Sylver and Gold

by Michelle Larkin

  London nodded in agreement, her eyes sharp and focused. “Are you able to do that with all your cases?”

  “Do what?” Reid asked, looking up.

  “Get inside the killer’s head like that?”

  She thought about it and shrugged. “I guess so. Why?”

  “That’s what makes you the best. That’s your secret sauce.” London grinned. “It also happens to be what I came here to learn.”

  “Then learn away.” She waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Let’s head back to the precinct and see what’s on that memory stick.”

  “Flash drive,” London corrected her.

  “Whatever.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Back at the precinct, they printed out all eighty-six personnel files for closer scrutiny.

  London glanced up from the computer screen as Reid walked in with the stack of paper. “No one in these files is scarred or disfigured, that I can see,” she said. “Then again, we can only see their faces in these photos.”

  Reid had flipped through the stack and noticed the same. “If your theory is right, and the killer is outwardly scarred or disfigured in some way, then that leaves other exposed body parts to consider.”

  “Head, neck, hands, and—depending on the time of year—arms and legs.”

  “It’s cold outside now, but he still remained hidden from both—”

  “We don’t know that,” London interrupted.

  Reid sighed. Another slip. “Just go with me on this for a minute.” She set the stack of personnel files on the desk. “Suppose, just for argument’s sake, that he did keep himself hidden from both vics, not wanting to reveal himself until they were both dead. If that’s the case, then we’re talking head, neck, or hands because his arms and legs would be covered up this time of year.”

  London reached for the phone on Reid’s desk. “I’ll call Angell and see if George remembers anyone who fits that description.”

  Reid started sorting the personnel files by gender while London made the call. She gathered all female employees and set them aside. Unless the killer was transgender—which nothing had so far indicated—the women could be ruled out for now. One by one, she studied each man’s photo without regard to age, race, or ethnicity. She didn’t care about statistics. Numerous studies were available to law enforcement on the probable age, ethnicity, and background of serial killers. That’s what the FBI was here for. Right now, she was evaluating the faces before her from the gut. The gut of a homicide detective who’d seen just about everything.

  Beatrice appeared beside her, looking down at the papers in her hands. Is he in there? she asked.

  Having a spirit instantly materialize beside her used to scare the shit out of her. But she hardly reacted at all anymore. She wasn’t sure if she’d trained her body not to react, or if she was so used to it by now that she simply didn’t flinch. Either way, it worked to her advantage. She wouldn’t have lasted long in the BPD as a jumpy cop.

  “Probably,” she whispered. “Anyone look familiar?”

  I already told you I didn’t see him, dear.

  Right. If London wasn’t sitting so close, she would have pursued this line of questioning and asked Beatrice if she’d seen any of these men before she was murdered.

  He’s going to kill again, Beatrice said. That’s why I’m here. To warn you.

  She locked eyes with Beatrice. It took every ounce of willpower not to ask for more information. She couldn’t—not in the middle of the precinct.

  Then, just like that, Beatrice was gone.

  She looked down at the file in her hands. Gilbert McGovern. His photo sent chills down her arms and legs. Caucasian. Thick dark eyebrows, gray eyes, prominent cheekbones, long nose. This was a straight-on headshot, so his receding chin wasn’t visible. But she remembered him. Why hadn’t she thought of him before now? “Hang up,” she told London.

  “I’m on hold, waiting to speak to—”

  She leaned over and pressed the switch hook on the phone’s cradle. “Don’t waste your time. I found him.”

  “The killer?” London asked, wide-eyed. She set the phone down. “How?”

  Reid handed her the paper and pointed at the photo. “That’s him.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, they didn’t sit right with her. The man she remembered was quiet, hardworking, sheepish, and nonconfrontational. Not the killer’s profile at all. But everything else fit. Maybe he had two opposing personalities, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

  “You recognize him?”

  “I forgot about him until just now. He worked at Angell as a janitor while Mug was there. He always wore a black beanie hat, the same one he’s wearing in that photo, pulled down over his ears. He was bending over to get his bucket one day when a dog jumped on him and pushed his hat up a little—far enough so I could see that the top of one of his ears was missing. It was jagged,” Reid said, remembering. “Like someone had cut it off a piece at a time.”

  He must have worked the night shift because that’s when Reid would visit. The hospital lights were always dimmed for the animals in consideration of the late hour. The thing with his ear had happened so quickly. She remembered questioning if she’d even seen the injury at all. Her mind had been so consumed with Mug’s injuries and suffering that a part of her had wondered if she’d just imagined it. Eventually, she’d brushed it off to dim lighting, weird shadows, and the gruesome imagination of an overworked homicide detective.

  “That’s awful.” London studied the photo. “If he hadn’t brutally murdered two old ladies, I’d feel bad for him.”

  “There was something else, too,” Reid said, thinking back. “No matter what he was doing, he always wore latex gloves. Even saw him eating a sandwich once, and he was still wearing those damn gloves.”

  London glanced up. “You think his hands are scarred.”

  Reid nodded. “I’d bet anything they are. He’s ashamed of them. Keeps them covered up, along with his ears. That has to be our guy.”

  London was quiet for a moment, a look of contemplation on her face. “Why didn’t you think of him before now?”

  The question wasn’t accusatory, Reid realized. London seemed genuinely curious. She shrugged. “With everything that was going on with Mug at the time, I was pretty distracted. This guy kept his head down and went quietly about his work. Never even made eye contact with me. That has to be him, but he doesn’t fit the profile. He never even crossed my mind as a suspect.”

  When they ran his record, it came back clean.

  “Fred said the killer knew what he was doing when he removed the organs from both vics.” London leaned back in her chair. “Does it bother you that he works as a janitor in an animal hospital?”

  It didn’t sit right with her either. They were missing something. “With you on that,” she admitted. “I expected he’d be working in a profession related somehow to corpses. Human corpses,” she added.

  London threw a glance at Gilbert McGovern’s file. “He’s full-time at Angell and still there, according to this. Maybe he has a second job somewhere that falls more in line with our profile.”

  Reid checked her watch. It was closing in on six p.m.

  Picking up on the cue, London asked, “Want me to call and see if he’s on tonight?”

  She shook her head. “Let’s make a surprise visit. Don’t want to tip anyone off and scare him away. Last thing we need is for this guy to be in the wind.”

  * * *

  Reid and London decided not to break for dinner. They did, however, hit the McDonald’s drive-through to grab some chicken strips for Mug. His favorite.

  Reid pulled into Angell’s parking lot and cut the engine. Since the plan was to haul this guy in for questioning, they’d left Boyle’s truck at the precinct and took a squad car, instead. It felt good to be behind the wheel again.

  London turned in her seat to face Reid. “How do you want to play this?”

  “We’ll take him in and interrogate him until he giv
es us something. Easy-peasy.”

  “Can we play good cop / bad cop?” London asked with a hopeful expression. “I get to be the mean one.”

  “No way. I have mean written all over me. You have…”

  “What?” London pressed.

  “The smart, responsible, good-cop vibe going on.” She doubted London could play the bad cop if her life depended on it. Bad cops used foul language, for one. In all fairness, though, Reid didn’t think she could play the good cop. It wasn’t a role suited to her natural God-given talents. She’d worked hard over the course of her career to develop a certain reputation when it came to interrogating a suspect. Cap regularly called her an above-average badass in the interrogation room.

  “Fine.” London sighed, obviously more than a little disappointed. “Do you want me to come with you, or should I stay here in case he tries to bolt?”

  She smiled. London was still thinking like a beat cop and not a homicide detective. “You go where I go, partner. If he runs, we give chase. Together.”

  Reid stepped out from the squad car and opened the rear door for Mug. Sprawled across the back seat, he lifted his head but made no motion to join her. He’d had a long day, and this was his designated naptime. “You coming or what?”

  He set his head back down, never taking his gaze from her face.

  “Fine. Sleep on the job, but I expect you to be well rested by the time we get back. You’ll be riding with the suspect back to the precinct, so you’ll need to look as ugly and ferocious as possible.” She closed the door gently but didn’t bother locking the car. If anyone was dumb enough to try to hotwire a police vehicle, Mug would be there to set them straight.

  They walked into the hospital lobby and waited for the receptionist to finish a phone call. With a straight face, Reid asked for Mr. Mustachio.

  The receptionist frowned. “We don’t have anyone here by that name.”

  London stepped forward and elbowed Reid—hard—in the ribs. “We’d like to see the human resources director, please.”

  “Oh. You mean Mr. Mustaro.” Reid’s jab at the HR director’s larger-than-life mustache had obviously failed to find a landing zone. “He’s usually gone for the day by now,” she said, “but I know he was here late for a meeting.” She spun her chair around and asked a woman behind her to man the desk. “Follow me. Let’s see if we can find him.”

  He was packing up for the day when Reid and London stepped inside his office. London closed the door softly behind them.

  Standing behind his desk with a black trench coat draped neatly over one arm, he clicked his briefcase shut and looked up. “I thought you two left,” he said, surprised.

  Reid nodded. “We did. But we found someone of interest in your files.”

  “Really?” He frowned. “Who?”

  “Gilbert McGovern.”

  “Gil?” He set his hands on his hips, his frown deepening. “To say I’m shocked is an understatement. Gil is the last person I would suspect of any wrongdoing.”

  “Why’s that?” Reid asked, scanning his body language for signs of deception.

  “Started working here when he was seventeen. Been here for nine years. Never missed a single day. Follows the rules, works hard…”

  Reid watched as he looked off into the distance and chewed his lower lip. “What is it?” she pressed. Clearly, he wasn’t sharing what was on his mind.

  He hesitated. “All the years I’ve known him, Gil’s never looked me in the eye. He’s painfully shy and so quiet. Answers in one-word sentences. Keeps his head down, literally, like he’s afraid to stand up tall. Frankly, I’ve always assumed someone got hold of him and”—he shrugged—“broke him a long time ago.”

  “People who are broken often lash out.” London stepped closer to the desk. “Have you ever seen him lash out at an animal or a coworker?”

  He shook his head. “Never. Quite the opposite, actually. I’ve caught him on camera numerous times when he thinks no one’s around, touching the animals gently, reassuring them they’ll be okay. Intellectually, he’s slow. But he’s trustworthy and at ease with the animals. It’s people he’s afraid of. I guess I just find it hard to believe that such a gentle soul could do anything like what you described.”

  Reid exchanged a glance with London. Gil was looking less like a suspect and more like a victim. But London was right. How often had Reid seen examples of victims-turned-murderers in her career? Too many times to count. Still, the man Mr. Mustaro described was a far cry from the killer they were hunting. Gil wasn’t fitting the profile.

  “Is he working tonight?” London asked.

  Nodding, he sat down at his desk, switched on his computer, and brought up the video feeds for each room. “There.” He pointed to the upper right corner of his computer screen. “Gil’s cleaning the dog runs now. That’s where you’ll find him.”

  Reid and London followed Mr. Mustaro through a maze of hospital corridors. He stopped outside a set of green doors marked Kennels. “This is it,” he said, sighing heavily. “Really hope it isn’t him.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a business card, and passed it to Reid. “I’ve already spoken with our attorney. Hospital protocol dictates that Mr. McGovern be suspended pending the results of your investigation. Please keep me apprised.” With that, he turned and retraced his steps down the corridor, leaving them alone to do their job.

  They peered through the door’s small square window and watched in silence as Gil sprayed down each kennel with a hose. “Think he’ll run?” London asked.

  “Doubt it,” Reid said. “But we might get a bath if we’re not careful.”

  “Probably a good idea to shut off the water before we take him into custody.”

  “Agreed.”

  They both craned their necks to follow the hose to its source.

  “I see it. There,” London said, pointing. “Beside that first kennel, under the window.”

  “Good. You cut the water. I’ll go get our guy.”

  “Why do I have to cut the water?”

  “You spotted it first, so it’s yours.”

  London narrowed her eyes.

  “Fine.” Reid sighed. “I’ll cut the water. You go live the dream and apprehend our suspect.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  They pushed through the double doors and headed toward their respective posts. But there was a small hiccup. London called out to Gil and held up her badge before Reid reached the water spigot.

  Panicking, Gil dropped the hose and held his hands up in surrender. Reid watched as the hose bucked wildly in the air like a feral mustang, spraying London from every possible direction. The rookie’s hair and clothes were drenched in seconds. To her credit, though, she didn’t flinch. She remained focused on reading Gil his rights and securing his handcuffs.

  Barely able to contain her own laughter, and in no particular hurry, Reid leaned over and finally shut off the water.

  London led the handcuffed suspect to where Reid was standing. A steady trickle of water ran down her forehead and dripped from her nose. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had that planned all along.”

  “You were the one who insisted on making the arrest.” She shrugged. “Who was I to stand in your way?” Out of pity, she grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and traded places with London.

  One of the vets on staff gave London a fresh pair of scrubs to wear for the ride back to the precinct. They led Gil out the side door and through the parking lot to the squad car.

  As Reid set eyes on the car, she realized something wasn’t right. The driver’s side rear door was slightly ajar, but she was sure she’d closed it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Leaving London with Gil, Reid jogged the rest of the way to the car and threw open the front and rear doors. Mug was gone. Raw panic gripped her like strong hands around her throat.

  “Put him in the car,” she said as London approached with Gil.

  London set he
r hand atop Gil’s head, guided him into the back seat, and shut the door. “Where’s Mug?” she asked, her gaze drifting over the surrounding lot.

  “He took him.”

  “Who?”

  “Same sick fuck who killed our two vics.” Reid kicked herself for leaving Mug alone in the car. How could she have been so stupid? If anything happened to him—if he was hurt in any way—not only would she never forgive herself, Reid knew she’d never be the same.

  London resumed her scan of the parking lot and glanced up. “Security camera,” she said, pointing to a nearby camera that was fastened to a light pole. “Stay with Gil. I’ll be right back.” She sprinted to the hospital.

  * * *

  Intent on finding Mug, London ran as fast as she could to the hospital’s main entrance. Angell Medical Center was where Mug and Reid had started their friendship. She wasn’t about to let this be where it ended. Mug obviously meant everything to Reid. Neither of them deserved this.

  London stepped in front of the woman at the reception desk. “Who runs your security cameras?” she asked, her tone urgent.

  The receptionist glanced up with a look of alarm. “We do.” She pointed to the computer monitor on her right. “We can see the parking lot from here and watch who’s coming in.”

  A ray of hope. “Do recordings get saved?”

  The receptionist nodded. “For twenty-four hours. Then the system deletes it automatically.”

  “I need access to the last thirty minutes. Bring it up on the monitor, please.” London stepped behind the waist-high swinging doors that separated the front office from the waiting room. She lifted her shirt to reveal the badge that was clipped to the waistband of her borrowed scrubs. “Now,” she added when the receptionist made no move to comply.

  * * *

  Trembling, Reid squeezed her eyes shut and imagined herself with a surgeon’s scalpel. She envisioned excising the fear from her body like a malignant tumor—just like she used to do when she was a kid.

  Tumor resected, she opened her eyes and took a deep breath. The pager in her pocket beeped noisily. She withdrew the pager and looked as groups of numbers flashed across the screen. 06…716…437…