Murder in Mykonos ak-1

by Jeffrey Siger

  His office — like the rest of the place — was furnished with things from the old station. Tassos sat in a beat-up, brown leather armchair in the corner — the two of them fit together like old friends. Andreas sat behind his desk slowly swiveling his chair from side to side. It was only the two of them, but each seemed to be waiting for the other to speak.

  Tassos started. 'I thought it best we talk here, away from all the curious eyes and ears in my office.'

  Andreas kept swiveling. 'How are we ever going to keep this quiet?'

  Tassos fluttered his lips as he exhaled. 'Don't know. Certainly not for long.'

  Andreas stopped swiveling, leaned forward, and put his forearms on the desk. 'When it gets out we're looking for a serial killer, all hell's going to break loose. There'll be a thousand reporters here making it impossible to catch the bastard.'

  'I know.' Tassos nodded. 'So far, only Costas, you, and I know about this — and he won't say a word — but, if we don't catch the guy soon, someone's going to put things together and' — he slapped his hands against the chair arms — 'BOOM!'

  Andreas grinned at the sound. 'Is that meant to be our careers?' He lifted his arms and leaned back in the chair. 'You know, the press will cut off our balls if we don't go public now with what we have.' He paused. 'And, come to think of it, don't you have to tell your boss?' For an instant, Andreas felt as if he were warning his father to be careful of cop politics.

  Tassos closed his eyes. 'We've worked together for many years. He trusts me not to tell him what I think he'd prefer not to know officially. This is one of those things — at least for now.' He opened his eyes. 'Besides, Chief, the murders occurred in your jurisdiction, and haven't you insisted on taking full responsibility for their investigation?' He smiled.

  Well, so much for worrying about him, thought Andreas. Here was a political master offering Andreas what he wanted if he were willing to pay the price of assuming the political risk.

  Andreas nodded. 'Yes, but God help us if another woman's murdered.' He paused. 'I think we should go public with a physical description of the dead woman — it might make tall blonds more careful.'

  'And mention the crystal meth.'

  Andreas nodded again. 'That too.' He hoped they were doing the right thing.

  Tassos asked, 'What about asking Athens for help with a serial-killer specialist?'

  Andreas gave a quick upward nod of his head — the Greek way of gesturing no. 'There aren't any in Greece. Remember, we've never had a serial killer here, so no one's a specialist. We'd have to contact Interpol, and you know what that means.'

  'So much for keeping things quiet.' Tassos patted the chair arms.

  'We'll have to do our own research.' Andreas opened his center desk drawer.

  'How do we do that?' Tassos sounded surprised.

  'The same way everyone else does these days, on the Internet.' He lifted some papers out of the drawer.

  Tassos waved a hand in the air. 'You must be kidding.'

  'There's a lot out there. Here, take a look.' Andreas handed him one of the papers. Across the top it read, 'Characteristics of a Serial Killer.'

  Tassos looked at the list:

  1. Over 90 percent male.

  2. Tend to be intelligent

  3. Do poorly in school, have trouble holding down jobs, and often work as unskilled laborers.

  4. Tend to come from decidedly unstable families.

  5. Abandoned by their fathers as children and raised by domineering mothers.

  6. Families often have criminal, psychiatric, and alcoholic histories.

  7. Hate their fathers and mothers.

  8. Psychological, physical, and sexual abuse as child is common — often by a family member.

  9. Many have spent time in institutions as children and have records of early psychiatric problems.

  10. High suicide-attempt rates.

  11. Many intensely interested from an early age in voyeurism, fetishism, and sadomasochistic pornography.

  12. More than 60 percent wet their beds beyond age of 12.

  13. Many are fascinated with starting fires. 14. Involved with sadistic activity or tormenting small creatures.

  Andreas put the other papers on his desk. 'An FBI agent named Ressler came up with that list. There's a lot more, but this gives you the general idea.'

  'Why do I have the feeling we're trying to teach ourselves brain surgery?' Tassos reread the list.

  Andreas waited until he finished. 'I don't know what else to do. Do you know anyone we can ask for help we can trust to keep quiet?'

  Tassos nodded no. 'But how long do you think we can go on like this' — he waved the paper in the air — 'before getting some real help?'

  Andreas shrugged. 'Let's play it by ear until one of us feels we have to go public.'

  Tassos stared at him. 'All I'm risking is forced early retirement, but you…' He left the thought hanging.

  Andreas looked down at his desk. 'I know what you're about to say.'

  Tassos shrugged. 'I really liked your dad and thought he got a raw deal, but if the press gets pissed off at you, they'll be screaming…' Again he hesitated.

  Andreas finished Tassos' sentence without looking up, '"Like father, like son"?' He didn't wait for an answer. 'I really don't like talking about this…' Andreas was surprised he'd made that admission to a stranger. 'But I'll give you an answer.'

  He lifted his eyes and stared directly at Tassos. 'I'm not going to stop doing what I think's right out of fear that the press might come after me like they did my father.' They'd done more than just come after him — they'd crucified him — but Andreas had no intention of discussing it further. Besides, everyone from Tassos' era on the force knew all the details — up to and including the suicide.

  Neither man spoke.

  Andreas leaned forward and broke the tension. 'Anything new?'

  Tassos noticeably relaxed in his chair. 'We've positively identified the dead body from dental records as the woman in the photo I faxed you, Helen Vandrew. Her parents are on their way to Greece to claim the body.'

  Silence.

  Tassos continued. 'The other three bodies probably were bound the same as Vandrew.'

  Andreas looked surprised. 'How could you tell?'

  'The twine.' He folded the list and put it in his pocket.

  'Twine?'

  'Costas found deteriorated bits of hemp in the crypt that match the approximate age of the bones.'

  'He found twine that old?' Andreas gave a nodding look of admiration.

  Tassos nodded with him. 'The crypt was dry and the twine the heavy-duty, commercial stuff farmers use. It's made to survive all kinds of weather.'

  'Any idea where it came from?'

  'Not yet, but doubt that would help much. It's sold all over the world. Nothing unique about it.'

  Andreas let out a breath. 'All bound the same way… all killed in a church…' His voice drifted off. 'The killer has to be acting out some sort of religious ritual — but what kind of ritual ever involved human sacrifice in Greece?'

  Tassos shrugged. 'There's always our myths. Look at Euripides' or Homer's account of Agamemnon.'

  Andreas shook his head. 'I can't believe some myth about a king sacrificing his daughter so that the gods would send wind for his sailing ships is behind this.'

  'But a woman was at the center of the myth. They were warships sailing to Troy to rescue Helen.' Tassos said the words without emotion.

  Andreas said, 'I just don't see it — two Helens or not — but who the hell knows. We're trying to figure out what twisted thinking is driving a crazy.' He shook his head again and drummed the fingers of his right hand on his desk. 'What about the drugs?'

  Tassos lifted and dropped his hands. 'Crystal meth? It must have something to do with getting his victim sexually excited. I don't have to tell you how tough that'll be to trace. It's everywhere. If we had a suspect, I could kick around some local dealers to try and come up with a match, but without a suspe
ct, forget it.'

  Andreas let out a breath. 'Could be homemade stuff. All he'd need is fertilizer, battery acid, and cold medicine.'

  'More Internet research?'

  Andreas let the teasing pass with a smile. 'I think there are three things to get started on right away, One' — he popped out a finger for emphasis — 'identify the sets of bones; two' — out popped another finger — 'find anyone who saw the Vandrew girl on the island and three-'

  'Look for more bodies,' Tassos interrupted.

  Andreas hadn't intended to say that. He'd thought it, but that wasn't his third choice — his was checking out Father Paul. Finding more bodies would make it a hell of a lot tougher to keep things quiet — practically and morally.

  Andreas shrugged. 'You're right.' He'd check out his original point three on his own.

  Tassos said, 'I'm pretty sure the bones we found were tourists because there are no women — Mykonian or otherwise — reported as missing from Mykonos even faintly resembling the size of the skeletons.'

  'How can that be? There are four women buried in a church on Mykonos. You'd think someone would have reported at least one of them missing.'

  Tassos shook his head. 'That's why I'm saying we should widen the search, look for missing foreigners generally — or at least off-island Greeks — not just those who disappeared on Mykonos. Someone might have tried to file a report, but Mykonos has a long history of claiming "nothing bad happens here."' He emphasized the phrase with his fingers in quote marks and a look of disgust. 'If someone tried reporting a foreign woman as missing on Mykonos, the police would say she must have left the island and no missing-person report would be tied to Mykonos. Only if a missing person were local or one with Greek friends or a family raising holy hell would there be a real push made.' He grinned. 'Isn't that one of the reasons you're its new chief — to change all that?'

  There really were no secrets from this guy, Andreas thought. It reminded him of how his dad somehow always knew when he was hiding cookies under his pillow. 'How do you suggest we get an ID on the bones without going through official channels?'

  'I'll ask a friend at Interpol who owes me a favor for a list of possible matches.'

  Andreas leaned back in his chair. He knew any likely match meant DNA testing against family members. How the hell to keep that quiet? 'My guys are checking the hotels, bars, clubs, taxis, tavernas, shops, and beaches for anyone who might have seen Vandrew.'

  Tassos nodded. 'So, on to point three.'

  Andreas said, 'How are we ever going to search all those churches?'

  Tassos shrugged. 'Good question. Even if we had the men, the families and the archbishop would be down our throats the moment we started. Trust me, our quiet investigation would end in roaring flames.'

  Silence.

  Andreas swiveled again. 'Maybe we don't have to go at it that way. If our killer's hidden other bodies,' and it seemed painfully certain he had, 'I think I know where to find them.'

  Tassos didn't seem surprised. 'And where would that be?'

  Andreas stared at him. 'In churches looked after by Father Paul.'

  Tassos nodded and smiled. 'You mean your original point three?'

  'Wiseass.' He really does know me, thought Andreas.

  They spent the next several hours poring over Andreas' Internet research trying to agree upon a profile for their suspect. They concluded the killer was at least forty and acting alone. Based upon the sheer size of the victims, if their killer were female, she'd have to be tremendously strong or have help, and since statistically most were men acting alone, they went with the percentages. They pegged his age to the fact one victim was murdered fifteen years ago and most serial killers don't start killing until their mid-twenties.

  How much older than forty he might be, they couldn't guess. The literature said serial killers act when they feel a 'compulsion' they must satisfy — usually driven by 'power-to-control or sexual urges.' There are 'cooling-off periods' of years or weeks between killings, but when they get the urge, they have to feed it — and the longer they kill without capture, the more frequent their need. The killer could go on killing for as long as he had the strength for it.

  Much of what they read seemed consistent with what they'd seen. 'The extreme, sadistic urges of many serial killers are typically expressed in bondage, mutilation, and torture of a sexual nature' — the twine, shaved hair, and tampons — 'and killing victims slowly over a long period of time.' Suffocation in a crypt was certainly that.

  They agreed on a description to distribute to their cops, being as careful as they could not to make it sound too much like the list of characteristics in Tassos' pocket.

  'A forties-plus male, in reasonably good physical condition. Intelligent, possibly a little kinky or sadistic, with a bad family history. May have a police record,' read Andreas.

  'Covers a lot of guys on this island,' said Tassos.

  'Let's add "more than fifteen-year resident or tourist on Mykonos."'

  'Sounds good to me.' Tassos looked at his watch. 'It's almost eight-thirty. I better head to the port if I want any chance of getting back to Syros before it's totally dark.'

  'Thanks.' Andreas reached out to shake hands but Tassos embraced him in the traditional Greek fashion of goodbye between friends.

  Tassos gave him an extra pat on the back. 'Speak to you tomorrow… my friend.' Andreas sensed he wanted to say more.

  After he left, Andreas looked over the notes of his conversation with Father Paul. He'd scribbled down the names of the churches the priest had rattled off, but he knew for sure he couldn't find all of them on his own. He'd have to come up with some innocuous way of getting that contractor Pappas to help him. For sure that would earn him a 'favors beget favors' lecture, but what the hell, sometimes you have to deal with the devil to catch a sinner.

  That was something he'd learned from his father.

  5

  The massive ferry made its traditional, midnight grand entrance into the harbor. The town looked more alive than Annika remembered — lights and people everywhere. She couldn't wait to get off. As she stepped out onto the open deck, her honey-blond hair whipped across her face. She liked the way it felt: free and unhampered. Meltemi winds blew only on late-summer afternoons, she thought, but then again, this was the island with windmills as its symbol. She quickly ran her fingers through her hair to pull it off her face and thought to grab a sweater out of her backpack but didn't. Once out of the wind, she'd be fine.

  She'd chosen a loose-fitting beige T-shirt, matching khaki cargo shorts, and sneakers for the trip. She wanted to look like every other backpacker. At just under six feet tall, that wasn't possible, especially when the straps of her backpack pressed her already ample bosom into the realm of wow. Nothing she could do about that. Nor about virtually every Greek man and adolescent boy around her taking part in a running gag all the way from Patmos as to how best to find and devour karpouzi. Since there were no watermelons anywhere to be seen, she had a pretty good idea of the melons that held their interest but acted as if she didn't understand a word of their conversations. She was being true to her father's favorite lecture: 'Don't let strangers know you understand their language. It gives you an edge.'

  She'd decided not to let anyone but her cousin and aunt know she was here. She wanted to be anonymous for as long as possible — just a poor little Dutch girl in search of a good time on Mykonos. She'd let the Greek boys take a shot — maybe one would get lucky. No, maybe I'll get lucky, she thought. Time to take charge of my life and do what I want to do, not what pleases some dickhead. She knew she still was angry, but she couldn't help it.

  She waited until the boat docked before going down the stairs. From experience she knew hurrying to get off in the first huddled rush meant a pressing crowd of anonymous groping hands. By the time she stepped onto the concrete pier a crowd had gathered about fifty yards away. That would be where the hotels solicited customers. She walked over and looked for someone holding a sign with
the name of a hotel she recognized but where no one would know her. The one she liked had a Greek couple and a gray-haired, fiftyish man engaged in the traditional haggling over price. After five animated minutes they reached a deal. Now it was her turn.

  The gray-haired man smiled and asked her in English where she was from.

  'Holland,' she answered in English.

  He smiled wider. 'Oh, we have many guests from Holland.' Then he said to her in Dutch, 'I have a wonderful room with a private bath and a view of the town, and because you are from my favorite country — next to Greece of course' — with a yet broader smile — 'I will give you a special price.'

  She smiled courteously. 'What is the price?'

  'One hundred eighty euros.'

  It was more than twice what he'd agreed upon with the Greeks for a double room.

  Annika replied in Dutch, 'That's very kind of you, sir, but I can't afford that much.' She turned to walk away.

  He grabbed her arm. 'No, no please, I understand. What can you afford?' He let go of her arm.

  She smiled. 'Oh, I'm sure it's far too little for such a wonderful room.'

  'I'll let you have it for a hundred euros.' He looked at her in a way that made Annika wonder if more than the price of a room was on his mind.

  She thought of walking away but decided to haggle. 'Forty.' If he accepted that lowball offer she definitely would walk away.

  'Seventy-five.'

  'No.'

  He paused. 'Sixty.'

  Sixty was a fair price, and it was late. 'Including breakfast?'

  A new smile lit across his face, and he gestured for her to come. 'Agreed.' He led her toward where his van was parked — with his hand ever so lightly pressing on her hip as if to steer her in the right direction.

  She didn't make an issue about his hand even though she was pretty sure it wasn't offered purely for guidance. She smiled as she remembered overhearing her mother once tell a girlfriend, 'Something about Mykonos makes every man think he has a chance at every woman.'

  He said the ride from the harbor to the hotel would be less than ten minutes and took the narrow two-lane road circling the original town. It was filled with partiers stumbling along the uneven concrete roadway trying to navigate a maze of illegally parked cars and motorbikes. Crowds constricted parts of the road down to a single lane, but the man didn't seem to care. He never slowed down unless forced to by an oncoming driver. Whether they knew it or not, these pedestrians were not protected by the gods of Delos; they were on their own, and for those not prepared to expect the unexpected from a Greek driver, there were ambulances.