The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery

by Mike McIntyre

  With a couple clicks of the mouse, Mel enlarged the picture.

  The horrified HomeMart heiress, locked in medieval wooden stocks, took up most of the image. Behind her, a black backdrop. The photo was much clearer than the grainy reproduction in the paper, but I couldn’t detect any more clues.

  I studied every inch of the image. The killer had been careful not to include anything in the picture that might reveal his location.

  Then a tiny dark spot caught my eye. It was slightly lighter than the rest of the black backdrop. It was down low, where the backdrop met the floor.

  “Can you zoom in on this?” I said, tapping the screen.

  Mel dragged the cursor to the lower right corner and clicked the mouse. The part of the photo that included the spot enlarged on the screen.

  The dark backdrop was a black velvet curtain. The lighter spot appeared to be a stain. But when I looked closer, I saw that the spot was where two sections of the curtain had parted.

  I was staring at something behind the curtain.

  “Blow this up bigger,” I said.

  Mel clicked the mouse and the spot grew larger.

  I peered at the screen. The spot was chocolate brown. It had an uneven surface, with peaks and valleys, like a relief map. But the bumps were the same size.

  “What’s this area look like to you?” I said, pointing to the spot.

  Mel squinted. “I don’t know, something with mounds,” she said. “It looks a little like an egg carton.”

  “Right!”

  “But that’s too dark to be an egg carton,” she said. “I don’t even think it’s cardboard. It’s something else.”

  “Uh-huh,” I agreed.

  “It looks like some type of foam.”

  “Right again,” I said. “It’s soundproofing.”

  “Like in a recording studio?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you saying Friar Tom is a musician who tortures people in his rehearsal space?”

  “Dunno,” I said. “But he’s outfitted his torture chamber with the kind of soundproofing musicians use.”

  I had Mel bring the original image back on the screen.

  I studied Samples’ face. The need for soundproofing was clear. She had screamed her lungs out before Friar Tom had finished with her.

  Men always noticed the former Penthouse Pet’s perfect breasts. But then they were drawn to her eyes. Even in her darkest hour, her eyes sparkled and drew you in. It was a shame that the last thing those beautiful eyes saw was pure evil.

  “Zoom in on her right eye,” I said.

  “What do you see?” Mel said, clicking the mouse.

  “Maybe a reflection, maybe nothing, I’m not sure.”

  Samples’ right eye enlarged on the screen.

  “Can you make it bigger?”

  Mel expanded the image until whatever it was I had glimpsed vanished in a blur of pixels.

  “The bigger I make it, the fuzzier the resolution,” Mel explained.

  “Try the left eye.”

  Mel reduced the blown-up image and returned the original photo to the screen. She hovered the cursor over Samples’ left eye and clicked. The eye doubled in size.

  I peered at the screen, and the hint of what I thought I’d seen came back. Only in this eye it was sharper.

  “Do you see it?” I said.

  “I’m not sure,” Mel said. “I might be seeing some colors, red and yellow, maybe.”

  “It’s a reflection,” I said.

  “Then she had to be wearing contact lenses. The naked eye wouldn’t pick this up.”

  “Try blowing it up some more.”

  Mel clicked the mouse and the image blurred.

  “Damn!” I said.

  “Let me try something,” Mel said.

  She clicked an icon on the computer’s desktop and launched a new application. “An object recognition tool,” she explained. “It detects a pattern among the clear pixels in the digital image, then it artificially inserts what it thinks should go in the blurry pixels.”

  She pointed and clicked the mouse several more times. After the final click, a new version of Samples’ left eye emerged. The reflection was much sharper.

  Goose bumps sprang on my arms. I knew what the reflection was, but I wanted Mel’s confirmation.

  “What do you see now?” I said.

  “Definitely red and yellow.”

  “Uh-huh. What else?”

  “It’s a red and yellow shirt!”

  I nodded. “Hello, Friar Tom,” I said. “Now look above the shirt, where his face would be.”

  Mel squinted at the round shape above the shirt. She shook her head.

  “Zoom in more,” I said.

  Mel clicked the mouse. The image disintegrated into a black orb of blurry pixels.

  I leaned back in my chair and smiled.

  “What, Ty? I can’t see his features. It’s too dark.”

  “Right,” I said.

  I waited for Mel to catch up.

  When it finally hit her, she said, “Friar Tom is black.”

  CHAPTER 65

  The next night, Jordan and I went to Mel and Hector’s place. It was a welcome-home-from-jail/wedding celebration.

  Mel served burek, a traditional Bosnian dish of phyllo dough stuffed with spiced meat and onions.

  After Satka excused herself to go watch Toy Story 3, the conversation turned to Friar Tom. He’d boosted the city’s frenzy with a new letter promising more private tours of his torture chamber. The letter was again penned in the same bizarre childlike scrawl and sent to both the Sun and the Times.

  The second letter had cleared up a mystery: the whereabouts of reality TV producer Dick Cameron, who had been reported missing.

  “Attention sports editors, an early score,” declared a postscript, “Friar Tom 7—SDPD 0.”

  In the parlance of television, Dick Cameron had been canceled.

  After Hector’s fabulous flan, I helped Mel clear the table. Then Hector asked me to join him on the balcony.

  Hector was a rising star with the FBI who had been through the Bureau’s elite serial crime unit, in Quantico, Virginia. He was frustrated that SDPD hadn’t asked for his help.

  “They’re embarrassed from the missteps they made with Graywalls—and you,” he said. “They think their only vindication is to solve the case themselves.”

  Hector took a sip from his glass of wine.

  “But this type of killer is the hardest to catch,” he said. “He butchers his victims slowly, then spends days or weeks with their body parts. Anybody that shameless tends to wear down the morale of law enforcement.”

  Hector gazed at the city below. The streets were nearly empty. People were in hiding.

  “Get out your notebook, Ty.”

  Hector began to profile Friar Tom: forty to forty-five years old, divorced or widowed, college degree, military service with a less than honorable discharge, a psychopath but not insane…

  I scribbled as fast as I could.

  “He comes off likable,” Hector said, “the kind of guy you want to trust.”

  “Not the monster I pictured,” I said.

  “We all think we know what a monster looks like, but we don’t.”

  The balcony door opened and Satka ran out in her pajamas to kiss her father goodnight. On her way back inside, she stopped to give me a hug.

  “’Night, Ty,” she said.

  “Sweet dreams, Satka.”

  It’s a sick world and only getting sicker. I wondered what it would be like when little Satka and Heather grew up.

  Hector waited until Satka closed the door, then said, “He doesn’t have a criminal record.”

  I looked up, surprised.

  “Yeah, these are his first crimes. Never even cheated on his income taxes. He votes Republican. Maybe a small businessman, belongs to Rotary or Kiwanis. A model citizen. Or was.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “His victims were successful, pow
erful people. He wanted to be one of them. When he fell short, he gave up his stake in society and lashed out against those who achieved the success he thought he deserved. Deep down, he knows he’s a loser who’s never had control over his own life. He compensates by controlling others. He needs to manipulate and dominate his prey. Now he’s a big success. His first victim was his first success. And with each victim, he grows more successful.”

  “What set him off?” I said.

  “A recent painful event. Perhaps the loss of a loved one, maybe financial problems.”

  I already knew Friar Tom was African-American. But I wanted Hector to confirm it.

  “Race?” I said.

  “I’m almost certain he’s white, nearly all serial killers are,” he said.

  “What about Wayne Williams and the kids he killed in Atlanta?” I said. “The D.C. snipers?”

  “Rare exceptions,” Hector said. “Let’s leave race out of the profile for now. We can’t risk eliminating potential suspects.”

  Hector was good, not infallible. But I decided not to press the issue.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Friar Tom learns from experience. He’s perfecting his routine, getting better and better. He can’t stop. He won’t quit until he’s caught or killed.”

  Hector drained the last of his wine. He looked spent. He’d paid a toll to get inside the minds of society’s most repugnant killers.

  “Write all this up, Ty,” he said. “Someone out there will recognize him.”

  CHAPTER 66

  An Internet search led me to the Acoustical Contractors Association, a lobby group based in Washington, D.C.

  “I’m hoping you can refer me to an expert on egg carton-shaped soundproofing,” I told the man on the phone.

  “Acoustic foam,” said Gerald Stokind, ACA’s chief lobbyist.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We call it acoustic foam, only the public calls it soundproofing,” he said. “And the egg carton type is being phased out. The industry has developed composites with tighter foam cells that yield better acoustics.”

  “Anyone you know who could identify a specific brand of this acoustic foam for a story I’m working on?”

  “If you send me a sample, I’ll be happy to take a look at it for you.”

  “I don’t have one,” I said. “Could I e-mail you a picture of it?”

  “That’d work.”

  I stayed on the line to make sure Stokind received my e-mail and the attached photo file.

  “Got it,” he said.

  I started to give him my number, so he could call back with an identification, when he said, “That’s the Holmes Soundlite RL-9.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, how do you know already from one blurry photo?”

  “When you live, eat and breathe acoustic materials, you get to where you can identify them in the dark. It’s definitely the RL-9. Ancient stuff. It’s manufactured by Holmes Sound Products. They’re a small outfit down in Kingtree, South Carolina. I’ve got their number right here.”

  The man who answered at Holmes Sound Products chuckled when I asked about the RL-9 acoustic foam.

  “Boy, yew sure are takin’ me back,” he said. “We ain’t made that in more ’n ten years.”

  “But there might still be some on the market,” I said.

  “Well, yeah, I s’pose.”

  “Would you know who your vendors are out here in San Diego?”

  “Hmm, they cain’t be more ’n three o’ four of ’em in yo’ area. Hold on, lemme have a look.”

  When the man came back on the phone, he said, “I was wrong. They’s only one.”

  I drove to San Diego Acoustics. I told the owner I was a reporter working on a story. I didn’t give him my name.

  “What kind of story?” he asked suspiciously.

  “A business story about trends in the soundproofing industry,” I lied.

  He let down his guard, and I asked about the RL-9.

  His face soured. “Don’t write about that crap. Come over here, let me show you the latest.”

  “So you do carry it?”

  He shrugged. “Used to sell it to teenagers for their garage bands.”

  “Used to?” I said.

  “We stopped stocking it years ago. Didn’t work too well. Lot of upset parents asked for refunds.” He shook his head and laughed. “I had eight rolls laying around here forever. Finally got rid of them a couple months back.”

  I couldn’t contain my excitement.

  “You recall the customer?” I blurted.

  The owner gave me a sideways glance. “Where you from again?”

  I told him. I hoped it was enough.

  “He was just some guy,” the owner said. “Said he needed the foam for his kids’ tumbling mats.”

  “Maybe you can pull the invoice and get his name?” I said.

  “No invoice. I just charged him a few bucks.”

  I was instantly deflated. But then I remembered the owner could confirm at least one detail.

  “This guy,” I said, “was he black?”

  “No, white.”

  CHAPTER 67

  Sun editor Donald Street sat at his desk, reading the morning paper.

  SUN RECEIVES THIRD FRIAR TOM LETTER, proclaimed the headline.

  “He didn’t send this letter to the Times.”

  Street looked up from the paper. Darcy McLaren, his up and coming reporter, stood in the doorway.

  “Maybe he’s punishing them for their editorial urging him to seek psychiatric help,” Street said.

  McLaren approached. “I had this criminal justice class in college,” she said. “Serial killers collect newspaper clippings of their crimes.”

  “So?” Street said.

  “So I’m wondering if Friar Tom is mad enough at the Times to cancel his subscription.”

  “Darcy, do you know how many readers cancel the Times everyday? How many people go on vacation, move or die?”

  “Lots, I know,” she said. “But how many would cancel the Times and keep getting the Sun?”

  Street smiled. “Clever girl.”

  “I need the list of Times cancellations this week to cross against our subscribers.”

  “Leave that to me,” Street said.

  Street had the list to her before noon.

  McLaren began to crosscheck the recent Times cancellations against the master list of Sun subscribers. She would look for names that appeared on both lists.

  She worked quickly, but carefully. Her chance at glory could be lost in the blink of a bleary eye. She skipped lunch and stopped only for one bathroom break.

  By three-thirty, she had crosschecked the last name, Francis Zubyk.

  McLaren looked at the names and addresses she had jotted on a notepad. As expected, it was a short list. Only four people who canceled their subscriptions to the Times that week continued to take home delivery of the Sun.

  She scratched off one of the names. Somebody in Houston. That left three people. Friar Tom might be among them.

  The three addresses were far apart. One was in Clairemont, north of downtown. Another was in San Ysidro, near the Mexican border. The third was in Descanso, out in East County.

  McLaren grabbed her purse and the list of names. She had a lot of miles to cover.

  Her plan was to visit the homes of each of the three subscribers, posing as a Times customer service representative. She’d ask what the paper needed to do to regain their business.

  She figured that any former Times subscriber with a legitimate gripe would readily express it. Friar Tom would be the one who hesitated.

  She would not enter anybody’s house. She would keep well back from the door. If she got a nervous reaction, she’d apologize on behalf of the Times, promise to try harder and calmly retreat to her car.

  Then she’d call the police.

  When SDPD swooped in for the arrest, she’d have her scoop. She would treat readers to a first-person account of how she had led po
lice to the serial killer.

  McLaren felt a pang of guilt. Her promotion had come at the expense of her mentor, Tyler West. Nothing she could do about that now. Besides, West had told her, “Do your best.”

  She planned to.

  McLaren knew she was courting danger. But it was worth the risk. With any luck, she would bag the Sun’s second Pulitzer.

  She started with the address in Clairemont.

  The neighborhood on the mesa above Mission Bay was one of the city’s first subdivisions. She parked in front of a plain brown stucco house from the 1950s.

  The door was on the side of the house, at the top of a small concrete landing. McLaren climbed the steps and paused. She almost started back to the car, but grabbed her nerve and knocked.

  There was no answer.

  She headed south on the I-5 and took the last exit before the border. She pulled up to a bungalow in a drab neighborhood fronting the dusty hillsides of Tijuana.

  An elderly woman answered the door. McLaren told her she was Sally Reynolds, from the Times, there to see why she had canceled her subscription.

  “No offense, but I’ve never liked your paper,” the old woman said. “Too liberal, if you ask me. My husband was the Times reader. He passed on a few months ago, and I only got around to canceling this week.”

  McLaren offered her condolences and got back in her car.

  She made the forty-minute drive to Descanso, a rural town off the I-8, inside the Cleveland National Forest.

  The trip was a waste. The former subscriber was mad at the Times for yanking his favorite cartoon strip, Pickles.

  She returned to San Diego and tried the Clairemont address again.

  It was dark when she stopped in front of the brown stucco house at 4044 Moultrie Avenue. There was a light on inside.

  She walked up the driveway on the side of the house and climbed the steps to the top of the landing.

  She knocked on the windowless door.

  A man appeared in the doorway.

  “Hi there,” she said. “I’m Sally Reynolds, customer service rep for the San Diego Times. We see that you recently canceled your subscription with us, and if it’s not too much trouble, I was hoping you might take a few minutes to tell us how we might improve the paper.”