Shoot to Thrill

by P. J. Tracy

“Happens all the time. I take it you didn’t grow up here.”

  “Southern California.”

  “There you go. Anyhow, nothing happened on any golf course, either, which we figured would fit with the ‘hole in one’ message in the post. But here’s something interesting. On February 1st, about thirty miles north of Duluth, they found a snowshoer dead at the bottom of a cliff on the North Shore of Lake Superior.”

  Magozzi said, “Sounds like another accident to me.”

  “That’s what I thought, but then Ole told me the guy was impaled on one of those ice spikes they get up there when the wind blows into shore.”

  Magozzi grimaced. “Poor bastard.”

  “Actually, not really, according to Ole. The guy did time twice for child molestation. A real scumbag, and I hope he suffered. Anyhow, the cop Ole talked to said it looked like somebody had taken a big donut holer to him once they pulled him off the spike. Colorful language, huh?”

  Magozzi’s face went still. “Hole in one.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking. Of course, there were never any suspects because it was ruled accidental, but given the guy’s past, there could actually be a lot of suspects. They’re going to beat the bushes for us and do interviews with the guy’s friends, family, colleagues, parents of his victims, like that. Maybe something will pop to connect the dots.”

  Chelsea was sitting very quietly at the table, looking down at her lap as she listened to two homicide cops talk horror shop.

  “Are you okay?”

  She glanced up to see Magozzi’s look of concern. “Fine.” She flipped open her computer, then pulled up a list of the pre-posts and spun the screen to face Gino and Magozzi. “Look at these—exactly as they appeared on the message boards.” She watched their expressions change as they read and reread the list. “Revealing, isn’t it?”

  “Hmph,” Gino grunted, squinting at the screen. “Look at that. They all start with city of something, and they’ve all got typos in the same places. Like a signature, almost, which is pretty compelling evidence for my traveling-serial-killer theory.”

  Chelsea gave Gino a look he couldn’t read, but it felt like he’d been slapped by a kitten. “You need to see all the films now. Watch them as if you were responding to the crime scene, investigating.”

  After fifteen brutal minutes watching human beings kill other human beings, Magozzi felt like somebody had taken a donut-holer to him. “Jesus.”

  GINO PUT HIS HEAD down and rubbed his eyes, as if to wipe away the unpleasant visuals that were flashing behind them. “No way all those were done by the same killer.”

  Chelsea nodded like a teacher who had heard the correct answer. “And the film I’m going to show you next clinches it.”

  Magozzi winced. “Oh, Christ. There’s a new one?”

  “There were two warning posts without a corresponding video showing up online, remember?”

  “Yeah,” Gino said. “Our North Shore Popsicle was one of them.”

  Chelsea flinched a little at the phrasing. “Yes. The other was ‘City of Roses, Bert’s barmaid, near deer,’ posted just last night, so Monkeewrench went after it full bore, thinking there might be a chance to save a potential victim. Unfortunately, they found the video on MySpace this morning.”

  Gino rubbed at his eyes again, half-hoping he could blur his vision so he didn’t have to see too much. “So why does this video clinch the multiple-killer angle?”

  “For one reason: because the victim is still alive. You’ll see the other reasons when you watch the film.” She pushed a key combination and angled the laptop so Gino and Magozzi had a clear view of the screen and she had a clear view of their faces.

  Reading people and the acts of people was as much a part of Chelsea’s job as it was any cop’s. She’d always thought it was pretty funny that her superiors thought she was a genius at it. All you had to do was pay attention. In profiling you looked at what they left behind; with suspects and witnesses you listened to what they said, and watched their faces when they weren’t talking. That’s all there was to it.

  She’d counseled enough agents when things went south for them to recognize the patterns you saw only in law enforcement types and military men. Those were the ones whose jobs mandated a kind of emotional lockdown that made reading their faces a real challenge, and Gino and Magozzi were better than most.

  They both had their stone faces on, which was pretty common for homicide cops looking at a scene. Most of the time they looked as dead as the victims, with no giveaway facial-muscle movement, no nervous tics or lip-pursing, none of the blinking-neon-sign clues. But their pupils still dilated or contracted, and their breathing patterns changed, and those things told you a lot.

  To the casual observer, Magozzi and Gino looked utterly emotionless, but Chelsea saw the signs of extreme tension when they watched Marian cross the parking lot; the stunned surprise when the attacker grabbed her; the frustration and the rage when they saw her tied to the bumper; and then the transparent jubilation when Marian kicked her attacker between the legs.

  “Oh, goddamnit to hell,” Gino groaned at the end, when the blood started to flow. “Goddamnit, goddamnit. For a minute there I thought she was going to walk away.”

  Magozzi was shaking his head. “I can’t believe she survived that.”

  “Barely,” Chelsea said. “She survived the attack, but the doctors aren’t optimistic about her surviving the next forty-eight hours. Right now she’s comatose.”

  “Are they copying you on reports?”

  “Yes. The Chief of Police out there”—she consulted a handwritten note—“Chief Frost, is in contact with Agent Smith, and bending over backwards to cooperate. This was a pretty shocking crime for that area, so he was more than happy to have some Federal help. There was nothing of note in the first-responder report; the bar is about a half mile from the closest residence, so there was no one around to see or hear anything. We have local agents assisting with Crime Scene, but no reports on that yet. It could take Forensics into the night to cover the parking lot and the bar. If anything significant turns up, they’ll give us a call; otherwise they’ll fax all the reports when they finish up, probably tomorrow.”

  Gino blew out a sigh. “She’s the first woman victim that we know of.”

  “And the guy talked,” Magozzi added. “None of the others did that. Not to mention that he didn’t hang around long enough to make sure she was dead. This one was a newbie.”

  “Totally different from the others,” Gino growled. “This bastard was into the fear angle. That’s what gets him off. None of the others did that.”

  Chelsea said, “They all kill very differently. Take Cleveland, which was fast and obviously fueled by rage; then the Austin stabbing, where the wet work was excessive and slow, suggesting prolonged pleasure; then the Seattle shooting, completely hands-off . . .”

  “The Bureau’s had these films for a while,” Gino interrupted. “Didn’t they already figure that out? I mean, I’m just a ham-andegger homicide cop, but it was pretty damn obvious to me.”

  “Look at it from where they started. All they had was a couple of films, then a couple more. There are hundreds of homicides in this country every day. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume that certain killers would start showing their home movies on the Web just like everybody else. We didn’t know they were connected until Monkeewrench found all the pre-posts written in the same format.”

  Magozzi stood and started pacing. “Okay, so now we’re pretty sure we’ve got multiple killers. And they’re all religiously pre-posting details of their up-and-coming murders—location, method, and victim descriptions. Same pattern. So what does that mean? Are they communicating?”

  Chelsea nodded. “Maybe . . . in a way. The formatting of the pre-posts is like their secret code. If you’re on these sites they’re using and see the pattern, you know you’re getting the real thing.”

  “So are they an organized group, or are these just a bunch of sickos copycatting ea
ch other?” Gino asked.

  “Could be either, or a combination.”

  Magozzi stopped pacing and scolded his shoes with a head shake. “All these victims were preselected. The killer knew where they were going to be, what they were wearing in some cases, and how they would die. The pre-posts prove that.”

  Gino shrugged. “So they picked out easy kills, chased them around for a few days, advertised their intentions, and did the deed. Doesn’t mean they knew them, or wanted them dead for any particular reason.”

  Magozzi looked at his partner. “Or maybe they were targeted for a reason. We gotta look at that; we gotta pray for a connection between the victims; because if this is just a series of unrelated homicides, we’re screwed, and we’re never going to catch these people.”

  Gino said, “We could have Tommy plug the vic names into the Monkeewrench software. That program is tailor-made for this kind of thing.”

  “What program?” Chelsea asked.

  “It sorts through mountains of information and finds patterns. And it works a hell of a lot faster than any cops ever could.” He shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

  After Chelsea left, Gino and Magozzi went back to their desks to pull together victim names for Tommy.

  “Well, that totally sucked,” Gino grumbled, rummaging in his desk for a pen that didn’t leave big blobs of ink on the paper. “But on the bright side, that Chelsea Thomas is a looker.”

  Magozzi ignored him.

  “You do know she’s smitten with you, don’t you?”

  “Stop it, Gino.”

  “I’m serious. And you know how I could tell? Because she was flipping her hair. Women always do that when they’re hunting. It’s classic body language. I saw it on TV. You got the name of the Cleveland kill? He’s the only one I’m missing.”

  Magozzi paged through the file Chelsea had given them on her way out, pulled out a piece of paper, and frowned. “You remember that guy up in Ely, ten, fifteen years ago . . . ?”

  “I was a mere child fifteen years ago.”

  Magozzi snorted. “He was the prime suspect in that kiddie kidnap and abuse case that turned the state on its ear for months . . .”

  Gino slapped a hand to his forehead. “Jesus, yes I remember. That slimebag perv was guilty as sin, and one stinkin’ juror voted to let him walk. After O.J., worst miscarriage of justice on the planet.”

  “What was his name?”

  Gino scratched his chin. “Something weird. Elmer? No, Elmore. Elmore Sweet, may he rot in hell.”

  Magozzi nodded. “Elmore Sweet was the Cleveland vic’s name. Wonder if it’s the same guy.”

  Gino’s eyebrows lifted to happy-face position. “Oh, man, if it’s true, I’m sending a copy of the Cleveland film to that kid’s parents. Tommy’ll find out for us.”

  Magozzi noticed a neon orange Post-it note on Gino’s desk with “Judge Jim” scrawled in huge letters. “What’s with Judge Jim?”

  “Oh, shit! I forgot about that.”

  “What?”

  “We need to pay him a visit sometime today.”

  Magozzi frowned. “Why?”

  “After I hung up with Ole, an Officer Rondestvedt gave me a call. Turns out our friend was drunk down by the river again last night with a gun and a scope.”

  “Was it loaded?”

  Gino shook his head. “Nah. But he told Rondestvedt that he was working with us on the river killing, and we sent him down there. We need to tell him to can the name-dropping, and I have a feeling a phone call just ain’t gonna cut it with that guy. Hey, you free for dinner?”

  Magozzi was hopeful—usually any mention of dinner from Gino meant an invitation to join his family and eat some wickedly delicious concoction from Angela’s family recipe stash. “Absolutely I’m free for dinner. I’d stand up my own mother for Angela’s home cooking.”

  “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a big, fat hunk of cow at that place on Washington.”

  Magozzi frowned. “You’re not going home for dinner?”

  Gino scowled. “Hell, no. I’m not going anywhere near my house until ten-oh-five tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Angela’s throwing a bridal shower for her niece, and it ends at ten. And you know what she’s serving? Cucumbers. Cucumbers on little pieces of bread with the crusts cut off. And, worse yet, she got a case of wine and a big bag of ‘novelty’ gifts, and you and I both know what that means.”

  “We do?”

  “Yeah. It’s gonna be ugly. So I figure we go over some of this paper on these cases, punch out for an early steak, then hit the judge on our way home.”

  “Okay. But it ain’t Angela’s lasagna.”

  “No, indeed. But a cowboy rib eye and a martini runs a close second in my book.”

  CHAPTER 18

  MAGOZZI AND GINO STEPPED INTO THE IMPRESSIVE LOBBY of Wild Jim’s condo complex and checked in with the receptionist. She maintained her white, Chiclet-toothed smile up until the moment they showed her their shields and stated their business, at which point her lacquered lips closed like a stage curtain over the blinding veneers.

  “The judge is up in the penthouse. I’ll call and let him know you’re on the way up.” She hesitated for a moment, then blurted out, “He isn’t in trouble again, is he?”

  “No trouble,” Magozzi reassured her, even though he wasn’t in the mood to assuage the anxiety of some drunk’s groupie. There was just something so earnest about her concern. In fact, Wild Jim seemed to have groupies everywhere, and a lot of them were apparently on the force, continually cutting him slack that just wasn’t acceptable in his opinion. Drunk or not, the guy obviously had charisma.

  Once they were inside the posh, mahogany-paneled elevator, Gino crossed his arms over his chest and took in the limited scenery.

  “Huh. The penthouse. So, the judge is still doing okay, considering he’s been unemployed for a while. From what I hear, an average, one-bedroom schlep unit in this joint goes for almost a mil, and he’s living large in the clouds.”

  “Maybe he’s a financial genius.”

  “Yeah. Or maybe he was on the take, and that’s really what got him kicked off the bench.”

  Magozzi shrugged. “His rep was always pristine, even drunk as a skunk for all those years. He was a good judge when he had his house in order . . . and even when he didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. So maybe he is a financial genius.”

  The elevator drifted to a gentle, silent halt, and the doors slid open onto a beaming Wild Jim. He had a lowball in one hand and a half-smoked cigar in the other. “Detectives! Let me welcome you as the first guests ever to my modest riverside aerie. Please, come in.”

  They took a few, tentative steps inside and let their eyes wander around the big, mostly empty space. There was no art on the walls, the furniture was sparse and nondescript, and the open gourmet kitchen sparkled as if it had never been used. It was utterly lacking in the owner’s personality, with the single exception of a sofa table that served as an easel for a long row of framed pictures. Every one of them featured the judge and a smiling, handsome young man.

  “Nice place you got here, Judge, and not so modest,” Gino said politely.

  “It’s a considerable step down from my former domiciles, and most of the furniture is from IKEA and Target, but it serves me for the moment. Can I interest either of you in a libation? I’m drinking what they call a handcrafted bourbon, which would imply something a toothless hill denizen would concoct in a bathtub in the Ozarks, but it’s actually quite smooth.”

  “No thanks,” Magozzi said, his eyes still fixed on the table full of photos. “By the way, thanks for the fruit basket.”

  “You’re very welcome.” The judge noticed the direction of Magozzi’s gaze and gestured to the display with his glass. “My son. I suppose it’s a bit trite, having such a blatant memorial, but when you lose a child, your only child, all your sensibilities, both design-wise and otherwise, c
ease to matter.”

  Magozzi and Gino both cringed inwardly, remembering the relentless media coverage of his son’s suicide, and all the speculations surrounding it. He hadn’t left much to chance by overdosing or wrist-slashing—he’d gone for the sure thing, which in this case had been a .44 Magnum slug.

  “We’re really sorry about that, sir,” Gino finally said with the genuine empathy of a fellow father. “Really sorry.”

  “Yes, so am I. There’s no getting over such a thing. Obviously.” He gave them a thin, sad smile, then raised his glass with forced bravado and drained it. “After it happened, people always wanted a reason for why such a kind, intelligent young man with a promising future ahead of him would do such a thing. Hell, I wanted a reason myself, although I don’t know why. There just isn’t ever a justifiable explanation for such an act, and even if there were, it wouldn’t change the impact of the aftermath.”

  Magozzi shook his head. “No, I’m sure it wouldn’t.”

  The judge refilled his glass. “You know, I have recently come to realize that people who carry a great burden of guilt ravenously seek saviors anywhere they can, in all shapes, colors, and forms. Intellectually, I find the need for redemption frivolous; but emotionally, I fear I may have succumbed. The difference between me and the delusional masses is that I prefer my personal Jesus to be of the liquid sort, and a warm amber in color.”

  “You ever think about going to spin-dry, Judge?” Gino asked him.

  He looked amused. “Not once, Detective Rolseth. You can’t drink in rehab.”

  “That’s kind of the point. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, you know. You already lived through that.”

  “You’re correct about that. However, I don’t believe alcoholism is a disease; I believe it is a choice, and I am thrilled with my choice. Not very progressive of me, but it’s the truth. At least it’s my truth.”

  He wandered over to a seating area that faced a stunning vista of the Mississippi. “I’m going to sit now, and I invite you to do the same.”

  Magozzi and Gino followed suit and settled into hard-seated, modern chairs that were so uncomfortable, it almost seemed as if they had been deliberately designed to be that way.