The Christmas Killer (20 page)

Jake scanned the ground, looking for anything the killer might have left behind. But it was useless, as he had known it would be. This was a man who took pride in his work. It mattered to him. He would not casually discard a cigarette butt or drop a candy wrapper.

You’re taunting us
, Jake thought.
Taunting us with just how good you are. You know that this is what we expect of you. You’re taking delight in living up to expectations now, at the same time as confounding them. Showing us you’re in complete control.

Slowly he approached. His steps rang out in the silence of the building. It was incredibly cold in the cavernous space, and his breath condensed before him. His eyes darted left and right. He was looking for anything: a wet spot that would indicate where someone had stood and waited, or a dark patch that could be blood.

There were a few cans and bottles against one of the walls. The warehouse had obviously become a hangout for winos or kids’ beer parties. Each one of the cans and bottles would have to be wrung through the mill of forensics.
Ronnie will love that.

Now that Jake was nearing the body, what he was looking for were signs of a struggle. Something knocked over or out of place. But with the furniture and fittings long gone, there was nothing left as a record of the last twelve hours.

Finally he was there. He stepped towards the body and bent, gently laying a hand on an outstretched arm. It was as cold as a cut of beef. He pressed the muscle and it felt firm. Rigor was well established, advanced. The corpse had been here all night.

Jake stepped back again and just looked. The body was of a mature man probably approaching forty. White, well fed but not overweight. He had dark hair and looked a bit scruffy, but he certainly hadn’t been living rough. Most murder victims come from the lower strata of society; not this guy. He was well dressed, but in a casual way. Unlike the other victims, this one had been laid out rather than dumped. But there was no element of staging to it. Some killers put their victims in elaborate poses as part of their signature. But this body seemed to have been laid out with a certain dignity, as if the killer had no more interest in it but was observing the decencies. The body was on its back, but his face was turned to the side.

Only the eyeballs were out. That was the first thing Jake had spotted, but now he looked properly. The head was the same as the other three – dark blotches of blood in the eye sockets, and bloody gelatinous strands of optic nerve leading to the lifeless eyes.

The facial features were distorted but strangely familiar. The distortion was caused by the destruction of the cheekbones and the crushing of the face. Jake could see the gaps in the teeth, and that the lower jaw had flopped down.

But, even so, Jake knew the man. His mind was able to reverse-engineer the face, imagining it with the jaw set correctly, the dental gaps filled in, the cheekbones restored and the livid white replaced with a healthy glow.

The dead man was Chuck Ford.

Jake and Mills were still at the scene, but they were no longer alone. The warehouse was swarming with cops, lab techs and hangers-on. Outside the media were camped, and every time an investigator came or went he was harassed by a chorus of questions and demands.

‘Four is the magic number,’ said Mills. ‘He’s officially a serial killer now.’

‘That’s going to make it difficult to keep the Feds out,’ said Jake. He was restless; he had gone outside more than once, but he kept coming back in. What was he missing? There had to be some clue he had overlooked. ‘Did we ever get that hunk of skin from Makowski’s shed tested?’ Jake asked. But whatever the answer was, he knew that Makowski hadn’t done this. Not a chance.

Mills nodded. ‘It belonged to Makowski.’

Jake noticed that everyone in the warehouse was gawping at him under their eyebrows – even if trying to look like they weren’t. Jake knew why. He had, after all, publicly assaulted the victim. He knew what was
crossing their minds. If it had involved someone else, it might have crossed his.

Jake turned as the noise from the journalists gathered outside rose. Colonel Asher had arrived, and he bustled through the ring of journalists like a man on a mission, not saying anything but striking a determined pose that would hopefully make the afternoon papers. Then he was through, barging his way across the floor towards the corpse.

Jake stepped in front of him. ‘We need to toss Ford’s house. Mills has—’

Asher glared at him. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m lead investigator.’

‘You have history with Ford.’

‘Are you saying I’m a suspect?’ Jake had stepped forward, deliberately entering Asher’s personal space. The chief was forced to take a step back.

‘Don’t be stupid, Detective!’ Asher told him. ‘You know how the press are going to play this one. You went for one of their own, and they’re going to tear you apart. You’ll be convicted as soon as their ink is dry.’

‘Who gives a fuck what they print?’ Jake said.

Jake could see Asher hadn’t been prepared for this response. He expected to be the one doing the shouting. Now Jake was putting him on the back foot. It was deliberate. Jake was in no mood for a dressing-down.

Asher stared back at Jake. ‘Mills is in charge now. He’s leading, you’re his secondary.’

‘And he has the experience for something like
this?’ asked Jake before he could stop himself. Immediately he turned and gave Mills a ‘No offence’ look, to which Mills responded with an affable ‘None taken’ headshake.

Asher glanced over his shoulder at the journalists in the distance. ‘I have to give them something, even if it’s bullshit. You will still be running the case the way you have been. But, officially, Mills goes down on the books as lead detective. Ego aside, Austin, you know it has to be this way.’

Jake held the colonel’s gaze for a long moment but said nothing. He turned to look at Mills, who had a platitude ready: ‘All that counts is that we get the fucker.’

Jake relaxed.
Focus on the job in hand. We’ll sort out the politics later.

Chuck Ford lived on Beachwood, which intersected Oakland Downes. That made him a near neighbour of the Harpers. Jake dismissed the thought almost immediately. He was trying to make connections where there were none. Marcia Lamb and Candy wouldn’t fit into this neighbourhood. He was clutching at straws when he should have been analysing the facts.

Beachwood was not as upmarket as Oakland Downes, but it was a close thing. The houses were a bit smaller, the yards not so expansive. But the cars in the driveways were as new and as luxurious. It was a kind of Oakland Downes Lite.

It wasn’t all residential; some of the buildings had been converted to commercial properties. Jake spotted one large old residence hosting a plastic surgery clinic, while another housed a firm of lawyers.

Mills pulled to the kerb about halfway down the street. The building they had stopped at was an old red-brick two-storey structure, quite large, with spaces for six cars marked in white paint at the end of the drive.
Two cars were there now. They had been there a while, judging by the layers of snow that had collected.

‘Swanky,’ said Jake.

‘It’s not all his – it’s been converted to luxury apartments,’ Mills replied. ‘They went for way more than a cop’s salary stretches to.’

‘Were you interested?’

Mills shook his head. ‘Beyond my budget. And it would have stretched Ford too.’

Both men got out of the car, and Jake surveyed the scene. He walked down the driveway. It was screened by trees and ornate hedging, so whoever approached would have been able to do so unobserved, especially at night.

I don’t think that mattered to you. You have no fear of being seen. Why is that?

Jake had reached the door now. He had seen no signs of disturbance. The yard was beautifully maintained, with symmetrical flower beds, now just greenery. But none of the plants looked damaged. There had been no struggle here.

You got in again. How do you keep doing that?

Jake looked at the list of names on the front door. Six bells. Six parking slots. None of the bells had Ford’s name on it. He rang one at random. Nothing. So he tried the next. The fourth one got a sleepy female voice over the intercom.

‘Leave it on the stoop,’ she said.

‘We’re police officers. We’re looking for Charles Ford’s apartment?’

‘Chuck?’ she sounded a lot more awake now. ‘He’s number 4. Is he in trouble?’

‘Thanks, ma’am. Can you open the door?’

There was a buzz, and Jake pushed the door open. Both cops stepped in. There were three doors off the main corridor: two to the right and one to the left.

There was a stairwell on the left, and Jake went up to the first floor. It was the same as the floor below. Apartment 4 was on the left. Jake stopped at the top of the stairs and looked. Nothing seemed out of place. The corridor was clean and well lit.

Mills was beside him now.

‘He got this far the way we did, and he probably just rang the bell and was let in,’ said Mills. ‘Somehow he seems to inspire trust in his victims.’

‘You’re learning,’ said Jake. ‘But it’s never that easy. I’d say he broke in and surprised Ford.’

Mills stepped forward and said, ‘Give me a minute before you go in. You know how sites become contaminated as soon as we arrive in force. I’m going to lift whatever’s on the bell.’

Quickly he removed a small vial of powder from his pocket and put some on his hand. He blew it gently on to the bell, then took out a roll of tape, taking off an inch. He laid it gently over the bell, then pulled. He then stuck the tape to a small laminated card and put it in a clear evidence bag.

‘We’d never be that lucky,’ said Jake.

Mills reached into another pocket and took out a small wallet, removing some tools.

‘I got the door,’ he said.

As soon as the door opened, the coppery smell of freshly spilt blood wafted out into the hallway.