But, they also had over a thousand “unattended death” cases, 305 of which were sent to the homicide detail for further investigation. These were cases where a body was found and the cause of death wasn’t immediately apparent.
Since these were classified as unattended deaths, they were not grouped with the homicides and therefore not counted in the clearance percentage. If at all possible, though officially frowned upon by the Chief of Police and the Police Commission, the detectives tried to classify a case as unattended death. Only the slam dunks were classified as homicides: cases where there were witnesses or the defendant was caught in the act.
That’s why the Black Widow case was so disturbing. It was clear to everyone that they were not unattended deaths. So if this killer racked up six or seven bodies, that could destroy their clearance rate if an arrest was never made.
Jones rose and walked past the new guy, and into Kai’s office.
“Who’s he?” Jones said.
“He’s the guy I told you about. Jon Stanton. I’m giving him the Black Widow case.”
“What for?”
“He can close it.”
Jones folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I can close it.”
“Maybe, but he can close it faster.”
“It’s like that then, huh?”
Kai sighed and turned to him. “This isn’t ’bout measuring cocks. I’m going to give the case to whoever can close it. He has more experience than you. He was with San Diego Homicide for six years.”
Jones glanced back to Stanton. “How do you know him?”
“I started in San Diego as a patrol officer. Jon started with me. I ain’t seen any cop like him.”
“What’dya mean?”
He turned back to his computer. “Watch him. You’ll see.”
9
Stanton found out at eleven in the morning that he had passed his entrance exams. On the physical exam, he had nearly set a record on the obstacle course. The instructor, a former Navy SEAL, held the current record. His written exams were passed with flying colors.
The rest of the morning was spent filling out employment forms and attending a seminar on what it meant to be an employee of the city. After that was a sexual harassment seminar and then more paperwork.
In the afternoon, Stanton came back to his desk and there was nothing there but the Black Widow file. He sat staring at it a while and then checked the clock on his iPhone. He rose and left without taking the file with him.
Tomorrow would be more orientation, and he would let Kai know he wanted property crimes. He got all the way down the elevators to the first floor before he stopped and went back. He grabbed the Black Widow file and left.
A coffee shop was nearby and he walked to it and ordered a vanilla steamer with skim milk. He sat at a table against the window and opened the file as he took a sip.
Alexander Waters was a thirty-five-year-old investment banker from Manhattan. The police report outlined a man that was married with two kids, successful, and from a successful family. His father had hired a gold-tie law firm to keep track of the case and make sure the department was doing everything it could to find the person responsible for his death.
He had been tied to a bed at the Dale Koa Hotel and died from an injection of potassium. Once the injection was given, he had passed quickly. But not before going through a hell that Stanton couldn’t even imagine.
His skin from the lower portion of his neck to his belly button had been removed. His penis had been excised and shoved into his mouth before death. Several nails on his fingers had been pulled off and thrown on the floor, as had a few teeth. His Achilles tendons had been severed with what the medical examiner guessed was a hacksaw.
Unexplained slices covered his arms and legs. Stanton quickly flipped to the autopsy report prepared by the Honolulu Medical Examiner’s Office. He found the “gross findings” section and scrolled down until he came to the lacerations in the dermis.
The ME described them as gashes caused by a thin, smooth material. Something similar to strong fishing wire. The victim had this material wrapped around a body part and then pressure was applied, causing the material to cut through the skin and into the muscle.
Puncture marks had also been found in the feet, tongue, and fingertips. Most likely caused by a thick needle. Stanton knew, without any evidence to back it up, that the needles were heated before insertion. The heating would cause more pain.
The feet, tongue, and fingertips held enormous amounts of nerve bundles. More than anywhere else on the body, with the exception of the genitals. Most people probably didn’t know that. The killer either did research before the murder, or had medical knowledge prior.
The skin on the palms had been ripped away in a similar fashion to the chest. The nails had, according to the ME, been pulled off by pliers or another similar instrument.
Stanton skimmed the clinical summary. The injection was given around three in the morning, based on the progression of bruising around the puncture wound in the bicep. But three in the morning was after what the ME estimated, based on histamine levels in the blood, was at least five hours of torture.
Stanton pushed the file away a moment and stared out the window. He could only take small doses at a time right now. Like a swimmer dipping a toe in the ocean before jumping in. Or maybe, he thought, like a heroin addict that can’t tolerate the same dose as he used to.
He sipped his steamer and then flipped through the Hugh Neal file. It was almost identical. The injuries were not only the same, they had occurred in the exact same spots on the body. Whoever killed these men wasn’t someone that flew by the seat of their pants. These were planned and executed according to an outline.
Stanton closed the thin binders with the autopsy and toxicology reports, and went to the police narratives holding the biographical information.
Hugh Neal’s biography read almost like Alex Waters’. Both men were married with children; both were affluent and had gone to good universities. Both were on their second marriages.
Hugh was Catholic while Alex was unaffiliated. A note from one of the initial detectives said that Alex’s wife was engaged within seventeen days of her husband’s death.
Seventeen.
Clearly, she was having an affair. But did the death just occur at an opportune time, or did she have something to do with it?
Stanton pulled out his phone and dialed the wife’s number. Then he froze. He hung up, realizing this wasn’t actually his case. An automated response had taken over. He replaced the phone in his pocket and closed the case file.
10
Stanton sat on his patio with the murder books out on the table. Mathew was on a date and Johnny was up in his room doing homework. Just to make sure, Stanton went inside and checked that Johnny’s door was shut. He went back out to the patio and looked at the books.
His Mac was next to the files and he inserted a flash drive. An album of crime scene photos opened. Two men of similar builds tied to beds with duct tape. They looked like something out of nightmares. For every minute Stanton stared at the photos, he had to spend a minute looking out over the ocean.
The sun was setting, and a prism of color painted the sky from a recent rain. He watched a couple on a canoe paddle past his home and then he turned back to the photos.
One was of bloody shoeprints on the carpets of both scenes. A bigger print followed half a foot behind by a circle or semi-circle. High heels.
Why don’t you care that you let me see that? Stanton thought.
Each man’s clothing was piled on the floor away from the bed, and they were nude. Stanton had read through both toxicology reports and both came back the same: positive for Gamma-hydroxybutyrate. GHB. A date-rape drug.
Stanton had become familiar with GHB from his stint in the Sex Crimes Unit at SDPD. It was an odorless, almost tasteless, liquid, that when mixed with any drink became undetectable. It caused hallucinations and euphoria, an intense intoxication, and c
ould induce vomiting and blacking out. When it was mixed with alcohol, it intensified the effects of both drugs and could leave a person in a comalike sleep.
GHB had been gaining in popularity as a date-rape drug the last decade. It was legal until 1990 when bodybuilders had been using it in small doses, thinking it helped with muscle gains. It was discovered at frat parties and bars a short time later.
The men were drugged with a narcotic that had to be drunk. No glasses or containers were found in either of the hotel rooms, which meant it had to be drunk somewhere else.
That implied a social setting.
Most likely a bar or dance club, maybe somebody’s house. But Hugh and Alex were distinguished older men that might view going to a dance club as immature. Since GHB took nearly half an hour to take effect, it could be slipped in someone’s drink one place and then they could drive to another.
He also remembered that each hotel would have a bar and a restaurant. Stanton made a mental note that all the employees of the bars and restaurants in the hotels had to be interviewed.
Stanton closed the photo file and looked through the biographies again. They were drafted by a detective named Connor Jones, and he’d done an excellent job. Something that Stanton did for murder books that most detectives didn’t was pull the victims’ cell phone records, bank statements, credit card statements, school records, and emails. Jones had done just that with the exception of the cell phone records, which were more difficult to obtain.
Stanton read through the credit card charges on the nights the two men had been killed. Alex had one for what was probably gas from a Texaco and Hugh didn’t have any.
He closed the files and stared out over the ocean. He could hear his ex-wife’s voice in his head. Her voice was muffled, and he couldn’t make out all of what she was saying. But most of it came through. He was doing again exactly what had cost him his marriage and what cost him a fiancée years later.
But, somehow, he knew he would do it anyway.
11
The second day of orientation lasted until one in the afternoon. When it was over, they played music on a laptop and clapped for each new employee of the county or city as they called their name and presented them with a diploma on cheap paper. It was meant to make them laugh, but Stanton didn’t see a single employee even smiling.
He headed back to the precinct and to his desk, where he’d left the Black Widow file. Several officers introduced themselves and made small talk. But one man seated across from him was glaring at him.
“You must be Connor?” Stanton said, without looking up from the file.
The man glanced around and then at his desk, probably seeing if he had left his ID badge out. “How’d you know?”
“Because I’ve seen that look before. You think I stole your case. I promise you I didn’t want it. Kai just gave it to me.”
Connor turned his eyes to his computer and began clicking around. “Yeah, well, that’s life, I guess.”
“You did an excellent job.” Stanton closed the books and looked to him. “Your narratives were detailed and free of spelling errors. You rarely see that.”
“I take my time.”
Connor Jones was young, Stanton thought. Almost as young as he was when he was made detective. He remembered the intense desire he had then to catch the big cases. The ones that would give him a name and allow him to rise in the department.
Somewhere around the ten-year mark, that desire would turn into its opposite. At that stage, no one would want to catch any big murder cases. They would just want to ride out the next ten years until retirement. That was the reason Stanton preferred working with younger detectives.
“I’m not looking to step on anyone’s toes,” Stanton said. “I don’t have a partner. Kai knows I work alone. But if you would like to work this case with me, I could use the help.”
Jones kept his face stern a moment and then it softened. Excitement came back to him, and he rose and walked over. Leaning against Stanton’s desk, he folded his arms. “Did you see my note about Alex Waters’ wife?”
“I did. Have you spoken to her yet?”
“She won’t return my calls or emails.”
Stanton thought a moment. “I don’t think we need to speak to her. I think we need her bank and credit card statements. Then we need to check all the airlines with flights to the islands and see if she’s been out here.”
“You think she’s good for this?”
“No, but you never know.”
“It had to be a woman, though.”
Stanton shook his head. “The high heels could have been worn by a man.”
Jones blushed and glanced away. He hadn’t thought of it, and Stanton wondered why.
“Why did they call this Black Widow anyway?”
“We saw the high heels on the first one, and one of the uniforms said the guy looked like he’d been eaten by a spider.”
Stanton picked up a pen that was in a cup on his desk and rolled it around between his fingers. The texture was smooth until the sticky grip near the tip. “Why don’t you check her records and with the airlines. I’m going to interview a few people at the hotels.”
Jones nodded. “I’ll let you know. Hey, outta curiosity, how’d you talk Kai into letting you lateral and then go without a partner? He never does that for anyone.”
“We have a history together. He trusts me and I trust him.” Stanton rose. “Let me know what you find.”
He watched Jones hurriedly go to his desk and begin searching through law enforcement databases for the information he needed. The young detective hadn’t even questioned why he should be the one to do the grunt work. He had so much enthusiasm he just seemed happy to be part of the investigation. Stanton hoped other senior detectives wouldn’t take advantage of that later on. He’d seen enough bitter, cynical, hard-drinking detectives to last him several lifetimes.
Stanton left the precinct and forgot to grab a parking pass. A ticket was on his car. He took it and placed it on his passenger seat, so he wouldn’t forget to pay it, before starting the car and heading to the Dale Koa Hotel.
The hotel was a tall building with white trim, almost directly on the beach. Encircled with palm trees, it looked like the kind of place you would see on a brochure for Hawaii. A golf course was next to it with bright green grass.
Stanton parked in valet and hopped out of his jeep. He took his ticket stub and then went inside. The lobby was well decorated with a nature motif. Glass took up most of the walls and looked out on the ocean.
Stanton could see a sign for the Dale Koa Grill. He followed it until coming to a restaurant that was nearly empty. He checked the times posted on the door and saw that they didn’t open until five p.m.
Someone was inside walking around with a legal pad. Stanton knocked on the door.
A man in a white button-down shirt with black vest answered. “Sorry, sir, we don’t open ’til five.”
Stanton went to reach for a badge and realized he didn’t have that or his firearm. “I’m Detective Jon Stanton with the Honolulu PD. Are you the manager?”
“I am.”
“I just had some questions about the murder that occurred here last month. Alex Waters.”
The man glanced down both sides of the hallway. “We’re not supposed to talk about it. It’s bad for business, you know?”
“I do. Can we talk inside then?”
He opened the doors fully and allowed Stanton inside. He walked in as the manager shut the doors behind him. A table near the windows had a soda on it with an open laptop. The manager walked over and sat down; Stanton did the same.
“Were you here the night of the murder?”
“Yeah, I was.”
“And you’re Andrew Rasmussen, right?”
“Yeah.”
Stanton opened a document on his phone with notes he’d made about the case. “Andrew, I saw a brief statement written by you in the reports. It basically just said that you didn’t see or hear anything.
”
He shook his head. “It happened on the sixth floor. I was down here. It was a Friday too, I think, and so that’s our busiest night. There was no way I would have noticed some chick walking up to the rooms with that guy.”
Stanton pulled up a photo on his phone. “I’m more interested in what you saw here.” He showed the photo to Andrew. “This is Alex Waters. Did you see him down here at the restaurant at all that night?”
He stared at the photo a moment. “Sorry, man. Just too many people. There’s no way I could tell.”
Stanton placed his phone down on the table. “I understand. Has anything like this ever happened before?”
Andrew moved his laptop aside and leaned back in the seat. “No, never. I mean, we had some guest have a heart attack and die, like, two years ago. Old dude was bangin’ some cooha and his heart gave out.” He grinned. “That’s how I’d wanna go.”
Stanton smiled. “Not me. In the ocean.” He picked up his phone and placed it back in his pocket. “Who manages the bar?”
“The Shell? It’s a gal named Marissa. She’s probably over there right now if you need to talk to her.”
Stanton nodded and rose. “I appreciate your time.”
“No worries.”
Stanton walked across the hotel to the Shell. The bar was black, chrome, and crimson. The lighting was dim and there were no windows. In place of a front door was a velvet rope hanging on two chrome hooks from the walls.
A woman with dark hair was behind the bar. Stanton stepped over the rope.
“Excuse me, are you Marissa?”
“Yeah.”
He walked over and stood across from her. “I’m Detective Jon Stanton with the Honolulu PD. I was sent over by Andrew. He said you would be here.”
The surprise that was initially on her face faded. “Oh.”
“It’s about Alex Waters. The man that was killed here a short while ago.”
Black Widow Page 3
