A Killer's Daughter

by Jenna Kernan

  Nadine’s smile felt unnatural. “Until today, all my work has been with suspects in custody or witnesses who still have a pulse.”

  His smile was back. Instead of disqualifying her, her answers seemed to strike him as funny. That made her scowl.

  “What have you heard about the double homicide?” he asked.

  “Not much. The medical examiner mentioned them.”

  “Is that common for you, speaking to the MEs?”

  “She’s a friend.” Or as close to one as Nadine allowed herself.

  She hoped her affinity for Juliette wasn’t because of the ME’s relationship with the dead. That idea gave her pause and her stomach knots escalated to a sharp pain.

  “I see. Well, we have identified both victims. Families have been notified.” He blew out a breath and his shoulders sagged. His gaze sank to the desktop.

  He was lead, but was he the sort to reassign the most objectionable duties? Or had he handled that dreadful task himself?

  “By you?” she asked, taking a guess.

  “Yeah. Rough. She had a little boy, about the age of my son.”

  Son? Nadine glanced to his ring finger. No wedding band. Was he married?

  Demko continued. “And his wife is pregnant.”

  Nadine’s eyes widened and she looked toward the ceiling. The details about the families of this young couple, where they worked and when they met, made her realize then that she didn’t know as much about her mother’s victims as she first thought. And she needed to go back and learn all the things that had been kept from a fourteen-year-old girl.

  Demko turned to his computer, accessing a file. A moment later, images of bloated bodies in clear green water flashed past.

  “Male vic is David Lowe, employed at DiGeronimo Market on Beneva, in the meat department.”

  A headshot of the victim, alive and smiling, sat to the left of the bruised ghastly photo taken on a stretcher.

  “Lowe was thirty-four, married. His wife is expecting their first child in November.”

  His hand hovered on the mouse a moment and then flicked to the next. This was a professional headshot of a smiling dark-headed woman wearing a familiar sage-green uniform that Nadine recognized from the grocery store chain DiGeronimo’s.

  “This is Debi Poletti, twenty-nine, married mother of one. She also worked at DiGeronimo’s as a cashier.”

  The next several photos flashed by. These were all from the crime scene and Poletti looked nothing like the living woman. Long dark hair draped a bruised shoulder. A close-up of ligature marks at her swollen wrist. A gaping neck wound and deep lacerations across her stomach. Finally there was a close-up of something. Cuts on her skin. Nadine leaned closer.

  “The unsub carved this in Poletti’s buttock. Looks like a hashtag, or number sign.”

  Unsub, Nadine had learned long ago was short for unknown subject, which their perpetrator, unfortunately, was.

  Nadine peered at the image of flesh carved with a sharp object.

  The marks seemed a random pattern of seven roughly horizontal lines with various angular slants to the right and left. An X pattern? she wondered, turning the photo. It was also possible that these cuts were arbitrary.

  She narrowed her eyes, wondering. The wounds were in fatty tissue and placed like a brand.

  He talked, and she took notes, as the photos changed to those of the suspected crime scene on the Intracoastal Waterway on Lido’s barrier island. A sodden abandoned blanket lay rumpled and sand-covered on the beach between the scrubby vegetation and the shore. Twisted garments rested nearby on the sand.

  “How far is it from the barrier island to the bayside park where the bodies were discovered?” asked Nadine.

  “South Lido Park? A little over two nautical miles.”

  “Is that the same as regular miles?” she asked.

  “A little more. Anyway, a morning kayaker spotted this and called us. The blanket appeared to be soaked in blood. Initial tests indicate human blood and the types match each victim’s. Still awaiting lab results to confirm a match for each.”

  The next photos had the familiar yellow numbered markers.

  “Recovered a bikini bathing suit top, orange. Swim trunks and a T-shirt, men’s sandals. And this.”

  “Is that a soda can?” she asked.

  “Tangerine seltzer,” he said, and flicked to the close-up of a dented orange can. The next shot showed all the items laid out on a tabletop or floor.

  “We had a rainstorm last night. Washed the beach and soaked everything.”

  “Any physical evidence from the perpetrator?”

  “Unknown.”

  She’d been to the park at the south end of Lido Beach. The walk on the white sand along the Intracoastal was easy at low tide, but getting from the lot and under those huge pines was a challenge. The tiny pinecones were like burs and hell on bare feet.

  “Where are her shoes?” asked Nadine.

  He smiled, seeming to appreciate her line of thinking. “None recovered.”

  “Hmm.” Had they walked in together? “Vehicles?”

  “His car was in the lot. Hers was parked at the lot off Taft.”

  “Boat launch,” Nadine said. “Public access to the water.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, where’s her watercraft?”

  “Unknown. It’s possible to walk to the south end from there.”

  “On hot sidewalks, without shoes?” she asked.

  He made a sound of acknowledgment in his throat. “Or our unsub could have a shoe fetish.”

  Her mother had collected all her victims’ clothing and discarded them along with hers.

  “I’m not sure what you need to make your profile. Every psychologist I’ve worked with wants different information. So, I’ll add you to my investigation. You can access my notes, sketches, photos of the crime scene and recovery site, evidence reports and autopsy photos when we get them. I’ll be adding notes on the victims’ timelines and interviews with the families today. Pick and choose what you like.”

  “That’s fine. Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He clicked away, granting her access.

  “You think this is a jealous husband?”

  “That’s the obvious suspect. I’ve spoken to Poletti’s husband. He was home with his son. No one to confirm. Waiting on phone records. Might be able to pinpoint his location.”

  He’d have to be stupid to bring his cell phone to a murder. But people did.

  “I’d like you to see the bodies before autopsy. Photos only give you so much.”

  She said nothing, already dreading this. It occurred to her as curious that, though her mother relished taking life, Nadine had never seen a dead body.

  He flipped to another crime scene photo, a body in the water and then a close-up, a hand with a mark around the ring finger.

  “That’s odd,” she said, leaning in. “Is that a cut?”

  “Skinned. Peeled away the flesh all the way around.”

  “Weird,” she said.

  “They washed up on the bayside, between the tiki bar and the botanic gardens. How they made it past all those anchor lines in the marina without snagging, I’ll never know.”

  “Snagging?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t I tell you? They were tied together, wrist to wrist, with rope. Here.” He clicked to the shot of the bodies in the water that showed a bright red rope clearly visible on one of the victims’ wrists.

  She sat back, blinking at the image.

  Nadine chewed on a strand of hair as she took the stand. Her mother glared at her from the long table to her left, seated between two men in rumpled suits. The air-conditioning pinged and whistled, the only sound as she settled in her seat before the jurors. Behind the rail, they stared at her with the fascination usually reserved for animals born with two heads.

  Mr. Robins, the district attorney who had prepped her for this day, approached, his posture confident and his smile kind.

  On the easel beside the co
urt reporter was a poster board, like they used for the science fair. Only, the photo of a naked man and woman was on this. A dead naked man and woman. The slices gaped on his legs, showing yellow fat and grayish muscle. There was an inset photo showing both victims in the water. A white cord connected them, his wrist to hers. Another revealed a series of small gashes on something, a thigh?

  She gaped, her breathing sputtering as she tried to draw air past her closing throat.

  The youngest of the attorneys noted the direction of her stare and hurried to the board, turning the placard around, so Nadine could no longer see the image. But despite that, Nadine still sometimes saw those images when she closed her eyes.

  Her gaze flashed to her mother whose smug smile and glittering eyes showed what seemed like pride.

  “Nadine,” said the attorney before her. “Nadine?”

  “Nadine? May I call you that? Or do you prefer Dr. Finch?”

  She shook her head, clearing away the fog of memories. Detective Demko had moved his chair so he faced her and was giving her the once-over.

  “Want some water or something?”

  Had she gone pale? She couldn’t tell except that her fingertips were numb, and his expression flashed concern.

  That rope. Oh, no, the rope.

  “Nadine?”

  “I’m all right.” She wasn’t.

  Could this be happening? The similarities were there. It wasn’t her imagination. The couple. The slashing lacerations. The water. Now the rope.

  “You don’t look all right.” He kept those blue eyes pinned on her, searching for clues. “Is it the crime scene images?” He closed the photograph file, and the victim vanished.

  Nadine grasped the excuse.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  He dragged a hand over his head. “I forget that sometimes. Sorry. I’m a little punch-drunk. Thirty-six hours on two death investigations. Just finished processing an apparent suicide and was called to the bay.”

  “You’ve been up for two days?”

  “A day and a half.”

  Nadine tried to imagine how her brain would function after being awake that long. She now understood the stubble on his face, the rumpled appearance and the weariness that hung on him. Adrenaline could carry a person only so far.

  “Sick bastard. We have to get him.”

  She met his eyes and saw a cold glint of determination. The hairs on her neck lifted, and she was grateful not to be his target. This man was a different sort of hunter. A hunter of hunters.

  Demko had caught the scent of evil. He would not stop. All she could do was run or get on board.

  Running seemed wiser. But if this was a copycat, wasn’t she best suited for the hunt?

  Nadine needed to get to her computer. She rose. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Great. Thanks for helping us out, Dr. Finch.”

  Three

  Louder than words

  “Mr. Lancer, did you kill your wife?”

  Morton Lancer started, and there was a long pause. Finally he laughed. The laugh was inappropriate, given the circumstances of his wife’s recent death. Nadine marked it for what it was, a masking technique of an inexperienced liar.

  “Are you serious? Detective, I did not kill Emily.”

  “I have to ask. You understand,” said Homicide detective Brendan Wernli.

  The detective had requested Nadine, so she’d come straight from the office on Thursday morning to the police department to sit in on the interview but was impatient to return to her initial profile.

  Wernli was a veteran investigator with a solid solve rate and the man who had recommended Nadine as profiler for the double homicide. He was approaching the end of his career and had the gray hairs to prove it. His skin was smooth and dark, and his eyes a golden brown. He seemed the picture of concern, which was a mask for Lancer’s sake. Beneath this facade was a shark smelling blood in the water.

  The deceased’s husband sat back, instinctively moving away from Wernli as the veneer of grief slipped. Was it occurring to him that he might be in trouble here?

  “It was a suicide,” said Lancer.

  “Yes. Just a formality. Have it on record.” Which was a lie, because telling the truth to murder suspects was optional.

  “I see.”

  The interview rooms in police headquarters were claustrophobic by design. There was space only for a small table with rounded corners and the three uncomfortable gray mesh guest chairs that sat on drab brown carpeting. The air smelled of sweat and growing desperation. White walls were empty except for a surveillance camera perched high in one corner and a blank whiteboard. The only color in the room was the bright blue recycling container, which held Morton Lancer’s first two water bottles. Soon he’d need a bathroom break, which he wouldn’t get.

  Nadine sat still in the interview room as Lancer kept his attention on the detective, who was the apparent threat. It was another error in judgment.

  In her previous position, she spent most of her time with evaluations of suspects prior to their trial to gauge mental condition and with convicted criminals in conjunction to their parole applications. But she most enjoyed assisting in interrogations of criminal suspects because she was good at ferreting out signs of deception and because the role of observer seems safe.

  “Did your wife leave you anything of value or mention any important papers before her death?” asked the detective, his voice mild and nonthreatening. He maintained an expression of sympathy while physically crowding the man in the hot seat.

  The pause in Lancer’s response was short but obvious to Nadine.

  “‘Important papers’?” asked Lancer, repeating the question. Liars used this technique to give themselves time to think. Think time was vital.

  “Yes, insurance policies, mortgage, a will or instructions on how to proceed after her death.”

  “There were no instructions. I didn’t know what she was planning.”

  “Or where she bought the rope?”

  Mr. Lancer again repeated Wernli’s words. “‘Where she bought the rope?’”

  Mention of the rope found twisted about his wife’s neck might have caused all sorts of visceral reactions in a grieving husband, but not this wide-eyed stare.

  “No. I have absolutely no idea.”

  Nadine wrote absolutely on her pad. Emphasis. Another clue that the speaker was being deceptive. She suspected that Lancer did know; at least that was what his body language relayed to her.

  He sat straight in the chair while attempting an earnest expression as both his feet pointed to the exit. Meanwhile, his fingertips, invisible to the detective, tapped restlessly upon his knee.

  He wore a smile that never reached his eyes, reinforcing her belief that Mr. Lancer, a puffy-faced retired communications manager, had murdered his wife.

  Lancer moved his seat so that his back was literally against the wall. The detective leaned forward, further crowding Lancer’s personal space.

  “And what were you doing thirty minutes prior to discovering your wife’s body in the bathroom?”

  Lancer lowered his voice. “Listen, Detective, I’ve told you this already.”

  But not in this order. Nadine nodded in approval and then stemmed her telling body language. Detective Wernli was now having poor Mort repeat his story in reverse. Suspects rarely practiced their alibi this way. They memorized the tale in sequential order. Mort’s eye contact was good, and that made Nadine trust him even less. It was a trick liars used to make themselves appear sincere.

  “If you will bear with me,” said the detective, looking down, flipping through his notes.

  Mort’s smile dropped and his gaze shot to the door. His leg now bounced with nervous energy.

  “I’m sure you want to help us clear all this up.”

  “Sure. Of course. To be honest, she did seem more moody than usual.”

  Nadine narrowed her eyes as Mr. Lancer employed another distancing technique. The qualifying language, �
��to be honest,” indicated that whatever followed would be false. He was separating himself from the lie by the assurance that he was about to tell the truth. Worse still, he was adding a new detail.

  Lancer should have said he was at work and left it there. Instead, he provided many particulars, including the fact that his wife had not answered his text messages.

  That was, presumably, because he had already strangled her and hung her like a damp towel from the shower curtain rod in the main bathroom.

  While Wernli kept his head down, flipping through his notes, Lancer’s lips curled in anger, the real emotion leaking through the mask of a distraught husband.

  Nadine had seen enough and stood, stepping out into the hall. Detective Wernli didn’t follow her. Had he not noted her departure? She waited for several minutes before Wernli joined her in the corridor. “How d’you get out here?”

  “Teleportation. I learned it watching X-Men.”

  Wernli chuckled. “Well, don’t show that trick to Mr. Lancer. Okay? I’m sure he’d like to disappear about now.”

  “No doubt.”

  The detective motioned her down the hall. They moved away from the door and paused, facing each other.

  “You have an opinion, Dr. Finch?” he asked.

  “Yes, he’s flashing signs of deception.”

  Wernli nodded.

  “Lots of body language. Micro-twitches and restless drumming of his fingers. His feet pointing toward the way out.”

  “And he put the water bottle between him and me. A barrier,” added Wernli.

  “Yes, I saw that.”

  “You think he killed her?”

  “Unsure. But I know he isn’t being honest with you, and while killing her would give him an excellent reason to lie, he could be protecting someone else.”

  Wernli’s expression showed he didn’t buy this explanation.

  “Listen, I have to run. Competency hearing at ten.”

  “That the one that butchered the prostitute?” he asked.

  Nadine nodded.

  “What’s your take?”