“Sorry I’m late,” Snead mumbled. He seemed distracted, his pale, hatchet-thin face even more pinched than normal.
“No problem, Bill,” said Ingram. “It’s understandable.” Then, glancing around the room, “I think we’re all here. Owen, you want to get things rolling?”
“Yes, sir,” said Assistant Chief Strickland. “I’m sure you are all aware that a photo of the UCLA murder victim was just posted on the internet. Is there anyone here who hasn’t seen it?”
“I haven’t,” I said.
Several others spoke up as well.
Strickland moved to Ingram’s desk, hit a few keys on a laptop, and turned the screen so everyone could see. The room fell silent. As I had feared, the computer display showed the corpse of a young woman wired to a thicket of bamboo. I recognized some of the graffiti carved into the stalks, confirming the location.
Although the image had been shot at night, I also noted that the young woman’s nightgown-clad body appeared to have been expertly lit—with professional key, fill, and hair lighting sources illuminating the scene. Across the bottom of the photo, in bold, block letters, the killer had added the words, “Miss June.”
Strickland adjusted the cursor, scrolling through five similarly disturbing photos, all showing murdered women in grotesque, suggestive poses. Looking closer, I noticed that they all had burn marks on their throats, lesions similar to the ones I had seen that morning at autopsy.
“The Magpie victims,” someone commented.
“Correct,” said Strickland. “His sixth showed up yesterday on UCLA campus. She has been identified as Sandy Stafford of Seattle, Washington. Ms. Stafford disappeared three weeks ago from University Village, a shopping mall just north of Seattle. Her parents recognized the photo and called it in.”
“Damn,” said one of the FBI agents. “That’s how her parents found out?”
“That’s how they found out,” said Ingram.
“I thought that dirtbag was only active up north,” I said. “What’s he doing in Los Angeles?”
“Developing new hunting grounds, maybe,” offered Shepherd.
“The point is,” said Ingram, “we don’t want a repeat of that situation down here, and when I address the media at a press conference tomorrow morning, I want to assure them that is not going to happen.”
From accounts in the news, I knew that over the past five months a string of serial killings had terrorized the cities of San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle. Unable to make headway on the case, authorities in all three cities had suffered increasingly harsh criticism in the media. I suspected that Chief Ingram, Mayor Fitzpatrick, and every other Los Angeles politician with skin in the game would attempt to get ahead of the curve on this. Which, of course, would make conducting the investigation even more problematic.
“I’m going to keep it simple,” Ingram continued, glancing around the room. “I want this guy shut down, and I want it done as quickly as possible—using any and all available resources. Unfortunately, our situation cuts across numerous jurisdictional boundaries, so I called everyone here tonight in the hope of avoiding organizational SNAFUs. Ideas on that?”
When no one replied, Ingram turned to Shepherd. “Director Shepherd, thank you for being here tonight. Any suggestions from your end would be appreciated.”
Shepherd, whose perennially youthful appearance belied a razor-sharp mind and a talent for organization, thought a moment before responding. “First of all, although this latest killing does seem to be the work of the so-called Magpie, one of his signature behaviors is the immediate kidnapping of another victim,” he said. “I wasn’t aware that another woman had been taken.”
Ingram glanced at Snead, then returned his gaze to Shepherd. “We just confirmed that. We haven’t released it yet to the press.”
“Was she abducted from UCLA?” asked Shepherd, seeming surprised.
Ingram nodded. “A parking structure.”
“Okay, then it seems our unsub has chosen to operate in new territory,” Shepherd continued, referring in Bureau-speak to the killer as an unknown subject. If nothing else, “unsub” was a designation I preferred to the nickname bestowed by the media.
“In the course of investigating his five previous murders, the Bureau has been working with local law enforcement agencies in Northern California, Portland, and Seattle,” Shepherd went on. “Concerning this latest murder, our L.A. field office would be willing to continue that same arrangement with LAPD.”
“LAPD assumes lead on the UCLA killing; the Bureau places its resources at our disposal, coordinates with other law-enforcement agencies, and serves as a clearing house for information?” suggested Ingram.
“That framework works for us,” Shepherd replied.
“And we share credit when this is over?”
Shepherd considered a moment. “As long as we have an agent detailed to your investigation,” he said. “Special Agent Taylor has previously worked with Detective Kane. Would her presence as a Bureau liaison be acceptable?”
I glanced at Taylor, finally realizing the reason for her presence.
“It would,” said Ingram. “Let’s move on. What do we know about our man so far?”
Shepherd rubbed his chin. “Not much, I’m afraid. To date he has left almost no forensic evidence. It even appears he’s bathing his victims before dumping them, meticulously removing all possible trace evidence—fingerprints, fingernail scrapings, touch DNA, hair and fibers, and so on.”
“The unsub seems to know a lot about police procedure,” volunteered one of the agents standing with Shepherd. “Could he be a cop?”
“We’re not going to start chasing our own tails on that,” Ingram declared. “Not yet, anyway. The media would have a field day.”
“Good point,” Shepherd agreed.
“So what do we know so far?” Ingram pressed. “Aside from the fact that he’s not leaving much forensic evidence.”
Again, Shepherd thought a moment. “As I said, one of our unsub’s signatures is that he abducts a new victim after dumping his current kill,” he replied. “Following that, he holds her for several weeks before raping and strangling her. So far the longest he has kept any victim alive is twenty-seven days.”
“You might have your order reversed on that,” I broke in.
“What do you mean?” asked Shepherd.
“For one, the women he’s murdering have all been unusually attractive, so it’s probably safe to conclude that he isn’t selecting his victims at random.”
“Right,” Shepherd agreed. “Our psychological profile indicates he’s been stalking his victims—possibly for months before they’re abducted. So?”
“So I think our guy is kidnapping his next victim before he dumps his last. Otherwise, if something were to go wrong with the abduction and his latest body had already turned up, everyone in the area would be on full alert—spoiling his little game. I think he’s abducting his next victim first.”
“Good point, although I’m not certain how it helps,” said Shepherd.
“You never know,” I said. “Also, I have a feeling this scumbag is strangling his victims and then raping them. Maybe repeatedly.”
“On what are you basing that?”
“A hunch. I’ve seen it before.”
“We don’t conduct investigations based on hunches,” Strickland interrupted.
“Then call it experience,” I shot back, tiring of Strickland’s antagonism. “You have something to say to me, Assistant Chief Strickland?”
For once Ingram didn’t intervene. “That’s correct, Detective Kane,” Strickland replied, his face darkening. “In my opinion, considering your insubordinate behavior on the Infidel investigation, you should have been summarily dismissed from the force. You are here simply because—”
“—because if it hadn’t been for Kane, those psychos would still be cutting off people’s heads,” Taylor broke in. “Instead of criticizing Kane, Assistant Chief Strickland, you should be kissing his
butt.”
Everyone turned toward Taylor, staring in surprise.
“Excuse me?” said Strickland.
“She said something like that at a Bureau briefing, too,” one of the FBI agents mumbled.
“What did you just say to me, Agent Taylor?” Strickland demanded.
“You heard me,” said Taylor, not backing down. “If it hadn’t been for Kane’s so-called insubordination, LAPD would have two black eyes on the Infidel case right now, instead of just one. The Bureau, too,” she added with a glance at Shepherd.
Bright spots appeared on Strickland’s cheeks. “It was pure, dumb luck that Kane managed to—”
“My dad used to say, ‘The harder you work, the luckier you get,’” Taylor interrupted again.
“Is that so? Well, aphorisms aside, Agent Taylor, I don’t think you appreciate your position here,” Strickland warned. “You worked with Kane on the Infidel investigation, so as far as I’m concerned, you are skating on thin ice as well. Let me spell things out for you. Your job here tonight is to take orders and keep your mouth shut.”
“That may be,” Taylor shot back, her temper flaring. “But I don’t take orders from you.”
During this exchange I had been trying to signal Taylor to silence. Unable to get her attention, I glanced at Chief Ingram, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet. To my surprise, I noticed a fleeting smile cross his lips.
“But you do take orders from me, Special Agent Taylor,” Shepherd intervened.
“Yes, sir,” said Taylor, lowering her gaze.
“Let’s get back on topic,” Shepherd suggested. “We were in the process of discussing our unsub.” Turning, he addressed a lean, tough-looking individual whose granite-hard eyes and close-cropped hair spoke of a military background. “Special Agent in Charge Gibbs, you’re as up-to-date as anyone on the Bureau’s efforts on this case. Do you have anything to add?”
SAC Gibbs placed his hands behind his back and stood at parade rest. “Yes, sir,” he replied. “In addition to interviewing family, friends, and coworkers of the murdered women, Bureau teams have been researching any means by which our unsub may have initially made contact. Phone records and social media sites—Facebook, Instagram, Twitter accounts, and the like—are being scrutinized. We have also been trying to establish any connection, however minimal, between the victims. So far we’ve come up empty on all fronts.”
“Any luck running down the source of the online photos?” asked Ingram.
“No, sir,” said Gibbs. “He’s been posting his pictures using TOR and uploading to a European social network. To date the best we have been able to do is to trace the original uploads to public Wi-Fi sites in Portland, Seattle, and San Francisco. We’re currently watching those locations. So far no repeats.”
I had experienced this problem before. TOR, or The Onion Router, was a hidden-service-protocol network that allows someone to upload a photo or video in New York, for instance, and have the post show up as originating from someplace else, say Moscow, with a different IP address. Uploading to an overseas social network compounded the problem. “Any video surveillance at those Wi-Fi sites?” I asked.
Gibbs shook his head. “We’ve added some webcams of our own, but none was previously present at any of the sites. The guy is being careful.”
“Can’t you take down the photos?” asked someone else.
“We tried. As soon as they show up, his pictures are immediately reposted on other worldwide websites. We take one down; three more pop up someplace else.” Gibbs paused to collect his thoughts. “On the plus side,” he continued, “we have made progress developing a database of anyone who has purchased a dog training collar during the past twelve months—either online or from a west coast retailer.”
“You mean a shock collar?” asked Snead, who until then had remained silent.
“Correct,” said Gibbs. “The shape, size, and location of burns on the subjects’ throats indicate that the killer is using some sort of shocking device to maintain control of his victims. We think it’s a dog collar.”
Snead paled.
“A couple of other things to note,” Gibbs went on. “Like Kane said, we don’t think the unsub is choosing victims at random. More likely he’s stalking them, so we’ve been investigating that aspect as well. Several leads have turned up, but nothing definitive. Another thing: Toxicology exams on the victims showed the presence of a combination of date-rape drugs. We’ve been trying to run down the source of those drugs, so far without success. Last, with the discovery of each new body, the current victim’s family has received a typed communication from the killer. Plain, 20 lb. copy paper, Hewlett Packard printer, double-spaced, 12 point Times New Roman. Untraceable unless we find the printer. By the way, we’ve withheld that last descriptor from the press, as it has been helpful in disproving a surprising number of confessions that have come in on our tip line. You will probably experience that issue as well.”
“What did the letters say?” asked Snead.
“Just insults designed to inflict pain on family members,” Gibbs replied. “In his communications, the unsub claims that each young woman he’s taken is a filthy slut—a willing participant in early childhood sexual abuse, giving hand- and blowjobs at fourteen, screwing at fifteen—that kind of thing.”
“Sick bastard,” someone noted.
“Let’s move on,” Ingram suggested, turning to me. “Kane, you’re lead investigator on the UCLA murder, correct?”
Before I could answer, Snead jumped in. “Chief, this is going to be a high-profile case, to say the least. HSS normally handles those situations,” he said, referring to the Homicide Special Section of the LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division, a section under Snead’s command. HSS detectives are an elite group of investigators who routinely cover the city’s most difficult, high-profile cases. As such, The Magpie investigation was clearly within their jurisdiction.
“I have no problem with HSS taking lead,” I offered.
Ingram scowled. “We’re not running a democracy,” he said, shooting Snead a look of irritation. “Here’s how things are going to go,” he went on, his tone leaving no room for discussion. “Kane will assume lead on the UCLA investigation. HSS will collaborate with the Bureau in an FBI/LAPD interagency effort. Together, we will bring this case to a rapid resolution. And make no mistake, we will end this quickly. If not, heads will roll.”
“Will I be reporting to Captain Snead?” I asked. “Because I do have a problem with that.”
“Your job is to do what you’re told,” Strickland warned, his tone echoing his earlier altercation with Taylor.
“Careful, Assistant Chief Strickland,” I said. “I might have to sic Agent Taylor on you.”
At that, Lieutenant Long and several agents with Shepherd laughed aloud. Even Ingram cracked another smile. For his part, Strickland looked ready to explode. “Kane, I swear to God,” he said, “one more word out of you and I will personally see that you are—”
“Let’s get back on topic, Owen,” Ingram broke in. “We all want the same thing here, right?” Then, to me, “To answer your question, Detective Kane, you will be reporting directly to your supervisor, Lieutenant Long, and to me. No one else. Per protocol, Lieutenant Long and Captain Lincoln will pass information up the command chain through Deputy Chief Chow, so you will have as much personal autonomy as possible. Except as necessary, you will not be attending FBI or HSS briefings. Although this arrangement might entail a risk of duplicating work, daily updates to my office should keep that at a minimum.”
Again, Snead started to object. Ingram silenced him with a peremptory raise of a hand. “Bill, we both know why it has to be this way. You too, Owen,” he said, glancing at Strickland. “We discussed this.”
Strickland glared at the floor.
“Yes, sir,” Snead mumbled.
“Kane, what do you have on the UCLA murder so far?” Ingram continued, returning his attention to me.
“A couple of things,�
� I replied. “But first, will someone please enlighten me on this mutt’s nickname? The Magpie? I did some research. The notion that magpies steal shiny objects and leave something in their place is complete fiction—based on an old Rossini opera.”
“When did the facts ever influence the media?” someone muttered.
“Good point,” I agreed, deciding to let it go. “Anyway, regarding the UCLA murder, at autopsy we found a pair of barb wounds on Ms. Stafford’s lower back. I’ve seen marks like that before. I think they came from a Taser.”
“So in addition to a shock collar, our guy is using a Taser to control his victims?” Taylor broke in, speaking for the first time since her reprimand from Shepherd.
“I think he did with the UCLA woman,” I answered. “I haven’t seen reports on the other murders, so I can’t speak to that. Whatever the case, maybe we should take a look at Taser purchases.”
“Good idea,” agreed Ingram. “Anything else?”
“I have a feeling this guy is looking for his fifteen minutes of fame,” I went on. “Maybe we can use that.”
“Maybe,” said Shepherd. “Assuming that is the case. What makes you think he’s motivated by a desire for recognition?”
“For one, the photos he’s been posting on the internet. For another, he phoned me.”
At that, all heads turned in my direction.
“Twice,” I said. “The first time was in Idaho. I didn’t realize then what was going on.”
“What did he say?” asked Snead.
“He said, ‘Detective Kane? Let’s play.’ There was something off about his voice, like it had been electronically altered.”
“Let’s play?” said one of the agents. “The guy thinks this is some kind of game?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I replied. “He also could be trying to prove he’s smarter than we are. I’ve seen that, too.”
Ingram leaned forward. “You said, ‘twice.’ When did you receive your second call?”
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