Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “We need that list, Dr. Krüger,” Taylor intervened.

  Dr. Krüger hesitated. “If I were to provide a record of my students, and I’m only saying if, would my cooperation be held in confidence?”

  “Absolutely,” Taylor agreed. “When can we get those names?”

  Dr. Krüger paused a moment more. “I suppose I could fax you a list sometime tomorrow.”

  “We need it this afternoon,” I said, sliding my business card across his desk. “Here’s the number.”

  Dr. Krüger picked up my card. “Agreed, as long as you keep my name out of things.” Then, rising, “Now, I think it’s time for you both to leave. I’ll walk you out.”

  In the parking lot, Dr. Krüger’s mood seemed to improve. Once more ignoring me, he took Taylor’s hand. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Special Agent Sara Taylor,” he said, turning up the wattage on his picture-perfect smile. “I hope our paths cross again sometime soon.”

  With that, Dr. Krüger used a remote control to unlock the black Mercedes parked beside Taylor’s Crown Vic. With a final smile at Taylor, he slid behind the wheel and exited the lot, not looking back.

  Taylor raised a hand to her hair, watching as Dr. Krüger drove away. “That was, uh, interesting,” she said. “And we’re getting his list.”

  “Yeah, we’re getting his list,” I agreed, once more sensing that something was off about Dr. Krüger. Throughout our interview he had acted strangely smug, even when I’d pressed him on the subject of his students. Again, that didn’t make him a killer. Nevertheless, until proved otherwise, I decided to continue considering him a possible suspect.

  As he wheeled onto Camino Del Norte and headed east, Dr. Krüger reviewed his meeting with Detective Kane. Learning that Kane and his lovely partner merely wanted information regarding his forensic students had been reassuring. Granted, Dr. Krüger’s text was the definitive work on the subject, as Agent Taylor had so charmingly pointed out. Still, there had to be more to it.

  But what?

  Of one thing Dr. Krüger was certain: He didn’t like Detective Kane, not one bit. Something about the dangerous-looking Irish cop reminded him of his own father, and of the violent, father-son relationship that had ended just days before Dr. Krüger’s fifteenth birthday. And with that unexpected connected, Dr. Krüger’s thoughts traveled far into the past, all the way back to the day that had changed everything.

  He had been planning the act for almost a year. His experiments with neighborhood dogs and cats had proved instructive, but the time had come for more. Determined to escalate his activities without getting caught, he had risen to the challenge, spending weeks immersed in research on the subject of murder. Dr. Krüger smiled, realizing that his decision to end his father’s routine beatings and occasional sexual abuse had undoubtedly played a seminal role in his later forensic career.

  It had been a cold, gray Saturday in November. His father, a university professor, had been working at home in the den, two-finger typing some academic correspondence. As usual, his mother was busy that day at her volunteer thrift-store job in San Diego and wouldn’t be returning until later that evening.

  Young Erich Krüger had departed the house early that afternoon wearing a coat, a hat, and a pair of leather gloves. He had ridden his bike to a local theatre, where he had purchased a ticket for a classic noir film he had already seen. After pointedly conversing with an usher selling popcorn, he had viewed the first twenty minutes of the movie, waiting until the woman on the screen had been dutifully stabbed in the shower. Then, heart pounding with excitement, he had slipped out a side exit and returned home.

  He had stashed his bike and entered the rear of the house, making certain no one noted his arrival. He removed his hat and coat, but kept on his gloves. Silently, he crept to his parents’ bedroom and withdrew his father’s automatic pistol from a bedside stand. After checking the magazine and chambering a round, he made his way back to the den.

  Although surprised to see him, his father had simply grunted and continued his typing. As young Erich pretended to gaze at his father’s correspondence, he reached behind his back and retrieved the gun tucked in his belt. He brought up the weapon and pressed the muzzle to his father’s temple.

  His father flinched. “What the fu—”

  Young Erich pulled the trigger.

  The explosion was deafening.

  His father slumped in his chair, blood spurting from his temple—once, twice . . . then slowing to a dribble.

  Next young Erich placed the pistol in his father’s right hand and forced his finger against the trigger. Pointing at a wall, he then fired the weapon several more times. In the course of his research, he had learned that someone working up the nerve to end his or her life with a gun often fired test shots. More to the point, young Erich wanted to ensure the presence of gunshot residue on his father’s hand, should anyone decide to check.

  He let the pistol fall to the floor. Leaving the weapon where it lay, he reached across his father’s limp body to the typewriter, withdrawing the bloodstained letter that the late Professor Krüger had been writing. Setting it aside, Erich cranked in a new sheet. After inspecting his father’s lifeless hands to make certain no blood was present, he pressed the tips of his index fingers to the proper keys, typing out a final missive.

  Professor Krüger’s suicide note was short but convincing.

  It simply read, “I’m sorry.”

  Briefly, after burning his father’s stained correspondence, young Erich exited the house to dispose of his clothes, shoes, and gloves—making certain they would never be found. A painstaking scrubbing in the shower followed, after which he “returned” from the theater to discover his father’s body—making certain, of course, to retain his ticket stub.

  Later, the findings of a coroner’s investigation proved almost as short as Professor Krüger’s suicide note: Professor Krüger had been moody and depressed, and in a final act of desperation, he had taken his own life.

  Simple.

  Young Erich was thrilled at how easy it had been. None of his meticulous precautions had proved necessary, but it never hurt to be careful. And after that, he knew he would have to be very, very careful, for from that day forward his juvenile adventures with dogs and cats were over. Nothing short of taking a human life could match the thrill he had experienced in his father’s den.

  Except possibly sex.

  And for fifteen-year-old Erich Krüger, a young man just discovering the adult pleasures of life, the whole world suddenly blossomed.

  As soon as he was old enough to obtain a driver’s license, Erich convinced his mother that purchasing him a vehicle might be just the thing to ease the shock of losing his father. After a few interior modifications to a nondescript panel van that he eventually selected—modifications that included a bed, cargo fasteners bolted to the floor, and a locked storage box containing handcuffs, ropes, tarps, shovels, and an assortment of toys with which to continue his experiments—Erich began cruising teen hangouts and shopping malls, always making certain to do his hunting far from home. He preyed on the young castoffs of society—hitchhikers, runaways, flower children, and later even prostitutes—usually getting victims into his van with a just smile and the promise of a ride, or maybe some coke, weed, or a bottle of wine.

  And it had been easy.

  At first he had simply drugged his female victims and taken what he wanted, dumping their unconscious bodies after he was finished. Over time, however, he discovered that his most pleasurable experiences involved the ultimate demise of his partner. He particularly enjoyed dealing death with his hands, watching as the light in their eyes guttered and dimmed and flickered out forever.

  And eventually, that was the only sex he wanted.

  Later, concurrent with his college and postgraduate education, Erich extended his hunting grounds to the cities of Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle. He routinely saved something from each of his unwilling partners—a ring, a lock of h
air, an item of clothing—something to remind him. Later he began taking photos and videos, discovering that to be the most satisfying way of reliving his adventures. As always, he was careful to dispose of the bodies where they wouldn’t be found until the elements had reduced them to little more than skeletons, forcing investigators to struggle simply to identify the remains.

  It had amused Erich to employ his knowledge of forensics and police procedures to toy with authorities, always staying one step ahead. He even kept a scrapbook of the few times his activities had been chronicled in print. It was a pitifully incomplete record, and although his survival depended on secrecy, it had increasingly vexed him that the world was ignorant of the true scope of his activities.

  And gradually, despite his better judgment, his desire for notoriety had grown. And in the end, during a paradoxical flash of insight that would forever change his life, Erich had realized his destiny.

  The time had come to share his accomplishments.

  Now, as Dr. Krüger entered his Rancho Bernardo neighborhood, he decided that additional research on Detective Daniel Kane would be necessary. Perhaps he had underestimated the rough-looking investigator. Nevertheless, although Kane’s presence that morning added a new element of danger, Dr. Krüger was also intrigued by the prospect of challenging authorities on an increasingly personal level.

  Reaching a cul-de-sac at the end of Lunada Point, Dr. Krüger turned into his driveway, admiring the sprawling residence he had built following his retirement from UCI. He pressed a remote control, waiting for his garage door to open. However it worked out, he decided as he drove inside and closed the garage door behind him, the game had just grown considerably more interesting.

  27

  Necktie Cover-up

  Working with Detective Aken over the next several days, Taylor, Deluca, and I continued chasing down cold-case murders that might have been connected to an earlier Magpie killing.

  Bureau agents did the same in Seattle, Portland, and San Francisco. To cover all bases, I asked that FBI investigators include unsolved strangulation murders in San Diego as well.

  True to his word, Dr. Krüger sent us a list of students he had taught over the years, both at Cal State and UCI, anonymously transmitting the document via a FedEx fax machine. Krüger’s forensic-student names were subsequently added to our database of textbook purchasers. Unfortunately, none of the added names popped up on our other lists, and by Wednesday, when I took a few hours off to drive Nate to his appointment with Dr. Berns, nothing new had shaken loose.

  Later that Friday I got an unexpected call from Aken. “You have something?” I asked, hoping for good news.

  “Dan, I know we’ve been looking at manual strangulations, but I just recalled a ligature strangulation I think we should consider,” he said. “The victim was a graduate student studying forensics. I remember your mentioning forensics on that first day we spoke.”

  Aside from being a friend, Aken was also a relentless investigator, and I trusted his instincts. “I’m all ears, Jerry.”

  “There’s a problem. The case is closed, with the boyfriend serving twenty-five to life at San Quentin.”

  “Then what—”

  “Hear me out, Dan. Years back I was lead investigator on this one, and it’s been bugging me ever since. The victim, a young woman named Darlene Mayfield, was found with her hands and feet bound to her bed and a necktie garrote around her neck—although the coroner’s report also indicated the presence of deep tissue bruising consistent with manual strangulation. The necktie could have been window dressing.”

  “Go on,” I said, starting to get interested. “Except for the ligature, this sounds like our killer’s M.O.”

  “Right. Anyway, at trial the most damming piece of evidence against the boyfriend, aside from the presence of his DNA inside Ms. Mayfield, was a 911 call,” Aken continued. “A woman reported hearing shouts coming from Darlene’s Venice Beach cottage that night. The boyfriend, Brian Shea, was actually named in the call. The caller claimed she heard a woman scream, ‘No, Brian! Don’t!’ The thing is, we never located the caller. And later, it turned out that the call had been made from an untraceable cellphone.”

  “Huh. If that’s all you had, the case against the boyfriend sounds weak.”

  “It was. As a result, the ADA offered boyfriend Brian a second-degree murder plea. Brian refused, maintaining his innocence. And he maintained that innocence all the way to a first-degree murder conviction.”

  “They got first-degree on that?”

  “Yep. You know juries. Brian didn’t have an alibi, his prints were all over Darlene’s condo, his tie was found around her neck, and Brian’s public defender was new on the job.”

  “Any other inconsistencies?”

  “One,” Aken replied. “Along with Brian’s semen, traces of a prophylactic lubricant were found in the victim’s vagina. Darlene was taking birth control pills. Why the condom?”

  “Could you send me the coroner’s report?”

  “Sure. Got it right here.”

  All physical evidence in a California murder trial is retained for the length of a convicted prisoner’s incarceration, and indefinitely as long as the case remains open. Either way, I knew the 911 tape would also be available. “I’d like a copy of the 911 recording as well,” I added.

  “That might take a little longer, but consider it done.”

  “Thanks.” I thought a moment to make certain I hadn’t overlooked anything. “Was the body buried?” I asked, considering a possible exhumation.

  “Cremated.”

  “Any unidentified prints in the bedroom?”

  “Nope.”

  “You said Darlene was a forensics student. Where was she enrolled?”

  Aken took a moment to reply. I heard a rustle of papers. Then, “California State University, Los Angeles.”

  After receiving the coroner’s report from Aken, I placed a call to Dr. Ryder Songes, the forensic pathologist who had performed the postmortem examination on Darlene Mayfield. Fortunately, Dr. Songes was still employed at the Los Angeles Department of Medical Examiner-Coroner, and he was working that day. Although busy, he agreed to give me a few minutes later that morning.

  An hour later I climbed a long flight of steps to the front door of the Los Angeles County Coroner’s office. As I entered the understaffed, timeworn building, I detected a hint of ammonia and the lingering odor of death. Glancing around, I wondered how it could have been only weeks since I had last visited to attend the postmortem examination of Sandy Stafford.

  It seemed more like a lifetime.

  Dr. Songes, a short, trim man with snow-white hair and an easy smile, met me in a gurney-choked hallway near one of the autopsy bays. Songes was wearing a protective necropsy suit—cap, gloves, face shield, mask, a full-length scrub gown, and a rubberized apron that reached the top of his waterproof boots. “Kane,” he said, flipping up his face shield and pulling down his mask. “Been a while.”

  I knew that the coroner’s office was overworked. Nevertheless, although it wasn’t yet noon, Dr. Songes already looked exhausted. “Too long, Ryder,” I agreed, deciding not to shake his hand. “Good to see you.”

  “What do you need?” he asked, removing his gloves and checking his watch. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I have another post scheduled in a few minutes. You mentioned a postmortem exam I performed some time back?”

  “Correct,” I said, passing him the autopsy report that Aken had faxed. “And it was a long time back.”

  “Nevertheless, I remember this one,” said Songes, flipping through a few pages. “You don’t forget posts like this. Ligature strangulation that probably wasn’t.”

  “It probably wasn’t ligature strangulation? Why do you say that?”

  Dr. Songes checked something on an earlier page. “Okay, you need a little background here,” he said, finding what he wanted. “In a strangulation homicide, as opposed to a choking incident in which food or a foreign object obstructs
the trachea, death can occur for a number of reasons. For one, pressure on a specific area of the neck called the carotid nerve ganglion can cause a reflex arrhythmia and cardiac arrest, although that’s uncommon. For another, pressure obstruction of the larynx during a hanging or some other ligature-type strangulation can prevent airflow to the lungs, resulting in death by asphyxiation—with the hyoid bone often being fractured in the process. ”

  “I didn’t notice anything about a broken hyoid in your report.”

  “No, which brings us to a third and more common type of strangulation death. Relatively gentle pressure on the jugular veins can prevent venous blood from returning from the brain. Jugular obstruction causes passive congestion in the cranial vessels, a situation in which we routinely see petechiae on the face and conjunctivae of the eyes—pinpoint bleeding caused by the blockage of one or both jugulars. That particular condition was present in Ms. Mayfield’s case,” Dr. Songes noted, again referencing the report.

  “And the petechiae on Darlene Mayfield’s face and eyes could have been caused by the ligature strangulation?” I broke in, attempting to keep Songes on track.

  Dr. Songes nodded. “That, or via prolonged and repeated manual pressure on the jugulars. But here’s the thing. During neck dissection, I also found significant bruising over the carotid arteries, deep tissue trauma indicative of substantial thumb pressure having been placed on those anatomical structures—preventing arterial blood flow to the brain. It takes a lot of hand strength to do that, and the only way for that to have occurred was via manual strangulation, not ligature.”

  “So Darlene may have died of manual strangulation, with the ligature being placed afterward to throw off investigators?”

  Again, Dr. Songes nodded. “At minimum, it’s safe to conclude that before she died, Darlene Mayfield suffered repeated and prolonged manual strangulation.”