She looked around for his supervisor, but didn’t see Vic Panetta. She’d much rather deal with the senior detective, whom she liked. “Who found the body?” Suzanne asked.
“Security guard.”
“What’s his story?”
“Found her on his morning rounds, about five-thirty.”
It was eleven now. “Why hasn’t the body been taken to the morgue?”
“No wagon available. Coroner is on the way. Another hour, they say. NYPD doesn’t got the resources you Feds got.”
She ignored the slight. “What was the guard doing her last night? Does he patrol more than one building?”
“Yeah.” Hicks looked at his notes. Though Suzanne didn’t like him, he was a decent cop. “He clocked in at four a.m. for a twelve-hour shift. Rotates between vacant properties throughout Sunset Park and around the bay. Says he doesn’t stick to a specific schedule, ’cause vandals watch for that.”
“What about the night guard?”
“Night is either Thompson or Bruzzini. According to the day shift, Bruzzini is a slacker.”
“I need their contact information.” She hesitated. Then—remembering her boss’s command to be more collegial to NYPD—she added, “I appreciate your help.”
“Did Hell freeze over since the last time we worked a case?” Hicks laughed. “I’ll get Panetta; I’m sure he’ll want to at least make a show of fighting for jurisdiction.” He left, still grinning.
Suzanne ignored him. There were no jurisdictional issues—after the third similar murder, an FBI–NYPD task force had been formed. Her supervisor was administratively in charge, and she was the FBI point person on the case. Panetta was the senior ranking NYPD detective.
Tired of her hair flying in her face, Suzanne pulled a N.Y. Mets cap from her pocket and stuffed under it as much of her thick, tangled mess as possible. In her small notepad, she finished writing down her observations and the few facts she knew.
This victim, the fourth, was the first found in Brooklyn. Victim number one, a college freshman, had been killed up in Harlem on a street popular with squatters and the party crowd because every building was boarded up. That had been the eve of Halloween. The second victim had been discovered on the south side of the Bronx, ironically overlooking Rikers Island, on January second. The third victim—the one who brought the attention of the FBI to the serial murders—had been killed in Manhattanville, near Columbia University, eighteen days ago. By the time the task force was put together and evidence shared, for all practical purposes Suzanne had been working the case for less than two weeks.
Besides the one missing shoe and the age of the victims—all adult females under twenty-one—two other commonalities stood out: the victims had been suffocated with a plastic bag that the killer took with him, and they’d each been killed near an abandoned building with evidence of a recent party.
Secret or underground parties were nothing new. Some were relatively innocent, with drinking, dance music, and recreational drugs, while others were far more wild. Raves in the U.S. had started in Brooklyn in the abandoned underground railroad tunnels, and while they still existed, they’d peaked in popularity awhile back. The new fad was sex parties with heavy drinking and hard-core drugs. Music and dancing was a precursor to multi-partner anonymous sex. Even before these murders, there had been several drug-related deaths associated with sex parties. If the pattern held true, evidence inside this warehouse would show this Jane Doe had participated in the latter type of party, which Detective Panetta called “extreme raves.”
The press had dubbed the killer “The Cinderella Strangler” when someone in the know had leaked the missing-shoe detail to the press. It may not have been a cop who talked—there were dozens of people working any one crime scene—but most likely it had come from inside NYPD. The press didn’t seem to care that the victims weren’t strangled—they were asphyxiated. “The Cinderella Asphyxiator” just didn’t sound as good on the eleven o’clock news.
Suzanne had sent a memo to all private security companies in the five boroughs asking them to be more proactive in shutting down the rampant parties at abandoned sites, but it was like spitting in the wind. Though only two of the first three victims were college students, she’d contacted local colleges and high schools to warn students that there was a killer targeting women at these parties. Unfortunately, Suzanne suspected getting through the invincible it-won’t-happen-to-me mentality of young adults was next to impossible. She could almost hear their justification. We won’t go out alone. We won’t leave with a stranger. We won’t drink too much. Excuses for every day of the week, but when it was life or death, Suzanne didn’t understand why they couldn’t party in the relatively safe dorms and frat houses. Those venues had their own problems, but they probably didn’t have a serial killer trolling their halls.
“Suzanne!”
She looked up and waved to Vic Panetta as he strode over. She liked the wiry Italian. He was her exact height, five foot nine, and wore a new wool coat, charcoal gray to match his full head of hair. “Hi, Vic,” she said as he approached. “New coat?”
He deadpanned her. “Christmas present from my wife.”
“Very nice.”
“It cost too much money for a label no one can see,” he grumbled. He gestured at the tarp. “We photographed the area, then put the tarp over the body so we don’t lose any more evidence.”
“Well, the way this wind has been going nonstop for the past couple days, I think we already lost it.”
“You take a look?”
“Briefly.”
“You noted the missing shoe?”
“Duly.”
“Could be under the body.”
“You think?”
“Nah.” He shook his head, then pulled his phone from his coat pocket and read a message. “Good news, coroner is on the way. ETA ten minutes.”
About time, Suzanne thought but didn’t say out loud. “Hicks said you were talking to the security guard who found the body?”
“Yeah, he’s former NYPD—permanent disability, works three days a week. Takes his job seriously. Got an earful about the night shift.”
“Anything I need to know?”
“He suspects Ronald Bruzzini of being bought off. Too much cash in the guy’s wallet, but no proof.”
“Your guy knew about the parties?”
Panetta shook his head. “Not until after the fact, and he doesn’t work nights. He thinks Bruzzini looks the other way. Finds evidence of all kinds of wild parties nearly every week. Hicks and I will follow up on both the night guards, see what shakes out.”
“So you think this was one of your extreme raves?” she teased.
He rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated breath. “And then some. They did some cleaning up inside, but left the garbage on the other side of the building. The wind sent it all over kingdom come. The crime scene unit is working inside and out, but contamination is a huge problem. We’re printing the place, but getting anything useable—”
“I know. A couple hundred stoned kids, a complete mess, limited resources. If you need our lab, let me know.”
“Will do.”
NYPD had a decent crime lab, and because it was local Suzanne preferred to keep evidence here. Because Panetta was a well-respected, well-liked twenty-two-year veteran, he worked the system well and most of the time could get results faster than if Suzanne shipped evidence to the FBI lab at Quantico.
“The press is going to be all over this,” Panetta mumbled.
“No comment.” She never spoke to the press—not after her diatribe five years ago during a missing child case. That had landed her on the evening news and in front of the Office of Professional Responsibility. Further, she’d been left with the irritating and unflattering moniker “Mad Dog Madeaux.”
“We got a lot of nothing,” Panetta said.
There was extensive physical evidence on all of the victims’ bodies, but not anything they could use to track the killer. The
first three victims had at least two sex partners within twenty-four hours of their death, but the DNA left behind either had been contaminated or hadn’t brought up a match in the system. They had evidence of seven different males on the first three victims, but none were the same, suggesting the killer went to extraordinary lengths to avoid leaving DNA on his victims, and possibly didn’t have sex with them. Because of the multiple sex partners and the nature of these parties, the coroner could not determine whether the victims had been raped or had consensual sex.
Not having conclusive evidence as to a killer’s motive made profiling him that much harder. A sexual sadist had a different profile than, for example, a man who killed prostitutes because he thought they were whores. Serial killers who raped or tortured their victims would have a different profile than those who didn’t sexually molest their victims. The task force couldn’t even pinpoint whether this killer was one of the partygoers or whether he waited nearby for a lone female to attack.
Whatever was used to suffocate the victim was taken by the killer—along with one of her shoes—and the victim’s bodies weren’t moved. They were dead when they fell to the ground.
Panetta said, “By the way, this one didn’t die last night.”
“I didn’t inspect the body that closely.”
“The day guard only works Wednesday through Saturday. He doubts that the other day guy does much more than a slapdash inspection of the properties. Our Jane Doe might have been here as early as Saturday night.”
“Because?”
“Our ex-cop walked through here on Saturday afternoon and she wasn’t here then.”
“And you don’t think he’s the killer?” She was only half joking.
“No, but I’ll check him out anyway. I did take a long look at the body, and rigor has come and gone. She’s probably been here more than forty-eight hours. The coroner should be able to give us a range.”
“I’ll leave the forensics in your capable hands. I need her identity ASAP, and in the meantime I’ll review the other three victims and reinterview friends. Someone knows something. I’m getting damn pissed at these bratty college kids who zip their lips because they don’t want to get in trouble for illegal drugs and parties, but don’t seem to care that a killer is hunting on their turf.”
Excerpt from Lucy Kincaid’s personal interview with the FBI hiring panel. Present, Lucy Kincaid, applicant. Hiring panel: Supervisory Special Agent Nolan Cassidy, Special Agent Meredith White, and Special Agent Juan Martinez.
CASSIDY: Your test scores speak for themselves. And your application is very thorough, but at the same time you’ve skimmed over details that I, for one, feel are relevant.
LUCY: I’m sorry, sir. What’s missing?
CASSIDY: Your family. You list your family and their occupations, but there seems to be a lot missing, especially since you seem to come from a law enforcement family. Can you elaborate?
LUCY: Of course, about what specifically?
CASSIDY: Start at the top. Your parents. Your father was a decorated Army colonel, correct?
LUCY: Yes. He’s retired now.
CASSIDY: And still living in San Diego?
LUCY: Yes.
CASSIDY: Your mother is a naturalized citizen.
LUCY: She fled Cuba in the early 1960s. My father found her on a beach near Miami in the middle of the night—he saved her life.
MARTINEZ: My wife’s grandparents fled at the same time—her mother was a little girl at the time. They’ve never returned. Have you ever traveled to Cuba?
LUCY: No, my mother’s only sister died during the journey. She never wanted to return. I don’t think she has any living relatives.
CASSIDY: Would you consider your relationship with your parents good? Poor? Indifferent?
LUCY: Good.
WHITE: Are you close to them? Or is their age a hindrance to a relationship?
LUCY: We’re very close, but my brothers and sister were as involved in my life as my parents. Maybe more so.
CASSIDY: You have two sisters, not one, correct?
LUCY: Yes, but Nelia and I …
CASSIDY: Go on.
LUCY: It’s not important.
CASSIDY: She’s much older than you.
LUCY: Twenty-two years. I came as a surprise to my mother—she was forty-five when she had me.
CASSIDY: You didn’t list an occupation for her.
LUCY: I don’t know what she’s doing. She remarried a few years ago and lives in Idaho. We’re not close.
CASSIDY: Is Nelia the mother of your nephew who was murdered? Justin Stanton, correct?
LUCY: Yes.
CASSIDY: Did you know him? You were seven then?
LUCY: Both Justin and I were seven. He was born two months before me. We always thought that was funny.
CASSIDY: So you were close to Justin.
LUCY: He was my best friend.
WHITE: How was he killed?
LUCY: I don’t know.
WHITE: You don’t know?
LUCY: My family never told me, and they never discussed specifics. All I know is that he was kidnapped from his bedroom while he was sleeping. They found him two days later. My parents wouldn’t let me go to the funeral. I kept hearing how he didn’t suffer, that it was quick, in the fake hushed tones that people use when they don’t want anyone to think that they’re talking about a tragedy. Eventually, my sister moved away. We don’t talk.
CASSIDY: Was there a conviction?
LUCY: No. They never even had a viable suspect. For a brief time the police thought my sister or her husband might have killed him because there was no sexual assault, but that didn’t go anywhere. Andrew is now the District Attorney.
WHITE: I thought you said you didn’t know how he died.
LUCY: I don’t—but I heard he wasn’t sexually assaulted. It’s one of those things I picked up when my family thought I wasn’t in the room.
WHITE: How did Justin’s murder make you feel? Then and now?
LUCY: How do you think? He was my best friend. I missed him and resented that my family wouldn’t tell me what happened. I knew enough to be scared, but not enough to make sense of it. And now? I don’t want another family to suffer what we did.
CASSIDY: It’s clear from your earlier answers and your application that you have a strong sense of justice. You live with your brother Doctor Dillon Kincaid and his wife, Kate Donovan. Your brother works for the Bureau of Prisons?
LUCY: No, he does work with the Bureau of Prisons, but he’s a private consultant. A forensic psychiatrist. He most recently convinced a killer on death row to reveal where the remains of his victims were so that their families could have closure.
MARTINEZ: I heard about that case. Charles Bledsoe was convicted of killing six children in Richmond, Virginia, and was suspected of killing several more he never confessed to.
LUCY: Correct. Dillon spent a week with Bledsoe. It was a difficult assignment, but in the end three families had remains to bury.
WHITE: And Kate Donovan is an FBI special agent.
LUCY: Yes.
WHITE: She’s assigned to Quantico.
LUCY: She’s the lead instructor for cybercrime. Has been for six years now.
WHITE: Because of her disciplinary hearing.
LUCY: Is that a question?
WHITE: Agent Donovan was wanted for questioning in investigating the onduty death of her partner, but hid from the FBI for five years. Her reinstatement was contingent on a two-year probationary period at Quantico, I’m sure you are aware of this.
LUCY: Yes, but that has nothing to do with my application.
WHITE: My point is Agent Donovan has had multiple reprimands in her file—
LUCY: That is her file, and I don’t see how it’s relevant to my application.
CASSIDY: I think the point Agent White is trying to make is how much influence your family has over you, and whether by living with Agent Donovan if you would be predisposed to disobedience.
LUCY:
Kate is my sister-in-law. I have great respect for her. But I can’t answer hypothetical questions or tell you whether I would have made the same decisions under the same circumstances.
CASSIDY: Fair enough. You brother Jack—he’s the same age as Dillon. Twins?
LUCY: Yes, fraternal.
CASSIDY: He’s also married to an FBI agent. SSA Megan Elliott. How long?
LUCY: A little over three years.
CASSIDY: I worked in the Sacramento office with Megan for years. She’s an outstanding agent.
LUCY: I admire her as much as I admire Kate.
WHITE: You indicated that Jack is a principle in Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid. Are you familiar with their business?
LUCY: Of course. I have two brothers who work there.
WHITE: And your boyfriend, correct?
LUCY: Yes.
WHITE: You didn’t indicate that you were in a relationship on the application. There’s a space asking—
LUCY: Sean and I haven’t been seeing each other for long. I filled out the initial application a year ago.
WHITE: So your boyfriend and two of your brothers are principles in a private security company. Can you honestly tell us that their business won’t interfere with your work for the FBI?
LUCY: It won’t.
MARTINEZ: The reason we’re a bit concerned is that Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid has some clients who, because of the nature of their business, come under scrutiny by the federal government. There could be a conflict of interest.
LUCY: I don’t work for RCK. And it’s my understanding that RCK has high government clearance.
MARTINEZ: Individuals may, I don’t have that information.
LUCY: And they have government contracts as well.
CASSIDY: You understand that in the course of your work with the FBI, if anyone you know comes under investigation—RCK or any of the principals or employees—that you would need to keep any such investigation confidential, or risk prosecution?
LUCY: I understand confidentially requirements.
CASSIDY: I’m sure you do, I just wanted to make it clear. Now–your brother Connor is a private investigator in San Diego, correct?
LUCY: Yes. His partner is my brother-in-law, Nick Thomas.
CASSIDY: Department? Connor used to be a police officer with the San Diego Police
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