We have also confirmed that June Earhart, 34, was killed in Boston in a very specific manner indicating the presence of a copycat of the Boston Strangler. A source who asked not to be named told this reporter that the victim’s scarf had been tied in a bow around her neck, though independent confirmation is yet to be achieved. There was a second murder in this style less than twenty-four hours ago in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a stockbroker named Frances Schwartz, 31, and another strangulation was recently reported in Indianapolis, Indiana, Mary Jane Solomon, 28.
The FBI are looking into the cases, and people across the country are rushing to buy new locks, guns and other items to increase their homes’ and loved ones’ safety.
The Son of Sam copycat has proved more elusive, his trail not as defined as his compatriots. After murdering Barry Teterboro, 41, and Martin Bass, 50, in Manhattan’s Washington Square Park, he moved to Washington, D.C., where his victims, Joseph Conley, 43, and Nicholas Anche, 40, were found shot to death in the Lyndon B. Johnson Memorial Grove. There have been no new murders attributed to Son of Sam’s copycat for over a day.
These killers must be stopped, but speculation abounds as to the individual motives and overall scheme of the situation.
The article went on, but that was all Baldwin could take.
He closed the browser and ran his hands through his hair. Gotcha journalism, run with half truths and outright lies be damned, whoever had written that story had a source inside the investigation. At least the story hadn’t made a connection to the Pretender. They had managed to keep his involvement relatively private. Fox already had the bones for that part of the story. Since Taylor had been openly named as leading the investigation, it would only be a matter of time before the rest jumped on board. They were out of time.
He couldn’t sit here waiting anymore. He needed to do something. He wasn’t used to being on the outside of a case, looking in. Being suspended was making this difficult. Difficult, but not impossible.
He opened his phone and called Salt, who answered on the first ring.
“Good timing, I was about to call you.”
“Tell me you have some good news.”
“I do. The cars were rented at the same time, online, using a single credit card, which traces back to Nashville, though to a P.O. Box, not a physical address.”
“Probably counterfeit then, an assumed identity. What name was used?”
“Troy Land. It’s bogus, I can’t find anything that matches up. I can’t imagine him using his own name. Just in case, I’ve started a couple of searches. Though if he’s sending you the plates of the cars, he’s hardly trying to hide himself.”
“Exactly. That’s why I assume the ID is fake. What about the names of the drivers?”
“I’m almost there. They said they’d be happy to give me the information, chock-full of specifics, as soon as I provided them with a warrant. We’re getting the paper now but you know how long that takes. So in the meantime, I’m taking a small peek into the daily database, see who signed for the individual cars. This company has moved to electronic signatures. Assuming they’re legible, we’ll at least have something to work with.”
“Excellent. What else?”
“Confirmations of murders in Philadelphia and Indianapolis that are attributable to the signature of the Boston Strangler copycat. He’s using UPS delivery trucks, and stealing the drivers’ uniforms to make deliveries. Who doesn’t answer the door for a parcel? Three UPS drivers have been found dead so far. There’s been a media explosion, too, in case you didn’t have your television or computer on.”
“Yeah, I saw that. Hard to avoid, considering the victims are being targeted through a popular online site. The minute that hit Twitter, we were sunk.”
“Dude, it’s a top five trending topic right now. They’ve hashtagged it #copycats. Honestly, I think it’s going to help. So much attention, you know? Everyone is watching. All the law enforcement agencies are on alert. The entire online world is paying attention. His moment in the sun is about to end.”
“Excellent. Great work. Keep it up. Can I speak to Charlaine? I’d like her opinion on something.”
“I’ll transfer you. And I’ll shout the minute I have some names, okay?”
“Thanks, Kevin.”
“See ya.”
There was a long beep, then the phone went quiet. Two seconds later Charlaine Shultz’s sweet, Southern voice came on the line.
“Hey, boss! How are you? Please tell me they’ve pulled their heads from their asses and are letting you back? This place sucks without you.”
“Charlaine, dear, thank you. No word yet, but I know Garrett’s doing everything he can.”
“Is Taylor okay?”
“We may have a new situation on our hands, she’s off chasing it down now. Before I go into that, let me ask you something. No one seems to know what Ewan Copeland looks like. There were pictures in the files from when he was a kid, but nothing that anyone can agree upon as an adult. What do you think that means?”
Charlaine didn’t hesitate. “It’s so funny that you asked that. I was just working on a theory. He’s moved from city to city for at least a decade, right? Holds no job that we know of. His sister is making money, but enough to support herself and her brother as he traverses the country? That would be hard to pull off on a city forensic analyst’s salary. There was a small life insurance policy that the baseball folks took out on Roger Copeland, emphasis on the small, so that money has to be long gone. He died over fifteen years ago. The mom was a guest of the state, died about six months ago. Breast cancer. Nothing suspicious, doctors ruled it natural causes. The last visitor she had was three years ago.” He heard her shuffling papers. “His name was Thomas Keck.”
“Son of a bitch. That’s the name of the husband of our celebrity blogger. There’s no way he visited Ewan Copeland’s mother three years ago, he’s been dead for over four.”
“Another fake ID. Not a surprise. This Copeland guy is a piece of work.”
“No kidding,” he replied.
“That’s not all. About an hour ago, I started going through the files we have on Copeland’s previous crimes. All of the victims were single, and very much alone. The men, the women. He never chose anyone who had people. A couple of his victims were from upscale neighborhoods, we’re talking wealthy, highend places. So I started thinking, maybe he stole from those people. And guess what I found?”
“Dazzle me. Not that you aren’t already.”
“There’s a name that’s been linked to the escrow payouts on five of his victims. A lawyer named Roger Anderson. He’s the beneficiary.”
“Roger for his dad, and Anderson for his sister. Ewan got himself into their wills. Now that’s impressive.”
“It gets better. The money that was paid into Anderson’s accounts was definitely enough for Copeland to live on, for years. Garrett pulled some strings and got a guy from the forensic banking department to get the account information released. He’s living on the interest, he’s made some very smart investments. All he needs are small withdrawals here and there, on a debit card, and one set of checks. The checks get interesting though, they’re all made out to the same person over the course of ten years.”
“Who is?”
“A doctor in McLean, Virginia. Plastic surgeon. Specializes in facial reconstruction after accidents, removal of burn scars, those kinds of things. He’s on the up and up, a regular Ward Cleaver of a guy. Donates his time to fix cleft palates in South America, does a bunch of pro bono work here in the U.S.”
“Charlaine, Ewan Copeland has a mess of scars on his stomach from his multiple surgeries as an young boy. We’ve known he was hiding something, I’ve always thought he had some sort of physical deformity that was readily apparent. What if he went to this doctor to have those scars removed, or skin grafts to help minimize them, and got addicted to surgery?”
“Exactly. You know how pain can work for Munchausen’s by proxy victims. Pain equals love a
nd acceptance, so even if it’s self-inflicted, it becomes a necessity. Body dysmorphic disorder could explain why no one knows what he looks like. He’s addicted to changing his surface. His skin, his face, his bone structure. He’d never be satisfied with how he looks, he’d be compelled to continue changing himself. Unlimited budget, an insatiable need for change and a lot of murders to cover up add up to one very sad, sick puppy. Probably with impossibly perfect skin. The bastard.”
Baldwin gave this idea a moment to process. “That’s why he doesn’t care if he leaves DNA behind. He’s altered his appearance between major kills. The odds of finding him through photos or witness identifications are slim to none.”
“And Slim’s out of town. Exactly.”
“I assume you’re going to talk to the doctor?”
“Already have an appointment, Baldwin. He cleared his schedule when we mentioned the name Roger Anderson. Guess he has an idea that there’s a problem already.”
“He could be just as much of a victim as the rest of Copeland’s dead. Go careful. I’d assume Copeland has a warning system to let him know if anyone comes calling on his doctor.”
Baldwin heard Charlaine slap shut her laptop, envisioned her getting to her feet, a crusader on a hot trail.
“Probably. But I’m hoping he’s too engaged in his game to notice we’ve snuck in through the back door.”
Forty-Two
Colleen was starting to get royally pissed off. Flynn was fretful, hungry for smiley-face pancakes, though Detective Ross said that leaving the CJC was an absolute no. They were making do with McDonald’s that one of the patrols had brought in, pancakes and sausage patties, but Flynn wanted smiley faces, and just about everyone in the Homicide offices knew about it.
She was lost without her computer. Ross had taken it from her when she tried to leave the first time, before he’d locked her and Flynn in an interrogation room. She wasn’t under arrest, but she wasn’t free to leave, either. She couldn’t believe that they thought she had something to do with this crazy killer’s game.
Ewan Copeland.
The name made all the hairs on her arms stand on end. So long as she kept denying she knew him, kept playing dumb, she’d be fine. They’d catch him. She and Flynn would be able to go back to their lives.
She tried to quiet her cranky son, and waited. There was nothing for her to do. She worked on her breathing, her yoga breaths. Square. In for four counts, hold for four counts, release for four counts, still for four counts. She made a game of it for Flynn. Watch Mommy, baby. After five rounds, he began to relax. After eight, he fell asleep against her shoulder, his soft hair spiked with sweat. She held him tight against her chest, felt his small body go limp and warm as he slid into sleep. Wished she could go back to his age and do the same thing.
There was a soft knock at the door. It opened slowly and Lincoln Ross stood in the frame, a wistful smile on his face. She felt her heart leap when she saw him. She was crazy, going mad, but when his smile turned from wistful to engaging, she couldn’t help herself, she smiled back.
“The pancakes worked, I see,” he said.
“I think I hypnotized him,” she replied, and he stifled a laugh.
“It worked on me, too. I’ve rarely felt so calm while at work.”
She realized he’d been watching, waiting for Flynn to settle, before he came back to the room. She appreciated that. Ross came all the way into the room, shut the door quietly behind him.
“I need to talk to you, Colleen. Is he totally asleep?”
“He’s out. What is it? Can we leave now?”
Lincoln sat carefully in the chair across the table from her.
“Not just yet. Colleen…” He took a deep breath. She got a terrible feeling in her chest. Like something was going to pop.
She steeled herself. She’d already received the worst news a wife could get, that her husband was dead well before his time. The only thing worse would be hearing something terrible about Flynn, but she had her son in her arms, and no one else to worry about. She would be fine.
“What is it, Detective?”
He fidgeted with his hair for a moment.
“Colleen, where did you grow up?”
“Blacksburg, Virginia. Why?”
His liquid brown eyes rested on hers, and she saw his eyebrows twitch, just a fraction.
“Why?” she asked again.
“Have you ever been to Forest City, North Carolina?”
No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
“I don’t believe so,” she said.
“Colleen,” he started. She shifted Flynn, buried her face in his neck. She felt the panic begin to rise in her chest.
“Colleen,” Lincoln said again. “Forest City. Do you remember anyone named Emma Brighton?”
They don’t know. They don’t know. Please, God, don’t let them know.
“I’ve never been to Forest City, North Carolina, Detective.” She raised her chin in sheer defiance and looked him straight in the eye.
“I had your prints run, Colleen. I know you’re Emma Brighton. I know what he did to you.”
The name. It brought back immediate, slavish memories, ones she’d buried so deep she’d actually convinced herself it had happened to someone else. Someone she didn’t know. A story she’d heard about, a dreadful rumor, but someone else’s rumor. The kind of things she dealt with every day on Felon E, women raped, children dying. The very people she fought for, who deserved her justice.
She felt the pancakes rise up the back of her throat. The detective was staring at her still, watching. How could she have ever found him attractive? For the rest of her life, she would see those lips form around the name, his pink tongue touching the edges of his teeth as they parted and joined. Open, close, open, close. Emma. Emma. Emma.
She was crying. How did that happen?
“Colleen? Are you okay? I’m sorry to drop this on you. But we had to know. The way you reacted when you heard Copeland’s name—”
“Don’t you dare say his name to me.”
She jerked to her feet.
“I’m leaving. Now.”
Flynn started to cry. She didn’t care, she just crushed him to her harder and bolted for the door. The detective followed, but she was quicker. She was already out and down the hallway, running blind, her hair in her face, tears shattering her vision.
She hadn’t thought of that moment in years. She’d done extensive therapy, working with a system called EMDR, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It was a cognitive therapy that realigned the neural pathways in her brain so she could move forward with her life, leaving the crippled portion of her soul on the therapist’s floor, shoved with her foot under the therapist’s couch, forever left behind. EMDR allowed her to hear the word rape without cringing, without faltering. It allowed her to get married, to find enjoyment, even abandon, in her marriage bed with Tommy. It gave her a new life, one free from the crushing, horrifying memories of what happened that night. It gave her a new name, one not sullied with the stains of violence. She started over, and no one knew. No one. Not even Tommy.
With two words, that fucking detective had undone years of work.
Her arms relaxed. The door was just ahead.
Emma. Emma Goddamn raped until she bled on the carpet torn open between her privates her stomach slashed forty times with the sharpest blade he could find her virginity her sex her blood spilling on the carpet the ambulance driver screaming her stoned mother’s pitying gaze the whole world knew what he had done to her and she’d never escape the pain the screams the blood Brighton.
“Stop her,” she heard the detective yell, but the faces that turned to her were shocked, and that moment’s delay was all she needed. She scooted out the door and rushed across the street. She pounded down the ramp to the garage. She didn’t even realize that she’d dropped Flynn back in the station, by the door.
She had no idea who Flynn was.
All she knew was she had to leave,
to go, to get out. Now.
The car. Right ahead. Keys…she slapped her pockets and found them. Unlocked the door. Pulled it open and sat in the seat. Emma Brighton.
The face from her past floated to the surface, the sweet smile, the curly hair. A happy girl.
Emma Brighton, before she was debased and defiled.
Colleen didn’t feel the blade slide through her throat. She didn’t feel anything at all.
Forty-Three
Ewan Copeland scraped at the dried blood on the table with a fingernail.
So much of his life was spent waiting. For his mother to hurt him. For his father to come home. For the bars to his cell to open. For the painkillers to take effect. For the swelling to go down. For the damn woman tied to the chair to wake up.
He had all the time in the world, but really, this was getting ridiculous. He wanted to play. He got bored with waiting after a while. Patience was a virtue, yes, but in his case, he should be given a bloody Oscar for his performances.
He finished removing the red flecks from the table and debated. He’d started an excellent thriller last night, gotten halfway through. He liked thrillers. They moved quickly. Just like him.
Read? Or wake her ass up?
Choices, choices.
He stood, crossed the room and retrieved the ammonia capsule from his bag. He’d pilfered them from work, the perfect antidote for fainting relatives and distraught spouses. He cracked the capsule open and waved it beneath her nose until she began to moan. He placed it upright on the table, he might need it again. “Hello, Samantha.”
The woman stirred, her dark hair shifting against her perfect ivory skin as her head lolled forward. Not quite there yet. “Samantha…Samaaaaaantha…wakey wakey.”
He tapped her cheek with his open palm, softly, not a slap, just a nudge. A little push toward the left. Her eyelids started to flutter, the brown eyes out of focus. She blinked heavily, the lashes soft against her lids.
He tapped her harder this time, on the other cheek, with the back of his hand, enjoying the bloom of red on her perfectly peach-skinned cheeks. Her eyes flew open. He watched them process the situation—he, the glorious one, standing before her, head cocked to the side like a curious puppy, a ten-inch blade in his hand. The fear registered in an instant. An appropriate, intelligent reaction. Of course, he expected nothing less, but still. Fear was good. He liked fear. He wanted to see that same glance bleeding out from gray on gray eyes, but for now, this would have to do.
So Close the Hand of Death Page 24