by Dan Alatorre
“No, no, no.” Carly said. “Reverse. Whatever he wants us to look at, that’s what we should look away from. If he says look at the tarot card, we—oh, wait.”
Davis sat up. “What?”
She stared at the wall. “Oh, is it even possible . . .” Rushing back toward her chair, Carly looked across the table at Dr. Stevens. “Ma’am, a serial killer is usually a white male, between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five. Mountains of data support that.”
“Yes,” the doctor said.
“Our killer is using a big-caliber weapon.” Carly pointed to the wall. “A very macho rifle. Powerful. More than enough to do the job. And this weapon is overwhelmingly purchased by male buyers.”
She peered at the other task force members, one at a time, making her way back to her display of index cards. “We have a sniper. Not a serial killer using poison, or one that’s shooting the victims close up with a .38 while they sleep. A sniper—that aspect brings a high probability that our killer is military, possibly law enforcement, possibly a hunter. But that doesn’t matter. Each of those subsets is overwhelmingly male.”
Facing Lieutenant Davis, Carly pointed at the rows of index cards. “There have been no demands or groups taking credit for the killings, so we can downplay the terrorism aspects. What do we have? What is the killer trying to make us believe? What is this very deceptive, very manipulative, serial killer trying to make us think?”
Dr. Stevens’ mouth hung open. “It’s a woman,” she whispered.
Carly nodded. “It could be—oh, and that is super smart.”
A murmur went up from the group.
“We need to think backwards here, people,” Carly said. “We need to—to group these cards, these aspects . . . differently. Instead of having two detectives follow the leads and adding people as we go . . .” She held her hands out to her sides, shaking them as she stared at the cards. “We should create different teams. And we should spread out, with each team hunting a different target.”
“Yes,” Dr. Stevens said. “Yes!”
“What!” Davis shook his head. “Detective, there’s a protocol to how we do these things. There are advantages to following leads from one vantage point.”
“Sir, most law enforcement protocols were developed to fit a department with limited personnel and limited resources. Budget constraints. We have to go bigger and broader, or we’ll have a lot more victims from this sniper.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Show me what you mean.”
Carly wiped her forehead with both hands. “Okay, so for example, Mark—if you were a team leader, you’d be looking for a white male sniper. I’d be a team leader looking for a female sniper, and so on.” She went to the whiteboard enclosure and threw open the cabinet doors, grabbing a marker from the tray. “I can think of about six options right now—a male sniper, a female sniper, a military person, a nonmilitary type, and possibly a terrorist. Let’s go with those and add teams if we need to—with one more. Political. Someone who wants the debate stopped.” Writing each option in a row, she went back and underlined them. “We have six possible snipers, so we create six investigations and each one pursues its own target, all at once. Six teams.” She stepped back, gazing at the whiteboard, and tossed the marker back onto the tray. “Whoever finds the sniper first, wins.”
Leaning back in his chair, Davis folded his arms. “That would create a huge amount of duplicated effort.”
Carly peered across the table to read the placard in front of the FBI agent. “Special Agent Eicholtz—could the FBI or Homeland Security allow us access to their analysts and compile some of the data six investigations would generate? Maybe in a way so our people in the field could relay it in real time and access the results?”
“We could.” Eicholtz sat up straight. “The word was to help however possible. We have a thousand analysts who could sort this stuff a hundred different ways, Detective. Your teams could even text information to us and we’d share it through a secure website, accessible from any smart phone with the access code.”
Carly leaned on the table and looked at Davis. “See, Lieutenant? We won’t duplicate efforts. We’ll pursue every option as if it is the only option. One will be right, and we’ll have our killer in record time. We could use that.”
The lieutenant huffed. “We sure could.”
Carly faced Dr. Stevens. “Most serial killers are male. Ma’am, when a psychopath is a female, what are their main traits?”
“Manipulation. Cunning. Passive-aggressive behavior.”
The sheriff laughed. “I wouldn’t call shooting people at a distance exactly passive-aggressive.”
“No,” Dr. Stevens said. “A true manipulation would require a patsy—someone set up to take the blame. If the killer is a female, she is definitely directing us to look for males, if only to allow her to escape. But setting someone else up for your crime? That would be completely manipulative. And cunning. And extremely passive-aggressive.” She nodded at Carly. “I think you may have something here, Detective.”
The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “Ma’am, can you be sure of any of this?”
“No,” Carly said. “None of it—right now. But we need to broaden our scope of possibilities to six investigations while narrowing each team’s focus. As we add data points, fewer and fewer people will remain in the basket. If my . . . if my hunch is right, if someone wants the debate stopped, then maybe we have to let them think they are succeeding.”
The sheriff scowled. “And hold a debate where a hundred people get picked off?”
“He—I mean, she—the sniper—could have done that at a mall parking lot, sir. It’s Christmas. The lots are packed by noon. This person went earlier than prime time. Where are you at eight a.m., Sheriff?”
“I have a job. I’m at work.”
“Right. The sniper has a job to get to.” She faced the group. “The sniper kills in the morning because they need to get to their workplace. There are no killings after about nine a.m.”
Harriman scribbled a note. “Who goes to work at ten?”
“Many people, many occupations,” Dr. Stevens said. “But not factory workers or office workers. That would create an obvious pattern of people who called off work or were late the day of each shooting. Clerks. Hourly people. Mall workers.”
“There’s a link to explore.” Carly looked at Harriman. “Mark?”
He gave her a thumbs up. “I’m on it.”
“This will be someone who doesn’t fit in,” Stevens said. “But who wants to, badly, and is willing to make society suffer because of how bad they feel inside.”
“How do women express that?” Carly asked.
The doctor shrugged. “Many ways. Makeup, clothing . . .”
“In the extreme.” Carly held up her hand and counted on her fingers. “Cosmetic surgery. Breast enhancement, tummy tuck, butt lift, face lift. Men and women in that circumstance hit the gym and lose weight. They get hair plugs or a wig.”
“And this would not be sudden,” Stevens said. “It would probably be a slow build. A series of plastic surgeries, say. Over the course of time.”
“Who notices that?” Carly said. “Co-workers. Friends. The new you gets posted on social media. People flaunt their new selves.” She clapped her hands. “Okay. We’re getting somewhere. Lieutenant, what can we do to compile all this?”
Davis looked at the FBI special agent.
“Yeah,” the agent said. “Our analysts can compile that.”
Carly went to her chair, grabbing a pen and writing on the back of the Boston handouts. “A man or woman who has a series of cosmetic surgeries and is a gym rat but has been late or missed work on the days of the killings. Military or police training . . .”
“Not necessarily,” Harriman said. “You can learn a lot of that stuff online.”
“But to practice, you need to shoot.” She slid the page to him. “So add shooting ranges. We’ll need to visit them in person. They won’t volunteer a customer, but if
we ask directly they may have some ideas.”
Harriman wrote on his notepad. “And then there has to be some sort of technical expertise to avoid detection, like shooting from a plumbing van. Or . . .” He looked up. “Why wouldn’t they do what the D.C. snipers did? Set up a hole in the trunk and just drive away. That would limit the sound, too.”
“And the van angle hasn’t been panning out, anyway.” Carly rubbed her hands together. “That’s good. Okay, what cars can support a lay-down setup with a trap door to the trunk?”
“Large old sedans,” Davis said. “There are only a few million of those around the bay area.”
“Well, it’s something.” Carly ran her hands through her hair. “Every piece is narrowing the net. We think broad, but we focus narrow. Old cars have tags, which means they have addresses.”
“Proximity.” Chief Sanchez raised his pen. “Most criminals don’t stray too far from home.”
“So our shooter lives in west Tampa.” Carly looked at the index cards on the wall. “Okay.”
Davis frowned. “Or is that a smoke screen, too?”
“Yeah, could be.” Carly’s eyes remained on the index cards. “And if they’re pinning it on someone, then that’s where the patsy lives. We need to make a note of that.” She faced the group. “We keep the suspect alive when we encounter them. If it’s not the killer, it’s the fall guy. Lose that, the killer slips away. Let’s make sure our Lee Harvey Oswald doesn’t get taken out by a Jack Ruby.”
The doctor looked at her notes, lowering her pad and turning to Carly. “We must consider this to be someone who would have the time and patience to learn all this—and then do the opposite, yes? I could. You could, now. Our friends in Boston could. Anyone with that training. A psychologist, psychology students, psychological nurses, case workers . . .”
“Option seven for team seven. Now, serial killers don’t stop, right?” Carly returned to the wall of cards. “They move, though. And if this one is trying to accomplish something, scaring people or showing how smart they are or stopping a debate, they might do that—but they won’t stop killing.” She looked at Dr. Stevens. “The shooting spree started recently. Would that mean this is someone who moved here recently?”
“Possibly.” Stevens said. “It’s difficult to assess . . .”
Carly folded her arms. “Give me the most likely scenario, Doctor.”
“Within a year, I’d say. But that stretches the profile because they go dormant for years sometimes.”
“Let’s focus narrow for that,” Carly said. “Because if they go dormant, we get more time to find them without incurring more victim deaths.” She glanced at Davis. “Now, sir, if we could hold a press conference or a routine update, and announce that the debate was definitely still on . . . or ask the security people to announce it . . . then we could act like it’s on and draw the shooter out. But this is paramount—if we lose the patsy, we lose the killer.”
“Then we have to move even faster,” Harriman said.
Carly cocked her head. “Why?”
“Because the killer knows that, too. And he or she will make sure the patsy doesn’t survive.”
“I concur,” the doctor said. “It’s the key to the killer’s escape. The patsy could talk. The sniper would ensure that possibility was eliminated.”
“Like suicide by cop,” the sheriff said. “The patsy gets forced into a shootout situation where there’s no option.”
“We’ll have to watch for that.” Carly pushed a hand through her hair. “But . . . man, we have to watch for everything. We have to be extremely careful at every level.” She faced Stevens. “Can we entice them to come out? I mean, if they want to show how smart they are, when we announce about the debate, could we insult them and publicly say they’re stupid?”
Davis huffed. “And start a shooting spree?”
Carly glared at him. “We already have a shooting spree.”
“We could,” Stevens said. “We can work multiple angles. Killers such as this will want to see their work on television. We should have a press conference that acts as if we don’t know all that we know while playing a few cards ourselves.”
“We are going to create a prioritization grid.” Carly pointed to the wall. “Every piece of information we get will either expand or contract the grid. Right now, we know certain things. Most killers operate within a five-mile range of where they live or work. So, with this many killings that gives us a wide circle, but it doesn’t even span all the way across Tampa. Next, the person would have to not be at work or at home when these killings occurred. So, we can contact every business within those areas and find out if any employees were missing from work on those days, or we could put a broadcast message out through the media.” She put her hands on her hips. “If we let the public see our information, they will help us. Somebody knows who this person is.”
“Detective.” Lieutenant Davis dropped his pen on his handouts and pushed his chair back. “I have to reiterate what the sheriff asked earlier. Can we be certain of any of this?”
“No.” Carly rubbed the back of her neck. “None of this is etched in concrete. We’re—we have to make some decisions. Make some moves. Get on the offensive for a change, and put the killer on defense. We need to follow our instincts.”
“That’s the sort of thinking that got your partner in trouble.”
“It’s also what helped him get the bad guy, isn’t it? Following his instincts told him that Parmenter was going to run, so Sergio made his move. He got the bad guy. That’s the job, sir.”
“Following his instincts also got him kicked off the force.”
“I’m being looked at for a promotion, so maybe that’s not my particular problem. And I thought my partner was having a hearing—or is that only a formality because his fate is already decided?”
“Okay, out.” Davis stood. “I’ve had enough of this wild speculation. Get in my office. Now.”
Carly gritted her teeth. “Yes, sir!”
She barged out, going straight to the lieutenant’s office.
He followed her in and slammed the door. “You’re way out of line, Detective!”
“Then I apologize, sir!” Carly shouted. “And I’ll march right back in there and apologize in front of the team. But hear me out.” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “We need a bold move, Lieutenant. And every fiber of my being says the debate is the centerpiece to this. I—I can’t explain it.” Turning away, she shook her head, staring at the ground. “Maybe . . . maybe going with your gut is another way of saying you’re following all the finely-tuned things, the micro details, that we’ve picked up over the years. Letting that guide us.” She sighed. “Simply because we can’t articulate it for a press conference or write it down cohesively into a manual, doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
Davis went to his desk chair. “You’re too wired up. You’re moving too fast and gambling too big.”
“What are you concerned about? The press hating the decision? Because you seemed pretty on board until the words ‘press conference’ came out of my mouth.”
“Now, hold on, Detective.”
Carly put her hands to her forehead. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna steal the spotlight away from you. When we catch the killer, the news story will simply be, Tampa Police catch the sniper—and you’ll still be out front in the spotlight and . . .” Her jaw dropped, her voice falling to a whisper. “Oh my gosh, that’s it. That’s—that’s why it had to be me.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The sergeant position. You selected me so you’d have somebody competent who would do the work but who wouldn’t steal the spotlight. What was it you said? That I’d be your first choice? Right after those interviews I messed up? Some first choice. More like your primary target. The doctor says a female serial killer is ultra manipulative, but she wouldn’t hold a candle to you.”
“Watch yourself, Sanderson.”
“There, see? I notice how y
ou didn’t say I was wrong.”
He straightened up, adjusting his tie. “I selected you because of your work. Your track record. You’re a good detective.”
“Who hates interviews and cameras,” she said. “Did you set me up with those disastrous interviews at Channel Eight to make sure I never wanted to do another one?” She turned away and stared at the floor. “Well, don’t worry, I’m not gonna rain on your parade. You can have the spotlight. Some of us have other priorities.”
Davis nodded. “Be sure that sharp mind is on display at your panel interview this afternoon.”
“Push the interview back to tomorrow. I’m sure the board won’t mind.” She pushed past him, going to the door. “They seem to understand I’ve got a serial killer to catch.”
Chapter 31
Bree Barclay checked the time display on her BMW’s dashboard. Pulling her phone from her purse, she called the Blumenthal campaign headquarters.
At this hour, there’s only one person who’ll answer.
“Blumenthal for Mayor, Jeri Millner speaking.”
“Jeri!” Bree pressed the phone close to her ear. “You are one dedicated soldier. How are you?”
Jeri snorted. “I’d be better if we were up in the polls and not you guys, Bree. Any chance there are pictures of Addleson with a hooker out there?”
“Sorry. Addleson’s a boy scout.” Bree chuckled to herself. Or he was until last night. “Listen, I need a favor.”
“I’m gonna need a job if anyone finds out how much I’ve been helping you.”
“Hmm.” Switching lanes, Bree headed toward the west side of Tampa and the Blumenthal headquarters. “Maybe I can make it worth your while. We may have misplaced some campaign cash that hadn’t made it onto the general ledger yet. Can you meet me in about a half an hour?”
“I can probably sneak away—if the price is right.”