Killer Blonde

by Allan Evans

  Grace shook her head. “Similar cases? None that we’ve come across. But we haven’t made any progress. Nothing is moving, nothing is breaking. Honestly, Goodwin doesn’t know what to do next.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. After making such a big deal of things, Goodwin hasn’t been able to produce anything—other than discovering the Patrol’s DUI shitshow. Sorry, no offense. But you know that’s why he made such a stink of it. He had nothing else. I almost feel sorry for the guy.”

  “Almost?”

  “Almost. The man is an asshole.” Grace played with her straw as she talked, putting her thumb over the end and letting drops of water hit her crumpled paper straw wrapper. At times like this, Cade could see the young girl in Grace, not the tenacious crime scene technician infamously known for standing up to a state senator during a murder investigation. The man had viciously berated Grace as she steadfastly stood by the evidence she’d uncovered. Turned out the senator’s mistress was the killer and planned on taking out the senator’s wife next. Grace held her ground, and the senator was soon engulfed in the scandal and went through a high-profile divorce instigated by his wife. This happened during her first month on the job. Now several years later, Grace was the Bureau’s lead crime scene technician while the former senator was a divorced alcoholic who sold double-wide trailers in rural Minnesota. And somewhere in Minnesota right now there’s a former Mrs. Senator who’s feeling pretty good about her life choices.

  “So, Goodwin hadn’t found killings with a similar pattern?”

  “Absolutely not. Where did you get the idea we had?”

  Cade took a sip of his beer, deciding how much he should share. “A friend of mine is a reporter,” he began.

  “Reynolds DeVries.” Not a question. “I see something in her when she mentions your name.”

  Cade shook his head. Leave it to women to have this relational radar—bordering on ESP—which carriers of Y chromosomes missed out on. Would it be too much to ask for a level playing field?

  “My friend, Reynolds,” he paused and smiled, “has a law enforcement source who mentioned a similar case in Chicago.”

  Grace nodded, as she stared off into space. Cade waited for her to come back. It didn’t take long. “And you say you never found the same pattern when you searched NCIC?” Known as NCIC, the National Crime Information Center was the computerized database for tracking crime-related information. As long as you knew what to search for, you could find criminal information nationwide, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

  “No, didn’t find anything at all similar.”

  Setting down her straw, Grace twisted her hair around her fingers, the picture of nervous energy. “You know we’re essentially talking about a pattern killer. According to criminal profiling experts, they’re called pattern killers because there’s a pattern in their killing associated with the types of victims selected or the method or motives for the killing.” She glanced at Cade. “With me so far?”

  Cade simply nodded, not wanting to break her thought process.

  “Good. Researchers have discovered that the seemingly erratic behavior of the Rostov Ripper, a Russian serial killer active in the 1980s, conformed to the same mathematical pattern obeyed by earthquakes, avalanches, stock market crashes and other sporadic events. The finding suggested an explanation for why serial killers kill. Though, the Russian sometimes went nearly three years between killings, on other occasions he went just three days. Even though the spacing of his murders seemed random, the researchers found they followed a mathematical distribution known as a power law.

  “When the number of days between his murders is plotted against the number of times he waited that number of days, the relationship forms a near-straight line on a type of graph called a log-log plot. It’s the same result scientists get when they plot the magnitude of earthquakes against the number of times each magnitude has occurred—and the same goes for a variety of natural phenomena. The power law outcome suggests there’s an underlying natural process driving the serial killer’s behavior.

  “The psychotic effects leading a serial killer to commit murder arise from simultaneous firing of a large number of neurons in the brain.” Grace was on a roll, her cadence quickening. “In the brain, the firing of a single neuron can potentially trigger the firing of thousands of others, each of which can in turn trigger thousands more. In this way, neural activity cascades through the brain. Most of the time, the cascade is small and quickly dies down, but occasionally—after time intervals determined by the power law—the neural activity surpasses a threshold.

  “In epileptics, a threshold-crossing cascade of neurons induces a seizure. And if the theory is right, a similar buildup of excited neurons is what flooded the Rostov Ripper with an overwhelming desire to commit murder. Sometimes he went years without his neurons crossing the threshold, other times, just days.

  “The new findings are well-aligned with prior observations about serial killers, many of whom seem to behave like drug addicts. In both cases, withdrawal from their addiction causes longing to build until it hits a threshold trigger point. After which they must kill to release that longing. And as with drug addiction, withdrawal from killing may cause a buildup of hormones in a part of the brain called the amygdala, and this surprisingly unpleasant feeling can only be reversed by acting out whatever the addicting stimulus might be.”

  “Which in our case is murder.”

  “Exactly. So, our killer is caught in a loop, driven to kill when the need becomes too much. And I would presume our killer has done this before, otherwise the cycle wouldn’t be so frequent.” Grace paused, waiting for Cade.

  “Makes sense,” he offered.

  “If our assumption is true that our pattern killer has killed before, there must be a reason why you didn’t find anything similar.” Grace took a sip from her water, which was mostly untouched.

  Cade slammed his hand down on the bar. Several heads turned in their direction. “I got it! There’s still a pattern. But the pattern was different.”

  Grace patted him on the knee. “Exactly. Look for a different type of victim, possibly killed in a different manner. But I wouldn’t expect him to have strayed too far from the up-close methods used on your victims. A gun would not offer the same intimacy, the same satisfaction, that a knife would bring.”

  “Grace, you are frickin’ brilliant.”

  Smiling, she patted his knee again, leaving her hand there. “I knew that. Just glad you figured it out too.” Grace glanced down at her hand and looked up with a shy smile. “How come you never asked me out?”

  “Grace…”

  “Come on. You owe me an answer.”

  Looking into her blue eyes, only one answer came to mind. “I was worried you might say yes.”

  Like most mornings, Reynolds DeVries woke up to the buzz of her cell phone. People didn’t seem to realize her job entailed late hours, and getting a little sleep would be nice. She groaned, reaching, grasping and eventually finding the cell on her bedside table. The buzzing had stopped. The digital readout said 7:42 a.m., which elicited another groan. Too damn early.

  The buzz started again. Reynolds flipped the phone over and recognized the caller. “Good morning, Ellie.” Ellie Winters was a good friend with a lot in common. Also prominent in Twin Cities media, Winters was co-host of the morning show on the top-rated radio station in the Minneapolis St. Paul market. Ratings could be a fickle bitch, but at the moment, Winters and her cadre of male radio clowns sat on top of the ratings.

  “Reynolds, someone is following me.”

  Glancing back at the clock, it still said 7:42. “Aren’t you at the station?”

  “Not right now. You haven’t had your coffee, have you?”

  “It’s not even 8 a.m., Ellie.”

  “I’ve been up since 4:15, so you’ll get no sympathy from me.”

  “So, you’re being followed,” Reynolds prompted. It would be nice to get another hour of sleep.

&nbs
p; “Most days, I feel someone. I’ve caught a glimpse every now and then, but he’s good. He stays just out of view. He blends with the people around him. I’ve had friends comment about a man staring at me. When I turn, he’s moving away or has simply vanished. I know how this must sound, but there is someone following me. I’m sure of it. It has to be the same guy who’s been stalking and killing those women.”

  Ellie Winters was a tall blonde with a gift for turning heads. She fit the killer’s demographics to a T, Reynolds thought. She was a dead ringer to the three victims. “Ellie, you need to tell the BCA. They’re on the case.”

  “I don’t even know who the BCA is. Shouldn’t I just call the police?”

  Reynolds felt like slamming the phone against the table, however she reined in her frustration. “You’ve never heard of them? The Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension is the police, Ellie, the state police. Our BCA was the first in the nation to identify a suspect based solely on DNA.”

  A pause. “Okay, I have to get back on the air. Who do I talk to?”

  “Freddie Goodwin is the lead investigator. Ask for him.”

  “Okay, I will. And Reynolds…”

  “Yes?” Reynolds asked.

  “Don’t be so crabby. Mornings are supposed to be fun.”

  Winters hung up before Reynolds could formulate a proper response. She dropped the phone and rolled over. One more hour.

  Cade was in his new truck enjoying the way the FJ Cruiser cornered as he turned onto Main Street in downtown Stillwater. In a moment, he’d be able to open it up and test out the truck’s acceleration. The road overlooked the river which looked to be ice free. Some years the ice-out happened later, some years earlier. This year was earlier by at least three weeks. Spring was off to a good start.

  A call came through on Cade’s cell and he hit the speaker button, Rob’s voice filling the cab. “Morning partner. You should be listening to Ellie Winters on KDWB. She’s ranting about our case. Call me after.” And Rob was gone.

  Cade pulled up the radio station. Ellie Winters was talking: “We need to stop this killer. Now. I don’t feel safe. In fact, I don’t know many women who do. Why can’t we be protected?”

  Cade turned up the volume.

  “There’s a man out there who has killed at least three women we know of here in our community. Women, just like me and you, simply living our lives. We should be able to feel safe.”

  A male voice: “You said you don’t feel safe. Tell us about that.”

  Ellie Winters: “Someone has followed me. I’ve been downtown, at restaurants, shopping, and I’ve seen the same man. He’s stalked me all over the cities.”

  The male voice: “Has he followed you on the highway? That’s where he likes to kill his victims.”

  Her voice went quiet. “I know. I’m checking my mirrors all the time. I’ve seen the same car behind me often.”

  The male voice: “Ellie, can you describe the man who’s stalking you? Have you been able to get a license plate?”

  Her voice trembling, Ellie spoke in a measured cadence. “No license plate. But I know he’s big and has dark hair. He’s almost a ghost. Every time I try to get a good look, he evaporates into the crowd. My friends, who have watched him as he’s watched me, have mentioned his eyes. There’s something about his eyes, their intensity as he watches me, that’s so scary.”

  The male voice: “How can a killer stalk women on our highways, in our cities with complete impunity? What is law enforcement doing to stop this?”

  Winters answered. “I’m told the investigation now belongs to the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension—the BCA. But is the BCA the right organization to end this? The case was in the hands of the same investigator who stopped Andrew Bishop and his group of killers. But they took it away for political reasons. What about us? What about the three dead women? What about the man stalking me? Will the BCA stop him before he…before…”

  The male voice again: “We need to take a break here. When we come back, we’ll have group therapy for a woman in love with an older man. Is mature really better? What if he falls and breaks his hip? Back after these messages.”

  On cue, Rob called again. “Well, that should throw some gasoline on the fire. If Goodwin wasn’t feeling pressure before, he sure will now.”

  Cade was nodding as he goosed the gas pedal, the truck making the first stoplight on Highway 36 as the light changed. “Do you think someone’s actually following Winters? These murders are fueling a whole lot of paranoia.”

  “I’m at the computer now, looking her up. Ellie Winters is blonde, five foot seven inches,” Rob said. “She looks more willowy, more like a fashion model than the others, but she looks like she’d draw a lot of attention. She has a look, if you know what I mean.”

  “So, she’d fit the killer’s profile.” Not a question.

  “No doubt. At all.”

  “Let’s see how Goodwin handles this,” Cade said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said as he blew around a slow-moving Honda. He loved hearing the engine purr as the open road beckoned. Cade smiled and pressed harder on the gas pedal.

  Rob Zink was at their shared desk, papers spread across the surface. Rob subscribed to the messy desk theory, that being surrounded by visual and mental clutter forced human beings to focus and think more clearly. Taking note of the overturned soda cans and the three coffee cups scattered among the files, he wondered if laziness might just be an equal factor at work here. “Morning,” Rob said as he looked up.

  Cade took his seat across the desk. “What do we have this morning?”

  “A couple of accidents, a road rage incident…”

  “What happened there?”

  “The usual: men behaving badly. Someone gets cut off. Horns honk, fingers communicate, the offended driver escalates things by bumping bumpers.”

  “Idiots.”

  “Exactly,” Rob said. “One driver follows another into the Walmart parking lot.” Cade rolled his eyes.

  “There’s a confrontation. Pushing and yelling. Our trooper arrived to calm everyone down. Someone had seen the entire thing as it escalated and called it in. Both guys had small children in their vehicles.” Rob shook his head. “Idiots.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Vang had another drug interdiction. He looks to be hot after that stuff.”

  Cade laughed. “He’s like a terrier on the roads. He sniffs it out and will not quit. I asked him about it the other week. He said he wanted to do more. There are troopers hammering out speeding tickets all day, well more power to them. Not him. He uses the traffic violations as a means to an end. Looking for dope, guns, etc. And working the 94 corridor from the Wisconsin border gives him ample opportunity to find the stuff as it enters the state.”

  “From Chicago?”

  Cade nodded. “There’s a pipeline from Chicago and points east finding its way into Minnesota. Having Vang on point seems to be making a difference.”

  Rob slid a file across the desk. “Why don’t you take the interdiction? I’ll follow up on the road rage incident.”

  Standing up, Cade said, “Sounds like a great way to start a morning.”

  “Rather be chasing down a serial killer,” Rob said with a frown.

  “Same here.”

  The killer was at work when he heard about Freddie Goodwin.

  Winters must have stirred the pot and Goodwin had decided to personally watch her, perhaps bowing to the pressure. Musing, he thought the situation could work in his favor. It certainly opened up several possibilities.

  His prey was directly ahead.

  The occasional long-haul trucker aside, the highway was deserted. Not quite yet 5 a.m., traffic would be sparse for another hour. A white Kia Soul—Winters’ vehicle—was easy to track even without the reflective disk. One vehicle was between them, a nondescript Ford sedan. It was Goodwin.

  Goodwin had been Ellie Winters’ constant companion for the last week, while the killer was their shad
ow, lurking just out of sight. He learned their routes, their patterns and their vulnerabilities. Though there were many opportunities to take Goodwin out, he’d waited for the right moment, one with maximum impact. After all, he needed to make a point. The killer found his pulse quickening, his anger growing. Simply knowing the fraud Goodwin was right there—right within killing range—severely taxed his control. It was this tight control which allowed him to play out his game as he pulled all the pieces together, setting up each of the clueless participants, and then with a master strike, blindside everyone.

  In Chicago, the police were onto his pattern after the third killing. He could feel them nipping at his ankles, hoping to box him in, vainly trying to outsmart him. Like that was going to happen. Like any good chess player, the killer was always several moves ahead. Planning for contingencies, he’d scouted and selected a series of potential victims, waiting for the need to grow—as it always did—and waited. Knowing time was in his favor while the police chased around frantically, he simply sat back and taunted the lead detective on the case. You’ll never catch me.

  They never did.

  Interstate 394 served as a direct link for commuters traveling between downtown Minneapolis and parts of the western Twin Cities metropolitan area. Just short of ten miles long, the highway began at U.S. Highway 12 and changed into an interstate after passing Interstate 494. Each morning, Winters was on 394 for several miles before exiting at Park Place. The killer knew each mile of her route intimately. The stretch right after Highway 169, directly across from the sprawling General Mills headquarters, would be sufficiently visible to get his point across.

  Speeding up, the killer closed the gap. Winters was a quarter mile ahead of Goodwin and wouldn’t see what he did to the fraud. Just after crossing under the Highway 169 interchange, it was time.