Miami Fire

by Rick Murcer

  He was grateful for that.

  A minute later, the pilot came out of the cockpit and told them they had five minutes until take off and would be in the air for about two hours, putting them in Miami at around eight thirty a.m.

  “Okay, thanks. Time to buckle up,” said Josh.

  Twenty minutes later, they were over Detroit when Josh called them together.

  His boss and friend was a good cop, but Josh’s real gift was getting things organized, which recently had included his personal life. He carried himself a bit differently these days, and Manny was glad for the confidence he showed. A strong family life can do that for folks.

  “Let’s gather at the table. We’ve actually got three files to analyze. One file from Miami-Dade police, one from their forensics division, and one from our folks in Quantico. That one is a bit thin because of time constraints, but there are some items of interest in there.”

  They moved to the small conference table, Sophie doing quite well despite her hatred of flying and her propensity toward motion sickness. She was only a bit pale this time.

  “You all right, Sophie?” he asked.

  “Yeah, yeah. I took some nausea stuff before we left and feel pretty good. It’s not as good as tequila, but it does the trick.”

  “That would have disappointed Alex,” said Josh.

  “Yeah, well, he’ll have to get his jollies another way.”

  “Okay, now that we have the medical report out of the way, let’s get to work,” said Josh.

  “Bite me, Corner. I’d rather be taking a train, you know.”

  He laughed. “I know. I appreciate your valor.”

  “You bet your ass you do.”

  “Me too,” said Dean.

  “Are you sucking up? It ain’t going to work. Helping Williams gag me wasn’t that funny. It’ll be so cold on my side of the bed you’re going to think you’re a celibate Tibetan monk before this is over.”

  “Yes, my queen,” he answered.

  “That’s better.”

  She touched his hand without looking at him.

  True love was different for every couple, no question, but there were not many loves like the one Dean and Sophie carried. Until death do you part held true meaning for them.

  “Okay. The first file is the actual crime scene reports and has most of the important photos from the first team who arrived at the site. The second team from their CSU hadn’t finished their report when I received the call.”

  “I know this is one of those murders from hell, but isn’t it unusual to call us after one incident?” asked Belle.

  “It is,” said Josh. “But the senior detective in charge, an old friend of ours, Marie Swifton, insisted we be invited in right away. We’d worked with her a couple of years ago involving Carousel Cruise Line employees. She told me she thought she knew where this was headed.”

  “So they want a profile pronto?” asked Dean.

  “They do. So let’s get to work. You have thirty minutes to go over these files and then talk about what you see here, as usual,” said Josh.

  Manny embraced the silence and began doing what he was born to do, like it or not, and that was to profile killers who’d left their terrible mark on society and the unfortunate victims.

  He opened the crime scene file containing the photos and began studying them—one at a time, slowly. Then he repeated the process, which was his custom in such cases.

  On the outside, he appeared calm, collected, professional, and objective. Looking only for facts and hidden clues. But that calm demeanor hid the cornucopia of emotions and startling impressions that now rattled around in his head, waging war against every sense of decency and compassion.

  These images of revulsion were exactly that. These two had been alive, the Welch couple, and just married before this butcher stole their futures. Was there a more blatant sin than to steal someone’s future?

  Compartmentalizing his emotions and magnifying his concentration allowed him to notice practically everything.

  The images clearly showed how the counterclockwise circles, displayed by the folds on the skin, connected and cut into the skin of both victims, the varying degrees of depth, the amount of blood on and around the victims. The specific source of that blood. The bindings the killer had used and the extent the ligature marks had damaged the arms, the neck, and the ankles.

  He made mental notes of the size of the tree and the northerly direction the killer had stood as he faced the man and then the westerly side of the tree for the woman. Significant? Maybe.

  What of the build and body types of each of the victims? The color of their hair and eyes? The size of their feet? The tanned pigment of their skin? What they did for a living? Did all of that play a part? Or did none of it?

  He wasn’t sure, but he was beginning to get a feel for this one, at least a tiny version of intent as the collage began to melt into a defined portrait.

  Manny took out his customized Swiss Army knife and unfolded the nail file. He then began to trace the precisely carved “VALENTINO” on the man’s face and then his chest. He repeated the act with the photos of the woman. In each case, the meticulous connected circles on each body and lettering had been perfect. Detailed right down to a small curl on the tail of each “N.”

  Running his hand through his hair, he examined the photos a third time, and then closed the file without reading the reports. Nor did he open and read the other two files. He didn’t need to see what was in them.

  Instead, he got up and went to the jet’s Keurig machine and brewed a cup of hazelnut crème. The aroma of the coffee was almost as satisfying as the coffee itself.

  “That coffee smells damn good Williams. Are you getting me a cup too?” asked Sophie, shutting the last of the three files.

  Manny returned to the table with his cup in hand. “I don’t think you should add more caffeine into your system, your middle name is wired.”

  “Real cute. I’ll get my own. And you’re supposed to be a gentleman.”

  “I’ll get you a cup,” said Dean. “After the shit in those files, I just may spike yours and mine with the good old-fashioned whiskey of our choice.”

  “I hear you,” said Belle, rising out of her chair.

  “That’ll be an ‘all for one and one for all’ decision,” said Josh. “I think I’ll be in need of both as well.”

  Five minutes later, they’d reassembled. Manny guessed his talented crew was ready to tackle what they’d seen. He knew he was.

  Josh began. “Before we start brainstorming here, I want to let you know something else. After the call from the Miami folks, Manny and I talked some more and decided we also wanted them to research cold cases, nationwide and internationally, that might have anything similar in terms of MO. We thought, or at least Manny did, that there might be a case or two in the past that could possibly be related to this one.”

  “You don’t think this is his first rodeo,” said Sophie.

  “You all know the typical profiles on these killers. Especially given the organized vein this double murder seems to be,” said Manny.

  “You mean the whole ‘let’s practice our trade on a surrogate target’?” asked Belle, leaning in over the small metal table, her eyes shining.

  Listening to her verbalize his words gave Manny pause.

  Over and over, the remarks she’d made regarding serial killers proved to be true, especially in regard to particularly pointed, merciless killers who had developed their “trade” as a horrific form of psychological evolution.

  And, invariably, the eventual target of their hatred would become a victim. Often the last one because they’d actually worked up enough courage to confront their personal tormentor and rid themselves of that tormentor.

  “Yes, I think so, Belle. Ed Kemper, the Co-ed Killer who murdered and dismembered six young women in the Santa Cruz area, comes to mind,” Manny said. “After his compulsion caused him to kill his grandparents at age fifteen, he claims his desire to see wha
t it was like to kill led to the other murders. He then, after killing five of the six co-eds, butchered his mother by decapitating her and tearing out her vocal cords, which he then put in the garbage disposal. He killed her best friend a few minutes later. After a quick trip though a few states out west, he called the police to turn himself in. He said he was done killing,” said Manny.

  “Damn. Talk about hating your mother. That was the big dude, right?” asked Sophie.

  “His file says he was six-nine and about three hundred pounds, and as an added kicker, to show what the cops and his victims had been up against, his IQ was way over one hundred forty,” said Josh.

  “Those poor girls never had a chance,” said Belle softly.

  She swiveled her chair toward Manny. There was that brief frown again. “Okay, that was an extreme case, but it fits the profile, and I can understand why you’d want to check cold cases, but tell me how that ties in with this one.”

  “Yeah, you haven’t even looked at the other two files,” said Dean. “And yes, I noticed.”

  “Good questions. But before I answer that, let’s talk about our own FBI rules that help us to define a true serial killer.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” said Sophie. “They kill more than three folks with a cooling-off period in between. From the looks of things, that doesn’t apply, yet.”

  “Right, maybe,” said Manny.

  “We don’t know if he knew the victims, but probably didn’t,” said Josh.

  “Right again. ‘Probably’ being the operative word.”

  “It looks like he had a need to dominate the victims violently and sadistically. Mission accomplished there,” said Belle.

  “I don’t think he did this for the money,” said Josh. “And one murder I can buy as a symbolic death for what or who was getting into his craw. It seems like overkill to assume that he hated two people to the same degree. Not even a set of parents.”

  “I think that’s a fair assessment, Josh. Almost always the reason for killing with these folks is a singular purpose or thought, although collateral damage isn’t unheard of,” said Manny.

  “True. But he took the time to mark them the same way with those connecting circles and he disemboweled the woman as well as the man. That reeks of equal treatment, right?” said Belle.

  “Hallelujah. Women are now equal with men, at least in this prick’s world,” said Sophie through her teeth.

  “Now if we can just get equal pay,” said Belle.

  “Yeah. How much do you make, Williams?” asked Sophie.

  “Really? Now?” said Manny.

  “Okay. Your tight butt is off the hook for now, but you owe me an answer later.”

  “What’s the last rule we use to define a serial killer?” asked Manny.

  “The victims are typically vulnerable, like prostitutes or runaways or homeless. They all make easy targets and people won’t know they’re missing, maybe even for months or years,” said Josh.

  “This couple most certainly didn’t fit that category. Both had most of their families living in South Florida. They both graduated from Miami University and both had good-paying jobs. They were also socially active, according to one interview in the file,” said Belle, then glanced at Manny. “You knew that, though, without even looking at the file from our folks in Quantico.”

  “I had a hunch. These two had no signs that indicated one was the victim and the other collateral damage. They most certainly appeared to be healthy, sun-loving people. Not overweight or too thin. Probably some people even considered them vain and a tad snotty,” answered Manny. “That doesn’t translate to an easy target.”

  The only sound filtering though the impromptu silence was the dull whine of the jet boring through the air at thirty-five thousand feet as his unit reflected on the last few minutes of conversation. He wanted someone to speak, to see what he’d seen. To express what he already knew was true.

  Manny waited.

  Finally Belle broke the silence. “These murders are a hodge-podge of hits and misses. They don’t fit a true profile of a typical serial killer, but in some areas they do, right?”

  Manny nodded. “I don’t think this killer is typical anything.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Sophie.

  Exhaling, Manny leaned over the table just as they hit a tiny air pocket. The jet dropped a few feet and then steadied itself.

  Sophie yelped, the momentary look on her face displaying pure terror. She recovered quickly, hand still on her chest, and scanned his face. “Good God, that sucks. I think my guts are in my throat. Anyway, explain yourself, son.”

  “I hope I can. It sounds strange to say, but I think this murderer’s only motivation is the pure joy of killing.”

  CHAPTER-7

  The soft light emanating from her computer tower served as a night light, and she welcomed it. Not in the true sense that it brought her protection from the hideous demons and monsters, stinking of sulfur and dealing in death, that might crawl out from underneath her bed or burst from the closet and tear her to shreds. She held no such fears, at least for now. There was a time, those years ago when she pondered such supernatural possibilities, and God knew she had reason, but not now. That time was over.

  The steady blue light allowed her to see clearly. It’s rhythm a reflection of her own internal war. And war it was.

  All of her life she’d been taught, and had passed it on as well, that we must be about good things, however such a nebulous word can be defined.

  Watch your manners. Be polite. Be respectful. Dress correctly. Don’t smoke; don’t overdrink; don’t spread your legs for anyone but the man who would be your husband. Think of others as more important than yourself. Don’t lie. Don’t swear. Don’t cheat on your taxes, and God forbid you were contrary to your parents and spoke in a manner of boldness. That particular violation of the Ten Commandments was a one-way ticket to hell from which there was no return.

  But none of that applied to her anymore. Especially not since the incident.

  She’d paid her dues up to that point and, for the most part, had tolerated the game of life and its unpredictable expectations. And, at certain times over the years, had even enjoyed it.

  She rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling.

  The incident.

  Is that how she was identifying it now?

  Calling that state of affairs an incident, she supposed, was far easier than calling it by its proper name.

  The memories had been masked, at least mostly, but forever was a long time. Most days, it worked.

  Yet, she never really could get the girl out of her mind, and the dark thoughts that accompanied her. No matter how desperately she tried, that face was always at the forefront of her mind, taunting her under the guise of being a loving, caring person. The girl had even told her she loved her.

  “My ass,” she whispered.

  She knew the real truth. She knew the motivation possessed by the little slut who’d ruined everything for her and denied her true happiness. That’s all she really wanted, to be happy. No one had the right to deny that to another, no one.

  She clenched the comforter in her hands, nails digging into her palms even through the blanket.

  That bitch had said she did it to protect her from pain. Bullshit. What did that slut know about pain? She lived a perfect little life right up until that day and even beyond.

  But that was going to change.

  Her tormentor had taken away the only real happiness she’d experienced in this screwed up life, and payment was due.

  “An eye for an eye,” she said softly. “An eye for an eye.”

  Then, content in her mission and knowing what had to happen next, she rolled over and fell fast asleep.

  CHAPTER-8

  “How are you doing this morning, mother? The sun is going to be a bright one. I brought you some of those Whoppers that you like,” he said.

  The woman sitting in the rocker facing the windows of the lanai turned
her head slowly and smiled at her son. “I love those things. Thank you, Peter. You made an old lady’s day, you know.”

  Striding to her right side, he sat in the matching oak rocker.

  “Old? Oh, you’re not old at all. You’re kind of like one of those cougar women. If I weren’t your son, I’d be after you for myself. You’re still very beautiful.”

  She laughed, placing a thin, feeble hand on his arm. “Thank you, even though I know you’re lying like the rug under my feet. It’s still nice to hear. You were always such a good boy, and now you’re even a better man.”

  “Ohh, I bet you say that to all of your kids.”

  “I do, silly. You know you’re my only child though, so don’t mess with your old mother.”

  Peter leaned back in the chair and began a slow, rhythmic motion. “I don’t really mess with you. I just like to see that smile come shining through. It makes me feel better.”

  “I know. It makes me feel better as well.”

  She coughed, then coughed again louder, then a third time, worse than the first two. He shot out of his chair and was down on one knee in front of her.

  After one more chest-wrenching cough that he thought would produce a lung on the lanai’s floor, she stopped, both hands on her thin chest. She raised her head, eyes moist, the absent color returning to her face. She smiled weakly. “That hurt a little, but I’ll live.”

  “Thank God. I hate those fits,” he said.

  “No more than I, son. But you need to listen to me. I’ll live today, but I don’t have much time, and we both know that. I’m eighty-eight, and the cancer is getting worse.”

  “Mom, can we not—”

  “No. We will talk about this. I’m checking out soon. I’ve had a great life, but there is one thing I want to see.”

  She looked at him, her fading blue eyes almost matching her gray mane.

  He waited for her to continue as she cleared her throat, as if he didn’t know where this was heading.

  “I am a bit worried that you have no one to take care of you, to watch over you. No grandchildren to carry on our family name and our heritage. I know that’s an old-fashioned, romantic thought these days, but it’s true. Especially the part of having someone to take care of you, to have someone to grow old with. There are so many young ladies in Miami that would die to have a man like you. You know, good looking and loaded.”