“Did he bury her somewhere else first?” I asked.
“Not likely,” Coop answered. “She had only been dead three hours or so before her body was discovered, but I’ll get to that.”
“It can’t be possible. We’re talking over twenty years ago,” I said, referring to the Tampa killing. “Copycat maybe?”
“That would be impossible. It’s got to be the same killer,” Michael jumped in. “The body was found looking exactly the same, clear down to the red ribbon in the hair and around the neck—which, I might add, the Tampa Police never disclosed to the public.”
“Could one of the original investigating officers be a suspect?” Kincaid asked.
“Possible, but highly unlikely,” Michael said.
Tampa had no leads on a suspect, and the case had gone cold. I prayed we wouldn’t suffer the same fate. No time for further ruminating—Kincaid wanted to begin the meeting. We all secured our seats at the conference table.
“Now that we may have a possible—and I say that loosely—serial murderer, we need to bust our asses. Agent Hagerman has prepared a profile on the suspect, which he’ll give in a moment. It may come down to FBI jurisdiction due to the Florida case, but we are all going to help nonetheless. Before we get to Michael, CeeCee, what have you got? I want statistics and the whole enchilada put up on the dry-erase board to act as our guide.”
Since I’m a certified expert, I’d anticipated the request. Nonetheless, Kincaid knew damn well the FBI agents had the same stats. Grabbing the marker, and feeling Michael’s eyes on me, I started to write on the board.
“As most of you already know,” I began, trying to alert Kincaid that everyone already knew what I was going to say (though the chances were she wouldn’t catch on anyway), “we are dealing with a nonfamily abduction, specifically a stereotypical kidnapping. Stereotypical kidnapping being a child taken overnight, killed, or transported a distance of fifty miles or more. The perpetrator has evidenced intent to keep the child permanently.” I took a deep breath. “There are approximately thirty-two hundred to forty-six hundred attempted nonfamily abductions every year with about fifty-two to a hundred and fifty-eight of those children being murdered.”
Coop let out a low whistle. “I didn’t realize there were that many.”
“That’s what the stats say,” I said, taking my seat.
Coop was next in the hot seat with the autopsy report. Hanna Parker had rigor mortis in her small muscle groups only, indicating death had occurred three to six hours prior to discovery. Full rigor mortis sets in eight to twelve hours after death. The examiner indicated that the red ribbon around her neck had not been used as a ligature for strangulation, but that she had been strangled manually. This resulted in stimulation from the vagus nerve in the neck to cause immediate death from heart and breathing paralysis. Vagus-nerve stimulation gives the face a more normal appearance after death, avoiding the bloated face and tongue people assume come with strangulation.
That was the same method used in the Tampa murder. As for the sexual aspect, the report indicated there was severe sexual trauma, but no evidence of seminal fluid or DNA. Coop also put up a photo of the Tampa murder on the board. The victim, Cindy Lee Bowman, was also five years old when she died. Coop wrote their names next to their pictures.
Looking at both of the photographs, the similarities were remarkable. The faces were painted exactly the same, down to the lipstick color, and both had the same grotesque doll-like appearance.
The room remained quiet for several minutes after Coop finished. The other agents, Shoupman and Hurst, were scribbling furiously in their notepads, while Michael simply stared at me. We all agreed there was a distinct reason for painting the victims’ faces, but for sane people like those of us in the room, it was hard to figure out why. This was where Michael came in. As he stepped to the front of the room, my heart gave a slight flip. Coop was looking directly at me in an attempt to read my reaction to Michael. I quickly looked away, but too late. Coop had already seen my face. I was sure of it. He damn well knew my thoughts.
Michael began with the intricate, detailed, and disturbing profile of the child murderer.
“At first, after reviewing the file, I believed the killer to fall under the category of sexual sadist, also known as an anger-excitation rapist. This is someone who is cunning and accomplished at deception and rationalizes their actions.”
So far his description was clear enough. “Feeling no remorse or guilt, the sexual sadist considers himself superior to society and law enforcement in particular.”
Both the Hanna Parker and Tampa murders displayed the three most important traits of a sexual sadist: ritualism, the killer’s fantasies, and the crime itself, which is the least common and most violent.
He further went on to explain that a ritual murderer commits acts that are unnecessary to the commission of the crime. Examples in these cases being the makeup, ribbons, and doll shoe. What also pointed Michael toward a sexual-sadist definition is that ritualistic killers remain constant over time, but may add what they feel are enhancements—hence the doll shoe. The ritualistic aspect of the killer is a more powerful tool in finding him than his modus operandi, or MO. The killer’s signature, a unique combination of behaviors across two or more crimes, would be the painted face and ribbons.
“I believe that the killer used a surprise approach in abducting Hanna, which is an immediate capture of the victim without injuries or force. I was convinced we were dealing with a sexual sadist until we saw how Hanna had been laid out, brushed off, and coiffed, as if a great amount of care had been taken. This contradicts a sexual sadist, but points somewhat toward a pseudo-unselfish offender, someone complimentary, apologetic, polite, verbally nonsexual, and reassuring to his victim.”
Calm and stern faced, Michael walked to his seat and took a long drink from a bottle of water, while we all sat silent, trying to take in everything he said so far.
He began again, trying to explain how the sexual and ritual traits of our killer were contradictory and highly unusual for one killer to have.
“So you think there might be two killers, each putting their own flair into the murders?” Coop asked, reading my mind.
“I won’t rule out anything right now. We could be dealing with a split personality, one man’s imagination and fantasies. A combination that offers no sureties in any criminal case, no matter how experienced the profiler or law enforcement is”
He lightly coughed. “I believe our killer expresses the violence and urges of the sexual sadist, but later feels remorse. I also believe the killer realizes he is sick and that leaving the doll shoe is an indication that he wants to get caught, that he wants to be stopped. But the sadist part of him wants to find out if law enforcement is smarter than he is.”
Coop interrupted. “Michael, from what you’re saying, it sounds as if he’s at the end of his rope and his behavior might be escalating.”
“Absolutely. I think there will be another murder, if there hasn’t been already. The killer may travel and not live here, and could already be in another state by now. Whatever, I think he’s ready to explode.”
Michael filled in more of the pieces. He felt the suspect was a white male in his late forties or fifties. His theory on the age was due to the time since the Florida killing.
“The suspect is very organized, educated, and knowledgeable in law enforcement, possibly from crime documentaries, books, or magazines. Sixty-one percent of serial killers collect violent-theme pornography, while nearly all pedophiles collect some type of child pornography and erotica.” He also said that it was possible the killer held a job for many years and had no criminal record.
“The bottom line,” Michael continued, “is he will continue to kill. Like all other pedophiles, asking them not to be attracted to children anymore is like asking a heterosexual to turn gay, or vice versa.”
“How does he feel afterward, Michael?” Kincaid asked. “Elated, angry, remorseful?”
; “I think his post-offense behavior would be that of remorse or guilt. He laid Hanna out with dignity because he felt bad. He may be feeling ill, losing or gaining weight, having bowel disturbances or sleep disruptions.”
“So it’s possible he shit his pants afterward?” Coop barked, laughing.
“This isn’t a joke!” Kincaid snapped.
Coop put his head down like a schoolboy chastised by his teacher. For whatever reason, this produced a loud snickering from me. Now Kincaid just glowered at both of us. It was time for me to ask a question and get back on track.
“Michael, in this instance, what causes someone to be this way?”
I already knew the answer, but Kincaid looked like she was getting ready to bite my head off. The question was merely a diversionary tactic.
“It could be sexual abuse, physical abuse, drugs, alcohol, television, games, or music. No one really knows for sure.”
“Any ideas about why he’s doing the doll thing?”
“That I’m not sure of yet. It could be gender confusion, could be something else. Like I said, I’ve never seen something like this before, so I’m doing some extrapolating.”
The information was what we needed to begin to put Hanna’s murder into a general context, so it was time to start wrapping up the meeting. Kincaid told Coop to focus on finding a local sex offender who may have been in Florida around the time of the Tampa killing. She was right in checking it out. I agreed with Michael instinctively when he said the killer could travel. The downside of that theory was if it proved correct, our chances of catching him would be slim. He could be anywhere, and it’s a very big country. If he still was in the country.
Michael and I were almost back to my office when my phone rang. It was Captain Norris from patrol.
“CeeCee, you need to know about this immediately. The Parkers got a package in their mail today. It was another doll shoe, possibly a match. They don’t know anything about the shoe found with Hanna, but they called anyway because it was creepy. The box is small and covered in stamps, so there’s no way to track it. The good news is that it was mailed locally.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I was stunned after strongly considering the possibility that the killer may have left the area. “I’m assuming the crime lab is already on scene to take the shoe and box for processing?”
“You betcha. I’ll let you know if anything else turns up.”
I hung up and told Michael about the other shoe. We’d have to go down to the lab to confirm the shoe was a My Size, but it was a good bet.
“He’s playing with us. I was right in that he’s doing all he can to get caught. He knows the family would turn the shoe over to us. He’s saying, ‘I’m sick and need to be put away, but let’s see if you’re smart and worthy enough to do it.’”
“Captain Norris told me the box was mailed locally. Do you genuinely believe he’s still here?”
“Possibly.” Michael ran a hand through his thick brown hair to relieve some of his tension. “Or he could’ve mailed it a couple of days ago and taken off.”
Before leaving for the day, I needed to swing by the uniformed patrol squad room to see if Eric was out of roll call yet. I still hadn’t been able to reach him on the phone, and wondering about the fallout from our little chat last night had been killing me.
Just outside of the squad room was a restroom that I desperately needed to use, my bladder feeling like it would explode after sitting in such a lengthy meeting. Washing up and cursing the extra five cups of coffee I’d had today, I heard the squad room door open. A group of officers walked into the hallway. It was impossible to miss their loud conversation, and I soon heard it concerned Eric and Jordan. Turning off the faucet, I pressed my ear against the bathroom door, feeling like a complete ass in the process. Children eavesdrop like this, not mature adults. But under the circumstances, a little pride wasn’t going to stand in my way. It wasn’t clear which officers were talking, and only bits and pieces of their conversation came through.
“Hell, I’d do her if I was training her! Eric’s got it made. I’ll give him a week before he hits that.”
“A week? Shit. I heard he already has. She follows him around like a puppy, and I’m sure he could do anything he wants. The other night he told me she wanted him to go home with her.”
My heart raced, and now I was trembling uncontrollably. As their voices faded and their conversation switched to another topic, I slumped down onto the bathroom floor wondering if I should confront my husband. It would be hard not to, but I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. And how much did my own guilt about Michael play into my tolerance? Guys in patrol assume things and spread rumors. Uniformed police officers are the cattiest, most gossipy group of individuals around. They put nosy women to shame. The part that bothered me most was the one officer said Eric told him directly that Jordan asked him to go home with her. If it was all hearsay, like the comment that he had slept with her, I might get over it. Maybe. I knew Eric was upset over Michael, but the way these guys talked, this had been going on for a while.
Keep driving! Keep driving and don’t look at her. The voice of the other screamed so loud in his head, he felt his foot press down on the accelerator even harder. The other, although consistently fading over the last several months, still managed to break into his reality with its undaunted demands. But she needs me! He fought the other voice, looking at the girl who would become his beautiful new guest. She was skipping along, swinging her backpack, and singing. She needs me! He kept repeating it over and over and over, holding his head with one hand while slamming his foot on the brake. He, decidedly, had enough. No more would he fall prey to the other voice, no more would he allow it to sway him, and no more would he ever listen to it again. Taking a deep breath, he looked at himself in the rearview mirror and smiled. Good-bye to you, my friend—you don’t exist anymore. Do you hear me? You are dead! You are DEAD! Putting his car in reverse before driving back toward his guest, he never felt more alive.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I rushed into the squad room to find that Eric and Jordan had just left and were probably getting into their patrol car. Outside, they were loading their bags into one of the cruisers. Jordan gave me a quick “hi,” which I didn’t return, and got into the car. She didn’t seem as friendly today, something I tried to write off as my imagination. Eric seemed surprised to see me. Why?“Hey…What are you doing out here? Everything all right?”
“I was looking for you, and no, everything is not all right.” I tried to hide the anger on my face, but Eric couldn’t help noticing it.
“Did something go wrong with your murder case?” He stood with his hand resting on the hood of the cruiser, and he looked slightly concerned.
“This isn’t about the case. I just heard some gossip in the hall that was extremely disturbing.”
By now Jordan had rolled her window down about an inch and was listening to our conversation.
“Look, CeeCee, I don’t have time for games right now, so do you want to spit it out or not? We have to get going. There’s calls for service pending in our zone.”
I glanced at Jordan and back at Eric, hoping to give him a nonverbal, but very blatant hint. He got the idea, took his hand off the car, and just stood there.
“I know where you’re going with this,” he said, “and now is not the time or place. Please wait until I get home.”
“I need to talk about it now if you don’t mind, minus the audience, of course.” I scowled directly at Jordan, which prompted her to roll up her window mighty fast.
“I said not now. We’re late. We have to leave,” he said, before walking to the other side of the car and getting in.
It was my turn to be shocked and angry. They drove away, and I remained where I was, completely dumbfounded. Eric said he knew what I was talking about? That scared me to death and also led me to believe the rumors might be true. I felt quite ill, but I pulled myself together so I could drive home without getting into
an accident.
At home I could think of nothing else. By the time 10:00 rolled around, the end of Eric’s shift, I was in a panic. By 10:47, I was almost psychotic when the phone rang. It was him.
“Sorry I didn’t call earlier, but we had a late arrest. I’m gonna be tied up for a while. You might as well go to bed.”
“No, I’ll wait up. Like I said, we need to talk, and you obviously know what about. And, may I add, I didn’t appreciate getting blown off in the parking lot today either. Or maybe that was just another way to impress your girlfriend?”
Eric was silent. Not a good sign. I can be haughty, sarcastic, and childish like the best of ’em, but it was out of character for me to act the way I was then: mean and spiteful toward the man I supposedly love. I think he was probably somewhat surprised, but more likely angry and even hurt.
“I will not have this conversation over the phone, and if you want to discuss it like a rational adult, I suggest you settle down,” he whispered into his cell. “Good night, CeeCee. I love you,” he said, and hung up.
I felt like a fool. I’ve been in law enforcement long enough to learn not to fall prey to the evil rumor mill, but this time I had.
I slept fitfully, waking around two in the morning to find Eric next to me sound asleep. I finally got up around five, tired of my nightlong tossing and turning. I wanted to shake him, wake him up, and tell him I was sorry, but I knew he needed to get some sleep. Before I headed to work, I left a note on the kitchen counter asking him to call as soon as he woke up.
Michael was already in my office when I arrived, complete with a box of doughnuts, scones, and bagels.
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