by Mike Omer
Pauline arrived three minutes later, her face flushed, and apologized repeatedly for being late. Apparently there was a lot of traffic. And an accident.
Mitchell said that it was fine, and reproachfully added that next time she could leave work a bit earlier. After all, there was always traffic around this time of the day.
“So, where did you disappear to in the middle of the night?” Pauline asked, after the waitress had taken their orders.
“A girl was hit by a car,” Mitchell said. “She died.”
“Oh, no!” Pauline said, covering her mouth. “How did it happen?”
“Someone hit her, then drove over her again when he fled the scene.”
“Oh my god! Was he drunk?”
“Don’t really know yet. We think not,” Mitchell said. “It seems intentional. There’s a really weird detail…” He hesitated, then pushed on. “Apparently he was trying to sell the victim a car. And then, for some reason, he ran her over with that very car.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did you catch him?”
“Not yet.”
“Then how do you know that he was trying to sell her the car?”
Mitchell told her about the message. He’d spent the afternoon trying to track down the person who’d sent Tamay the message. The number that the man had used was disconnected, and was unlisted. Mitchell had begun searching for assault and murder cases that were related to used car sales, thinking maybe this was some sort of pattern of criminal behavior. A used car salesman had been stabbed in Glenmore Park five months before, because of a faulty vehicle he’d sold. But that didn’t seem to be relevant to the case, and the perpetrator was behind bars. Nothing else even came close.
Eventually, Mitchell had sent an e-mail to Abram Simmons, a detective he knew in the Boston Police Department, asking if he had heard of any similar cases in Boston or anywhere nearby. It was a long shot, but Boston was a big place, and if this really was a pattern maybe it had started there.
He told Pauline about it, hoping maybe something would occur to him as he detailed the case thoroughly. He often discussed his cases with Pauline. He knew other detectives had problems in their relationships because they refused to talk about the job with their spouses. Jacob had told him about it once, saying Marissa often complained that she felt as if she wasn’t part of a significant portion of his life.
It was only as they were eating dessert, drinking their third glasses of wine, that Mitchell suddenly recalled the ring in his pocket. This was the perfect place for it, but he suppressed the urge to pull it out. They had just talked for over an hour about a girl who had been murdered.
It seemed like a poor prologue for a marriage proposal.
Chapter Ten
Mitchell was alone in the squad room the following morning. Jacob had gone to talk to Tamay’s boss at the Wild Pony, but Mitchell preferred to keep on searching the crime reports. He was already on his third cup of coffee, yet his eyelids kept drooping as he scanned report after report, looking for any missing links.
He jumped when the phone rang, then answered it. “Detective Mitchell Lonnie.”
“Lonnie, “ a gruff voice said. “This is Detective Simmons, from the Boston PD.”
“Oh, hey, thanks for getting back to me,” Mitchell said.
“Sure, no problem. So someone tried to sell this girl… Tamay, a car. Then later ran her over with the same car?”
“Yeah. I was wondering if you ran into a similar crime. Maybe an assault that happened when someone was trying to buy or sell a car, or—”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I didn’t see anything like that about a car, but I have a really weird coincidence for you.”
“What is it?” Mitchell asked, doodling on his notepad. He wrote down Used Car and Coincidence, and then drew a small snake wearing a shoe.
“I have a man who was trying to sell a young woman a gun, and then later she was shot with the same gun.”
Mitchell’s doodling hand paused. “Really?” he said.
“Yeah. I’ll send you the case, you can check it out for yourself. A woman named Aliza Kennedy was shot to death on her way to work. The gun that was used to shoot her was found in a nearby dumpster. It was a Beretta PX4. Later, it turned out that someone was trying to sell her a Beretta PX4.”
“Are you sure it was the same gun?”
“No, but it’s too much of a coincidence.”
“Maybe,” Mitchell said, but he felt doubtful that it was related to his case. “Thanks for letting me know, I’ll check it out.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” Simmons said. “I’ll keep my eyes open for any car-related crimes.”
A moment later, the e-mail from Simmons popped up in Mitchell’s inbox. It was a scanned document of all the case paperwork. Mitchell opened the document on his computer and read it. There were several images from the crime scene. A young woman lay dead in the street, her shirt drenched in blood. There was a picture of the dumpster, the gun tossed inside—in clear view, as though someone didn’t care if it was found. According to the report, no fingerprints or any other trace evidence were found on the gun. Mitchell skimmed over the case’s details. Finally, he found what he was looking for. It wasn’t a simple gun transaction gone wrong, as he had previously assumed.
Aliza, the victim, had received a message half an hour before she was shot: As we discussed, attached is a picture of the Beretta that I have for sale. The attached image was of a Beretta PX4. Aliza had replied, You have the wrong number. I’m not interested in purchasing a gun. There were no further replies from either of them. The phone number had been traced to a disposable phone, which was disconnected.
Mitchell searched for Aliza Kennedy, and found some images of her easily enough. She had been twenty-two when she was murdered. She was Caucasian, blonde, with a perfect smile and a sweet, innocent face. She was uncommonly beautiful.
He opened Tamay’s Instagram page and looked at her pictures. One thing was clear: she was also young and incredibly beautiful.
Had Tamay really wanted to buy a car? She had never responded to the message with the Toyota’s image. Was it also a wrong number?
Both girls had been killed in the street. One going to work, one coming home from work.
Both phones, disposable and disconnected.
Mitchell looked up, his mind whirring, as Jacob walked into the squad room.
“The boss is a dead end,” Jacob said. “Also, I think he has a horse fetish. The entire place is covered with pictures of—”
“Jacob, check this out,” Mitchell said. “I think I got something.”
Jacob came over to Mitchell’s computer, and Mitchell showed him Aliza’s murder case, pointing out the similarities. Jacob grabbed a chair and sat down in front of Mitchell’s computer, reading the entire report twice. Mitchell remained silent, knowing his partner hated distractions when reading. Finally, Jacob leaned back and frowned.
“Maybe this guy makes a living selling stuff,” Mitchell said, trying to formulate an idea. “Except when he encounters young women, he—”
“He didn’t encounter them,” Jacob said. “He sent them messages. At least in Aliza’s case, it looks as if she wasn’t even searching for a gun to buy.”
“Yeah, but—” Mitchell stared at the ceiling. “This is really strange. He found out where they were. And somehow he had their numbers. Maybe he was tracking them through their phone somehow—”
“You kids and your technology,” Jacob said. “He didn’t find out where they were. He got them on a route they took regularly, between work and home. He was stalking them.”
Mitchell felt an idea beginning to form, something that would make this puzzle complete. “A route they took regularly,” he said slowly. “At a place or time where there were no people to see. And he was trying to sell—”
“It was never about selling anything,” Jacob said, his voice low. “It was about sending them an image of the murder weapon. An imag
e of the way they were about to die.”
Mitchell stared at Jacob. Something clicked inside his mind. He suddenly realized what had eluded him two weeks before, as he’d stared at Buttermere Pond. Of course! How could he have been so blind!
“Oh, God,” he said. “Hang on, I need to check something.” He got up and strode out of the squad room, his jaw clenched tight. As he walked, puzzle pieces snapped together in his brain, forming a clear and horrible image. He kicked himself for not noticing the connection earlier. Aliza and Tamay weren’t the only ones.
At the evidence room, he asked for Kendele Byers’s phone.
The cop in charge found the phone quickly and handed it over, passing over the form Mitchell was supposed to sign. Mitchell ignored the form and turned on the phone, checking Kendele’s last messages.
A message from a tourist agency, advertising a lake trip, with an image attached. Except it wasn’t an image of a lake. It was a picture of a pond—Buttermere Pond. In which Kendele Byers had been drowned.
Kendele Byers had gone jogging four times a week, always at five in the morning. Like clockwork, her friend Debbie had told them. What you might call a routine, like going to and from work.
Aliza Kennedy.
Kendele Byers.
Tamay Mosely.
There was a serial killer in Glenmore Park.
Chapter Eleven
Jacob sat in Captain Bailey’s office, waiting patiently. The captain rummaged through the papers on his desk, muttering to himself.
“No rush, Fred,” Jacob said. “There’s just a serial killer out there, looking for his next victim. No biggie, he can wait.”
“Shut up for a second. I swear I had the report right here…”
Jacob stared at the captain’s desk. Right here was quite vague. The desk was a paperwork disaster of epic proportions. It would probably be easier and cheaper to burn the entire thing to the ground than to try organizing it.
“Forget about the damn report, Fred. I’ll print you a new one. Look, we need to discuss who’s leading the case.”
Bailey stopped throwing papers around and eyed Jacob. “You were in charge of both murder cases, and you’re the senior detective in the squad. Is there a reason you think someone else should be leading this case?”
“Well…” Jacob hesitated. “This is a serial killer case, and I have no expertise with serial killers. And it comes to mind that you were once involved in a serial killer case. And you’re the captain of this squad, so…”
“First of all,” Bailey said, raising a finger, “It wasn’t really a serial killer, just a gang member trying to eliminate the competition of the other gang. And we botched the case, nearly losing it during trial. Second, let’s face the truth. You’re a better investigator than I ever was. You’re in charge of this case.”
Jacob nodded. False modesty was something other people did. Jacob knew the captain was right: Jacob was the better investigator.
“Don’t worry,” Bailey said. “When you catch the guy, I’ll be sure to zip in and take the credit.”
“That’s very reassuring,” Jacob said. “Listen, uh… what about the FBI? I suppose we should involve them.”
“I agree,” Bailey said. “I’ll call Christine Mancuso. She’s an FBI agent, and I know her quite well. I’ll ask for the FBI’s help with the profiling.”
“Okay, but…” Jacob hesitated for a moment. “I don’t want them to come here and take charge—”
“Don’t worry about it. Mancuso can be trusted.”
“Okay. Thanks, Captain.”
“Now, go catch me a serial killer, before he kills someone else.”
Jacob got up and left the office, reassured. He looked at the squad room, at the three other detectives sitting at their computers. They all appeared busy, but he was certain they had listened to the entire conversation between him and the captain. The captain’s office door might look sturdy, but it carried sound as if it were made from silk.
“Okay, listen up,” he said. The three detectives turned to look at him.
“As you all know, Mitchell figured out that we have a serial killer in Glenmore Park, and it’s his fault that you’re pulled off your own cases.” Jacob grinned. “We need to catch this guy before he kills anyone else. Because of the case’s severity, the chief has allowed us some extra resources. Hang on…”
He got out of the room, grabbed the rolling whiteboard from the hallway and pushed it into the room.
“Ta da,” he said. “Don’t say that we’ve spared any expenses.”
Bernard whistled. “A third whiteboard. I bet even the Feds don’t have a fancy whiteboard on wheels.”
“And it’s reversible,” Jacob said, flipping the board. “See? Like I said, budget is no issue in this case. Okay, we need to get working. It’s now… eleven a.m. We have the whole day ahead of us. Bernard, Hannah, did you read the reports?”
“Yeah,” Hannah said. “And Mitchell filled us in.”
“Good,” Jacob nodded. “In all probability, the killer doesn’t have any close connection to the victims. He isn’t Tamay’s boyfriend, or Kendele’s abusive father. So we’ll focus on the how. How did he find our victims? Did he simply walk around, looking for young beautiful women? Not likely. He had their numbers, and he was well aware of their routines. And these days, unfortunately, he can stalk women without even getting out of bed, as long as he has a phone or tablet. Mitchell, I want you to start working on our victims’ social networks. Tamay, Kendele, and Aliza. Look for any connection, any shared friend, anything that would hint at the way the killer found the three women.”
Mitchell nodded, his face somber.
“Hannah, I want you to figure out if there’s anything we can do with the phone numbers. We already know that each was used only once, and they were all disconnected immediately after. According to the cellular providers, in each case the messages were sent from within one mile of the scene of the crime. Can we track where the phones were bought? Were they bought together? If so, how many other phones were bought by the same individual? We’ll probably have some help from the Feds, so talk to Captain Bailey and he’ll get you someone you can talk to over there.”
“Okay,” Hannah said, making some notes in her notebook.
“Bernard,” Jacob glanced at the big man. Bernard was not going to like this. “You’re going to Boston.”
Bernard groaned.
“I need someone there to go over the cases, with the help of the Boston PD. Mitchell talked to someone. A detective…?”
“Simmons,” Mitchell said.
“Right. Talk to him. If you need some political leverage to get them to help you, talk to Captain Bailey.”
“Okay,” Bernard said, sighing heavily.
“Let’s get to work,” Jacob said.
“Hang on,” Hannah said. “What about the whiteboards?”
“We’ll get there,” Jacob said. He knew they had hours of frustrating work ahead of them. Most leads would probably turn out to be dead ends. Filling up whiteboards was satisfying, made everyone feel as if they were accomplishing something. Better save that task for a bit later, when the adrenaline began to fade.
Mitchell turned to his screen, and Hannah picked up the phone.
Jacob walked over to Bernard’s desk. “Sorry,” he said.
“Carmen is going to kill me,” Bernard said. “Rory is sick, and she needs me close in case there’s an emergency. Do you know what she’ll say when I tell her that I’m now going to Boston every day?”
“You’re not going every day—”
“Jacob, we both know that this is not one trip. I’ll be there every morning for the foreseeable future, right?”
“Boston’s a nice city,” Jacob said brightly.
“Maybe you should go,” Bernard suggested.
“Look, I need someone experienced there. Someone who can make things happen. I can’t send the two young ones there; they’ll get lost in minutes.”
“We can hear y
ou, you know,” Hannah said, her phone in her hand.
Jacob grinned at her, then turned back to Bernard. “You know this is the only way.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll just tell Carmen that it’s all your fault. Don’t be surprised if she seems like she hates you next time we meet.”
“Tell Carmen that Hannah couldn’t go because she’s still not old enough to drive a car.”
A balled-up paper hit Jacob on the back of his head.
“See what I need to go through here?” Jacob said. “I wish I could go. I really do.”
Bernard shook his head, a small smile on his lips, and grabbed his keys from the table. Jacob slapped him on the shoulder and went over to Mitchell’s desk.
Mitchell was the only detective with two monitors on his desk, supplied to him after a special request by Captain Bailey. He had at least five different windows open on them, and was switching between them, clicking links, his eyes roaming the screens intently.
Watching Mitchell doing his thing made Jacob dizzy. The fact that there was no one better than Mitchell at searching and cross-referencing things online was well-known. Less well-known was the fact that Jacob could barely open his e-mail account, and even that wasn’t always a walk in the park.
Jacob knew he was falling behind, that technology was more important than ever in his job. A day would come when being good at interrogation and having a sharp instinct wouldn’t be enough for a detective. When that day came, Jacob knew, he would find himself behind a desk. He sighed. Time to start calling people.
He left himself the most undesirable task of them all: calling Tamay and Kendele’s friends and family, asking questions, trying to figure out if anyone knew about a stranger who’d approached either of them, or if any of them had complained about a stalker, online or in real life. In Tamay’s case, he would talk to people who had just lost a person they loved. There would be a lot of grief and anger in those talks, and he knew he would end the day exhausted and sad.
But being a detective was never easy.
