Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (6 page)

‘Maybe.’

I pinned another eight by ten to the board.

‘As you can see in this photograph, the killer dressed Samuels in a tuxedo and dinner shirt before lying him on his bed in the customary pose of interment. Notice the details. The killer took the time to wrap Samuels in a crimson cummerbund, do up his bowtie and fasten his sleeves with fancy gold cufflinks.’

‘How do we know he wasn’t already wearing the tux?’

‘Good question, Jan. Here’s why: a neighbor and the last person to see him alive – other than the killer, that is – saw Samuels putting out trash shortly after midnight, Saturday. He was wearing pajamas at the time. Those same pajamas were found neatly folded away in a drawer in Samuels’ bedroom.’

The willowy officer: ‘If you ask me it looks like a suicide.’

I raised my brow. ‘And the first responders thought so too – until they came across the Taser marks. Plus, there were no signs of any pills, gunshot wounds or even a suicide note. No medication in the house to show Samuels suffered from depression or anxiety. Since the discovery this morning of the child’s body we are definitely looking for a repeat killer.’

The sergeant: ‘What did Samuels do at the University?’

‘He was Head of Genetics. But that’s pretty much all we know, for now. I intend visiting the campus this afternoon to interview his colleagues.’

Jan Walters: ‘What about the child, Gabe? Have you been able to identify her?’

Jamie spoke up: ‘We checked CLETS. She isn’t in the missing persons database.’

‘Plus, it’s the weekend.’ I added. ‘Which means there’s a chance she hasn’t been entered it into the system yet. The child’s clothes were clean. Which is a good indication she hasn’t been away from home long.’

I pinned a snapshot of the little girl to the board. Sensed the parents among us shrink from the image.

‘As you can see in this picture, the child was found laid out in the same way as Samuels. Position added post mortem. No signs of a struggle or bondage. Together with the cross of ash, we also found these same calling cards at both crime scenes.’

I added more vivid close-ups to the board. Rose petals sprinkled in a circle around the bodies. Something like superglue applied to the lips.

‘They make for a pretty distinctive signature.’ Fred Phillips was rubbing his chin. He was thinking what everybody else here was thinking. ‘What do we know about those? Anyone in the system with the same MO?’

‘So far we’ve found no similar signatures from known murderers either at large or behind bars. Other than the fact they look like regular rose petals and ordinary cigarette ash, we’re waiting on the Crime Lab results. Same goes for the glue. As yet we have no idea what they mean.’

‘Do we have a connection between the victims?’

The all-important question. I shook my head. I’d wrung my brain all morning trying to come up with one. Same for a motive. Right now I was looking at the killer’s world through the wrong end of a telescope.

‘What we do know is this killer has cast iron balls. His cooling off period – if you can call it that – is less than a day. Which means if he’s on a spree we could be looking at another victim within the next twenty-four hours.’

‘So who should we be looking for?’

Again, Jamie spoke up: ‘Serial killers are more likely to be white males in their late twenties or early thirties.’ She glanced at me for approval to continue. I nodded. It was textbook stuff, gleaned straight from an Academy tutorial, but we all have to start somewhere.

‘Normally they have jobs that allow them free roam.’ She said. ‘They tend to be sociopaths – which means they show no remorse. They also have a grandiose sense of self. Usually, they’ll have a history of behavioral problems. Maybe even jail time. Some like to brag about their crimes.’

‘And that’s where he could make his first mistake.’ I said refocusing the group. ‘There’s a strong likelihood he may also know his victims. Especially the child’s parents. Once we get her ID, we’ll need to cross-reference acquaintances with Samuels, their work colleagues, what clubs they’re members of, mailing lists they’re buying into, who they’ve upset. As always, the devil is in the details.’ I surveyed my grim-faced audience. Things were about to get messy. ‘Any more questions?’

13

^{___________________________}

There is something intrinsically evil about a child homicide. It defies logic and it defiles imagination. Just ask the parents.

I left Jamie manning the phone while I hit the streets. Partly because I needed to do something, anything proactive. Mostly to clear the death fog from clouding my brain.

I got in my car and headed southwest.

‘Want me to tag along?’ Jamie asked before I left.

I’d given it some thought. Jamie had a good eye for detail and a burgeoning curious nature. Someday she’d make a great detective. But right now I needed her at base, on the phone, identifying our little Jane Doe.

‘Don’t look too downhearted. It’s important work, Jamie. More important than canvassing for character testimonials.’

She hadn’t looked like she’d believed me.

Chasing killers was brand new to Jamie. She’d spent the last three years of her life sitting through lectures and undergoing basic training. Three weeks out on the street and she’d been bitten by the homicide bug. Wanted more. But I knew that the bite could turn nasty at any moment.

‘Did they tell you about the NCIC at the Academy?’

‘The National Crime Information Center.’

‘Otherwise known as the FBI’s database.’ I said.

‘Want me to submit a search request?’

‘Sure. If she’s in the system, Jamie, that’s where we’ll find her.’

‘And if she’s not on the FBI’s books?’

‘Then we start with the schools. Show her photo around. Make a Press statement if need be. Sooner or later somebody is going to miss this child.’

I’d remembered my own daughter of that age wearing pink pajamas and going to sleepovers at friends’ houses, in the care of other parents. If my own daughter had been abducted on her walk home, how soon would either set of adults have raised the alarm?

‘I’ll get right onto it.’

‘Good girl. And when you’re done with the FBI, start compiling employee rolls from every funeral home and mortuary parlor within a fifty mile radius. Run the names through the database. See who pops up.’

‘You think he’s a mortician?’

‘I think we need to rule out that he isn’t.’

It had occurred to me that our boy could work in the funeral business. Stands to reason, right? The mock interment angle was a strong indicator. It was distinctive. Purposeful. There was a chance he could be a disgruntled funeral home employee. Somebody who wanted to branch out pro bono.

I rolled down the car window and let cool air scream in my ears. The day was bright and breezy. A duck egg sky scratched with condensing vapor trails. I rummaged in the glove box for a CD. Found one at random. Slid it into the player.
Life In The Fast Lane
by
The Eagles
blasted the air.

Every police detective has informants. It’s kind of an unpaid outsourcing. Some are pillars of the community: church leaders, social commentators, community workers. Most are hardened criminals: time-served lowlifes, drug dealers, gang members. In both cases, their petty indiscretions are overlooked for the sake of solid intelligence leading to sound arrests.

I spent the rest of the morning doing house calls.

Somebody had to know something. Somebody always knew something. There are few secrets on the streets. It all comes down to persuasion and the lesser of two evils.

But I kept coming up against brick walls.

In fact, more blank expressions than at Lehman Brothers on the morning of the crash. Okay, so informants take exception to surprise visits. I can buy that. They prefer you to call ahead, make proper arrangements to meet on neutral turf. English tea at the Waldorf Astoria. That kind of thing. But I like to catch them off-guard. Unprepared. Makes for more spontaneous reactions.

But stony faces were the order of the day.

I was on my way to the next call when my cell phone buzzed:

‘Yes, Fred?’

‘We got Union Pacific to check the rail yard security tapes for Sunday evening through Monday morning.’

‘And?’

‘And the cameras had been taken offline.’

I paused. ‘How’s that happen?’

‘They say the cables were cut. Last recorded footage was just after midnight. Followed by mush.’

‘Those cameras have to be forty feet off the ground.’

‘So are the cables.’

‘Who are we dealing with here, Fred? Spider-Man?’

‘Hope not. Catch you later.’

‘Thanks, Fred.’

I stared the engine. Music boomed. I flicked off the CD. Pulled out into traffic. Continued south, deeper into Inglewood.

Serial killers have patterns. It’s by the book. Even the ones who don’t realize it themselves. Psychologists will tell you that the whole of Human behavior consists of patterns. You just have to know how to read them.

The patterns of killers come in all shapes and sizes:

The way they leave the body.

The place they leave the body.

The social class of those they murder.

Their chosen method of murder.

The calling cards they leave behind.

Every little piece of information that is the same at each crime scene.

It’s their fingerprint.

Patterns help law enforcement draw up a picture of predictability. Kind of like a road map to the killer’s mental location.

And, yes, I was already thinking of The Mortician Murderer as a serial killer. Not because of anything other than the fact I’ve been around the block enough times to recognize a turkey in a chicken coop when I see one. This killer’s style meant something. Understand the message and we’d be halfway to an arrest.

My cell buzzed again.

I glanced at it.