Hush

by Anne Frasier

  They moved on.

  "Prison release records have been checked, but we're having them rechecked," Irving stated. "We had a couple of suspicious people, brought them in for statements, but they were clean, at least as clean as a former drug dealer and sex offender could be. We're rechecking everybody who is out on parole."

  Irving had a straightforward, no-nonsense attitude that went over well in a group of professionals. He was in charge, and yet an equal. There was no room for inflated ego in such a situation.

  "There are three known reasons why killings like this stop," he explained. "Number one is suicide. Two is that the killer left the area to kill somewhere else. Three, he was arrested for some other offense and was serving time. It's been long speculated that the Madonna Murders stopped sixteen years ago because the killer was arrested and incarcerated for another crime altogether."

  "And now he's out," Ramirez said.

  "Right, but again this is speculation. Keep in mind that all ideas are welcome and there is no such thing as a stupid question."

  "What about mental hospitals?" Spence asked.

  "We've got information brokers on that, but so far they haven't uncovered anything interesting." The question was answered quickly and succinctly, without distracting Irving from his initial path.

  "Ramirez and Hastings are to be in charge of interviewing everyone within the grid zones, following up on those interviews if they have to."

  Ramirez leaned back in his chair, arms across his chest. "Two people?"

  "I said, In charge. We'll pull people from other areas as we need them. We may be able to enlist the help of some retired officers. We'll run television and newspaper announcements asking for citizen involvement. Those announcements will have the number of the direct line to this room. So far we've been getting about twenty calls a day, but with the announcements we can expect that to pick up. Unfortunately, you receive a lot of revenge-driven stories when something like this happens. Relatives and neighbors are quick to turn in somebody they don't like, even if they haven't killed anybody."

  "I'm afraid we're getting ahead of ourselves." The words came from Abraham, who was sitting next to Ivy at the long table. "You've both looked at the photos, looked at the case file," he said to Agents Cantrell and Spence. "What's your conclusion?"

  "I think it's the same person," Spence said immediately and with total conviction.

  "I agree," Cantrell added. "I've based that on these photos."

  She spread out six eight-by-tens on the table, two black-and-whites, four color. "These two," she explained, pointing to the black-and-whites with the chewed end of her pen, "were victims of the Madonna Murderer. These," she said, indicating the more vivid color shots, "were taken at the last two crime scenes. The posing is the same. Notice the way the hands are resting on the hips, in what someone might think of as a provocative pose. The knees bent and spread, in what could be pornographic, but also the position taken for birth. The head is tilted to the right. Mouth taped into a smile. Even the camera angle is the same. There's the ritualistic nature of the scenes, from the degrading pose of the mother, to the 'sleeping' infant with the music box." The word sleeping was tagged with air quotes.

  "It has to be the same person," she went on to say.

  "Superintendent Sinclair assures me that the public never had access to these photos. That leaves us with one conclusion. The Madonna Murderer of sixteen years ago, and the man who killed Tia Sheppard, Sachi Anderson, and their infant sons, is without a doubt the same person."

  A beat went by before Irving said, "We have some additional information. That's why I've asked Dr. Glaser here today."

  The toxicologist opened a manila envelope and pulled out copies of a toxicology report. He quickly dealt a sheet to everyone.

  "When the coroner was performing the autopsies on the Andersons, she discovered what looked like an injection site on the left side of the infant's head," Dr. Glaser said. "The toxicology tests show that the child was injected with a lethal dose of acepromazine, an animal tranquilizer. Acepromazine was quantitated in blood and postmortem tissue, which led to the discovery of concentrations in the liver and brain. Cause of death was respiratory arrest."

  "Put to sleep," Ivy said.

  "In effect, yes."

  "That doesn't fit his earlier MO," Abraham stated.

  "MOs can change," Spence said, taking the opportunity to jump in before Cantrell did any more speaking for him. "It's the signature that stays the same."

  Ivy tapped her pen against her notebook. "I think he's feeling guilty for killing the infants. He always smothered them before. Now he's putting them to sleep."

  "What a kindhearted guy," Ramirez said sarcastically.

  "I agree with Ivy," Cantrell said. "And this isn't a game for him the way it is for some serial killers. This guy is doing something he thinks is right. In his mind, he's rescuing the children."

  "How would he get the drugs?" Hastings asked.

  "A veterinarian would be the only person licensed to handle such narcotics," the toxicologist stated. "My guess is that the drugs were stolen."

  "Or the killer is a veterinarian."

  "Or works for a vet."

  "There have been some clinic break-ins," Irving said, "but it always comes down to druggies planning to use the stolen drugs themselves or sell them on the street."

  "The question is, what does the killer want out of the crime?" Agent Spence asked. "If we can understand that, we can get a clearer picture of this guy."

  "His overriding fantasy is to rid himself of his abusive mother," Ivy said. "For that reason, I would guess that his mother is still alive. He might even live with her."

  "He might even take a trophy from his victim and give it to his mother," Spence said. "Like a necklace, a barrette. Something small."

  "This guy is smooth," Cantrell said. "Possibly quite charming. The normal, commonsense clues we use when sizing people up don't apply when it comes to' sociopaths."

  "A sociopath is willing to let someone die for his own selfish purposes," Ivy said. "He doesn't value human life."

  "You know what I think is significant?" Agent Scott said. "In most cases, there were no signs of struggle. Does he take them so by surprise that they don't have a chance? Or are they too terrified to move?"

  "In many cases victims don't fight back because they hope to be allowed to live if they behave," Cantrell told the group. "It's actually rare to find a victim who does fight back. Extremely rare. With the Madonna Murderer, it could partly be due to the surprise factor. I think he attacks his victims and kills them right away. Most serial killers like to toy with their victims awhile, sometimes for days. And they still don't fight, even when they have to know what is going to happen to them. The fact that the Madonna Murderer kills his victims immediately gives him a sort of conscience, for lack of a better word. He wants them dead. There is still the violence of the act—the repeated stabbing—but the goal is to kill, not to torture."

  "What about this Reynolds woman?" Ramirez asked, flipping through his papers, looking for something he'd read earlier. "The one who lived for a while after the attack. Was she ever able to tell the police anything?"

  "Nothing substantial," Agent Scott said.

  "Too bad."

  "What else do we have?" Irving said, directing the conversation in a more productive direction.

  Ivy realized she'd been holding her breath. Perspiration was running down her spine. She went through a breathing exercise. Rising, rising. Falling, falling. Her muscles relaxed. Her heart rate slowed.

  "We've entered all the information in the FBI's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, but so far have come up with nothing." Agent Scott was talking about a computer base that allowed police officers all over the country to share information.

  "Sometimes serial killers travel, committing similar crimes in other areas of the United States," Scott continued. "When that happens, a case can appear isolated when in fact it's not. It's important to stay
connected not only within Chicago and the surrounding areas, but with the whole country."

  At that point, the toxicologist excused himself. After a flurry of distracted good-byes, the discussion continued with hardly a pause.

  "Any possible evidence found on the scene?" Cantrell asked.

  "Bloodstains, prints, fibers, hair, anything?" asked Spence.

  "Nothing. The only thing he left was his usual calling card—that damn snow-globe music box," Abraham said. "They are mass-produced in some sweatshop in Bangladesh, and sold at almost every discount store in the nation."

  "We have someone following up on that to see if any single store has sold an unusual amount," Irving said.

  "Does it always play the same song?" Spence asked.

  " 'Hush Little Baby,' " Ivy murmured.

  "When my granddaughter was born, somebody gave her a stuffed bear that played that damn song," Abraham said. "I took it out and burned it."

  The discussion turned to other aspects of the case: mode of entry. How did he get into a secure building? It was agreed that anybody could get into a secure building if he waited by the door long enough until a resident or visitor went in or out. Then there were the knife wounds. He used to stab the women thirteen times. Now he stabbed them twenty-two. The significance was lost on everyone in the room.

  For two more hours they tossed ideas back and forth.

  Ivy suggested they track down sales of Polaroid film. Spence, the sale of used police cars. Sometimes offenders were known to buy police cars so they could impersonate a cop.

  That led to a discussion about how he found his victims to begin with. Someone pointed out that insurance agents were privy to a client's personal history.

  Insurance agents went on the list.

  Another person noted that oftentimes hospitals and even police didn't put private volunteers through a background check.

  Volunteers went on the list.

  They would have a squad of plainclothes officers watch hospitals, especially the delivery wings.

  They would cross-reference released prisoners and released mental patients with volunteer police and volunteer hospital aides.

  At that point, Hastings announced that her bladder was going to bust and she needed to eat.

  Everybody pretty much agreed with that too.

  When she returned from the bathroom, people began bombarding her with food requests. "I'm not going to be the designated gofer," she said.

  "We'll take turns," Ramirez told her, tossing a ten- dollar bill in her direction.

  She grabbed it. "Damn right, we will." She took off down the nearest flight of stairs to hit the McDonald's up the street.

  In the bathroom, Ivy and Mary Cantrell were both washing their hands when Mary said, "Did you write Symbolic Death?" She shut off the water and tore off a section of paper towel. "Are you that Ivy Dunlap?"

  Ivy turned the tiny bent metal crank on the paper- towel machine, moving her arm like she was playing a hurdy-gurdy. "Yes."

  "I thought so."

  Ivy was surprised she'd heard of the book. She'd actually written it as a catharsis, a class project. Her professor had urged her to publish it. "This could be huge," he'd told her. At the time, her mind had fast- forwarded, creating a future for herself as a top-selling author with whirlwind book tours and guest spots on Good Morning America and The Today Show.

  Feeling overexposed just thinking about it, she'd never sent the manuscript to New York. Instead, it had been picked up by a rather obscure university press and was released with a modest print run. It. seemed Ivy Dunlap lacked the credentials to create any kind of a buzz. What a sad commentary on the United States. The same book, written by Claudia Reynolds, would have produced a media frenzy.

  Mary tossed her wet towel in the wastebasket, then leaned against the tiled wall, her arms crossed just beneath her breasts. She was several years younger than Ivy, dark-haired and pretty, but carrying an air of raw intensity that was more than just her intentionally projected image of the strictly professional career woman in her navy-blue tailored suit and crisp white shirt.

  Women hadn't been admitted to the FBI for all that long, even less time in the Behavioral Science Unit. The year the first woman came along was 1984 if Ivy remembered correctly. In such a male-dominated field, women had to think twice as fast, work twice as hard.

  "When I was in high school," Mary said, "my best friend was murdered."

  Jesus. Soon it would be like breast cancer where one in an ever-changing number of women would be touched by a killer. "I'm sorry."

  "Normally I don't tell anybody that. I'm telling you because I was impressed by your insight. And I have to admit that, as I read your book, I kept expecting you to come out and say that your life had been touched by one of these madmen too. But you didn't."

  "No." Ivy was suddenly unable to look Mary in the eye. "No, I didn't." She felt sick that her answer had to be so evasive.

  "That's why I went into this business."

  "Because of your friend's death?"

  Mary nodded.

  "Did they catch the killer?"

  "Yeah, but he was a juvenile and the jury went easy on him." Mary dug around in her purse, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with a pink Bic. Smoke-free building, but what the hell? "I've quit smoking three times, but I always start again." She offered a drag of the cigarette to Ivy.

  Ivy shook her head. "No, thanks." She mentally calculated how many years ago it must have been that Mary's friend had died. "Is he out now? The killer?"

  "He gets out soon." Mary took a few deep drags, making up for the last several hours. "Well, at least he isn't lonely in prison," she said sarcastically. "His girlfriend writes to him and goes to see him all the time."

  "Killers don't change. People need to understand that. They don't suddenly grow a conscience."

  Mary turned on the water faucet, doused her cigarette, and tossed it in the trash. "You want to hear something really sick? His girlfriend is my sister."

  Chapter 18

  Three days after their arrival, Special Agents Anthony Spence and Mary Cantrell offered their conclusions to a group of about fifty people. All the members of the task force were there, plus about a hundred various police officers and officials. No press. No cameras.

  "Single white male with deep psychiatric problems that require medication," Agent Mary Cantrell said from the podium at the front of the room. "Probably lives with his mother or another female relative. Age, mid-forties."

  Spence broke in, leaning into the microphone. "We would have said late twenties, except that we know it's the Madonna Murderer, and he'd have to be in his forties by now."

  "It's unusual for a serial killer to be that old," Cantrell said, "but this is an exception."

  She continued. "Possibly dates some, but doesn't have any real girlfriend. He might have a job that requires skill with computers. Maybe a computer programmer. The kind of job where he might work around a lot of people, but interacts with them only briefly during the day."

  "Or he could possibly be a telemarketer," Spence said. "Someone who touches people from a distance, who can skillfully manipulate them. He might also be an agent, maybe an insurance agent. An insurance agent who has access to his client's medical records. He also has tremendous organizational skills. That's apparent in the way he never leaves any evidence."

  "He might drive a four-door car like a Caprice, several years old," said Cantrell. "Maybe even an auctioned police car—but I think our guy might be too smart for that. But say a Caprice, or a Caprice-type car, because that's what policemen drive. He may have even tried to become an officer, but failed some part of the test. He may be a volunteer right now, directing traffic after concerts and football games."

  When she was finished, Spence took over the podium to address possible tactics.

  "We're going to give you some proactive measures that have worked for us in the past, plus some ideas that apply to this case only. The first suggestion is that you hold
a candlelight vigil for the latest victim. Have detectives stake out the location of the vigil to see if anyone suspicious shows up. Nine times out of ten this kind of gathering will attract the killer. Another suggestion is to stake out the graves of previous victims. We know from experience that the killer almost always visits the places where his victims are buried. John Chapman was caught this way. So was Vincent Thomas. You might advertise for volunteers to help with the investigation. As Agent Cantrell said, many serial killers have tried to be policemen, and several have been known to be volunteer police. That's because these men need to dominate and need to be in control. They crave authority. Another possibility is to run a fake birth announcement in the paper, along with an address where officers will be lying in wait.

  "Before closing, I want to go over some signs to watch for. These predators, as unique and individual as they appear from the outside, fall into certain patterns. Be aware that serial killers can reach a burnout stage where they get careless. Sometimes they reach a grandiose stage where they become bold, even to the point of impersonating an investigator. If the stress of everyday life gets too extreme, they may snap. Here's a little-known fact: People who are getting close to snapping sometimes start wearing the color yellow. The brighter the color, the closer they are to snapping. Lastly, when the predator can't find his victim of choice, he'll take whatever is available."

  The next half hour was spent with Spence and Cantrell answering questions, then the meeting broke up. "I wish all local law enforcement could be as receptive to us as you've been," Mary said.

  Detective Irving shook their hands, thanking them for their time and input.

  "Keep us informed," Mary said. "Even though we're going back to Virginia, we'll remain involved in the case."

  Four hours later in the task-force room, Ivy tossed her notebook aside. "I have to get some real light," she said, rubbing her temples as if she had a headache.