Criss Cross (11 page)

E
velyn sat in her parlor. The television was on. She was sketching an outline for her new historical romance in longhand.

The newscaster's voice broke into her thoughts. It pulled her attention away from the manuscript. She fastened her eyes on the broadcast.

“We interrupt this program to bring you a breaking story. A series of murders involving three six-year-old boys has gripped the City of Newark. From what we have learned at Eyewitness News the killings have all the signs of another serial killer on the loose.”

Evelyn turned up the volume.

“There is some talk that the murders have the markings of ritualistic type killings. Newark's homicide department has not confirmed this information. The authorities are declining to comment at this time. We have learned that Newark's star homicide detective, Micah Jordan-Wells, has been exclusively assigned to the case. A police advisory is requesting that all children be escorted by an adult and not be left alone until the killer is found. We'll have more on these rising developments later.”

Evelyn turned off the television. She took a sip from her cup of coffee. Going over to the liquor cabinet, she pulled out a bottle. She laced the coffee with Chivas Regal and took a long swallow. Draining the cup, she refilled it with Chivas.

She wandered over to the window, her hands trembling. Peeking through the heavy drapes, she saw Micah standing out front, staring at the house.

Puzzled, she waved, wondering why he was standing out front. But Micah didn't wave back.

Evelyn frowned. She took a closer look. Something in Micah's eyes made her blood run cold. She dropped the cup of Chivas. It spilled all over the Persian rug.

She hurried to the front door. Panic rose up from the depths of her belly as she realized she couldn't go out the door. “Damn!” she swore.

Still, she pressed on into the foyer. When she reached the front door she willed herself to at least open it.

Evelyn hyperventilated. Her breath was coming in wheezes, but she called out, “Micah!” as she looked across the lawn. The street was empty and deserted. Micah was gone.

Weeping Willow stared out the door behind Evelyn. Turning, she saw Quentin Curry as he was. He was the ultimate destruction of them all. In him was damnation. She covered her ears so she would not hear the shrieking. From beyond the realms, she would do what she must.

 

 

Later that night in Micah's office Micah and Nugent had files and papers strewn all over the place. They were both silent. They lived in the captivity of their thoughts.

M
icah had been up all night. His clothes were wrinkled. His shirt was open at the collar. His tie had been long ago abandoned. Light fuzz had sprung up along his cheek line. He looked like a rogue cop.

Soda cans, coffee cups and candy wrappers were strewn around the room. Milky Way wrappers were all over the place. It was Micah's favorite candy bar. He had polished off a bag of the miniatures during the night.

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, trying to rid himself of a cramp. He stretched out his long legs in front of him.

Looking over at Nugent he said, “No one at the jail ever reported Silky's fingertips were missing. They were shaved completely off. That must have been what the killer used at the murder scenes. Very clever. I'm sure Silky thought it was a great way to laugh at us from the grave.”

“We should have known about that. I mean, damn, how many people are walking around without their fingertips? I can't believe someone didn't report it,” Nugent said completely exasperated.

Micah grunted.

Nugent got up. He did a couple of knee bends. “It's a moot point now. Why did the killer use them?”

“He gets a kick out of being other people. He's a man of many faces,” Micah said, “one of which appears to be mine.”

Micah dug a little deeper. “He's playing us. He knew our first conclusion would be that there's a copycat killer. This dude isn't a copycat. He's an original. He was having fun with us with the Silky game. I'll be damned if he didn't pull off the voice. He knew we would have to investigate regardless of how it might look or smell. It's not like we're dealing with a rational mind here.”

Nugent sat down. He decided to let Micah explain this out by himself. He listened as Micah spun his web.

“He's playing according to the rules of his own world, Nugent. A self-created imbecile.” Micah stepped over the edge then fell into the pit of his anger. With extreme effort he dragged himself back into focus. Uncontrolled anger could get him killed.

Shrugging off the clawing feeling of lividness he said, “He calls himself Criss Cross. It fits with the sign of the ‘X.' He likes to play head games.”

Nugent watched Micah.

“He sounded just like Silky. The tape is a ploy. He's using the recording to try to frame me. Although, I haven't figured out how he got my prints on it. The bad thing is I think he's only begun to dig into his bag of tricks.”

Nugent nodded.

Micah got up. He paced the room. “Alright. Let's tear this thing apart for the sake of argument. He used Silky's prints at the murder scenes. Say, the call he placed here was pre-recorded before Silky's death. That means they planned it. It means the two of them are connected.”

Nugent rather reluctantly decided against telling Micah that a sweep of his phone showed no record of the conversation, except the actual ringing of the phone, which he himself also heard. Nor was he going to tell him there was no voiceprint of his conversation in Penn Station.

Nope. He didn't want to tell him that the only voice picked up in the sweeps had been his. Telling him could serve no purpose at this time. He continued to listen.

“Nugent we're dealing with a master serial killer. He's very secure in his own powers.”

Nugent weighed Micah's words against the mounting evidence. He tried to figure out how they could beat it before the pressure on Wolfgang was pushed to the limit. They were skating on very thin ice.

Micah stopped in front of the window. “Here's what we do know. He's a master planner. He's somehow connected to Silky. He's a power tripper to the nth degree. Power and control are everything to him. And the name Criss Cross coincides with the carrying of the ‘X' that split open the middle of the boy's chest. The sign of the ‘X' matches. So far he's demonstrating a vast amount of power.”

“Yeah,” Nugent said, “well right now he's holding all the power until we find the connection.”

Micah was quiet. A thought niggled at him. It was just at the base of his consciousness. Something they missed.

Micah started rifling through files. He found the one he was looking for. He opened it spilling out the contents.

Nugent came over as pages of obituaries of the dead women scattered across the desk. Their faces smiled hauntingly at them.

Micah scanned the contents. Suddenly a piece of text literally jumped off the page at him. Six-year-old son. Six-year-old son. Six-year-old son.

Micah's heart raced. “That's it!”

“What's it?”

Words tumbled out of Micah's mouth with the speed of light. “All of the women Silky murdered had one thing in common. I mean outside of beauty, youth, and the fact that they all lived in Newark.”

“What's that?”

“They were all the mothers of six-year-old sons. Look at this.” He passed the information to Nugent.

“Every single one of them, Nuggie. Every one of them had a six-year-old son. I think they were selected for that reason. What are the odds that all of those women would just happen to have six-year-old sons?”

Micah paced the room. Nugent felt that common thread that ran through both of their veins at the same time whenever they hit on something important in a case. “I'm feeling you,” he said.

“It's a hell of a coincidence. And, it links them. Damn it! It links them in a way we never thought of before. Maybe Silky's mother didn't want him. Maybe she gave him away when he was six,” Micah said.

Nugent ran with the ball. “A psychological link. He was killing his mother.” The tentacles of Nugent's thoughts reached out to entwine with Micah's. Now they were vibing.

“Exactly,” Micah said. “Frequently, in case after case, we've seen that serial killers often have some childhood trauma that relates to the type of murders they commit. Not in all cases, but in enough of them to make it a viable point.”

“That's true,” Nugent replied as he absorbed the information that was now processing through his brain at the speed of a nanosecond.

“Okay,” Micah said, “the tie that binds. That question has been left at every one of the boys' murder scenes. Criss Cross asked me the same question. When I didn't answer quickly enough the child screamed. A shot was fired. The answer is a child to his mother. It's the most binding tie in life. She rejected him—the murdered women. She didn't want him—the murdered boys. Full circle. One and then the other. Silky, then the illusive Criss Cross.”

Nugent exhaled.

“Both of them are probably rejects,” Micah stated with satisfaction.

For the first time Nugent heard something that made sense. A dawning horror seized him with the blow of a sledgehammer. He sucked in a deep breath. “Oh my God! There are two of them. They committed the murders in stages. Silky was only the beginning.”

Micah smiled. “Dead on. Silky was only a piece of the puzzle. One damned piece.”

Micah ran down Criss Cross's mental profile. “He's inferior. Insecure. He's twisted. Killing the boys is a punishment. The man is in a rage, Nugent. He's ripping them up. Marking them.”

“Yep. He's extinguishing them.”

“Because murdering them is not enough,” Micah said. “He's pushing them into nonexistence. That's why he brands them, scribbling his signature on their carcasses. He's a sick bastard.”

“The sixes and their carriers will be no more,” Nugent said, the deadly threat springing from his lips.

Micah looked at Nugent sharply, “What?”

Assessing Micah's reaction, Nugent shook his head. “I'm sorry. I was just spacing, man. Anyway I have two questions. Why didn't Silky kill the six-year-old boys of the mothers he murdered? And why would the murders of different boys start after his death? He could have killed the six-year-old boys that belonged to the mothers.”

Pictures of the surveillance tapes taken of Silky flashed through Micah's mind. Knowledge opened like a rose. “Silky was a cold-blooded psychopathic murderer with one human flaw.”

“What was that?”

“I'll show you.” Micah retrieved the surveillance videotape from the file cabinet. He popped it into the VCR. Nugent sat on the edge of the desk. A series of images appeared on the screen.

Silky stood behind a fence in the park watching the little leaguers play softball. In another image he shot hoops with some young kids in the playground. The next image captured him buying a kid an ice-cream cone. The look on Silky's face in each of the clips was one of parental concern.

These images revealed a side of Silky completely at odds with his role as Newark's worst murderer. The portrait was tinged. It was slightly off balance.

Silky knelt down in front of the kid with the dripping cold treat. He gently wiped the ice cream from the corner of his mouth.

Micah froze the frame. Nugent gasped as the walls came tumbling down.

“Criss Cross has got to do the kids himself. Silky worshipped kids. Probably thought he was doing the kids a favor getting rid of their no-good mothers. Killing kids went against his grain. I'll bet this was the one area where he couldn't be controlled. Because somehow Criss Cross
was
controlling him.”

Nugent exhaled for the second time in their exchange.

Micah was excited. He was on to it. He felt it in his bones. Nugent felt it, too. They didn't have all the pieces. But, like joggers who run a well-known track, they knew they had hit their groove.

“Nugent, we have to look for six-year-old boys who were given away. Let's start with foster care. Check the adoption agencies. Maybe that's what they have in common. Silky hates the mothers. Criss Cross hates the kids and the mothers. Silky was a follower. Not a leader.”

Micah ejected the tape.

“Silky was under orders all along. It makes sense now. Remember how we said it seemed almost as though he was an observer at the murder scenes. As though he was looking through someone else's eyes. His murders were like portraits.”

Nugent nodded, remembering.

“Somehow Criss Cross was using him like a conduit. I don't know, maybe through some kind of a ritual. Criss Cross was present at the murder scenes of the women at some level. I'm sure of it. When Silky's time was up, Criss Cross was ready to come out of the closet. And now he's out in full force.”

Nugent shook his head. “At some level? Either he was there or he wasn't.”

A lightning flash laid hands on Micah, tossing him into Silky's body at the scene of the crime. He could see it all.
Oh my God!

As though nothing had happened, Micah said, “It's not that simple, Nugent. Something out of the ordinary is going on here. At the sentencing Silky said that I had captured him. But, I hadn't captured all that there was. He said my world, as I knew it, would be no more. He talked about smoke and mirrors. And, we are definitely playing smoke and mirrors here. Hide and seek. Don't you think?”

Nugent nodded.

“All right then. The only way we're going to catch him is not to rule anything out. We've got to think outside the box. No matter how incredible it might seem. Otherwise we're gonna be seriously played.”

Again, Nugent nodded. He knew that Micah's capture of killers was legendary. He'd learned a lot from him in his time. Micah had not gotten where he was by thinking like those around him.

In the past Micah had come up with some far-reaching theories. Those very theories were what allowed him to catch the killers. Not one of those theories had ever been listed in the police manual. And not one of them had gone by the book.

Besides, if he and Micah didn't come up with something viable soon, there was a good chance Micah himself could be charged with the murders.

There was no doubt things were getting shaky on the outside. Wolfgang was stretching himself to the limit keeping things under wrap. But the clock was ticking. They were dancing on a tightrope.

Anyway, he didn't believe Micah was the murderer. He knew he wasn't. Regardless of how it looked. But he'd be the first to say that it looked real bad.

“Okay,” Nugent said. “Is Criss Cross randomly choosing six-year-old boys?”

“He's leading us. He knew that once Silky was dead and these murders began, eventually we would make the connection. I'm not sure if they're random or specifically selected. But we'll find out. What matters to him most is: one, that he kills and leaves his mark and, two, that he taunts in the process. He's flaunting what he thinks of as his superiority.”

Micah sat down behind his desk. “Which brings me to another problem. If we're on the right track with this, then Derrick Holt from the
Star-Ledger
is a thorn in our side, because he's acting like a dog in heat when it comes to Silky.”

“I think we may have found the link to catching this maniac, but that means nobody can get to that information before we do, Nugent.”

“I'm on it,” Nugent said.

Nugent hesitated then issued Micah a warning. “Be careful. What if he wants you to find him, on his terms? You're walking in Criss Cross's mind. Or maybe he's walking in yours. Either way it's a dangerous walk.”

Their eyes locked.

A silent understanding passed between them. “I know. I can feel him. But it's the only way I can catch him.”