by A B Whelan
My friend’s hands slide down to the lower part of the steering wheel, and she arches her back. It’s a posture indicating the beginning of an unhappy story.
“We don’t see each other anymore,” she says, chewing her gum violently. “We both have crazy schedules, and we just couldn’t make it work.”
“I’m sorry. You should have called me. We could have gone out for a drink and talked shit about Tyler.” I fix a feigned grin on my face.
My offer draws a faint smile onto my partner’s lips. She glances at me, bobbing her head. “You’re right. I should have told you. But there’s no need to talk ill of him. He was a good guy. My cute little northern saw-whet owl. Our breakup was amicable. Very adult-ish.”
“That’s better, I guess, but it still sucks. Nevertheless, my offer for a drink still stands. Okay?”
“I may take you up on that.”
We hit stop-and-go traffic again near Escondido and continue on Highway 78. While the seat in Anaya’s Chevrolet Equinox is comfortable, sitting for this long is causing me discomfort. As my partner complains about lousy drivers holding up the traffic in front of us, I pull out my cellphone and text Doug, asking him about last night.
His reply: We didn’t do anything we haven’t done before.
Maybe I imagine things. The blood I washed away in the shower this morning might have been a random discharge between two periods. I tend to skip my annual doctor’s visits, but I still look up information online regarding my health. Women my age complain about irregular menstruation cycles all the time, especially those who’ve never given birth. Shit, I feel old.
After a short stretch of silence, indicating that a change of topic is in order, Anaya turns to me and asks. “So, what're your thoughts on this homicide?”
“It’s a tricky one. At first glance, it seems to me that a local perpetrator evolved from burglary to murder. It’s not common, but it does happen. Meredith’s murder is identical to the previous victim’s murder. What was her name?” I flip through the pages. “Oh, here, Linda Osborne. But there’s inconsistency in the way he selects his victims. All the former victims were between eighteen and twenty-five, lived alone, no kids, single. However, Meredith was thirty-two and a mother. That raises flags for me. It initially appears to me that the perpetrator meant to commit the crime with minimal collateral damage to his victims. The evidence indicates he stalked each victim to find the perfect time to break into their homes when nobody was there. He had plenty of time to ransack the place. Linda Osborne was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Exactly. Linda’s death doesn’t have the premeditation angle to it. It was a crime of necessity, and the perpetrator had to improvise. Yet the second murder is identical to the first one. If this bloody cassowary did enjoy the first killing and decided to do it again, wouldn’t he plan it the second time around? If he did, the two murders wouldn’t have been committed in the exact same fashion, don’t you think?”
She was right, of course. I could see her point. I may have come to the same conclusion myself if not for this spitting headache that kept tormenting me.
“What’s a cassowary?” Knowing Anaya it must be another bird I’ve never heard of.
She motions with her hand. “It’s a flightless bird living in Australia. Very aggressive. It’s known to kill humans.”
I smooth my hair back and take a deep breath. “All right. Let’s assume this crime is the work of our Piggyback Killer. Now we need evidence to support the theory.”
My phone buzzes. I show the screen display to Anaya.
She scoffs. “Right on time. We’re almost there.”
“Chief,” I answer.
“Agent Collins, you are harder to reach than the president. Have you been spending your paid vacation fishing?”
Shit, he knows what I’ve been doing? “No, sir. I-I don’t like fishing.” Christ, Vicky! “I mean, I accidentally muted my phone and um, missed a few important calls this morning.”
“Relax, Vicky, I’m messing with you. Anyway, I believe you already talked to Agent Reed this morning, so I’m calling to confirm that your return to the Bureau is temporarily approved. All the paperwork is on my desk.” I hear a pounding sound as he must have brought down his fist onto a stack of paper. “Your team is assigned to investigate the murders in San Marcos. Please approach the locals with caution. It’s primarily their investigation, not ours. You are there to collaborate, collect information, and bring everything back to the office for analysis. Understood?”
“Crystal clear, sir. Thank you.”
“All right. I look forward to seeing what you three manage to gather. I hope Reed’s suspicion pays off because I’m being pressured by D.C. We need more than theories about this so-called Piggyback Killer. We need proof. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. We won’t let you down. That’s a promise.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
Anaya is pulling a silent theater next to me, indicating I went overboard with kissing the chief’s ass. I wave my hand at her to stop before I burst into laughter.
After I hang up, I gulp down two aspirins with half a bottle of water. I’m parched and feel weak. If I had such a good time last night that this is the aftermath, I wish at least I could remember it.
“See, you’re more valuable to the Bureau than you may think,” Anaya concludes, as we turn west on San Marcos Boulevard, placing us two minutes from our destination.
I have no response to her comment. I feel anything but valuable right now.
San Marcos is a city in the North County region of San Diego County, with plenty of restaurants, coffee shops, and parks. It’s also a college town, housing tens of thousands of students—many for the first time in their lives without parental guidance. For experienced and cunning predators, these young adults, filled with a sense of invincibility but lacking caution, can be easy targets. I remember when I was in college, thinking the world was my oyster, that there was nothing I couldn’t do. And while those feelings of empowerment helped me through my exams and early job interviews, they led me to do stupid things, like walking home alone from parties, rip-roaring drunk. The fact that I’d never fallen victim to sexual assault, never been kidnapped or murdered is a mere miracle. I came to appreciate my luck after working with homicide detectives during my time on the force. Not all girls were as lucky as me, like this young woman whose homicide we’re investigating.
Based on the research I’m conducting on my laptop while Anaya is driving, murder is nearly non-existent in San Marcos; however, the frequency of sexual assaults and home invasions has increased in recent years. This case may be completely unrelated to our special investigation, merely a chain of events similar to the other homicides. The possibility of linking the Piggyback Killer we’ve been chasing to Meredith’s murder puts me on edge, especially when I’m hungover. I’ve become accustomed to hunting down offenders online during my time with the cybercrime unit for the police department, but the fieldwork aspect of the job is relatively new to me. I fear looking incompetent in front of experienced detectives, but luckily Anaya has enough confidence for the both of us, and for now, I’m okay working in her shadow.
Our crime scene lies in the Sunset Apartments, just off the boulevard. It’s a bare, two-story rectangular building housing four two-bedroom condos. Meredith’s door is concealed by a wooden staircase leading to the second floor and a row of hedges by the sidewalk—a likely reason the killer may have picked her.
Anaya pulls in next to a police cruiser, and we are immediately bathed in flashing blue lights. Yellow police tape stretches across the entire parking lot. A Hispanic woman is pulling on it as a uniformed officer is trying to keep her back. A small kid is crying on her hip, and two more young children are clinging to her thighs. I interpret the signs as a tenant trying to access her home.
“Here we go!” says Anaya as she opens her door. “Put on your game face. It won’t be easy to get these old dogs to accept our authority.”<
br />
“Happen to you before? It’s my first field assignment. I wouldn’t know.”
“Yeah, look at us. I’m a black woman with a British accent and you are, well, you are a blonde. I can only imagine the stereotypes running through their heads right now!”
“I’m not blond, my hair is light brown,” I correct her. “Let’s ignore the politics and get the job done. I’m not going to get caught up in some bullshit pissing contest.”
We make our badges visible as we approach the circle of men standing on the sidewalk near the staircase.
“Gentlemen, how are you?” Anaya’s greeting is met with six sets of suspicious eyes.
“The press release will be this afternoon. No comment until then,” says a round-faced pale man with a thick mustache.
“We won’t miss it, thank you,” Anaya says professionally, then holds up her identification. “I’m Special Agent Anaya Reed and this is Special Agent Vicky Collins from the FBI’s San Diego office. I believe you’ve been notified about our arrival?”
A sudden change in the air is palpable. Some of the men in the circle make excuses to leave, others step closer to us.
A bald man with thick muscular arms offers his hand. “Sorry about the confusion. I’m the lead investigator on this case. Detective David Brown from the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department. One of your agents is already here. We didn’t expect more of you.”
The wailing of the Hispanic woman suddenly fills the air. She’s broken through the police tape, and two officers are having to aggressively keep her back.
“Relative of the victim?” I ask.
“No. A tenant from Apartment 2A,” Brown points to the second floor. “The building hasn’t been cleared yet, so she can’t return home.”
“Did you find any evidence of the perpetrator making his way to the second floor?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then what do you need to grant her access to her home? Those kids look hungry and tired. She may have no other place to go.”
“Well, Agent Collins, is it? First, we need to collect all the footprints and tire marks around the building, then search every square inch of the outside for trace evidence—that includes the staircase as well. Once the CSI guys give me the green light, I’ll grant the tenant access to her apartment,” Brown says mockingly.
“Where are we in the investigation now?” Anaya cuts in, saving me from further embarrassment.
“We got a blood splatter specialist on the scene. He’s inside right now with your agent. The rest? You need to talk to that man over there.” Brown points to a white coverall-clad tall male, searching a forensic kit in the trunk of a black SUV.
“I’ll meet you inside,” I tell Anaya. I pull out my wallet as I approach the mom and children. I took Spanish in college, and although a bit rusty, I manage to convey she should spend some time at the Denny’s across the street. I hand her forty dollars. She takes the money without saying thanks and ushers the kids toward the diner.
I return to the crime scene, and as I step in, Detective Brown calls after me. “I hope you haven’t had breakfast yet. It’s not a pleasant sight in there.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I smile at him to smooth over our initial hostile introduction. He responds with a meek “Good luck” and hands me a sick bag.
18
Brestler notices me in the foyer and waves me inside. The female crime-scene investigator logging evidence outside the door nods to confirm that the scene had been processed and I’m permitted to enter.
The first thing that hits me is the putrid smell of blood, urine, and some other unpleasant odor I can’t identify. In the seconds following death, unintentional discharge of body fluids is common. However, the rancid odors don’t deter me from moving toward the crime scene. As the oldest sibling growing up, I was in charge of cleaning the dirty bathrooms.
I take my time to catalog the state of the home on my way to the kitchen, where Brestler and Reed are conversing with two officials in white coveralls. The place has clearly been ransacked, although piles of clothes on the dirty floor and other masses of clutter are evidence that it wasn’t a well-organized home to begin with.
A string of alpha-numeric yellow identification markers placed alongside bloody footprints leads me on my path. The body had already been taken by the forensic medical examiner in the early morning hours. In its place, hundreds of sticky-notes label the different types of blood spatters on the walls and furniture. Detective Brown was right: it is a freaking bloodbath in here.
“See all the castoff blood spatters?” Brestler speaks directly to me. “They all came from the assailant’s knife as he repeatedly stabbed the victim.” He imitates a series of stabbing motions with his hand, and from his performance, a chill runs down my spine.
“We won’t know until the autopsy is complete, but judging by the number of different castoff spatters, I can confidently state the victim was stabbed at least a dozen times. Henry Shin. Blood Spatter Expert, San Diego County Sheriff’s Department.” A graying Asian man with a double chin, clad head-to-toe in white, introduces himself. He puts up his gloved hands, indicating we must skip shaking hands. It’s not like I was going for it.
I squat down to examine the pool of dried blood on the tile floor. “Did the technicians find any usable fingerprints?”
Shin pulls the zipper down to his stomach. “The unit collected over a hundred fingerprints from the apartment. It will take time to eliminate the victim’s fingerprints and anyone who had a legitimate reason to be in the apartment. I don’t have high hopes of finding any foreign prints. The perpetrator has never left a print at prior scenes. He’s likely wearing gloves to avoid leaving any.”
“But you never know, right?” Reed instigates.
Shin raises his eyes to her and pushes his round glasses back into place. “Right. You never know.”
“Do we have the time of death?” I ask.
Brestler flips a page on his notes. “Based on rigor mortis, the ME places the timeline between 1 a.m. and 5 a.m. on Thursday morning.”
“We will have a more accurate time after the autopsy,” Anaya informs me.
“Hell of a way to celebrate our Independence.” My mind slips away to yesterday’s party, where I was drinking, talking, and enjoying my time with friends, while this poor girl was fighting for her life. As our world gets more crowded, I swear not a second goes by without someone suffering. My job is hard enough without letting myself get distracted about dark places. Though I still feel dizzy and sick, I bring my mind back to the present.
I look up at my partner. “What do you think?”
Anaya is already focused like a hunting dog that’s found a fresh scent on the trail. “The two crimes are too identical. This case can’t be written off as the MO of a serial killer. It’s an exact copy of the Osborne murder. Fits our copycat’s profile.” Anaya is getting herself worked up. She is committed. Passionate. That’s why she is a damn good investigator.
“So you truly believe that the two crimes were committed by two different perps?” I ask.
Anaya smacks her lips. “I bloody believe so,” she says and sips at her tea. “Linda Osborne must have been collateral damage. She came home at the wrong time. Her death was a mistake. The bloke just wanted to rob her place and not murder her. So why do it again?”
“He might have enjoyed the first kill and wanted to feel the rush again,” I say with conviction. Anaya’s theory was starting to make sense, but I still felt the need to argue. “So, he planned the attack on Meredith.”
Anaya offers me her cup of beverage, but by the color of it, I can tell she put milk in her tea again. Too British for me, so I politely decline.
My partner’s face fixes into seriousness. “If you killed someone by accident, a crime of desperation, yet somehow you enjoyed it and decided to do it again, wouldn’t you do a cleaner job the second time around? Wouldn’t you plan it better? I mean, look at this bloody mess?” Anaya points her
pen at me. “Our Piggyback Killer has done this. I feel it in my guts.”
I nod at my partner, “We still need proof.”
I straighten back up and address the crime-scene investigator standing across from me. “The bloody footprint in the foyer, does it match the footprints collected at the previous crime scenes?”
He is a strong-built man in his late forties. His facial features remind me of Batman’s archenemy, the Joker. His bushy eyebrows curve mischievously as he talks and the corner of his mouth rises high, creating a heart-shaped mouth lined with rows of big white teeth. He looks as if he is smiling, but he isn’t. His thick mustache runs parallel with his hairline, making his face look somewhat rectangular. His dark locks of hair are secured into a tight manbun. He strikes me as a man devoted to his hobbies and interests, likely preventing him from ever starting a family.
“I only have the preliminary examination results at the moment, the findings have to be verified before I can say for sure.”
“Off the record, if you have to take a wild guess?”
In a murder investigation, every element is equally important, like pieces of a puzzle. Even though some crime-scene investigators like to believe that their area of expertise is more important than others’.
The big man grimaces as he gives in to the pressure of our staring eyes. “The footprints we collected inside the apartment and around the perimeters of the property are consistent with the prints collected at the previous break-ins. A man’s size nine and a half athletic shoe. Unfortunately, it’s a common brand and widely available,” he says in a monotone voice, not blinking.