by Leslie Wolfe
He closed Shanequa’s file and opened Emma Taylor’s.
“Number three, Emma, is where we see the most similarities with Sonya. The first time we find IV marks and proof she was fed intravenously. The first time we find pain-threshold-lowering drugs, but she was also given anxiolytics and opiates. Emma was immobilized in a similar harness, leaving very superficial abrasion marks on her skin, but the harness was different. Also she was the first victim to be sodomized. She too was stabbed in the neck, but with a large, serrated blade.” He paused for a little while, running his hand through his thinning hair. “And Sonya, we know.”
“So?” Tess asked, impatiently.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “You seem adamant it’s the same killer, but can we be sure? Yes, we have several commonalities, but we have more things that are different. Could they be explained by the natural evolution of a serial killer? Typically, we don’t see that. We see them repeating the same fantasy, over and over again. This killer, if it’s indeed the work of the same man, only repeated the rape, the beach, and the drugs, but not the same drugs.”
“So you’re saying it’s not the same man, Doc?” she insisted.
“I’m saying I’m not sure, and you know I can’t speculate.”
“I agree. We can’t be sure,” Michowsky added. “It sort of feels like a serial, but that isn’t enough. It varies too much; you can’t ignore the differences.”
“Doc, have you found bite marks on any of the earlier victims?” Tess asked, remembering her only lead in Sonya’s case.
“I saw something in Shanequa’s file, a mention from the ME that it could have been a bite on her lower lip, but she was so badly beaten he couldn’t be sure.”
“Ah… how about Emma Taylor?”
“Let’s see…” he mumbled, sifting through the many pages of her medicolegal report. “Emma’s face wasn’t damaged, and, no, there isn’t a bite mark on her lower lip. Um… there’s one on her left ear though.” He took off his glasses again. “I don’t know… bites are common in sexual crimes. We find them quite often, unfortunately. In sexual sadism, biting is an expression of frustration.”
“I know you can’t speculate… most MEs hate speculations, but if you had to make a call, what would it be? Is this a serial killer’s work, or are we looking at multiple, unrelated murderers?”
“I’d eliminate the first victim, May Lin. Her age is wrong, her profile doesn’t match, there were almost no drugs, not any requiring medical proficiency anyway. She wasn’t dumped naked… really, there’s nothing to cling to, other than that beach. As for the second victim, it’s a toss.”
“How about superficial cuts? Any of the vics had those?” Michowsky asked.
“Only Emma, and not very many. Just a few, most of them almost completely healed by the time she died. On her lower back, buttocks, and thighs.”
“I see,” Michowsky replied. “So that won’t even count.”
“Really?” Tess blurted. “You guys really can’t see the pattern here?”
“I can,” Fradella replied. “I still think it’s the same guy.”
“I don’t, sorry,” Michowsky added. “It was a long shot to begin with.”
“I could, potentially, see it,” Doc Rizza added, “but he’s changing MOs too damn much. Nobody does that.”
Tess frowned and clasped her hands, feeling a wave of anger rising inside her like the tide. She took in a deep breath; right or wrong, Doc Rizza had a point. Who does that? What kind of anger-excitation killer does that?
And then she knew. The idea came like the metaphorical light bulb, illuminating all details and bringing sense and logic where there had been none.
“I know what he’s doing, guys,” she said excitedly. “He’s experimenting.”
Doc Rizza’s eyebrows shot up high, wrinkling his forehead. Michowsky’s lip twitched in disbelief.
“Huh? For what purpose?” Michowsky asked.
“Remember we just discussed how all sexual sadists, all serial killers have their own fantasy, or recipe if you prefer, that they follow with little variation to get the satisfaction they’re craving?”
“Yeah,” Michowsky replied, “and?”
Doc Rizza frowned, focused.
“And what if I was wrong when I categorized him as an anger-excitation killer? What if he’s retaliatory?”
“Not sure I follow,” Fradella said.
“What if he’s rehearsing for the final event, the torture, rape, and murder of the woman who’s the object of his rage? What if he’s perfecting the method in which he can inflict the longest, worst possible pain and terror? What if he wants to find out just how he can get the most satisfaction? I think it’s the same guy, and he’s experimenting. That’s why the number of drugs is increasing, and so is the number of cuts, and the number of days he’s torturing them. That’s why his cooling-off period is shorter every time.”
No one spoke for a few seconds, leaving silence to be disrupted only by the low hum of the refrigeration unit.
“I guess it could work, your scenario,” Doc Rizza replied, rubbing his forehead. “Do you think he’s getting ready for his final kill? If he does that, he could disappear forever.”
Tess paced the morgue nervously, agitated. She needed to make a decision.
“I think I should call Quantico.”
Chapter Sixteen
Call for Help
Tess finished typing her high-level report, iterating the main points of the investigation for SAC Pearson, as concisely as she could put it. Of course, she could have also called Pearson instead of writing him a report, but she avoided that like the plague. Recently, her interactions with her supervisor had been nothing short of frustrating, and she didn’t want any more of that.
She lifted her eyes briefly from the laptop’s screen and saw Fradella and Michowsky sitting two desks over, immersed in mapping Sonya’s last 24 hours before her disappearance. They still had holes in that timeline, and phone records were not available yet.
Tess read the report again, then hit send. At the end of a very well-structured memo, in her opinion at least, there was a request for assistance from one of Quantico’s expert profilers. She hoped an expert in serial killer behavior could shed some light on the numerous unknowns in their case. Was the unsub a retaliatory or an excitation rapist? Based on such varied victimology, who could possibly be the object of his rage? What other motivations could he have for jumping across racial boundaries, physiognomies, and state lines? Where in the world could someone, no matter how affluent, torture women for days on end, in different states, without getting caught? Without raising any suspicion? Where and how did he pick his victims?
Her phone rang, with a custom ring she’d associated with her boss’s extension, the quacking of a duck. It was her humorous way of expressing the frustration she felt each time the man called. She cringed, but picked it up immediately, under the curious glances thrown by several squad room cops.
“This is Winnett,”
“Winnett, SAC Pearson here.”
“Sir.”
“I read your report. First of all, I’m amazed to see you’re actually asking for help. The I’m-good-on-my-own, don’t-need-a-team Winnett finally comes to her senses. Congratulations.”
“Um… thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. Now, as for the profiler, before we waste incredibly scarce and valuable resources, let me tell you I don’t see the serial killer you’re describing.”
“Sir, I put it in the report as well as I could. You have the beach element, naked body dumps, drug use, method of restraint, and method of killing.”
“What about victimology? They’re all over the place. One’s Asian, another’s black—”
“If you look past the physical appearances, you’ll see most of them are young, smart, college grad overachievers,” she said, swallowing a long sigh.
He must have skimmed over her report if he missed all this data. He was an irritating, politically absor
bed boss, but he was a good investigator; no way he’d miss the patterns. Unless he’d completely ignored her report.
“Uh-huh, I see what you mean, but still. The Asian victim is definitely not a match.”
“Let’s say we exclude that one, we still have three. And three is enough to classify him as a serial killer.”
“I’d exclude the second victim too, the black girl, Shanequa Powell. Different MO altogether. Do you know how many women are raped and killed every year in our country? Over a thousand cases a year, Winnett, you know that. Most of them have drugs and alcohol involvement.”
“I know, sir, but—”
“Don’t fall into the trap of serializing random cases out there, because it’s an easy trap to fall into. You can only dump a body in so many places, you know. These women have little, if anything, in common other than the beach as a secondary crime scene.”
“That could be enough,” Tess insisted.
“That’s a pretty strong correlation, I’ll give you that, but I think only two victims remain, the last two. Emma Taylor and Sonya Weaver. Those were both ocean beaches too.”
“I don’t think it matters, the type of beach, I mean.”
“Ocean versus lake?”
“Yes, I don’t think it matters. I think it’s about the concept for him. That east-facing beach at sunrise means something to him.”
“You have no basis for that, Winnett. You’re speculating; you’re guessing even.”
She bit her lip, thinking. He was right, and she hated to admit it. It was just her gut telling her that a freshwater beach had the same symbolic value for the unsub as an ocean beach.
“All right, let’s say you’re right,” she conceded. “So we’re down to two victims, but we’re still good to classify this unsub as a serial killer, per the official FBI definition, right?”
He didn’t reply immediately and she didn’t press on.
“If you want to call it a serial, Winnett, I’ll have to send in a team. We can’t have you work the case on your own.”
She stomped her foot angrily and hoped he didn’t hear it.
“Don’t take my case, sir, please. I need a win, and I can nail this bastard. I know I can.”
“Winnett, it’s procedure. How many serial killer cases have you worked? More than a dozen, right?”
“Twenty-one, actually, since I started.”
“So you know the drill. And even if you have a team, when you catch your killer, you still win. What makes you think you can only win alone? You didn’t have this problem working with Mike.”
“Um… it’s not that. In this case, I have a strong sense we need to hurry. I’d rather work alone on this one. Please. I’m faster when I’m alone. But I’d appreciate an analyst, if that’s on the table. I also need faster lab turnaround times and faster warrant processing. We’re crawling here in Palm Beach County.”
Her last comment gained her a couple of glares from the cops within earshot. Great.
Pearson scoffed.
“I’ll see what I can do. With Quantico though, you might be out of luck. The profiling team is deployed on a terrorism case. They—”
“Yeah, I know, terrorism trumps serial killers.”
“Good, I’m glad you get it. I’ll assign you a partner in the next few days, and that’s not up for debate.”
She couldn’t bring herself to reply.
“Winnett?” he asked. “You will make it work with your new partner. Are we understood?”
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.
“Have you been raking in any more complaints?”
“Not that I know of. No.”
“Keep it that way.”
He hung up, without saying goodbye or anything. Asshole.
She slammed the phone down on desk, wishing she could afford to stomp it under her feet and break it into a million little pieces. Then she scampered to the cafeteria, where she poured herself a large cup of coffee, borrowing someone’s empty mug without asking for permission. She took a couple of mouthfuls of what must have been a strong contender for America’s worst swill and contained a pressing urge to spend valuable time obsessing over who her new partner was going to be. No one could ever replace Mike… no one should even be allowed to try.
Then she opened her laptop and started looking for flights.
Chapter Seventeen
Misunderstandings
“Going somewhere?” Michowsky asked coldly.
He was grim, tense. He stood in front of Tess’s desk, his lips curled up in a grimace, not a smile. His entire being emanated contempt, or at least a healthy dose of aggravation. Tess wanted to ask, but the squad room could prove to be the wrong place for such questions. Anyone’s guess… maybe he got a bad phone call, or his pain meds had stopped working. Maybe Mrs. Michowsky had a problem with him and bit his head off instead of morning sex. Maybe his midlife crisis had caught up with him again.
“Yeah,” she replied, ignoring his frigid tone. “I think it’s time we interviewed the other victims’ families. Chicago is the first stop. I need your full name and date of birth to book the flight.”
“I’m a Palm Beach County cop, Winnett. There’s no budget for out-of-state travel. You’re at it alone, just how you like it.”
He turned on his heels and walked away.
“Hey,” she shouted at his back, “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He returned and leaned over her desk, slamming his hands down on the scratched, weathered surface, hard enough to make the whole thing rattle.
“You have to ask? Jeez, Winnett!”
What the hell did she do this time? She refrained from snapping at him, and swallowed the first words that came to her mind.
“Yes, I do have to ask,” she replied. “Something upset you and I have no idea what.”
“Something?” he snapped, then scoffed. “Not something, you!”
Her eyebrows shot up.
“What did I do?”
“You really don’t know, do you? Or you think us so stupid, that you can’t believe we actually can understand a few words in English when we hear them loud and clear, huh? What was it… ‘We’re crawling here at Palm Beach’?”
“Oh…” she said quietly, wishing she could kick herself.
That was her absolute specialty. Stepping on people’s toes, hurting them by accident, insulting them when she never had the intention. When it came to people, she was the bull in everyone’s china shop. While on the call with SAC Pearson, she’d been so focused on the conversation that she didn’t even notice who was around her to hear her words. She didn’t think people would understand if they heard only her half of the exchange.
“I—I didn’t mean it, Gary,” she said in way of an apology. “It was a conversation with my boss, and he wanted to know what kind of help I—um, we need. Please believe it’s nothing personal.”
“You pissed off a lot of good cops today, Winnett. I thought I might have been wrong about you, but, no, when you’re not careful, the stuck-up bitch comes out. It’s not a pretty sight.”
“Noted,” she said firmly, feeling fed up with it. “Now let’s focus on our next steps. That is, if you still want to work this case.”
“It didn’t last long, did it?” Michowsky asked, his lip curled up in a crooked smile.
“What?”
“Your remorse.”
She sighed, a long, shuttered breath of frustration and dismay.
“I apologized and I explained. You refused to accept either. What do you want me to do, book us some group therapy?”
Michowsky shook his head, keeping his eyes focused on the floor. Then he looked at her almost defiantly.
“All right, Special Agent Winnett, what do you want to do next?”
She felt the intonation in his words, when he spoke her title and name, as slaps to her face. They were intended as such; Michowsky made it very clear he was distancing from her and wanted his distance, the minimal involvement required to work the
case and nothing more. She swallowed a mouthful of cusswords and managed to stay calm. Men and their goddamned egos.
“I will visit the victims’ families starting tomorrow morning. My first stop is Chicago. If you change your mind and want to come along, please let me know.”
“Why? You need someone you can blame flight delays on?”
“Oh, come on, Michowsky, cut it out already!”
Neither of them spoke for a few seconds, the silence between them interrupted by stifled chuckles from other cops witnessing their exchange.
“Why Chicago?” Michowsky finally spoke, somewhat pacified. “I thought we discarded May Lin as a first victim.”
“You discarded her, and so has my boss, but I, for one, haven’t. As far as I’m concerned, she’s still the first we should be looking at.”
“It’s actually entertaining to watch you operate, Winnett,” Michowsky said. “You pretend to consult with us, pretend to have conversations and collaborate, but in fact you just do whatever the fuck you want, don’t you?”
“Well, I’m happy you see it that way,” she replied, her voice riddled with biting sarcasm. “Then I’ll just tell you I want Sonya Weaver’s ex-boyfriend brought in for questioning, and you won’t argue, because you already know it’s pointless!”
“Well, what do you know? We slow, stupid Palm Beach County cops didn’t think of that on our own… good thing the almighty Special Agent Winnett has come to save our lame asses, right?”
She stood abruptly, bewildered. What the hell was wrong with him? How many times did she need to apologize? Her jaw dropped, and she stood there unable to articulate a response, struggling between the words she really wanted to say, and the certainty that she shouldn’t further escalate their ridiculous conflict. Another complaint was all it took to push SAC Pearson over the edge.
“Boyfriend’s in Interview One. Fradella’s been grilling him for an hour,” Michowsky said, shaking his head. “You’re welcome.”