by Alex Kava
Gustafson was on the top row, third photo.
Brandy didn’t hesitate.
“That’s the guy,” she said, pointing to Gustafson.
“You’re one-hundred percent certain?”
“Absolutely. Gave me the creeps. He smiled too much. And didn’t tip. They were going honky-tonking, the fat one asked me the best place to go. I sent them to Tootsies, of course, and suggested the Cadillac Ranch too.”
Taylor met Marcus’s eye. “Thank you, ma’am. Please keep this to yourself. You may be called on again to provide information. Are you willing to do that?”
“I am. If he’s a creep, I don’t want him back in here. Hey, I gotta go. My manager’s giving me the evil eye.” She glanced coquettishly at Marcus. “Shout at me sometime.”
Marcus blushed red, and Taylor gave him a smile.
“You’re such the charmer.”
“You know it. So this is our guy, huh?”
“Looks that way. You keep on this trail, see if you can track exactly what might have happened. I’m rather amazed, actually. Either this guy dropped his wallet while he was stabbing Go-Go, or she managed to slide it out of his pocket. Pretty incredible presence of mind for a girl who’s stoned and dying.”
“But she was an accomplished pickpocket. Maybe she targeted him just as he targeted her. And they both got screwed.”
Taylor nodded. “That makes sense. Well done, Go-Go. She practically handed us her killer on a platter. I’m heading back to the office and hitting the ‘net.”
“All right. See you later.”
Taylor watched Marcus stride away, thankful to have his keen investigative mind at her disposal, then walked back to her vehicle. She had a date with a computer.
The email notification on her iPhone chimed just as she turned the engine over. It was Hagerman, from Fairfax County. According to him, there was no one named James Gustafson in the Virginia DMV system, and the address on the license was a vacant lot. Her killer was a ghost.
ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, could be a homicide detective’s best friend, if they knew exactly how to use it. It wasn’t as easy as inputting your crime and the system spitting out a match to similar crimes. You had to know what to ask for. Taylor had unfortunately availed herself of its services many times in the past, and had the level of expertise needed to run the appropriate request chain into the queue. Hopefully the results would come back quickly, but the service wasn’t fully automated. A real person had to do some of the legwork, and the FBI was backed up three ways to Sunday on requests. So she inputted the parameters, taking great care with the specifics of both Go-Go and Heath Stover’s crime similarities, crossed her fingers, and went on to the next component of her investigation – figuring out who this man really was.
The ViCAP results came back several hours later, much quicker than she expected. She read the email she’d been sent with trepidation, then sat back in her chair, let the realization wash over her. There were matches in the system from several places around the country, the most recent a homeless woman in New Orleans. Gustafson, whoever the son of a bitch really was, had been a busy, busy boy.
Taylor knew it was time to start raising the red flags. Too many jurisdictions, too many victims. She filled the chief in on her plan, got an atta-girl, then went to the source. Her fiancé was a profiler, after all.
Baldwin answered on the first ring. “Hey, love. How are you?”
“Hi, babe. I’ve been better. Two unsolved cases on my desk from yesterday alone, and just got a report back from ViCAP. I think I’ve got a serial on my hands.” She gave him all the details, then emailed him the ViCAP report. She waited while he accessed it and read the findings. A few minutes later, he agreed.
“You might be right,” he said. “What did you say this guy’s name is again?”
“The license said James Gustafson, but Fairfax County just confirmed that no one by that name exists in the system, and the address is a fake. The license, the cards, all of it, they’re either excellent identity theft or really sophisticated forgeries. Who is this guy? He’s obviously been killing off the radar for years. And he broke his MO with this latest victim. He’s been preying on homeless. Go-Go was a fuck up, she certainly looked the part, but hitting a well-established surgeon from New Orleans? One mistake could be an accident, sure, but the other… there’s a tie to his past, I’m sure of it. The waitress got the impression they were friends, out for a night on the town. Maybe Stover knew the real identity of the killer, and Gustafson felt threatened.”
“That’s a solid theory. He killed a different type of victim out of sequence. The back-to-back kills, I’d bet he’s in some sort of trouble, decompensating.”
“Well, he’s screwed up. Now we know about him. He’s on the radar, and I’m about to make his world hell.”
“He sounds like someone who has spent his life being very, very careful. Listen, I’m totally wrapped up in this case, or else I’d help you myself. But I know who to call. I’ve worked with her on cases before. She’s sharp. I think you should have a chat with her.”
“What’s her name?”
“Maggie O’Dell. Hold on a sec, let me get her number for you.” He rattled off the numbers and she wrote them down.
“I’ll call her right now. Thanks, honey. Call me later, okay?”
“Will do. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Taylor hung up the phone, waited a moment, then dialed. Even if O’Dell couldn’t help, at least the FBI would be aware that something was hinky with the so-called James Robert Gustafson.
The call went to voicemail. Taylor left a message, told the agent who she was, her connection to Baldwin, that she had a significant ViCAP match and wanted to touch base. She hung up the phone, leaned back in her chair and put her boots on the desk.
She’d get some justice for Go-Go, and for Stover. Their deaths would not go unpunished. No matter what. And for the moment, that was the best she could do.
The lights of Washington D.C. greeted JR. Luminous, beautiful, the city was home. He always felt secure once he crossed into Fairfax County, knowing he was just miles from his basecamp. It had been a long trip, exhausting in its way, but so, so worth it.
Sated, he was calm again, the fury of the past month’s excess slaking the thirst in his blood. Now he would lay low. Fit back into his life. Go to work like a good little boy. Recharge his batteries. Maybe a small vacation, somewhere in the mountains, where he could watch the snow fall, listen to birds chirp and water run and feel the cool air pass over his skin.
And remember. Always, always remember.
COLD METAL NIGHT
by
Alex Kava
Sunday, December 4
2:37 a.m.
Downtown Omaha, Nebraska
Nick Morrelli stuffed his hands deep inside his pockets. Damn! It had gotten cold and he’d forgotten his gloves. He could see his breath. Air so cold it stung his eyes and hurt to breathe.
Snow crunched beneath his shoes. Italian leather. Salvatore Ferragamo slip-ons. Five hundred and ten dollars. The stupidest purchase he’d ever let his sister, Christine talk him into. They made him look like a mob boss, or worse – a politician – instead of a security expert.
He was at a private party when he got Pete’s call. Figured he could easily walk the two blocks from the Flat Iron to the Rockwood Building. But it had been snowing steadily for the last ten hours. Now he treaded carefully over the pile of ice chunks the snow plows left at the curbs. He already almost wiped out twice despite the salt and sand.
City crews were working overtime, trying to clear the streets for Sunday’s Holiday of Lights Festival. It was a huge celebration. The beginning of the Christmas season. Live music, carolers, arts and craft events. Performers dressed as Dickens characters would stroll the Old Market’s cobble stone streets engaging with the visitors. The ConAgra Ice Rink would be packed with skaters. Tomorrow night the city would turn on tens of thousand
s of twinkling white lights that decorated all the trees on the Gene Leahy Mall and strung along the rooftops of the downtown buildings. Even the high-rises.
A festive time would be had by all but a huge security nightmare for people like Nick. The company he worked for, United Allied, provided security for a dozen buildings in the area.
As Nick hurried across Sixteenth Street he glanced up to see the fat, wet flakes glitter against the night sky. It was the kind of stuff he and his sister called magical Christmas dust when they were kids.
Pete was waiting for him at the back door of the Rockwood Building. It was one of Nick’s favorites. A historic brick six-story with an atrium in the middle that soared up all six floors. Reminded Nick of walking into an indoor garden, huge green plants and a domed skylight above. The building housed offices, all of them quiet at this time of night, making Pete’s job more about caretaking than guarding.
But tonight Pete looked spooked. His eyes were wide. His hair looked a shade whiter against his black skin. He held a nightstick tight in his trembling hands. Nick had never seen the old man like this. He didn’t even know Pete owned a nightstick.
“He didn’t show up at midnight like usual,” Pete was telling Nick as he led him down a hallway. Nick wasn’t sure who he was talking about. All he told Nick on the phone was, “to get over here now.”
He was taking Nick to another exit, double-wide doors that opened out into an alley. It wasn’t used except by maintenance or housekeeping to haul the trash.
“He usually stops by. You said it was okay.” He shot a look back over his shoulder at Nick but he didn’t slow down. "Does a little shoveling if I ask.” Pete was out of breath. The nightstick stayed in his right fist. “I made us some hot cocoa tonight. So cold out. When he didn’t show up I took a look around.”
He pushed opened the doors, slow and easy, peeking around them like he was expecting someone to jump out at him.
“Pete, you’re starting to freak me out.” Nick patted him on the shoulder, gently holding him back so he could step around him. “If someone’s in trouble, we’ll help him out.”
After Thanksgiving he had made an executive decision to allow homeless people to sleep in some of the back entries of the buildings he took care of. He told Pete and his other night guards to call him if there was a problem. During the holidays he didn’t have the heart to toss them into the street. He figured he could put up with drunk and belligerent.
Nick took two steps out into the frigid alley and immediately he saw a heap of gray wool and dirty denim in a bloody pile of snow. The man’s face was twisted under a bright green and orange argyle scarf that Nick recognized. His stomach fell to his knees.
“Oh God, not Gino. What the hell happened?”
Nick tried to get closer. The damned shoes slipped on a trail of blood that was already icing over. He lost his balance. Started to fall. His hand caught the corner of the Dumpster. Ice-cold metal sliced open his palm but he held on. By now he was breathing hard. Puffs of steam like a dragon. He took a deep breath, planted his feet. Then he reached over to Gino while still gripping the corner of the Dumpster.
Nick pressed two fingers to the man’s neck. Gino’s skin was almost as cold as the metal of the Dumpster.
4:12 a.m.
Crown Plaza
Kansas City, Missouri
Salsa music startled Maggie O’Dell awake. She jolted up in bed and scrambled to the edge before she realized it was her phone. She’d accidentally changed the ringtone and had been too exhausted to fix it.
“I think we may have caught a lucky break,” the voice said without a greeting.
It was R.J. Tully, her sometimes partner when the FBI sent two instead of one. A rare occasion these days.
She pushed hair out of her eyes, blinked to focus on the red digits of the hotel’s alarm clock.
“It better be lucky. You woke me up.”
“Aw geez! Sorry.”
Tully had to be the only law enforcement officer she knew who said things like, “Aw geez holy crap.” It made her smile as she fumbled in the dark to turn on a light.
“I thought you never sleep,” he followed up, giving her a chance to wake up.
He knew she had been battling a stretch of insomnia for over a year now. Getting shot in the head two months ago didn’t help matters. Technically it was called a “scraping of the skull alongside the left temporal lobe.” Unofficially it hurt like hell and the throbbing pain that still visited her head on a regular basis was a bitch. Otherwise she was okay. At least that’s what she kept telling people.
“What’s the lucky break?”
“Got a phone call from Omaha. Homeless man. Stabbed. Looks like our guy.”
She stood up from the bed, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and started turning on lamps. She’d been in the Kansas City area trying to dig up something, anything. But the victims here, and the evidence, were already two weeks cold.
“What makes them think it’s our guy?”
“Blitz attack. No other injuries. Single stab wound to the chest, just under the rib cage. Preliminaries suggest a long, double-edged blade.”
That sounded about right.
For four weeks she’d been chasing this guy halfway around the country. It started at the end of October when John Baldwin, the SSA in charge of BAU II, asked her to take a look at a slice ’n go down in Nashville. Maggie was still recovering from her own injuries but she owed Baldwin a favor and told him she’d take a look. Lieutenant Taylor Jackson sent her every scrap they had on the case, which included witness interviews, security video and even a driver’s license. Unfortunately the video footage showed only a flash of white at the bottom of the screen, the bill of a white ballcap. The driver’s license ended up being an excellent fake and the witness interviews didn’t turn up anything too interesting except that the man in question “smiled too much.”
Just when Maggie believed there wasn’t enough to go on, something odd happened. Her boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, head of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico brought her the case – the exact same case. He insisted she and Tully make it their top priority. Kunze had been sending Tully and her around on wild goose chases for almost a year. Maggie was immediately suspicious. Why this case? What was the political connection? Who did Kunze owe a favor to this time?
She hated that she was right. Turns out the senior senator from Tennessee was a personal friend of the Nashville victim’s father. It didn’t take much digging for Maggie to discover this wasn’t a one-time “slice ’n go.” She and Tully had found another two victims in New Orleans. According to NOPD Detective Stacy Killian, both were homeless, one a new mother, the other a business man.
Searching ViCAP she discovered what could be as many as ten to twelve victims. Different cities across the country. Similar victims. Same MO. All of them quite possibly the work of one killer she and Tully nicknamed the Night Slicer.
Now Maggie paced the hotel room listening to Tully give her more details. She could hear him rattling paper and knew the notes he had taken were probably on a take-out menu or a dry cleaning receipt – his usual notepads, whatever was handy.
“Here’s the thing,” Tully said. “Omaha’s M.E. believes this one happened earlier this morning. Internal body temp says within last six hours. Night security guard claims it had to be around two o’clock.”
“Two o’clock in the morning? That’s only a few hours ago. How can he be so sure?”
“He knows the victim. Says the guy…” more paper shuffling. “Says Gino usually picked up a dozen extras of the Sunday Omaha World Herald right off the dock. He’d sell them on the street to make a few bucks. But first, he’d bring the security guard a copy and they’d drink hot chocolate.”
“That all sounds very nice but since when do we determine time of death from a security guard’s Sunday morning ritual?”
“Thing is, they found him between two-thirty and three this morning. He already had his dozen newspapers. The Sunda
y edition didn’t hit the loading dock until two-o-five.”
Tully went silent. He was waiting for it to settle in and Maggie finally understood the lucky break.
“So we’ve got a fresh kill,” she said. And then the realization hit her. “And less than twenty-four hours before he slices number two and leaves town.”
“Omaha’s about 180 miles from Kansas City. Just a hop up and a skip down. Twenty, thirty minute flight,” Tully said. “Might be some delays. Sounds like there’s a bunch of new snow.”
“I have a rental. I’ll drive.” She hated flying. Tully’s “hop up and skip down” already had her stomach flipping. “It’ll probably be quicker than trying to get a flight, getting to the airport, going through security.”
“Looks like a three hour drive, but in the snow—”
“No problem.”
“You sure?”
“You worry too much. I’ll exchange my rental car for an SUV. Let Omaha know I’m on my way.”
5:41 a.m.
Old Market Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska
He looked out his hotel suite’s window and down on the empty cobble-stoned streets. Earlier there had been horses and carriages, street performers on a couple of the corners. The brick buildings used to be warehouses on the Missouri River but now housed restaurants and specialty shops.
Last night despite the snow, the sidewalks had been filled with people, the streets busy with traffic. There had even been a patrol officer on horseback. And yet just five, six blocks he been able to slide a blade up into a man’s heart and walk away. In fact, he walked back through the hustle and bustle to his hotel without a single person noticing.
All was good. He was back in his groove. That nagging fury would no longer drive him to make reckless mistakes.
New Orleans had set him off track. Then Nashville really screwed him up. He had always been careful about choosing targets no one would miss. But Heath Stover, a blast from the past, had knocked him way off his game. And so did that girl, that rich bitch pretending to be some lost soul. The news media continued to cover her murder but at least they were calling it just another unfortunate incident, just another of a long list of crimes besieging the Occupy camps across the country.