by Philip Cox
She wasn’t laughing now.
He opened a drawer and, hands shaking, took out a condom. He took her there and then. He was done in seconds. As he got up, he noticed the slogan on her black tee-shirt witch way would you like it? Out of curiosity, he turned her over and looked at the back of the shirt. It was a graphic, a kind of star. Five points. A pentagram, some kind of occult symbol. There were inscriptions at each point of the star, not in English but some kind of Arabic script. He knew some non-Western alphabets, but this was not one he recognised.
He reached for the knife again and, using the lines on the tee shirt as some kind of macabre template, scored the woman’s back in the shape of the five-pointed star. He leaned back against his stove as he surveyed his work. Somehow, inside, he felt satisfied, fulfilled.
The killer turned her over again, so she was lying on her back. He looked down at her dead, violated body. He wanted to show that he had been there. He could not bring himself to mutilate her; instead, at the top of her thigh, he carved a new pentagram, a miniature of the graphic on the tee shirt, and the bloody scars on her back.
He stood. Standing over the body, he tossed the knife into the sink. He could feel sweat running across his forehead. He wiped it with the side of his hand, noticing it was not sweat he could feel on his brow. He rubbed his hand on his shirt to remove her blood.
He was breathless, but somehow felt satisfied, fulfilled. He looked down at the miniature star he had carved, impressed with his skill. No, not a star: it was a pentagram. Five points.
His calling card.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
‘What the hell’s that?’
Leroy looked up at the lieutenant. ‘What the hell’s what?’
‘On the wall. W-T-F-A-W.’ Perez was referring to the five large letters scrawled on one of the whiteboards.
‘Oh, that. It stands for Where The Fuck Are We.’
‘This case you’re on?’
Leroy sat back. ‘We’ve had three murders: a Jane Doe, still a Jane Doe; Danielle Scott; Troy Keffer. We have no clues, no physical evidence.’
‘Nothing at all? No forensics?’
‘We’re still waiting to hear about any foreign DNA found on the stab wounds. I ordered a full sweep on Keffer’s place; that’s going to be a few days. Keffer’s murder was slightly different: not controlled; he was stabbed in a frenzy, probably because the killer was pissed off that he was a man under all the women’s clothes. He might have been careless, probably not. There’s some homeless guy who’s since gone to ground says he saw a Mexican driving the Chevrolet pick-up at two or three in the morning.’
‘A Mexican?’
‘For that, read Hispanic, I guess. Then we have the CCTV footage from LAX.’
‘From outside the men’s room?’
‘Yup, but nothing from there. That always was a very long shot, I guess.’
Perez leaned against the door frame. ‘And the Cordell case?’
‘We collected the case notes and evidence boxes, but got held up by going to Keffer’s place in Hollywood this afternoon. We’ll start in the morning.’ Leroy paused and looked up at Perez. ‘There had been a struggle in Keffer’s bathroom. Shit all over the place – not literally: stuff knocked onto the floor. The plastic side of the shower - that had been knocked out of the base, and cracked. That’s why I told the team to go over it with a fine-toothed comb. There were still traces around, so the killer didn’t - or didn’t have time to – clean up. He might have left something there. If we’re lucky.’
‘It was unfortunate,’ said Perez, ‘that this murder wasn’t flagged up earlier. I mean, there was a pentagram carved onto his body, for God’s sake, wasn’t there? You’ve lost three or four days.’
‘I’m not sure it would have made any difference.’
‘It might have done. You would have had the results back from the lab by now.’
‘That’s true. We wouldn’t have known about it now, if Hobson hadn’t noticed and called me. Because Keffer was dressing as a woman, Estevez and Glover over at Hollywood Division decided that as he was some kind of escort, and put it down as a murder by one of his johns. We were focussed just on murders where the victim was a woman of a particular profile.’
‘Same as the killer. What do you hope to get from looking over the Cordell files?’
Leroy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Sort of I’ll know when I see it, thing. I don’t recall much detail of the case. I need refreshing. There might just be something there that…’
‘That flicks a switch?’
‘Kind of. This guy is following all of Cordell’s methods. The type of victim, the MO, everything, in fact. So maybe there’s something there we can use, to anticipate his next move.’
‘Remember, Sam: we only got Cordell by chance.’
‘I know. A neighbour put a call in, as I recall.’
‘That’s right.’
‘The neighbour noticed a lot of activity in his back yard at one am, or something.’
‘Yes, I remember that now. It was pure chance, pure luck. We had no warrant. He could have bluffed us, refused us entry, then gotten rid of the evidence. If he hadn’t panicked and run.’
Perez straightened up. ‘I’m off home now, Sam. You should too. You look like shit.’
Leroy rubbed his face. Perez could hear his stubble scratching. ‘I feel like shit.’
‘You sent Quinn home?’
‘Yeah, I sent him home. He’s having some difficulties at home. Apparently, Holly thinks she’s married to the Department.’
‘Quinn’s a good cop; so she’s right in a way. But, Sam: he needs to pull his weight. Just because he’s having problems in his marriage, you shouldn’t compensate personally for that. I never did with you.’
Leroy nodded. Perez was right.
‘I’m around tomorrow if you want to go over Cordell’s case again,’ said Perez.
‘Thanks.’
On his way out, Perez stopped and turned around. ‘It was a shame Agent Johnson was of no use.’
Leroy said nothing.
‘You wait: you’ll catch this guy using traditional, day to day street work. Then you’ll say, “Look, he fits the profile.”’
Leroy shrugged. ‘Nobody’s in the frame yet.’
‘Remember that rule: what helps a cop investigating a string of murders? Another murder. Well, you have your other killing. Your bonus murder. Troy Keffer. His was slightly different, things didn’t go to plan. The killer might just have made a mistake. Harass the lab until you get the results.’
Leroy nodded. He leaned forward to his keyboard. He had had enough coaching from Perez: he wanted to get on.
‘See you in the morning, Sam.’
Leroy raised his hand to bid the lieutenant good night, and retrieved the airport video. There had to be something here.
*****
There was not. At least, if there was, Leroy was too dog-tired to spot it. After half an hour, he stopped the video, switched off the computer, packed up and left.
He took a detour on the way home. Still to Venice, but the street was called Holly Court. He slowed down at the 2800 block, and parked, taking care that nobody was around. He looked across at the building from the other side of the road. It was a two-storey place, with a shop front attached. This was the home of his former girlfriend, a fourth-grade schoolteacher by the name of Joanna Moore. It was not far from here where they first met, when he came to her rescue as she was being mugged on the way home. ‘My knight in shining armour’, she called him once, as they recalled the event. But over time, they slowly drifted apart; probably in the same way Ray and his wife were beginning to drift apart. And Leroy and Joanna were not even married; they still lived in separate places. What chance did they ever have?
Leroy had no idea why he was here: he had no intention of calling her. That ship had long sailed. There was a sign in one of the shop front windows: in the dark, he could make out it read Apartment for Lease. Inquire Within. Which apartment
was it? Was is Joanna’s? If it was, where was she going, or where had she already gone? Did it matter anymore?
Not to Leroy. He started the engine, pulled away, and headed home, still not knowing really why he had felt the need to pass by here.
On arrival at home, he checked his landline for messages, of which there were none, and his mail. One bill, which he tossed to one side.
He was more tired than hungry. Getting himself a beer from the fridge, he switched on the TV, and crashed onto the couch.
*****
It was a few minutes after eleven when his cell phone rang. He was surprised at the number calling: it was FBI Agent Johnson.
‘Agent Johnson,’ he answered groggily. ‘This is a surprise. Not a call I was ever expecting.’
‘Look, first of all,’ Johnson began, ‘I want to apologise for just leaving like I did.’
‘No problem. You said you had to get back to Quantico.’
‘I did. I was always due to fly back that day. But before I left, while you had left me in your office, I took a copy of the video you had.’
‘The video from LAX?’
‘That’s the one. I downloaded it onto a thumb drive I had with me.’
Part of an FBI agent’s arsenal, Leroy mused. A thumb drive.
‘And?’ he replied.
‘You see, here at the Bureau, we have more sophisticated image technology than you guys at the LAPD. Or any PD, for that matter.’
‘Good for you,’ he thought, not intending to say it as well.
‘I didn’t want to say anything to you guys at the time in case it didn’t work out.’
‘Go on.’
‘We - I enlisted a co-worker to help - have identified four people, four men who came out of the restroom, but there is no trace of them going in. I have to say here that we did this with the knowledge and approval of my line manager.’
‘I appreciate that, Genine.’
‘Now there are many reasons which could explain this apparent discrepancy. Maybe the cameras just didn’t pick them up going in. There were several groups entering the facility. They could have been in the restroom for a long time, entering earlier than our time parameters. There are a number of reasons for this, such as -’
‘I get the picture, yes. So tell me what you found.’
‘I’ve retrieved images of five men who went in, but, again within our time parameters, did not leave. I also have images of four men coming out, where there is no record of their going in. Are you interested?’
‘Absolutely. More interested in the four who are coming out, of course.’
‘I thought you’d say that. I’ve enhanced the images as best I can, but the footage wasn’t exactly top grade from the start, and you can’t get high quality from crap, because it’s just not there in the first place. But we can extrapolate the pixels, to a degree.’
‘It’s something. Better than nothing. It might give us something to work on. I really appreciate this, Genine. Can you send them to me? It’s eleven pm here now, and I can pick them up when I get to the station in the morning.’
‘It’s two in the morning here. I’m finishing off when I’m done with these.’
‘Jesus! You been working on these all night?’
‘Not all night. It’s only two am. And I don’t need much sleep. And I can justify the overtime by saying you’re desperate to prevent a third killing.’
‘Already had number three.’
‘Oh, crap. When was that?’
Leroy gave Johnson a quick rundown on the Troy Keffer murder. There was no reaction from her to the cross-dressing angle.
‘I can send them to your cell now, if you like, Sam.’
‘Please do, yes.’
‘They’re on their way. Nine images all together. Five going in, back views, of course; four coming out, front views. Call me if you have any questions, or if you need anything; but I think we’re done as far as tech support goes.’
‘I will. I really appreciate this.’
‘Let’s say you owe me one. Here they come.’
Leroy ended the call, and stared at his phone as the images came through. The first were men entering the restroom: one, two, three, four and five. All rear views, all meaning nothing to him.
Then followed the four images of men leaving. Front views, of varying clarity.
One, two, three, four.
Leroy recognised number three.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
It was the next morning.
Quinn arrived at his normal time, and was surprised to see Leroy already at his desk, a paper cup of steaming black coffee on his desk, and a large breakfast burrito in his hand. He looked up at Quinn.
‘Good morning, Raymond,’ he beamed.
Puzzled, Quinn sat down at his own desk.
‘What’s going on? Why are you so cheerful? You get lucky or something last night?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Oh, yeah? What was her name?’
‘Her name was Agent Genine Johnson.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. Agent Genine Johnson.’
‘I see. She back in LA, then?’
‘No, she’s still in Quantico.’
Quinn had no idea where this was going.
‘You been sexting her all night?’
‘No, but here’s a photograph she sent me.’ He slid a print of the blown-up, enhanced picture of man number three leaving the restroom.
Quinn picked up the photo and looked at it. ‘And?’
‘Look at the guy in the picture. You recognise him?’ Leroy relayed to Quinn the conversation he had had with Johnson the previous night. ‘That guy there is one of the four men who exited the men’s room, but never went in. Not in our time frame, that is.’
Quinn looked at the picture again: the light raincoat, the sunglasses, the dark, curly hair. He shook his head. ‘Means nothing to me. Sorry.’
‘Look at it again, and think about our trip over to UCLA.’
Quinn looked at the picture again, then up at Leroy, then back to the picture. ‘Professor Ramos?’
Leroy wheeled his chair over to the front of Quinn’s desk. ‘Forget the hair. Ramos has straight, grey hair, but that could be a wig. Forget the shades. Look at the lower part of the face. Both the skin colour, and the shape of the chin. And the heavy five o’clock shadow, almost bluish in tint. And the height’s about right. You can put on a wig, you can wear a pair of Raybans, you can wear something, padding, under your clothes to bulk up, but you can’t change your height. And remember what that guy in Venice told me? Hombre bolsa – the bag man? He told me the guy driving the pick-up was Mexican. Ramos is Filipino: now, Filipino, Mexican, Hispanic, Latino: under street lights at a distance of twenty feet at two in the morning?’
Quinn was slowly nodding his head. ‘You want to pick him up?’
‘We’ll need to talk to him, for sure; but our killer is one clever son of a bitch, and Ramos is a professor, for God’s sake, so I don’t want to get out-manoeuvred. I want to see where he goes first. When we confront him, he’s bound to deny it’s him - there’s only a passing resemblance, after all – but I want to make sure there’s not an innocent explanation, like meeting or dropping somebody off.’
‘In disguise?’
‘I don’t know. He could be banging another professor’s wife, or one of his students, and didn’t want to get recognised, or something. Let’s head back to LAX, and take a look at the other cameras in the terminal, and find out where he went.’
*****
On the way back down to the airport, Quinn called Chief Security Officer Harris, who said he would meet them at the main door again.
‘Terminal Three, wasn’t it?’ he asked as he took them to the monitor suite. Once settled down at a screen and provided with a massive mug of coffee, Leroy was able to quickly access the footage of the figure in light raincoat, dark curly hair, and sunglasses leaving the restroom.
‘See?’ he said. ‘Easy once you know wh
at you’re looking for.’ He moved his chair over to one side so that Harris could access the keyboard. ‘Over to you.’
‘Okay, then,’ the big man said. ‘We know the time that shot was taken.’
‘Four thirty-three,’ said Leroy.
‘Four thirty-three. So the next camera to have picked him up would have been…’ He typed in a number, and another view of the terminal appeared on the screen. No figure in a light raincoat. ‘Okay. Let’s try another.’ He repeated the action, and another view appeared. They watched numbers of people went this way and that, some exiting the terminal, some entering. Some people and groups had cases, others just backpacks.
‘Nothing there, either,’ said Leroy. Now he was standing behind Harris.
‘Let’s try another,’ said Harris, his fingertips poised over the keyboard.
‘No, wait.’ Leroy put his hand on his shoulder. ‘There he is.’
They watched carefully as the figure walked through the terminal.
‘Where’s he headed?’ Quinn asked.
‘That’s the Delta baggage drop area,’ replied Harris.
‘Why would he be going there?’ wondered Quinn.
‘Maybe he’s planning on touring the airport before he leaves, just in case he’s being tracked on CCTV,’ Leroy suggested.
‘He’s leaving the terminal there,’ said Harris. He was right: there was a set of doors at the end of the terminal, opposite the baggage drop and adjacent to a small Bureau de Change. ‘Out to the drop-off zones.’
‘There are cameras out there?’ Leroy asked.
‘Detective,’ replied Harris, ‘there are cameras everywhere here.’
‘Except the john.’
‘Except the restrooms, yes. Civil liberties and like that. Let’s get one of them up.’ He typed in another number; an image of the sidewalk outside came up. There were people milling about, and cars, buses and taxis pulling up and departing. He tapped a spot on the screen. ‘There’s your man.’ Sure enough, in the distance, the raincoated figure was walking through the throng of people.
‘Where’s he headed?’ Leroy asked. ‘What’s in that direction?’
‘Terminal Two,’ replied Harris, as he banged some more keys. ‘No, he’s at the bus stop.’ A new image had appeared on the screen, and they could see the man standing in a line by a light blue sign.
