by L E Fraser
He stood and knocked over the chair, which he kicked. Sam watched in amazement as he flapped his arms at his side. His whole body was twitching, his eyes roamed without settling, and the loud verbal outburst along with the physical quirks… Something tugged at her memory. It was a condition taught in her undergraduate program, before she’d settled on a speciality in abnormal psychology.
“Eli, sit down,” she said calmly.
He slapped himself in the forehead and walked in a tight circle. There was something peculiar about his gait. He stopped pacing, closed his eyes, and mumbled complicated mathematical equations under his breath.
Her eyes strayed to the elastic around his wrist. The skin beneath the bracelet was crimson from the repetitive snapping. The diagnosis hit her.
“What’s going on?” Reece stood in the doorway. His eyes darted between her and Eli.
Sam ignored him. “I’m sorry, Eli. I didn’t mean to be aggressive.” She snagged a twenty-dollar bill from her pocket and put it on the desk. “Take a minute. Go downstairs and get some cannoli. Introduce yourself to Maria.”
In an instant, the anger drained from Eli’s face. He licked his lips. “A minute would be good.” He focused on his shuffling feet. “Want something?” he muttered.
“Coffee. Maria knows how I take it.”
After Eli went downstairs, Reece stared at her. Dark puffy bags underneath his bloodshot eyes attested to the fact he hadn’t slept.
He put his fists on his waist. “What was that about?”
“I asked Eli some questions about his childhood. He got angry. I think Eli has a form of Asperger syndrome.”
“It’s mild,” Reece stated. “He has coping mechanisms when he becomes overwhelmed and anxious.”
“Snapping the elastic on his wrist transfers emotional overload to physical stimulation,” she said. “Counting redirects brain activity.”
“We conducted due diligence and hired the kid.” He laughed in a mean way. “How does an employee’s childhood have anything to do with the way he does his job?”
Put that way, it was nosy and inappropriate. “It bothered me that Wayne couldn’t place the last name. When I couldn’t confirm a birth record or any credit history, I wanted to figure out why.”
“The framework he designed for the database is amazing. He did it last night on his own time. It would have taken most IT specialists days to develop it. Everyone has challenges, Sam, and he told me that he deals well unless he’s in a confrontational situation he can’t understand.” Reece’s expression was one of disgust. “So you attacked him on his first day. And who are you to judge someone who has trouble connecting socially? Has your popularity risen unbeknownst to me?”
Shock prevented her from saying anything. Reece lost his temper occasionally but he was never cruel. She swallowed hard. “That’s unfair and nasty. If you’d bothered to tell me, I would have approached him differently.”
“You shouldn’t be approaching him about personal matters that aren’t any of our business,” Reece insisted.
“Come on! You’re being ridiculous. I asked him a question as his employer.”
From behind them, Eli cleared his throat. “I will collect my belongings and leave. I am sorry.”
Sam looked over her shoulder. There was icing sugar on his lips and he was holding a half-eaten cannoli in one hand, a takeout coffee in his other, and he had The Globe and Mail tucked under his arm.
She had the overwhelming urge to laugh, which was ill advised. “I was born tactless,” she said honestly. “We’ll work on our communication style. Now, get to work. Those files aren’t going to jump into your spiffy database by themselves.”
He grinned and handed her the takeout coffee and the newspaper.
She dropped the newspaper on the desk. “Can we talk?” she asked Reece.
He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, nodded, and followed her into the corridor.
“What’s going on with you?” she asked. “Where were you last night, and why did you leave this morning without saying anything? If you’re pissed off, tell me why.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have attacked you like that. When Eli told me that he struggles with change, and why, the first thing I thought was how lucky he was to be working with you.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist. “But something is wrong. I’m worried. Can we talk about it tonight?”
“We’re good, I promise.” His eyes told a different story.
When they re-entered the office, Eli glanced up from the open newspaper spread across the desk.
“Police found a second frozen victim,” he said. “It’s a serial killer.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sam
OVER THE NEXT three days, the discovery of the second frozen statue filled the front page of every newspaper. The media didn’t disclose the victim’s name, but did confirm that he was another freshman at the University of Toronto. The killer had frozen the young man’s naked body in a pose and left him at a remote stretch of beach on the banks of Lake Ontario. His eyes were gone, replaced with black stones. The crime scene was identical to the first victim. Sam agreed with Eli—Toronto was dealing with another serial killer. Reece disagreed, arguing that two victims were not enough to jump to conclusions.
Reece was acting strange. He was secretive and argumentative. Yesterday, he’d snuck out of the loft again without telling her where he was going. He’d ignored all her text messages and hadn’t come home until late. This morning, she’d overheard him on the phone, arranging to meet with the staff inspector of homicide. A hard knot of fear had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach. She understood that Reece was worried about Bart Walsh, but that didn’t excuse unilateral decisions. They were business partners with a professional obligation to disclose all aspects of an ongoing investigation. Based on Reece’s reaction when she’d insisted on accompanying him, he hadn’t intended to tell her about the meeting at all.
There was no reason to involve police. Bart wasn’t missing. He was an irresponsible young man in love. The last location of Bart’s cell was northeast of Toronto, where it had pinged off a tower ten days ago. Dead zones and spotty service weren’t unusual in smaller communities during inclement weather. And his roommate had said Bart and Angel had left Toronto for a romantic winter getaway. Evidence supported the assumption that Bart was avoiding his family because they hadn’t accepted Angel. Sam had told Reece they needed to gather some information about her. Interviewing her friends and family might provide a clue as to their whereabouts. But Reece had insisted they involve police and stubbornly refused to discuss his rationale.
Reece maintained a brisk pace as they walked across downtown Toronto in sub-zero temperatures. She’d asked him twice to slow down. He either hadn’t heard or had chosen to ignore her. Over the past week, ignoring her was his new modus operandi, along with his grumpy demeanour and argumentative attitude.
She was miserable and cold. If they’d taken public transportation, a streetcar would have dropped them right outside the front door of the Metropolitan Toronto Police Headquarters where they were meeting Bryce Mansfield. Trapping Reece in a streetcar would have provided an excellent opportunity for her to engage in a candid discussion about the impact his negative disposition was having on her state of mind.
But as usual, Reece had insisted on driving, which wasn’t an indication he was avoiding a chat—he drove everywhere. But his claim that he needed to concentrate on circumventing distracted drivers was bullshit. Reece was an ex-cop and an excellent city driver. He could easily manage to drive and talk at the same time. Then he’d parked six blocks from their destination, announcing that it was as close as they could get without paying at an expensive lot. They were not poverty-stricken and there were several warm parking garages near police headquarters. Reece knew how much she hated cold weather and he was being inconsiderate.
The bright sun reflected off th
e twinkling snowbanks along the sides of the icy city sidewalk as they trudged along. She’d forgotten her sunglasses and was blinking and squinting as she jogged behind Reece. Her toes were numb and her ears burned from the frigid cold. Crossing Bay Street required agility to avoid drivers who were struggling to turn right on the red. By the time she got to the other side of the street, she could barely detect Reece’s head as it bobbed above a sea of pedestrians crowding the sidewalk.
Her nose was running and she didn’t have a tissue. She swiped the back of her mitten across her upper lip and tightened her scarf. It didn’t help. Icy wind burrowed beneath the wool and crept down her back. She quickened her pace. When she arrived at the building, she was panting.
“We’re early,” Reece said. “Bryce was emphatic about how tight his schedule is today.” He stared up at the building. “One of the interesting things about this building is the rose granite.”
Sam had zero interest in listening to a didactic lecture about “neo-eclectic” angles defining postmodern buildings. A blast of frigid wind blew her sideways, and she stumbled to keep her balance.
“Do you have a tissue?” she asked.
“No.” Reece studied the Eldon Garnet Serve and Protect sculpture collection, staring pensively at a brass statue of a police officer.
“Maybe Bryce will share details about the recent murders,” she said.
Incubus’s letter was never far from her mind. Now there was a second murder, she couldn’t help but be a bit curious about why Incubus believed there were similarities to his own repugnant crimes. The police always withheld facts from the media. If Bryce shared a tidbit or two, she might be able to get Incubus out of her head.
The cold was seeping through the soles of her boots and her toes tingled. “I want to grab a coffee. I’m freezing and I need a tissue.”
“You should have worn a heavier jacket,” Reece said in a judgemental tone.
Her temper snapped. “I didn’t expect to walk six blocks and stand shivering while you appreciate architecture and sculptures. I’m going inside.”
“Wait a minute.” He turned to face her but she couldn’t read his expression. “Before we go in, I want to talk to you,” he said.
Relief warmed her cold back. “I’d like that.” She waited expectantly for him to explain his bad mood and thoughtless behaviour.
“I’d appreciate it if you kept any theories about the recent murders to yourself.”
Her mouth fell open in shock. “Excuse me?”
“For once, just let the cops do their job,” he said.
“I get that you’re upset about Bart,” she said through gritted teeth. “But you’re being an asshole.”
He blew out his breath in a puff and mist billowed around his face. “Do me a favour and don’t chirp about serial killers. There’s no evidence that’s what this is.”
“It’s clear that this killer will strike again,” she said firmly.
“Two murders don’t equate to a serial killer.”
He was being ridiculous and contentious. Again. She was fed up with it. She stomped to the door, leaving him to follow her for a change.
Inside the lobby, she wiped the snow off her boots and unzipped her heavy jacket. Reece brushed past her wordlessly and went to the elevators. They rode in uncomfortable silence. When they reached the bullpen, Sam snagged a tissue from a box on a detective’s desk.
“Cold out, eh?” he said.
“How’d you guess?” She blew her running nose.
He grinned. “I’m a trained detective.”
Reece was standing outside the partly open door to Bryce’s office, his face tight with impatience. She joined him and he knocked. Bryce glanced up from a stack of papers on his desk and waved them in.
Reece marched through the door and held out his hand. “Thanks for meeting me. I appreciate the time.”
Bryce nodded a greeting at Sam. “You said you had information to share. What is it?”
Reece sat across from Bryce’s desk. Sam remained standing.
“A young man named Bart Walsh is missing.” Reece put a picture on Bryce’s desk.
Bryce picked up the photo and studied it. “What’s your connection?”
“He’s from Uthisca. His father and I are close friends,” Reece said.
“And the parents told you he’s missing?”
Reece shook his head. “His sister Margaret is a third-year student at the University of Toronto. Bart’s a freshman there. She hasn’t heard from him in over a week and his roommate hasn’t seen him. Neither have his professors and friends.”
Bryce’s expression had hardened while Reece spoke. He took a sip of his coffee. “Tell me about this young man.”
Reece briefed him on the information Margaret had shared. When he got to the part about Angelina Stuart and the awkward Christmas visit, Sam saw something flicker across Bryce’s eyes. The expression was fleeting and she couldn’t read it.
Bryce slid the photo back across the desk to Reece. “This isn’t the young man we recovered.”
“Do you have an ID on the victim?” Sam asked.
“Micha Washington, nineteen, from Sudbury. He was studying civil engineering on the Canadian Armed Forces’ dime. His father works in the Athabasca oil sands. We had a problem reaching him.”
“What do you know about the first victim, Lester Griffiths?” she asked.
“Twenty-two and from Winnipeg. First-year social work. You say that Bart is in environmental studies?”
Sam nodded. “Besides attending the same university, have you found any other connection between Micha and Lester?”
“Nothing concrete at this time,” Bryce said.
“Are other male students missing from campus?” she asked.
“Counting your friend, fourteen. We found six of them unharmed,” he said.
“All freshmen?” she asked.
Bryce nodded. “There’s a good chance we’ll find the others. First-year is tough and it’s January. Kids return from Christmas break overwhelmed.” He shrugged. “They drop out without notifying the university.”
She leaned across Bryce’s desk. “The time and research required to prepare the victims for staging suggests an organized mind with a purpose. This killer is perfecting his art.”
“That’s a reach.” The dark look on Bryce’s face contradicted his dismissive statement. She’d hit a nerve. Two identical crime scenes with commonalities between the victims implied ritual and psychological gratification. There would be more murders. She knew it and so did Bryce.
“The crime is calculated and planned,” Sam said. “The victim connection is first-year U of T male students. The question is why the killer is going to so much trouble with the bodies. What is he trying to say? Have your forensic psychologists got any ideas? Have you—”
Reece held up his hand and interrupted. “Bryce, how long were Lester and Micha missing before you found their bodies?”
“Approximately ten days,” Bryce said.
“How about the other missing students?” Reece asked.
“Four of them were last seen thirteen days ago. The rest vary anywhere from a month to a few days.”
Shooting a look of annoyance at Reece, Sam continued, “Let’s assume the abductor took all his victims simultaneously. That means at least four young men are dead or being held.” Sam paced the small office. “The paper said the first victim’s skin was dyed and the body was frozen. That requires a workshop of some sort and a walk-in freezer. Lester was kneeling with his arms above his head. The killer needed space and equipment to position the body in the pose prior to freezing it in place. Have you traced the black stones in their eye sockets?”
Bryce sighed. “Generic. Sold online and at craft stores and department stores. Forensics identified the chemical breakdown of the tanning solution as a product included with home spray tanning kits.”
“Cause of death?” Reece asked.
“Cyanide inhalation,” Bryce said. “The victims�
� eyes were removed posthumously. No sign of forced or consensual sexual activity. We’re holding a press conference later today and will release to the media everything I’ve just told you.”
“No marks on the body. A perfect statue.” Gooseflesh crawled up her arms.
Maybe Incubus’s hypothesis about the crimes warranted deliberation. But he was a psychopath, a deluded monster with a distorted perception of reality. He suffered grandiose delusions and a fixation with torture and death.
Sam said to Bryce, “The victimology and cause of death may differ between Incubus’s victims and these two, but there are similarities. Incubus abducted his victims and killed them at a primary crime scene but dumped them at a secondary. There wasn’t a mark on the victims. He took great care in staging them as art, just like this killer.”
“Sam, I respect the fact you’re working on your PhD in abnormal psychology,” Bryce said. “I also respect the work you did on the Incubus case. And you were a good cop back in the day—intuitive and tenacious. But there is no connection between these two murders and Incubus.” Bryce paused. “I sure as hell don’t want the press getting the wild idea we’re dealing with a copycat killer.”
“I agree one hundred percent,” Reece said. “But my concern is Bart Walsh. He fits the profiles of Lester and Micha.”
“I’m telling you, there are similarities between these murders and Incubus,” she insisted. “Investigating that possibility could provide valuable clues.”
A flash of anger sparked in Bryce’s eyes. “These victims are male and a decade younger than the females Incubus targeted. The killer held Lester and Micha together. Incubus abducted the women individually. Cause of death here is poison, whereas Incubus exsanguinated his victims by removing their uteruses. This new killer doesn’t leave calling cards,” Bryce said.
