The Samaritan

by Cross, Mason

  “Sorry.” She smiled, hoping the bright sunlight streaming through the window didn’t highlight the dark circles around her eyes too much. “Still getting used to the traffic in this town.”

  The FBI guy returned the smile and reached his hand across the table. “You’re not from here?” he said, adding, “Special Agent James Channing . . . Jim,” as they shook. He was in his mid-forties, she guessed. In good shape, broad shoulders, a healthy California tan. No dark shadows under his eyes. He’d probably woken up at five a.m. and gone for a ten-mile run before oatmeal and fruit juice.

  “I’m from DC, originally. Metro PD, transferred out here six months back,” she said, keeping it short so as not to aggravate the others further.

  Channing nodded. He glanced at Lawrence. “Do we need to . . . ?” he asked, meaning did they need to stop and bring Allen up to speed.

  “I don’t think so. Detective Allen knows everything we know.” He fixed Allen with a stare. “Probably more.”

  She avoided his gaze and cleared her throat. This was the last thing she’d wanted, to be on the back foot for this meeting.

  “So how’s this going to work?” she said, speaking to Channing, her tone deliberately challenging.

  Channing blinked and took a moment to collect himself. “This thing is big; I don’t have to tell you that. We’ve had people chasing down possible leads on this killer since Lieutenant Lawrence got in touch yesterday afternoon.”

  He hadn’t taken the opportunity to stress the yesterday afternoon, so either he was being very diplomatic about the fact the LAPD had sat on information about a homicide investigation that crossed state lines, or Lawrence had left that part out. She was betting on the latter.

  “As I was explaining before you came in, we’ve now identified potential linked cases in a further four states, bringing the total to eleven states. Potential victims? Over sixty.”

  Lieutenant Whitmore broke in then. She had dark hair trimmed short, was about five two and of slight build: diminutive in appearance, but with a loud, assertive voice that brooked no dissent. “It looks like the bastard is doing a regular American tour. I hope he’s signed up for frequent flier miles.”

  Allen had met Whitmore only once before and didn’t know her well enough to tell if that was a joke. It would make catching the killer a hell of a lot easier if he had been dumb enough to travel using commercial airlines, but given the profile she’d built up already, she very much doubted it.

  “We don’t know for sure that all of those cases are connected, of course,” Channing continued. “Could be fewer, could be more. The best way to find out for sure will be to catch this guy and ask him.”

  Allen smirked and looked at Mazzucco. “There you go. Why didn’t we think of that?”

  “Take it easy, Allen,” Lawrence said.

  The smile faded from Channing’s face and he turned back to Allen. She wondered if he was riled and was irritated to see he was being . . . patient with her. That was the only way to describe it. “You did a great job making the case-to-case link between here and some of the other states, Detective,” he said. “No one’s questioning that.”

  Mazzucco spoke next, probably because he knew Allen would say it if he didn’t. “But now the big boys can take over.”

  Channing sighed, almost inaudibly, but loud enough for Allen to hear and take some satisfaction. He looked at Lawrence, as if to say, Can you step in here? No help was forthcoming.

  “A little more blunt than I would have liked,” Lawrence said after a second, “but I guess that is what we’re here to establish, Agent Channing.”

  “That’s not how we work, Lieutenant. We don’t see any value in freezing out local expertise. I’m here to liaise—”

  “You can skip the five steps of handling local cops, Agent. What does it mean in practice? In this case.”

  Channing nodded, smiling as though he was glad he was able to talk straight, person to person.

  “The Bureau is investigating these murders as one multistate case. Are we best placed to carry out this work nationwide? Absolutely. The homicides on your patch are very recent, and you’re already running a very effective investigation, from what I’ve seen. Do I want to throw that out just because of some historical pissing contest we’re supposed to be having with the LAPD? Hell no, I don’t. I need you on board. We need everyone on this.” He made eye contact with the four of them, finishing up with Allen for the last sentence.

  Allen found herself caught between hating and admiring him, because his manner was effective. She could see why he’d been chosen for the sensitive job of liaison to the LAPD. She’d be amazed if he didn’t transfer to politics sometime soon with these people skills.

  There was a knock on the door and Allen turned around to see Felicia from reception sticking her head around the door, as though she didn’t want to open it too far. “Lieutenant Lawrence?”

  Lawrence looked up. “The shrink? Send him in.”

  Felicia closed the door again and returned a few moments later, opening it wide. The consultant psychologist walked into the room. He was quite tall and very thin. He carried a leather briefcase and wore a light gray suit and a matching tie over a crisp white shirt. “Dr. Gregory Trent,” Lawrence said, greeting him as they shook hands. “This is Lieutenant Anne Whitmore, from the Office of the Chief of Police, and Special Agent Jim Channing of the FBI. You probably know Detectives Mazzucco and Allen already.”

  Trent smiled briefly as he shook hands with Allen. She didn’t know him, in fact, but she’d seen him around, and she knew how much he billed per hour. She knew Lawrence liked him because he was thorough as well as being fast: a rare combination that enabled him to command exorbitant rates.

  When the introductions were done and coffee poured, Trent opened his briefcase and took out a couple of documents. “Before I get going, I’d like to ask you for your take on the perpetrator of these three homicides,” he said, addressing all five of them. He spoke with a British accent that had had the sharp edges sanded off by a decade or more in Southern California.

  “Actually, it’s looking like a lot more than three—” Channing began.

  Trent cut him off abruptly. “We’ll get to that. My brief was to compile a profile for the unknown subject who killed, mutilated, and buried the three bodies you found out in the Santa Monica Mountains. That’s what I’ve focused on.” He paused and looked at each face in turn. “Now, I’m aware that since I was commissioned, it has come to light that the individual responsible may have committed crimes in other jurisdictions. From my appraisal of the additional information sent through to me yesterday evening, I can say with a reasonable degree of certainty that there is a very strong likelihood that you’re on the right track with these apparently linked investigations in other states. In fact, it preempts one of my key recommendations. So, with all of that in mind, I’m interested in the primary investigators’ take on the killer.”

  All eyes moved to Mazzucco and Allen. Mazzucco scratched his neck where there was a small patch of razor burn and looked at Allen before answering first.

  “Definitely not a first timer was my first instinct, and it looks like that’s been borne out already. All three victims bore very similar wounds. No hesitation, no deviation. He wasn’t experimenting with anything different, just doing what he’s used to.”

  No one in the room called Mazzucco on his use of the male pronoun, Allen noticed. They were all used to the convention in homicide investigations of referring to unidentified murderers as he. It was not just a figure of speech, but also a safe bet, considering the miniscule proportion of women who ended up being convicted for serial murders of strangers. Allen herself would be amazed if it turned out the Samaritan was a woman.

  Mazzucco had paused, as though figuring out how he could put the next thought into words.

  “It was like the victims had been . . . processed. You know what I mean? He knew what he wanted to do and went ahead and did it as carefully and as efficientl
y as possible. The graves were like that, too: just deep enough to keep them from the coyotes. He got rid of their clothes and belongings and made their vehicles disappear. If it hadn’t been for the landslide, we’d have three missing persons cases and we’d still be none the wiser about this guy.”

  Trent looked pleased but didn’t say anything. He switched his gaze to Allen.

  Allen cleared her throat, thinking about how to structure her answer to avoid discussing the suspicions she’d held on to for longer than she should have. “The MO for the abductions is starting to look pretty consistent, for these three anyway. He targets lone female drivers at night. Smart, because they’re the most vulnerable, the easiest to deal with. At first we were working on the assumption that he gets them to stop somehow, but one of the victims made a call to Triple A, reporting a breakdown before she and her vehicle disappeared. That means it’s possible he’s finding people who have broken down, offering them help, and abducting them.”

  “Hence the name you people have come up with for him,” Trent said.

  “Don’t blame us,” Allen said. “You know how it is; you can’t sell newspapers without a catchy name.”

  Trent angled his head. “I would argue that it doesn’t do your investigation any harm, Detective. If a name brand for our killer helps more of the public pay attention, it makes your job easier in terms of keeping people safe and vigilant.”

  Allen didn’t say anything, but she thought he might actually have a point. “The Samaritan” was a useful-enough name for the purposes of public awareness. It even suggested the situations in which people should be most wary. Assuming he continued to stick to the MO, of course. There was no guarantee that he would, particularly because he’d done things differently in other areas.

  Jim Channing sat back in his seat once he was sure Allen didn’t want to speak further. “Dr. Trent,” he said, doing a reasonable job of covering up his irritation at being interrupted earlier. “I think we’d all be interested in your expert take on the type of individual we’re dealing with here.”

  Trent paused for effect, a twinkle in his eye betraying how much he was enjoying the attention, the weight of expectation. “I’ve worked in the field of forensic psychology for more than twenty years. I’ve used my skills to assist this department and others to track down a great many murderers. Bear that in mind, please, when I tell you that I think this individual, this . . . Samaritan . . . is without a doubt the most dangerous psychopath I have ever investigated.”

  40

  In the end, Dr. Trent’s report didn’t throw up anything they hadn’t been expecting in terms of gender, race, or personality type. The thing that surprised Allen was how unsurprised Trent seemed by the revelation of dozens of previously undetected cases in other states.

  The psychologist’s opinion, having looked closely at all of the information available on the three initial homicides, was that they were looking for a high-functioning psychopath with a strictly methodical approach to his work and a great deal of experience in killing human beings. In terms of a profile, Trent thought they should be looking for a white American male in his thirties or forties. Intelligent, wily and physically strong. From the initial evidence, he thought it was likely that the individual was a native of Los Angeles, as suggested by his choice of abduction method and body disposal site, and further by the fact he’d found a way to make the vehicles disappear, rendering the trail even colder. In the light of the potentially related cases that had surfaced in other states, Trent conceded that his initial opinion of the Samaritan being from LA was open to question but was adamant that he must at least have spent enough time here to develop strong local knowledge. He opined that there was no reason he couldn’t have used LA as a base from which to travel to his other hunting grounds.

  Trent said that the individual would probably be quiet and reserved, a loner. He would have few close friends but might well hold down a steady job. He would be unassuming but not unapproachable, given his likely abduction process, and it was likely he could be charming when it was required. The Samaritan would be someone capable of blending into the background, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  Those words had triggered the memory of the encounter on the roof of the parking structure. Open hands and a disarming smile. I don’t think he’s stupid enough to walk up to you and introduce himself.

  She’d tried to put those suspicions to one side for now, made herself focus on what the shrink was saying.

  The lack of evidence of sexual assault on the female victims was interesting, he thought, as was the quite specific victim profile in the LA cases. He confirmed Allen’s impression that the Samaritan was all about the kill: not motivated by sexual aggression, but by the unique thrill of ending another person’s life. Trent offered an aside that the disinterest in sex would probably translate to his “normal” life as well, and could suggest a difficult relationship with his mother. He’d smiled disarmingly at that, cracking, “But, then, I have to drop some Freud in somewhere; otherwise people get disappointed.” Following on from that, Trent posited that he would not be surprised if the killer’s mother—or some other female close to him—resembled the victims.

  So far, so routine. But Trent had one other supposition, one that reminded Allen of what the medical examiner had said. He thought it was very likely that the Samaritan had military training. And not just any military training, either.

  “He plans these murders carefully,” he’d said. “They’re not random crimes of passion, although he does enjoy his work—there’s no doubt of that. The planning, the setup, the execution, the way he removes vehicles and clothes and personal effects. The care he takes not to leave DNA or fingerprints. That he takes his victims from one place, kills them in another place, and dumps them in a third place. It’s like he’s sanitizing. Erasing the evidence he was ever there.”

  “What are you saying?” Channing, the FBI liaison had asked him. “Are you talking some kind of black ops experience? CIA or something?”

  “That would fit,” Trent had agreed. “A regular serviceman would be much more likely to use a gun. And far more likely to kill people in a spree, rather than one by one. It’s the evidence of training and the approach he takes that suggests that type of background to me.”

  Channing in particular had pushed him on the other cases in the eleven states that had been identified as possibly related. Dr. Trent had reiterated that he hadn’t been asked to or had time to look into this in detail, but he was firm that nothing he’d seen so far conflicted with anything he’d gleaned from the initial investigation in LA. In fact, everything he’d read had reinforced his conclusions: an intelligent, meticulous lone psychopath with military training. The possibility of multiple murders in other states merely proved how careful the killer was: roaming far and wide, concealing some bodies, allowing others to be found. He’d operated undetected for at least five years and possibly longer.

  Finally, he’d confirmed their assumption that the primary crime scene would be within a three- to five-mile radius of the dump site. Which still left tens of thousands of homes and hundreds of miles of hiking trails to check. Trent’s final words seemed to create a tangible chill in the room.

  “I’m afraid he won’t stop until he’s caught. There’s no burnout with this type of killer.”

  As the meeting broke up, Allen checked her phone and found two missed calls: one from Denny and one from Darryl Caine in Traffic. She returned the second one and learned that they’d caught a break: Long Beach PD had reported that Sarah Dutton’s Porsche had been found on their turf.

  Allen didn’t complain when Mazzucco offered to drive, and they made the journey in almost total silence, both of them processing the information from the meeting they’d just left. Mazzucco broke the silence after fifteen slow minutes on the 710.

  “So, basically, we’ve narrowed it down to an outwardly normal male with psychopathic tendencies.” He looked from one side to the other. “I guess he picked the right tow
n.”

  “The special ops angle is interesting,” Allen said. “Remember what Burke said about seeing that kind of thing in the army? It ties in, and it’s a little more specific. If Trent is onto something, we might be able to narrow it down that way.”

  “I thought you said behavioral profiling was a crock of shit.”

  Allen was distracted, suddenly thinking about Blake again. Blake and his well-informed tip about Fort Bragg. They trained Special Forces at Bragg, didn’t they?

  “Allen?”

  She looked back at him. “When did I say that?”

  “Most recently?” He thought about it. “Last week. But you say it a lot.”

  Allen rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. I was just talking about guys like that drawing big bucks for applying the same common sense that you and I use every day. But yeah, okay, I’ll admit it. This time he came up with something that might be useful.”

  “Might. You know what the problem is?”

  “Same as it was before: narrowing the suspect pool down.” Allen looked out of the window as the traffic flew past on the opposite side of the central reservation. “The United States has been at war in various countries for a decade and a half. There’s probably more people walking around with the kind of skills and experience Trent was describing than at any time in history.”

  “Scary, when you put it that way.”

  “And if we’re talking CIA or the SEALs or whatever, we’re getting into sealed records territory, government-approved fake identities.”

  “Maybe Channing will be able to help with that.”

  Allen looked back at him and smiled over her glasses. “Ever the optimist, Jon.” They passed a minute in silence before Allen said, “I think we should talk to Blake.”

  Mazzucco scrunched up his face. He didn’t say anything.