Chapter Fifteen
More than a few eyebrows were raised when Morris brought Stonehedge into the conference room. Since the room was soundproofed and the door had been closed, no one had heard their conversation in the hallway, nor did anyone recognize the actor in his disguise, so none of them had any idea who this scruffy-looking stranger was. It didn’t go over particularly well when Morris told them. The Los Angeles police detectives all looked annoyed, Smichen amused, and Goodman concerned. The MBI team mostly hid their reactions behind poker faces, although Charlie Bogle couldn’t help chuckling.
“Wow. Camera not only adds ten pounds like they say, but it must also give you a nose job, ’cause that’s some beak you got in real life,” deadpanned Dennis Polk, who was another member of the MBI team.
Stonehedge, who didn’t know that Polk was a natural-born wiseass, tried answering him as if Polk had been serious. “This is a disguise so I’m not recognized when I go out in the field with you guys,” the actor said. “The nose is a prosthetic.”
“Never would’ve guessed that,” Polk again deadpanned.
Stonehedge’s face reddened as he realized Polk was being a wiseass. Bogle commented that Stonehedge was dressed like an actor trying to slum it with the police. “If he goes out wearing that outfit with any of us, the public’s going to know something’s not right.”
“Very true,” Morris agreed. He asked Polk where he bought his suits, then called Greta, made a guess on Stonehedge’s shirt, pants, and jacket sizes, and asked her to pick the actor up a shirt, tie and a discounted suit off the rack at the same store Polk shopped at. “Don’t spend more than two hundred for it,” he added. “We want him to look like one of us. Or at least like Polk.”
“I’m impressed,” Stonehedge said. “You nailed my sizes exactly. How about these sneakers? Okay if I wear them, or should I get some shoes?”
“The sneakers will be fine.”
Sam Goodman had been mulling all this over, and finally he spoke up. “We at the FBI, and the same with the New York police department, have taken extraordinary precautions to keep this information from the public for obvious reasons, and I don’t feel comfortable divulging it to a private citizen, especially an actor.”
“I’ve got to agree,” Walsh said. “That’s all we need is Hollywood over there leaking stuff to TMZ.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Morris stated. “Is it, Phil?”
“Not a chance,” Stonehedge said.
Morris continued, “The reason it’s not going to happen, other than the fact that Phil is giving us his word and he’s an honorable man, is that he knows what the consequences will be if he leaks anything, which will include, but not be limited to, prosecution for obstruction of justice.”
“This is still bull,” Walsh grumbled. “If you don’t mind, I’m calling my captain.”
“Go ahead, but this wasn’t my decision. Hadley already signed off on it.”
Walsh stared openmouthed at Morris. “You’re kidding,” she said.
“Nope.”
Goodman made up his mind. “I guess the federal government can bring charges also if Mr. Stonehedge interferes adversely with this investigation.”
Stonehedge had taken all this in stride and even managed a disarming smile. “Everybody convinced I’ll be behaving myself? We’re good to go now?” he asked.
“Hold your horses,” Polk piped in. He waved a thumb at Stonehedge, and said, “I’m giving three to one that Hollywood here either faints or pukes before this briefing lets up. Any takers?”
“Hmm,” Bogle murmured as he considered the wager. Then he shook his head, “Nah, he’s puking.”
None of the Los Angeles detectives looked interested in wagering. Fred Lemmon, who was another of MBI’s investigators, and who took it as one of his job responsibilities to act as a foil to Polk, stared intently at the actor as he sized him up. “You got a strong stomach?” he asked.
“Reasonably so.”
Lemmon told Polk to put him down for twenty. “As long as you don’t do anything to encourage him.”
“Done. Anyone else?”
“Enough,” Morris ordered. Then to Goodman, “Go ahead.”
“Hold on!” Polk left his chair so that he could bring the trash can over to Stonehedge. Once this was done he took his seat again.
“Hollywood, when you puke, do it in the can. If you unload on our carpeting we’re going to have words later, understand?” Then to Goodman, “I said my piece. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” Goodman said dryly. “First of all, SCK murdered twelve people in New York, not nine as was commonly reported. We hushed up three of his murders hoping we could flush him out. While we manufactured for the newspapers different circumstances for how these victims died, SCK did not rise to the bait and made no effort to take credit for these murders.”
Goodman then proceeded to talk about the pattern to the killings—how they were all done in groups of three; always a forty-something year-old man, followed by a woman around the same age, and finally a twenty-something blonde girl. He showed pictures of the first three victims, and explained how they were killed within four days of each other.
“The first victim, an NYU psychology professor, murdered in his office on campus. The next victim was found in a back room at a boutique in Queens where she worked. The third, a student and part-time waitress, was found in her studio apartment in Brooklyn.”
Goodman next showed crime-scene photos of each victim. While Stonehedge blanched at the sight of these photos, he held it together, leaving Polk still on the hook for possibly losing sixty dollars to Lemmon. After that, Goodman showed the next three victims, explaining how the first of these murders happened a hundred and thirty-four days after the last murders, and that these took place over three days. The next group were the murders that were hushed up, and there was a hundred and twenty-nine-day gap between these and the previous murders. As with the previous group, these victims were also murdered over three days. The final three murders happened a hundred and forty-one days later, and all these were done on the same day. While Goodman was showing the crime scene photos for these last murders, Polk commented that they’d picked the wrong name for the killer.
“Forget that Skull Cracker business,” Polk said completely straight-faced. “He should be called the Pumpkin Smasher the way he left those skulls looking like smashed-up pumpkins. Am I right?”
“You’re an idiot,” Lemmon said.
“Nah, I’m a poet at heart,” Polk argued.
“Idiot.”
“Philistine,” Polk countered.
“Enough,” Morris warned.
Polk and Lemmon both swallowed back whatever it was they were about to say. Goodman waited several beats to make sure no one else had any additional comments before continuing with his presentation as if Polk hadn’t interrupted him, and brought up photos of the four male victims on the same screen.
“All Caucasian, all close to the same age and size, all either with prominent bald spots or receding hairlines, all about twenty to thirty pounds overweight,” Goodman said.
“They got different color hair,” Bogle commented. “But they’ve all got these chunky, squarish faces, and there’s something about their eyes also. Kind of smallish, squinty eyes.”
“And they’re mostly fair skinned,” Morris noted. “And all white-collar guys.”
Smichen pointed out that Corey Freeman was five feet eleven inches, which would be the right height, but that he was only a hundred and sixty-eight pounds. “He was trim and in good shape at the time of his death,” Smichen noted. “Certainly not overweight. And he had a full head of hair.”
Morris dug out a photo of Freeman that the realtor had used in an ad six years earlier. In the photo Freeman looked heavier and showed a receding hairline. “He must’ve gotten hair plugs and dropped twenty pounds since this photo was taken, but if I found it on the Internet, the killer might’ve also.” He passed it over to Goodman who asked Morris if he had any recent photos of the victim. Morris passed one over, and Goodman looked preoccupied as he studied both photos.
“Anything wrong?” Morris asked.
Goodman looked unsure of himself as he shook his head. “You might be right, Morris,” he said. “The killer could’ve latched onto the victim from this first photo, although I would’ve thought he’d abandon the killing once he realized his victim no longer matched his profile, but maybe not. Let me continue on with the presentation, and give this more thought later.”
Goodman next brought up on screen pictures of the four women in their forties who were killed, all of them also Caucasians. One was blonde, two were redheads, and one had sandy brown hair. Two of them had their hair down to their shoulders, another had her hair cut in a short bob, and the fourth had tight, curly hair. The two ways they were alike were that they were all tall, and that they had thin, longish faces. Polk pointed out the obvious; no one else in the room bothered to do that.
When Goodman brought up the photos of the four girls in their twenties who were killed, the similarities among them were more pronounced. All had curly blonde hair that fell past their shoulders. All had slightly upturned noses and wide mouths. And all were what Morris’s grandparents would’ve called zaftig. Not fat, but full-figured girls. As irrational as it was he couldn’t help feeling a bit of relief seeing those photos together. Whether or not Rachel dyed her hair blonde, she’d never look like those girls. Natalie would be safe also. While she was slender like those other fortyish-year-old women, she was a good deal shorter than they were, and her face was shaped differently. More of a heart-shaped face than the longish ones these women had.
Goodman pointed out that the four young blonde victims were all between five feet six and five feet eight inches in height, and between a hundred and forty and a hundred and sixty-eight pounds in weight. No one felt the need to comment about their obvious physical similarities, not even Polk.
Goodman had one more screen to show them—a map of where the murders took place. Five of them had happened in Manhattan, three in Queens, and four in Brooklyn. The murders were numbered on the map, and they were scattered around with none of the three in any group occurring near each other.
“We weren’t able to find any discernable patterns with the locations of the murders other than that they all took place within a mile of a subway station, although seven different subway lines,” Goodman said. He took off his glasses so that he could rub his eyes. When he put them back on, he showed the room a grim smile.
“Now that I’ve gotten these preliminaries out of the way, let’s dig into the meat,” he said.