by Scott Pratt
Lukas was jostled out of his trance by the scent of faint perfume. Not one that he recognized, but pleasant, not too strong. He leaned in toward the body, thinking it was too expensive to be a working girl’s. Nope. Not coming from the body. He glanced behind him and saw Brooke writing in a worn leather pocket size notebook. Must be hers. Her long, blonde ponytail had fallen forward over her shoulder and was now cascading over her right breast.
She caught his stare and stopped writing.
“Something wrong?”
“Uh, no,” he said. “I was just wondering why you still used that old academy-issued antique.”
“I guess you can say I’ve got a few old-school habits.” She shrugged. “My dad was a cop for decades. I like some of the old school ways.”
“I let those guys do the writing.” He motioned toward the scene entry point where the Crime Scene Unit technicians were being logged in by the new officer, who had apparently recovered from the shock of his first murder.
The CSU team quickly started setting up equipment. Lukas and Brooke needed to finish and head back to the command center.
Lukas stood and turned toward Brooke. “Guess we better move it along.”
She nodded.
Only one last thing to do. The morbid task of examining the wounds of the deceased woman. Lukas catalogued the details in his head. White female, mid-twenties to early-thirties, with short dark hair and green eyes. No ID, no keys or personal belongings of any kind. There was nothing that gave any clues to her identity. The woman wore a pink halter top and a pair of black tights. She wasn’t wearing a bra, shoes or socks. There were obvious ligature marks around her neck and stab wounds and cuts to her genital area. Lukas couldn’t tell how many wounds there were without removing the tights, but it looked to be several. Blood at the scene was minimal considering the wounds, another indication the hanging was post-mortem.
He noticed Brooke jotting down a note and closing her notebook just as they were joined by the Forensic Death Investigator, Odessa McCabe. McCabe was considered the “go-to” forensic death investigator in Johnson City, and, in some cases, for the surrounding agencies as well. She was working with Lukas on another prostitute who had been murdered two weeks earlier in Johnson City. There had been two in Kingsport, so tonight made a total of four. After a short but thorough look at the body, McCabe offered Lukas her assessment.
“Based on the lividity, state of rigor, and the amount of blood drying, I would say she died between three and four hours ago and was not killed here.”
“Look at the marks on her neck under the rope,” Lukas said, pointing at the bruises. “Do you think that was from the rope or ante-mortem?”
“I don’t believe the bruising was caused by the rope. See the width of the bruise pattern? It’s wide and somewhat dim compared to the pressure that would be exerted by a small rope. It was caused by a different device. Could have even been hands for that matter.”
Lukas nodded and Brooke flipped her leather notebook open and continued with her notes.
Odessa frowned. “Obviously, I can’t give a cause of death yet and won’t be able to until the autopsy is complete. And the mutilated genitals? That’s your department, Lukas, but this is one sick individual you have on your hands here.” She paused and looked over at Brooke. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Detective Brooke Stevens. I’m working similar murders over in Kingsport. Just here to consult.”
“Odessa McCabe, pleased to meet you.” She offered a gloved hand.
“Same.”
“Detective Stevens, would you excuse us for a moment please?” Odessa asked politely.
“Sure, I’ll just wait over at the Command Post.”
When she was sufficiently out of earshot, Odessa continued, “Consultation? Really?”
“Really. Kind of. I mean, I guess we’re working together now.”
“She’s cute.”
“This is strictly business.” He hesitated, wondering where the conversation was heading. “Like she said, she’s lead on the murders over in Kingsport, and somebody up the chain of command decided it would be a good idea to bring her over to look at the scene here to see if they may be related.”
“And how are you taking this?”
“I don’t know yet. How would you feel if someone came in from another forensics office and was ordered to double-check your work?”
“I wouldn’t like it, but I know what kind of press this is getting. And I can see the pressure you’re under. We’re dealing with a sick, twisted waste of skin. But he’s obviously smart, and he’s careful. We’ve worked a bunch of cases together, Lukas. It’ll take all of us to solve this one, probably including her. This is the first serial killer we’ve ever had around here.”
Lukas considered her remarks, wondering what direction the investigation would take moving forward. He nodded and walked toward the Command Center without a reply. Lukas found himself hoping they could find the sick bastard before the feds found a reason to get involved. There was exactly one fed he liked in the area, an agent named Danny Smart. The rest of them were arrogant and treated the locals like peons. For now, at least, all the murders were state crimes and fell under state and local jurisdictions. The feds were shut out. He hoped it would stay that way.
Chapter Two
Brooke watched the interaction between Lukas and the forensic woman with curiosity. They thought she couldn’t hear them, but she could. What the hell? She wasn’t there because she wanted to be. She was just following orders.
“Brooke?” Lukas approached her. His jaw was clenched. “Let’s talk inside.”
Brooke welcomed the warmth of the Command Center. She’d been freezing her butt off out there, but she sure as heck wasn’t about to show it. She steeled herself against a shiver and followed Lukas to a room that contained a dry-erase whiteboard and a small, oval table with comfortable-looking swivel chairs. There were two separate stations that contained computers that she assumed were linked to the same database as those at headquarters. Written on the board were assignments for the various detectives and officers who were helping with the scene, along with a timeline and other victim’s names and details about their deaths. Her name was written beside Lukas’s. Lukas saw it, and Brooke saw the resignation on his face. She didn’t want this to go sour before they even left the crime scene. She fixed a smile on her face and tapped on his shoulder.
“I know you probably don’t like this arrangement,” she said, “and I don’t blame you. This is your deal, your territory, and I’m just here to observe and assist. Honestly, I’m not real comfortable myself. It puts both of us in a difficult position. But it looks like we’re stuck with each other.”
“Let’s just get down to business, how about that?” Lukas said.
“Sure, whatever you say.”
Lukas’s eyes locked with hers for a moment. He broke off the gaze and turned to the whiteboard. “Let’s go over yours first.”
Brooke took out her well-worn notebook, flipped a few pages, stopped, and looked at her notes. She ignored her annotations and spat out the facts. “My first victim was found on August twenty-fifth. Third-shift manager found her in a dumpster behind his convenience store in a rough part of town. She was a white female named Cindy Sullivan, twenty-six years old, a well-known prostitute. Left behind a six-year-old daughter and a mother who seemed apathetic toward her daughter’s death. According to our records, she had no significant other. She was a local girl, lived about three blocks from where she was found. Cause of death was asphyxiation by mechanical means. No sexual trauma or mutilation. No witnesses or forensic evidence was found.”
As Brooke spoke, Lukas was making notes on the whiteboard. She flipped a few pages over and continued.
“The second was found on October fourteenth. A white female named Melanie Salem, twenty-two years old, found on the
front lawn of an abortion clinic on the east side of town. Cause of death was multiple stab wounds to the chest, signs of sexual assault, cuts and abrasions to her genital area. She had a four-year-old boy, no other family that we could find. A previous child of hers had died of SIDS. She was also local. No witnesses or leads as of now. Both women had multiple arrests for prostitution and minor drug violations. We don’t know if there was any relationship between the two murders other than the victims’ occupation, and it appears that the victims were killed somewhere else and moved to the location where they were found.” She looked up from her notes as Lukas finished writing. “That’s it. I have virtually nothing.”
Lukas continued to write as he spoke. “My first victim was found on September twenty-seventh, which was about one month after your first one. Her name was Jamika Bradley, thirty-one, black female, found at the entrance to the Johnson City landfill hanging on a fence. Cause of death was blunt force trauma. She had kids, eight-year-old twins, a boy and a girl. There were no signs of mutilation or sexual trauma. And now this new victim. It’s been roughly two weeks since the last one. This crime looks very similar to the others.” Lukas looked away from the whiteboard and down at Brooke. “Do you agree?”
Brooke looked at the board. “My first instinct is to agree. Assuming our victim tonight is what we think she is, we have the same general MO. They were all most likely killed somewhere other than where they were found. Four of them in a relatively short amount of time. It all says serial killer, but as far as solving them, I’m not seeing anything that jumps out. That’s been the problem from the start. No consistent patterns. I think he’s figuring it out as he goes along. Evolving, you might say. Experimenting.”
“So, do we agree all of the murders were committed by the same person?” Lukas said.
“Based on the time frame and the fact that all of the victims were hookers, I’d say yes,” Brooke said. “If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck…”
“It’s a duck, I know.”
Brooke looked up at the board, studying the details they had catalogued thus far. “We have one new lead. The rope. This marks the first time the killer has left something at the scene besides the victim.”
“True. I’ll make sure you get a good photo of it to follow up on in Kingsport. I’ll check here in Johnson City as well. Who knows? We’ve solved murders on less.” Lukas looked back to the board and appeared to be studying hieroglyphs. “One thing that jumps out at me are the times. The first was August twenty-fifth, the second was September twenty-seventh, the third October fourteenth, and now October twenty-ninth. One month between the first two, then two weeks. Not as much time between them now. Our killer is accelerating.”
“True. But that’s not really a pattern by definition,” Brooke said. She watched Lukas’s eyes flash. He tapped the back of his chair and paced in front of the white board.
“Yes, it is. It doesn’t tell us when the next one will be, but it tells us it won’t be long. That’s why there’s so much pressure to end this from the brass.” He turned to her. “I’m sure it’s bad for you, too.”
“You have no clue,” she said, thinking of her recent meeting with the administration in Kingsport. That had definitely not gone well. She shrugged. “I guess that’s why I’m here.”
“What’s your instinct say about the murders?”
“I try not to rely on instincts. I follow the leads, read the evidence, and go where it takes me. It’s worked well for me so far.”
A “gut instinct” wasn’t a tool for catching criminals, as far as Brooke was concerned. It was a liability, if anything. Made you second guess the facts. And facts didn’t lie. Unlike guts.
“Leads can only take you so far,” Lukas said. “For instance, why is he killing hookers?”
“It doesn’t matter why. All that matters is that we follow the evidence that will lead us to him and stop him.”
“Why will be how we catch him. Why is everything.”
“We’re going to have to agree to disagree,” Brooke said.
Lukas’s stare startled her a bit. His dark brown eyes seemed to bore into her, giving her an icy feeling.
The door to the room opened and a uniformed officer stuck his head in. “Miller, a witness has been located. They’ve taken her to headquarters, and she’s asking for you.”
Chapter THREE
He always felt the need for Pam after he killed. Each time, he hoped things would be different, that the latest killing would allow him to be able to become aroused, that his sexual desires would be satisfied. But each time, at least so far, he’d been disappointed. He’d pleased Pam, but he’d had to do so with the aid of a sex toy. He remained flaccid, unable to perform. His sexual failings infuriated him, frustrated him, depressed him. Next time, he would think. Next time.
In the dark of his room, he considered calling her now. Maybe tonight would be the night. Maybe tonight he would grow hard and explode in ecstasy. Maybe.
First, he needed to get in the mood. He closed his eyes and thought about the whores. The killings started out as experimental, but they’d gradually grown to something more. He didn’t fully understand what was happening; he wasn’t sure if he ever would. Did his understanding even matter? Probably not. He was going to keep killing regardless.
They say you never forget your first. Well, not exactly the first, but the first one he had actually killed with his bare hands, the first one he had looked in the eye while the light flickered out like a match in a breeze. Her name was Cindy Sullivan, but her friends called her Sully. He had watched her for weeks. He watched her work, or at least that’s what she called it. They called themselves working girls, as though they were productive members of society. Just putting in another day, punching the time clock. How ridiculous was that mentality? He thought back to the night he’d decided it was time to do something about her, the night he decided to remove Sully from the gene pool. She did one guy in a car and another in the seedy motel she often used. Two more received blow jobs in the shadows beside the motel.
He would never forget the look on her face when she realized what was about to happen to her: shock mixed with terror. She had completed her sleazy strip tease and stood naked in front of him, waiting for something that was never going to happen. He was new at choking a woman to death, but he found it easier than expected. He’d always had thick, strong forearms and big hands, most likely inherited from the father he never knew. He felt Sully’s throat constrict in his hands as she fought for breath, for her very life. He’d never felt anything so visceral, or so satisfying. He felt as though he was in complete control for the first time in his life, and he was. It was powerful, that feeling of taking a life. He knew right then he would have to do it again.
Afterward, he was filled with euphoria, but as time drew on he became worried that he’d made a mistake. He’d taken weeks to plan, but no matter how long or how thoroughly you planned, mistakes could still happen. He watched the news, listened to the scanner, checked the internet and social media sites, read the paper. The more time passed, the more he became convinced he’d gotten away with it. It may not have been the perfect murder, but it was close enough.
Then the need came back. It appeared as a gnawing at the edges of his mind, but over time the gnawing became obsession, and he could think of little else. Before he knew it, he found himself back out there on the street, waiting and watching, stalking them.
He opened his eyes and turned on the Bearcat scanner that sat on the table beside his recliner. He adjusted the volume. There were the usual routine calls typical of a Friday night: domestic disturbances, bar fights, traffic stops, and of course, the big news of the night. The body at the library.
He could visualize the scene. There would be someone in charge issuing orders to a host of detectives. The detectives would be going about their duties, including canvassing the neighborhood. Evidence collection t
eams would be there, as would forensic people, looking for any clue that would lead them to the person responsible for the crime. The scene would be covered by all three local TV news agencies as well as beat writers from the newspapers. A public hanging in small town, USA, was big news.
One thing that surprised him was the mention of a Detective Stevens coming in from Kingsport. That was odd. According to the papers, she was working the murders there. He wondered if she was being called in to consult. He smiled. He was causing them problems.
After several moments of silent contemplation, he decided it was time. He picked up the phone. After several rings, Pam’s sleepy voice answered, “Hello.”
“It’s me.”
“Oh, hey. What time is it?”
“It’s going on eleven. I’m sorry to wake you.”
“Oh, no. It’s okay. Really. I was watching television. I guess I just dozed off. What’s up?”
“Do you feel like company?”
“Sure. What you got in mind?”
“I thought maybe we could play.”
“Do you think you’re up for it?”
His forehead tensed as a flash of anger ran through him.
“I’m up for trying. At least you’ll have a good time.”
“All right.” She chuckled.
