Eclipse

by Hilary Norman

  Sam looked at him. ‘No reason they’d be looking for that drug if they did.’

  ‘I guess not,’ Martinez said. ‘But I’d sure like to know if she had any of that shit in her before she went walkabout on the beach.’

  ‘And if she did?’ Sam said.

  ‘Would it confirm her as strictly victim?’ Martinez shrugged. ‘Since we have no cause to get her tested, we’re not going to find out.’

  Sam said nothing.

  His thoughts slipped back again, to Cathy.

  ‘Hey,’ his partner said. ‘Not the same.’

  That was the way it went with them sometimes, almost reading each other’s minds. Like a kind of marriage.

  ‘I know it,’ Sam said.

  May 13

  He was reading again, from a text entitled ‘The Eyes Hold the Key’.

  About forensic pathology and vitreous humor. The stuff that resisted putrefaction longer than other bodily fluids could manage.

  ‘Where bacteria has begun to corrupt the blood alcohol level and render it inaccurate, the vitreous humor can still quite faithfully tell the ME what the blood alcohol level was shortly before death. Even after embalming, because embalming alcohol cannot enter the vitreous humor after death, a toxicologist is still able to test it for ethanol.’

  He tossed that text aside, moved on.

  To ancient Egypt. To one of his favorite myths about the battle between Horus, the god of the sky, and Seth, the god of chaos.

  Though he was a man of science, chaos fascinated him in a manner that order never could.

  According to the myth, Horus had fought Seth to avenge his father’s death, in the course of which battle Horus’s left eye had been damaged – part of a mythological explanation for the phases of the moon.

  My, how he loved it all: knowledge, science, fiction, mythology, drinking in everything from classical Latin to the study of rainforests, to suicide methodology and even euthanasia – a subject which went against all his most deeply held beliefs.

  His studies were eclectic, but his preference, always, remained science-based. Because he was a man of learning. A doctor.

  First and last.

  At one in the morning, Sam could not get off to sleep, and though he could have called Grace, who might already be breakfasting in Switzerland, she might not be awake yet and he was reluctant to disturb her.

  Anyway, he didn’t want to burden her with his present dark thoughts, at least not just before her long flight home.

  His own evening had been pleasant. Martinez had come back to the island for dinner, and they’d dropped by Epicure on the way to pick up a bunch of Claudia’s favorite foods. And Joshua had refused to go to sleep, had been allowed to stay up late, and they knew it was excitement because his mommy was coming home next day.

  An excitement shared by his father.

  The darkness was in him because of the case.

  Mostly, though, because of Felicia Delgado. The sheer insanity of the fact that she might possibly be regarded as a suspect in her own mother’s murder. Because she had psychiatric issues. And because she’d had her mom’s blood on her – that now confirmed.

  It made no sense, at least – small mercy – to consider her a suspect in the other Black Hole killings, and in this case, too, Felicia being a witness was a whole lot more probable.

  But just thinking about the poor kid’s state of mind stirred up another echo.

  Grace had been the one, from the outset, who had steadfastly believed in Cathy’s innocence.

  Grace, who had become her psychologist.

  That was the other thing burdening Sam tonight. He hated the idea of involving his wife in this new case, yet he couldn’t help wondering if Grace might not be exactly the right person to try to penetrate Felicia Delgado’s wounded shell when she was ready.

  Sleep would not come any time soon this night.

  At ten a.m. Zurich time, Grace was checking in at Kloten Airport.

  Everything going smoothly, and she’d allowed extra time before her lunchtime flight to shop for gifts. Chocolates, of course, for everyone, from the terminal’s branch of Sprüngli, but also a few small impulse gifts for the family.

  And for Magda, and perhaps for Martinez too. And something extra special for Claudia, and she had no idea yet what to get Sam, though she was pretty sure there’d be no shortage of gifts for Joshua . . .

  Eyes on her.

  Watching from a distance as she walked – in her smooth, easy, graceful way, golden hair glinting beneath the lights – through to passport control and the departure area, finally vanishing from sight.

  Thomas Chauvin sighed.

  Took off his rimless glasses, wiped them with a small soft white cloth, put them back on.

  Waited for another few moments, as if there were some chance that she might come back through, though he knew she would not, because people never did.

  No return . . .

  Gone.

  He sighed again, and then he smiled, and turned, and began to stroll back toward the exit.

  Humming as he strolled.

  ‘Je prends les poses de Grace Kelly . . .’

  The French version of the Mica song.

  ‘I try to be like Grace Kelly . . .’ The English version.

  In his head now.

  Not going away any time soon.

  With Delgado still at his daughter’s bedside, and with no justification for pulling him away for a full interview at this sensitive juncture, Sam and Martinez spent Friday morning running the usual checks, talking to neighbors in his condo, checking on the canvassing near the crime scene, then paying a visit to the head office of Delgado’s real estate firm, CD Realty on Biscayne Boulevard.

  The man had no criminal record, had weathered the downturn, his firm still successful, Delgado seeming on the level, with no known financial problems. His partner, Angelo Cortez, appeared fiercely supportive of him, told them that they could forget any possibility of his partner being involved in this terrible crime.

  ‘No one’s suggesting anything like that,’ Sam told Cortez.

  ‘These are just routine questions,’ Martinez said.

  ‘But everyone knows you always look at husbands first,’ Cortez said, ‘and I know that Carlos walked out on Beatriz, but only a saint could have put up with how she was, poor woman, God rest her soul.’ He crossed himself. ‘And Carlos always said he knew she couldn’t help it, but it was obviously affecting the kid, and he just couldn’t face dealing with two of them day after day.’

  Delgado had always looked after them, Cortez said, financially and every other way. He paid all the bills, was always there when his wife needed him.

  ‘He just couldn’t live with them anymore,’ Cortez said.

  ‘Was there anyone else involved?’ Martinez asked.

  ‘Another woman, you mean?’ Cortez shook his head. ‘Not that I know about, and I would know, believe me. Carlos and I, we’re good friends, not just business partners.’

  ‘Good friends tell lies for each other,’ Martinez said as they left the building.

  ‘You’re such a cynic,’ Sam said.

  ‘Who are you, Pollyanna?’

  Sam grinned. ‘No, but my wife’s on her way home.’

  Back at the station, an encrypted file from Duval awaited them, thoroughly detailing the previous Black Hole murders. Estimated dates and times included. Gruesome reading.

  Arlene Silver, the first and oldest victim, in Fairview Shores, Orlando. Forty-nine, married, a housewife, her two kids grown, with their own homes, her husband at work when she’d died. Attractive brunette, a little overweight, a serial dieter according to her sister and friends.

  Victim number two, Karen Weber, age twenty-two, blonde, single. Working in real estate in Jupiter, getting decent commissions, popular, renting her own apartment. Happy, healthy, everything to live for.

  Lindy Braun, thirty-seven, divorcée with her own bar in Naples. A dark-haired, sparkling-eyed bundle of energy according to
all who knew her.

  Amelia Newton of Fort Lauderdale. Thirty-three, another blonde.

  Making Beatriz Delgado the first Hispanic victim.

  Sam and Martinez read every word, scrutinized each photo and sketch, searching for just a single detail from their own case that might highlight an area of common ground not previously spotted.

  Nothing jumping out at them.

  Except those women’s deaths.

  And, of course, eyes.

  ‘Remember the “Moe Green Special”?’ Martinez said.

  ‘Hardly Mafia.’ Sam shrugged. ‘Could be revenge, though. The old biblical “eye for an eye” thing. Putting out eyes was a punishment.’

  Martinez was already Googling. ‘Happened to some guy called Zedekiah,’ he said. ‘Book of Jeremiah.’

  ‘Happened to Samson, too,’ Sam said.

  Martinez was still browsing. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘The Philistines did it to him.’

  ‘Those guys didn’t get sedated first,’ Sam said. ‘Makes Black Hole seem almost gentle.’

  ‘A prince,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Could mean we’re looking for a Bible fanatic,’ Sam said. ‘For now, though, we should check out Delgado’s alibis for the other murders.’

  Though Felicia remained the person they most needed to speak to.

  Still silent.

  At three, a multijurisdictional meeting was held in the squad room – ahead of the press conference arranged for Monday morning.

  Lieutenant Michael Alvarez hosting for Miami Beach. Also present, Sam and Martinez, the detectives investigating for Orange County, Palm Beach, Collier County and Fort Lauderdale, with Joe Duval for the FDLE. On the table, Duval’s own informal report which Alvarez had requested he read aloud.

  ‘I’ll tell you at the outset,’ Duval said, ‘that I doubt there’s a single item here that every one of you has not thought through. You have the experience in your jurisdictions, you’ve seen the victims first-hand, conducted the interviews, had time to mull things over.’

  ‘It never hurts to recap,’ Alvarez said, ‘as we’ve all had to do on every case that didn’t jump up and solve itself.’

  ‘This is more a summing up than a profile,’ Duval went on. ‘I’m not a psychologist, and though I once completed a criminal personality profiling program with the BSU, I am not a profiler by profession and my training is years out of date.’

  ‘You helped catch the Inhuman Torch in Chicago,’ Sam pointed out, for the rest. ‘And Frederick Schwartz, the pacemaker killer.’

  ‘We’ve all helped catch killers,’ Duval said.

  ‘Shall we get on?’ Alvarez said.

  Duval stood.

  ‘As we know, we have ourselves an organized serial killer or killers, with a clear signature. Shooting out the victims’ eyes could symbolize blinding as a punishment, but the character and lifestyles of the victims speak against that likelihood. That does not, however, rule out irrational “punishment”’ – Duval made quotation marks with his index fingers – ‘by an obsessive, probably paranoid individual, who might be targeting women because they’re attractive, or because maybe they looked at the killer the wrong way, or maybe something about the victims’ eyes upset him or her. None of the women had unusual visual issues, though the latest victim’s phobia may have significance.’

  He went on.

  The killer had chosen a ‘safe’ time to strike, had found some way to be allowed into, perhaps invited into, the victims’ homes.

  Nothing suggested uncontrolled violence or sadism.

  No indication of sexual assault or even interest.

  No removal of clothing or undergarments.

  Each victim had been drugged, then probably moved to their own bed, then shot through both eyes, resulting in immediate death or bleeding out.

  ‘We don’t know if the victims were drugged to stop them struggling or, just possibly, to minimize suffering. Certainly, any suggestion of mercy seems unlikely, yet the killer may feel compelled to carry out this specific end game, yet have no urge to inflict pain.’

  Duval spoke about the weapon.

  .380 Automatic Colt Pistol cartridges matched in lab tests to a Colt Mk 4 series 80, a self-loading, recoil operated, semiautomatic weapon produced from the mid-eighties to the late nineties.

  ‘No way of knowing if this is a recently acquired gun or a collector’s item or even an old family weapon.’

  He went on to what he called the ‘finishing touches’ of each crime.

  ‘The staging of these scenes has not appeared sexually motivated, and in only one case has the body been manipulated for effect; Lindy Braun’s arms moved so that her gloved hands covered her eyes.’

  The beds, themselves, had significance, Duval felt.

  ‘Deathbed. Convenience. Comfort. Cleanliness.’

  Three pillows – the number perhaps significant – piled up behind each victim’s head, with a latex sheet separating the head from the top pillow. (The fourth pillow or cushion used as a silencer and, therefore, part of the MO, not the staging.)

  The victim tidily positioned, clothing in place.

  ‘Most meaningful of all, staging-wise, are the covers over the blasted eye sockets. Covering in itself comprehensible: the killer finding it tough, perhaps, to look at his or her handiwork. But the fact that the coverings have been the only notable variant at each scene suggests some different significance.’

  The sleep mask.

  The gauze, covered by Band-Aids.

  The white-gloved hands.

  The sunglasses.

  The little doilies.

  ‘Smacks of amusement,’ Duval said. ‘Game playing. Showing off. Having fun at this point. Yet still vicious and controlling. Quirky, but ultimately powerful.’

  He returned to the probability that the victims had admitted the killer to their property. So, either an acquaintance or someone with an appointment, an arrangement, even an assignation – though no records in datebooks or on calendars or even Post-it notes had been found. So either these had been removed by the killer, or the victims had chosen not to make a note for some reason. Or perhaps the arrival of the killer had been unexpected.

  ‘Detective Becket, noting a smell of acetone in the two crime scenes he visited, has provided a list of multiple products containing the substance. If this is a clue, even if only in two out of five cases, we could be looking for anyone from a house painter to a nail technician. Or it could be immaterial.’

  Staging, as they all knew, was generally thought to be either a conscious effort to confuse and thwart investigators, or to further shock those who found the victim or whose job it was to investigate, or to give perverted pleasure to the murderer.

  ‘So who are we looking for? Someone convincing enough to be allowed in and to give the women a drink containing Diazepam.’ Duval paused. ‘Mrs Delgado’s tox results are not back yet, but we can include her for now.’

  It was not known, he went on, if the victims had been very drowsy or asleep before being taken to their beds – the distinction crucial, since one individual, even a female, could assist a very sleepy woman from one room to another; whereas a virtually unconscious dead weight would require a strong male or two people.

  ‘There was no evidence on the bodies, floors or rugs of the victims being dragged to their beds, and unless we’re dealing with masochism, there’s no way these women voluntarily lay down on those beds.’

  Duval paused.

  ‘A profiling expert might suggest gender, but I won’t. Everything here could point to a single male or strong female – gay or straight – or even a team. Timing of no obvious help. The killings began in January, continued in February and March, then paused through April, and now we’ve had two in May.’ He took a breath. ‘I think this may be something that’s been festering for years, and after it first blew its top with Arlene Silver, the killer felt better. Better enough to do it again and again and again.’ Duval shook his head. ‘More to come, unless we stop him. Or her
.’ Another pause. ‘Or them.’

  He sat down, tidied some papers, then stabbed at a pencil, which flipped off the table and landed on the floor.

  ‘I wish I had more. As it is, it’s just a consolidation of what you all already know.’

  ‘You’ve concentrated our minds,’ Alvarez told him.

  ‘A refresher course on Black Hole.’ Jerry O’Dea from Palm Beach was ironic.

  ‘Guess the pressure’s on you guys now,’ Bobbi Gutierrez from FLPD said to Sam and Martinez.

  The meeting continued a while longer, frustration building.

  Sam remembered that just two days ago, he’d been bored.

  ‘Be careful what you set your heart upon,’ James Baldwin had once said.

  Beth Riley came into the office at five.

  ‘Something I think you should see, Sam.’

  A copy of a piece of paper found in Beatriz Delgado’s living room.

  A note of an appointment on May 11.

  ‘With Doctor Shrike,’ Riley said. ‘Isn’t that Grace’s colleague?’

  She handed it over.

  Sam looked at the phone number written beneath the name.

  Not Magda Shrike’s number.

  Grace’s.

  Grace’s flight touched down at five-thirty p.m.

  Sam had made it, was waiting with flowers.

  He thought she looked a little weary, but more beautiful than ever.

  He told her so, loving the feel and scent of her as she leant against him.

  ‘I’ve never been happier to see anyone,’ she said.

  ‘There’s a small boy waiting in a house on Bay Harbor Island who’s going to make you even happier,’ Sam said, picking up her bags.

  ‘Does he know I’m coming?’ Grace asked as they headed out through the throng of passengers and redcaps and drivers holding up name cards. ‘Do you think he missed me? I know it’s selfish, but I want him to have missed me a little.’

  ‘We told him tomorrow,’ Sam said. ‘Just in case you were delayed. So you get to see his little face light up.’

  A perfect homecoming.

  Joshua wide awake, having wheedled the truth out of his aunt, rushing out whooping when his dad’s car drew up, bombing his mom with questions about her airplane, squeezing the breath out of her with joyful hugs.