“You know what I was thinking?”
“Lemme guess. That the description of the chocolate sounded damn good?”
“Nope. I was thinking that you were right. The offender’s a male.”
Vail took a long deep breath of moist sea air. “Looks that way.”
“Speaking of chocolate,” Russell said as he poked away at his phone. “If there was a wrapper, it could be who-knows-where. That wind on Hanapepe was relentless.”
“At least it gives us some hope for linkage. We know Kelleher didn’t buy soap. But now that we know he’s also using chocolate, it puts her back in play.”
Russell spoke with Bachler and made the request.
As he hung up, Vail said, “Think we can get a couple of undercovers to circulate Luxury Row, check out the intersections for a guy selling stuff from a wheelchair?”
Russell pursed his lips and nodded, then started dialing again. “Why do you think he switched to chocolate from soap? Is it related to the news article? Does he think it’ll help keep the cops from finding him?”
“Mary told us the reason, even if she had no idea what it meant. What if John—if that’s his real name—sees a woman who excites him, but she doesn’t want a bar of soap? Chocolate gives him a completely different option. It’s a pretty universal indulgence. I once read that ninety percent of people like chocolate. Don’t remember how scientific that study was but sounds about right to me.”
“I guess if you’re gonna pick something to sell, our killer made a wise choice.”
The call connected and Russell put in the request for immediate dispatch of undercover detectives to Luxury Row.
“Let’s also use that ‘army,’” Vail said. “Ask if any of your patrols have seen a bearded veteran in his forties selling soap and chocolate bars from a wheelchair.”
Russell passed it along and asked that any officer with information text him—or call if they have a current location on the suspect. He also requested a review of traffic cam footage, though while on hold he told Vail that not many of the island’s camera views would be helpful since most of them were mounted on freeways to monitor congestion. “We just don’t have that many urban areas to worry about.”
“We’ll work with what we’ve got.”
Vail’s phone vibrated. She motioned to Russell and walked off.
Caller ID told her that Tim Meadows was calling.
“Tim.”
“Got some good news and bad news for you.”
“Bad news first.”
“Nope. Gotta give you the good news first.”
A grin cracked Vail’s lips. “Deal.”
“So what would you say if I told you I got DNA off one of the inner wrappers of the bars of soap?”
“I’d say you’re playing a cruel game. Teasing me.”
“And you’d be wrong. My eagle eyes picked up a ripple in the wrapper.”
“A ripple in the wrapper? Really racked and wrangled your brain on that one.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry. The alliteration threw me off.”
“Focus, Karen. Yes, I saw a ripple on the inside wrapper. I checked, just to make sure it was water and not something else. It was saliva. And that contained DNA.”
“Saliva? From what?”
“My guess, a sneeze.”
“Okay. But could’ve been the victim’s.”
“Ah, but it wasn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it was a male’s DNA profile.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? Karen, I just gave you the key to solving this case.”
“You did? Got a hit in the DNA database for the offender?”
“Well … not quite that key.”
“Not to diminish the ‘ripple on the wrapper’ find—which was truly genius—but did you get the package of semen?”
“Karen. A package of semen? That sounds gross.”
“The CSU team here found semen at one of the crime scenes. I had them send it to you.”
“I’ll look for it, compare the two profiles when I get it. But I may have something better. How about a physical description of the UNSUB who killed this victim known as … uh … Dawn Mahelona?”
“That would be very awesome.”
“Damn right it would be.”
“And how would you do that?”
“DNA phenotyping. My system is able to draw up a picture of the offender. So to speak.”
“I forgot all about that. Email the picture to me.”
“A picture—so to speak. There’s a reason why I included that phrase, my dear Karen. Because it’s not really a photo. It’s … a figurative photo.”
“Tim … Tim … please stop talking in circles. Do you have a picture of this guy or not? Figurative or literal.”
“Yes. Figurative.”
“So figuratively, what does this guy look like?”
“Hazel eyes, with a golden ring around the pupil.”
“Hazel eyes? That’s it?”
“That’s not it. But before you toss that in the garbage as useless info, that type of pattern is very rare: only about one percent of the world population has it.”
“From a practical point of view, Tim, that’s of minimal assistance. Even a DMV description on a driver’s license may say hazel eyes. It sure as hell isn’t going to say, ‘hazel eyes with a golden ring around the pupil.’”
“You know what, Karen? You’re being ungrateful again.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to minimize your work. Go on.”
“A few caveats here. Height is only about eighty percent dependent on genetics and eye color may not be that accurate. Brown and blue eyes are easy to predict, but colors like hazel are a lot more difficult.”
“Caveats noted. So the hazel is—”
“Somewhat accurate.”
Vail shook her head, unsure as to how much this was going to help. “Go on.”
“He’ll have brown hair, most likely straight with a slight wave.”
“Unless his hair is clipped short.”
There was a brief silence, which Vail herself broke. “Sorry again. Continue.”
“I was kidding about the wave. We don’t have that ability yet. ‘We’ as in science, not me and my unit.”
“Of course.”
“Well, we have some ability to predict. So I was only half joking. He might have wavy hair.”
Is there a glass pane I can put my fist through?
“He’ll be a Caucasian male, about five foot eleven, somewhere in the range of thirty-five to fifty years old.”
“That’s a big range.”
“Really, Karen? Glass half empty?”
“What glass?”
Meadows groaned. “You’re looking at the negative. How about the positive of what I’ve given you?”
“You’re right again. Wow, how often does that happen?”
“You’re the best, Karen. The best at making me feel like shit about outstanding work that any investigator would kill to have. So to speak.”
“I’m very grateful for this info, Tim. Do you think—can you render some kind of computer-generated photo of what this guy might look like—given the physical parameters of what you’ve just told me?”
“Check your inbox. I sent it right before I called.”
“Jesus, Tim. You could’ve just told me that right up front.”
“Then I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to chat with you. But before you cut the call here to look at the rendering, you should understand a few more things. Our current technology can tell us certain things with relative certainty: ethnicity, gender, eye color—subject to the limits I mentioned—and hair color. But as far as height and age, I have to leave myself some room for error.”
“Meani
ng you could be wrong.”
“Meaning,” he said with tension in his voice, as if Vail were starting to test his patience, “that the information might not be one hundred percent accurate. Same goes for baldness, hair texture, whether it’s curly or straight—like the waviness I mentioned—and the shape of his teeth.”
“How much can we rely on this computer rendering?”
“Consider it ballpark accurate. Enough to narrow your suspect pool.”
“Our suspect pool is not very deep. It’s more like a wading pond.”
“So you have no suspects.”
“Yep, that’d be accurate.”
“So my phenotype is incredibly helpful.”
Vail hesitated. “Potentially. I’ll wait to answer that until we catch him. Fair enough?”
“I guess.”
“Tim—thank you. Really. This is outstanding work. I’m sure it’s going to help.”
“Are you yanking my chain? Because you, well, you know you like to do that.”
“As do you. But I’m serious. I can circulate this photo to the airports, update our BOLO,” Vail said, referring to a “be on the lookout” alert. “And make sure anyone even close to this rendering is pulled aside and held for questioning.”
“Glad to help.”
“As always. I kid you, Tim, but you’re a valuable member of my team. And no, I’m not being sarcastic here.”
“Then let’s end this conversation on a high note.”
“Wait, what’s the bad news?”
“That I already gave you the good news.”
So much for a high note.
“Thanks, Tim. You came through for me again. Big-time. Talk soon.”
Vail ended the call, then walked over to Russell, who had finished his call. “You ready for this?”
“For what?”
“I’ve got a ballpark accurate photo of our offender.”
“No shit.”
“Serious.” She explained what Meadows had sent her.
“I’ve heard of phenotyping, but I’ve never used it on any of my cases. Didn’t they use that a few years ago in North Carolina on a cold case?”
“Yeah—but it was South Carolina. So you’re familiar with how it works?”
“I know just enough to butcher the science.”
“DNA phenotyping is pretty simple,” Vail said. “You know about DNA being the building blocks of life. The genetic instructions determine everything that makes us human. And the phenotype part of it is newer technology that keeps getting better as we learn more. Phenotype is what a person looks like based on her genetic code, plus any effects the environment has on her.”
“But we don’t have the killer’s DNA.”
“We didn’t think we had it. But we do. My crack forensic tech noticed a ripple in one of the soap wrappers. Could’ve been just a drop of dried water, but it wasn’t. It was saliva. And based on the DNA he extracted from that, he determined it was a male, so it wasn’t from our victim. It gave us an approximate rendition of our UNSUB.”
“How approximate?”
Vail shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out when we catch the knucklehead.”
“Helpful answer.”
“Thanks. I try to be helpful.”
“And you fail a lot. Like—how do we know the male DNA isn’t from someone else who used the soap?”
“Because it was on the inside wrapper. And since I believe the offender is working alone, the only male who would’ve handled that—without dying—is the UNSUB.”
“Probably.”
“Probably,” Vail said. “Yes. Send the rendition over to HPD and have some officers see if anyone where Dawn Mahelona worked looks like the phenotype image. If not, that just increases the odds it’s our offender.”
Russell sighed. “Fine. Send it to me and I’ll get it over to the chief, ask him to have a guy run down to the palace. And I’ll have him update the BOLO and get it out to the entire force.”
She emailed it to him. “Meantime, let’s test it out,” she said, heading back toward the beach. “See if Mary Alana recognizes him.”
Moments later they were trudging through the sand heading toward Mary.
She was sitting near the water’s edge staring out at the ocean.
“Mary,” Vail said.
She swung around, revealing tear-stained cheeks.
“Sorry to bother you, but we’ve got a photo for you to look at. Of the guy who might’ve sold you the chocolate bar.”
Mary gathered herself and rose to her feet.
Vail held out her phone. “Keep in mind this is an approximation. It may not be completely accurate.”
Mary took the Samsung and shielded the screen from the bright sunlight. “Hard to say. He had a beard. I mean, I think so. Yeah. Could be.”
Think so. Could be.
She handed the phone back to Vail.
Dammit.
“Thanks, Mary,” Russell said, taking Vail by the elbow and giving a gentle tug. “Appreciate it. Sorry again for your loss.”
As they walked away, Russell sighed. “You were hoping for a slam dunk ID.”
“I was.”
“That’d be too easy.”
“I would like to get back home this year.”
If Ferraro gets his way, that’ll be happening sooner rather than later.
A few moments later, Russell and Vail got in their car. “So now what?”
Vail pulled the shoulder harness across her body. “Let’s join the Luxury Row party. Our offender shows up, I assume you wanna be the one to present him with his new set of silver Louis Vuitton bracelets.” Vail winked at him.
“You assume correctly.” He twisted the key and the engine turned over. “I just want you to know, Karen, that regardless of what Lance Burden said about you, you’re definitely not as dumb as you look.”
39
New York City
April 9, 2001
Scott Meece had been planning this for months. After not finding what he was looking for, he continued hunting—until he realized the answer had been in his own high-rise office building the entire time.
The woman reminded him of his mother, at least when he was young. Mid-thirties with a similar gait, build, and constitution. At first, when he noticed her in the elevator, his jaw went slack as she glanced over at him because he had neglected to move aside to make room for her. It was the same evil look his mother gave him when he did something she did not like.
Scott had checked his watch—a used G-Shock he bought from a pawn shop near Broadway that looked a lot like Phillip’s—and noted the time. Each day he waited in the lobby for her. Like a spy, he used a copy of the Wall Street Journal to shield his face from view. Fortunately, she was fairly consistent in her schedule, give or take a few minutes.
He had decided he knew her routine fairly well. This was going to be the night. He packed a dopp kit filled with items he might need, then slipped it into the backpack he brought to work. It was difficult to concentrate all day as he watched the attack unfold in his mind.
Now, as he followed her down to the subway to take the N line near Forty-Ninth Street, his heart was racing, his breathing shallow.
He kept his distance, but among the crowd of rush hour commuters, it was not difficult to blend in. At one point he was standing at her left elbow as the train swayed and rocked while picking up speed between stations. He felt an erection swell in his pants as he thought of putting his hands around her throat.
The train hit its next stop and two dozen people moved toward the doors. Scott followed the woman—Nanette, according to someone who acknowledged her on the street.
They passed a few dog walkers until she hung a right several blocks later and ascended three black brick steps to an anteroom, fished out a key, and continued inside. Scott follo
wed a moment later, then stopped at the entrance. He had not thought that her building would require a key to get in. He should have expected this, but there were so many kinds of buildings in Manhattan. He realized now he could not anticipate everything. He should have previously followed her all the way to her building. Then there wouldn’t have been any surprises.
As Scott stood there, another woman excused herself and followed the same procedure Nanette had.
He laughed. “Forgot my key. Thanks.” She held the door open for him and he “piggybacked” her, sliding in behind her.
Dodged a bullet there. Except that he had not looked to see what apartment Nanette lived in. He cursed himself. How could he be so stupid to think that he was ready to do this?
Scott thought about postponing it until he was better prepared. But he had come this far. What if he chickened out again? There were always excuses not to do something.
No, he was going to do this. Tonight. He needed to prove to himself he was capable.
He waited as the resident ascended the steps, then went back to the anteroom and looked at the various buzzers on the directory. Only first initials and last names were listed. There were five Ns.
He fisted his right hand and pressed it against his closed lips.
Stay or go? Try again another night?
No. Think this through.
He started at the top. Pressed the first N, waited. No answer. One more time. Again, nothing.
Moved on to the next one. A male voice. “I have a delivery for Nanette.”
“Who?”
“Sorry. Wrong apartment.”
But that got Scott to thinking. What if there was a husband or significant other? Or a roommate? Nanette did not wear a wedding ring, but that was not an absolute.
Tapped the next one.
“Hello?”
“Delivery for Nanette.”
“Delivery?”
“UPS.”
“Leave it by the mail room. I’ll get it later. In the middle of making dinner.”
“You got it.” And so, apparently, did Scott: apartment 5B.
But now he lost his reason for knocking on her door. It would require a little more effort.
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