Читать книгу Malicious - Jacob Stone - Страница 16

Chapter 9

Dennis Polk, one of MBI’s investigators, breezed into the conference room, gave Doug Gilman a smirk, Greg Malevich a nod, and Annie Walsh a wink before taking a seat next to Morris. Gilman showed no response, Malevich nodded back, and Walsh glowered at Polk.

“What, no doughnuts or nothin’?” Polk asked.

Morris sat slumped in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyelids drooping as if he wanted to take a nap. He turned his half-lidded eyes toward Polk for a ten-count before making sense of what Polk had asked.

“Greta’s ordering food,” he muttered.

Polk raised an eyebrow as he looked at his boss. “Late night?” he asked.

“The night would’ve been fine if this hadn’t happened.”

Polk looked around the room at the morose expressions on everyone’s faces. “Driving over there was nothing on the radio about a woman being found at Star Wax who’d been cut in half—”

“A third,” Walsh corrected.

Polk made a face as if she were unnecessarily nitpicking him. “Okay, a third.” He turned back to Morris. “So are you going to keep me in suspense any longer? You hinted earlier this was someone famous. Who was the unlucky lady?”

Gilman had dug through a briefcase, and now reached across the table to hand Polk the legal document that he had pulled out of it.

“I need you to sign an NDA before you can be told anything further,” Gilman said.

Polk gave him an incredulous look before raising another eyebrow at Morris.

“Is he serious?” he asked.

“Just sign it,” Morris said.

Polk signed it.

“Heather Brandley,” Morris told him.

It took Polk a few seconds before the name registered, and then he let out a long, low whistle.

“I haven’t seen her in anything in years, but I used to watch that show she was in. Hot Times in Miami. Damn, she looked good in a bikini.” He rubbed his chin, appearing deep in thought, which was unusual for Polk. “This is going to hit hard, especially given what happened to her. Are we waiting for Charlie and Fred?” he asked.

“Charlie’s tied up with the Crawford missing person investigation, Fred’s still undercover in San Diego. I’ll be filling them in later.”

“That’s too bad.” Polk looked disappointed. Needling Fred Lemmon was one of his favorite hobbies. “So who are we waiting for?”

“Gloria Finston.”

“The FBI profiler? The one who worked with us on the Malibu Butcher?”

“Yeah.”

“I like her. A smart cookie.”

“She’s certainly that,” Morris agreed. “Doug didn’t want me showing you this until you signed the NDA, but the killer left this message behind.”

He had a manila folder in front of him, and he took out a copy of the business card that had been pinned to Heather Brandley’s gown and handed it to Polk. As Polk looked at it, a hard, angry grin etched his face.

“You gotta to be kidding me,” Polk said.

“I’m afraid not.”

“This sonofabitch is challenging us. So we’re taking on the investigation, huh?”

“Still undecided.”

Walsh gave Morris an exasperated look. “What more do you need to make up your mind?” she asked.

“Let’s see how this meeting goes.”

There was a knock on the door, and MBI’s office manager, Greta Lindstrom, brought in a platter with bagels, lox, tomato, Bermuda onion slices, and cream cheese. Everyone but Gilman, who was still looking green around the gills, helped themselves to the food. Polk wolfed down a sandwich and was working on a second when there was another knock on the door, and Gloria Finston entered.

“Sorry if I’ve been holding you up,” she announced, her thin lips forming a tiny v. “I was in San Francisco when I got the call about this murder, and took the first plane I could.”

Finston was a slight, dark-haired woman in her forties. With her narrow face, longish, thin nose and small pale eyes, she reminded Morris of a sparrow. Smart as hell, though. Finston took the empty seat between Gilman and Walsh so that she sat across from Morris. She’d already been emailed the crime scene photos and knew about the business card that had been pinned to the victim’s body.

“Polk hasn’t finished off the bagels yet,” Morris said. “If you want one, I’d advise you to dig in now before he does.”

“I get hungry when I’m pissed,” Polk said. “And the card that sonofabitch left for us is doing the job.”

Morris understood Polk’s anger because the killer’s message had the same effect on him. He asked Finston if she wanted anything to drink.

“Tea would be lovely. Chamomile if you have any.”

Morris called Greta on his cell phone and asked if she could bring in a cup of chamomile tea. When he got off the phone, Finston asked him if the ME would be joining them.

Walsh spoke up. “It was tricky disengaging the victim from the crime scene.” She checked her watch. “Roger only got the body in for a postmortem examination an hour ago. He’ll be calling with his findings.”

“That shouldn’t take long,” Polk wisecracked. “It’s not like he’s got that much to work with.”

Morris ignored him and asked Finston whether she’d had a chance to look over the materials that had been emailed to her.

“Yes, of course.”

“So you know everything we do. What’s your take on the killer?”

Finston showed another of her tiny v smiles, this one with a sharper edge. “We’re dealing with a narcissistic personality, and one who is extremely detail oriented,” she said. “The precision involved in this murder is quite extraordinary. I would guess that he’s been planning this for months, if not longer, and he certainly has other murders planned. He picked Ms. Brandley for a reason. She wasn’t a random victim.”

“It wasn’t that well planned out,” Walsh argued. “If he had repaired the power line before leaving, it’s possible customers would’ve seen Brandley’s corpse spinning around in that exhibit.”

“I don’t think that was important to him. He left Ms. Brandley the way he did for the police, not for the public. And of course, for you, Morris.”

“What about that message?” Morris asked.

“He wants you involved.”

“For what purpose? As a challenge?”

Finston shrugged her thin shoulders. “I don’t know. The killer has worked out some sort of overarching, grandiose story that he wants to impress the world with, and for some reason he’s included you to be part of it.”

Greg Malevich cleared his throat loudly enough to get everyone’s attention. “What if it’s not a serial killer,” he said. “Why couldn’t it be someone who wanted Heather Brandley dead, and came up with this to have us chasing after a serial killer who doesn’t exist?”

“It’s not impossible, and it should be looked into,” Finston conceded. “But given the elaborate measures that went into this killing, the other scenario is far more likely. I’m confident that we’ll be hearing from the ME that Ms. Brandley was drugged and unconscious when she was murdered, and that will also support that we’re dealing with a serial killer who will be killing again soon.”

“Why is that?” Malevich asked, unconvinced.

“Because I believe our killer is only interested in telling his story, and not in the pain he inflicts on his victims.”

Malevich mumbled something under his breath indicating that he still wasn’t convinced. Morris asked Finston, “Assuming you’re right and this is what it looks like, what happens if I don’t get involved?”

“He’ll make you get involved.”

“How?”

“He’ll start targeting people close to you.”

That was the answer Morris both expected and dreaded. Before he could say anything else, Walsh’s cell phone vibrated as it sat on the conference table. After a quick glance at the phone, Walsh informed the room that it was Roger Smichen. She answered the call, putting the phone on speaker. Walsh told the ME who was in the room.

Finston spoke up. “Hi Roger,” she said. “It’s me, Gloria Finston from the FBI. We worked together six months ago. Was the victim drugged?”

“Yes. There was enough pentobarbital in her system to have induced a coma. It might even have been the cause of death.”

“So in your opinion she was unconscious when she was killed?”

“Yes, without a doubt.”

“How easy is it to obtain pentobarbital?” Morris asked.

“It’s a schedule two drug. The FBI can answer that better than I can.”

“Anything else you can tell us?” Walsh asked.

“The best I can do is a three-hour window for time of death, putting it between five p.m. and eight p.m. yesterday. I started having thoughts after all of you left that a guillotine-type device might’ve been used, but on closer examination I was right the first time. A circular saw was used. Twenty-four-inch blade. No other indications of trauma or injury. I was unable to find a needle mark, so she was injected on a part of her body that we don’t possess.” Smichen’s voice dropped off before he added almost apologetically, “Her stomach was shorn open by the saw, and the contents must’ve been lost then, so I can’t tell you what she ate last. That’s about it, other than the plastic sheeting glued to her body. This was done meticulously. Almost surgically. I found no other foreign substance on her.”

Walsh said, “The perp must’ve cleaned her off after killing her.”

“Most likely. Look folks, I’ve got other bodies piling up here, so I’ve got to beg off this call.”

A click could be heard as Smichen disconnected the call from his end. Finston showed Morris another of her v smiles and asked what it was that was weighing so heavily on him.

“I can’t fool a profiler, can I?” Morris said.

“None that I know who work for the FBI.”

“I’ll take your word on it. I’m also guessing you already know what I want to ask you.”

“I think I do. Whether we have a better chance of catching the killer if you join the investigation and keep him on script, or if you don’t so that he attempts to improvise other murders to draw you in.”

“Very good,” Morris said.

Finston looked pleased with herself. “Even if we ignore the value that you and your team would bring to the investigation, we would be better keeping him on script. He would be more predictable that way, and I’m sure the other murders he has planned are as complex and risky as this one, which makes it more likely that he’ll make a mistake and give himself away. Also, no matter what we might say in a press release, he’s going to want to verify for himself that you’re involved, which means he’ll be watching for you at one of his future murder sites.”

“We need to have someone shadowing me and looking for him.”

“Exactly.”

Morris mulled this over. He wasn’t sure whether Finston was leveling with him or telling him only what he wanted to hear as a way to ease his conscience. If he forced this killer off script by refusing to play his game, and the killer chose someone close to Morris to force his hand, the police could be watching for that and would have a reasonably good chance of trapping this psycho. After the Malibu Butcher case, Morris had promised Natalie that MBI wouldn’t take on any more murder investigations, and for his own well-being he didn’t want to get near another serial killer, but he wasn’t going to allow his wife or his daughter Rachel to be used as staked goats no matter how much police protection they were given. He knew the moment he read Gilman’s text message that he was going to have to take this assignment no matter how much he had tried kidding himself otherwise.

His voice flat, Morris asked, “Let’s say MBI gets involved and we keep this killer on script. Couldn’t he still target someone close to me?”

“I don’t believe so. If he were planning to do that, I think he would’ve done it with his first murder. He has a specific story he wants to tell with these murders, and I’m confident that as long as you cooperate and play nice, he’ll stick to only telling his story.”

Morris took a deep, long breath through his nose and told Doug Gilman, “MBI’s available if you want to hire us.”