Cold Blooded (Dennis McQueen 02)

by Randisi, Robert J.

  “Three last winter,” McQueen said, “and so far, one this winter. Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

  “What did your last commanding officer think of your theory?”

  “Not much,” McQueen said, “but Lieutenant Jessup wasn’t—”

  “Wasn’t what?” Bautista asked. “I like a man who speaks frankly, Sergeant.”

  “He wasn’t like you, sir,” McQueen said.

  “And how is that?”

  “Ambitious,” McQueen said. “Also, we have this new case, which he didn’t have.”

  Bautista put his hand on top of the case files and tapped his index finger.

  “You’re saying you believe that it would be advantageous to my career to allow you to pursue this.”

  McQueen shrugged and said, “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Oh yes,” Bautista said, “yes, it could hurt, Sergeant. That is why I’m hesitating.”

  “How about this?” McQueen asked. “If it helps, it helps you, and if it hurts, it hurts me?”

  “You are willing to put your career on the line for this?”

  “With all due respect, sir,” McQueen said, “you have a career. I have a job, and I’d like to do it.”

  “And that job is?”

  “Puttin’ this sick sonofabitch out of business,” McQueen said. “I do that and I don’t care who takes the credit.”

  “You are not looking at this case as a way to advance in the department?”

  “I’m happy where I am, Lieutenant,” McQueen said. “You might want to be commissioner, but I’m happy being a detective.”

  “And you’re a good detective, aren’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  Bautista pulled a file folder from beneath the stack on the desk. He put it on top, then placed his hand on it.

  “This is your personnel file, Sergeant,” he said. “From what I see in here, you are, indeed, a good detective.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And your offer is intriguing, to say the least. But it’s not quite accurate. You see, if I let you work on this as a serial killer case and it blows up in your face, I won’t get off scot-free. I’ll take some shrapnel from it. Whether or not it’s enough to hurt my career advancement would remain to be seen.”

  So the man was on the fence. All he needed to go one way or the other was a good push. But Bautista went on before McQueen could react.

  “These scratches you’ve pointed out on the victim’s backs,” he said. “The first victim had one, as well?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t see a photo of that in here, anywhere. If I’m going to go to my superiors with this I need as much ammunition as you can give me.”

  “There must be a photo . . . somewhere, sir.”

  “Find it.” Bautista sat back in his chair, took his hand off the stack of folders. “And bring it back to me.” McQueen sat forward.

  “That’s all you need?”

  “No,” Bautista said. “Come back with a proposal for what you’ll need to catch this guy. How many detectives, who you want, what size task force—”

  “I don’t want a task force, Lieutenant,” McQueen said. “I’d like to handle it right here in the squad.”

  “Lay it out for me, Dennis,” Bautista said. “Convince me so I can convince them.”

  McQueen wasn’t sure who “them” was, but apparently his only task was to convince his lieutenant, give him that final push to get him off the fence.

  He leaned forward, collected the files from the desk, and stood up.

  “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

  “I understand the Albemarle Road murder was a pretty bad one?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” McQueen said. “A mother and child were killed. I’ll have a report on your desk by the end of the day.”

  “Can you give that case to someone else?”

  “I’d . . . really rather handle that one myself, sir.”

  “In addition to—well, never mind. Bring it all to me and we’ll see what happens.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As McQueen turned to leave Bautista said, “And Sergeant?”

  “Sir?”

  Bautista put his hand out.

  “Leave your file here with me.”

  McQueen hesitated, then took it off the top and handed it back to the man.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s all,” the lieutenant said. “Close the door on the way out, please.”

  McQueen left the office and pulled the door closed behind him. He caught a glimpse of Bautista picking up the phone just before the door closed.

  Chapter 46

  Later that afternoon, Sommers came over to McQueen’s desk and looked at him.

  “You don’t look happy,” he said to her.

  “I spoke with the M.E.,” she said. “He’s very sorry, but he doesn’t seem to have any photos of the scratch on the first victim’s body.”

  “How could that be?”

  She shrugged.

  “Doctor G said to tell you he can’t explain it,” she said. “It was a busy time—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” McQueen said, “yadda, yadda, yadda, that doesn’t help me any.”

  “You don’t think the lieutenant would bail out just because we don’t have a photo of Thomas Wingate’s back, do you?”

  “He’s not goin’ anywhere if he thinks he’s short of ammo, Bailey,” McQueen said.

  She folded her arms and said, “I find it hard to believe no one took a picture of Wingate’s back.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Somebody did.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.” He dug his cell phone out of his pocket. “How long do photos stay in this thing?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, “but I can hook it to the computer and check.”

  He handed the phone over and said, “Do it.”

  “What are you going to do in the meantime?” she asked.

  “Work on logistics,” he said. “I’m a boss. That’s what I do.”

  “Right.”

  As she returned to her desk he grabbed his phone and called the crime lab. He asked for Marty Cahill. He’d had a few more cases with that particular tech since the Wingate case, and he liked both his work ethic and his attitude.

  “Sergeant McQueen,” Cahill said, when he came on the phone. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve got a new case, Cahill, and I need your help.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can. What do you need?”

  “I need a phone number from a phone and address book.”

  “I assume the book belongs to the victim?”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “And that you can’t get the number the old-fashioned way? By looking it up?”

  “That page is missing.”

  “Ah,” Cahill said. “Well, send it over. If there’s an impression of the number on the next page we can raise it.”

  “That’s what I was hoping for.”

  “Don’t do that trick everybody’s learned from TV with the pencil,” Cahill said. “You might screw it up.”

  “I leave that sort of thing to the professionals.”

  “Good man.”

  “Thanks, Marty. I’ll get it right over to you.”

  “And I’ll get it right back.”

  McQueen hung up and started rifling through his desk, looking for an envelope to put the phone book in.

  “Got it!” Sommers said, startling him by appearing in front of his desk.

  “Got what?” he asked.

  “The picture you took of Thomas Wingate that day at Coney Island,” she said. “It was still in the memory of your phone and now it’s in my computer.”

  “Can you print it out?”

  “I can, but it wouldn’t come out clearly,” she said. “You won’t be able to see the scratch clearly.”

  “But you can see it on the screen?”

  “It’s clear as day on the screen.”

  “Grea
t. Can you get me a print photo?”

  “I can have it done at Kinkos,” she said.

  “Good, do it.”

  “Today?”

  “No,” he said, “not today . . . now!”

  “Okay, boss. What are you looking for?”

  “An envelope. I’m sending the phone book to Cahill at the lab. He’s gonna get the phone number for us from the next page.”

  “The impression? Good thinking, Dennis. I guess that’s why you get the big money.”

  “That’s not even funny,” he said.

  “I’ll get you an envelope from my desk and then get right on this photo.”

  “Good. Thanks, Bailey.”

  When she brought him an envelope he thanked her again and she was out the door with her partner.

  Now that he had a photo—when she returned with it—he needed to work out some roster changes that would enable him to work the serial case. He really wanted to work on the serial case, and he wanted Bailey Sommers with him on it. He didn’t know Tolliver well, though, so he didn’t know how the man would feel about McQueen taking his partner away, or about being reassigned to another case. He decided to give that case to the Double Ds—Dolan and Diver—but to also assign Tolliver. He’d tell Sommers’s partner it was for the sake of continuity. Meanwhile, he’d take Sherman and Silver to work the serial case with him. (Idly he wondered why nobody ever referred to them as the Double Ss? Probably the missing double entendre.)

  He went to work putting this all down on paper for his boss.

  Chapter 47

  Owen stared dispassionately at the woman’s body that was hanging from a hook in his freezer. He was excited that things had started up again. Waiting the entire year had been difficult, but he knew it was necessary. The only way to go about this and not get caught was to do it as no one else had ever done. That was why it took three separate entities—the Observer, the Ice Man and the Killer. One would have been hard enough for the police to find, but three would be impossible.

  As for the bodies, the fourth one had been found. Now it was time to decide how and where this fifth one would be found. And the sixth one—maybe that one should be a woman. It would serve two purposes. First, it would even things up, three and three, men and women. And second, killing two women in a row would again throw the police off, because there was no discernible pattern. As he had seen and heard at all the seminars, and read in all the books, the profilers worked from serial killer patterns. And the police—well, they waited for mistakes to be made, but that would not happen here.

  He tore his eyes from the dead woman hanging by her bra—he liked that touch—and left the freezer to go back and see to his customers. The next move belonged to the Observer . . .

  Chapter 48

  McQueen presented himself at the door of the lieutenant’s office at 5:05 that afternoon. Bautista was studying something on his desk. When he looked up he saw McQueen and waved him to a chair.

  “You must want this pretty bad, Dennis,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “This nut has killed four people that we know of,” McQueen said. “It’s my best guess that he’s got another one on the hook now, and is probably staking out a sixth. To put it plainly, he’s pissing me off.”

  Bautista smiled and sat back in his chair.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said, “and this is just for my own edification.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It doesn’t piss you off that I’m about, what, ten years younger than you? And you have to report to me?”

  “No, sir, not at all.”

  “As you said earlier today, I am ambitious,” Bautista said. “I do not try to hide that from anyone. Because of that I guess I can’t understand a man who lacks ambition.”

  “I don’t lack ambition,” McQueen said. “Right now my ambition is to put this sick fucker away. My ambition is just not as lofty as yours, or someone else’s, might be. I don’t aspire to a higher rank, Lieutenant, because that would keep me from my ambition in life.”

  “To put bad guys away.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well,” the lieutenant said, “as ambitions go I suppose that’s not a bad one.”

  “We got a photo of the scratch on the first victim’s back,” McQueen said. He placed the file on Bautista’s desk. Inside was a photo Sommers had gotten from Kinkos.

  Bautista opened the file and took a look.

  “And these are my suggestions for how we can handle these cases in-house.”

  “Why not a task force, Sergeant?” Bautista asked.

  “Because word would get around, that way,” McQueen said. “It would end up in the papers. We can run this just like a task force without announcing it.”

  “With you in charge?”

  “With you in charge, sir.”

  Bautista picked up McQueen’s report and scanned it. “Sommers?”

  “She’s got good instincts, sir.”

  “Diver and Dolan,” Bautista said. “I am not impressed with them. They seem to me to be too . . . trivial.”

  “They get the job done.”

  “And what about Tolliver? He seems an up and comer to me. Why not assign the case to him and let them assist him?”

  “Because having to assist him—someone a lot younger—would piss them off, sir. It would work out better this way.”

  “What about the others? Vadala? Mollica? Chapin?”

  “They can continue to rotate and catch cases on an individual basis,” McQueen said. “In the event they need help, we can deal with each case individually.”

  “And how long do you anticipate this reorganization would last?” Bautista asked.

  “Until we catch the bastard.”

  “The serial killer.”

  “And the child killer.”

  “You really think you can keep this under your hat, Sergeant?” Bautista asked.

  “Nobody knows about it now, sir. Why should that change? It would only happen if someone was to leak it to the press.”

  Bautista seemed to bristle at that.

  “And you think I would do that? As part of my ambitious plan to advance in rank?”

  “No, sir,” McQueen said. “I didn’t mean that. Besides, there’d be plenty of credit when the bastard is finally caught. Letting it out now, letting him see himself in the papers, would jeopardize that.”

  “You don’t think that reading about himself in the newspapers could possibly force him into a careless act of bravado?”

  “Can I be perfectly frank, sir?”

  “As I told you this afternoon, I would appreciate that.”

  McQueen leaned forward.

  “This nut isn’t going by the rules the profilers have set down in all the books,” McQueen said. “That much is obvious from the MO in each case.”

  “All being killed in a different manner, you mean.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bautista nodded and waved for McQueen to continue.

  “In addition,” McQueen said, “his activity is not escalating. He waited at least nine months to take victim four. That’s unusual patience for a wacko.”

  “Are you convinced he is a . . . wacko?”

  “Oh, he’s a nut, all right,” McQueen said. “He’s not sick, he’s not acting out, he doesn’t need treatment, he needs to be caught, and put down.”

  “Put down?”

  “Figure of speech, sir.”

  “I don’t see anything in your record to indicate you are trigger-happy, Dennis,” Bautista said. “I wouldn’t want you to start this late in your career.”

  “I just meant he needs to be put away . . . sir.”

  “How long do you have in, Sergeant?”

  “Better than twenty-five, sir . . . about twenty-seven years.”

  “You are not ready to retire, are you?”

  “No, sir,” McQueen said.

  “Why not?”

  “What else would I do?” />
  “So I don’t have to worry about you wanting to go out in a blaze of glory, and taking my career with you?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  Bautista studied his second-in-command for a few moments, then said, “I’m inclined to go with you on this, Sergeant. Do what you have to do to get this done. I’ll back you.”

  “You got the okay from above?”

  Bautista made a steeple of his fingers and regarded McQueen over them.

  “We’re going out on our own here, Dennis—you and I,” he said. “I haven’t checked this with anyone.”

  “Sir . . . you’re taking a big chance.”

  “I’m counting on you, Dennis,” Bautista said. “Is that taking a big chance?”

  McQueen hesitated, then said, “Yes, sir, you are.”

  Bautista smiled.

  “Honest to the end, eh, Dennis?”

  “I’m afraid that’ll be on my tombstone, Lieutenant.”

  “Well,” Bautista said, “get to work, Sergeant, and keep me informed.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  When he left the office he closed the door behind him. He tried to catch a glimpse of what his boss might be doing at that moment, but failed to. He decided that if the lieutenant was willing to take a chance on him, he’d have to do the same with the younger man.

  The squad room was empty. He walked to his desk and sat down, and as he did, Bailey Sommers and Andrew Tolliver came in.

  “What have you got?” he asked them.

  “Nothin’,” Tolliver said. “False alarm.”

  “What’s happening here?” Sommers asked him.

  “I got the go-ahead to pursue our case as a serial.”

  Her eyes sparkled and she said, “A task force?”

  “No,” he said. “In-house, right here.”

  “All right!” Tolliver said. “When do we start?”

  “Tomorrow, the morning. I’m gonna call the Double Ds, Silver and Sherman and have them come in tomorrow at ten. The two of you be here, as well. You’re all coming off the chart.”

  “What about the rest of the squad?”

  “They’ll keep catching cases. If we get jacked up, I’ll have to deal with it then.”

  “This is so cool,” Tolliver said.

  “You guys are off the clock, so go home and come back in the morning.”