J.T. Ellison

by The Cold Room (v5) (epub)

  Baldwin nodded in agreement, then started his portion of the program. The profile was as complete as he could make it, and made for a chilling narrative. He was pleased with the results.

  There were five sections to the profile. Charlaine had typed them up into proper presentation format, with a front page full of information and disclaimers. The first few pages of the profile were the summary, a breakdown of all fourteen cases on record, details of what was found at the individual crime scenes and evidentiary material relevant to the cases. Namely, the two matching DNA samples from the recovered hairs.

  The next section dealt with the victimology. They had looked carefully at the apparent patterns—all of the European victims were white females, all were fine-boned and small in stature, between eighteen and twenty-six years of age. Their hair color ranged from dark blond to medium brown, their eye colors varied. He wasn’t killing the same woman over and over, but he definitely had a type. All thirteen victims had been posed as a painting, all had a postcard of the painting they’d been used to recreate left at the scene.

  Memphis’s point was something that particularly fascinated Baldwin—II Macellaio had fully realized the fantasy of the painting in the Love Hill crime scene, placing the victim not only in a staged environment, but with the painting itself nearby. He was evolving, setting the most elaborate of tableaux. It was more than just the kill, more than having sex with the bodies. He was staging differently, opening the door to more mistakes.

  He turned it over to Charlaine, let her explain the differences, the exceptions that stood out starkly. In Italy, the early victims had starved, while the later victims had been strangled. All of the London victims had been strangled. The time frame in Italy was practically leisurely compared to London: ten women over ten years versus three women in three months. The victim type had changed as well. The Italian women were students—shy, mousy girls who didn’t have a lot of friends and wouldn’t be quickly missed. In London, as in Nashville, the victims were prostitutes, an inherently high-risk profession where they, too, might not be reported missing immediately.

  The dump sites for the London victims were especially notable—all were found in public, rather than the Italian victims, who’d been left in the hills surrounding Florence à la II Mostro, Florence’s most infamous serial killer. The London women had been found much quicker than the Italians. The Nashville victims had been left in places they would be found that would increase the shock factor, yet another discrepancy.

  Honestly, if they didn’t have a DNA match, he’d think this was a copycat.

  That started him down a whole different path. Yes, the Pretender had called, had let them know right from the beginning that he had nothing to do with the crime on Love Circle. But what if he was lying? He had to keep that in the back of his mind.

  The Pretender could have planted the DNA in London. And if all the DNA in Tennessee matched, too…well, they knew he’d been there.

  Though this didn’t feel like the Pretender. All the murders he’d copied so far had one thing in common. Blood. He liked blood. None of these murders had any. No, this just didn’t feel like him.

  He forced himself back to the profile, back to what Charlaine was saying about the London murders. The profile stated Il Macellaio wasn’t living in his own place in London—he had taken a temporary apartment or was staying in a hotel. Visiting. Which meant the profile must be disseminated to other countries so they could look at unsolved murders that may match. It wasn’t so strange for a serial killer to be transient, but it was uncommon for him to be moving from country to country. If their killer was a traveler, he’d be in the system, somewhere.

  They still needed to ascertain what took Il Macellaio from Italy to England and to the United States. Contract work fit that scenario.

  The second set of criteria, the Abduction Environment, showed that all the London victims had been taken off the street, while the Italians were kidnapped from environments where they’d feel safe, namely their homes. The London victims’ profession again stood out—being prostitutes, they’d be more likely to get in the car with a strange man.

  The third part of the profile determined whether the killer was organized or disorganized, an easy one for Baldwin’s team. Il Macellaio was clearly an organized offender who brought his preferred weapon to the crime, planned every detail, hunted outside his immediate neighborhood, and was most likely a friendly, affable, pleasant man who had friends. The boy next door. Someone people would be shocked to find out was a killer. He could move among the masses easily.

  The assessment was the meat of the profile. It covered more victim evaluations, whether the women were targeted or were representative victims. Baldwin felt that Il Macellaio was combining the two elements: targeting women who helped him live out a detailed fantasy, specifically, having sex with their dead bodies. He was certain Il Macellaio had been exposed to death during his youth.

  The last section covered specific suggestions, who to look for, what type of behavior, the level of sophistication to expect, what the motivations were, everything that a law enforcement agency would need to capture, interrogate and try this particular killer.

  In the end, they had an exceptionally clear picture of their killer. Evidence, instinct, and years of investigative experience told them what kind of man they were looking for.

  They were ready to hunt the hunter.

  Thirty-Two

  Taylor and McKenzie were coordinating their plan of attack. Finding Kendra Kelley was paramount. Taylor had that awful feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her II Macellaio was involved in the disappearance. She’d dealt with enough serial cases, knew when a killer was gearing up. She just prayed they could find Kendra in time.

  Baldwin had faxed down a copy of the profile so she had all the tools she could have at her disposal. He would be back in a few hours, and that would help. He was fantastic in these situations, steady, levelheaded, always on target with his assessments.

  She felt like she should be strapping on a cannon, get loaded for bear, but she settled for a few extra magazines. McKenzie had his service weapon and was carrying a department-issue Remington 870 shotgun. Absolutely nothing could strike fear in the heart of a suspect as well as the sound of a pump action shotgun jacking a shell—that deep steel ca-CHUNG snap as distinctive and scary as the growl of a rabid wolf. It was an effective tool, one she hoped they wouldn’t have to use.

  Thanks to McKenzie, they had a confirmation on the name. A name that appeared on both the guest list for Hugh Bangor’s party and on the copyright page of the Picasso catalogue raisonnés. A name that matched the DMV listing of registered white Priuses.

  Gavin Adler was their suspect. Taylor had absolutely no doubt that he was II Macellaio.

  And she had knocked on his goddamned door last night.

  She’d assembled a coterie of officers to help them in the search. She gave directions, assignments, feeling strangely back in control.

  She was upset with herself. She should have pushed harder. Something about the place on Highway 100 had given her the creeps last night. It was quiet, and rural and didn’t have any close neighbors. It was a perfect setting for someone who needed to take his time. If Kendra was there, and she was dead, Taylor was going to have a very hard time forgiving herself.

  Of course, now she cursed herself for her nocturnal foray. She’d probably scared the bastard off.

  It was time. Everyone had their assignments, the BOLO, be on the lookout, had gone out on the Prius in case he was running. Taylor called Julia Page, laid out the particulars for the warrant. Julia agreed to shepherd it if she could come out to the scene with them. Taylor reminded her to be quiet about it. They were trying to fly below the radar, keep the media out of play until they knew for sure if Adler had killed another.

  Poor Rowena was sitting woodenly at her desk, fingers moving through files, eyes unseeing. How she managed to sit with her back straight was unfathomable to Taylor. The woman had the
strength of ten men. She was a cop. She knew the case. She knew the odds. Yet she still was participating, as best she could.

  Taylor put an arm around her as they trooped out. “I’ll find her, Rowena. I promise.”

  “Thank you, Miss Taylor. If anyone can, it will be you.”

  Taylor just nodded, then gathered McKenzie. They took a Caprice, drove through downtown quickly. It had only been thirty minutes since Rowena came into the office.

  The sky was the deepest blue, humidity so low that it felt like fall. A perfect day.

  As she drove, McKenzie read the full profile of their killer out loud.

  “According to this Il Macellaio is a biracial male, between thirty and thirty-five, and was adopted or was a foster child. He’s a loner, but has friends who think he’s solid and dependable. He works in the arts, quite possibly as a painter or as a photographer. His job is international in scope, allowing him to travel without raising suspicion. He has his own homes in Nashville and Florence, but rents in London.”

  “That partially matches Adler. We know he was connected to Bangor through the monograph. There may be more, he could be a local artist or a patron.”

  Taylor’s cell rang. Dispatch. Oh, no. She answered warily, hoping that she wasn’t about to get bad news.

  “Detective, I’ve got Officer Barry Armstrong on the line, from West Precinct. He needs to speak with you urgently.”

  “Put him through, Dispatch.”

  Armstrong greeted her, then said, “Listen, I don’t want to beat around the bush. Heard you’re looking for a white Prius. I pulled over a guy this morning out in Bellevue, fits the description of who you’re looking for. I’ve got his particulars, you want them?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Name is Gavin Adler. Lives off Highway 100. Squirrelly guy, really nervous. Jumpy. He wasn’t wearing his safety belt, I cited him, and he seemed, I don’t know, so relieved that it made me suspicious.”

  “Barry, that’s the name of our suspect. We’re on our way there right now. Are you on? You could meet us there.”

  “I’m on. Let me give my shift commander the heads-up. I can be there in five.”

  “Okay. Meet us at the base of the drive.”

  “You know it?”

  “Yes, I was out there last night. Damn it.” She hung up the phone. “Get in touch with Julia Page, see if the warrant is ready. We’ll make an exigent-circumstance entry if we have to, because I doubt Julia will get there fast enough. I’d like this to be aboveboard. Thank God for Judge Bottelli.”

  “She’s a hard one,” McKenzie said, fingering the radio mike.

  “But she’s fair. We have a shot with her. Go, go, call.”

  Taylor gripped the steering wheel hard, put her foot on the gas.

  The house looked less sinister in the daylight. A well-tended but minimalist garden in front, grass that was due for its weekly cut, a small, trickling fountain. Anyone could live here, anything. Was there a monster behind the walls?

  Taylor had her vest on, was checking magazines and her Taser. All seemed to be in order. McKenzie stood next to her, shotgun at the ready, nostrils pinched. Officer Barry Armstrong was five feet away. There were three others there—Julia Page had shown up with the ink barely dry on the papers. Bottelli had agreed to a no-knock warrant on the basis of the evidence from the Bangor house, the name on the guest list, the missing pages from the Picasso monographs, and Armstrong’s assertion that the man he pulled over this morning perfectly matched the physical description in the profile. Top that with the fact that a kid was involved, and they were good to go. They’d made entry with much less.

  Tim Davis was ready with the video camera to document everything, Keri McGee was on her way to help him collect any evidence they might find.

  Paula Simari was standing by with Max, ready in case the suspect bolted. Max could chase him down quicker and more effectively than any of the officers on the scene.

  Taylor missed having Lincoln and Marcus along, but this crew would have to do.

  They’d all get their asses handed to them if they were wrong, but Taylor felt it was solid. She could sense this was the right place. She could just feel it. Evil, hidden behind a pretty garden and a sweet little fountain.

  They were set. Armstrong took the back, Taylor and McKenzie the front.

  “You gonna knock?” McKenzie asked quietly.

  “Nope. I’m not exactly in the mood to get shot. No knocking. Fast and hard.” They counted off thirty seconds to let Barry get into place, then Taylor raised her right boot and slammed it into the door. She felt the reverberation in her hip, but the lock cracked under the pressure. It swung open, smashing back against the wall behind it, and they were in, McKenzie expertly drawing off to the right as she went left. The kid knew how to make an entry, she’d give him that.

  The house was empty, she could feel that immediately. And it looked like whoever lived there left in a rush. The bedroom upstairs had clothes scattered around, drawers hanging open, the closet door ajar. A toothbrush was missing from the bathroom.

  They cleared the rooms on the first floor. The living room had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed full of classical CDs. Around the corner, in the hallway, Taylor noticed the shiny new Master padlock on what must be the door to the basement. A gorgeous gray cat sat quietly at the door, watching them with sad yellow eyes.

  McKenzie came in from the kitchen. “I cleared the garage. Car’s gone,” he said.

  Armstrong joined them, looked at the lock on the basement door. “I’ve got bolt cutters in my trunk.”

  He went out the smashed front door, gave Taylor an appreciative glance. She just raised an eyebrow. Sweat was trickling down the small of her back. She needed in that basement.

  The cat was staring at her. She bent down, scratched it on the ears, and it started purring and turning in circles. A boy, she saw, and lonely. She wondered how long he’d been here alone. Maybe she hadn’t chased the guy off.

  “McKenzie, check and see if the cat has food.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  She just looked at him. He nodded then went into the kitchen. He was back in a moment.

  “There are three big full bowls of dry, and a massive bowl of water. Enough to last him at least a week, I’d say.”

  Damn, and damn again. They’d missed him.

  Taylor sighed. “So do you think Mr. Adler took a trip, or did he abandon his pet?”

  “I don’t know. But come here, Taylor. Look at this.”

  McKenzie walked down the hallway and pointed into the living room. Taylor joined him. On the wall facing them was a poster from the Museum of Modern Art. Desmoiselles D’Avignon.

  “Okay, that’s just creepy. There’s our link to Bangor. I bet Adler’s on the guest list for the party.”

  Armstrong came back in. “Let’s see what he keeps locked in the basement.”

  They went back to the basement door. “Careful,” Taylor said. “Glove up. We don’t want to lose any possible prints off that sucker.”

  “I know,” he said. He slipped on his gloves, muscled the bolt cutters onto the hasp of the lock, then snapped it in two. It fell with a clatter. McKenzie retrieved it and handed it to Tim, who put it in an evidence bag.

  She led the way. The stairs led straight into darkness, no landing, just a deep blackness at the bottom. There was a light switch on her left, she flipped the lights on. They were low wattage, so now the room glowed softly. She was reminded of her last trip into a basement, one that seemed innocuous but led to an amateur pornography studio. She could do without that again.

  She took the last step, stuck her head around the corner looking for surprises, but saw no one.

  She stepped fully into the gloom and saw the clear plastic box. A Plexiglas coffin. There was a woman lying inside it.

  Kendra Kelley. And she wasn’t moving.

  There were two locks on the coffin, one at each end, holding the lid in place. A divider ran the length, cutting
the coffin into two halves, each just big enough for a petite woman. Kendra was in the right slot. Taylor could see the bottom slab was open, with holes. The pattern on the bodies of Allegra Johnson and Leslie Horne came immediately to mind. The polka dots. They were, without a doubt, in the right place.

  “Jesus, get me some more light. Armstrong, bring the bolt cutters.”

  “Is she alive?” McKenzie asked, his voice a strangled whisper.

  “I don’t know.”

  She could hear Armstrong running back up the stairs. She took in the rest of the room—it was segmented. There was a computer on the desk, open, but the screen was blank. A potbellied stove in the far corner, a small table with two chairs, an empty bottle of wine and melted candles. A mussed mattress with pillows in front of the stove—oh, she didn’t even want to think about that. Not yet.

  Armstrong was back, snapping off the locks. They opened the lid. The girl looked gray; her eyes hadn’t opened. Taylor felt her carotid for a pulse, not expecting to feel anything. But there was a tiny flutter, like a bird’s heart.

  “She’s still alive! Call rescue, now.” Taylor bent over the girl, leaning in the coffin, checked her breathing. Faint, the rise and fall of her breasts barely discernible in the gentle light. She reconsidered.

  “Armstrong, I don’t know if we can wait for an ambulance. It will take them twenty minutes to get out here. Can you transport her?”

  “Sure. Baptist?”

  “Lights and sirens. She doesn’t have much left in her, you need to hurry.”

  As Armstrong and Taylor lifted Kendra out of the coffin, her eyes fluttered open. They were full of panic, like a horse shying away from a snake, the pupils dilated.

  Taylor murmured to her, trying to calm her. “It’s okay, Kendra. We’ve got you. We’re Metro Police. He’s gone. You’re safe now. You’re going to be just fine.”