The Kill (20 page)

“Mine?”

“You told Detective Travis about the wrongful conviction in California. The guy had a tattoo—similar to the one identified by our witness Sean Miller—and he had served in Vietnam. So I called my dad. He’s eighty-five, but he served in World War II and knows everything about the military. It’s his obsession. We talked about the tattoo, and he said the eagle was a common tattoo for GIs. Then I asked him the question that was bugging me about the marks—that it appears it’s not a pattern and though uniform, looks like dots and lines. He asked me to read off the dots and lines—just like that, ‘Can you read them to me?’ he asked. So I did. And he said, ‘Morse code.’ ”

“
Morse code
?” Olivia said, her mouth dropping open. “He’s marking his victims with Morse code?”

“Morse code was a system of dots and dashes, standard use for telegraphy in the military and other functions, but it’s been phased out since 1979. It’s obsolete now.”

“But in Vietnam it was commonly used,” Pierson said. “That makes sense.”

“In Morse code, each letter is assigned dots and dashes. For example, the letter ‘A’ is dot-dash, the letter ‘B’ is dash-dot-dot-dot, and so on. Because there’s no pause, no break, between the marks on our victims, it took my dad a few minutes to figure it out, but we have a word.”

Doug paused. “Angel.”

Angel
? Olivia mouthed the word. Her heart thudded in her chest as she asked, “What does it mean? Is he
signing
the bodies? Does
angel
refer to him? Or is he saying that his victim is now an angel? Or something else entirely?”

“Bingo,” Zack said. “That’s the million-dollar question. Chief, have you called Seattle FBI yet?”

“The bureau chief was in court, but I left all my numbers. He’ll call back. I’ve worked with him in the past.”

“We need to find out what
angel
means,” Zack said.”Whether it’s his signature, the way he views himself, or whether it references the victim. We also need to get a file for all military discharges, honorable or dishonorable, up until the first murder. Olivia, what happened with your conversation on that old case?”

“The district attorney recently died, but I spoke with the detective in charge of the original investigation and he’s going to track down Hall’s attorney and see when you can talk to him,” Olivia said. “I gave him your contact information and told him it was vital we speak with Hall as soon as possible.”

Zack filled in the rest of the team on the likely connection between a wrongful conviction and the killer.

“We don’t have much time,” Zack told everyone. “If his pattern holds, he’ll kill once more, then disappear. If we don’t get him now, he may not resurface for years.”

Over the years, he’d had a variety of jobs under a variety of names, but his best source of information came from working in restaurants.

When he lived in Atlanta, his name was Tom Ullman and he was a bartender. Hands down, he yielded the best personal information and found the right truck most easily when he tended bar. But he also had to listen to a lot of crap, and everyone wanted to have a conversation.

He didn’t want to talk; he only wanted to listen.

He didn’t work in a restaurant or bar in Colorado or Kentucky, but when he hit Massachusetts, his name was Andrew Richardson and he found employment in a large, friendly restaurant in a middle-class section of Boston. And since he was a patient man, he was able to wait for the information he needed.

Also, in restaurants he could easily and discreetly see the parking lot. When he learned what he needed to know, he watched the patrons leave. If they had the right type of vehicle, it was an omen that the time was right for action.

Now he answered to Steve Williams.

Everything was coming together perfectly, as if preordained. He’d already found the angel. Tonight, he’d found the truck.

He’d been on Vashon for well over a year and had not only come to recognize the regulars, but knew their vehicles and schedules. Karl and Flo Burgess were retired and lived in West Seattle. They came to Vashon at least once a week to eat, and usually sat in his section because he didn’t have to be reminded that Mrs. Burgess liked four olives in her vodka martini.

They owned a Ford-150 with camper shell.

He placed the tray with their change on the table. “Thank you for coming. See you next week.”

He was about to walk away when Mrs. Burgess said, “We’re leaving tomorrow to visit our daughter. We won’t be back for a couple of weeks.”

His heart raced and he smiled. “Have a safe drive.”

Karl Burgess shook his head. “I’m just not up to making the drive to Phoenix this year.”

“His back,” Mrs. Burgess said with a half-whisper. “Growing old.” She smiled and patted her husband’s hand.

“I’ll see you when you return, then,” he said and walked away.

He was so eager to complete his planning he could hardly complete his shift, but he forced himself to remain patient. Everything was coming together perfectly. Tomorrow was Friday; he knew exactly where his angel would be.

He eavesdropped on the Burgess’s conversation as they finished their coffee. Their flight left early. They were driving to the airport. That meant long-term parking lot.

He’d gotten in and out of the long-term parking lot easily in Atlanta, Kansas City, and Austin. Seattle would be a piece of cake.

He’d gotten into the habit of hanging out after his shift for a few minutes because most of the servers did it. He didn’t want to stand out. He knew how people thought of him—a friendly guy who liked his job, working to support his art. He had some talent, and made a point of bringing in sketches to show the crew. It gave him the necessary background so no one gave him a second thought.

He’d told them he was divorced and had moved and settled on Vashon Island for a change of pace. They also believed he had a grown daughter in college, so anytime he was late or had to disappear for a few days, he said he was visiting his daughter in Oregon. Close enough for a weekend trip, but not close enough where anyone would expect her to visit.

Success was in the details. Laying the foundation so that people believed what he wanted them to believe. And because every story in every state was similar, he never lost track of who he pretended to be.

But tonight, he said he was tired and left the restaurant as soon as he closed out; he walked to his cottage a half-mile away, and went right to his room. He took out his map and his notepad and plotted out each step for tomorrow.

Tomorrow would be the last. The thought was bittersweet. He liked the Pacific Northwest. He particularly liked living on the water. It reminded him of his early childhood, before everything changed. When it was just him and his mother, inseparable, living on the coast in a state he barely remembered. Before Bruce Carmichael came into their lives and stole their innocence and his mother’s life. Before Angel.

He found himself sitting on the small cottage porch watching the sky change color. The sun had already disappeared, but it wasn’t the setting sun that enticed him, it was the layers of the sky. Azure and lavender and jewel green. He watched as one color faded into another, growing darker and darker, as the Seattle skyline came to life.

Angel would have loved it here.

“Take me away, please.”

He and Angel were sitting on the narrow balcony of a three-story walk-up, cramped because the balcony was barely large enough for a planter of flowers. The old lady in the apartment next door had six pots teetering on the edge of the iron railing; twice in the three months they’d lived here one of her planters had fallen and shattered on the cement walkway below.

“Where can we go?” he said.

He was scared. He hated being scared, but the fear ate at him until he couldn’t think. It wasn’t fear of the unknown, or fear that he would starve, or fear that he would be killed.

It was fear that he was more like Bruce than he wanted to be.

“Anywhere,” she whispered, hugging her knees, her beautiful blonde hair hanging down. It shimmered for him, sparkling even here, on this filthy balcony above a garbage-strewn walk. He reached out and touched it. So soft. “It hurts when he touches me. It hurts so bad. Sometimes, I can escape and make up stories so I can think about something else. But sometimes I can’t and then it’s worse.”

Angel had had her ninth birthday the weekend before. And something about that night had changed her.

Bruce had been hurting Angel in her bed for two years, ever since their mom died and Bruce took them away. But last week was worse.

“He’s going to kill me,” she whispered. “Just like Mama.”

“I won’t let him kill you.”

“You can’t stop him.”

Anger bubbled up. She thought he couldn’t protect her. That he wouldn’t stand up for her. Didn’t she know how much he loved her?

“I’m going to run away,” she said. “If you won’t help me, I’ll go by myself.” She sniffed.

“You can’t leave me.”

“I don’t want to. I’m scared.” She leaned into him and let him hug her. The anger was gone, but the fear was stronger than ever.

“I’ll find a way. I’ll find a way to keep him away from you forever.”

After Hamilton Craig’s funeral, Gary Porter walked into his empty house. He missed his wife, Janet, but considering all the sacrifices she’d made during his career, he couldn’t stop her from pursuing her dreams now, even though they were in their sixties. She’d been a European history major in college and was now a docent for a major travel company. Currently, she was leading a senior-citizen tour through France. She always asked him to join her, but Gary had no desire to travel. He liked being home, having a routine. For him, travel equaled stress.

While he missed Janet, when she was home their relationship was better, stronger. He liked hearing about her job and the sights and loved the slideshow she’d put together for him after each tour.

Tonight, however, he felt old and would have given anything to have Janet with him. It was Hamilton’s funeral, of course, making him feel mortal. Reminding him that life was unfair, that a random act of violence could steal the life of a good man.

Gary absently flipped on lights as he made his way to the den, his steps echoing on the hardwood floors. A quick glance at the clock in the hall told him it was already too late to call Janet in Paris.

A corner floor lamp next to his reading chair—an old La-Z-Boy he’d had for twenty-some years—and a desk lamp provided the only light for the room. He sat heavily into the upholstered desk chair and booted up the computer. While he waited, he opened his bottom drawer and took out a bottle of Glenlivit. He didn’t drink when Janet was home, but he’d taken to sipping a glass or two in the evenings when she was away. He missed her.

He missed the job.

Gary ran a hand over his face, feeling the whiskers that were now predominantly gray. Hamilton’s funeral was the fourth he’d been to this year. Two of the deaths were heart attacks, and one was a cop killed in the line of duty. As his colleagues aged and retired, more and more funerals would be the result of natural causes.

He poured two fingers of Scotch into his glass and sipped as he logged into his e-mail account.

At least he was still able to help. He’d made contact with Ned Palmer, one of the assistant district attorneys who was familiar with the Melissa St. Martin investigation, and Ned promised to jump on getting an interview with Brian Hall. Gary passed on the Seattle contact information, worried about Olivia.

She had been a scared five-year-old when he’d met her, but she kept everything bottled up inside. Her parents had neglected her, lost in their own grief, and both he and Hamilton had taken her under their protective wings. Made sure she didn’t have to testify in court, only tell the judge what she’d seen. No cross-examination. Nothing to further terrify the child.

She’d grown into a brilliant, beautiful woman, but Gary knew her sister’s murder had forever changed the course of her life. He’d seen it happen many, many times. Violent death destroyed more than one life.

The room went dark.

“Shit,” he muttered as he rummaged in his desk for the small Maglite he kept handy. Probably a blown fuse. Hadn’t had one of those in a while.

He couldn’t find the Maglite and stood, feeling his way to the door and down the hall. There was a flashlight in the kitchen, right there on the wall in a charger, because Janet was always worried about earthquakes. When the power went out, the light went on so you could see your way in the dark. Gary could see the shadows it cast as he neared the kitchen.

At the same time he crossed the threshold, the back door opened. He reached for his gun out of habit, but he no longer carried.

“Who—”

Before he finished his sentence, he recognized Brian Harrison Hall. The man raised his arm, revealing a small semiautomatic handgun. At the same time Gary turned to run, he heard the report of the firearm and fire spread across his chest. Again the sound, but the pain didn’t get worse.

He knew he would die.

Gary fell, tried to get up, stumbled down the hall a few feet, then collapsed.

He couldn’t catch his breath. He sensed Hall standing over him.

“Bastard,” he sputtered, his voice sounding far away. Down a long tunnel.

“You made me a killer,” Hall said.

Gary heard another sound, but the last thing he thought of was Janet and her beautiful, laughing brown eyes.

Zack, Olivia, and Doug Cohn worked in the main conference room mapping the abductions and evidence from the increasing pile of reports other jurisdictions had sent them. They were looking for anything, any connection, to give them another lead. Maybe something that tied in with the Morse code or the word
angel
.

Chief Pierson popped his head in at nine that night and said, “I’m leaving, but I just got off the phone with the Seattle bureau. They’re going to jump on the ‘angel’ connection and also run all Vietnam veterans who were discharged from October 1971 through October 1972 and had a California address. It’s going to be a huge list, but it’s in a database. They can get it to us tomorrow afternoon.”