The Johnson family—Carol, Doug, and their three kids, Doug Junior, Norman, and Ellie—had been living there for three years, since Doug Senior was transferred to Vegas by the bank he worked for to oversee their casino investments. Doug Senior himself had found the bodies of his wife and children when he got home from a business dinner that turned into drinks, that turned into a visit to Olympic Gardens, one of the larger strip clubs in Vegas. At least, that was where he thought he’d been. He had stumbled in through the side door at around 5:30 A.M., trying not to wake anyone, and tiptoed up the back stairs into his bedroom. He hadn’t noticed the puddle of blood spanning the hallway, but he could not miss the corpses of his wife and children sprawled in the middle of the king-size bed, their heads in their laps, staring at him.
As the only member of his family to escape being murdered, the beneficiary of a large insurance policy on the lives of his wife and kids, the possessor of a moderate cocaine habit he’d been hiding from his family, and the owner of both the pairs of shoes that matched the two sets of footprints found at the crime scene, Doug Johnson Senior made a great suspect. Luckily for him, he was also a good tipper, and the lap dancer he’d favored at the Olympic Gardens remembered him well.
“The lap dancer, Greta, said Mr. Johnson was a real gentleman,” Ash told Windy when they were in his office. “He showed her pictures of his wife and kids from his wallet. And was definitely at the club until five, which means he has an alibi for the time of the murders.”
The Violent Crimes Task Force offices were at the far end of a cluster of single-story brown stucco buildings in a vaguely Spanish style that the police department had moved into five years earlier. On one side of them was the building housing the DNA and documents labs, on the other the criminalistics department. Immaculate grass and impatiens grew between the buildings, giving them a pastoral look that belied what went on inside. There were no exterior markers announcing that this was part of the police department, and the people who worked there liked to keep it that way. The sign in front of the complex still read DENTAL CENTER, the legacy of the former occupants.
Ash’s office had beige striped wallpaper topped with a blue flowered border and the walls showed faded squares where a dentist’s diplomas had once hung. It was almost identical to Windy’s in the criminalistics building, except that her wallpaper had large ferns stenciled on it, and while her window had a nice view of the parking lot, his window looked out at grass. Seniority, she figured. But neither of them was really thinking about the view.
Windy’s eyes strayed over the crime scene photos as she listened to Ash’s report on Mr. Johnson’s alibi. When he was done she nodded, saying, “This killer isn’t just a husband out to collect insurance money. This is something more. Someone with immense rage against women and the idea of family. Probably abused by his mother as a child.” She looked up. “Sorry, that is all obvious. And hardly helpful for VICAP since 90 percent of killers fall into that category. I’m just thinking out loud.”
“Keep going. I’m getting every word.”
She started laying the pictures out in deliberate piles on his desk, then moving them around. After a few minutes she stopped abruptly and squinted.
Ash said, “Have you found something?”
“I don’t know. I can tell you what he did, where he went, to a point. After that—there are gaps. He did something, and took something. I don’t know what yet.” She stared at the photos, shook her head, returned her attention to Ash. “Okay. First, you asked about the murder weapon. It’s not just a knife, it’s a cleaver, six inches long, and three inches wide. A specialty piece, like chefs use. The same for all four victims.”
“How do you know?”
Windy spread out four photos, pointed at what looked like a spot to Ash on the first one. “You can see the imprint of it here on the sheets in the master bedroom. He slit Mrs. Johnson’s throat in the bed, then put the knife down for some reason and it left this mark. It has a hole in the top corner of the blade, for hanging it, and the handle appears to have some kind of pattern or texture which is visible here, here, and here. Each time after he cut them, he put the knife down. I wish I could figure out why. According to the crime scene report, the knife does not match any in the house, which means the killer brought it with him. I would have suspected as much anyway because they found pieces of a white thread on Mrs. Johnson’s body that they could not match anything in the house. I think it came off whatever the killer was using to carry the knife in.”
“That’s good,” Ash said, writing it down. That was the kind of thing the VICAP database was useful for matching.
“There’s more. He knows how to use his weapon. Somewhat of an expert. His cuts are clean and sure. That means he’s strong, too. One swipe, no evidence of sawing.”
“Practice,” Ash said.
“Or profession.”
“Right. A chef. A butcher. Someone who uses a knife in their work. I’ll send that to VICAP too.”
“He did not break into the house but was let in by Mrs. Johnson, I think at the back door. It is hard to tell since Mr. Johnson used the same door to come in and smeared the prints. But it does mean that he is presentable, at least enough to get her to open the door.”
“Unless Mrs. Johnson knew him.”
Windy nodded. “Yes. I would say that she either knew him, or he threatened her as soon as he was inside.”
“I’ll buy that, but why?”
“How else would he have gotten her to go quietly upstairs to her bedroom with him so he could kill her there, without alerting any of the kids? Of course, they were all in their rooms, the daughter listening to her stereo, loud—” Windy pointed to a photo of the girl’s room, with the stereo volume knob swung all the way to the right. “—the youngest son practicing his clarinet—” Photo of a knocked-over music stand with a clarinet lying next to it on the floor. “—and the middle son—” Windy didn’t finish, just let her finger rest on a close-up of a computer screen with an animated image of a shot-up dead body in the corner, a set of headphones dangling from the side, and the words GAME OVER across the middle.
“That’s quite an epitaph,” Ash said. “Do you think he knew that all the kids would be distracted, or was he just lucky?”
Windy shook her head. “I can’t tell. Whichever it was, he got Mrs. Johnson into her bedroom, killed her there, put on a pair of her husband’s shoes, and then went down the hall and killed the children.”
“Calm. Organized. Deliberate.”
“And with some understanding of forensics, knowing we could use his shoe prints. He did each victim in their own room and then moved them all into the master bedroom and left them on the bed there together. Does that mean the bedroom has some significance for him? There is no sign of any kind of sexual assault, which is unusual but not unheard of in these cases, although it could make his use of the bedroom as his mortuary more telling. And here’s another interesting point: he moved the bodies almost right away, but it was only later—maybe even a few hours later—that he put the heads in place. I’ll send a request to have them swabbed inside and out. Maybe Trace can find some evidence of something that will give us a clue to what he was doing with them in the interval.”
“My vote is for arts and crafts. I’m sure whatever we learn will be heartwarming,” Ash said. “Anything else?”
“A few things I can’t explain. Has Doug Senior been taken around the house to see if anything is missing?”
“He went through it earlier, fast, and didn’t see anything but we’ve sent him back over now that the bodies are gone to look more carefully. Why?”
Windy held up a photo of Mrs. Johnson’s dressing table. It was covered with black-and-gold-cased lipsticks, three crystal bottles of perfume, different pots of moisturizer, a box of Kleenex, a hairbrush, everything scattered around, a mess. All of it, and the mirror behind it, spattered with blood. Windy’s finger rested on a spot near the front corner of the table. “There is no blood here,” she
said. “That means that there was something standing in this place, something that appears to have been round or octagonal. I’d like to know what it was. Probably a powder container or a jewelry box or something. Also ask if the table has been moved at all.”
Ash made a call to the detective who was at the Johnson house with Doug Senior. “Mr. Johnson says he can’t remember. There may have been some pearls. The last time he saw them was on her dressing table. He’s not sure if the furniture has been moved.”
“Ask him if his wife wears a wedding band,” Windy said.
Ash relayed the question. Hung up. “Yes. Why?”
“Because there isn’t one on the body in this photo.”
“Do you think the killer took it as a souvenir? Jewelry?”
Windy shrugged. “Possibly. We’ll need to search more but you could add that to the VICAP profile.” She stretched her arms over her head and worked her neck back and forth. “I’m exhausted. I’m afraid I’m sort of out of useful information too.”
“You’ve given us a good place to start, and several leads for—”
Jonah interrupted him, knocking once then opening the door of the office to say, “Gerald, incoming. Line one.”
“Didn’t you tell him I was in a meeting? Or out with hepatitis?”
“You being ill would give him too much pleasure. Plus he said it was urgent. Crucial. Used some of his other favorite words. You’ve got to take it.”
“Who is it?” Windy asked. “Do you want me to go?”
“It’s the mayor, Gerald Keene,” Jonah said, “and he wants to talk to you too.” He sat down in the empty chair at the end of Ash’s desk and looked at him. “Ready?”
Ash nodded, and Jonah hit the blinking button on the phone console. “I have Detective Laughton and Chicago Thomas of criminalistics for you, Mayor.”
The mayor’s voice yelled out of the phone, “How the hell could you let the Snoopy Killer go and say that Danielle Starr was involved in drugs?”
Ash gestured to Windy, who said, “Roddy Ruiz is not the Snoopy Killer and I said Danielle Starr was involved with drugs because it’s true.”
“True,” Gerald Keene repeated, making it sound like a bad word. “Let’s be sure we both agree on what that means. From where I’m sitting, what is true is what will hold up in court. Will your evidence? I’ve got the sheriff here with me, your boss, and he says he’s not sure from looking at the photos. Think about that, Ms. Thomas. Is it worth ruining a family’s life for something that won’t hold up?”
“It’s not my evidence, it is the evidence. And what family is it ruining?”
“The Starrs. The parents of the dead girl. I have to tell you, they find your conclusions distressing.”
“Why?”
“Naturally they would rather believe their daughter was a good girl who was kidnapped and raped, than that she went to that place on her own and got down on her knees to broker a drug deal.”
The word “naturally” made Windy queasy. “Why would one be better than the other? Danielle is dead either way.”
“The Starrs have a position to maintain in the community. The idea that their daughter was involved in things like drugs . . .” The voice trailed off before adding, “You understand.”
Windy wanted to say that she didn’t, but she did. She understood that having your daughter kidnapped and raped by strangers lifted the blame squarely from your shoulders. It was an accident, could happen to anyone. Whereas having a daughter who ran away from home and took up with a drug dealer could raise distasteful questions about who was responsible for her leaving home, and what, if anything was done to stop it. It opened the range of who-did-what-to-whom considerably.
Windy was not going to give the Starrs an inch. “I’m afraid I have to stick by my description of what happened. Nothing can change the fact that Roddy Ruiz didn’t kill that girl, that she went there as a drug courier, and that she was not kidnapped. This is not a question of writing the best ending. This is a question of justice and truth.”
“You are positive? That boy, Roddy, said he wants to do the time, and the family would prefer that too. It’s your word against his confession. Did you hear me, Ms. Thomas, I said confession. I’m not asking you to lie, I’m just asking you to be sure of what you saw. And Roddy won’t get life in prison. He’ll still be young enough when he gets out to have a go at things.”
Have a go at things. Like maybe he’d take up polo. Windy unclenched her jaw to say, “And in the meantime the real killer goes free?”
“And in the meantime, everyone is happier.”
The customer is always right, Windy told herself, a mantra drilled into her from childhood. Don’t make waves. Don’t disagree. Do what you are told.
But sometimes the customer doesn’t know what is good for him. She said, “Perhaps you have a point, Mayor. Perhaps that would be better. And letting Roddy take Hector Xavier’s place in prison would avert a major territorial war between the drug dealers of Vegas.”
The mayor’s voice came through louder, like he’d moved closer to the speaker. “What are you talking about?”
Ash caught Windy’s eye, just a glance, but it said a lot. It told her he knew where she was going, and that he was amused. He mouthed, “May I?” and she nodded, yes, go ahead. Then leaned back in her chair to watch.
“I believe Ms. Thomas’s point is that while putting Roddy in jail won’t really shake anything up, taking Hector Xavier out of circulation would make the drug traffic in Vegas much harder to control,” Ash said. “With him gone, his empire would disperse and we’d have to waste men watching a dozen dealers instead of one main one. So leaving him in place is probably wise. Since Hector Xavier is the drug kingpin of Las Vegas.”
They heard the mayor say, “What the—” and then the click of the mute button followed by silence. But Ash didn’t need the sound track to picture the discussion taking place in the mayor’s office, the man and his aides trying out different headlines: VEGAS DRUG KINGPIN BROUGHT DOWN ON MURDER RAP versus BILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER KIDNAPPED, MURDERED IN LAS VEGAS. Not that hard a decision.
Another click and the mayor was back. “Ms. Thomas,” he said, his voice polite, congenial, “you and your evidence have convinced me. The sheriff concurs. We have no choice but to go ahead with the Hector Xavier prosecution. He is guilty, and he must pay the price. See to it that the case against him is airtight. We’ve got to get this dangerous kingpin—and killer—off the street.”
Jonah hit the OFF button, and the three of them in Ash’s office started to laugh.
Ash looked at Windy. “That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”
She had to agree. It was the same sensation that came with unraveling a hard mystery. The thrill of letting someone talk themselves into a corner of their own making, of playing the game well, and winning. The thrill of being good at something.
Her cell phone rang, and as she reached for it, she realized it was almost dark outside, making it past six. Dammit. Somehow being good at one thing always meant screwing up something else.
She said, “Excuse me, I need to take this,” to Ash and Jonah and they heard her voice change, get softer, apologetic as she answered. “Hi honey. Yes, I know. I’m really sorry, I lost track of time. No, I’m leaving now, so I’ll definitely be home for dinner. Oh, is that my punishment? Fine. But only half with pepperoni. Okay, I’ll be there soon. I love you too. Bye.”
She hung up and faced them. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“No problem. You’ve been a tremendous help, Windy,” Ash said. “We’ll feed everything you learned from the Johnson crime scene photos into VICAP and see if we get any hits.”
“Let me know.”
“Of course.”
Windy was glued to the spot. She had done everything she could, both for Roddy, and with the Johnsons. But she’d tasted the excitement of an investigation again. The urge to stay was almost narcotic.
It’s not yo
ur job, she reminded herself. You promised, promised Bill, promised yourself that you would not work weekends, that you would stay in the office, that you would not get too involved in investigations. The job would be the How and the What of the crimes, not the Why. No interrogations, no stakeouts, no late nights at work poring over transcripts, talking strategy. She ran her fingers over the silk tie she was wearing, Bill’s tie, worn to remind her of him, of her commitment to him. She was going to stay safe and sane, work normal-person hours, have a real life. That was why she had taken the job in Vegas. She would make time for her and Bill to be together, time for the family. She would make those her priorities, being a good mom, a good wife.
“Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do tonight?” she heard herself asking again. Pathetic. The tie did not feel like a leash, she told herself.
“Nothing,” Ash assured her. “And it sounds like someone is expecting you for dinner.”
“You’re right.” Cate was waiting for her. That was worth going home for. She said, “Good night.” Paused at the door.
Cate would be in bed by nine and Bill wasn’t coming until the next morning.
Turned back. “Could I take the crime scene photos home with me? I might see something useful.”
“The mayor had better get over his hard-on for the word kingpin,” Jonah said when Windy had gone.
Bad Girl and Loverboy Page 3
