“We’ll be fine.”
“Marcy…” He heard the phone click. Alves placed the receiver down. He could feel the vein in his temple throbbing. She was right. He shouldn’t be here. He should be home with his family, making his wife and kids feel safe enough to sleep.
He picked up a stack of photos-at the top was one of Courtney at the crime scene. Her face wasn’t contorted in terror. He studied the photo, from the gentle wave of her long hair caught back in its braid to the firm line of her chin. He’d seen the look before, on the faces of other victims. A little smile almost, a kind of peace.
CHAPTER 20
Alves was starved. Mooney finally got back from BC, and he brought pizza. Alves cleared a space on the conference table and found some paper plates and napkins in a file drawer.
“No football practice tonight?” Mooney said.
“Cancelled for the rest of the week. One of the other parents is taking over for me when they start up again.”
“How are the kids? How’s Iris?”
“Not playing anymore. Iris won’t go near the field. And Angel has never seen his sister scared before. Let’s eat,” he said. He didn’t want to think about Marcy getting the kids ready for bed. How he wasn’t there to tuck the twins in. He opened the pizza box and took a long, stringy slice. He held the box open while Mooney took one. “Learn anything about Courtney Steadman and Josh Kipping today?”
“Both decent students. Good kids. Saturday night they were pretty drunk. We know that from the autopsy. They were lightweights who got caught up in the tailgating atmosphere. At some point they slipped away.”
“Probably to go fool around,” Alves said.
“They didn’t seem the type. They were pretty caught up in the whole Jesuit education thing. Liked to hang out and talk.” Mooney’s face flushed with anger. “Two goofy kids go out and have a few drinks, and this bastard takes their lives.”
“Did you get a chance to reach out to the parents of the other victims?”
“I did that before I went to BC. I had to let them know what happened and prepare them for the media blitz that is sure to follow. I’ve kept in touch with them over the years. Six families.”
“Eight now,” Alves said.
Mooney paused. “I call them every summer on the anniversaries, just to let them know I haven’t forgotten. I told them that we’re working the cases together, that you’ll look at everything with fresh eyes.”
“Where do you think Josh and Courtney went from the game?” Alves asked.
“Either the reservoir or the park at Cleveland Circle.”
“Not one of their rooms?”
“Their friends said that’s where they liked to go to be alone. But that night there was no being alone anywhere. On top of the rowdy BC diehards, there were busloads of Seminole fans up from Tallahassee.”
“Sounds like you were there,” Alves said.
“I was. Working a detail. That’s what makes it so hard to believe he pulled it off without being seen. He’s getting bolder. And better.”
“Did you ever have any real suspects?”
“We had a few guys with bad records but no evidence connecting them. The first vics, Adams and Flowers, were killed where they were found. The others were staged at secondary crime scenes. Where are the photos from the first scene?”
Alves shuffled through the stack and found the manila envelope with the photos and handed it to Mooney. Alves had spent the last couple hours organizing the boxes and looking through the files. “Reports indicate it was a nice night. Looks like Kelly Adams and Eric Flowers snuck out of their prom at the Sheraton Prudential for a walk that led them to the Fens. Next morning a runner found them dead on the grass between a park bench and some shrubs.”
Mooney flipped through the photos. “My first time working a serial murder. I’d seen plenty of domestics, bar fights turned fatal, even mob hits. But nothing like this. The victims were dressed up in their prom clothes. The only victims wearing the clothes they were killed in. After that, the victims were dressed up by the killer. Flowers’s shirt had a stel-late pattern, a four-pointed star-shaped tear.” Mooney made a rough diamond with his index fingers and thumbs. “There was also tattooing, bruising in the shape of an elongated gun barrel opening.”
“A contact shot like the others.”
“Eric Flowers was shot three times in the chest, one entry wound. He may have struggled a little, but he bled out quickly.”
“Belsky found four slugs with one entry wound and similar tattooing on Kipping. I’ll have Belsky compare the tattooing on all the male autopsy photos. I took the slugs to Stone. They’re a match. That leaves us with the females,” Alves said, holding up a photo of Kelly Adams, lying in the grass next to her prom date.
“She was strangled,” Mooney said, “probably with bare hands, just like the other females. The thing is she had a real tattoo of the Tai-ji. After that, he started stamping the symbol on the other girls with a craft store stamper.” Mooney tossed a balled-up napkin on the table. “This whole Tai-ji thing is bullshit. He’s using that because he saw Kelly’s tattoo and thought it would throw us off. I bet he doesn’t even know what it means. He certainly doesn’t know what it should look like. The last two times he’s stamped it upside down.”
“Does it matter if the white is on the right or the left?”
“The white side representing heat should be rising and the dark side, the cool side, should be settling. Another thing. Kelly and Eric were dragged from the park bench behind some bushes.” Mooney handed a picture to Alves. “The killer didn’t use any wires, and the staging was simple, but it looked like they were lying next to each other, having a picnic or something. Somewhere along the way he shoves the Chinese fortune in her mouth.”
“The Herald always comes up with a great headline,” Alves read from a cut-and-pasted headline, “PROM NIGHT, BLOODY PROM NIGHT!”
“The media were ridiculous. The city was hitting an all-time low in the homicide rate. Good for the average Joe, bad for newspapers. These first murders gave the press a jump start. They made the killer out to be the next Boston Strangler. I think he killed impulsively the first time. Pure luck he didn’t get caught.” Mooney pointed to a gruesome photo of the young lovers, lying in the grass. “Then the newspapers make him out to be this super villain. My theory? They gave him the idea to keep using the same MO. It turned into a game. He takes more victims, only now there’s more work involved. He has to eat enough Chinese takeout to find a good fortune, keep a supply of clothes for his victims, buy some cheap jewelry, stamp the tattoo, transport them to some secluded spot and pose them. Now he’s enjoying it. He’s getting more sophisticated, using the wire.”
Alves remembered the frenzy that summer. At the time he was working last halfs, the midnight shift. Newly married. Between work and court, he barely had time to read the paper. But he remembered the intense media coverage. “So you think the media made this guy a serial killer?”
“They encouraged him. So many details of the first case are coincidental. The victims happen to be dressed up. They’re killed and then staged in the vicinity. I don’t know why he uses the fortunes. But the Tai-ji stamped on the back of Kelly’s neck? He didn’t bring that to the party.” Mooney dropped the photo in front of Alves. “He gets a boatload of attention for his crime. Next thing you know he starts killing and recreating that first scene. Where are the pictures from the second crime scene?”
Alves had separated the photos into stacks. He handed Mooney a tightly packed envelope.
Mooney flipped through the photos till he found one that showed a wide angle of the crime scene. “Daria Markis and David Riley. He left them on the Riverway, not far from the banks of the Muddy River. The scene was hastily put together. Not enough wire. David Riley’s body slumped on its side. We were lucky we found him in the overgrown reeds. Daria was wired to a tree, but slouched forward. The killer was nervous someone would see him. He’s gotten better at staging. He’s gained
confidence that he won’t get caught.”
Alves nodded. “Looking at these pictures, I was starting to think we weren’t dealing with the same guy. Last night’s scene looked like it was orchestrated by a pro. Something you’d see at a wax museum. Nothing like Kelly and Eric.”
Another thing Mooney had taught him. Think of the case in terms of the victims, remember their first names, humanize them. All of it helped him focus.
“Where are the pictures from the third scene?” Mooney asked.
“Over there,” Alves nodded toward the two boxes in the corner.
Mooney went over and dug out the bottom box. He removed another envelope and slid out the photos. “Gina Picarelli and Mark Weston. Found in Olmsted Park. The killer was more comfortable, taking his time to get it right, closer to what you saw last night with Courtney and Josh. He used wire to pose Gina more seductively, with her head facing her would-be suitor.”
“Who is spying on her through the bushes, like a game of hide-and-seek. It’s almost as if he’s using the victims to act out his own voyeuristic fantasies. You think he’s into bondage? S and M? That could be why he ties them up,” Alves said.
“They’re never put in bondage poses. And he doesn’t show much sophistication with knots. Always a simple square knot,” Mooney studied the photos. “Anything from Eunice?”
“She did a rape kit. No semen or saliva.”
“He never sexually assaults them,” Mooney said without looking up. “So we have no motive beyond this voyeuristic fantasy.” His voice was low and measured. Alves expected him to pound the table, snap a pen in half, the usual Wayne Mooney anger and frustration response, but this quiet intensity was different.
“Eunice is comparing the wire he used in this case to the wire in the old cases,” Alves said. “Same with the clothes. I’ll check with her in the morning. We don’t know if he’s had this stuff stored someplace or if he buys things when he needs them.” Alves reached across the table and took the last slice of pizza, stiff and cold. It didn’t matter. Good pizza could stand the test of being eaten cold.
“The clothes are a good angle. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out that end of it. They were always used outfits, but they didn’t belong to the victims. Either too big, bunched up with safety pins, or too small, left unzipped and unbuttoned.”
“Same thing last night,” Alves said. “Josh’s pants were at least six inches too long. Pinned up. Courtney was busting out of her dress in the back. You couldn’t tell until she was cut loose from the tree.”
“I always figured the clothes might have come from thrift shops, Salvation Army or Goodwill, but I could never prove anything. He could be buying the stuff at yard sales. Tough to trace. But we’ve got to check it out anyway. Maybe he made a mistake this time.”
“Most thrift stores don’t have security cameras. They usually take cash only. We might find a receipt where someone bought some evening gowns and tuxes, but we’ll have no way of IDing the person. I’m hoping a male buying dresses sticks out in someone’s mind.”
“Give it a shot,” Mooney said. “Leslie used to work with a theater company. People used to go out to Goodwill to buy up gowns for their productions.” He looked back down at the photos he had arranged on the table. “It’s good to be working with you again, Angel.”
CHAPTER 21
Ray Figgs switched off the lamp and sank back in the upholstered chair. Most of the furniture in the small room was from the old house. Dad’s TV chair. His metal snack tray. Dad’s lamp with a base of carved pine-two wood ducks on a log. Always reminded his dad of fishing holes down South. All of it to make the old folks feel comfortable in their new digs. They weren’t called nursing homes anymore, they were rehabilitation centers.
Figgs watched his father breathe-like a baby, irregular blips and bubbles. His dad had been a police officer too-retired more than twenty years. Used to love to listen to Ray’s stories, give him advice. Ray wished he could talk to his father now.
Lately, all his cases were gang shootings. He spent his time out talking to a bunch of people who had witnessed the shooting, and they all basically told him to go pound sand. If those cases didn’t get solved in the first couple of days, they were not going to get solved. Not until someone with information got jammed up on a drug or a gun charge and started looking to cut a deal for their testimony. That was the only way those cases got cleared. It didn’t matter how many hours were put into the investigation. It all came down to someone willing to rat someone else out to save his own hide.
His father would understand what he was up against. Ray used to process every crime scene according to protocol. He’d follow up on leads and talk with witnesses, lean on them, haul them in to the grand jury if he needed to.
His father’s skin was ashy in the semi-dark. He’d have to remember to pick up more of that lotion his father liked. The one that smelled like almonds. Ray could rub it on his father’s hands, his forearms. His father seemed to like that.
All he could think about was that.40. At least two kids killed with the same weapon. Evidence from shots-fired in different parts of the city linked to the same gun. A stash gun. He needed to clear his head. He needed to connect the dots.
CHAPTER 22
Mooney put down the stack of reports and stood up from the table. He walked to the window and looked down at the few cars passing by on Tremont Street. It was after ten o’clock. They had gone through most of the old files. He’d had enough of sitting around reading reports and looking at pictures. He had missed being at the crime scene the night before. A Sunday night, and he’d been home watching the opening games of the football season. Only twenty-four hours ago, he’d been assigned to Evidence Management. Working days. “Let’s go,” he said. “I want to see where he left Courtney and Josh.”
It was great working with Angel Alves again. He was young enough to believe he could solve every case and had the energy to follow through. His energy was catchy, but Mooney had to keep him focused. Mooney was primed for the long night ahead.
“Any idea how he picks his victims?” Alves asked as he started the Ford.
“After Kelly and Eric? I don’t know. This city’s full of college kids. He could have run into the others, walking after dinner, outside a club, after a party. We had some info that one of the couples-Daria and David-used to go parking up on Chickatawbut Road in the Blue Hills.”
“Mostly gay guys cruising up there, and it’s outside the city.”
“The staties helped us. We sat on it for a few weeks. Kept an eye on some of the regulars and stopped a few to FIO them, get their names and addresses. They must have spread the word. Within two days we were watching squirrels and raccoons. Six murders, bodies at three different sites, and we had nothing.”
“Just like we have now,” Alves said.
“Did you know there’s a website devoted to this guy? Promnightkiller.com. A bunch of conspiracy theorists speculating about who the killer is and why he stopped killing. Most of them think he’s still out there. Like the Jack the Ripper theorists-they believe the killer is some powerful politician’s relative and the police are covering it up. The website must be buzzing tonight.”
“I’ll talk to the guys at the BRIC about monitoring the site,” Alves said. “They track everything going on in the city. A great resource on shooting cases. It’s not just intel, they’ve also got the Shot Spotter. Within seconds of a gunshot, the system pulls up aerial images and uses triangulation to show where the shots came from. The cameras set up around the city tie into the system and provide video of that area at the time of the shots. It’s a great way to get an ID on a suspect or to eliminate someone as a suspect.”
“Sounds good on paper.” Mooney was staring straight ahead.
“It’s not perfect. They’re still working out the kinks. And there aren’t enough cameras set up around the city yet. Remember how we used to pull the jail tapes and listen to phone calls of guys in custody? The BRIC working with the Sheriff’
s Department can set it up so that my cell phone will ring whenever a person of interest makes a call from jail. I can listen to the call live. Pretty amazing stuff.”
Anything was worth a shot. “So you think these guys at the BRIC can monitor the website?”
“They can. They might be able to tell if this guy’s trying to communicate on it. Maybe there are hints that he was going to kill again.”
“It’s worth a try, but I don’t think this guy is one to communicate. We tried to draw him out, but he never left any messages outside of the fortunes.”
“We need to get him in a dialogue. Maybe we can have someone at the BRIC get involved in an online chat on the website. Have him say that he thinks the recent killings are the work of a copycat. That this guy is an amateur, not the real Prom Night Killer.”
“So we piss him off and get him to convince us he’s the real killer.” Mooney recognized the sound principle behind this gambit. Serial killers always thought they were smarter than the cops. They wanted the last word.
“What if he tries to convince us by killing two more kids?” Angel asked.
“That’s always a possibility.” Mooney lifted a photo of Courtney Steadman and Josh Kipping, studying it. “But that’s a risk we have to take.”
Alves parked along the access road, near the tennis courts. The park was dark. A blanket of grass led to the baseball diamond and, beyond that, the fairway. A darker sweep led to a hill, rising against the night sky, ragged and forbidding.
CHAPTER 23
It had been quiet. No arrests. They’d spent most of the night looking for Tinsley, circling the streets of Grove Hall, an area of Roxbury with old mansions with widow’s walks and stained glass, a neighborhood now plagued with drugs and violent crime. Connie had been to crime watches and community meetings. He’d met families living in the same houses for generations who refused to give up their neighborhood to a few bad actors.
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