Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  Casey met his eyes for the first time, her strong clinical manner slipping away. "All the injuries appeared to be pre-mortem."

  "He made the dissection specific to the victim?"

  Casey nodded.

  Jordan exhaled. He remembered the kid with braces who had her mouth cut up. The little girl with the ballerina slippers had her feet operated on. Damn, it was the same killer. He could sense it. "The surgery sounds like my cases, too."

  She nodded and stood, pacing a small circle. He noticed the slight limp in her right leg despite her attempt to hide it. He knew that it, too, had been the killer's work. "It's the same guy all right. Thinks he's da Vinci."

  "Da Vinci?"

  "Leonardo da Vinci."

  "I know who he is."

  "Da Vinci dissected bodies as a way of understanding the human body for his work."

  "Dead bodies, I assume."

  She nodded. "This guy thinks he's creating art by carving up live ones. He thrills in it. He compared himself to da Vinci that night." She shuddered.

  Jordan stood. "I'll get someone posted to you fulltime."

  Without looking at him, she shook her head. "If he wanted me dead, I'd be six feet under by now."

  "If this is the same killer, it's Bureau jurisdiction," Jordan said.

  "There's no way to confirm it's the same killer. I can tell you I think it is, but you're not going to sell the story far. Most killers don't progress from killing prostitutes and strippers to killing kids. The M.O. is all wrong."

  "But you think it's the same killer?"

  "I do."

  "Then, why the change from adults to children?"

  Casey shook her head. "Leonardo's got a game plan. Somehow kids are his focus now. He's got something in mind—the signature is there, the M.O. is the same, but the victims are different."

  Jordan contemplated his options.

  "I also want to warn you that if you bring in the Bureau, you risk scaring him off. And that means he shows up ten months from now, living across the street from my next house." She shook her head. "He's here for me. He got what he wanted."

  "What do you mean 'what he wanted'?"

  She looked up at him, her green eyes dark and fierce. "He wanted me back in the game. And he got it."

  Chapter 13

  Casey watched the water as Jordan drove them across the Bay Bridge toward San Francisco. Fog covered the tops of the distant buildings like thick cotton. Still, in the water, Casey could make out scattered sailboats and an occasional ferry. The ridges on the bridge's surface ticked a steady beat under the tires as she ticked off items on a long list of things she could no longer do—swim, sail, windsurf.

  Not that she'd ever windsurfed, but she might have, someday. Instead, now she was confined to doing things that required less than five pounds of pressure. And that was with her strong hand.

  "You seem nervous."

  Casey shook her head. "I'm okay."

  Jordan shrugged, and Casey turned away from him. Drive, her list continued, although she might possibly add that back to the list someday. Play tennis, ride a bike, eat at a fancy restaurant, hold a wineglass with two fingers.

  "It's not as bad as you think," Jordan said without looking over.

  "What?"

  "Your hands. You seem to be working around it pretty well."

  Casey crossed her arms, shoving her hands out of sight, wishing she didn't feel so damn uncomfortable, wishing she could forget about them. "Working around what?"

  "Your dis—" Jordan stopped himself.

  "My disability. I'm disabled. Was that what you were going to say?"

  Jordan sighed. "I was, but it wasn't what I meant. I told you it wasn't noticeable."

  "Right, people just overlook it—just like people don't notice you're black."

  Jordan met her gaze, his eyes hard. "You got a problem with black people?"

  Casey shook her head. "No. I'm stating the obvious, Inspector. Saying people don't notice my hands is like saying that our society is color blind, that it's even a possible notion. Well, it's not. Especially not in law enforcement. It's opened its doors to women and minorities, but you don't see crippled FBI agents. That's what I'm saying."

  "Are you saying I got my job because I'm black?" His tone was tight.

  Casey shook her head and let out a frustrated laugh. "Jesus, you think like a man. This isn't about you, Inspector. I was using race as an example. I don't know anything about you or how you got your job. All I'm saying is that you have one, and I don't."

  "And you think you don't have a job because of your hands?"

  "Now you're getting it."

  Jordan shook his head. "That's a lousy excuse."

  Casey felt her mouth drop. "Excuse me?"

  His stare met hers. "I said, that's a lousy—"

  "I heard what you said. You think I wouldn't still be at my job if the Bureau would have me?" The words came out before she realized what they meant. The Bureau hadn't fired her. She'd quit.

  "I think you left because you were scared. You have a right to be. Shit, I'd be scared, too."

  Casey raised her hand. "I don't want to talk about this. I'm going to solve this damned case or die trying. I'm not here to confide my problems, and I'm certainly not here for your advice."

  Jordan's jaw tightened.

  She paused and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. It's the sympathy routine—I can't stand it." She turned to face the water as her thoughts swept to her resignation from the Bureau. She could work in a different department, her special agent in charge had told her. There was the technical support squad, but she didn't want to sit in front of a computer all day. Of course, she also could no longer type.

  Administration was another possibility that she wouldn't like. Then her special agent in charge suggested she could investigate issues for the Office of Professional Responsibility. It was like suggesting she police her own fellow agents. She had told her SAC to fuck himself.

  Criminal profiling was what she'd done, what she'd wanted. Eventually, her SAC told her he thought she could go back to profiling. He wanted her to have time to adjust, to overcome the psychological trauma. Bullshit excuses, every one of them.

  The psychologists reported her anger and aggression, her refusal to discuss the attack. As if she was going to tell her story to some shrink. She wasn't some weakling that needed to be coaxed and coddled. And all the sympathy had driven her nuts—the cards, the flowers from the agents and their wives. Her partner was walking around like a fucking hero for saving her, and she was a victim. She balled her fists and held herself from spitting.

  She wasn't going to be the victim again. Turning toward Jordan, she said, "In return for helping you on this case, I need a favor."

  One eyebrow raised, Jordan glanced over at her. "What kind of favor?"

  "Three actually."

  "Three favors?"

  "I want a boxing coach. I don't expect you to pay for him, but I want you to find me one. And not some sissy. I want someone who works with cops."

  Jordan didn't respond.

  "Next, I want access to the precinct's target range."

  Again, no response.

  "And finally, I want in on every detail of this case. If you hear a rumor about where our guy took a shit, I want it. It's all or nothing."

  "That's a pretty heavy list."

  She shrugged. "Take it or leave it."

  "You ever boxed before?"

  She nodded.

  "I know someone."

  Anxious energy had stewed inside too long. Suddenly, it was like a dam bursting. "I'd like to start tomorrow."

  Jordan let out a long, low whistle. "All right, then."

  * * *

  The San Francisco Hall of Justice on Bryant Street was a typical fifties-style building—a mammoth square box painted industrial white. It reminded Casey of the FBI headquarters in D.C. Only in D.C., a small courtyard honoring J. Edgar Hoover stood to mask the building's dull, boxlike stru
cture.

  Sticking out like a strange growth on the far end of the building was a new structure that looked like a space station. Casey read the sign on the glass as they passed—San Francisco Sheriff's Department.

  Jordan pulled into the parking lot across from the one filled with little meter maid carts and found a spot.

  "As far as anyone here knows, you're a witness in this case, not a participant in the task force. The captain strictly said no FBI. He's not going to be happy if he finds out I ignored his order."

  "I'm not with the FBI."

  He nodded. "It won't matter to him. You were, and so you are. I'll make sure you see everything you need, but for the most part, your presence is going to be explained by the fact that you got a look at this guy. And maybe you offered to help—doing your civic duty or something. Got it?"

  Casey nodded. She didn't need recognition. This case had gone way beyond pumping her ego. She just wanted this guy put away—blown away would be even better.

  The inside of the precinct belied its dowdy exterior. Walls were decorated with pictures of chiefs from as early as the 1890s. The light linoleum floors were kept carefully cleaned, the walls painted white. Beyond the front desk, Casey could see a series of long corridors leading back to the inner offices. Signs pointed to the records office downstairs, the bailiff down to the right, and holding cells to the left. Jordan led her past the bailiff and through a door marked "Inspector Division."

  "My office is back this way. I'll introduce you to a few key people before we take a look at the task force setup."

  Casey nodded, taking in the smells of dust and sweat and gunpowder so reminiscent of her first days at the Bureau's New York field office. No one wanted to be located in New York—the cost of living was the highest, they had the most crime, and it was known for being all attitude.

  Besides the cost of living, the reasons others avoided New York were the exact ones why Casey had wanted to go. She was intrigued with the criminal mind. With Michael at Yale law school, it had been easy to work from the New York field office while she was finishing up her masters in criminology.

  After her transfer to Quantico, Casey still made it a point to get to New York for one reason or another every few months, to keep in contact with the agents and cases there. She slowly returned her focus to the room in front of her.

  Jordan opened a door and let her pass.

  Inside a small outer office, an older black woman sat at a desk, nodding at someone on the phone. She glanced up and saw Casey, her brow raised as she did a quick once-over and then looked to Jordan.

  "Absolutely, Marian," she said into the receiver. "I'll let him know. I expect him back any time." The woman hung up the phone and stood.

  "Renee, this is Casey McKinley."

  Renee nodded, and the recognition in her eyes made it clear that Renee knew exactly who Casey was.

  "Casey, Renee Goodard—my right hand." Jordan's voice cracked as he finished his sentence, and Casey tucked her hands under her arms.

  "Nice to meet you, Casey," Renee said.

  Casey nodded, watching as Jordan mumbled something to himself under his breath.

  He gathered materials and spoke to Renee about who had called and for what. All the familiar counterparts from when Casey was in the Bureau came back to her—discussions and negotiations with district attorneys, officers, medical examiners, lab technicians, and crime scene analysts.

  Casey paced a small circle in the office, feeling the constant weight of Renee's gaze on her shoulders.

  Amazed at her own behavior, Casey sensed the spark of excitement renewed. Sitting still, sleeping through the days, the draw of fiction—had all begun to lose their appeal the moment Jordan had shown up at her door two days ago.

  More honestly, it had probably begun even sooner than that. Whether she had sensed Leonardo's presence or merely finally surfaced from her emotional coma, Casey wanted back in. And she wanted in now. There were all sorts of records to review—autopsies, videotapes, crime scene notes, lab results.

  "You ready to see the task force setup?"

  Eager, Casey followed Jordan out of the office again. Though her knee was stiff from so much activity, Jordan's steady pace suddenly felt sluggish.

  Rounding the corner, Casey knew they were getting close. Phones rang in the distance. The steady clicking of fingers typing underscored the hum of voices. One of the fluorescent lights overhead flicked off and on in a steady stream of flashes, giving the hallway the sensation of a governmental discotheque.

  Halfway down the corridor Jordan stopped at an open doorway, and Casey peered in. Twelve desks, each equipped with an officer, phone, and computer had been set up to man the tips line. The desks were lined in three rows of four facing the front. Casey watched as the officers spoke to callers. It appeared the calls were steady for the moment. Good news, she hoped.

  The FBI didn't have much experience in tips lines. Since the creation of the TV show, America's Most Wanted, though, they had learned the value of showing the viewing public pictures of fugitives.

  At the front of the room, an additional desk, like the teacher's in a classroom, faced the other desks. A petite East Indian woman made notes on the white board that covered the front wall.

  Using red, black, blue, and brown—all colors Casey thought appropriate for the dead—the woman had created a column for each of the victims. Each list included cause of death, location taken, location discovered, age, race, and evidence found at the scene.

  Above each was a blown-up picture of the child. Casey moved across the room and studied the pictures, taking in a case as she always did. The last thing she wanted to hear was what anyone else thought the answer was.

  Start with the facts. From those, she would draw her own conclusions. Then, if they agreed with someone else's, they would probably be on the right track. More likely, the results wouldn't match. Casey preferred it this way. It would force her to test her own logic against someone else's.

  The pictures surprised her, but she knew this killer would be unusual. Two blond girls, a brunette, and a black girl, not the usual serial killer resume. Most serial offenders chose their victims in a consistent way. Disorganized killers preyed on victims in secluded areas at night or in locations without witnesses—the wrong place, wrong time methodology.

  From what Casey had heard, none of these kids had been left alone in a secluded area. They had been taken from crowded places, which meant they were dealing with an organized killer. If this was Leonardo, then he was choosing his victims as an organized offender. He selected them for a specific reason—to fulfill a particular fantasy, ones who lived or attended school in a certain area, or fit a certain description. She wondered what the police knew about these kids.

  "Casey, I'd like you to meet Monica Pradahn."

  Casey turned to the woman she had seen at the front of the room.

  Monica outstretched her hand, and Casey looked down at her own fingers. This was the reason she had avoided people. Why did she belong to a society that insisted upon the handshake? Why not bow like in Japan?

  Instead of seeming awkward, though, Monica took Casey's hand in both of hers and slipped her tiny fingers into Casey's. "It's wonderful to meet you, Agent McKinley. I read the book you wrote on profiling and was quite impressed."

  Blinking, Casey stared. The book she'd written had hardly been a best-seller. It had gone to a group of trainees in the Bureau's Investigative Support Unit. Almost no one else had even heard about it.

  "I didn't realize you'd written a book," Jordan said.

  Monica smiled. "After hearing her lecture last year, I called Quantico to see if they had more information on profiling. The public-relations person I spoke to told me Agent McKinley had a book out."

  Casey shrugged. "It was a pamphlet more than a book."

  Monica shook her head. "It was very powerful. I hope you know how glad we are to have you here."

  Jordan nodded. "Why don't we take a look at the press co
nference first, and then we'll go from there."

  "I'd prefer we didn't."

  Monica and Jordan exchanged looks.

  "It's important not to let anything or anyone plant ideas in my head before I've seen the evidence. If you want my help, I need to work this like any other profiling case."

  Jordan nodded.

  "I start with the crime scene reports. Then the autopsy. Did you video the scenes?"

  "Stills, too."

  "Good. I'll take everything you have." Casey looked around. "Do you have a room I can use to study?"

  "There's a small conference room through here," Monica suggested.

  The three of them moved into a small room without windows. The floor was carpeted with thin slate-blue carpet—too gray to be blue, too blue to be gray. In Bureau terms, it was effectively noncommittal.

  Only a small table and three chairs occupied the room. A rectangular mirror covered a third of one wall of the room, giving people on the far side the ability to listen and see what was happening when someone was being interrogated. As she passed, she noticed the small closet-like viewing room was empty. To give them some space to work, Casey moved into the interrogation room and chose the seat farthest from the mirror.

  She was used to FBI interrogation rooms with high-tech recording equipment—sophisticated cameras, which caught even the smallest change in a suspect's expression, recording devices that measured the subtle changes in voice. Tapes that would be studied later to try to determine whether a suspect was lying.

  "I'll take the photos first, if you have them."

  Jordan handed Casey a stack of files.

  She laid the files across the table and opened the first one. What she saw reminded her instantly of Leonardo. A young black girl's face was wrapped in gauze, her puffy cheeks indicative of some sort of ritual pre-mortem surgery.