A Killer Like Me (35 page)

The Washington, D.C., sniper, the Green River killer, the Baton Rouge serial killer, the post-9/11 anthrax attacks—those cases had all involved badly flawed profiles that misdirected the investigators, sometimes for years.

Donce dropped the hand with the envelope. “Our profiles nearly always turn out to be accurate.”

“That’s because you keep updating them even after the killer is caught. It’s nothing but Monday-morning quarterbacking.”

“That’s not what we do.”

Murphy pointed to the envelope. “Tell me about your profile.”

Donce held it out to Murphy. “You can have a copy if you want.”

“I don’t want to read it. Just give me the
Reader’s Digest
version. Better yet, I’ll give it to you. He’s a white male, twenty-five to forty, but probably on the higher end. He’s a loner. He’s clever but has little formal education. If he’s employed he’s probably got a fairly mundane job. He’s awkward around women. And he’s got issues with his mother. That about cover it?”

“That’s very much an oversimplification of what this report—”

“Tell me about his mommy issues. Those are always good.”

Donce looked disgusted, as if Murphy had just shit on his favorite shoes. “What you call mommy issues are really a complex set of problems that describe the most long-term, dominant relationship the killer has ever had. He was likely raised by his mother. His father either died or abandoned him at an early age. Therefore, his mother became the most powerful force in his life.”

Murphy felt his face go slack. For an instant, he saw his father lying on the kitchen floor, dead from a heart attack. Then his mother’s face, a cigarette dangling from her lips. He smelled her vodka-soaked breath.

“His mother is domineering and demanding,” the FBI agent said, “and those attributes have led to an almost constantly elevated level of tension between them. He blames her for holding him back, and she blames him for not living up to her expectations. At the same time, she is angry at him for always trying to leave her. If he’s dated, she hasn’t approved of any of the women in his life.”

Memories and images flooded Murphy’s consciousness. Notre Dame, his one season of football and a future that didn’t happen. Mother’s constant nagging. Her criticism of every girlfriend he ever had. His failed career with the police department. Marcy Edwards on the floor of her bathroom, his arm locked around her throat, choking her to death. The last line in the letter:
You are a killer like me.

“Detective Murphy, are you all right?” Donce asked.

Murphy took a deep breath. “I’ve got to get some air.”

He rushed down the hall to the fire exit. Outside, he had to lean against a Dumpster to keep from falling over.

Monday, August 6, 3:00
PM

The killer stares through the sliding glass door at the rain pounding the street. On the television behind him, the chief meteorologist at Channel 4 is talking about the coming storm.

Mother left this morning. He saw her hauling her suitcases out and piling them into the trunk of her cream-colored Buick LeSabre. The car is ten years old and in mint condition. She’s never let him drive it, not even when his Honda was in the shop and he needed to get to work. “Take the bus,” she said. “That’s what your father used to do.”

She left without saying good-bye. Just slammed the trunk and took off, headed to a hotel in Baton Rouge to ride out the storm.

According to the WWL weatherman, Hurricane Catherine’s forward movement has slowed slightly, but she is still on track for a direct hit on New Orleans. The outer bands are now expected to start raking the city sometime this evening. Hurricane-force winds will arrive before midnight.

Maybe Mother will make it to Baton Rouge before the storm. Too bad. With nearly forty thousand people killed each year in automobile accidents, why couldn’t she be one of them? According to the newscast, the traffic corridors leading out of town, I-10 west to Baton Rouge and I-55 north to Hammond, are parking lots. Unfortunately, there is not much chance of a fatal car accident when traffic is barely moving.

The killer is waiting for nightfall. He feels safe in the dark. But he can’t wait much longer. There are things he must do before the storm arrives. God has wrought the storm not to hurt him but to help him. What Katrina started, Catherine will finish. This godless city will be purged.

His apartment sits at ground level. Mother’s house is set on piers. Her bottom floor is three feet above ground. The second floor, really only a half story, is four feet above that. Across the street is Saint Anthony of Padua Catholic Church, a century-old three-story block of stone.

During Katrina, the killer’s Mid-City neighborhood got nearly six feet of water. If the levees and flood walls crumble and the water starts to rise again, he will cross the street and take refuge at Saint Anthony’s. The pastor knows Mother well. She goes to Mass at least four times a week. If no one is there, he knows how to get inside.

A car slows as it passes his house. The killer steps back, away from the sliding glass door. The street is one-way, left to right from the killer’s perspective. The car stops in front of the house next door. The killer yanks the drape across the glass, leaving only a slit to peek through.

The car is a dark sedan, several years old and beat-up. A Chevrolet, he thinks. It backs up. Two men are in the front seat. They are looking at his house. The passenger glances down at the end of the narrow driveway, empty now since Mother left. The number
127
is painted on the curb. That’s the address for Mother’s house.

The killer’s apartment, crammed underneath the second story of her bungalow, has its own address, 129 South Saint Patrick. That number is affixed to the outside wall, to the right of the glass door and above the black metal mailbox.

The men in the car are police officers. He is sure of that. A surge of panic wells up in his chest. Why are they here? His work has been flawless. He has left no clues that could have led them here. Still, they are here.

The car stops at the end of the driveway. The passenger looks down at some papers in his hand. Then both front doors open and the men step out. Both are young and fit, probably in their late twenties. They are wearing jeans and dark blue nylon jackets with the star and crescent seal of the New Orleans Police Department on the front. They stare at Mother’s front door. Neither seems bothered by the steady rain. The passenger nods to the empty driveway. The killer hears him say, “Doesn’t look like anybody’s home.”

The driver says, “Let’s check it anyway.”

The killer backs away from the door.

Outside, the men cross the driveway. Neither has pulled a gun. This can’t be a raid, the killer thinks. They are here to talk to Mother about something. A traffic ticket, perhaps? It can’t be that simple. Mother never drives anywhere except to the grocery store, and that’s less than a mile down Canal Street.

These fit young men do not look like traffic cops. They are not here for Mother. The killer can feel that in his bones. They are here for him.

But why just two of them? No dark vans with blacked-out windows? No SWAT team? Just two detectives, junior detectives by the look of them. The killer reaches behind him and turns off the TV.

The men knock on Mother’s door. The knocking is signature police, sharp and demanding. When no one answers, they knock again. Then he hears them talking on the covered porch. He can’t quite make out their words. A moment later, he hears their boots descending Mother’s steps. They approach his door.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three sharp, demanding knocks on the glass.

The killer remains frozen. The detectives have no reason to suspect anyone is home, not with the storm coming and the driveway empty. Mother makes him park on the street. The driveway is for her Buick. Last night, the street was full, so he turned right at the next block, on Cleveland Avenue, and parked a few spaces from the corner.

“This is one twenty-nine,” one voice says. “The registration lists one twenty-seven.”

“It’s a double,” the second voice answers. “Probably the same owner.”

The knocks come again:
Bang! Bang! Bang!
They sound like gunshots. The killer cringes in the dark. Outside his door there is no overhang. He knows the detectives are getting wet. After a moment, one of them says, “Fuck it. No one’s home.”

He hears them walk away. The car doors slam shut. The motor cranks. The killer creeps back to the glass and peeks out just in time to see the sedan’s taillights disappear past the four-foot red brick wall that separates Mother’s small yard from the neighbor’s property.

Will they be back?

The killer’s eyes sweep his apartment. There are many things here that link him to the deaths of the sodomites and the harlots. His typewriter, his bag of cable ties, his bottle of ether. Several rolls of duct tape. And in the bottom of the linen closet, his collection of souvenirs. It is foolish to keep anything. He knows that. But he can’t help himself. Sometimes in between the killings, during the long, dark nights, he will get up, turn on the bathroom light, and look at his keepsakes. They are reminders of his work.

No one will find them. God is protecting him.

But God only helps those who help themselves.

He has to deal with Kiesha Guidry, that skinny little biting black bitch. With the storm coming, he has to do something with her right now. She will not live much longer in that box, especially if the hurricane knocks the house down around her.

If he wants to make a statement, he must hurry.

When Murphy ducked into the Homicide office at five o’clock, it was raining buckets outside. As he stripped off his raincoat, he was trying to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to find the mayor’s daughter or the serial killer before the storm hit. That meant Kiesha Guidry was going to be dead when they found her, if she wasn’t dead already.

Today had been his last chance, and he had failed. He was out of leads and out of ideas.

For the last several hours, Murphy had followed up on the divorce files from the clerk of court. With Marcy Edwards dead, there were only two women left on his list who bore any resemblance to the killer’s most recent victims.

According to the divorce petitions, one woman lived in a house in Gentilly; the other one lived in an apartment uptown. Murphy had cruised both addresses, looking for anyone who stood out, anyone who might be watching. Then he knocked on both doors. Not surprisingly, with a storm about to flatten the city, no one was home.

But the addresses listed in the divorce files did not match those on the women’s driver’s licenses. That gave Murphy two more places to look. Again, though, he came up empty. There were no suspicious characters lurking around either address, nor had anyone answered his knock.

Everyone who could get out of town had already left.

He had four more divorce files in his briefcase and driver’s-license photos to go with three of them. But none of those women looked anything like Carol Sue Spencer or Sandra Jackson. He had no photo for the fourth woman. Her file listed an address in New Orleans East. Murphy went there first. For all he knew, she might look exactly like the other victims. But the house was abandoned, with smashed windows and a broken back door.

Four of the five addresses he had for the remaining three women—from court records and driver’s licenses—looked lived-in, but no one answered when he knocked. The fifth address was a vacant apartment. State law required drivers to update their licenses within ten days of moving to a new address, but no one obeyed that. Murphy still had not changed the address on his license after he moved out of Kirsten’s house more than a year ago.

He was almost relieved no one had been home. Knocking on those doors had felt foolish. What was he going to say if one of the women answered?

Hello, I’m a policeman and I’m here to warn you that you may be the next victim of the serial killer. The reason I think that is because you share certain characteristics with a woman I strangled two nights ago.

Maybe something less dramatic.

Murphy realized that his odds of stumbling across the killer while both of them were staking out the same woman’s house were astronomical, but he also realized that those six names were the only leads he had.

Timing is everything.

That worn-out cliché kept spinning through Murphy’s head. Just because he had not found the killer didn’t mean the killer wasn’t stalking one of the women whose files Murphy was carrying inside his briefcase. All he knew for sure was that they had not been stalking the same woman at the same time.

In a perfect world, Murphy would put a pair of detectives on each occupied address and hope the killer showed up at one of them. In the real world, he couldn’t do that. He had to find the killer on his own and make sure the man never saw the inside of an interrogation room.

Back in the Homicide office, Murphy stacked the six divorce files in the center of his desk. He opened the top file and started reading. He planned to go through each one, reading every document line by line. There had to be something he had missed.

Murphy was just opening the second file when the steel back door to the Homicide office banged open. He couldn’t see the outer door from his desk, but he heard the clang through the open squad-room door. He also heard the sound of boots rushing through the outer office. Seconds later, Doggs and Calumet burst into the squad room.

“We got him!” Joey Dagalotto said. He was carrying a folded computer printout in his hand. “We got the son of a bitch.”

Murphy felt his heart dive into his stomach. With conscious effort, he plastered a smile across his face. “Tell me.”

Calumet was carrying a brown accordion file folder. “We don’t actually have him. Not yet, but we think we know where he lives.”

After taking a deep breath, Murphy said, “Where?”

“In Mid-City,” Doggs said. “On South Saint Patrick Street.”

Murphy knew exactly where South Saint Patrick was. A few years ago his mother had gotten mad at her priest, and for months she had insisted that Murphy take her to Sunday Mass at Saint Anthony’s at Canal Street and South Saint Patrick. It was less than a mile from the Homicide office.