by Philip Cox
The killer needed to be patient. If it was going to happen tonight, then all well and good. The previous victim had just been found, but that didn’t really matter. If it wasn’t to be tonight, then there would always be another.
Yes, the killer needed infinite patience.
The woman had been in Walmart down here in Torrance for about forty minutes. That meant a full cart, and that meant straight home.
The killer sat up. Here she came. And yes, she was pushing a full cart. Loaded with stuff. What a waste: she wouldn’t be needing all that.
The killer watched as she stopped at her car, three vehicles away, opened the trunk, and began loading. Then closed the trunk and returned the empty cart. The killer did contemplate hiding in the trunk while she was away: that would be good for getting into the woman’s secure parking garage, no good for getting her body out.
The woman returned to her car, and slowly pulled out of the space.
The killer turned the ignition key and followed.
Followed the woman’s car out of the parking lot and out into the street.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘What...?’
Leroy couldn’t believe his eyes as he drove to work Monday morning. Small splats of water on the windshield. He couldn’t remember the last time it had rained here, probably last winter, but this time of year it never rained.
He switched the wipers on, leaving them working until he arrived at the station, running indoors with his jacket collar up. In actual fact, he reflected, it was just drizzle: back in New York, he had experienced much heavier precipitation, plus heavy snow, but LA had so little that it was an event. Maybe he was turning soft, turning into a Californian, like Ray.
Pussy.
As he passed through the locker room, he overheard several officers, as they changed shifts, talking about the rain as if it was some kind of tropical monsoon. Ignoring it, he straightened his collar and headed for his desk. Quinn was already there.
‘Hey, Sam; how’s it going? You see what’s going on out there?’
‘The rain? Jesus, have you guys never seen rain before?’
‘Not this time of year. How was your yesterday?’
He shrugged. ‘Okay. You and Holly talking yet?’
‘Kind of. She’s cooling down. What did you do yesterday? I thought about checking on you.’
‘I wouldn’t’ve answered. I was sleeping off Saturday. Okay: coffee, then our Jane Doe. Let’s try the MPU again. Maybe they’ve had a report since we called Saturday morning.’
‘Before we start that, the lieutenant wants to see us.’
‘Jesus, what now? I noticed his door was shut. Come on then; we’ve a full day.’
Grabbing a coffee on the way, they headed for the lieutenant’s office. Leroy tapped on the glass door and went in. Lieutenant Perez was not alone; sitting across his desk was a woman: mixed race, black hair immaculately tied back. As she stood to greet them, Leroy noticed she was wearing a smart grey suit and white blouse. Her lipstick, he also noticed, was a vivid red, which matched her skin colour perfectly.
‘Sam, Ray, this is Agent Johnson.’
‘Oh?’ said Leroy, taken aback.
‘Pleased to meet you, Detective. Detectives. Genine Johnson.’ As she spoke, Johnson held out her hand. Leroy took it, noticing how strong her grip was.
‘Agent Johnson flew across from Quantico yesterday,’ Perez explained as Leroy sat down. ‘Ray, go get yourself a chair from outside.’
‘I’m good standing, Lieutenant, thanks.’ Quinn parked himself in the corner of the room, behind Leroy’s chair.
Leroy looked over his shoulder. ‘For Christ’s sake, get yourself a chair, Ray. I hate looming.’
Quinn grunted and left the room, momentarily returning with a chair. He sat next to Leroy.
‘You okay, Sam?’ Perez asked.
‘I’m good. Now, Agent…?’
‘Johnson,’ she replied.
‘You remember our conversation here Saturday morning,’ Perez said. ‘I told you I was going to request assistance and advice from the FBI.’
Leroy frowned. You said you were going to call them Monday.
‘I decided not to wait, so I called after you guys left. And they sent Agent Johnson here almost immediately.’
‘And how long is Agent Johnson here for? And performing what role?’ Leroy asked.
‘Genine…?’ Perez asked.
Agent Johnson turned in her chair to face Leroy and Quinn. ‘Detective Leroy… Sam, isn’t it? This is your case, your investigation. It belongs to the LAPD. There is no reason for the Bureau to get involved. As you know, homicide is a state crime; as far as we are aware, the murders weren’t committed on government property and there have been no murders even remotely similar to these in any other state. Which is fine by me and by my boss. We don’t want to investigate murders: that’s you guys’ job. You have more expertise than we do, and quite frankly, we don’t have the manpower.
‘But we can assist in a number of ways. The Protection of Children from Sexual Predators Act of 1998, whilst not immediately relevant as your victim was an adult, does include a legal definition of serial killings, namely three or more killings each having common characteristics such as to suggest the reasonable possibility that the crimes were committed by the same actor or actors.’
Christ, thought Leroy, you don’t get out much, do you?
‘Now,’ Johnson continued, ‘you have had one murder. Just one.’ She held up her index finger to emphasize the point. ‘So, under this legal definition, you don’t have a serial killer on your hands. So why am I here? Lieutenant Perez has discussed this case at length with one of my supervisors and agreement was reached that notwithstanding the fact that there had been one murder, the killing bears remarkable similarity to some serial killings you had here some years ago, in which I understand that you and the lieutenant here were involved.’
‘Yeah,’ said Leroy. ‘I shot the guy.’
‘Yes,’ said Johnson. ‘And the murders stopped. But what concerned your lieutenant here and my boss is that the victim the other night was mutilated in exactly the same way as the victims before.’
‘Agent Johnson is referring to the carving on their legs,’ Perez explained.
‘That’s right,’ Leroy confirmed. ‘The main… er, mutilation as you put it, was on their backs. That fact was released to the media, was public knowledge. But the smaller pentagram on their inner thigh was not. Nobody knew about that.’
‘Outside of the LAPD and the coroner’s office,’ Perez added.
‘And the killer,’ said Leroy.
A few moments’ silence.
‘Which is why Agent Johnson has flown all the way from Virginia,’ Perez said. ‘The feeling is there is some connection.’
‘You asked how long I am going to be here in LA,’ Johnson said to Leroy. ‘The answer is my boss wants me to fly back tomorrow night. I’m just here to provide advice and support where I can; to brief you all on what is agreed a serial killer looks like - not literally, you understand but the type of man you’re seeking, his habits, his character.’
‘You’re saying it’s going to be a man,’ said Quinn.
‘Statistically,’ Johnson explained, ‘one in six serial killers is female. So the likelihood is we are looking for a man. And I understand there is a sexual aspect to this?’ She turned to Perez as she asked the question.
‘There had been signs of penetration,’ Leroy said. ‘No semen, no DNA, but in I think it was two of the other cases, the ME found traces of lubricant.’
‘No guarantee,’ replied Johnson, ‘but that would suggest a man. I am aware of a case where the killer was female and would violate her victims with a beer bottle. But I can see no reason why they would use lubricant. The fact that there was no DNA inside the victims would suggest either an object or they used a condom. That happens more times than you would expect. Condom and lubricant reads a man. But that’s not a guarantee. Now,’ she said reaching
down for a leather document wallet, ‘what does a serial killer look like? What do you guys look for in a serial killer?’
‘Sick bastard,’ began Leroy. ‘Solitary; loner; inadequate, socially and sexually.’
‘Probably abused as a kid,’ added Perez.
‘And would he be attracted to a member of the same race?’ asked Quinn.
Leroy looked Johnson in the eye. ‘Or we’re probably wrong on all of that.’
‘Correct,’ said Johnson.
Perez raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes?’
‘No, I mean Detective Leroy is correct. You are wrong on all of that.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Johnson unzipped her document wallet and took out a plastic folder, out of which came a wad of papers. ‘Let me give you guys a run down on serial killers from the FBI’s viewpoint. First: what a serial killer does not look like.’
She referred regularly to the papers on her lap as she spoke.
‘There are several myths and misconceptions regarding serial killers. Even professional law enforcement officers can have a mistaken belief because of what they might read in a book, or see on television or in the movies.
‘The first is that they are all dysfunctional loners. The majority are not reclusive, they are not social misfits, and do not live alone. They aren’t monsters and they won’t appear strange. Many hide in plain sight within their communities. They will often have homes and families, will be gainfully employed, and will seem normal members of the community. It is this ability to blend in so effortlessly, they are sometimes -’
She was interrupted by Perez’s desk phone. He answered, and gave the instruction that he was in a conference and was not to be disturbed. ‘You guys get your cells on silent, too,’ he instructed Leroy and Quinn. They complied.
‘Sorry, Genine. Carry on.’
Johnson smiled and continued.
‘Yes, because they are so good at blending in, they are sometimes overlooked by the public and by law enforcement officials. For example, Gary Ridgeway, the Green River Killer, killed forty-eight women over a twenty-year span in the Seattle, Washington, area. He was married at the time of his arrest. He had been employed for thirty-two years. He attended church regularly, was an avid Bible reader, and talked about religion to his co-workers. He would pick up prostitutes and had sex with them during his twenty-year spree.
‘Then there was Dennis Rader, the BTK killer.’
‘Blind, torture, kill,’ said Leroy.
‘Correct.’ Johnson was taken temporarily off-guard by Leroy’s interjection, but soon regained control. ‘He killed ten victims between 1974 and 1991. He sent sixteen written communications to the media over that period, taunting the police and the public. He was married, he had two children, he was a Boy Scout leader, and was an Air Force veteran. He was employed as a local government official, and was president of his local church.
‘Myth number two – that serial killers are all white males.’ She glanced at Quinn as she spoke.
‘Serial killers span all racial groups. There are white, African-American, Hispanic, and Asian serial killers. The racial diversification of serial killers mirrors that of the overall population.
‘A couple of examples: one, Charles Ng, spelt NG, a native of Hong Kong. He killed several victims in Northern California. He carried out these killings in concert with a Robert Lake.’
‘So not a loner?’ said Perez. Johnson shook her head.
‘We talked the other day about Harlan Cordell - the guy I shot - having an accomplice who might be resuming things,’ said Leroy.
Johnson smiled and continued.‘Another, Coral Eugene Watts.’
‘A woman?’ said Perez.
‘No, Coral was a nickname. His name was Carl Eugene Watts. He killed five in Michigan, fled the state to avoid detection and killed twelve more in Texas before turning himself in. The Detroit newspapers sensationally and irresponsibly referred to him as the Sunday MorningSlasher.
‘Myth number three is that they are only motivated by sex. All serial murders are not sexually-based. There are many motivations including anger, thrill, financial gain and attention seeking.
‘You guys remember the Washington, D.C. sniper case? They shot thirteen people, killing ten. They communicated with the MPDC by leaving notes, demanding money to stop the shootings.
‘A Dr Michael Swango was a former US marine. He was convicted of four murders in New York and Ohio, but suspected of having fatally poisoned thirty-five through fifty throughout the United States and on the continent of Africa. His motivation was intrinsic and never fully identified. He kept a scrapbook containing newspapers clippings about natural disasters in which many people were killed.’
‘Fruitcake,’ said Leroy. Johnson shot him a stare and carried on.
‘Another myth is that all serial killers travel, that they operate interstate. In actuality, most have a very defined geographical area of operation. They tend to have comfort zones that are often defined by their home, where they work, a relative’s house. They can, however, move out of this comfort zone when their confidence had grown through experience, or to avoid detection. Very few travel out of state. Those that do, have been homeless and therefore transient, or individuals whose employment takes them out of state.’
‘Like truck drivers,’ Leroy suggested.
She nodded. ‘Yes, or those in military service. Another aspect of those who do travel interstate is that they have many comfort zones.
‘Next myth: it’s a misconception that once they’ve begun, a serial killer cannot stop. Some have: in these instances, there are events or circumstances in their lives which stop them pursuing more victims. The BTK killer, for example, stopped killing in 1991 and was captured in 2005. Under interrogation, he said he engaged in auto-erotic activities as a substitute.’
‘I remember reading that,’ Leroy said.
‘It’s believed,’ continued Johnson, ‘incorrectly, that all serial killers are either insane or evil geniuses. That they have a debilitating mental condition, or are extremely intelligent. The reality is, they suffer a variety of personality disorders, and I’m talking about psychopathy, anti-social personality, mainly. But not legally insane. The genius serial killer is a media invention: they range from borderline to above average.
‘Final myth is that deep down, they want to get caught. Wrong. First killing, they are inexperienced. They gain experience and confidence each time, eventually succeeding with few mistakes or problems. Now, while serial killers plan more thoroughly than other murderers, their learning curve is still very steep. They have to select, target, approach, control, and dispose of their victims. The logistics in doing all these things, without detection, is very complex. Are very complex, I should say. More so if there are multiple sites involved.’
‘We found Cordell’s victims all across LA,’ Perez said to Leroy, who nodded silently.
‘As they continue to kill,’ Johnson explained, ‘they become empowered, and get to feel they will never be identified. But, as they continue further, they may begin to take shortcuts. This often causes them to take chances, and this leads to identification. Basically, it’s not that serial killers want to get caught; they feel they can’t get caught.’
She paused and looked up. Tidied up her notes. Leroy took a sip of his coffee and grimaced as it had gotten cold. He looked at Quinn who had a blank expression on his face, then at Lieutenant Perez.
The lieutenant was the first to speak.
‘That was a lot of information, Genine. Thanks for that. Now, you’ve told us what we’re not looking for; tell us what a serial killer does look like.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The killer relaxed.
Job done.
Or, to be precise, the latest job. There were many more still to be done.
This one was all too easy, much more so than the one before.
The killer had identified her in a singles bar. One on Wilshire Boulevard, between Vermont and Alvarado. It was t
he killer’s third visit there, and the second visit to a singles bar that night.
The killer had become skilled at hiding in plain sight, of blending into the background: just sitting at a table or at the bar nursing a drink. And what did the killer drink? That varied: sometimes a glass of wine, sometimes a cocktail, sometimes a beer. He, and he was one of the five out of six serial murderers who was male, felt that varying what he drank helped with his anonymity. There was no danger of a bartender greeting him with, ‘What’s it to be, pal? Your usual?’
And likewise, if there were no likely candidates after say an hour, he would move on. Sitting in a singles bar not interacting, just watching, might generate suspicion. The same rule applied to where he sat: at the bar was best, at a table was okay, but in a booth was out. That shouted out come get me, and the type of woman who would approach a solitary man in a booth was more likely to be gregarious and outgoing. That meant plenty of friends. Not the loner the killer was looking for. In the same way that alone was not the same as lonely, single did not mean solitary. This the killer had found from experience: on the only occasion, early in his career, he had sat in an empty booth, watching. Within ten minutes, he was approached by a slightly inebriated woman who proceeded to tell him about her two ex-husbands. He listened politely, as being otherwise might cause a scene and that would draw attention. He decided to either ignore her or respond monosyllabically: eventually she got bored and slid away to bore some other poor guy. A while later a young man who looked as if he was still in High School joined him, telling him how attractive he found older men. It was quite clear then that a booth was not a good idea, so he got up and left for another bar, leaving College Boy alone in the booth.
