by Hadena James
It was an affluent neighborhood where all the houses and lawns screamed the owners had money. Lots of money. Kyle smiled. The woman was probably a former beauty-queen or trophy wife that age had gotten the better of, despite her anti-aging creams and wrinkle removers.
He hoped she called. He wanted to expose her beauty. She might not win him any prizes or critical acclaim, but she would still be a masterpiece.
As he drove home, he saw a youngish girl walking down the road. Her clothes were dirty, her hair matted. Kyle pulled over.
“Need a lift?” Kyle Summers asked.
“No,” she answered, not looking at him.
“Do you need a meal?” Kyle pressed.
“No,” she blew him off again.
“Ok,” Kyle put the car in park and got out. “Is there someone I can call for you? You look like you need some help.” Kyle extended his cell phone to her. Her fingernails were broken or chewed to the quick. She needed a shower. Kyle could smell her.
“No,” the woman finally looked at him and Kyle had to re-estimate her age by ten years. Instead of being in her early twenties, she was probably in her thirties. Her social standing was new to her.
“Here,” Kyle pushed a hundred dollar bill into her hands.
“I’m not a hooker,” the woman looked indignant.
“I didn’t say you were,” Kyle answered. “You just look down on your luck.”
“I guess I would take a ride to a diner, whatever’s close,” the woman softened around the edges.
“Sure,” Kyle opened the door and let her into his vehicle. He closed the door behind her. He took her to a diner where he was a regular. He bought her lunch and then directed her to the bus station. She said she was going home. Kyle knew this was probably a lie, but he let her go.
At home, he poured himself a glass of red wine and stared out the backdoor into the desert. The sun was setting. Another day of his life was gone. He wondered why he hadn’t replaced Mrs. Pink Prius with the woman from the road, but didn’t have an answer. She just hadn’t appealed to him. There was no recapturing the beauty that had once been there.
He suddenly remembered the gallery that was awaiting his answer about a piece. Kyle carried his wine through the living room and into his office. His computer was at least six years out of fashion and booted slowly. As he waited for the welcome screen, he sipped his wine and thought about the diner woman.
He finally settled on a decision about the woman. Her age had been the deciding factor. He never preyed on those under thirty and he hadn’t been sure about her age. People under thirty were great as models, but not in their final moments. They were better as sexual subjects and he didn’t need one at the moment. He had dozens of photos waiting to be painted and sculpted.
Kyle opened his email, another process that took a full minute and replied to the gallery. He’d send them a piece, one of his women in heat pieces. They’d enjoy that.
Fifteen
In a world with rampant crime rates and cheap books, true crime books were a dime a dozen or rather, ninety-nine cents apiece. I had grabbed another book on cannibals and hoped that at least some of the information would be new to me.
Unfortunately, they all seemed to get their information from the same place. I wondered if there was a huge library dedicated to crime with redacted files that could be read by the general public or utilized by aspiring true crime writers. This ensured that most of the books had a lot of the same information and I was simply trying to glean the new stuff out of the old, but I was addicted to buying true crime books by independent authors. Lucas joked it was my way of giving back to the world.
I was really just searching for my name. One day, soon, I was sure one of our cases would enter into one of these books and my name would be out there for anyone addicted to true crime books and a dollar to read. Being a sociopath made me vain by nature, I tried to do things to counteract it, but it didn’t always work.
It was day four of no identities on our victims and nothing for us to do but twiddle our thumbs. I had read five books on cannibals and come to the conclusion that humans did not taste like chicken. And Germany seemed to have a high ratio of cannibals to other types of serial killers. I didn’t know if either piece of information would ever be useful, but it was now catalogued into my brain.
There was a knock on my door. I groaned, but got up and answered it. Xavier burst through as soon as I had unfastened the lock.
“We have identities!” Xavier seemed to be gushing information, most of it unintelligible.
“Did you know Germany has the highest rate of cannibalistic serial killers in the world?” I asked him.
“What?” He shook his head for a moment then frowned and gave me an odd look.
“I’ve been doing research and Germany has a large number of cannibalistic serial killers. I think that’s odd. Germans are so,” I thought for a moment, “German. Is there something in their collective DNA memory from when they were nomadic tribes that makes them predisposed to be cannibals or is it just a weird statistic?”
“Did you hear me?” He asked.
“We have identities, after that, you were talking so fast, I caught nothing more.”
“Six of our victims have been identified, they were all homeless.”
“Great, so we get to interview homeless people?” I asked.
“You sound unhappy about it. We thought you’d jump on the chance to get to work.”
“Well, when a serial killer preys on homeless people, the homeless become very aware of it and might be able to provide good information, but it has been my experience that getting that useful information is like trying to mine gold on the moon.”
As the sun charred my brain inside my skull, we searched Las Vegas for homeless people, accompanied by locals who knew where the homeless hung out. There didn’t seem to be many homeless people on the streets. The officer with me was talking about how they had a tendency to get locked up in the summer to avoid being on the streets during the heat. It made sense, if I had been homeless, I would be thinking up ways to get out of the sun too.
We entered a shelter that smelled like death and food. I had a quick flash to the books on cannibalism and for just a moment, wondered if this smell was what a cannibal’s house smelled like. Then I pushed the thought away as my eyes adjusted to the foul-smelling, dimly lit room.
There were about twenty people hanging out at tables. Most had decks of cards that they were playing with. I had never been in a homeless shelter before and this was not what I had expected. I hadn’t really formed an opinion on what I did expect, but this wasn’t it. Most of the faces were neutral, but a few were openly hostile towards us. I felt myself slipping into that calm place.
I didn’t bother to remove my sunglasses as I scanned the faces that had turned to look at me. The sunglasses were not for the purpose of intimidation, quite the opposite, they couldn’t read how blank my eyes had become.
For the first time, I realized that I didn’t have much experience with homeless people. A few times they had asked me for money or cigarettes, but they never stuck around to get it. I’d had one try to mug me, that also hadn’t worked out well for him. And that summed up my experience with homeless people. We’d had cases where they were victims before, but Lucas had always thought it best for me not to interview them. He said my cold demeanor would be a hindrance, not a help.
Staring back at the faces, I understood why. There were a host of medical and mental illnesses in the room and I didn’t have the ability to empathize or sympathize. I also had no interest in how they got there. It required more compassion than I would ever be able to muster.
“We’d like to ask you some questions,” the officer with me said. The men gave him a couple of dirty looks and went back to playing their card games. I shook my head.
“We know there is a serial killer preying on homeless people, we are hoping you can give us some information on the killer or the six victims we’ve been able to identif
y,” I moved into the room and projected my voice. A few of the men turned to look at me.
“And what are you going to do about it, girly?” One of the more grizzled men said to me.
“If he’s lucky, I’ll put a bullet in his brain. If he isn’t, I’ll toss him in The Fortress,” I took off the sunglasses. “My name is US Marshall Aislinn Cain with the Serial Crimes Tracking Unit. Right now, we’ve only been able to identify six victims, all six were last seen in Las Vegas and their records indicate they were homeless.”
“Only six?” The grizzled man asked.
“We found more, but we’ve only been able to identify the six at this time,” I said.
“And you think we can help you?” He must have been some sort of spokesman for the others at the homeless shelter.
“I believe you can. I know that when someone is stalking and killing prostitutes, the prostitutes and pimps become aware of it long before the police. The same is true of homeless people. I think you have information that would be of use,” I responded.
“Who were they?” He got up and started walking towards me. I pulled out mug shots of the six victims we had identified. Their names were on the pictures. I handed them to him. He stopped and sorted through them. When he finished, he handed them to another man. Slowly they made their way around the room. Finally, another man got up and brought them to me.
“Anyone recognize any of them?” I asked.
“Yeah,” the one handing me the photos said. “Joe Vega, used to hang with a woman named Ugly Kim, they both disappeared. It’s been a couple of years though.”
“Do you know how many years ago?” I pressed.
“A couple,” the man said.
“I’ve heard rumors,” the grizzled man finally said, “about a man who pays the homeless to do work for him and then they disappear.”
“Can you give me any information about him?” I continued to press.
“Check the day laborers. He prefers them. He drives a pick-up with a dent in the side. The day laborers are afraid of him. That’s why he’s started picking up homeless. The day laborers will only take work from him in groups. You might try,” the grizzled man began to think.
“I know where the day laborers are,” the officer next to me said.
We turned to leave.
“Hey Marshal Cain!” The grizzled man yelled as we opened the door. “You’ve got about four serial killers preying on the homeless, the prostitutes and the day laborers in this city. Are you going to catch them all?”
“Yes,” I said putting my sunglasses back on.
We slipped back into the heat of Las Vegas. The noises out here were loud and hurt my ears. I hated big city traffic. People were convinced the horn was meant for constant use. It had been my experience that traffic jams were not sorted out by horns.
The officer went to his waiting cruiser. I hung back a little, letting myself adjust to the sun and the heat a little longer before entering the car. The seats were going to be hot, even through my clothes. Four serial killers. I occasionally wondered if we should just go city to city and clean up killers. By the time we reached the opposite coast, we’d have another five or six thousand filling their spots. I didn’t know if we would catch all four serial killers in Las Vegas, but I was willing to try.
I dug out my cell phone.
“Henders,” Gabriel said as he answered.
“Hey, just left a homeless shelter where a guy gave us information on a killer picking off the homeless and day laborers. He says there are currently four serial killers working on the more transient populations of Las Vegas.”
“Yeah, same here. Not the tip off on the day laborers, but I’m talking to a guy who says he knows that a serial killer is picking up prostitutes and runaways that have come to Vegas. He’s giving me the information he has. Says there’s another working on the tourists.”
“Remind me never to visit this city for recreational purposes,” I hung up and entered the cruiser. “How many serial killers have you got?”
“We think there are six, but we aren’t sure,” the officer said to me.
“Six seems like a high number,” I said.
“We have a lot of population for them to pick through and Vegas is a city where people disappear all the time,” the cruiser’s air was on full blast and the interior had dropped from inferno to heated oven. “We’ve been outmanned for a decade or so now. While murder is still our highest priority, it’s hard to put it on top when you don’t have bodies.”
“None of your killers are leaving you bodies?” The disbelief could be heard in my voice.
“Only one, but he has been elusive. He dumps the bodies of prostitutes all over the city, but he only takes one or two a year and he brands them with a strange squiggly mark. They aren’t sexually assaulted, just tortured. He picks junkies and detoxes them. He seems to like the heroine users the most and they usually die from the DTs. Nothing like being chained up somewhere to make you get clean. As far as we can tell, if any have survived, they aren’t talking.”
“Unlikely to be the same serial killer we are searching for, but we’ll see what we can do,” I said.
“I don’t think the government will like that,” the officer gave me a sideways glance.
“Gabriel’s a golden boy, if anyone could get away with it, he could,” I answered.
“He can’t be too golden if he’s in the trenches with the rest of you,” this made the officer smirk and I knocked ten years off his age.
“Someone golden has to be in the trenches with us. Imagine us as giant pit bulls, trained only to fight, someone has to be there to hold the leashes and give us commands.”
“You just compared yourself to a dog,” the officer said.
“Well, I would have said crocodiles, but those are a lot harder to control. We are all fairly docile until we are let off the chain,” I stared out the window for a moment. “You know where the day laborers hang out, but it’s almost noon, most would have been picked up by now.”
“Yeah, probably,” he said.
“Tomorrow morning then,” I looked at my phone. I wondered how Xavier would feel about being bait.
I called Gabriel.
“You know the old saying what goes around comes around?” I said as he answered the phone.
“Yeah?” He said it slowly.
“Instead of using me for bait, I think we should use Xavier. He could pass as Latino and he can speak Spanish. If this guy is picking up day laborers and killing them, Xavier might fit in. If he doesn’t pick up Xavier, there is still the possibility of tracking him.”
“The locals have tried to catch the day laborer killer and he’s never gone for one of their undercover operatives.”
“But they’ve never had us,” I looked at the police officer in the seat with me. It was also possible that someone was feeding him information on the undercover officers. If we could keep it hush-hush within our unit and the officer listening in to my phone conversation, it might work.
I hung up and stared at the cop that was driving.
“What?” He asked after several minutes.
“You are not allowed to tell anything to anyone about us doing an undercover operation,” I told him. “If you tell anyone, including your superiors, I’ll have you arrested.”
“I thought we were on the same side,” he protested.
“Dude, I can’t even remember your name and you wouldn’t believe the number of serial killing cops I have come across in this job. You got stuck escorting because my superiors believed that if you tried to kill me, you’d fail.”
“It’s Officer Jake Gomez,” the officer said to me.
“It’s nice to meet you Jake, I’m Aislinn, most people just call me Ace and you might talk to Gabriel about your sudden change in roles, because you are no longer just a local cop in Las Vegas.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means either you are having the best day of your life or the worst.”
Sixteen
“Hi,” I said to everyone entering the Marshals conference room. Officer Gomez was following behind me. “This is Jake and he knows about the undercover thing. I got to thinking and maybe the reason they haven’t been able to infiltrate the day laborers with one of their own is because they have someone on the inside telling them when to not pick up day laborers to kill.”
“You worked that out all on your own?” Michael looked like hell.
“You look terrible,” I told him. “Should you be out, walking, among the living? I’ve seen zombies that looked better.”
“Your blood must be made out of acid,” Michael gave me a grin. “I do look terrible. Something about heat stroke and sun stroke and heat intolerance and Xavier keeps checking to make sure I haven’t caught the Plague or something.”
“Plague happens,” I answered.
“You two say that, but it really doesn’t,” Michael commented.
“Actually, in desert regions, it does happen,” Xavier said. “There was an outbreak in Colorado recently when plague infested puppies were not quarantined properly before being sold in a store. They were from Arizona and had gotten the bubonic plague from fleas native to the area. While it’s still rare, you are at a higher risk of bubonic plague in the Southwest United States. Nevada would be one of those places.”
“Prairie dogs can also carry plague which then infects fleas which can then infect humans,” I added.
“I’m going to get both of you bumper stickers that say ‘Plague, not just for rats anymore’,” Michael said. “I’ve never met two people that know as much about plague as the two of you.”
“Prairie dogs host a ton of diseases, including tularemia and monkey pox,” Xavier added.
“Do any of our victims have plague, tularemia or monkey pox?” Gabriel asked.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Xavier answered.
“Then I do not need to know about them at the moment,” Gabriel ended our conversation about prairie dogs. However, I still had one more comment to make about them. I grabbed a piece of paper, tore off the bottom, scribbled on the sheet and passed it to Xavier. Gabriel watched me do this with his mouth open. “Did you just pass a note?” He asked.