Right. Some things never changed.
He turned from the window and moved toward the coffeepot. His head hurt like hell. What little sleep he had managed after leaving the Bobbie Cox crime scene had left him feeling hungover. His mood was sore and, judging by the muted conversations and the hooded looks of the detectives with their heads together, things were only going to get worse. They weren’t particularly happy that he’d called in a profiler. Though Anna’s presence here was strictly in an advisory role, the department would see it as a blatant slap from the district attorney’s office—as if he didn’t trust their abilities to tie up the case.
As he reached for his coffee cup, a spasm of pain flashed through him. Not just pain. Fresh fury. The cup had been given to him last Christmas. A gift from J.D.’s son, Billy. His godson’s smiling face decorated the cup with the scrawled words I LOVE YOU, UNCLE JERRY!
“So you wanna fill us in a little on this profiler, Costos?”
The question had come from Detective Second Grade Donovan—fifteen years on the force. Donovan was a no-bullcrap officer with the looks of a movie star and an up-yours attitude that too often made Jerry grind his teeth in frustration. Donovan was the finest detective in New Orleans, bar none, and Jerry fully understood his irritation over the D.A.’s office getting the FBI involved, even if it was only in an advisory role.
Jerry filled his cup with coffee. “What do you want to know, Donovan? A profiler is a profiler is a profiler.”
“Like what the hell is this guy doing coming here? Don’t they usually tackle this kind of thing at Quantico?”
Jerry glanced at Killroy, captain of the city’s Eighth District, who sat nearby, also not happy over the FBI’s involvement, but, like the D.A.’s office, his strings were being yanked hard by the political pressure of Governor Damascus. Since the murder of the governor’s daughter-in-law and grandchildren, the case had taken on a nationwide focus. His interest wasn’t due to any familial heartbreak—the cold son of a bitch didn’t give a damn about his family, had disowned J.D. when he married Laura, whom he considered the ruination of J.D.’s future political career. Governor Damascus was more concerned over the impact the serial murders would have on the city’s reputation and tourist business. Since all the murders had taken place in the French Quarter, the city’s financial heart, tourists would think twice about prowling the streets after dark. Over the last seventy-two hours the D.A.’s office, as well as Killroy, had felt the gnash of the governor’s teeth to solve the case pronto, and it hadn’t been pretty.
Costos moved to the open office door and glanced down the hall toward the elevator before turning back to Donovan. “I couldn’t tell you why they’re sending in this particular agent.”
Detective Armstrong, sitting beside Donovan, gave an amused grunt and smirked. “Wonder if he’ll bring along his tarot cards and crystal ball.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jerry asked.
“C’mon, Costos. We all know these guys come to the table with little to nothin’. They look at evidence and proffer an opinion which is generally a bunch of bunk. Nothin’ more than what we can provide.”
He couldn’t argue the fact, but with the governor breathing down his neck, he’d had little choice in the matter. But if he’d known the BSU Special Division was going to send Anna, he might have given it a second thought. Just how the hell was he going to work with her, considering their past, and considering the flood of old feelings he’d felt for her the day before?
He heard the elevator door open. Molly, his receptionist, said, “Ms. Travelli? They’re waiting for you. Go right in.”
Jerry moved behind his desk.
Anna appeared at the door. All business. Her gaze briefly touching his before moving to the others, who stared at her in apparent shock that the profiler was female—not just any female…but Anna Travelli. She had butted heads with Killroy and Donovan in the past, during her stint in the New Orleans Field Office.
“Gentlemen,” she said in that slightly husky tone that made Jerry’s stomach clench. “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
Jerry cleared his throat. “Not at all. You’re right on time. As usual.”
Her gaze flashed back to his, and for a brief moment the shared memories of their past collided between them like two freight trains.
Jerry moved around the desk. “Anna, I believe you know Captain Killroy and Detective Donovan. This is Donovan’s partner, Detective Armstrong.”
The men stood, their shock over seeing Anna more than obvious on their faces. Costos was well aware of their thoughts. Not only were they forced to deal with an FBI profiler butting in on their business, but a woman profiler—and one whose pretty face had been blasted over television screens from one end of the country to the other: Forensic Files, The New Detectives, Dateline.
Anna shook their hands in turn, her thin smile an indication of her opinion of their thoughts. Jerry knew that smile. It was enough to make the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
She moved to the conference table at the far side of his office. “Time to get down to work, gentlemen. I assume you’ve brought all the necessary files.”
The detectives looked at one another, then at Jerry. Donovan grunted and shook his head. Killroy mumbled something foul, and Armstrong smirked and made a crude motion with his hand that made Jerry contemplate putting his fist into the man’s teeth.
As the men trailed to the conference table where Anna had taken a chair, Jerry said, “Can I get you some coffee, Anna? A Danish?”
“No Danish, thank you. But the coffee would be nice.”
She then turned to Donovan. Their gazes locked and the tension in the room turned thick. Donovan was a damn good cop—one of the best—but he had a hump on as big as New Orleans over the FBI’s intrusion into his cases. Not that he treated her with disrespect—he wasn’t the type, unlike Armstrong, who apparently had a hard-on for her breasts. Donovan was likable. With the kind of good looks that were enough to stop traffic: dark hair and vibrant blue eyes; six foot two inches with bone structure that made a woman weak at the knees. But he was all cop. Machismo out the ears. He lived and breathed for his job and women were an afterthought.
“I’d like to see the case file on last night’s homicide…” she prompted him.
He stared at her a moment longer before clearing his throat and responding. “The victim’s name: Bobbie Cox.” He handed the manila folder into her waiting hand. “Young girl. New to the warehouse district. We’re still waiting on the M.E.’s autopsy report. Should be here at any time.”
“Did anyone try to reach this girl’s family?”
Killroy had placed himself diagonal to her at the opposite end of the table. “We’re working on it now.”
“Who identified the body?” She flipped open the folder.
“A friend, Susie Lynch, found her and called 911,” Donovan responded.
Anna scanned Donovan’s report of what he saw when he arrived at the crime scene. “You’ve indicated that the crime scene boys came up with nothing. The place was clean of fingerprints other than those of the victim.” Anna looked to Donovan. “Is it still an isolated crime scene?”
“Of course.” His tone indicated his annoyance over her asking about the obvious.
“And you collected the bedding—sheets, pillowcases, blankets, coverlets—not just on the Cox scene, but the other murders as well? They could contain a strand of body hair, dead skin, saliva, or semen from the perpetrator.”
“You’re not questioning my abilities to do my job, are you, Agent Travelli?” Donovan’s resentment at being questioned about his job was obvious by his sharpness of tone.
“C’mon, Donovan. You know we wouldn’t question you or your investigation.” Jerry placed a foam cup of coffee in front of Anna. As she looked up, into his eyes, he said, “One sugar. No milk, right?”
She looked away. “Gentlemen, the only reason I ask is, without evidence from the other prostitutes’ murder scenes
, we won’t be able to make forensics match to tell if it’s the same killer.”
As Jerry made himself comfortable at the opposite end of the conference table, Anna asked, “Do we have the other files related to these cases?”
“I’ve got them all here,” Killroy said. “The four prostitutes and…the Damascus family.” He pushed the four folders in a stack down the table, then, as though not wanting to give it up, passed the Damascus file.
Anna pulled her chair in, began perusing the first file. “I assume you gentlemen have cross-referenced this information through the Violent Criminal Investigation Program at the agency?”
“Right, we’ve sent all information to VICAP,” Donovan replied. “Nothing back yet.”
Killroy got on the phone, calling his second whip to find out the status on the Cox family’s notification of their daughter’s death, and Donovan discussed with Armstrong what their next move would probably be with the case.
Relaxing in the chair and tugging his tie loose at the knot, Jerry watched Anna closely as she perused the crime scene photos of the slaughtered victims. If she experienced any squeamishness over the gory, disturbing mess, she didn’t show it. Then again, she’d always had the bullheaded fortitude of a brick wall.
Six years. Still the dedicated Anna. Focused. Uncompromising in her ideals. Had she missed him in the beginning as he had missed her? Had she suffered? Regretted walking away from their relationship?
If they had it to do over, would he give in on those ideals if it meant keeping her? Would she?
Anna stood and removed her jacket, spread it across the back of the chair. She wore a shoulder holster over a crisp white blouse that fit close around her throat. Returning to the chair, she proceeded to read all four of the detectives’ observations, the crime scene unit’s notes, and the M.E.’s report—aside from the M.E.’s autopsy report on Bobbie Cox, which had not arrived yet—then looked over the pictures again. Rubbed her temple, her brow furrowing in contemplation. Then she reached more hesitantly for the Damascus file. Her hands brushed over the folder, her gaze lifting to his.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
She nodded and looked back at the folder. He knew her thoughts. It was one thing dealing with the murders of strangers. It was another when such a tragedy came at you up close and personal…and two of the victims were children.
Anna took a deep breath, then opened the offending file. Her eyes briefly closed. One trembling hand lifted to smooth back an errant strand of copper-colored hair that had fallen over her brow. Her face suddenly looked as pale as the folder under her fingers.
Jerry’s first instinct was to reach for her, take her hand, as he once had. But the officers sitting at the table needed no reminders that they were being forced to work on this case with a female who, on the surface, looked as fragile as fine crystal. And neither did she.
Get it together, baby, he thought. Come on, Anna.
Anna reached for her hot coffee, took a cautious sip, then set it aside and cleared her throat. “Okay. J.D. seems to believe that we have two killers. That his family’s murderer was a copycat. An act of revenge. Opinions?”
“We don’t agree,” Jerry replied.
She nodded but didn’t look at him. “Why? The Damascus murders don’t reflect the identical signature of the unknown subject who killed the prostitutes. According to the reports you two wrote”—she indicated Detectives Donovan and Armstrong each with a nod—“all the prostitutes were murdered in their apartments, bodies found in their beds. Laura—Mrs. Damascus—was found in Woldenburg Park, near the river, and the children…in the backseat of the vehicle belonging to Mrs. Damascus. And Laura obviously wasn’t a prostitute.
“According to the M.E.’s report, Laura died from a puncture wound to her heart—an ice pick, perhaps—while the hookers died from a prolonged loss of blood before the actual mutilations. This guy was into torture. However, Laura’s was quick—”
Donovan interrupted. “They were in the fuckin’ park, Travelli. He hardly had the time to spare for a drawn-out torture—”
“Why was she in the park at midnight?”
“How the hell are we supposed to know that? Why don’t you look in your crystal ball and ask her?”
Anna shut the file and sank back in her chair, looked from one detective to the other. Her fingers drummed the chair arm and the color that had blanched from her face crawled up her slender throat.
“Our UNSUB,” she finally said, referring to the unknown subject of the investigation, “is what we term a ‘domineering killer,’ gentlemen. He gets his thrills from inspiring fear in his victim. It gives him a feeling of control and power that he otherwise is lacking in his life. According to the M.E.’s report, our freak doesn’t have sex with his victims. That doesn’t mean he isn’t experiencing orgasmic fulfillment. His arousal comes due to his slavelike control of the hooker. As noted here, he binds her arms and legs to the bed so she is totally helpless. No doubt he toys with her. Teases her. Explains in detail to her exactly what he intends to do to her in order to heighten her horror. He probably masturbates during the torture. Uses a condom to avoid leaving semen that could be used to DNA him.
“He may or may not have had sex with these prostitutes in the past. He may choose them at random, but I doubt it. There is something about her that intrigues him. The girls are very young. Not hardened as badly by the life. Makes sense. This younger individual will be more intimidated by his threats. The greater her fear, the greater his pleasure.
“Our UNSUB is highly organized, obviously, as evidenced by his meticulous care at the crime scene. At the risk of offending you gentlemen”—she glanced around at each of the somber detectives—“I suggest you send the items you collected from the crime scene to Quantico. Often they’re able to pick up evidence that the locals boys don’t.”
They stared at her, making no comment.
Jerry cleared his throat. “We’ll do that immediately, of course.”
She flashed him a look, then reached for her purse. “Hope you guys don’t mind if I smoke?” She smiled. “If I’m going to be forced to deal with your obvious belligerence over my presence you can deal with my cigarettes.”
Again, no comment.
She lit a cigarette and stared at the wall. Jerry could almost hear her mind working, not so much over the case but how she intended to deal with the testosterone swimming in the air and the detectives’ increasingly abused egos. Killroy’s acnepocked face was slowly turning purple. Donovan was beginning to simmer, and Armstrong’s thoughts appeared to be more focused on Anna’s breasts than on what she was saying.
She glanced down at the Damascus file and the confidence on her face appeared to slip. “There’s something about this one that isn’t sitting right with me. It’s all off. Everything. The location of the murder in a public place…”
Anna opened the Damascus file again. She nodded. Smoked. Reached for her coffee, but didn’t drink it. “According to the M.E.’s report there were apparent signs of struggle. Defensive bruises on her arms, along her rib cage. Cuts on her hands as if she attempted to fend off the knife. This is a total contradiction to the other cases. So what—aside from the decapitation and evisceration, same as the previous victims—would indicate that this was anything except a copycat?” Anna raised one eyebrow and looked from one officer to the other. “Anyone?”
Armstrong sat forward as he withdrew a notebook from his suit pocket. He tossed it on the table. “I’ve got my opinions, if anybody wants to hear them.”
Donovan groaned. “Shit, don’t start with that crap again.”
“What crap?” Jerry asked.
“You don’t want to go there.” Donovan glared at his partner.
“Let him talk.” Anna sat back in her chair. “What are your thoughts, Armstrong?”
Full of self-importance, the young detective glanced away from Anna and toward Jerry. “I say J.D. killed ’em—his family, I mean.”
Silenc
e.
Jerry’s face began to burn, as did Anna’s. Donovan slumped in his chair and Killroy reached for a piece of gum in his shirt pocket.
Armstrong cleared his throat as he, more reluctantly, flipped open the notebook. “Hey, just because the guy is an A.D.A. doesn’t mean he’s incapable of losing it. He’s as human as the rest of us. Right?”
Jerry turned his gaze on Donovan. “I’m not believing this.”
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s a well-known fact that J.D.’s marriage was on the rocks. Big time. There were a few very public arguments between them.” Armstrong glanced from face to face. “Hey, if Damascus was any Joe Blow off the streets he’d be your number one suspect.”
“But he’s not Joe Blow. Far from it.” Jerry reached for his coffee, the image of J.D.’s son smiling at him from the cup. “Granted, he and Laura had their problems. But no way in hell would he have harmed those kids. They were his world, Armstrong. The only thing that kept him going. Besides…sorry to further trash your case hypothesis, but J.D. was in Shreveport.”
“Not at the time of the killing.” Armstrong swallowed and fingered the notebook. “He arrived back in New Orleans via Delta Airlines at two A.M. The M.E.’s report says Laura was killed sometime between midnight and four A.M.”
“I’m not believing this,” Jerry repeated.
Armstrong shrugged. “Fine. But he matches your profile. Right?” He glared at Anna. “Right? Besides, who better to copycat the French Quarter Killer than someone who is close enough to the investigation to know the precise particulars regarding the actual murders?”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Molly peered in, holding a file in her hand. “Medical examiner’s report is here. The Bobbie Cox file.”
Lover Beware Page 13