I shot him a dirty look. “No, silly. That one is for Duke.”
He looked at the dog, who was curled up by my chair, and shook his head. “Spoiled already. Why am I not surprised?”
I put the food on the table, ignoring his assessment, and then cut Duke’s steak up so it would cool faster. Justin reached into the cupboard around me for wine glasses.
“No-no-no, Mr. Sinclair,” I chastised him. “There will be no alcohol consumption until you’re done with the dog door. I’m not responsible for missing fingers around here.”
“Oh yeah? What about missing limbs because of that two-hundred-pound furball?” he joked.
I shrugged. “If he has to protect me from bad guys, so be it.”
“Uh-huh. Tell me about your case. How’s it going?” he inquired, and I saw the concern etched on his face.
Here we go again. “Well, you probably already know as much as we do. We don’t have any hint of a suspect yet, and we don’t have any trace.”
He rubbed his jaw, looking frustrated. “That just makes my job harder, you know? You’re going to have to give me something to work with when this goes to trial.”
I dipped my head and glared at him. “But no pressure, right? I’m sure by the time this goes to trial, we’ll have everything we need.”
He picked up his mess and went back to work on the door while I cleaned up the kitchen and put the leftover side dishes away.
“Here you go, buddy,” I called out to Duke and flopped the meat on top of his dog food. He ate it all in a matter of a few bites. “You could take off a limb, couldn’t you?”
Twenty minutes later, Justin got the door back up on its hinges, complete with a monstrous-size doggie door, and poured two glasses of wine. I took one, against my better judgment, and sat on the sofa with him. I turned on the TV as a distraction technique, and there was a documentary on about Jack the Ripper.
“Liam is calling our investigation the ‘Slasher case’ now. Isn’t that something?” I blurted out.
He sighed heavily and scrunched his face. “The problem with naming cases like that is the media will get ahold of it, and then the killer will hear it and feel immortalized. It gives him too much power.”
I couldn’t deny the truth in his words. The killer would get his jollies off knowing he would become a legend—the infamous St. Louis Slasher.
I turned to him to respond, but he didn’t give me a chance. His mouth smashed against mine while a groping hand roamed up my side to my breast. I pushed against him, but I didn’t do it hard enough. I was conflicted. We had six months together, and I was so stressed out by the case. I gave in to his tempting touch and lost myself in the moment. Just tonight. I’ll relent, but only for tonight.
HE DRAGGED THE man’s corpse out of the cooler and loaded it into his vehicle. Then he drove around until he found the perfect spot. He was careful to obey all traffic rules and regulations, so he wasn’t pulled over.
When he turned into the hospital parking lot, he found a dark corner to park in. Then he pulled his hat down over his eyes and retrieved a wheelchair from the side entrance. His idea tickled him, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing aloud. He propped the victim up in the seat and pushed him to the parking garage, where he left him in a handicap slip. It was a hot and humid night; therefore, he would thaw out perfectly by morning. He’d probably even reek of decomposition. Oh well. Occupational hazard for them I suppose.
He used the inspiration to go back to his studio. His latest portrait was almost complete. While he splashed the paint onto the canvas, the sound of rattling chains from the basement encouraged him. He smiled broadly as he heard shouts for an encore. So, when he was satisfied with his creation, he set the painting off to the side to dry and began another. This one would have a lot of red. He loved the color of blood. He worked on it for thirty minutes before checking up on his most recent guest.
“And how are you enjoying your stay with us?” he asked with a maniacal laugh. “Is the food to your liking?”
He looked down at the floor and the empty ham bone he’d tossed there the night before. He’d left some meat on it that time—just enough for the rats. The critters were hiding now, watching and waiting for the taste of blood. He wouldn’t dream of disappointing them.
He approached the hooker, who then bellowed, “Just kill me if that’s what you intend to do anyway. Just get it over with.”
He made a long line of red across her collarbone, soaking up every note of her ear-piercing screams. He didn’t need to take photos this time. The image was burned into the deep recesses of his twisted mind—until it ended up on his canvas in a museum exhibit. He looked at his watch and decided to go to bed. He felt restless, but he had an early morning appointment regarding his artwork.
“Sweet dreams,” he called out to the broken woman and trotted up the stairs. He could already hear the rats squeaking.
I ALMOST FORGOT to get the coffees Friday morning because I was engrossed in my thoughts about Justin. Making love again was likely a big mistake, but I couldn’t worry about that now. What’s done is done. I had to focus on the case.
We convened in the conference room with the lieutenant and went over everything we had. Every speculation was carefully examined.
“Eric, you checked NCIC already for similar murders, right?” I asked.
He nodded and addressed the group. “Yes, I checked, and there aren’t any homicides that match our guy. While torture isn’t unique, his particular methods are.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. I needed to get a professional massage. “How is he not leaving any trace? Gloves are a given, but there aren’t any hairs or anything. I guess he could be bald,” I conjectured.
“He might also shave his body,” Marisol added. “I wonder if he’s impotent, and that’s why he’s not raping them.”
We all agreed that was possible, and we considered the possibility, again, that it might be a woman we were after.
“But like you said after the first victim was found, it’s unlikely a woman would cut another woman’s face up,” Liam reminded me.
“You’re right. I did say that.” I put my head in my hands and moaned. “I’m getting so turned around in this case. It’s eating me up.”
The lieutenant stood up and suggested we proceed with knocking on doors along with the local law enforcement in the areas we were concentrating on. We had our list of dwellings with special licenses, so there was no time like the present to tackle it.
“Ask the departments in person, though, and let them copy the list and section it off, so you don’t duplicate searches. Keep the lines of communication open with them,” he commanded.
“Will do, Boss,” Liam responded on our behalf. “Let’s divide the territory up.”
We decided that Marisol and I would go to Wildwood, while he and Eric headed to Ellisville, and we parted ways.
Marisol drove the unmarked car, and on the way, we compared our careers on the force, and then she asked about my marital status.
“I noticed you’re not wearing a wedding ring. Is that because you’re single, or are you protecting your family like I am?” She held up her left arm and wiggled her vacant finger.
“I’m still single,” I sighed. “I suppose you could say that I’m married to the job.” I turned to face her. “How does your husband cope with you being on the force?”
Her lips turned up in a half-smile. “I didn’t give him a choice. It was a meet-cute. I met him when I arrested him for brawling in a bar. When I broke it up, he told me with a slur that they were fighting over me, which of course was silly since I wasn’t there until the 911 call came in.” She laughed to herself. “Anywa
y, after he made bail, he asked me for my number, and I denied him, so he kept sending flowers to the station until it looked like my desk was entered in the Rose Parade. Every bouquet had a card with a cute message and his number.”
I laughed from the mental image her story inspired. “And you called him,” I finished for her.
She nodded with another giggle. “That was four years ago, and we’ve been together since.”
“Did he ever ask you to give it up?” I inquired.
She shook her head and turned into the Wildwood Police Station parking lot. “No, he knows how dedicated I am to my career.”
I sighed, “That’s nice. I haven’t found that yet. I was dating ADA Sinclair, but he hated my undercover work in the Drug Unit, so we fell by the wayside.”
“Wow. I’m sorry to hear that,” she replied.
I climbed out of the car with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got the perfect man in my life now—my dog.”
We laughed and entered the station, flashing our badges at the receptionist. “May we have a word with the chief of police, please?” Marisol asked.
We had to wait eight minutes before Chief Meyer fetched us and led us back to his office. “What can I do for you?” he inquired.
We told him about the murders and our theories that led us to his doorstep, and he listened intently while making notes.
“I’ve seen the killings on the news, of course, but I never considered it to be someone from our community. I can’t rule it out, though. These are crazy times with the election coming up this year,” he commented.
“Well, we don’t have reason to believe the murders have anything to do with that, and they aren’t racially or economically motivated either. He’s not showing any discrimination in choosing his victims,” I said.
He clasped his hands together behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “So, I can give you a handful of officers to help you knock on doors, but without warrants, there’s not a lot you can do. The residents have to be willing to show you the outbuildings or home amenities.”
We both nodded. “We understand, but maybe we’ll find probable cause somewhere that will get us the warrants we need,” I suggested.
He sighed, “Fair enough. Give me a few minutes to round up some patrol officers. You can just wait here.”
When he left the office, our phones rang. It was SLCPD summoning us back to Headquarters. There was another body found.
HE WAITED IMPATIENTLY for the museum curator to come out of her office while clutching a portfolio and his most recently completed painting. It wasn’t his first time in the museum. She had denied his work before, but he didn’t think she would this time. If she did, though, he’d teach her a lesson she’d never forget.
“Thank you for waiting, Mr. Peirick,” Tiffany Clark greeted him when she decided to grace him with her presence. “Joan told me you have something different for me to look at today.” Her snooty tone told him that she expected to be disappointed again, and it irked his nerves.
“Yes, I do. I think you’ll be quite pleased with what I have for you,” he told her straightforward.
“All right, Mr. Peirick. Show me your work,” she commented and made it sound like a chore.
He uncovered his canvas and turned it around for her to see. She tapped one perfectly manicured fingernail on her mahogany desk while she studied the piece. Her mouth bunched up to one side, and he couldn’t gage her thoughts. She motioned for him to hand it over to her, and then she put on her reading glasses as she studied it up close.
“Your work is definitely better this time around. I can feel your thoughts when I look at it. It inspires emotion. It has depth,” she complimented him but didn’t smile.
In one quick gesture, he handed over his portfolio. “Here are some more examples of my new style.”
She flipped through the book in a way that suggested he was wasting her time, and he felt his anger intensify. This bitch has no idea what I can do to her.
She cleared her throat and announced, “These are better as well, but not as much as this one”—she held the canvas up—“but it still lacks something. You’re showing emotion, which is great, but it’s still wavering”—she tapped the canvas, causing him to cringe—“Here, you have strong, confident strokes, but over here, they are hesitant and feeble.”
He strained his eyes at the canvas to see what she was talking about, but all he could see was her slow, painful death.
She handed back the portfolio and canvas. “Tunnel your strength and try again. We have an art show coming up over the Fourth of July holiday where we’ll be featuring new artists, and I think you could make it into the show. I just need to see a little more effort.” Her clipped tone said they were done for now, but he knew they would see each other again very soon. This is far from over, bitch!
He put the canvas and his portfolio in his car and drove around town to cool off before going to his other job. Painting was his passion, but it didn’t pay the bills just yet. It would soon, though. It had to.
WE HURRIED BACK to the station and caught up with Eric and Liam in the parking lot. Instead of waiting on the elevator, we all rushed up the stairs to Homicide to find out the details.
Captain Russell Roman had just returned from vacation and took the reins back from the lieutenant. He summoned us into the conference room.
“I’ve been in Florida for the past two weeks, but I’m ready to get caught up,” he stated.
“Didn’t you say you had three weeks off?” Liam wondered.
“I did, but I couldn’t stay away with this killer on the loose. The job will have to win out over my free time for now,” he answered. “Although, I’m sure the lieutenant was doing a fine job in my absence.”
Liam filled him in on everything we had on the killings, which certainly wasn’t much.
“So, I called you back in because there has been another body found with the same MO. Andrew Adams, whose blood was discovered in the Fox Theater parking lot, was left in the parking garage at Barnes-Jewish hospital sometime last night. He was sitting up in a wheelchair, so the perp had to enter the hospital to get one. I have the crime lab looking at video surveillance footage of every entrance right now. Chris is waiting for you all to join him in the morgue for the autopsy. He wants to be thorough, so please go watch,” the captain advised us.
We hustled back down the stairs to the frigid morgue and observed the autopsy. Chris narrated his findings to us, paying particular attention to anything that was different with this victim.
“His right knee was shattered and caused a large bone fragment to tear through the flesh, but he lacks the burn marks on his soles. I see signs of starvation again, and he has multiple stab wounds. It looks like his heart was stabbed too, likely causing his final demise.”
I closed my eyes, cringing on the inside. I couldn’t imagine anybody being so sick and twisted to do this to another human. Then I remembered the notes I’d jotted on my blotter.
“Chris, please swab his mouth and lungs for evidence of chloroform, and please check for scopolamine as well,” I told him. “We have to find out how he is subduing his victims.”
He collected the swabs and bagged them for the lab. I immediately took them into the crime lab for analysis and requested a rush on all evidence collected.
Jackie, the lead technician, informed me, “We don’t have prints or foreign hairs with this one either.” When the mass spectrometer was finished, it printed off the results, and I watched her face as she read the report. “There is trace evidence of chloroform from around the mouth but no evidence of scopolamine or other date rape drugs,” she announced and handed me the report to put in the case file.
/> “Thank you. This helps us,” I acknowledged and went back to the morgue to tell the others.
“Good call,” Chris congratulated me. “I wish I could take the credit for that finding, but it’s yours, Sasha.”
“Now, is he buying the chloroform somewhere or making it himself?” I wondered aloud. “I know you can buy it for agricultural purposes, but you can also make it using household bleach, acetone, and ice.”
Eric narrowed his eyes at me with a half-smile. “You sure know a lot about the subject.”
I shrugged. “I read. In any case, he’d have to be extremely careful in producing it and using it because too high a concentration is lethal. So, he must’ve done his research to use just enough to knock out his victims without killing them, and he must have a well-ventilated work area to produce it.”
“Like you said, he could be buying it online for livestock use,” Marisol added, and I nodded in affirmation.
“That would be impossible to trace since stores don’t carry the stuff,” Liam grumbled.
I pointed a finger in the air and replied, “However, if we find a suspect and search his computer, then…”
Chris interrupted, “Official cause of death for this young man is sudden cardiac arrest. Of course, with stab wounds this deep, he would have bled out if his heart hadn’t given out first.”
While he stitched the body back up, we went upstairs, taking the elevator this time.
“Why did he change up his behavior?” I asked them, referring to the lack of burns and the shattered knee.
Eric replied, “It’s hard to say. Maybe it’s because it’s a male victim. The man found at SLU had broken bones too.”
“But he was also burned, and why just break bones in the men?” I pressed.
“Perhaps because it’s easier to control them, or possibly to inflict more pain,” Liam suggested.
I got to thinking about the lack of rape. “It could point to impotence. Maybe he’s punishing them for being more of a man than he is,” I suggested, and they agreed that it was possible.
Deadly Games Page 5
