Face of a Killer

by Robin Burcell

  He flipped through the report, perused each page, not commenting. After several minutes of silence, part of which she was sure was meant to let her know that he was the one running the show, he said, without looking up from the reports, “Give me about ten minutes to make another set of copies. I’d like to get down there as soon as possible.” And with that, he stood, took the reports.

  “Hey, Carillo.” He stopped, eyed her. “How is it I suddenly got assigned to this?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Schermer doesn’t have a subpoena for court, does he?”

  “He’s, uh, got some personal business he needs to take care of. Off the radar, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t. Care to explain?”

  “Let’s just say I figured you’d be chomping at the bit for a case like this.”

  She patted her hand on the stack of manila folders piled atop her desk. “Got enough of my own.”

  “A few days ago, you’d have been all over it, wanting to work it.”

  “And you’d have been convincing Dixon why you needed Doc Schermer or one of the other guys to work with you, because you don’t like me. What happened?”

  “Guess I’m slipping. Meet me at the car in about ten.”

  Scotty, she thought. That son of a bitch got Carillo to get her assigned to this damned case to keep her busy and away from McKnight’s suicide. That was the only explanation. Hell with that, she thought, pulling out her directory of FBI office numbers, searching for the Houston, Texas, field office. She punched in the number, identified herself, and asked to speak to Rick Reynolds, the agent Scotty had said he’d contacted about the note.

  A long stretch of silence greeted her when she identified herself to Reynolds. Finally he said, “Look, I can’t talk right now. Give me your number. I’ll get back to you in about tentwenty minutes.”

  She’d be stuck in the car with Mr. Pipeline himself if she waited that long. “Any way we can make it sooner?”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  She gave him her cell phone. Ten minutes later, she and Carillo were en route to Hill City.

  Carillo hated owing favors. And Scotty’s last-minute request, making sure Fitzpatrick somehow got assigned to this case with no explanation other than “you owe me one” was a prime example of why. Wasn’t that he didn’t like Fitzpatrick, he told himself as he signaled for a lane change on the southbound 101 heading toward Hill City. She was as good an agent as any working in the office at the moment, just not the type he liked to work with. Guys like Schermer, though. Now there was a partner. They knew each other’s ins and outs. And they knew when to look the other way.

  Which was something he couldn’t say about Scotty. His obsession with Fitzpatrick was starting to wear thin. The guy really needed to get a life. Or a new girl. None of which explained why Scotty needed her assigned to this case, because God only knew the guy had no trouble picking up the phone to find out what the hell she was working on at any given day and time. Bad enough Carillo had to deal with his own wife and her daily diatribes about alimony, lawyers, and anything else she could torment him with.

  They were nearly to the Hill City turnoff when Fitzpatrick’s cell phone rang. She answered with a brisk “Fitzpatrick,” listened for a moment, then, “What do you mean there is no note? I was specifically told one existed, that it was booked into evidence… That’s bullshit, and you know it.” She flipped the phone closed, looked out the side window, her body rigid. “Idiots.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  And sure as shit, she didn’t say one word for the rest of the trip. Just the way he liked it. Unfortunately he had to break the silence when they got to Hill City, because one thing he hated was surprises, and he wanted to know what the hell to expect. When she informed him, he figured she was exaggerating a bit by saying Detective Rodale hadn’t made much progress on the case because the victim was a woman, Rodale didn’t like women, and especially didn’t like FBI women. As they walked into the station, what went through his mind was that she was laying it on a little thick.

  “Un-fucking-believable,” Carillo said, when they walked out fifteen minutes later, undeveloped photos in hand.

  “Didn’t believe me, did you?”

  “Someone needs to take that idiot’s big fat rodeo belt buckle and shove it down his throat.”

  “You volunteering?”

  “Wouldn’t waste my time.” He handed her the film, then unlocked the car. “Two weeks. He’s been sitting on this for two fucking weeks, and never once pulled it out to develop it.”

  They got in the car, drove to the downtown area, looking for a one-hour photo developer, and found one on the main strip, El Camino Real.

  Back in their vehicle, Fitzpatrick thumbed through the pictures while he drove to the crime scene. The park was a grassy area with a few oak trees and a covered picnic area adjacent to a marsh that gave way to the bay. A steady wind swept off the gray choppy water, bending the reeds in the marsh. Nice place for a summer barbecue beneath the covered picnic area, but in the winter probably unused by any but school kids looking for a quiet place, out of view of the cops, maybe drink a few beers in their cars. Too damned cold, otherwise, with the constant wind.

  Of course the cold was to their advantage. It kept the people out, which meant there might be something left at the crime scene. Then again, the rain that came down the other night undoubtedly washed out any tire tracks and other trace evidence that might have remained, assuming the PD didn’t run over everything in their haste to get to the body.

  Carillo parked at the far end of the lot, away from where the parking spaces butted up against the picnic area. They’d walk the lot first, a grid pattern, hoping to find something. First, though, they sat in the car, viewing the photos, trying to determine where the body was found-about ten feet into the marsh past where the grass ended. There was a shot taken from the parking lot, showing a female uniform standing out in the reeds, pointing down to the body.

  “She’s the officer who found the victim,” Fitzpatrick told him as she handed that photo over. “Said that Detective Rodale wasn’t going for a forensic artist, because the victim was just a hooker. She went around his back to get me to do the drawing.”

  He held up the photograph so that he could view it against the backdrop of the bay. “Looks like we need to be about thirty yards past the covered picnic area,” he said, then tucked the photo in his pocket. “Guess we’re going to get muddy.”

  “ You’re going to get muddy,” she said, handing him the next photo. “ I brought waders in my gear bag.”

  “Good partner would’ve warned me there was mud.”

  “Ah, but we’re not partners. You don’t even like me.”

  “Got a lot on my mind. Divorce, heavy caseload.” He stared out the window, tried to shrug it off like it was no big deal.

  She handed him the next photo, asking, “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why don’t you like me?”

  He was going to kill Scotty for this. “Look, it’s nothing personal. There’s a lot of people in the office I don’t like to work with.”

  A few seconds of silence, and he thought, Thank God that’s over. Then, “But specifically why don’t you like to work with me?”

  “Jesus, Fitzpatrick. You turning this into one of those Kumbaya things?”

  She shoved a photo at him, clearly perturbed. “I just want to know. I’ve been here six months, and no one stands around my desk and jokes.”

  He studied her to see if she was really serious. Apparently she was. “Okay, I’ll bite. You’re like the fucking Eagle Scout of FBI agents. Pollyanna with a gun, a rule book, and no sense of humor.”

  “I have a sense of humor.”

  He noted she didn’t dispute the other two claims, and wondered if maybe he’d been a bit too hard on her, when she seemed to be staring at the next photo a little t
oo long. And just when he was about to apologize, tell her it wasn’t all that bad, she started humming the tune to “Kumbaya, My Lord.” He laughed. “Touche, Pollyanna. E for effort and T for truce?”

  She looked over at him, said nothing for a second or two, seemed to consider it, then, “Fine. Truce.”

  “Just don’t expect perfection right away.”

  “ No worries there,” she said, handing him the last photo, a close-up of the victim lying in the marsh, her filmy pale eyes staring up at nothing. She was wearing a once-white shirt, now stained with blood, mud, and dirt.

  They got out, and Carillo popped open the trunk, while Fitzpatrick scraped her hair back into a ponytail, fighting against the salt-tinged wind. They each had a bag of gear in the trunk, and he handed hers out to her.

  She put on her waders, then stood there for a moment, looked out over the marsh toward the area where the body had been found. If anything, she seemed preoccupied, more than she should have been, even after their strange talk, and he wondered if that phone call she’d received was part of it. He moved beside her, stared toward the water, heard nothing but the wind drumming in his ears. “Let’s get started,” he said.

  They traversed the parking lot, looking for anything that might have been missed, before making a sweep of the grass, seeing several muddy-water-filled scars left in the turf, indistinguishable for any purposes of tire identification. The wet grass quickly soaked through his shoe leather as he walked the distance to the covered picnic area. It was there that he looked over and noticed some muddy tire tracks on the cement, as though a vehicle had pulled up beneath the shelter.

  His gaze followed the smeared, now dried mud, wondering if it was from a police vehicle, perhaps a CSI pulling in to get out of the rain, he thought, noticing the tracks went right up to a table.

  Fitzpatrick stopped at the edge of the cement, bent down to get a closer look, perhaps to see if there was a distinguishable pattern that could be photographed. He followed the tracks to the table, scarred with graffiti. Something dark appeared to have been spilled across the surface of the table, and had seeped into several deep and seemingly fresh gouges in the wood before it had dried.

  His stomach turned as he realized what he was looking at.

  “Fitz.”

  She looked up from the edge of the cement area. Saw what he saw.

  This was where their victim, their Jane Doe, had probably spent her last moment alive.

  16

  Undoubtedly, Sydney thought, as she stood there surveying the picnic area, Mr. Big Belt Buckle had failed to locate this as part of his crime scene.

  Carillo called Dixon to let him know what they found, and to request the Evidence Response Team to come process the scene. “And tell the ERT to bring a panel truck, something large enough to haul off an entire picnic table. Looks like the asshole stabbed her so hard, the knife went right through to the wood.”

  He disconnected. Eventually they moved into the car to get out of the constant wind, and Sydney knew she needed to act like her head was in the game, and not miles and years away on her father’s case. She took the time to write up her notes on the scene, draw a sketch of the picnic area and what they’d found and where. It wasn’t until they were driving back to the city that Carillo looked over at her, asked, “You okay?”

  “Yeah. You know, thinking about the case. What we found out there.”

  He shook his head, no doubt recalling the grisly scene at the picnic table.

  Back at their office, they booked their evidence, wrote up their reports for Dixon. Sydney intended on staying to finish the overdue Harrington case. Carillo was giving his report one last read-through before printing it off, when his phone rang. “Hey, Scotty… Yeah, working late. Picked up a Jane Doe from Hill City.”

  She listened with one ear as he told Scotty about the case and what they’d found at the crime scene. In the empty office, with Carillo’s desk only four cubicles down from hers, she couldn’t help but hear his side of the conversation. What she couldn’t hear was Scotty’s side of things, and for a while there, it seemed Scotty was doing all the talking, as Carillo merely said, “That right?” or “No kidding.” She did not hear her name once, she thought, and for that she was grateful. A few minutes later, Carillo was walking past her desk to turn in his reports. “I’m going to grab a bite to eat across the street. You want anything?”

  “I’ll get something later,” she said. “See you in the morning.”

  “We should hit Golden Gate Park pretty early to go over the Tara Brown crime scene, see if we can’t dig up any more evidence.” He rapped his knuckles on her desk. “By the way, thanks for your help today. You did good.” He continued on to Dixon’s office, turned in his reports, then retraced his steps, stopping long enough to pick up his overcoat, his keys. He stood there a moment, eyeing her. “You’ve been pretty quiet. Even for you. Something up? Something you want to talk about?”

  She hesitated, not used to Carillo showing empathy. Maybe she should have tried to talk to him weeks ago when she first realized he didn’t like working cases with her. “Just the work. Wondering how I’m going to get it all done.”

  He held her gaze a moment, nodded. “Know that feeling. See you around.”

  Maybe it was the quiet of the office, or even the thought that she didn’t want to go home just yet, be alone. Just as he reached the door, she called out, “Carillo?”

  He stopped, looked at her.

  She thought of every reason why she shouldn’t say a thing, the fact he was friends with Scotty being foremost in her mind. “I think I’ll go get that sandwich with you, after all.”

  “So there is something you want to talk about?”

  “Yes-no. I mean, I want to, I’m just not sure I can.” She sounded like an idiot, she knew that. But when it came to her father and his murder, she was an emotional mess. “It’s… sort of personal.”

  “Is this another one of those things where I’m gonna have to be nice and pretend I’m interested and all that?”

  “You need alcohol for that?”

  “Copious amounts.”

  “I’ll buy.”

  17

  Sydney grabbed the manila envelope from her top desk drawer, and she and Carillo walked to the Chili’s across the street, took a corner table by the kitchen, because they could both sit with their backs to the wall, and the waitress who worked that section knew Carillo. Without asking, she brought them a pitcher of beer and two glasses, and said the appetizer was en route.

  “So what’s on your mind?” Carillo asked as he poured the beer and handed one to her.

  “No small talk first?”

  “Guess that depends on how much of it you want me to remember,” he said, lifting up his glass. “So feel free to proceed at will.”

  “Ground rules, first. This stays between us, without being pipelined to Scotty.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “My father’s murder,” she said, figuring it best to just come out with it.

  “He was killed in a robbery, right?”

  “So it was reported. I went to San Quentin and spoke with the man who allegedly killed him. He’s due to be executed within a week, I don’t think he did it, and there’s this stuff about my father’s military background that isn’t making sense, and only came to light after the suicide of a nominee for the administrator for the Office of Federal Procurement Policy.”

  “Okay… Nothing complicated there. But just to keep this simple, remember, I’m drinking here, so start with your old man’s murder.”

  She gave him a rundown on her father’s case as she recalled it, ending with Wheeler’s arrest, and then her recent interview of him. She stared down into her beer glass, shaking her head, again feeling as though what Wheeler had told her sounded so inadequate, inconsequential. “I can’t help asking myself what if he didn’t do it?”

  “Do what? The murder? Are you nuts?”

  “No,” she said, taking a sip of her beer. �
��I am not nuts. And I am definitely having doubts.”

  “I’ll admit I’m not completely familiar with the case, other than what Scotty told me,” he said, refilling his glass. “But even so, you can’t be serious that a ten-minute conversation with the convicted killer could change your mind.”

  “Just added a new perspective. Especially in light of everything else that’s come about recently.”

  “Perspective?” He held the pitcher over her glass, but she waved him off. “Then clue me in, because frankly I’m lost.”

  “The prosecution said he’d lied about being friends with my father, that he’d made it all up to cover for the robbery. That this church who gave Wheeler’s name to my father never existed. They based their case on that. But what he said in there, he could only have known if my father had befriended him. They were private things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the canister under the counter.” And she told him about what she’d done as a kid, taking the money to play video games.

  “You’re feeling guilty, is all. You took some money, blamed yourself, and now you’re trying to justify that guilt so that you don’t have to-”

  “Trust me. When it comes to psychoanalyzing something, I’ve got the market cornered. It’s more than that. He knew about the twenty under the till, and why my father kept one there after he closed out each night.”

  “Not enough.”

  “And my father told him to pay him back on Tuesday. That meant it was a gift.”

  “Okay. That one I definitely don’t get.”

  “Popeye?” she said. “Wimpy?”

  “Your point?”

  “Wimpy was my father’s favorite character, always begging for money, offering to gladly pay on Tuesday for a hamburger today? If my father told someone they could pay him back on Tuesday, it meant he didn’t expect the money back.”

  “Hate to tell you this, but you’re not giving me anything earthshaking.”

  “He only told that to people he cared about. They didn’t even have to know what it meant. But we knew. My mother and I.”