Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (26 page)

‘Sure.’

‘And?’

‘This Funeral Director guy sounds like an arrogant prick.’

I shook my head. Bill is a Profiler as sharp as a scalpel, but he can also be as blunt as the backend of an oil liner.

‘And he’s a control freak. He arranges the bodies the way he does because that’s part of his statement. Showing you he’s in full control at all times. He also suffers from severe emotional repression.’

I was surprised by the remark. ‘You mean he has anger issues? There’s no evidence of rage or violence.’

‘There never is with this type. It’s all bottled up. Waiting to explode. Trust me, Gabriel, your boy’s emotionally repressed. Probably with father issues. Maybe some childhood abuse. Psychological bullying. More than likely grew up in an overly-strict household. Possibly religious.’

‘It would explain his calling cards.’ I said.

We paused while Bill dug out another cigarette. Some licorice-smelling brand he’d got hooked on abroad. Got imported. He lit it from a shiny steel flick lighter. I saw him take a deep drag. Saw his eyes roll back into their sockets as he savored the nicotine rush.

‘Someday, Bill, those things will kill you.’

He blew out thick blue smoke. ‘Something’s got to. Might as well be something I enjoy.’

We resumed our walk.

‘So what else? Who we looking for?’

‘Oh, the usual sociopath with a history of psychiatric conditions. Clinical depression. A loner. Somebody with authority issues. The type that believe the world owes them something. So they go out of their way to make a statement.’

‘They crave recognition to compensate for the emotional repression.’

Bill smirked. ‘You’ve been listening to me too long. He’s also sophisticated. Which means he’s not new to the game.’

We arrived outside a long, brown wooden building where the scent of hops was contesting with the sting of the brine. Leaned against the white wooden balustrade while Bill finished his cigarette. To the tourists walking by we must have looked like two buddies enjoying the view. Far from it.

‘Has he contacted you yet?’

‘No.’ The thought was unsettling. ‘Should he?’

‘You’re the Great Celebrity Cop. Criminals win book deals on the back of your convictions. They want you to catch them. It’s their fifteen minutes, Gabriel. Sooner or later they all contact you. That’s why he’s singled you out.’

I pulled a pained expression.

‘Why else would he dump the child in the same place the Benjamin kid bled out? He knows your history. He’s also sending you a message.’

I recoiled at the memory. At the dead, staring, questioning eyes of a ten-year-old boy burnt into my brain.

‘Because he wanted to get your attention, Gabriel. He wanted you on this case from the start. You’re his fast track to stardom. His whole MO suggests he’s making a statement. Craving recognition, remember? You’re his meal ticket.’

I watched Bill flick the butt of his cigarette out into the lapping water. Saw it fizzle and die.

72

^{___________________________}

Decked out in warm woods and brown leathers, the ale parlor at Shoreline Village seemed a cheerful enough place. One of those good vibe tourist attractions. Monopolizing on the fine views of the Queen Mary across the water. We slid into a booth by with window. Chuck Berry’s greatest hits warbled from speakers near the raftered ceiling. Bill batted blue eyes at the long-legged waitress. Ordered a beer while I stuck with the coffee. Extra black.

‘So how do we catch this guy, Bill?’

‘He’s killed before.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Gabriel, how many years have we been doing this? You and me? Having these same fucking conversations: me sipping sweet beer while you guzzle that awful black tar.’

‘About six?’

‘So how many more fucking years do we do this before you stop asking questions you already know the answers to?’

I smiled. ‘He’s practiced.’

‘There you go!’

Somebody cleared their throat in the booth behind Bill. I saw my friend from the Bureau stiffen. Gave him the
please, not here, not now
shake of the head.

‘Novices are clumsy.’ Bill said through half-gritted teeth. ‘They make mistakes. Leave trace evidence. The vast majority of first-time killers get caught almost straight away. Dumb fucks. This guy’s killed before. Like you say, he’s been practicing. Honing his craft. His methods are too well-oiled, too rehearsed, to be right first time. And that’s where you’ll catch him.’

‘In old kills.’

‘Yeah, maybe. His first ones. When he was a clumsy dumb fuck.’

The guy in the booth behind bill glanced around. I kept Bill’s attention:

‘What about his calling cards? We think they may have a religious significance.’

Bill nodded. ‘Stands to reason. But they could mean something else entirely. Killers leave signatures for two reasons: to taunt the police or to confuse the police. But in both cases they form part of their message.’

‘Which is?’

‘Something for you to decode, Gabriel.’

Bill’s cell phone shrilled. It sounded like a Dean Martin tune.

He dug it out and stared at the screen.

‘Excuse me, Gabriel. I need to get this.’

I looked around while Bill took the call. Looked at the happy tourists gazing happily at their tourist maps. Comparing happy snaps on pocket cameras. Thought about
The Undertaker
practicing on other victims until he’d gotten his lethal injection down pat.

Bill snapped his phone shut.

I could tell by the peeved look in his eyes he wasn’t a happy bunny.

‘What?’

 
‘They need me in Bakersfield. This afternoon.’

‘Bakersfield? It’s a nice drive. Take you a good couple of hours. But the scenery will knock you dead. You shouldn’t be so damned good at your job.’

‘Yeah, maybe. It’s a temporary distraction.’

We finished our drinks. Strolled back to the parking lot.

The sky was completely overcast now: battleship grey with the promise of rain. I pulled off the shades.

‘One last thing,’ Bill said as we came to our cars. ‘You know I get these feelings?’

‘Yes, I know. You believe you’re psychic and I don’t believe a word of it. Go on.’

‘It came to me when I was reading the case notes.’ He said. ‘Just a feeling. There’s a survivor. A woman.’

I watched my strange friend from the Bureau climb into his rental and screech away. He hadn’t gone very far when the coffee lurched in my belly. And black clotted goo came gushing out all over the pavement.

73

^{___________________________}

I was heading north on the Long Beach Freeway – crunching antacids – when my cell phone rang:

‘Captain?’

‘Gabe, where are you?’

‘Driving. Just outside of Lynwood.’

‘What are you doing at Long Beach?’

‘Meeting an old friend.’

‘Case-related?’

‘Bill Teague.’ I confessed.

‘You’re off the case.’

‘I know. What’s up?’

‘I mean it, Gabe.’

‘I know.’ I repeated.

‘Think you can you check something for me?’

‘Sure.’

‘You’ll think this an odd request.’

‘Okay.’

‘Check you have your handcuffs.’

‘My handcuffs?’

‘Indulge me.’

I put the phone on the passenger seat. Checked to see if my Department-issue handcuffs were in their holder attached to my belt. They were. I picked back up.

‘All present and correct, John. What’s the big mystery?’

‘The handcuffs used on Richard Schaeffer are yours.’ He said. Just like that.

I experienced one of those
that’s impossible
moments.

‘CSU checked and double-checked.’ He told me over the phone. ‘The serial number comes back to you. Issued over twenty years ago by the Memphis PD. How’s that happen?’

‘I don’t know, John.’

Really and honestly, I didn’t. Who would?

Like all cops, I’d had numerous pairs issued against my Police Badge over the years. But I hadn’t kept tabs on any of them. Who would? Loss is unavoidable. How the surfer dude from Huntington Beach had ended up shackled to his bed by a pair of my old handcuffs was more than just a mystery. It was a problem.

‘I’m coming in.’ I said.

‘Don’t waste your time.’ Ferguson cut me off. ‘I can’t let you anywhere near this now you’ve been implicated.’

Implicated!

I almost ran into the back of a truck.

‘John …’

74

^{___________________________}