by J. R. Rain
“Technically, it was, but not by Farmer or that church.” I smile innocently.
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”
“Like you pretend there isn’t a bottle of JD in your desk?” asks Rick.
Captain Greer gives him a ‘watch-it’ stare, but it lasts only a few seconds before she laughs. “So, this serial killer… what have you got?” She shifts her gaze to Rick. “And for the record, you watch too many damn movies. There’s no booze in this lady’s desk. My concealed stash is Swiss chocolate.”
“We haven’t been able to establish any connections between the victims.” I spend a few minutes explaining what we do know, which isn’t much. “We think we may have spotted the killer’s vehicle on surveillance video taken from the Nissan dealership, but he’s got tinted windows and plates are washed out.”
“One victim’s a manager at a Burger King, the other’s a sales manager at a car place. Couldn’t be much more different. Who knows what makes these kooks work? Maybe his fries were too cold, and a week later he gets turned down for financing? Or maybe…”
The Burger King and the Nissan place bounce back and forth in my head. Lazy thirty-something white guy. Super-motivated thirty-something Hispanic woman. They didn’t live near each other. Polar opposites in terms of personality.
Rick glances at me. “Maybe what? Out with it, Mads. You know the mantra: anything, no matter how small… and whatever bullshit we tell witnesses.”
“Could this guy be hunting managers?” I ask.
Greer purses her lips in thought.
“Might be an authority figure issue,” says Rick. “Parental hang-up? Bad authority role model in his formative years?”
“Do you two have anything more solid than throwing shit at a wall and hoping it sticks?” asks Greer.
“Just the Ford Ranger.” Rick scratches at his leg. “I grabbed all 2000-2009 model year registrations within potential driving distance of the crime scene. There are 267 in Olympia and outlying areas, but only fifty-three are black. I bumped that out to eighty miles to be thorough and it’s up to ninety-seven black Ford Rangers that I’m still sifting through.”
“I’ve eliminated the husband of the second victim as the suspect.” I go over the contact with the Pahrump PD. “He would’ve been in Nevada for two days at the time his wife died. ME report put the time of death at Friday night, the fifteenth.”
“Central air,” mutters Rick. “She’d spent the weekend basically in a cooler.”
“So this guy’s getting into the residences, doing his thing, and leaving. Makes no effort to hide the victim, but he’s in and out without leaving anything behind.” Rick shakes his head. “This guy might’ve had training, either in forensic investigations, maybe Special Forces, who knows?”
“Based on the first victim, the ME thought the killer had some familiarity with anatomy as well as access to medical supplies like scalpels or large-bore hypodermics.” I sit forward, biting back the need to let off a yell of frustration. “So, we’ve got a medical student-slash-CIA-assassin out there.”
“You should write a book,” says Rick.
“Make sure the character based on me is wise and beautiful,” says Greer.
I chuckle. “Sure thing, Captain.”
“So, you’ve eliminated the husband of the Cortez woman. And nothing connects to Gibson.”
“Not a damn thing,” says Rick. “He’s picking victims at random, and somehow managing to follow them home.”
Greer’s eyebrows go up. “You’ve been investigating this case for two weeks and that’s all you’ve found?”
“Well, we’ve got the Ford Ranger,” says Rick. “We haven’t noticed anything suspicious on the video feed from inside the dealership. The way the suspect sat in the lot, we’re sure he had already become familiar with Angela, but short of watching months of video, we’re not hopeful we’d trip over it. And no one at the dealership mentioned her having any conflicts with a customer.”
“The man may have simply observed; that is, if there’s anything to that thing about his preference for managers.” Greer drums her fingers on the desk, looks from Rick to me. “So what are your plans now?”
Rick shrugs one shoulder. “Not sure, but we’ll manage.”
Greer throws an empty manila folder at him, trying not to laugh. “Wims, get him outta here.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dead Ends
Thursday Morning – July 20, 2017
By the grace of the Goddess and sheer exhaustion, I managed to sleep last night. A vague memory of a telephone conversation with Caius drifts across my brain. Pretty sure I fell asleep in the middle of it.
Detective Quarrel’s decided to invoke the jinx gods by bringing donuts for everyone, hoping to trigger a ripple in probability that will give them a lead in the clown case. They had another incident, but fortunately, no one got hurt. A coffee can containing screws, nails, and a small quantity of ANFO (ammonium nitrate/fuel oil), failed to detonate at a school that trains clowns, jugglers, mimes, sword-swallowers, and so on. Though, that might turn out to be good for Parrish and Quarrel. With the bomb threat, the ATF or FBI might take the case over.
Anyway, I spent the rest of yesterday (stayed until well after nine since Caius was away) and so far, an hour today, combing over everything I can find about the two victims. The tech people got back to me regarding the video, and they couldn’t get the plate number off the Ranger. Between the distance, the sparkle mask, and the relatively poor quality of the cameras, we struck out.
And now I know I’m running on fumes because I used a sports metaphor. The only time I’m anywhere even near sports is visiting the parents on New Year’s Day. My father’s into football.
I couldn’t find anything on either victim that would suggest a reasonable motive for murder. Benjamin’s break-up with Cameron had been amicable as far as I can tell, though I think it left them both depressed. True to Cameron’s word, the chat logs we got off Ben’s computer show a cordial relationship that stopped with no contact about six months ago.
Running down a bunch of former sales reps at the Nissan dealership got me nowhere, too, as all claimed to have merely ‘had enough’ of Angela and couldn’t take it anymore. One man even said the only people who can work for her are the ones who’re as insane as she is. Meaning they enjoy twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, and nothing matters but work.
She hadn’t ruined any careers by firing anyone; most of them simply went to other dealerships within a few months. So, that’s a big fat nothing.
Ugh. I’m trying like hell here, but so far, everything keeps pointing straight back to a random serial killer―who maybe has a hate for managers. Trying to figure out who may have been in the Nissan dealership to notice Angela is a horrible needle-in-a-haystack scenario. I have no idea what day to look for. For all I know, he might’ve targeted her months ago, added her to a list, and only got around to attacking her recently.
While Rick continues investigating people who hold registrations for black Ford Rangers, I give the ME reports a look. Benjamin’s official COD is heart failure brought on by massive blood loss. No new information there. Angela’s report gets me to raise an eyebrow.
Her official cause of death is ‘chloramine poisoning’ with traces of hydrazine detected in the trachea and lungs. The burns on her face were caused by exposure to liquid hydrazine. I stop and gaze into nowhere. What the hell is hydrazine? That sounds pretty heavy duty.
According to the report, the ME believes Angela was exposed to a mixture of strong ammonia and bleach. Yes, we did smell bleach, and it did seem to be coming from Angela.
Ammonia and bleach is a bad combination. A couple hundred or a thousand people a year make themselves mildly ill from cleaning accidents. Call me silly, but I can’t imagine anyone would mess with cleaning products then tie themselves to a weightlifting bench.
I pull up that file and reread it. Okay, there. The forensics information from the house doesn’t mention a
nything about evidence of excessive cleaning products, as if someone tried to conceal blood on the floor.
Oh, ugh… did he force her to drink it? Hmm. They found trace amounts of bleach in places you’d expect to find it within a home, but her tank top had a few tiny holes in it on the chest that the lab people believe may be chemical burns, as they lined up with red spots on her skin.
Whoa… if the killer spilled a couple drops of bleach on her, and it ate her shirt―that’s not Clorox.
I hop on the phone to the medical examiner and wind up speaking to Neal Parker. Last time I saw him, he’d shown up at the ritual site in the woods. That makes me think about the cursed ruby, and wonder if it’s caused any more deaths.
“Hi, Detective,” says Neal. “What can I help you with?”
“I’m calling in reference to case number 170003411, Angela Cortez.”
Computer keys click in the background. “One moment… Okay. Ask away.”
“The chemical exposure. I’m trying to pin down the origin of the ammonia-bleach mixture. Could it be off-the-shelf cleaning products?”
“Hmm. That’s a bit out of my wheelhouse. Hold on a sec?”
“Sure.”
I sit on hold for a few minutes, looking over Angela’s coroner report. It doesn’t paint a pleasant picture. Her lungs almost look burned, too. The pictures makes me shiver, thinking of the sheer amount of agony that poor woman must’ve been in for the last few minutes of her life.
“Detective Wimsey?” asks Neal.
“Yes?” I sit up, no longer holding the phone with my cheek.
“It’s extremely unlikely for it to have been consumer grade. The strength of the bleach looks industrial. We didn’t get a good clear sample of it, but our estimation is the solution was most likely around twelve percent sodium hypochlorite. That stuff isn’t available to consumers. Household bleach is closer to three percent. Your killer probably works at a place with a large pool, a factory that uses it for disinfecting, maybe a hospital or care facility…”
“Hospital or care facility,” I say. “That makes sense. Any chance you can you identify where the chemicals might’ve originated from?”
“It may be possible but we would need more of a sample than we got to do that.”
“All right. Oh… was the victim forced to drink bleach?”
“Umm.” A minute or two of soft mouse-clicking comes over the line. “No. It looks like she breathed in a gaseous mixture produced by mixing ammonia with bleach.”
I shudder. “Next question: what’s hydrazine?”
“Mostly used in rocket fuel, I think. It’s highly dangerous and toxic. However, given the current conversation we’re having, I should point out that hydrazine is sometimes produced when ammonia and sodium hypochlorite are mixed. The formation would be energetic and produce a significant amount of heat. Based on this report, it tells me that the victim’s face would’ve been quite near the reaction. He probably mixed the chemicals in a can or something and held it in front of her face until she died.”
“Wouldn’t that have affected him as well? Or left traces on the ceiling or walls?”
“Given the strength of the chemicals in use here, yes. I would imagine if the killer didn’t have any sort of protective gear on, the fumes would have affected him. Since you didn’t find two bodies at the crime scene, he probably had a breathing mask.”
“That makes sense. If he’d gone there expecting to kill her in that way, he’d have been prepared. Thanks.”
“You got it, detective. Anything else?”
“If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
We exchange pleasantries and hang up.
Great. So I need to find a guy who probably works at a hospital, nursing home, or clinic, anywhere big enough to use industrial strength bleach. I do a little digging on the net, and discover it’s not terribly difficult to get hold of military-spec gas masks. So, if the guy had protection on, which he most assuredly did, that the gas mask didn’t necessarily come from his job.
Rick’s grumbling distracts my train of thought. I look up as he puts his phone down a little hard.
“Bad news?”
He shakes his head. “Not bad, but not helpful either. Two of Angela Cortez’s neighbors have outdoor cameras, but no luck spotting a black Ford Ranger.”
“That just means he either knew about those cameras or got lucky.”
“Yeah.”
“Who reviewed the footage?”
“Carmichael in the gang unit is lending a hand.”
I nod and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. I hate this feeling that someone else is going to die before we can catch this creep. It might help me not feel like so much of a failure if I picture the killer as a former CIA assassin or something, you know, way out of my league. I’ve heard some detectives say things like hurry up and leave me another body so there are clues, but I can’t think that way. I don’t want anyone else to die.
Sudden inspiration launches me out of the chair, and I hurry across the room to Greer’s office.
She looks up as I storm in. I must have a wild look in my eye or the hair’s sensed my mood and gone super fluffy, since she recoils back with her eyebrows up. “Wims?”
“Captain…” I approach her desk and fold my arms. “I’m convinced the killer’s got no tie to either victim, and is probably a serial. Can we maybe get some help from the FBI here? Send our info to Quantico and have a profiler check it out, maybe give us something?”
“You’re pretty worked up, Detective. One of your hunches?”
“Yes,” I say.
She studies me for a beat or two. “Okay, couldn’t hurt. I’ll send it on over, but don’t hold your breath.”
Oh, but I was holding my breath.
Chapter Nineteen
A Twist in Fate
Friday Night – July 21, 2017
Spending most of my lunch break on the phone with Abigail discussing our plans to deal with the shadow entity kinda freaked Rick out, but he rolled with it. She’s got a fairly solid plan for banishing the thing once Elise psyches herself up for it. Of course, there’s no guarantee the shadow will fall for the doll and come running. If it doesn’t work, we’ll need to think of some other way to lure the entity into the ritual circle she’s set up for this specific purpose.
When I get home from the station on Friday, Caius is waiting for me with dinner on the table. He’s done a parmesan-crusted swordfish with a pilaf on the side. It smells awesome, but I still wind up just clinging to him in the foyer for a few minutes, thrilled to have him home.
I’m more than happy to talk about his LA trip over dinner since it’s a welcome break from everything else going on at the moment. If his music production thing ever collapses, he could so cook professionally. I doubt he will, though. It’s a labor of love for him, and turning it into a job would destroy that. Probably why he tolerates his current gig. Since he’s not actually a professional musician (though he’s decent with a guitar), converting other people’s music into cash doesn’t sap the joy from it.
After dinner, we wind up relaxing on the sofa. He’s shirtless and wearing these shiny black baggy pants that look like something out of an old samurai movie. I think they’re satin, like the robe I’m wearing. Super comfortable, especially with nothing under it. Maybe the front’s open a little too much, but we’re alone and I really don’t have the energy to care. So yeah, I’m curled up on the sofa with my feet tucked into the cushions, leaning against his warmth. I swear he must’ve been an electric blanket in a former life.
Between his talk of the LA trip and my case, I’m starting to seriously question myself. Life would be far less stressful for an herbalist small business owner.
“Something’s bothering you,” says Caius.
His voice at my right ear sends a wave of tingles over me, or maybe that’s only the vibration in his chest against my back. “The case… and the shadow. Feels like it’s my fault people are dying.”
&n
bsp; As soon as I say that, the tears gather in my eyes. Whatever possessed me to want to be a detective? I liked being a cop, but I got it in my head to go up the ladder and now, I feel like some rookie who got sent out the door with insufficient training.
Caius runs his hand through my hair in soothing, repetitive strokes. “The entity is neither your fault nor your whole responsibility. That one’s on all of us.”
“I know, but…” I sigh, wipe at my eyes, and tell him about Farmer dying right in front of me. Reliving it in my head without the shield of adrenaline sets me off crying. If Caius thinks I’m an idiot for getting emotional over a guy who belongs to a church that hates us, he doesn’t say anything. “He was so freaked out. I think he believed me when I told him I believed him.”
“He did. That’s why it bothers you. Remember what you told Elise. You’re not alone in your fight with this entity.” He rests his head against mine. “And it sounds like we need to deal with it soon.”
“Yeah.”
We cuddle in silence for a little while. He’s not giving off any ‘hey, let’s go up to bed’ vibes, though I’m also not radiating that urge either. I love that he knows what I need right now is just to be with him.
“I feel like a failure.”
“You are a failure in the same way a fish is a failure for being unable to climb a tree.”
I twist my head back to look him in the eye. “What?”
His lips pull back into a dark smile. The kind of expression that belongs on a shogun about to enjoy sending someone to an execution. Or that might be the pants talking. “Of course, I don’t know every detail of the case, but it sounds like you are berating yourself for not doing what no detective would be capable of. This killer you’re hunting hasn’t left any evidence at all. You’ve spent days going over everything. It’s like you’re flapping your arms trying to fly and forgetting you’re not a bird.”
“Cheep, cheep.” I manage a halfhearted chuckle. “Do you think I belong as a detective? This case is really twisting me up. If I’d been better at my job, maybe Angela Cortez wouldn’t be dead.”