“Sure, whatever you need.”
“Take this tray of whole blood over to the unit and scan them in for me,” he said, handing them over.
“You got it.”
He watched as Kevin donned a pair of latex gloves. He always wore gloves when handling blood. Their boss said he was the only blood-a-phobe she’d ever met who worked in a blood bank.
* * *
“This guy has an agenda,” Carson said.
“Don’t all serial killers have one?” Matt asked. “Isn’t being a serial killer an agenda in and of itself?”
Carson shook his head. “Killing is inherent in what they do, yes. But what they need to get from it drives how and why they kill. Take the Green River Killer. When he was interviewed after he was caught, he said he chose prostitutes because he hated most of them and they were easy to pick up. He did have sex with them and killed them during the process. He dumped the bodies where they would eventually be found but didn’t do it in such a way that called immediate attention to his crimes.”
“By leaving them in heavily wooded areas near or around the Green River in Washington,” Kirk F said.
That got him a nod from Carson. “A few he transported across the state line into Oregon and some of the dumpsites he littered with trash he found somewhere else, just to confuse the police.”
“And our killer?” Aaron asked.
“First, he’s highly organized. He’s methodical, plans out everything to the last detail. You have three crime scenes.”
“Three?” Kirk F interrupted. “We only have two dead bodies.”
“That you know of,” Carson said. “But for each of these killings there are three phases or crime scenes. The place where he procures his victim.” He held up his index finger. “Where he drains their blood and processes the body.” A second finger went up. “And where he stages them to be found.” Third finger. “The first crime scene is going to be consistent in where he comes in contact with his victims.”
“Where the homeless hang out,” Paula quietly said from her spot on the sofa.
“Right. Because we believe his victims are the forgotten part of our society, we can assume he’s stalking them where they feel comfortable.”
Aaron nodded. “So, we’ll focus our search as we have been, following the pattern Brianna has made on Art’s movements.”
“And the second crime scene has to be a private place,” Brianna said. “Because it would take time to drain them of their blood.”
“Yeah, the blood banks I talked to all said there weren’t no machines that would just suck the blood out of you. Most of them just hook you up to an IV and let the blood flow out by gravity,” Kirk F said from his spot, pulling out a folded sheet of paper from his hip pocket. “There is a machine called an apheresis machine. But they said it separates part of the blood and gives you back part.”
“Apheresis is the process of separating the red blood cells from the plasma, then returning the donor’s red blood cells back to them,” Katie explained to them all. “Sometimes hospitals need only plasma and platelets, but not the red cells for patients. A person can donate that more often, because red blood cells take about three months to reproduce in the body.”
Aaron took a big breath and let out a long sigh. “So, we’re looking for a place big enough to house an industrial size freezer and private enough to let the killer slowly drain the blood from his victims.”
“From what you’ve told us,” Matt said, looking at him, “the third crime scene is a complete crap shoot. The guy’s posing them in open, but out of the way places. No connection between them or to your victims, right?”
“As far as we’ve determined,” Aaron said.
“But they mean something to your killer.” Carson leaned forward and fixed his attention on Brianna. “Remember when we talked this morning and I asked you which direction Art was facing in the warehouse?”
She nodded, suddenly sitting straighter. “And I said east. Then you pointed to Mia just as the sun rose high enough to shine on her face. She was facing the east, too.”
“He posed them so they’d be looking into the sunlight,” Katie asked. “Is there some significance in that?”
“Sunrise is the beginning of a new day,” Brianna said, looking at Aaron. “You told me that when I was in the hospital. I’d woken up after they’d done surgery on my left eye and face that first night. The sun was just coming up and it shone in my good eye and I complained about it. You told me, the sun rising always meant the beginning of a new day with no mistakes in it.”
“I remember that,” he said. She’d looked so bruised, battered and betrayed lying there in that hospital bed, IV’s and monitors hooked up to her, half her face wrapped in bandages. He’d wanted her to prevent her from reliving all the trauma that had gotten her there, the mistakes she’d made or the men who’d disappointed and abused her.
She gave him one of those whisper-of-a-smiles that melted his heart, then turned to Carson. “He’s cleaning their lives on the streets off of them, putting them in clothes that represents their lives before they fell on hard times and posing them in a spot where they’ll have the sunrise on their faces to give them a sort of resurrection?”
The profiler nodded. “That’s what I believe.”
* * *
“How’s she doing?” Matt asked as Katie came out to join him on the sofa in the living room. He’d taken off his shoulder holster and laid it on the end table, so his weapon was in easy reach.
While she’d been giving Paula her breathing treatment and meds before bed, he’d secured the house and also cleaned up the kitchen. They’d divided up the chores like this at home ever since Russell had been born so that Katie wouldn’t feel overwhelmed each evening.
The others had all left to follow up their mutual assignments. Carson was going to go search some FBI database on serial killers and blood draining. Kirk F went home to check on his Nana and return her plastic bowl and lid from the dumplings before spending time scouring the internet for abandoned meat packing plants with a surge in electrical use. Aaron and Brianna, along with Stanley had headed back downtown to see if they could find anyone who might identify their killer posing as a journalist.
“She’s pretty good,” Katie said, snuggling in and pulling her phone out of her pocket and typing. “Has some rales in her lower lobes still, but otherwise, I’d say she’s on the mend.”
“Who you talking to?” he asked with a nod to her phone.
“Your mother. She’s says Russell’s having a ball.” She smiled and turned the phone to him, showing him a picture of their one-year-old son and his grandfather, both licking off the same ice cream cone.
“I can see that. Is it too early for them to spoil him rotten?”
Katie shook her head. “No. I love that your parents love all their grandchildren, and especially Russell. I want him to have a big, happy, loving family. Not the nightmare I grew up in.”
“He’s in good hands.” Matt draped his arm around his wife’s shoulders and pulled her closer.
Leaving Russell for the first time was hard on them both, but especially Katie. When her mother died, she’d left her to somehow survive in the Prophet’s cult all alone. They’d discussed her feeling like she was abandoning their son when she returned to work in the family’s new private security and investigation firm. He told her that leaving Russell with his mom or their paid sitter four days a week wasn’t her abandoning him in any form. She finally adjusted and the past four months had gone smoothly, but when Jake needed someone to come to Cleveland, they all knew that Katie’s special skills, both as a nurse and as a weapons expert, made her the perfect choice.
“I know. I can’t help it. I miss him already.” She gave him a reassuring little smile. “But taking care of Paula is helping.”
“Has she told you anything more about Art?” he asked, slowly rubbing his hand up and down her arm.
“Nothing personal. She doesn’t have much family to count on. And
other than Brianna, I doubt she has any friends, either.” She paused and a little shiver went through her. “Reminds me of myself when I was in the Witness Protection program. I had one person to count on.”
“Castello.” When he’d first met Katie and saw her dependence on the big Marshall, he’d been a little jealous that she loved him. That was before he realized that their love was more like big brother and little sister. Now the guy was part of their family.
“Yes,” Katie said with a grin. “Art was kind of Paula’s Castello. Or maybe she was his?”
“Now she’s got us. And you know the Edgars—”
“Once the Edgars take you in, you’re family, whether you like it or not,” she laughed.
22
You think there will be another body tonight?” Brianna asked as she, Aaron and Stanley turned the corner into the next alley. They’d been to a shelter in the area two blocks up but no one they talked with knew anything about a journalist interviewing homeless people.
“We don’t know what his pattern is for a fresh kill or how many he’s frozen like Mia.” Aaron slid his hand over hers and linked their fingers as they walked, Stanley’s leash in his other hand. “But he’s too perfect in his killing and his staging, so we know there’s more bodies out there somewhere. Will he leave us another tonight? I don’t know.”
“Is it wrong for me to hope he does?” she asked, peeking up at him as they passed under a streetlight.
He shook his head, resignation tightening his facial muscles. “I feel the same way. Because if we do find a body tonight, that gives us another clue about who he is and maybe gets us closer to stopping him. Also, the faster he moves, the more likely he is to make a mistake.”
“And when he makes a mistake, that’s how we’ll catch him, right?”
“Right.”
Stanley gave a little yip and started pulling on his leash, his tail wagging, as they neared a trio of people seated on a low cement wall.
“Looks like he’s found someone he knows,” Aaron said, speeding their pace a little to let the pup have the lead. Brianna matched him stride for stride.
“Hey, Stan, my man,” the older of the two men said, dropping down to pet Stanley who happily licked his hand.
With the white and grey blending into his dark beard, he looked to be about fifty, if Brianna had to guess, but in the few days of walking among the homeless she’d learned that life on the streets had a way of aging people. She’d also gotten used to the mixture of musky body odor, bad breath and the lingering scent of pot use that seemed to cling to everyone she met.
“Looks like you got some people looking after you, pup,” the man said, sitting back to size up Aaron and then her. “You folks the cops that found old Art?”
“Stanley found him,” Aaron said stepping forward to offer his hand to the man. “We just happened to be with him at the time. Name’s Aaron, this is Brianna.”
“Name’s John, but I go by Hondo,” he said, shaking hands. He nodded at the white woman bundled inside the coat three sizes too big for her, who pulled out a piece of something from her coat pocket and offered it to Stanley. “That’s Carmen and he’s Yancy,” he said indicating the twitchy African American man sitting beside her.
Aaron and Brianna nodded at them.
“So, you knew Art?” Aaron asked.
Hondo nodded. “Been on the streets ’bout twenty years now. Art was on ’em even longer than me. A good man to spend time talkin’ with. Sad to hear ’bout him.”
“They say he had no blood,” Yancy said, his legs bouncing in a syncopated rhythm. “That a vampire got him.”
“Is that true?” Carmen asked, her eyes shifting to the left and then the right as if she expected Vlad the Impaler to swoop in out of the dark.
Brianna glanced at Aaron, who focused all his attention on the homeless woman. “There wasn’t a lot of blood at the scene where we found Art, but it wasn’t a vampire like in the movies. We’re pretty sure this was just an ordinary human.”
Carmen gave a little nod and her eyes grew less wary.
Brianna loved that about Aaron. He delivered bad news—no matter how awful or scary it was—in a straightforward way that made you feel more at ease simply because he respected you enough to give you that truth. And he treated everyone with that respect. Her, other cops, volunteers at the missions and even a homeless woman like Carmen. Brianna was pretty sure the only person he wouldn’t treat the same was the man killing innocent people.
“So, maybe Art was kilt somewhere else? That’s where his blood is?” Hondo asked, handing a piece of bread down to Stanley, who was sitting by Aaron’s feet.
“His body was definitely moved from where he was killed,” Aaron confirmed without saying anything more about the blood.
Brianna was learning another thing about the detective. He’d answer truthfully when asked a direct question, but when possible, he also protected vital information to his case. Apparently, he was willing to let the trio assume that Art’s missing blood was simply on the floor of another place, not harvested by their killer.
“We were wondering if Art ever mentioned to you about talking to a journalist?” Brianna asked, trying to help steer the conversation away from the blood factor.
“Journalist?” Yancy asked, brows drawn down in confusion.
Hondo gave him a friendly little backhand tap to the shoulder. “You know, one of them news people. The kind that puts stuff in the papers and magazines.”
“We don’t read no newspapers,” Carmen said. “We just look at pictures in the magazines at the library or when I finds one in the trash.”
Hondo just shook his head at his two companions. “I don’t remember Art sayin’ anything ’bout no journalist. But there has been some guy walkin’ round takin’ pictures of people. Sometimes he stops and talks with them. Never talked to me none.”
“Do you know what he looked like?” Aaron asked with a quick glance at Brianna.
At his signal, she pulled out her little note pad and pencil from her bag to write down the description.
“Never seen the guy up close,” Hondo said. “I seen him outside the clinic where I gets my meds. He looks to be average size. Maybe a little shorter than me.”
Hondo looked to be just under six feet to Brianna. She wrote both those facts down.
“How about his build?” Aaron asked. “Heavy, thin?”
“Kinda average, I guess. Hard to tell with everyone wearing winter coats. You know?” Hondo said. “He was white, or maybe light skinned Mexican. Definitely no brother.”
Brianna jotted that down, then paused. “Did he take a picture of you?”
“Not me, but some of the others, like Art and Steroid Kyle.”
“Steroid Kyle?”
“Yeah,” Yancy said, standing up and flexing his muscles like a body builder. “Dude looked like he was on steroids. Like a lineman for the Browns.”
“Was he a former player?” Brianna asked, with another quick glance at Aaron, who appeared to be thinking the same thing as her. Their killer wanted special people. People whose former lives would make a statement. Art the war vet. Mia the concert violinist. A former football player might be just what he was looking for.
“Played a few years professional like, but weren’t the Browns,” Hondo said, as if that was the only team that mattered. “Said he was drafted high up out of college.”
“Did he mention which one?” Aaron asked.
Hondo shook his head. “Not sure, but it weren’t a big one like the Buckeyes. I’d a remembered that.” He pointed to his faded Ohio State baseball cap. Apparently, like most people in the state, he was a big fan.
“Do you know where we can find Steroid Kyle?”
“He usually hangs out near the gas station over on Cedar and Fifty-Fifth,” Hondo said. “There’s an old empty building behind it some of the guys use.”
“You’ve been a great help,” Aaron said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his business cards and a
three twenty-dollar bills, handing one to each of the trio. “Let me buy y’all some dinner. And if you see the photographer journalist again, would you give me a call?”
“Sure thing,” they all said, quickly pocketing the money.
Aaron scooped up Stanley and they headed back to where they’d parked the old sedan.
“We’re going to the gas station, aren’t we?” Brianna asked as she buckled herself into the passenger seat, then took Stanley into her lap.
“Next logical step.” Aaron put the car in gear and pulled out. “If we’re lucky, Steroid Kyle will be there and can tell us more about the mysterious journalist.”
“And if he’s not there?” she asked, not even wanting to think they had the name of the next victim.
The small muscle in Aaron’s jaw flexed in his tense jaw as he concentrated on driving. “Then we ask more questions.”
* * *
The light drizzle started as they pulled into the gas station’s lot.
“Look’s like the cold front they promised is moving in,” Brianna said as they climbed out of the car. She set Stanley back in her seat. “You stay here, little guy, no use in all of us getting wet.”
Aaron watched her over the hood of the car.
“What? If he gets wet, then we have to smell wet dog the rest of the night,” she said, as if daring him to make some sarcastic comment to her.
He wasn’t falling into that trap. Instead, he just lifted one corner of his mouth in a little smile.
“Couldn’t agree more,” he said, pressing the lock button on the old car before closing his door.
They walked briskly into the service station’s little store, passing a few people huddled under the overhang outside to stay dry. Inside they found one person shopping for beer and snacks—probably the driver of the pickup parked near one of the gas pumps they passed as they parked. The manager—a man of middle eastern or possibly eastern Mediterranean decent around thirty years of age—sat behind a glass enclosure. Aaron would bet it was bullet proof. Any smart owner would be sure of that in this neighborhood, especially if you were a twenty-four-hour service shop like this one.
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