Lethal Confessions

by V. K. Sykes

  “Sounds good. This afternoon, I thought I’d head up to Roger Dean and talk to some of the Cardinals before the game starts. Including Johnny Franks and Colt Hansen.”

  Amy frowned. “No way, Beckett. It’s not your job to run around interviewing possible suspects.”

  “Franks and Hansen are suspects?”

  “Of course. They spoke to Ashley Rist just hours before she was murdered. But leave them to Poushinsky and me. We’ll head up to the stadium and catch them after the game.” She exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “You can ride along, if you must.”

  “Fine,” Beckett said, but the hard set of his jaw signaled he wasn’t fine with it at all. “I figured I could get more out of them and the other Cardinals than a couple of cops would. There’s a hell of a difference between being interviewed by a cop and chewing the rag with a retired major leaguer who just happens to show up at the game. Guys like it when old hands like me drop by.”

  Amy had to admit that his reasoning made sense. “Okay, but you focus on the other players. Poushinsky and I will handle Franks and Hansen.”

  “Mais oui, patron,” he said, slightly mollified, she thought, despite his sarcastic tone.

  She grimaced at him. “I’m not your boss, Beckett.” She glanced at her watch and rose. It was time for the meeting.

  Beckett followed her down the stairs to a windowless meeting room on the first floor. The well-worn tables had been set up as a big hollow rectangle. Cramer occupied the center chair at the head, facing the door. Two men in dark suits flanked him, obviously FBI. Christie Dale and Kevin O’Byrne sat at the adjoining table, along with Webb Smith and Zeb Kingman. Amy’s squad members filled in the remaining chairs.

  Cramer began by asking for introductions from the participants. The Miami FBI agent was Jack Vincent. The BSU guy identified himself as Lamar Edson. Cramer then summarized the state of the three investigations and the creation of the task force. When he’d finished, he asked Amy, Dale, and Smith if they had anything to add from their respective counties. Amy started to speak, but Smith jumped in ahead of her. The Polk detective looked exhausted as he spoke in a low voice. “We’ve been digging hard into whether or not our victim had any connection to the Palm Beach and Martin County victims. We interviewed every one of Krista Shannon’s family and friends that we’re aware of, but not one had heard the names Carrie Noble or Ashley Rist. I’ve already reported that her husband said he knew who Matt Noble was, but only as an opposing player. Yesterday, he said exactly the same thing about Tyler Rist. None of the Lakeland players could offer any information regarding a connection, either.”

  Cramer nodded to Amy.

  “The same holds true for Carrie and Matt Noble with respect to Kasinski,” she said. “Obviously, though, the Nobles and the Rists knew each other, though apparently the women were more acquaintances than friends. Based on what we’ve learned so far and what Detective Smith just told us, we have to operate on the assumption that there is no direct link between Krista Shannon, Carrie Noble, and Ashley Rist, other than the fact that they’re all married to players in the Florida State baseball league.”

  “Which means we don’t have a clue as to the guy’s motives,” Cramer growled. “You have something else, Robitaille?”

  “Yes, sir.” Amy glanced at the FBI agents. The one from Quantico shuffled his papers, while the Miami agent’s eyes bored into her. “Last night, I followed up a lead given to me by Detective Ryan. Ashley Rist spent part of Thursday evening at a bar across the street from Roger Dean Stadium in Jupiter. Right now, it appears it was the last time she was seen alive.”

  “None of her neighbors saw her leave home or return,” Ryan said.

  Amy nodded. “Ashley had invited a number of her girlfriends—all wives of Hammerheads players—to the bar to drink a toast to Carrie Noble’s memory. Apparently, only two showed up. She remained at the bar until at least midnight. No one we’ve spoken to so far noticed her leave. She spoke to two Cardinals players, Johnny Franks and Colt Hansen. The bartender also noticed her speaking to a third man. He didn’t know that man’s name, but was able to give us a description.”

  “You question Franks and Hansen yet?” Cramer asked.

  “Later this afternoon, sir. And we’ll be running the description of the third man past Ms. Rist’s friend.”

  “Good. Is that all?”

  “No, sir,” Amy said, turning her eyes to Ryan. “Detective Ryan was able to obtain the name of a another mutual friend of Carrie Noble and Jody Garrett. Garrett claims the woman might have knowledge of an extra-marital affair between Noble and a baseball player.”

  “The guy at her house the night she was murdered,” Poushinsky added.

  “Good work,” Cramer said gruffly. “And remember, this is a task force. Everybody needs to keep everybody else in the loop from now on.” He turned toward the BSU man. “Special Agent Edson, over to you for the profile.”

  A tall, wiry-looking African-American man in his late thirties, Lamar Edson had a deep, mellow voice that demanded attention as soon as he began to speak. “I’m sure you’re all aware that criminal profiling is not an exact science. Nor is it the magic bullet sometimes portrayed on unfortunate television programs.”

  While the other detectives nodded their agreement, Amy clenched her teeth. The FBI profile of the bastard who murdered Ariane and five other young women had been so off-base that she was sure it had hampered more than helped the police investigations. The vaunted profiles were produced by software programs in the Quantico computers, and were only as good as the information fed into the machine. She could only hope that the software had improved in the intervening years.

  “We ran an initial profile immediately after receiving the data from Palm Beach County, and then did an updated run once we got the additional information from Martin County yesterday. So, let me get right to it.”

  While he looked down at his notes, Amy glanced at Beckett. He looked focused and determined.

  “Because we now have three murders, with multiple common characteristics, these cases now meet the Bureau’s definition of serial killings. The perpetrator is what we call an organized serial killer. He targets his prey, in this case apparently the wives of baseball players. He abducts the victim from one location, kills her in a second location, and disposes of the body in a third. He’s a planner—methodical, competent, and careful to avoid leaving evidence on the body or at the disposal site.”

  “That’s our boy,” Poushinsky quipped.

  “Not quite a boy,” Edson said drily. “He is a young Caucasian male, though. Intelligent, likely with a decent education. But regardless of his level of education, he’s cunning. Cunning enough to be able to plan and execute his kills in a way which will minimize the chance of detection. He’s socially competent, not an obvious misfit, and is gainfully employed with meaningful work. However, he may change jobs and move locations to pursue his intended victims. He’s probably married or in a long-term relationship, and may even have a family. A perfectionist, he’s honing his skills at abduction and murder. They will improve with each victim.”

  None of it surprised Amy. It was textbook stuff. Statistically sound, but very possibly off the mark. “What age range does the computer project, Special Agent?” Amy asked.

  “Twenty-five to thirty-five,” Edson answered without looking at his notes.

  “Of course.” She couldn’t help letting a tiny note of sarcasm slip into her voice. “Most serial killers start in their mid-twenties or thirties, so no surprise there. My gut tells me he’s on the young end of that range. Probably not too much older than the victims.” Both Krista Shannon and Carrie Noble were twenty-two. Ashley Rist had recently celebrated her twenty-fourth birthday.

  “Why?” Edson asked.

  “If he’s a player in the FSL, he’s almost certainly under twenty-five. But, in any case, he’s relating closely to these young players and their wives. The cut-up photos testify to that. It feels to me like he’s one of their contemp
oraries.” Amy glanced around the table, seeing frowns almost everywhere. “At least that’s my theory.”

  “Makes some sense,” Cramer said. “The BSU computer obviously spat out this age range because it’s the most common for this type of crime profile. Special Agent, can you give us anything regarding the killer’s location?”

  Edson looked slightly miffed, probably because Cramer had backed Amy up.

  “Because the murders took place relatively close together geographically, within one hundred sixty miles, the killer is probably somewhere within a rough circle that has Lakeland and West Palm as the opposite end points of the diameter. The fact that the murders occurred only a month apart suggests that we’re likely not dealing with someone who lived in one place and moved to the other.”

  “That imaginary circle includes a damn big chunk of Florida,” Beckett said. “So, in practical terms, it sounds like he should be in an area between Melbourne and Tampa Bay in the north, Fort Myers and West Palm in the south.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of territory,” Vincent said, uttering his first words since he introduced himself.

  “Most of the Florida State League teams are located inside that box,” Beckett said. He dipped his head for a moment, probably running through a mental list of the teams. “If you include the Tampa Bay area, eleven out of the twelve teams fall into that box. Only Daytona is outside it. Plus, you’ve got every one of the Gulf Coast rookie league teams, too. All sixteen of them. There’s nothing in Double A or Triple A, but at the major league level, you’ve got the Tampa Bay Rays.”

  Cramer interjected. “So, that’s twenty-eight baseball teams in the probable killing zone, correct?”

  Beckett nodded. “Lot of wives,” Poushinsky said. “Twenty-eight teams, and probably ten or twelve married guys per team.” He turned to Beckett. “Does that sound about right?”

  “Probably less than that,” Beckett said. “Like Detective Robitaille said, almost all the guys in these leagues are young, twenty-one to twenty-five, although a few are older. I’d estimate that around twenty-five per cent are married, but some will have live-in girlfriends, of course. A fair number of them.”

  Knight scratched some numbers on his pad. “Roughly, we could be looking at up to three hundred potential victims.”

  The room fell silent. Her heart racing, Amy sipped her coffee while everyone else in the room let the implications of that staggering number sink in. One of that three hundred is my little sister.

  “Fucking fantastic,” Cramer growled.

  31

  * * *

  Sunday, August 1

  2:00 p.m.

  Luke pulled into the parking garage across from Jupiter’s Roger Dean Stadium, got out of the Mustang and made his way down to street level. He’d been so lost in his thoughts that he could barely remember the drive up the interstate from the Sheriff’s Office. Not long ago, he’d had nothing more pressing on his mind than honing his wedge play. Then Alicia Trent, Detective Amy Robitaille, and a rampaging serial killer had turned his life upside down.

  It wasn’t like he’d been clueless about what to do with his time after he stowed his bat and hung up his glove. Hell, he wasn’t some sad sack retired athlete who was destined to spend the rest of his life bouncing around charity golf tournaments, rubber chicken sports dinners, and memorabilia autographing sessions. He’d always intended to stay in baseball in some capacity. Give back to the game after it had given so much to him. Not in some lame front office job either, or, worse yet, working as an “ambassador” for a major league team. If he was going to stay in baseball, it would be to discover and mentor young players—as a general manager, director of player personnel, or maybe even a field manager. He figured an opportunity would come. He just had to be patient.

  Truthfully, though, in the months since his retirement, he’d been bored to hell and back. But not anymore. Alicia and Robitaille had come into his life, and Kellen Cramer had drafted him into a murder investigation. Life had thrown him a hard-breaking, split finger fastball, and he was still trying to figure out how to get his bat on it.

  Still, he knew one thing for certain. Just like had happened after 9/11 and Kate’s death, he’d reached another turning point in his life, and there was no going back.

  He crossed over to the ballpark, bought a ticket and headed down to field level. The St. Lucie Mets had just finished their on-field warm-up and batting practice, and now the Palm Beach Cardinals were meandering onto the playing surface. Some players headed to the outfield grass to do stretches, while others started tossing balls back and forth. He spotted the Cardinals’ manager, Carlos Rondon, leaning against the batting cage.

  Luke sauntered over and held out his hand to the burly Dominican. “How’s my favorite third-string catcher?”

  “Good enough to whip your skinny ass, Beckett,” Rondon said with a wide, toothy grin. Then his smile faded. “Christ, Luke, I saw clips of that press conference. What the hell have you got yourself into?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. And I want to grab some of your players, too, if you don’t mind.”

  Rondon’s expression turned wary. “Look, those murders have hit everybody hard. Every married guy on the damn team is jumpy, and a lot of the women are freaked out. Can’t say as I blame them, either. But I don’t want the cops hassling my players.”

  “Carlos, you know your guys are under suspicion. The team was in Lakeland when the first murder happened, and here when the last two women were killed.”

  “So what?” Rondon shifted his eyes toward the outfield and yelled at one of the players for diving at a ball. “I know these guys. Trust me, I’d know if one of them was a fucking serial killer.”

  Carlos had a point. Players and coaches spent massive amounts of time together, and got to know each other closely. But Luke also knew that psychopaths could blend in and appear totally normal.

  “You notice anything unusual? Anything at all that could help the investigation?” Luke asked.

  Rondon gave a tight shake of his head. “Not a thing. Everything is normal. Or at least it was until this serial killer shit hit the news.”

  “You mind if I chat with a few of the guys?”

  Carlos shook his head grimly. “Yeah, I mind. I guess I owe you, though, Beckett, so go ahead. But if we lose tonight, you owe me dinner.”

  “Done.” Luke grinned and trotted to the outfield.

  Twenty minutes later, he’d gone through over a dozen players. It had been easy, since they huddled around him in groups of three or four, much to the displeasure of Carlos who kept yelling at them to get on with their warm-ups. Luke made a point of avoiding Johnny Franks and Colt Hansen. It wasn’t difficult since Franks hadn’t yet appeared from the dugout, and Hansen was doing some light tossing in the bullpen.

  To a man, the players were both pissed off and worried about the murders. But none had a single useful bit of information to offer. No one would even entertain the possibility that the killer could be one of his teammates.

  As the position players assembled near the dugout in preparation for batting practice, Luke grabbed Adam Creighton, the Cardinals’ regular closer, near the bullpen. Creighton’s troubled face told Luke he’d heard from the other guys what Luke was up to.

  “Ready to go again tonight, Crater?” Luke asked, knowing Creighton had picked up the save in last night’s win.

  Creighton glanced toward the dugout and shifted his feet nervously. “I know what you’re here for.”

  “Okay, you want me to call you later?” Luke was sure the big pitcher wanted to tell him something. “Smile, Crater. Look like we’re just having a great time shooting the shit.”

  Creighton took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm. Then he did a pretty good job of forcing a grin. “I think one of our guys was fooling around with one of those women —Carrie…”

  “Noble.” Luke put his hands on his hips and laughed as if Creighton had just told him a joke. “G
o on.”

  “The guy would kill me if he knew I told you his name. He’s fucking crazy, Luke. So, this can’t come back on me, okay?”

  “You can trust me,” Luke said.

  “Johnny Franks,” Creighton said in a voice so low Luke could barely make it out. “His locker’s one over from mine. I overheard him saying the name Carrie a few times on his phone., and it was pretty clear to me what they were talking about.” Creighton glanced around again. “You’d better leave now.”

  “Thanks, man.” Luke gave him a quick little slap on the ass and jogged down the edge of the field toward the gate behind home plate. Before he could get through it, two guys in St. Lucie uniforms hurried over to meet him.

  They both wore baseball pants and shoes, but sported team tee shirts instead of jerseys. Trainers. One guy was in his late thirties and stocky, while the other looked a lot younger. Probably the older guy’s assistant.

  “Hey, Luke. I’m Chuck Figgins.” The stocky guy shoved out a callused hand that Luke grasped and shook. “I’m the Mets’ trainer. This here’s our equipment manager, Jason Gardner.”

  “Hi, guys,” Luke said as he shook Gardner’s hand.

  “You mind autographing some stuff?” Figgins asked. “It’s not every day we get to meet a future Hall of Famer.”

  Luke wasn’t one of those guys who only signed autographs for money, especially when it was a baseball man asking. “Sure. Be glad to.”

  Figgins and Gardner took off their caps and shoved them into his hand. Figgins handed him a thick blue marking pen.

  Luke looked closely at the two trainers. Both seemed familiar, but he hadn’t seen the St. Lucie team this year. Maybe he’d noticed the men last year, or at spring training. The St. Louis and Florida spring training games at Roger Dean were always jammed.

  After he’d signed both caps, Figgins shoved a pristine baseball at him. Luke scribbled his name between the seams.