Jack Daniels Six Pack (23 page)

“Congratulations,” I said.

He stood there, expecting more. “The handwriting expert?” He flashed a grin. I held my applause and picked up the phone.

“Hello, Bill? Jack. Can you have someone run up the notes from the Jane Does? Thanks.”

I motioned for Francis to have a seat, and Herb scooted his bulk to the side to let him near the desk.

“So far on the case we’ve—”

Mulrooney held out his palm. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know anything until I’ve seen the samples. It could influence my judgment.”

I gave Herb a look. He returned it. The FBI was bad enough. Why not just go medieval and hire a phrenologist?

“It’s always exciting to work with the police.” Mulrooney grinned. His teeth were uneven. “Is this a forgery case? Never mind, don’t tell me. I’d rather see if I can figure it out. Forgery fascinates me. You see, handwriting is like fingerprints, and no two samples are exactly the same. But it’s also a window into the part of the brain that understands and comprehends language. Your signature changes, for example, when you’re under stress or if you succumb to mental problems. So, is this a forgery case?”

A uniform walked in, carrying the notes. The first two were in cellophane envelopes, each stained murky brown with dried blood. The third was sandwiched in an old encyclopedia.

“We store it in a book in the freezer,” I told Mulrooney. “The cold takes away all the moisture without ruining the physical evidence. If we let the blood dry naturally, the paper will begin to rot.”

All the color drained from Mulrooney’s face, making his thin blond mustache appear translucent.

“Excuse me a second.” He stood and bolted for the door. The uniform shrugged and followed him out.

“Think he’ll be back?” Herb asked.

“Unfortunately.”

The pizza came, and Benedict attacked it with a ferocity often seen on PBS specials involving carnivores.

“Doesn’t your tongue hurt?”

“Not so much anymore. I think eating all the time has sped up the healing process. Maybe it will work with your leg.”

Benedict offered me a slice so stacked with toppings, it had begun to topple. I declined, consuming several aspirin instead.

Our resident handwriting expert reappeared, his cockiness replaced by a serious expression.

“I apologize.” He drew his hand across his mouth. “When I got the call I wasn’t told what I’d be analyzing. Is this the Gingerbread Man case?”

“Yes.”

He sat back down, averting his gaze from the pizza Herb was devouring.

“I’ve read about it. Terrible. If I may?”

I offered him the notes, as well as a photocopy of the one left for the
Tribune
; the original was still at the lab. Mulrooney slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves. From his vest pocket he removed a leather case.

“Can I take them from the cellophane?”

I nodded, making note of it on the evidence seals. First he simply read the notes, frowning. Then he unzipped his case and removed a jeweler’s loupe and some long tweezers.

I watched him work, going over the notes line by line, scribbling in a pad constantly, handling them with the utmost care and professionalism.

After about fifteen minutes, during which Herb had finished his pizza and joined in the observation, Dr. Mulrooney let out a deep breath and sat back in his chair.

“You’ve got one sick puppy here.” He met my gaze, intense. “First I’ll tell you what I know for sure. The same person wrote all four notes. Block printing is not as easy to analyze as script, and in court it’s harder to prove, but there’s enough here to be absolutely sure of it.”

“Go on.”

“He’s right-handed. He clubs, which means that the ends of his pen strokes are thicker than the beginnings. That’s a characteristic usually found in sadistic personalities. You can see it on the down strokes of his
t, l, f, i
, and on the bottoms of the
y
and
b
.”

He showed us examples. I found myself becoming interested.

“The
t
’s have descending bars, which are also clubbed. This can be a sign of mental imbalance. Many violent schizophrenics have descending
t
bars. In the second note he also mentions
us
, which might indicate disassociative identity disorder. But I don’t believe in multiple personalities. It’s a psychiatric fairy tale. I think the
us
was deliberate, either a ploy or a nod to an accomplice.”

So far, all on the money.

“His pressure and angularity are very extreme. Again, indicators of violent behavior and aggression. The
d
is the social self-image letter. His
d
’s are slanted to the right and clubbed. This usually means an inflated ego, along with a desire to control situations.”

“Keep going, Doctor.”

“He refers to himself in capital letters. I’d call that the mark of a grandiose narcissist. He refers to the police department in lowercase letters, minimizing your importance. That’s all I can get from a handwriting analysis, but I’m also a psychiatrist. From what he’s written, and from the little I know about the case, I can make some assumptions.”

“Please do.”

“You’re dealing with a sexual sadist. He’s a control freak, and mastery over life and death is the ultimate high. He’s got severe delusions of grandeur. I would guess that he may also be a sociopath, without remorse for his actions. He will be able to fake emotions, but won’t be able to truly feel them. Can you tell me anything about the case?”

I ran it all down for him, from the discovery of the first Jane Doe until he showed up.

“The idea that he’s punishing these women is a good one,” he said when I’d finished. “The amount of pain he inflicted on them would also indicate that he knew them personally, rather than just grabbed them at random.”

“Why did he change his MO for the last one?” Herb pondered aloud.

“Do you know the cause of death yet?” Mulrooney asked.

I shook my head, and then I had it.

“He didn’t change intentionally,” I realized. “Something went wrong. Maybe he gave her too much Seconal and she went into a coma. Or she tried to escape and he had to kill her. But her body didn’t show evidence of torture. I bet he wanted to torture her, but didn’t get a chance, so instead took his punishment out on her dead body.”

Mulrooney eyed me. “You’d make a good shrink.”

“Thanks. Any other insights?”

“He’s killed before. Probably many times. This isn’t an amateur. He’s just decided to go public with it. There’s too much planning, preparation, and thought put into these crimes to make them his first. The only evidence he leaves is what he wants you to find. This is a game to him. But there must have been something that set him off on this spree. Some reason he’s decided to go public. Maybe he got divorced, or lost his job.”

“The triggering event.”

“Right. And there’s something else too. I’m sort of surprised you haven’t caught it yet, Lieutenant.”

“Caught what?”

“He’s sent you letters, broke into your apartment, called you on the phone, and now demands that you get fired.” Mulrooney gave me a pained look. “This man has a crush on you.”

“A crush? He wants to kill me.”

“Sociopaths can’t express emotions normally. In the letter to the
Tribune,
he even refers to you in capital letters, maximizing your importance. He’s a stalker. Now he’s fixated on you. Perversely fixated. I think all of this is his way of courting you.”

Golly. Other guys just send flowers.

“I have a surveillance team keeping an eye on me.”

Mulrooney rubbed his mustache. “Do you know how hyenas find a carcass? They follow the flight patterns of vultures. The vultures lead them to the food.”

“Christ,” Herb said. He was thinking the same thing I was.

“The perp could be watching the watchers.”

Chapter 33

W
E GOT A JEEP.”

“Does the suspect fit the description?”

“There’s some resemblance. No ID on him, but he’s mentioned your name.”

I nodded at Herb. The dragnet had been his idea. We ordered six teams to sweep a ten-block radius around my surveillance tail. Trucks and vans were stopped. Parked cars were searched. People on foot were questioned.

“We’re on our way in, Lieut. Where do you want him?”

“Bring him to room C.” I hung up the phone and reached out my hand to Dr. Mulrooney. “Good suggestion. We may have our man. Thanks for all your input.”

He shook and gave me his card. “I’m glad to be of help. Feel free to call if I can be of further assistance.”

Herb and I took the elevator, conserving my energy. This was all a bit anticlimactic, but that was how most cases ended; with a whimper, rather than a bang. As long as we got the guy, I was happy.

My hopes were dashed once I saw who was brought into the interrogation room.

“Hello, Lieutenant.”

Phineas Troutt sat down in the lone wooden chair and smiled patiently at me.

Herb gave me a nudge. “This the guy that broke into your apartment?”

I frowned. “No. His name is Phineas Troutt, two
T
’s. Pull his record.”

I closed the door behind me and shook my head at the legion of cops sitting behind the one-way glass. Then I turned my attention to my pool partner. “What’s going on, Phin? Have you been following me?”

“I saw you on the news. You’re purposely trying to get the Gingerbread Man to come after you.”

“What does this have to do with you?”

Phin shrugged. “I had some free time, thought I’d see what your setup was. You’ve got three teams of two guys, each pulling eight-hour shifts. They hang back no farther than two hundred feet, and couldn’t be more conspicuous if they tried.”

The room smelled like smoke and sweat and desperation. Phin, however, seemed relaxed and even amused.

“You still haven’t told me why you were following me.”

“I figured the killer would make another try for you, but he’d see your surveillance just like I did. So I hung back to see if anyone was doing what I was doing and watching your surveillance team.”

I still didn’t know his angle, but I felt a tingle of excitement.

“Did you notice anything?”

He nodded.

“Two cars and four trucks, all with solitary male drivers. All acting suspicious. I wrote down the makes, models, and plates.”

“Where did you write it down?”

“We’re friends, right, Jack?”

I frowned. Why did he suddenly get coy?

“I’d like to think so, Phin.”

“And friends do each other favors.”

“So this is a favor?”

“Sure. I don’t like seeing my friends get hurt. I’m sure you feel the same way.”

Now it made perfect sense.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

“Possession. Cocaine. Trial is coming up next month. I’ll do time.” Phin scratched his bald head, an obvious ploy to make me aware of his cancer. “And the time they want me to do, I don’t have left.”

I didn’t answer. The silence dragged. I knew the state’s attorney, and the Gingerbread Man case was weighty enough that he’d trade his wife and mother for an arrest. But I disliked bargaining with criminals, even helpful ones who played pool with me.

“I’ll be right back.”

I left the interrogation room and met up with Herb in the hall. He handed over Phin’s rap sheet.

There were several charges for assault, two for attempted murder, one for manslaughter, and two for murder in the second degree. No convictions—in every case charges were dismissed, dropped, or he was acquitted.

“You busted this guy once?”

“Yeah. He was jumped by some gang-bangers. Killed two of them, put three more in the hospital. Self-defense. Phin wasn’t even armed.”

The other victims of Phin’s crimes had case numbers after their names; they all had criminal records as well.

The single nonviolent crime on his sheet was for the cocaine. This was recent, only five months old. The amount was substantial enough for the state’s attorney to charge him with dealing rather than straight possession.

I went back into room C. Phin had his legs crossed and looked completely at ease.

“What do you do for a living, Phin?” I asked.

“I get by.”

“By selling drugs?”

He made a face. “I don’t sell drugs.”

“You were arrested with thirty grams of cocaine in your possession.”

“I wasn’t selling it.”

Herb snorted. “That was for personal use?”

Phin sized up Herb. “Morphine makes you sloppy. The coke helps with the pain and I can still stay alert.”

“Where’d you get the coke?” Herb asked.

Phin ignored Herb and focused on me. “Are we helping each other, or are we going to keep pointing fingers?”

I stared into Phin’s eyes. His personal life was none of my business, but I really disliked drugs, especially those who used them and sold them. On the other hand, he saved my ass back at Joe’s Pool Hall, and he also may have just given us our biggest break.

And, even though I was a professional who never let personal feelings influence me, I kind of liked the guy.

“Deal. I’ll get it squared with the state’s attorney.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

“You have my word.”

He nodded, then handed over the notebook. The first entry was “White Jeep, Ice Cream Truck, F912 556.”

“Herb, run these plates. This may be our guy.”

Benedict disappeared with the notebook. Phin stood up and put his hands in his pockets.

“I can go?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Thank you. I heard you got shot. Leg okay?”

“I’ve got a spare.”

He grinned.

“You’re a pretty tough chick. Maybe I’ll see you around. We never got to finish that last game.”

“I’ll check my social calendar.”

“I’ll save a table for you.”

He turned and left.

I met up with Herb in his office. His expression told me everything I needed to know.

“Plates belong to a Chrysler Voyager. Reported stolen six months ago.”

I let out a deep breath. There wasn’t any way to trace stolen plates. At most, we could put out an APB and hope someone picked him up.