The Rainy Day Killer

by Michael J. McCann

  She put a hand on her hip and turned to Hank. “Lieutenant Donaghue, this is your case. We’re here to help, but the burden of responsibility for calling the shots lies on your shoulders. I know that’s what you want to hear, so I’m making it clear up front. Regardless of whether your UNSUB turns out to be the Rainy Day Killer or someone entirely different, it’s up to you to investigate, identify, and arrest.”

  She shifted her eyes to Turcotte. “I’ll say one more thing. Captain, our laboratory facilities are completely at your disposal during this investigation. I understand your difficulties in terms of backlogs and priorities. Sandy’s empowered to facilitate the processing of any evidence on this case on a highest-priority basis. We can have one of our evidence response teams work with your people, if it’ll help. You have our business cards: don’t hesitate to call.”

  Turcotte nodded briefly. His expression was guarded, but his lack of trust was obvious to everyone in the room. It was his understanding that when an FBI evidence response team went out to a crime scene, they generally secured the area with their own personnel and took over the evidence gathering and processing, shutting out other agencies. Although Roubidoux seemed to be making a genuine offer of cooperation, it was clear Turcotte didn’t believe it would be that simple.

  “Thank you,” Barkley said from the other end of the table. “We appreciate your generous offer, and we’ll definitely take you up on it, if necessary.”

  “I hope so.” Roubidoux smiled politely, sitting down. “That’s all I want to say, other than thanks for the coffee and pastries, which I really shouldn’t have touched, but they looked so good.” She looked at Griffin. “If there’s anything you’d like to say while we’re all still here, please go ahead. Otherwise, I think we should probably clear out and let you get to work.”

  Griffin shrugged. He didn’t stand up, just swiveled his chair back and forth, looking up and down the table. “What Marie-Louise said about jurisdiction is as plain as it gets. I’m here to discover what I can about the behavior of your offender, what made him select your victim as opposed to other potential victims, and tell you what I can about him. But don’t expect me to be out there running around with my gun in the air helping you chase down suspects. It’s been a long time since I worked in the field and, believe me, that’s something that makes me very, very happy.”

  As everyone laughed, he swung around to look at Barkley. “Actually, there’s something I was going to discuss later with Hank that I’ll bring up right now, if you don’t mind.”

  Barkley raised one of his football-sized hands and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “Mmm. By all means.”

  Griffin looked at Montgomery. “You’re the PIO on this case, right? I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

  “Officer First Class Eleanor Montgomery,” she replied. She was the only person in the room wearing a uniform.

  Griffin nodded. “Officer Montgomery. Right. I watched some of your tape. You’re very good.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Unfortunately,” Griffin went on, “since your UNSUB’s pretty obviously the Rainy Day Killer, one of my first recommendations to Hank is that he take over as the public information officer for this case.”

  As Philbin stirred in his chair, Griffin raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you see it? A key part of this guy’s post-murder behavior is to start a dialogue with the lead investigator. That’s already happened with Hank through the package he got on Thursday with the video and the victim’s amputated breasts. He’ll establish telephone contact next, and he’ll expect Hank to be the one who tells the world all about the horrible exploits of the killer who kidnaps women when it’s raining outside. He’s not going to be satisfied with some anonymous PIO reading prepared statements to the microphones—with all due respect, Officer Montgomery—because he’s not interested in a relationship with you, he’s interested in a relationship with the guy running the investigation. He wants Hank to feel the pressure, he wants to squeeze him, and he wants him to slip up on camera and reveal stuff that’ll crank up the fear level in the community.”

  He tapped his hand on the table. “You have to have a single person making all the statements to the press. If you say one thing in the press room, Officer Montgomery, and then they catch Hank outside on the sidewalk and he says something different, the public gets confused and upset. Surprisingly, this guy also gets upset. He’s been known to contact the media himself to correct erroneous statements or anything else he didn’t like, and you definitely don’t want that. You want full control of all information going out to the public, and you want to keep this guy focused on Hank and not on some loose-cannon reporter eager for attention. Understand what I’m getting at?”

  “I don’t agree,” Philbin said. “Montgomery’s an experienced, trained PIO who can deliver whatever message this department needs to have delivered. That’s her job. I say, let her do it.”

  Griffin leaned forward suddenly onto the table. He clasped his hands together and pointed both index fingers at Philbin. “I get that. I get where you’re coming from, I get that she’s trained and experienced, but you gotta remember, this guy absolutely, every time, wants to play the game with the lead investigator. Only the lead investigator. Not some detective, not some spokesperson, and not you. Him.” He moved his hands and pointed at Hank, as though firing a gun. “This guy. You didn’t see the video, did you? You didn’t hear him speak directly to Hank like he already knew him from way back. Like they were such good pals.”

  When Philbin shook his head, Griffin nodded. “I don’t recommend that you do watch it. Or you, Deputy Chief, or anyone else who’s not boots on the ground on this case, because it’s not something you want replaying in your head at three o’clock in the morning while you’re lying next to your spouse trying to get back to sleep. The game’s between Hank and the UNSUB. It has to stay that way.”

  No one spoke.

  Griffin slumped back in his chair. “Look, you’re all nice people, and I appreciate the welcome and the coffee and good humor and all, but the fact of the matter is, this is not a happy business that brings us together. We’re here to hunt a cold, inhuman monster who does unspeakable things to young women whose lives end in horrible, terrible pain and fear. It’s time you let us get to work.”

  10

  Saturday, April 27: late morning

  “I’ve always been a pretty good meeting killer,” Griffin said when the room had been cleared of senior personnel, “but it’s been my experience that when they reach a certain level in the hierarchy, some of these people forget what it’s like down in the trenches. They lose the stomach for it. Anyway, I suggest we get right at it. This is going to take a lot of time to go through, and we’re going to be here for a while.”

  As Horvath rolled the television and DVD player out from the corner of the room, Sandy leaned forward. “Mind if I stay?”

  Griffin shrugged. “Fine with me. Hank?”

  “Glad to have you,” Hank told Sandy.

  “Thanks.”

  “Every time I turn around,” Griffin said to Hank, “this guy’s showing up at one of my courses. I can’t get rid of him.”

  Karen snorted. “Christ, I know the feeling.”

  Sandy smiled but Griffin looked surprised, so Hank explained, “Karen and Sandy are engaged to be married. The wedding’s in a month and a half.”

  “Six weeks from today,” Sandy confirmed.

  Griffin rolled his eyes. “My God, I had no idea. That’s great. Congratulations.” He leaned over to shake Sandy’s hand. “But have you thought this through? Do you think it’s wise to be marrying local law enforcement? Mightn’t that lead to all kinds of complications?”

  “It’ll get real complicated if he doesn’t marry me,” Karen said.

  Griffin nodded sagely. “Now I understand everything.”

  Hank held up the video received two days ago from Theresa Olsen’s killer. “Do you want to run through this first?”

  “No.�
�� Griffin bent down and picked up a battered leather case that had been leaning against the wall. “Let’s go over your case work. I have a couple of questions.”

  Everyone’s eyes settled on Griffin, who pulled files out of his bag and sorted them on the table in front of him. He was a small man, slender and clean-shaven. His wiry, dark hair was touched up to hide the gray, his eyebrows were thick and black, and his forehead was high. His hands were small and precise. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes suggested a sense of humor which served as a modest defense, at best, against the constant weight of knowledge he carried around with him.

  Originally from Las Vegas, Ed Griffin had spent six years in law enforcement with the LVPD before joining the FBI, working first in Albuquerque and then in Little Rock, where he had his first experience investigating a series of sexual homicides that turned out to be the work of a single serial killer. In 1989, shortly after he had successfully closed that case, his wife moved back to Las Vegas with their two young daughters. Griffin subsequently transferred to Memphis, where he worked for three years. During this time he began to publish articles in law enforcement journals and other periodicals. His work and his writing soon drew the attention of the chief of the national academy at Quantico, who recruited him as an instructor. It was there that Hank had first met Griffin, while on course as a young, up-and-coming homicide detective.

  During the 1990s, Griffin earned a Master’s degree in psychology. He wrote his thesis on sexual homicide and later published it as his first book. Two more books on the subject followed, and Griffin found himself a reluctant celebrity. After joining the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime as an analyst, Griffin became more introverted, more focused on his work than ever before, until finally he’d slipped into a monastic lifestyle. He lived in a small house in town, he had very few personal possessions, his diet consisted of fish, chicken, rice, and vegetables, and he swore off all alcohol. Caffeine, along with blackjack three times a year in Atlantic City, were his only vices.

  “What would you like to know?” Hank asked.

  Griffin rubbed his face. “Did you do background on the witness, Esther Banks? How credible do you think she is?”

  “She’s credible,” Karen said. “I interviewed her and vetted her written statement. It’s okay. No history of dementia, although she’s seventy-four. She’s lonely, but still pretty sharp. I’m good with what she gave us.”

  “All right. So now we’ve got a composite likeness to work with. In terms of the victim, do you have anything to add to your report?”

  Karen shook her head. “It’s all there. Young, no regular friends, just starting out in life. No red flags in her past.”

  Griffin looked at Horvath.

  “Stains is right,” Horvath said. “We couldn’t find anything that would’ve drawn this guy’s attention to her. It seems completely random.”

  “Random.” Griffin closed his eyes, rolling the word around in his mouth. “It’s kind of a misleading word, random. It suggests she was grabbed out of thin air, that it could have been anyone, really, and just happened to be her. But we’ll come back to that later.”

  He opened his eyes again and looked at Hank. “Are there any other lab reports you’re waiting for, related to the crime scene or the autopsy? Or is this it?”

  “This is it,” Hank said. “For now. There was essentially nothing in terms of physical evidence, other than the footprints and wheel tracks from the hand truck he used to move the body from his vehicle to the river bank.”

  Griffin nodded. “Which brings us to his package.”

  “The breasts were hers,” Hank said, “and so was the clothing. Jeans, underwear, top, bra. No shoes. The container he put the breasts in is a typical re-sealable plastic tub you can buy anywhere for leftovers. No fingerprints, trace evidence, hairs, fibers. Nothing. The DVD we sent you yesterday is a copy, of course. The lab processed the original, which again is common stock that could have been purchased anywhere. No prints.”

  Griffin nodded. “Let’s watch it.”

  11

  4/23/13 19:34

  First there was darkness. Then a patch of faint light became evident in the top right portion of the frame, filtering through high, filthy industrial window panes, taking on an amber tint as it fell across the silhouette of a man sitting in a chair facing the camera.

  The man stirred, as though to draw attention to himself.

  “Hello, Lieutenant Hank Donaghue,” he said. His voice was unremarkable, a mid-range tenor, neither forceful nor weak, with a slight Midwestern accent. “It’s a pleasure for me to make your acquaintance, though I don’t imagine the feeling’s mutual yet.”

  The man’s face could not be seen, of course, because of the shadows. He sat with his right leg crossed over his left knee. His hands were folded calmly in his lap.

  “This is a little something I like to do in all the towns I visit,” he said. “I feel like it’s a good idea to connect with the man whose job it is to find me, to reach out and say ‘hello, here I am.’ Hello, Hank. Here I am. You seem to be the go-to guy in this town, from what I’ve seen, so I’m guessing you and I will be getting to know each other over the next while. By the time I’m done here, you’ll feel like we’re old friends.”

  He shifted slightly, moving his hands to cup his raised knee. “Of course, there’s the little problem of what to call me. If you don’t know already, the press in other towns called me the Rainy Day Killer. Actually, I suggested the name to a reporter myself quite a while ago, I forget where it was. Evansville? I’m not sure. Anyway, it’s not important. Rainy Day Killer’s kind of a mouthful, so why don’t you just call me Bill? That’s my name, after all.”

  He released his knee and put his hands to his cheeks in mock horror. “Oh no! Did I just give myself away? A vital clue! First name William! Last name—oh oh, we’re not sure.” He lowered his hands back to his lap. “It could drive you insane after a while. Sifting through all the tiny clues you think I’m stupidly giving you, trying to find two pieces of the puzzle to fit together. Well, good luck with that, Hank. Join the long list of cops who’ve been in the same seat you’re in now, watching and listening to me as I take you to school on the hard realities of life in the cruel lane.”

  His hand moved slightly, and the camera began to pan left. When it stopped, the dark, indistinct shape on the left now filled the screen. There was an audible click, and a floodlight on a six-foot tripod suddenly illuminated the foreground.

  Theresa Olsen’s body lay on a low cot. She was naked, her legs straight and only slightly apart, arms at her sides. Her breasts were still intact.

  “Speaking of school,” he said, “isn’t she lovely? Oh, don’t worry. She’s dead. I still have some work to do, of course, but this is the time when I like to take a little break, still feeling that post-coital warmth from our final lovemaking, and have this little one-way chat. It’s kind of cool, actually. Like projecting myself forward into the future. The now-Bill speaking to the future-Hank while the future-Bill’s already busy with his next hunt.”

  The camera zoomed in on the body. “Look at these breasts. Aren’t they lovely? Not enormously large, but such a fine shape. Perfect, really. But of course you know that, don’t you? You’ve already sent them to your lab, or whatever you do with that sort of thing, but trust me, they’re hers. It’s not so much a matter of identifying them as figuring out why on earth I would cut them off. Why would I do that, Hank? Why, oh why?”

  The camera zoomed back to its previous setting and panned right until he was once more near the center of the frame. The spotlight went out. “If you haven’t already done so, I suggest you contact Supervisory Special Agent Edward Griffin of the FBI. The famous Behavioral Analysis Unit has already been called in on my case, and Ed’s the analyst who’s been following me from town to town, picking up my bread crumbs and trying to put the loaf back together again. In fact, if I can project myself into the future once
more, this may be the third or fourth time you’ve watched this, and Father Ed’s probably right there in the room with you.”

  He leaned forward. “Are you there, Ed? How’re you doing? Do you think this cop’s going to have any more on the ball than the others? Have you made any improvements to the profile? I’m sorry if I keep feeding you misinformation through these hopeless saps, but it really is a lot of fun.”

  He leaned back again and folded his arms across his chest. “You see, Hank, I’ve read Ed’s books. They’re required reading, really, for anyone in my line of work. I’ve studied very carefully everything he’s written about antecedent behavior and planning, characteristics of the crime, post-murder behavior. Fascinating stuff. Gave me a few ideas, I have to admit, but mostly they gave me openings to exploit. In some of my early experiments, I’m afraid I lied rather shamelessly to confuse things and mess with Ed’s profile. Ed will explain; I don’t have much more time right now. Anyway, your job is to figure out, with Father Ed’s help, what part of this message is bullshit and what part’s golden. Good luck.”

  He unfolded his arms and put his palms flat on his knees. “Here are the basics. My pretext, if I can use that word, was simple with this little beauty. I knocked on her door, told her I was a police detective, showed her this great-looking badge I have in my collection, and said her parents had been in an accident and we needed her to come to the hospital right away. Simple and straightforward. I prefer taking them out in the street, it’s more of a challenge, but as Father Ed will explain, I’ve gone up on their doorsteps before, and I knew this would work like a charm. It did. I had her out onto the sidewalk and into my car before she knew what was happening. Wham, bam, and she was out for the ride.

  “I know you’ll watch this video many times, and I appreciate the attention, believe me, but if you’re trying to figure out from the background behind me where I am right now, don’t blow a gasket. I like to work in abandoned buildings. Ask Father Ed. I have to say, there’s a real crisis in America right now. Did you know there are fifteen thousand fires a year in vacant buildings in the United States that cause a hundred and twenty million dollars’ worth of damage? Do you realize in your own city that the cost of police and fire service for a city block goes up by fifteen hundred dollars for every vacant building on it? Did you know there are over one hundred violent crimes committed in abandoned buildings in this city every year?”