The Killing Hands

by P. D. Martin

  Note: To avoid confusion with the normal use of the term signature, I’ll refer to the Ten Killing Hands as his calling card. In addition, using kung fu’s dim mak to injure and kill his victims is also part of his calling card. However, pressure-point bruising can only be positively verified for Jun Saito.

  Postoffence behavior: The killer leaves the area quickly, perhaps double-checking briefly that the crime scene is free of any evidence that might tie him or his employer to the crime.

  Staging was involved in most of the attacks, with many of them made to look like muggings, “standard” gang hits or blunt force trauma (beatings). For those made to look like muggings, part of his postoffence behavior is to take the victim’s jewelry and ID.

  Media tactics: Media exposure won’t be helpful or detrimental in this case. The perpetrator will not be monitoring the media, and if he does happen to see a story on the murder, it’s unlikely he’ll pay it any more than cursory attention. He does not feel any emotion about his victims or his kills.

  Once I’ve finalized the profile, I print out Lee’s e-mail of the translated information on our six Chinese nationals and the additional information he sent through on Park Ling. However, with few details on the men, it’s hard to exclude any of them except for the eighteen-year-old, who’s too young. Yes, Park Ling fits the profile, but so do some of the others.

  And now, there’s only one thing left on my mental “to-do” list…Darren. I take a deep breath and blow it out hard…I can’t believe I’m going to do this. My stomach starts somersaulting but I pick up the phone regardless. I just faced the Yakuza and a bullet—I can face a conversation with a potential boyfriend, can’t I? But the word boyfriend unleashes a fresh bout of nervousness.

  I hang up the phone.

  I roll my eyes at myself and pick it up again.

  I pace.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say. “You’re acting like a schoolgirl.” I punch in the number but hang up before it starts to ring.

  “Good God, woman. Get a grip.” I hit redial.

  “Sophie, hi.”

  I’m not surprised that Darren knows who’s calling—my home and cell numbers are programmed into his phone, just like his are in mine.

  “Hi, Darren.”

  “I was going to call you again tonight. Wish you luck for your first day back.”

  “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it,” I say distractedly. I’m silent, suddenly unable to think of anything else to say.

  “What’s up? Everything okay?”

  “Sure. Everything’s fine.”

  Silence again.

  If I let the silence sit for much longer, it’s only going to make things worse. I dive in. “I thought it might be nice to catch up again. Have you got any plans for New Year’s Eve?”

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone and dread envelopes me. I’ve assumed he’s still single, assumed that he’s still interested in me. But it was six months ago that he expressed his interest with a kiss and maybe he’s moved on. He certainly didn’t declare his undying love for me in the hospital. Sure, he called me, sent me flowers, came up to see me, but that could just be the gestures of a friend. A worried friend. Maybe Mum and I are wrong.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “You’ve probably already got plans.”

  “No,” he answers quickly. “I’d love to come up.”

  “Great.” Another long silence. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  We say a brief good night before I hang up.

  My heart’s racing. I’d been so worried about the phone call I hadn’t thought about the reality of actually seeing him. And it won’t be like other times when I could just play dumb to the attraction and avoid eye contact during any potentially intimate moments. I’ve invited him up. I’ve opened the door.

  Deep breath…deep breath.

  The Yakuza and a bullet are small-fry in comparison to having Darren in my apartment.

  Twenty-Nine

  I arrive at the office at 7:45 a.m. and it feels right…like I’m coming home. I know it’s sad, but I accept that I’m a workaholic who wants my life to go back to normal—full-time work and obsessive exercising…It’s not too much to ask, is it? Sadly, the exercise thing will have to wait a little longer.

  De Luca stands as I approach his desk. “Anderson, welcome back.”

  I nod. “Thanks. It’s good to be back…finally.”

  “Finally? I reckon you’re back at work quickly…maybe too quick.” De Luca is giving me his official line, even though he knows I’ve been working at home. But I guess full-time is different. He probably won’t be the first person to comment on it today. Everyone’s a doctor or a psychologist. But I know my body, I know my emotions and I know it’s not too soon. Granted, I can’t run a marathon, or maybe even run down a perp in the street, but I’m still valuable to this case. Most cases I worked on from the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico didn’t require me to go farther than the fax machine…and the coffeepot, of course.

  “Seriously, I’m fine.” I’m guessing I might be repeating that phrase a few times today.

  “Still…” He lets the sentence hang.

  I change the subject. “Do you know what meeting room we’re in?”

  “Number three.”

  I nod and make my way to the photocopier. After I’ve run four copies of my profile, I take a seat in the meeting room. I’ve just sat down when Hana walks in.

  “Hi, Sophie. How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thanks.”

  She nods. “And Ramos? Have you seen him recently?” She rubs her right hand up and down her left arm and I can’t help but interpret the body language. It’s an unconscious gesture on her part, and one that could indicate discomfort, concern or maybe even guilt.

  “I visited him yesterday afternoon. He’s on the mend.”

  Agent Louis Williams interrupts. “Hey, Anderson. Good to see you.”

  I stand up and shake his outstretched hand.

  “You did well. Making the 911 call.”

  I nod, familiar with the lie. “It’s amazing what you can do when adrenaline and endorphins kick in.”

  “True. Thankfully I’ve never had to test that theory.”

  He glances around the meeting room and his eyes settle on the table. “Knock on wood.” He reaches out and hits the tabletop.

  I force a smile, force myself not to think about the fact that either of the two people standing in front of me could have been partially responsible for me and Ramos ending up in hospital.

  Petrov and De Luca enter the room together.

  “Morning.” They both give us a communal nod and we all respond. Petrov sits down at the head of the table, and De Luca sits to his right. I take the seat next to De Luca, and Hana and Williams sit on the other side of the table.

  “Okay.” Petrov looks up. “Let’s get straight down to business. The profile.”

  I pass the copies around the table. “Some of the profile is based on standard information we have on contract killers. However, it is an area that hasn’t been studied extensively, by the Behavioral Analysis Unit or within the forensic psychology area. While it’s relatively easy to get subjects from the more amateur end of contract killing, thugs who accept one thousand dollars to kill someone’s wife or husband, it’s much harder to track down, let alone interview and do psychological tests on, the upper echelons of this criminal subset. As a result, we don’t have as much information about these types of individuals as we’d like. Certainly nothing like our knowledge of sex offenders or serial killers.”

  I take a breath, ready to deliver my findings. “Studies have identified three types of contract killers—amateur, semiprofessional and professional. Our guy is definitely an example of the professional subtype. Secondly, within this categorization we have professional hit men who work for one organization and those who freelance. Given the different victims and our belief that the killer’s kung fu skills
are more characteristic with someone trained in China, we’re looking at a freelancer. And a highly paid one at that. He’s called in for high-profile hits, homicides that the end employer doesn’t want traced back to his or her organization.”

  “How much money are we talking here?” Hana looks up from the printout in front of her.

  “At this level, at least fifty thousand dollars per job, maybe up to two hundred thousand dollars.”

  Williams lets out a whistle. “That’s some dough.”

  “Particularly if our guy lives in China and is getting paid in US dollars,” I say. “I did a quick search on it, and the average annual salary in China is around ten thousand US dollars, and the cost of living is much cheaper than here. So if he gets, say, one hundred thousand dollars per hit, that’s roughly equivalent to over six hundred thousand in terms of buying power.”

  “Whoa…that really is a lot of dough,” Williams says, shaking his head.

  “At least it puts a proper value on life. Not like some of the cases we work through DEA.” Hana eyes Williams. “Three months ago some poor kid was killed for a hundred bucks’ worth of cocaine.”

  It’s impossible to put a value on anyone’s life, but I understand where Hana’s coming from. Somehow it makes it worse if your victim’s killed for a watch or because some idiot thought it would be fun to fire his gun in a public place and see what damage could be done.

  I add the hit man context, “Hits have been contracted for as little as a hundred dollars here in the States.”

  “Who are the hitters? Druggies?”

  “Mostly, yes. When you’re desperate for your next score, a hundred bucks can seem like a lot of money.” I pause before moving back to my notes and our hit man. “Professional hit men like our perp see what they do as a job. Strictly business. There’s no psychological or emotional need to kill. In their minds, it’s simply a way of living.” I look around the room—I have everyone’s full attention.

  “Any stats on the numbers of professional hit men operating?” Williams asks, glancing from Petrov to me.

  Petrov takes the question. “We’re unsure of the exact figure, but research indicates that in 2008 there were two hundred murders in the US that were either known or believed to be carried out for money. Of those, eighty-two were solved and fall into the amateur or semiprofessional categories that Anderson described earlier.”

  “So that leaves one hundred and eighteen unsolved? By how many killers?”

  “That’s the unknown. It could be ten professional hit men working in the States or it could be fifty. It’s hard to tell.”

  Williams lets out another whistle.

  “So, the profile,” I say. “Let’s start with the sex. Nearly all the professional contract killers we know about are male. It doesn’t mean a contract killer can’t be a woman, but it’s much less likely. In our case, these stats, coupled with the skill and strength involved in some of the attacks, make me think we’re looking for a man.” I move on to the age. “The age range is large, I’m afraid. Again, based on the lack of research subjects in this area. Our known cases of professional hit men have varied in age greatly, and given the first involvement we can positively link to our killer was twelve years ago, our killer could be anything from thirty to sixty.”

  I keep taking the team through the profile, and it’s not until I get to the offender’s vehicle type that I get some more specific feedback.

  “Wow, those stats are incredible.” Petrov voices his surprise, which is also evident on the faces of De Luca, Williams and Hana.

  “I know. Beyond the car ownership numbers, the key difference is the attitude toward cars in China. Here, they’re seen as a necessity and almost as a home away from home. We do everything in our cars—eat, grab that coffee, make phone calls—whereas in China cars are a status symbol. Again, that’s changing fast, but at the moment the car you choose, and even driving a car in itself, is a measure of your social and economic status. So for our killer, who’s used to traveling the world, I think he probably does own a car, but he’s not going to want to stand out too much so he’ll most likely own something more common. I’ve listed the top-selling cars currently in China, and given his military background, he’s more likely to buy Chinese-made. However, he’s also familiar with the European and American models, so I don’t want to exclude these cars.”

  “That makes sense. Can we track vehicle type? Once we have suspects?”

  “I’ve got to check back with my contact in the Beijing police. He’s willing to help us out in any way he can.” I don’t mention what he’s already done for us—Petrov still wants me to keep quiet about our list of names and Chung’s research.

  Hana nods. “That’s great.”

  “Yes, it’s going to help us enormously, especially when we don’t have to go through the formal, governmental channels. No paperwork or waiting. Our only problem is the aliases issue. He’s probably used a different name for the passport he entered the US on and the name he bought the car with.” I also don’t mention the fact that I may have our killer’s real name—Park Ling. I move us back to the profile. “Intelligence.”

  “Surely our guy must be at the higher end of this range,” De Luca says. “Organized offender, no clues left…”

  “True, but it’s different to serial killers who exhibit those patterns and tend to have high IQs. In the professional contract killers we’ve tested, and again I must stress that we’re only talking about five individuals in this category of contract killer, the average IQ was one hundred and eight, only eight points higher than what’s considered average. And they ranged from ninety-five to one hundred and fifteen. Interestingly, most of them functioned above their overall intelligence, due to a thorough understanding of societal principles and an ability to apply their intelligence in a practical way.”

  “Does that translate into street smart?” De Luca asks with a grin.

  I smile at the dig. “It translates into smart in general. Common sense.”

  He nods, serious again.

  I take them through our hit man’s education, appearance, criminal background and then MO before Petrov pipes up.

  “This is interesting.” Petrov looks up. “Sorry, I just skipped ahead to the signature. You’re right, it is like a calling card.”

  “Uh-huh. In layperson’s terms it would be termed a signature, but because of the common law-enforcement interpretation of that word, I’m going with calling card, so we don’t confuse the issue or the killer. Although he’s killed many times and multiple murders over time is the definition of a serial killer, he’s a different kind of beast all together.”

  “Understood.” Petrov returns to the sheets of paper. “We can’t compare a hit man to a serial killer.”

  I nod and point out the differences in his postoffence behavior compared to a sexual serial killer, too—a hit man doesn’t need to spend time with his victims after he’s killed them. “The media tactics are another point of difference,” I continue. “Unlike serial killers, who often have an emotional need to follow media coverage of their kills and feed off that, a hit man won’t feel the need to see his acts in print or on TV. In addition, he’s probably already left the country, so any media interest generated here wouldn’t reach him in China.”

  “What if we tried to release something to the Chinese media?” Hana asks.

  “Interesting…” I think about the repercussions. “I can’t imagine much would rattle our guy, but it might annoy him. He separates his personal life in China from his business life in the rest of the world, and if he suddenly reads a piece in a Chinese newspaper…” I pause, still thinking it through. “But I doubt we’d get any coverage from the Chinese media anyway.”

  Thirty

  I’ve barely sat down after the meeting when Petrov’s at my desk.

  “Feel like a coffee, Anderson?”

  I don’t know whether Petrov really wants a coffee or if he needs to talk to me in private. Either way, caffeine never goes a
stray. My system definitely needs a shot of something, and sugar and caffeine are my drugs of choice. It helps that they’re both legal. We walk across to Westwood Village and the nearest Starbucks.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Caramel macchiato. Soy milk.”

  Petrov nods and orders my macchiato and a cappuccino for himself. He looks around and comes a little closer. “Let’s release the State Department information on our suspects to Williams and Kim at—” he looks at his watch “—eleven.”

  A little less than half an hour away.

  “Sure thing. I also want to check with Lee’s cousin on the car stuff. Given not many people drive in China, it might confirm one of the five men or Park Ling as our prime suspect.” I’d called Petrov on Thursday night and told him everything I knew about Park Ling, including the fact that Lee knew him when he was growing up in China and that he had used the name Quon Liao as a child. Like me, Petrov thinks it’s a strong lead, that Park Ling might be our hit man. No doubt he passed the information on to De Luca and Brady, but Williams and Hana are in the dark.

  “Good idea. What time is it there now?”

  “About two-thirty in the morning.”

  Petrov whistles. “It’s not a showstopper. It can wait until this afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Our orders are called out and Petrov grabs both cups, passing the caramel macchiato to me. “How do your suspects compare with the profile?”

  “Chung wasn’t able to give us a lot of information—date of birth, marital status, army service—so five names fit,” I say, heading out the door. “Park Ling is the best fit, with extra military service coupled with Lee’s knowledge of him, but the car may be the clincher. Anything from the facial recognition software?”

  “You betcha. You were right, An Kwan and Lok Ng are one and the same person. And the other two photos are also very similar. Our man was positive with An Kwan and Lok Ng, but felt the matches with the other two photos were probable rather than definite.”