The Devil's Menagerie

by Louis Charbonneau

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “That you can’t say for certain who’s been making these calls,” Linda explained patiently.

  “That’s ridiculous!” Glenda Lindstrom retorted. “I’m telling you, I know it’s him. He’s angry because I remarried. He’s hurt me before and he’ll do it again. He’s vindictive and he’s dangerous.”

  “Take it easy, honey,” Dave Lindstrom said.

  Linda Perez suppressed her irritation. The truth was, she was having a hard time taking the Lindstroms’ problem seriously. Rumors had floated around the squad room all morning that a task force was being formed to work on the Foster–Rothleder killings, the biggest case the San Carlos PD had ever handled. Captain Hummel had Detective Braden in the fishbowl, and the two of them kept glancing out at the squad room as if counting noses. Hummel’s glance had touched briefly on Linda and the couple at her desk before moving on.

  Linda felt a sharp disappointment. Not only was the hunt for a serial killer the department’s biggest case in memory, but Tim Braden was heading up the investigation … and Linda, in her own phrase, had a thing for Braden. If she were working with him on a major case he would have to notice her. Fat chance, maybe, with that elegant Feeb in the wings, but a fat chance was better than none at all. Maybe Linda would have been the one to find something on the wacko they were hunting …

  Linda had carefully avoided telling the department’s consultant shrink about Braden during her regular sessions, afraid that word would leak out and the other cops would have something on her. Not that she cared what the rest of those jerks thought, but it would inevitably get back to Braden and she couldn’t bear the thought of that.

  “Perhaps you could talk to Beringer,” the man was saying.

  Linda pulled her thoughts back to the problem before her. “Talk to him?”

  “I think it might help if he were put on notice that the police are aware of him and his attempts to harass our family.”

  “That might not be so easy,” Linda said, something of her impatience creeping into her voice, “since no one has actually seen him or knows where he is.”

  “You haven’t been listening!” Glenda Lindstrom said hotly. “I saw him at least once, following us. One of our daughter’s teachers saw him outside her school. Our son Richie saw him following his school bus.”

  “When you saw him”—Linda glanced at her notes—“he was in a gray Taurus. The man Richie said he saw was driving a dark blue Buick. Is that correct?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  Linda remained silent, giving the situation a moment to cool down. She was accustomed to dealing with couples, married and unmarried, young and old, whose emotions ran at white heat. A period of quiet was often as effective as a cold shower.

  Glenda Lindstrom turned to her husband. “Let’s get out of here. They’re not going to do anything.”

  “Just a minute, Mrs. Lindstrom, that’s not true. But you must understand there are limits to what the police can do in a case like this. We have to work within the law just as the average citizen must.”

  The woman was on her feet. She leaned forward, palms straddling the corner of Linda’s desk. “But not him, Detective. He doesn’t have to obey any laws. He doesn’t care about the law. That man abused me once. He terrorized his own son. He’s followed me here to San Carlos for one reason only—to punish me for divorcing him eight years ago. If you won’t do anything to stop him, we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

  “That wouldn’t be wise, Mrs. Lindstrom—”

  “No? What’s your best advice, then? Just sit back and wait for him to harm my children? To do to me whatever it is he’s been planning for the past eight years?”

  “Mrs. Lindstrom,” Linda said sharply, “you haven’t been listening. Ralph Beringer—if he is, in fact, here in San Carlos—has committed no crime. I’ll try to find him—if he’s staying in a motel, for instance, he would be registered—but he could be anywhere. If you learn where he’s staying, notify me immediately and I’ll talk to him. If you do hear from Beringer again—if he makes any overt threats or harasses you in any way—call me. In the meantime, all I can advise you to do is to exercise reasonable precautions. I’d suggest you start recording all incoming calls on your answering machine if you have one—”

  “We do,” Dave Lindstrom said.

  “Don’t answer any calls until you hear who it is. When you go out, be more aware than usual of your surroundings. Talk to your children about doing the same.” She paused, looking the angry woman in the eye. “And don’t do anything foolish.”

  “I’ve already done that,” Glenda Lindstrom said coolly. “I came in here.”

  Linda Perez’s cheeks burned as she watched the couple leave the squad room and start down the stairs toward the lobby. She tried to think of a zinger to hurl after the complainants. Maybe your ex just came to see his kid! Have you considered that?

  The zinger, she thought, didn’t have much zing.

  ON THEIR WAY home Dave was thoughtful, preoccupied. Finally he said, “What was that about Beringer terrorizing Richie?”

  She remained silent, staring away from him out the side window.

  “You told me about him abusing you. What did he do to Richie?”

  “He … abused him too.”

  “How? Do you mean spanking? Yelling at him? What?”

  He had raised his voice. Watching her, he failed to see the car directly in front of him stop quickly as a traffic light changed. Dave had to slam on the brakes and swerve sharply to avoid a tail-end collision.

  Waiting for the light to change, he gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead. Finally Glenda said, “He used to slap Richie around. Hard slaps. Shake him and threaten him with more until Richie screamed.”

  “My God, the boy wasn’t two years old!”

  “Once he burned Richie with the tip of his cigarette. He claimed it was an accident. I think Richie’s reaction was so extreme that time it sobered Ralph up. He made a big show of treating the burn, putting salve on, telling Richie it was an accident. But it was deliberate. I knew that.”

  “Did you report any of these things to the police? Or to someone with the air force?”

  “You think I haven’t blamed myself over and over for allowing it to happen? But Ralph swore if I told anyone he would really hurt Richie. Not just me, but Richie. It wasn’t an idle threat, Dave. He meant it.”

  “You make him sound like …” He didn’t finish the sentence. A psychotic, he thought.

  “He is,” Glenda said bitterly.

  Twenty-Three

  THE SMALL CONFERENCE room, more frequently used for staff meetings and Christmas or birthday parties, was crowded. There were a dozen folding chairs in three rows, not enough for the half-dozen SCPD uniforms, three detectives pulled from other assignments, and five sheriff’s deputies who were to be part of the task force, in addition to Tim Braden and Karen Younger. To the right at the front of the room was an oak table and one chair, to the left a white markerboard on a pedestal.

  Captain Hummel planted a heavy hip on one corner of the table. “All right, cool it!” His gravel voice carved a clear path through the buzz of talk. “You all know why you’re here. We have a repeat killer shoving it to us, and it’s the decision of the chief and the county sheriff that we organize a multijurisdictional investigative effort. Detective Braden caught the first case and he’s still in charge of this investigation, but the sheriff is lending us some manpower, which as you all know we badly need.” He paused. “We’re also going to have the cooperation and assistance of the FBI.”

  “Whoopee,” a cop leaning against the back wall muttered.

  “You got somethin’ to say, Janowicz?”

  “Surely not, Captain.”

  “That’s good, because I wouldn’t want to think you were askin’ to be booted off this team and assigned to security for the Junior League meetings.” The captain glowered a moment to let his warning sink in. “If
experience tells us anything, the FBI will probably run its own show. No offense intended, ma’am,” he added, with a glance toward Karen Younger.

  “None taken.”

  “As far as the rest of you are concerned, Detective Braden heads up this task force, and he’ll be reportin’ directly to me. If God had meant it to be any other way, he would’ve made one of you captain. Everyone clear on this?”

  There was a chorus of “Yo,” “Amen” and “Hear hear.”

  Hummel turned the meeting over to Braden, who stood unsmiling by the markerboard until the bantering subsided. He ran through the details of the investigations into the deaths of Edith Foster and Natalie Rothleder. Using the board and a black marker, he listed the few dissimilarities, which included the length of time the perpetrator had had the victims and the locations and circumstances in which the bodies were found. The parallels between the two killings made a much longer list on the board. The killer had beaten both victims with a weighted, gloved fist; had sexually assaulted them, causing both vaginal and anal tearing, in each case using a condom and leaving no semen or blood; had cut each victim’s initial across her abdomen with a bladed instrument, and had used the same blade to sexually mutilate the women. Both attacks had occurred at night without witnesses. Both victims were young white women, students at San Carlos College.

  “These attacks were very quick and overpowering,” Braden said in concluding his summary. “There was no outcry, no evidence of a struggle. This guy is vicious, he’s strong, and when he attacks he means business.”

  “Could he be a fighter?” one of the uniformed officers called out. “He punches these women out. It ain’t always so easy. I mean, he puts ’em down so there’s no fuss or muss. Nobody hears nothin’, nobody sees nothin’.”

  “How about the martial arts freaks?” one of the sheriff’s deputies asked.

  “Would a martial arts expert carry lead in his fist?” Braden countered.

  “Only if he was cheatin’,” the deputy answered, provoking laughter.

  “The boxer idea is a long shot but it’s worth checking out.” Braden addressed the cop who had raised the question. “Run with it.”

  “When does he cut them?” asked one of the older investigators, normally on robbery detail. “Before or after they’re dead?”

  “According to the ME REPORTS, the cutting is perimortem—around the time of death. She might still be alive after the beating, but not for long. Most likely she’s not conscious when he cuts her, if that’s any consolation. There’s very little bleeding in the tissues around the knife wounds, which there would be if the wounds occurred earlier in the attack.”

  After a few more routine questions Braden held up his hands, palms out, for silence. “You’ll all be given specific assignments. We have to find this guy. He likes killing, and he may just be getting started. That means no leaves, no sick days, and twelve-hour shifts. You’ll log plenty of overtime while you’re working with the task force.” He glanced toward the FBI agent, who was seated at the end of the first row of chairs. “It also means we need all the help we can get. We’ve requested help from the FBI’s Investigative Support Unit out of Quantico. As you know, one of the things that unit does is analyze violent crimes and develop profiles of the perpetrators. They’ve had some very exceptional successes in describing serial killers that have led to arrests and convictions. Special Agent Younger is with that unit, and she’s been here working the case since last Wednesday. She already has some thoughts on our killer.”

  There was a stirring of interest as Karen took Braden’s place at the front of the room. She was wearing a tan corduroy blazer, brown slacks and shoes, and a pale beige turtleneck sweater. The outfit was more casual than the Bureau’s button-down image, and Braden wondered if the choice had been calculated. He thought she looked terrific.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I’m going to get right into the profile, but first I’d like to add something to what Detective Braden has told you.” Her gaze moved across her audience, making eye contact, pulling them into her orbit. “It’s my belief that the two murders here in San Carlos are not the killer’s first. Eight years ago, near Wiesbaden, Germany, a German girl and her American soldier lover were both murdered. The details of the girl’s death precisely match those of the two recent killings.” She waited for the exclamations of surprise and disbelief to die away. “The German girl was raped repeatedly and violently. She was beaten to death by her assailant’s fists. The actual cause of death was a blow that crushed her larynx. Before he left her, the killer carved her first initial on her belly with a small knife blade or similar instrument, and her vaginal opening was mutilated with the same blade.”

  This time she had to wait longer for the reaction to subside. Then one of the plainclothes cops said, “How do you connect Wiesbaden with San Carlos?”

  “We’re not sure, but it was suspected by German authorities that the murderer of the German girl might have been an American soldier. If so, it’s not unreasonable to assume the same man would eventually return to the States.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” the detective swore. Then a thought occurred simultaneously to him and several others, all of whom tried to ask similar questions. Had anything been done to track recently discharged soldiers in the area? Did someone stationed in Germany eight years ago come from San Carlos? Or from anywhere in Southern California?

  “All right, listen up!” Karen stopped the babble with a surprising ring of authority. “We started from another direction, running the names of all current male staff and faculty members at San Carlos College through NCIC computers and military archives. We’ve since expanded that search to include maintenance and other employees of the college. We’ve come up with several Vietnam veterans, one who served in Korea, two from the Gulf War. None were stationed in Germany at any time, or even in Europe.” She smiled. “One has an outstanding warrant—for unpaid traffic tickets. I needn’t tell you the college administration isn’t happy about the implications of our search.”

  “You’re saying someone at the college is murdering coeds?”

  “It’s a possibility we had to look at. Obviously, though, the killer could be anyone in the San Carlos area. He needn’t have come from here. Going back to the earlier question from Detective …?”

  “Tomczak.”

  “Your suggestion about going at this search from the opposite direction has also occurred to us. Instead of looking at people we know are here in San Carlos and trying to track one of them back to the first killing in Germany, we have begun tracking servicemen stationed there eight years ago who have recently been discharged or returned home on leave. That is, of course, a much wider search.”

  “Could be thousands of guys.”

  “We’re trying to narrow it down. If anything turns up, you’ll know it. In the meantime, I think I can tell you some things about the killer that may help.”

  For the next fifteen minutes Karen ran briskly through the details of a sociopath’s profile. She quickly sketched the most significant differences between organized and disorganized serial killers. The latter, she said, were seriously psychotic, usually poorly educated, unprepossessing in appearance, often incapable of holding anything but the most menial jobs. They acted impulsively, selecting victims at random. The attacks were often wild, blitz assaults. They were always sexual crimes, but the killer was frequently unable to complete his sexual assault, at least while his victim was still alive. Such killers were seriously dysfunctional sexually.

  “You’re sayin’ that’s not our guy,” Janowicz rumbled impatiently.

  “Correct. The killer of Edith Foster and Natalie Rothleder—and, I believe, Lisl Moeller in Germany eight years ago—is very organized, very much in control most of the time. He is almost certainly older than the typical disorganized killer, who is usually caught long before he’s twenty-five. This man is probably in his thirties. He’s presentable in appearance, so he doesn’t immediately frighten his potential victims. Hi
s clothes are fashionable, his hair is clean, he’s not dirty or smelly. He may even be physically attractive to these women. As a soldier, he was able to function in an organization that demands control, discipline, order.” As she talked, Karen listed these characteristics on the board, putting a check mark in front of each item. Some of the physical details provoked a skeptical exchange of glances and eyebrow-raising among the task force members. “He’s mobile, which means he has a dependable car. He’s too careful to trust an older, unreliable car. Although he’s made no attempt to bury or hide the bodies—he apparently wants them to be found—he’s been very careful not to leave anything behind that might identify him, which is the clearest indication of an organized killer. Also, he’s not sexually dysfunctional. He has apparently had no trouble completing multiple sex acts with his victims while they were still alive. The fact that he kept Edie Foster four or five hours suggests that, like most organized killers, he enjoys exercising power and control over his victims. If they resist, he probably becomes more violent. I don’t suppose I need to emphasize that, although these are sex crimes, sex really has very little to do with it. They’re hate crimes. The killer is expressing a deep-seated anger and hatred for women.”

  Karen paused, staring at the list she had made on the white board, describing the man who had haunted her dreams for eight years. “You won’t be able to recognize him by looking at him,” she said in a low voice, as if to herself, “but he’ll know you. He’s probably watching us closely, following our progress, laughing at us. He’s very confident … and he’s on some kind of fantasy trip that has brought him to San Carlos.” She swung around, once again commanding the full attention of the tough, seasoned cops watching her, even though most of them were older and more experienced on the Job. “He’s going to kill again, and soon. If I’m right and he’s waited eight years for this, he probably planned what he was going to do, or fantasized it often enough that he was able to work out how to do it without being caught. I don’t think events have changed his plans, but he’s changed. Having the Foster woman was so exciting, so satisfying, that he kept her through the night, but he may be past that now. He didn’t keep Natalie Rothleder alive for long. And I don’t think he can wait very long for the next one.”