DRAINED
Page 16
“Benefit for him,” Jaylon interrupted. “Makes it damn hard on us.”
“It’s also part of his ritual.” Carson held up his hand before anyone could interrupt again. “Not ritual as in a cult or religious or satanic one. No, this is part of his psyche. He has to cleanse them. Think about it. He’s picked homeless people. People who don’t have access to daily hygiene. People living on the edges. People no one is looking for.”
“So, he’s saving them?” Stedaman asked.
“No, he’s reclaiming them,” Aaron said. “He’s harvesting their blood. Then he’s cleansing them and dressing them back into clothing that signifies what they once were.”
“Art was a war veteran,” Brianna said, understanding where Aaron was going. “Something he should’ve been proud of. Mia had the potential to be a great violinist.”
Aaron nodded. “So, he cleans them, dresses them and poses them for us to find.”
“This is all a good assumption, but if that’s his pattern and if he’s done this before, why haven’t we found more bodies posed all over town?” the captain asked.
“Because he’s escalated to this,” Carson answered.
“Escalated?”
“He’s perfected his abduction and killing routine—that much we know from the two bodies we’ve found. But something triggered him to begin showing off his work.” Carson fixed his gaze on Brianna.
“Me?” She paused. “No, it was Paula and Stanley going out to search for Art.”
The profiler nodded. “Before, his victims were homeless people that had simply disappeared.”
“Because no one goes looking for homeless people,” Jaylon said.
Again, Carson nodded. “But suddenly someone was looking for a missing homeless person.”
“Paula,” Brianna whispered.
“And Stanley,” Aaron said. “Stanley who we believe was with Art when he was taken.”
“How does our killer know Paula was looking for Art?” Stedaman asked.
“I think the answer to that is another question. Where was Paula doing her search?” Carson said, once more focusing on Brianna.
“She was hitting all the shelters in the area of town where she lives and near the shelter where she works serving food twice a week.”
“You think our killer may be involved in the homeless community somehow,” Aaron said. “That he heard Paula and the dog were looking for his owner.” He paused and Brianna’s heart sank at the change in his expression. “Or that he saw her doing the search.”
“Yes.”
* * *
“Who did you say you’re working for?” The fortyish short white woman stared at Kirk over the rims of her glasses.
Bristling at her condescension, he fought the urge to mouth off something sarcastic. This was the fourth blood donation place he’d been to today and damn if everyone didn’t eye him as if he was the killer sucking the blood out of folks. You’d think he’d get used to it. Being eyed suspiciously just because his skin was darker than theirs. He’d never done anything illegal or even questionably close, not even a speeding ticket, but he always had to defend his actions for being somewhere someone else didn’t think he had the right to be.
That was one of the reasons he was studying criminal justice in college. He’d talked a lot about being a black male in America with Castello. Okay, he did a lot of talking, the big guy just listened and occasionally asked a good question. All that talking and questioning, led him to believe that he had choices and the choices he made now would affect not only him and his future, but the future of others. He also knew that to truly make a difference, he’d have to work within the system.
One of the first things he decided he needed to do was to learn. Learn about people—all kinds of people from all walks of life. Learn about the law and police procedures. To do that he’d take classes, but also spend time with the cops and other law enforcement people he’d met through Castello.
Another thing he wanted to do was figure out how to improve things for people of color. What would work, what would harm. He’d taken part in several peaceful protests over the years. The first one, Nana and some of her friends went along. Something about having a group of grandmas in the crowd kept the hotheads from becoming too aggressive. He’d even seen her maneuver herself close to one white guy who seemed to want to cause a problem. She engaged him in conversation and helped ease down the guy’s fight message.
On the next walk, he tried to do the same. Talk to people, help give a positive voice. Deescalate if things became too confrontational. Protect the more vulnerable in the crowd where he could, but still show his solidarity for change. All along the march he heard his Nana.
Never give them a reason to be right.
With Nana’s words echoing in his brain today, he calmly counted to ten, slid the business card Jeffers had given him across the counter for the woman to read.
“Police detective Aaron Jeffers, ma’am.” He threw that last bit in to stroke her ego.
You can always catch more flies with sugar than vinegar.
Apparently, Nana was going to walk with him on this mission.
“And this Detective Jeffers,” she said after looking at the card a second time. “He wants to know about our blood collection machines?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled out the note pad in his back pocket, flipped it open and read. “He’d like to know where you purchase them from, what kind you use here, and is there any place to buy used ones.”
The woman’s head tilted to one side. “And this is for a crime investigation?”
Time for some charm.
He smiled, just enough to show the one dimple Nana said was God touching his cheek. “I really don’t know, ma’am. I’m just a gopher for the detective. He asks me to find out information. Sometimes I can do it on the internet, sometimes I just have to come talk to people. He never tells me what it’s for.”
Something in what he said must’ve struck a chord with the older woman—a fellow cog in the system just doing her job—because her face softened, and she handed him back his card. “We use gravity flow blood collection for whole blood and have a special machine that weights and seals the blood bags automatically. Then there’s the apheresis machines for plasma and platelet donations.”
Same as the other three places.
“And where do you purchase those from?” he asked, pulling out his pencil from his pocket and jotting down what she said.
“Corporate orders all out supplies—machines, bags, tubing—and I believe they use the Allied Corporeal Medical Experts.” She got a gleam in her eye and sort of smirked.
Kirk paused the pencil on the pad. “What’s so funny about that?”
“The acronym always makes me laugh. A-C-M-E. ACME.” She paused and shook her head when he didn’t react. “Like in the old coyote cartoons?”
This time Kirk got it and chuckled appropriately. “Good one. I liked those cartoons. Watched them on reruns.”
Her brows lifted, but her smile didn’t fade. “Now you’re just making me feel old.”
“Not at all, ma’am. I’m sure you only watched them on reruns, too.”
She chuckled. “Any other information you need?”
“Do you ever get used machines?”
“There’s a local company that supplies all kinds of machines and equipment we use in an emergency.” She clicked on her computer keyboard, then played with the mouse. “McKinley Medical Surplus. It’s on Prospect.”
The printer behind her began whirring then spit out one sheet of paper. She shifted her chair, snatched up the page and handed it to him.
“Thank you,” he said, glancing at the printed address. He folded it and pocketed it. “I appreciate the help.”
With his back straight and his head held high he left, giving a brief nod to the security guard at the door. The man gave him a nod back and then a little lift to the corner of his mouth.
* * *
Five complete bags. A very good harvest.
He chuckled.
It never occurred to anyone that someone might be adding blood to the supply outside of the system they had in place.
Anyone but him. He’d come up with a solution to the problem of low supply and high demand. If you couldn’t get people to volunteer to give blood to save others who needed it—like Mom—then you just had to take it from people who already wasted their lives and didn’t deserve the life-giving fluid.
“We’re trying to find more blood to transfuse her with,” the doctor said, standing in the waiting room with Dad and him. “She’s a very rare blood type, and a trauma this afternoon used up all that blood that was available.”
“How long do you think it will take to get more?” Dad asked.
The doctor shook his head. “I have no idea. The blood bank has put out a call to those donors who match her exact blood type, there are a few on the list. If they’re available and haven’t donated in a while, then we could have some in an hour or two.” The man rubbed his hands over his face, weariness and resignation etched in every line. “I just don’t know if she’ll last that long.”
She hadn’t.
That was the day he decided to go into the medical world. He’d wanted to go to med school, but a summer job in a hospital lab his sophomore year in college changed his mind. The scientific part of testing blood he watched the lab technicians do and their limited contact with patients appealed to him. So, he shifted his major just slightly and after graduation, he got a job in a private lab and learned the art of not only testing blood, but how the system worked.
Then three years ago, he’d been working when the order came in for his mother’s blood type, AB negative. He’d just sent the last bag in the hospital up for a homeless man who’d been injured. Frantic and with the memory of his mother’s death running through his mind, he’d called every blood bank in town and the surrounding area, only to be told the nearest supply was an hour and a half away in Canton.
Unfortunately, even airlifting it in was too late.
Anger bubbling inside him again, he walked over to the worktable and stared at the lifeless lump of human flesh lying on it.
“You had such potential. You could’ve been a role model for other kids. But no, you had to take your talent and good fortune and waste it with drugs.” He slammed his fist in the middle of the naked chest of the former college football standout. Then he patted the cooler in his hand. “But I’m putting you to good use.”
He’d done the first cleansing immediately to get rid of the stench and also keep bacteria from gaining a foothold on him. Tomorrow he’d begin the more thorough cleansing. Now it was time to head to work and fill the larder.
18
I think we need to establish some sort of timeline for this guy’s killing pattern,” Jaylon said, drawing a long line on one of the whiteboards in the conference room. “We know Art was last seen alive about a week or ten days ago, right?”
Aaron nodded. “Our witness, Paula, said she knew he was missing a week ago Thursday when Stanley showed up at the shelter alone. The last time she can remember seeing him was the Thursday before.”
“Right,” Brianna said, “but remember, she said Stanley wasn’t very hungry, so Art was there to feed him between those two Thursdays.”
Jaylon made a slash mark across the long line, wrote the date for the previous Thursday on it and pinned Art’s picture below. “We ever get a name on this guy?”
“Not yet,” Aaron said, pulling up his email on his phone. “Still no word back from the Veteran’s administration. But it’s only been less than twenty-four hours and he stayed off the grid for years. Might take them a while.”
Carson picked up the picture of Mia, one they’d gotten off the data base for her previous drug arrests and put it at the beginning of the line, to the left of Art. “There may be more bodies before her, but given her freezing by the killer, we’ll assume for now, Mia’s victim one.” He picked up the red dry erase marker and put April of the previous year over her name.
“That’s wrong,” Brianna said.
Carson paused, drawing his brows down in confusion. “We don’t know how long she’s been frozen, yet. For all we know, she may have been killed immediately after she left the shelter last spring.”
“No, because a woman that works at the women’s shelter with me saw her last fall,” Brianna argued then turned her attention to Aaron. “Remember, I told you Flora talked with her last October. She was playing her violin for change.”
“So, our guy’s been doing this for six months?” Stedaman said, the look of abhorrent realization on his face. “How many other bodies does he have stored away in a deep freeze somewhere?”
“I doubt he has too many,” Jaylon said. “I’d think you could only pack one or two adult bodies in a big freezer and neighbors would start to question why you need more than one in your garage if you kept getting them delivered.”
“Unless you had a place meant to store large carcasses,” Carson said.
A sick feeling hit Aaron. “Like an old meat packing plant?”
“Exactly,” the profiler said.
“That’s disturbing,” Brianna whispered, and Aaron wanted to lay reach out to comfort her a little but refrained. If Captain Stedaman thought for one moment he had anything but a professional relationship with her, he’d ban her from being part of the investigation.
“We need to figure out if there are any abandoned plants in the area,” he said instead. “And see if there’s any unusual activity in them.”
“Activity?” Brianna asked.
“Like a sudden uptake of electricity usage.” He picked up his phone again. “That can be something Kirk F can do for us.”
“I thought he was visiting blood donation centers?” Jaylon said.
“He was. Texted me he’d finished and was heading over to the safehouse.”
“Whoa,” Captain Stedman said, holding up his hand. “Who is this Kirk F, what is he doing in this investigation and who authorized a safehouse? Pretty sure I didn’t agree to expanding my budget for any of this.”
Shit. He hadn’t told him about the safehouse or his assistant. Not to mention the added manpower from the Edgars. Time to face the wrath of the Stedaman.
“The safehouse is for my friend Paula, who is ill and needs to be taken care of,” Brianna said, sitting straighter, a bit of her fire back in her eyes. “It belongs to a friend of ours, a former Deputy U.S. Marshal, Frank Castello. We’d intended for it to let her get good care while she recuperates and also a place to keep Stanley safe.” She paused, inhaled, and fixed the captain with piercing determination. “Now that we know she may have been what triggered this nutcase to escalate to showing off his kills and probably came in contact with him, it’s a very good thing that Aaron was steps ahead and secured the safehouse for her protection. Don’t you think?”
Stedaman had the good sense to nod and appear a little contrite. “And this Kirk F?”
Aaron jumped in. “He maintains the safehouse for Castello, who lives in Columbus. Kid’s studying criminology in college and is excellent in procurement—both physical items and intelligence. Pretty good with a computer, too. He’s also on a paid retainer by Castello, so his salary isn’t part of this.”
Stedman nodded. “Good. But who’s going to pay for the extra manpower to guard your witnesses at this safehouse? We’re going to need round the clock protection, so three shifts of patrolmen—”
“Not really, sir.” Might as well fill him in on everyone. “Currently there is a couple of private security personnel living at the safehouse with our witnesses.”
Stedaman let out a few choice curse words.
Brianna lifted her brows in surprise at his boss’s creative use of them.
“Private, means expensive, Jeffers.”
“He didn’t hire them,” Brianna said in his defense. “They sort of…volunteered.”
The captain thought about that. “What’s the name of this private security agency that’s willing to just volunteer?”
“The ESI Group,” Brianna answered. “They’re friends of mine.”
“More friends. What’s the ESI stand for?” Stedaman pressed, fixing his intense stare at Aaron.
“Edgars Security and Investigations,” he said.
His boss stood and paced the length of the conference room twice, rubbing the back of his neck as he went. Brianna arched her brows at Aaron as if asking, Is he going to be okay with all this? Aaron just shrugged.
“Let me get this straight,” Stedaman said, finally stopping in front of them. “Without clearing it with me, you got an off-duty FBI profiler,” he pointed at Carson, “to consult on this case. Secured a safehouse for witnesses and live-in private security from a friend. And an all-expense-paid assistant to boot.”
Aaron shrugged. “Pretty much.”
“You do take the old adage, better to ask forgiveness than beg permission to the extreme, Jeffers.” Stedaman turned and studied the white board. “Okay. This guy has an agenda and we probably need all the help we can get to catch him.”
“That was my thoughts,” Aaron said.
His boss cast him a quick warning glance not to push his luck. “I don’t want to get hit by a surprise bill at the end of this, so you give me a head’s up on the cost. If it’s cheaper to use our own people, we will.”
“I’ll keep an eye on it,” Aaron said, feeling like he’d been given a reprieve.
Stedaman took his seat again and focused on Carson. “You have any more insights on our killer?”
“Most serial killers are male and lifting a half-frozen body just to carry it to a vehicle for transport is going to take muscle, so I do believe your killer is a man.”
“This guy doesn’t seem to have a type of victim.”