Tracers 02 - Unspeakable

by Laura Griffin

  She turned and handed one of the key-card envelopes to Ben, who was waiting beside their heap of luggage. The techie looked innocuous as always in his T-shirt and faded cargo shorts, and Mia could tell Ric had just this instant realized they were here together.

  “The entire task force is booked here,” Ric said. “Do you realize that?”

  She arched her eyebrows at him.

  “You’re not on the task force,” he pointed out.

  Ben eyed the detective curiously, probably wondering what his problem was. Mia was wondering the same thing.

  “I didn’t realize being on the task force was a prerequisite for booking a room.” Mia turned a smile on Elaina, who’d just stepped into the lobby. Troy followed behind her, along with a young Hispanic man and a slightly older guy who seemed to be impersonating a sunburned raccoon.

  “Mia.” Troy sauntered over, planted a kiss on her cheek. “Decided to join the party, huh?”

  Elaina shot him a reproachful look, while Ric glared at him.

  “Dr. Lawson, right?” Troy held out a hand to Ben. “Think I’ve seen you at the Delphi Center.”

  Ben shook hands with Troy while Mia studied all the faces. Everyone looked either bleary-eyed or weather-beaten, and she could see this investigation was taking its toll.

  “I hope to hell y’all didn’t come down to hit the beach,” Troy said.

  “Actually, no.” Mia felt the weight of half a dozen expectant stares, including the desk clerk’s. “We’re here to work, not play. I think we’ve got some leads for you.”

  Twenty minutes later, everyone was assembled together in the honeymoon suite. Elaina had just finished stacking files against the wall in a futile effort to make enough space for everyone. Between the people and the paperwork, it was a full house.

  “Which do you want first, good news or bad?” Mia asked from the sofa.

  “Bad,” Elaina and Troy answered in unison. She shot a look at him across the room. He was leaning casually against the wall, but the tension in his shoulders told her he felt anything but casual. Elaina was edgy, too. Mia and Ben’s arrival had given her a jolt of energy, and she was impatient to hear the news they’d brought. But whatever it was seemed to necessitate a computer, and so Elaina had busied herself tidying up while Ben had plopped down on the sofa and powered up his laptop. Now she perched on the sofa arm beside him and waited.

  “Okay, here’s the bad news.” Mia took a deep breath. “The man you’re looking for isn’t in the database.”

  Elaina bit her lip. It had been a long shot. She’d known that. But she hadn’t realized until this moment how much she’d been expecting to get lucky. She’d let herself entertain the idea that if she could just get hold of a DNA sample, the illustrious Dr. Voss would work magic with it.

  She’d been expecting a miracle—just like Mia warned her not to.

  Elaina looked at Troy. She knew he read the disappointment in her face, and she felt embarrassed for being so naive.

  He shifted his attention to Mia. “You ran the profile through the state and national databases?” he asked.

  “Yep,” she said. “He’s not in CODIS, which means either he has little or no criminal history, since standards vary from state to state, or if he has been swabbed for whatever reason, his sample hasn’t been processed yet. Which is entirely possible, by the way, because everything’s so backlogged. Problem is, that doesn’t help you ID him.”

  Elaina huffed out a breath. “Okay, what’s the good news?” And it had better be good. She needed, desperately, for something positive to come of this hellacious day.

  “The good news is obvious, isn’t it?” Mia said. “We actually got a profile. From a nine-year-old bullet and a five-year-old pair of running shorts. Both pieces of evidence yielded a sample. An itty-bitty one, but still.”

  Elaina watched her, momentarily dazed by her use of “itty-bitty,” which she hadn’t expected from a scientist. But then her tired brain processed the rest of Mia’s statement.

  “What running shorts?” she asked.

  “From the missing hikers.” Ric turned to Mia. “You got touch DNA.” He folded his arms over his chest and smiled at her. “Goddamn, you did it, didn’t you? I knew you could do it!”

  Elaina felt a twinge of jealousy. Never in her life had a man looked at her like that—like he truly respected her as a professional.

  “Let me get this straight,” Troy said. “You put together a DNA profile from some skin cells left on a pair of shorts?”

  “Ric had the missing women’s clothing,” Mia said. “He correctly deduced that the victims hadn’t undressed themselves. And when their attacker pulled off their clothes, he left behind trace amounts of perspiration on the elastic bands. He wasn’t wearing gloves, apparently, and when people commit crimes, their hands often sweat from nervousness. So we look for perspiration, maybe some shed skin cells, in order to recover DNA.”

  Across the room, Cinco whistled. “Man,” he said. “You can get a profile from a few cells?”

  “The sample was small and also degraded due to its age.” Mia looked at Elaina. “As was the case with your through-and-through bullet. But I used PCR to amplify both samples and—”

  “Back up,” Weaver said. “PCR?”

  “Polymerase chain reaction.” Mia paused, and Elaina could tell she was trying to dumb it down for her audience. “It’s a method of augmenting what you have. Think of it as using a molecular Xerox machine to copy what you need for further testing. Anyway, the DNA samples matched at ten loci, which is only a partial profile, but it’s still useful. That’s a match in the genetic pattern at ten specific places on the chromosomes.”

  “Which means?” This from Ric.

  “It means the likelihood of these two samples coming from different individuals is practically nonexistent.”

  “The FBI standard is thirteen matching loci,” Elaina said. “Ten won’t stand up to scrutiny in a courtroom, but it’s enough for a lead.”

  “Absolutely,” Mia said. “For investigative purposes, this should help you a lot.”

  “We can flesh out our profile,” Elaina added, getting excited now. “The man we’re looking for was in Bay Port nine years ago, trespassing at the home of Mary Beth Cooper’s neighbor, just a week before Mary Beth’s murder, which I believe was his first kill. Then four years later, he spent an extended amount of time in San Marcos.”

  “Why extended?” Weaver asked. “Maybe he was passing through.”

  “More likely, he kills in his comfort zone,” Elaina said. “So he was comfortable up there, knew the trails around Devil’s Gorge, at least well enough not to get caught. I’m willing to bet he’s native to this area, either Bay Port or Lito, moved to San Marcos for a few years, and now he’s back, living and working on the island. A history like that helps us narrow the suspect list.”

  “I can check driver’s license records,” Cinco offered. “See what comes up.”

  “What about Ben?” Troy asked.

  All eyes turned to the cyber cop, who was tapping away at his keyboard. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Okay, I plotted out all the locations where victims have been found, along with the last known locations of the missing hikers.” He hit a few keys, and a Google Earth map came up on his screen. Everyone gathered around the sofa to watch over his shoulder.

  “Don’t forget Angela,” Cinco said quietly.

  Ben glanced up. “I just added her. Elaina e-mailed me the coordinates from the discovery site this afternoon.” He pointed to the screen. “The red dots are the victims.”

  He zeroed in on the Lito Island wildlife refuge until they were looking at aerial photographs of actual trees. Elaina recognized the gravel hiking path she’d been on early today. It petered out about a third of the way into the park, leaving the inhospitable wetlands the task force had combed on foot.

  “Here’s the most recent site,” Ben said, and zoomed out to an aer
ial view of the whole park. “Here’s where Gina Calvert was found. And Whitney Bensen. Now watch this.” He hit a button, and three yellow dots appeared, not far from each of the discovery locations.

  “What’re those?” Weaver asked.

  “Cache sites,” Elaina blurted.

  Troy looked at her. “This is what I wanted to show you today before you got sidetracked. Jamie told me she and one of her friends stumbled onto one of these caches close to where that spring breaker was found.”

  “Cache sites?” Weaver asked. “You want to translate that?”

  Elaina explained about the dragonfly lead and the Web-based game being played by Jamie and her friends.

  “You think Angela was involved?” Cinco asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Elaina said. “We know that several of the victims played this computer game. Could be the killer sees women on the trails and targets them later. Or maybe he selects them at Coconuts, then takes them out near the cache sites and leaves them for other players to find.”

  “Why would he do that?” Ric asked.

  “Shock value,” Elaina said. “Maybe he likes the idea of some unsuspecting hiker stumbling onto what he’s done, like Jamie did. As for the kill itself, I believe it gives him a sense of dominance. That’s part of his thrill. He selects the target, controls when she goes under, controls the dosage of ketamine and how likely she is to wake up while he’s cutting her. Maybe she begs for her life and he gets off on that, too. It’s all about control with this guy.”

  “But what’s his motive?” Ric asked. “What sets him off? We have a murder nine years ago, two five years ago, and now this new rash of homicides.”

  “Motives aren’t always cut and dried,” Elaina said. “You can’t necessarily look at the crimes and say, ‘Hey, he’s killing women who remind him of his domineering mother’ or something. Every psychopath is different, but most grow up with a deep-rooted desire to commit violence. It usually manifests itself through inappropriate behaviors at an early age.”

  “Torturing animals, starting fires, bed wetting,” Troy said.

  “Those,” Elaina agreed, “and also lying, blaming, manipulating. Callous disregard for others. As they grow up, they have increasingly vivid fantasies about violent acts. Then one day there might be a triggering event, and they give in to the impulse. In Mary Beth Cooper’s case, I believe he followed the Charles Diggins murders in the media. They were happening right in his backyard. Maybe he felt envious, wanted to try his hand at it. He finds Mary Beth, disables her with the ketamine, and has a knife close by for the mutilation he wants to do. But maybe he misjudges the dosage and loses control of the victim, and in a panic, he strangles her and then stabs her. His crimes since then have been more methodical, more carefully planned and carried out. But they were still probably prompted by some triggering event. Maybe he lost a job, got rejected by a lover, something like that. Whatever it was set him off, and now he’s escalated.”

  The room had fallen silent. Elaina looked around and had a flashback to her disastrous first meeting with Chief Breck. She should shut up now. She needed to remember that not everyone grew up with John McCord as a father and heard phrases like “homicidal triad” and “postmortem interval” tossed around the dinner table.

  She looked at Ben’s computer. “What else did you find?”

  He tapped a few more keys, and Elaina recognized the Xtreme $$$ing Web site. “I’ve been researching the victims, too,” Ben said. “Although, without knowing their user names, it’s tough to tell whether they were in on the game.”

  “I can find out about Angela for you,” Cinco said.

  “That would help. Anyway, what I did find were three different individuals who just happened to visit each of these seven cache sites over the last six years. They all posted comments about their finds.”

  “You can trace that?” Troy sounded skeptical.

  “When you’re online, you leave a trail. It’s almost impossible to move around undetected—sometimes it just takes a while to track someone down. Which is why I have a job. I’m in the process of tracing those user names back to actual e-mail accounts and then hopefully getting a court order to get their identities handed over by their Internet service providers.”

  “What are their screen names?” Elaina asked.

  “So far I’ve got MoonMan4, BabyJane, and Grim-Reefer.”

  “The last one sounds promising,” Troy said.

  “Yeah, I thought so, too.” Ben entered some words, evidently decoding the gibberish listed on the screen. GPS coordinates appeared, alongside several icons.

  “How did you do that?” Elaina asked.

  “That one was a plus-six code.” Ben glanced up at all the blank stares. “Solve a math problem, get a positive six, and so then I add six to every number in the posted coordinates, which gives me the actual coordinates of the cache. This cache is entitled ‘Dead Drop,’ which I thought was interesting.”

  “No kidding,” Weaver said. “That sounds suspicious. How long will it take you to find out the identity behind that user name?”

  “Depends,” Ben said.

  “Did you say ‘Dead Drop’?” Elaina’s pulse was racing now. “That’s a spy term.” She glanced at Troy. “You leave a package at some predetermined place, at some predetermined time, and the two parties involved never have to have a live meeting.”

  From Troy’s look, Elaina knew he could tell where her mind had gone.

  “Robert Hanssen did that,” Troy said. “At that park in Virginia, right?”

  “He used a plus-six code, too,” Elaina said, a little dizzy now. This was too big a coincidence. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was more gamesmanship. More toying with the FBI. “Maybe he’s leaving the victims near the cache sites for us to find. A literal dead drop.”

  “I’m afraid I’m lost,” Mia said. “Robert Hanssen was that FBI agent who spied for the Russians, right? You’re saying Hanssen used GPS coordinates?”

  “Hanssen’s plus-six code had to do with timing,” Elaina said. “For example, if he told his contact to pick up a dead drop on January second at three P.M., the message actually meant to do a pickup on July eighth at nine P.M. See? He added six to everything. A lot of people think he was paranoid, but he was the most successful spy to ever work for the FBI.”

  “You think the unsub chose this code on purpose,” Troy stated.

  “I think he likes to believe he’s smart,” Elaina said. “He considers himself in the same league as someone who eluded the FBI for more than twenty years.”

  “Let’s get back to what we know,” Weaver suggested, turning to Ben. “Where is this cache site?”

  “This is one of the caches within the Lito Island wildlife park,” Ben said. “Actually, it’s the one closest to the victim who was found earlier today, Angela Martinez. It shows here that the cache contains porn, some weed, a flyer—”

  “What’s a flyer?” Elaina asked.

  “It’s a roving treasure. In concrete terms, it’s just an aluminum dragonfly pendant with a serial number on the back of it. Hence, the dragonfly symbol you keep noticing everywhere. When you discover a flyer, you can log onto the Web site, enter the serial number, and find out where it’s headed. You’re supposed to either move it along on its journey or put it back where you found it.”

  “What kind of journey?” Troy asked.

  “Anything,” Ben said. “Maybe someone has their flyer following their favorite band around the country. Or maybe someone wants their flyer to get from New York to L.A., or attend the X Games, or visit every Major League Baseball stadium. The possibilities are endless.”

  “If the killer planted it, he might be telling us where he’s taking his next victim,” Troy said.

  “Maybe,” Ben said. “But the only way to know is to track down the cache, find the pendant, and enter the serial number on the Web site to see where it’s going.”

  “You can’t find out on the computer?” Elaina asked.

  “U
nfortunately, no,” Ben said. “That’s part of the backward nature of this particular game. It’s all a secret. You get a hint of what you’re looking for from the icon, but you actually have to get your hands on the cache to know for sure what’s there.”

  “So, what are we waiting for?” Elaina asked. “Let’s go find it.”

  “Hang on there, Road Runner,” Weaver said. “You want to look for it now? It’s dark outside. The park is closed off to traffic. And you’ve been up since four this morning, traipsing around in the mud.”

  “Wouldn’t work, anyway,” Ben said. “These things are hard enough to find in the daytime. By flashlight, it’d be hopeless. We should wait for sunrise.”

  “I’ll go,” Troy said.

  “It’s a crime scene,” Weaver reminded him. “No one’s going in there without signing the crime-scene log and getting past whoever’s guarding it, which I believe is someone with the LIPD.”

  Everyone’s attention turned to Cinco.

  “I’ll check it out,” he said.

  “You can borrow my GPS,” Ben offered. “You ever done this before?”

  “No,” Cinco said. “But how hard can it be?”

  CHAPTER 21

  After tossing the case around for a while longer, the group dispersed for the night. It was agreed that Cinco and Elaina would hit the park at first light, with the guidance of Ben’s GPS and whatever clues he could decrypt from the Web site. The plan meant she might miss the task force meeting, but she’d worry about that later—she didn’t want to let this lead wait.

  Elaina grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and glanced at the balcony. An orange ember glowed near the patio table. She opened the sliding glass door and fisted a hand on her hip.

  “You told me you didn’t smoke much.”

  “I don’t,” Troy said from the shadows.

  “So why are you smoking now?”

  “I’m agitated. Helps me think.”

  “Giving yourself lung cancer helps you think?”