The Killing Game (22 page)

“Gregory? My Lord, what did you … where’s your hair?”

He shook his head as he sat. “Don’t ask, Ema. Just don’t ask.”

She put on pout lips and downcast eyes. As if all was normal, they ordered, a seafood omelet for her, stripped-down salad for Gregory, spinach and walnuts with chick peas. The waiter brought a small pitcher of honey without turning it into an ordeal.

Ema masticated in silence, occasionally daring a glance at Gregory’s shining cranium. After five minutes Gregory performed a complex expression – heavy sigh through fluttering lips and a raised left eyebrow morphing into a head-roll with closed eyes – then set his fork aside and looked at his sister.

“I don’t know where to start, Ema.”

Ema clapped her chubby hands like a seal. “At the
beginning
, dear.”

“A couple weeks ago I was at a grocery near downtown. A sign on the bulletin board asked for volunteers at an elementary school down the street. I don’t know what came over me, Ema. I, that is…” Gregory pulled a face found in a magazine ad:
I Never Believed Tiles Could Get This Clean.

Ema’s mouth dropped wide. “You went in and volunteered?”

“You’ve always nagged me to get out and meet people. I signed up for the after-hours program. It’s nothing really, assisting with math skills, reading…”

“You’re using your knowledge to help children,” Ema gushed. “And you know so much.”

Gregory frowned. “I’m not teaching quadratic equations, Ema. It’s addition and subtraction.”

Ema looked ready to tip over from joy. They’d have to rent a crane to get her upright. “You’re making the world better, Gregory. I’m so proud.” She paused. “But how does that explain your hair?”

“The children are lower-income,” Gregory said. “Some don’t live in the most sanitary conditions. We sit close for our studies.”

Blank confusion filled Ema’s face. “I don’t get it.”

“I caught head lice, Ema. I had to shave my head and apply medicine. Don’t look at me like that, I’m fine.”

“But you have to keep your head … bald?”

Gregory sat back. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course not. But I’m going to. At least for a while.” He patted his dome. “Sort of a badge of honor. And it’s certainly easy to care for.”

Ema giggled. “No shampoo. No combs or brushes.” She moved her own head side to side, checking Gregory’s shiny pate. “Now that I’m getting used to you like that, it’s actually kind of cute.” She tittered. “Maybe even sexy. Are there any ladies in the volunteer program?”

“It seems men are at a premium. I’m the sole male.”

A sly grin. “Any ladies of your age?”

Gregory rolled his eyes. “Ema…”

“Oh, all right,” she trilled. “Be coy. You should call Dr Szekely and tell her you’re helping children. She’d be delighted.”

Gregory’s eyes darkened. “I’m not required to see Szekely any more, Ema.”

“I know that, silly. But you should tell her. It’s a huge step, Gregory. You’re a community volunteer.” Ema looked at Gregory and tears came to her eyes.

“No waterworks, Ema,” Gregory sighed, “it’s only a couple hours a week.”

“Two hours or two minutes, I’m so proud of you.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Gregory said. “Now that you know my secret.”

“Anything, dear. Like what?”

Gregory knit his brow and stared at the ceiling, as if searching for an idea. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you could tell me more about police shows. That was mildly interesting.”

While I waited for Tom Mason to return from Baggs’s office, my cell rang. I checked the screen, saw
Hernandez
. The name didn’t register for two beats, then I recalled the slim, mustached guy who worked for Animal Control. I pulled the phone to my ear.

“Tell me you’re only calling to see how I’m doing, Al.”

“Wish I could, Detective. I’m back under the bridge. Four more feline carcasses that I can see. You want me to bag them?”

I thought about what Clair’d say if I brought her another sack of mutilated cats. “I doubt there’d be anything new to discover, Al. We know what’s happening. At least the body count seems to be slowing.”

“There’s that, I guess. These people, Detective Ryder … they ever become normal again?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“I was afraid of that. I’ll keep you informed.”

I looked up and saw Tom crossing the floor, his meeting with Baggs over. I was in his shadow two seconds later and we went into his office and closed the door.

Tom said, “Piss-it is up and running, Carson. You and Harry decide who does what. I’ll send out departmental notification.”

My mouth fell open. “What did you say to Baggs? He was dead-set against it.”

“Baggs is ten per cent cop, forty per cent lawyer, fifty per cent politician. I explained if you and Harry were running the case and it went off the rails, he could point to you and say, ‘Not my fault. These guys assured me they could do the job.’”

I jammed my hands in my pockets and stared out the window. “Harry and I get the shitstorm and Baggs lives to fight another day.”

Tom’s lean brown hand squeezed my shoulder. “Just get it done, Carson. Baggs is right about one thing: it’s a nightmare in waiting.”

I nodded half-heartedly and went to our cubicle. Now in control of the action, at least in a titular fashion, we could call in specialists.

“I want Doc Kavanaugh to consult on this one,” I told Harry.

He shot a thumbs up. “See if she can get here yesterday.”

Dr Alec Kavanaugh arrived a half-hour later. She was a psychologist who had done exemplary work with the MPD in the past. Doc K was in her early forties, willow-slender, with huge brown eyes in a pale oval face. Her prematurely white hair fell to her mid-back when unleashed. She moved like a kite in a gentle breeze and reminded me of a female wizard, lacking only a glittery wand to complete the effect.

“He’s intelligent and educated,” Doc Kavanaugh said after studying the YouTube video, envelope, and message. “Word choice is clear and precise, comma placement exact. There’s rhyme and a sense of meter. I also doubt the fortune-cookie-sized message is accidental.”

“He’s predicting the future?” Tom said. “More to come?”

“I hope I’m wrong. You say this guy – and I’d bet my shrink license it’s a male – killed three people you know about?”

I had the case files in front of me, pushed them her way. She lofted reading glasses from the beaded lanyard around her graceful neck and read the overviews.

“Crossbow bolt?” she said, wincing. “Plus a knife and a … what did it say in the ME’s report? Ax or hatchet-type blade with sharp-edged side and a blunt side. Did any of the deaths occur where a gunshot wouldn’t have been heard?”

“The last one – Lampson. It was isolated.”

“If the killer is choosing weapons to fit the conditions, a handgun would have been the obvious choice.” She reached for the pre-autopsy photos of Lampson. “The victim was over six feet tall and obviously worked out, potentially formidable. Yet the killer chose a blunt ax or club. Why?”

“He also played with the vic, Doc,” I said. “At least, that’s how it looks from blood spatter.”

Dr Kavanaugh stared at the ceiling for several moments, assembling the facts in her head. The calm exterior was deceptive, her lightning-fast mind calling up previous experiences, weighing facts, consulting reference books, hearing expert testimony. All heavily dosed with intuition.

“He’s liking what he’s doing,” she finally said. “Or perhaps I should say he’s getting comfortable with it. The first attack was an arrow shot from distance. The next time he went close enough to use a knife.”

“And now he’s going berserk with a freaking hatchet,” I said. “Chopping his victim in the living room, chasing him into the bedroom for a slow kill.”

“I’m intrigued by the weaponry,” she said. “Arrow, knife, hatchet-slash-ax. It has meaning.”

“Strangest assortment I’ve ever encountered,” Tom said.

“Woo-woo-woo,” Harry said, patting his lips.

“What?” Kavanaugh said.

“It’s what Tommy Brink thought his attacker said. ‘That Indian thing,’ is what the kid said. ‘Woo-woo-woo.’”

Kavanaugh stared at Harry. The phone rang and Tom picked it up. Listened.

Whispered, “My Lord.”

We were at the scene fifteen minutes later, a wooded field beside a white complex with a long and broad lawn, the sign by the street proclaiming
MAGNOLIA VILLA – A FULL-SERVICE RETIREMENT COMMUNITY
.
The forensics van was there, as was an ambulance and three patrol cruisers, another pulling in – Horse Austin and his young partner, Mailey. The kid exited and I watched Austin turn away and bring something to his lips, then jam it beneath the seat. When he got out I caught a glimpse of brown bag on the floorboard.

“A bit far from your beat, Horse,” I noted as Austin slapped his hat on his head. “I thought you worked the second district.”

Austin chomped a heavy wad of gum. “Goddamn brass hats keep moving us like a game of fuckin’ checkers. I been on three beats in five years.”

Current wisdom preferred cops working regular beats to improve relations with the citizenry. I figured the blustering, ticket-plastering, quick-to-his-nightstick Austin had quickly worn out his welcome in the districts.

Harry pointed to an old school bus painted blue, the MPD logo on its side. “What you think they brought the bus for?”

“Probably the police-academy types,” Austin grumbled. “They been using ’em on searches alongside the Civil Air Patrol cadets.”

“It’s a good idea,” I told Austin. “The recruits may need to coordinate searches in the future.”

“Buncha meddling kids.” Austin arched his back and belched. The duo turned and trudged toward the command vehicle ahead, but Austin stopped dead in his tracks, as if something had entered his mind. Mailey kept walking, but Austin headed back to me, one eye narrowed.

“I heard some weird scuttlebutt, Ryder. Even knowing you, I can’t quite believe things I’m hearing.”

“Can’t believe what, Horse?”

“That you caused these killings.”

“
What?
”

“You did some fool thing that got this fucker riled up, pushed his buttons. You make out like you’re the big expert in psychos and you go and set one off.”

I walked to Austin and looked him in the eyes. “No one could believe that,” I said, “unless they were simple-minded.”

He cracked his chewing gum and shrugged. “Just repeating what’s in the wind, Ryder.”

Harry walked up. “You got a job to do somewhere, Austin?”

Austin grinned and turned away.

“I wonder who’s spreading that story?” I said to Harry, watching Austin make his lazy way to the command post.

“Who cares?” Harry said. “No one’s gonna believe it.”

We veered toward the woods, seeing activity behind the trees. I pushed through the brush and crossed a dry creek bed. The woods thinned out and I saw a form sprawled on the ground. It resolved into a woman’s body, elderly, gray hair, wrinkled skin on her arms. She was turned away from me, shoeless, blood on the back of her blue dress, two inches of blood-covered metal sticking out of the fabric.

Clair was kneeling beside the body. She looked up and saw me, showing no emotion. Whatever issues divided us at present, they held zero sway here.

“There’s some kind of metal point emerging from the victim’s back,” she said. “And a wire device hanging from a wound in her upper abdomen. Any ideas?”

I knelt and took the wire in my gloved fingers. “It’s from a fishing spear, Clair. The kind shot from a gun.”

“Where’s the shaft?”

“With the perp, I imagine. The shaft detaches to make it easy to remove from the fish.”

Clair shook her head. “A spear gun. I thought I’d seen everything.”

I walked twenty densely wooded feet to the fence, on the other side of which was the mown grass of the facility. I found the victim’s shoes snagged in briars. A dozen feet on the far side of the fence was a trio of trees and a low-cut hedge, a cast-iron bench at the foot of the trees. I pulled at the base of the hurricane fence. Two vertical cuts had been made in the mesh, a yard apart, a couple feet high. The fence opened like a top-hinged doggie door.

I figured the killer had been hidden on the woods side of the fence, his victim on the other. He’d fired the spear and she’d dropped, the impact like a ball bat swung by Barry Bonds. Hopefully she’d been unconscious when pulled across the grass and through the fence, her shoes snagged by branches or vines as he hauled her into the woods.

I explained the scenario to a forensics tech, then walked to the street where Harry and Tom were talking to a trim, fiftyish woman in a white uniform. A card on her breast gave her name and title,
JENNY WILKES – DAY SUPERVISOR
. Her face was puffy from crying.

“We called as soon as we missed Harriet,” the woman said.

“You let a patient with Alzheimer’s wander alone?” Tom asked.

“Harriet always visited the same places. You can see everywhere from the building. The entire property is fenced. And it was early. Harriet was usually more clear-headed in the morning.”

Harry said, “The last anyone saw her was…”

“Right after breakfast. She was going to take a walk and be back before nine, like always, as regular as a clock. When no one saw Harriet at nine, we sent the staff out. When we couldn’t find her we called the police.”

I pointed to the bench beneath the trees. “Ms Ralway liked to sit there in the morning?”

“Every day the weather allowed.”

I jogged a couple hundred feet, stopping short of the building. The area preferred by the victim was at a slight incline. Harry was beside the bench, but I couldn’t see below his calves, the effect of the incline. I ran back.

“Look at the building from the ground,” I told Harry.

Harry lowered to his hands and knees. His head was shaking as he stood.

“On the ground is out of sight.”

“The perp used the fishing line to pull her across the grass and into the woods.”

“Fishing line could handle it?”

I’d spear-fished reefs in the Caribbean, knew the gear. “Five-hundred-pound test is a fairly standard line,” I said. “You can get big-game lines that handle a couple thousand pounds.”