He clicked the icon for Lotus Notes and discovered he had forty new e-mails. Most of them were junk, either advertisements or cops forwarding jokes to everyone in the department.
“That’s strange,” he said aloud. The most recent message was from Hank Sawyer. Must be a mistake. He highlighted it and double-clicked. When it opened, he could see that a file was attached. The technicians had told him to always be careful about opening attachments because many of them contained viruses. The file was named GoodwinMurder.wmv. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mary Stevens. “Come here, I need you.”
Hank was slouching over the keyboard, his face inches from the screen. “You’re not trying to use that thing, are you?” Mary asked.
“Yeah,” he grumbled. “The captain just told me it’s mandatory that I learn how to send e-mails. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, we’re having a meeting in the conference room at two-thirty. There’s been some major developments in our homicides. Can you send e-mails to all our people? If you don’t get a response, do it the reliable way and call them.”
“I’ll take care of it, Hank,” Mary said. “We wouldn’t want you to break a fingernail.”
“Thanks,” he said, still staring at the screen. “How do you know if you’ve got a virus? I think I have one here.”
“Don’t touch anything,” Mary said, moving around in back of him. “Get up, Hank. This isn’t a virus, it’s a video file. The letters WMV stand for Windows Media Video.”
“Should we open it?”
“Already have, it’ll play in a minute,” she told him. “Since when did you start sending video files to yourself?”
“I didn’t. I don’t mess with this stuff unless I have to. You know how I feel. Cases aren’t solved inside a box, they’re solved on the street.”
The first image they saw was a leather-clad figure wearing a motorcycle helmet moving along the side of the garage.
“Jesus,” Mary exclaimed, “it’s Neil Sullivan’s house. That’s got to be Sabatino.”
“Hold your horses,” he answered, wanting the video to play out. The next scene showed the person in the backyard. Laurel Goodwin could be seen standing at the open French doors, her face stricken with fear as she placed a portable phone to her ear. “Looks like we’re going to watch a murder,” Hank said, remembering the death mask Goodwin wore after they’d pulled her from the pool.
They watched as the man grabbed her, placing a gun to her head and marching her into the house. The screen went blue. “Is that it?” Mary said, sliding the mouse to see the video progress bar. It was only 25 percent complete. “There’s more, Hank.”
The video shifted to a different camera angle, and they could see Goodwin and the assailant in the master bedroom. She stripped down to her bra and panties. “There’s the syringe,” Hank said excitedly, placing his finger on the screen.
“Don’t do that,” Mary said, knocking his hand away. The video continued as the helmeted figure injected Laurel Goodwin. The gun appeared again as the killer forced her into the bathroom. “She’s going to vomit like Suzanne Porter did,” she said, placing her hand over her mouth. “God, this is so awful. I feel like I’m about to throw up.”
The next image they saw was Laurel being dragged by her ankles facedown across the backyard pavement. “Look,” Hank said, “her body’s gone limp from the narcotics.”
“This is it,” she said, taking a sharp intake of oxygen.
Laurel was propped up at the side of the pool, her head bleeding. The killer faced the camera, still wearing the helmet and darkened face mask. With one push, he shoved Laurel Goodwin into the water.
“Where did this come from?” Hank asked, still shocked at what they had witnessed.
“From you,” Mary said, her eyes widening.
“How did it come from me? If I had a video of the murder, we would have all seen it.”
“All I know is it was sent from your workstation.”
“Could somebody have done this remotely?” Hank asked.
“No,” Mary told him. “Unless they somehow hacked into the system. I don’t think that’s possible. As far as I know, our network has never been infiltrated.”
“So let me get this right,” Hank said, perplexed. “You’re saying someone managed to get through the security checkpoint, sat at my desk, and used my computer to send me a video of the Goodwin murder?”
“Looks that way,” she answered, as distraught as Hank. She stepped back from his desk and raised her hands in the air. “Damn, this is a crime scene. We probably obliterated the fingerprints. The killer himself could have sent you the video. How could I have been so stupid?”
“Carl Duval is the desk officer today, right? I’ll talk to him. Get forensics over here. Then copy the video and bring it to the meeting. Don’t forget to notify everybody about the meeting.”
“I’ll pull the video down off the file server and burn it onto a DVD,” Mary told him. “That way, it can be entered as evidence as soon as everyone sees it.”
“Great,” Hank said, trying to catch his breath.
He walked rapidly out of the detective bay to the front desk. “Carl, what happened here? Someone was in my office. Did they check in?”
“Oh, you mean that pretty FBI agent, Samantha Rodriguez? She said she had an appointment with you. I told her you were at the mayor’s luncheon. She asked if she could wait in your office so she could catch up on some of her work. I assumed it was okay.”
“How long ago?”
He picked up the sign-in sheet. “About thirty-five minutes.”
“She could still be in the building!” Hank said. “Secure the exterior, and send officers to check the parking lot.” He waited until the desk sergeant relayed his instructions, then asked, “What did she look like?”
“Tall and slender,” Duval said. “Maybe a hair under six feet. Long black hair, blue eyes. A real looker, Sarge.”
Hank’s thoughts flashed back to the video he and Mary had just watched. The description could easily fit the murderer. Because of the motorcycle outfit, there was no way to tell if Laurel’s assailant was male or female. “Pull down the surveillance tape and broadcast her image,” he told the desk officer. “She’s wanted for questioning in two homicides and may be armed and dangerous. Also, have someone call the FBI and see if they have an agent named Samantha Rodriguez.”
Chapter 31
Wednesday, December 29—2:33 P.M.
Sixteen law enforcement officials were assembled at the conference table: Hank Sawyer, Mary Stevens, Ventura chief Brady Riggs, Captain Gary Holmes, District Attorney Kevin Thomas, eight detectives from Ventura homicide, Oxnard PD homicide detective Dick Rutherford, along with FBI agents Boris Tushinsky and Gordon Gray.
Hank gave Mary a telling look. There were enough conflicting egos and agencies in the room to blow the roof off the building. With a case this sensational, everyone wanted a piece of the action.
The first order of business was to show the video of the Goodwin homicide. Hank had previously asked Mary to handle all the visual presentations. As the clip ended, even the most experienced officers sat in stunned silence.
The powerful voice of Chief Brady Riggs echoed throughout the room. At sixty-three, Riggs was a silver-haired, red-faced Irishman, whose quick temper had not mellowed with age. “What you have just seen is the brutal murder of Laurel Goodwin, a local high-school teacher. At present, we have an eighteen-year-old individual in custody named Ashton Sabatino. He was the former lover and student of the victim. We believe he may have also killed Suzanne Porter, a housewife who lived a few blocks away, to make us believe the crimes were committed by a serial killer.” He paused and took a sip of his water. “I’m now going to turn this meeting over to the lead investigator in our chain of recent homicides, Detective Hank Sawyer.”
Hank stood and adjusted his jacket, taking the spot at the front of the table vacated by the chief. “We just received the video this afternoon. The person who sent it entered the bu
ilding in disguise and e-mailed me the video file from my own computer. A woman presenting herself as an FBI agent gained access to the building around twelve forty-three. Each of you has her photo and description in the bulletin in front of you. The FBI has confirmed that there’s no agent named Samantha Rodriguez.”
Hank raised several pieces of paper. “To make matters more complex, our lab found Raphael Moreno’s blood inside a red Ferrari owned by Neil Sullivan. Sullivan was Goodwin’s current boyfriend and it was his residence you saw in the video. The reason why we’re here today is to use our collective resources to determine the link between the homicide you just witnessed and eight other seemingly related murders.”
Hank sat down and watched as Mary Stevens clicked through the slides of the various crime scenes as well as the evidence, forensic findings, and pathologist reports. Once they were finished, Dick Rutherford, of the Oxnard PD, cleared his throat to get attention. Rutherford had a seedy look, more in line with a criminal than a homicide detective. He wore his thinning brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and he had the type of mustache that hadn’t been in style for twenty years. The man must be a chain-smoker, Hank thought, having caught the scent of tobacco the moment Rutherford had stepped into the room. His face was scarred from acne and his left eye drooped. He made Sawyer think of a junkyard dog. To give him credit, his appearance might serve him well on the streets of Oxnard.
“We know about Raphael Moreno ’cause he killed his mother and sister in our city,” Rutherford said, struggling with a piece of Nicorette gum. “Excuse me, but they make this stuff almost impossible to open.” He extended the package, like he would a pack of cigarettes, smiling when three of the detectives took him up on his offer. “Our investigation was limited,” he continued, “since Moreno also killed the Hartfield family and Ventura snatched the case away from us.” He stopped and smirked, his next sentence directed toward Hank. “That was a mistake,” he said. “We had a peculiar carjacking that went sour on November eleventh, about a week before the Hartfield murders. Three days ago, we busted an informant for DWI and traded a week in the slammer for some interesting information.” He coughed, then continued. “Our man claims a local car thief with the first name of Raphael is the culprit in the carjacking. He also insisted that the Raphael he knew had never committed a crime of violence.”
“What did the crime scene tell you?” Hank asked, turning sideways in his seat.
“That’s the strange part,” Rutherford told him. “The way forensics puts it together, there were two men in the car. Thieves who jack seldom hit a car with two occupants as there’s a greater chance of something going wrong. We believe the driver was killed due to the amount of blood and brain tissue scraped off the pavement, but we can’t be certain because the body was gone when we arrived on the scene. The passenger must have got out and circled around to the back of the vehicle, then exchanged gunfire with the guy trying to take the car. That’s where we found a sizable quantity of blood.” He stopped, folding his hands on the table, then letting his eyes roam from one person to the other. “We found an even larger amount of blood near where we believe the driver’s side of the vehicle was located. The passenger’s blood, however, was the only one we could identify in the system. His name is Dante Gilbiati and Agents Tushinsky and Gray say he has ties to organized crime. Why don’t you tell them what you’ve got, Boris?”
“Dante Gilbiati is a professional assassin,” Agent Boris Tushinsky answered with a heavy accent. “Years ago, he was employed by the Gambino crime family and has been linked to approximately thirty homicides. He prefers knives over guns because they’re quiet. In a number of the murders back East, a scalpel was determined to be the murder weapon. When we heard that a scalpel was used to behead Moreno’s mother, we stepped up our efforts to locate Gilbiati. Unfortunately, our trail has gone cold. He may have left the country or died from the gunshot wound.”
Agent Gray spoke up. “We believe Gilbiati is presently working with a suspected arms dealer named Lawrence Van Buren. Interpol notified us the other day that there’s a chance Van Buren may now be trading in nuclear material. Both the CIA and the military are involved. As usual, they’re not willing to share much information.”
Hank turned to Rutherford. “Didn’t you find any witnesses who could identify the car?”
“Nada,” Rutherford answered. “One guy said he thought it was a ’Vette. Another swore it was an NSX. Most of our witnesses were Hispanic housekeepers and clerks. One lady was seventy-nine years old. They only got a glimpse of the car after they heard the gunfire. All we know for certain is the car was red.”
Hank bolted to his feet. “That’s Sullivan’s Ferrari!”
“You know,” Rutherford said snidely, “there’s more than one red car on the street, Sawyer, just like there’s more than one criminal named Raphael, particularly in our neck of the woods.”
“Don’t you see?” Hank blurted out. “This is what the killers have been looking for…the red Ferrari. They went to these houses to get the car back. When the occupants interfered, they killed them.”
“Are you trying to tell me nine people have died because of a car?” Rutherford asked, tapping his knuckles on the table.
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Hank said, pointing a finger at him. “It’s not the car, though, it’s what’s inside it. Our lab did a thorough workup, so they say, but they didn’t find anything outside of Moreno’s blood. If this Dante guy has connections to a man who may be trafficking in nuclear material, who knows what’s inside that car? Obviously, it’s well hidden. Another thing that could have caused us to miss something is the car itself. Ferrari only made one of these models and its value is estimated at half a mil. Our technicians were probably reluctant to rip it apart for fear they wouldn’t be able to put it back together again. Six months ago, narcotics had them tear up a Lamborghini and the county ended up paying for it.”
“That makes sense,” Chief Riggs said, eager to justify the lab’s mistake. “Our people aren’t Ferrari mechanics. Besides, this was a suburban murder, not a narcotics case.”
“The video we watched earlier may have been staged,” Agent Tushinsky interjected. “If the killer is employed by the same person as Dante Gilbiati, he’s more than likely a professional.” He paused to make sure he had everyone’s full attention. “There’s a top female assassin named Claire Mellinger. She kills by means of a lethal injection. I understand in the murders of the two women, one of the additives was a medication known to treat multiple sclerosis.”
“People use what they know or what they have available,” Agent Gray added. “There’s been reports that Mellinger is ill. She resides in Europe, therefore, Interpol has been notified. They’re presently contacting all physicians who have prescribed this medication. Because Novantrone is only administered by injection, the patient must come to the doctor’s office once per month. This narrows down our search criteria. As soon as we hear something, we’ll let you know.”
“She could be closer than you think,” Hank said. “Is this Mellinger woman the one in the picture in front of you?”
“Don’t know,” Agent Tushinsky explained. “Mellinger has never been photographed. We don’t even have a physical description. She leaves nothing behind, gentlemen. The crime scene is usually cleaner than when she arrived.”
Everything was slamming together. Hank was so excited, he looked as if he were about to have a heart attack. This was the type of payoff that kept him chained to a high-risk job with a lousy salary. The rush when a sensational case began to mesh was phenomenal. Hitching up his pants, he walked to the front of the room and picked up the clicker. It was upside down. He looked to Mary for help. She signaled for him to turn it over. He pulled up a photo of the Hartfield residence.
“The address of the first murders was 1003 Seaport Avenue.” Flipping to the next image, Hank showed the address of Neil Sullivan’s home at 1003 Sea View Terrace. “The red Ferrari had been in Sullivan’s garage
until a few hours prior to the Goodwin murder.”
He clicked ahead to the Porter homicide, his voice elevating. “You’ll notice that this is once again the same numerical address of 1003, except this time the street is Seaport Drive, three blocks away from the first murder. The killers must have had a partial address, say ‘1003’ and the word ‘Sea.’ Like I said, they were searching and the only thing we know of that has a documented connection to the murders is Sullivan’s Ferrari. Hartfield is tied into the Goodwin murder because Raphael Moreno’s blood was found inside Sullivan’s car. Goodwin was killed by the same person who killed Suzanne Porter because both were killed by a highly unusual combination of drugs and poisons. The murder of Moreno’s mother and sister is now tied to all nine homicides.”
“You released the car?” Agent Gordon Gray exclaimed, a look on his face that said he thought Hank Sawyer and the Ventura police were idiots.
Ignoring him, Hank turned back to Rutherford. The FBI might think they were fools, but they were so busy kissing up to their superiors, it took them years to solve a case. Besides, it took time to go to fancy hairstylists and shop for expensive Brooks Brothers suits.
“Rutherford,” Hank said, tilting his chin up, “run a DNA test on your blood samples. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks the man who jacked a red sports car and killed the driver was Raphael Moreno. You didn’t catch it as we didn’t have his DNA on file until he was arrested for murdering the Hartfield family.”
The other officers in the room suddenly felt the rush. The only one who looked unhappy, Hank noticed, was Mary Stevens. The suspect she’d chased down that morning, Ashton Sabatino, had just slid out of the noose.
“I’ll get right on it,” Rutherford said, getting up and stepping to the back of the room to make the appropriate phone calls.
Sullivan’s Justice Page 29