“I’d say that’s a pretty fair assessment.” Griffin braked for a red light. “They take souvenirs for a variety of reasons. Sometimes it’s displacement, like when they take a victim’s ring or necklace and give it to their wife or girlfriend without telling them where it came from. It gives them an unspoken sense of control over them, and they fantasize about being able to kill them, instead. On the other hand, it may have some kind of symbolic meaning for them, like when they take a trophy from one victim and leave it with the next one. And sometimes it’s a memento that lets them relive the experience over and over again afterward.”
“Do you see anything like that with this guy?”
“If he’s keeping any kind of souvenir, I’d have to say it’s the video. It stands to reason he’s recording more than just his statement to police, don’t you think? If he wants to relive the experience afterward, I can’t see him bothering with rings or lockets or other stuff like that when he could just play video recordings. As for transfer, I’m still not convinced the victims are a substitute for some other intended victim, like his mother or a baby sitter or some other female in his childhood. He made that claim to Hegman in the first Pittsburgh murder, but then in the West Virginia video he retracted it, along with all that Native American bullshit he’d been spinning in Evansville.”
“Yeah, he’d talked about the blonde baby sitter who’d abused him when he was a boy.”
“Then came out and admitted to Hegman it was crap. Stuff people were expecting to hear. A logical explanation for his serial tendencies. Sensing that people need a rational motivation for something like this, when there is no reason that makes sense to a normal person.”
“I’ve studied the motivational models for serial killers,” Hank said, staring out the rain-streaked window. “I’ve read about dysfunctional social environments in their childhood, unstable parents, formative events like direct or indirect trauma, abuse or neglect, disturbing early sexual experiences, negative personality traits like chronic lying, fetishism, or aggression, negative cognitive patterns that lead to anti-social behavior. I’ve read about the so-called criminal gene, the extra Y-chromosome, or other possible genetic causes, brain structure abnormalities, and on and on and on. It seems like for every killer there’s another theory and another psychiatrist or scientist trying to make a career out of this stuff. In your books you discuss a basic motivational model, Ed, but I’ve never understood where you actually stand on it.”
“That’s because you’ve been avoiding my lectures,” Griffin joked. “Bottom line? I’m not a psychiatrist, I’m not a geneticist, I’m not a neurologist. I’m law enforcement, period. Cassion’s right about that, as far as it goes. I study their behavior so I can describe it to others and, hopefully, predict future behavior based on past behavior, but that’s the what, not the why. I’m not the guy—we’re not the guys, you and I—who’ll figure out the why, and frankly, I don’t care. My focus is on catching them and making sure they don't do it again. Ultimately, I don’t give a shit if their brain has a piece missing or they have an extra chromosome or they collected pornography as a kid. If it tells me who they are—name, date of birth, last known address, current location—then hey, great. Otherwise, I’ll let other people nurse that headache. They can call me a pragmatist all they want. In my lexicon, that’s not a dirty word.”
The building in which Liz Baskett had lived on Davis Road was six blocks away from the university campus in a residential area dominated by students, the elderly, and low-income families. It was a three-story, Federal-style brick house that at one time had been the home of a prominent merchant. It was now divided into as many separate living spaces as possible.
Unit 1-C was a studio apartment on the ground floor, to the left of the main central staircase. The door opened into a six-foot hallway. When Hank walked in, he found his way blocked by the bathroom door, which opened out into the hallway. He rapped on it with a gloved knuckle.
“I’m just finishing up,” Butternut Allenson said from inside.
“It’s just me,” Hank said. “Coming through.”
“It’s okay, I’m in the shower.”
Hank moved the door out of his way and walked into the main room. The apartment was a thirty-by-thirteen rectangle with old-fashioned plaster walls and high ceilings. On the left was a bedroom area dominated by a double bed and a wooden wardrobe. The bed was unmade. There was barely enough space to pass between the foot of the bed and the wall to get to the wardrobe, which might have explained in part the clothing that was haphazardly strewn about the place. Paperbacks were stacked against the wall. An old suitcase, standing on end, served as a bedside stand.
To the right was the living room/dining room/kitchen portion of the room. Against the wall was an old couch that looked like it might have been picked from the garbage and should be carried back out there to be hauled to the dump. A large wooden spool from a construction site doubled as a coffee table and dining table. Hank looked at the remains of a breakfast—an open box of Froot Loops cereal, a bowl with a bit of milk in the bottom and a few stray loops, a glass with about an inch of orange juice left in it. Next to the juice glass was the classified section from last Thursday’s edition of the Glendale Mirror, folded to the Articles for Sale section.
Hanging on the wall over the couch was a framed poster advertising a Neil Young concert at the Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford, Connecticut, on January 22, 1971. Pinned on the wall above the bed was another poster for the Big Sur Folk Festival in 1968 featuring Joan Baez and Judy Collins. Hank looked around in vain for photographs of Liz Baskett or anyone else.
“Hard to call this a kitchen,” Griffin said, behind him.
Hank looked at a counter, a few overhead cupboards, a sink, and a refrigerator. A small hotplate was plugged into an outlet above the counter.
The far wall was dominated by a cheap, white particle-board desk and shelving unit. The surface of the desk was completely covered with stuff. Front and center was a Mac laptop. The lid was open, but the computer was not turned on. There was a film of fingerprint dust on it. Connected to the laptop was an expensive-looking USB microphone on an adjustable stand. Attached to the stand was a round pop screen, which vocalists use to filter out the popping sounds that can occur when singing words beginning with a “p” or “b.” Also attached to the laptop was a battered set of speakers and a pair of headphones. The mouse was wireless. Elsewhere on the desk, Hank saw a handheld digital recorder, a container of blank DVDs, and other assorted paraphernalia. Liz Baskett was obviously recording herself, perhaps preparing a demo disc of her music.
“Looks like she was serious enough about it,” Griffin said, pointing at the corner of the room, between the end of the couch and the end of the desk, where an acoustic guitar in excellent condition stood on a metal stand.
“That’s a Martin twelve-string,” Hank said. “Even used, they’re not cheap. And a mandolin, behind it. The cases may be under the bed.” He hesitated. “You’d expect to see a six-string, as well.”
“Maybe she had it with her, if she was busking.”
Horvath had learned that she’d applied for, and received, a license to busk at a nearby mall. It would be their next stop.
They turned at a sound behind them. Butternut Allenson had emerged from the bathroom with her case in her left hand. She smiled at Hank and held out her hand to Griffin, looking at the FBI identification card hanging on a lanyard around his neck.
“Hi, I’m Butternut. You must be the BAU guy.”
“Ed Griffin.” He shook her hand, raising his eyebrows. “Butternut?”
She smiled at him. “My husband’s a carpenter. On our first date, he took one look at my hair and said, ‘butternut.’ His favorite color of wood. So, Butternut it is.”
“Glad to meet you.”
“Anything interesting turn up?” Hank asked.
“The usual,” she replied, shifting her case to her right hand. “At this point I’m collecting, not analyzing, so
I’ll run stuff when I get back. Lots of prints, of course, but probably mostly hers. Hairs in the drains, hairs on the furniture, miscellaneous fibers. I’m going to grab the bedclothes now, and I left the desk for you to look at. I’ll take the laptop, of course, but tell me what else you want me to bring.”
“The musical instruments,” Hank said. “The microphone setup, headphones, the digital recorder. I see you printed the laptop. Did you turn it on?”
“Not yet,” Butternut said. “Be my guest.”
Griffin had drifted away, and was opening cupboard doors in the kitchen area. Butternut began removing the sheets from the bed. Hank powered up the laptop. While it was booting, he took a closer look at the shelves above the desk. There were trade-sized paperbacks, including The Idiot’s Guide to Getting Rich, a biography of Al Pacino, and The Hotplate Cookbook. A plastic magazine holder was crammed with sheet music. Hank pulled out a one-inch black binder and flipped through pages of handwritten music notation and lyrics. He put the binder back and looked at bottles of vitamin C, salmon oil, and Aspirin, a cheap inkjet printer not attached to the laptop, and a tomato can filled with pencils, Sharpies, and ballpoint pens.
He looked at the laptop, which had finished booting up. It wasn’t password-protected. The desktop was crowded with icons. Several kinds of recording and mixing software were installed on it. He looked at several icons for sound files and noticed one called “End of the Day.” He double-clicked on it.
Griffin opened the refrigerator. “She must have eaten somewhere else. There’s almost nothing in here.”
A six-string acoustic guitar played the introductory notes of a quiet song. A female voice began to sing:
What did you think
When you started this game,
You could just run away,
When the loneliness came?
“She had a nice voice,” Griffin said.
Hank spotted a small photo album behind a large bottle of vitamin C. He pulled it out and looked at photos of a small girl, presumably Liz. There was a family group, likely with her mother and older sister, and what must have been a recent photo of Liz taken on a beach somewhere. She was sitting on a rock, holding a guitar. He looked closely and counted the number of tuning pegs on the head. Six. She apparently did own a six-string guitar which wasn’t here now. He slipped the photo out of the album and put it in his pocket.
And what can you do
At the end of the day,
When the darkness arrives,
And the crowd slips away?
She had a pleasant, strong singing voice, her pitch was perfect, and her playing was skilled and confident. Hank knew it wasn’t easy to break into the business as an independent with no connections or contacts, and he imagined she’d chafed at playing for spare change at the mall. Hank closed the audio player and shut down the laptop. He looked at Butternut, who was bagging the bedclothes.
“Bring everything,” he said, waving at the desk.
The superintendent of the building, Magda Olkowech, lived on the third floor. In her early sixties, she looked as though she might have been a matron in an eastern European prison for women before the fall of the Iron Curtain. She frowned at the mention of Liz Baskett’s name.
“Noisy,” she said in a thick accent. “Trouble, like I say to officer. Tell her all time, people try sleep, no make music at night. Never listen.”
When Hank asked her if she saw or heard anything on Thursday or Friday suggesting that Liz had had a visitor, Olkowech shook her head. “Only know very quiet now. Much better.”
“It’s quiet because she’s dead,” Griffin said, annoyed. “Doesn’t that bother you at all?”
The woman shrugged. “Nobody to me. Always late with rent.” She put her hands on her hips. “Make sure stuff’s out by middle next week. Want to show room right away.”
On the way back downstairs, Griffin said, “I should keep my mouth shut.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hank told him.
At the front door, a uniformed officer gave them a list of other tenants in the building. “I spoke to one guy upstairs, a Mr. Malek. Retired, on a pension. Never goes out. Didn’t know the vic at all. The tenant in the back apartment on this floor waits on tables in a coffee shop just off campus. Knew the vic to see her, complained a few times about noise to the old bat upstairs, but didn’t see or hear anything since Thursday morning. Nobody else is home right now.”
“Thanks,” Hank said, putting the list in his pocket. “We’ll track down the others later.”
He followed Griffin outside. “Let’s go to the mall,” he said.
Griffin unlocked the Suburban with his remote fob.
“Her six-string guitar’s not there,” Hank said, thinking out loud. “She was pushing to make some extra money. There was something she wanted to buy.”
They got into the Suburban. Griffin started the engine. “The newspaper.”
“Yeah, she was checking the classifieds while she was having breakfast. Looking to pick up something second-hand. So she needed to raise the cash for it.”
Two blocks farther down on Davis Street they reached the Southpoint Mall, a single-level enclosed shopping center that, at its peak, had featured more than one hundred stores. It was anchored by J.C. Penney at one end and a Shoppers grocery store at the other end. The economic downturn had drastically increased the number of vacant units, but the mall still featured several shoe stores, a drug store, jewelers, and numerous clothing stores. At an information kiosk inside, Hank showed his badge and asked the woman to call the mall manager.
The manager was a tall, pear-shaped, prematurely bald man who introduced himself as Cam McLeod. “I’m the operations manager,” he said, shaking Hank’s hand. “I work for Kefoll and Williams. We’re the property management firm that runs this place.”
“This is FBI Supervisory Special Agent Griffin,” Hank said.
“Wow, FBI,” McLeod said, raising his eyebrows as he shook hands with Griffin. “I always wondered what it would be like to work for the FBI. Probably not like it is on TV, all action and car chases and stuff like that. Probably a lot of paperwork, right? God knows I have enough of that right now. What can I help you guys with this afternoon?”
“We’re investigating the homicide of a young woman named Liz Baskett. She had a busker’s license for this location.” Hank took the photo out of his pocket and showed it to him.
McLeod shook his head. “Name doesn’t mean anything to me. Wait, is that what I heard on the news this morning? She was found downtown, at city hall? Terrible. My sister called me about it when I was getting ready for work. She was really upset.”
“You didn’t know Liz Baskett personally?” Hank asked.
McLeod shook his head. “We have a number of people with permission to perform on mall property. We screen them ourselves, did you know that? Even if they already got their license from the city, they have to do an audition with our general manager, Mrs. Charlene Tennant-Pecaskie. If she doesn’t think they’re appropriate for our clientele, she won’t give them permission. It is private property after all, license or no license.” He held up his hands. “But don’t get the wrong idea. Mrs. Tennant-Pecaskie’s really, really nice to them. Nicer than other property managers I know. We have a seating area up in the north court, close to the entrance to Shoppers, where most of the units are vacant right now. She set up an area for them with a little stage, and they come into the office and reserve time slots on the board. They’re also allowed to perform outside the east entrance, but we have our security staff check on them to make sure they’re not bothering anybody.”
“Was Liz Baskett scheduled to use the stage on Thursday?”
“I’d have to look.”
“Could we do that now?” Hank asked, politely.
“Oh! Yeah! Sure! Sorry! This way.” He pirouetted on his heel and led them down the main concourse. “This Payless shoe store is one of the original tenants,” he said, pointing. “This one here, Crazy Pops, is
newer. They sell all kinds of flavored popcorn.” He leaned close to Griffin. “How about blueberry-flavored popcorn? Sound good to you?”
“Not really,” Griffin said.
“I tried it once. Nearly barfed. But the kids apparently love it. It’s their best-seller. Life will always be a mystery to me.”
“I hear that,” Griffin said.
“Just down here.” McLeod swung around the corner into a side passage. “This is where our offices are. Washrooms there,” he waved his hand at doorways on the left, “and we just go in here.” His identification card was attached to his belt by a retractable lanyard. He stopped at a door on the right, pulled out the card, swiped it through a card reader, and opened the door. He pointed to a buzzer mounted on the door frame. “They ring to come in when they want to schedule themselves.” He turned and pointed at the ceiling. “We have a little dome camera there, see? So staff know who it is before they buzz them in.”
He led them into the office and around a reception counter to a whiteboard mounted on the wall. Drawn with black marker on the board was a seven-day calendar divided into one-hour slots from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. “We’re open until nine o’clock on weekdays, but Mrs. Tennant-Pecaskie prefers to have the evening hours quiet for shoppers.”
Names were handwritten on magnetic strips of different colors. “Yellow for musicians, blue for magic acts and jugglers, red for mimes.”
“What about fire-eaters and sword-swallowers?” Griffin asked.
McLeod laughed nervously. “Oh, Mrs. Tennant-Pecaskie doesn’t allow them. Liability issues.”
Hank saw that the schedule for Thursday didn’t include Liz Baskett. In fact, someone named Johnson had reserved four different time slots on that day. When he pointed this out, McLeod nodded.
“That’s Angus Johnson. He’s a retired aircraft mechanic who plays the accordion and sings all those corny songs old folks love. You know, ‘The Beer Barrel Polka,’ that kind of stuff. He’s popular around here. Margie, she’s the one looks after the board during the day, she doesn’t work Sundays but she sits right here”—he pointed at a desk—“she’s kind of sweet on the guy and lets him get more than his fair share. When the others complain to me, I just tell them it’s out of my hands. Maybe they should learn the accordion, too.”
The Rainy Day Killer Page 18