Vegas Rain

by Rick Murcer

  Standing there, surveying the front of the building, he realized just how much he enjoyed the feel of the desert heat as it engulfed his face. It almost spoke to him. He couldn’t help thinking that the warmth outside would be a precursor of the real heat to come, on the inside.

  Walking away from the Jaguar, his stride said that he was moving like a man who belonged in the law enforcement domain, especially this one. In a way, he did. Every ying has a yang.

  He strolled up the orange-brick steps and came face to face with a female agent on a smoke break. Glancing around, he could see that they were alone, for a moment at any rate. A moment would be all he required.

  “Good evening. I’m Agent Schneider from the BAU. I need to get inside to speak with Agent Wilkins. I was supposed to arrive with Detective Teachout but was detained.”

  The short, ebony woman released her breath. Bluish smoke swirled and danced around her head, the smoke’s odor tugging at his nostrils.

  “I’ll go get her. I can’t let you in without—”

  Moving quickly, he reached out, grabbed her head, and snapped her neck with a flick of his hands. Maintaining his grip around her neck with one hand, he then used his other hand to pull her ID and security pass from her lapel.

  Once done with that, he lifted her from the ground, took two steps to his right, and tossed her body behind the row of blossoming evergreen hedges.

  Thirty seconds later, he entered the door, looked at the room assignment chart, and was moving down the hallway toward the back offices. He passed the CSU lab entrance as he turned to the left, striding down the L-shaped corridor. He saw the sign he was looking for and continued toward the room. As his gait brought him closer, he could hear muffled assertions. The voices grew louder as he approached the door.

  Someone wasn’t happy.

  My, my, my. Such tension.

  Being around law enforcement as much as he had, he still marveled at the inability of organizations to work together. If they had, he may never have made it this far. Maybe.

  Standing tight outside the office door, his smile grew as the conversation became clear.

  “You need to fill us in, Agent. We’ve been in the middle of this thing from the beginning. I hate this cloak-and-dagger shit you Feds pull every time something weird rolls down the lane,” said Detective Teachout, obviously upset.

  “Stay calm, Mel,” said Detective Lane.

  Agent Wilkins sighed. “Mel, I lost a good agent tonight. And we’re still trying to figure out how. So don’t give me any of that attitude shit, okay? After that, I questioned Agent Williams and I got only part of the story on just why the BAU is out here. And you think you’re frustrated? Give me a freaking break.”

  “I’m sorry about your loss, believe me, Kim,” said Teachout, her voice softening. “But I need to know if this is some organ-harvesting ring or a smoke-and-mirrors cover up. Never mind trying to explain that twenty-first-century mummy found in the Egyptian. I know the BAU is good at what it does, but you have no idea on what the hell’s going on here.”

  Now is as good a time as any.

  Stepping into the room, he stopped three feet short of the two detectives standing next to the large oak desk, just to the right of Agent Wilkins.

  “Perhaps, if you asked pleasantly, I can help with that last question,” he said.

  “Who in the hell are you and how did you get in here?” asked a startled Wilkins.

  “Getting in was easy and me . . . well, Agent, I’m the reason you’re under duress.”

  Before any of them could pull a weapon, he did what he always did—took control.

  With a swipe of his arm, he backhanded Lane and heard him thump with sickening conviction against the wall, blood flowing from his nose. Reaching for Teachout with the other arm, he pulled her from her feet and, in one motion, slammed her face first into the tiled floor with a resounding smack. She lay motionless.

  One more step and he had Agent Wilkins by the throat. She tried to pull her Glock from the desk, but as she rose into the air, it was just out of her reach.

  He pulled her close, squeezing the air from her throat ever so slowly. The gurgling sound forced his adrenalin to storm the rest of his senses.

  There is nothing like being in complete control. Nothing.

  “Look closely, Agent. I could send you to your funeral and would love to do so, but I have a job for you,” he whispered.

  Her eyes were bulging, yet she didn’t seem to be really seeing him. His training told him she was and that she would not forget this moment, ever.

  He pulled her closer, licking her face ever so slowly. “Such a time we could have. Maybe when we meet again. For now, however, I want you to memorize every detail, each line, each subtlety of my face. To feel my hand around your throat until the fear almost drives you insane. To realize that you shook hands with death tonight and survived to speak of it. And speak of it you will. Agent Williams must know who you’ve seen. Clear?”

  There was an almost indistinguishable nod as her eyes began to close. Pulling her back to the desk, he released his grip and bent toward her ear. “Tell him it’s time. No more surprises. No more riddles. Just me and the wild west.”

  The next second, he struck her with a short jab to the chin and watched her eyes roll up in her head, fully unconscious.

  He walked away from her desk, reached the door, looked both ways, and then strolled out of the room, whistling an old Rod Stewart tune as the sound of his steps echoed throughout the hall.

  Tonight would truly be the night.

  CHAPTER-37

  Standing at the service elevator, Dean Mikus watched as the Clark County Medical Examiner rolled the body inside.

  “You got everything, sir?” asked one of the young techs.

  He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, if that. He still had remnants of acne dotting his cheeks. That, along with his slight build, made him seem even younger.

  Youth is wasted on the young.

  He was starting to get exactly what that meant.

  Not that thirty-six was ancient, but nights like this affected him far less when he was younger. Dean wondered briefly what the south side of thirty felt like again, especially tonight. He was exhausted, hungry, and he didn’t mind admitting, a little rattled. Younger nerves were exactly that.

  “Yeah, I’m good. I need to meet with my folks, so I put her in your capable hands.”

  The young man nodded. “I’ll take good care of her, sir. It’s the least I can do.”

  The sudden pang of emotion caught Dean by surprise. He was barely able to respond, but found the words. “Thanks. She deserves it.”

  He’d seen hundreds of bodies over the years. Many found in terribly unpleasant circumstances. Hell, not even the scene in the San Juan morgue where Caleb Corner had done his own personal interpretation of a Picasso sculpture was as troubling as this. Those folks had already left this world for what was next, but Grace had been killed to send some stupid-ass message that Argyle had wanted to convey.

  What made this murderous display more disturbing was that Dean had no idea what the hell that significance could be. He was no dummy, but adding another Canopic jar to the mix and tossing inside an innocent woman’s brain added up to five plus four making twelve. He was sure Manny, and Sophie, were dealing with that equation right now. Good thing.

  Profiling was for those who could. By the same token, science was for those who drew comfort from facts, like Alex and him.

  Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts.

  Rolling his eyes, he walked around the corner and headed for the public elevators. He’d watched far too much TV while growing up in LA and had added to that habit in college. Still, nothing wrong with those old Dragnet reruns. He supposed he liked them because Officer Friday dealt with truths. Not to mention the lack of blood and gore in those old shows.

  He could use a little less of that from time to time.

  Pressing the button for the casino level, he reached
into the side pocket of his case and pulled out the summary of the crime scene he’d written in longhand. He studied it, straining to read his handwriting in some parts. It was the kind of penmanship his mother had called chicken scratch. Sophie had once said the same thing when she was trying to read one of his penned memos.

  Dean smiled at that. The thought of her still caused his heart to jump. He supposed it always would. God knew he needed something to lighten up his mood and mask the gradations of this job. She fit the bill from the second he laid eyes on her. It would be good to see her face and stand next to her when he got downstairs. Real good.

  Glancing back at the page in his hand, his smile evaporated as fast as it had appeared. In the bottom third of his summary, he listed his postmortem and antimortem findings. His stomach clinched when he reflected on what this woman had gone through. He’d have an earful for Sophie and Manny, and the folks in the meeting. What he had to tell them could cause a few stomach churns. The fact she was probably alive for the drilling on her skull, for instance.

  The elevator pinged, and the door opened. Two men and two women, far more inebriated than sober, rushed past him, laughing.

  One of the women fell against the wall and bounced back upright, saluting the others. Her actions set off a round of laughter from the group that proved his first impression of them. Drunk and having fun. Right now, that sounded just fine, especially if there was a juicy steak and a huge, buttered baked potato involved.

  The elevator pinged again, and Dean stepped in. The ride was short, yet he could feel some of his tension fade. Safety in numbers wasn’t just a saying and included the mental, not just the physical.

  Reaching the main floor, he stepped out and began walking across the checkered floor, heading for the night manager’s office to get a key card to where Sophie and Manny should be waiting for him, when his phone vibrated. Reaching into his pocket, he realized he hadn’t heard or felt it ring or vibrate for a few hours. Maybe it was the room location. Maybe it was his head’s location.

  “Or maybe you’re just not that cool to talk with,” he said under his breath, smiling as he looked at the screen.

  Alex had called an hour ago. He hit the voicemail button. A moment later, Alex’s voice began to speak to him. He was surprised at how good his friend’s voice sounded and he welcomed it.

  “Hey, Beard Boy, call me. Yes, I’m fine. But I need to ask you something. I had an idea about how the bodies were laid out in the casket in Lansing.”

  There wasn’t really a sense of urgency, but on the other hand, why would Alex call if it weren’t important?

  Dean hit the redial button just as his phone signaled it was shutting down. The red meter indicated that he had one percent power.

  “Damn it.”

  He’d broken a golden rule and not charged his phone when he had the chance.

  Sophie’s new phrase of the week echoed in his brain.

  Dumbass.

  Stuffing the phone back in his jean’s pocket, he hurried toward the desk. Just as he reached the red granite top, he heard Sophie call his name. Turning to the sound, he saw her. She was dressed in tight slacks and a red blouse, draped in a black vest, walking like she owned the place. No way to control the smile. She strolled to his side and stood close.

  “Talk about a sight for sore eyes,” he said.

  “Don’t forget it either,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. She tilted her head. “You look like hell. But then you’ve been working, while Manny and I grabbed a couple of hours of shuteye. We thought it might be the only chance we get before the meeting.”

  “Good plan.”

  “Maybe. I couldn’t sleep, and he probably couldn’t either.”

  “You’re right, I couldn’t.”

  Manny stood a few feet away, phone in hand, that familiar look on his face. The one that said he was working through things and he needed answers.

  That made three of them.

  “Let’s head for the conference room. We’ve got to talk about a couple of things and I want to hear what Dean has to say. We’ve got four hours, so maybe Dean can grab some Zs once we’re through.”

  “I think the boy needs some. He’s looking like one of those zombies from the Walking Dead,” said Sophie, a sparkle in her eye.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Now let’s move.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’m ordering a steak first. I’m freaking starved,” said Dean.

  “I’ll take care of it. Alex left a message on my phone when he couldn’t reach you.”

  Manny handed him his phone. “I’m assuming yours is dead?”

  “Yes. I’ll charge it in the conference room.”

  They began the walk to the south side of the eerily lit lobby, accompanied by the sounds of the casino. Even at two in the morning, this place was rocking.

  The phone rang once.

  Twice.

  A third time. Nothing.

  At the fourth ring, Alex answered. “Manny?”

  “No. It’s me, Alex. My phone went dead.”

  “I see. Dumbass,” said Alex.

  “I know. I know. Busy night.”

  “How busy?”

  “I’ll tell you later. You need to rest. Now, what’s up? You said something about the casket?”

  There was a pause. Then Alex cleared his throat. “One question first. Did you get the hair DNA analysis back from the lab in Lansing? The one on the hairs we found in the casket.”

  “Yes. It came back belonging to a wig. Why?”

  “How many samples were tested?”

  “Just one, like always. Again, why?”

  “I wish I was out there, but this will have to do.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” said Dean, his interest growing.

  He heard Alex take a drink.

  “So, I’m laying here thinking that there should have been more material in certain spots. Like more dirt near the feet and more fibers near the head, more bio material, etcetera. Then I remembered those other three hairs on the man’s lapel. They looked like a loose N, remember?”

  “Yeah, we thought it weird. But stranger things have happened. Alex, what are you saying?”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be an N. I could be crazy, but I think the fourth hair was jostled out of place.”

  “I still don’t get it,” said Dean.

  “I think the killer may have camouflaged his identity. I think the hairs were supposed to be in four lines, like a suspect lineup. He knew we typically only test one hair when we do an analysis so it would have been pure luck to get his hair.”

  Dean frowned. “Alex. I think that’s way out−”

  “Don’t argue. You need to run a DNA test on all of the hairs. Even though they look the same, I think one of those hairs could belong to our killer.”

  CHAPTER-38

  The clock’s huge, fluorescent-green numbers winked at Chloe as it flipped from four fifty-nine to five a.m. It seemed to tell her that it was there for her. That it was more than glad to remind her that it never slept and could capably point it out to her when she couldn’t.

  “Bastard,” she whispered.

  Occasional insomnia was an occupational hazard in law enforcement, only it had been weeks since she’d not gotten a good seven or eight hours. Having Manny beside her would help; it always did, particularly after they’d made love. Real love. Not just sex, but the kind of physical experience that curled one’s toes and led to a few moments of almost-total breathlessness. He not only had all of the emotional tools to make her feel like the only woman on the planet, but wasn’t lacking anywhere else either. She smiled. Physically . . . well, physically, he was. . . Manny.

  She hadn’t exactly been one who’d slept around, but no one had ever made her feel like Manny. That intimacy only added to who they were together. As it should be between husband and wife.

  Turning over, away from the damned clock, she tried to close her eyes and go back to sleep, yet she knew it was
n’t going to happen. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw young Alan Gordon’s face, or what was left of it. The condition of his body was disturbing, no question. And if the well-placed screwdrivers were any indication of the killer’s anger, and not some oculophilic expression, a fascination for eyes, then the killer would have probably had a few incidents prior to escalating to this kind of killing. He would have had problems with fighting in school, maybe even a record for petty vandalism or shoplifting.

  That profile description could have fit a large number of young men, and make no mistake, this killer was a young man, in the city of Lansing, but narrowing it down to who had the opportunity, combined with a mini-profile, was always the cornerstone for investigations like this one. Despite his reluctance to embrace the science, Gavin, and his partner, had done a great job of that.

  According to the interview files, they’d interviewed all of Alan’s friends, including Mike Crosby, his teammates on the basketball and baseball teams, his close classmates, and even several teachers. All expressed shock at the crime because Alan was well liked. It was obvious that he had been popular, bright, and athletically gifted. There didn’t seem to be a soul on the planet that wanted to harm him. His parents were so devastated that it took until three days after the funeral before they could talk to the police. They were cleared almost immediately; their mental state of mind and alibi had made that an easy call.

  Gavin had made a short list of names that were mentioned as the interview process had hit second gear. He’d then cross-referenced those names with the potential profile. Then he checked each of them against the infamous where were you Friday night line of questioning. The six young men checked out, leaving no clear cut suspects and an almost complete guessing game for what should have been a fairly routine investigation.

  Sliding to the edge of the bed, Chloe reached for her robe and headed for the kitchen. No reason to fight it now. Maybe she would get time for a nap today. The case wasn’t the only thing on her mind, not by any stretch. It would be just past two in the morning, Vegas time, and unless she missed her guess, Manny wouldn’t be sleeping. Far from it. He could function for a couple of days before he truly needed to recharge. Longer if he caught a couple hours of shuteye on the fly.