Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  Zach pulled out gloves and handed a pair to Beck. They entered Annika’s space and shut the door. The smell of baby powder and disuse hung in the air. A heavy layer of dust covered everything.

  Annika had been a fan of pink. Pink walls, pink camo comforter, pink lamp shades. Artsy posters decorated the walls—no boy bands or movie stars. Photos encircling the mirror were Annika with kids wearing hospital gowns. An excellent sketch of a unicorn signed with a smiley face was tacked to the wall next to her bed. Both double-hung windows were dusty, locked, and featured unbroken alarm tape. There was no attic access in the ceiling.

  “They searched her room after she disappeared, right?” Zach bent and lifted the dust ruffle. Nothing under the bed. Not so much as a stray sock. What teenager didn’t have stuff under the bed?

  “They searched it but didn’t find anything. Her laptop was checked and returned,” Beck said. “The whole case was weird.”

  “Were Annika’s keys recovered?”

  “They weren’t. The Ungers rekeyed everything.”

  How else could someone get in?

  After checking each second-floor window and finding them all locked and with undamaged alarms, Zach was ready to call the second floor secure. A tour of the main floor was the same: intact security system, fastened windows.

  They found Rachel in the kitchen. “Find anything?”

  “Not much. Could we see the basement?” Beck asked.

  “Go ahead.” She waved at the entrance.

  Zach opened the door and peered into blackness. An icy shiver traveled up his spine.

  Beck moved past him and flipped a switch. Watery light illuminated the steps. Halfway down, Beck stopped and threw him a questioning look.

  Pull yourself together, Littman. He started down. As he went lower, it got cooler. The air smelled damp, like wet cement and moss.

  Beck flipped another switch, electrifying a few bulbs. Above, the floor joists were festooned with cobwebs. The walls were rough brick, and the floor aged concrete. Hefty posts ran along the midline of the structure.

  Small rectangular windows at ground level broke up the shadows, two on each side of the house. Beck headed for the area below the stairs while Zach explored the periphery.

  The panes at the front of the house were obscured by shrubbery, but the sides and rear transoms were unblocked. A layer of grime coated them, but some light leaked through. Good. There was no basement door to the outside.

  Zach checked the window under the kitchen. One look showed the alarm system didn’t extend to the panes in the basement. A simple twist lock fastened the pane. One down… The next rear transom was undamaged.

  The rearmost pane facing the driveway had a fractured lock and a slip of metal jammed between the bottom of the window frame and the frame of the house. Zach yanked on the strip, and it let go suddenly, dumping him on his ass. “Damn it.”

  Beck jogged over and held out a hand. Zach grabbed it; smiling, Beck pulled him to his feet. The transom didn’t appear to have moved. Zach approached it and pulled. The window swung up on silent hinges. “Someone could have used this to avoid the security system and stay out of sight.”

  “Like the Follower.”

  Zach nodded. “Like the Follower.”

  * * * *

  “What do we tell Unger? Read the note on air?” Beck tried to sound less than bleak.

  Zach tipped his head back. “Let’s run through the possibilities.”

  They were parked in the lot of a grocery store in the downtown area. The slate-colored sky rumbled, and rain splashed the windshield. The oversize red figure 9 on the outside of the Channel Nine building wavered through the rivulets on the glass. Beck wanted a plan about the Follower’s message in place. Another death would be tragic, and any perception that Denver PD hadn’t taken the threat seriously was to be avoided.

  “We’ve got the Follower inside Unger’s house, lifting a photo, and leveraging Unger to act as a mouthpiece, but Annika wasn’t taken from inside her home,” Beck said.

  “Correct.” Zach sipped his coffee. “Why did he take the picture?”

  “To generate safety concerns for the Ungers.” Beck ran his palm along the steering wheel. “An implied threat. Do what I say or else.”

  “I’d say that’s a reasonable assessment.”

  The storm crackled and snapped; stabs of lightning flashing over Channel Nine. Rain advanced from leisurely drops to a downpour, drumming like marbles hitting the car.

  Beck said, “If Unger doesn’t read the message on air, the Follower might kill someone. Or he might do nothing. We can get the Ungers and their PA out of harm’s way. Should Unger read the message?”

  Zach sighed. “It’s a tough call. It’s hard to predict how the Follower might react if it’s not read. On the other hand, I don’t know that reading it will keep him from killing.”

  “What will keep him from killing?” There had to be a way to halt this guy.

  “Catching him.”

  Beck snorted. “Yeah. Other than that.”

  “He likes the attention, the manipulation, and challenging the police.”

  “What he likes is matching wits with you. He’s tried from the start to get you involved. This number-three business isn’t going to make sense to anyone outside this investigation.”

  For long moments Zach sat silently. “Let’s have him read it.”

  Beck nodded and pulled out his phone.

  * * * *

  At midday, Beck convened the team in the conference room. Quietly everyone watched on a portable TV as a pale Matt Unger read, “‘I give my heart to my work, my work gives its heart to me. / It’s nearly time for number three.’”

  As requested, Unger made no commentary on the message. Beck hit Off. “Our objective is to find this guy before number three.”

  A lot of nods and anxious looks.

  “Let’s get out there and find him.”

  The patrol officers left.

  “I have the report on India’s roommates,” Van said. Richfield cleared his throat. “Er, we have the report. We talked to Wexler’s former roommates. We each took one. Both were pretty broken up about the girl. The three of them had been friends for six years.”

  “They knew Perny?” Beck asked.

  “More like they knew of Perny. Apparently the man was hardly around, and when he was there, he was quiet. No guests, no sleepovers. Both guys assumed he studied somewhere else.”

  “Like the law library?”

  “Maybe. They had a couple of parties in the last two months and invited all the tenants. Perny never attended.”

  Didn’t sound right. “The old lady upstairs was okay with these shindigs?”

  “This was after she died. According to the guys, she didn’t allow parties.”

  “So Perny was a loner. Did he have any relationship to India?”

  “None beyond downstairs neighbor as far as these two knew, and they seemed to know her better than her brother.”

  “You like any of them for the Follower?” Zach asked.

  Van snorted. “Neither could have pulled off these killings. They alibied out for all four on the relevant dates.”

  Beck asked, “Did they have any thoughts on who might have done it?”

  “No. In fact one of them said if anyone should have recognized a murderer, it would have been India.” Van leaned forward. “Get this: her thesis was on the psychopathology of serial killers.”

  Serial killers… Coincidence? Or connection? Beck shot a look at Zach. “Any particular one?”

  “I didn’t ask. You want me to follow up on that?”

  “Yeah. And ask if we can get a copy of the thesis. There might be something there.”

  * * * *

  The meeting with India’s thesis supervisor did not go well. Beck considered Dr. Vieth to have plenty psychopathology of his own. After claiming India had had access to a letter from Darling as a reference, he’d refused to give up the thesis-in-progress until Beck had served him
with a warrant. Asshole.

  They stood at the exit to the psychology building.

  Outside, the sky sagged, gray and damp. Bloated drops fell, cooling the day. The low light made it seem later than three thirty.

  He looked at Zach. “Ready to run for it?”

  Zach stuck the thesis under his coat. “Absolutely.”

  They sprinted for the car. Inside, it was easier for Beck to breathe, away from the creepy professor. “God, I’m glad to be out of there.”

  “What set you off? I thought you might throttle him.” Zach sounded calm, collected, and a little amused.

  “Where should I start? He was goading you. He was withholding information relevant to a murder. He was imprisoning that thesis. He was an asshole.”

  “Ah.” Zach grinned. “That’s all?”

  Beck snorted. “He was a pretentious little prig.”

  “Prig?” Zach laughed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ah, man.” Zach leaned his head back on the seat. “This thing gets more and more convoluted.”

  “Yeah.” More complex, but no closer to catching the Follower. Windshield wipers squeaking, Beck put the car in gear and left the parking lot. “If there is a letter, where do you think that letter might be?”

  “I’m wondering if it was addressed to her, or if she stumbled across it somehow.”

  “How would you stumble across a letter from a killer? Not exactly the sort of thing people leave lying around.”

  “What if she came across a different killer?” Zach drummed his fingers on the armrest. “What if that killer had the letter?”

  The wipers slapped back and forth, overwhelmed by the heavy rain. Vehicles crawled through the university neighborhood. The warmth in the car fogged the windows and made Beck’s damp clothes feel clingy. And the day wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

  “Which killers are we dealing with?” Beck flipped on the defroster.

  “Most likely Perny. Or the Follower.” Zach rubbed his face with both hands. “Both. Neither. Hell, I don’t know.”

  “You’re thinking Perny received something from…who? The Follower? A prisoner?” Theoretically Xav-D couldn’t send anything out. Beck felt the first twinges of an oncoming shoulder ache. “Seems unlikely.”

  “Wait a minute.” Zach gripped the edge of the table. “When I talked to India that day, she mentioned Perny had had a meltdown over a missing envelope. He’d accused the other tenants of taking it. After that, he got a locking mailbox.”

  “You think India took the letter from Perny’s mailbox? How would she know what it was?”

  “If the return address was a prison, she’d have a clue. Maybe she knew Perny had worked with Darling. Perny was gone a lot. She could’ve seen his mail.” Zach sounded weary. “Let’s look at the Follower’s four suspected victims. We’ve got JD 114, about whom we know next to nothing, left at Perny’s dump site. Annika, who may have been around Perny the night she disappeared. Now her father is being dogged by the Follower. Perny himself, killed by the Follower. India, who was studying serial killers, including the Crossroads case, lived below Perny and may have stolen a letter from his mailbox.”

  “Okay, there’s a Perny thread with all of these. Is that what you’re saying?” Beck took the on-ramp to the highway. “The Follower only chooses victims whose lives have intersected Perny’s at some point?”

  “Maybe. It doesn’t feel right, though.” Zach stared out the window.

  The hiss of tires on the wet highway and the slap of the wipers took over. Lightning forked down, followed by thunder.

  A lot of things didn’t feel right, and not all of them had to do with the case.

  Chapter Twenty

  They were cleaning up after the labors of the day, and Zach had opted to shower second. He stepped out of the herbal-scented steam and stood in front of the sink. Shave? Or no shave? Beck had a lot of grooming products scattered on the bathroom counter: potions and lotions. Some of them seemed a little…peculiar. Nothing bizarre, just off the beaten path—Zach’s path, at least.

  “Guava-and-mint postshave lotion for sensitive skin?” Zach shook his head and grinned. After shaving what, exactly?

  You learned a lot about someone when you shared a house.

  “What about dinner?” Beck called from the bedroom.

  Definitely a pizza night, as far as Zach was concerned. A long day in the field followed by an unproductive wade through the precinct paper blizzard had drained any ambition to cook. Towel wrapped around his hips, he wiped the steam from the mirror. The stubble had progressed from sexy to New Millennium hobo; he needed a shave.

  It’d wait until morning. This tired, he’d likely nick the hell out of his face and neck and need the guava-mint stuff. Zach left behind the steam and headed for the dresser. “Pizza.”

  “Okay.” Beck pulled on a DPD-logo T-shirt and kicked into sweatpants. “Anchovies?”

  “Fish and pizza were never meant to be together.” Zach rummaged in the top drawer and came up with briefs and slid them on. “How about mushrooms and black olives?”

  “Yeah. Canadian bacon?”

  Zach tried another drawer for pants. Nope. “If I must.”

  Beck laughed. “You must. Large?”

  “Yeah. And salad.” Zach opened the closet door and turned on the light. Other than dress pants, everything seemed to be Beck’s. “I’m starved. Aren’t you?”

  “Yep. I’ll order.” Beck went to the doorway.

  “Wait. Where are my casual clothes?”

  A muscle jumped in Beck’s jaw as he rounded the bed to where a stack of boxes rested against the wall. Without a word he lifted a container and set it on the mattress. “Check this one.” Expression flat, he exited.

  What was that all about? Inside the carton, everything was six shades of crumpled and creased. Zach found dark warm-up pants and a wrinkled pullover and returned the box to the stack.

  Was Beck crabbed about Zach’s indifference to rumpled casual clothes? Or was it about Zach’s comfort with living out of cardboard containers? They’d been on the run since the morning Hogan called, and Zach hadn’t been inclined to spend their precious free time unpacking. Hands on hips, he surveyed the room. There were a fair number of packed boxes. He’d have to take time to unload some stuff, at least in the bedroom.

  The muted sound of Beck on the phone ordering the pizza reached him. A small thing, but it was comforting knowing Beck was there in person instead of a disembodied voice on the phone. The house was infinitely better than a motel room or the FBI’s temporary housing.

  Make it a good evening. Zach found Beck in the kitchen, shoulders tense, setting plates and napkins on the table. The blond waves were sticking up in tufts. Discomfort infused the atmosphere.

  Zach opened the fridge. “You want a beer?”

  “Yeah.” Beck leaned against the counter.

  Two beers, coming up. Zach uncapped them and handed one to Beck.

  Expression giving away nothing, Beck sipped in silence. The man was too damn good at hiding his feelings, but the silence spoke volumes: something was wrong, likely something Zach had or hadn’t done.

  Someone needed to break the hush.

  Not a good time to tackle domestic disharmony, Littman. Zach swallowed some beer and licked his lip. “At least nothing’s happened since Unger read the statement.”

  “Yeah.” The smoky eyes were wary.

  Monosyllables. Great. “Nothing new with the Follower and the Ungers.”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe it’ll be quiet.”

  “Maybe.”

  For a minute they drank without talking.

  “Annika Unger was clothed.” Beck tipped the bottle in Zach’s direction. “That’s what’s different.”

  “You’ve lost me.” Completely. Weren’t they doing stilted small talk five seconds ago? Zach sank into a chair at the table and motioned Beck to do likewise. “What do you mean, Annika was clothed?”

  “Perny had seven
known victims, all young blondes. Each was treated in a similar fashion: nude, bathed, necktie, sheet. Every time you saw one, you knew.”

  “Agreed. He had a consistent signature.” Zach had seen them all—every facet, every horrendous act.

  “The Follower is more erratic. Male and female victims, varying ages. No apparent ritual—”

  Zach held up a hand. “He has a ritual. We’re just not privy to the why—only what he leaves behind. What he does leave isn’t easy to extrapolate.”

  Beck sighed. “Okay. Hear me out. Jane Doe 114 was nude, left out in the open, and found quickly. Perny was nude, and GPS coordinates were sent to the police ensuring he’d be found quickly. India was nude and discovered by longitude and latitude—again, to hasten discovery.”

  “Okay…”

  “Annika was clothed, partially buried under dirt and presumably snow. There was no GPS location sent to law enforcement.” Beck set his bottle on the counter. “She was hidden and discovered serendipitously five months after the fact. She doesn’t fit the Follower’s MO.”

  Zach rolled that around. All true, but it didn’t negate the other evidence. “The finger fits.”

  “You always say to look for connections. This is sort of an anticonnection. It’s the object that doesn’t belong with the others.”

  Zach ran a fingertip through the condensation on the bottle. It wasn’t typical in a serial-murder investigation, attempting to exclude a victim. Usually it was the other way around—trying to include cases, link deaths.

  “I see what you’re saying,” Zach said. “But Annika doesn’t fit Perny’s MO either. Not well enough, anyway.” He met Beck’s eyes. “Plus we’ve got the barrette and the probable finger amputation to contend with.”

  Beck jumped up and paced, and then spun around. “What if someone else took her out?”

  “A third killer?” Jesus. At this rate it’d become a serial-killer convention. Zach groaned. “Unifying theory, Beck. A premise based on three predators doesn’t make sense.”

  “Right now, it’s the only thing that does make sense when it comes to Annika. Remember, she started out as an individual homicide case.”

  Another killer… Zach wasn’t buying it. “Lots of serial victims start as individual cases until someone ties them together. How do the finger and barrette fit?”