Red Death

by Alan Jacobson

  “The way it goes, Karen. We can’t be everywhere at all times. We do our best.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’d think that after all these years I’d be used to it.”

  “Used to blaming yourself or finding dead bodies?”

  Vail harrumphed. “Both.”

  “Jesus,” Russell said. “If I’d chosen her address before Pollard’s, she’d still be alive.”

  “Now you’re blaming yourself?”

  “Dammit.”

  “Look at it this way. It’s probably all Ferraro’s fault, not ours. If he didn’t have an attitude toward me and allowed a bunch of cops to go door to door, she’d still be alive. Think about that.”

  Russell ground his molars.

  “How about animal control?”

  “Crime scene’s an hour out.” He reached down and stroked Oscar’s head. “Animal control will be here in fifteen.”

  “I hope Wingate’s got kids or siblings. He’s a really sweet dog.”

  “He is beautiful.”

  “Always been attracted to greyhounds. But I’m a dog person. There aren’t many breeds I don’t like.”

  “Carrie and I thought about getting one, but we got a divorce instead.”

  “Oscar’s gotta be only about twelve to fifteen pounds. So dainty.”

  “Listen to you,” he said with a laugh.

  Oscar reached over and sniffed her ear, then gave her cheek a lick. “Let’s see if we can track down Mary Wingate’s friends, in case they were with her when she bought the soap.”

  “I checked around. She had two more bars.”

  “One was apparently enough.”

  Ten minutes later, animal control pulled in behind Russell’s vehicle. Vail explained the situation and they took down the information.

  “I’m Karen.”

  “Vanessa.”

  “So what’s the next step?”

  “We’ll look into it,” Vanessa said.

  “And what if you can’t find a relative or friend willing to take him?”

  “We’ll check with the local rescue organization. They’ll try to get him a home.”

  “And if they can’t?”

  “You’re getting way down the road. Let’s take first things first.”

  Vail bent over and gave Oscar a pat behind the ears. “Take care, boy. You’re in good hands.”

  35

  The forensics unit arrived and began the process of documenting the scene. Russell was on the phone with Ferraro, who called the moment he was informed there was another victim.

  Vail made use of the time by canvassing the neighbors. None knew anything of value. A couple expressed shock at Wingate’s death while others did not know her.

  As she made her way back to Russell, she noticed that he was still on the phone.

  “This is getting out of hand,” Ferraro said. “We need to make some progress.”

  “I understand. I’m—we’re doing our best here, Chief.”

  “That hasn’t been good enough, Detective, has it?”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say. If you think we’ve missed—”

  “Missed? I don’t know what you’ve missed. But you seem to be missing more than you’re catching. ’Cause you sure as hell haven’t caught the killer. You don’t even have a suspect.”

  Russell rubbed his right temple and glanced at Vail, who was approaching.

  Vail read his expression, gave his shoulder a reassuring pat, then walked away. This was not an argument she should be involved with … one she could not win.

  She went for a short walk, then stopped and closed her eyes. Took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind and mentally work the case backward in case she had missed anything.

  She felt a tap on the shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  She turned and opened her eyes. It was Russell.

  “Chief wants to see us. Now.”

  As they walked back to the car, Vail glanced over at Mary Wingate’s house.

  “Didn’t sound happy,” she said.

  “Nope.”

  “Sorry. You’re taking the brunt of it, for our failures.”

  “I don’t know what more we could be doing.”

  “I agree. But a boss doesn’t want excuses. He wants results.”

  Russell frowned. “Yeah.” He was a quiet a moment. “You were deep in thought when I came over.”

  “Just trying to see if we overlooked something.”

  They got into the sedan and buckled up. “And?”

  “And the way he kills—almost passively—it makes it tough to set a valid timeline. We don’t really know when he made contact with his vics, when they bought the soap. If they don’t open the bar right away, they could’ve bought it a week ago, two weeks ago.”

  “And since we don’t know if Mary Kelleher’s death is one of his victims, that makes it even tougher to evaluate the frequency of the murders.”

  “His MO,” Vail said, “makes that almost impossible to figure out anyway.”

  Russell groaned. “Smart son of a bitch.”

  “You know, you’re very likely right.”

  “That he’s smart?”

  Vail reclined against the passenger door. “That he’s a son of a bitch. His mother musta been a real doozy. ’Course, that doesn’t excuse his behavior.”

  “You mean every guy who’s been abused by his mother isn’t a serial killer?”

  “Something like that.”

  Russell’s phone rang. He answered it and Bachler’s voice filled the speakers.

  “You got something for us Harry?”

  “Am I on speaker? Are you with Agent Vail?”

  “Yes to both. Why?”

  “You’re both gonna want to hear this. Found semen at the crime scene you asked us to check. On the outside deck of Mary Burkhead’s house.”

  Russell elbowed Vail. “No shit. You were right.”

  “You know what they say.”

  “Miracles happen?”

  “No,” Vail said with a frown. “That even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

  “Any hits in CODIS?” Russell asked, referring to the Combined DNA Index System.

  “Just got the report. Give me a second.” Bachler hummed a few seconds, then said, “Umm … negative. So we got his DNA but not his identity. Best I can do right now.”

  “Let us know if you find any at the other homes. And please send that sample to Tim Meadows at the FBI lab.”

  “Copy that.”

  Russell hung up. “Does this change your opinion of this guy?”

  “Nope,” Vail said. “I still think he’s scum.” She cringed. “So to speak.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I’m being serious. It just confirms what I’d been thinking, what had been gnawing at me. He avoids confrontation—which is why he poisons from a distance—and yet needs some connection to the victim to get off.”

  “Apparently, literally.”

  They drove in silence for a few moments. “Any other thoughts while you were … meditating?”

  “Yeah. He could’ve modified his MO. If Kelleher is his vic, he still could’ve used aconite but delivered it in some other way.”

  “No soap.”

  “Right. No soap.”

  “And hard for him to go back to Kauai to jerk off.”

  “True,” Vail said. “Maybe he took a trophy from her. Something to remember her by, so when he saw the obituary in the paper, he could manufacture some kind of deeper connection—even if it’s only in his head.”

  “Do serial killers change their MO?”

  “Definitely. They adapt, learn, develop better, more successful ways of finding their vics and, obviously, killing. But their ritual doesn’t change—and that’s exactly why it�
�s so important for us to evaluate the behaviors. Which is why this case is so damn frustrating.”

  “The lack of behaviors. No interaction with the vics’ bodies.”

  Vail was staring out the windshield. “You’re learning.”

  “These offenders aren’t the only ones who can adapt.”

  Vail let a smile tease the corners of her lips.

  “I guess this new victim will tell us a lot.” Russell nodded slowly. “If we don’t find aconite and this is really one of his vics, we need to figure out how he’s doing it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well … I’ll shut up now. Keep thinking, Karen. We’ve got another fifteen minutes till we get there.”

  36

  They walked into HPD and Russell announced that the chief was expecting them.

  His back was to them when Vail and Russell entered.

  “You made quite a mess of the crime scene,” Ferraro said.

  Vail and Russell shared a confused look.

  “Oh,” Russell said. “That was the dog, sir. Ms. Wingate had a small greyhound—”

  “Not the dog. The front door.” Ferraro turned around slowly and faced Vail.

  “I heard a noise.”

  “A noise. What do you think, that I never drove a beat?”

  Vail squinted. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at—”

  “Did you have a warrant?”

  “No. But like I started to say, we heard something inside.”

  “Exigent circumstances,” Russell said. “Agent Vail thought the offender might be in there.”

  “Really,” Ferraro said. “And why would he be in there? I thought he poisons from a distance.”

  “I didn’t think he was in there. I was afraid the woman was choking.”

  “You were afraid.” Ferraro laughed sardonically. “Yeah. Now that I believe.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Ferraro sucked his bottom lip. “And if the woman was choking from this poison, what would you have done? Administered the antidote?”

  “There is no antidote,” Russell said.

  “Oh, right,” Ferraro said derisively. “There is no antidote.” He mock-slapped his forehead. “So what were you going to do, Agent Vail?”

  “Render aid and assistance. That’s what police officers do.”

  Ferraro pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully—but not really. “And exactly what aid and assistance were you going to render? What was effective against this poison?”

  Asshole. He knows there’s nothing I could’ve done.

  “I was acting on instinct. To save a life.”

  “So you weren’t thinking.”

  “Look, Chief. You can twist my words and their meaning all you want. I was doing my job. That’s it. Even if you were behind that door, I would’ve done the same thing.”

  He worked his molars, pissed—and measured his response. “How touching. You would’ve used your clairvoyant talents to determine that I was lying there dead in the back of the house.”

  One can always hope.

  “I’m proud of what I did. And I’d do it again.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Asshole. You’re the reason why she died! No—don’t go there, Karen. Keep your mouth shut.

  “I wonder if your unit chief would approve of your actions.”

  Is that a threat?

  “My chief,” Vail said with a laugh. “I’d hope my chief wouldn’t have penny-pinched and played a petty game with other people’s lives.”

  “Come again?” Ferraro asked, his face reddening.

  “If you’d deployed officers to do check-ins on all the Marys on our list, Mary Wingate would probably still be alive. But because I suggested it, you rejected the idea outright.”

  “You know what, Agent Vail?”

  “Sir,” Russell said, holding up both palms. “Playing the blame game isn’t getting us anywhere. Let’s all take a deep breath. These killings are getting to all of us. We’re all doing our best to catch this guy. Let’s not forget we’re on the same team here. And right now, all our energies should go toward finding him before he takes more lives. You said so yourself half an hour ago.”

  Ferraro frowned, then swatted at the air. “Get the fuck out of here, both of you. Go do your jobs.”

  That’s what we were doing.

  37

  Vail and Russell stepped out into the building’s parking lot.

  “Not sure that was wise, Karen.”

  “Wisdom did not enter into the equation. It was emotion. Anger. His bias is not helping us.” She snorted. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m hurting more than helping.”

  “Bullshit. You know that’s ridiculous.”

  “I tried to keep my mouth shut, Adam. I really did.”

  “Water under the bridge. We need to focus now, right?”

  Vail sighed. “Yeah.”

  They were approaching Russell’s car when a cop called to them from across the parking lot.

  “Yo! Adam, they got another for you.”

  “Another what?” Russell asked, starting back toward the building.

  The officer waited until Russell reached the door. “Another body.”

  A particular four-letter word fluttered through Vail’s thoughts.

  “Where?”

  Ferraro walked over and handed them a slip of paper. “Sunset Beach.”

  “Pūpūkea?” Russell asked.

  Vail read Russell’s consternation. “What’s poop pooh keah?”

  “A small town. Different from what we’ve dealt with.”

  Vail frowned. “Let’s go. Wasted time is our enemy.”

  “Wasted time is our enemy,” Russell said as they started back toward their vehicle. “That’s pretty good. Mind if I use it sometime?”

  “If it helps you catch bad guys, use it all you want.”

  They arrived at the crime scene thirty minutes later: a tight-knit community known for surfing, snorkeling, and relatively uncrowded beaches. Now there were three police cars and yellow tape ribboning around an area bordering the two-lane road.

  Off to the side were a couple of news trucks. Travis Sharkey was standing by one of them, watching as Russell and Vail drove by him.

  They parked across the two-lane road in a public lot and crossed the street. They donned booties and gloves and checked in with the crime scene officer. Directly to their right was a mud brown Chevy van, circa 1960—and looking every decade of its age—brush painted with “Fruit Smoothies” across its front and sides. The tire treads were just about bare, worn down to their base rubber.

  Vail and Russell introduced themselves to a woman carrying a large Nikon camera: Cynthia, the head criminalist. She gestured at the covered body that lay sprawled on the ground a dozen feet from the truck. “Several witnesses. All had the same story: vic started choking, eventually dropped to her knees and then stopped breathing.”

  “Find any bars of soap nearby?” Russell asked.

  “Bars of …” Cynthia looked at Russell, then Vail. “Soap?”

  “Sounds like a strange question,” Vail said. “But it’s not. Did you? Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  Vail glanced around the area, looking for the nearest restroom. There was one across the road, near where they had parked. But why would you buy a bar of soap and then use it in a public beach bathroom? Unless you’re a local and you know there’s no soap there.

  “Do we have an ID?”

  Russell’s question pulled her back to the discussion.

  “Yeah,” Cynthia said, “but it’s gotta be verified. Her name was printed on a homeless shelter card. No photo.”

  “Let me guess,” Russell said. “Mary something?”

  “Guess again. Haley Anderson.”<
br />
  “Haley?” Vail squinted at the nondescript sheet draped over the victim. “Gotta be someone else’s ID.”

  “Could be,” Russell said. “Someone named Haley must’ve given her the card to use. Or she took it off someone. Or found it.”

  “I sent a photo along with her name to HPD for confirmation,” Cynthia said. “Hopefully we get a hit.”

  “Good.” Russell knelt down and looked under the covering. “Whoa.” He drew his chin back and glanced up at Vail. “Not sure what to make of this.” He pulled the drape off the woman’s head and torso.

  Vail leaned forward and rested a palm on each knee. The deceased woman was disheveled, with leathery, severely sun-ravaged skin.

  “Looks elderly,” Russell said, “but I doubt she’s much older than forty.”

  “At most,” Cynthia said. “The constant unprotected UV exposure causes dramatic premature aging.”

  Vail examined the corpse’s fingers. “No osteoarthritis. Could be in her mid to late thirties.”

  Cynthia held up her phone and said, “She’s thirty-eight. ID just came through. That is Haley Anderson.”

  Russell straightened up. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Yeah. What he said.

  Vail realized Russell was staring at her. Of course he was. He had no explanation—and limited experience as a detective. She was the serial killer expert. Which meant she was supposed to have the answer. Or least some answer.

  “Karen?”

  “Yeah. I know, Adam. I’m thinking.”

  I got nothing.

  “No soap,” she said, more to herself. “Again?” Unless Kelleher wasn’t one of his vics. She began pacing. The near-pristine beach was to her right, a wide expanse in the cove creating a haven of paradise.

  Except for the dead body.

  “Vic doesn’t fit our theory.”

  “I know,” Vail said. “Well aware of that.”

  After a long moment of reflection, Russell cleared his throat. “There’s something you should know. I’ve wanted to tell you but I didn’t know how.”

  Vail looked at him. “This is not sounding promising, Adam.”

  “Ferraro. My chief? He doesn’t like you.”

  Vail snorted.