The Rainy Day Killer

by Michael J. McCann

  He shook his head. “We’ve got no choice but to cooperate with the Bureau. I mean, take DNA processing as an example. We got a tiny piece of the federal pie a couple years ago when they were handing out funding through the backlog reduction program, but it was so small I had to make a choice—upgrade our obsolete equipment or hire new bodies. I had to go with the equipment because you guys need reliable results. And it’s not just DNA, it’s trace, toxicology, documents, the whole deal. We have less time per sample for analysis than I’d like, certainly a lot less than Byrne would like, but we have to keep attacking the backlog. Throw it under the microscope, give it the once-over, and move on to the next one.”

  Hank nodded, understanding the dilemma.

  “It’s a question of accreditation,” he went on. “We’re about to come up for renewal, and I’m going to have to ask for an extension because we won’t be able to pass all the assessment criteria, the shape we’re in right now. Do you have any idea the impact that could have when our cases go to court? A nightmare. My people are brilliant, Donaghue, but even if they work twenty-four-hour days they still can’t break even. Look at turnaround time. Our average for DNA analysis is one hundred and ten days. We can do it in five days if we jump the queue on an urgent basis, but if we keep jumping the queue our turnaround time will get even worse.”

  He rubbed his face vigorously. “I’m sorry, I’m ranting. Eventually, I know damned well somebody in the chief’s office is going to get the bright idea that we don’t need in-house Criminalistics at all, that we could out-source to the state or the Feds tomorrow and save a ton of cash. I’m sure it’s already being discussed. But it’s a bad idea, Donaghue. We need to stay in-house. If we give this up, we lose control of our evidence, and if that happens, we lose control of our cases.” He laughed humorlessly. “Hey, it’s no skin off my ass. If they fold us up, they could move me into the vacant captain’s seat in Major Crimes tomorrow, send that idiot Cassion back where she came from, and my life would be a hell of a lot easier. I could end up being your new boss, Donaghue. Think about that one for a minute.”

  Hank smiled faintly. “You wouldn’t want that, Mike. Trust me. You think your headaches are bad right now?”

  Turcotte shrugged and walked away.

  In the video room, Horvath was watching a black-and-white loop of a man standing at the counter of the car rental place. The man was bent over, signing the paperwork. He was right-handed. He wore a baseball cap and dark glasses. He wasn’t all that much taller than the woman who stood on the other side of the counter, pointing to the fields on the form that he was required to sign or initial.

  “He kept his head down,” Marcotte said, “so all we’re getting is the lower half of his face. I’ll run it through some facial-recognition software. It’ll probably match your composite sketch, so at least you’ll know it’s the guy.”

  “We know it’s the guy,” Horvath complained, “what we want to know is who he is.” He turned around to Hank. “The video from the grocery store was worse. He acted like he knew where the cameras were, and gave them nothing. To rent the car, he used the name William Cassidy. Showed a Maryland driver’s license with an address in Frederick, and used a credit card in the same name. The address is a pizza joint. They don’t know anyone named Cassidy. They’re all Lebanese.”

  “So he has a connection to get fake ID,” Hank said.

  “Or he’s a forger as well as a serial rapist and killer.”

  “He’ll need another vehicle,” Hank said.

  “I called Montgomery. She’s going out to all the rental companies with a still from this video, plus the composite. But here’s what I don’t get. Why rent a vehicle and expose himself like this instead of stealing one? Wouldn’t that be a hell of a lot easier?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have the skill set,” Marcotte said.

  “What do mean, skill set?” Horvath frowned. “What’s so hard about stealing a damn van? Do you know how many are stolen every day?”

  Marcotte shrugged. “I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t know how.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Well, no. You see guys on TV take apart the steering column and twist two wires together, but how the heck do you do that? And which wires? Maybe he hasn’t a clue how to hotwire a car, but he’s got IT skills and the equipment to dupe plastic.”

  “It take five minutes on the Internet to find out how to steal a car, Mickey.”

  “I guess so. But I wouldn’t bother. I hate cars. I won’t even raise the hood on mine. I pay guys to do that. Maybe he hates cars, too.”

  Hank’s cell phone vibrated. He answered without looking at the call display, thinking it was either Karen or Roubidoux.

  “Hello, Lieutenant Donaghue,” said the voice. “That was fun this morning, wasn’t it?”

  Hank snapped his fingers, catching Marcotte’s attention. He rotated the phone away from his ears, raised his eyebrows, and motioned with his head.

  Marcotte slid his chair down to another computer workstation and began to pound the keyboard.

  “How’d you get this number?” Hank asked.

  “Come on, Lieutenant. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone else except you, according to the edict from Father Ed. Right? Anyway, never mind the trivia. I just want you to pass on my compliments to Officer Montgomery for making me at the store. She’s got a good eye. Great body, terrific wardrobe. Sweet stuff. I’m definitely considering her.”

  “So, is William Cassidy your real name? Is that what I should call you?”

  “Please, Lieutenant. Give me a break.”

  “We were just talking about you here.”

  “I’ll bet you were.”

  “We were wondering why you rented a van instead of stealing one. We thought maybe you don’t know how to hotwire a vehicle. Is that the case?”

  “Oh!” The voice sounded genuinely surprised. “Hey, that’s really good, Lieutenant.”

  “So? Is that the case? Are we right?”

  “Finally! Finally, a real challenge. I was beginning to think all cops are stupid donut-eaters, and then you come along. Terrific. Two things. One, don’t fool yourself into thinking Montgomery’s the only one I’m surveilling. Two, tell Father Ed he’s right that I’m raising the risk level, but not because I want to be caught.”

  The line went dead.

  Hank looked at Marcotte, who shook his head.

  22

  Saturday, May 11: evening

  The Starlight Lounge in the downtown Hilton featured live piano music performed by a middle-aged guy in an evening jacket and bow tie. In different company, Karen might have called him a lounge lizard and made fun of the music, but since she was the guest of honor at a table including a city councilor, a magazine editor, a professional stand-up comic, and Commander Ann Martinez, she tried to mind her manners and enjoy her martini.

  The martini was a gesture of good will on her part. When she’d arrived, fifteen minutes late, she’d asked for a beer, as usual, and was immediately subjected to a round of good-natured kidding about needing to try something a little more upscale, just for the occasion. Since she never drank mixed drinks, she suggested a bourbon on the rocks, but her new friends insisted on the martini. She decided to play along, smiling as Karla Strong, the comic, ordered it for her in a droll imitation of Sean Connery’s Scottish burr.

  Earlier in the day, Karen had cast around for a suitable excuse to escape after a drink or two, and had asked Sandy if he’d be willing to call her pretending to be Hank, ordering her to a crime scene.

  “No way,” Sandy shook his head. “This is your shower, Karen. Face the music.”

  “No, it’s not. I don’t do showers. I don’t do this girlie stuff.”

  “Fine, call it something else. Call it whatever you want. Go have a little fun. Relax. Meet some new people. Enjoy yourself, for crying out loud.”

  Karen didn’t socialize very well as a general rule, and Martinez didn’t really understand how distasteful these things
were for her, but her heart had been in the right place when she’d set it up after hearing that Karen was skipping most of the rituals brides-to-be usually experienced, including the traditional shower or bachelorette party or whatever it was called nowadays. After speaking to her friends, Martinez had instructed Karen to show up here this evening.

  “Relax, Stainer. There won’t be any male strippers or cheesy gifts or booze-drinking games. Just a nice evening with a few of my friends and a really great meal. You’ll enjoy it. Trust me.”

  Karen drained the martini, and this time they let her order a beer.

  “When I got married,” said Donata Parker, the magazine editor, who looked like Dionne Warwick, “my husband and I were grad students at UNC. We couldn’t afford a real wedding, so we made an appointment with a justice of the peace and took our landlady along as a witness. We had our reception at a steak joint in Chapel Hill and rented a motel room for the weekend. That was our honeymoon. Then we had to eat chicken hotdogs and Kraft dinner for two months until our student grants were renewed.”

  “That’s so romantic,” said Karla.

  “I suppose it sounds that way,” Donata replied, “but at the time, I was scared to death. What business do two students have getting married with no money and no job prospects? I thought there was no way we’d survive.”

  “But you did,” Martinez said.

  “Yes, we did. Twenty-two years and counting.”

  “Donata’s husband retired last year,” Martinez explained to Karen. “He was a professor of history at the University of North Carolina, and now he’s a book editor.”

  “That’s right.” Donata smiled. “He edits books on the Civil War for UNC Press and MSU Press, so they let him use an office on campus at State. That way, he’s not underfoot.” She winked at Karen. “I do a lot of my work from home.”

  “I wish I could work from home,” Karla said, wistfully. “Mostly I do strip joints and lounges that make this place look like the Taj Mahal.”

  “You could work from home,” Donata said. “Just set up one of those webcam things and do podcasts.”

  Karla snorted. “Oh, no. Webcams are out. I’d end up doing porn. Do you know how much money you can make in front of a bedroom sex cam? All you have to do is sit in front of the mirror with nothing on, combing your hair. Even I could do that.”

  “Careful,” advised Brooke Wilson, the city councilor. “Don’t forget you’re having dinner with two police officers.”

  Karla laughed.

  Martinez leaned over to Karen. “She has her own late-night television program. She makes more in a week than you and I make in a year.”

  Brooke said, “I’ve never been to Virginia. What made you decide to get married there, Karen?”

  “That’s where Sandy’s from. He grew up a few miles outside of Covington.”

  “I don’t know where that is.”

  “It’s a little hole in the wall in the Alleghany Highlands, near the West Virginia border. His family has a couple-hundred-acre property. It’s been in the family since the Civil War, or some damned thing.” She grabbed her glass of beer. “His father made a bunch of money in real estate and now he’s a gentleman farmer. Lane, Sandy’s mother, struts around like she’s some kind of faded southern belle.”

  As she drank her beer, there was silence at the table. Karen realized they weren’t embarrassed by what she’d said but were simply waiting for her to continue.

  “I know, I know, I’m being unfair. A little. People are who they are. I’m a cop’s kid from northeast Texas and they’re Virginian gentry. I shouldn’t judge. They came here for a visit after Sandy told them we were getting married, and they made a huge effort to be really nice to me. I appreciated it. They’ll make another huge effort next month when we show up for this dog-and-pony show Lane’s got planned. Hopefully I won’t shoot anybody and we’ll all live happily ever after.”

  Everyone laughed politely.

  “Your fiancé’s with the FBI?” asked Brooke.

  Karen nodded, draining her glass.

  “Let me get you another one,” Karla said. “I need another one. Another round?”

  “Yes,” said Donata.

  Karla left the table to order at the bar.

  “How’d you two meet?” Brooke asked. “On a case?”

  Karen laughed. “God, no. In a Walmart parking lot. The little prick cut me off while I was turning into a parking spot. Nearly put a scratch on my Firebird. So I got out and sounded off at him. He got out and sounded off right back. Then he said something about stupid blondes who couldn’t find their ass with both hands, and I threatened to pop him on the nose.”

  They began to laugh.

  “What happened?” Donata exclaimed.

  “He says, ‘Oh my God, I’m in love.’ He pulls out his FBI ID, laughing his fool head off, and asks me to have dinner with him. Turns out he already knew who I was, from some big fundraiser marathon we both ran in the year before, and had asked around about me. I had no clue. That morning he cut me off on purpose, just to get in my face. And ask me out, I guess.”

  “How romantic,” Brooke said.

  Karen shrugged. “If you say so. I just thought it was stupid, and told him to fuck off.” She glanced at Martinez. “Sorry, I shouldn’t use language like that in here, I guess.”

  “But you did end up going out with him,” Donata said.

  “Yeah, he wouldn’t give it up. He’s a persistent little shrimp.”

  “And now you’re having a country wedding in the mountains.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The reception will be on your in-laws’ farm?” Martinez asked. “Didn’t I hear that your brother’s renovating a barn for them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Really?” Karla said, slipping back into her seat. “A barn?”

  “Yeah. Not the real barn, with cow shit and animals and stuff, but some other big barn they’ve got. Lane’s trying real hard to be nice, and she decided that if we have a Texas-style ranch wedding reception, I’ll feel more comfortable about the whole thing. It’s supposed to look like a Texan barn dance. There’ll be a gazebo and log benches, a big barbecue pit for the brisket and ribs, horseshoe pits, horseback riding, a softball diamond—you name it. She’s going all out. My brother Brad’s a contractor and his partner’s a designer, so they did up a plan for her, and she just loves it.”

  “Sounds like a hoot,” Karla said, leaning back as their drinks were served to them.

  Karen rolled her eyes. “I was just going to blow her off, but Darryl—he’s my oldest brother—told me to back off and let her have her moment. The country hoedown stuff’s enough to embarrass any real Texan, but he kept saying to me, ‘she means well, Karen.’ We’ll just make sure she hires this friend of Brad’s as the caterer, so at least she gets the barbecue right. That’s the most important part, anyway. That and the booze. Brad’s got that duty on behalf of us Stainers, so he’d better not screw it up.”

  Donata reached over and handed her a business card. “Give this to your photographer. Tell him or her I’d love to see some shots of it. I might be able to run one in the magazine.”

  When their table was ready, Donata and Karla detoured to the washroom while Karen followed Martinez and Brooke Wilson into the dining room. When they were settled, the city councilor unfolded her napkin and looked at Karen.

  “Forgive me for talking shop,” she said, “but I understand you’re working the Olsen case.”

  “Yeah,” Karen replied, looking up as a server arrived to set out menus and glasses of ice water.

  “We’ll order when the others are back,” Martinez said.

  The server nodded and disappeared.

  “This is a chance for me to tell you,” Brooke went on, “as a politician, that I appreciate the work you and Ann do on these cases. I’ve been an active supporter of the S*T*O*P Violence Against Women Grant Program at the state level and the federal Violence Against Women Reauthorization Act, which, as you know, wa
s signed by the president this year. You might say I work the front end and you work the back end.” She looked at Karen. “Ann had the chance to provide input into the updated national protocol for sexual assault medical forensic examinations. As I’m sure you know, it’s supposed to standardize the quality of care given to sexual assault victims across the country.”

  “Yeah,” Karen said, looking at Martinez. “I’ve read it.”

  “They did a lot of consultation,” Martinez said, “including law enforcement. I was happy to participate.”

  Karen raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that. Good stuff.”

  “The updated protocol includes some important improvements,” Brooke said, “in the areas of confidentiality, how to treat victims with disabilities, and reimbursement for forensic exams. But I feel like it’s not enough. It’s never enough.”

  Karen said nothing, watching her. She was the quiet one in this group of friends, even quieter than Martinez. When the others laughed, she merely smiled. She wore no jewelry at all, very little makeup, and her clothing, while expensive, was plain and not especially flattering. Waiting for her to continue, Karen realized that while she, herself, had relaxed into this small group and had begun to enjoy the evening, Brooke Wilson was the kind of person who never relaxed, who took everything very seriously, and who socialized the way someone else took prescription medication, because it was necessary to do so.

  “This is very personal for me,” Brooke finally went on, “and I know that’s not a good idea. But like so many other women, I’ve also experienced sexual assault. Do you realize that one out of every five women in Maryland has been raped in their lifetime? For me, it changed my life. I was twelve.” She picked up her wine glass and drained it. “I never married. My life went in another direction. I’m not anti-male, don’t get me wrong. And I’m very happy for you that you’ve found someone who’s obviously such a perfect match for you. But I just decided my life would be better spent working for change at the political level.”