by Philip Cox
‘It’s been established that serial killers are most often white males aged between 25 and 34, of at least average intelligence, and they often have charming personalities. Most are illegitimate children and have experienced sexual or physical abuse during their childhoods. They tend to select vulnerable victims whom they can control. They prefer to use hands-on methods such as strangling or stabbing.
‘They can be difficult to apprehend because they plan their killings, often travel great distances, and frequently wait months between killings.’
‘Swell,’ muttered Leroy.
‘So,’ Calloway continued, ‘putting all of this in the context of your investigation: I would suggest your offenders - and there would have to be at least two of them - are between 20 and 35. Three out of four sexual assaults are committed by culprits under 25.’
‘This wasn’t really a sexual assault, though,’ Perez said. ‘Not in the normal sense of the term.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was,’ replied Calloway. ‘I’ll return to the injuries shortly. Seventy-five percent of all sexual assaults are committed by white males. Again, this may not be a traditional sexual assault: after all, there was no penile penetration; but statistically, a male is most likely. The Hutchinsons were both white and retired. You said he was an executive for a local charity?’
‘That’s right,’ Leroy cut in. ‘Before that, however, he was a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Army. The Army have been unable to tell us why he left.’
‘Unable? Why?’
‘No records, apparently.’
‘Unusual, but not unprecedented. I have had this before, particularly when the person left the service a while ago.’
‘Is that something you could assist with?’ Leroy asked.
‘The Bureau can only be actively involved in certain circumstances, as you know,’ replied Calloway. ‘And there’s no guarantee we’d be any more successful than you.’
‘Fine,’ said Perez, looking at Leroy. ‘Please continue, Nick.’
‘Your offender is most likely white, the same as the victims. As far as residency is concerned, as I said earlier, if this is a serial killer, he could have travelled a long distance; if it’s not, then he’s most likely local.
‘He will have a high level of intelligence: this crime was carefully planned and executed.
‘He may have recently become unemployed. Many serial killers have recently experienced a job loss. How long ago did the victim retire?’
‘Around three years,’ Leroy replied.
‘That’s probably too long for somebody who might have been fired by the company, but it might be worthwhile checking that out.’
Perez jotted something down on his legal pad. ‘You think the offender might be someone who’s been pissed off?’
‘It’s a possibility. Three years is a long time. I’d check it out though.
‘Most sex offenders and paedophiles are single. You have to look at that statistic in the light of whether the injuries inflicted were of a sexual nature per se. Now, we come to possible motivating factors. There was little physical evidence at the crime scene: this would suggest the crime was premeditated, not a case of the victims being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The nature of the injuries may indicate that the offender or offenders had great personal anger towards the victims.’
‘The nature of the injuries,’ Leroy asked. ‘What would that indicate to you?’
‘From my experiences,’ replied Calloway, ‘it could indicate the perpetrator had experienced sexual abuse at some time. Had the victim ever been accused of a sex crime?’
‘Not that we can establish,’ said Leroy, ‘although we’re still checking him out. He did at some stage work with homeless children, through the charity. Are you suggesting this is some kind of revenge attack?’
‘How long ago was this?’ Calloway asked.
Leroy looked over at Quinn.
Quinn cleared his throat and said, ‘From the information we’ve received, over twenty years ago.’
Calloway coughed. ‘Looking at the victims’ ages and the standard offender’s age, that’s unlikely.’
‘What about the injuries Mrs Hutchinson sustained?’ Leroy asked. ‘More or less the same as her husband’s?’
‘Yes,’ said Calloway. ‘That’s quite worrying. The most likely explanation is that the offender enjoyed doing what he did to her husband, so did it again.’
‘Some sicko,’ Leroy interjected. Perez looked up.
‘Quite,’ said Calloway.
‘What about the drugs which were found on the scene?’ Perez asked.
‘Personally I wouldn’t set too high a score on them,’ Calloway replied. ‘For a start, this crime was organized. In a disorganized crime, there will be evidence such as fingerprints, blood - not the victims’ - and the offenders tend to be under the influence of alcohol or drugs. The strength of the narcotic here would not, I would suggest, be enough to affect the behaviour of the offenders – they were too highly organized.’
‘So it wasn’t a drug-fuelled rampage?’ asked Perez.
‘Maybe that’s what we were meant to think,’ said Leroy.
‘Good point, Sam,’ said Calloway. ‘Remember, organized criminals are clever, sometimes very clever; they are also impressed with police work. The drugs were most likely placed there deliberately to confuse the investigation or just to…to-er…’
‘To give us the finger?’ asked Leroy.
‘More or less, yes.’ Calloway paused. ‘That’s all I have for you at this time; is there anything else you’d like to know?’
Perez looked at Leroy and Quinn; Leroy shook his head. ‘No, that’s all been very helpful. We’re all very much obliged.’
‘Just call me if you need any more assistance.’
After the four men said their goodbyes, Perez sat back in his chair. ‘Well?’ he said to Leroy. ‘What do you think?’
Leroy leaned back in his chair, resting the back of his head on the palms of his outstretched hands. ‘Okay, let me think this through: our man - our men, rather - is a white male, between 20 and 35. He’s clever, although may have recently lost his job. He’s single, is from a broken home, and suffered abuse as a child.’
He looked over at Quinn and then back at Perez.
‘So how many of those are there in this town?’
TWENTY-ONE
AT THE SAME time as Leroy, Quinn and Perez were in conference, ten miles away a figure in a grey jacket, white shirt, and black pants looked up and down Western Avenue. He had just seen a departing guest into a taxi bound for LAX, and watched the yellow vehicle as it progressed down Western. Kevin covered his mouth to conceal a yawn and turned to go back into the hotel. The yawn was not through tiredness: Kevin was bored out of his mind. He disliked this job intensely: the subservient role he had; carrying the bags of lowlife and asshole bad tippers; being nothing more than a server. A servant, more like. And that prick of a hotel manager treated him like a piece of shit.
But that job was all he could get. Even three weeks on welfare was three weeks too much. He needed the cash. The thing was, he actually enjoyed that job in the call centre. Just answering calls was better than having to kiss people’s butts like he had to now. What was the word the guy from Head Office used? That’s right: downsizing. Well, one day he would downsize that jumped up little turd.
Kevin was white. Kevin was 29 years of age. He had majored in Statistics at UCLA. His life could have taken a different path, were it not for his temper. He was single, had been for two and a half years. He was an only child. His father died when Kevin was three years old. His father had a younger brother who would visit them now and again. Sometimes, when his mother was asleep, his uncle would visit Kevin in his bedroom. Until, that is, the evening he mistook his bottle of cheap whiskey with one of tea laced with ammonia. The inquest ruled death by misadventure due to the influence of alcohol. It took him a week to die.
As he sauntered back into the lobby, Kevin’s eyes glan
ced up at the five clocks on the wall behind reception. They showed the times in Los Angeles, London, Moscow, Tokyo, and Honolulu. Local time was 3:25. Almost two and a half hours to go.
More guests came and went. Only one was a good tipper - $25. He was a Singaporean who was apparently in LA on vacation. As they waited for and travelled up to the fifth floor in the elevator, he chatted continually to Kevin. Kevin could tell he was speaking English, but the accent was so thick, he could barely understand what the man was saying. What he did notice, though, was the way the man’s eyes continually flicked up and down Kevin as he spoke with a fixed grin, and the way he happened to brush against Kevin’s arm as they left the elevator. Once in the room, as the Singaporean passed over the tip, his fingers brushed over Kevin’s, staying there just a little too long for Kevin’s liking. Kevin was not surprised when he was asked for direction to West Hollywood: he provided them politely, but avoided answering when the guest casually enquired when Kevin went off duty.
The other guests - a family of four from Canada and an elderly couple from Wisconsin – each passed a ten each. As he walked down to the elevator at 5:45, Kevin counted that day’s tips. An average day.
The night shift arrived at one minute after six, and by four minutes after six, Kevin had changed back into his tee shirt, checked shirt and denims, and baseball cap and was walking briskly down Western. Normally he would head straight home, but tonight, however, he had a different destination. After his phone call earlier, he was headed elsewhere.
*****
It was now after eight-thirty. Kevin sighed and checked the time. He had been perched on this stool in the diner for an hour now. He had eaten a burger and fries with a strawberry milkshake, then ice cream, and three cups of coffee. He had used up all his refills. He decided to give it until nine. Not because he felt he was wasting his time: he didn’t mind that, not at this meeting; it was just that public transportation could at times be unreliable, and he had a long journey home, with an early start tomorrow.
‘Anything else I can getcha?’ the guy behind the bar asked, passing over the check.
Kevin looked up the clock again. Time to call it a night. ‘No, nothing else,’ he said sadly, and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He paid the $17 check, said no change needed, and eased himself off the stool. He looked around the diner: no idea why he was being hurried - there were only two tables in use. As he turned to leave and walk up to the stop, the glass door swung open and a figure hurried in.
‘Kevin! I’m so sorry,’ the arrival said. ‘Were you just about to leave? I’m so sorry.’
‘No, no. It’s cool. Honestly,’ Kevin answered as the two men sat back down at the counter.
‘Two coffees, please. Let’s go sit at one of those tables.’ The new arrival led Kevin to one of the window tables. ‘Sorry again, I got held up. Was going to call your cell, but… Thanks.’ The conversation stopped when the coffees arrived.
Kevin took a sip of the steaming hot liquid. ‘You said that it was time for another night out.’
‘That’s right. Here.’ He reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a thin magazine. He opened it out and laid it on the table. He looked around the diner, then placed his index finger on one of the photographs on the page.
‘This one,’ he said. ‘And I know exactly how we’re going to do it.’
TWENTY-TWO
‘WE KEEPING YOU up, Sam?’ Lieutenant Perez asked, as Leroy suppressed another yawn.
Leroy checked his watch. ‘Kind of.’ He relayed to the lieutenant the events of the previous night.
‘Was it worthwhile?’ Perez asked.
‘It didn’t solve the case, but it was an angle that needed following up.’
‘And you were there till...?’
‘Just after one, I think it was.’
‘You’d better get off home, then. Get some rest. Ray here can make some secondary enquiries for the rest of the day.’
Leroy leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. ‘Think I will. Thanks, Lieutenant.’
Perez shrugged. ‘I was thinking about the overtime bill.’
Leroy pulled a face, and looked over at Quinn. ‘You get on with those enquiries about the Mission and about Mrs Hutchinson.’
‘Mrs Hutchinson?’ Perez queried.
‘Worth a shot. We are assuming, after all, that he was the intended target, and she was just collateral damage. Could be the other way round.’
Perez nodded.
Leroy continued, ‘Then go through LAPD records – any suspects, or people released, or still serving, who might match Calloway’s profile.’
‘Sure,’ said Quinn, getting ready to stand up.
‘You know,’ said Perez as Leroy stiffly stood up, ‘if Agent Calloway was here, he could advise you about getting a B12 shot to keep you going.’
Leroy nodded. ‘Sure, laced with extra caffeine and Benzedrine, I guess.’
‘Something like that; although I understand they use Provigil these days.’
‘Now, that would really screw your overtime budget, wouldn’t it?’
Perez shook his head. ‘Sweet dreams, Detective,’ he said, and returned to some papers on his desk.
Leroy and Quinn returned to the Homicide Desk.
‘I’ll call you later this afternoon,’ Quinn said. ‘You okay to drive, Sam?’
‘Sure. I’ll be okay. Speak to you later.’
*****
Much to Leroy’s irritation, the traffic on the way back to Venice was heavier than usual, and it was well over ninety minutes later when he finally parked his car outside his apartment building on 23rd Avenue. Once inside, he made himself a turkey sandwich, sat on his bed, and booted up his laptop. He searched for the FBI Law Enforcement Online site, keyed some other information, and reached the ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, pages. He sat staring at the screen, rubbing his stubbly chin, not sure what to make of what he was reading.
He lay back on the bed, and allowed his eyes to close, only to open them with a start, and reach over to his phone. He checked the time on the display, found Julia’s name in his Contacts list, and sent her a short text. Then lay back down again, closing his eyes.
*****
When the sound of his phone ringing and vibrating on the bedside table woke him, it was almost dark, and two hours later than when he fell asleep.
‘Hey, Ray; still at the station?’ he asked Quinn.
‘Just about to leave. Thought I’d call and give you an update on what I found so far.’
‘Sure.’ He sat up, cross-legged, on the bed. ‘Hit me.’
‘Going back five years, I’ve found three possibles, based on the MO up at the Hutchinsons, and the FBI profile’.
‘Three? How local are they?’
‘As far as I can establish, two are still living in LA: one down in Anaheim, the other in West Hollywood.’
‘What about the third?’
‘He’s in Salinas Valley State Prison. Has been for the last two years.’
‘Okay.’ Leroy paused a beat, thinking. ‘What about Mrs Hutchinson?’
‘Not yet. LAPD records took me all afternoon. Same with the Mission.’
‘We can do that in the morning; get off home to Holly.’
‘I did get to check ViCAP,’ Quinn added.
‘So did I, before I fell asleep. What did you find?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. Nothing in common with the Hutchinsons. You?’
‘I found one. Rather tenuous, though. A while back, a guy - retired, around the same age as Hutchinson - was shot through his dining room window by a sniper.’
‘Right…?’
‘That’s it. He was with his wife: she wasn’t touched. Only one shot - clean to the middle of his head.’
‘A good shot. Any arrests?’
‘Nothing yet. Barely any evidence from the yard where the shot was taken. The guy - assuming it was a guy – wore size 9s, but that’s all the data they’ve got.’
‘And
was this here in LA?’
‘No. Place called Renton, Washington. A few miles outside Seattle.’
‘Just the sniper shot? No assault like with the Hutchinsons?’
‘No, just one shot.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, not much to go on.’ Leroy yawned again. ‘Look, Ray: you’ve had a long day as well. Switch off that PC and get off home to your wife. We can both start tomorrow fresh.’
Quinn said his goodbyes and hung up. Leroy lay back down, resting the back of his head on his hands. He began to churn through the events of that day: had they actually made any progress?
As he mulled this question, he slipped back into sleep. Within seconds, he was in a deep sleep, snoring loudly.
His sleep was so deep, he failed to hear the sound at his front door, and the door slowly opening.
TWENTY-THREE
KEVIN HAD DECIDED he would make the most of his trip out. Mixing business with pleasure, in a way. Today was his day off, and he had decided to take a trip out to Century City. He would buy what he needed from the Marketplace, and then maybe take in a movie at the AMC.
However, when he got off his bus at one of the stops on Santa Monica Boulevard, he realised things had changed since his last visit here, which was some time ago. The Century City Shopping Center & Marketplace was now the Westfield Century City, different and definitely more upmarket.
He paused a moment on the kerbside, debating whether to cross over the Boulevard and get the next bus back Downtown, but decided now he was here, he would check it out.
As he strolled though the mall, he took in some of the stores here now: some he remembered from his last visit, others were new. On Level 1, he wandered past Lucky Brand Jeans. One look in the store window told him that he was in the wrong place for shopping: the prices here were out of his league. Then Justice, then the Apple Store: he looked in here, but there was nothing in the store here which really took his eye, or matched his wallet. Opposite stood the massive Bloomingdales store: Kevin walked straight past.