Miami Fire

by Rick Murcer

  “Keep going, girl,” said Sophie.

  “Everything seemed to be in slow motion, as if time stood still or like one of those out of body experiences people talk about. It was like God wanted it to be that way. Anyway, for one brief moment, our eyes met. He was wearing a scarf around his face, so I didn’t get a great look at the rest of him, but I’ll never forget what was in the midst of those dark eyes.

  “He was not, you know, excited or crazy or angry, or any other dark emotion you’d assume from someone who was swinging a blade at me, but calm, almost happy. It’s hard to explain . . . like he was completely in his element and reveled in it.

  “I ducked as I heard the knife swoosh over my head, slipping into the water as I did. He kept running and was out of sight in no time.

  “Well, I got up, totally soaked from the river. Trisha stumbled to my side as, for some reason I can’t explain, we focused on where he came from as opposed to where he was going. I guess we both knew something horrible had happened . . . to Cammy.

  “We hurried into the cave, stooping low as we heard a bat leaving the dark, but not the least freaked out about a flying rat this time. The freak out began a few seconds later.

  “Propped up against the side of the rocky cave . . .” Belle paused and swallowed hard. “Just inside the shadowy side, a stray stream of sunshine running diagonally across her body, was Cammy, her lifeless eyes wide open. Her clothes were sliced but still on her body. Her throat was sliced too, literally from ear to ear, still gushing.” Belle inhaled deeply, obviously struggling to stay the course and finish telling what she’d not spoken of for years, maybe ever. Manny was both thankful she was telling this tale and appalled there was such a story to share.

  His stomach roiled even more.

  Spreading her hand flat on the table, she stared at them as she spoke.

  “I’d never seen that much blood before. It’s one of those images we carry with us until God takes us home.”

  “Trisha screamed and screamed then turned and ran out of the cave. I didn’t really know where she lived and because of that, and maybe a dozen other reasons, I never saw her again.”

  “I wanted to do the same, but for some ungodly reason, I couldn’t. I had no control of my feet or legs, and even less of my eyes. I just scanned her over and over. I supposed I was fascinated, in a shocked sort of way. Cammy had been a living, breathing young woman and now she looked like a victim from a Freddie Kruger movie.”

  “Were you concerned that the kid might come back?” asked Dean.

  She shook her head. “No. I knew he was gone. Somehow, I knew. Maybe even then I suspected his job, or whatever the hell he wanted to call it, was completed.

  “The blood and mutilation was bad, but slowly I realized there was a pattern to it. He’d carved into my friend’s arms and one leg in loosely shaped rectangles that connected at the points. Three on each of three limbs. We probably scared him off before he finished, but then again, I’m not sure about that.

  “My shock must have worn off about then because I ran out of the cave, sprinting as fast as I could. A few hundred feet down the river, I slipped on some wet rocks, dislocating and breaking my knee so horribly that five surgeries couldn’t put me back together properly. I laid half in and half out of the water, screaming in agony for someone to help me, crying for more reasons than the pain in my leg.

  “Finally, a local sugar cane farmer heard me and carried me to the tracks, where he flagged down a train.

  “I told them, more like babbled inconsolably, about Cammy. It took a few minutes, but they got it and called the island police.

  “As they loaded me into the ambulance, I recalled one more thing that I’d seen on poor Cammy’s body.”

  “Which was?’ asked Josh.

  “There were two letters carved into her forehead just underneath her hairline, semi-covered by blood-matted hair. I obviously saw them, but it took time to register.”

  “Which letters?” asked Manny.

  Belle pulled her hands off the table and began to rub her arms as if some arctic vortex had just waltzed into the room.

  “NO. The letters were NO.”

  CHAPTER-19

  “How are you coming on that Anderson project?”

  Pulling his phone from his ear, he looked toward the sky. He knew most people had a boss, and granted, he had freedom that most only dreamt about. Then again, most people lacked his talent.

  He could work from his home or from some shithole third world country or even go into the office and sit in a stale, worn-down cubicle and perform his magic. His other magic.

  “Did you check your inbox, Fred? I sent it about three hours ago, along with the Meredith updates and the Schmidt revisions.”

  He heard the fat man clear his throat, probably after swallowing another dozen doughnuts.

  “I . . . well, I hadn’t gotten that far, meetings and all,” he managed.

  “Well, handle it, Fred. I’ve got other irons in the fire and can’t be bothered because you didn’t do your job.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that; I’m your boss, dammit.”

  “Okay, well, I guess I can get work someplace else. I don’t like the shit you’re giving me here. I wonder what the Old Lady would say about that, Federico.”

  There was a delicious, pregnant pause. He actually heard Fred put something else in his mouth. He answered a moment later.

  “It’s a damn good thing you’re the best graphic artist I’ve ever seen because you’re an asshole, you know that?”

  “Fred, how kind of you to say that. But you better apologize for the asshole remark or I’m in the wind, as they say, and you never know where I’ll pop up. Maybe at the Clausen Agency. Now that would be a twist, wouldn’t it? The Old Lady would have your nuts around your neck for letting your best go to her bitter rival, I think, don’t you?”

  The sound of more chewing caused him to smile.

  “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. I’m just under the gun and stressed here.”

  Another pause. Then Fred spoke again, desperation filtering in.

  “You wouldn’t really do that, leave us, right?”

  “Just keeping my options open. I’ve got to go. And Fred, make sure you don’t send me any work for a few days. I’m taking some ‘me’ time.”

  “No problem. I’ll take care of you.”

  The big man hung up. The relief in Fred’s voice made him laugh out loud.

  “Keep them on a string, that’s my motto,” he whispered.

  Putting the cell back into his shirt pocket, he crossed his legs underneath the café’s outside table, sipped his espresso, and then touched the screen of his laptop. It sprang to life, showing an island drenched in sun.

  Glancing up through his shades, he then closed his eyes in utter bliss.

  The Florida sun was warm, hot even, and it felt good to him. It always had. But the sun was especially nice in the Caribbean. He knew about the Caribbean and what it had to offer, in several realms.

  Going back to the screen, he stared at his next project, his next personal project, and was at a loss to control the sudden onset of true emotion. Tears welled up and then streamed down his tanned face.

  Their rendezvous with destiny, with immortality even, was in his hands. He couldn’t be more grateful and humbled at the same time to be the vehicle that would put them in that position. No one would forget them, if he was on top of his game.

  That thought brought him full circle as he smiled again, brushing at the impromptu tears.

  When had he not been at the top of his game?

  The Roman numeral analog countdown clock flashed on the screen, displaying exactly twenty-six hours until he blessed the next couple with his abilities. He would be ready; he always was.

  Standing, he then folded up his computer and began the short journey to his house.

  Turning the corner, he removed the golden lighter from his pocket and began absently flipping the top open and closed, his excitement gr
owing.

  On top of my game. . . .

  CHAPTER-20

  Sitting at the large, rectangular table in the main conference room lined with tinted windows in the modern Miami-Dade Police Department, Manny could see the swaying palms landscaped around the building as traffic moved slowly on Second Avenue. Life was going on as usual for those people walking down the sidewalks and driving in their cars.

  He sometimes wondered if people thought at all about what it took to protect them, especially from killers like Valentino. There were the gangbangers and the drug addicts and the perpetrators of domestic violence locked inside these jail walls, but he suspected most people didn’t give this a second thought, especially if their lives had not been personally touched by such filth. By nature, folks were wrapped up in their own worlds, almost oblivious to anything that didn’t affect them directly.

  How to change that? Could it ever be changed? Yet, were law enforcement members so different from normal citizens? Workaholics knew no professional boundaries and cops thought their work more important than most. Firefighters. Military. Important, no question, but the every-day, often thankless, functions of his profession saved lives almost without appreciation.

  He felt Sophie’s elbow in his ribs. “Where the hell are you now, cowboy? When Swifton comes through that door, you’d better get that dreamy look out of those baby blues or she’ll think you’re ready for the funny farm.”

  “Just pondering my own narcissism.”

  “Does that help? You know, to get your poop in a group?”

  Marie Swifton popped through the door, followed by Duane James.

  “I’ll let you know later,” whispered Manny.

  Searching the table where four other Miami-Dade detectives, two CSU supervisors, and two captains sat with Manny and the rest of the BAU, Swifton began.

  “Okay, I’ll get through the technical and who-has-authority-here crap then we can go on. We’ve invited Josh Corner and his BAU in on this one. We’re after a profile, no doubt, but my experience says we’ll get far more than that. What they want and what they say goes until further notice.”

  She hesitated, like some ghost from another case decided to streak through her mind’s eye. Manny had seen that look far more times than he cared to remember, mostly in the mirror.

  Shifting in her chair, she continued. “We get our share of shit down here, but we haven’t seen what they’ve seen. So if we don’t have any questions, we’ll get this meeting on the road.”

  One of the captains raised her hand. She was a pretty woman in her forties with blond hair and bright eyes—Penny. Penny Craig, according to her name badge.

  “We’ve got lots of people volunteering to work overtime and help on this one, just for your information.”

  “That’s good to know, but that’ll be up to the BAU to decide if we need more or less.”

  Captain Craig nodded, fully understanding that too many cops involved in an investigation can hurt more than it helped sometimes.

  “You all have the latest files on the four homicides in front of you. It’s what we have, up until about an hour ago. And you’ve all seen most of what’s there. We’re here to listen to what the BAU has to say and then go from there. Josh?”

  Josh rose out of his chair and began. “We’re glad to be of any help we can. Like Marie said, this one’s different in several aspects than some of the cases we have worked. With that, we’re going to break this down into three aspects.

  “We’re going to talk about the forensic evidence, what we’ve found on our criminal databases, and what we’re investigating. Then discuss the psychology of this killer, ending with a profile.

  “I’m going to let the senior profiler conduct this meeting because frankly, he’s smarter than I am, usually.”

  The snickers around the table told Manny that Josh had helped them relax a bit. That would be important later.

  “Okay, Manny, let’s do it.”

  Manny stood as Josh sat. “Our CSI folks are going to tell us what they’ve discovered and in conjunction with your own crime scene investigators, present the science.”

  He nodded at Dean, who still wore the teal paisley driver’s hat that matched his shirt. Manny was sure Sophie’s husband was getting more than one second look. If Dean noticed, he wasn’t the least fazed as he began.

  “You can see the time of deaths on all four victims. The first couple died some forty-four hours ago, the next two victims died right at thirty-six hours later. The first two victims died from multiple stab wounds, leading to exsanguination. The second couple died from trauma as a result of fifth-degree burns over sixty percent of their bodies.”

  “Why the change in method?” asked one of the four detectives.

  “I’ll let Special Agents Williams and Lee handle that. Right now, let’s get through what we can regarding the science.”

  The detective nodded.

  “The knives used, and left, at the first scene were nothing out of the ordinary. They were relatively expensive, but can be purchased at hundreds of stores in the Miami area. So no real leads there.

  “The nylon rope used to secure the two victims to the tree is also of above-average quality, but common to the area and used on boats and ships for varying purposes. No help there either, in terms of unusual.”

  “A search-and-process, done by your department’s CSU, showed no soil or vegetation types that were not indigenous to the area. So, we had no luck with that either.”

  Dean frowned and then closed his file of notes.

  “Listen, I can tell you what we didn’t find and go through this list of notes and scientific jargon, but we’re wasting time. If you want to read this report, you can do it later. It’ll probably make for a great sleep stimulate for most of you, so let me tell you what we did find.”

  Manny watched a couple of Miami-Dade’s finest nod and grin.

  “We’re processing fibers that may not be from the victims’ clothing. Even though he left the folks in the Everglades bound to the tree naked, it’s almost impossible not to have some fibers stick to their skin if he touched them. Since he piled their clothes neatly on the backside of the tree, we can compare them with the fibers we found. If they don’t belong to victims, the fibers might tell us what the perp was wearing.

  “We also found a few shoe prints and footprints that we casted. This could lead to a shoe size or brand that we can compare to our databases for feet and shoes. We also have tire tracks that we’ll try to match. It’s a relatively secluded area but is traveled some, so those two situations may not lead to anything.”

  Dean ran his hand over his beard, thinking of how he wanted to present his next findings, Manny guessed. He was doing a great job in Alex’s absence.

  “We also located a few drops of blood spatter that appear to have fallen from the knife, but they were far from the tree. The killer could have cut himself. We’ll know more when the rest of that analysis comes back from the lab.

  “Again, Manny and Sophie will discuss the patterns found in the blood and the whole VALENTINO thing.

  “There were no fingerprints, as anticipated with an organized killer like this one. Oh, one more thing before we get to the second crime scene. There were small, maybe fifty-cent-piece size, burn marks on the victim’s ears and on the soles of their feet. To me, it looks like he used a lighter for that.”

  “Why a lighter?” asked Marie.

  “The burns were more round, more symmetrical, and deeper burns than if he would have used a match. I say that because a match is hard to hold in one place, and the flame is at the mercy of the wind. Plus, it doesn’t burn as long and has a smaller flame radius.”

  “God almighty. What a monster,” said Penny Craig quietly.

  “That’s one way to put it. Let’s move on to the Blanks’s home,” said Dean.

  Hesitating, Dean glanced down at Sophie; and she put her hand on his arm. Forensic expert who’d seen some of the worst things people do to one another or not, Dean
was no doubt recalling the bedroom and the evil perpetrated there. Manny knew he was.

  “As I said, the Blankses died because of hypovolemia, the loss of blood and fluids to the body’s extremities caused by intense exposure to heat and the decomposition of internal organs attributed to that concentrated heat.”

  Someone swore as Dean wavered again.

  It didn’t take any expert in human emotions to feel the somber mood in the room begin to morph into one of anger and loathing.

  With good reason, thought Manny.

  His mind once again flashed back to the man who’d raised a knife to Chloe and Ian, and he felt his own anger sharpen. For one brief moment, he pictured his hands around the killer’s throat, squeezing until the son of a bitch made the journey into hell. It was what he deserved. Prison was too good for him.

  Exhaling under his breath, he tore away from his thoughts of violent retaliatory justice that seemed to show up more and more lately.

  Emotions didn’t help any investigation, a mantra he’d preached for years. Yet, preachers weren’t always right, were they? Maybe being pissed off did help focus on the purpose of catching this one, if not the punishment.

  With more effort, he shook off the horrible, inhuman images of the last two days and listened as Dean continued.

  “The killer used incisions to strategic areas of the bodies to cause as much internal damage as possible, and then lit the victims on fire, again on particular parts of the body using a form of accelerant—lighter fluid, we think, because of the empty can located at the scene. They were probably still alive when he finally set their bodies on fire.”

  Looking down to the red information file, Dean opened up to the crime scene photos taken at the Blanks’s house.

  “If you care to look, you can see that he used a wood-burning tool to design the virtually perfect squares in Mr. Blanks and, to a lesser extent, his mother. We don’t know why he removed Mr. Blank’s eyes and subsequently left his mother’s intact. We haven’t located the eyes as of yet, but the small stacks of ash and dust on the sofa look like organic material, so that might solve that mystery. And, before you ask, again the possible whys of all of this will be addressed during the profile session of this meeting.