Eight in the Box (17 page)

CHAPTER 51

N
ot a good sign. Four empty coffee cups scattered in front of Mooney
and it wasn’t even lunchtime. Mooney started talking before Alves got through the doorway.

“In case you didn’t know this already,” he said, his feet propped up on his desk, “you can never trust the feds.” Behind Mooney’s head, filling almost the entire wall, was his dry-erase board with columns written in different color markers. There was a column for each victim, listing leads, evidence recovered and connections among the cases. There was a lot of white space on the board.

Angel Alves had only had one experience working with the FBI and it wasn’t a good one. It was before he’d made it to Homicide. He and the BPD Drug Control Unit had been working a case for months with DEA agents. As they were getting ready to wrap up the investigation, the FBI got involved in the takedown of the big dealers and ended up taking credit for the whole operation. “I hate those guys as much as anyone,” Alves said, “but I don’t think we have any choice.”

“After the mayor goes on TV and makes the announcement, there’s nothing we can do.”

“What do we know about the people they’re sending?” Alves asked.

“They’ll be here tomorrow. The commissioner told me they’re from the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. They probably have less street smarts than a fifteen-year-old kid from Dorchester.”

Alves recognized the beginning of a familiar rant. If no one interrupted him, Mooney would go on for hours.

“The commissioner wants us to share all our files. They’re supposed to be two of the bureau’s top profilers. They’re going to fill us in on the general characteristics of our killer and give us some investigation tips. Then we’ll be in a better position to catch the guy.” Alves detected the sarcasm tinting Mooney’s voice. “Bullshit. Profiler or no profiler, it’s going take hard work and luck on our part. A mistake by the bad guy wouldn’t hurt either.” Mooney gestured for Alves to take a seat. “Profiles are just common sense. I’ve already come up with my own. It’s the same one that they have for most serial killers. I guarantee you it’s what these guys from Quantico will come up with. I’ll bet you two slices and a Coke, if you’ll take my action,” Mooney stuck his hand out toward Alves.

“No thanks, Sarge. I’ll take your word for it.”

“White male, age twenty-five to thirty-five, lives with his mother or alone, doesn’t have many friends, has a history of arson and/or animal abuse as a child, commits organized and planned killings, may have lost his job or a promotion to a woman due to affirmative action, has had difficulty dating but may currently have a girlfriend, although there is a strong likelihood that he doesn’t have sexual relations with her and he may actually be impotent.”

Alves smiled. Not much different from the profiles the experts always came up with on the crime shows Marcy watched. But Mooney was rolling. Let him go with it.

“Say I were to come up with a profile of a drug dealer in a largely black neighborhood like Roxbury or Mattapan, he would be a young black male wearing loose-fitting, dark clothing, possibly riding a bike. That could describe almost every kid in that neighborhood. He would also come from a poor background. He’s not interested in school and sees that he can make money easily by selling drugs.

“I could come up with the same profile for every other neighborhood in the city. In Brighton the kid would be white or Asian, in East Boston he’d be Hispanic, and in Southie he’d be white. We can’t go around arresting every kid who fits the description. That’s why police departments get sued for profiling. Once our guy makes a mistake, we can use our profile to build a case against him. But we still need to have evidence that he committed the crime.”

Alves snuck a glance at his watch. Enough with the profile lecture. He wanted to get back to work, anything to feel like he was
doing
something besides sitting in Mooney’s office, a captive audience.

“This isn’t hard science. Our guy might not fit this profile at all. He could be black, Asian or Hispanic. He could be forty-five years old and have ten girlfriends and a great job. Just like the drug dealer in Dudley Square might be white. It’s not as likely, but it certainly is possible.”

“It’s possible that he could be a little green man from Mars too, but he’s not.”

“As for the feds,” Mooney ignored Alves’s little dig and continued with his spiel. “I don’t mind them coming in here telling me about their profile. They’d just better not think they’re going to take over my investigation.”

Alves heard the hum of Mooney’s pager. Salvation.

CHAPTER 52

C
onnie looked up to see Angel Alves walking toward his desk. “Do I
know you?”

“Don’t get excited,” Alves said. “I’m heading right back out.”

“What do you mean? We’re supposed to do case prep.”

“Not today.”

“Angel, if we’re not ready for trial we’re going to get our asses handed to us. And Jesse’s going to walk again. We have a ton of work to do. The trial is only a month away.”

“Connie, the Jill Twomey murder has changed everything. We’ve got the FBI up here and Mooney’s on a rampage. Forget about prep. I’ll be lucky if I can get here for the trial.”

“Are you insane? You know how long I’ve been trying to put Jesse away. He’s dangerous.”

“Not as dangerous as the Blood Bath Killer. We work on his case and nothing else. Orders from the commissioner. Not that I needed the order. I want to catch this fucker. And I’m going to.”

“Do me a favor before I lose you for good?”

“What?”

“Just pull all the FIOs on Wilcox. I want to know who he’s been hanging around with. It’ll help me on cross if any of his friends show up as surprise witnesses for the defense.”

“I’ll bring them by tomorrow. Then you won’t see me for a while. I have to get going. Sarge will be wondering what happened to me.”

“How’s he doing? I haven’t seen him since the McCarthy scene.”

“Grumpy as ever.” Alves walked toward the back stairs. Then he turned suddenly and stopped. “I almost forgot the most important thing. I learned something today that really pissed me off. Jesse Wilcox’s lawyer is a former law partner of Judge Catherine Ring.”

Connie could feel his jaw tightening up.

“From the look on your face I’d have to say you didn’t know that tidbit of information. How’s that for justice?”

Connie watched as Alves disappeared down the backstairs. He felt a terrific surge of anger. He thought back to what Jesse Wilcox had said to him after the motion, that it was all over before it started.

CHAPTER 53

C
oming toward him down the corridor from the Homicide Unit were
the two FBI agents that Alves had met a few days earlier. He couldn’t get their names straight so he just thought of them as Smith and Jones, Smith being the taller one who seemed to do all the talking. He could tell both men were angry.

“What’s wrong, guys?” Alves asked.

“Sergeant Mooney doesn’t want us involved in
his
investigation. You’ve been good to us, but we can’t work with him. We’re heading back to DC this afternoon. I know he doesn’t believe us, but we were trying to help.”

Alves stood silently as the two agents headed toward the elevators. What the hell was Sarge thinking? He was asking for trouble going against the mayor.

“And, Detective”—Smith turned back to him—“FYI, I don’t believe this guy’s a sexual predator. You’re wasting your time with that one. I could be wrong, but there doesn’t seem to be anything sexual about what he’s doing.”

“Why’s that?”

“Nothing to suggest he’s committed sexual assaults at any of the crime scenes. Not while the victims are conscious, unconscious or deceased. He attacks them, incapacitates them, drains their blood, takes them away. A sexual predator wouldn’t be able to control himself like that. If he’s looking to act out a sexual fantasy, he would definitely want to act it out in the victim’s house, in her bed, on her couch. He wouldn’t miss the opportunity to act it all out while he’s alone with her in her house. Nothing would be more gratifying to him.”

“So what’s he doing?”

“Sergeant Mooney just gave us his
Reader’s Digest
profile. Actually not bad for a miserable old-timer. He’s right about the blood bath being a way of telling you that the person’s dead without leaving you the body. Draining them of their blood is an important part of his ritual. The bathtubs themselves are just convenient. It’s the logical place to do something like that. And the warm bath expedites the bloodletting. I’m not sure what he’s doing from there. If he’s keeping the bodies, he has to be doing something to preserve them. You may want to check to see if there have been any chemical thefts from local funeral homes in the last year. Or maybe he’s a trained mortician himself. And then again, he may be dumping the bodies somewhere.”

“I hadn’t thought of the mortician angle.”

“Detective Alves,” Smith said, looking Alves in the eyes, letting him know that he wanted to help, “serial killers don’t stop killing. They don’t slow down. They kill more frequently. They kill until someone stops them.” Smith turned toward Jones who was holding the elevator for him. “Feel free to call if you ever need us.”

CHAPTER 54

A
lves entered the Homicide Unit looking for Mooney. “Sarge, what
did you do?”

“I fired those two sons-o’-bitches, trying to poach my case.”

Alves was sure Mooney had lost his mind. “You can’t fire them, they don’t work for you. But
you’re
going to get yourself fired once the mayor and commissioner hear about this. What happened?”

“Those two
profilers
spent three days reviewing
our
case files, visiting
our
crime scenes and re-interviewing
our
witnesses. This morning I get a call from Jill Twomey’s mother, hysterical, asking why these two men from the FBI want to go through her daughter’s condo again. I can take a lot of shit, Angel, but I’m not going to let some kid with a BA in psychology damage my reputation with the family of a homicide victim.”

Mooney’s face was mottled red as he leaned in toward Alves. Alves was glad he hadn’t been in the room when Mooney went at it with the two agents.

“I catch a load of shit from Mrs. Twomey,” Mooney said, “then our friends from the FBI show up with their
profile.
Let’s just say you’re lucky you didn’t make that bet with me. It was the same profile I gave you. Then they give me their
tips
for bagging a serial killer: Review footage of spectators at the crime scenes and family press conferences; pursue those losers who volunteer to help with the investigation. I told them we had gone so far as to set up hidden cameras at the memorial services and community-safety meetings to look for familiar faces. They reminded me that as a rule the killer wants to stay close to the investigation. I really appreciate them coming up here to enlighten us.”

Angel settled in, content not to say anything until Mooney finished.

“Besides causing me some unnecessary headaches, it’s been a waste of time. One thing led to another. Now we no longer have to deal with those two clowns.”

“Sarge, as far as the feds go, they weren’t all that bad. They’re just doing what they were told to do.”

“They were wasting our time. No, they weren’t just wasting our time—they were actually setting us back. Poor Mrs. Twomey. Bad enough that her daughter was murdered, now she thinks the detectives handling the investigation are a couple of boobs.”

“They did have some interesting thoughts.”

“Like what?”

“They don’t think he’s a sexual predator.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“They also suggested that we check for any chemical thefts at area funeral homes. If he’s keeping the bodies he has to be preserving them somehow.”

“That’s assuming he’s keeping the bodies. We don’t know what he’s doing with the bodies.”

“Come on, Sarge, you have to admit it’s not a bad idea.”

“All right. Do it. But I think we would have heard if there were any break-ins like that.”

“Why?”

“You know what they do with that stuff?”

“No.”

“I thought you were a drug cop before you came up here. Back in the seventies we had some funeral home breaks. Kids were using the formaldehyde-based embalming fluids to make angel dust.”

“Our profilers also threw out the possibility that he might actually be a mortician.”

“Or a taxidermist.” Mooney laughed. “You can look into that too, Angel.”

“Sarge, what are you going to do about the bosses? They’re going to flip out when they hear what you did to those guys.”

“They might chew my ass out, but they’re not going to take us off the case. We know the evidence better than anyone. It would take weeks for someone else to get up to speed. They’ll be mad for a couple of days. Once we catch this guy all will be forgotten.”

“For your sake, I hope so.”