Seeing Carly in distress as he sat poring over the files almost feverishly, Diane pulled him out of the office to a lounge area for coffee and talk. “What is it Carly? You were almost getting manic back there!” she queried, the worry creeping into her voice.
“Damn it, Diane. It's him all over again. As I look at every bit of evidence, as I saw that deadly scenario in the warehouse, I kept thinking, 'It's him!' Sounds crazy doesn't it? A guy who was executed over a decade ago is out running around L.A. killing people.”
Her head shot back imperceptibly, as if he had uttered a gross profanity. “Carly, get a grip,” she snapped. “You can't mean that, literally. This guy is the perfect copycat at least in the way he commits his murders. But we both know that in looking at the whole case from murder to murder, this guy isn't Dombrowski even if he could be, which he couldn't.”
Carly still couldn’t shake the feelings he had. “Diane, you don't understand. Walking into that warehouse today I could feel him, I could smell him. I remember how I felt walking into Dombrowski's house back in Colorado. I remember how I felt the first time I saw him, sat across from his. I felt the same way today. It's unnatural, but that's the way I feel. If it isn't Dombrowski, then it's his clone or long lost twin brother.”
Gently but firmly she grabbed Carly, squaring his shoulders to hers and met him eye to eye. “It isn't him. Maybe he talked to somebody in prison when he was on death row and they are out to spook us. Maybe somebody from Denver, a cop or a lab person snapped and is doing this. Maybe a relative of one of the Denver victim's is exacting his own demented version of revenge, but believe me, it's not Dombrowski. Remember you put him away. You broke the case. You saw him die. Get a grip on yourself, I need you to be clear-headed. You start spouting off about this kind of stuff out loud and you'll be spooking the squad as much as the killer is! Understood?”
Drawing himself up to his full six-foot six-inch height, Carly took a long deep breath.
Looking into her eyes, he steadied his gaze, “You're right. I'm fighting old demons. It's been awhile since I've been this involved, maybe its affected me more than I realize and I got carried away. Old memories die hard, you know?”
Speaking to calm himself, and assuage the look of disbelief on Diane's face, he turned his thoughts to a more logical conclusion. “Maybe there is a lead out of Colorado we should check out. Maybe Dombrowski did talk to someone before he died. Maybe there's someone linked to the old case who has gone off the deep end. I can do a little digging when I get back this weekend, if you want.”
While she didn’t sigh, Carly knew she was relieved to hear him talk in what she felt was a more sensible fashion. “Absolutely, it would be a big help. Now, are you okay?” He nodded almost sheepishly, a hint of worry still on her brow. “Okay then, let's get back to work. At some point we've got to get you to your afternoon lecture at the conference in case you've forgotten.”
Needless to say he had. The reminder was resented, as he was feeling far more alive working with Diane, Sully and the others on the squad then he would ever feel during a lifetime of conferences and seminars.
With a sigh, he moaned almost in a whine, “Do I have to?”
A sharp look from the tall woman, told him that the innocent little boy act would not work with her...ever.
Half way back to the squad room, Sully caught them. “Sorry Inspector, the Chief is here and he's got a whole passel of reporters with him. They’re in the big meeting room across from the elevators. He wants you and Professor Thompson to join them.”
Diane stiffened at the news. Carly knew very well the torment the press had wreaked upon her and her detectives. It wasn’t going to get any better and it didn’t help to have departmental brass initiating rogue press conferences without warning. He slid his hand along the small of her back to let her know he was there for her. A pained smile crossed her face as they trailed Sully down the tiled hallway.
Following Diane, Carly entered the low ceiling room awash in fluorescent light. Seeing the throngs of reporters herding about with their phalanx of microphones, cameras and sound booms made Carly nervous. He hated this kind of attention, he hated this kind of surprise. The mob mentality of it all was erratic at best. It created situations that made people say things they didn't mean. It imposed pressures that made people remember things differently from what was really said. He found very little fact or truth in these inquisitions, as the accuracy of the reporting was skewed to the numbers of copies sold, views made and households watching.
At the head of the surging crowd, an older gentleman in full uniformed regalia, Chief of Police, Daniel Michaels, of the LAPD was fielding questions as they were shot from unnamed and unknown corners of the room. As Diane and Carly entered, he gestured wildly for them to join him at the makeshift podium. Astride a small platform doubling for a stage, the newly arrived couple towered over most of the crowd, presenting a striking picture for the photographers and television cameras.
Diane and Carly would make good press.
“Everyone, let me have your attention,” the Chief of Police bellowed trying to be heard above the din. “Let me introduce or re-introduce to you Inspector Diane Edwards, the head of the special task force handling the 'Torture Killings'."
Quickly yielding center stage, the Chief relinquished his role with an air of solemnity but a bit too soon for Carly’s tastes. “The Inspector can answer any of your questions about the latest murders and our efforts to solve the case.” With that the Chief abdicated his place on the stage and moved to the rear, well out of sight behind Diane and Carly.
“Who's the tall guy?” a faceless voice yelled from the back of the room.
Diane assumed a cold professional edge to her voice and answered the question. “He's Professor Carlton Thompson. Professor Thompson is a nationally known expert in behavioral psychology, and a former detective himself. We've brought him in for some special consultation on this case. We thought perhaps he could give us some idea with what makes our killer tick.”
An older reporter to the front of the pack, caught Carly's eye and asked, “Aren't you THE Carlton Thompson? The guy who broke the 'Crucifixion' case in Denver?”
Before Carly could get an answer out, a torrent of questions hurtled from everywhere within the room.
“What are you doing here?” an anonymous voice cried out above the throng.
“Do you see any ties between the 'Cross' Killings and the 'Crucifixion Killings'?” another called out from a corner of the sweltering room.
“Is this a copycat crime?” a third voice echoed from somewhere near Carly's feet.
“Why's he doing it?” another voice screeched over the din.
Like a comrade-in-arms who steps in front of another to take a bullet, Diane came to Carly's rescue. In a calm and forceful voice, she began a response to the verbal onslaught, “Yes, Professor Thompson is the same Carlton Thompson who was a detective on the Denver police force. Yes, he was instrumental in solving the serial killings commonly referred to as the 'Crucifixion Killings' in that city. Yes, we see some similarities in the cases. As for questions regarding the psychology of the present killings, Professor Thompson can address any questions regarding what we may perceive as the killer's motivations. As for specific similarities between the two cases we are withholding that level of detail at this point in time, until we can see what is similar and what isn't. Additionally, you all know it is common practice to keep certain details secret, so we can use them later in confirming the killer's identity.”
Relieved by the respite Diane had provided, Carly launched into his best attempt as to what was prompted the killings, “Obviously we have a sick mind at work here. As you may know the whole Denver case was based upon one man's sick revenge against a priest who had molested him as a child. Your killer has, with remarkable detail, elected to duplicate portions of the Denver killings. As to why he's doing the killings, I don't know. His victims are women who generally work in the area of prostitution, nude mo
deling, and exotic dancing, or somehow linked to the sex trade. Perhaps he has a vendetta to fulfill against some real or imagined wrong a woman like that dealt him in the past. As to why he's imitating Petr Dombrowski, the man convicted in the Denver killings, I don't know. But I can tell you he's doing one hell of an impression.”
“What do you mean by that. How close are the killings?” the reporter who had identified Carly asked, smelling a fresh angle to an already sensationalized story.
“Too close. Today I saw a murder scene that was an exact duplicate of one I saw ten years ago in Denver. It was as if Dombrowski had been there before me.” Carly recognized his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth.
No one heard the word 'if'. What he told Diane in private moments earlier was now being broadcast across the airways of southern California.
The room exploded from the raucous shouts from every corner.
Before he could try a recovery response, a second reporter jumped in, “You don't mean to say a dead guy is killing these women, do you?”
Again before he could respond he was interrupted.
“What the good professor is trying to say,” the chief interjected in a patronizing tone, “is the killer is very sophisticated. He obviously has read the doctor's book as many of us have and is duplicating what has already been recorded there and in the thousands of news articles and television reports that chronicled the Denver murders. Keep in mind that the doctor's consultation is merely that and officially ended earlier today. Now if I can leave you in Inspector Edwards' competent hands, I've got to see to it that Professor Thompson gets to his next meeting.”
Amid the groans and half heard questions, the chief forcibly guided Carly off the make-shift stage and out the side door of the meeting room, leaving a slightly stunned Diane to fend for herself with a pack of reporters now in full frenzy and out of control. Out in the hallway, Carly was stunned to think that he had just been fired in front of a room full of reporters, but before he could ask the chief what really had happened, he found himself the brunt of a full-scale tirade.
“What the hell are you doing? Suggesting that Dombrowski has risen from the dead and is stalking women in L.A. in the craziest damn thing I've ever seen one of you wacko psychologists pull. You're fired. I damn well don't want to hear of you helping us out anymore. Now go the hell back to Denver or wherever you should be.” The words spat from the chief's reddening face, as he turned and strode defiantly away from Carly.
The ride back to the conference was a blur as Carly tried to decipher why the morning had unraveled as it did. He was thankful he was leading a group discussion, it would give him a chance to rest his thoughts and gather enough energy to figure it all out later.
His gratitude for the respite of the conference ended shortly after Carly introduced the session's topic.
From the back of the room a familiar voice asked, “Professor, rather than discuss this behavioral mumbo-jumbo, why don’t we talk about how a dead man can commit murder.” Merriwhether ended his question with a laugh, loving the vision of his old colleague squirming in front of a room full of peers.
For Carly the next two hours was absolute torment. Trying to keep the group on the topic was fruitless. Listening to their chiding, patronizing, and overall malicious needling was the order of the day. Within a half an hour after the session, Carly found himself seated at the bar drinking scotch, listening to Merriwhether smirking and laughing beside him, all the while trying to feign an apologetic air for the way some good natured ribbing had gotten out of control.
Returning to his room with a bottle of bourbon and the late edition of the Times, he decided to call Joy. The message light on the phone blinked relentlessly, but he decided not to see what L.A. might want with him, as it was probably a horde of reporters from the tabloids wanting to known if Dombrowski and Elvis were doing the killings together.
Hearing Joy's voice was comforting. At first it reminded him of Diane, soft but firm, almost husky. He imagined that he would never hear Diane's voice again, as she probably thought he had gone off the deep end. Besides it had been her idea to bring him on as a consultant. “Hell, she'd be lucky not to lose her job,” he thought grimly fearing the worst.
“Hi, Joy. How's it going? Any messages?”
“Well, Carly, I can tell it’s going pretty badly for you, just by watching the evening news. You've made quite a sensation. All the local news stations are running something on you and Dombrowski. The general consensus is you're crazy. Well maybe not crazy,” she laughed, “but most assuredly a bit left of center on this one.”
“Please don't laugh. I spent the whole afternoon listening to well-orchestrated group of pompous asses giggle at my expense. You can imagine who the band leader was on that one, can't you?”
“The ever popular and always lovely, Dr. Mason Merriwhether?”
“You win the cigar. What about my messages?”
“A pretty interesting cross section. Before today it had been routine business calls and emails regarding an article you wrote or a class you taught. Today however it was mostly reporters and TV types, except your dean called. He was apoplectic he didn’t have your cell number. He said he had heard about your little faux pas in L.A. and wants to discuss the incident with you. He felt that the two of you could put it all behind you with a little work. In simpler words he wants you in sackcloth and ashes in front of the nearest Cathedral.”
“Oh hell. Why can't he leave me alone? He loves this kind of thing. Thinks it makes me a better person and makes him feel almost useful.”
A note of concern crept into Joy's tone as she asked, “How are you really Carly? Is it as bad as everyone is making it out to be?”
“Almost. My credibility took a direct hit, to say nothing about the damage to my ego. I'll survive but I'm going to eat crow for a helluva long time. I didn't mean it to come out the way it did, but that damn reporter saw a sliver of an opening and drove a semi-truck through it, running me over in the process. Oh well, live and learn,” he said as he let out a sigh of resignation.
“This too shall pass.” Joy said reassuringly. “Good night, Carly. Get some sleep and I don't mean passing out from that bottle of bourbon I hear chilling in the background.”
“You know me too well. Take care, Joy,” and softly he added, “Thanks, it’s nice to have somebody in my corner.”
Before his phone hit the table, it rang again. Carly was sure it was some idiotic reporter or even Merriwhether calling to tease him some more. Probably wanted to know if I had Prince Albert in a can, Carly thought sarcastically.
Reluctantly, he answered it. The warmth of Diane's voice made his stomach flutter. “Even if you’re calling to cuss me out, it's great to hear your voice,” Carly mused.
“Carly, I've been trying to call you all afternoon. I must have left twenty messages with the front desk. I tried your cell. I left messages. Are you all right, didn't they tell you I called? Didn’t you see my messages?” the words blurted across the connection, a hint of despeate concern in her voice.
“I'm sorry Diane. After the seminar I got cornered by some jackals who wanted to pick at the remains of my ego, I killed my phone so they couldn’t bother me anymore, then I called back to Colorado, just to see what my old world looked like. It sounds almost as ugly as L.A. As for the front desk, well I’ve avoided as many people as I could. The message light is on, but I just figured it was a reporter.”
“Oh Carly, I'm so sorry I got you into this. I couldn't believe that the chief fired you like that, right in front of the whole room. He was way out of line.”
“True, but I should never have said that the room looked as if Dombrowski had been there. No one heard the 'if'. What an opening for those reporters. Those guys love that kind of stupidity, they lay awake at night dreaming about people like me, saying things like that. It's their professional orgasm.”
The sudden change in subject surprised Carly, as Diane said, “Hernandez got back from Rosemead a couple o
f hours after you left. Want to hear want he found out?'
“Is it okay? After all the chief told me in no uncertain terms that if I had any more involvement with this case he'd stuff me in a box and send me back to Denver himself.”
“Screw him,” she snarled with a ferocity Carly appreciated. “I heard the same bullshit when I got my chewing out after the reporters had picked my bones clean. But he's no detective. He wouldn't have that job if he hadn't been a major fund-raiser for the mayor in the last two elections. So the hell with him, he's not a real cop.”
Happy for the support but anxious to hear news of the case, Carly kept her on track, “Okay, what did Hernandez find out.”
“Well it seems that St. Mike's did get robbed of eleven 'Stations' as we had found out. What we didn't know is that the shortly after the robbery, the church was broken into again. Nothing was stolen this time, but the place had been ransacked pretty well. Father Stover thought that it had been the burglar who stole the 'Stations' who came back for the one left in the alley, since nothing was stolen in the second break-in. Of course the twelfth 'Station' wasn't there, as the local P.D. had it in their evidence room, awaiting the usual lab work-ups.”
“Makes sense, the killer would want a full complement of the pictures if he was replicating any of the rituals.”
“Get this, Carly. The local robbery detective told Hernandez that there had been little physical evidence to go on in either case, no fingerprints or such, except for one thing. They found hair at the site both times. Not regular human hair but the kind used in wigs or toupees. Right now, Hernandez has got them scouring their evidence room looking for the samples so we can see if they match up to those we have from the murders. Can you believe that? If the hair samples match, at least we will have linked him to another place other than the murder sites. Does he live in Rosemead? Does he work there? Rather than looking for every white male in the greater Los Angeles area, we might be able to nail it down to every white male in Rosemead. That's just about a difference of ten million potential suspects.”
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