“Maybe he was interrupted.”
“None of the girls had torn clothing or any indication that they fought off an attack.”
“How do you know that?”
“It was all up on the board in the office.”
“I didn’t catch that.”
“It helps that I’m used to reading police reports.”
“Well,” Sean said, playing devil’s advocate, “Wade knew the victims. They may not have thought they were in danger.”
“But why? Maybe that’s what’s messing me up. They all had sex with him, at least online—”
“Maybe they were fine when it was online, but not when it was physical, and he snapped.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cut you off.”
“It’s okay. I’m just thinking out loud. You need to go and meet Trey. I’m calling Hans, and maybe he’ll see where my thinking is wrong.”
Sean stepped forward and kissed her. “Lucy, don’t assume that you’re wrong.”
“I don’t know what I think, but Suzanne is now positive Wade is guilty.” Yesterday, Lucy was as well. But the more she thought about the method of murder, the more she felt that she’d jumped to a faulty conclusion.
“I thought he was innocent until proven guilty?”
“That’s the courts. Cops don’t arrest you unless they believe you’re guilty. She’s probably right.”
Sean kissed her again. “Trust your instincts, Lucy. Talk to Hans. Tell him I said hi. I’ll let you know what I learn from the guy who found Kirsten’s phone.”
Lucy called Hans, but it went to voice mail. She and Sean had gone to the hotel’s gym first thing in the morning, so she couldn’t run again. She didn’t want to be in the hotel all day. Maybe she should have gone with Sean.
But something was bothering her about the murders.
“This isn’t your case,” she mumbled to herself. And Suzanne Madeaux seemed to be sharp. Lucy liked her; Suzanne reminded her of her sister-in-law Kate. Straightforward, confident, smart. Maybe a little rough around the edges, like a tomboy who hadn’t accepted that she’d grown into an attractive woman. When Suzanne had called earlier, she’d invited Lucy and Sean out for dinner to celebrate Wade Barnett’s arrest. And maybe they would go, but Lucy didn’t feel right celebrating anything while Kirsten was still missing. Or while she had doubts.
Her cell phone rang, and she saw that it was a private 202 number. “Hello,” she answered.
“Lucy, it’s Hans Vigo.”
“Thanks for calling me back so quickly.”
“Of course. What can I do for you?”
“I’m in New York with Sean—”
“Noah clued me in on the runaway you’re looking for.”
“Good.” She thought it was odd that Hans and Noah were talking about the case—they didn’t even work in the same office—but she didn’t say anything. And now that she was talking to Hans, she didn’t know exactly how to bring up her concerns. “There’s a related investigation, the Cinderella Strangler who suffocated four young women, and I suggested that the agent in charge of the case contact you directly for a profile.”
“Of course, but the BSU staff is more than capable. I vouch for all of them.” Hans had been one of the early agents involved with the Behavioral Science Unit.
“Well, I don’t know anyone else but you,” Lucy said. “Sorry, I know you’re really busy.”
“There had to be a reason you thought of me. What is it?”
“It’s probably not even important anymore. Agent Madeaux arrested a suspect this morning and already got a search warrant.”
“Yet you called.”
Lucy sat at the hotel-room desk and stared at her notes from the past week without really seeing them. She felt like an idiot. What was she doing second-guessing a smart, seasoned agent like Suzanne? Wade Barnett had lied to the police about knowing those women. Someone had taken down the Party Girl site—and according to Suzanne, they’d spoken with Barnett Thursday morning. Sean said it would take at least twenty-four hours if Barnett wasn’t serving the site himself. “Never mind.”
“It’s always good to hear from you, Lucy.”
He was going to hang up. She blurted out, “Sean told me he talked to you about my application. I haven’t told my family.”
Hans said, “Neither have I, Lucy.”
“I would never have asked you to look into it. I know why I failed.”
“You do?”
“You told Sean I might be too controversial. I don’t think that’s it. I think—” She hesitated, then said, “I wanted it too much.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been thinking about this since I got the letter. One of the questions they asked was why I hadn’t settled on a career. I knew that the FBI had become a place for second careers—so few people are recruited out of college anymore, unless they have a special skill. But I said that I had always wanted to work in the Bureau, that everything I did was self-training—working in the morgue, working for the sheriff’s department. But the female panelist commented that I didn’t have a passion for anything.”
Lucy continued, her words tumbling out. “I kept talking because I was worried that they thought I was too cold or hardened or something. I rambled about my passions—for stopping sexual predators and working in cybercrime and everything I wanted to do to protect the innocent, and I said too much. Either they thought I was playing them, or that I was radical.”
“Lucy, don’t overanalyze—”
She interrupted, “The rest of the interview went so smoothly! Nothing stood out. Except—if it wasn’t wanting it so badly that I panicked, then it’s only because of one other thing.”
“Adam Scott.”
She said, “I killed an unarmed man.”
“There were extenuating circumstances.”
“I shot him six times. And I would do it again. And those two facts are in my record, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.”
Hans didn’t say anything.
Lucy said, “I wouldn’t blame anyone for thinking I could end up just like Fran Buckley.”
Fran, a retired FBI agent, had been her mentor at WCF, the victim’s rights advocacy group Lucy had volunteered with for three years. But Fran’s illegal activities had shut WCF down and caused the FBI untold problems from which Lucy was certain they were still reeling.
“The Bureau likes to believe they always make the right hiring decisions,” Hans said. “But in any business, government or private, there are always rotten eggs. I had one who worked for me and I didn’t see how psychopathic she was. No one did, until she shot her partner and left her for dead.
“You may be right,” Hans continued, “on either theory. I don’t know. I told Sean I would discreetly look into your application, but if you want me to pull back, I will. Whatever you want me to do, I hope you’ll still appeal the decision.”
“I haven’t decided. I wasn’t going to, but—”
“You still want it.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to fight for it. But you’re more than capable.”
“Thank you.”
“Now what did you really call me about?”
Lucy said, “It’s how these girls were killed. The killer either didn’t have sex with the victims or it was consensual. The last victim hadn’t had sex recently. No sign of physical trauma, no defensive wounds on any of the victims, and they were all suffocated with some sort of plastic bags—which were then removed and taken by the killer. Their bodies weren’t moved after they died—the killer suffocated and dropped them right there. No postmortem abuse, either. The killer took one shoe—hence the moniker ‘Cinderella Strangler.’ ”
“Did the killer tie the bag around the victim, or hold it in place?”
Lucy thought back to the autopsy report she’d read. “There were no ligature marks or anything to indicate rope or tape was used to hold the plastic in place. There was
some bruising, but not in a strangulation pattern. I didn’t see photos of bruising, but the coroner wrote ‘inconsistent with strangulation.’ ”
“Bruises likely left from how the killer held the bag.”
“The victims weren’t restrained, but they were drugged. And because they were all at raves, the drugs were most likely taken voluntarily by the victims. All the victims left the party and no one has come forward to say they saw anyone in duress. There aren’t a lot of witnesses—though my missing teenager may have seen something when the last victim was killed. She wrote something to that effect in a convoluted message she sent her ex-boyfriend.”
“But you said the FBI made an arrest?”
“Yes. Wade Barnett. I haven’t met him, and maybe if I do these doubts won’t linger—”
“They had good cause to arrest him?”
“He lied about knowing the victims; he lied about having a physical or online sexual relationship with the victims. He then admitted it, but of course denies killing them.”
“It sounds like sex was consensual?”
“Yes, it appears so. Of course there are many cases where a killer has a relationship and, in anger or because the victim cuts it off, he stalks or kills her. But four times? And then there’s the method. This killer is cold. He or she puts plastic over the heads of their victims, who are so drugged they hardly fight back, and then waits. Five to seven minutes before the victim is dead. That’s a long time to watch someone die. More than that—there are no premortem injuries consistent with the victims being on the ground while they were dying. I was looking for cuts from glass or rocks that might have indicated the victim fighting from a prone position. But if the killer didn’t use a rope to tie the bag—”
“He used his hands.”
“Right. To hold the bag in place.”
“Which suggests that the victims were upright and the killer held them while they died. That’s a very intimate way to kill.”
“That’s what I said!” Lucy exclaimed, excited that Hans saw the crime the same way she did.
“Which could in its own way be a sexual murder, even if the killer didn’t attempt intercourse.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“Did you realize what you said before?”
“That I didn’t think about it as a sexual crime?”
“No. You said he or she in reference to the killer.”
“I didn’t notice. Considering the victim profiles and the intimate aspect of the crimes, of course the killer would be male.”
“I think I know what has been bothering you about the murders,” Hans said. “It’s that the victims were suffocated. Suffocation is traditionally a more feminine method of murder. Along with poisoning, it is more common among female killers than male killers.”
“Wade Barnett is a good suspect,” Lucy said, weighing Hans’s comments. She hadn’t considered a female killer; why was that? But the manner of death had caught her attention and wouldn’t let go.
“Is there any physical evidence connecting him to the murders?”
“Not that I know about. But the investigation isn’t over. The FBI has a search warrant, and lying about knowing the victims is a big red flag.”
“People lie for many different reasons.”
Lucy asked, “Do you really think that a woman could hold someone for the seven minutes it takes for them to die? Then coldly remove the bag, drop the body to the ground, remove one shoe, and walk away?”
“Yes,” Hans said without hesitation. “Female killers can be just as cold-blooded and merciless as their male counterparts. Was there any bruising on the torso?”
“I don’t know. I only saw the one autopsy report.”
“If you consider that the victims were, in a sense, poisoned with drugs—even if they took the drugs willingly—which made them compliant, then were suffocated, without any sexual component, that makes it even more likely to be a female killer. I wouldn’t rule out the current suspect, of course, but I’d hesitate to bring the case to the U.S. Attorney without solid physical evidence tying him to the murders.”
“Suzanne Madeaux is a smart agent,” Lucy said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But it’s been on your mind. I’m glad you called. How long are you staying in New York?”
“I don’t know. Sean said until we find Kirsten. And maybe when we do, she’ll be the eyewitness we need to indict Wade Barnett.”
Or point them in a completely different direction.
TWENTY
Suzanne and Vic Panetta split the search warrant—she took Barnett’s residence, Panetta took his office.
Barnett lived in a secured high-rise in the upper nineties off Central Park West. The tall building with views of Central Park from the higher floors was bordered by older four-story town houses, some single residences and some converted into apartments. Suzanne preferred her flat on the Lower East Side to the opulence of Barnett’s apartment building, but she admitted that she coveted one of the brownstones.
Not in the cards on a government salary.
She flashed her badge and warrant to the doorman, who rang the manager on duty. Ten minutes later, she was let into Barnett’s nineteenth-floor five-room apartment.
It was a larger version of his office. Cool gray carpeting; white leather furniture; lots of steel and glass. Yankees posters—framed and signed; an eclectic version of art on the walls from realistic charcoal drawings to flashy, bright paintings that didn’t appear to be anything specific. But the framed artwork that caught Suzanne’s eye were photographs of abandoned warehouses. She recognized the printing supply house where Jessica Bell had been killed.
“Where do you want us to start?” asked Andie Swann, from the Evidence Response Team.
“Photograph everything, then dedicate someone to the computer and any electronics. Our warrant covers everything in his apartment and any storage, in addition to his car. And can you also get someone to pull down those photographs?”
“Of the buildings?”
“Yes. I want to know who took them and when and ID every site.” She didn’t immediately see photographs of the first three crime scenes, but that didn’t mean they weren’t around.
She turned to the manager. “Does Mr. Barnett have a vehicle stored on the property? Any storage unit?”
“We have an underground garage where he has a slot, number 103. We have storage units, but he doesn’t rent one.”
She said to Andie, “Send someone down to the garage to check on the status of the car and arrange for transport.”
The manager said, “Oh, no, he never drives it. It’s a classic.”
“What good is a car you can’t drive?”
“I suppose he might take it out on occasion, but I haven’t seen it missing in months. It doesn’t have a roof.”
“You mean it’s a convertible?”
“No, it doesn’t have a roof. He bought it at auction, and the roof was damaged. He only drives it on nice days if he’s going out of town.”
Suzanne looked at Andie and Andie nodded. She would check it out. “Prints, fibers, and trace,” Suzanne called after her.
“Mr. Barnett is a good tenant,” the manager said. “We’ve never had any problems with him. No complaints.”
“Good to know,” she said in dismissal. “You’re welcome to stay and observe, but I ask that you stay in the hall. Let my people do their job.”
“No, go ahead; just please let me know when you’re leaving so I can lock up.”
“I’ll be putting a police seal on the door,” she said.
Suzanne slipped on latex gloves and walked through the apartment. A large living area, a separate dining area, a kitchen that was bigger than her entire one-bedroom apartment. And the view of Central Park was nice. But the best thing about the place was the light—lots of windows, lots of open space. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an office. Large space for a bachelor. Had to be at least 2,000 square feet. Maybe more. For a N
ew York City apartment with a view, that was rare and pricey.
Suzanne walked through the apartment slowly, taking in the atmosphere, imagining Wade Barnett living here. Killers came in all shapes and sizes and economic classes. Psychopaths weren’t rich or poor; black or white; men or women. Suzanne believed any human being had the capacity to kill, given the right motivation. But while most people killed only when they were in immediate jeopardy, psychopaths killed for pleasure. Whether it was a gangbanger who had no regard for human life or a serial killer with a sick, twisted view of women, they could come from any socioeconomic background.
She wouldn’t allow Wade Barnett to get away with murder because he was rich.
While Andie was down in the garage and her team methodically worked through the apartment, Suzanne went to Barnett’s office, which was more cluttered than the living areas. The computer tech was already at work, and Suzanne focused on the contents of the desk. They were already working on getting Barnett’s financials, but because he was paid by a trust it was tricky. She’d leave those details to the accountants and lawyers.
Nothing jumped out at her. Baseball, architecture, and the historical society. His bookshelves were lined with books on those same three subjects, with few exceptions. He had three Yankee game balls, all signed by the player who’d hit a home run. They were displayed under lights, behind glass. An award from a local preservation society was prominently displayed on the wall, next to a picture of the former mayor handing a teenage Wade Barnett a plaque.
On the surface, Barnett appeared to be an all-around good guy. Arrogant, but a longtime advocate of things he cared about. What turned a guy like this into a serial killer?
Andie Swann walked into the office. “Car’s clean. No way he drove that out to Brooklyn on Saturday, not with the weather. The interior is immaculate, no water damage, nothing to indicate that he’s used it recently. I asked security to prepare the logs for every time he took the car out from October first through today, and one of my team is vacuuming for trace, but I don’t expect anything.”
Andie asked the computer tech, “When are you going to be done in here?”
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