Chapter Seven
When Morris met Doug Gilman at the murder site, the first thing Gilman did was let it slip that he’d been promoted to the mayor’s deputy assistant since they last met, the pay raise for which must’ve accounted for the expensively tailored suit Gilman wore, as well as the equally rich-looking gray leather dress shoes he had on.
“No doubt due to your forward thinking,” Morris said.
“No doubt,” Gilman agreed. “I warned you at your retirement dinner you’d be hearing from me in the future, and when I realized what we were dealing with here, I wasted no time convincing the mayor that for the safety of the community, we needed to get you and MBI leading this investigation.”
The two of them were alone near the front foyer while the police, forensics, and crime scene investigators mulled about in the back of the house where the murder took place. Gilman gave a quick look to make sure there were no prying ears nearby. Lowering his voice, he continued.
“I’m sure it must come as no surprise that there was resistance from your former boss. The commissioner is still nursing hard feelings about you taking a few of his detectives with you when you formed MBI, and as you can guess he didn’t like the idea of having his department sharing the spotlight with you on such a high-profile case. But after a persuasive argument and a few moments of reflection on the commissioner’s part, he turned out to be quite reasonable on the matter.”
Gilman didn’t bother mentioning the obvious, which was the only reason Hadley had backed down and agreed to let Morris and MBI be given the investigation was that it was the politically astute thing to do, which was the same reason Gilman was able to convince the mayor as well.
A little over six years and two months ago the Skull Cracker Killer began terrorizing New York City, killing nine people over a fourteen-month period, and then seemingly disappearing five years ago. The New York police and FBI had tried to keep a tight lid on the details of the murders, and the Skull Cracker name came from a reporter, not the authorities. This happened when the traumatized janitor who had discovered the first victim commented within earshot of this reporter that the poor guy wouldn’t be able to have an open casket after the way his skull had been cracked open like an egg.
If this was really the same killer at work, and these killings followed the same pattern as what happened in New York, then there were going to be two more murders very soon, if they hadn’t already happened. Morris knew this because a well-defined pattern emerged with the New York killings. Always three in a very short time span: the first victim being a white-collar man in his forties; the second, a typical housewife-type, also in her forties; and the third, a young woman in her twenties, always a blonde. By hiring Morris, the mayor and police department were shielding themselves from the heat that was going to be coming when the next bodies were found. If Morris was successful in tracking down the killer, the mayor would get the praise for having had the foresight in hiring Morris, but if Morris failed, which was likely given that the NYPD got nowhere with their nine murders, then it would be Morris whose reputation would be tarnished, while the mayor would still look like a mensch who did everything he could for the people of Los Angeles.
“How sure are you that this is SCK?” Morris asked, using the familiar acronym for the Skull Cracker Killer.
Gilman smiled grimly. “Unfortunately, pretty sure. You know Detective Annie Walsh, right? She’s the homicide detective who picked up the case, and when she saw what was done to the victim, she sent photos to the FBI to check whether they had any other murders matching the grisly characteristics of this one.”
“And of course they did,” Morris said with a sigh. “Nine others.”
“Yep.” Gilman’s grim smile tightened, leaving his lips bloodless. “There’s a chance it’s a copycat. Someone who found out about the SCK’s complete modus operandi, and not just about what was done to the victims’ skulls. The FBI is sending us Sam Goodman, who was the profiler who worked the murders in New York, and he should be flying into LAX at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. But it doesn’t matter whether it’s a copycat or the original SCK. If it’s a copycat, he’ll still probably be killing his next two victims very soon. We need to catch him pronto.”
Morris and Gilman had talked during Morris’s drive to Venice, but all Gilman had told him about what was done to the victim was that it was gruesome. When Gilman handed him a small stack of crime-scene photos, Morris had to agree with Gilman’s assessment. After carefully studying them, he handed them back to Gilman.
“I’m guessing the killer used a chisel and hammer to break apart the skull,” Morris mused as he considered what must’ve happened. “And the claw end of the hammer to dig out the brain?”
Gilman blanched at the question, his skin showing a tinge of green. Morris noticed Gilman’s reaction and reminded himself that he was talking to a political underling and not a cop. Maybe a very ambitious political underling who had gotten knee-deep in the details of this case so that he could convince his boss, the mayor, to hire Morris, but he certainly wasn’t someone used to dealing with a murder victim whose skull had been obliterated so grotesquely.
“Never mind,” Morris said. “I’m sure forensics can give me those types of details, and the FBI profiler can enlighten me as to what was done to the New York victims. Assuming I accept the job.”
Gilman took a few noticeable deep breaths and wiped some perspiration from his forehead. He had recovered from whatever queasiness had temporarily hit him, although a faint greenish hue still showed in the hollows of his cheeks. He asked Morris what objections he’d have about taking the assignment.
“MBI would need to bill at our full rate. No discounts.”
“Done.”
“I’d have to be able to bring the full team onboard.”
“Also done.”
“And have complete control over how the investigation is handled, as well as get whatever support I need from the police department. And I decide what is released to the media.”
“Done, done, and mostly done,” Gilman said. “There are certain public safety issues that have to be taken into account as to what’s given to the media, so there will have to be some give and take on that regard. But Morris, we’re certainly not going to undermine you, nor are we going to interfere. So do we have a deal?”
Morris needed only a moment to consider the question before putting out his hand. “Deal,” he agreed.
Gilman took his hand with the enthusiasm of a business tycoon who’d just closed a multimillion-dollar deal. Somewhat smugly, he gave Morris an appraising look.
“We’ll iron out the details as to what needs to be released, and we’ll hold a press conference soon to announce that the city has hired you to lead up this murder investigation. How about you swing by your home and change clothes?”
“No need. This is the nicest suit I have.”
Gilman raised an eyebrow at that. “You’re kidding? That looks like a suit you must’ve bought when you first made detective.”
“The very same one. Fits like a glove,” Morris said, patting his stomach.
This was mostly true. Morris had actually bought three suits the day he made detective, and the suit he had on was one of those three. What he’d said about the suit fitting him like a glove was a hundred percent accurate. All three of them were a half size too large for him when he’d bought them off the rack twenty years ago, but since adding fifteen pounds around his middle, they now fit him almost as well as if they’d been custom made, if not a little snugly.
“Morris, we don’t have much time, but I could send you to my guy at Maximillian’s on Rodeo Drive and see if he can get you an Armani off the rack, and maybe a tie that’s in fashion, all on the city’s dime. No offense, but there’s going to be a tremendous amount of media attention on this, and even given your stellar reputation, the better you look, the better we’ll look for hiring you.”
Morris smiled thinly at Gilman’s insistence that he buy more fashionable attire. Gilman certainly wasn’t the only one. For a long time, Natalie used to do the same before finally giving up a couple of years ago. Whenever she would suggest that it was time for him to retire his old suits and buy some new ones, he’d always comment back that it would be a pointless thing for him to do since you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, and she’d roll her eyes and tell him that he was being stubborn only to be a pain in the ass, then she’d get angry and reprimand him for calling himself ugly. Well, he certainly wasn’t handsome, not with his big ears, thick, long nose, spindly legs and short, compact body. Maybe more comical looking than unattractive. In many ways Morris proved the old adage about a dog owner resembling his pet, since he looked quite a bit like his bull terrier, Parker. Of course, that old adage fell apart completely when it came to Natalie since she was a slim, petite, dark-haired beauty with mesmerizing large brown eyes. In Natalie’s case, no dog would fit the bill. A cat might, at least if it were sleek and feminine-looking enough.
Morris wasn’t just being stubborn, though. While he was generous with family and friends, and many times with strangers, he was extremely frugal when it came to himself, and his old suits were comfortable, still in good shape, and fit just fine. That was part of it. But another part of it was his pop, who had also been a Los Angeles police detective. Like Morris, his pop had bought three new suits when he earned his detective’s shield, and never bought another one. Those were the only suits he wore the rest of his life. It had been twelve years since his pop had passed away, and Morris missed him. Something about the pride his pop took in only needing to own those three suits made Morris want to do the same.
Morris felt a catch in his voice as he told Gilman that he wasn’t about to go shopping for clothes now. He added, “If my needing a new suit and tie is a condition for being hired, you’re going to have to find someone else.”
Gilman seemed surprised by Morris’s reaction. He took a half step back and held up his hands in a sign of surrender, “Wow, Morris, I apologize if I’ve offended you. Not my intent, just trying to be helpful. But if it means having you work this investigation, you can wear a mawashi if you want.”
Morris must’ve shown his puzzlement, because Gilman smiled and explained that a mawashi is what you call the loincloth that sumo wrestlers wear. “I learned that when I visited Nagoya three months ago as part of a cultural exchange. That’s our sister city in Japan. Are we good now?”
Morris nodded. “We’re good.”