The Christmas Killer (10 page)

Jake, Mills and Asher stood in the small construction site office. It had been cleared out for them and turned into a temporary command post. There was a desk and chairs but they all stood. A cop was at the door, keeping the press at bay. A fresh pot of coffee was percolating, and the men were staring at each other gloomily. This was rapidly becoming bigger than they were able to handle.

‘It’s not a serial killer,’ said Asher to no one in particular. Jake could have added ‘yet’ to his sentence. Of course he also could have pointed out that, technically, a killer only became a serial killer with three victims spread over a month or more. So what did that make his guy? A ‘mass murderer’?

That didn’t exactly sound any better.

‘We could call in the Feds,’ Asher went on, sounding like he was voicing all the thoughts his mind was running through. ‘They have experience with this sort of thing. But since the deaths have not crossed state lines yet, it’s our choice.’ He looked right at Jake. ‘Can we handle it?’

Jake considered the question. Instinctively, he agreed the smart play was to postpone any decision for another few hours. Who knew what the local investigation might throw up?

‘I have a contact in Quantico,’ said Jake. ‘I can ask him to run through the bureau’s databases, see if the MO rings any bells. That way we don’t have to make it official for the moment.’

‘Maybe they could do us a profile,’ suggested Mills.

‘That’s overrated,’ replied Jake. ‘It can often lead investigations down the wrong path.’ He took a second before saying, ‘We can call in Gail Greene, the doctor who helped with Johnny Cooper. She might have a theory about what kind of man we’re looking for.’

‘I suppose we need to break this to Harper,’ Asher sighed. ‘I’ll send a cruiser out to City Hall and get him to come to the station for a briefing.’

‘Thanks, Colonel,’ said Jake. Breaking news like this was the worst part of the job, in Jake’s opinion. He was relieved he wouldn’t have to do it. ‘Mills and I will check out Harper’s house.’
We have to. He’s killing in a hurry, so hopefully he’ll be careless and leave a clue somewhere
. And Jake had a feeling they’d find the kill site there.

Asher cleared his throat, the cue to end the meeting. He left the office to get a car to take him back to the station. So far only three of them knew the identity of the victim, and they were determined to keep it that way.

Jake and Mills followed him from the office and walked silently through the press. There were about six
newspaper guys, two photographers and a TV news crew. Chuck Ford was near the front, a look of feral pleasure in his eyes.

‘Did he pop the eyes again?’ he shouted, pushing towards Jake. ‘Is it the Christmas Killer?’

Jake and Mills pushed past the reporters and headed towards their car.

‘Did you have a man tracking Sonny Malone last night? Do you know where he is?’ Ford asked.

‘No questions at this point,’ said Mills.

‘Who’s the victim?’ Ford persisted.

‘She’s the body over by the lab coats at the end of the blacktop,’ said Mills.

‘Are the police treating this whole matter as a bit of a joke?’ Ford shot back.

Jake gripped Mills by the shoulder and propelled him towards the car. ‘Enough,’ Jake hissed. He was getting sick of Mills’s jokes as much as everyone else was. ‘Don’t give the press an inch. You don’t play with them. You don’t say anything. Not even to be funny. They’re scum.’

Jake got in the driver’s seat and Mills sat down beside him. Jake prayed that Mills wouldn’t utter a word. Jake was afraid he might lose it if he did.

‘Bit of an overreaction there,’ said Mills as they pulled out on to the road.

Jake didn’t answer, carrying on driving while Mills made a noise like he was preparing to speak – which, if Jake was honest, he could have done without.

‘Any chance Harper is our guy?’

Jake eased the car around a corner. He had been wondering the same thing. But did it fit?

‘I don’t see him as the serial killer type,’ he answered, ‘but you can never tell. This could be an elaborate set-up to kill his own wife. First he kills Marcia Lamb, then he goes after his real target while we’re misdirected, chasing up a potential serial killer that doesn’t exist.’

‘I can’t see Mitch having the balls for that.’

‘You know him better than me,’ said Jake. ‘But we still have to regard him as a person of interest.’

After calling in for the address, Jake took a scenic route to Harper’s house in case the press was following them. When he was sure they had no tail, he cut through the centre of Littleton and straight out to Oakland Downes. Mills, presumably distracting himself from the stress of the case, asked Jake what he was doing for Christmas and did his family have any traditions.

‘Shit,’ Jake mumbled. ‘Just realized, I still have no idea what to get Leigh. And she’s probably already figured mine out, which will be nice and thoughtful, and all that stuff. I tell you, this is why I hate Christmas.’

‘I love it,’ said Mills, cheer suddenly flooding his voice. Jake could feel the big man’s relief at getting to think about something other than the case that had him rattled. ‘Well, normally I do. Normally, you get to kick back, relax, hit the reset button. This year, though …’

Jake didn’t answer. They were in Oakland Downes
now. The houses here were large, well spaced and each set in what Jake imagined were beautifully maintained, landscaped lawns. It was hard to tell with all the snow. Trees dotted the front yards, and the road wound indolently. Middle-America aspirations on steroids. There was less in the way of Christmas decorations in front of the homes, and Jake speculated that was because the residents of Oakland Downes were more likely to spend their holidays elsewhere.

They pulled up outside the Harper residence. It looked peaceful. Normal. A bright red SUV was in the driveway. Harper’s black Lincoln was still parked outside police headquarters, where he had left it after his unscheduled visit led to him accompanying them to the site of his wife’s body. The SUV belonged to Belinda, which meant she hadn’t gone out last night. Jake felt more certain she was murdered here.

‘Before we go in, tell me about Belinda,’ said Jake. ‘What sort of a woman was she?’

‘Beautiful,’ said Mills. ‘At high school she was the cheerleader we all got woodies over. And she knew it. But she could be a bitch. She’d lure you in with her looks, then cut you in half with a few words. You didn’t want her as an enemy.’

Jake drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. ‘What were her interests?’

‘Belinda was interested in Belinda. She was head of the cheerleading squad, home-coming queen, the all-round queen bee. We all knew she’d go to a good
small college, get a Mickey Mouse degree, come home and marry well.’

‘How did she get together with Harper?’

Mills shrugged. ‘He was a couple of years older than her, and he was making money. No great mystery there.’

‘Are they happy?’ Jake asked, then caught himself. ‘
Were
they?’

‘I’m no expert,’ said Mills.

‘That doesn’t sound like a resounding yes.’

‘Well, Mitch has his little flings on the side, the way you do.’

‘Some of us don’t,’ said Jake.

Mills just shrugged. ‘Good for you. And anyway Belinda played around too. I heard she had a thing going with their accountant for a while.’

It surprised Jake that Mills would know all this gossip. Sometimes he forgot how small small-town America was.

‘And Mitch was OK with that?’

‘Of course not. He fired the accountant.’ Mills grinned. ‘Hey, it might not even be true. It’s just what I heard.’

‘Do you think it could be the accountant killed her?’ asked Jake. ‘Jealous rage? Maybe Marcia Lamb was a dry run, a rehearsal?’

‘Last I heard, the accountant moved out of state. We’ll look into it.’

Jake opened the driver’s-side door. ‘You wait here.’

‘Fine by me,’ said Mills, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes as if about to go to sleep.

Jake stood at the top of the drive and scanned the lawn. There were no fences separating the properties on this side of town. The lawns were probably maintained by a landscaping company employed by the residents. Jake couldn’t see Mitch Harper pushing his own mower.

The snow on the lawn was undisturbed, the path was shovelled and gritted. No clue to the violence he suspected lay beyond the hall door. He didn’t want to go in just yet. He circled around to the back of the house, looking for anything that seemed out of place. But it was the same: no sign of a disturbance. He took a cursory look into a wooden shed at the back, and saw two bicycles and some garden tools. Nothing for him there. He finished his circuit of the house and rejoined Mills, who was now out of the car and sitting propped on the hood.

Finally Jake walked up to the front door. A wreath had been pinned to it – the Harpers might not have had travel plans this holiday season. Pulling his jacket sleeve over his hand, he touched the door handle and pushed, but nothing happened. Somehow he expected it to just spring open.

‘Locked?’ asked Mills. He had joined Jake at the door.

‘Flowerpot?’ Jake suggested. But when he lifted the flowerpot beside the door, he saw nothing except spilled soil and woodlice.

‘We can go to the station and pick up a key from Harper,’ said Jake, ‘but we’re losing valuable time.’

Mills smiled. ‘I think I hear a sound inside. We know the lady of the house is not home, so it might be burglars. That gives us PC.’

Jake shook his head. ‘Nice idea, but probable cause or not, I don’t want damage to the door. This is very likely our primary crime scene.’

‘I’m way ahead of you,’ said Mills, removing a pen from his jacket pocket. He unscrewed the pen and tipped it upside down. A straightened paper clip fell out. He slipped it into the lock and gently jigged it up and down. It didn’t take long for him to twist the clip and pop the lock open. The door swung inwards.

‘That was pretty neat,’ said Jake.

‘I have my uses,’ Mills replied and held the door open for him. ‘After you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jake.

He stepped into the hall and prepared himself to see a bloodbath.

Everything in the hall was immaculate, top of the range. The floor was tiled in a black and white diamond pattern. Marble. A small off-white table stood over by one wall. The table held a telephone, with a notebook and pen beside it. A few unopened Christmas cards were stacked. Apart from that, and a coat rack, the hallway was empty. Jake waited for the impressions to come, for the sights of the room to sink into his subconscious, and for the inner voice to begin telling him what he needed to know.

A staircase led up from the hall. Running up the stairs was a series of small paintings. Four Gustav Klimt reproductions. Jake calmed his breathing and continued to look slowly around. He could feel it beginning: his thoughts were becoming cloudy, but a voice inside his head was waiting until he was quiet enough to listen to its whispered message.

The phone was an old model and, like the Klimts, repro. It lay on its side on the small table, with the handset on the floor. Jake’s eyes followed a natural line, up past the table, the fallen phone and on to the stairs. One painting – the third one up – was disturbed. It was
not just slightly crooked – that could happen by chance. No. It was leaning at about forty degrees. That was more than simple bad housekeeping. Belinda had struck the painting during her flight up the stairs.

‘It will be on the second floor,’ said Mills quietly. Jake tuned him out.

You didn’t knock her out and drag her inside this time. You came to the door and she let you in. Why the change? Did you know her? What did you say to get her to let you in?

You’re inside, and now she knows that she shouldn’t have let you in. Ten, fifteen seconds between knocking and taking the first step into the hallway. What happened to tip her off so quickly? Did you show her the weapon? Did she see it herself?

Are you slipping up?

Jake looked back at the crooked painting on the wall. He turned his head to the angle it was set at.

Yes, you wanted to strike immediately, take her totally by surprise. But when you raised the weapon, she ran. You ran after her. You could see her ahead of you, her arms spread. She was frantic. Did she scream?

Jake walked slowly up the stairs, past the canvases on the wall, past the crooked one. The stairs turned then led to the landing, where a discarded shoe lay beside a broken mirror.

Her panic was increasing. You didn’t catch her. Not immediately. But she had no place to run to. Did you deliberately let her stay ahead of you, or were you too slow? I think you were toying with her.

No, that doesn’t feel right. You wouldn’t toy with her
–
this is all too important to you. You set about it all too deliberately. You’re not just acting on impulse … You see this as your
work.

At the top of the stairs Jake had the choice of right or left. He chose left and walked down the landing, past more crooked pictures. Two doors led off on either side. Three bedrooms and the master bathroom, he guessed.

She was running towards her bedroom, her place of sanctuary. But it’s a dead end. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Who could, with you behind? Not a knife. Something blunt and heavy, something to crush and beat her skull.

The final door on the right. Jake didn’t need his inner voice to tell him it was the one. The bedroom door handle was lying on the floor, broken, and the door was half off its hinges.

She was still ahead of you. She made it to the bedroom. She was inside, pushing the door closed against you. She got it closed. She was locking it, probably had a telephone in the room. You couldn’t have that. You kicked in the door, using your relentless strength. The strength of a man on a mission. Whatever your purpose is, you needed her for it. Your purpose gives you a reason to remove their eyes and their teeth. That’s your signature.

But why Belinda Harper?

She was screaming. Begging you not to do it. Asking why. She wouldn’t stop. You’d make her stop.

Jake stopped at the mangled door. He composed himself, then put a toe on the lower edge of the door, and swung it open. The stench hit him like a punch in the face.

Mills stood behind him and drew in his breath.

The bedroom looked more like an abattoir.