by P. J. Tracy
He crouched, ready for his final takedown, then watched in horror and disbelief as the driver of the SUV slammed on the brakes, pulled over onto the shoulder, then backed up, gravel from the shoulder spraying from the tires.
The rage was still burning white-hot, but he felt it start to trickle away, and that didn’t bother him so much—he could conjure it at will, save it for another day, when the time was right. Right now, he had to focus on survival. Which meant going to ground until things blew over.
THIRTY-NINE
Amanda White looked horrible—her face and neck were black with bruises, her right arm was in a sling, and her eyes were livid red from the pepper spray that in part had saved her life. For the first time since he’d met her, Magozzi realized how tiny she actually was and how vulnerable she seemed, especially injured and curled up on her living room sofa under a blanket, sipping tea from a mug that dwarfed her small hands. At this moment, she wasn’t a brash and reviled thorn in MPD’s side—she was just an innocent woman who’d almost been killed by a monster that he and Gino hadn’t been able to catch.
And yet her spirit hadn’t seemed to suffer—her voice was a harsh, raspy whisper from her near-strangulation, but it hadn’t stopped her from giving exhaustive eyewitness testimony to the first responders, the MPD sketch artist, and now, to Magozzi and Gino. She cringed in pain from time to time, but there was passion and purpose beneath the badly banged-up exterior, which Magozzi found interesting, given her terrifying ordeal. Not a traumatized victim, which she had every right to be, but a woman on a mission. A woman with a fourth-degree black belt who’d kicked some ass tonight.
“I’ll sleep after I see the sketch of that bastard on the news.” She finally finished her retelling, then amended: “After I see that bastard behind bars.”
“You may have filled in a lot of blanks for us tonight,” Magozzi said. “BCA is processing all the trace they collected from you as we speak, and there’s a blanket APB out on your suspect description, which corroborates some of our surveillance footage. All the networks are airing the sketch within the hour, as you probably know.”
She nodded. “National stringers are already flying in on a hunting expedition, so I’m going on air with this first thing tomorrow. No matter what my producer says.”
“You’ve got quite a scoop on everybody.” Magozzi looked out her living room bay window at the patrol car parked on the curb outside her house, wondering what her spin would be. Nothing good, probably.
Amanda took a sip of tea and winced. “I know what you’re thinking, Detectives. Yes, I went to Pike Island looking for an angle and a serial killer, for that matter, but I got way more than I bargained for. I’m no hero, and I’m not going to play it like that. I had a freak, one-in-a-million encounter tonight, and I’m lucky to be alive.”
Gino hadn’t said much during the interview, but now he was leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees. Magozzi figured his uncharacteristic silence was mostly due to the fact that he held deep contempt for Amanda White on principle, which was in direct conflict with his empathy for women in general, women who were hurting specifically, and it was messing with his mind. “You haven’t asked us a single question or asked for a quote yet,” he finally said.
“This is all off the record, as I promised you. In spite of what you may think, I always keep my word. But I do have a question. Personal interest, not professional.”
Gino nodded.
“Do you believe in evil?”
“We’ve seen it. More than once,” Gino said without hesitation.
She looked down at her lap and started running her fingers through the loose weave of her blanket. “I never did believe in it. Not until tonight.”
When Amanda finally looked up again, her red eyes looked haunted for the first time since Magozzi and Gino had arrived. “There’s something I need to tell you about tonight. Something I haven’t told anybody else.”
Magozzi and Gino both waited for her to speak, expressions impassive.
She folded her hands together, as if she wasn’t sure what else to do with them. “He had tattoos on his arms. Playing cards. Lots of them. Spades, hearts, diamonds. One of the spades was fresh, just starting to scab over.”
Magozzi tried to stay on his chair and keep his jaw from dropping down into his lap. “Are you sure? It was dark, and you were . . .”
“In a panic, fighting for my life, yes, but I’m positive of what I saw. He’s keeping a running tally on his goddamned arms.”
Magozzi and Gino both gaped at her, the whole impassive thing out the window.
“I knew about the cards all along, Detectives, I just didn’t report on it.”
“Why?”
“The same reason I didn’t tell the sketch artist about the tattoos tonight. It might be your only piece of disqualifying evidence, and I don’t want to open your case up to copycats. Serial killers are hard enough to catch because they usually never have any connection to their victims. Whether or not you want to release the information is your call.” Her eyes flicked between the two detectives, who were doing a poor job of trying to hide their incredulity. “Believe it or not, we’re both on the same side. At least this time.”
FORTY
Magozzi was staring out the windshield of their MPD sedan, hypnotized by the obnoxious fluorescent lights of a convenience store in Uptown Minneapolis. He could see Gino at the checkout register, paying for two cups of crummy gas station coffee, which they desperately needed—their monster was still out there but now they had a name and some solid history on him, plus an eyewitness description from a survivor. They were getting close, so close, and sleep wasn’t an option—it wouldn’t be until Angel Cruz was in shackles.
It was late to be calling anybody, but he dialed Grace anyhow, more to hear her voice than anything. Maybe it was selfish, but he needed a tether to something good right now.
“Hi, Magozzi.”
“You sound bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You’re still up?”
“We all are. And you sound exhausted.”
“That’s going to be the new normal for a while. There was another attack tonight.”
“Oh, God. No.”
“This one has a happy ending. She survived with minor injuries, thanks to some serious martial arts training. It should be plastered all over every media outlet right about now.”
“We’ll take a look.”
“One thing you won’t hear from the media—at least not tonight—the killer has tattoos of playing cards all up and down his arms, one for every victim, we think. Gino and I are following up some leads right now.”
“That’s . . . sick. Horrifying.”
“Serial killers are. I guess the tattoos are his version of trophies.”
“I’m sorry, Magozzi. I won’t keep you, you and Gino go do your thing and keep us posted.”
“I will. Take care of yourself.”
“You, too.”
Magozzi signed off, wondering if “Take care of yourself” was their version of “I love you.” He hoped so.
Gino finally emerged from the convenience store and hopped behind the wheel, brandishing burned-smelling coffee and a box of donuts, which smelled better.
“Coffee and donuts, Gino? Really?”
“Cliché or not, this is the only way we’re going to stay standing. Who the hell knew there were so many tattoo parlors in Minneapolis? By the way, McLaren called while I was inside. He and Eaton hit ten parlors with no luck, and the rest on their list are already closed.”
“What about our list?”
“There’s one still open, over on the North Loop. I talked to the owner. Name’s Jed Hanlon. He’s expecting us.”
—
Jed Hanlon was about six-foot-five by Magozzi’s estimation, with an intimidating prison build and full-sleeve tattoos that continued up his shoulders to his neck, the
n made a detour and carried straight down to his legs. There was a life story in those images if you looked, but this was not the kind of guy you’d stare at for too long. In fact, most people would probably run to the other side of the street to avoid him.
If you were to judge a book by its cover, he was also not the kind of guy you’d expect to be comfortable around law enforcement, but he was calm and polite when he and Gino introduced themselves. “What can I do for you, Detectives?”
Magozzi showed him the police sketch and a still image from Eagle Lake Casino’s surveillance footage. “We’re looking for this man. We believe he recently got a tattoo.”
Jed stared at the sketch and then the casino still and his mouth opened a fraction, as if he was trying to draw more breath, or maybe he was just trying to let something out.
“You recognize him?” Gino took the cue.
“Maybe. This kinda matches a guy who came in two nights ago.”
The night Cassie Miller was murdered, Magozzi thought. “Was that the first time he came here for a tattoo?”
“Yeah. Never saw him before that.”
“How about other employees? Maybe they worked on him when you weren’t around?”
“No way. I own this shack, I’m always around. I open, I close, and I’ve got one part-time employee I watch like a hawk. I know all her clientele, and the dude you’re looking for isn’t one of them.”
“Do you remember what time he came in?” Magozzi asked, assiduously taking notes.
“It was late, past closing, but the door was still open and he walked in. I was about to kick him out, but he laid down some good cash money, so I inked him.”
“What was the tattoo?”
“A playing card. Six of spades, on his left lower forearm, down by his wrist.”
Magozzi had to remind himself to breathe. “Did you notice any other tattoos?”
Jed rubbed his jaw. “The guy was pretty covered up, pulled up his sleeve just enough for me to work on him, so I couldn’t tell you one way or another. He didn’t seem to mind the pain, so I’m guessing this wasn’t his first rodeo.”
“He was covered up how?”
“He had on a black long-sleeve shirt and jeans, wore a baseball cap with a Budweiser logo on it, just like in your picture. Had a damn scarf wrapped around his neck, and it was ninety degrees that day. Figured maybe he was a head case. You know how some nutters don’t have a thermostat and they’re always cold?”
Magozzi did know, it was a common symptom of certain mental illnesses. “Did you talk about anything?”
“He didn’t talk. Period. Asked for the tattoo and that was it.”
“Can you give us a description aside from his clothing?”
Jed shrugged. “Like I said, he was pretty covered up. He looked at me once, so I know he has brown eyes. Hair was black, I could see a little sticking out from under his cap. Definitely Hispanic.”
“Are you sure?” Gino asked.
“Positive. I’ve inked every race God ever created, so I’m intimately acquainted with skin color and tone. Plus, the few words he said to me, he had an accent. Sounded just like an old buddy of mine, Paco, who grew up near Puerto Vallarta.”
“How about surveillance cameras in your shop?”
Jed’s mouth turned up in a rueful half-smile. “Wish I had some, but the rent here is killing me, and I put what I could toward an alarm system. I’m trying to put together a Web camera thing on the cheap, but it’s not functional yet.”
“And you said he paid cash, so no credit card transaction?” Magozzi asked.
“No.”
“Did you see him get in or out of a vehicle?”
“I was in the back when he came in, and when he left, he hit the sidewalk and disappeared. I locked the door behind him, set the alarm, and that was the last I cared to see of him. So this is some bad dude, or what?”
“We’re looking into that,” Magozzi said casually.
Jed shook his head. “I knew it.”
“How do you mean?”
“The guy made my skin crawl, you want to know the truth. Somebody who looks like me, I scare people, not the other way around.”
“He scared you?”
“There was something about him that hit me in the gut. I had a full foot on him height-wise, and he wasn’t exactly bulked up, but I could tell there was something wrong with him. Something broken inside. Sounds like a stupid, movie-cliché thing to say, but I did some time in Yankton ten years ago, and that’s how you size things up on the inside. There were guys in there like me who made some bad choices and ended up paying the price. A lot of us get out, stay clean, and start life all over again. But there’s another demographic in the prison population, the really sick, warped ones. You could cut them open and watch black slime ooze out, you know what I’m saying? Rotten to the core. And that was the dude I inked, the dude you’re looking for.”
Good instincts, Magozzi thought, because this dude is most likely a serial killer. “We really appreciate your time, and if this man shows up here again, call nine-one-one immediately and consider him armed and extremely dangerous.”
Jed nodded. “Damn right I will.” He jabbed his forefinger at the sketch. “That’s one cat I’m not going to tangle with.”
FORTY-ONE
Greg Trask hated the overnight shift at the gas station, except on nights when Maddie was waiting tables at the Rainbow Café across the parking lot. Sometimes she’d come in after her shift, buy a bag of honey roasted peanuts or a candy bar, and sort of flirt with him. Unfortunately, tonight wasn’t one of those nights, and he was so bored, he was ready to drown himself in the live-bait tank at the back of the station.
The last customer he’d had was an hour ago, a stoner who put two dollars’ worth of gas in his tank, then tried to shoplift some munchies. There was nothing on TV, because the cheap-ass owner refused to put in satellite, so it was all network, which was wearing out a police bulletin and sketch about some psycho killer up in the Cities, presumed armed and dangerous.
He checked his phone, then risked a text to his friend Alex, even though personal phone use on the job was strictly forbidden by the management and there were surveillance cameras all over the damn place. Alex was usually up all hours on his computer, playing whatever the hottest new game was, because his family had money, and he didn’t have to work night shifts during the summer to pay for college.
RU THERE?
There was only a brief pause before his text alert binged.
WHERE RU?
Alex typed. WORK. BORED.
ME 2.
Greg looked up when he saw headlights. Somebody in a pickup truck, pulling in at the pumps. He’d swipe his credit card, fill his tank, then drive off, unless he was another stoner who would come in and pay at the register, then try to shoplift a bag of chips.
CUSTOMER, BRB, he texted back to Alex, then turned his attention to the man limping around his truck to the gas pump. He looked like he was in pain. More out of boredom than sympathy, Greg decided to do a good deed for the night and help him out. He pushed open the door and walked out into a hot, steamy night that seemed more July or August than June. “Hey, man, can I help you out?”
“No.”
Greg paused at the tone of the man’s voice. “Well . . . if you need something else besides gas, we’ve got it inside.”
The man shoved the pump nozzle into the side of his truck, but didn’t say anything.
“Okay, man. Have a good night.” Prick, Greg thought, backing away a few steps before turning around and heading back into the station. The TV was still spooling the police sketch and bulletin of the psycho in Minneapolis, and he paused. When he turned his head to take another look, the man pumping gas caught his gaze and held it.
Greg suddenly felt icy cold cramping up his stomach, and he went back behind the counter,
considered texting Alex back, then decided to call 911 instead.
Dispatch answered after a couple of rings, asked what his emergency was.
“Uh, I’m not sure it’s an emergency, but that guy on the police bulletin up in Minneapolis? I think he might be here. . . .”
And then suddenly, the man was inside the store, a smile on his face, a gun in his hand. “I changed my mind. You got any aspirin?”
FORTY-TWO
Jacob Emmet had been dreaming about fishing with Walt as a kid when the phone had startled him awake a few minutes shy of five a.m. Deputy Al Lucas, a solid, good man with ten years on the force and as many commendations, had given him the bad news: Greg Trask—all-American athlete and model student getting ready for his sophomore year at Mankato State—was dead. Robbery-homicide. Shot in the head during the overnight shift at Fulmer’s Gas and More, where he worked summers.
Fulmer’s was perched alone on a flat, nowhere strip of prairie land that hugged the Iowa border. It was the farthest outpost of Cottonwood County, and nothing ever happened there, except an occasional deer versus car accident. Until now.
The scene was as ugly as Jacob had ever seen—a fine, ambitious young man who was going places in this world, was lying in a halo of his own blood as it dried on the floor around him, along with shards of glass and shattered electronics. Every single camera and computer had been shot to dust. Pretty goddamned thorough for some early morning meth head trying to rob a till for a fix, which had been his first assumption.
Deputy Lucas walked up and stood next to him, whispering, as they both watched the crime-scene techs methodically parsing the scene. The ME had yet to arrive. “Greg called nine-one-one, Sheriff. I just read the transcript. He said he thought the guy on that Minneapolis police bulletin was here. Then the call ended.”
Jacob closed his eyes and rubbed them. Jesus. All the coverage in Minneapolis had flushed out their serial killer and sent him out of town, straight down the interstate. He was on the run. Definitely in Iowa by now, maybe even farther than that. “I’ve got to get a national BOLO out to Highway Patrol. Do we at least have a vehicle description?”
