“No, you may not,” he said, without turning back.
***
Beckett stood in the morgue, the four bodies laid on metal gurneys before him. He had found the man from the first image—Trevor Gobbets—and the man in the tub—Nick Thanos—and had reviewed the files from the junior ME as well as the bodies themselves. And his results and conclusions were the same as they had been with Gerald and Eddie.
His gaze skipped from one naked body to the next, his eyes barely focusing on their pale white flesh. That is, until his eyes landed on Eddie’s light-brown skin. He shook his head and sighed.
“Goddamn it, Eddie. God-fucking-dammit.”
Five murders, all within two weeks.
He loved puzzles, but this one seemed wholly unfair. It was as if all of the pieces had been cut square.
“C’mon Beckett, find something to help Chase out. To help Eddie out.”
Beckett snapped on his gloves and went to the first body, repeating the same process he had done at least a half dozen times already.
Trevor Gobbets had been a homeless man for more than two decades. No family, no friends, no job, no money. The only way they had identified his body was from his fingerprints from a shoplifting charge seven years prior. His corpse showed all the telltale signs of long-term alcoholism: sunken eyes, a pallid complexion, abscesses on his hands and feet. Tox had revealed that he had a blood alcohol level of 0.37. He was so drunk that when he fell on his neck, he didn’t wake up.
Or at least that was the way it was made to look.
“How does a homeless alcoholic find enough alcohol to get that drunk?” he wondered out loud. He made a mental note to ask the tech about the specific type of alcohol later. After combing the man’s body, and not finding anything in the way of evidence of foul play, he moved on to the next.
Nick Thanos was an obese man who had just recently divorced from his wife and had lost custody of his two children. The narrative was simple: the man was depressed, his life was falling apart, so he decided to off himself by slitting his wrists in the tub.
The cuts on his wrists were deep—deep enough to slice through the tendons. There were three slashes on each wrist, working their way upward, nearly to his elbows. Beckett was about to move on to Eddie next, when he noticed something on the inside of the man’s right hand. Sliding down the body to get a better look, he grabbed the mans forearm and carefully lifted it.
There were callouses on the inside of his thumb and the side of his index finger.
He’s right-handed, Beckett thought. He inspected the cuts on his right wrist next, then those on his left. Something wasn’t right.
The slashes on the right wrist were strong, deliberate, while those on the left weren’t quite as deep, and there appeared to be hesitation marks.
Beckett wasn’t positive, but if he were a betting man, he would put his money on the fact that Nick had cut his right wrist first, then the left. Which, being right-handed, would be very unnatural, indeed.
It’s not much, he figured, but it was something.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he lowered the corpse’s arm back to the gurney, pulled off his glove, and answered it.
“Yeah?” he said, surprised at how tired he sounded.
“Dr. Campbell? It’s Zeke.”
Zeke? Who the hell is Zeke?
“Who?”
“Zeke? From the lab? We just spoke ten minutes ago.”
“Ah, sure, Zeke. What is it?”
“So I was taking another look at Trevor Gobbets’s tox?”
He had Beckett’s full attention now.
“And? What did you find?”
“Well, I’m not sure if it’s anything, but I was looking at the numbers again, and it looks like he had trace amounts of methanol in his system.”
“Methanol? You sure?”
“Yep. I’m sure, I mean it could—”
“Thanks, Zeke, big help,” Beckett said and then hung up the phone.
Then he immediately dialed Chase’s number.
It appeared as if the puzzle pieces had finally acquired a familiar shape.
Chapter 31
“Wait, slow down, Beckett. Methanol? What does that mean?” Chase asked in a hushed tone. As she waited for Beckett to reply, she rose and went to her office door and closed it. Then she opened two sets of photographs—one from the crime scenes, and one from the forensic pathology exam.
Beckett continued after a deep breath.
“Most people don’t know this, but the ethanol used in labs is spiked with five percent methanol to prevent people from drinking the damn stuff. And our first vic, Trevor Gobbets, had some in his system. The way I figure it, whoever killed him wanted to get him super drunk, super fast and added ethanol to his drink.”
Chase mulled this over.
“He was poisoned then?”
“Looks that way. There’s no way of proving that Trevor didn’t just come across the ethanol on his own, but it’s a start. And there’s one more thing. The man in the bathtub? He’s right-handed, and yet I’m pretty sure his right wrist was slashed first.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Try it. Grab a pencil or something.”
Chase picked up a pencil in her right hand and instinctively brought it to her left wrist. And then she understood.
“Yeah, it would be natural for a right-handed person to cut his left wrist first.”
“Exactly.”
Chase stared at the pictures as she spoke, trying to imagine Nick’s last thought before he cut his wrists. A shudder ran through her.
“It’s no smoking gun,” she said at last. “But you’re right. It is something.”
“Enough to take to Rhodes?” Beckett asked.
Chase sighed. It wasn’t enough, not even close. She suspected that they could have a confession from a convicted murderer and that still might not be enough.
“Yes,” she lied. “Enough to take it to him, anyway. Whether he goes for it, that’s another story.”
There was a long pause, during which time Chase scooped up the pictures and put them back in their respective folders.
“Beckett, you still there?”
“Yep.”
“I’m going to take it to Rhodes. I’ll let you know how it goes,” she said as she made her way toward the door.
“Oh, one more thing? Remember when I asked you about the photographer at the Central Park vic?”
Chase thought back to that night, of the scuba diver who broke the surface of the water and gave her the ironic thumb’s up sign.
“Yeah, what about him?”
“Did you ever manage to get the pics?”
“No, I couldn’t find him, actually. We have the pics that the officer took when you were there, but not the ones from before you arrived.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I think I’m more interested in the photographer now than the pictures,” he said at last. “Anyways, see if you can find him. And good luck with Rhodes. Call me afterward.”
Chase hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Then she stepped into the hallway and made her way toward Sergeant Rhodes’s office.
***
“No—no way in hell, Chase. Besides, three of these deaths have already been ruled suicides or accidents.”
“So? So, what? There are no statutes on murder and this wouldn’t be the first time that a suicide was deemed a murder after the fact.”
Sergeant Rhodes leaned forward, and planted his elbows on his desk. He interlaced his long, thin fingers, a gesture that served no other purpose but to unnerve and annoy Chase.
It worked; she could feel the blood starting to flood into her cheeks.
“Please, Detective Adams, feel free to lecture me further on the minutia of the law. Go on, don’t be shy.”
Chase clenched her teeth together, trapping a snide remark behind them. Rhodes blinked slowly, his eyes bulging slightly from behind his round spectacles.
“A
h, good. Now, you want to know what I think?”
Chase figured that the question was rhetorical, and didn’t answer.
“I think,” Rhodes continued after a prolonged delay, “that you’re getting a bit antsy. I think that after Dr. Kruk, you got an inkling for serial killers, hmm? Maybe you think that media attention is the only way to the top?”
Chase swallowed hard.
Inkling for serial killers? Is he fucking serious?
“Mm, hmm. Things are too calm for you? Too quiet? Not interested in gangbangers shooting themselves for crack money?”
Chase squinted hard. She felt a pressure building deep in the pit of her stomach. She was about to explode—if Rhodes continued on this line of patronizing bullshit, the consequences of her actions might soon become an afterthought.
Thankfully, the diatribe changed directions.
“Look, Chase. I like you, and I think you are an excellent detective, which is why I promoted you to first grade faster than anyone in the history of this department. I’m going to let you in a little secret. I won’t be Sergeant much longer. And this is going to leave an opening, an opening I think that you would be more than qualified to fill.”
Rhodes paused and stared at her. Chase wasn’t sure how to respond, so she elected to say nothing.
After a few moments, he continued.
“As a Sergeant, and with a recommendation from the newly instated Lieutenant, and maybe even the mayor, I’m sure it would be no problem to transfer to Quantico, if you catch my drift.”
Chase exhaled.
Rhodes knew about her aspirations for the FBI, her growing interest in criminal profiling. She wasn’t sure how, but the bastard knew. And now he was blackmailing her with this information.
“Do you understand now, Chase?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile.
Unfortunately, Chase did.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I understand.”
She nodded and stood. When she reached across the desk to grab the folder of photographs, Rhodes pulled it out of her reach.
“I think I’ll keep these, if that’s all right with you.”
Chase hesitated.
But then she nodded and left the room.
Oh, she understood alright. She understood that the only thing Rhodes gave a shit about was his own career.
Fortunately for her, Chase also cared about the lives of the New York City citizens.
Chapter 32
Beckett had just sat down at his desk at NYU Medical, when a frustrated looking Chase burst through the door.
“That bad, huh?”
“What a fucking asshole,” she muttered, shaking her head.
“Yeah, that bad.”
“Drake was right about him,” Chase said, although it wasn’t clear if she was simply verbalizing her internal dialog, or if she was expressing her feelings to Beckett.
“Don’t blame him, though,” he offered.
Chase’s eyes darted up.
“What? What do you mean?”
Beckett laid out the photographs again.
“I mean, shit, I know there’s a killer out there. But what do we have other than these coincidental images and a few discrepancies? In fact, there are fewer loose ends with these suicides than with many of the other suicides I’ve cleared over the years.”
Chase looked incredulous.
“Tell me you aren’t backing out of this now?”
Beckett shook his head.
“Hell no. But with what we have, I’m not surprised that we aren’t going to get support from the department, Rhodes or no Rhodes.”
Chase looked around the office.
“Where’s Suzan?” she asked.
“In class. She’s going to do some more digging afterward, though. More digging into Dr. Mrs. Kevorkian.”
“Who?”
“Tracey, the woman who took the initial photographs.”
Chase nodded.
“Is there anything else, Beckett? Please tell me you have something else.”
Beckett sighed.
“I’ve got nothing.”
To his surprise, Chase took this in stride. In fact, it seemed to sober her and her eyes became focused.
“So, what do we have, then?” She moved around behind Beckett and pointed at the first photograph. “A dead drunk,” she moved to the next image in the sequence, “a depressed obese man, a hanged doctor, a male prostitute who was shot in the face. And then we have a junkie who drowned in Central Park. So…”
“Yeah,” Beckett said quietly. “We’ve got a little game of which one of these isn’t like the others.”
Chase nodded.
“Your doctor student. The others are drifters, people that wouldn’t be missed by society. But Edison… why him? Why kill a young doctor?” Chase asked.
Beckett felt his throat tighten as he heard those words.
Why kill a young doctor?
He still hadn’t gotten over the fact that he felt partially responsible for Eddie’s death, suicide or not.
If it hadn’t been for—
“He’s the key, Beckett.”
Beckett reluctantly agreed.
“But why kill anyone at all?” he asked. Realizing that his comment was bordering on philosophical, he quickly followed this up with, “I mean, who’s the killer? What are his motives?”
Chase chewed her lip.
“A disgruntled student, perhaps? Someone who is trying to get away with the perfect murders?”
Beckett shrugged.
“Maybe—could be. I dunno. But I can tell you one thing, whoever the killer is, he’s not going to stop until he completes all eight. And even then, I doubt once he has a taste, he’s not going to even stop there.”
The image of the babies, illustrated by dolls in Dr. Tracey Moorfield’s test prep notes, passed through his mind.
“We have to catch him before he kills again. Only thing is, we can’t do this by ourselves. We’re going to need help. We’re going to need someone who has experience with serial killers, but someone not involved with the NYPD. Someone who doesn’t mind bending the rules a little. Know anyone who fits that description?”
Beckett smirked. Even though Chase had asked the question, it was clear that she already knew the answer.
They both did; there was only one man they knew who fit that mold.
“Suzan can’t know,” Chase said quietly.
“No, she definitely can’t find out,” Beckett replied.
Part III – Suicide
Chapter 33
“I assure you, Mrs. Trout, that everything here at Triple D Investigations is done with the utmost discretion. Only myself, my associate, and whomever else you approve will ever see any video recordings from inside your home.”
Mrs. Trout, a large woman with beady eyes and a nose that continually dripped, smiled, revealing teeth so large that Drake would have bet all of his newly acquired wealth that they were constructed of anything but organic material.
“I have heard great things about you and your company, Damien,” Mrs. Trout said in a watery voice before sniffing and then wiping her nose with the sleeve of her white sweater. “And it makes me sleep well at night knowing that you are watching over me.”
Drake’s eye twitched and he debated telling the woman that he wasn’t a private security company, and that he was only using the cameras to look for theft, indecent acts and the like. But when the woman grunted and attempted to rise, he bit his tongue and hurried over to her.
Sliding the woman’s walker into her thick-knuckled fingers, he said, “Of course. But as with all things in this world, there are no guarantees—other than hard work and discipline, of course.”
He smiled as he said this, and Mrs. Trout returned the expression, once again revealing her dentures which were clearly fashioned after Mr. Ed. Up close, her breath reeked of Alka Seltzer and sour cream.
“Thank you, Damien,” she said as he held the door open for her.
&nb
sp; He stopped smiling the moment she was gone and then collapsed into his chair, motor-boating his lips.
It had been a long morning; after Mrs. Armatridge, he had seen four more of her blue-haired acquaintances, and had spent an ungodly amount of time assuring them of… well, anything that required assurances. And this approach had taken him to unusual places, places that he would have never even fathomed exploring as a detective.
But it also meant four more meaty checks. He had made more money in the past three days than he had in two years as a Detective in the NYPD.
Was it Screech or Alyssa who had asked him if he missed?
Both, I think.
The answer was becoming more obfuscated with each passing day. The only response that he could offer if put to the question again was wholly unsatisfying, but irrefutably honest: maybe…
His eyes flicked to the growing stacks of checks on his desk.
Or maybe not.
Drake’s stomach growled, reminding him that it was past noon and he had yet to eat today.
“Screech?” he hollered. “How ‘bout some lunch? I’m buying!”
There was a pause.
“Screech?”
The door to his office suddenly opened, and the man’s curly head poked in.
“We have one more client, boss,” he said in a strange tone.
“Who? Another one of Mrs. Armatridge’s associates?”
Screech shook his head.
“Naw—a man and woman, say they know you. Wouldn’t give their names.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed.
They know me?
“Fine, send them in. In the meantime, go grab some lunch, would you? And then you better stock up on those button recorders. You’ve got some installation to do today.”
Screech laughed and then leaned out the door, motioning for two figures to enter.
Drake smiled too—Screech’s laugh, as bizarre as it was, had a way of just making you grin—but when his two newest clients came into view, he immediately frowned.
“Hey Drake,” Beckett said with a smirk of his own, “fancy meeting you here. You change your number or something? Because goddamn you never seem to answer the damn thing.”
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1 Page 40