Fifteen Times a Killer

by Alan McDermott

  “He’ll be happy as a pig in shit once he sees what you’ve got. Is the story ready to go?”

  Jess assured her that it was, and Corrina asked to read it.

  The reporter opened her laptop and brought up a Word document. “That’s just a local copy. I’ve got it backed up, just in case I lose my laptop.”

  Or I try to delete it, Corrina thought.

  She read through it, skipping the chapters the killer had sent. Although she was relatively new to journalism, Jess wrote like a seasoned pro. She didn’t sensationalize, just presented the facts. There was ample sympathy toward the victims’ families, and it ended with a promise of more to come.

  Corrina asked her to take one point out, which was the crossed sticks that marked the graves. That was something only the killer would know about, and she wanted that to be held in reserve to weed out any copycats or attention seekers claiming to be Fifteen-X. Jess agreed and snipped it from her story.

  They chatted for a little longer, with Jess probing for new discoveries. Corrina explained that they’d made no further progress, deliberately omitting the call she’d had with McCrae earlier. The last thing she wanted was Jess trampling all over that story while it was still active. Jess looked dubious, but didn’t press on. Instead, she asked if she could see the files relating to the cases. Corrina had printed some out for her, but on the understanding that they didn’t leave the office. She could take notes, but nothing more. As Jess scribbled away, Corrina stayed in the room with her, just in case she tried to take photographs.

  Larry Unger joined them and spent a couple of minutes on Jess’s laptop setting up an email forwarder. Corrina couldn’t help smiling when she noticed him stealing glances at Jess while he worked.

  When the thirty minutes were up, Corrina made up an excuse about a meeting she had to attend, escorted Jess to the elevator and watched it descend. The girl was likeable enough, but Corrina still didn’t fully trust her. The way Jess had cornered her into giving her access to the files showed that she had some smarts and wasn’t afraid to use them.

  She was also curious as to why the killer had chosen such an inexperienced reporter. Josh hadn’t been able to find any connection between Jess and Corrina, but then he’d missed a large part of Vincent Perry’s background.

  She sought him out to put him straight.

  * * *

  Jess rode the elevator up to the 19th floor, butterflies swarming in her stomach. She knew she didn’t have to be nervous. She’d worked out her play on the drive back from Wilshire, and Lehane couldn’t refuse her request. She held all the aces, but the idea of confrontation always made her shaky.

  She entered the Telegraph newsroom and made for the editor’s office. Through the glass wall, she could see Lehane reclining in his chair, his hands clasped behind the back of his head and his feet up on the desk. In the chair opposite him was Claire McMillan in a low-cut top and short skirt.

  Jess knocked on the door and Lehane beckoned her in.

  “This better be good,” he said.

  “How does a serial killer on the streets sound?”

  Lehane swung his feet off the desk. “Active?”

  Jess nodded.

  “How did you get a hold of this?” Claire asked.

  Jess ignored her and opened her laptop, setting it down in front of the boss. She opened the file containing her story. “That’s what I’ve written. It has to go out in the morning edition.”

  “If there’s a big story, it should be assigned to me,” Claire added, directing her anger at Jess. “I have seniority.”

  “Tough luck, sister. It’s mine.”

  Claire looked at Lehane for support, but he was engrossed in the screen, his lips moving as he read. She fumed, arms crossed, while Jess stood smug as she waited for her boss to finish.

  “Any of this verified?” Lehane asked.

  “Every detail,” Jess said. She gave him a breakdown of the last few days. The emails and the letter she’d received, her trip to the burial site, her meetings with the FBI agent in charge of the task force. She handed him Corrina Stone’s FBI card. “Call her. She’ll back me up.”

  Lehane looked at the screen, then at both of the reporters in turn. “It’s good,” he said to Jess, eliciting a smile. She couldn’t help directing it Claire’s way.

  “But it’s not great,” the editor continued.

  Jess’s head snapped back to him.

  “It’s got no…pizzazz. Maybe you should hand it over to Claire and see what she can make of it.”

  Jess looked at her rival, who was a picture of smugness. Her shoulders drooped. “Okay,” Jess said, reaching for the laptop. “Let me take my name off it and I’ll email it to her.”

  Her fingers danced over the keys for a moment or two, then she feigned surprise. “Oops. Looks like I permanently deleted it, research and all. Sorry, Claire, you’ll have to start again from scratch.” Jess directed her gaze back to Lehane. “I quit. I already spoke to Gemma at the Times. She’ll let me start work this evening.”

  Jess turned to walk out, and the shout she was expecting came loud and quick. “Wait!”

  She turned to see two angry faces but kept hers passive.

  “I don’t like being blackmailed,” Lehane seethed.

  “I’m not blackmailing you,” Jess countered. “I brought you a story, you didn’t like my version, so I quit. I’m not going to hand my hard work over to rubber-tits here.”

  Claire looked like she was about to object to the term, but thought better of it. That confirmed what Jess had suspected all along.

  “That’s not your research,” Lehane continued. “It’s company property. You did it on my dime.”

  “Actually, I did it in my free time. I took a personal day to go to Scranton, where I saw an old, sick friend. I just happened to do some other things while I was there. The rest I did in the evenings. Now, is there anything else you wanna say? Because this killer wants the story out tomorrow, and if it doesn’t make the morning edition, he’ll send it to someone else—a rival newspaper.”

  Lehane looked uncomfortable. In her two years at the paper, Jess had never seen anyone stand up to him. It must have been an awakening experience.

  “Okay, you get the story,” Lehane finally said. He held his hand up as Claire looked about to burst from her seat. “But I want to vet it before it goes out.”

  “Okay, I’ll email you my back up. But just so you know, he doesn’t want his version changed at all. Not one extra comma. Try to cut out the grisly bits, he’ll walk away.”

  “I got it,” Lehane said.

  “I can’t believe you’re gonna cave in to this…this…”

  Lehane gave Claire a look that would have cut most men in half. “No need for you to hang around,” he told her. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Claire jumped to her feet and snatched up her handbag. She glared at Lehane. “You’re making a big mistake.” She turned her attention to Jess. “And you. You could never fill my shoes.”

  “If it meant spending half my life on my back with those shoes in the air, I wouldn’t want to.”

  Claire looked like she was going to swing, but somehow kept herself in check and stormed out of the room.

  “Wow. You managed to blackmail your editor and piss off the number one reporter in the same day. Nice going.”

  “I just wish she’d hung around long enough to hear about my pay raise,” Jess told him.

  “Now hold on—”

  “Twenty grand a year should do for now.”

  “You’re pushing your luck.”

  “You’re not the first to tell me that. I also want expenses for the last few days. If you’re running the story, it’s on your dime. Your words, not mine.”

  “I’ll think about the pay increase,” Lehane told her.

  “What’s to think about? You’ve already calculated the leap in sales. And this is an exclusive. It’ll run and run, and so far we only have three bodies. That means twelve more to come.
Syndicate the rights to the news channels and you’re talking millions. What’s a measly twenty grand a year compared to that?”

  Lehane sighed. “Okay, done. Twenty grand, plus expenses for the last week.”

  “Plus all my expenses going forward, same as Claire gets.”

  The editor threw his hands in the air. “You wanna bankrupt me? What’s next? A private yacht? Company Ferrari?”

  “Well, now that you mention it…”

  “Get outta here! Send me the copy, I’ll go through it now. And don’t go anywhere.”

  Jess went to her desk, glad to see that Claire’s was empty. She didn’t want that woman anywhere near her right now. Ever, for that matter, but Lehane wouldn’t get rid of his number one journalist while she was still banging out great stories—as well as banging him.

  Jess retrieved her copy of the story from the cloud, though she also had one on a flash drive in her purse. She emailed it to Lehane, then read through it again, making notes about final changes before it went to press.

  * * *

  The afternoon dragged as Corrina waited for news from McCrae about his misper. He eventually called her just as she was packing up to leave for the day.

  “We tracked our woman using traffic cameras to a motel on Westwood Boulevard. She stayed for ninety-three minutes before her car left again. This time she was in the passenger seat. It followed the coast road, but we lost it near Malibu. We’re checking out the other cars that were there at the time.”

  “Did you get a look at the person driving?” Corrina asked him.

  “Yeah, a clear shot from one of the traffic cameras. Male, blond hair, full face beard. I’ll email you a copy.”

  “Thanks. I’ll run it and see if we can get a match.”

  “We also saw a van pull in moments after she arrived.”

  A flutter of excitement shot through Corrina’s chest. “Did you get a plate?”

  “We did. We ran it and it came back with an address in Van Nuys. The owner’s a 43-year-old male. We got a warrant, so I’ll be heading over there soon.”

  With Connor gone for the weekend, Corrina had no reason to rush home. “Want me to tag along?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. I’ll meet you at the station in thirty minutes.”

  Corrina got there in twenty. She found McCrae speaking to a member of the homicide team. Both men wore armored vests. McCrae introduced her to detective Geraldo Martinez, who’d joined shortly after she’d left for the Bureau. He was McCrae’s height but with a slighter build and black hair.

  “Going in hard?” Corrina asked.

  “We’re not taking any chances.”

  Corrina couldn’t blame them. She would have done the same. “What do we know about him?”

  “His name’s John Mansfield. Forty-three, single, pays his taxes, never been in trouble with the police.”

  “Sounds promising.” He was the right age, according to the profile that had come back from the Behavioral Analysis Unit. They’d also suggested the killer might have suffered mental trauma at an early age, probably pre-teen, and that he was a loner. It sounded like every other serial-killer profile she’d read. Corrina often wondered if the BAU just recycled the same characteristics and tossed an extra one in for fun. “Does his driver’s license photo match the CCTV image?”

  “Not even close, but a hundred bucks says our guy was wearing a disguise.”

  “You know I ain’t taking that bet,” Corrina smiled.

  They drove to Van Nuys in two cars. McCrae, Corrina and Martinez rode in an unmarked Ford, while four uniformed officers followed in a police cruiser.

  “Geraldo and I’ll do the knock with officer Smalling while the rest cover the rear,” McCrae said to Corrina. “You wanna hang back until we’ve made entry?”

  Corrina was itching to get involved, but it was still an LAPD investigation. “Sure. It’s your bust.”

  They pulled up on the corner of a residential street thirty minutes later. “Third building on the left,” McCrae said. “The grey duplex. Mansfield’s door is on the right, number 2025.”

  Corrina could see a grey van in the driveway. She took a picture of it on her phone, then used her thumb and finger to expand the image. “It’s a GMC Savana,” she said.

  “That’s what we picked up on the CCTV,” McCrae told her. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  McCrae and Martinez went to the squad car, where they spoke to the officers who were standing ready. Corrina saw three uniforms jog to Mansfield’s residence and disappear around the back. McCrae, Martinez and the last cop were close behind them.

  Corrina knew this could go one of two ways. The occupant of the house could give up, or the situation could quickly escalate. She’d been on many house calls and experienced both scenarios, and the latter usually ended badly.

  McCrae and Martinez stood either side of the door frame, their weapons drawn. The uniformed cop also had his pistol ready. McCrae tried the handle but shook his head. They were going to have to force their way in.

  Corrina suddenly felt nervous, and it wasn’t for her own safety. She recognized it as concern for McCrae. It was natural to worry about a friend or colleague about to face danger, but this was more intense, like it was her son in the firing line.

  A shout went up, and the cop standing next to McCrae holstered his sidearm and used a battering ram on the door. It held, but with his second effort the wood split and the door flew open. The three men poured inside, and Corrina could hear the screamed commands from her position inside the car. She waited for the dreaded sound of gunfire, but a minute passed, and another. Then McCrae’s head popped out of the front entrance and he beckoned to her.

  Corrina ran to the house. Inside, she found McCrae standing over a figure who was face down on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his back. The hair wasn’t blond, and the face was clean shaven. Martinez was kneeling next to him, reading him his rights.

  “Any problems?” she asked.

  Martinez shook his head. “He was watching TV. Took one look at us and damn near crapped his pants.”

  “Can someone please tell me what this is about?” Mansfield pleaded, close to tears.

  “We’re with homicide,” McCrae said. “You do the math.”

  “Homicide? That’s ridiculous!”

  “We’ll see. We’ve got a warrant.” McCrae dropped the paper next to Mansfield’s head and stood, ordering the cops to search the premises. While they went to work, McCrae lifted Mansfield to his feet and sat him down on the sofa.

  “Where were you between nine last night and four this morning?” Martinez asked.

  “I was here. I mean…no, wait, I was out until eleven, then I came home and slept.”

  “Out where?” McCrae asked. “Who were you with?”

  “A friend. We had a few drinks, then watched a movie.”

  “Got a ticket stub?” Martinez pressed.

  “In my wallet. It’s over there, in my jacket. I paid by card, got a receipt.”

  McCrae snapped on a pair of latex gloves and took the billfold from the leather jacket hanging from a hook in the hallway. He examined the contents and found the receipt for the movie theatre.

  “Looks legit,” he said, handing it to Martinez.

  “I got an Uber home, too,” Mansfield said. “Check my cell phone.”

  He gave McCrae the pin to open his iPhone, and moments later the detective let out a defeated sigh.

  “Anyone else have access to your vehicle?”

  “The hunk of shit in the driveway? Hasn’t run in three months. Needs a new transmission.”

  “I’ll take a look,” Corrina said, stepping outside. She saw immediately that Mansfield was telling the truth. Cobwebs filled the space between the tires and the wheel wells, and the brake discs were rusted over. This vehicle hadn’t moved in a long time.

  She went back inside. “Unless he’s trained spiders to spin webs at will, I gotta believe him.”

  The first of the unif
ormed officers returned, shaking his head, and McCrae swore under his breath. He took his key out and removed the suspect’s cuffs. He offered Mansfield his sincere apologies and promised to have the door fixed immediately.

  “You’ll be hearing from my attorney,” Mansfield promised as he rubbed his wrists, filling with bravado.

  “The officer will give you the contact details for the complaints department,” McCrae said. He turned to the nearest cop and told him to square things with Mansfield, then walked outside just as the sun hit the horizon. Corrina followed him out.

  “He must have cloned the plates,” she said. “Put out an APB on the vehicle?”

  “I did that before we came, just in case he wasn’t home.” McCrae kicked at a weed on the edge of the lawn. “Man, I thought we had him.”

  “It’s rarely that easy and you know it. This guy wants to throw us off the scent, so expect a few more misdirections.”

  McCrae started walking back to the car. “Whatever happened to the days when the perps were dumb as shit?”

  “The Internet,” Corrina said. “Most people use it to argue with strangers or watch cat videos, but the bad guys are looking for ways to avoid getting caught. These days they can look up forensic techniques before they commit a crime, so they know the pitfalls. Prints, DNA, CCTV, fibers on clothes, you name it. Doesn’t make our job any easier.”

  “Yeah, well, at least we have some secrets from them.”

  They did. Quite a few. That was one of the reasons so many murders were solved. That, and the fact that so few murders were planned to any extent. Most were crimes of passion or impulsive actions.

  Fifteen-X was a different animal, though. Cunning, smart, adaptable. Catching him wasn’t going to be easy.

  It also wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  “I’m beat,” Corrina said. “Let’s call it a night.”

  McCrae waited for Martinez to leave the house and the trio drove back to the station. Corrina would have liked to have had the time alone with her former partner, but it wasn’t to be. As a result, conversation was light and brief. When they got back to West 1st Street, Corrina said her goodbyes and drove home to Santa Monica.