Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  The Follower. Sounded important, like a disciple. In a way, that was true. A disciple of Darling. An eliminator of the Other, with his blondes and baths and bedsheet burials.

  “What did the crime scenes tell you?” Unger asked.

  Crime scene—singular. They didn’t have the location of the first two murders, but Beetle did.

  Littman leaned forward. In a confidential tone, he told Unger, “Based on evaluation of the scenes, we believe he’s disorganized—not able to plan.”

  What the fuck? Beetle was on his feet, glaring at the TV. “Liar. You do not think that.” Beetle had read Littman’s works in books and journals. The profiler was experienced—a professional. A true mind hunter and worthy opponent. Beetle’s research had said so.

  “What else have you deduced about the killer?” Unger asked.

  “He appears to be sloppy, as if he doesn’t know how to control his actions.”

  Transfixed, Beetle was riveted to the screen. How fucking stupid. “Whose work are you looking at, Littman?”

  Planned. Precise. That was how Beetle operated. He’d learned from the best, honed his craft to perfection. Of course he knew what he was doing. The word “sloppy” was wrong—an insult, like a bloodstain on the white lace of a communion dress.

  Littman was lying through his teeth. Beetle executed every move with precision; he was always in control of the game.

  “—there’s no sign of sexual assault,” Littman was saying, “which brings up the possibility of impotence.”

  Rape was about pain and humiliation. It didn’t equate with virility. There were much purer ways to derive gratification. Another thing Littman had to know. The bullshit was pissing Beetle off.

  Returning to the couch, he watched in silence until the conclusion.

  “What do you need from the public?” Unger looked suitably concerned, brow furrowed as he addressed Littman.

  “Anyone having information about these cases can contact the task force at the Denver Police Department.” A number flashed on the bottom of the screen. “Assistance from the public is what will help catch him.”

  Unger thanked Littman and made closing comments. The regular newscast resumed.

  What are you up to, doctor dearest? Beetle set about making a sandwich and lovingly slicing off the crusts. The strawberry jam smeared on the blade reminded him of blood.

  If Littman believed those fabrications, he wasn’t the player Beetle believed him to be.

  I should call him.

  It was a bad idea, but a seductive one. Not at DPD, though. They’d record it. Of course Beetle had Littman’s cell number. Last October, the profiler had landed in the ED after dealing with homicidal politician Isaac Olivetti; Littman’s data had gone into the vast electronic medical-record system of Denver Health, archived until the end of time.

  Beetle retrieved one of the burner phones from his sock drawer. “Let’s talk about your inaccuracies, Dr. Littman.”

  He punched in the number. A frisson of excitement went down his spine as the phone rang. I’m doing it.

  Another ring.

  It’d probably roll over to voice—

  “Littman.” Clear and alert.

  “Hello, Doctor.” Beetle tried to keep the glee out of his voice. “I saw your interview on television.”

  There was a pause. “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “A fan. I want you to know you’re mistaken on several counts about the Follower. He’s a meticulous planner. He’s organized. And he’s definitely not impotent.”

  There was a scratching noise, pen on paper. “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not sure you do.”

  Now Beetle was getting mad. “He sends you letters inside the chests of victims, doesn’t he? The hearts are resected. You know the truth in that. He will make the next move in the game soon. That’s all.”

  “Who are you?” A bit of desperation. “Are you the—”

  “Good-bye.” Beetle hung up.

  * * * *

  In the empty conference room, Zach stared at his phone. Holy fuck. That had to have been the Follower. The man was too secretive to let anyone in on his plans. During the call, Zach had been able to jot down the first lines of their conversation and activate the audio-record app. They had his voice. Zach yanked open the door and ran headlong into Beck.

  Steadying Zach, Beck said, “Whoa. Where’s the fire?”

  “The Follower just called me.”

  Beck’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

  “I wouldn’t kid about this. I was able to record most of it. Come listen.” It seemed vital to share something positive alone with Beck.

  “You must have pissed him off with your lack of insight.”

  “That was the idea.” Zach closed the door and handed Beck the paper. “That’s what he said before I started recording.” Zach held the phone between himself and Beck and hit Play Audio File.

  At the end, Zach hit Stop. “What do you think?”

  Beck blew out a breath. “He knows about the hearts and the notes. And the game aspect. He’s the real deal.”

  “Did you pick up his use of the word ‘resected’ instead of saying he cuts out the hearts or removes them?”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “It’s a surgical word. He’s educated—maybe in the medical field.” That wouldn’t narrow it down much. “What about going after his phone?”

  “We can try tracking it, but I’d bet he used an untraceable burner.” Beck stared at the cell. “How did the Follower get your number?”

  Good question; Zach rarely gave it out. “Unless he’s law enforcement, I don’t know.”

  “He’s got access to personal numbers.” Beck’s jaw tightened. “God knows what else he has access to.”

  “He’s primed to act. If he decides on an in-person visit tonight, I’ll be ready.”

  “This isn’t a chess game anymore, Zach. This is Russian roulette with the gun pointed at your head.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Yeah, it is. This guy is a shape-shifter. He can be whatever he needs to be to gain your trust.”

  “I have a weapon. I have a wire. I have a dozen cops within shooting distance.” Zach tamped down his impatience. “Nothing will happen.”

  “The Follower could stalk anyone. Instead, he’s chosen you: an experienced profiler who’s armed and on guard. He’s given you advanced warning he intends to come after you. All of this makes you a challenging target. Why would he choose someone who’s so unattainable?”

  Because he’s crazy, egotistical, and has a specific purpose for me. “If he comes tonight, he’ll fall into the trap. I’ll be fine.”

  “Then maybe I should stay home with you.”

  “No. That’ll scare him off. He only takes lone individuals.”

  “You think he only takes lone individuals. You don’t know exactly what he does,” Beck said fiercely. “You could try talking to Darling.”

  “Beck—”

  “It’s a safer way to catch him than this bait setup.”

  That wasn’t necessarily true. Xav had almost killed Zach a couple of years ago. “We’ve discussed this. I doubt he’ll talk.”

  “Maybe he will for the right inducement.”

  Whatever the hell that might be. “Let’s just get through tonight.”

  Their gazes sparred for a moment. It wouldn’t be good to end the evening on a sour note. A more sour note. Zach regretted the timing of the earlier discussion. He shouldn’t have let Beck goad him into revealing the FBI job offer and voicing his misgivings concerning the move. It had made Zach sound like a promotion hound—like their relationship was secondary to climbing the ladder. That wasn’t how it was, but Beck probably saw it that way.

  At any rate, now wasn’t the time to get into it.

  “Can we track down Ernie and give him this voice file?” Zach said mildly.

  Grim-faced, Beck shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sure.
And then I’ll escort you to your car.”

  * * * *

  Beck sent Zach off with a kiss that had as much passion as a wet noodle, and then went back to robbery/homicide. No data had come in from the FBI lab. Ernie was still working on the Follower voiceprint, and Richfield hadn’t found anything significant among the parking citations.

  Might as well work on the residents the first canvass of Sunnyside missed. Someone might have seen something.

  Alone? In that neighborhood?

  Van could come with. He was on desk duty until he was cleared, but they could call it a ride-along. Beck pulled out his phone.

  Chapter Thirty

  “We’ve got a whole lot of nothing,” Beck said. The impromptu canvass had yielded nothing of interest. Students and retired people.

  Van sighed. “Yeah, well. Let’s go home.”

  “Sounds good.” Beck’s phone buzzed on the way back to the car. Maybe Ernie had gotten something from the phone call.

  “Stryker.”

  “Beck.” Artie sounded desperate. “I need you.”

  Beck tossed Van the keys and waved him toward the car. “What’s going on?”

  “I need to see you right away.”

  Crap. “Tonight won’t work, Art. I’m tied up with police stuff.”

  “That’s okay. Zach gave me a key.”

  “No! You cannot go over there tonight.” Beck hadn’t meant to sound crabby. “Zach has something important going on.”

  “Please. Please. It’s an emergency.” Artie sounded close to tears. There was a softer high-pitched voice in the background.

  “What’s the emergency?”

  “It’s really bad, Beck. It’s…horrible. Please help me.”

  Van waved from down the block. Beck held up a finger in a “wait” gesture. “Tell me.”

  The sobs started for real. “I didn’t… I couldn’t…stop him. The door was…locked. And Mom…never…believes me anymore.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Stop who?”

  “Aubrey.”

  Jesus H. Christ. This was the last thing Beck wanted to deal with tonight on top of his foundering relationship and a sting operation. “What about Aubrey?”

  “He…he was watching us and said we were going to his house for a while. He took Pete to the basement…and…and…locked the door. From the backyard…I could see…through a gap…in the curtains. They played a game.” Artie took a shuddering breath. “He gave Pete something…to drink. And then got him…to take his clothes off.”

  A sick understanding churned in Beck’s gut. Oh my God. No. No. He ran-walked toward the car.

  “He had…a camera.” Full-out bawling now. “He was taking…pictures of Pete. I…I couldn’t get Mom on the phone.”

  “Where’s Pete now?”

  “Aubrey brought him home and put him in his bed. He doesn’t want to stay awake.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home. In Pete’s room.”

  “Is the door locked?”

  “Yes. But Aubrey will hang around over here till Mom gets home.”

  “Good job, Art.” Beck slid behind the wheel. “Stay put. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I’ll knock three times on the window so you’ll know it’s me.” He hung up.

  “What’s up?” Van asked.

  The car roared to life. “Marybeth’s fiancé is a pedophile. Call Richfield. Have him swear out a warrant that Arthur Halliday witnessed Aubrey Nance drug Daniel Peter Halliday and then take nude pictures of him.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Dan’s kids, Van. They’re in danger.” Beck hit the grill lights and threw the car in gear. They raced through Sunnyside.

  “I don’t know if a judge will go for a warrant on this—”

  “Tell him to take it to Orton. She’ll sign. Tell him to call me the second the ink is on that paper.”

  “Beck—”

  “Just do it!” Beck’s head would explode if they didn’t get this done. “He’s a fucking pedophile, Van. Where’s your sense of the blue brotherhood? These are the kids of a fallen cop. God in heaven, just make the call.”

  “Okay, okay. Anything else you need me to do?”

  “Yeah. Don’t let me kill Nance when we get there. I don’t have time to be arrested.”

  * * * *

  In the waning light, Beck waited around the corner of Nance’s house and sent Van up to the door. The second Aubrey stepped outside, Beck had him face-first against the siding, searched, and tightly secured in cuffs.

  “Aubrey Nance, you’re under arrest for unlawful contact with a child. You have the right to remain silent, asshole. Anything you say can be used against you—and I guarantee it will. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided at government expense. Do you understand these rights, you piece of shit?”

  Aubrey grunted.

  Yanking on the cuffs, Beck leaned in. “What’s that, Mr. Nance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice Miranda,” Van said, forcing Nance to sit on his front step.

  “Where’s the football, Nance?” Beck said through his teeth.

  “Cupboard over the refrigerator.”

  Fifteen minutes later, vice, in the form of Lieutenant Katie Coleman, escorted him away.

  A grinning Officer Vifquain stopped next to Beck and showed him an evidence bag. “Found it.”

  One positive in a horrible evening. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  A stream of vice officers carried out computers, cameras, and cartons full of illicit photos. It looked like Nance had supplied pictures through an Internet business spanning state lines. The FBI would be interested in the illegal commerce.

  Marybeth had been horrified and then devastated by what Beck had to say, hugging her boys, all three of them bawling. It had taken a lot for Beck to remain dry-eyed in the face of the Halliday family breakdown.

  He’d promised to have the house rekeyed tonight—Vifquain’s brother was a locksmith. The psych stuff could wait until tomorrow. Beck headed over to the Halliday house.

  * * * *

  “Are you serious?” Zach lounged on the couch—his couch, which he had contributed to the household, thank you very much—as Beck filled him in by phone about Nance. Very aware of the digital listening device in his shirt button, Zach said, “I knew something was off with that guy, but I didn’t expect this.”

  “Yeah. The guy is a fucking pedophile.” Beck’s disgust came through. “But we got him, thanks to Artie.”

  “They’ll all need counseling.” Hopefully Pete hadn’t been molested while on the “playdates” at Nance’s.

  “Tonight they’re at a hotel. We’re going to sweep the house for hidden cameras and change the locks.” Beck paused. “Anyway. I better let you go.”

  Only ten thirty and already Zach missed him. He wanted to say something about it not being bedtime, but it wasn’t exactly a private conversation.

  Staying home alone was uncomfortable. Zach was acutely aware how many solitary nights Beck had spent in the house surrounded by boxes. “Okay. Text me later.” Translation: We’ll have privacy that way.

  “Sure.” Businesslike. But people were listening, and it was hard to pack much emotion into a single syllable. Beck said, “Good night.”

  “Good night.” Zach hesitated. “Be careful out there.” I love you.

  “You too.” Beck disconnected.

  * * * *

  The Follower didn’t show.

  All that prep, all that manpower, and the murdering SOB had taken the night off. Beck wasn’t sure if he was happy or disappointed.

  He’d spent a restless night on a so-so mattress, visions of taking Aubrey apart piece by piece alternating with images of the Follower spiriting Zach away right under the noses of Denver’s finest.

  The sting would continue for at least another night. After that, they’d regroup.

  On the way in, he stopped at Zimmerman’s for coffee and a box of doughnut
s. The task force would need a pick-me-up after last night. Beck was depositing the treats in the conference room when his phone buzzed.

  “Outside call for you, Detective,” the operator said. “An attorney.”

  Vice was handling Nance; surely the slimeball’s attorney knew where to find his client. “Go ahead and transfer to my cell.”

  There was a click. “Go ahead, Detective.”

  “Detective Stryker.”

  “Please hold for Mr. Day.” A high-pitched demand.

  Oh-ho. BFD calling. Must be about Perny. Had the press discovered the predilections of Day’s favorite protégé?

  “Day here.” The man packed a lot of snootiness into two words.

  “Detective Stryker, Mr. Day. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m calling you as you’re head of this Follower task force.” Day made Follower task force sound like something slimy and disagreeable he’d found on the bottom of his shoe. “I have a client who wishes to speak with Dr. Littman. I’m told I must go through you.”

  A sense of déjà vu washed over Beck. “Who’s the client?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you.”

  That imperious shit might work in court, but Beck dealt with assholes all the time. Homicides were generally committed by said assholes. Beck summoned a haughty tone. “Then I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to let you speak with Dr. Littman.”

  “I could contact him through the FBI, you know.”

  Beck was sure Day had already tried that. “If you’d like to go that route, then be my guest.”

  The line stayed quiet.

  Day said, “My client saw the news broadcast yesterday evening and may have useful information.”

  “Wonderful. Who is your client?”

  “I can’t say, Detective.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Day.”

  “Wait.” For the first time, Day sounded flustered. “This is important.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The party whom I represent has information to pass along about your Follower, but he will only speak with Dr. Littman.”

  “The client is Xavier Darling, correct?” Beck glanced up as Zach came through the door carrying a cup of coffee. Beck pointed to the pastry box.

  Day gave a put-out sigh. “Yes, yes. Darling feels he has something to contribute.”