5
CHICAGO WAS overcast and a cool fifty degrees on October eighteenth. Lacey hadn’t been to Chicago since she’d turned twenty-one, following a lead that hadn’t gone anywhere, one of the many police departments she’d visited during her year of “mono.”
As for Savich, he wasn’t even particularly aware that he was in Chicago; he was thinking about the sick little bastard who had brutally murdered three families. Officer Alfonso Ponce picked them up and ushered them to an unmarked light blue Ford Crown Victoria.
“Captain Brady didn’t think you’d want to be escorted to the station in a squad car. This one belongs to the captain.”
After a forty-five-minute ride weaving in and out of thick traffic, everyone in the radius of five miles honking his horn, he let them off at the Jefferson Park station house, the precinct for what was clearly a nice, middle-class neighborhood. The station house was a boxy, single-story building on West Gale, at the intersection of two major streets, Milwaukee and Hig-gins. It had a basement, Officer Ponce told them, and that was because it had been built in 1936 and was one of those WPA projects. When there’d been a twister seven years before, everyone had piled into the basement, prisoners and all. One nutcase had tried to escape. There had been little updating since the seventies. There was a small box out front holding a few wilted flowers and a naked flagpole.
Inside, it was as familiar as any station house Savich had ever been in—a beige linoleum floor that had been redone probably in the last ten years, but who knew? It still looked forty years old. He smelled urine wearing an overcoat of floral room spray. There were a dozen or so people shuffling around or sitting on the long bench against the wall, since it was eight o’clock at night. At least half of them were teenage boys. He wondered what they’d done. Drugs, probably.
Savich asked the sergeant on duty where he could find Captain Brady. They were escorted by an officer, turned wary after he’d seen their FBI badges, to a squad room with several offices in the back with glass windows. The room was divided off into modular units, a new addition that nobody liked, the officer told them. There wasn’t much noise this time of night, just an occasional ring of the phone. There were about a dozen people in the squad room, all plainclothes.
Captain Brady was a black man of about forty-five with a thick southern drawl. Even though there wasn’t a single white hair on his head, he looked older than his years, very tired, lines scored deeply around his mouth. When he saw them, his mouth split into a big smile. He came out from behind his cluttered desk, his hand out.
“Agent Savich?”
“Yes, Captain.” The two men shook hands.
“And this is Agent Lacey Sherlock.”
Captain Brady shook her hand, gave her a lopsided grin and said, “You’re a long way from London, aren’t you?”
She grinned back at him. “Yes, sir. I forgot my hat, but my pipe’s in my purse.” She hadn’t realized that Savich even knew her first name.
Savich was studying the computer on the captain’s desk.
Captain Brady waved them into two chairs that sat opposite a sofa. The chairs were surprisingly comfortable. Captain Brady took the sofa. He sat forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “Bud Hollis in St. Louis said you had followed this case since the guy killed the first family in Des Moines and the DMPD had asked the FBI to do a profile. He said I should get you here, and that’s why I e-mailed you. He, ah, appreciated your ideas even though they didn’t get him anywhere. But you already know that. The guy’s a mystery. Nothing seems to nail him. It’s like he’s a ghost.”
Captain Brady coughed into his hand, a hacking low cough. “Sorry, I guess I’m getting run-down. My wife chewed me out good this morning.” He shrugged. “But what can we do? We’ve been putting in long hours since the guy killed the family three and a half days ago. He did it right at six o’clock, right at dinnertime, right at the same time he killed the other two families. Sorry, but you already know that. You got all the police reports I sent you yesterday?”
“Oh yes,” Savich said. “I was hoping you’d contact me.”
The captain nodded. “Bud Hollis also said you had a brain and weren’t a glory hound and did your investigating with a computer. I don’t understand that, but I’m willing to give it a try.
“I still wasn’t sure bringing you here was such a good idea until five minutes before I e-mailed you. Thank you for coming so quickly. I thought I should talk to both of you for a few minutes before I introduce you to the detectives on the case. They’re, ah, a bit unhappy that I called you in.”
“No problem,” Savich said and crossed his legs. “You’re right, Captain. Neither Sherlock nor I am into glory. We just want this guy off the streets.”
Actually, Lacey wanted him really badly. She wanted him dead.
“Unfortunately we don’t have anything more than we did when I e-mailed you this afternoon. The pressure from the mayor’s office is pretty intense; everyone’s hiding in the men’s room because the media’s been on a tear since the first night it happened. They haven’t let up. Do you know that one station got hold of the crime scene photos, and they splashed them all over the ten P.M. news? Bloody vultures. They know all about Des Moines and St. Louis and that the media there had called the guy the Toaster. Got everyone scared to death. The joke in the squad room is that everyone is throwing out their kitchen appliances. You’ve read all the files from all the murders, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Every one. They were very complete.”
“I guess it’s time to cut to the chase, Agent Savich. Can you help us?”
“Both Agent Sherlock and I have just a few questions. Perhaps we can meet with your people and get the answers. Yes, Captain, there’s not a doubt in my mind that we can help you.”
Captain Brady gave Savich a dubious smile, but there was a gleam of hope in his tired eyes. “Let’s get to it,” he said, grabbed a huge folder from his desk, and walked to the door of his office. He yelled out, “Dubrosky! Mason! Get in the conference room on the double!” He turned back to them and said, “I hate these modular things. They just put them in last year. You can’t see a soul, and chances are the guy you want is in the john.” He glanced at her. “Well, or the girl, er, female officer you want is in the women’s room.”
Evidently neither Dubrosky nor Mason had gone to the john. They were already in the conference room, standing stiff and hostile, waiting for the FBI agents. Captain Brady was right about one thing—they weren’t happy campers. This was their turf, and the last thing they wanted was to have the FBI stick their noses into their business. Savich was polite and matter-of-fact. They looked at Sherlock, and she could see that they weren’t holding out for much help from her. Dubrosky said, “You don’t expect us to be your Watsons, do you, Sherlock?”
“Not at all, Detective Dubrosky, unless either of you is a physician.”
That brought her a grudging smile.
She wanted to tell all of them, Savich included, that she now knew as much about this guy as they did, maybe even more than the Chicago cops, and she’d thought about him for as long as Savich had, but she kept her mouth closed. She wondered what Savich had up his sleeve. She’d only known him for seven hours, and she would have bet her last buck that he had a whole lot up that sleeve of his. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he had the guy’s name and address.
They sat in the small conference room, all the files and photos spread over the top of the table. There was a photo of the crime scene faceup at her elbow. It was of Mrs. Lansky, the toaster cord still around her neck. She turned it facedown and looked over at Savich.
He had what she already thought of as the FBI Look. He was studying Dubrosky in a still, thoughtful way. She wondered if he saw more than she did. Poor Dubrosky: he looked so tired he was beyond exhaustion, a man who wasn’t smiling, a man who looked as if he’d just lost his best friend. He was wired, probably on too much coffee. He couldn’t sit still. His brown suit was rumpled, his brown tie loo
ked like a hangman’s noose. He had a thick five-o’clock shadow.
Savich put his elbows on the table, looked directly at the man, and said, “Detective, were there any repairmen in the Lansky household within the past two months?”
Dubrosky reared back, then rocked forward again, banging his fist on the table. “Do you think we’re fucking idiots? Of course we checked all that! There was a phone repair guy there three weeks ago, but we talked to him and it was legit. Anyway, the guy was at least fifty years old and had seven kids.”
Savich just continued in that same calm voice, “How do you know there weren’t other repairmen?”
“There were no records of any expenditures for any repairs in the Lanskys’ checkbook, no receipts of any kind, and none of the neighbors knew of anything needing repairs. We spoke to the family members, even the ones who live out of town—none of them knew anything about the Lanskys’ having any repairs on anything.”
“And there were no strangers in the area the week before the murder? The day of the murder?”
“Oh sure. There were pizza deliveries, a couple of Seventh-Day Adventists, a guy canvassing for a local political campaign,” said Mason, a younger man who was dressed in a very expensive blue suit and looked as tired as his partner. Savich imagined that when they took roles, Mason was the good cop and Dubrosky the bad cop. Mason looked guileless and naïve, which he probably hadn’t been for a very long time.
Mason gave a defeated sigh, spreading his hands on the tabletop. “But nobody saw anyone at the Lansky house except a woman and her daughter going door-to-door selling Girl Scout cookies. That was one day before the murders. That doesn’t mean that UPS guys didn’t stop there a week ago, but no one will even admit that’s possible. It’s a small, close-knit neighborhood. You know, one of those neighborhoods where everybody minds everybody else’s business. The old lady who lives across the street from the Lanskys could even describe the woman and the little girl selling the cookies. I can’t imagine any stranger getting in there without that old gal noticing. I wanted to ask her if she kept a diary of all the comings and goings in the neighborhood, but Dubrosky said she might not be so happy if I did and she just might close right up on us.”
Captain Brady said, “You know, Agent Savich, this whole business about the guy coming to the house, getting in under false pretenses, actually coming into the kitchen, checking before he whacked the families to make sure they had a toaster and a low-set big gas oven didn’t really occur to anyone until you told Bud Hollis in St. Louis to check into it. He’s the one who got us talking to every neighbor within a two-block radius. Like Mason said, there wasn’t any stranger, even a florist delivery to the Lansky house. Everyone is positive. And none of the neighbors seem weird. And we did look for weird when we interviewed, just in case.”
Savich knew this of course, and Captain Brady knew that he knew it, but he wanted the detectives to think along with him. He accepted a cup of coffee from Mason that was thicker than Saudi oil. “You are all familiar with the profile done by the FBI after the first murders in Des Moines. It said that the killer was a young man between the ages of twenty and thirty, a loner, and that he lived in the neighborhood or not too far away, probably with his parents or with a sibling. Also he had a long-standing hatred or grudge or both toward the family in Des Moines, very possibly unknown by the family or friends of the family. Unfortunately this didn’t seem to pan out.”
“No shit,” Dubrosky said as he tapped a pen on the wooden tabletop. “The Des Moines cops wasted hours and hours going off on that tangent. They dragged in every man in a three-block radius of the house, but there wasn’t a single dweeb who could possibly fit the profile. Then it turned out that the Toaster wasn’t just a little-time killer, he’s now a serial killer. Thank God we didn’t waste our time going through that exercise. You people aren’t infallible.” Dubrosky liked that. He looked jovial now. “No, this time you were so far off track that you couldn’t even see the train. Like the captain said, we did talk to all the neighbors. Not a weirdo in the bunch.”
“Actually, on this case, we’re not off track at all,” Savich said. “Believe me, it’s astounding how often the profiles are right on the money.” He was silent a moment, then said, “Now, everyone agrees that the same guy murdered all three families. It makes sense that he had to visit each of the houses to ensure that there were both a toaster and a classic full-size stove/oven combo that sat on the kitchen floor. And not an electric stove, a gas one. There were delivery people all over the neighborhoods in both Des Moines and in St. Louis, but the truth is no one is really certain of anything. By the time they acted on the profile theory of the killer living in the neighborhood, there wasn’t much certainty anymore about any repairs or deliveries. Nobody remembered seeing anybody.”
“Good summary, Savich,” said Dubrosky.
“Bear with me, Detective.” He took another drink of coffee. “This stuff is so potent, I bet it breeds little cups of coffee.”
There was one small smile, from Sherlock.
Savich said, “You guys have done hours of legwork here and you did it immediately. You’ve proven that there wasn’t a repairperson or a salesman or even a guy whose car broke down and wanted to phone a garage near the Lansky house. So then we come back to the basic question. How then did he get into the Lansky house? Into the kitchen specifically so he could make certain they had all the props he needed?”
Dubrosky made a big show of looking at his watch. “Look, Savich, we thought of all that. We found out that all the houses were older, not just here, but also in Des Moines and St. Louis. To me it means that chances are excellent that you’d have a big low gas oven in the kitchens. And who the hell wouldn’t have a toaster? This is all nonsense. Our perp is a transient. He’s nuts. None of the shrinks agree on why he did this. Maybe God told him to strangle every mother with the toaster cord. Maybe God told him that kids are evil, that he was the evil witch out of Hansel and Gretel. Who the hell knows why he’s whacking families? Like I said, the fucker’s crazy and he’s traveling across the U.S., probably killing at whim, no rhyme or reason.”
Mason said, “Buck’s right. We don’t know why no one saw him in the Lansky neighborhood, why a single dog didn’t bark, but maybe he disguised himself as the postman or as that old woman who lives across the street from the Lanskys. In any case, he got lucky. But we’ll find him, we’ve got to. Of course with our luck, the bastard’s long gone from Chicago. We’ll hear about him again when he murders someone in Kansas.”
And that was truly what they believed, Sherlock thought. It was clear on all their faces. They believed the guy was long gone from Chicago, that they didn’t have a prayer of ever getting him.
“Let me tell you about the magic of computers, gentlemen,” Savich said and smiled. “They do things a whole lot faster than we can. But what’s important is what you put into them. It’s a matter of picking the right data to go into the mixer before you turn it on to do its thing.” He leaned down and picked up his laptop and turned it on. He hit buttons, made the little machine bleep, all in all, ignored the rest of them.
“I’ve got to go home, Captain,” Dubrosky said. “I’ve got gas, I need a shower or my wife won’t even kiss me, and my kids have forgotten what I look like.”
“We’re all bushed, Buck. Just be patient. Let’s see what Agent Savich’s got.”
Lacey realized then that Savich was just putting on a little show for them. He had the pages he wanted to show them in his briefcase. But he was going to call up neat-looking stuff on the screen and make them all look at it before he gave them any hard copy. In the next minute, Savich turned the computer around and said, “Take a look at this, Detectives, Captain Brady.”
6
THE THREE men crowded around the small laptop. It was Detective Dubrosky who said suddenly, “Nah, I don’t believe this. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yes, it does.” Savich handed out a piece of paper to each of them. Sherlock did
n’t even glance at the paper. She knew what was on it. In that moment, Savich looked over at her. He grinned. He didn’t know how she knew, but he knew that she’d figured it out.
“You tell them, Sherlock.”
They were all staring at her now. He’d put her on the spot. But he’d seen the knowledge in her eyes. How, she didn’t know. He was giving her a chance to shine.
Lacey cleared her throat. “The FBI Profilers were right. It’s a local neighborhood guy who hated the Lansky family. He killed the families in Des Moines and St. Louis because he wanted to practice before he killed the people he hated. He wanted to get it perfect when it most mattered to him. So, the families in Des Moines and St. Louis were random choices. He undoubtedly drove around until he found the family that met his requirements. Then he killed them.”
Captain Brady whistled. “My God, you think the profile is correct, but it was meant only for the Lanskys?”
“That’s right,” Savich said. “The other two families were his dress rehearsal.” He turned to Dubrosky and Mason. “I wanted you to be completely certain that there was no stranger around the Lansky household before the killings. Are you both certain?”
“Yes,” Mason said. “As certain as we can be.”
“Then we go to the Lansky neighborhood and pick up the guy who will fit the profile. He screwed up and now we’ll nail him. The computer hit on three possibles, all within walking distance of the Lanskys’ house. My money’s on Russell Bent. He fits the profile better than the others. Given how well the profile fits this guy and given no strangers, the chances are really good that this wasn’t just another dress rehearsal. Also, Russell Bent lives with his sister and her husband. She is exactly two years older than he is.”
“I don’t understand, Agent Savich,” Captain Brady said, sitting forward. “What do you mean she’s two years older?”
The Maze Page 4
