Sarah recognized the man from her first day at the station. She started to answer his question with a confused, “No,” but saw Brandt look past her as he surveyed the room.
“Oh, there you are sir,” Brandt said at last. He stepped in and handed Ski a cup of coffee. “You said black, nothing in it, right?”
Ski grabbed the cup happily and thanked the officer.
“Are we running a Cup o’ Joe here that I wasn’t made aware of?” Captain Harrison snapped. Brandt retreated and closed the door behind him. Max whispered, “Nice” as Ski leaned against the wall, drinking his customary beverage. Booker just shook his head in amusement.
“Anyway,” Sarah jumped back in. “It seems our murder weapon is a portable bandsaw.” She nodded to Max who was already typing and soon brought up some images on the screen.
“Yup, that’ll do it.” Ski said solemnly. “That’s a heavy piece of equipment for this.”
“Grace said it was actually effective because it cuts clean. Something about lateral pressure,” she added.
They all studied the picture for a moment.
Booker turned his attention to his senior protégé. “Ski you’ve done construction,” he said. “You ever use one of these things?”
“Yeah, Teach, the lady coroner is right. They do make a clean cut, but it takes a lot more time than a circular or hacksaw, hell even an ax.” He thought for a second. “This son-of-a-bitch has to be patient.”
“Or sadistic,” Kara added from her corner.
“That’s the other thing,” Sarah addressed the group. “Grace says the evidence all supports that both victims were still alive when they were cut up.”
Booker looked contemplatively at the screen. “This all fits with your profile that you emailed me, kid.” He turned to Kara. “I agree.”
“You want to share with the group?” Captain Harrison asked, having accepted the role of spectator in his office.
“It’s your profile, kid. You deliver it.” Booker stepped back, leaving the center of the floor clear.
Kara popped off the filing cabinet with one clean gesture and landed in a crouch, standing into an Olympian-like dismount.
“So, is this where you tell us the exact person we are looking for?” Harrison tried not to roll his eyes.
Kara shook her head. “No. That’s all Hollywood. But we can limit the field a bit by looking at what we know so far.”
Kara’s bubbly demeanor quickly became all business. “We know the killer is most likely male, anywhere in age from twenties to forties. Younger, and he wouldn’t have killed in this manner. Serial killers develop over time. They escalate. Starting like this... well, let’s just say I doubt this is his first kill. At the very least he has a history of stalking and obsession. Also, he’s probably not older. If he was, say, fifty or sixty, he’d have more difficulty moving and disposing of the bodies. Or, he’d have been caught by now.
“Our suspect is what we would label a spree killer. He has committed multiple murders in a relatively short amount of time, with no cooling off period. He has a method and system of how he commits the crimes. We can also surmise that he is relatively inexperienced since he has chosen to try and copy Samuel King’s M.O.”
“This is to try to cover up for himself?” Captain Harrison asked.
“No, sir, just the opposite. The fact that he chose such a widely known serial killer as King, tells us that he wants to attract attention.” Kara paused and looked at her mentor. August just nodded his approval. “He wants his work to be appreciated, he just doesn’t want to be caught. In fact, he yearns for recognition for the act. Most likely why he chose such a…dramatic killer as Samuel King to emulate.”
Beaming, she continued, “The method of killing, dismembering with a power saw shows a need for control. We can deduce he has a job or life where he feels powerless or ignored. He is showing dominance and power by making them experience the slow cutting that he can start or stop at any time. He also has a desire for violence. This may sound obvious, but other killers try to exert the same type of control using knives or nooses. He’s not doing that. He wants to see them suffer, but he also wants the blood. The guts. The gore.”
She finally paused for a breath and concluded, “We don’t have enough evidence to give us the killer’s race, but deductive reasoning would tell us that it’s probable that he is a white male.”
Booker stepped back in. “Now keep in mind profiling is not an exact science, but coupled with solid deduction reasoning of the facts, it does help us narrow things down a bit.” He winked at Kara, “Good job, kid.”
“And we have something as well,” Max chimed in, wanting his own place in the spotlight. “I did a pretty extensive check into Aimee Glazer. There was no one who left the party within at least twenty minutes of her. The guy who walked her out came right back in.”
“This is not sounding promising,” Sarah commented.
“Well, darling, you haven’t heard the good stuff.” Ski set down his coffee. “Max checked in to all of Aimee’s past, starting back in high school. He didn’t find much.”
“Besides a lot of debt and terrible life choices,” remarked Max.” But she has been chatting in an online site with someone she knew in high school. I haven’t been able to get his name, the users value the website because of its anonymity. We do know his user name is Triskele84, but that hasn’t really helped much.
“Just so happens I know a guy that has worked as a janitor at the Berksville High School for twenty-five years. I decided to treat him to coffee and catch up.”
Reminded of his coffee, Ski grabbed his cup and took a swig. “Anyway,” Ski continued, “he remembers the widow, but much more Henry. Says the kid was a piece of work. Always causing trouble and dragging Aimee down with him.”
“Didn’t we already know this?” Captain Harrison asked rhetorically.
“Well, yeah, Captain, but he also remembers some young guy always following her around like a puppy dog. Ol’ Henry gave him a beat down a few times to get him to lay off.”
Sarah had pulled her notepad out during Kara’s profile and was still writing. “Who was the kid?”
Ski shook his head. “My guy couldn’t remember the kid’s name, but he said wherever Aimee was, the guy was on her heels.”
Max continued, “This means there was someone else who had an issue with Henry and a connection to Aimee as well.”
“Max, any yearbook pictures online?” Sarah asked, then looked to Booker, concerned that she might have overstepped by bossing his students.
“No, by all means, Detective,” Booker said. “I was about to ask the same thing.”
“And I, being the miraculous crime fighter that I am, already anticipated that question, but sadly the Glazers graduated about five years prior to any Berksville yearbooks making it to the digital world,” Max answered. “We could check with the school library, though. They typically have back issues.”
Captain Harrison leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. “See now you’re getting somewhere, Detective. There’s a couple of good leads here.”
“Then I’m going to check out the high school and see about some old yearbooks,” Sarah declared.
“Need company?” Ski gallantly offered.
“Actually Ski, I need you for something else,” Booker interrupted. “Detective, would you mind taking Kara? She’s a recent alumnus, and I’m sure knows her way around the building and the faculty.”
Kara nodded. “I’ve got cheer practice in an hour and then gymnastics, but you’ll have better luck after school gets out, anyway. The faculty might have time to talk if they’re not busy watching the kids.” It was almost humorous that Kara was only a few years older than most of the “kids” she referenced. “Can I meet you there at three this afternoon, Detective?”
Sarah begrudgingly agreed. While she had not been the biggest fan of the cheerleader, she had to hand it to August; he was right. The girl did seem to know her stuff. That profile she de
livered seemed legitimate. Maybe going to a high school, a cheerleader is exactly what I need. She thought with a smile.
“Okay, Ski, you were part of the local union for years, right?’ Booker was on a roll now, delegating.
“Card carrying member,” Ski verified.
“Good. Think you could ask around and see what types of jobs would be using the portable bandsaw in the area?”
“I’m on it.”
“And if they tend to have some of the same gauge wire used in the murders, all the better.”
Max looked up. “Booker?”
“I didn’t forget you. The saw might not have come from a job site. See if you can do your magic and see what local stores have sold one and to who in the last couple of months.” Max gave him a little salute. “I’m going to pour back over everything we have and see if we missed anything.”
“Any orders for me?” Captain Harrison asked sarcastically.
“No. As you were, Captain,” Booker quipped. The rest of the group poured out of the office before Booker turned back to the captain. “You could do me one favor.”
“I don’t take orders, Professor.”
Booker chuckled, “No, no. It’s nothing like that. It’s just a question I have. What is your connection to Special Agent Rick Clarke?”
Harrison was caught off guard. “What makes you think I have any connection to this man?”
“One of the pictures on your desk is of your two families camping together and the two of you are right in the middle, thick as thieves.”
The captain looked down at the picture and realized that it was facing him, only the back of the frame faced the professor. “How the hell…”
“The reflection in the glass of the special citation hanging behind you,” Booker said, pointing behind him. “It just seems a bit coincidental that you know the man who has been trying to get me back on the job for two years.” August tapped his cane.
“It’s not any kind of conspiracy,” Harrison said. “He’s been my friend for years. Even made him my kid’s godfather. I’ve had to hear him sing your praises at least a dozen times. So, when we got this case, I thought of you.”
“That’s all?” August asked suspiciously.
“That’s it,” Harrison affirmed.
***
Later that evening, August found himself entering the shimmering gates of The Lucky Roll. He wandered for a moment around the gaming floor. He had just sat down at a poker table when a cute, blonde cocktail waitress was at his side.
“Good evening sir. Can I get you something on the house while you play?” She smiled and pushed her exposed décolletage in his direction. Booker was sure this worked on most of the stiffs that came in here. She probably pulled a bigger tip than the drink was worth.
When in Rome, he thought. Booker placed his standard order, looking her in the eye. “I’ll have an Old Fashioned. Bourbon, not Rye.” She nodded and disappeared just as quickly as she had arrived.
Within the first five minutes, August established a baseline on all the players at the table, as well as the dealer. By the time his drink arrived, he had their gestures and deviations memorized. Ten minutes after that, he was on a winning streak. By the time his second complimentary drink arrived, he had a significant stack of chips and felt a less welcoming presence than the cocktail waitress at his elbow. It was Brent.
The living mountain of a man looked down disapprovingly. “The bosses would like a word.” He gestured toward the back of the floor.
Right on time, August thought. He smiled, “Well, everyone, it has been a pleasure, but as you can see I’m a VIP.”
August tipped the dealer and grabbed his chips, following Brent toward the familiar doors that would lead him up to the O’Connell Brothers’ office. They rode the private elevator and moved quickly down the hall to Shamus’ office. The large man opened the door and ushered Booker inside without entering himself.
“Professor!” Shamus’ billowing voice boomed through the room. “Imagine our surprise when we got a call from Stanley saying you were at a poker table on our gaming floor.”
“No doubt cleaning up I suspect,” Danny, the skinnier of the two, added, his. “Forgive us for breaking your streak, but to someone with your… gifts, it doesn’t seem quite fair for you to take the House’s money.” He managed through loud, lip-smacking chews.
Booker walked in and dropped onto a very expensive looking couch. “Still trying to kick the habit, huh, Danny?” He pointed to his mouth. “Nicotine gum?”
Danny grimaced and spit it into the trash. “Yeah. Tastes like orange-flavored shit, though.”
August pulled a stack of poker chips out of his pocket and set it on the side table next to him. “Here is all of your money. Minus a tip for the dealer and the cocktail waitress, but I know you would want your staff taken care of.”
The two brothers looked skeptical, and Shamus leaned back with his cigar. “So that’s it?” he asked. “You’re just giving the money you won back?” He locked his thick jaw and blew out a ring of smoke. “You could see where we would be a little hesitant. In our business Professor, nothing comes that easy.”
Danny squinted slightly, looking for the professor’s angle. His dad had taught him long ago, everyone has an angle.
“To be honest, I just wanted to visit with you two,” Booker said. He stretched out his legs and tapped the end of one foot with his cane. “Being that I don’t have the good Detective Rime with me to flash her badge, I figured I needed to get your attention.”
“Hustlin’ our tables got our attention,” Shamus growled.
“It always does,” Booker continued. “I’ve been running through the details of our investigation. No doubt you have already heard the Widow Glazer was found murdered as well.” He paused to watch their reactions.
“We just heard this morning. It hasn’t been released to the papers, but we know people.” Danny straightened up in his chair. “We were surprised. As you know, we just saw her the other night at Rebbeca Vance’s book signing. It seems surreal.”
“Fuckin’ shame. Pretty girl like that.” Shamus shook his head and sighed heavily.
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I had a question for you about the signing.”
“Why should we just go giving out information?” Shamus sneered. “Because you gave us back the money you scammed from us? That’s rich.”
“Technically, I didn’t scam you. Check your cameras. You won’t find me counting cards or cheating in any way. I just read people well. That’s not illegal.” Booker tried not to show his irritation, but couldn’t help but be slightly defensive. “Plus, I also was the one who identified that your casino was getting ripped off by the bikers.”
“Big brother,” Danny soothed, “the professor has come in goodwill. I’m sure we can work something out.”
“What’s he got that we could want or need?”
“Why, entertainment. You know how dull it gets up here in this office.” Danny looked at August. “How about this Mr. Booker, the first time you were here you did a pretty amazing job of outing my little habit to my brother.”
Shamus huffed from his desk, “Tell us how you did it. We have been going back and forth since you left.”
“I say you had someone staking the place out and saw Danny-O sneak out the back for a puff.” Shamus, of course, would be the doubter.
August took a sip of the Old Fashioned he had brought up from the floor with him and considered. “Then you answer my question?” He set a challenging look at Shamus and then Danny.
“If we know the answer,” Danny said.
“I’m starting to think there isn’t much the two of you don’t know,” Booker said. He didn’t mean it as a compliment, but both men shot each other a little look of pride.
August sighed, “As I tell everyone, I don’t have super-powers, and I don’t read minds. I just pay more attention to details than most people. The first thing I noticed when Detective Rime and I came
in here was the smell.”
“Hey watch it,” Shamus remarked.
“No, don’t take offense. I myself find the smell of a good cigar relatively pleasing,” August chuckled.
The big man relaxed again, and he continued, “But I also noticed the more acrid scent of cigarette smoke mingled in with the cigar smell. Shamus, with your cigars, you wouldn’t even notice it, but as I paced a bit around the room, the smell was stronger near your younger brother here.”
August indicated Danny’s desk. “Then I noticed the yellowing at your fingertips, which verified you are a smoker. Now, you could have recently quit, especially the way your eyes longingly followed every puff that your brother took on his cigar. But, I also noticed some ash on the right leg of your pants. It was very faint, but there. That meant you had been smoking that day.
“The rest was just deduction. The most probable place for you to stash you smokes would be in your desk drawer, still in reach but out of sight of your brother. I had already mentioned the yellowing on your fingers, the fingers of your right hand. Since you are righthanded, it was just a logical thought that they would be in the right side of your desk.”
He finished the brown liquor in his glass. “See, no real special power.”
The two brothers still looked impressed. Danny shook his head. “Well professor, if you ever want a job besides teaching, we could use someone who sees the details in our establishment.”
Shamus grunted in agreement.
“Now I believe you had a question for us,” Danny said, trying to be a man of his word. Before August could open his mouth, the office door swung open and the youngest of the O’Connell brothers marched in.
“I didn’t know there was a meeting going on,” Timmy said indignantly. Like before, Timmy was in stark contrast to his brothers: shorter than Danny, much slighter in build than Shamus, and lacking the signature red locks of both men. His suit looked like it came off a rack, unlike the expensive, tailor-made attire of his older siblings.
“That’s because it’s none of your friggin’ business, squirt,” Shamus grumbled. “The professor stopped in for a friendly visit. We didn’t need the hired help, or we would have called for you.”
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