by Leslie Wolfe
“How about you?” Tess asked. “Are you also a member of the I-don’t-give-a-shit club?”
“Nope, we need this perp caught,” she replied. “I’ll find out how he got in here and get someone on those 360 scans you need.”
“One more thing, please. This unsub usually wipes the areas where he leaves prints before he puts on his suit. In those specific areas where you don’t find any prints, please be extra careful with trace evidence collection. Anything would work: epithelials, hair fibers, anything.”
“I don’t know when we could have the results back to you, ma’am.” The tech looked around her briefly, then lowered her voice. “With a property this size, processing the fingerprints and trace evidence will take months.”
Tess groaned with frustration and rolled her eyes. She couldn’t afford months; not even days. The Taker could be history by then, never to be heard from again, or he could continue killing, taking lives every day with no ending in sight. She felt defeated; the only thing they had to go on was the profile and Donovan’s software, based on that profile. That psychological profile better not be wrong one single bit, she thought, or we’ll keep doing this until the day we die.
She returned to the poolside bed, where Doc Rizza’s assistant was getting ready to load Marla’s body onto the stretcher.
“What else can you tell me, Doc?” she asked, touching the man’s arm to get his attention.
“No other signs of trauma, at least at first sight. I’m afraid I’ve got nothing else to offer. The only change in MO I’ve noticed so far is the absence of the propofol shot. I couldn’t see the puncture mark, but I need strong light and a magnifying glass to confirm.”
“So, this unsub just got ten times bolder,” she mumbled angrily, “and still got away with it.”
“Not for long, if he pissed you off that badly,” Michowsky said, with a hint of a smile. “I’ve seen that look before, only hours before you caught your man,” He looked drawn, dark circles around his hollow eyes speaking volumes about how he’d spent his time since they last spoke. What was he doing there, instead of catching some shuteye?
“Hey, Gary, what’s going on?”
“Ah,” he sighed, “I believe our other objective has been reached,” he replied cryptically.
“Really? How come?”
He didn’t get a chance to reply, because her phone rang. She frowned when she read Pearson’s name on the display, and immediately took the call.
“Sir,” she said, wondering what her boss knew about the current crime scene. As usual, he probably knew more than she did.
“How’s the case, Winnett?” he asked, sounding tense, worried.
Last time they spoke, he’d just learned he needed to orchestrate a major drug seizure with little time to prepare, while his family was being targeted. Not an easy feat, probably taking all his attention away from her serial killer.
“The case has gone terribly wrong, sir,” she replied. “No luck so far, but we’re getting closer and he’s getting bolder. He’s about to make a mistake.”
“So far, you’ve only been cleaning up after this unsub, Winnett. Are you planning on becoming proactive any time soon?”
“We know how he chooses his victims, and we’ll be waiting next time he tries.”
“When will that be? Do you have any idea?”
“It will be tonight, at midnight. I’m one hundred percent sure.”
“Why?” Tess could hear the frown in his voice.
“He’s orchestrating a show that will culminate with tonight’s performance. Every night, at midnight, he’s streamed a part of his masterpiece, if you’d like to call it that. Now he’s about to conclude the show and disappear. He won’t stop killing, now that he’s got a taste for it, but he’ll end this particular display of power he’s putting out there on the Dark Web.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
She hesitated for a moment. “Based on the timing of these attacks, the way he’s been scaling up the violence, the engagement with his viewers, and based on the profile.”
“On a profile that could be wrong? You know just as well as I do that’s little more than a scientific guess, constructed more on statistics than on solid evidence.”
“All of the above, sir,” she replied calmly, swallowing a long sigh, loaded with unspoken expletives. “We have nothing else. No evidence, no leads, nothing. The man is a ghost.”
“Then, if you’re so sure he’s planning to disappear after tonight, you’d better catch him this time. Will you, Winnett?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, barely containing a smile. That was Pearson’s talent; he gave her a hard time, challenging every one of her decisions, but made her feel encouraged and appreciated. “How’s your daughter?” she asked, after a brief hesitation at the thought of discussing the green folder over the phone.
“Oh, she’s crying, Winnett,” he replied calmly. “Turns out her boyfriend was in a car crash earlier today and is in the hospital with a bunch of broken bones. They won’t even let her visit. She won’t be going boating today, and she’s devastated. She had such high hopes for this trip.”
Blood rushed to her head. Car accident? That wasn’t what she’d asked Bartlett to do. That bastard! Jeez… She took a deep breath of air and let it out slowly, calming her stretched nerves. In retrospect, it was a good thing Bartlett didn’t kill Carrillo. At least that wouldn’t weigh on her increasingly guilty conscience.
“So sorry to hear that, sir,” she mumbled.
“Thank you, Winnett,” he replied. “No, I mean, thank you.”
She swallowed, her throat suddenly constricted at the thought that her boss knew she’d put a contract out on someone, albeit a really nasty, ruthless perp of a someone and only for a few broken bones. “How’s the rest of the day’s entertainment schedule?” she asked, thinking of the planned seizure of the Reina del Mar and the drugs she was about to haul into port.
“The rest will proceed as scheduled, Winnett. I’ll call you later to let you know where we’ll gather for the picnic.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, and Winnett? Catch that son of a bitch already, will you?”
He hung up, and she smiled crookedly, while whispering to herself, “Yes, sir. Working on it.”
She grabbed Michowsky by the arm and headed toward the gate. “Let’s get you home, Gary.” He could barely stand, and he offered little resistance, at least not physically.
“I’ve got work to do, Winnett. It’s almost four, and at six the team is meeting for tactical readiness on the drug bust. I still owe them some info.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, but still walked him toward the street, where their cars were parked.
“You know, I was thinking,” he mumbled, “if we don’t catch this Taker of Lives soon, he’s going to kill all of us. Have you noticed how he won’t let us rest? He kills every day at midnight, then he starts the voting bullshit the next morning, and he keeps on going like he’s the Energizer serial bunny from hell.”
There was noise and flashes of light coming from the street. She opened the gate and found Fradella, blinded by camera flashes and holding his arm in front of his face to shield his eyes.
“What the hell is this?” she asked, almost shouting in Fradella’s ear to cover the media ruckus.
Fradella turned to her and shoved a piece of paper in her hand. “The unsub put out another press release. This time, they all came.”
48
Adam
She’d shouted “no comment” about a dozen times from the bottom of her lungs, to no avail. The questions poured incessantly, barely intelligible, cameras flashes were blinding, instilling a sense of panic in her, as the people wielding those devices moved in waves like swarms of locusts, pushing through the police in a determined fashion. The cops had already pulled crime scene tape to block the area, but the mad horde had torn through it twice already, even if that was a felony that could land someone in jail.
F
or a moment, she thought of pulling out her gun and firing a couple of shots in the air, Western style, just to get their attention, but the paperwork would’ve been a nightmare, not to mention the aftermath. A suspension would be unavoidable, and she definitely couldn’t afford that, not after the recent investigation into her higher-than-average suspect kill ratio.
Then the crowds parted under the slow and steady pressure of a black Suburban approaching while honking its horn in rapid bursts. Right behind the Suburban, a stretch limo with dark-tinted windows followed closely. The media swarm hesitated for a moment, then rushed toward the limo, banging on its windows, shoving camera lenses against every square inch of tinted glass and firing away, shot after shot, in the frantic hope of landing the jackpot photo.
Adam Quinn was back.
The Suburban stopped strategically on the right side of the gate, its front grille almost touching the wall, and four armed goons hopped out, bearing the insignia of one of the most exclusive private security firms in town. They pushed the press away from the street with little concern for their health or the integrity of their equipment, then the large gate pulled open and let the limo in.
“I’ll take Quinn,” she yelled in Fradella’s ear, “you take his staff, okay?”
He gestured in response with a thumbs up.
A Miami-Dade detective rushed to stop the limo. “Hey,” he called after the vehicle’s driver, “you can’t go in there, it’s an active crime scene.” Then he turned toward the uniformed cops keeping the press at bay and yelled to cover the ruckus. “What the hell are you doing, people? This is a crime scene, for Pete’s sake!” He ran after the limo and caught up with it as it pulled to the main door.
What would be the alternative? Refuse him entry under the eyes of so many newspeople, while the Taker of Lives watched from the safety of whatever hole he’d dug himself into, via numerous blogs and online tabloids? It would’ve been a media feeding frenzy, capitalizing on the man’s tragedy. Out of options, she decided to allow him entry to the property but planned to make sure his movements were restricted and he couldn’t trample the scene where it would’ve mattered.
Hard to think of such places though, when only hours ago countless people had touched, sat, stepped, and shed hair and epithelials over every square inch of that house.
She already knew the Taker of Lives had left no evidence for them to find. The timing of the attack couldn’t’ve been a coincidence; nothing the Taker did ever was.
Tess approached the Miami-Dade detective quickly and caught up with him before the limo door opened.
“You’ve got no options,” she said, flashing her badge quickly. “The scene is most likely compromised already, and the media outside doesn’t leave us too many alternatives. Whatever we do, the killer is watching if we let him.”
“It’s procedure, damn it,” he said. “I don’t care who this guy is or what the killer’s seeing.”
She pursed her lips, almost ready to tell the man what she thought about his lack of compassion or intelligence. Instead, she decided to strongarm him.
“It’s a federal case, which makes this my scene. Thank you for your help, Detective. I’ll take it from here.”
She’d expected some pushback but got nothing more than an irritated glare and a muttered oath, and the man was gone.
Then the limo door opened.
She wasn’t going to forget Adam Quinn’s heart-wrenching sobs anytime soon. He got out of the limo and rushed to the backyard, pushing her to the side.
“Mr. Quinn, I’m Special Agent Winnett with the FBI,” she started saying, but her words trailed off, because Adam was gone. He ran past her into the backyard; probably he’d heard where his wife had been killed and was looking for her body.
She ran and caught up to him, standing in the middle of the patio, seemingly lost, confused. It was strange to see him like that, after she’d watched his music videos, all full of life and passion and joyful rhythm. It seemed surreal, as if the altitude from which he’d fallen had made the fall so much more devastating.
“Mr. Quinn, the medical examiner’s office has your wife’s body,” she said gently, but he didn’t seem to hear her. “Let’s go inside. We have a few questions for you.”
His shoulders shuddered, and a long wail came out, then turned into uncontrollable sobs. He paced in place, hugging himself, as if unsure where to go and what to do.
“Mr. Quinn, please, let’s go inside,” she insisted. She didn’t want him to lay eyes on that poolside bed, still covered in his wife’s blood. From his current vantage point, that was hidden behind the corner of the house. “You could help us catch who did this to your wife, if you could only answer a few questions.”
He didn’t budge, nor seemed to have heard her.
Another young man approached and whispered quietly, “I’m his assistant. What can I do?”
“Didn’t he know what happened?” Tess asked, confused by the visible shock Adam was going through. “I thought he turned his plane around. He must’ve known why.”
“Um, no, he didn’t know. I made the decision not to tell him. There was press onboard.”
“So, when did you tell him?” Tess asked, frowning.
“Just now, after we entered the property.”
That explained a lot, the man’s raw emotion, his lack of understanding what was going on. It was unbelievable how fame changed things, altering a person’s life to the point where it changed reality and the perception of it.
“Listen, I need him to answer some questions, and probably he needs a doctor, to help him with the shock.”
“You got it,” the assistant replied, then vanished.
As she turned toward Adam, he started pacing the yard like a wounded animal, while tears flowed down his cheeks. He was looking for something, and the moment he saw it, he froze in place: the poolside bed, covered in Marla’s blood and surrounded by yellow crime scene tape.
He dropped to his knees and let out a long sob. “No,” he cried, reaching toward the bed with his hand, although it was more than twenty feet away. He sobbed convulsively, ignoring her and anyone else who tried to console him.
It took the family doctor almost an hour before Adam could answer some questions. Thankfully, the doctor came quickly, and just as quickly poked him with a needle, then again after thirty minutes or so.
Adam still sat on the marble patio, refusing to take his eyes off the bed and go inside. Tess sat next to him, her eyes on the same level with his.
“Mr. Quinn, I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” she whispered, and the man barely nodded in response. His eyes were fixed ahead, his pupils dilated from the effect of the sedative. She looked at him, at how pain oozed from every fiber of his body and felt grateful the technicians had already removed all of the Taker’s cameras. At least that bastard wouldn’t be able to witness Adam’s pain.
“Please, help me catch who did this to your wife,” she insisted.
“What do you want to know?” he asked in a raspy, guttural voice.
“How many people were here last night? For the party?”
He finally took his eyes off that poolside bed and looked at her.
“I believe two hundred and forty or about there,” he said. “Add catering, cleaning, camera crews, and the DJ. I’ll give you the list.”
“How about video? Do you have—”
He closed his swollen eyes and swallowed. “You’ll get the whole thing, unedited, and my security will help you put names to all the faces.”
“Was it normal for your wife to be home alone at night?”
“We never liked help to stay overnight. We liked to have the house to ourselves. When I travel without her…” He choked, still struggling, but his mind was organized and alert, despite the sedatives in his system.
“Who else knew you were going to leave last night?”
He shrugged and let his head hang low, his chin touching his chest. “Everyone knew. I’d announced my upcoming meeting with Capit
ol Records during my press conference right after the Billboards.”
“Who was still here when you left for the airport?”
“No one. I made sure of that. They were all gone, all cars gone from the street, no one left in the house.”
Tess raised an eyebrow, surprised at his statement. Adam didn’t miss her reaction.
“This is routine for us, after these parties. We check every room. People drink too much, they pass out, or they over—” He stopped in the middle of the phrase, and Tess let that one slide. Of course, there were going to be drugs at such parties, but that didn’t make Adam the bad guy.
“Where was Marla when you left?”
“She’d fallen asleep on the hammock, right there,” he said, pointing toward the far side of the pool, where three hammocks were lined up.
“And you just left her there, asleep, in the yard?” Tess asked, her voice just a tad too loud.
“I asked her to come with me, but she was too tired…” He stifled a sob, then continued. “She sometimes sleeps outside. She likes the night air and the lights reflected over the water. The lawn is treated for bugs, and we have security.” He stopped talking abruptly, as if realizing what he’d just said. “I thought we were safe.”
Tess could’ve envisioned the scene, as if she were there. By the time Adam left, Marla was probably already sedated, the Rohypnol making her dizzy and too tired to move. Sometime before Adam left, the Taker had been there to spike her drink and watch her fall asleep.
“One last thing, Mr. Quinn. Can you think of anyone who could’ve done this? We have reasons to believe that person attended your party, either as a guest or as hired help.”
For a long moment he stayed silent, probably going over names in his mind. “No, I can’t think of anyone, but I’ll have security go over that video in detail and tell you if there was anyone who didn’t belong.”
That simple statement was music to her ears. Soon they’d know.
Or would they?