"Amy, please." Michael reached for her, but she'd already run from the table. "Damn it." He sank back into his chair and raked his hands through his hair.
"It might do her some good to see her mother, Mr. McKinley. I think it's rough on a little girl."
Michael didn't respond. Pulling himself from his chair, he climbed the stairs toward his daughter's room.
Chapter 12
Jordan revved the engine as he raced up the hill to McKinley's house, taking the corners with screeching tires. Her house would mark the first scene where Jordan knew his killer had spent any amount of time—if this was his killer, as Casey claimed. Another Caucasian female, age eleven, had been found in Golden Gate Park last night, wearing a green party hat. The white girl's body had been dumped just like the black girl in the alley. Just like the other ones—not a single witness, not one piece of concrete evidence.
Jordan would know; he'd been at the last scene until nearly three a.m. The rain, which had so kindly held off for the last crime scene, had soaked them, washing away most of the potential evidence and making it impossible to find and collect anything that might have been left, including any hair.
To make matters worse, the girl's body had been left staged under a tree, her thin body naked in the deep grass. Finding evidence was like searching for a pin in a wet haystack. He still had men working in Marin County on the scene of the victim whose body had been burned in what was supposed to look like an accidental fire. But Jordan wasn't expecting any miracles. He was beginning to think this killer might be invisible.
Fatigue dragged Jordan down like ankle weights. He wasn't going to get anywhere on this case if he didn't get some sleep. He accelerated around the last corner and slowed in front of McKinley's house.
An ambulance and two cop cars met him at the scene. He took a quick survey of the people in the area, but no one looked out of place. Still, he knew his man wasn't far.
Casey was standing in the doorway in a bathrobe, waving her hands as she talked to her caregiver. Besides looking tired and scared, the man seemed as frustrated with Casey as Jordan had been yesterday.
Agent McKinley wasn't going to be easy to handle, he knew. But even as he parked, he could see the shift in her expression. Yesterday, he'd seen only anger and frustration. Now he saw something new. He wasn't certain he would call it fear, but it wasn't the same bitterness. Something in her expression had softened.
He jumped out of his car and crossed the street, shifting through the familiar throng of people. Greeting the crime scene investigative team, Jordan stopped at the back of the PG&E van and took a glove from a box on the ground.
Al Ting worked without looking up. Another investigator was air drying the rain from the surface of the van with a cordless hair dryer so they could dust for prints. Jordan figured they had to get lucky some time.
Lifting the black plastic tarp covering the body, he glanced at the electrical worker.
Officer Nancy Skaggs flipped open a notepad and turned dark eyes up to her boss. "PG&E sent the guy out at seven-forty in response to the call."
"Are those normal service hours?"
She shook her head. "They don't normally service until eight-thirty."
He frowned as she continued, "This was listed as an emergency, possible fire danger."
Given the recent history of the Oakland Hills, PG&E wouldn't risk a fire starting because they hadn't opened up shop. "Who called it a fire danger?"
"According to the guy inside the house"—she glanced back at her notepad—"Billy Glass, it wasn't him. PG&E has a record of two calls. One at seven twenty-two a.m. that came in as an emergency call because their offices weren't open. The service agent told Mr. Glass that they would send someone out during normal business hours.
"PG&E then received a second phone call twelve minutes later at seven thirty-four, again from a male, who stated he was concerned the outage might be a fire danger. Their man then left the center at seven-forty. When he arrived, it looks like someone was waiting for him."
His killer. "PG&E tape the call?"
"No such luck."
Jordan exhaled. Damn. "You check for bugs in the house?"
"There's one on the main phone line into the house; it's out back." Nancy pointed to the side of the house.
"Since when?"
Her expression tightened. "We put a call into Arnie with tech to confirm, but according to Winslow's best guess, it's been there a while."
Jordan tensed his jaw. Had the killer been watching Casey? His first visit to the house flashed through his mind. Surely the killer had known why Jordan had come. Was that what prompted him to break into Casey's home? Was he frustrated by Jordan's appearance on his turf? If anything had happened to Casey, the blame would fall on Jordan's shoulders.
He remembered the gardener he had seen that day and ground his teeth. Something had seemed off. Had that been his man? Had the killer been standing only feet from him, laughing as Jordan wrote down the license plate number? Clenching his fists, Jordan made a mental note to pursue the license plate number he'd seen.
"Oh, Winslow also said he thought it looked like fed equipment."
"FBI?"
Nancy shrugged.
He'd heard that something had gone wrong with the surveillance equipment in Cincinnati the night Casey was attacked. It was the reason Casey had suffered at the killer's hand without anyone realizing. Had the killer disabled the system and kept pieces to use here? He tightened his jaw. Or was the Bureau still keeping tabs on her?
Jordan focused on Nancy. "Check the inside phones, too. He might've bugged something while he was in there. Don't remove anything. And keep it quiet. Has anyone removed the outside tap?"
Nancy shook her head. "Winslow only got close enough to look."
If the bug had an outside microphone, the killer would have heard them talking. "He wasn't alone, right?"
She shook her head. "Lumley was with him."
"Remove that bug. Whoever planted it knows we've found it. Get it to the lab. Maybe we can figure out where it was made and track it that way."
Nancy nodded and made notes.
"But I want Winslow checking inside, and no one says a word while he's doing it. Don't touch anything that's in place. I want a thorough check of the house—inside and out for anything that looks off."
If Jordan got McKinley to help him, he was going to have to warn his officers to tread carefully. Police didn't like to be told where they could and couldn't go. And he was quickly learning the same was true of Casey.
"Boss," Nancy said, dragging him from his thoughts. "There's more."
He nodded.
"The electricity cable in back's been cut."
"Has anyone talked to either of the residents?"
"The caregiver, Glass, is pretty shaken. That woman McKinley is a piece of work. She wouldn't talk to anyone until you got here. What's up her ass, anyway?"
Jordan shot her a hard stare. "I believe our same killer used a small tool to break all the bones in her hands when he attacked her."
Nancy whistled as Jordan moved past her toward the house. "I'd be bitchy, too."
"Damn straight," Jordan agreed.
Winslow stood, notepad open, trying to obtain a straight answer as Jordan approached the porch where they stood. Casey appeared to be blocking entrance into the house. A third officer, Lumley, stood behind him, trying to keep everyone calm. From what Jordan could see, he was barely successful.
"Ms. McKinley," Winslow pressed. "I'm going to need to ask these questions."
"I'll handle this, Winslow," Jordan interrupted.
Winslow nodded to the inspector and backed up, mumbling under his breath as he headed back to the street.
Casey frowned. "I told them I didn't want anyone in here until you arrived," she blurted before he could speak. "You'd think they were deaf."
"We need to let these guys check for wires inside," Jordan said. "Let's go out to my car to talk. You come, too, Billy."
&n
bsp; Casey folded her arms and nodded, following Jordan toward the street.
As he passed, one of the cops rolled his eyes at Jordan and he nodded, motioning the man into the house.
"She's pretty shaken," Billy whispered as he followed Jordan.
Jordan nodded. "Sounds like she has good reason."
"That piece of fabric scared her," he said.
"Where's the fabric?"
"Inside on the floor beside the couch."
"I'll be right back," Jordan said, jogging back inside. He spotted the fabric on the floor and stooped to study it. The triangular-shaped piece of pink fabric was shiny like satin, the edges frayed as though it had been cut from a larger garment. Using his pen, Jordan turned the fabric over without touching it. Frowning, he read the black block letters that spelled out, "Gray needs your help, Mac. Come out and play." He looked up at Lumley. "Bag this, will you?"
Lumley pulled out a plastic bag and his tweezers, and lifted the fabric from the floor.
When Jordan got back outside, Casey and Billy were standing beside his car.
"Did you see it?" Billy asked.
Jordan nodded.
"I still don't understand where it came from, but she won't talk to me."
Casey rubbed her hands over her arms.
"Anyone touch it?"
Billy nodded. "I did. Does it mean anything to you, Inspector?"
"I imagine Agent McKinley recognizes the fabric," Jordan said without looking at Casey. He knew the fabric's presence was gnawing at her. Eventually she would tell them what it was. Speculating might draw her answers more quickly. "Maybe it was missing from evidence she saw in a previous case." Jordan spoke slowly, projecting his voice so Casey couldn't ignore him.
"Stop talking about me as though I'm not here," she snapped. Then she sat down on the runner of his car and hid her hands in her face. She looked exhausted, almost as though she'd been physically beaten. "Damn, I hate this guy."
"Can I do something? Make some coffee or something?" Billy offered.
Jordan nodded. "Thanks. That would be great."
"Me, too, Billy."
Billy looked at her and hesitated.
Casey took the opportunity to pounce. "Jesus Christ, Billy, I was almost killed. I want some damn coffee, okay?"
"Agent McKinley." Jordan put his hand up to stop her then turned back to Billy, his gaze encouraging him to go. "Billy, thank you for the coffee."
Billy took off toward the house.
Jordan looked back at Casey. "You always let your temper go like this? In your lecture series, you told us how important it was to keep cool, not to show frustration at a case or a killer. 'That's what he wants,' you said." He wished he could rein her in. Jordan needed Casey, but he also needed a steady, calm thinker, not the emotional remains of a great agent.
Casey put her head down again. "I'm not an agent anymore, remember? I'm just a victim."
Jordan heard her stumble on the word "victim." Inside, he knew she was struggling with her own label. "You don't have to be," he said, hoping she would muster enough fight to want this guy as badly as he did.
She glanced at her hands. "Yes, I do."
Jordan sat beside her on the runner. "You can fight him. You can help me get him. No one wants him as much as I do—no one but you."
She looked up, and he could see pain well in her eyes. Anyone else would have suspected Agent McKinley was going to cry, but he had already learned better. This woman was not a crier.
"I knew this could happen, that he might come after me."
"You think it's the same guy?"
"I know it's him."
Jordan nodded, wanting to move past what had already happened. The way this killer was working, they could have another victim by nightfall. "I'll have to talk to the captain. If you're right, this case is in the Bureau's jurisdiction. If not, then at least now we know who we're dealing with. He'll make a mistake eventually."
She kept her eyes to the floor. "Normally I would agree, Inspector. But I know this guy."
"So you can share what you learned."
She shook her head. "I'll tell you what I learned. I learned you'd better pray he makes a mistake before you do." She lifted her hands and then dropped them back into her lap.
Jordan could only imagine what terror Casey had gone through at the killer's hands before her partner had rescued her. He had heard victims tell the tales of their attacks, of the torture. He heard the ones who said they just wished they were dead. Months, even years after an attack, the victim couldn't shake the horror. The point of no return had passed. People who had never tasted such pain and fear thought the victims should be feel lucky to be alive. But the glimpse Jordan had into Agent McKinley's eyes painted a different picture.
As though reading his thoughts, Casey straightened her back and smoothed her hair with rounded fists. Despite his curiosity, he didn't allow his gaze to rest on the killer's damage. He had asked Renee to find out from her contact with the FBI what had happened with Casey's last case, and he had read the police file. He had learned that the killer had severed tendons in both Casey's hands—eighteen places in the right, eleven in the left. And he'd painstakingly broken nearly a dozen bones in each hand. After that, he had turned his attention to her right knee where he severed another six tendons and ligaments before Casey's partner heard suspicious sounds and interrupted the killer.
When the doctor got to her, Casey couldn't feel or move either hand. Eventually Jordan would want to hear her story, in all its agonizing detail, but it wasn't hard to understand why she didn't want to talk about it.
Right now, though, he needed Casey to trust him. He would need Casey's help to solve the case. No one knew this guy better than she did—if it was her killer.
Billy appeared and brought them coffee. He seemed thinner and frailer than he had the other day. His skin was peaked, almost blue in hue, as though the fear had cast the new color to permanence in his cheeks.
He set the cups on the ground in front of them and stood, awkward as a servant, waiting to be dismissed.
"Sit down," Casey commanded him, her voice softer, though it still held complete authority.
Billy appeared in no state to argue. He sat on the far side of Casey along the runner, and she moved to him, putting her arm around him protectively. "Drink it."
"It's caffeinated. With sugar," he said, his voice stony and distant.
"It'll be good for you," she told him.
She helped him lift the cup to his lips, and he took a short sip. Taking the cup from his hands, she balanced it precariously in her fists and returned it to the ground. Both arms around Billy, she whispered things Jordan couldn't hear. But the tone reminded him of the way Angie whispered to their younger son, Ryan, when he was afraid of the dark.
She turned back to Jordan and regarded him as a protective mother would a bully child. "What do you need to do?"
Jordan sat forward. "You know the drill. I want to bring some men in to dust. Then I'll need complete statements from both of you. And I've got a composite artist downtown."
"He'll have changed his appearance twenty times in the last three days," she countered.
"He can only change so much."
She glanced at the ground and nodded. "It won't help."
"I have to give it a try. Will you come down and talk to the police artist?"
She shook her head.
He slapped his leg. "Damn it, Casey. Help me."
Her eyes narrowed, she spoke calmly. "I'll do whatever I can, Inspector. But I never saw him."
"He was in your house."
She nodded and stroked Billy's hair. "Billy answered the door."
"Where were you?"
An involuntary shudder seemed to sting her. "In the shower," she responded. Then, as though shaking off whatever sensation had bothered her, she sat erect, her hand held in Billy's. To Jordan, it wasn't entirely clear who was comforting whom.
"I will come to the station to look at the case files
if you like," Casey agreed. "But I would prefer you send the sketch artist here."
Jordan didn't argue. "You want to tell me about the fabric?"
Casey closed her eyes, and when she reopened them, they were more focused, harder. "Billy, would you leave us for a few minutes?"
Without a word, Billy stood up and headed for the house.
Casey settled into her spot.
Jordan respected the change he witnessed. FBI Agent McKinley was resurfacing.
She met his gaze, her hands together on her lap as she began. "The fabric was cut from a pair of underwear—a prostitute's. In October '98, Cincinnati saw the beginning of a spree of murders. The first three were all in Butler County on the east side of town. The next one was in Boone County.
"If you're familiar with the geography, Cincinnati is on the border of Kentucky and Ohio. Boone County is actually in Kentucky. The first three victims were a prostitute, a stripper, and a convenience store worker, all killed in Butler County. Then, a waitress was attacked heading to work one night. It happened between eight-fifteen and eight-thirty, so it was barely dark.
"Her body was found tied to a fence, arms raised like a puppet's. She, like the others, had been sodomized, this one with an umbrella the killer had found in her car. Her breasts had been removed with a serrated knife, one stuffed in her mouth, the other placed on her head like a hat."
Jordan made mental notes of the things that reminded him of his own case—the use of a hat, the fact that the body had been tied to a fence. So far, they were hardly enough to take to the bank let alone to the captain. Sealing his lips, he hoped she had more to offer.
"But we'd seen this sort of thing before. Typical disorganized: uses weapons from the scene—the umbrella, the stripper was tied with a bungee cord that came from her car, jumper cables left attached to her labia for shock value—" She shook her head. "Pardon the pun."
Jordan raised an eyebrow, amazed to see the fervor with which Casey spoke about her job.
She glanced up at him, her gaze surprisingly clinical. "But there was a whole other side to the crimes that suggested a much more organized offender. Each of the victims had suffered crude exploratory surgery. When he attacked the waitress, he dissected her face—she was an aspiring model. The prostitute, he dissected her genitalia. The convenience store worker was also a runner. When we found her, he had cut all the way to the bone on her legs, slicing away the skin, tendons, and muscles, all pre-mortem. In the final case, the offender even restitched a wound. And according to the M.E. on the case, the stitches looked professional."
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