Dreamscape (14 page)

Jackson reached down for his briefcase. “We were looking for this confirmation. It was necessary to be able to release a sketch we believe to be the suspect.”

* * * *

From behind the desk, the young man shook his head. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone looking like that, but I only started working here a couple of months ago. I can tell you the hotel’s policy for families that have patients in the hospital. We offer a special discount to family members of hospital patients with a van service if needed for any reason.”

Jackson pulled out a couple more copies of the sketch. “Keep the copies and my number. If anyone recognizes him, give me a call.”

Jackson turned away from the desk and took a deep breath. Someone had to have seen this guy. One of the doormen walked by, greeting the guests with a knowing smile, accommodating. An elderly black man, small, with gray-speckled hair, he made eye contact with Jackson. A people person, then. Probably made great tips and knew most of what happened within the walls of this hotel.

Jackson walked up to him. “You got a second?” He showed him his badge.

The doorman flashed Jackson a brilliant smile and winked. “Yeah, I sur’ do, young man. Malcolm just told me that you had a picture of someone you thought might have stayed here. The name’s Tyrone. Tyrone Clark. I’ll take a look, and if he’d stayed here I’d know,” he answered confidently.

Jackson held the sketch out. The doorman wiped his mouth and thought for a second. “Yeah, could be. Whil’ back, you know. Don’t think I seen hi’ for a long time. That is if it’s the same guy.”

“Can you remember when he was here? And his name or anything about the guy?” Jackson asked, wary, careful not to reveal any information to help the doorman. He didn’t want him guessing just to make a buck.

“If my memory serves me right, maybe ov’r a year.” The man scratched his head. “Weird guy. Think he may have been some sort of salesman ov’r at Tampa General. He had a room here, but I can’t remember which one. I don’t think he stayed in his room much. My guess he had some lady around.”

“Why do you remember him so well?” Jackson asked.

“Lik’ I say before, weird fellow. Them eyes. They catch you. Up to no good, I know. I asked no questions. He nev’r let me touch his luggage or nothin’. Matter of fact, tip me only once. Got so upset that I tried to touch any of his stuff. Heavy, heavy. Asked him what he had in it. That’s when he gave me that look. The look like he could have killed me for askin’, but decided instead to tip me. Fifty dollars! Strange, you know, but I didn’t see the harm in it.”

“Can you tell me anything else about his appearance? Was he tall? Did he walk funny?”

The doorman laughed. “He ain’t tall by no means. Tell he had a chip on his shoulder and an attitude that he was better than anyone. Don’t care myself what they think as long as they tip, you know, but it did rankle my shorts, if you know what I mean. Short, but built. Think he must have spent a lot of time in the weight room, but he was definitely short. Shorter than me.”

Jackson momentarily studied the old man’s height. He was no more than 5’9’’, which put the killer around 5’7’’, 5’8’’. Not much else came from the conversation. Couldn’t get a name, but now Jackson had a connection to the hospital and hotel. Finally, Jackson had a solid lead.

They spent rest of the day interviewing hotel employees and re-interviewing hospital employees. One of the clerks thought he recognized the face but didn’t remember the name. Said if it was the same guy, he’d been at the hotel a few times a while back. Thought if he remembered correctly he looked like a salesman, probably a medical rep since he stayed at the hotel. Now came the task of scouring the records of guests at the time of Rosemary’s murder.

The Strokes had stayed in room 268, just as Ramona had seen, but Jackson doubted any forensic evidence would be found, given the fact she had been strangled. They’d distributed the sketch throughout the hotel and hospital. A few more people thought the sketch looked familiar. The problem lay with the time of the year.

Jackson had to find some patience, had to wait to reconstruct Rosemary’s last night. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

Chapter Ten

Christmas Eve. Jackson would have preferred to skip the whole of the holidays. This year, the holiday had become more of an annoyance. Couldn’t get anything done he wanted to, and worse, he had to wait. His mother didn’t contain her disappointment from her tone when he’d phoned this morning. He’d assured her he’d spend Christmas with Sam. Her motherly instinct worried about him. Jackson would have been content to have room service, but Sue Ellen insisted he ate with them, which led him to the front steps of Sam’s home.

Christmas, different in Florida, different feel. The warm weather put a dampener on his spirit. The afternoon sun shone brightly. Santa Claus decorations didn’t seem right in the warmth of the environment and palm trees, not that Santa visited Sam’s house. A simple wreath hung on the front door of his quaint block stucco house that sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. Jackson parked in the circular driveway, noting three other cars parked there. He sighed. He didn’t feel like being social.

Sue Ellen answered the door looking her usual radiant self. She was good for Sam. A tall, elegant woman with a classic look. Graying hair in a short cut. She’d been on a mission to save the sinful Sam. If she colored her hair, she’d look much younger than her fifty-two years.

“It’s about time, young man. Sam’s been waiting for you, I can assure you. I was worried you were going to be a no show. I promised your mother that you’d have a decent meal. Now come on in and meet my parents,” Sue Ellen greeted Jackson. She hugged him with genuine affection and a quick kiss on his cheek. She led him in to the living room. There sat two older gentlemen and a woman. To their left perched a younger man who Jackson wasn’t familiar with. Good looking, sandy blond hair, blue eyes.

“Everyone, this is Sam’s adopted protégée, Jackson Dunn. Should say Special Agent. He’s down on a case. Are you back for good?” Sue Ellen draped her arm around Jackson.

He shook his head. “Not yet, I’m afraid. I’ve been assigned to the Boston Division at present. I’ll have to endure a real winter this year.”

“But at least you can enjoy the sports up there. Couldn’t be a better place at the moment. Have you been able to take in any games?” the young guy asked. He stood and extended his hand in a friendly manner. “I’m Russell Denning. Callie dragged me over, but if you know Callie it’s hard to tell her no. Returning the favor tomorrow. She’s coming with me.”

The statement took Jackson by surprise. He managed to stay behind the mask he’d built up a long time ago, but the effort took all he had to contain his bewilderment. Where did this guy come from? And Callie, here?

“I don’t know if you recognize Russ or not, Jackson. He’s the new sports anchor down at WPIK Channel 5,” Sue Ellen said.

“No, afraid not. It must be recent. I’ve only been gone since August.” Jackson’s eyes bored into the stranger.

“Started in September, but I’m from Tampa. Lucked out,” Russell said. “Have to say fortune smiled down on me. Not many get this kind of opportunity.”

Jackson looked toward the front door. The thought of escaping back to his hotel crossed his mind. He felt like he’d been broadsided by a train. He should have known. Callie did have a close relationship with Sam, being Sam’s stepdaughter by his second wife, Elaine. Elaine had remarried a few years back. He’d forgotten Callie said she always traveled abroad during the holidays. Voices sounded as he walked down the hall. The study door stood open, but he remained quietly in the doorway. Callie had pulled a chair up to Sam’s desk. Papers scattered the desk top. Deep in an argument, neither noticed his appearance.

My God, she looked beautiful. Her sandy blonde hair, cut short, framed her perfectly oval face. Her green eyes sparkled through her long eyelashes, their color enhanced by the green silk shirt she’d donned for the holidays. Jeans and sneakers—she hated getting dressed up. Lucky she didn’t have sweats on. The more intense Sam pushed her, the more her face flushed. Passion thrived within her fiery personality.

Callie Eckel, he’d known her for ages. Their families had socialized when they were younger before Sam divorced her mother. Callie, the middle born of Elaine’s three children, was the only stepchild that had stayed in contact with Sam. She’d recently graduated with her masters in psychology from the University of Tampa at twenty-three, five years younger than Jackson. Her work now directed toward her doctorate in clinical psychology, her major area of concentration abnormal psychology, in particular, criminal behavior. Her focus, her desire: to save the world.

Until last year he hadn’t considered anything romantic with Callie, his buddy, pal. That feeling changed considerably when he ran into her here at Sam’s last year. Their relationship changed, forging from a firm friendship until…until that last night before he left for Boston.

“Rosemary’s autopsy report confirms she was strangled to death. Petechia was found inside her mouth, besides the bruising and abrasion on her neck. The knife wounds had been done post mortem. Ramona’s vision was right. The victim was moved for the killer’s ritual to be performed. Rosemary’s right hand had been cut off and has never been found. Her body was discovered along a stretch of deserted beach. She too was surrounded by trinkets: a gold cross necklace, a set of keys, a money clip, and sunglasses.”

Callie shook her head. “I’m not sure about this vision thing you’re into Sam. You always liked that sort of thing. I remember Mom talking about it.” She laughed. “I can talk to you about what I think this killer’s mental psyche is.”

She pushed a strand of hair out of her face. “MO: no evidence; always around the ocean; drenched in salt water for a significant time. I would say you’ll have to expand the thought process. We can’t limit what this guy’s capable of. My guess is he’s a loner; smart, probably extremely intelligent; works by himself; stays under the radar; a person who ordinarily wouldn’t call attention to himself. He’s a sociopath to the extreme. He gets off by not only enjoying the kill, but making the authorities look foolish. Power—ultimate power.”

“What I feel looking over these reports,” Sam said as he scratched the back of his neck and placed a file down, “is looking over what he leaves and how he leaves them. He’s laughing at us. He’s flaunting his kills.”

“If you want my opinion, Sam, he intentionally leaves no forensic evidence, and the trinkets he displays mean nothing. Again, I believe he’s laughing knowing we have to take the time to investigate any detail that may help us.”

“So you’re saying he knows there will be nothing. He’s manipulating the police, making us go in circles. Just like the nude bodies; they’re meant to degrade, humiliate the victim, and the ocean disposes of the evidence.”

Callie nodded slightly. “Going over the connected murders and the one that escaped; the marked victims don’t have any known connections to each other. Different ages, education, social status, location. No common connections except one thing. Only thing I can come up with—even looking at other possible victims we might connect to this guy—is that each victim was close to their families. Each victim’s death had a devastating blow to their family structure, especially the mothers. Unlike most serial killers who pick easy victims that won’t be missed for a while, like runaways or prostitutes, this guy picks women who will be missed. It’s like he wants their absence noticed as soon as possible. Like he can’t wait for his act to be acknowledged. He’s arrogant, and in my opinion, he’s done this a lot.”

“Can I join the conversation since they’re my cases you’re talking about?”

Callie looked up. She didn’t say a word. From the look on her face she hadn’t expected to see Jackson either. Sam probably didn’t think his appearance held any importance. Sam motioned for Jackson to enter.

“Been waiting for you, Jackson. Don’t know if I told you that I hired Callie here to be my assistant. It’ll help in her research. And it will definitely help me.”

Jackson stepped in. He dragged a chair from the back of the room up to the desk and sat right next to Callie. She looked dazed for a moment. He stared at her, but she didn’t return his glance.

Sam ran his hand through his hair, focused only on the information he’d been assessing. “Callie’s been looking back over the time of the Gonsalves murder. Two months before the Tampa murder, a young woman was abducted outside her gym in Panama City. Her car was found with a flat in the parking lot. But by chance a drunk driver rammed into the side of the SUV that abducted the girl. The girl was killed—wasn’t clear if the crash or the abductor killed her. Head injury. The driver escaped in the crowd. Wasn’t injured badly. At the time of the crash, no one suspected the driver of abducting the girl and wasn’t paying attention to the guy. They were trying to save the girl.”

Sam handed a couple of newspaper articles to Jackson. Jackson glanced over them. Callie’s look stayed on Sam.

Sam flipped through the file. “A couple of things when I contacted Panama City’s force: first, the SUV couldn’t be connected to the killer. Get this, it wasn’t stolen. It was bought outright for cash under a bogus name. No distinguishable fingerprints. But the fact that he bought it outright is interesting because if the killer bought the SUV it means he has money.”

Jackson read over the articles while Sam talked. Something caught his attention. “What’s this? A side article on a man found burnt alive.”

Sam nodded. He motioned for Jackson to continue reading. “It was the drunk that rammed the car. He was found the next week. A couple of teenagers came across the body burning on the beach. They thought someone was having a bonfire. To me, this guy was sending a message. And if it is our guy he has a temper and no patience with anyone interfering with his work. One sick puppy. Pure evil.”