Drop Dead Perfect

by Rick Murcer

  Good God. That sounded so ominous, so cold. The truth often did.

  “I’d say that’s a fair guess. If Brice and Joannie had gotten away, I think they would have contacted someone by now,” said Big Harv. His voice was steady.

  “So let’s say he has them, in theory,” he continued. “How would he have gotten them away from here? I can see that the street is secluded, and our warehouse search ran off the squatters, so the chances of a witness are slim. But he would’ve still had to get both of them under control and he only had a few minutes. Not to mention, Brice is a big man.”

  Slowly nodding her head, Ellen studied the area again. “So he had to get them out of sight quickly. That means he had a way to transport them, or he took them somewhere close,” said Ellen.

  “I agree. But where?”

  Just then Detective Dillon approached them. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve been through the buildings again, and there’s just no trace of Detective Rogers or Miss Carmen. What now?”

  Big Harv held up his hand and turned to his daughter. “Ellie?”

  But she’d already moved to the other side of the taped area, closer to the building and the broken sidewalk a few feet from the brick exterior of the warehouse. She kneeled on the ground and snapped several shots, then placed her hand on the spot again, feeling with her fingers. The softer section of ground displayed ridges, like those from a tire track, but it was so hard to see. The grass on the other side of the tracks wasn’t disturbed much because that soil wasn’t as soft as the other. Nevertheless, something had been there. A truck? An SUV? The ridges were pronounced, as far as she could tell, so that made sense.

  Then she saw it.

  The thin line of blood spots had darkened, but they were still crimson enough to be recognizable as blood. The line went on for a few feet, then was abruptly gone. It disappeared right where the ground gave way to a fragmented section of sidewalk.

  Rising from her squatting position, Ellie went under the yellow tape and stood four feet from the building, scrutinizing the ground for more traces of blood. She saw none. She touched the brick wall, running her hand down the side of the building, then gave it a quick kick.

  Frustration. It wouldn’t help, but it felt good to lash out at something. She went around the corner of the building and saw another door that had been sealed and padlocked, probably for years. Another dead end.

  After a few more minutes and two more kicks anyway, she saw nothing else to refute the obvious and turned back to talk to Big Harv and Dillon, who had been joined by Bella Sanchez.

  “Anything else, other than checking the foundation with your foot?” asked Big Harv.

  She raised her palms to the sky. “It’s great therapy. Anyway, I need to make some molds of this area because I see tire tracks. It looks to me like the killer might have had a vehicle nearby and possibly moved Brice and Joannie with it. That makes sense, I guess. And I found more blood in that direction and then it stopped. And since Dillon’s group can’t locate Brice and Joannie in the buildings, we’ll have to rely on Occam’s razor and go with the obvious.”

  “You don’t sound so convinced,” said her dad, watching her closely.

  “I don’t know if this killer could have loaded Brice and Joannie into a vehicle. Oh hell, it just makes me wonder.”

  “Wonder what?” asked Sanchez.

  Ellen exhaled. “If the killer had more help.”

  CHAPTER 42

  After making sure his new male guest had received a second injection of sedative, Kyle did the same for the latest of the potential wives he’d gathered for his brother. She slumbered easily in the chair, the very spot where the plan to rid himself of Damon had been born. In a way that vision had come true. He’d rid himself of a burden most men, brother or not, would never understand.

  He glanced up at Damon, still hanging from the hook on the faded wooden wall next to Joannie Carmen. He felt nothing for either of them, except a sense of freedom. He thought he’d cared for Damon, but given how he felt now, he realized that simply hadn’t been true, ever. It had been guilt and obligation, nothing more. Another illusion shattered by death.

  Detective Rogers moaned.

  Kyle walked over, pulled the syringe from his pocket, and gave him yet another dose of his own personal barbiturate concoction. The man was strong, and getting the correct dose was not an exact science. Better to be safe than sorry. He couldn’t afford to have the detective wake up, even in his bound state.

  He took note of the detective’s helplessness. Kyle’s captive had given him more trouble than he’d expected—he had the bruises to prove it—but Kyle had eventually won out, as always.

  “What say you now, Mother?” Kyle asked under his breath. “Still worthless?”

  Taking one last look at the wall where Damon and Joannie hung, he nodded to both of them, then moved over to Rachel Dupree and then kneeled at her side.

  Watching her chest heave in a peaceful rhythm, he felt something for her. Her hair was more red than auburn, framing an unforgettable face. When they were open, her piercing blue eyes were unnerving—and difficult to read. Not for him, though—and she’d sensed it. That made it easy.

  Standing, he kissed her and felt his stomach flutter. He wasn’t in the market for a woman, not anymore, at least not now, but getting her to the point of answering his question was a source of excitement in itself. This was no longer about Damon, but about Kyle Black: his wants, his needs. And when the time came, this beautiful woman could be his newfound joy.

  He moved through the door, skipped down the steps, and pressed the green security button that gave him a live feed of the east parking lot through two hidden cameras. Seeing it was clear, he moved up the next set of steps, pressed the door release, and exited the warehouse, heading toward the two vehicles he had parked four blocks away.

  Glancing back at the door, he watched it close and once again melt into the foundation of the old structure. It blended perfectly with the building’s facade.

  It had taken him and Damon a year to add their own special touches to the secret exit that had been used by the previous owners of the building, who had wanted a safe means of escape in the event the authorities discovered the location of their cocaine distribution business. Even after the dealers were arrested in another part of town, the cops had never figured it out. When the building went up for auction, Kyle bought it, hoping to use it for business and personal needs. Discovering the secret room had been the real bonus.

  A few remote sensors, an electronic door insulated for soundproofing, and the cameras had been easy things for an accomplished electrical engineer like himself to install, with Damon’s help.

  Even doing most of the work at night hadn’t slowed them down. Now, the hidden room served as his personal playroom. Walking down the steps on the opposite side of the building, he reached the next street over, then turned south, strolling along like he hadn’t a care in the world.

  His thoughts turned to the lovely Rachel and the unfortunate detective. It’d be hours, maybe even a day, before Kyle would return to his home away from home, but the wait would be worth it, for all of them.

  Besides, he had one more guest to find.

  The most important one.

  CHAPTER 43

  Two hours later, standing by the mobile lab, Ellen was just giving her three FT teams final instructions on how to process the evidence they had gathered when she heard Big Harv swear.

  She shivered. Her first thought was that Brice had been found and that it wasn’t pretty.

  She sent the teams back to the lab and hurried over to Big Harv.

  “What happened?”

  Big Harv shook his head. “We’re searching the buildings again, but we’ve got nothing so far. This is bullshit. I don’t get why these people can’t find their asses with either hand, but they’re going to be at it until God comes back.
”

  “They’re doing their best, Dad.”

  “It ain’t good enough. We need more. How about the lab evidence?”

  “We’re getting some fiber reports processed and one of my folks is working on a location of one of the last photos from Clara’s phone. Sanchez helped us to find out there are two killers involved, and from those videos we can get height and weight, so that will help. Hopefully, all of that won’t be needed in a few hours.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Remember I told you one of my lab supervisors was working on a fingerprint analysis? He says he might have a true print shortly. We’ll run it through IAFIS and who knows, right?”

  “That’s good work. I hope that pans out. God knows, we’ve got enough other shit to try and wrap up. And speaking of that . . . where in hell is that FBI team? I need what they have,” said Big Harv.

  “Me, too. But that’s not all we need. I’m looking for something else.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Ellen and Big Harv turned to see Lelani Olsen, the FBI’s profiler, and three other special agents approaching, including Agent in Charge Milchman.

  “About damn time you got here,” said Big Harv.

  “We came as soon as we got your message. We were working on another situation in St. Louis, so we were delayed,” Lelani answered, keeping her voice even. “At any rate, can you answer the question, FT Harper?”

  “Yes. Like the captain said, we’ve got a lot going on here, and I’m not leaving until we’ve exhausted every possibility. But no matter how much I try to stay on task here, one thing keeps running through my mind: there’s something that just doesn’t make sense with Oscar’s shooting.”

  “Do you mean the tearing apart of his chest and throat?” asked Lelani, tilting her thin chin.

  “You’ve got a way with words, Agent. But, yes, I do. It makes no sense. One of my first thoughts when I saw Oscar like that was that someone—or some damn thing—was digging, looking for something. It wasn’t just some morbid display of mutilation, was it?”

  The profiler raised her pencil-thin eyebrows. “Go on.”

  “Say Oscar found something at the scene and didn’t want to put it in with the other evidence. We do that from time to time to make sure it’s processed in a certain way. Like I did with the cell phones.”

  “Wouldn’t he have said something to you?” asked Big Harv.

  By then, Sanchez had joined them and stood at Ellen’s elbow.

  “Yes, usually, but I was tired and just plain forgot that he had found a couple things he wanted to process, including an old key.”

  “So?” asked Sanchez.

  “Sometimes, when you get a chance to think, a piece of evidence takes on significance. Maybe he somehow thought the key was important and would lead to something.”

  “Again, so?” said Big Harv.

  “So when he got stopped, and figured out what was going on, he may have done something with it.”

  “Like what?” asked Lelani.

  Ellen shrugged. “I’m not sure, but the evidence suggests, you know, the way he was ripped open, he may have swallowed it.”

  “That’s pretty out there, don’t you think?” asked Lelani, arms crossed.

  “Maybe. But I can’t think of any other explanation for what was done to his upper body, can you? I’m no profiler, but that doesn’t seem like something the killer would have done for the hell of it,” said Ellen.

  “You’re right, you’re not a profiler,” she answered.

  Ellen felt a flash of anger but stifled it. She gave the agent a quick half smile.

  “I just said as much. But the killers probably had less than a minute to do what they did, so there’s a chance they didn’t find what they were looking for. Anyway, I sent a special crew back to the lab to look through the rest of the evidence bags in Oscar’s kit, the FT van, his clothes, and whatever else they can think of to search.”

  “I thought the rest of the bags from the second crime scene were gone,” said Agent Milchman.

  “They were, but if these people had found what they were looking for, why go back to the rear of the SUV and take the bags like the video shows?” asked Ellen.

  The group grew quiet. Then Lelani broke the silence.

  “That’s compelling enough for me, Ellen. You could be right.”

  “We’ll find out. I also want another look at Oscar’s autopsy file and anything else that was gathered at the crime scene. We’re giving everything another once-over. If something doesn’t fit, my teams are going to find out why.”

  Agent Milchman nodded. “Let’s hope that works out, but meanwhile, we’ve still got work to do.”

  He turned to Big Harv. “You’ve searched all of the buildings more than once, I’m guessing, so it doesn’t look like you need our help with that. Is there something else we can do?”

  “Not in terms of manpower. What about those reports involving DNA and fingerprints?” answered Big Harv.

  “It’ll be another couple of hours. We got the information later than we expected,” said Milchman.

  “All right,” said Ellen. “I also had Detective Sanchez forward the video footage to your lab to see if they can enhance the facial recognition we’d already gone through. Your software is better so we’re anxious to hear what you come up with.”

  Milchman nodded again. “Will do.”

  “How about a preliminary profile?” asked Sanchez.

  Lelani hesitated, then shifted her feet. “This one is tough. Definitely white male, I’d say between thirty and forty. I think he’s very bright and makes real money. He is good-looking and charming, because he’s managed to sweep four women, at least, off their feet and divert them from their normal routines. He’s very persuasive and that has allowed him to recruit help, as we saw in the video. That being said, he may have been able to recruit others, as well. I’m not saying he has, but he certainly has the ability.”

  Exhaling, she focused on Ellen. “I’d say he’s fairly athletic. He may even have been a successful athlete. We know he’s tall from the surveillance video. Women are drawn to tall men, and I think he’d need to have some physical strength to do what he’s done, especially if he was able to throttle a strong man like Detective Rogers.”

  She crossed her arms. “He’s driven not by a compulsion so much as a purpose, I’d guess, because of the delay, then the acceleration, in these killings. It’s almost as if he’s after something. Also, I’d say he’s killed before. Most first-time killers are sloppy and they miss details. He doesn’t appear to have done that.

  “We’ve got folks going over the National Incident-Based Reporting System to see if there are unsolved murders with at least some of these characteristics and injuries. That’s all I really have so far, and remember, this is just a best guess.”

  “Good guess, if you ask me,” said Sanchez.

  The silence that followed seemed appropriate. What Ellen and Lelani had shared was a lot to digest.

  Big Harv was already doing all he could, and the FBI, at this point, was doing what it could, too. Big Harv seemed to be reading her mind and waved at the agents.

  “How about we call you if we think of anything else? We’re sending people home because there’s nothing here. We’ve got a few teams of two going house to house in a three-mile radius. It’ll take all night, but we’ve got to try. Rogers is a good cop, and Carmen and Dupree are still unaccounted for. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “The harder you work the luckier you become?” asked Milchman.

  “Something like that,” answered Big Harv.

  “All right. You’ve got my number, so call me if you need anything else. We’re leaving the other team to help, but the rest of us are headed back to St. Louis. As awful as this situation is, missing kids go to the top of our priority list,” said Milchman
.

  Ellen turned to Sanchez, but before she could ask her how far the canvassing had gone, she felt a tug on her sleeve. Lelani Olsen had returned.

  “What is it?” asked Ellen.

  “Just one more thing on this profile. I always hesitate to go here because people handle family differently, but I’d say this guy has a severe mother issue of some type.”

  “Why would you say that?” asked Ellen. Then it hit her. “You mean the ‘NOT HER’ notes have to do with his mother?”

  “Good thinking, Harper. I’m saying maybe. Sometimes these people act out their plan on others before they build up the nerve to proceed to the true object of their psychosis. Some of these warped pricks think they want the perfect woman, or something similar, then when she doesn’t measure up, like perhaps this killer’s mother hadn’t, they kill her in place of the mother. This might be one of those cases. They also have a tendency to start young, like in their teens.”

  The profiler walked away, got into the Feds’ SUV, and left.

  “Okay, that might be something that can help,” said Ellen. “We need to check it out, Dad.”

  “You’re right,” said Big Harv. “Sanchez, I want you to go back to headquarters and have Records see what they can find on violent cases involving juveniles that might fit this situation.”

  “With all due respect, sir, have Dillon do it. My partner’s missing, and I’m not sitting behind no damn desk waiting for someone else to find him, sir,” said Sanchez, a tinge of defiance in her voice.

  Big Harv nodded.

  “I’d want the same, Sanchez. I’ll tell Dillon. Now get your ass out there. We’ve got a lot of houses and buildings to cover.”

  Sanchez trotted toward a circle of blues, collared two of them, and headed north toward a couple of high-rises about a half mile away.

  Big Harv stepped over to a different group of uniformed officers and began to bark out more instructions.