Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) (13 page)

Lee slid two sheets of paper across the table as Kins and Tracy rolled out chairs. “What’s this?” Tracy asked.

“Clarridge wants to make a statement,” Nolasco said, referring to Chief Sandy Clarridge. Nolasco removed his glasses, twirling them by a stem. “The mayor’s going to be with him. Neither is happy with the latest news reports.”

“Which are what?” Tracy asked, sitting.

“That we have another serial killer . . . and skepticism about whether we are competent to catch him.”

“Manpelt?” Tracy said, using the nickname the detectives had bestowed on Maria Vanpelt.

“That’s irrelevant,” Nolasco said.

“Not exactly the fountain of truth.” Tracy popped a cookie into her mouth.

“She’d turn a convention of Buddhists into a clandestine terrorist gathering,” Kins said.

“Either of you want to explain that to the Chief?” Nolasco said.

“Is that why we’re here?” Tracy asked.

“You’re here because I want to know where we’re at with the latest murder and how it ties in with the other two,” Nolasco said. “And give me the
Reader’s Digest
version. I don’t have much time.”

“Same type of rope as the rope used to kill Hansen and Schreiber,” Tracy said. “Can’t tell if it comes from the same coil, but no doubt about the knot. Same guy tied it. Likely left-handed. Room was straightened. Bed made. Clothes folded. Don’t know about DNA yet; can’t get fingerprints off a rope, but Melton says they lifted enough prints from the motel room to start a small village. It’s going to take time.”

“So we have a serial killer,” Nolasco said.

“We already had a serial killer.”

“Maybe we should focus on the statement,” Lee said, lifting a sheet of paper from the table, “since we’re pressed for time.”

Whoever had written the statement described the three murders vaguely, omitting any reference to a noose or rope. “This won’t pacify the media,” Tracy said.

“We’re not in the business of pacifying the media,” Nolasco said.

“They already know Hansen and Schreiber were strangled with a noose,” she said. “They’ll deduce Watson died the same way.”

“I want to keep the details vague,” Nolasco said.

“You’ve succeeded.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“I don’t, but Clarridge reads this and the media will think he’s holding back something important. They’ll ask for specifics he can’t answer, which will put him on the spot.” She shrugged. “Your call.”

Nolasco reconsidered the statement while rubbing his index finger over his mustache, a habit when he was stalling. After less than a minute, he set the statement down and pressed his fingertips together, forming a pyramid just beneath his lips. “What do you suggest?”

“There’s no reason to hide the fact that Watson was strangled or the type of rope,” Tracy said.

“I agree,” Kins said. “That ship has sailed, thanks to Manpelt.”

“But hold back any details about the knot, the method of strangulation, and the condition of the room,” Tracy said.

She took a moment to read the second paragraph, which stated that Clarridge would form a task force. “Are you handling the media, Bennett?”

“I am,” he said. He didn’t sound or look happy about it. Being the PIO in a serial killer investigation was like being a tightrope walker in a windstorm, a delicate balancing act, with each step another chance to make a fatal mistake. Release too much information and Lee would be educating not only the media, but also the killer. Too little information and the press would assume the task force was making no progress or withholding information. Tracy considered Lee a smart choice. He’d stick to an agreed-upon script, and he was good at keeping his facial features bland and his voice under control, revealing little beyond the prepared statement.

The final paragraph was the obligatory assurance to the general public that every available resource was being utilized in the investigation . . . including the local division of the FBI.

“What the hell,” Kins said. “Whose idea was it to bring in the Famous But Incompetent?”

Before anyone could answer, Clarridge entered the room with Stephen Martinez, the assistant chief of criminal investigations. Both wore the department’s standard French-blue short-sleeve shirts, Clarridge’s with four collar stars and his gold “Chief” badge pinned to his left breast pocket. Clarridge always made a point of being in uniform when he stepped to the podium. It was his way of saying, “I’m still a cop”—though maybe not chief for too much longer. Rumor was the recently elected mayor, who had not appointed Clarridge, was losing patience.

After greetings, Clarridge said, “Is that the statement?”

Lee stood and handed copies to Clarridge and Martinez. Clarridge tapped the desk with his middle finger as he read. Tracy glanced at Kins, who sat stewing over Nolasco’s insertion of the FBI into their investigation.

When Clarridge set down the statement, Nolasco said, “Chief, it’s my suggestion that we not hide the fact that the killer uses a noose to strangle his victims. That cat is already out of the bag. If we withhold it, the media will pepper you for details we don’t want to provide at this time.”

Clarridge looked across the table at Tracy. “Detective Crosswhite, this is your investigation. Do you agree?”

“I think it’s a brilliant suggestion,” she said. Lee lowered his head but couldn’t suppress a smile. “I also wouldn’t use the words ‘stripper’ or ‘prostitute.’ The women were dancers. Better yet, call them victims.”

“Tell me about them.”

For the next twenty minutes, Clarridge listened intently, asked intelligent questions, and took notes on the back of the press release as Tracy provided details about the crime scenes, the forensic evidence, leads, and possible suspects. With the building mostly shut down for the night, the air in the room soon became warm and stale. Clarridge’s cheeks had flushed, in contrast to his pale Slavic complexion.

“So, little doubt we’re dealing with one man,” Clarridge said.

“Correct.”

“Someone who has a problem with dancers?”

“Maybe. They could simply be victims of opportunity. But yes, all three were dancers.”

“So who are we looking at? Employees? Customers?”

“Definitely,” Tracy said. “We’re running Triple I checks on the male employees and running down anyone with any priors,” she said. “But there are close to a hundred dancers working at the clubs, and there’s a website for customers to make online reservations with their favorites. The killer might not even be going to one of the clubs. He could be setting up his meetings with the dancers online.”

Clarridge gave this some thought, no doubt considering the expense they could anticipate if they had to hire Internet experts. He spoke directly to Tracy and Kins. “Other than the crime scene markers, any definitive characteristics?”

“Forensics believes the person tying the knots is left-handed.”

“That could reduce the pool of suspects significantly,” Clarridge said.

“It could,” Tracy said. “Unfortunately, at the moment that pool is already very small.”

“We need to change that. I’m going to shift some funds to put together a task force.”

Tracy felt mixed emotions. She was glad they’d form a team dedicated to catching the Cowboy, but she knew it would mean a lot of late nights, long days, and frustrating dead ends. She also knew the assignment could last years, without success, and could exact a significant mental toll on her well-being.

“Detective Crosswhite,” Clarridge said. “I’m concerned you might be too close to this situation given your family history and the recent incident involving the noose. I wonder if perhaps it might not be best to let Detective Rowe act as the lead. How you divide up your responsibilities will be between the two of you.”

Tracy bristled at the suggestion and was about to say that while Kins was a great choice, she wanted to lead the investigation. She was also concerned Kins’s marriage would not take the additional strain of his being the lead on a task force. Before she could respond, however, Nolasco sat forward in his chair.

“With all due respect,” Nolasco said, “I disagree.”

Stunned, Tracy looked to Kins, whose quizzical facial expression revealed he too was surprised.

“I think having a female detective lead a task force trying to catch a man killing women will be favorably perceived by the media and the public. We might avoid the kind of criticism directed at the King County Sheriff’s Office during the Ridgway investigation.” Nolasco failed to mention the criticism following his ill-fated and premature decision to send the Nicole Hansen investigation to the Cold Case Unit.

Clarridge pinched his lower lip. “What about it, Detective Crosswhite?”

“I want this case, Chief.”

Clarridge nodded. “All right. Then it’s your task force. I don’t have to tell you that’s a double-edged sword.”

“Understood,” Tracy said.

“Chief,” Kins said, “can we address the issue of bringing in the FBI? We all know it gives the public and the politicians a warm and fuzzy, but these guys don’t deal in murder, and the only time they’ve ever caught a serial killer was in novels and movies. Honestly, I’d prefer to work with a Boy Scout troop.”

“There are other factors at play here,” Nolasco said. “A task force will be expensive, and the FBI can provide additional manpower and federal funds. And it’s good for PR. It lets the public know we’re using every available resource.”

Again, Clarridge was deliberate. “When I announce the task force, I’ll announce that the FBI will be
assisting
in
our
investigation. You and Detective Crosswhite can keep them at arm’s length, or bring them in to whatever extent you determine necessary.”

Clarridge checked his watch. “I have a news conference to prepare for.”

After Clarridge and Martinez departed, Nolasco addressed Tracy. “I want a list of names for the task force on my desk before you go home. And don’t submit fifty. I want fifteen, at most. This is not going to be another Ridgway. Get on it. We’re behind the eight ball, and I don’t want to fall behind any further. Find this asshole.”

After Nolasco left, Kins said, “He really has a way of motivating, doesn’t he? Winston Churchill has nothing on that guy.”

“Unfortunately, he’s right,” Tracy said. “We’re way behind this guy, and something seems to have triggered his desire to kill. We don’t catch him soon, this
could
be another Ridgway.”

CHAPTER 21

G
rease-stained hamburger wrappers littered the car. Kins had stopped at Dick’s, a drive-in hamburger joint on Capitol Hill that attracted a steady flow of college and high school students looking to stretch a buck. The only appeal it had to Tracy was they used real ice cream in their milk shakes and were still open at one in the morning.

Dan called just as Tracy sucked a hunk of strawberry into her straw. For him to be calling this late, it meant he’d likely seen Clarridge’s announcement of a task force and Maria Vanpelt’s interview of Shirley and Lawrence Berkman criticizing SPD for not having formed the task force earlier, and he wanted to make sure Tracy was doing all right.

“I could drive down and spend the night,” Dan said.

“Are you offering me pity sex?”

Kins, in the driver’s seat, snickered and smiled.

“Not at all,” Dan said. “My arbitration doesn’t get started until ten. These guys keep bankers’ hours. Unless you’re
into
pity sex. Then absolutely.”

Tracy laughed, and it felt good after a long and frustrating day. “Unfortunately, we’re still at it.”

“As your attorney, I hope they’re paying you overtime.”

“How’s the arbitration going?”

“Slow. The defense attorney is fighting everything. I really have to look into this whole notion of getting paid by the hour instead of on a contingency.”

“And sell your soul?”

“I could afford to buy a new one at some of the hourly rates these guys charge. We still on for Friday night?”

“Only if you’re still in the pitying mood.”

“You kidding? I majored in pity. Any thoughts about what you might want to do?’

“Several.”

“You’re killing me. You know that don’t you?”

“I’ll see you Friday.” She disconnected and slipped her cell back into her jacket pocket.

Kins lowered his chocolate shake. “Pity sex? How does that work?”

She couldn’t keep from grinning. “I’ll let you know.”

“I thought I could mention it to Shannah,” Kins said.

“Things still not going well?”

“It’s just ships passing in the night, you know. It’s been a rough patch. This isn’t going to help.”

“You’ll get through it.”

“She’s talking about taking the kids to San Diego to visit her sister.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”

“They’re in school, Tracy.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve been missing too much lately—the kids’ games, dinners with friends. She feels like a single parent.”

“So sneak out when you can. We’ll have people now to take some of the burden.”

“Yeah, I guess. What about you? You like this guy?”

She shrugged but found herself smiling again. “I’m taking it slow.”