Alexa looked over the files that had come in from other states since the arrest the night before. They were trying to cross-check Quentin with a dozen victims. The photographs of the girls who had been killed were heartbreaking, and looked uncannily like Charlie’s sister. There was a photograph of her in the stack too. All of the victims were between eighteen and twenty-five, most of them were blond and had a similar appearance. They had the look of wholesome young girls next door. All had been raped before they died—the bruises on their necks showed that all had been strangled, asphyxiated while their assailant raped them, which was consistent with his supposed desire to reenact “snuff films” and kill women during sex. All the young women had parents and friends who had loved them, brothers and sisters and boyfriends and fiancés whose lives had been forever changed when they died. Some of the bodies still hadn’t been found, but many had. Some had just disappeared, and no one knew for sure if they had died, but the computer had spat them out as possible victims, and they had the same look as the others. In all, including those who hadn’t been found, there were nineteen of them. Twelve whose remains had been located. Seven more whose hadn’t.
Luke Quentin had a clear affinity for a certain type, if it was him. And if he wasn’t, the killer liked a certain kind of woman, young, blond, beautiful, usually tall and lanky. Several of them had been models or beauty queens, the pride of their community, young girls on their way to happy lives and success, until they met him. He wasn’t picking up sleazy women in bars, or killing hookers. He was on a rampage, seeking out the All-American Girl Next Door, which had left a trail of heartbroken, shocked, outraged parents across several states. Jack and Charlie and the rest of the investigation team and task force were all convinced he was the killer they were looking for. Now they needed to prove it, and the dried blood and hair in the soles of his boots and in his carpet was a first step. It had been their first lucky break, but that was all it took. One misstep on the killer’s part, one infinitesimal forgotten detail, and sometimes the whole house of cards came down and got them their man.
It was hard to believe that one man could kill so many women, but it happened. There were sick people in the world. It was Jack’s job to find them, and Alexa’s to put them away. And she knew as she looked at the photographs that she was going to put Luke Quentin away, if he was the killer. If so, Alexa was going to be relentless and stop at nothing to convict him.
It would be small consolation to the families who had lost their daughters. She knew that in many cases they were astonishingly forgiving, and even spoke with the killers and said they forgave them. Alexa never understood it, although she had seen it often. She knew that if anything had happened to Savannah, she would never forgive the person who did it. She couldn’t. The very thought of it made her tremble.
Jack went to the arraignment early with her at three-thirty. She had read all the pertinent files by then, and knew Quentin’s history. She watched as they brought him into the courtroom in shackles and an orange jumpsuit. He was wearing jail-issue light canvas shoes, since his own boots had been taken as evidence for forensic, to analyze what was on them.
Alexa watched him move across the courtroom. He was a big man, powerful, but graceful. He moved with an arrogance that struck her the moment she saw him. And she didn’t know why she thought it, but there was something subtly sexual about him. She could see why girls were attracted to him, or would be lured away to a quiet place to talk. He didn’t look ominous, he looked sexy, handsome and appealing, until you looked into his eyes and saw how cold they were. They were the eyes of a man who would stop at nothing. As a prosecutor, Alexa had seen eyes like that before. He chatted easily with the public defender who had been assigned to him, a woman. And Alexa saw him laughing. It didn’t seem to bother him at all that he was there, accused of four counts each of rape and murder. Murder in the first degree, premeditated, with intent to kill. They were throwing the book at him, and at the sentencing, if he was convicted, she was going to ask the judge to give him consecutive sentences. He was going to be in prison for the next hundred years at least, if Alexa had anything to do with it, and she hoped she would. This was going to be a long and complicated case to try to a jury, if he didn’t plead guilty, and guys like him usually didn’t. They brazened it out, and had nothing to lose. They had nothing but time on their hands and taxpayers’ money to spend. In some cases, it was a media circus they enjoyed. Luke Quentin didn’t look bothered by it at all, and as they waited for the judge to come out of chambers, Quentin turned slowly in his chair and looked straight at Alexa. His hands were cuffed, and his feet were shackled, and a deputy stood near him, and his eyes looked right through Alexa as though he had X-ray vision, and Alexa felt a chill run down her spine. When you looked into those eyes, it was terrifying. She shifted her gaze after a moment and said something to Jack, who nodded. It was suddenly easy to believe that Quentin had killed nineteen women, or maybe more. Charlie McAvoy was sitting in the courtroom, staring at him, and wanting to kill him. He had seen his sister’s body and what the killer had done to her. All he wanted now was justice. No punishment would be enough for Charlie.
The judge came out of chambers then, and Alexa spoke for the people of the State of New York and stated the charges. The judge nodded as he listened, and the public defender spoke for the defendant and said he pleaded not guilty, to every charge, which was standard procedure. It meant that he was not going to admit guilt or plea-bargain for the moment, but none had been offered. It was too soon. No attempt was made to set bail, not on four counts of rape and murder, and Alexa said they would be seeking an indictment from the grand jury. And a few minutes later, Quentin was led back to the door where the prisoners entered, and taken back to jail. Just before he left the room, he turned and looked at Alexa again. He smiled an eerie smile, and then walked through the door another deputy had opened. It was as though he was looking Alexa over. She was older than he was, and twice the age of his victims, but his look said he could have her if he wanted. Alexa felt as though no woman would be safe from this man. He defined “menace to society,” and he was outrageously cocky. Nothing suggested remorse or fear or even worry. He looked like a big, handsome guy who had the world by the tail and could do whatever he wanted, or acted that way.
There had been no press in the courtroom, because no statement had been made yet, but Alexa knew that almost immediately the media would be following the case. She was feeling uneasy when she left the courtroom. It was though he had run his hands over her, and she wanted to hit him. She was still feeling that way when she put her coat on in her office an hour later and went upstairs to another courtroom. Court was still in session, and a woman judge was on the bench, admonishing a man for having been delinquent in his child support for the last six months. She threatened to put him in jail, and he promised to pay promptly. It was the family law court, and half a dozen dramas were unfolding, as they always were.
Alexa waited until court adjourned, and followed the judge into her chambers. She knocked and opened the door, as the judge was stepping out of her robes. She was wearing a black skirt and a red sweater, and she was an attractive woman in her early sixties. She smiled at Alexa immediately, and came to give her a hug.
“Hi, sweetheart. What are you doing here?” Alexa didn’t know, but she had needed to come here after her unsettling afternoon watching Luke Quentin in court.
“I just got a big case, and I went to the arraignment. The guy is so frightening, it freaked me out.”
“What kind of case?” the judge asked with interest.
“Serial killer, and rapist. He seems to prey on young women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. We have nineteen murders we’re trying to link to him, and four almost for sure here in New York. I hope we’ll be able to nail him on the rest, but we don’t know yet.” As she listened, the judge winced. The sign on her desk said Muriel Hamilton. She was Alexa’s mother and the family court judge.
“God, I’m glad I don�
��t get cases like that. It would make me sick. It’s bad enough watching guys who won’t support their children but go out and buy a new Porsche. I made one of them sell his to give back support to his ex-wife. Sometimes guys can be such jerks. But this sounds ugly.” And Muriel didn’t like it. Not at all.
“Just looking at him, knowing what I do about him, the guy scares me to death,” Alexa admitted. She wouldn’t have said it to anyone but her mother. She didn’t usually have that kind of reaction, but Quentin’s arrogant, invasive glances at her had really gotten under her skin.
“Be careful,” her mother warned her.
“I’m not going to be alone with him, Mom.” Alexa smiled at her. She loved the fact that they could talk about work, among other things. Her mother had saved her life when she got back from Charleston. It had been her idea for Alexa to go to law school, and as usual she’d been right. “They bring him to court in cuffs and shackles,” she reassured her, but her mother still looked worried.
“Sometimes guys like that have friends. As a prosecutor, you’re going to be the focus of all his anger, if you indict him and bring him to trial. If you do, as far as he’s concerned, you’re the reason he’s in jail. And the press will eat you alive on a case like this too.” They both knew she was right about that.
“He doesn’t seem to mind being in jail. And the guy who lost the Porsche was probably pretty pissed at you too.” Once or twice her mother had had to have a deputy sheriff at the house for protection during a tough case. Her mother laughed at what Alexa had said. And then Alexa had an idea. “Do you want to come to dinner tomorrow night?”
Her mother looked mildly embarrassed. “I can’t. I have a date.”
“You and Savannah. I can’t keep up with either of you.”
“No, and you don’t try. When was the last time you had a date?”
“In the stone age. I think people were carrying clubs and wearing fur.” Alexa looked ruefully at her mother. Muriel always brought it up.
“That’s not funny. You need to get out more, and at least have dinner with friends.” Alexa worked, went home to her daughter, and that was it. Her mother worried about her.
“I’m not going to have time to go out for a while now. I have to prepare this case.”
“You always have some excuse,” Muriel chided her. “I hate your having cases like this. Why don’t you get a decent job?” her mother teased. “Like tax law or estate planning, or animal rights or something. I don’t love the idea of you prosecuting serial killers.”
“I’ll be fine,” Alexa said. She didn’t need to ask who her mother’s date was. She knew. She and Judge Schwartzman had been dating for years, since Alexa was in college. Her mother hadn’t gone out much before that. She was too busy with her own work, and raising her daughter. Now she and Stanley Schwartzman went to dinner and movies, and sneaked away for the occasional weekend. Alexa knew that he usually spent the night on Saturdays. Neither of them wanted to get married, and the arrangement had worked for years. He was a lovely man, five years older than her mother and approaching retirement, but he was lively and in good shape. He had two daughters and a son older than Alexa, and sometimes they all got together over the holidays.
Her mother put her coat on, and they walked out of the courthouse together. It was just starting to snow, and they shared a cab uptown. Alexa dropped her mother off and went farther uptown to her apartment. She was looking forward to seeing Savannah at the end of a long day and was disappointed when she wasn’t home. For a minute, a chill ran up her spine, thinking of men like Luke Quentin loose in the world, and Savannah was still so innocent at her age. It was a horrifying thought. But she turned the lights on and chased it from her mind. She looked around the room then and realized that in the fall, that was how it was going to be, a dark, empty house when she got home. She wasn’t looking forward to it, to say the least. And then, as Alexa stood there thinking about it glumly, Savannah called and said she’d be home soon. She didn’t want her mother to worry, and she said she was bringing friends. It reminded Alexa that things were still okay. Luke Quentin was in jail where he belonged. And Savannah was still part of her life every day. Alexa heaved a small sigh of relief, sat down on the couch, and turned on the TV. And there it was, the story of Luke Quentin on the evening news. And a still shot of Alexa leaving the courtroom after the arraignment. She hadn’t even seen the photographer who took it. The report said she was a senior assistant DA with a history of convictions in major cases. All Alexa could think of as she looked at the shot on TV was that her hair looked a mess. It was no wonder she hadn’t had a date in over a year, she thought, and laughed out loud as she switched channels and saw the same photograph again. The media circus had begun.
Chapter 3
As Alexa sat alone in a small dark room watching through a wall that was a two-way mirror, Luke Quentin was led into a larger room on the other side. Jack Jones and Charlie McAvoy were waiting for him, sitting at a long table. The other arresting officer, Bill Neeley, was there too, and two other cops Alexa had seen but didn’t know by name. The full investigation team was present, as well as some people from the task force who would work with them later, but for now these were the primary cops involved. It was Monday morning, and everyone looked fresh after the weekend.
As he had been at the arraignment, Quentin was led in, in shackles and handcuffs, and he looked calm and in control. The deputy sheriff with him took off the cuffs as soon as he sat down, and Luke looked at the men on the other side of the table.
“Anyone got a smoke?” he asked with a lazy smile. It was no longer allowed in the investigation rooms, but Jack figured it might be a helpful tool to put Quentin at ease. He nodded and slid him a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. Quentin flicked a match with his thumbnail and lit up. Alexa could hear clearly everything that was said, and she sat in the darkness, watchful and tense. She wanted the interrogation to go well. Quentin took a long drag of the cigarette, exhaled a billow of lazy smoke, and then turned to precisely the spot where Alexa sat, as though he sensed her, and could feel her, and knew without question she was there. Through the darkened one-way glass, his ice-colored eyes met hers, and he smiled a small wicked smile, meant just for her. He knew almost certainly that she was there. The word that came to mind for Alexa was “insolent.” She wasn’t sure if he meant the look to be a caress or a slap, but it felt like both to her. She straightened in her seat, and without thinking, she reached for her own cigarettes. There was no one there to see it. She smoked occasionally and watched Quentin intently as she did.
“Tell us where you’ve been for the last two years,” Jack asked him without expression. “What cities, what states.” They knew exactly where he had been for the last six months, and Jack wanted to see if the suspect would tell them the truth. He did. He rattled off a list of towns and cities, in all the states they knew. “What have you been doing there?”
“Working. Visiting guys I knew in the joint. I’m not on parole. I can do what I want,” he said cockily. Jack nodded assent. They knew he had taken jobs as a laborer, unloading freight, and in one of the farm states, he had picked crops for a few weeks. His size was in his favor and always got him a job. It wasn’t in the favor of his victims and had cost them their lives. They knew that as well. Quentin looked arrogant, but there was no threat of violence in his demeanor, and he had had no history of it in prison or before that they knew of. Luke was said to be a peace-loving man, but would meet the challenge if attacked. He had been stabbed once, when trying to break up a fight between two rival gangs, but he had had no known gang associations and kept to himself.
Quentin was known to be a jogger in prison. He ran track, and jogged daily in the yard. And he had continued running once he got out. They had watched him in parks several times, and it was often where the victims were found, but they still couldn’t tie him to them. There were no witnesses to the crimes. The fact that he had run in the same park didn’t mean that they had died at his hands
. There hadn’t been a single drop of sperm in any of the women, which meant that he had used a condom or had a disability of some kind, which maybe led him to rape. He was brilliant at what he did, if it was him.
Quentin was arrogant, but not a braggart. He waited for their questions and offered nothing else. He met their eyes, and from time to time glanced at the window where Alexa watched with a serious expression. Without realizing it, she had smoked half a dozen cigarettes by then.
“You know I didn’t do it,” Quentin said after a while, looking straight at Jack and laughing at him. His eyes had drifted past Charlie, dismissing him with a glance. “You guys just need someone to pin it on, to make you look good. You’re playing to the press.”
Jack decided to dispense with the amenities, as he met Quentin’s eyes. There was nothing there, neither guilt nor fear, nor even concern. The only thing he saw there was contempt. Luke was laughing at them, and thought they were fools. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, which suspects often did. The lights were hot. All the cops in the room were perspiring profusely, while Quentin looked cool. But they were wearing street clothes and bulletproof vests, he was in a thin jumpsuit, and totally at ease.
“There was blood in the dirt on your shoes,” Jack told him calmly.
“So what?” Quentin looked completely indifferent. “I run every day. I don’t look at the ground when I run. I run through dirt, dog shit, human excrement every day. I could have run through blood. It wasn’t on my hands.” And it wasn’t on his clothes. They had already gone through everything he owned. It was only in the dirt on his shoes. And he could have been telling the truth, although it was unlikely. “You can’t hold me forever. And if that’s all you’ve got, your charges won’t stick. You know that as well as I do. You’ll have to do better than that. You’re full of shit and you know it. The arrest is no good.”
Southern Lights Page 3
