Under Cover of Darkness

by James Grippando

Victoria asked, “Were you able to tell if the killer had brought his own knives with him to the crime scene, or if he just grabbed whatever was available?”

  “He didn’t bring any knives. He took them from the kitchen.”

  “Interesting.” She made another notation, as if that was significant. “Go on.”

  “Speaking of the crime scenes, we have similarities there, too. It’s bizarre, because with the men, you have a scene where, at first blush, it looks like a madman cut loose, repeatedly stabbing his victims long after they were dead. But in every other respect the place is completely sanitized. Not a single fingerprint.”

  Victoria made a note in the margin that Andie read as “staging.” She underlined it twice. “Go on.”

  Wile continued, “The most compelling common thread is that the rope used in all three strangulations was the same. Triple-braided yellow synthetic. Three-quarter inch. Like water ski rope.”

  “Have any of the newspapers mentioned what kind of rope was involved?”

  “No. Fortunately, we’ve kept that quiet. That’s the main reason we think all three are victims of the same killer. Too close for coincidence. And a copycat wouldn’t know what kind of rope to use.”

  Victoria quickly reviewed her notes, then flipped the page on her legal pad. “What about dissimilarities?” she asked. “I don’t mean the obvious things, like the sex and age of the victims. Any subtleties you’ve focused on?”

  “One thing in the autopsy report caught my eye,” said Wile.

  “What’s that?”

  “The throats were crushed to varying degrees. Even though he used the same rope, different pressure was applied for different lengths of time.”

  “And why does that surprise you?”

  “In a case like this with signs of overkill, I’d expect the guy to lose his cool and hold the rope as tight as he can, for as long as he can. That would be a fairly constant level of pressure for a fairly constant length of time. But that’s not what he did.”

  “Timing and opportunity could explain that. He could have stalked the woman for ten days, stalked the man for ten minutes. He could have been drunk or on drugs. All these things affect a killer’s strength.”

  Andie spoke up. “Or maybe he simply applies whatever amount of pressure is necessary to strangle each particular victim.”

  Wile answered, “But that’s not consistent with a killer who engages in overkill. He’s not going to stop when the job is done. He’s going to stop only after his rage subsides.”

  “Or when his victim stops suffering,” said Andie.

  Victoria glanced at her approvingly. “What are you saying, Andie?”

  Butterflies churned. It was the first time a supervisory special agent had actually offered Andie the floor. “You start with the fact that strangulation is a method of homicide that shows a lot of personal anger. A person kills in that way to inflict suffering. That’s especially true here, where the guy brings his own rope to the crime scene. If you’re going to bring a weapon, why not bring a gun? Only one reason: you want your victim to suffer.”

  Victoria said, “You’re saying his signature is torture, then. He wants to inflict pain.”

  “Yes.”

  Kessler asked, “Then why all the stabbing? If he’s into torture, why mutilate a dead body?”

  “Possibly to confuse us,” said Victoria. She flipped back to the notation she’d made about “staging” on the previous page of her notepad. “I obviously need to study this before coming up with a profile, but from what I’ve heard so far, we have a mixed bag.”

  “Signs of both an organized and disorganized killer,” said Wile.

  There were some blank faces. Victoria said, “Those are very important terms Lieutenant Wile just used—organized and disorganized. For criminal profilers, that’s the fundamental way of separating two very different types of personalities who commit multiple murders. Organized killers are better planners who carefully select and control their victims. They’re generally more intelligent and possess good verbal and social skills. Think of the smooth-talking con man who lures his victims into his car or apartment. The disorganized killer is the opposite. He’s often delusional, and the crime scene reflects his confusion and lack of preparation. Think of the social misfit who talks to his shadow and drinks blood out of coffee cups.”

  “Why do you say the profile is mixed here?” asked Kessler.

  “Lots of reasons. The killer brings his own murder weapon, which is organized. But he leaves the rope at the scene, and also uses knives from the kitchen, which is disorganized. The bodies show no sign of defensive wounds, suggesting the victims were at all times completely under the killer’s control. That’s organized. But then the bodies are mutilated after death. That’s disorganized. The killer makes no attempt to hide and dispose of the body. Again, disorganized. But there is no sign of forced entry, which suggests he may have used a ruse or a con to get inside. Not a single witness saw or heard anything suspicious. And he doesn’t leave a single fingerprint at the crime scene. All organized.”

  “What about the way he left the woman?” asked Kessler. “Taking her from the murder site and hanging her in the tree. What does that say?”

  “In this context, it makes me even more inclined to say we don’t really have a disorganized killer, or even a psychological hybrid.”

  “Why is that?”

  She glanced again at her notation. “It’s quite possible that the disorganized aspects of these crime scenes are completely staged. I see a highly organized killer who is simply trying to throw us off the track by deliberately exhibiting some disorganized traits. I see an experienced killer whose fantasy about killing is so well developed that he not only plans the crime to the last detail, but he also stages his crime scene. The fact that he displayed his latest victim by hanging her from a tree in a public park tells me he’s growing more bold, more confident. He’s taunting police, probably reveling in the media coverage. He thinks he’s too good, too smart to be caught. Which means one thing for certain. He will kill again.”

  The room was eerily silent. Andie cringed inside, thinking of Gus Wheatley’s wife, wondering if he had already killed again. Finally, Wile spoke up. “Sounds like we’re up against some homicidal egomaniac who thinks he can pull off the perfect crime.”

  “Fortunately, there’s no such thing,” said Victoria. “Even if he weren’t taunting us with clues left behind at the crime scene, a killer would always reveal himself through post-crime behavior. That’s why it’s so important to focus on what he’s doing now—after the kill.”

  Kessler grumbled. “How the hell are we supposed to know what to look for?”

  Her look hardened, the eyes narrowed. It was as if she were already entering the mind of a serial killer. “That’s exactly what I can help you with.”

  Eleven

  Gus skipped the beauty pageant. It surprised his partners. Gus was never one to miss an opportunity to land a new client. The mention of a serial killer had changed everything. It was time to find his wife.

  Agent Henning’s explanation for the newspaper article had left him angry and dismayed. She didn’t know how the newspaper had gotten hold of her theory. Right. He knew a BS excuse when he heard one. Either she wasn’t being honest, or she had no control over the investigation. Either way, someone had to take action.

  Publicity was key. Get Beth’s picture out, get people looking for her. He and the law firm’s publicity director spent several hours making personal calls to media contacts. He did a phone interview with the Times and the Post-Intelligencer. The local television stations wanted an interview at his home. Gus did it right after lunch, well in time for the piece to air on the evening news.

  The last interview finished just after two o’clock. The reporters thanked him, wished him luck. The crews packed up their lights, microphones, tangle of wires, and bulky equipment. Gus showed them to the door. The vans pulled away. The door echoed when it closed. After the flurry of activi
ty he felt like the widower after the last guest has left from the post-funeral gathering.

  Alone in the empty house.

  He needed something to do. Usually, that meant work. But not this time. He phoned the office, told Jeremy he didn’t need him to pick up Morgan, and drove straight to the Bertschi School north of Capitol Hill.

  He knew where Bertschi was in the sense that he knew the street address. He had never actually been there before. Beth had checked out the school before Morgan enrolled last September. Gus was out of town for the first biannual parent-teacher conference. He missed the holiday party in December, too.

  As he turned on to Tenth Avenue, he could see the line of cars forming at the curved private drive that led to the main entrance. Jaguars, BMWs, Range Rovers. It looked a lot like his law firm’s parking garage. He pulled behind the last car and waited his turn, inching forward at less than walking pace. At this rate it would take a good twenty minutes to reach Morgan. Maybe more. Bertschi was a small private school, averaging fourteen students per class, but a hundred seventy-five students meant a line of a hundred-seventy-five cars every afternoon. Many of them had obviously arrived long before Gus had. Apparently the trick was to get there before school actually let out. He was beginning to understand what Beth did with all her “free” time.

  He found some light jazz on the radio and tried to relax. A sudden anal-retentive impulse had him reaching for his phone to check his voice mail, but he was in no mood for the rest of the world’s problems. Finally, he reached the entrance. He was one of the last. In fact, he was the very last. Morgan stood outside the front entrance. Her skinny legs were covered by warm red knee socks, sticking out like toothpicks below her bulky winter coat. She didn’t look happy. Two adults stood at her side. Gus rolled down the window as one of the supervisors came to his car.

  “Hi, I’m here for my daughter.”

  “And you are…?”

  “Gus Wheatley. Morgan’s father.”

  “Beth always picks her up.” She checked her watch. “Usually a lot earlier than this.”

  “I know, I know. Beth couldn’t make it. So I came. If you could just bring Morgan over here, we’ll be on our way.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re the last car, and Morgan’s the only student left. But when you pulled up, I asked her if this was her ride. She said she doesn’t know you.”

  Gus rolled his eyes. “Okay, I’m late. She’s mad.” He pulled his driver’s license from his wallet and showed her. “See, I’m Gus Wheatley.”

  She checked the photo and handed it back. “Wait right here.”

  She went back to the school entrance, took Morgan by the hand and brought her to the curb. She crouched beside Morgan and pointed at Gus through the open passenger-side window. “Morgan, is this man your father?”

  She pursed her lips, then answered reluctantly. “Yes.”

  Gus popped the automatic door locks. The woman opened the rear passenger door and buckled Morgan in the backseat, obviously having seen enough 600 series Mercedes to know they came with dual air bags in front. As the rear door closed, the woman reappeared at the open window, looking at Gus. “Come by and see us some time, Mr. Wheatley. We here at Bertschi encourage parent involvement.”

  He smiled sheepishly and pulled away. Beth had once mentioned that Morgan’s teachers thought she was smart enough to skip a grade. He was beginning to wish for a way to skip elementary school altogether.

  At the stop sign, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Morgan was pouting.

  “Sorry I’m so late, sweetheart. I’m new at this.”

  “I thought you said Mommy was going to pick me up.”

  “I said Mommy would come if she was back in time. She’s not back yet.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “I don’t know. Soon, I hope.”

  Morgan peered out the window. Gus knew he was going to have to tell her something soon. This very instant, however, didn’t feel like the right time. “Hey, how about some ice cream?”

  “Mommy doesn’t let me have ice cream before dinner.”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  She shrugged, seemingly indifferent. “Okay.”

  With a little coaxing from Gus, Morgan navigated the way to her favorite ice cream parlor. It was a quaint place with old-fashioned wire chairs and marble-top tables. The walls were exposed red brick, warmed by some orchids and green plants hanging from timbers in the vaulted ceiling. Gus and Morgan were the only customers. Most people didn’t flock for ice cream when it was forty degrees outside, but for Morgan it was never too cold. An assortment of flavors was arranged in big tubs behind the glass display. Rows of pizza-sized cookies were on the top shelf. Morgan ordered a “create-your-own” sundae: one scoop of bubble gum sorbet, two scoops of rocky road ice cream, topped with crushed Reese’s Pieces and pineapple sauce. Gus suddenly lost his urge for anything sweet. He ordered coffee. They sat in a corner booth near an old, broken jukebox that was just for show. Morgan was totally absorbed in her treat, careful not to spill a drop from the overflowing bowl.

  “How was school today?” he asked.

  “Okay.”

  She was scooping the ice cream at a steady clip. The bizarre combination of flavors alone was enough to land her in the hospital. Speed would only hasten the belly ache. “Slow down a little,” he said. She ignored him. “Morgan, did you hear what I said?”

  She scooped even faster. He was angry for a split second, then concerned. She seemed more hungry than defiant. “Morgan, did you eat lunch today?”

  She shrugged.

  “Does that mean you don’t remember, you don’t care, or you don’t think so?”

  She shrugged again, still dipping into her ice cream.

  “Are you worried about something, sweetheart?”

  She stopped eating, speaking into her sundae. “Aren’t you?”

  He knew what she meant, but he didn’t want this to be their talk about Beth. Not yet. “Actually, I am a little worried. About you.”

  “I’m okay.”

  He looked away, then back. “Morgan, I’m going to ask you a question. I promise you, I won’t get angry, no matter how you answer it. So long as your answer is the truth. Is that a deal?”

  She nodded. Melted ice cream was dripping from her chin. Gus reached across and wiped it away with the napkin. “Do you remember that little wooden horse in my office? The one I said was not a toy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you take it?”

  She froze, saying nothing.

  “Just tell me the truth. I won’t get mad. Did you take it?”

  She lowered her eyes. Her head moved almost imperceptibly, but it was definitely a nod.

  “Why did you take it?”

  She shrugged again. “I don’t know.”

  “You know that’s wrong, don’t you? Did anyone ever tell you that it’s wrong to take things without permission?”

  Another shrug.

  “I’m confused again, Morgan. Are you saying you don’t know it’s wrong to steal things?”

  She just sat there. Gus studied her expression. She seemed troubled, as if she were hiding something. “Morgan, did anyone ever tell you it was okay to steal?”

  Her shrug was slower this time, more exaggerated. More ambiguous.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “No one really told me that. I just…”

  “You just what?”

  She lowered her chin to the tabletop. Her eyes locked on the half-empty ice cream dish before her. “I saw Mommy do it.”

  He winced, incredulous. “You saw your mother steal something?”

  She nodded.

  “Where?”

  “At Nordstrom’s.”

  That was Beth’s favorite department store. “Are you sure?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “She just…put some clothe
s in her bag.”

  “Mommy put clothes in her shopping bag?”

  “Yeah. And then we walked out.”

  “You didn’t stop at the cash register to pay for it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Her voice was flat, but the answer was firm. “I’m sure. It happened lots of times.”

  “What do you mean lots of times? More than twice?”

  She nodded.

  “More than three times?”

  Again, she nodded.

  “More than five times?”

  Morgan was still. Slowly, she nodded.

  Gus leaned back in his chair, flabbergasted. Then it hit him, and the shock gave way to pity. He suddenly understood. Morgan was angry, that was all. She was afraid her mommy had left her, and now she was making up bad stories about her.

  “Morgan, are you mad at Mommy for something?”

  She shrugged. Gus had seen enough of her shrugs to know which ones meant yes, which ones meant no. This was definitely a yes.

  “You shouldn’t be mad at Mommy. But it’s normal to be a little worried. I’m a little worried, too.”

  “You are?”

  He nodded. “In fact, I’ve already asked some people to help look for your mother.”

  “Did something bad happen to her?”

  “We don’t know that. There are certain things I have to do, just to be extra careful.”

  “What kind of things?”

  He paused, afraid it might overwhelm her to talk about the FBI and the media. “Remember last year, when your class took a field trip to the zoo and you got lost for a little while?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your teacher got really nervous, because you were gone, and she didn’t know where you were. She had the other kids looking for you, the other teachers, the zookeepers. I think the chimpanzees were even looking for you.”

  She smiled a little. “Not the chimps.”

  “All right, maybe not the chimps. But a lot of people were worried and looking for you. And the whole time you were just standing and watching the polar bears.”

  “You think that’s where Mommy is?”

  “No. But it could be something that simple. She could be just fine. So promise me you won’t get scared if you see people looking for Mommy, wondering where she is. We’re all just being very careful.”