by P. D. Martin
“Yeah. I remember the murders well.” He flicks his eyes to the window. He seems sad. “In fact, they’re one of the reasons I wanted to get into law enforcement.”
“What colleges are in Michigan?” O’Donnell asks Josh.
“University of Michigan, Michigan State, Central Michigan University, Oakland University…there’re quite a few.”
We all jot down the ones that Josh reels off. Even Krip takes down some notes.
O’Donnell stands up. “Okay,” he says, “we need a full list of colleges and we need all the enrollment names for 1997 to 2000, just the students who were enrolled for all three years.” He walks to the whiteboard and back again. “We also need the full case files—from all the murders—to see if there’s anything we can use.”
“Particularly the early ones. That’s where he may have made the mistakes,” Flynn says, looking at me. Flynn’s throwing me a bone, knowing how much I need it.
He’s right. Those early ones might hold the clue that saves Sam. I want the first murder.
“Anyone got contacts?” O’Donnell asks.
“I’ll take Chicago Homicide. Recontact them and get the full files sent over,” Flynn says. His blue eyes fix on me.
I take the cue. “I’ll do Arizona. I’d like to see how this guy started out.”
“You got it, Anderson,” O’Donnell says. “And look into this second victim. Why doesn’t she fit the victim profile in terms of age and occupation?”
I nod. It’s a good question. Maybe she saw something she wasn’t supposed to. The first murder was unplanned, but perhaps something went wrong. A witness? So he kills her and once she’s dead he can establish his routine. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“I’ll do Michigan,” Josh says. “I worked in the field office for a couple of months in my rookie days.”
“Florida?” O’Donnell asks. No one responds. “Krip, you follow that one up.”
“Sure.”
That lazy bastard better do it.
“Couples, you and I can work on the full list of colleges and students,” O’Donnell says.
Sandra nods once, her bob bouncing.
“Anything else?” O’Donnell asks.
“What if it’s a cop? Could even be someone who’s worked on the cases and moved around,” Krip says.
O’Donnell loosens his shirt collar slightly. “I’ll look into that.” He’s new on the case, so he’s the best one to investigate, especially if he runs checks on D.C. police and FBI personnel.
There’s silence for a moment.
Flynn unfolds a map from his folder. “This shows us the crime-scene locations.” He takes the map up to the whiteboards. He sticks it on the left whiteboard, securing it with four magnets.
O’Donnell follows Flynn to the front of the room for a closer look. “With only three murders, any pattern will be hard to see.”
We all stand up and gather around the map.
Jones leans in. “We’ve got Jean Davis in a stolen car at Keys Bridge,” he says, pointing to a red cross on the map. “Teresa in Cedarville State Forest.” He points to the outskirts of D.C. and another red cross. “And Susan in East Potomac Park.” He points to the large park. “It looks pretty random, for the moment at least.” He shakes his head.
“Well, let’s keep the map up here. We might find a pattern,” O’Donnell says. “Anything else?” He turns around to face us.
There must be something else. I think back to my profiling and remember my feeling that he was in Jean’s home, going through her things, including the fridge. And I still don’t believe Sam would have left her bedroom window open.
“Maybe, hold on a sec,” I say. I move back to my spot on the table and flip through the photos from Jean’s, Teresa’s and Susan’s apartments. I’m looking for their trash cans. I find them in the photo. Teresa’s and Susan’s are both covered bins but Jean’s is open. “Jean was last seen taking out the trash, yet there’s stuff in her trashcan.” I use the American terms, trash and trashcan, rather than the Australian equivalents. I find myself using more and more U.S. terms—it’s easier when you’re working with Americans.
Flynn walks back to the table and leans in. “So there is.”
“Have we got a contents list for all the girls?”
“We’ve got everything,” Flynn says.
The rest of the team file back to the table, but only Krip sits back down.
“Just a hunch,” I say.
Jones starts shuffling paper. “It’s in the police report.”
We all flip through our reports.
“Here it is. Page five, middle of the page,” Jones says.
I read through the section and, sure enough, all women had a few things that could have been past the use-by date. I hold up the photo of Jean’s bin.
“Given Jean had just taken the trash out, this bin should have been virtually empty,” I say. “And surely if she was going to clean out her fridge, she’d do it before she took out a load of trash.”
I’m met with considered silence.
I run with it. “The killer did this. He visits their homes before he abducts them and cleans out their fridges.”
“Sounds pretty bizarre,” Couples says.
“I bet you anything some of those items are out of date. I reckon he’s either a neat freak or a health freak.
He snoops around the houses and can’t help himself if there’s something out of date in the fridge,” I say.
“It’ll be easy enough to check,” Flynn says.
Josh clicks his pen. “But how did he get in?” He looks at Flynn and Jones. “Any signs of forced entry?”
“No. But I might check the victims’ houses again. It’s not something we looked for except in Jean’s case,” Flynn says. “The other two were abducted elsewhere.”
“What if he doesn’t break in?” I say, remembering my feeling that the killer entered Jean’s house through the front door, and thinking about the evidence at Sam’s.
“He could pick the lock,” O’Donnell says.
“He could be a locksmith.” Krip focuses his green eyes on me. “They have lock-picking guns that open most locks in seconds. Gets ’em in anywhere. That’s how they can get you in if you lock yourself out.”
“That would certainly allow him to move around his victims’ homes with ease,” I say.
“And anywhere else he damn liked,” Josh says. “I’ve seen these things on the Internet. He wouldn’t have to be a locksmith, anyone can buy one. It’s a hobby for lots of people.”
“Purchasing depends on state legislation,” Jones says. “In some states you have to be a registered locksmith to own one of these tools.”
“Do the Web sites enforce it?” Josh asks.
O’Donnell takes over. “Jones, follow this up. See if we can track it down somehow. The Web sites must have a database of their customers.” He jots down a note in his book, then looks up and over his glasses at Jones.
“I’ll look into it,” Jones says.
Couples tucks her hair behind her ear. “A master key is another alternative.”
Flynn looks at her. “If the perp was a super or friends with the supers?”
Couples nods. “The super or the locksmiths who fitted out the buildings and made the master keys.”
“I’ll follow that up too,” Jones says.
Krip leans forward and gives me a strange look. “We’re assuming he gets in.”
Krip is questioning my judgment. Part of me is angry that he’s challenging my ideas, but logically he’s right. It’s a lot of time following one direction, one avenue. What if I’m wrong? What if Sam did forget her window that night? Sam’s life is on the line here. I bite my lip.
O’Donnell looks at me, deciding. After a couple of seconds: “Let’s run it down. See where it leads.”
Krip leans back in his seat.
“Couples, have you got photos of Sam’s house?” I ask.
“Yeah, I picked them up from the lab on the way o
ver.” She rummages in her briefcase. “I’m picking up extra copies for everyone first thing tomorrow morning.” She passes them to me.
I flick through the photos, hoping to come to Sam’s trash. Then I stop, remembering that she has a pedal bin.
“Sam’s got a pedal bin. Get a list of the contents of her fridge and the trash. Get your guys to check the use-by dates.”
Sandra nods.
There’s silence as we try to think of other leads. But we’ve exhausted everything for the moment.
“Well, that’s all for now,” O’Donnell says. He starts a new page on his notepad and scribbles as he talks. “So, we’ve got Flynn looking up the Chicago murders, Jones looking into the lock-picking angle, Krip chasing up Florida, Marco is taking Michigan, Anderson Arizona, and I’ll get a full list of Michigan colleges. Couples, why don’t you stay on Sam’s place. See if you get anything new. Who knows, maybe he’ll return for that necklace of his.” O’Donnell closes his notepad and looks up at us. “Let’s try to chase down these case files and we’ll meet again first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll make it six-thirty,” he says, looking at his watch. “With the time difference you should be able to get onto the case files tonight. Catch the cops before they finish up for the day and get them to FedEx the files.”
We all nod and check our watches. It’s seven o’clock, which makes it six in Michigan, Chicago and Florida; and five in Arizona.
“Also, I’ve had word from above. Wright’s disappearance is hush-hush. Tell your contacts we’re investigating the Slasher murders, but don’t mention Wright or the fact that the perp’s got an FBI agent.”
O’Donnell stands up. “Okay. See you back here at six-thirty.” At the door he turns back. “I’ll get breakfast organized.”
It’s 9:30 p.m. by the time I get home. I’ve accomplished quite a lot in the past two hours, managing to contact one of the detectives who worked on the homicides in Arizona. Detective Darren Carter. He’s couriered the full files to the D.C. Field Office and I should have them by midday tomorrow. He also faxed through the paperwork to give me a head start on the Slasher’s first kills. It’s these documents that I’ll go through for the rest of the night, until I can’t concentrate anymore or until I fall asleep. I’ve also got the photos from Sam’s apartment…maybe I’ll find something there.
I sit down at my dining-room table and absorb the police reports, coroner’s reports and the original FBI profile from the Arizona murders. The cases manage to distract me from Sam’s immediate danger. However, the lack of photos makes the going slow. It’s much harder to picture the crimes without any visual stimulus. I concentrate mostly on the first victim, the sixteen-year-old schoolgirl. She’s the key to the killer and his identity. In fact, I’d bet my bottom dollar that he knew her. I pore over the reports until I have an insight into how the girl lived and died. It’s time to profile, to imagine the crime. I’ll have to make some assumptions, but that’s par for the course with profiling. I close my eyes, lean back in my chair and visualize what might have happened.
He’s kissing her, his excitement building. But he doesn’t respect her. She’s been with a few guys and he knows she’s experienced…he thinks she’s too young to be experienced. But that doesn’t stop him. He’s rough. Too rough and she asks him to stop. He smiles. She slaps his face and it sends him over the edge. He thinks she’s a whore, yet she’s rejecting him.
After years of profiling I can feel the killer’s thoughts clearly, almost as if they were my own, and the distorted sensation disturbs me. I feel his anger, his rejection and his superiority. The image crystallizes in my mind.
They’re in the middle of nowhere. No one’s around.
He has control over the situation. It’s his decision, not hers. He puts his hands around her throat, strangles her and forces himself upon her. She tries to close her legs but he pushes them open. He will win. He will have her. Her eyes are wide open. Just as she’s about to pass out from lack of oxygen he releases his grip slightly, to prolong her useless life. He avoids her glazed stare and instead fixes his eyes on her throat. He’s nervous, angry and excited—each emotion somehow coexisting with the others. Then, as he’s about to climax, he squeezes his hands more tightly around her throat. He comes. His sexual release is accompanied by a surge of adrenaline. She’s dead.
The adrenaline pumps through my body. And just as heroin users feel pleasure engulf their bodies with their first hit and know they must experience it again, so too does our killer. He knows the power of murder and nothing else can live up to that sensation. His emotions repulse me.
I sit back, letting his energy leave my body. I sit silently for a couple of minutes. Tiredness is winning me over. My eyes are heavy. I look at my watch, it’s 11:45 p.m. But I can’t go to bed yet. I need to stay awake. For Sam. I move on to the photos from Sam’s apartment. I pick up the pictures of her bedroom and study them for a minute or so. Then I close my eyes and will myself to see something. Anything. I want more than profiling, I want a vision.
After fifteen minutes nothing’s happened. Physical exhaustion probably doesn’t help. I need to sleep…but I’m still not ready to give in for the night. I start up my laptop. Time for some surfing. Perhaps the symbol from the necklace has a specific meaning, something that will help us with the killer’s identity. I navigate to a search engine and type in Celtic symbols. Over two hundred thousand sites. I click on the first one and it’s a good Web site, with pictures of many different symbols. I scan several pages until I find it. It’s called a Triquetra or Triqueta and is mostly used as a symbol for the Holy Trinity—the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Is our guy religious? Interestingly, the symbol dates back even further, and was originally a Wiccan symbol of the triple aspect of the goddess—maid, mother and crone. It’s intriguing, but it doesn’t give me any leads I can follow.
I force myself to look at the photos of Sam’s apartment one more time. I’m looking for a clue, anything that might help me find out who took Sam, and where.
I wake with a start at 5:30 a.m., my arms and head resting on my dining-room table. I raise my upper body and a sharp pain from being slumped over the table travels down my back. I stand up gingerly, and something falls from my back onto the floor. I look down. It’s a quilt. The one that my grandma made me. Where did that come from?
I stare at the quilt and back away. I shake my head and slam into the wall. He’s been here. He’s been in my apartment. In this room.
My training takes over—he might still be here. I unholster my gun and take the safety off. I didn’t do my usual sweep last night. Was he in my apartment the whole time? Waiting for me?
I carry out my search the way I always do it, but this time is different. Normally I’m prepared for anything but know that I’m being paranoid and that I won’t find anyone. But this time someone’s been in my apartment. Touching my things. Touching me. My breathing quickens. If I don’t control it soon, I’ll hyperventilate. I take a deep breath in, then out, and walk toward the kitchen, my gun stretched out in front of me. I come around the kitchen counter quickly, ready to fire. It’s clear. I swing around, aiming my Smith & Wesson down the hall.
I walk slowly down the corridor, pausing at the hall closet. That’s where the quilt was. At some stage, the killer was in that closet, and if he’s still there, I’ll kill him. No, he’s the only one who knows where Sam is. I’ll shoot, but not to kill. I take two deep, silent breaths and then swing the door open with my left hand. My right hand holds my gun firmly, ready to fire.
The closet’s empty. I make my way down the corridor, both hands on my gun again. I check the bathroom, wary as always of the shower curtain. Nothing. Nobody. Part of me wants to find him. I imagine going into my room, looking under the bed and being greeted by his face. Then at least I’d get to Sam. I’ve got a gun and I’d be able to fire before he could overpower me. But I’ll have to aim perfectly—shoot to harm not kill, so I can find Sam.
Finally I’m in the bedroom. I check m
y wardrobe first, again using my left hand to open the doors and my right to hold my gun. The gun shakes and I’m ashamed of my fear. I’m trained for this. I can take him. The wardrobe’s clear.
I come to my bed. I keep my distance, I don’t want my leg to be within his reach if he is hiding under there. I sink quickly to my haunches and peer under the bed.
My apartment’s empty. I go back into the living room, gun hanging by my side. I hear a noise at the front door…
I’m slumped over the table. What the hell? I look down at my hand. My gun’s not there, it’s in my holster. I stand up and look for the quilt. It’s gone. Still drowsy and confused, I draw my gun. I was dreaming. The noise starts again and I jump. Someone’s knocking on my apartment door. I walk toward the door, gun in front of me. My skin is clammy with sweat and my heart still pounds from the dream.
I open the door. A man’s frame fills my door. I jolt with fright and my finger exerts pressure on the trigger. I stop myself just in time.
“Josh!”
“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” He draws his gun too, looks around, and then looks back at me, focusing on my gun. “Is the safety on?”
I lower my weapon and throw my arms around him. “Thank God it’s you.”
Josh gathers me into his right arm. I like the feeling of being held. I hold him tightly for a few seconds but then push him away gently. You have to be tough in this line of work.
Josh comes inside and closes the door behind him, keeping his arm around me. He’s still alert, looking around. I know what a good agent he is and the thought makes me feel safe. I relax a little.
“What’s up, Sophie?”
“I…I thought he was here.”
“The Slasher?”
“It’s all right. It was just a dream.”
“You sure?” He looks around the room.
“Yeah. I fell asleep at the table last night and woke up when you knocked.”
Josh reholsters his weapon. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“How’d you get in anyway?”
“Someone was coming out and I just grabbed the security door. I should have buzzed.”