Ace and A Pair: A Dead Cold Mystery (Dead Cold Mysteries Book 1)

by Blake Banner

  “Don’t get me wrong, Stone. I follow your logic, and I see where you’re coming from. But it just seems a hell of a conclusion from very little evidence.” She paused. “Some might say no evidence at all.”

  “Is that a feeling or a thought?”

  “Come on. Give me a break. You’re basing a theory that the arms belong to the victim of a serial killer on what? The fact that they were found in a lockup?”

  The waiter arrived with two frothing beers, and I asked him for two sirloin steaks with plenty of french fries, easy on the salad. I glanced at Dehan. “That okay with you?”

  “I thought we were having pizza.”

  “In this weather? You’ve got to be kidding.” I nodded at him. He bowed and went away. “Okay, Dehan, go wild here, really go out on a limb, push the boundaries of credibility and find me one single theory that is more credible than mine.”

  She was silent a long while, staring at the coals. Eventually she sighed. “You always wind up with the same problem—why didn’t he do the same to the arms as he did to the rest of the body?”

  I sipped my beer. “And the related question, which to me is more important, having successfully disposed of the whole body, what benefit does he get from leaving the arms somewhere where he knows for sure they will be found?”

  “What benefit does he get…?” she muttered.

  “The benefit is right there, in the question…”

  “That they will be found.”

  “Precisely. Which leads us to the next question. In what way is that a benefit to him?”

  She sighed again. “And we’re back to square one. He is either throwing a scare into somebody, or…”

  “Or the benefit is subjective. It gives him a kick, a thrill, and ego boost. And that leaves us very firmly in one place. Serial killer territory. Somebody who kills for pleasure.”

  “If you’re right, Stone, the problem becomes much more complicated. This woman could be from anywhere in the United States, and the rest of her could be scattered from here to California.”

  “Yup.” I nodded. “And the lack of motive means we have no idea what kind of man we’re looking for.”

  “Serial killers are always men, right?”

  “Male. There was one case of a woman serial killer, but she was emotionally and intellectual male. The overwhelming majority are men. Within that, there is no profile for a serial killer. They tend to have average to below-average intelligence, though a few are highly intelligent. They tend to be underachievers and feel inadequate, though some have risen very high in their professions as doctors or soldiers. They tend to be victims of violent, unhappy families, though again, one or two have come from perfectly normal middle-class families. The only thing they really have in common is that they invert the normal progression for killing.”

  The waiter, wearing an air of triumph, delivered our steaks, gave a little bow, and withdrew.

  I cut into mine and watched the blood ooze onto the plate. It was perfect. Dehan said, “What does that mean?”

  I chewed, enjoying the rich flavor, watching the luminous beads of rain slide down the black glass on the window.

  “Normally, in a murder, there is a very clear progression. The killer and the victim meet and form a relationship. Often it’s a loving relationship, sometimes a business relationship. Always it’s a close relationship. The relationship provides the motive for killing—jealousy, vengeance, financial gain… Those are the big three. And from the motive springs the desire to kill. So relationship leads to motive leads to desire. The serial killer inverts that process.”

  She sat back and sipped. “So the serial killer first forms the desire to kill. He doesn’t care who. He just wants to kill. From the desire he develops the motive—the desire is his motive. And then he develops a relationship with his chosen victim.”

  I nodded. “Exactly. The relationship may be short, a few minutes or hours, or it may be longer. But usually he will start by stalking, then sometimes he will progress to kidnapping…”

  She waved her knife at me. “I have read that they fall into roughly two categories, organized and disorganized…”

  I shook my head and spoke with my mouth full.

  “Three. Organized, disorganized, and mixed. If I’m right, and it is still a big if, we are most likely to be dealing with an organized serial killer.”

  “Why?”

  I gazed down into the flames in the fire. “Organized serial killers plan their killings methodically. The placing of the arms in the lockup, the absence of any forensic evidence, the absence of any witnesses—it all suggests methodical planning.” She nodded and continued eating. I carried on talking, thinking aloud. “Often they will abduct their victims, kill them in one place, and then dispose of the body somewhere else. As you said, if I am right, she could have been killed anywhere in the USA.

  “They often target prostitutes. Not only are hookers likely to go voluntarily with a stranger, they are also less likely to be reported missing. He will control over the crime scene and have a good knowledge of forensic science. He will also follow reports on the news relating to his crime, because he will feel a kind of narcissistic pride in what he’s done, as though it were some kind of achievement.

  “Organized killers often seem normal. They have friends, romantic relationships, and even get married and have kids. They tend to think they are a lot smarter than they are. Their IQs tend to be around 90 to 99.”

  I could tell by her face that she’d been thinking while I was talking. Without looking at me, she asked, “They often keep trophies, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Could the arms have been a trophy?”

  “I know where you’re going. It’s possible, but they’re a bit big. But then you face the same question. If the killer intended to keep them as a trophy, why put them in Peter’s lockup? If Peter was the killer, which is what I think you are driving at, why report them?”

  She had finished her steak, and she sat back, narrowing her eyes at me. My steak was getting cold, so I started eating while she watched me.

  “I have no grounds for this at all, Stone. But I am just imagining Jenny going to get the decorations from the locker without telling Peter. I can see her falling down, then running home hysterical, and Peter taking charge, like the pompous little prick he is… ‘Just let me handle everything, little lady…’”

  She was right. It was a compelling image. I spoke through a mouthful of french fries. “He had the job for it.”

  “So we need to be looking at other states for dismembered bodies.”

  I drained my beer. “Yes, we do. We must also avoid fixating on Peter. I am also interested in Hank the Hell’s Angel and his girlfriend, Lynda. And we should explore the other tenants, the export company, the whole-food shop and the chemist.”

  She tipped her empty glass around a bit while I ate. The warmth from the fire was soporific. After a moment she waved her glass at the waiter and winked at me.

  “You can’t have one. I can.” When he had delivered it and gone away, she said, “I thought that too. The arms could be Lynda’s. She didn’t have a record, so when they ran the prints and the DNA, they wouldn’t have got a hit.”

  “Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I’ll find out where Hank is living these days while you check for dismembered female bodies in late 2005, early 2006. Talk to Bernie at the bureau. Also, on the off chance, talk to the sheriffs and PDs in Michigan, Ohio, and Indiana.”

  “What about girls who went missing at that time?”

  “We will probably have to go down that route eventually, but without fingerprints or DNA, and nothing to compare dental records with…”

  We talked a little longer, and when she’d finished her beer, I looked at my watch. She raised her hand like she was hailing a cab and said, “This one’s on me, Sensei.”

  I smiled. “I know better than to argue. Next one’s on me.”

  “You bet.”

  Outside, the road was deser
ted. The puddles looked black and oily, and rippled with small gusts of cold wind and drizzle. The light from the streetlamps and the shop fronts lay orange and listless across the water, like it had lost all hope of ever being bright and merry. We climbed in the Jag and slammed the doors. I fired her up, and Dehan gave an almighty yawn.

  “Let’s go home, pardner.”

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