Chapter 58
“He’s targeting my clients,” Morris told Gloria Finston. “Either he broke into MBI, or he’s been spying on us. But we don’t have any signs of a break-in, and if he’s been spying on us he’s been doing it for seven months, because that’s when we did work for Tim Pence.”
“There’s no question he’s targeting your clients,” the FBI profiler agreed. “But the way he killed Claire Bigelow in Seattle was too impulsive for me to believe he could’ve been planning these murders in Malibu and Culver City for seven months. No. This is recent. I’m sure of it. A life-altering event happened last Tuesday, probably only hours before he murdered Ms. Bigelow, and that’s what sent him to Los Angeles seeking notoriety.” She paused for a moment as she rested a very thin index finger against even thinner lips. “Could he have hacked into your computer system?”
Morris shook his head. “I spent too many years as a cop. Even with my computer expert harping on it, I’ve kept MBI a paper shop. None of our cases are on our computers. If this guy got into our case files, it’s because he broke into our office.”
Morris’s cell phone rang: Annie Walsh. She had gone to the murder scene by herself so that Morris could attempt to get a handle on how the killer had targeted his clients. He took the call and listened quietly for several minutes before thanking her. After he got off the phone, he told Finston that Walsh had filled him in on what they had, and that she was going to email him copies of the crime-scene photos.
“They don’t have much,” Morris said. “No witnesses, anyway. Nothing other than an anonymous call reporting the murders. What do you think—our killer getting anxious for his notoriety?”
Finston’s narrow, bird-like face showed nothing as she shrugged. “Possibly,” she said.
A ding notified Morris that the email with the crime-scene photos attached had arrived. He forwarded it to Felger to print them out. He didn’t want to see them, but he knew it might be useful for Finston to look them over.
“Who has keys to your office?” Finston asked.
“Only my MBI staff and the cleaning firm we use. Polk is heading over there now with a copy of the drawing.”
“That’s the only way in here?”
“That’s it. You need a security key card and a password, and each key has a different password assigned to it.”
There was a knock on Morris’s door, and Adam Felger walked in with the crime-scene photos. Morris indicated for him to hand them to the FBI profiler. She studied them for several minutes before placing them facedown on Morris’s desk.
“Why did he add to his repertoire?” Morris asked.
Finston showed another of her tiny smiles, although this one was pure grimness.
“I’d like to hear your guess,” she said.
Morris shrugged and threw out the first thought that came to his head.
“He didn’t like the Malibu Butcher nickname he was tagged with, so he’s trying to change it by making it more obvious that’s he reassembling his victims’ bodies. Make them look like he’s building a Frankenstein monster. I’m guessing he wants to be called something like the Mad Scientist Killer. Or maybe the Frankenstein Killer.”
“Very good. If you want to give me your résumé, I can submit it next time we have an opening for a profiler.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Morris said.
His cell phone rang again. This time it was Polk.
“I’m at the cleaning company now,” Polk said. “No one here has ever seen anyone resembling your drawing, except when they go to a Mr. Hollywood movie.”
Mr. Hollywood was Polk’s nickname for Philip Stonehedge. Something about Polk’s tone had Morris asking, “What do you have?”
“They lost track of their key card to our office.”
There was still something about Polk’s tone that got Morris’s pulse beating a notch faster.
“What else?”
“The employee they sent to clean our office last Thursday hasn’t shown up to work since then. A woman, forty-two, unmarried, name of Elena Kotovsky.”
MBI had their office suite cleaned every Tuesday and Thursday nights. Morris had been running around last Thursday night dealing with Brett Dickerson’s investigation (was it really only five days ago?), so he wasn’t in the office when Elena Kotovsky came in to clean the place, but he could remember her from other times. The cleaning firm often assigned her, and she would usually arrive at seven in the evening. A quiet, unassuming woman. Gentle, also. That was probably the strongest impression he had of her. He called Felger and asked him what time Thursday night the security card assigned to the cleaning firm was used.
There was a minute of clicking and clacking noises as Felger typed away on his keyboard, then him saying, “Hmm. That’s interesting. The key card was used twice that night. Seven-oh-five and eleven-twenty-one.”
Morris had his phone on speaker so Finston could listen in. “The killer wants to make this personal with you,” she said. “He’s going to target clients you worked with directly.”
Morris nodded. “Most of our clients are corporate.”
“Those aren’t the ones he’ll be going after. It will be individuals who brought more intimate work to you.”
Again Morris nodded, because that was obvious to him also. “I’ll have to go through the files, but I think there are six clients we need to focus on.”
“We can catch him now,” Finston said. “But we certainly can’t afford to give your drawing to the media.”
“We’re going to be using them as staked goats,” Morris noted glumly.
“They’ll be protected.”
A heaviness filled Morris’s chest as he thought about how Mia Dickerson and the Pences weren’t protected.
“I’ll call them and let them know the danger they’re in,” he said.