Blood Dahlia - A Thriller (Sarah King Mysteries)

by Methos, Victor

  “Really? What happened?”

  “Just didn’t work out, I guess. My brother was an officer for a little while, though.”

  They’d circled the entire emergency room and were back to the double doors that led in. Nate stopped and looked at the sheriff. “You know, it’d go a lot quicker if you just told me what you were actually looking for,” Nate said with a toothy grin.

  The sheriff thought about taking him down to the precinct to talk, but he seemed smart and articulate. He probably prepared himself for interrogation. What he wouldn’t be prepared for was honesty.

  “Sure, I guess it would. I’m looking for a young man, Caucasian, that works here. He’d be handsome, quite the ladies man, and he’d have fresh scratches on his face from a young woman of about eighteen that worked here. He probably helped her out to her car at some point and got her license plate. Then found out where she lives from that. Or he mighta just followed her home one night.”

  Nate was still as glass. He didn’t blink, move, or say anything. He swallowed, and the sheriff got the impression that he wanted to speak but couldn’t.

  “Nate, why don’t you and I go down to the precinct and talk? Just talk, me and you. What’dya say?”

  Before the sheriff could speak another word, the blade was exposed. Nate held it in his right hand and swung wildly, as though he were swinging a tennis racquet. The blade cut across the sheriff’s cheek, blood spattering over the wall near him. The pain was instant and burning. The sheriff shrieked, and his hand went up to the gaping hole in his cheek.

  Nate came at him again, but the sheriff ripped his pistol out of the holster. Just as the blade came down, he fired. Nate was thrown off-balance, and the blade cut down the sheriff’s arm rather than his neck or chest.

  The round had entered Nate’s head, just under his jaw. The young man fell and was bleeding to death on the floor as some nurses ran out to try to help. But the sheriff had seen wounds like that before. The boy wasn’t going to make it.

  Present Day

  4

  Kyle Vidal had been with the FBI for eleven years now, and the one thing he’d learned above all else was that you covered your ass. Any move you made had to be documented and approved by a higher-up. If it wasn’t and something went wrong, then everything fell onto the lowest man on the totem pole who hadn’t covered his ass.

  His direct boss, the unit chief of Behavioral Science, Gillian Hanks, left him alone to do his job. Any higher than that, and everybody was looking to blame him for something.

  And with this case, he definitely had to make sure he was protected. There’d been a lot of media coverage and six victims. Everything told him there were going to be a lot more before this guy screwed up enough to get caught—if he ever did.

  Kyle’s official position was special agent in charge of the DC office. As the SAC, it was his responsibility to oversee the entire office. That included special agents in every field, from forensic accounting to terrorism. But Behavioral Science had always been his baby.

  Violent crime had been his area of focus in the sociology program at Harvard. It fascinated him with an allure that no other field had, so he personally oversaw both Behavioral Science—the theoretical, research, and training arm—and the Violent Criminal Apprehension Unit, the practical fieldwork arm.

  This case fell in both areas: it was as interesting as they came.

  He heard a knock at his door and looked up to see Agent Giovanni Adami. The special agent was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and dark tie, the look J. Edgar Hoover had established over seventy years ago. It would have made more sense for agents to wear street clothes, but tradition was a tough thing to change in the Bureau.

  “Special Agent Adami.”

  “Sir. You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “You’re not in the military anymore, Gio. You don’t have to do that. Just call me Kyle. Have a seat, please.”

  Giovanni sat across from him. “Sorry. It’s ingrained.”

  “You were in the army, right?”

  “Yes, si—Yes, Kyle. I was in the Rangers.”

  “Did you see some action?”

  He shifted in his seat. “Two tours in Iraq.”

  “Well, thank you for your service.” When Giovanni didn’t say anything, he continued. “You haven’t actually been assigned to a unit yet, have you?”

  “No. I’ve been helping out in screening and with a little fieldwork on some bank robberies.”

  He nodded. “How would you like an assignment to Behavioral Science?”

  He was quiet a moment. “I would like that, sir. Sorry. I would like that.”

  “You said like, not love. Most people I offer this to say they would love the position.”

  “I was hoping for the paramilitary unit, sir.”

  “I’m glad you’re being honest. That’s what I need. We need some real cops on the front line. Despite everything you hear and the image that’s portrayed in the news, that’s all we are at the end of the day—cops.”

  “I know, sir. I was a police officer for five years before joining the Bureau. After the army, it seemed like the right choice.”

  “They’re similar in a lot of respects. The sense of brotherhood and belonging. Don’t lose that. It’s not as prominent in the Bureau, but it’s here if you look for it. But we can talk about what being assigned to BSU means later. I have something for you right now.”

  “Of course. I’ll get right on it.”

  “It’s in your in-box. There’s a request there, too. A place to start. You ever heard of the Black Dahlia murder?”

  “Yes. Instructor Parsons had it as required reading at the academy.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like something Mickey would do. Pick it apart to the microscopic level. This is a copycat the media dubbed the Blood Dahlia. Agent Rosen is going to be the lead on this. I’ve informed him that you’ve been assigned to assist him.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t. Go ahead and get prepared. I think Agent Rosen has a drive up to Pennsylvania planned for you two.”

  5

  Sarah Helena King woke up and didn’t know where she was for a moment. She sat up and saw her clothes crumpled on the floor. A man was next to her, snoring, handsome, and young. She deduced that she was in his apartment, and certain images from last night came to her. Drunken sex, some pot, and massive amounts of tequila.

  She slipped her clothes on and then had to crawl around until she found her shoes. The man, whose name she couldn’t remember, stirred and looked up at her.

  “Hey,” he said. “You leaving already? I was hoping we could grab some breakfast.”

  “Maybe later,” she said as she slipped her shoes on. “See ya around.”

  A bottle of tequila and two shot glasses were on the windowsill. Sarah filled a shot glass to the brim and drank it down in two gulps.

  She walked to the door and shut it behind her. Catching a glimpse of the man as the door closed, she’d seen that look of surprise many times. Somehow, it was okay for a man to not want an emotional attachment to someone after sex, but it was frowned on in a woman. She had never been one for convention.

  She adjusted her shoes as she walked down the hall and took the four flights of stairs to the bottom level. As she was walking to the front door, she saw a boy staring out onto the street. The door was made of glass. He had his nose pressed up to it and was leaving a perfect little imprint of a child’s face. A teddy bear was tucked under one arm, and he was still wearing his pajamas.

  “Hey, what’re you doing up?” she said.

  “I’m waiting for my mommy. She said she was going to bring me a treat.”

  “You live in these apartments with your mommy?”

  He nodded. “My daddy’s in the navy, and he’s protecting us right now.”

  Sarah’s head suddenly pounded with an acute pain that hit her between the eyes. She could feel it in her bones. The pai
n had caught her completely off guard.

  She saw a broken image. A man inside a cell, writing a letter. The man bore a strong resemblance to the boy. His father. The letter was given to a guard who walked the halls of a random prison.

  “Well,” she said, pushing the pain away and closing off her mind, “you must be so proud of your daddy helping to protect us all.”

  “I am.”

  She watched him a moment, tousled his hair, and then left. Up the street on the corner was a convenience store. She purchased ibuprofen, a diet soda, and a chocolate candy bar. She walked back to the apartments. The boy was still there, waiting for his mother to come home. Sarah motioned for him to open the apartment complex door, which was key-code locked, and he did.

  “I got this for you,” she said, handing him the candy bar.

  “Wow! Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Who’s watching you right now?”

  “My sister.”

  “You should go back to her. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Sarah waited until she saw him mosey back to his apartment and shut the door. Then she turned and tried to find her car.

  Another image was breaking itself into her mind, but she pushed it back. The sensation was similar to trying to close a door when someone was attempting to push their way through from the other side.

  Sarah had to close her eyes. “Stop,” she mumbled, “stop, stop, stop.”

  The sensation of pressure in her head eased and then went away. She breathed the warm summer air deeply and exhaled through her nose. Her car, a black ’77 Mustang, was parked with one wheel up on the curb. She checked the clock on her phone. As a bartender, she only worked nights, and so she realized she had ten hours to kill before her next shift.

  She decided she would go home, drink some water, and hit the gym. And she began making plans for what she would do for the rest of the day. She had to keep her mind occupied… or else she would be fighting herself all day.

  The car was warm as she climbed in and turned the ignition. As she pulled away, she looked in the rearview and saw the boy standing behind the glass again, his face pressed against it.

  6

  The condominiums were someplace grandparents went to retire. This was the impression Giovanni got when he parked in front of Arnold Rosen’s condo and sent him a text message that he was here. He waited a solid fifteen minutes, and Rosen didn’t come out and didn’t text back.

  Giovanni stepped out of the car and glanced around. One thing the condos did have going for them was how quiet they were. No children, no cars racing up and down the road. In fact, the street leading up to here was a side street in the industrial section of DC, away from the politics, the glitz, and the glamour.

  Rosen’s condo was on the second floor, and Giovanni hopped up two steps at a time. He found unit 2F and knocked. Rosen answered a short while later.

  Rosen was older with white hair and the weathered face that said he’d seen a lot in his years. He was wearing almost the same outfit Giovanni was—black suit and dark tie—but he somehow wore it better. More naturally, Giovanni thought.

  “Agent Rosen? I’m Giovanni Adami.”

  “You’re late.”

  “Um, no, sir. I’ve been waiting outside fifteen minutes. I texted you.”

  “I don’t text, son. Let me get my sidearm.”

  Rosen took off his jacket, put the holster on with his Bureau-issued sidearm, and then walked out of the condo and locked the door behind him.

  “Agent Vidal said we’re going to Philly.”

  “We are indeed,” he said, putting his jacket back on. “You drive.”

  Giovanni unlocked the doors and waited until Rosen climbed in and put on his seat belt before he started the car. He pulled away from the condominiums and headed toward the freeway entrance.

  “I read the reports,” Giovanni said. “A copycat of the Black Dahlia. That’s pretty crazy.”

  “I’m not exactly sure what it is. And I’m not convinced it is a copycat of that exactly.”

  “Looked like it to me. The victims are cut in half, raped, and sodomized before death. Fecal matter is found on or near the victims. Tattoos are cut out and shoved in the throat. It’s nearly identical.”

  “Nearly, but not quite.”

  “The faces?” Giovanni asked.

  “Yeah. The subject removes the victim’s faces. Six victims and we haven’t recovered a single face. So that begs the question, what’s he doing with them? And why is that the one thing he does differently from the Black Dahlia?”

  “I was thinking maybe because it makes it harder for us to identify the bodies.”

  “Maybe. But if he’s even done an internet search on forensics, he’ll know that the teeth are how we identify ninety-five percent of victims in homicides. And he didn’t remove any teeth. So I’m not sure that’s it.”

  Giovanni noticed a wedding ring on Rosen’s hand, but he hadn’t said goodbye to anyone in the condo.

  “So who we going to see?” Giovanni asked.

  “A retired sheriff.”

  “Yeah? For what?”

  “There was another series of murders before your time. About ten years back. Similar to the Black Dahlia, except that the Sheriff’s Office and the forensics units didn’t know what the Black Dahlia was, and they never contacted us about it. They were nearly identical… except that the subject removed the victim’s faces.”

  Giovanni didn’t know how he felt about Rosen calling these sick bastards “subjects.” It made them sound less monstrous—as if they were part of some clinical study or something.

  “Did they catch the killer?” he said.

  “Yeah. This sheriff put a bullet into his throat that blew out the back of his head.”

  Giovanni thought about this. If the case in Pennsylvania was a copycat, then the case they were dealing with now was a copycat of a copycat. He’d never seen or even heard of such a thing. He wondered why Kyle would assign this to him as his first case in Behavioral Science.

  The drive was long but pleasant. In the summer months, Pennsylvania was about as pretty as any place Giovanni had ever seen. During winter, there was almost nowhere he had been to that was more bleak. Then again, he’d grown up in Arizona, and the heat of the desert had always appealed to him. During the summer, growing up in the small town of Hyrum, you couldn’t even sit down in your car while wearing shorts because the leather seats would fry your skin.

  Once they hit I-83, they’d already been in the car nearly an hour and a half. And in that time, they had hardly spoken fifty words. Giovanni would ask about Rosen or the Bureau, and the old man would answer him with a “yes” or a “no” but wouldn’t engage. He wasn’t a man used to talking about himself, Giovanni thought. Which was just fine by him—he preferred silence, too.

  “Take the Harrisburg Pike exit,” Rosen said.

  Giovanni did as he was told. The countryside here was lush green with plenty of farms and acres of grassland with roaming cows and horses. Giovanni watched them as he drove by. Rolling green hills wasn’t exactly the type of scenery he’d become used to the past few years.

  Rosen checked the address on a slip of paper and then told him to turn right onto a residential street. He directed him through a maze of neighborhoods before they reached a dilapidated white home with a truck in the driveway.

  “Here it is,” he said.

  Giovanni parked at the curb and turned the car off. Rosen checked his pocket to make sure he had his badge and FBI ID and then said, “Let me do the talking.”

  With that, Rosen got out of the car, and Giovanni followed him. They walked up the driveway and opened a chain-link fence. Just as Giovanni was closing it behind him, barking startled him. A black lab sprinted around the corner right at them.

  Instinctively, Giovanni reached for his sidearm.

  “Easy,” Rosen said.

  The lab stopped about five feet away and barked but didn’t come any closer. Rosen walked right in front
of it onto the front porch, and Giovanni hesitated and then did the same. He never took his eyes off the dog, even when it had turned away.

  “It’s just a lab,” Rosen said. “You got some jittery reflexes there.”

  “I just got startled is all.”

  “Well, take it easy. I don’t need the paperwork of shooting some poor guy’s dog.”

  A few moments later, a man answered the door. He was heavyset and wore a flannel shirt tucked into some jeans with a wide belt buckle. He looked through thick glasses at them, from one man to the other.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Mitch Bullock?” Rosen said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Special Agent Arnold Rosen, and this is Agent Giovanni Adami. We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about Nathan Archer.”

  Bullock stood silently for a moment, his eyes passing between both men again. Then he nodded and opened the door wider. “You may as well come on in, I guess.”

  Giovanni followed Rosen in. The home was clean but filled with so many decorations and religious paintings that it appeared cluttered. One entire wall was taken up by a painting of Moses receiving the Ten Commandments on Mt. Sinai. Another wall had a life-size portrait of Christ rising from the tomb. Over the television were various medals and commendations. Several were from the military.

  Giovanni scanned all the paintings and decorations, but Rosen took only one quick glance.

  “So,” Bullock said, settling into his couch, “what about him?”

  Rosen sat down across from him in the living room. He put his arm on the armrest and tapped each of his fingers against it before speaking. Giovanni had seen him do that on his lap when he sat down in his car.

  “I understand you were the one that discovered him?” Rosen said.

  “Discovered and then killed. But not by choice.” Bullock slid his finger along a scar on his cheek. “He did that to me when I asked him to come down and talk to me.”