by Julie Cave
Ella checked the windows and doors, suddenly anxious that they be locked in case her father decided on another late-night excursion.
Finally, she went back to bed but she couldn't sleep. She stared at the ceiling, wondering what her father was talking about. Had there been some transgression in his youth that had threatened the relationship with his fiancée? Had Mom known what it was, if it were indeed real? What could be so bad that it moved him to tears and the declaration that he could never have forgiven himself?
The man Ella had grown up with hadn't seemed flawed in any way, though a child's perspective is usually rooted in unreality. He'd always seemed strong, confident, and secure in his beliefs about right and wrong. He'd never doubted himself. He had a clear sense of direction for his family and his life. Yet — was it possible he'd been hiding a secret from his family for four decades?
****
Dr. Schlabach greeted Dinah and Cage as the pair pulled on the plastic protective clothing required in the autopsy room the following morning.
"I seem to be seeing an awful lot of you," he commented, standing at the head of Ashleigh Colter's body like he was presiding at the head of a banquet table. "I'd like to say that it's a pleasure, but the circumstances don't allow it."
"We're equally as frustrated," said Cage. "We have to stop this guy and we need your help."
There had been no mention between Cage and Dinah of the short confrontation the previous evening. Dinah had put it down to stress and she was just as glad not to talk about it as Cage. She thoroughly hated deep and meaningful conversations.
"Well, happy to oblige where I can," said the medical examiner. "Shall we begin?"
Dinah focused her attention on the body, which had been opened up, examined, and stitched closed already. It was the only sign of violence on her body except for the limp neck and head.
"Again, no external, visible signs of violence," said Dr. Schlabach. "No bruising, cuts, scratches, or defensive wounds. It would be my guess that the killer had built up sufficient trust with the victim to enable him to stand close behind her to complete this twisting motion on the neck."
The doctor pointed to a whiteboard at the end of the room. "You'll note I've done comparisons of the three victims with regard to their height. All three were in the vicinity of five foot five or so. This would suggest to me that one of the factors the killer considers in the victim is their height. It is much easier to apply torsion to the neck if one is significantly taller than the victim."
Dinah approached the whiteboard to look more closely at Dr. Schlabach's work. All three victims' heights were within an inch of each other. It was another clue, however small, that might lead to the killer.
"Nice work, doc," complimented Cage. "I know you wouldn't normally do that, so it is much appreciated."
"If I may offer a personal opinion, rather than a professional one," Dr. Schlabach said, leaning toward Cage conspiratorially. "I can guess what the killer is doing — choosing small, frail victims that are probably much weaker than he. He's a coward in my book, and I want to do all I can to see that he's caught."
That was why, thought Dinah, Dr. Schlabach was highly esteemed on a national level in his work. He really cared about the bodies that came across his autopsy table, and he cared about why they died.
"So, just like your other victims, this lady died from a broken neck, which was caused by applying the force of torsion," continued the doctor. "No defensive wounds and nothing underneath her fingernails."
"So there's no DNA or evidence that could help?" Cage asked, the disappointment evident in his voice.
"None," confirmed Dr. Schlabach. "But I did find something unusual."
"What?" Dinah asked eagerly.
"I found some chips or flakes of a foreign material," he said, holding up an evidence jar. "I'll send it to the lab so we know exactly what it is."
"Could it be polyurethane?" Cage asked, squinting at the tiny fragments in the jar.
Dr. Schlabach pursed his lips. "Could be. Why do you ask?"
"The crime scene guys found these flakes of polyurethane where the body was found," explained Cage. "And also where the van was parked, but nowhere else. They think the flakes were dropped there by the killer. Where did you find them?"
"In the victim's hair," replied the doctor. "If the killer did indeed drop them, it makes sense."
"Why do you say that?" Cage asked.
"Can I demonstrate on you, Dinah?" Dr. Schlabach asked.
Dinah nodded. Dr. Schlabach positioned himself directly behind her and placed his hands on her neck to demonstrate.
"Dinah is quite a tall woman," he said. "So imagine I'm another foot taller. My arms would be in direct contact with her hair as my hands enclose her throat. That is the only contact I would make with her during the entire murder. If the killer is ferrying around flakes of polyurethane, it makes sense to find some in her hair."
The three of them stood in silence contemplating this information. If it was the killer shedding flakes of polyurethane, it made sense to find them on and around the victim, the crime scene, and the vehicle.
"So," said Dinah at length. "Now we just need to find out about polyurethane — how it can be flaked and transported."
"Right. I'd say it's a pretty solid clue," said Dr. Schlabach. "Given that we have nothing else of use to you at this point, anyway."
"Thanks, doc," said Cage, writing furiously in his little notebook. After stripping off the plastic clothing, Cage and Dinah stood on the front step of the morgue.
"So what do we have?" Cage asked rhetorically. "We have a killer who spends time building up trust with his victims and plans each crime with detail and care. He chooses victims who are small and unworthy of life, at least in his eyes. He seems to be trained in some obscure martial art, he supports the concept of eugenics, and he carries around polyurethane flakes. Have I missed anything?"
Dinah sighed. "I don't think so. To hear it said aloud makes me realize just how little we've got."
"Think positive, Dinah. Do you really think he can resist the power of our combined investigative efforts?" Cage said, with a small grin.
Dinah laughed, pleased that he seemed to have gotten over his anger toward her. "I can't speak for you, Cage, but he definitely can't resist my incredible intelligence and instinct!"
"Is that why you think I asked for your help?" Cage asked. "I thought it was to bring me coffee and do all my typing."
"Boy, did you mess up," quipped Dinah. "I burn coffee and I can't type."
Cage's cell phone buzzed as he shook his head at her. After a few moments, he said to Dinah, "Let's roll. That was Tetyaki, and he might have some useful information for us."
Chapter 12
The killer arrived at the Forest Glen Palliative Care Home with a backpack. The staff was getting to know him, and they often waved him through without bothering with the usual policy rules — which included checking the bags of any visitors.
Billy waited for him in the library, which was his favorite room. He had trouble picking up a book and reading it himself, but he enjoyed being read to by the killer. He'd confessed that while still able-bodied, he'd never been interested in books, but now he loved them.
"Hi, Billy," the killer greeted the young man, cheerfully. He sat his backpack down on the floor, and it made a chinking noise.
Billy looked at him eagerly. He didn't have to speak to show his excitement.
The killer withdrew a six-pack of beer from the backpack, unequivocally against the rules at Forest Glen. "As promised," he said, with a dramatic flourish.
He popped the top off one of the bottles and handed it carefully to Billy. The young man used what remaining strength and dexterity he still possessed in his hand to take a sip from the bottle. Then he closed his eyes in bliss.
"Thank you," Billy said, after another sip. "I finally feel human again."
"I brought a newspaper today," said the killer, taking it from the backpack. He spread it ou
t so that it covered the coffee table in front of Billy. "What section would you like?"
"Sports," said Billy immediately. The killer found the section and helped him open it up, then chose the front pages for himself. They spent several moments in companionable silence.
"You know, I really miss this," Billy said presently.
"What's that?" the killer asked.
"Just hanging out," said Billy. "Like, with a friend." He looked away, embarrassed. "Nobody hangs out with me anymore."
The killer adopted a look of concern. "You don't have any visitors?"
"No," said Billy. "My friends — well, they used to be my friends — are uncomfortable with me. The staff here are really great, but they don't have time to spend with me. So …what I'm trying to say, I guess, is that …well, thanks."
"You're welcome," said the killer warmly. "I just figure if our roles were reversed, I'd appreciate someone hanging out with me."
They fell into silence again, while the killer absorbed the knowledge that Billy had few visitors.
"What's in the news?" Billy asked. "Apart from the fact that the Nationals have lost their last four games, I mean."
The killer was about to answer when a headline caught his eye: "Martial Arts Killer Strikes Again." He frowned and scanned the article.
The Metropolitan Police Department says that a third murder victim found in the city in as many weeks bears an uncanny similarity and could be the work of one killer. Lakeisha Tennant, 17; Benjamin Steffan, 36; and Ashleigh Colter, 34, were all found with the same injuries that led to their deaths. Police refuse to comment on the exact nature of the injuries, but say that they are following a number of leads. Police will say, however, that it appears the killer has specialist knowledge in the area of martial arts and that they are vigorously pursuing this avenue of investigation. Although police did not speculate on the nature of the crimes, it is apparent they have enlisted the help of an expert FBI criminal profiler, which would indicate they believe the murders are the work of a serial killer.
The killer was amused. The fact that they'd realized his method of murder was linked to martial arts was slightly disturbing, but reasonably hard to trace. He thought it interesting that they'd released no information regarding the calling cards he'd left on each body. Mostly, he thought about who he knew was investigating the murders — MPD Detective Samson Cage and ex-FBI criminal profiler Dinah Harris. Perhaps it was time to do some investigating of his own and learn more about those who were hunting him.
Suddenly he realized Billy was talking to him.
"Sorry, what did you say?"
"I said, are you okay?" Billy asked. "You look strange."
The killer took a deep breath and rearranged his features, trying to aim for a composed look. "Oh, I'm fine. I was just reading an interesting article."
"Oh. Hand me another beer, would you?" Billy asked.
The killer glanced at him. "You feeling all right?"
"Never better," said Billy with a skewed smile. The killer could see the huge weight of sadness resting on the young man, who probably thought every day about what his life used to be like, and what he might have been doing had he not been struck down with Huntington's disease.
The killer felt a pang in his stomach. Guilt? Anxiety? He had to admit that he did not feel comfortable with the thought of killing Billy. It didn't sit straight with him. It took him several minutes to work out why. He had nothing in common with his other victims and he was secure in his knowledge that they had all been inferior in every way. He could see himself in Billy — a man who loved sports and a cold beer, who carried a healthy disregard for the regulations and had a voracious appetite for books. His only flaw was a vicious turn of fate, to be struck with a disease that slowly robbed him of independence and pride. His misfortune hadn't been the result of poor choices, ignorance, or lack of insight. However, this time the point he was making was a little different: while Huntington's disease was genetic, it was unlikely Billy Atwood would ever reproduce and the killer's intervention would be unnecessary. Except that while Billy remained alive, his continual care consumed vast amounts of money and resources which would be better spent on the healthy, strong segment of the population. It was better for everyone if Billy was euthanized. Better for Billy, who would be free of his wretched existence; better for his family, who were paying immense sums of money for his care; and better for society, who subsidized facilities such as the Forest Glen Palliative Care Home.
His resolve strengthened, the killer wiped sweaty palms on his jeans.
A thought suddenly struck him. He turned to Billy and asked, casually, "Billy, if I can ask a personal question: have you ever thought about suicide?"
****
Tetyaki waited for them inside his office. His bald head gleamed under the fluorescent lights and he wore a sober expression. His office was filled with the muted shouts of students, practicing their sport.
"I'm afraid what I've learned isn't particularly encouraging," he said, without preamble. "Your killer possesses a knowledge that exists only in the deepest recesses of the martial arts. No credible master would ever teach such techniques to anyone. In the past, they've been used strictly for military purposes."
Detective Cage nodded. "Okay. Please go on."
"There are two possibilities," continued Tetyaki, stroking his little moustache. "The first is known as Lerdrit, which is a modified version of the Muay Thai martial art. It is taught and practiced by the Thai military and has existed for centuries. It's thought to have originated in about the 16th century where combat between rival chiefs and kings were common. It's a particularly fast, brutal kind of fighting at close quarters. Some Lerdrit techniques are designed to kill an opponent in less than four moves. This neck torsion move would be one of those moves. Lerdrit is more closely related to the ancient practice of Muay Boran, where the goal is to maximize the damage inflicted by each blow. I couldn't find anyone even willing to teach Muay Boran anymore, because most of its techniques are illegal in the world of competition. Many fighters have died or been severely injured practicing Muay Boran and Lerdrit. There would be very few authentic masters of the art remaining outside of Thailand."
"Pardon my ignorance," said Dinah. "What is Muay Thai?"
"Muay Thai is essentially kickboxing," explained Tetyaki. "Opponents use fists, elbows, knees, and feet to strike each other. Lerdrit is very similar, except that an open hand is used instead of a closed fist to reduce the likelihood of injury to yourself and emphasizes forward pressure in order to get your opponent off-balance."
"I see," said Cage.
"I should mention that I believe some of our special forces, such as the Marines and Rangers, are also taught techniques very similar to Lerdrit moves. Obviously, they are designed for a situation in which a soldier has lost his weapon, backup and any other means of defense. I couldn't get anyone in the armed forces to confirm this for me, but you might keep in mind that your killer could have training as a Marine or Ranger."
"That's a possibility I hadn't imagined," admitted Cage.
Dinah felt a sense of disquiet grow within her. Her nemesis, Senator David Winters, had been a lieutenant in the Special Forces before entering the political arena. The man who'd killed the secretary of the Smithsonian had been a Ranger under Winters' command. Could Winters have found another loyal solider to complete his dirty work?
"The second possibility is Maharlika Kuntaw. This is a martial art from the Philippines, and in addition to using hands, feet, elbows, and so on, they also use sticks and swords as weapons. The concept behind the techniques taught is to redirect the force of an attack back to its source by seeking to control the force. The reason I suggested this particular art was that it was forced underground after the Spanish arrived there around the time of Magellan. In any case, the reason I bring it to your attention is that any martial art developed in a guerrilla environment will most likely evolve moves designed to be fatal. There are little regulation or safety conc
erns, and the very reason the techniques are used is for survival. I am not aware of a specific neck-torsion technique, but that doesn't mean there isn't one."
"So are Lerdrit and Kuntaw taught and practiced here in the United States?" Cage inquired.
"Yes, there are a number of legitimate masters teaching both arts. There are also competitions in both styles, where the fighting is clean and safe." Tetyaki paused. "To be honest, I don't really know of any rogue masters out there because it's a scene I don't have much to do with. But you could start with this one."
Tetyaki pushed a piece of paper across the desk. He had written a single name.
"This teacher has been banned from competition due to his students using dangerous and illegal techniques in Muay Thai," Tetyaki explained. "From what I recall, some of those techniques could well have been Lerdrit. I hope this is some help to you."
"Actually, you've been of enormous help," said Cage. "You've saved us hours of trawling through countless legitimate operations in search of a rogue."
"I'm glad to help," said Tetyaki, inclining his head.
The three stood and shook hands.
As Tetyaki grasped Dinah's hand, he covered it with his other hand firmly and said, "In Japan, we have an old proverb that says, do not store up your sadness in your heart, for it will wither and die. Do you understand?"
Dinah was touched by the man's concern for her and smiled. "Or you could say, cast all your cares upon Him, for He cares for you."
Tetyaki smiled. "Are you a Christian, Dinah?"
"I am," said Dinah. "I'm slow in learning to trust God for all my cares, but I know He does care."
Tetyaki squeezed her hand and she nodded awkwardly in appreciation, knowing he didn't really understand.
****
As Cage drove back to headquarters, his cell phone chirped. He listened intently, spoke a few words and then hung up.
"That was headquarters," he told Dinah. "Apparently some uniforms were called out to Dulles Airport to investigate what appears to be an abandoned van. It might well be the one used in the murder of Ashleigh Colter."