Once Shadows Fall (20 page)

T
hey had to bring more chairs into the conference room to accommodate everybody. The mood was somber. No one was talking. No one was on their phone. A few people were busy scribbling notes. On the wall were photographs of the three murdered people. Next to them was a chart Beth had constructed setting out what they knew of the killer along with the location for each of their deaths. Jack watched the second hand on a wall clock move and waited along with everyone else.

Two detectives who generally worked white-collar crimes were also present. Beth had met both men but didn’t know them well. Dave Childers, the older of the pair, had a salt-and-pepper moustache and was in his late fifties. He was wearing a gray sport jacket and black pants. His partner, Jimmy Lee Spruell, was the one who had the run-in with Jack at the last meeting. He was approximately thirty years old, about six foot two, and had a reputation around the department as being a hot head. The few times she had any contact with him he had come off as arrogant. Considering the earlier friction between Spruell and Jack, she wished the lieutenant had asked another pair of detectives to join them. But from what Dan Pappas had told her, Jack seemed to have handled the situation well enough. Hopefully, they would put aside any personal issues and concentrate on the task at hand.

Stafford and Mundas were also there, as was Dan Pappas. Despite the early hour, he already looked rumpled. Deputy Chief Ritson and his aide, Burt Wiggins, entered the room at 9:31 AM. The chief began without preamble.

“We’ve got a mess here, people. I assume most of you have seen the newspapers and television reports by now.”

He looked slowly around the room at the assembled faces indicating there was more to his point than he had articulated, then pulled a
USA Today
from under his arm and opened it for everyone to see. The headline read, “Atlanta Police Baffled.”

“This doesn’t make our department look good,” Ritson said. “Are we baffled?”

The question hung in the air. As the case lead, Beth knew she ought to respond. Dan Pappas surprised her by saying, “We don’t have all the answers, but we’re making progress.” He pointed to the wall with the photographs and continued, “We know the bastard’s white, he’s tall, left-handed, and has light-blue or gray eyes. We also have his DNA, courtesy of that gal who tried to coldcock him at Underground Atlanta. There were enough skin cells on her shoe for a match.”

“We knew these things two days ago. Tell me something new.” He turned to Beth, as she expected he would, with his next question. “What happened to that subject you picked up?”

“Merkle? We had to cut him loose, Chief. He looked good, but his alibi checked out.”

“Did you happen to catch WGST this morning? ‘Atlanta Police Stumble Again,’ I think the topic was.”

“No, I didn’t,” Beth said. “We’re doing our job and we’re doing it the right way. When a subject looks solid, we pull him in for questioning. It’s important to eliminate the good ones from the bad.”

“She’s right, Chief,” Pappas said.

“So what are we dealing with?” Ritson asked.

Beth hesitated, waiting for Jack to respond and tell them about Lemon, but for some reason, he remained silent. It looked as if something was distracting him. After several seconds, the silence began to feel strained.

She said, “We’re not sure, and that’s the truth. No question the killer’s a copycat, but there’s a big wrinkle involved.”

“Such as?”

“In each of Howard Pell’s kills, he cut off a victim’s finger. Initially, the killer did the same. As you know, that information was never released to the public.”

“You’re telling me we have a leak?” Ritson said.

“Have or had,” Beth said. “If the killer’s trying to pick up where Pell left off, he had to obtain that information someplace. He could’ve
gotten it from Pell. But no one’s visited Pell in quite a while. So if he didn’t communicate the details, someone else did.”

“What if he used the mail?” Childers asked. “They don’t monitor outgoing stuff from what I hear, only the incoming.”

“Dan’s going through Pell’s contact list. Prison regulations require the people who correspond with inmates be approved by the warden, or in this case, Dr. Charles Raymond, Mayfield’s resident psychiatrist. Dan?”

“Pell has about thirty-five names on his list,” Pappas said. “One or two are relatives. A couple may be reporters or fans.”

“Fans?” Ritson said, surprised.

“I know it’s crazy,” Pappas said. “But some people think the guy’s a rock star. One lady actually wants to marry him.”

“Be a helluva honeymoon,” Spruell commented.

“What about the other bodies we found at Underground Atlanta?” Ritson asked.

“They’re likely the work of Albert Lemon,” Jack said, speaking for the first time.

Heads in the room turned toward him.

“I did some research yesterday. Albert Lemon lived around the turn of the last century and was, by all accounts, the first serial killer Atlanta ever encountered. There are newspaper reports chronicling his exploits. There’s also a book about him that came out in 1972.”

“How can you be certain it’s Lemon?” Ritson asked.

“I’m not,” Jack said. “But everything fits. Pell basically picked up where Lemon left off.”

“Why?” Ritson asked.

“Pell was a student of history. After his arrest, we went through his house. There were books and articles everywhere about killers from the past.”

“With references to Lemon?” Childers asked.

“Not that we found. But there’s every chance Pell knew about him and was familiar with the details of his crimes. Pell dressed his first victims up as scarecrows, just as Lemon did.”

“And cut off their fingers, too?” Childers asked.

“That was something Pell added as his own signature. I suspect to branch out on his own.”

“And the other victims?” the chief inquired.

“Lake Lanier and Buford Dam didn’t exist when Lemon was around. He murdered the third woman by drowning her in the Chattahoochee River, quite similar to what the killer tried to do with Sandra Goldner.”

“Go on,” Ritson said, folding his arms across his chest.

“One of Lemon’s victims was buried alive in an old part of the city, a prominent banker named Joseph Elkins. His body was recovered when the building was torn down in 1906. A newspaper account I read talked about a man and woman who also went missing back then. The speculation was that they had fallen prey to Albert Lemon. From the style of their clothes, I suspect they’re two of the people we found in Underground Atlanta.”

Childers said, “So Pell found Lemon’s hiding place and continued stashing the bodies there.”

“The missing fingers on the three newer bodies make it seem that way.”

“That is weird, man,” Spruell added.

“It also means Detective Sturgis is right about a connection between Pell and the killer. The attempt at partial mummification is a new wrinkle. It means the killer is trying to branch out on his own. That may sound odd to the rest of us, but serials tend to view the world through a filter. In other words, his actions are logical to him.”

“You said ‘attempt,’” Childers said. “That woman was pretty well wrapped up. How much more do you need to make a mummy?”

“If he had followed the ancient practices, he would have removed her organs and placed them in Canopic jars. Entombing Donna Camp in Underground Atlanta is too much to write off as chance.”

Beth and Pappas exchanged glances. That was basically the same comment Pell made regarding Jack.

“What the hell are we dealing with?” Ritson asked.

Jack was silent for a moment as he composed his thoughts.

“Despite what television and movies would like you to believe, we don’t have a large population of killers to study. Some comparisons are possible. Generally speaking, serial killers fall into two groups: sociopaths and psychopaths. The latter being the easiest to identify and catch.”

“Why?” Penny Fancher asked.

“Because they stand out and are easy to spot due to their behavior. As a rule, they’re white males between the ages of twenty-one and forty-two, badly adjusted, with little education, and often unemployed.”

A number of detectives in the room began taking notes. Jack paused to give them time.

“Sociopaths, on the other hand, are a cop’s nightmare. What’s the first thing we look for in a murder?”

“Motive,” Beth said.

Jack nodded. “With sociopaths, there isn’t always one, or at least their motives aren’t apparent. They’re generally well educated, follow what the police are doing carefully, and are adept at blending into a crowd and disappearing. Most of them are highly intelligent. This type often gets a kick out of seeing the police struggling to solve the case.”

Beth said, “The killer had an observation point set up at Lake Lanier.”

“But he didn’t do that at the farm or at Underground Atlanta, as far as we know, which is one of the inconsistencies that’s been bothering me,” Jack said. “Possibly the lack of cover didn’t allow for it.”

“What about the clues he’s been leaving?” Pappas said.

“According to Beth, he’s calling me out or trying to send me a message,” Jack said.

“I still think that,” Beth said. “I think he’s saying that if you don’t figure out what he’s up to, the victims’ deaths are your fault.”

“I agree,” Jack said. “To an extent. But there was no way for him to know I’d be called in where the first three people were concerned.”

“Unless he started keeping tabs on Beth or you,” Penny Fancher said.

Her comment brought silence to the room.

“Interesting,” Jack said. “Watching me, certainly. The scarecrow motif might have been enough to ensure that I’d be brought back. At best, it was a calculated gamble on his part. I hadn’t considered that he might be watching Beth, too.”

“What about territory?” Childers asked, looking at the map.

“Another good point,” Jack said. “There tend to be three types. The ones who lure you to their place, be it a home or someplace else they’re using—”

“That doesn’t work here,” Penny Fancher said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Jack agreed. “The second type stakes out an area to prey on, like the Boston Strangler or David Berkowitz in New York. By far, they’re the most common.”

Jack continued, “The last type seems to roam around when they go on their killing spree.”

“Which is what we’re dealing with,” Pappas said. “The asshole started in Jordan and he’s worked his way to Atlanta.”

“Is there a chance he’ll move on?” Beth asked.

“Maybe he’s like a shark,” Spruell said. “You know, he’s found a good feeding ground.”

“Possible,” Jack said. “The killer certainly seems more directed, particularly where I’m concerned. Everything he’s done has a purposeful feel to it, which is highly unusual in a serial killer.”

“This is all well and good,” Chief Ritson said. “Are we anywhere close to catching him?”

“I can’t say we are,” Jack said. “Obviously, we’re still trying to pin down the location of his latest victims. It’s been slow because he hasn’t left us much to go on.”

Ritson nodded.

“If you’re thinking of bringing in the FBI, I won’t argue against it,” Jack said.

Ritson considered this for a long moment. “No,” the Chief said. “This is our case and we’ve got a good team. Let’s find this bastard and put him out of business.”

N
oah Ritson caught Jack’s attention after the meeting ended and motioned with his head for him to follow. He nodded at Beth, “You, too, detective.”

Ritson’s office was large and contained photographs of him and Atlanta’s last five mayors, two governors, and a senator or two whose names Jack couldn’t remember. On a credenza to the left of his desk was a baseball bat autographed by most of the Atlanta Braves. Next to that was a football signed by the Falcons.

The deputy chief pointed them to two chairs and took a seat behind his desk.

He began, “Downstairs you asked me about bringing in the FBI. What about in a limited capacity as consultants?”

“In addition to me or as a replacement?” Jack asked.

“In addition.”

“I wouldn’t have a problem with that,” Jack said. Sensing the tension in Beth, he added, “Detective Sturgis disagrees, and she has a point where Pam and Aaron Dorsey are concerned. Until we know otherwise, we’re dealing with a kidnapping, and that’s FBI territory. We could easily lose the case. But I think that’s a secondary consideration.”

Ritson looked at Beth. “Your thoughts?”

“Finding Aaron and Pam Dorsey is our first concern,” she said. “That overrides everything else.”

Ritson nodded thoughtfully. “I’m glad you see it that way. You’ve both done excellent work. Unfortunately, the public and media have short memories. It all comes down to ‘What have you done for me lately?’”

“I still think we can crack this,” Beth responded.

“Professor?” Ritson said.

Jack took a deep breath then said. “If we’re going to catch him, the odds are increasing in our favor. Traditionally, serials go through several phases. The first is the buildup stage. After that, they’re often consumed by guilt or even horror at what they’ve done, on a subconscious level if nothing else. The second stage, which is typically more thought out and better planned, follows. Eventually, they reach the last stage.”

“Which is?” Ritson said.

“The time between the killings becomes shorter and shorter. The killer feels driven and compelled to act. Planning is more haphazard. Hopefully mistakes are made. I think we’re seeing that now with the abduction from Piedmont Park. It wasn’t exactly in broad daylight, but he’s taking chances. The video he sent is a prime example. There’s more information on it than he planned to let out.”

Ritson was quiet for a while. Seconds ticked by. From somewhere down in the street, the sound of a siren drifted up to them. “This is Monday,” he finally said. “Let’s keep working on those leads. Maybe we’ll get lucky and a few more will fall into our lap. I’ve authorized overtime and will give you more personnel if you need them. If we don’t turn up anything by the end of this week, we may have to revisit the situation.”

“We’ll catch him, Chief,” Beth said.

“You sound confident.”

“I am.”

“That settles it then,” Ritson said, standing up. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Beth and Jack stood as well. Jack held the door open for her. Ritson waited until she walked through and then said, “Oh, Kale, give me another minute, would you?”

Beth’s eyes flicked to Jack momentarily. She kept going.

“Close the door.”

Once they were alone, the deputy chief informed him, “There are a couple of things I want to clear up. We haven’t had a chance to talk.”

Jack’s mind immediately turned to the incident outside Wellington’s. Noah Ritson was known for having his finger on the department’s pulse and everything that went on inside it. He assumed Pappas, the cops, or possibly someone at the Detention Center had let word leak.

“What’s on your mind, Chief?”

“Have you ever wondered why I asked you to consult with us?”

“I think we both know the answer,” Jack said. “If I don’t help clear the case, the department can hide behind my failure. If we’re successful, so much the better for everyone concerned, particularly the victims.”

“You’re a cynical fellow, Dr. Kale. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Jack didn’t respond.

“I assume you know who Janet Newton is,” Ritson said.

“My former boss—Deputy Director Newton, now,” Jack said.

“When I first heard that Detective Sturgis asked for your help, I made a few calls. Janet Newton’s a friend of mine. We spoke. Afterward, I talked to SAC Bennet Harbaugh. They both share the same opinion of you—brilliant but wasting your talents teaching at Georgia Tech.”

Jack had nothing to comment, so he kept quiet.

“Interestingly, I learned both invited you to rejoin the Bureau after you completed a detox program, if I’m using the term right. You never took them up on it. I’d like to know why.”

“I’ve moved on since then,” Jack said. “Besides, Internal Affairs wouldn’t be thrilled to have me back.”

Ritson held his eye for a long moment, then said, “I hear things now and then about people in this department. Most of it is none of my business, but every once in a while, something falls into my lap that bears looking into.”

Here it comes
, Jack thought.

“A couple of nights ago, one of our mobile units noted a silver BMW parked after hours at a bar in a seedy part of town. They ran the plate and it came back belonging to you.”

“That’s true.”

“Normally, that wouldn’t bother me,” Ritson said. “A man’s entitled to take a drink when he’s off duty. But when you couple that with a passing motorist calling nine-one-one about nearly hitting a man staggering across Peachtree Road at three thirty in the morning, it raises some concerns. Was that you, Professor?”

“It was,” Jack said.

Ritson nodded, glanced out the window for a moment, and then turned back around. “My job is to protect the people of this city. I’ve been doing it for a long time. Sometimes that means putting our people in harm’s way. It doesn’t mean turning my back on a problem staring me in the face. You don’t strike me as an alcoholic. Why the detox?”

“Possible addiction to prescription medication. I suffer from panic attacks.”

The chief processed that for a moment. “I appreciate your honesty. What I really need to know is, can you do your job?”

“I can.”

“And not compromise the people working with you?”

“I can control it,” Jack said.

Ritson smiled at the comment.

Jack had had this conversation in the past . . . with Pappas, his wife, his father, his boss, even the DPR, FBI’s internal affairs unit. He was tired of explaining himself. Tired of being afraid. Tired of hiding the truth. He waited because there was no other choice. The possibility of being shut out of the case suddenly loomed very large. He didn’t know if he had convinced Ritson or not. He simply wanted to see it to an end.

Jack informed him, “I know that’s what every addict says. With the help of a psychologist, I’ve been trying to wean myself off the medication. I give you my word, the first minute I feel I can’t hack it, I’ll take myself out of the equation.”

“I think,” Ritson said, “the help you’ve given us has been substantial, possibly brilliant. According to Lieutenant Fancher, Detective Sturgis shares this opinion. Your efforts certainly saved that woman’s life at Underground Atlanta. Two minutes sooner and we might have done the same for Sandra Goldner. Not your fault, though.

“The one thing I won’t allow is for this department to be hurt, and by hurt I mean embarrassed. Continue with the investigation. Your colleagues like and trust you. That means something. If there’s a repeat of this behavior, you won’t have to worry about pulling yourself off the case. I’ll do it myself. Are we clear on that?”

“We are,” Jack said.

“You didn’t ask to be here. Maybe you were happy doing what you were doing. This is a chance for you to get back in if you want it. I know about your partner and what you must have gone through losing her like that. Unfortunately, it’s a dangerous business. Every time we go out there, we’re at risk. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I think so,” Jack said, fighting to keep his expression and breathing neutral. Connie Belasco’s face stared at him from inside a cloud drifting past the chief’s window.

Ritson went on. “Whatever led to that binge a few nights ago, put a cap on it and let’s catch this sonofabitch.”

*

Cold fingers touching her face caused Pam Dorsey to jump. She opened her eyes and was stunned to see her eight-year-old son leaning over her.
Somehow, he had managed to free himself from the plastic restraints. He was trying to peel the duct tape off her mouth. Once that was done, he went to work on the ties securing her hands. But there was nothing to cut them with.

“I can’t get them off, Mama,” he whispered.

Pam struggled into a sitting position. “It’s okay, Aaron. Let me think for a moment.”

Across from her, atop a box on the wall, a digital timer the policeman had left was counting down to zero. The display now read
178
. Something bad was going to happen. She couldn’t understand why he had taken their shoes and socks and left them lying in four inches of water, but she was certain the two were related. She looked around again.

What was this terrible place?

A tunnel of some sort, but like none she’d ever seen before. Overhead, a single bulb revealed a series of colored pipes that disappeared into a dark opening at the other side of the room. Ten feet to the right of the box on the wall was a flat, gray door that was probably an access panel like the one in her garage that led to their crawl space. It was more than three feet high. Other than the tunnel, it seemed to be the only way in or out. There was no way to be certain if the policeman had used it because she’d been unconscious at the time.

“Where are we?” Aaron whispered.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“It smells weird in here.”

“I know.”

“Can we get out?”

“We’re gonna try,” Pam said. “See if you can open that door.”

Aaron crawled through the water and tried only to find it was locked. He wedged his little fingers in the opening at the frame and pulled as hard as he could. After several seconds, he gave up and turned to his mother, shaking his head.

There has to be another way
, Pam thought.

She considered the tunnel again. No choice. The pipes took up most of the space, but if they walked single file, there was enough room. Even pipes have to come out someplace.

Aaron was back at her side looking at his mother hopefully.

“C’mon,” Pam said, keeping her voice down. “We’re leaving.”

Despite her hands still being secured by the plastic restraint, Pam Dorsey struggled to her feet, and together, mother and son started down the tunnel. They’d gotten no more than ten feet before Aaron said, “Wait.”

He scrambled back into the room and returned carrying his sailboat.