The Colour of Death (18 page)

Fox nodded and took the coffee.  “We both screwed up, Karl.  At least no one was badly hurt.  What are you doing to catch the bastard?”

Last night he had been less civil and understanding.  After rushing around to Samantha’s house, he had yelled at the police chief for allowing the killer to get so close to his aunt and patient.  Jordache had admitted his people had made mistakes and had since doubled the protection detail, but once his rage had cooled Fox acknowledged that much of the blame was his own:  he must have led the killer to Samantha’s house.  Although neither woman had been harmed, Fox now felt a personal stake in catching the killer.

Jordache was no less motivated.  Not only had the killer drugged one of his officers, he had humiliated Portland’s Finest.  Last night’s attack on Jane Doe hadn’t been foiled by his men but by Fox’s aunt, a little old lady.  Unfortunately, Samantha hadn’t been able to see the killer’s face and no usable fingerprints had been found in the house, but Jordache’s team had been busy.  They had checked out what Fox had told them after visiting the crime scenes with Jane Doe yesterday and a pattern was emerging.

A frantic search through old case files had confirmed that prior homicides with identical MOs had indeed been committed at each of the three crime scenes.  Each of the prior victims, however, had been female and all had been raped before being murdered.  The most recent was eleven years ago, the oldest almost a quarter of a century ago.  The female victims had each been dressed and killed in exactly the same manner as their later male counterparts.  All these prior homicides were so-called ‘cold cases’:  unsolved old crimes.

Jordache didn’t sit at the table.  Instead he paced the room like a lion in a cage.  “How the hell did Jane Doe know about the prior crimes?”

“She didn’t know,” Fox said, careful to protect Jane Doe’s secret.  “It was a hunch.”

“Some hunch,” said Kostakis, rising from his chair.  He picked up one of the manila folders from the table and walked over to a large whiteboard on the main wall of the homicide incident room.  The board had been divided into three sections, one for each crime scene.  The sections were subdivided into a grid of five columns:  ‘victim’, ‘suspect/perp’, ‘location’, ‘MO’, ‘time/date’; and two rows:  ‘current case’, ‘prior case’.  Kostakis pointed to the first section on the board.  “The prior homicide in the first cold case file was at the exact same location as Vince Vega’s murder, in the stairwell of the abandoned apartment block.”  He opened the manila folder.  “When I studied the file I discovered something interesting.”  Kostakis took a photo of a woman from the folder and attached it to the ‘victim’ column.  “The victim was a hooker called Nancy Luce.  There wasn’t enough solid evidence to convict but guess who the main suspect was?”

“Vince Vega,” Fox said, as Kostakis took another photo out of the folder and laced Vega’s mugshot in the suspect column.

“It gets more interesting when you check out the list of suspects for the other two crime scenes,” said Jordache.  “In each case, the victim of the later homicide was a suspect for the earlier one.”  Jordache stopped his pacing and slapped his palm against the whiteboard.  “The pattern’s pretty clear.”

“It seems we’ve got a vigilante on some kind of divine mission,” Kostakis said, holding up a photo of one of the marker pen messages.  “He sees himself as an avenging angel meting out justice to the demons in the world.”

“But why now?” said Allen, stroking his goatee  “These are old crimes.  And why the connection to Jane Doe?”

“Perhaps she’s his inspiration — and the trigger,” said Fox.  “He reads her story plastered all over the press, sees her as this avenging angel stepping into hell to save those girls from the Russian traffickers and becomes obsessed with her.  He
thinks
he knows her and wants to match her deeds so he targets the suspects of similar unsolved crimes:  rape-homicides.”

“That would explain why he drugged the cop last night but didn’t kill him,” said Kostakis, nodding.

“The killer doesn’t actually know Jane Doe?” Jordache said.  “He knows her image in the press but not
her?
”

“It looks that way,” said Fox.

“What did he want with her last night and the night before?” said Kostakis.

“I’m not sure,” said Fox.  “But we have to assume he’s dangerous.  Obsession can flip from love to hate in an instant for no rational reason.”

Jordache frowned.  “If his kills are virtual duplicates of the earlier crimes, how did he find out about the prior murders?  How did he know the details of the victims, the MO of the crimes and the prime suspects?”

Allen tapped the pile of manila folders on the table.  “He’s got to have access to files like these.”

“A lot of this stuff’s available on the web if you know where to look,” said Kostakis, “but it’s more likely he had some inside knowledge.  Which probably means he is or was involved with law enforcement or journalism.  In the past he may even have known one or all of the earlier victims, and had dealings with Vince Vega or Kovacs or Paz.  We could start with journalists and PIs who fit the physical description we got.”

“We’ve got to be careful with this, Phil,” said Jordache.  “If we’re right, then we’ve got to include serving police officers and ex-cops as suspects, especially those in homicide and vice.”  He turned to Fox.  “What do you think, Nathan?  You think this stacks up?  You think the profile makes sense?”

Fox nodded cautiously.  Given the little they knew, it made as much sense as anything else.  “There probably is no real connection between the killer and Jane Doe.  And since the suspect had to have access to details of the past murders, it’s a good idea to focus on journalists and law enforcement professionals.  I’d also include administrative staff and third parties involved in processing crime pictures and managing files.  It might be worth spotlighting men what a past grievance or trauma which could have fueled a need for violent justice and revenge.”

Fox’s phone rang and he grabbed it from his pocket, concerned it might be from Samantha or Jane Doe.  “Excuse me, Karl, I’d better get this.”  He picked up.  “Fox.”

“Dr. Fox, it’s Professor Fullelove.  You need to come back immediately.”  She sounded unusually breathless and excited.”

“Why?  What’s happened, Professor?”

When she told him, he sat back in his chair and let the news sink in for a moment.  “I’ll be right over.”  He put the phone back in his pocket and stood up.  “Sorry, Karl, but I’ve got to go.”

“What’s up?” said Jordache.  “Is there a problem?”

“Not a problem.”

“What then?”

“We’ve got a walk-in at the clinic asking about Jane Doe.  He says he knows her.  Says he knows who Jane Doe is.”

Chapter 27

When Fox got back to the clinic he saw two police cars from the increased security detail parked in the driveway.  After last night’s incident Jane Doe had felt so guilty about endangering Samantha she had insisted on returning to Tranquil Waters.  Fox drove to the staff parking lot and entered the clinic by the side entrance.  He found Professor Fullelove hovering by his office.  He had never seen her look so flustered.

“He’s in reception,” she said without any preamble.  “He wants no media coverage and won’t give his name or say anything until he talks to Jane Doe’s doctor and the person in charge here.  We can interview him in one of the conference rooms.  I suggest we only inform her once we’ve checked him out.”

“Fine.  I’ll get her updated medical file.”  He had already briefed Fullelove on Jane Doe’s total synaesthesia, explaining that it — rather than psychosis — was responsible for her hallucinations.  He had, however, omitted any mention of her death-echo synaesthesia.  Jane had insisted that that was kept strictly off the record.

“Does her file contain any identifying features not released to the media?”

He reached for the folder in the cabinet by his desk.  “Yep.  She has a birthmark on her left scapula.”

“Good.  Let’s go.”

He felt a surge of excitement that the mystery of Jane Doe’s identity was about to be solved.  He had so many questions to ask about her background, especially how it might explain her unique synaesthesia.  As they approached the reception he noticed Professor Fullelove smooth her skirt, adjust her hair and slow her usual brisk walk to a hip-swaying stroll.  A young nurse walked past and did exactly the same.  Both performed these unconscious subtle gestures immediately they spied the stranger standing by the reception desk.  Fox saw others whispering and throwing glances at the visitor.  The object of their attention radiated a still calm, apparently oblivious to the excitement rippling around him.

Sexual charisma, from the Greek
kharisma
, meaning ‘gift from God’, is an elusive and indefinable thing.  One of Nathan Fox’s colleagues at Stanford had once attempted the impossible task of defining it for his PhD thesis.  He had interviewed scores of high-profile movie stars, politicians and successful businesspeople but discovered that although all had seemed attractive, magnetic and charming, less than a handful had possessed genuine charisma in person.  The rest were so disappointing he had abandoned his PhD.  “Essentially, charisma’s as rare as genius,” he’d concluded.  “You’ve either got it or you ain’t.  And if you gotta ask, then you ain’t got it.”

Although he was probably in his fifties and his face was too craggy to be conventionally handsome, the visitor clearly had whatever that elusive quality was.  Dressed in black trousers, white collarless shirt and a long blue linen jacket, the man was about six feet tall, a few inches shorter than Fox, and lean, with a light tan, piercing blue-green eyes and striking cheekbones.  His shoulder-length silver-gray hair was as thick and sleek as an animal’s pelt.  As he directed his smile at Fullelove and shook her hand the redoubtable professor almost blushed.  When he extended his hand and turned those piercing eyes on him, even Fox felt his power.  “A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Fox.”  He spoke quietly with the timbre of someone who is accustomed to being heard — and obeyed — without raising his voice.

“Our primary concern is Jane Doe’s welfare,” Professor Fullelove said after they had settled in the conference room.  “She has no memory of anything or anybody and we need to determine you’re genuine.”

“I understand,” the man said softly.

“What’s your name?” Fox asked.

“Regan Delaney.”

“You have any identification?”

Fox saw the muscles clench in the man’s jaw.  He was clearly unaccustomed to having his word questioned.  “It’s complicated.  I’ve lived off the grid for some years and I doubt any government agency has any recent record of me.” He smiled so disarmingly that Fox found himself smiling with him.  “My birth family were horse breeders in northern California but that was many years ago, before I founded our settlement here in Oregon.  My people live in the wilderness, away from the corruptions of the cities.  We make no apology for avoiding the intrusions of the modern world — or the attentions of the government.  We’re self-sufficient, keep ourselves to ourselves and cause no harm to others.  All we ask is that the rest of the world shows us the same consideration.”

“What sort of settlement is it?” asked Fullelove.

The man reached for an amulet hanging from his neck by a silver cord.  It appeared to have been fashioned from a single piece of stone in the shape of an ankh:  an ancient cross topped with an oval loop instead of a vertical bar.  The loop was filled with a large amethyst.  “We are a religious community.”

Fox found himself staring at the amulet, remembering a muscled forearm and the tattoo of a cobra coiled around a similar strange-shaped cross.  His collar felt suddenly tight and he was aware of beads of sweat forming on his forehead.  “You’re a cult?” he said.

Delaney smiled.  “That’s such an emotive term, Dr. Fox.  You know what they say:  if you believe in it, it’s a religion; if you don’t, it’s a sect; if you fear or hate it, it’s a cult.  We prefer to see ourselves as a family.”

That didn’t reassure Fox.  Charles Manson had called his cult the Family and that hadn’t ended well.  He thought of his parents and sister and the two cult members who had killed them, and of the patients he had treated because of their damaging involvement with cults, and he immediately disliked and distrusted Regan Delaney.  He tried, however, to remain objective.  Her being a cult member helped explain the enigma of Jane Doe:  why she appeared on no database and why, despite the media coverage, it had taken so long for her people to find her.

“Can you please tell us some more about your religious community?” said Fullelove.  “To help us understand and protect our patient we need to discover as much as we can about her background, especially if you intend to return her to a cult.  What’s the name of your community?”

“If you think it’s important, we call ourselves the Indigo Family.”

“What are your beliefs?” asked Fullelove.

A shrug.  “It’s difficult to explain personal beliefs without exposing them to ridicule.  Suffice it to say we’re concerned with seeing beyond the material constraints of the human world, with harnessing and harmonizing our physical and psychic senses to glimpse the spiritual realm.  We seek to be at one with the universe by going beyond the human to experience the divine.”

Fox listened but made no comment.  Delaney’s mystic nonsense fitted the formula for most New Age cults:  cherry-pick the appealing aspects of Eastern religion, apply some Western concepts, add a dash of magic, then stir.  His skepticism was tempered by his knowledge of Jane Doe’s death-echo synaesthesia.  “How did you find out Jane Doe was here?”

Delaney placed his hands on the table and clasped them in front of him.  “I venture into what you call civilization from time to time.  I saw the news reports.”

“Can you prove you know her?” said Professor Fullelove.  “Are you aware of any identifying features?”

A nod.  “She has a birthmark on her back, on her left shoulder blade.”

Fullelove reached for Jane Doe’s medical file but Fox already knew the answer.  “She does have a mark on her left scapula,” Fox said.  “Anything else you can tell us about her?”