruptly.

  My eyes filled with fire and my jaw clenched like a vise. My fists and forearms were like stone columns.

  “Damn right it’s personal. Nobody tries to take out my partner and my wife without making it very personal.” I shook my head from side to side, struggling for control of my rage. My eyes locked in on Kennedy’s. Durand had unleashed too much damage to just walk away. “I need you to go to bat for me, Kev.”

  “Just say the word and I’m there.”

  “Good. I’ll need you to snoop around, see if you can find out who the mole is. Maybe do a little work on the Durand case or some other odds and ends. Basically, I’ll need you to cover for me in a lot of ways and at a moment’s notice,” I continued.

  “No problem. I’ve been doing that for the last twenty plus years, right bud?”

  I smiled again. Kennedy as always, had my back. An army couldn’t cover me as well as he always did.

  Chapter 84

  I laughed heartily as I watched a young Maid Marian and her dashing hero in green tights, Robin Hood. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Michelle,” I said with repeated clicks of the camera. James flopped about, his unsteadiness undermining and then toppling his sister. I cackled as Michelle tried in vain, and amid her own laughter, to resurrect the shot. Energy and merriment, long since absent, danced again in Michelle’s eyes. She was, for a few moments, pre-attack Michelle. Carefree. Mischievous. Childlike.

  Then my cell phone rang.

  The warm glow drained from Michelle’s face, her eyes pleading with me to ignore it. I looked down at the phone’s lighted display and knew that would not be possible.

  “What’s up, RJ? It’s not a good time for me. I’m caring for my wife, you know the woman nearly killed by Durand in the case you guys dropped cold months ago.”

  Michelle looked with disapproval at me as she gathered up the children. I rose and retreated a few feet, my back turned towards them.

  King unloaded on me. “Cut the crybaby routine, boy, and get your ass out here to LA—you might learn something. Bonnie will call you with the flight information, Yankee.” Silence. RJ had hung up on me. I pulled back and stared at the phone a few seconds before hitting redial and getting King’s voicemail. The message was clear: shut up and get out to LA, no questions asked.

  I shook my head and shuffled over to Michelle. I felt terrible and small, like a boy about to tell his mom he had broken her favorite vase while playing ball in the house. Downcast, I made eye contact with Michelle for an instant before the words tumbled out. “That was RJ. I’ve got to go to LA on a case.” I sighed and continued with resignation, “I’m so sorry, honey. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  With downcast eyes of her own, Michelle spoke in a whisper. “I understand, Chris. The kids and I will be okay. Do what you have to; I’m not going anywhere.”

  Chapter 85

  I leaned forward, staring into the hollowed out corpse. The woman’s chest cavity was a gaping hole with congealed blood pooled where her vital organs should have been. It reminded me of April Cassidy’s autopsy. The victim’s heart, lungs, and the blood vessels that fed them were all gone. The rest of her was untouched. She was pretty. Her short, straight, strawberry-blonde hair cropped an angelic face that was at peace with itself despite the blood splattered across it. She wore a dark red Halston dress, almost crimson, that flowed to just above her knees.

  With some effort I studied the blood that was splayed across the dress. The splatter died off as it approached her bare skin. Beige panty hose and plain black shoes completed her elegant outfit. She wore little makeup, a thin gold necklace, and pearl earrings. There were no rings of any kind on her fingers, which like the rest of her, enjoyed an even, deep-brown tan.

  Shards of bone, chunks of large vessels—most likely her pulmonary artery and vein and her thoracic aorta—and clumps of blood were strewn about her upper body. She lay on the Los Angeles County Medical Examiner's stainless steel autopsy table. A bloodied dinner napkin and dishwashing towel lay off to the side of her head.

  RJ filled me in on the details: the body was found at the intersection of West 6th and South Flower Streets at 7:14 a.m. Fingerprints of blood had been scattered about the victim in an arc extending from her right chest, over her head, and down towards her left hip. The LAPD had the area cordoned off for the first few hours, long enough for the CSU to have gone over the crime scene and the coroner to have determined that death occurred between 2:00 and 4:00 a.m. that morning. Then the body was carefully moved to the morgue for processing.

  I rose up to my full height, eyes still fixated on the body. “Quite a mess, huh RJ? There’s physical evidence all over the body and at the crime scene.” I looked towards the Special Agent. “Even the FBI should be able to solve this one in no time at all, given the evidence.” I shook my head. “But aside from the gaping hole in the chest cavity, the pattern of mutilation and sloppiness don’t at all fit with Durand. What are we doing here? This should be the LAPD’s case.”

  “You’d thinks so, but of course with Durand, nothing’s that easy. There are no matches on DNA or prints in any criminal databases in this country—and none of it matches samples from Durand’s lab. To add insult to injury, we can’t even ID the victim.”

  “So what makes you think it is Durand?”

  This does, Yankee. ” King handed me a note in a plastic evidence bag. As I read it, my innards went into a free fall.

  This changed everything.

  §

  My eyes darted over the note again, looking for clues regarding its authenticity. “Is it real?”

  “As far as we can tell, even though we can’t find any of Durand’s prints on it.”

  I turned the evidence bag over in my hands. The message was written in calligraphy on high-grade paper, giving it the look and feel of an invitation to a black tie affair, perhaps a wedding. It was addressed to me.

  A pity I’ve missed you again, Detective Ravello. Or perhaps it’s you who’ve missed me. Either way, I’m sure we’ll be getting re-acquainted very soon…. Sorry about the mess—I didn’t have the time or inclination to clean up.

  Hugs and kisses to Michelle…she’s such a sweet, sweet girl.

  Yours Truly,

  Jean Louis Durand

  aka The Giver

  “I don’t know what to make of this, RJ. Durand is taking credit for the murder, there are prints everywhere, but none of them are his?!”

  “That’s about the size of it. Can’t figure what the hell he’s up to,” King said with a scratch and shake of his head.

  I studied the note then peered over the body again, trying to piece it all together. Something was missing. But what was it? Was evidence removed or tampered with? Perhaps it was something more fundamental than evidence? Despite working six months on the case, maybe I just wasn’t getting it.

  “She doesn’t seem pregnant and her abdomen is untouched,” I said as I leaned over the victim again. “We know this is about cloning and stem cell research, but what’s his end game? And why has the pattern changed?”

  “Ya got me, Yank. Twenty years with the Feds and I’ve never seen a case like this before. Just doesn’t seem to add up.
Maybe what we need is here, maybe it’s not.”

  “We’re missing something, RJ…I just don’t know what it is.”

  Chapter 86

  After twenty fruitless minutes at the crime scene King and I were both quite agitated and annoyed as we rode towards FBI headquarters in his Durango. What the hell was going on? Why couldn’t either of us piece any of this together?! Was I too emotionally invested in the case or just too stupid to figure out what Durand was up to?

  “So, RJ, how’d the LAPD know to contact you so early on in the case? That crime scene was still fresh when you got the call and the Durand case has been quiet for months now.”

  “Well, truth be told, I’ve been sniffing around here the past few weeks.”

  “Why? All the murders up till now have been in New York.”

  “Well, that ain’t exactly true, boy. I got word of two other Jane Doe murders in LA recently. Both involved strange patterns of mutilation. There was no note like this here case, but something about them smelled of Durand.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t put it into words. Just a gut feeling that bastard was involved. So here I am.”

  “I thought the FBI had left the Durand case for dead? Too much of a political hot potato and too few leads.…”

  “Officially, that’s true.” King leaned over towards me. He spoke in just above a whisper, a rare thing for RJ King. “Between you and I—and I’ll deny this from here to the Blue Mountains of Tennessee—something’s not right about this case. The boys in Washington shouldn’t have been so anxious to drop this one, so I’m not.”

  I leaned back and tipped my head to RJ, acknowledging my respect for the risks he was taking in pressing on. “So what have ya got on the other two cases?”

  “Same kind of victim profile as this here one; unattached, single white females. Not pregnant. No friends or family, at least none interested enough to step forward and identify them. He’s adjusted his strategy.” King shook his head in frustration as he scowled. “Damn strange for a serial killer. They’re always drawn to a type and that’s all there is to it. They go to town on them and ignore the rest. This one, he seems to be…picking and choosing. Whatever suits him at the time.”

  “Or fulfills his needs. Durand has been utilitarian right from the start. He’s tried to make the murders seem like something else, but they’ve all been part of his greater plan. The murders are a means, not an end unto themselves.”

  “Okay. So what do we do now, Yankee?”

  “Let’s step on it and take a close look at the evidence on these last three Jane Does.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” King said as he stomped on the gas pedal, throwing us both back in our seats.

  §

  We lumbered along West 6th Street before taking a hard right onto South Bixel. We blew past the huge complex that is Good Samaritan Hospital and the low-rise buildings that dominate this part of the city. Moments later we screeched to a halt inside the monstrosity that is the City of Los Angeles’ FBI headquarters. It was 8:30 p.m. and pitch dark already, a testament to daytime’s losing battle with the night as we headed deeper into autumn.

  We took the stairs two at a time as we headed up to the 3rd floor. Out of breath, we scrambled over to the desk King commandeered for himself three weeks ago. Two other agents, neither of whom I recognized, nodded to us as we settled in.

  We spent forty-five minutes combing through and discussing his reports, more than enough time for the other agents to wrap up their business and silently head out the door.

  We found little of interest.

  As RJ promised, there were obvious similarities to the current Jane Doe case: sloppy crime scenes, lots of prints with no matches in any of our databases. The first Jane Doe had been skinned. Large strips of flesh were excised from her body. The second victim’s body was untouched, aside from her complete, precise decapitation.

  “There’s nothing here to go on. Can you get me into the evidence room?”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods, boy?”

  I nodded acknowledgment, laughing at RJ’s lack of pretense. “Let’s go, then.” We rode the noisy, musty elevator down to the basement.

  RJ fiddled with the evidence room lock and then disappeared for a few minutes with his FBI issue torch. King emerged with two bags of evidence, one per case. I helped him with the load as we made our way back to the creaky elevator and up to a conference room on the third floor. We gloved up and sorted through it all, most of it clothes and the victims’ jewelry. Nothing leaped out at me, though I did experience a growing sense of déjà vu. I tried to dismiss the feeling as a case of hope meets desperation but I could not shake it.

  Something in these bags called out to me. What was it? There was no note from Durand, no memento that pointed to him. All we had were the clothes and jewelry the women had on when they died. A nondescript black halter-top, a red full-length skirt from Ann Taylor, a pair of jeans and a blouse, and some undergarments. All of it was unremarkable. I had seen Michelle wear these very same outfits and ones like them every day since we had been dating. What was I missing? “What were the vitals on these two vics, RJ?”

  Puzzled, he thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, they were pretty similar. Numero uno was five foot six inches, a well-built hundred and twenty ponds. Victim two, if we assume a normal size and weighted head,” he said with an irreverent laugh, “she would have been five foot seven and a hundred twenty-five. Why?”

  “The last victim was about the same build too,” I said as I turned over a pink blouse in my hands. Something obvious was eluding me.

  “What of it? He likes them tall and in good shape. So do I. You too for that matter, Chris. Michelle’s about five foot seven, no?” King said nonchalantly. “There’s plenty of women out there who fit this description.”

  “She’s also about one twenty-five and has worn clothes just like this—recently,” I said with increasing concern as I searched for the labels on the clothes. The hairs on the back of my next stood up. SHIT! That confirmed it!

  “Who are you talking—”

  “Damn it, it’s her. It’s Michelle!” I thrust the label of the black halter towards RJ. “See, a tiny ‘MR’ in black marker. One of Michelle’s silly little habits. If you strain, you can just see it. See. She puts her initials on all her clothes. Says she dresses so much like every other woman, she needs a way to find her stuff if it’s ever misplaced at the cleaners.”

  “Holy shit! That mother fucker.”

  My face turned ashen. “What’d the note say? Something about getting re-acquainted soon, and hugs and kisses to Michelle, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s about what it said.”

  Frantic, I dialed the house phone, then her cell. No answer at either. It was after midnight back home. Michelle might be stunned by a late night call and probably would be sleeping. Either way she’d answer it, if she was around. I redialed both numbers. One. Two. Three times. They always kicked over to voice mail.

  Looking white as a ghost, I turned to RJ. “He’s got her. Durand has Michelle, maybe the kids too! I need to get back there. Let’s go!”

  §

  I shot out of King’s Durango at LAX and bolted through the door towards the American Airlines counter. A few minutes later I blew through security, flashing my NYPD and FBI credentials, which King had provided for me earlier. Then I sprinted to the gate, which seemed miles away. The airport was not crowded. I was one of the few lunatics looking for the red-eye back to New York. I hoped I’d make it. The TSA processed me in about a minute, but wouldn’t go so far as holding my flight, and I had no time to argue. It was scheduled to depart in a few minutes.

  “FBI! Hold that plane!” I yelled while running the last twenty feet to the gate, waving my FBI ID. A stunned American Airlines representative stared at me, sizing up the situation while the gate door thudded shut.

  “I’m sorry, Flight 846 has finished boarding,” the worker said with remorse.

  “
This is official FBI business,” I panted, trying to catch my breath, more due to being nervous than the short run I had just taken.

  “Are there terrorists on board?” the woman said with alarm as she picked the phone off the wall and eyed me with skepticism.

  “I’m not at liberty to say. I need to be on that flight. I’m in pursuit of a serial killer.”

  She looked puzzled, unsure what to do.

  “Look, I know this is all very bizarre and outside your normal training, but look at my credentials. And please hold that flight at the gate so I can board.”

  The representative looked over my identification, as did the supervisor she called over. They spent the next hour and a half—time I did not have to waste—verifying my credentials and story and holding the flight.

  At 11:33 p.m. Pacific Time I boarded the flight amid angry glares from passengers trapped on the runway for almost two hours. I slipped into my seat and ignored the stewardess’ drone about oxygen masks and inflatable vests.

  My family had our own emergency to deal with.

  §

  I brought the Firebird to a screeching halt in the driveway next to Michelle’s minivan and shot across our small porch. I fumbled with the keys for what seemed like an eternity before barging through the door and into the foyer. As I scanned the stairs ahead of me and the living room and dining room to my right and left, I noted everything was in order.

  As I powered up the stairs, my ears were on alert for any sounds or movement in the house. There were none. I glanced at my watch: 9:06 a.m. Everyone might still be sleeping on a Sunday morning. I turned right at the top of the staircase and was in the kids’ room, Christine’s first, then James’.