That struck me as odd, but I was a city girl. Suburbanites didn’t have a lock-and-key mentality. Pay half a million for a house in a nice neighborhood and you figure crime will never happen to you.
“No prints at the scene, right?”
“No. But a few smudges on his body that could indicate latex gloves.”
“Does the daughter live there now?”
“Nope. She lives in Hoffman Estates. She’s a kindergarten teacher.”
“Brave woman,” I said, recalling all of the screaming children back at the doctor’s office.
“So what was that bit with Quasimodo at the pharmacy?”
“Oh. That was Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber.”
“The Feebies?”
“They’re profiling again.”
Herb shook his head. He’d had some run-ins with the Féderalés last year on a murder case. Sixteen-year-old girl shot in the head, the same MO as another murder in Michigan. The FBI BSU ViCAT profile predicted the killer was a sixty-year-old white male truck driver, former enlisted man, bearded, and a bed-wetter.
The perp turned out to be two clean-shaven black gang members under eighteen, with no military experience between them, both untroubled by enuresis. Neither Herb nor I had much faith in profiling. In fact, neither of us had much faith in the FBI.
“So they profiled the Gingerbread Man with a curved spine.”
“It’s just a hunch,” I said.
Herb didn’t laugh at the joke either, but at least he got it.
“Well, maybe we’ll get an ID now,” Herb said. “People are bound to recognize the name Quasimodo.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he rings a bell.”
I winced.
“That one actually hurt.”
“Well, Hugo your way, and I’ll go mine.”
“Let’s not talk for a while.”
We came to a toll booth and I found forty cents in change in my ashtray. State troopers didn’t have to pay tolls, but us lowly city cops weren’t immune. Yet another reason to avoid the suburbs.
The Kennedy intersected Route 53 with the usual cloverleaf, and I took the leaf going north toward Rolling Meadows. Finally out of construction traffic, I released some pent-up tension and gunned the engine. It didn’t startle Herb too much. Probably because the acceleration on my Nova was comparable to pushing a boulder up a hill.
Palatine Road going west took us off the expressway and into the heart of middle-American suburbia. I drove past housing developments, and strip malls, and shopping centers, and more housing developments, and a strip mall development, and finally found Elm Street without difficulty.
It was a little before two o’clock when we pulled into Dr. Booster’s driveway, sandwiched between two mature spruces. The house was two stories and brown, partially obscured by an overgrowth of trees and bushes that needed trimming. The unkempt lawn was covered with brown leaves, and they crunched underfoot as we walked up to the front door.
Melissa Booster answered after the first knock, apparently having seen our approach. She was robust—add a hundred pounds to Rubenesque and you’d have her figure. I suppose the PC term would be glandularly imbalanced or calorically challenged. She wore a red housedress that hung on her like a set of drapes. Her makeup was simple and expertly applied, and her brown eyes crinkled at us through the layers of doughy skin that made up her face. Her three chins waggled in a cheerful smile and she invited us in.
“Sorry we’re late.” I offered my hand. “I’m Lieutenant Daniels, this is Detective Benedict.”
“No apologies needed, Lieutenant. It’s been a while since the police have contacted me. I’m happy to know the search is still on.”
She spoke in the singsong voice that people used when reading to children. I suppose that being around five-year-olds all the time made it hard to switch off. We followed her to the living room, where she sat us on a sofa in front of a dusty table and waddled off to the kitchen, insisting on getting us coffee.
Herb nudged me quietly. “That’s a whole lot of woman.”
“Spoken by a man with a forty-six-inch waist.”
“Are you referring to my washboard stomach?”
“Don’t you mean washtub stomach? Shh, she’s bringing doughnuts.”
Melissa Booster returned, carrying two mugs of coffee on top of a Dunkin’ Donuts box.
“I hope I’m not offending you.” She handed me a cup.
“Miss?”
“With the cop/doughnut thing. I don’t want to play on a stereotype.”
“No offense at all.” I smiled.
“Got any jellies?” Benedict reached for the box. He fished out something sticky and emitted a satisfied grunt. Other people would be wary of food after taking a bite out of an X-Acto knife blade, but not Herb.
“I’m sorry about the house.” Melissa plopped her bulk down on the love seat opposite us. The framework screamed in protest. “The maid never came back after finding Dad dead, and things have gotten dusty. This is the first time I’ve been back myself. I guess enough time has passed, but I’ve kept putting it off. Any new news?”
“Possibly. We’re following a lead on another case that may be related. Did your father ever fill out prescriptions off duty?”
“Sure. Whenever there was a family get-together he brought his prescription pad with him. Half the hypochondriacs in Illinois are related to me. That’s probably why Dad became a doctor.”
“What did he prescribe for family members?”
“The usual. Painkillers, sleeping pills, laxatives, cold medication, acne cream, birth control, all the standards. The current hot ones were Propecia and Viagra. He didn’t seem to mind the family doing it to him. Both my grandmothers thought he was a saint.”
Benedict finished enough of his doughnut to aid in the inquiries.
“Did he ever prescribe injectionals?”
“You mean like for diabetics?”
“Any at all.”
“Not to my family. Most of my relatives would faint at the thought of getting a shot.”
I sneezed thoughtfully, if such a thing is possible.
“How about Seconal?” I asked. “It’s a powerful sedative, like Valium.”
“Not to our family. Not that I know of.”
“We believe your father may have written a very large prescription for Seconal the night he died, possibly for someone who knew him. Do you know anyone named Charles or Chuck?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Any relative with that name, or friend of your father’s?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“Ms. Booster . . .”
“Melissa.”
“Melissa, this is a hard question, but do you think there was any chance that your dad may have been selling prescriptions?”
She shook her head, as if saying no to a child. “Dad? No way. Look around you. It’s a nice house, but not extravagant. My father made good money, but it’s all accounted for. He lived within his means. Besides, Dad just wasn’t like that. I had it drilled into my head from a baby on that medication and drugs were very serious and dangerous.”
She reached into the doughnut box and removed a powdered, biting into it gently.
“Would he have had a prescription pad in the house?”
“Probably. His desk is in the den. Would you like to see it?”
“Please.”
Melissa placed the doughnut on the table and rocked twice on the sofa, pulling up her considerable body on the third try. We followed as she waddled to the den, down a hallway, and into a room the size of a large closet.
“Actually, this is just a large closet,” Melissa said. “Dad put a desk in here and it became the den.”
She didn’t enter, probably because if she did, she wouldn’t have room to turn around. I thanked her and went in alone, leaving Herb behind to small talk.
The desk was old and bore the traits of many years of faithful use. It was a rolltop, with five drawers and hal
f a dozen cubbyholes to squirrel away bills or mail. I gave it a quick toss, finding a lot of junk for my efforts, but no prescription pad.
“A prescription pad wasn’t listed as items in evidence taken during the original investigation, was it?”
Benedict glanced at me and shook his head, then resumed his conversation with Melissa. They were talking, go figure, about food.
I went to the file cabinet next to the desk and commenced a once-over, finding tax forms, a few medical charts, and a smattering of appliance instruction manuals. No prescription pad.
“Pardon me.” I interrupted an argument about stuffed pizza. “But which room was your father’s body found in?”
“In the master bedroom. It’s down the hall and up the stairs to the right. If you don’t mind, I really don’t want to go in there.”
“I understand.”
Herb gave me a look, but I shook my head, indicating he didn’t have to tag along. I found the bedroom without difficulty. It was large, with two picture windows, a king-size four-poster bed, and a matching armoire and dresser. The curtains, bedding, and carpeting were all color coordinated, tan and dark brown.
The bed was unmade. Next to it was a chair, part of the bedroom set where Mrs. Booster would sit and do her makeup, and where Dr. Booster was bound and murdered. The Palatine PD had taken the twine used to tie him, but the chair remained, still stained with blood. The carpet under it was equally stained, brown and splotchy.
If Booster was found here, chances were good this was where he wrote the prescription. I checked the top dresser drawer.
Sitting on top of some underwear, waiting for me, was a prescription pad and a pen. Using a pair of tweezers I keep in my jacket for this purpose, I picked up the pen and placed it in a plastic bag, which I also keep in my jacket. Then I tweezed the prescription pad, holding it up to the light. The top sheet had indentations on it, left over from the pressure of the pen used to write the previous prescription.
If I wanted to play Sherlock Holmes, I could lightly rub a pencil over the paper. The lead would fall into the depressions, giving me a readable impression of the missing sheet above it.
But the lab boys would have fits if I did that. These days, infrared do-hickies and other complex stuff could read it without getting graphite all over everything. I bagged the pad and went through the rest of the drawers, searching for other clues. I came up empty, but the little optimistic knot in my belly refused to go away.
Downstairs, Herb and Melissa were in a heated discussion about where to get the best chili dogs. I butted in, sharing my discovery and promptly giving Melissa a receipt for the items I took.
“So he was killed for a lousy prescription?” Her eyes glassed over and she began to sob. Two months wasn’t enough time to get over the death of a parent. Some people never get over it.
Benedict, having shared his thoughts on food, now shared a hug with the young woman. She calmed some, and even managed a watery smile in the middle of her tears.
“Please find the man who killed my daddy.”
I could have said “We’ll do our best” or “We’ll stay in touch.” But instead, I nodded and replied, “We will.”
Then Benedict and I got back into my car and began the long and tedious trip back to Chicago.
Chapter 10
AT 2:35 THAT AFTERNOON THERESA METCALF regains consciousness.
Then he begins.
He tries many new things.
By 5:15 she can’t scream anymore.
By 6:45 she’s finally dead.
Chapter 11
THE FBI WAS WAITING TO SHOW me more paperwork when we got back to the station. Benedict had deserted me, electing to bring both the lethal candy and the pad and pen to the lab. Occupying my office without permission was annoying enough, but Special Agents Heckle and Jeckle had also appropriated my desk.
“Good news, Lieutenant,” Dailey said. “The ViCAT computer has given us a list of possible suspects.”
I frowned. “That’s my desk.”
They looked at each other, then back at me. I wondered if they practiced that move at home.
“There isn’t any other place to put all of this data.”
I knew a place they could put it, but I played nice and resisted the urge to tell them.
“I need some coffee.” I turned around, intending to leave. There was an excellent coffee place on the other side of town.
“Got some.” Dailey opened his briefcase, on my desk, and took out two polished aluminum canisters. “Regular or unleaded?”
Both Coursey and Dailey chuckled. Exactly three chuckles each, and then they stopped simultaneously. Eerie.
“Regular.” I sighed, sitting in the chair opposite of mine.
Dailey took a Styrofoam cup from his briefcase and filled it with the steaming contents of container number one.
“Cream or sugar?”
I shook my head and forced a polite smile.
“Let’s begin.” Coursey cleared his throat, preparing for lecture mode. “There have been several terminal occurrences over the past ten—”
I had to interrupt. “Terminal occurrences?”
“Murders.”
Jesus.
“As I was saying, there have been several terminal occurrences over the past ten years in the United States that may have possible connections to the Jane Doe found here two days ago.”
Dailey jumped in. “Serial or recreational killers usually have distinct patterns and modus operandi that make it possible, with the help of Vicky—”
“Vicky?” I asked.
“The ViCAT computer.”
“Ah.”
“That make it possible, with Vicky’s help, to find links between victims.”
“You mean terminal occurrences,” I corrected.
“Exactly.”
I sipped my coffee, and noted with annoyance that it was very good.
“You read through our report on why we believe the perp is organized rather than unorganized, correct?”
“Absolutely.” I recalled dropping it in the garbage on the way to my car.
“Here’s another report, a list of related crimes that Vicky has linked with the pattern established by our RK here.”
“RK?”
“Recreational Killer.”
“Ah.”
I wondered if there was a special branch of the FBI whose sole function was to make up acronyms.
“Vicky has also listed probability percentile rankings.”
Dailey nodded smartly, as if waiting for a cookie or a pat on the head. They must have taken my silence for deep thought, because they waited patiently for me to say something before they went on.
“Mmm,” I said.
They went on.
“There are seven possible connections on this list.”
“We’ll give them to you in ascending order of probability.”
“First, on May first in 1976 in Hackensack, New Jersey, there was a double shotgun homicide where the suspect was unknown.”
I wouldn’t be baited.
“What’s the connection, you’re thinking?” Dailey asked.
Actually, I was thinking that once, when I was younger, I had actually considered joining the FBI. We’re all entitled to moments of stupidity, I suppose.
“The connection is that after the murders, the bodies were mutilated,” Coursey said.
“With a fork,” Dailey added.
“Six point three percent probability it’s the same guy.” Coursey nodded smartly. I think they practiced nodding smartly in the mirror.
I rubbed my eyes, getting some eyeliner on my fingers. For what I paid for eyeliner, it shouldn’t come off that easily.
“Gentlemen, I have a lot of work to do. If you’ll just leave the paperwork, I’ll go over it as soon as I can.”
“Your captain assured us that you’d give us your full cooperation, Lieutenant.”
“And I intend to, Agent Dailey.”
“I’m Coursey.”
“I intend to, Agent Coursey. But my captain also expects me to have all of my reports done on time. I have a backlog of six cases I still haven’t transferred, and there were two more shooting deaths in my district last night that need to be attended to.”
“Were those shotgun deaths?” Coursey raised his eyebrows.
“No. Now thanks for your help, but right now I’ve got other things to do.”
I stood up. Dailey and Coursey did their looking at each other thing, and then got to their feet as well.
“I just hope we treat you with greater courtesy when the jurisdiction for this case is turned over to us.” Dailey nodded curtly.
Coursey added a curt nod of his own.
“I’m sure you will.” I walked around my desk and sat down in my chair, which was unpleasantly warm. They gathered up their respective papers and headed for the door, but a lingering thought made me stop them.
“Guys—your computer, Vicky, does it handle more than just terminal occurrences?”
“Yes. It is also a nationwide database for felonies such as rape, arson, and bank robberies.”
“How about poisoning? Product tampering?”
They nodded as one. I told them about the package I’d gotten earlier, ending the story by showing them the lethal X ray.
“Would your computer be able to locate other tamperings like this one?”
“I believe so. Can we keep this?”
I nodded, giving them directions to the lab so they could check out the goods themselves. Maybe, for the first time, the FBI would help out rather than get in the way. Hope springs eternal.
I wasn’t lying about the backlog of cases, and after making a few calls and filling out a few reports, I transferred them all so I could devote my full attention to the Jane Doe murder. Going over the case again from the beginning didn’t yield any new information, but it helped me organize the info I did have.
Lab report pending, I was 99 percent sure that Dr. Booster and our Jane Doe had been killed by the same perp. He was calling himself the Gingerbread Man, and after forcing Booster to write him a prescription for Seconal, he used it to abduct Jane Doe.
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