Prime Suspect

by Maggie Price

  “The guys in narcotics tried to get him to talk, but by then he wasn’t having any of that,” Sky added. “And once I checked his blood and eliminated him as a suspect in the Westfall case, they had to cut him loose.”

  A.J. swallowed past the tightness in her throat and turned to face Grant. “Did Hollis give you any idea who Snowman is?”

  “No, but he made it sound like the guy controls most of the drug traffic on the street,” Grant answered. “Benito Penn is big-time, and he supposedly reports to Snowman.”

  “That’s all you know?” A.J. asked as she wiped a clammy palm against her jeans-clad hip.

  “Well, if Snowman offed Hollis, I know the guy’s bad news. He not only shot the kid, he cut out his tongue.”

  Grant crossed his arms and turned a high-voltage smile in Sky’s direction. “We on for the dance, sweet thing? It’s Monday night, you know.”

  The chemist flicked him a cool look. “I haven’t decided.”

  Grant shook his head. “A.J., this woman won’t cut me any slack. I bet when Lawson asked you to go, you said a polite ‘yes.’”

  “Dance?” A.J. used the tip of her tongue to wet her dry lips. Snowman. Ken told Michael he had information about Snowman, and Ken was dead. Hollis had information about Snowman. And now, Hollis was dead.

  “The Christmas dance,” Grant said, giving her a curious look. “You know, the chiefs pet social event of the season? The one he insists all off-duty personnel attend?”

  “I...we talked about it.” Weeks ago, Greg had asked her to go, and she’d said yes, A.J. remembered. But right now, going to a dance was the furthest thing from her mind.

  All she could think about was Snowman.

  Without another word, A.J. grabbed the lab report Sky had printed off the computer, then headed out the door.

  Tony had been gone less than five minutes when A.J. walked into Michael’s office, her face dead white. The glittering look in her dark eyes brought him out of his chair.

  “I know about Hollis,” she said as he rounded the desk. “I know he talked about Snowman. And I know he’s dead. Just like Ken, he’s dead.”

  Michael grabbed her shoulders and lowered her onto a chair. He settled into the one beside hers. “A.J., Hollis didn’t talk about Snowman. He mentioned him, said he had information about him if we’d cut him a deal. That’s as far as Hollis got before he started yelling for a lawyer.”

  “You were going to tell me this later?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why later?”

  “I just thought it’d be easier...” Michael glanced away, then looked back at her. “Hell, nothing about this will ever be easy. I was hoping by the time I told you about Hollis, we’d have something on Snowman. The minute we cut Hollis loose, a DEA agent picked up his tail. It turns out Hollis was on foot. He climbed a fire escape and went over a couple of warehouse roofs. The agent lost him in an alley. Next thing we know, he’s dead.”

  “With his tongue cut out.”

  Michael grimaced. “You didn’t miss any details.”

  “Word spreads fast.” She turned her head to meet his gaze, and he saw the torment in her eyes. “That’s why Ken died, isn’t it? Because he knew something about Snowman?”

  Instinctively, Michael skimmed a hand over her hair. He could have sworn he’d just touched silk. “I don’t know why he died. I wish to God I did, but I don’t.”

  “If we could find Ken’s tape, we would know.”

  “Maybe.” At this point, Michael was close to believing Ken Duncan had used his ex-wife’s recorder for the sole purpose of blackmail. Getting people to incriminate themselves on tape, then blackmailing them for money wasn’t a new angle on crime, but it was one that worked.

  A.J. dropped her gaze. “The lab report,” she said, staring at the paper clenched in her hand as if she’d forgotten why she’d come to his office.

  “What did Sky say?”

  A.J. handed him the crinkled paper.

  “She’s almost sure the same man killed Sawyer and Westfall.”

  Michael stared at the report. “So, we have a serial killer.”

  A.J. nodded. “And if Sky’s right, he’s been in town at least six months.”

  “Great,” Michael said and wrapped his hand around A.J.’s unsteady one. “Just great.”

  Chapter 10

  “I damn well don’t believe this!”

  Michael turned and met Brian McMillan’s hard-edged stare. As always, the chief presented an imposing figure, with his tall, athletic build and erect posture. Dressed in a tailored tuxedo, his thick mane of silver hair brushed with a stylist’s touch, the man stood at one end of the conference table looking sleek and vigorous...and a touch rabid, considering the fury that emanated from him.

  “Dammit, I don’t believe this!” McMillan’s face reddened as he swept a hand over the mix of crime scene photos and mug shots spread before him.

  The chief had detoured by the department on his way to a party after getting Michael’s phone call. His wife, Zelda, had opted to wait in the car. Considering the man’s mood, that was one smart move on her part, Michael decided.

  “Believe it, Chief,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “You’ve got the proof in front of you.”

  McMillan’s fist crashed against the table. “I don’t know what the people around here think they’re doing, but it sure as hell isn’t their jobs! You call me, saying you think one man has killed three women since June and your detectives haven’t caught on until now? Seven months later? Jesus, the media will be down my throat!”

  Michael flicked a look toward the bank of windows where A.J. stood. After Sky Milano verified a match of the hairs from the Westfall and jogger homicides, he and A.J. had started digging through Homicide’s other unsolved files. Now, hours later, the carnage they’d waded through in the form of autopsy reports and nightmarish photos of violated flesh had taken their toll. Shadows darkened the skin beneath A.J.’s eyes; her mouth was set in a solemn line. In a gesture that Michael associated with fatigue and stress, her fingers performed a slow up-and-down massage of her right thigh.

  “Mistakes were made, Chief,” he acknowledged. “No one’s denying that.”

  “That’s why I put you in charge of Homicide. To make sure things like this don’t happen.”

  “They won’t, once I have time to establish controls—”

  “Meanwhile it falls to me to clean up the mess left by your predecessor. Do you know how inept this makes my department look?”

  And you, Michael thought. He doubted it was the media attention McMillan dreaded, but the ammunition this would give his opponent in the upcoming mayoral race. A serial killer operating undetected under the police chief’s nose didn’t exactly inspire voter confidence.

  “We’ll look worse if this gets out before you announce it to the press,” Michael pointed out. “That’s why I had the rest of the task force clear out an hour ago. We can’t afford leaks.”

  McMillan’s lips thinned. “I can hear the first question the press’ll put to me tomorrow. ‘Chief, Dianna Westfall died Wednesday. This is Sunday. Why didn’t the forensic lab, on which the voters have spent half a million dollars, spot the connection between the cases?”’

  “I asked that same question of Sky Milano,” Michael said. “She told me Quint Williams, the chemist who worked the jogger case, is attending DNA recertification classes at Quantico.” Michael kept his voice level and controlled. He understood the chief’s anger—he’d almost come unglued himself when Sky told him about the clerical mistake that had kept the connection between the two cases from being made. But getting mad wasn’t going to solve their problems. And they had big ones.

  “It’s a fluke,” Michael continued, “but the clerk who entered the data on the jogger homicide typed the wrong suspect blood type. When Sky ran a cross-check, nothing came up. And Quint wasn’t around to hear the other chemists talk about a suspect with AB blood—”

  “I will not abide screwups in m
y department! You tell Captain Harris I want the clerk who typed that information fired.”

  “You’ll have fewer headaches if you change that to a reprimand. Other than this one mistake, the clerk has a spotless record.” Michael lifted his shoulders beneath his blue sweater. “Fire her, and you’ll have the union down your throat.”

  “All right, she stays,” McMillan said with a disgusted sweep of his manicured hand. “But you inform the rest of the people who had anything to do with this incompetent mess to watch it, or they’ll be looking for a job.”

  “Consider it done,” Michael said.

  McMillan’s jaw tightened as if he were trying to gain some control over his anger. He stared down at the table for a long moment, then said through his teeth, “I want a detailed report on every aspect of these crimes.”

  “I’ll have it at your house by noon tomorrow.”

  “Make that 0800 hours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’d better give me a rundown on the first victim now, just in case the media get wind of this before I see your report.”

  “I’ll let A.J. brief you. She spotted the connection between the crimes and she’s familiar with the suspect’s MO from the jogger homicide.”

  McMillan’s hard eyes flicked across the room to where A.J. stood. It was the first time he’d acknowledged her presence since he’d stormed into the room. “Whatever.”

  Michael met her gaze. “Go ahead, A.J.”

  She nodded and walked to the conference table, a slight limp evident as she moved. When she leaned to pick up a mug shot, her dark, glossy hair slithered across her shoulders. The sensuous effect of the movement went straight to Michael’s brain. He tightened his jaw against his body’s reaction and forced his thoughts to what A.J. was saying.

  “Melissa Thomas.” She handed the mug shot to McMillan before continuing. “Stabbed to death at a charge-by-the-hour motel last June. Her fingernails were painted bright red, which was her usual color. In this mug shot her hair is blond. In the crime scene photos, you’ll see that it’s auburn. She dyed her hair a week before the murder.”

  “Same weapon?” the chief asked, tossing the mug shot back onto the table.

  A.J. deferred the question to Michael, who’d been on the phone with the ME when McMillan arrived. “A knife with a double-edged blade killed all three women.”

  “What about forensics?”

  “We’ve got a few hairs in evidence from the Thomas scene,” Michael explained. “Sky Milano is comparing them to see if they match those from the other cases. We know the same man killed Westfall and Sawyer. Our guess is he got the prostitute, too.”

  McMillan’s gaze sliced back to A.J. “The press will ask about the suspect. Tell me what you know.”

  Michael stood in silence, tracking A.J.’s quick, efficient movements as she retrieved a file folder from beneath a stack of reports and flipped it open. At one point that afternoon she had taken time to review the notes she’d made a month ago and placed in the jogger’s file. After that, she compared her findings with the suspect’s MO from the Westfall case. In the hours that followed, A.J. had gone about her work with meditative precision, her eyes glittering as if a composite of the suspect’s personality were churning and bubbling like a witch’s brew in her mind.

  “I don’t have a full profile yet,” A.J. began. “But I can give you a general idea of the type of person we’re looking for.”

  McMillan glanced at his watch. “Zelda and I are due at the governor’s mansion at seven. You’ve got five minutes.”

  Michael felt a stirring of anger at the man’s contentious attitude but fought it down. It would do no one any good if he lost his temper. Nor would it be smart to point out to the chief what a Class A bastard he was to worry about arriving late for a Christmas party while his constituents were being murdered.

  A.J. looked up slowly from her notes, her eyes flat. “Five minutes? You’ll want the condensed version, then.”

  “The clock is running.”

  Her hands clenched into a tight white grip, but her voice was cool and even when she spoke. “Even if we didn’t have forensics on the suspect, we can assume he’s white. In these type murders, the killer usually selects victims the same race as his. I put his age in the twenties or early thirties. He has good hygiene. He’s right-handed, nice looking, has an above average IQ. The man is cunning, self-confident and methodical. These murders occurred miles from each other, so that means he’s not territorial. He moves around. That tells us he either owns or has easy access to a car.”

  She paused to scan her notes.

  “You’ve got four minutes,” McMillan said.

  Lightning bolts of temper flashed beneath Michael’s skin. “Chief, A.J. has a lot to cover here. You might want to ease up.”

  McMillan sliced him a sharp look. “And you might want to take a step back, Lieutenant.” He looked at A.J. “Go on.”

  She turned toward the window, staring out at the lights that outlined the blackening downtown skyline, her forehead knit in thought. Outside, the wind wailed, gnashing against the glass as though it was a monster wanting in.

  “Dianna Westfall was rich, beautiful, self-confident,” A.J. began. “Her killer couldn’t have just gone up to her and said, ‘Hi, doll, how about a date?’ and expect her to say yes. For that reason, he needed a plan on how to approach her. We know from what her neighbor said and from the names in her second address book, that she spent a lot of evenings out and she brought numerous men home with her. Once we find out where she spent her evenings—”

  “Mrs. Westfall’s habits are confidential,” the chief broke in. “She was a lovely woman, my wife’s best friend. I better not hear one word from the press about how she needed... companionship.”

  A.J. turned. “That need is the reason she’s dead. That, and the fact she was slim, petite and had auburn hair—which obviously carries great meaning to the killer. Wherever Dianna went on her nighttime forays is probably the place where he gained access to her. It’s possible he watched her before confronting her. And not just her—the mansion, too.”

  Michael kept his eyes on A.J. Against the stark whiteness of her sweater, her skin seemed almost translucent, her eyes pools of inky darkness. She began pacing, talking as she moved along the length of the windowed wall.

  “I don’t think it was coincidence the guy picked the servant’s night off to go home with her. I think he knew ahead of time they’d have the mansion to themselves. Therefore, he’d have total control.”

  “It could have just been a lucky guess on his part,” McMillan observed.

  A.J. lifted her chin. “He showered after he killed her. He wouldn’t have done that unless he knew for sure he had plenty of time.”

  McMillan pursed his lips in thought. “Any hope of him having an attack of conscience and turning himself in?”

  “No. He knows what he does is wrong. That’s why he’s careful not to leave evidence. But he doesn’t feel remorse. He thinks only of satisfying his needs and he isn’t sorry for what he does. He’s probably as casual about murder as you are about scratching your ear.”

  Michael turned to McMillan. “Which means there’s no chance in hell he’s going to stop killing.”

  McMillan spat a crude curse. “This is all I need!”

  A.J. headed back to the table and closed the file folder over her notes. “You need to remember one thing about this profile.”

  McMillan arched a silver brow. “What’s that?”

  “I could be wrong. Our suspect might be short, fat and fifty.”

  The chief gave her a thin smile as he gathered his black cashmere coat off the chair where he’d draped it. “If so, I doubt Dianna would have allowed him into her home.” He looked down at the photos on the table. “There’s another aspect of this mess I have to deal with. The fact that we’ve linked Dianna’s homicide with that of a hooker could cause her family considerable embarrassment.”

  Michael caught the flash of an
ger in A.J.’s eyes. “Whose family do you mean?” she asked levelly. “The hooker’s?”

  The question earned her a frigid stare. “You know exactly whose family. And I advise you to hold your tongue. In my mood, it won’t take much to make me sorry I listened to Lieutenant Ryan and kept you on active status when everything about your brother came out.”

  Michael heard the buzz in his head seconds before his temper snapped, and then the dam broke. “You’re out of line,” he said, rounding on the man. “You didn’t suspend A.J. because there wasn’t evidence that warranted your doing so. There still isn’t.”

  “That’s enough—”

  “People have made mistakes around here, but A.J. isn’t one of them,” Michael continued, his voice ringing like surgical steel on the room’s cool air. “In fact, you ought to thank her for linking these cases. You’d have a damn bigger problem if it’d been some reporter who first picked up on the fact we have a serial killer operating in this city.”

  McMillan’s eyes turned to stone. “I don’t thank my employees for doing their jobs. They get paychecks every other Friday that take care of that.” He turned his head slowly and gave A.J. an assessing look that she steadily returned with a barely perceptible lift of her chin.

  After a moment, his gaze swung back to Michael. “I assumed work on the task force made you unable to supply me with timely updates on the Duncan investigation. Now I realize it’s because you’re unwilling.”

  Michael set his jaw. “There’s nothing to update you about.”

  “Remember, you’re accountable if you’re wrong—”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’d better hope so, Lieutenant.” McMillan walked to the door, reached for the knob, then paused. “I have my pager. Call me when you get confirmation on forensics.”

  “The minute I hear,” Michael said, fighting the urge to slam his fist into the arrogant SOB’s surgically perfect nose.

  “If the same man killed all three women, I’ll have the PIO arrange a press conference for noon tomorrow.” Michael felt a flash of sympathy for the department’s public information officer who was about to have his evening ruined. “That will give the impression we’re on top of things, even if it’s a lie,” McMillan added, then pulled open the door. “I want you there, Lieutenant. As commander of the task force, you’ll give a summary of the type of suspect we’re looking for.”