by Philip Cox
‘Still being done. They didn’t start on the Beetle until this morning. But they did tell me both vehicles had a ton on fingerprints: doors, dashboard, steering wheel.’
‘Make sure they check the rear-view mirror,’ Leroy said. ‘That often gets missed, and it’s likely a new driver would have adjusted it.’
Quinn nodded. ‘I’ll call them back just to be sure.’
‘If we can compare all the prints on the Beetle,’ Leroy said to Quinn and Johnson, ‘and we get a match to any on the Chevy, then that’s our man’s prints. If we get a match on codis, then we’ll have him.’
‘A lot of ifs there, Sam,’ said Johnson.
‘Ifs are all we have at this time. What did you think of what Professor Ramos told us?’
Agent Johnson asked, ‘Who is Professor Ramos?’
Leroy replied, ‘He’s a lecturer in Theology over at UCLA. He gave us some technical advice in the Cordell case, and Ray and I went to see him Saturday morning to get a refresher. So, what are your thoughts?’
Johnson sniffed before she replied.
‘It’s very interesting, I guess - from an academic point of view. I mean, it’s all about the significance and meaning of the pentagram, and what it signifies. You know, all religious symbolism and Black Mass. Really?’
Leroy said nothing; just wheeled his chair round to face her.
‘It’s possible,’ said Johnson, ‘that your man has latched onto some aspect of what the professor told you. Sometimes a killer who’s psychologically disturbed will do that - perform some rite or ritual that he’s read about or heard about, without there being any real belief in it. I can’t in all honesty say how it’s going to help you to ID your killer. It is very thorough, though. Do you mind if I xerox it? I might put together a paper on it when I get back to Quantico.’
Quinn laughed. ‘The FBI have never heard of copyright laws?’
Johnson frowned. ‘I’ll speak with the professor first, of course. Not right now, maybe I’ll call him when I’m back. Give him full accreditation, of course.’
Quinn nodded and glanced over at Leroy, who was trying to overcome a grin.
‘He would appreciate that, I’m sure,’ said Leroy. ‘He’s very enthusiastic about helping law enforcement. Very enthusiastic about the whole thing.’
Quinn mused, ‘I guess academia is always about theory. It must be exciting when they actually see some of that theory in practice.’
‘We’re digressing,’ Leroy said sharply. ‘Ray, have you called the MPU?’
‘I did already. No reported women matching our two Jane Does yet.’
‘Are they going to let us know if they do get a report?’
‘They said they would, yes.’
‘I want you to check with them every day, anyway. We have a rough idea of the times of death, so that gives the MPU an approximate timeframe.’
‘You’ve spoken to the ME, then?’ Johnson asked, keen not to be left out of the conversation.
‘A very brief conversation, just before he began to look at Friday’s. But he could tell me the following, about both victims.
‘Multiple stab wounds to the chest. Both naked in the vehicles, but were clothed when they were stabbed. Fibres in some of the wounds. Both with the duct tape and grey electrical cable. Both had the two pentagrams carved on their back and on their inner thigh. The wrists were bound post mortem, as were when the carvings were carried out.’
‘Why tie them up and tape their mouths when they were already dead?’ asked Quinn.
‘It could be part of some elaborate ritual the killer goes through,’ suggested Johnson. ‘Sam, with Cordell’s victims, were they killed before being restrained?’
‘Yes, they were.’
‘Was the first victim - Cordell’s first, I mean – any different to the subsequent ones? Any difference, even if slight?’
Leroy thought a moment, then replied, pointing as he did so to one of the names on the wall. ‘With her - she was the first we found - the pentagram was not as well, not as artistically, drawn as the others. Perez and I put that down to the fact that the more he practised, the better he got.’
‘There is another possible explanation for that,’ Johnson pointed out. ‘The first victim he had to restrain, as she was still alive when he carved her.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The killer brooded.
He was out of his comfort zone. On edge, unsettled. And for the second time within the space of a week. This was planned, although not by him; the other time, something went wrong. For the first time ever. No human factor, no potential witnesses stumbling into view. A breakdown. Fucking car. But with his usual skill and aplomb, he was able to recover the situation. He was very pleased with the way he had handled things, and kept everything on track, on schedule. But even so, it was still unnerving when events didn’t go to plan.
But today, or for today and tomorrow to be precise, he was out of his comfort zone again.
A short seventy-minute flight at the crack of dawn on Alaska Airlines (what the fuck were Alaska Airlines doing flying here?); a twenty-minute cab ride from McCarron, and here he was, at the Renaissance Hotel.
The journey had not started well: while waiting to board at LAX, he checked out the hotel online. To his anger, it was a four-star hotel. Four-star? What were the idiots playing at? However, once the airplane had taken off and was carrying out the one-eighty over the Pacific, his anger began to subside. After all, it was only for two nights. He needed not to be angry: anger causes loss of focus.
By now, early evening, he had come around. The hotel was very clean, very comfortable, and the view from his window over the golf course the other side of Paradise Road was very nice, although he could only appreciate that in the hours of daylight. He was only five minutes by taxi from his place of business here, and later he might take the short cab ride to the Treasure Island Hotel & Casino. It had been years since he had experienced the Strip: maybe tonight would be another lucky night.
He had eaten well that evening. The Grill 55 restaurant at the hotel provided a satisfactory meal. He was not a big eater. He chose the Grilled Skirt Steak Sandwich, with Cheddar, Onion, Garlic Aioli and French Bread, followed by a Chocolate Flatbread, with Chocolate Hazelnut and Strawberries. All washed down with some local beer he had never heard of, but served its purpose.
And now he was in the hotel bar, taking one more drink before he headed out to Treasure Island. The bar was noisy: the hotel was adjacent to the Las Vegas Convention Center, and its guests would comprise mainly business travellers attending whatever convention or conventions taking place there. Business men, business women. And hookers. High class hookers, trying to blend in with the rest of the crowd, trying to hide in plain sight, but in the killer’s eyes, they stood out like a sore thumb.
As well as the constant buzz and murmur of the conversations, the laughter from the business men, women and hookers, there was also the constant ker-ching from the three rows of five reel slot machines down the sides of the bar. The sound of the arm being pulled, the groan of disappointment when the money was lost and the very occasional cheer and sound of coins hitting the tray.
Amongst the people swarming around the one-armed bandits, one figure caught the killer’s eye. She was young, barely legal in some States. Too young to be one of the convention attendees; too shabby to be one of the high-class hookers here. Her collar length hair was black with purple streaks; her clothes - vest and miniskirt - were also black and purple. Obviously black and purple were her favourite colours. She was wearing black leggings: on the back of the right leg were two holes. The killer got the impression they were not there out of fashion. She carried a black backpack which was holding a small plastic water bottle in one of the side pouches.
She was alone, and was slowly making her way along a row of machines, waiting for one to become vacant. She would have one attempt on one machine, then move to another. Time after time, she would put in her quarter, pull the arm and wait.
Always waiting in vain. Until one time when about a dozen quarters dropped into the tray. She looked around, and swiftly gathered them up in her hands. Tried the same machine once, unsuccessfully, then moved onto the next, then the next. It was not long before she had gotten rid of her two dollar winnings.
As always, she fed it all back. Such was life in Las Vegas.
Maybe because she was on her own, the killer felt a little sorry for her. She cut a sad figure; pathetic, in the literal sense of the word.
A loner.
Vulnerable.
But what was she doing in Vegas? Not dressed right for a business trip; in fact, too young for a business woman. Out of place even in a four-star hotel. And not a hooker: if she was, she would be walking the Strip, not playing the machines here. Who was she? Just some itinerant individual here to try her luck.
The killer’s feelings of sympathy soon turned to contempt. The girl was an idiot, just as stupid and weak as the others here. Nobody ever beats the machines in this town; didn’t everybody know that?
She was losing all her money, what there was of it, to the one-armed bandits.
She could well soon be losing more than money.
The killer watched her intently.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They both looked over at Johnson. The possibility of the victims not being dead when the killer carved them was always around, always bubbling under the surface, but their own sense of revulsion kept the thought in check.
‘That’s certainly a possible scenario with the first victim at least,’ Johnson added. ‘Maybe that’s why the carvings were so much more accurately done on the later ones, as it was easier when they were dead.’
‘Why the tape and wire, then?’ Quinn asked. ‘Why do that if they were already dead?’
Leroy answered, ‘You remember what we were saying earlier, Ray: maybe the first time round, he had to restrain the victim; but second time round, even though they were already dead, he had already gotten into a routine.’
Johnson nodded her agreement. ‘So he carried on with the restraints. It was his routine, like Sam said. Maybe he felt it was a sign of good luck: it all went to plan with the tape and with the wire, so why change?’
‘Just one sick son of a bitch,’ said Quinn.
‘Who we need to catch before he kills again,’ Leroy pointed out. ‘Let’s run down what we’ve done so far, and what still needs attention.’ He paused as Lieutenant Perez appeared.
‘You carry on, Sam. I’m just here to… well, just to see.’ Perez found himself a spot in the corner.
‘The MPU,’ said Leroy. ‘Nothing reported yet. No matches to our victims, I should say. They promised to call if and when a match comes in, but Ray: you keep checking with them, anyway.’
‘You got it,’ Quinn confirmed.
‘The vehicles,’ Leroy continued, ‘are still being checked. We know there are a ton of fingerprints on them; probably the owners’, but if we do get a match between the two vehicles, then that’s our man. However, I think the chances of him being that careless are almost non-existent.’
‘Rear view mirrors,’ Perez said from the corner of the room. ‘Get them to check those.’
‘Already done that, Lieutenant,’ Leroy replied.
Perez waved his hand in acknowledgement.
‘We’re still waiting on the ME’s report: Hobson promised them both by tonight. But,’ added Leroy, addressing Perez more than the others, ‘I had a brief conversation with him this morning, and superficially, both Jane Does are as we suspected.’
Quinn and Johnson looked over at Perez, who slowly nodded in silence.
‘Then we have the video from outside the restrooms at LAX,’ said Leroy. He turned to Perez and explained what that was about.
‘That’s one hell of a long shot, guys.’
‘I agree, Lieutenant,’ Leroy replied. ‘But a long shot is better than no shot.’
‘What’s your take on all this, Genine?’ Perez asked Johnson.
She took a deep breath before replying. ‘I’ve given Sam and Ray an insight on what the Bureau sees as the characteristics of your killer. What he’s probably like, and probably not like. What his motivations might be. But there’s no magic wand: once there is a possible suspect in the frame, then we can see if he does match the profile. But I don’t think we’re at that stage at this time.’
‘And how long did Quantico send you for?’ Perez asked, wearily.
‘I need to fly back tomorrow night.’
Perez stood up and walked back to his office. ‘Good luck, guys. Just keep me up to date, Sam.’
‘Will do, Lieutenant.’
‘He seems down,’ Quinn said, once Perez had left.
‘Yeah,’ replied Leroy, his eyes fixed on the lieutenant’s office door. ‘I guess he feels bad about the connection to Cordell. He oversaw that investigation, remember: I’m guessing he feels we left a stone or two unturned.’
‘And you, Sam?’ asked Quinn.
Leroy didn’t answer. ‘While we’re waiting for the ME and everybody else, let’s all get down to Venice, to Boone Avenue. The owner of the Chevy might not be able to tell us much themselves, but if the truck was taken in a hurry, then there just might be witnesses, there just might be some CCTV somewhere.’ He turned to his PC. The frozen footage from the airport was still on the screen. ‘We’ll get back to that later. We need to get down to Venice before dark. Come on; let’s go.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
He watched the girl carefully.
Now she had come to the end of that row of slot machines. She checked the palm of her hand: it looked as if she had a couple of coins left.
Which she did. Two quarters, which she fed into the last machine in the row. No winning with the first quarter. None with the last, either.
She paused and looked around the bar before checking one of the pockets of her backpack but came up with nothing. As she stared around, the killer caught a clearer view of her face. It was pale, pasty, and gaunt. Dark circles around her eyes: was she ill, or tired, or had she been crying?
He wondered if she was hungry. Maybe he could offer her some food, or something to drink; something to get her guard down.
She took out the plastic water bottle from its pouch. It was empty. Looking around again, she spotted the restrooms and disappeared into the women’s. She returned after a few minutes with a full bottle of water.
He considered. Not even enough to buy a bottle of water, although in this place even that would be expensive for her.
He thought. If he was able to get her confidence, and if she fitted the bill, ticked all the right boxes, where would he do it? He was away from home; he hadn’t expected to be confronted with this opportunity. No instruments, no tape, no wire, no nothing.
He particularly enjoyed the killing part of his operations, and would certainly enjoy killing this one, but without everything else? He never thought to bring anything; in any case, would they get past airport security? He hadn’t scheduled anything for these next few days.
As he pondered all this, he could feel himself getting excited.
He had planned on giving the LAPD a few days before the next one; but this girl - Miss Black and Purple - was asking for it. A textbook case, you might say. Almost volunteering. How could he turn down her kind offer?
But where would it all happen? Where was she staying? An RV somewhere? A motel? The street? And was she here in Vegas on her own? Maybe she was in town with a group and was just taking some alone time.
If she was going to be his next, he would have to find a place. But no knives, no artwork. It would arouse too much suspicion if he purchased any instruments locally. The LVPD would be bound to include local shops as part of their investigation. Maybe he could dispense with the usual trimmings, this time at any rate. He could get condoms from the machine in the men’s room.
But…
If the authorities perceived it to be in any way related to the murders in Los Angeles, then it w
ould be different. He wouldn’t be dealing with the LAPD any more. Once he crossed the State line, the FBI would be involved. They were different to the police, and he didn’t want that. Killing her would be fun, but not worth the risk.
Maybe he would just have to fuck one of these hookers. Maybe try a male hooker, just for variety. No - he dismissed that idea. Maybe he’d take that trip to the Strip: there were plenty of whores there.
He discretely watched as Miss Black and Purple found some more quarters and returned to the machines.
Still brooding.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘Give me the guy’s name again,’ said Leroy as they neared Boone Avenue, Venice.
‘Tracey,’ Quinn read out. ‘Burt with a u, and Tracey, with an e.’
Leroy pulled up at the corner of Wilson and Olive. Boone was the next street. He turned to the others. ‘I don’t want this guy to see me. I live only five minutes away, so I don’t want him recognising me in the future if I’m out somewhere.’
‘You going to wait here?’ Johnson asked, a hint of disapproval in her voice.
Leroy had the ability to use a certain tone in his voice when he was answering what he considered to be a stupid question. He used that tone now.
‘No. I want you two to go talk to Tracey. I’ll take a look round the neighbourhood, see if there were any witnesses, any security cameras that might have picked our man up. Once you’ve spoken to Tracey, I want you to knock on the neighbouring houses, both sides, as far as Olive this way and Mildred that way.’ He pointed in the direction of the cross streets as he spoke. As he put out his hand to open the door, he turned to Quinn. ‘What is it?’
‘I was just thinking. If the Chevy was a last-minute substitution, then he might have gone direct to LAX from here. What would be the most likely route?’
Leroy considered a second. ‘I’d say up to Mildred, then onto Washington Boulevard, then Lincoln. Then down to Sepulveda, which would take him right into the airport. Why? What’s your point?’
