“Nobody came forward. Probably a pro, maybe newly arrived. Or could have been visiting.” Ron hesitated. “Any hits in the DNA database?”
“Negative. If she’s got a record, it wasn’t here.” New York had been collecting DNA samples from its felons for some time, and now even those convicted of misdemeanors had samples taken.
“So we lose that lottery.”
“The good news is that on the second girl, we can be far more precise. Time of death was between midnight and three a.m. of the day we found her.”
“That will help some if we ever get a suspect.”
“She also had coke and meth in her system. So there’s a pattern for you.”
Ron grimaced. “Half the hookers in New York fancy that little combo, so it doesn’t take us very far.”
Amy nodded. “But it’s something.”
“Anything from the autopsy?”
“Nothing unusual with the organs. She had traces of cocaine adhering to her septum.”
“What about the trace elements she was dusted with?”
“That’s taking a while. The scene was a construction area, so she was covered with fine material – dust, debris, you name it. I’ve got one of my assistants on it, but it’s slow going. Separating the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.”
“Nothing promising?”
“Too early to say.” Amy paused. “She did have some older scars that were indicative of cutting, though, on what remained of her forearms. Hard to make out with the tattoos, but there.”
“Cutting?”
Amy nodded. “Self-inflicted, usually as a teen. A psychological disorder. Self-mutilation.”
“Ah.”
“And her anus had signs of regular abuse.”
“From the killer?”
“Can’t rule that out, but no, I’d say more vocational.”
“The witness who identified her said she was into rough trade.”
“Then there’s your answer. I’m sorry I don’t have anything more to give you yet, Ron. Believe me, you’ll be the first to hear if I learn anything new.” She pushed the file aside and stared glumly at a dozen more. “Been a busy few weeks.”
“I heard.” Rival drug gangs had been fighting it out for territory in Spanish Harlem, and the bodies were piling up like cordwood. Amy had more than her average workload, and she didn’t need to explain why her lab was taking so long – each body required an autopsy and full processing, even if the cause of death was obvious.
An awkward silence hung between them, and Ron glanced at his watch. He and Amy had dated casually three months earlier, but it had never gone anywhere because of his interest in Tess. Amy was a good-looking, smart, eligible woman, but she’d been the one doing the pursuing, and Ron’s rejection had stung her pride, even if she’d shrugged it off. They hadn’t had much cause to spend any time together since then. Amy had remained distant, which he understood, but he could sense that there was still resentment there.
He stood and offered a small grin. “Well, I suppose I’ll get back to investigating. We’re canvasing the church neighborhood, but so far, nada.”
“Sometimes they break that way,” Amy said. Most cases for Ron were the especially difficult ones, so they were both used to it. The majority of ordinary murders were usually a family member or someone with a financial interest and easily solved, often with a confession. Crimes of passion were homicide’s bread and butter, but Ron was a floating specialist who was called in on the exceptional cases, those involving serial killers or unusually violent deaths where the investigators had conducted their preliminary inquiries and were stumped. There was nothing simple about his job, she knew.
He shrugged. “Beats flipping burgers.”
Amy nodded. “No name tag or paper hat. You’ve got it made.”
Chapter 17
Two days later, Ron was sitting across a conference table from his FBI counterpart, Clinton Fredericks, and Sheila MacLeay, an FBI profiler who was considered one of the agency’s best. Their task force meeting had so far been tense, and Ron had just finished giving a terse report on the NYPD’s lack of progress. Ben had followed it with a blow by blow of steps the force had taken, but the feds were obviously unimpressed.
MacLeay sat forward, a binder open before her, and shook her head as Ben finished.
“I’m afraid nothing I’ve heard so far is going to get us very far in stopping the killer,” she said.
Ben bristled and stared her down. “What do you suggest, then, that we haven’t done?”
Ron interrupted the exchange and nodded to MacLeay. “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve come up with, in terms of the character of the man we’re looking for? Given our dearth of hard evidence so far, can’t hurt to get a read.”
MacLeay flipped a few pages in her binder and cleared her throat. “You’re looking at a fellow who’s probably a loner or, at least, feels isolated from his fellow man, as well as from reality in general. He’s probably over thirty, single, high-functioning, and has delusions of grandeur. He thinks in terms of bigger-than-life statements and seeks attention for his views. He’s also a misogynist. He’s probably used to the limelight in one way or another and wants endless amounts of it. And he believes himself to be far smarter than the authorities, so much so that he’s confident he’ll never be caught and can toy with us with impunity.”
Ben snorted. “How tall is he?”
MacLeay frowned. “This is an inexact science. All I can do is give you broad strokes, which are likely correct – but there are no guarantees.”
“You left out that he wasn’t breastfed as a baby and prefers dogs to cats,” Ben retorted.
Ron cut the younger detective off. “Do you think he’s done this before?”
“My instinct is that he has. But whether or not he’s filmed it is another matter. To me, the filming is an escalation in attention seeking, but it could well be a rationalization he’s using to justify his deeds – that he’s making a statement with them.”
“Yet the database shows no matches on similar MOs.”
Fredericks nodded. “True, but we both know that there are hundreds of missing persons reports filed every year where the subjects aren’t ever found. It would be a mistake to believe the files contain all, or even most, of these sorts of killings. If he’d dumped the bodies over the side of a boat or buried them in a rural area, we’d be none the wiser, other than the videos.”
“The first and second videos arrived five days apart,” Ron said. “You think that’s his cycle?”
MacLeay stared at her pen for a few beats. “I think it’s a mistake to view this in terms of cyclicality. For all we know, these were crimes of convenience – he killed because he had an opportunity.”
“The locations would lead me to believe they were planned,” Ron shot back.
“Perhaps, or perhaps that’s just post hoc reasoning. Could be he’s got an entire list of dumping spots he’s scoped out, and used the two most opportune. No way of knowing without more data.”
“You mean more murders.”
“Hard to plot a trend with only two points. It would be grossly misleading, at best.”
Ron sat back. “Why chop off their appendages and decapitate them?”
“That’s a harder one. Could be for theatrical effect. Or there could be some symbolism.”
“Why position the second victim’s head so it appeared to be watching the torso?”
MacLeay sighed. “Any number of reasons, including a whim or that the voices told him to do it.” She paused. “I don’t have all the answers. The truth is that we’re more likely to catch him – if we do – from forensic evidence and old-fashioned police work than any profile I develop. This is the toughest kind of case.”
“At least you admit it,” Ben said.
MacLeay closed her folder. “Gentlemen, I’m not the enemy. I’m trying to help. If you don’t need any, that’s fine. I have many other things I could be doing instead of wasting my night in here, being
insulted.”
The phone in the middle of the conference table chirped, and Ron stabbed the line to life. “Yes?”
“Sir, one of the networks is sending over footage that just arrived. Another one.”
Ron’s shoulders slumped. He regarded the faces of the other task force members. “When can we see it?” he asked.
“AV says within ten minutes.”
“Where?”
“I notified Captain Larraby. He’s already on his way in. His office in twenty?”
“That will be fine.”
Ron terminated the call. “So much for no cycle. Today’s the fifth day. Right on schedule.”
“We’ll want a copy of the footage immediately,” Fredericks said.
“Of course. I’ll send someone out for coffee.”
Ron pushed to his feet and Ben followed him out of the room as the rest of the assembly conversed in hushed tones. Ron’s expression was hard as they waited for the elevator, and Ben shifted from foot to foot and fidgeted beside him. When the doors opened and they were alone inside, Ben looked to Ron.
“This is about as bad as it gets, isn’t it?”
Ron nodded silently.
At the captain’s office, a tech was setting up a DVD player and a monitor in his reception area, the room deserted now that business hours were over. Ron took a seat on the leather sofa, and Ben pulled up a chair. An officer poked his head in and offered them coffee, which they both accepted, and three minutes later they were sipping the hot brew from polystyrene cups, waiting for the captain’s arrival.
When Larraby appeared, his face was haggard.
“Okay, let’s see it,” he barked, and the tech pressed play and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
An image blinked to life, music in the background: a naked young woman with duct tape over her mouth, her eyes wide in terror, bound to the usual metal chair, the familiar garbage bags on the floor. The camera zoomed in on her face and then roved over her body. She was thinner than the previous women, her breasts little more than bumps and her ribs clearly visible beneath her flawless skin. The focus returned to the woman’s face and fixed on it.
Ron jumped to his feet with a curse. “Damn,” he said, hot coffee having spilled down the front of his trousers and across the floor.
“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Larraby barked, pausing the video.
Sour bile rose in Ron’s throat, and he swallowed hard to overcome the wave of nausea that suddenly hit. He took a deep breath. “I…sorry, Captain,” he said as Ben reached for some napkins. “But…I think I’ve seen the victim before.”
“You know her?” Larraby exclaimed. “From where? Who is she?”
Ron squinted at the screen through watering eyes and felt for the table edge to steady himself. “I don’t know. I mean, I could be mistaken.”
Larraby’s tone hardened. “Stanford, it’s no time to be talking in riddles. If you know her, speak up.”
“It could be someone who looks similar,” Ron tried, his voice unconvincing as he mopped up coffee with a wad of towels Ben had handed him. “I can’t be sure.”
Larraby’s eyes narrowed. “My patience is wearing thin, Detective. Do you know her or not?”
Ron studied the image frozen on the screen. It had been such a brief encounter…
He cleared his throat and struggled for composure. “I believe that might be a young woman who’s related to someone I know.”
“Who you know?” Ben said.
Ron nodded, and when he spoke, his voice was tight. “Yes. The victim’s name, if I’m correct, is Dakota. She was eighteen and a dancer with the American Ballet Company.”
Chapter 18
Tess arrived at the midtown precinct after receiving Ron’s call, a ski cap pulled hurriedly over her hair, her expression radiating confusion at his cryptic summons an hour earlier. He met her in the lobby, where a collection of lowlifes and relatives of habitual criminals waited on wooden benches, and led her into the bowels of the building. One look at his face froze any greeting in her throat, and they walked in silence down a cold corridor to one of the interview suites.
Outside the door, he stopped and turned to her. “Tess, I don’t know how to do this easily…”
“Do what? What is it, Ron? You’re scaring me.”
“We received another video today.”
“I’m sorry, Ron.” Her eyes searched his. “But what does that have to do with me?”
“I can’t be sure, but I think I might have recognized someone you’re close to on the tape.”
“Close to?”
Ron nodded and looked away. “Dakota.”
The room spun and Tess gripped Ron’s arm for support. “No. That’s impossible. There must be some sort of mistake.”
“That’s my hope. Remember that I only caught a short glimpse of her at the restaurant – I wasn’t really paying attention. I’m probably mistaken.” Ron paused. “When did you last speak to her?”
Tess shook her head as though to clear it. “Yesterday morning. She was fine.” Tess fished out her cell phone and pressed redial. “I’ll clear this up right now.”
Ron stood by as Tess held the phone to her ear. After a few seconds she hung up, obviously frustrated. “She’s probably in rehearsal. It went to voice mail.”
“I have a few screen shots from the video I’d like you to take a look at, Tess.”
“You’re wasting your time, Ron. It can’t be her.”
“Humor me, okay, Tess?”
He opened the door and they moved to a steel table surrounded by six chairs, with a single manila folder resting in the center. She took a seat and he nodded at the two-way mirror. “You want some water or coffee?”
“No. Let’s get this over with.”
Ron sat beside her and opened the folder. A tech had done screen captures from the close-up scenes in the beginning of the tape, and Ron slid one toward Tess, his face unreadable. Tess glanced at it dismissively and then raised it from the table for a better look. Her gasp of shock was all the confirmation he required.
“God, no, Ron. No. This can’t be happening,” Tess whispered, her eyes welling with tears. “It’s got to be a mistake. Someone who looks like her or something.”
“I have a few more shots, Tess, if you’re not sure.”
She shook her head. “No. It can’t be Dakota.”
“Tess…”
He slid another shot toward her, and despite her best efforts to appear resolute, she reached for it with a shaking hand. A soft moan escaped her as she touched the glossy image.
“When did this arrive?” she whispered.
“Today. It’s her, isn’t it?”
Tess nodded, tears streaming down her face. “She’s dead?”
Ron nodded, any words inadequate.
“Why?” she demanded. “Why Dakota? She’s just a child. Harmless…” Tess couldn’t continue and broke down in strangled sobs. Ron leaned toward her and hugged her, trying to offer at least slim comfort, hating that he had to be the one to intrude into her life with unmentionable horror. She cried against his tweed jacket and, after a time, sat back, exhausted, her breathing ragged.
He shook his head. “He’s a sick predator, Tess. And I’ll catch him. I promise you that. But I’m going to need your help.”
“Me? How?”
“I want to ask you about Dakota. I need to learn everything I can about her.”
“Have they found her body?”
“Not yet.”
“Then she could still be alive.”
“No, Tess, she couldn’t.”
“Oh, God. How bad is it, Ron?”
“There’s torture, and then he kills his victims. That’s all I can say.”
“I read in the paper that he decapitates them…”
“I’m not allowed to comment.”
She fixed him with a pained stare. “Why Dakota, Ron? She was a dancer. Never hurt anyone. Her life was just starting…” Tess trailed off and w
as racked by sobs again. Ron had done enough interrogations to know that he needed to give her time, but not enough so that she went into shock and clammed up. After several minutes, he handed her a box of tissues and pointed at the ceiling.
“Tess, we’re going to record this conversation, okay?”
She blotted her eyes and nodded.
“You’ve confirmed that the victim was your cousin Dakota…”
“Dakota Reed. Oh, God, her poor mom. She’s going to go berserk when she hears.”
“Where was Dakota from, Tess?”
“Chicago. She just moved here a few months ago. To dance.”
Ron took her through a series of softball background questions and then steered her to more difficult ones. “Was Dakota involved in anything besides dancing, Tess?”
“What are you talking about? Like what?”
“Did she mention going to clubs at night?”
“Clubs? She wasn’t hanging out at clubs. She had a serious rehearsal and performance schedule.”
“Could she have been involved in anything illegal? Drugs? Prostitution?”
“Are you out of your mind? She was a ballet dancer. Eighteen years old. She wasn’t some stoned hooker.”
“I’m not suggesting she was, Tess. I’m just trying to get a complete picture. Right now I don’t know anything about her other than what you’ve told me, and I’m trying to figure out how the killings are connected.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think Dakota was involved in anything like prostitution, Ron. She was a kid. Green as they come.”
“You mentioned she had a boyfriend.”
“That’s right. Jeremy. Works on Wall Street.” Her eyes narrowed. “You saw him that night, too. You think he has something to do with this?”
“I don’t think anything. I’m just fleshing out who Dakota was. Do you know Jeremy’s last name?”
“No. I spent maybe three minutes talking to him that night. You probably know as much about him as I do.”
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