by Rick Murcer
“It’s Mikus. And . . . really?” asked Dean.
“Focus, Mikus, focus,” said Manny.
Dean searched Manny’s face, glanced at Alex, then raised his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t sure, okay? Besides, the CSU was in a hurry to get the thing processed, and that’s just my first impression. I’m a science guy so I don’t like to guess, but I kind of have a thing for spatial relations. You know, how something should be in comparison to other traits. I thought there was something wrong with the size of the heart. Like—”
“Like it was male, not female?” asked Manny.
“Yeah? How’d you know?”
“I didn’t, but given his profile, a change-up like that is no surprise. He’s telling us to think differently because he is, so I’m betting you’re right.”
“Anna could have had an enlarged heart,” said Alex.
“True, but it didn’t seem like that. Most men have a twenty-five percent larger heart than women. That’s what it seemed like to me,” said Dean.
“Okay. Say you’re right; where did he get it and what does ‘change-up’ mean?” asked Josh.
“I can answer that,” said Chloe quietly, “at least the ‘where he got it’ part. It’s probably Sam’s.”
Sophie nodded. “If it’s the same killer, and Josh said it wasn’t pretty, then that only makes sense.”
“Say Dean and you are right. The question is why? He takes a hand and a foot from a female, from Anna, then Sam’s heart, then makes sure the police get it, guaranteeing that we see it too,” said Manny.
“Yeah, but maybe he doesn’t care if we see it. Maybe he’s in his own world and just doing what comes next in his mind,” said Sophie.
“Or maybe what the voices are telling him. This kind of psychosis probably includes some delusional activity,” said Chloe.
“Both good observations. If he’s hearing voices, then the game gets more complex, but those killers tend to be more reckless because the voice is almost always God, or at least an authority figure the killer wants to impress. That usually leads to some kind of public appearance to strut their invincibility. But say that’s not the case. Say he’s sending these displays to get a message to a particular group, maybe even to a special individual,” said Manny, leaning on the edge of the table.
“Taking that further, I can see trying to play with the FBI because we get that all of the time. But if you’re correct; who is he trying to connect with?” asked Josh.
“I don’t know. I may not be right, but this has a different feel. He’s not following the profile completely, and that worries me. This escalation is unique even for a serial killer.”
“He’s not like Argyle?” asked Alex.
Manny shook his head. “No. His thought development was incredibly exclusive. None of these people do things the same, but the reasons for doing them don’t fall far from the tree.”
One of the local agents brought in more coffee and a tray of sandwiches that made Manny’s stomach rumble. It was almost two p.m., and they hadn’t had lunch. The five of them dove in, eating quietly. Manny was sure they all had thoughts of what to do next haunting them. Then Sophie broke the silence.
“This feels like a freaking last meal or something.”
“Naw. More like it’ll be a while before we do this again,” said Manny.
His confidence in that statement wasn’t exactly brimming. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Sophie was right. Add the fact that he was sure they were running out of time, quickly, and that made a recipe for disaster unless they got it together soon.
Writing on his legal pad, Manny wrote out 2-0-6-P-1-2, then drew a hand, a foot, and a heart. After that, he mapped out, to the best of his ability, the murder sites in the rainforest in relation to how highway 191 wound through. Next, he wrote down his first impressions of the crime scenes individually, then what he believed they had in common, and finally what differences they had.
Alex and he had always debated the concept of instinct versus a subconscious analysis of the facts that led to conclusions that led to clues that led to solving a case. Right now, he didn’t give a rat’s ass how it all worked; he just needed to find some answers.
Chloe leaned over to see what he’d written, touching his arm with her breast. It was like a static electricity shock, but fifty times stronger. By the way she jerked back, and then smiled, she’d felt it too.
Not now, Williams, not now.
“What were you writing like a crazy man? And you two stop touching. It makes me nervous,” said Sophie.
“We weren’t touching, sort of. Anyhow, let’s do this the old-fashioned way, it might shake something loose. Josh, go to the dry board. We’re gonna brainstorm.”
The collective moan was substantial.
“Just do it. You never know.”
“What could the numbers mean?” asked Manny.
“License plate?” said Dean.
“Post office box or bank vault box?” asked Alex.
“This is killing me, but how about an address or birthday?” groaned Sophie.
Twenty minutes later, they had five categories of questions posted on the board: the numbers, the reasons for intentional placements of body parts, the murder site pattern in the rainforest, the reasons for the altar, and what the sites had in common versus what was different about them.
“This is all good thinking, but I’m not getting it,” said Josh.
Manny turned his scribbled-up notebook over. “This is damn frustrating. He’s left some clues consciously, but it’s not ringing my bell either.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Wait. If he’s giving us this junk on purpose, maybe we have to sit on the other side of the table and see if he’s giving us anything subconsciously.”
“Great. How in the hell do we do that? Group hypnosis?” asked Sophie.
“Better than that. Close your eyes. Open them, look at each scene, close your eyes again, I’ll call your name, then just start writing your first impressions.”
“Aw Manny, I tried this in school doing a book report and got sent to the principal’s office. He said people didn’t want to know any of my first impressions, ever.”
“Knowing you, the book was something about whips and chains,” said Alex.
“Did I tell you that one before?” she grinned.
“Come on, just do it,” Manny snapped.
“Okay, okay. Grouchy jerk.”
The room grew quiet. A few minutes later, Manny stopped them.
“Okay. One word from each of you. I’ll go first. Puzzle.”
“Art,” said Josh.
“Precision,” said Dean.
“Horny,” said Sophie.
“Horny?” asked Manny.
“Hey, I warned you.”
“Picasso,” chimed in Chloe.
Jumping up, Manny clutched Chloe’s arm. “What did you say?”
“Are ya deaf? Picasso.”
“That’s it . . . I never . . . Alex, can you pull up pictures of Picasso’s paintings?”
“You think this guy is a frustrated Picasso wannabe?”
“No, but if I’m right—just pull them up.”
Alex shrugged and did what he was told. The excitement coursing through the room could have been bottled, it was so thick. He hoped his memory was right. More than that, he hoped he’d hit on the key to where this murderer was going.
“Here you are. Do you know which one you want to see? Wait. Never mind, I think I found it,” said Alex.
On the screen, Picasso’s black and white masterpiece, Guernica, told a story that would appeal to the killer. To the left, a person was in utter anguish, holding a dead loved one, then came the ensuing chaos of war, a broken sword, and body parts, including a severed head, and one could make a case for another severed limb among the animals. It ended with a person with hands held in the air. Frustrated, angry, and maybe isolated. Even though the painting was commissioned by the Spanish Government to display at the 1937 World’s Fair and turned into one
of the most dramatic antiwar paintings of all time, the killer had used it to model just the opposite. Manny was sure the irony wasn’t lost on the killer. It certainly wasn’t lost on him.
“So, the killer used that work to . . . what? Get his ideas for his MO?” asked Sophie.
“Maybe, but I think it might go deeper. The figure holding the dead person on the left represents his trigger event, I think. The rest is just a model for him. But he may identify with the idea of ending a personal war, and this helped. At least that’s my best guess,” said Manny.
“Your guesses usually work. But what war?” asked Josh.
“I’m not sure, but maybe it has something to do with the rainforest. I read at the visitor’s center that there is going to be about eleven hundred acres set aside for public development. Maybe he thinks the forest is being destroyed and decided to protect it.”
“That might explain the random killings to start with, but you’re saying he fell in love with that part of it and isn’t really concerned about protecting the rainforest?” asked Chloe.
“No. I think he probably tells himself that protecting El Yunque is his primary goal, but his psyche has developed into much more than that. Like I said before, he’s looking for a bigger thrill.”
“Now comes the so what?” sighed Dean. “What does that all mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Manny.
Pacing in the silent conference room, Manny felt much of what they had discussed was true, but did anyone on the list from the fencing club fit this profile? For that matter, had they guessed right? And maybe more important than the who was the where. This guy was primed to do something public, but what? And what about those damned numbers and the letter “P”?
“Any more thoughts?” he asked, trying to keep the angst out of his voice.
“Hey, I can smell the smoke, but I don’t know where the fire is,” said Sophie.
“That sums it up for me, too. But I know we’re overlooking something,” said Josh.
Manny sat back down. His mind was racing, but just maybe . . .
“If this guy had an altar mentality and acted on it where Caleb and the others were killed, say in this case the rainforest, then if he stays true to that, who would he sacrifice to next? Who would he—”
Chloe grabbed Manny’s arm, hard. “Would he sacrifice to Picasso’s painting?”
“Maybe. But that work is still in Spain. Wait—is there one on the island?”
“I can answer that,” came a voice from the doorway where Julia Crouse stood. Her tears were gone and she had grit in her voice. “I’m not going to be on the sidelines for this. I can’t.”
“I thought you left?” he asked.
She walked over to Josh. “I couldn’t. I went into the ladies room and, well, it may need a little repair. Listen. I’m good. Please let me help. You know damn well how hard it is to go through this and to be told you’re not needed. I don’t care about the regs.”
Josh smiled. “That sounds like this group. Talk to us.”
She sat down. “A bunch of us cops helped with a fundraiser to bring a couple of paintings to San Juan. It took some wrangling, but they’re here. The elite, blue-nose private showing is tonight,” she answered, as she stood straight up.
“Where?” asked Manny, standing with her. The others followed suit.
“In Old Town. A place called Galeria San Juan. The address is on San Francisco.”
The next instant, Alex had the Galeria up on the screen. As Manny looked at the announcement, it all fell into place. The address was 206 San Francisco, the date January 18, and the main attraction was Picasso. 206 P 18.
They had found the where.
Chapter-64
Parking the rental in an abandoned lot two blocks from the Galeria of San Juan, he carried the metal case and the duffel up the street toward the old Fort, El Christóbal, and turned left. Another block later, he nodded to the security guard, flashed the stolen ID, and entered the huge oak door fortifying the back of the art gallery.
The Galeria of San Juan had been an ancient mansion that was gutted and redesigned for the purpose of restoring native culture, which he appreciated. The old building still carried an aroma of the past that simply couldn’t be remodeled away. But then the “money” got involved, and now it was used for private gatherings, like the one tonight, and for the first time since that had happened, he was glad. One hundred guests would show up tonight for the viewing of two of Picasso’s works, wearing their tuxes and glittering gowns, each trying to out-impress the other like flamingos in heat. How he hated them. It was odd how people like himself, who knew the Master better than most, would never get an invite to such a glorious event. Those impossible invitations were always contingent on the size of the check written to the gallery. But that was all right. He’d found another way to attend and show his respect. A new beard and set of coveralls he’d borrowed from the maintenance crew’s locker room did the trick. It was all he needed, and no one could imagine the level of homage that he was going to show in less than three hours. Picasso had been right.
People thought the painting Guernica was a protest against war, but he knew better. All one had to do was to look closer. The painting was about justice—and at any cost. The loss of a loved one led to a transformation that was far more than an attempt at revenge, but a right of wrongs. The Master understood that and passed it on to those who had eyes to see, and the willingness to finish what Picasso had started. He’d gotten it. And when this lesson was taught, he’d go to the next place where justice needed to be delivered. Where the rich and the politicians dictated what came next. The “few running the many” was getting old, and he would certainly have no problem finding that situation on this globe. He closed his eyes as he thought of how he and the blades would work in unison. He felt himself becoming aroused and welcomed it, eagerly.
But first, this strike for freedom, and then of course, his inner satisfaction would be carried out. Hot blood raced through his veins, and he wondered how he could ever wait the time required, but he would. Besides, he had a few things to set up. Walking through the next set of doors, he stopped. He wondered where the security guards might be, then realized it was customary to have them inside the exhibit and at the entrances. The folks putting on these events didn’t want to alarm the attendees, so security was camouflaged as much as possible. Another blue-blooded, and deadly, way of thinking.
Double checking to make sure he was alone, he shoved the duffel under one of the long reception tables covered with white, ornate, floor-length cloth near the locked doors of the exhibit’s entrance. A perfect place for when heaven and earth collided. Perfect for him at least. He smiled.
The smile grew wider when he thought about the game he’d played with the cops and the FBI. Even if they figured things out, it was already too late. His plan was in place. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t expected more from them, after all of those years of being fed propaganda on how good they were.
“I guess not,” he whispered.
A few moments later, he was in the lower level putting the finishing touches on his “surprise, I got you” package, and then he sat down, counting the moments when this world would be his . . . alone.
Chapter-65
Manny exited the SUV, adjusting the tie of the tux and feeling the beads of sweat already forming on his lip and forehead. He turned to the west and noticed the sun had drawn closer to the horizon. In spite of the situation, it was almost impossible to ignore. He didn’t.
The streaming reds and purples and the tux worked together to bring back a sense of nostalgia that he hadn’t expected. Louise and he had kissed, then made love, on their first night in San Juan two and a half years ago in a world eerily similar.
His heart dove a little deeper, and he fought to bring it back. These momentary reminders of his life with the amazing woman who was his first love shouldn’t surprise him. Sophie had been right. They’d spent too much time together, gone through too many
ups and downs, and raised Jen, to ever think the memories would disappear. He wasn’t sure he wanted them to.
It was something he and Chloe had talked about, several times, when he’d spent that month in Ireland. The purpose was to get to know each other better and, of course, to address any demons that clawed at either of their psyches. Her demons were far less considerable than his, except for one. Is there a worst condemnation for a person than loneliness? He thought not. She’d bared her very soul that night, expressing guilt that to get what she needed only happened as the result of Louise’s death. It broke his heart, but he understood. He reminded Chloe that fate had its own agenda and it wasn’t her fault. It just was what it is.
He remembered holding her tight and kissing away tears, not sure if they were all hers, and thanking God for working that awful situation in his life into the love that he and Chloe had. Then that dream . . .
Blinking at the sunset again, he smiled. Louise still had it.
“What the hell you smiling at?” asked Sophie.
“Something special, and no, it’s none of your business.”
“Whatever. You’ll tell me; men just can’t help it. It’s about how hot I look in this dress, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not. But you do look hot in that red dress. Ask Dean.”
“I just might, but I think he’s had enough of wiping the drool from his shirt, and look, even Dough Boy looks good in that monkey suit. Who would have thought?”
The other three doors closed almost in sync and the five FBI agents stood in a “U” around the front of the truck.
“You all ready for this?” Josh asked, wearing a white tux that matched Manny’s.
He looked better than he had at any point in the last two days. The shock of his brother’s death and the plane crash had finished working their voodoo. It was good to see.
“We’ve no choice now, do we?” said Chloe, that hint of Gaelic lilt dancing in her voice. She looked every bit an Irish queen of old. He didn’t know how she got those curves in that blue satin dress, but he’d like to help her out of it.