Dead River (26 page)

When Goldman was a rookie agent, he was rough, tough, and eager, but smart. He was destined for unparalleled success, but his first big case didn’t work out how he expected. An arrest was never made. The failure was a huge disappointment for the rookie, and it still haunted him. It was the Orange Coast Killer, the man who was never caught.

In the late seventies, America experienced a rash of homicidal violence. It was almost as if there was a brotherhood of serial killers, competing across the country, from California to Texas to New York, and down to Florida. The Hillside Strangler, the Sunset Slayer, the Skid Row Slasher, the Freeway Killer, and others, practicing their trade, slaughtering innocent men, women, and children. But there was one that Goldman would never forget, the Orange Coast Killer, who had started his killing spree on August 2, 1977 in Corona Del Mar, California. His victim was a twenty-nine-year-old woman, raped and beat to death with a blunt instrument. He left no clues for the police. He waited eighteen months before killing again, on April Fools’ Day, 1979. Another woman was found raped and murdered in her Costa Mesa home. In the course of eight months following the Costa Mesa murder, five more women were slaughtered by the Orange Coast Killer. And then suddenly, for whatever reason, he stopped. It wasn’t a holiday for him. This time he quit for good.

Retired.

To this day, the killer was still at large.

This was the case that drove Goldman’s success. He became obsessed with all subsequent cases. He vowed the bad guy would never elude him again.

The Brevard County forensics team showed up at the McCarthy home around noon and worked until five. Todd Zeller, a five-year veteran, was the deputy in charge of the scene. The team combed every square inch of the house, concentrating on the guest bedroom where Sikes had stayed. The bed was stripped and the mattress and box springs lifted, then vacuumed. The dresser was pulled away from the wall, and a small, powerful, hand vac was used on the lime-green shag carpet underneath. A larger vacuum with a fresh bag was used on the rest of the carpet in the bedroom. When the bedroom was completed, a new bag was inserted and the living room was next, then the family room, until the entire house was vacuumed. Each room, one vacuum bag, each bag labeled.

One of the forensic team members dusted for prints. They weren’t interested in David Sikes’s fingerprints, only those of Sara Ann Riley. Dried blood, dried semen, dried saliva, dried urine, hair, clothes fibers, fingerprints, skin. If something was there, they would find it.

Late Wednesday evening Goldman’s hotel-room phone rang. He reached for the TV remote and muted Jenna Whitlock, the four-eyed, emaciated brunette on CNN.

“Goldman.”

“This is Detective Wilkerson.”

“What do you have?”

“The sheriff’s department called. They found some evidence that needs to be analyzed. I wanted to call you before we proceed any further.”

“What’d they find?”

“Some blond hair from the carpet in the bedroom where the vacuum cleaner couldn’t reach.”

“Hmm. Anything else?”

“They found some pornography under the mattress of the bed. Mrs. McCarthy assured them it didn’t belong to her husband. There were fresh sheets on the bed. So they removed them and the mattress cover and found a few stains on the mattress. Said it looked like blood, but they weren’t sure.”

“They take samples?”

“Yes.”

“I’m interested in the hair samples right now.”

“What do you want to do?”

“First get some of the Riley girl’s hair.”

“From where?”

“I asked the ME, Albright, to remove some when he performed the autopsy.”

“There’s no one at the morgue at this hour.”

“There will be. And I want the hair samples analyzed tonight.

“Tonight? You serious?”

“Damn right, I’m serious. The Florida Department of Law Enforcement has a regional lab here in Orlando.”

“I know. We’ve used it a couple of times.”

Goldman palmed his thinning hair back tight on his skull. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll call Albright at home and have him meet you at the hospital.”

“He’s going to be pissed.”

“Let me worry about that. You type up the chain of custody paperwork then pick up the hair samples. After that, swing by the hospital and get the Riley girl’s hair from the good doctor.”

“What time?”

“I’ll let you know after I talk to Albright. I should also be able to give you a time to meet me at the FDLE lab.”

“Think you can get someone there at this hour?”

“Leave that to me.”

“There’s something else,” Wilkerson said quickly.

“What’s that?”

“I ran a background on David Allen Sikes.”

“And?”

“He’s from Mississippi. Magee, Mississippi. Remember I told you a few days ago they found a dead girl there in ’89—”

“And she had CXJ carved on her forehead,” Goldman blurted out.

“That’s the one. Sikes would have been nineteen back then.”

“Nineteen … You know, that girl may have been Sikes’s first victim.”

 57

IT WAS EIGHT-THIRTY when Goldman got off the phone with Wilkerson. He opened his briefcase and rifled through a stack of business cards until he found Albright’s: Harold Albright, M.D., Medical Examiner, Brevard County. On the back was the good doctor’s home phone number. Goldman learned many years ago the importance of getting home phone numbers.

Albright went on a tirade. He didn’t appreciate the late night phone call, even from the FBI. After a few minutes of cajoling, Goldman managed to calm him down, at least long enough for Albright to explain that the autopsy report had been submitted to the local authorities and the FDLE. But because there were no suspects for the murder of Sara Ann Riley, he had only submitted a report.

Perfect.

“Yes, all the physical evidence is still at the morgue,” Albright explained, in a rasping, irritated tone.

“Good. I need the hair samples tonight.”

“What?” Albright shouted. Here it goes again. “Goddamn it, it’s late. Shit, it’s almost nine. I’m trying to watch a movie with my wife.”

Goldman would do what ever it took to get the hair samples, and uncharacteristically, that included kissing Albright’s ass. “I understand, and again I apologize for the late night call. Please offer my apologies to Mrs. Albright.”

“I’m not telling her anything. She’s still watching the goddamn movie.”

“Look, why don’t you finish the movie and then meet Detective Wilkerson at the hospital when it’s over? How’s that sound?”

“What the hell are you talking about? I’ve already missed the best part. Son-of-a-bitch.”

Goldman was silent.

“You there?” Albright asked.

“Yes.”

“Goddamn it, Goldman, this really pisses me off. I’ll meet him inside the lobby around ten.”

“Thanks.”

“The bullshit I have to put up with. Everybody wants something immediately—”

The phone went dead.

 58

WITH THE HELP of Detective Averly, Agent Goldman arranged for an FDLE forensics tech to meet him, and Detective Wilkerson, at the regional laboratory on Cushman Avenue at eleven forty-five.

Goldman easily merged his car into the sparse traffic heading north on I-4. The scanty number of cars on the road was a relief from the midday struggle through gnarled traffic and hopeless attempts to catch his exit. The pavement had a yellowish hue from the sodium-vapor lamps mounted atop neatly-spaced tapered-aluminum poles planted alongside the road. There was a slight haze hovering over Orlando, adding to the eerie sullenness of the tawny road. Goldman cruised toward the forensics lab.

He pulled off Cushman Avenue into the parking lot of the Wellington Building, where the FDLE had four laboratories and several offices that occupied the entire third floor. Goldman shut off the engine and walked toward the building. The late-night air was still and moist. There was a shadowed figure standing outside the entrance. As he walked closer, he finally saw it was Wilkerson, toothpick proudly hanging out of the corner of his mouth and a large envelope tucked under his arm.

“We’re ready,” Wilkerson said, holding up the envelope. “I got the samples. Where’s Averly? Wasn’t he supposed to come?”

“He’s staying home. I told him you and I would handle this.”

Wilkerson shrugged his shoulders and flicked his toothpick into the boxwoods lining the sidewalk.

Wilkerson rang the doorbell, and after several minutes a guard showed up and checked their IDs.

“Sam Weber’s in the lab waiting for you,” the guard mumbled. “Follow me.”

The guard led the two down a brightly-lit hall with shiny white walls. The glossy paint and white tiled floor gave the long corridor an eerie perspective, like something out of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining. They marched behind the guard as he turned left and then suddenly stopped. He took a magnetic card from his shirt pocket and swiped it through a reader, and the door latch snapped open.

Inside the large, dimly-lit laboratory was a single man sitting at a small wooden desk. A bright desk lamp illuminated something he was reading. He quickly tossed whatever it was into one of the desk drawers then turned his swivel chair toward the men and popped up from its seat.

“I’m Sam Weber.” He suppressed a faint burp with the back of his hand.

“I’m FBI Agent Doug Goldman and this is Detective Glenn Wilkerson with the Cocoa Beach Police.”

“How’s it goin’? I’ll be doin’ the analysis on the hair samples,” Weber said. He reached for a can of Dr. Pepper on the desk and sipped from it.

Weber was tall, actually lanky, maybe six feet. His most remarkable feature was his shoulders. He basically had none. They sloped downward like slides on a playground. Goldman also noticed the man’s fingers when he shook his hand. They were alien-like, protruding from his hands like dangling jellyfish tentacles.

Goldman motioned for Wilkerson to hand him the large brown envelope. He ran his finger down the seal and pulled out one of the plastic evidence bags.

“These are the hair samples taken from the victim,” he told Weber.

Goldman reached into the envelope again and took out another plastic bag, this one slightly larger than the first. “And here’s a hair sample found by forensics,” he said. “We need to know if they match.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Thanks for doing this so late at night,” Wilkerson told Weber.

“Yeah, whatever. Doesn’t matter to me.” Again he muffled a faint burp with the back of his hand.

“How long will the analysis take?” Goldman asked.

“Ah, geez, probably three hours, give or take.”

“When you’ve completed your analysis, just give me a call at my hotel. Okay?”

“What’s the number?”

“I’ll give you the hotel number and my cell phone number.”

Weber shrugged with what there was of whatever you’d call shoulders. “Sure.”

Goldman retrieved the small notepad from his sport coat pocket and jotted down the numbers.