The Samaritan

by Cross, Mason

  Goal one: find Sarah Dutton. Goal two: confirm the IDs on the remaining victims. Goal three: start chasing up leads, identifying suspects. As they’d anticipated, Lawrence had already engaged a forensic psychologist to produce a psych profile on the killer.

  The final point was maybe the toughest one: manage the media.

  “Let’s keep it by the book,” Lawrence said. “Release the basics: location of the bodies, number of victims, names when next of kin have been notified, not before. No speculation, nothing specific around cause of death. We’re following a number of lines of inquiry. You know the drill.”

  Allen nodded, conscious of the need to feed the media without compromising the investigation. If they wanted to be able to sort the kooks from the genuine leads, they needed to keep the details under wraps: stuff like the fact they’d been buried, the fact they were all nude, the torture wounds . . . and of course, those ragged, grinning neck slits. Allen’s mind wandered to those ragged edges and then back to Washington.

  “Allen?”

  She snapped back into the present, feeling like she’d been caught daydreaming in class. She winged it, assuming she was being asked for general feedback.

  “Sounds solid,” she said. “We need to find Sarah, although I don’t think any of us are expecting to find her alive now. Aside from that, the priority is establishing where these women were when they went missing, that and finding the vehicles. We know that, we’re on track to finding out how he’s abducting them.”

  Lawrence stared at her for a moment and then nodded. “Okay. We’re already getting a lot of calls about this; looks like one of the victims was some kind of celebrity, whatever that means anymore. The chief’s talking about a press conference, and he likes to have somebody close to the case up there with him. You up for it, Allen? You’re the primary.”

  She nodded. “Sure.”

  Lawrence told them to get to it and picked up his phone as they exited his office, Allen closing the door behind them.

  Mazzucco almost walked right into Don McCall as he turned into the corridor. The solidly built, clean-shaven SIS captain was coming the other way, holding a paper cup of coffee, which he exaggeratedly swung out of harm’s way.

  “Whoa, easy there, tiger.”

  Mazzucco grumbled an apology and tried to keep going, but McCall tapped him on the shoulder with his free hand. An onlooker might have seen it as a friendly gesture rather than the deliberate invasion of personal space it was.

  “I hear you two caught a big one. Need any help?”

  Mazzucco sighed and met McCall’s eyes. “Thanks. We got it.”

  McCall grinned and looked at Allen. “I bet. Watch and learn, Allen. Mazzy here will have the snazziest SharePoint environment set up in good time for the next body.”

  Mazzucco leaned closer, so their faces were inches apart. “You’re right, McCall. Maybe I should go out and shoot a few unarmed suspects dead to get the ball rolling. That approach work better for you?”

  The smile vanished from McCall’s face. “That was ruled a good shooting, Mazzucco.”

  They were referring to the incident the previous December, not long after Allen had transferred in. McCall’s team had had a couple of armed robbery suspects under surveillance in Crenshaw. They’d ambushed the two suspects in their vehicle and things had gotten ugly. The net result was two dead suspects—only one of them armed—and one dead civilian by the name of Levon Jackson, a twenty-four-year-old local resident who multiple witnesses said hadn’t even been near the two suspects and their car. Had Jackson not had an impressive list of busts for selling crack cocaine, things might have gone a lot worse for McCall. But Allen had it on good authority that things never seemed to go all the way bad for McCall.

  McCall opened his mouth to say something, then reconsidered as he thought of a more subtle way to get Mazzucco’s back up, turning to smile at Allen.

  “Good thing your partner’s leading on this. I heard she knows how to get things done. That right, Allen?”

  She didn’t return the smile. “Your coffee’s getting cold, Don.”

  McCall shrugged, met Mazzucco’s eyes again with a cold stare, and then passed by them. He gave Lawrence’s door a cursory knock and entered.

  “I wonder what that’s about,” Allen said, watching as the door closed again.

  Her partner shrugged. “Probably just asking again why it is they can’t have tactical nukes.”

  “I guess he wouldn’t still be around if he didn’t have a use,” Allen mused.

  “That’s one way of looking at it. It’s assholes like him that give all of us a bad name.”

  They headed into the main squad room, where the orange light on Mazzucco’s desk phone was flashing to indicate voicemail. Allen hoped it was the callback he was waiting on from AAA. He sat down at his desk to listen to the message, and Allen circled around the hub to her own desk, which faced Mazzucco’s. In contrast to Mazzucco’s neat, squared-away desk, hers was littered with assorted reports and stationery and doodled-on pieces of notepaper. She raised the handset of her phone and dialed a number. The call put her through to the Metropolitan Police Department of the District of Columbia. Allen cleared her throat and kept her voice low. She didn’t want anyone else—even Mazzucco—to hear this until she was sure. She identified herself and asked for Lieutenant Michael Sanding in the Homicide division. The call was transferred, and a minute later a familiar voice answered.

  “Sanding.”

  “Hey, Mike. Got five minutes for an old acquaintance?”

  “Allen,” he said at once, his voice perking up. “How you been? You still in LA?”

  “Yeah. I had to stop going when I realized they put an ocean right in my way.”

  “How are you doing?” He paused, sounding circumspect, like he wanted to know, but didn’t want to ask her straight out. “You . . . okay?”

  “I’m great,” she said briskly. “Be even better if you can help me out on something, though.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Two and a half years back. Body in the Potomac. Ring any bells?”

  “You’re gonna have to be more specific,” he cracked, sounding happier on less dangerous ground. He was exaggerating about needing to be more specific, but only mildly. The line went quiet, and she could hear him tapping a pen on his desk, the way he always did when he was thinking. “Sure. Fall time. Homeless guy, right? Can’t recall the name.”

  “There wasn’t one. We never got an ID. ”

  “That’s right. He’d been in the water a while, and there wasn’t much in the way of physical evidence. I guess he wasn’t missed. The body could have washed out to sea and nobody would have even known there’d been a murder.”

  Something about that sentence sent a shiver through Allen. It reminded her of something the uniform at the gravesite had said earlier, about the undiscovered dead in the mountains. That made her wonder how long Boden and the other two might have lain in their unmarked graves had it not been for the rain and the landslide.

  “Hello?” Sanding said. “Allen, you still there?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking. The guy in the Potomac, do you remember anything else about him?”

  “He had that weird slash cutting his throat. Like somebody had hacked away at it with a butter knife or something. The ME thought maybe it could have happened after he wound up in the river. Like he got caught on something that ripped the wound up more.”

  “Did you ever see anything else like that?”

  There was silence at the other end. No tapping this time.

  “Actually, yes. Maybe a couple of months before that. A snitch down in Columbia Heights. We found him in a boarded-up apartment; figured it was his homies did it. Looked like they’d found out he was telling tales out of school.”

  “How so?”

  “He’d been tortured. It was bad, Allen. Maybe the worst I’ve seen.”

  “Throat cut?”

  “Nah. Cigarette burns, missing digits, castration. Hi
s belly had been ripped open at the end of it, like he was literally spilling his guts. And the wound looked kind of like the one on the homeless guy.” He paused; then his voice got louder again, like he was returning to the present. “What’s this about, Jess?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” she said. “Thanks, Mike. I’ll call soon.”

  She hung up before he had a chance to question her further and stared at the postcard she’d pinned on the partition separating their desks. It was kind of a joke, a reproduction of some fifties advertising art, showing a glamorous couple lounging on the beach. Come to Los Angeles, California—City of Dreams! She always got a kick out of that whenever she looked up from crime scene pics of some grisly murder. She stared at the vibrant colors and the upbeat sentiment, lost in thought.

  Mazzucco’s fingers tapping on the partition snapped her out of it.

  “What?” she said, looking up.

  “The shift runner at the Triple A branch confirmed the timeline on Carrie Burnett. They took a call from her last Sunday night, saying she’d broken down on Laurel Canyon Boulevard. The tow truck driver got out there pretty quick because they prioritize single women. When he made it to the scene, there was no sign of her or her vehicle.”

  Allen opened her mouth to ask about the driver, but Mazzucco stopped her.

  “We’ve got somebody going to talk to the driver, but I think he’s clean. The manager checked the record before calling me back. Turns out these guys all ride with an onboard digital video camera now, for security. He drove out to the scene and the car wasn’t there. He made a call back to base and they told him to come back in. The tape backs up his account perfectly, as does the mileage on his truck and the fact he was assisting a different driver in West Hollywood a half hour later.”

  Allen thought about it. “Can we get them to check if there are any other no-shows? Anybody we can’t account for?”

  “Worth a shot.”

  Mazzucco’s hand was on the phone to call the AAA guy back when it rang again. He picked it up and said his name, then listened. He said okay and thanked whoever was on the other end, and then hung up.

  “We got confirmation on Carrie Burnett. Her prints were in the system for a DUI last year.”

  “Okay,” she said. “We need to find Sarah Dutton, and we need to know who the third victim is. I want to nail this guy, Mazzucco.”

  14

  Fort Lauderdale

  Since I was temporarily in the position of having nowhere in particular I had to be, I spent a day exploring Lauderdale on foot, getting to know a little more about the geography of the place, in case the local knowledge ever came in handy again. I avoided the area around the bar from the previous night, but covered a respectable chunk of the city, taking in the sights and the sounds and the smells. By the end of the day, even though the sun on my face was pleasant after a long winter, and even though there was no pressing reason to leave, my feet were getting itchy again. It never feels right to stick around too long after I’ve concluded a job. I ate a large and satisfying dinner in a beachfront burger joint and then headed back to my hotel. I gave my room number at the desk, and the attractive redhead located my keycard and tapped a couple of buttons on her computer. “Have you decided if you’ll be staying with us after tonight, Mr. Adams?”

  I smiled and shook my head. I was planning on checking out in the morning and then Mr. Neal Adams of Lansing, Michigan, would be gone, never to be seen again.

  “Back home tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

  She smiled and assured me the room would be available if I changed my mind. I paid for checkout in advance, just in case I decided to leave early, and ascended one flight of stairs to my floor. The second floor is always my preferred option: more difficult for somebody to break into, but easier to leave in a hurry than higher up. I slid the keycard into the lock and pushed the door open. I checked the couple of telltales I’d left to alert me to an intruder—force of habit, or maybe just superstition—and found the hair across the drawer in the bedside table and the tiny smear of toothpaste under the bathroom doorknob, just the way I’d left them.

  Satisfied, I slid my jacket off and hung it up in the closet so it wouldn’t get creased. I took the remote from the bedside table and clicked the television on as I walked into the bathroom and turned the shower on. As I took off the rest of my clothes, I could hear the news drone away in the background beneath the sound of the water hitting the shower tray. Something about an upsurge of violence in Kashmir. I couldn’t help a grim smile at that. The more things change . . .

  I closed my eyes as I stepped under the powerful jet of water. I half expected to see Zoran’s face again, the look of surprise on his face that had stayed with me, but instead my thoughts drifted much further back. The news report had drawn old memories to the surface. Memories of my own experience of Kashmir, a place where sudden upsurge of violence was just another term for everyday life. SSDD, Murphy had called it: Same Shit, Different Day. We’d accomplished what we’d set out to do in our brief sojourn there, but it had not gone smoothly. I’d begun to see things I didn’t like in some of the other men, like Dixon and Crozier. Especially Crozier. I’d never really thought about it before, but Kashmir had been the beginning of a long journey that had culminated in Winterlong and me going our separate ways.

  Ten minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom, toweling my hair dry. The news was still on, but the story had changed, moved closer to home. Breaking News, the bar along the bottom of the screen said. Which usually translates as news that broke eight hours ago, which we’ve been regurgitating ever since, adding some wild speculation and unconfirmed reports along the way. Los Angeles. Some new serial killer, three confirmed victims so far. Same Shit, Different Day.

  My eyes lingered on the screen for a second, taking in helicopter shots of a crime scene in what looked like the Santa Monica Mountains. Then I turned my attention to my laptop, checking my options for the journey home. Although calling it home seemed almost dishonest, given it was a place where I spent less than four months out of every year. Maybe it was time to change that.

  Earlier, I’d told Coop I was thinking of driving back. I said that for two good reasons: first, it gave him nothing to go on, the way a flight time or a specific airport might. I liked Coop, but I wasn’t kidding when I told him the less he knew about me the better. I liked being at large in the world, as Neal Adams or Carter Blake or whoever. But I had good reasons to keep a barrier between all of that and the place I chose to hang my hat. When a job was over, I made sure the trail went cold long before it ever reached home.

  The second reason was that I really hadn’t decided how I was traveling back home. The more I thought about it, though, the more driving appealed. It would take a couple of days at least, if I was in a hurry. But I wasn’t in a hurry. After all, what good was working for yourself if you couldn’t take a little time off? I decided to toast that thought, opening the minibar and taking out a cold bottle of Heineken. I took a swig and looked out at the lights of the traffic on North Atlantic Boulevard and the black ocean beyond that. I began to relax for the first time in days, or maybe longer than that.

  That was the ticket. Rent a fast car in the morning, maybe a soft top. I could make a week of it, decompress gradually, and maybe by the time I made it home, I would have worked out who I was when I was off-duty. The beer went down smoothly and quickly, and I started to think about another. I barely registered the excitable voice from the news trailing another major development.

  “. . . source within the LAPD has told this station that all three victims were murdered in exactly the same way: their throats brutally cut. What’s striking about these injuries is that they all seem to have been caused by the same type of weapon, which the police are speculating may be some kind of jagged, curved blade.”

  I froze, the bottle neck still touching my lips, and my eyes moved to the television screen. The reporter was live on the scene in LA; a caption on the screen told me she was Jennifer Quan,
from the local ABC affiliate. It was still light over there, at the other end of the continent. She was clutching her microphone and staring wide-eyed into the camera like an elementary school teacher telling a ghost story on Halloween.

  “The source added that these killings seemed to be almost ritualistic in nature . . . Whether that means there could be some kind of cult or satanic connection to these murders, we can’t speculate at this time.”

  I put the bottle down and swallowed the slug of beer that had lingered in my mouth. It tasted bitter all of a sudden.

  It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be him.

  15

  Los Angeles

  “Who the fuck talked to the press?”

  It was just after seven p.m. Allen had been waiting on a callback from Mike Sanding in DC when Ed Simon stopped by her desk and directed her attention to the screen on the south wall of the vast RHD squad room, where a peroxide-blond reporter was gleefully spilling restricted information on Allen’s case all over the airwaves. Her reaction was instantaneous and loud enough to draw the attention of each of the half-dozen other cops in the room.

  Most of them had the good sense to stay quiet. Joe Coleman, however, was not known for good sense. The pudgy, fiftyish detective displayed a broad smirk beneath his graying mustache. He turned his eyes away from the screen, and the smirk widened further still when he saw the anger in Allen’s face, his busy little brain obviously cueing up another wisecrack.

  “What’s the matter, Allen? Don’t you—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Coleman.” Allen stared him down until the smirk faded and he sat back down.

  The idiot on TV was blabbing away, telling the world that one of the victims had just been identified as reality TV celebrity Carrie Burnett. Allen thought that was stretching the definition of celebrity, but she wasn’t surprised. Then the reporter went ahead and revealed that one of the other victims was Kelly Boden of Reseda. Jesus, they even had a picture of her. The standard type of social media selfie that always looks so inappropriate when plastered over TV screens and newspapers to illustrate violent death. The view switched to reporters camped outside Burnett’s house, and another, much smaller group outside Richard Boden’s place. Allen felt bad about that, but knew it was inevitable. At least she could take comfort from the knowledge that Boden would have no problem telling them where to go if he didn’t feel like talking to them.