‘We should have something by the time I see you. We think she’s Dutch. A girl matching her description hasn’t been heard from in weeks. Her father got Interpol involved, and we should have a positive ID by the end of the day. Her parents thought she was somewhere in the Mediterranean, possibly Greece, but no one knew just where.’
‘If you give me her name, I’ll get someone started on trying to find a connection here.’
‘Sure, let me get it for you.’
Andreas’ head was spinning as he waited for Tassos to find the name. A serial killer in Greece – on Mykonos! The island and its reputation for tolerating all sorts of sinful behavior will be damned by the Greek Church and vilified in the Greek press as spawning this horror and shaming all of Greece before the world. Shame was the appropriate word, too, for now it was a world news headline story: SERIAL KILLER SECRETLY HAUNTS MYKONOS FOR DECADES. From fame to infamy in an instant. The hunt, the capture, the trial would be consumed by a crazed, feeding-frenzy media led by the European Union and Americans – which sent Greece its most sought-after tourists. And if the killer was never found . . .
‘Here it is. Helen Vandrew. See you at four.’
4
Catia had not expected to hear back from Demetra so quickly. She’d just hung up with her husband – and alarmed him to no end – when Demetra called.
‘Mother told me you’re worried about Annika. Don’t be. I spoke to her a few days ago. She’s fine.’ Demetra sounded her typical, bubbly self.
Catia’s heart felt lighter – but not completely relieved.
‘Where is she?’
‘Patmos.’
Patmos was a beautiful, eastern-Aegean Greek island very near Turkey, reachable only by boat. It was a well-kept secret among the world’s elite seeking seclusion and quiet, but not one Catia would have thought suited her daughter’s mood after a breakup. Annika liked distractions when she was upset: parties, athletics – anything to keep her mind off what was bothering her. Patmos was not that sort of place. On its hillsides, Saint John wrote the apocalyptic Book of Revelation, and the island remained dominated by the church in more ways than just the massive mountaintop monastery named in his honor. ‘Why Patmos?’
‘She said she’d never been there and wanted to go.’
‘Do you have a telephone number for her?’
Pause. ‘No. She called me.’
Catia sensed a conspiratorial silence among cousins. Annika probably told Demetra not to give her mother the number. Catia thought of pushing the issue but decided not to. As long as Demetra and Annika were in touch, things were fine for now.
‘Please, ask her to call me the next time you speak to her.’
‘Sure. I’ll be seeing her the day after tomorrow.’
Catia was relieved at hearing that but also surprised. ‘You’re going to Patmos?’
‘Oh, no, too boring,’ she giggled.
‘Where are you meeting her?’
‘Mykonos. I think she gets there tonight.’
Annika thought she’d never get over catching Peter in full thrust with that Bulgarian tramp – the one he’d dismissed as being as base and uninteresting as her bought-and-paid-for tits when she dropped her entire string-bikini-clad package next to them poolside their first day in Sicily.
She’d also never forget that bastard’s words the next morning: ‘I’m not feeling very well, but don’t worry about me, honey. Please, go out and see Siracusa. Call me when you’re ready for lunch, and if I’m feeling better, I’ll meet you.’ A very unladylike urge to inflict severe bodily harm raged through Annika each time she thought of the moment she swung Audrey Hepburn-like into their hotel room loaded down with food and wine for a surprise, romantic lunch together in Peter’s sick bed.
She felt it all: betrayed, rejected, used, and victimized. Worse still, she felt somehow it was all her fault, that she must be a real loser as a woman if the man she thought her soulmate could so easily lie to her just ‘to fuck a tramp.’ She unconsciously said the last words aloud and quickly looked around to see if anyone had heard. She’d spoken in Dutch – perhaps that’s why no one seemed to notice. Or maybe she didn’t speak loud enough to be heard above the hum of the ferry’s engines. She looked out toward the horizon from her seat in the protected, glassed-in section of the foredeck. They should be in Mykonos around midnight. She’d try to catch a little sleep. That might help her forget, or at least temporarily rid her thoughts of him.
She’d been trying to forget for weeks. First she tried a long ferry ride from Bari to Patras staring into the sea. That didn’t work. Then a long bus ride to Athens across Greece’s Peloponnese staring out at the countryside. That didn’t work either. In Athens she’d hoped to surprise her cousin Demetra. They always made each other feel better. But Demetra wasn’t there, and though they talked by phone, it wasn’t the same thing.
Annika was too embarrassed to call her parents, and her mother would know instantly from her voice how utterly devastated she was. They would insist she come home immediately. She needed to get over this first – this bastard Peter. She went to Patmos thinking perhaps a spiritual place might help. It didn’t. Then she called Demetra and they agreed what she needed was something quite different from spiritual comfort – and Mykonos was the perfect place to find it.
Tassos was surprisingly prompt for a Greek. Only fifteen minutes late. He seemed agitated, preoccupied. Andreas led him upstairs to his second-floor office. It was bright and sunny and faced away from the road, but the view was not as great as the weather. It overlooked the backyards of Mykonos’ working class – the people who never could afford to vacation here. Rusted skeletons of cars and trucks once kept for parts sat ignored in the midst of scratched-out gardens and scraggly goats. Stray cats ranged everywhere.
His office – like the rest of the place – was furnished with things from the old station. Tassos sat in a beat-up, brown leather armchair in the corner – the two of them fit together like old friends. Andreas sat behind his desk slowly swiveling his chair from side to side. It was only the two of them, but each seemed to be waiting for the other to speak.
Tassos started. ‘I thought it best we talk here, away from all the curious eyes and ears in my office.’
Andreas kept swiveling. ‘How are we ever going to keep this quiet?’
Tassos fluttered his lips as he exhaled. ‘Don’t know. Certainly not for long.’
Andreas stopped swiveling, leaned forward, and put his forearms on the desk. ‘When it gets out we’re looking for a serial killer, all hell’s going to break loose. There’ll be a thousand reporters here making it impossible to catch the bastard.‘
‘I know.’ Tassos nodded. ‘So far, only Costas, you, and I know about this – and he won’t say a word – but, if we don’t catch the guy soon, someone’s going to put things together and’ – he slapped his hands against the chair arms – ‘BOOM!’
Andreas grinned at the sound. ‘Is that meant to be our careers?’ He lifted his arms and leaned back in the chair. ‘You know, the press will cut off our balls if we don’t go public now with what we have.’ He paused. ‘And, come to think of it, don’t you have to tell your boss?’ For an instant, Andreas felt as if he were warning his father to be careful of cop politics.
Tassos closed his eyes. ‘We’ve worked together for many years. He trusts me not to tell him what I think he’d prefer not to know officially. This is one of those things – at least for now.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Besides, Chief, the murders occurred in your jurisdiction, and haven’t you insisted on taking full responsibility for their investigation?’ He smiled.
Well, so much for worrying about him, thought Andreas. Here was a political master offering Andreas what he wanted if he were willing to pay the price of assuming the political risk.
Andreas nodded. ‘Yes, but God help us if another woman’s murdered.’ He paused. ‘I think we should go public with a physical description of the dead woman – it might make tall blonds more caref
ul.’
‘And mention the crystal meth.’
Andreas nodded again. ‘That too.’ He hoped they were doing the right thing.
Tassos asked, ‘What about asking Athens for help with a serial-killer specialist?’
Andreas gave a quick upward nod of his head – the Greek way of gesturing no. ‘There aren’t any in Greece. Remember, we’ve never had a serial killer here, so no one’s a specialist. We’d have to contact Interpol, and you know what that means.’
‘So much for keeping things quiet.’ Tassos patted the chair arms.
‘We’ll have to do our own research.’ Andreas opened his center desk drawer.
‘How do we do that?’ Tassos sounded surprised.
‘The same way everyone else does these days, on the Internet.’ He lifted some papers out of the drawer.
Tassos waved a hand in the air. ‘You must be kidding.’
‘There’s a lot out there. Here, take a look.’ Andreas handed him one of the papers. Across the top it read, ‘Characteristics of a Serial Killer.’
Tassos looked at the list:
Over 90 percent male.
Tend to be intelligent.
Do poorly in school, have trouble holding down jobs, and often work as unskilled laborers.
Tend to come from decidedly unstable families.
Abandoned by their fathers as children and raised by domineering mothers.
Families often have criminal, psychiatric, and alcoholic histories.
Hate their fathers and mothers.
Psychological, physical, and sexual abuse as child is common – often by a family member.
Many have spent time in institutions as children and have records of early psychiatric problems.
High suicide-attempt rates.
Many intensely interested from an early age in voyeurism, fetishism, and sadomasochistic pornography.
More than 60 percent wet their beds beyond age of 12.
Many are fascinated with starting fires.
Involved with sadistic activity or tormenting small creatures.
Andreas put the other papers on his desk. ‘An FBI agent named Ressler came up with that list. There’s a lot more, but this gives you the general idea.’
‘Why do I have the feeling we’re trying to teach ourselves brain surgery?’ Tassos reread the list.
Andreas waited until he finished. ‘I don’t know what else to do. Do you know anyone we can ask for help we can trust to keep quiet?’
Tassos nodded no. ‘But how long do you think we can go on like this’ – he waved the paper in the air – ‘before getting some real help?’
Andreas shrugged. ‘Let’s play it by ear until one of us feels we have to go public.’
Tassos stared at him. ‘All I’m risking is forced early retirement, but you . . .’ He left the thought hanging.
Andreas looked down at his desk. ‘I know what you’re about to say.’
Tassos shrugged. ‘I really liked your dad and thought he got a raw deal, but if the press gets pissed off at you, they’ll be screaming . . .’ Again he hesitated.
Andreas finished Tassos’ sentence without looking up, ‘“Like father, like son”?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I really don’t like talking about this . . .’ Andreas was surprised he’d made that admission to a stranger. ‘But I’ll give you an answer.’
He lifted his eyes and stared directly at Tassos. ‘I’m not going to stop doing what I think’s right out of fear that the press might come after me like they did my father.’ They’d done more than just come after him – they’d crucified him – but Andreas had no intention of discussing it further. Besides, everyone from Tassos’ era on the force knew all the details – up to and including the suicide.
Neither man spoke.
Andreas leaned forward and broke the tension. ‘Anything new?’
Tassos noticeably relaxed in his chair. ‘We’ve positively identified the dead body from dental records as the woman in the photo I faxed you, Helen Vandrew. Her parents are on their way to Greece to claim the body.’
Silence.
Tassos continued. ‘The other three bodies probably were bound the same as Vandrew.’
Andreas looked surprised. ‘How could you tell?’
‘The twine.’ He folded the list and put it in his pocket.
‘Twine?’
‘Costas found deteriorated bits of hemp in the crypt that match the approximate age of the bones.’
‘He found twine that old?’ Andreas gave a nodding look of admiration.
Tassos nodded with him. ‘The crypt was dry and the twine the heavy-duty, commercial stuff farmers use. It’s made to survive all kinds of weather.’
‘Any idea where it came from?’
‘Not yet, but doubt that would help much. It’s sold all over the world. Nothing unique about it.’
Andreas let out a breath. ‘All bound the same way . . . all killed in a church . . .’ His voice drifted off. ‘The killer has to be acting out some sort of religious ritual – but what kind of ritual ever involved human sacrifice in Greece?’
Tassos shrugged. ‘There’s always our myths. Look at Euripides’ or Homer’s account of Agamemnon.’
Andreas shook his head. ‘I can’t believe some myth about a king sacrificing his daughter so that the gods would send wind for his sailing ships is behind this.’
‘But a woman was at the center of the myth. They were warships sailing to Troy to rescue Helen.’ Tassos said the words without emotion.
Andreas said, ‘I just don’t see it – two Helens or not – but who the hell knows. We’re trying to figure out what twisted thinking is driving a crazy.’ He shook his head again and drummed the fingers of his right hand on his desk. ‘What about the drugs?’
Tassos lifted and dropped his hands. ‘Crystal meth? It must have something to do with getting his victim sexually excited. I don’t have to tell you how tough that’ll be to trace. It’s everywhere. If we had a suspect, I could kick around some local dealers to try and come up with a match, but without a suspect, forget it.’
Andreas let out a breath. ‘Could be homemade stuff. All he’d need is fertilizer, battery acid, and cold medicine.’
‘More Internet research?’
Andreas let the teasing pass with a smile. ‘I think there are three things to get started on right away, One’ – he popped out a finger for emphasis – ‘identify the sets of bones; two’ – out popped another finger – ‘find anyone who saw the Vandrew girl on the island and three—’
‘Look for more bodies,’ Tassos interrupted.
Andreas hadn’t intended to say that. He’d thought it, but that wasn’t his third choice – his was checking out Father Paul. Finding more bodies would make it a hell of a lot tougher to keep things quiet – practically and morally.
Andreas shrugged. ‘You’re right.’ He’d check out his original point three on his own.
Tassos said, ‘I’m pretty sure the bones we found were tourists because there are no women – Mykonian or otherwise – reported as missing from Mykonos even faintly resembling the size of the skeletons.’
‘How can that be? There are four women buried in a church on Mykonos. You’d think someone would have reported at least one of them missing.’
Tassos shook his head. ‘That’s why I’m saying we should widen the search, look for missing foreigners generally – or at least off-island Greeks – not just those who disappeared on Mykonos. Someone might have tried to file a report, but Mykonos has a long history of claiming “nothing bad happens here.”’ He emphasized the phrase with his fingers in quote marks and a look of disgust. ‘If someone tried reporting a foreign woman as missing on Mykonos, the police would say she must have left the island and no missing-person report would be tied to Mykonos. Only if a missing person were local or one with Greek friends or a family raising holy hell would there be a real push made.’ He grinned. ‘Isn’t that one of the reasons you’re its new chief – to change all that?
’
There really were no secrets from this guy, Andreas thought. It reminded him of how his dad somehow always knew when he was hiding cookies under his pillow. ‘How do you suggest we get an ID on the bones without going through official channels?’
‘I’ll ask a friend at Interpol who owes me a favor for a list of possible matches.’
Andreas leaned back in his chair. He knew any likely match meant DNA testing against family members. How the hell to keep that quiet? ‘My guys are checking the hotels, bars, clubs, taxis, tavernas, shops, and beaches for anyone who might have seen Vandrew.’
Tassos nodded. ‘So, on to point three.’
Andreas said, ‘How are we ever going to search all those churches?’
Tassos shrugged. ‘Good question. Even if we had the men, the families and the archbishop would be down our throats the moment we started. Trust me, our quiet investigation would end in roaring flames.’
Silence.
Andreas swiveled again. ‘Maybe we don’t have to go at it that way. If our killer’s hidden other bodies,’ and it seemed painfully certain he had, ‘I think I know where to find them.’
Tassos didn’t seem surprised. ‘And where would that be?’
Andreas stared at him. ‘In churches looked after by Father Paul.’
Tassos nodded and smiled. ‘You mean your original point three?’
‘Wiseass.’ He really does know me, thought Andreas.
They spent the next several hours poring over Andreas’ Internet research trying to agree upon a profile for their suspect. They concluded the killer was at least forty and acting alone. Based upon the sheer size of the victims, if their killer were female, she’d have to be tremendously strong or have help, and since statistically most were men acting alone, they went with the percentages. They pegged his age to the fact one victim was murdered fifteen years ago and most serial killers don’t start killing until their mid-twenties.
How much older than forty he might be, they couldn’t guess. The literature said serial killers act when they feel a ‘compulsion’ they must satisfy – usually driven by ‘power-to-control or sexual urges.’ There are ‘cooling-off periods’ of years or weeks between killings, but when they get the urge, they have to feed it – and the longer they kill without capture, the more frequent their need. The killer could go on killing for as long as he had the strength for it.
Murder in Mykonos Page 6