by Jo Robertson
“There hasn’t been another case like this around here. If you’re right, even the Stuckey killing was disguised as a drowning.”
“Maybe he hid the body or the case wasn’t even in Bigler County,” she countered.
“Then why didn’t he hide Jennifer’s body? Why risk being caught? And why leave the car in plain sight?”
Kate frowned. “It could be part of the thrill for him, flaunting his power. He wanted her to be found, wanted us to see his handiwork.”
Slater shook his head. “The mark on her thigh’s too unusual. If this happened somewhere else, the cops would’ve reported it.”
A shiver rolled through Kate’s body. She didn’t like thinking of the crudely-drawn mark on the girl’s inner thigh. She’d seen the crime scene photos from the Preston, Idaho, case – the one she had believed was the murderer’s first kill until she’d gotten the Mary Stuckey hit.
Although there were cuts inflicted postmortem on the Idaho victim, there’d been no report of a sign, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been there. Neither had the psychological significance of the cuts found on the victim’s body been remarked on in the coroner or police reports. These were clear flaws in the Idaho investigation.
Kate hadn’t posed a theory about the infinity mark until Jennifer’s autopsy. She’d have to review the other cases, this time looking for the strange mark, or something similar to it, and analyzing what it represented.
She shook her head. “If it’s his signature, he might’ve developed it recently.”
“And the missing panties?”
“A serial killer can fantasize with a souvenir or trophy or with remembered ritualized behavior. What’s important is the overall pattern associated with the killings. His signature is what distinguishes his acts from other murders, and it’s unique to him.”
“Do you think he’s still in Bigler County?”
“I don’t know. Staying is risky. Transient behavior offers him a degree of safety. Why would he take a chance hanging around after killing Jennifer?”
“Why would he even return to Bigler County if he murdered Stuckey?” Slater countered. He was silent for a moment, brows knit in concentration. “What if he had to stay in the area for some reason we don’t know about?”
Kate thought a moment before answering. “It’s possible if the motivation were strong enough.”
“We should run checks on new residents in the area. Say, in the last six months?”
“Go back a year. Some serial killers wait years between their murders. Jeffrey Dahmer went nine years between his first and second killings.”
The waitress interrupted them for their orders, and when she left, they were both silent for a long moment. Finally Slater asked, “How many victims?”
Kate knew immediately what he meant and the enormity of their situation overwhelmed her. “If he’s been at this for twenty years, it could easily be dozens,” she whispered.
“Christ.” Slater swiped his hand over his jaw. “How could that pattern not show up in the Quantico data-base?”
“If he’s on the move, there’d be no obvious connection.”
“Yeah, could be,” Slater conceded, sipping his beer. “A small town like Placer Hills might draw him. It’s less populated and normally wouldn’t have the resources for a rigorous investigation.”
They stopped talking when their lunches arrived. Slater attacked his food with the relish of a man who hadn’t eaten in days, but Kate picked at hers.
Soon she’d have to tell him about the other two cases. And the Preston case. And her connection to the victim. Although she hadn’t told him an outright lie, she’d certainly deceived him. She had no compunction about lying for the good of the case, but Slater, while suspicious and prickly, seemed like a good detective and she hated deceiving him.
He paused in his eating. “What?” he asked, pointing to her plate with his fork. “Don’t tell me the food isn’t any good. It’s delicious. Not like the beer.” He grinned and it took years off his face.
“I’m not very hungry.”
“You should eat more. You’re too skinny.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not in some places.” His eyes skimmed over her breasts. “But I bet you don’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. It’s not healthy.”
Why did he annoy her so easily after the camaraderie they’d just shared? “Let me worry about my health. I weigh more than it looks.”
“Really? I’d have guessed differently.”
Their eyes met and held across the table until Kate took refuge in humor. “Anyway, how do you know stuff like what women should weigh?”
“Comes from having three sisters.”
“You’re kidding. That surprises me.”
“There’s a lot about me that’d surprise you, Myers.”
Kate smiled over her wine glass into the warm humor in Slater’s eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. I think I could figure you out pretty easily.”
“You being a shrink?”
“Me being a psychiatrist.”
Slater threw back his head and laughed, a hearty sound that reverberated around the room. A few heads turned their way. Kate noticed that most of the lunch crowd were police officers, many of whom glanced curiously at them.
“Glad I can be a source of amusement, Detective,” she murmured, picking up her fork and trying hard to remain professional. “You’re attracting a lot of attention, you know.”
Slater looked around as if he’d somehow imagined they were alone. “Is that right? Damn, there’s never a cop when you need one, and here you are, perfectly safe, and surrounded by the law.”
“Am I perfectly safe, Slater?”
“Oh yeah, Doc. As long as you don’t lie to me.”
She couldn’t tell if he were serious or not, but she was certain Slater was more complicated than he wanted her to know. Her eyes fell unwittingly to his mouth and something stirred inside her.
Damn. She blinked furiously while her heart pounded beneath her blouse and she struggled to control a shiver.
Careful, Kate, she told herself. Tread very carefully.
Chapter Eleven
Slater had nearly an hour before the case conference, so he arranged to meet Bauer at the home of Dwayne Severson, the boy who’d asked Jennifer Johnston to the prom last year. According to Dwayne’s mother, he’d just left for a shift at The Burger Hut on Tremont Avenue in West Sacramento.
The fast-food restaurant was a run-down dive in the seedier part of a neighborhood that’d been unsavory the year after it’d been established. Graffiti littered the sides of buildings, the metal light poles, even the sidewalks. Teenagers who should’ve been in school at this hour hung around a pool hall, smoking and playing loud music.
“Man, I can’t lose this job,” Dwayne complained when the detectives flashed their badges and asked him to step outside for a chat. They put him in the backseat of Bauer’s unmarked car, the detectives flanking him on either side.
“Look, man, don’t jam me up. I ain’t done nothing. I’m keeping my nose clean.”
Slater wondered what a nice girl like Jennifer Johnston had seen in a dropout like Dwayne Severson. Maybe she liked walking on the wild side, playing around on the other side of the tracks. “We have a couple of questions about Jennifer Johnston,” he began. “When did you last see her?”
“Not since last month, right before I dropped outta school. She dumped me, man. Didn’t wanna be around her after that.”
“One of her friends at school said you created a scene over the breakup, called her an ‘uppity bitch.’ That right?”
Dwayne hunched his shoulders. “I was mad, didn’t mean it. I wouldn’t hurt Jenny.”
“You liked her, huh?” Bauer asked.
“Yeah, I did. And she liked me too. But her moms and pops, man, they got a bug up their ass. Thinkin’ I’m not good enough for her.”
“That must have made you pretty mad,” Slater said.
“They’re
the worse kinda white folks.” Dwayne sneaked a glance at Bauer, but apparently Slater was dark enough for the boy to feel a kinship.
“What about Jennifer? You mad at her too?” Bauer asked.
“Nah, man. She was just tryin’ to do what they say.”
Slater sighed. His gut told him the kid was telling the truth. He may have hated the parents, but he acted like he really cared for Jennifer.
“Where were you on Wednesday afternoon, Dwayne, between three and seven?” Bauer asked.
“Right here. Workin’ as usual. You can check it out with the boss. Punched my time card and all.” The boy looked down at his hands. “I didn’t hurt Jenny,” he repeated. “I loved her. We was gonna try to be together when her folks calmed down.”
They’d check out his alibi, but Slater was pretty sure the Severson kid was clear. Damn, it would’ve been a lot easier if someone Jennifer knew had killed her.
#
Five days had elapsed since Jennifer Johnston had been reported missing and over forty-eight hours since her body was discovered at Beale’s Lake. Sheriff Xavier M. Marconi met with his teams at 4:30 Wednesday in the major incident room to hold the case conference at which Kate Myers would present her profile of the killer.
The room was packed with detectives and deputy sheriffs. The Sheriff banged his coffee mug on the long table at the front of the room, calling the clamor to order.
“This is the follow-up conference to our Monday morning meeting,” he began. “Most a you’ve already reported ‘bout the interviews you conducted when the girl first went missing. In a nutshell, no leads there, but we’ll redo the interviews anyways now that the girl’s showed up dead. We’re gonna intensify the investigation, the Johnston girl’s dad bein’ a mucky-muck and all.”
Marconi nodded toward Slater at the back of the room. “Special Investigations will keep running the case, with the Lieutenant in charge and Doc Myers profiling.”
He gestured for Myers to approach the stand. Word of her arrival and the purpose of it had spread through the department like wildfire. They didn’t often get an outsider around here, and the reaction ranged from admiration for the doctor’s good looks to general suspicion of big-city specialists.
“Doc’s on loan from LAPD,” Marconi continued, “to hep us out with the psychological part. Matt Bauer will be second in command.” Marconi leveled a hard look around the room. There’d been conflict among the teams before. He was making sure the chain of command was clear.
“We’re pulling out all the stops on this one,” he said. “Kenneth Johnston is a head honcho at Paxton-Bell and sits on the school board. He’s got friends in high places. The Doc’ll go first and give us a profile of the murderer.”
Slater leaned against the back wall and watched as Marconi stepped aside and Myers moved toward the podium, a manila folder in one hand. A high blush spread across her cheekbones. In spite of the crowded room, she looked confident.
Slater decided to keep quiet about Mary Stuckey for the time being. He wouldn’t sit on the info very long, but for now he’d give Myers a little slack. After taking another look at the Stuckey case, they’d either rule out the connection or find themselves in the middle of a very big mess.
Personally, he hoped Myers was dead wrong. It’d make the investigation much simpler.
The doctor stepped to the front of the podium, still wearing the winter white suit and a cool, peach-colored blouse. Her shoes were some kind of plaid color and emphasized her calf muscles. Her hair was slicked back tightly from her face in a coiled knot at the base of her neck, but several blond strands fell around her neck and ears.
“This is one of the really bad guys,” she began. “Our killer fits the standard profile. Since rapes and homicides rarely occur across racial lines, he’s likely white, between twenty and fifty, above-average intelligence.”
She glanced at her notes before continuing. “He has a job that precludes working closely with people. Since he wouldn’t have the self-control to stick with the training a profession requires, he works blue-collar jobs.”
She caught Slater’s eye and she stared at him a moment with those wide violet eyes. “He does poorly in social situations, especially with the opposite sex. He’s likely single. Killers who target teenage girls often feel inadequate with grown women. While there’s no clear indication of penetration, the violence itself is sexual in nature. He might be impotent. The element of rage also suggests vengeance as a possible causative factor.”
Myers moved her eyes across the room, taking in each individual detective and deputy. “This kind of offender typically lives alone or with an aged parent. He took Jennifer to a place where he was sure no one could see or hear them. Wherever it is, he feels safe, confident he won’t get caught because he’s smarter than the authorities.”
She moved to the front of the podium and braced her arm against the worn wood. “He probably stalked her for days, maybe weeks, and knew her routine well. Over a four-day period after the kidnapping, he restrained her about the wrists and ankles, tortured and terrorized her before killing her.”
“No rape? Couldn’t get it up, huh?” Ray Borem joked crudely. No one laughed.
“As I said, the fact that there’s no definitive evidence of rape does suggest some kind of impotence.” She passed police photos around the room. “The lack of tape residue on Jennifer’s mouth indicates he wasn’t worried about anyone hearing her scream, and for that he needed complete privacy.”
“So we’re looking for an isolated primary crime scene,” Slater confirmed, moving toward the front of the room. “The autopsy shows she didn’t die at the lake.”
“Hearing her scream,” Myers continued, “is part of what gets him off. He’s punishing her.”
“Sick bastard,” someone muttered from the front. “Could be someone she knows.”
“Possibly, and yes, he’s sick, but he’s clear-headed. The abduction shows planning as well as cunning. He’s not impulsive. He’s a highly organized killer.”
“Why not get rid of her body and let us believe she was a runaway?” Marconi asked.
“Sexual crimes are almost always about control and power. When others view his handiwork, he gets a rush, a feeling of omnipotence. He’s making a statement.”
“Yeah, that he’s a friggin’ maniac.” Borem again.
“He might be mad by our standards, but he’s legally sane. He knows what he’s doing and is capable of distinguishing right and wrong.”
Myers locked eyes with Slater. When she continued, he realized she wanted to lay the seeds for a possible serial killer. “The violence of the crime, the missing underwear, the positioning of the clothing on top of the body, the sign carved on her thigh – all suggest he’s done this before.”
What the hell was she doing, Slater wondered? Right now the evidence was too thin to suggest a serial. He noticed Marconi raise his thick brows.
“He might’ve taken the underwear as a trophy,” she continued, “as a memento of a successful hunt, another indication of an organized offender. The panties being missing from the crime scene is significant.”
“Sounds like you’re sayin’ this guy’s a serial killer. We ought to call in the FBI,” Sanderson interrupted.
Slater jumped up. “It’s premature to call in the feds, but we’re keeping it in mind.”
Bauer asked his first question. “How could this be a serial killer? According to FBI guidelines, there have to be at least three murders.”
“We only have the one,” Sanderson added.
Sheriff Marconi stepped forward. “Clearly our guy ain’t a serial killer, so we’re treating this murder like a single homicide.”
Myers’ brow knitted, and Slater sent her a silent message not to respond. He could imagine the kind of chaos they’d have on their hands if the Johnston girl’s murder was the first in a series by the same killer. Myers could lay all the foundation she wanted, but until he investigated Stuckey’s death, he intended to steer away from
serial killers.
“We don’t want to get ahead of ourselves,” Slater said. “We have lots of other leads. Both parents need to be looked at again, along with neighbors and friends. Bauer and I talked to the boyfriend, Dwayne Severson, but he appears to be clean.”
Deputy Morgan added, “One of the neighbors reported a lot of shouting coming from the house several weeks ago.”
“I haven’t been able to interview all the girl’s teachers, either,” Clark said.
“And the principal’s been at an educator conference in Portland,” Deputy Banks added.
“There’s plenty to do then,” Slater said. “Continue working as partners tomorrow and the day after. AFIS might provide a match on the fingerprint from the Pontiac which looks to be the vehicle the perpetrator used to transport the girl’s body.”
Slater pointed to the case board he’d placed at the narrow end of the conference room. He’d posted the major investigative leads and the partners he’d assigned to each one. “As to the idea of a serial killer,” he continued, “that’ll go on the back burner until we’ve exhausted these leads.”
“But it won’t hurt to get ready for the possibility,” Myers added quickly. “Stabbing is a very personal crime. Either Jennifer Johnston knew her attacker, or we have a serial killer. There’s no in between. And he might be accelerating.”
“What do you mean by ‘accelerating,’ Dr. Myers?” Another question from the front row.
“It means that he doesn’t get enough of a thrill from the killing so he escalates the subsequent violence.”
“I can’t recall anything like this in Bigler County,” Marconi said, “and I been here a long time.”
Everyone laughed, but Slater thought the Sheriff sounded defensive. Damn Myers. Here she’d got him thinking any one of these men he’d known for over a decade could be guilty of the cover up of a murder.
“I’ve made copies of the UNSUB’s profile,” Myers said, passing the flyers around the room.
In the front row, Charlie Wendt glanced at the paper. “Man, it’s always a middle-aged white guy.”
