Tuesday Afternoon
Lucy had known Ash Dominguez since her first joint investigation with SAPD, and she had never seen him so excited over a case.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said to Lucy and Jerry when they walked in. “This is the coolest computer model I’ve ever done.”
“We’re itching to see it,” Jerry said.
“Oh—and the ballistics are back, and the same gun was used in all three murders. So there’s that.”
“Nice to have the confirmation.”
“Look,” Ash said and pointed to a huge screen on the wall. “I got IT to bring in a big screen. I need you to see this in all its glory.”
He flicked off the lights, leaving the lab in semi-darkness. He kept talking. “This program is the best program I’ve ever worked with. It’s truly amazing. Worth every dime.”
“We’re not on the budget oversight committee, Ashley,” Jerry said, getting irritated. “Just show us what you found.”
“Right. So, I input all the facts for each crime. The nonvariables. Position of the body, relationships with the surroundings, the like. Then I input the autopsy results—every identified injury and cause of death. The computer runs through every possible scenario from first attack to after death—like if the body was moved. Then I went in and made logical additions—not adjustments. We can’t change facts, but we can change assumptions. Like, for example, we know that Julio Garcia was fatally hit on the back of the occipital lobe. Based on the angle and the force, and evidence on the body and the ground, I can make the assumption that he was squatting when he was hit.”
“Okay,” Jerry said. “Can you just do it?”
“I wanted you to know the methodology. Because in court, they’ll want to know.”
“And you’re an expert witness,” Lucy said. “You don’t have to explain to us, we already stipulate to your expertise.”
“It’s just—well, so exciting to actually see it. I didn’t go so far as to extrapolate how or why the victims got out of their vehicles, but from first blow to death, I know exactly what the killer did. Ready?”
“I’ve been ready for ten minutes, Ashley,” Jerry said.
“Okay. Okay.” He was practically shaking with anticipation as he pressed a couple of keys on his computer, and the simulation went up on the big screen.
The technology was amazing—the victims looked like people, and Ashley had input the height and weight of each victim, so everything was proportional. The killer avatar was less distinct. There was a core, but shading to indicate that the killer could be taller or shorter.
“This is Billy Joe Standish,” Ash said, his voice low. “From the grease on his fingers, we believe he was hunched over an engine—a car, not a truck. Based on the angle he had to have been leaning over something short, but not squatting.”
As Lucy watched, the same excitement grew in her—this was almost exactly how she’d pictured the scene when she did her spontaneous demonstration on Saturday. But a sick dread filled her at the authenticity—and brutality—of the simulation.
“I set it at half speed, so you can more clearly see the attack,” Ash said. “And—”
“Quiet,” Jerry said.
A generic car had its hood up. Standish was leaning over the car, his left hand near the grille, his right hand reaching for something in the middle of the engine. The killer—who could be between five foot six and six feet tall, according to the simulation—hit him on his upper back, just below his neck. The weapon depicted was an octagon-shaped steel mallet. Standish stumbled. His knee hit the bumper. Another blow as he was turning caught his lower back, and he fell to his knees. He stumbled and a third blow hit his stomach. He was down, but the edge of the road had a slope, and he slid away from the road. The killer followed and hit his hands hard into the ground as Standish was trying to stand. That brought him back down and he rolled over to his back, clutching his hands together to his chest. The killer tried to then hit him in the stomach again, but Standish put up his arms in a defensive posture. He was hit twice in the left arm, then grabbed the handle of the mallet with his right hand. They wrestled for the weapon and Standish had it for a short time but didn’t have strength to fight back.
The killer reached into a utility belt or pocket and used a Taser on stun mode to shock Standish enough to drop the mallet. The killer picked up the mallet and hit him in the groin, then pulled out duct tape and taped his mouth.
Ash paused the simulation. “I don’t know when the mouth was duct-taped, but this seems to be the most logical point.”
“Just keep it going,” Jerry said, his voice rough.
Ash cleared his throat and pressed PLAY.
The killer then pulled Standish’s right hand away from his groin and slammed the mallet down on the hand three times. Standish reached over with his left hand, and the killer hit it three times. The victim lay there a moment, writhing in pain, pulling his arms to his chest, and the killer hit him once more in the stomach and again in the groin. The victim reached for the mallet, and the killer hit them again, then slammed the mallet into his abdomen. Then he stood on either side of Standish, his feet on either side of his hips, pulled a gun from his lower back, aimed, and fired. The bullet hit Standish in the face, just to the right of the nose. The killer holstered the weapon, reached down, ripped off the duct tape, then walked away.
Ash said, “Two minutes, fifty seconds from first blow to death.”
“Next,” Jerry said gruffly.
Steven James had no wounds on his back. Ash had made several assumptions, because there was no known reason for Steven to get out of his car.
Steven is facing his killer. The first blow is to the groin. He’s now down to his knees, and another blow hits in the chest, a golf-club-like swing with the mallet. Now he’s on the ground, curled into a fetal position. The killer kneels over the body, one knee on each side, and holds down one hand. Ash paused it again.
“Julie really did extraordinary work. When I started putting this together, she sent me more data—she found very faint bruising on James’s wrists. He was wearing a long-sleeved button-down shirt, and we think the killer held his wrist down, causing the bruising.”
Neither Lucy nor Jerry commented, and Ash hit PLAY again.
The killer hit the right hand four times, then the left hand four times. No restraint, as Lucy had thought at the beginning. The pain could easily have incapacitated the victim.
Next, the killer duct-taped Steven’s mouth, stood up, hit him twice in the chest—cracking his ribs—then again in the groin. The killer then stood on either side of the victim and fired the gun into his face. Removed the duct tape. A second later the killer had a Taser in his hand and Tasered Steven James through his shirt, then walked away.
Ash paused and said, “I don’t know where the Taser was—in a pocket or on the ground. I think it was on the ground, but computer probability is only fifty percent. Did it fall out of the killer’s pocket? Did the killer go back and get it, but had brain matter on his hands, and that ended up in the wound? I don’t know.”
“But it was postmortem, according to Julie,” Lucy said.
“Yes, and there was brain matter on his shirt at that location. It’s possible blowback could have reached there—there are a lot of factors. But from the distance and the angle and the evidence we gathered at the scene, I believe it came from the Taser itself.”
“Good. Next,” Jerry said.
Julio Garcia was squatting. Ash’s demo had him looking at a tire on a car. The killer brought the mallet down. Julio didn’t know, or didn’t look back, but fell over—instantly killed.
Ash paused the demonstration.
“What?” Jerry snapped.
“I’m extrapolating something here, so bear with me. Rate of decomp is a science, but it has so many factors that when someone dies we might be able to give the hour, yet not the minute. But certain things happen in the body. I think—and this is something I don’t think will hold up in court, if I was forced to testify—that the killer was expecting him to fight back or get up or something. So when he didn’t, I think the killer hesitated here, for at least a minute, maybe trying to decide what to do.”
“Which would confirm that he knew that Julio was dead instantly,” Lucy said.
“Exactly.”
“Just play it,” Jerry said.
The killer paced on the screen, then dragged Julio’s body away from his car. Dropped it.
“This is the only body that was dragged,” Lucy said. “In Standish’s simulation, we assumed he was dragged, but he fought back, and that was a natural progression of his resistance.”
“Based on the evidence at the crime scene and on the body, that’s the most likely scenario,” Ash said. “Watch this.”
On the screen, the killer pulled Julio’s hands above his head. He hit them half a dozen times. Then he hit him in the stomach twice and the groin twice. Then he Tasered him in the side, pulled out a gun, and shot him in the face. The killer walked away, then came back and put duct tape over the victim’s mouth, then pulled it off.
“Why did he walk away?”
“I just put that in there. I don’t know that he did or didn’t, I just wanted to make it clear that the killer put the duct tape on after he shot Mr. Garcia.”
“It’s a stage,” Lucy said.
“What do you mean?” Jerry asked.
“It’s clear here. Everything with Julio Garcia had to match the first two victims, down to the duct tape and the Taser—even though Garcia was dead and couldn’t scream or fight back. He’s setting the scene so that we see the same things that we saw at the other crime scenes.”
“We have matching ballistics,” Jerry said. “We know that it’s the same gun that killed these three men, and therefore the same killer.”
“But the killer is setting a stage, like theater,” Lucy said. “He wants it to look the same way. Maybe because he thinks we’re idiots and can’t figure it out, maybe there’s another, more personal reason for him to do so. Whatever it is, this is a setup. An act. Like he’s directing a play. Close the curtain on the body, then cut, the end of the act.”
“Now you’re talking nonsense,” Jerry said.
Lucy tensed. She knew what she was thinking, but maybe she wasn’t explaining it well. “We should consult a profiler.”
“No. I’m not going down that path of bullshit again.”
She was taken aback. In the days that she’d been working with Jerry, he never swore. He appeared to be what he was—a polite, good-old-boy, diligent, and respected deputy investigator. But mention a psychological profile and he lost it.
“I don’t know who you worked with before, but I have someone I explicitly trust who can give an honest appraisal. Help us narrow down what this killer is thinking.”
“No,” he said firmly. “We follow the evidence. The evidence will lead us to the killer. I’m not going to deal with a bunch of theoretical garbage that will delay our investigation.” He turned to Ash. “Anything else?”
“No—I’ve gone over the crime scenes and evidence twice and haven’t found any unidentified hairs or fibers. The killer wore gloves—we found no prints, and I looked at everything I believe the killer may have touched. The killer wore some sort of low-heeled boots, but the footprints were too indistinct to get a pattern to narrow down a manufacturer, or a precise size. The prints were found at the Garcia crime scene, but the first crime scene was too rocky, and the second crime scene was a parking lot.”
“This is good work, Ash, thank you,” Lucy said. “Can you please email it to me? I want to review it again.”
“Of course. And I’ll shade it—meaning, the areas that are incontrovertible based on physical evidence will be identified, and areas where I made logical extrapolations of data will be identified.”
Jerry said, “Ash—I want you to go over everything again. The scenes of the crimes were problematic because of the locations, but the killer touched the victims. He had to in order to remove the duct tape. To get close enough to stun. He dragged Garcia twenty feet, maybe there’s sweat, hair, fibers, something. You’re the best CSI we have in San Antonio. You will find something.”
Ash opened his mouth, closed it. “Yes, sir. I’ll go back and look at everything again, with an assistant. Maybe I missed something…”
“You didn’t miss anything, but you might not have seen it yet. This demonstration is good, but it doesn’t give us evidence.”
“I’m on it. It’s my number one priority right now.”
Lucy and Jerry walked out. She was about to tell him good job for lighting a fire under Ash—stroking his ego was sure to get him to spend far more time than he should on the case, considering his workload. She agreed, the killer had to have left something behind. They might not be able to match it to anyone until they had a suspect, but finding the evidence was half the battle.
But Jerry spoke first.
“Now, don’t get your panties in a wad because I don’t want to consult some shrink.”
“That’s not what profiling is, Jerry. It’s taking known human criminal behavior and looking at an unknown subject and helping narrow down an investigation. Because right now we have squat.”
“We have more than we had before—we have Susan Standish as a possible adulterer, and we can and should track down her lover because maybe he has a clear motive.”
“Possibly for Standish, but the others?”
“We follow the evidence.”
She wouldn’t be able to get through to him, but she planned on consulting her brother Dillon on her own time.
Because something felt so weird about this entire case that she couldn’t help but wonder if they were missing something obvious—simply because they saw only what the killer wanted them to see.
Although Lucy and Jerry didn’t see eye-to-eye on criminal profiling, they did have the same sensibilities about interviewing. After a brief discussion, they opted to visit Susan at her house. No friend to lean on, no one to raise objections if they had to get tough with her. Not that they planned to play hardball—that depended on Susan’s answers.
Her car was in the driveway; there was a carport attached to their double-wide. It was a nice-looking place, clean and newly painted, dwarfed by the land it sat on. Plants and flowers overwhelmed the porch that ran along the length of the trailer.
They walked up four steps and Susan opened the door before they knocked. “Deputy. Ms. Kincaid.”
“Agent Kincaid,” she corrected.
“Right. Sorry. I don’t remember making an appointment.”
“We have a few more questions for you, and we were in the area,” Jerry said. “We wanted to look at the crime scene again,” he lied smoothly.
“Oh. Okay. I’ll—well, come in. Excuse the mess.”
The trailer wasn’t messy, but it was cluttered—furniture a little too big for the space, pictures hanging from virtually every available wall, knickknacks and collections of dolls, crystal figurines, a whole rack of souvenir spoons hanging next to a rack of souvenir mugs. It almost made Lucy claustrophobic.
Two large, old dogs looked up from their beds in the middle of the living room, without much interest in the visitors.
“Please, sit,” Susan said, motioning to the couch. “Can I make y’all some coffee?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. We won’t be here long. We’re going back through all our evidence, talking to friends and family again. We tracked down Joey Adkins.”
“Oh?”
“He’s married with two kids. The IT manager for a major San Antonio company.”
“Oh. I guess I didn’t know that.”
Why did Lucy think she was lying? Why would she about something so unimportant?
“Did you attend your husband’s ten-year high school reunion last fall?” Jerry asked.
“Um, yes?”
“You’re not sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I just don’t know why that matters.”
“I don’t pay much attention to rumors—you know how some folk are—but there was a rumor that came up more than once during our investigation. So I have to ask—were you cheating on your husband, Mrs. Standish?”
She stared at him and blinked. She hadn’t expected the question. She was stunned, and she was guilty. Something in her eyes, the way they shifted slightly down, looking for an answer that wasn’t there. A moment too long before her response.
“Of course not,” Susan said. “I would never. I loved Billy Joe. He was my soul mate.”
“I need to follow up on these accusations, Mrs. Standish. Because maybe one of your other suitors might think getting Billy Joe out of the way would earn him a permanent spot in your bed.”
She jumped up, hands on her hips. “Is that what Joey said? That I was cheating on Billy? You tell him he can go to hell, that’s what you can tell him!”
No reaction to the plural suitors. Had she honestly not heard it? Jerry had made himself clear, Lucy thought.
“Mrs. Standish,” Lucy said as she assessed the woman. She wasn’t certain she was playing her right, but it was a gamble worth taking. She kept her voice firm and slightly superior in tone. It would sound more judgmental that way. “I need you to listen to me carefully. It is a crime to lie to a federal agent. I need you to answer Deputy Walker’s question truthfully. Were you having an affair?”
“I—I—” She looked to Jerry, her eyes immediately tearing up. “Why are you doing this to me? I just lost my husband! He’s dead, and I miss him every day. Why would you dredge up past mistakes?”
That’s what she called Joey Adkins’s “accident.” A mistake.
“Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Standish,” Jerry said, all nice and sweet. “Can I get you some water?”
“Thank you. Thank you so much, Deputy.”
Unbelievable.
Not unbelievable. She’s trying to play you. Well, she’s trying to play Jerry because he’s a man, and she’s used to getting her way with men.
Lucy stood in front of the woman and stared. She didn’t have to muster much acting skill to freeze a look of disappointment and disapproval on her face. Susan fidgeted.
Jerry came back with ice water. “Thank you so much,” Susan said with a nervous smile, looking right up at Jerry with wide, wet eyes.
Lucy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This was becoming ridiculous.
Susan drank. “Now. What is it I can do for you?”
“Telling the truth is a start,” Lucy said.
The tears returned. “I have. I don’t know who would have hurt my husband.”
“Susan—can I call you Susan?” Jerry asked. “I don’t think you killed your husband. But I need to investigate his case fully. You understand that, right? Because you’ve already filed the claim for your insurance, and I’m sure you can use the money, what with having to live on your lone salary. But the insurance isn’t going to pay until I finish my report, and I can’t finish my report until I interview everyone even tangential to this investigation.”
“I—But I didn’t kill my husband. I swear, Deputy, I didn’t. I miss Billy so much.”
Ironically, Lucy believed her. At least, Susan believed that she missed him.
“I know you do,” Jerry said in a fatherly tone. “But he worked a lot, and he was gone more than he was here, wasn’t he?”
She sniffed and nodded. Jerry handed her a tissue, which earned him a bright smile.
“So I need to know anyone you were romantically involved with. Maybe you broke it off. Maybe they were upset because they knew you loved your husband. Sometimes, people we think we know and trust, we really don’t know very well.”
Susan bit her lip and looked down. She didn’t say anything. Lucy waited. Jerry waited. She still didn’t talk. Was she trying to think up a lie?
“Mrs. Standish,” Lucy said in a stern voice. “I can subpoena phone records, and I will do it and interview every person you have spoken to in the last year. Ask them if they were sleeping with Billy Joe Standish’s wife while he was still alive. How many are going to say yes?”
“You make it sound so bad.”
“We need names, we need them now, or I’ll be getting that warrant first thing in the morning.”
“Carl. But he would never hurt Billy Joe. He loved him like a brother.”
Lucy had to bite her tongue to keep from saying anything.
“What’s Carl’s last name, Susan?” Jerry asked nicely.
“Franklin.”
“And when did you and Carl get involved.”
“I’ve known Carl since high school. We’ve been friends forever.”
“You’ve been sleeping with him since high school?”
“Oh no! Of course not. Just—a few months ago. May. Billy Joe was gone for a whole month and it just sort of happened.”
“Is it still happening?”
“Sometimes.”
“And before Carl?” Lucy asked.
“Ricky Johns.”
“Was he upset when you broke it off with him?” Jerry asked.
“We didn’t exactly break up.”
“Does he know about Carl?”
“I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “Is that all? ’Cause I’m real tired right now. It’s been a long day.”
“Agent Kincaid?” Jerry asked. “Any more questions for Mrs. Standish?”
“In the last year, who else besides Carl and Ricky did you have sex with?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Who?”
“It was just one time.”
“Who?”
“Andy Kernick. But he doesn’t even live around here, he was just here visiting for his little brother’s high school graduation, and one thing just … well, you know how it is. Andy and I went out in high school and we were old friends. He’s in Birmingham now, works for a big pharmaceutical company. And, well, you know, he might be married, too, so it was just that one time.”
“Thank you for your time,” Jerry said and stood up. “We’ll let you know if we have more questions.”
“And you can file your report now? Because I have repairs I need to do. I never had to pay for repairs before, Billy Joe was so handy with everything.”
“We’re almost done, I’ll let you know.”
Lucy walked out first. In the car she couldn’t even speak.
Jerry drove away and called his office to ask for current information on Carl Franklin and Ricky Johns, then called his boss to talk about how they might be able to get a search warrant. She said they’d talk in the morning because right now an affair wasn’t going to do it. He hung up.
“Unbelievable,” he said.
Lucy didn’t know if he was referring to Susan or Lucy playing hardball. “I saw that she was looking to you for validation, so I decided to be tough.”
“I know. Good call.”
She relaxed.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes, why?”
“Because you had a look on your face I couldn’t quite read. And you were shaking.”
“Was not.” Was she?
“Well, I’m a keen observer of human nature, and you appear to be as well, but maybe we don’t always see in ourselves what we see in others.”
“She made me angry.”
“Me too. Carl Franklin is her husband’s best friend. I interviewed him after the murder. He was genuinely grieving. I don’t think he could have faked that kind of grief. But he could have killed him and the grief was guilt. If that’s the case, it won’t take much to push him over into a confession.”
“Then why James and Garcia?”
“Why indeed. But we need to pursue this angle. She lied to me. Maybe not outright lied when I first talked to her, but an affair is a pretty clear motive for murder, and she didn’t even hint to it.”
“No amount of money could replace Sean,” she said.
“Your husband.”
“Yes. I’m sure he has a life insurance policy because—well, his line of work. His company would have it on everyone. But I’ve never asked, and I don’t care. My life would never be the same without him.”
“You don’t seem the cheating type.”
“I didn’t know there was a cheating type.” She’d met far too many people who thought extramarital affairs weren’t a big deal.
“Maybe there isn’t, but it seems your empathy for poor Billy Joe was real enough.”
“It was.” She glanced at him. “You and your wife have a good relationship?”
“Yes. I’ve never cheated. I almost did once. The first time she was deployed. Got myself into a prickly situation with a fellow officer. As it came clear to me that our mutual flirtation meant something more to her, I realized what I was doing. I transferred. It was inappropriate and I love my wife. I told her about it. My guilt was so strong, even though I never acted on it. It was a momentary weakness that I caught in time. I know some men, married and single, who play around with the badge bunnies—oh, I’m sorry, that’s probably not very sensitive of me.”
“I’m a big girl.”
“Well, I just ignore it. I go home to Jeanie every night, and very much happy to do so. I would never hurt her. And I can’t see how Billy Joe didn’t know what his wife was up to.”
“Maybe he did,” Lucy said. “Maybe he’d figured it out and confronted one of the men who was intimate with his wife. And it ended badly for him.”
“If he was the only victim, I’d be right there with you on that scenario. But it doesn’t fit.”
“It doesn’t,” she agreed. “But we’re going to have to follow through. Follow the evidence, right?” she said, repeating his words.
He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
By the time they got back to BCSO it was after six, so Lucy gathered her notes and went home. They would talk to Susan’s lovers in the morning.
“Home early,” Sean said when she walked into the kitchen.
“It’s nearly seven.” She kissed him. “Something smells amazing. I hoped you saved some for me.”
“We haven’t eaten. I just made stew.”
“Stew? Really?” He would never cease to amaze her.
“It was easier than I thought. You throw everything into the pot and it cooks.”
“I think it’s more complicated than that. Let me take a quick shower and change.” She ran upstairs. The meaty stew had her stomach growling, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in hours.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. It was Brad Donnelly.
“Hey, Brad.”
“Sorry, I meant to get back to you yesterday, but got swamped. I really hate being in charge.”
“You’re good at it.”
“I’m better in the field. There’s so much damn paperwork I want to scream. This was supposed to be temporary. It’s been over a year. Anyway, I didn’t call to complain. Nineteen seventy-six Chevy Chevelle, registered to Lee Sanchez, on East Santiago. I’ll send you his stats and address. Lee is a cousin of Jaime Sanchez, more or less keeps his nose clean. Did a stint for possession with intent more than ten years ago. Was out working on an oil rig last year when Jaime was killed.”
“How old is he?”
“Forty-two.”
“The two kids I saw in the car were early twenties, tops. Maybe late teens.”
“I don’t remember if he has kids. Do you want me to look into it?”
“No, it’s probably nothing.”
“What did I say? Trust your gut. How’s this—see the car again, call me and I’ll dig around.”
“Fair. Thanks.”
“How’s Sean these days? I had drinks with Nate a couple weeks ago, he told me what went down, that Sean got custody over Jesse’s rich grandfather.”
“They’re adjusting. Sean’s a good dad—I wish he’d see it in himself.”
“And he has you. Win–win. Let me know if you need anything, and don’t be a stranger.”
“You’re the one who was a no-show for our Fourth of July party.”
“Work. Being in charge you’d think nine-to-five, right?”
She laughed. “You would never be happy working nine-to-five.”
“True. Next party, call me.”
Lucy cleaned up and went downstairs. Jesse was texting on his phone at the table in the breakfast nook. “Do I need to put your phone in jail?” Lucy said.
“What? Oh, no, sorry. Didn’t know dinner was ready.”
He put his phone in his pocket. Lucy couldn’t very well ban phones from the dinner table—in an emergency she had to be reachable—but she and Sean had agreed that with Jesse here, they had to set the example, so phones could only be answered if they were in the middle of a case.
Still, she popped hers in the charger and put the ringer on so she’d hear it.
Sean put the tureen down and Lucy’s stomach growled. Jesse laughed. “I totally heard that.”
“I smell good food and I can’t help myself,” she said.
They had a nice dinner and Jesse seemed more relaxed and open than he had over the last few days. He talked about soccer and school. He got an A on his first essay for English, and a B+ on his second algebra test. He had a big project in history coming up, but he’d already started working on it.
Maybe her conversation with him helped, she didn’t know. But the more normal and predictable their life, the better for Jesse, so she hoped to be home for dinner more often.
After dinner, Jesse and Sean went to play video games, which was a good bonding activity for them. Maybe because Sean was so young—he’d be thirty-two next week—he still loved playing. Maybe it was something he’d never grow out of. He and Nate often played at night over the Internet, two grown men wearing headsets and chatting about everything from the game to cases they were working.
Lucy went into Sean’s office because he had the best computer in the house. She had already sent Dillon a message that she wanted to Skype tonight. It was eight thirty her time, so nine thirty in Washington, DC.
Dillon answered almost immediately. “Hello, baby sister,” Dillon teased. “It’s always good to see you when we talk.”
Lucy leaned back in Sean’s desk chair. Not only did he have the best computer system, he had the most comfortable chair. “How are you?”
“Good. Relaxing. Kate is in New York on a panel interviewing FBI candidates for the next two weeks. She’s not relaxing. I don’t think she likes big cities.”
“DC isn’t exactly suburbia.”
“But Georgetown has a quiet sensibility. Close to the city, but with a neighborhood feel. However, I’m going to fly up there for the weekend. Take Kate to a show, do fun things.”
“Are you going to see Max when you’re there? Tell her I said hi.”
“Actually, I was planning on doing just that. I wanted to see how she was adjusting with all the changes in her life.”
At the beginning of the year, Maxine Revere, a reporter who also had a cable crime show, had uncovered new evidence into the murder of Lucy’s nephew Justin. Together Max and Lucy had solved the case and the murders of four other young boys spanning twenty years. Lucy hadn’t liked Max at first, but by the time they were done she’d grown to respect her. She was unlike anyone else Lucy knew, and while Lucy wasn’t certain she 100 percent trusted the reporter, she admired her tenacity. Dillon, on the other hand, had developed a friendship with Max and had helped her uncover answers about what happened to her mother more than a decade ago.
Dillon continued. “When you sent me a message that you wanted to call, I assumed it’s for work—calling just to say hello to your brother doesn’t need an appointment.”
“I know, I should call more.”
“Alas, Jack has usurped me as your favorite.”
“Not true,” she said. “I have no favorites.”
“That’s what you say, but actions, sis.”
“You trying to make me feel guilty?”
Dillon grinned. “It’s so easy. Now tell me about your case.”
“Possible serial killer.”
“Possible? Two or more murders with a cooling-off period?”
“Technically, yes, a serial killer.”
“Why don’t you give me the scenario?”
“First, I’m working with the sheriff’s office. My partner scoffs at behavioral science. There’s a deep disdain there that I can’t figure out yet. I’m working on it.”
“I’ve faced it many times since I became a forensic psychiatrist. There’s nothing you can do except do a good job and hopefully people will come around. He’s likely a cop who believes in evidence, experience, and procedure.”
“Yes, but he also trusts his instincts—and they’re good. So I’m hoping he’ll come around and allow us to formally consult the BSU. But I wanted to pick your brain, unofficially.”
“Pick away.”
She explained the three murder victims, the time line, what was done to them. “There are some differences in the process. For example, the first victim was beaten more extensively than the second and third. The second victim was stunned after he was dead. And the third victim was killed with the first blow to the back of his head, yet the killer went through the ritual of the beating and shooting. The ME confirmed that the first blow killed him instantly and everything done to the body after was postmortem.”
“And the marks match up?”
“Yes—same type of hammer—probably a mallet, steel head. Same gun. Ballistics came back on all three bullets as being fired from the same weapon. The forensic analysis says that the first victim went down fighting, but no one in his circle had any visible injuries after the attack. The second victim was the only one who didn’t have a blow to the back.”
“Suggesting he either knew or wasn’t scared of his killer.”
“But the other two men—they turned their back on their killer. We think, based on evidence found on the first victim, that he may have been helping with someone’s car.”
“A trap?”
“That’s what we think. So he may or may not have known the person, but felt secure enough to turn his back on him and look under the hood or squat by a tire. Based on the angle of the first two blows, we believe the first victim was bent over a hood and the third was squatting.”
Lucy took a sip of water and continued. “What really gets me is the gunshot to the face. The killer stands with one foot on either side of the victim. We believe the first two victims were incapacitated from the attack, and the third was dead—and he or she shoots the victim in the face. Almost straight down. That tells me he was looking in the victim’s eyes, as if he wanted the victim to know that he was killing him. That it was personal. A vendetta or vengeance or … I don’t know. It’s just so cold. When our crime scene investigator ran through a simulation, the first thing that came to mind was that it was a stage—like a setup for a play. When you watch all three men killed, it was as if each of the blows was planned, whether necessary or not.”
Dillon didn’t say anything for a long minute, but Lucy could see him thinking and reviewing notes he’d taken while she talked. He finally asked, “Was the third victim more or less beaten than the first two?”
“About the same as the second, which was less than the first. Except the second had cracked ribs—I don’t know if that means that he was hit harder, or if it was because of where the mallet landed on his body.”
“And these men are upstanding citizens? No criminal record? No sexual assault accusations?”
“Nothing in the system. Which isn’t to say that they are all innocent. The first victim had been in bar fights, misdemeanors, he’s rougher around the edges but no jail time and people generally liked him. He was known to be a good employee with a strong work ethic. The second victim an upstanding accountant, reserved, respected. We know that even respected people can have dark secrets. But the third victim? I don’t know him as well as the first two because we just started looking at his life, but everything we’ve learned so far is that he’s a hardworking family man. His wife is eight months’ pregnant and his mother moved in when she broke her ankle. Not one person has said he has done anything improper, and he has a clean record. He seems to be exactly as he appears: a devout family man who works hard to provide for his pregnant wife and mother.”
“And he was killed instantly? That would take a lot of force.”
“Julie, our assistant ME, explained that it wouldn’t—the angle that he was hit and where he was hit at the base of the skull sent his occipital lobe into his brain stem. I might not be explaining it accurately.”
“I know what you mean. It’s very difficult to accomplish on purpose, though someone with skill and training could do it.”
“Like in the military?”
“Perhaps. But it has been known to happen on accident. There was a bar fight once where the bartender laid out a drunk patron with a baseball bat—the man had been beating up another guy. The bartender didn’t mean to kill him, he was just trying to stop the attack. He didn’t even hit him that hard, but it was the right angle.”
“We think it was an accident. Based on the first crime scene, attack from behind, get them on the ground, smash their hands—which would prevent fighting back—shoot them in the face.”
“You mentioned something about duct tape?”
“Yes. The killer duct-taped the victims’ mouths at some point, then pulled the tape off and took it with him.”
“To keep them from calling for help?”
“Possibly. But the last victim was already dead. He wasn’t making any noise, yet the killer used duct tape on him as well.”
“I agree—that is very odd.”
“It’s not a sexual crime, even though the groin area was hit. I mean, it could be sexual and the killer is attacking other parts of the body to hide it, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. The hands … that’s unusual. But what is really bothering me is shooting the victim in the face. Looking him in the eye and killing him. Obliterating his identity.”
“Like you said, it’s cold.” Dillon paused, then continued. “Cold, calculating, premeditated. The killer does not have any remorse, does not care about the victims. The killer wants their face to be the last thing the victim sees. Or it’s a way of dehumanizing the victim. ‘You’re nothing, you’re no one.’”
“We haven’t figured out how the men are connected. If they’re not connected, then they should connect to the killer.”
“Or one connects to the killer—but he is killing men who remind him of his primary target. In fact, none of them may be connected at all, and he’s killing men as a surrogate for his true target.”
“The killer stalked them. Knew when they would be alone.”
“So they somehow showed up on the killer’s radar.”
“Exactly. They don’t know each other, don’t go to the same church, stores, their kids don’t go to the same schools, they don’t have the same doctors or live in the same neighborhoods. But there must be a place where the killer picked up their scent.”
“You don’t need me on this, Lucy. I think you’re absolutely right.”
“Maybe it’s just I miss you, big brother.”
“I miss you, too.”
“But seriously—I’m not trained as a behavioral scientist. You are. I’d like you to talk to my partner. I just have to convince him that we can benefit from psychological insight.”
“Your insight is as good as mine.”
“Don’t humor me. You’ve been doing this a lot longer, and you have that M.D. after your name.”
“Just means I went to school longer.”
She rolled her eyes and laughed. Dillon was always humble.
“Seriously, if anyone can convince my partner, it’s you.”
“I’ll talk to you off the record anytime you want, Lucy, but if you need an official profile, you’re going to have to go through channels.”
“I will. Thanks, Dillon.”
“Now—no more murder. Talk to me about you, Sean, and Jesse.”
Lucy leaned back and they chatted about family before Dillon ended the call to talk to Kate.
“Give her my best.”
“Always.” Dillon smiled.
Lucy leaned back and immediately her mind returned to the crime scenes.
Cold.
Calculating.
Planned.
You don’t matter.
That’s what the killer thought. The victims don’t matter. They’re not important. They’re nobody.
They’re not important. The murders are not important. Then why? Is this really a thrill killer? Someone who kills just because it’s fun? Then why the theatrics? Why the beating? The duct tape? The Taser burns? None of that led to death.
It was an act, Lucy thought. The idea grew on her.
The murders were an act, the crime scene the stage, the killer the writer, the actor, the director.
If it’s an act, who is the show for?