Aim to Kill (21 page)

“He’d be in a house, not an apartment,” Olivia said.

Doug nodded. “A place where no one could see him carry a body back and forth from a car into his house.”

“Attached garage or some acreage.”

“Or maybe he takes the victim to a far-off location to kill her, then dumps her body in town,” Zack said.

“Either way we’re looking for a private area,” Pierson agreed.

“Why dump the body in town? He could leave them exposed in the mountains and few people would find them.” Olivia thought about the twelve-year-long Bozeman Butcher investigation. They still hadn’t recovered all the known victims, and probably never would.

“Except for the first victim,” Zack reminded her. He told the room what he and Olivia had discussed about the possible spontaneous first murder, the body left in a more remote location, making a speedy discovery less likely.

No one had a good answer as to why the killer dumped the subsequent bodies in town.

Zack said, “I asked Doug to work with the labs in other jurisdictions where similar crimes occurred, thanks to the information provided by Agent St. Martin. The markings on the victim’s forearm bugged both Doug and me. Neither the coroner nor a cursory search in the criminal database yielded anything close to it.”

“The marks were made postmortem,” Doug said. “Twelve punctures in the victim’s forearm, uniform in appearance.”

Chief Pierson asked, “Does the number twelve mean anything? Is it a count of his victims?”

“We considered that, except that all his victims have the same twelve punctures. Twelve can mean anything—there are twelve apostles in the Bible, twelve is a dozen, it could be the age he thinks his victims are, almost anything,” Doug said.

“That’s why I asked you to contact the Seattle bureau,” Zack said to Pierson. “
Agent St.
Martin says their research department can look into it and see if it’s significant.”

“But we don’t need to consult with them anymore,” Doug said, “because we figured it out. At least, I think we did.”

“You did,” Zack assured him.

Doug stepped away from a corkboard where three sets of two pictures were posted. Olivia instantly recognized the second picture as being taken with a microscope camera. The cuts, which on the surface looked like punctures—almost like commas—were actually two distinct marks.

“The top pictures are from Michelle Davidson, the middle from Jennifer Benedict, the bottom from a victim in
Massachusetts
. As you can see, the marks are virtually identical on each victim. Clearly, this ‘signature,’ for lack of a better word, ties our killer with
Massachusetts
. And the other labs I spoke with have similar files, though many are in storage, as the cases go back twenty or thirty years.”

“Doug has done a fabulous job getting this information,” Zack said. “We have virtually every other jurisdiction working with us on this. We’re getting more information through fax and e-mail, and boxes of evidence shipped to us. But, because of the sensitive nature in dealing with
Kansas
and
Kentucky
because they convicted someone for those crimes, we decided not to contact them until we had a suspect in custody. Then we’ll share our information with those departments and they can decide what to do with the prisoners. There may be additional information we’re not privy to.”

“If we can keep the press at bay while we track down this guy, all the better,” Pierson said. “I don’t want to muddy the waters.”

Olivia had been staring at the marks on the victims’ forearms. They appeared to be small holes and lines. Hole, line, line, hole, line, line, hole. Then the pattern changed, if it was a pattern at all. “There are two distinctive marks,” she said. “Like holes and lines, but there doesn’t appear to be a pattern.”

“Very good.” Doug nodded his approval and picked up a metal-tipped pointer. “Actually, it was your information that tipped me off.”

“Mine?”

“You told Detective Travis about the wrongful conviction in
California
. The guy had a tattoo—similar to the one identified by our witness Sean Miller—and he had served in Vietnam. So I called my dad. He’s eighty-five, but he served in World War II and knows everything about the military. It’s his obsession. We talked about the tattoo, and he said the eagle was a common tattoo for GIs. Then I asked him the question that was bugging me about the marks—that it appears it’s not a pattern and though uniform, looks like dots and lines. He asked me to read off the dots and lines—just like that, ‘Can you read them to me?’ he asked. So I did. And he said, ‘Morse code.’ ”

“Morse code?”
Olivia said, her mouth dropping open. “He’s marking his victims with Morse code?”

“Morse code was a system of dots and dashes, standard use for telegraphy in the military and other functions, but it’s been phased out since 1979. It’s obsolete now.”

“But in Vietnam it was commonly used,” Pierson said. “That makes sense.”

“In Morse code, each letter is assigned dots and dashes. For example, the letter ‘A’ is dot-dash, the letter ‘B’ is dash-dot-dot-dot, and so on. Because there’s no pause, no break, between the marks on our victims, it took my dad a few minutes to figure it out, but we have a word.”

Doug paused. “Angel.”

Angel?
Olivia mouthed the word. Her heart thudded in her chest as she asked, “What does it mean? Is he
signing
the bodies? Does
angel
refer to him? Or is he saying that his victim is now an angel? Or something else entirely?”

“Bingo,” Zack said. “That’s the million-dollar question. Chief, have you called Seattle FBI yet?”

“The bureau chief was in court, but I left all my numbers. He’ll call back. I’ve worked with him in the past.”

“We need to find out what
angel
means,” Zack
said.”Whether
it’s his signature, the way he views himself, or whether it references the victim. We also need to get a file for all military discharges, honorable or dishonorable, up until the first murder. Olivia, what happened with your conversation on that old case?”

“The district attorney recently died, but I spoke with the detective in charge of the original investigation and he’s going to track down Hall’s attorney and see when you can talk to him,” Olivia said. “I gave him your contact information and told him it was vital we speak with Hall as soon as possible.”

Zack filled in the rest of the team on the likely connection between a wrongful conviction and the killer.

“We don’t have much time,” Zack told everyone. “If his pattern holds, he’ll kill once more, then disappear. If we don’t get him now, he may not resurface for years.”

Over the years, he’d had a variety of jobs under a variety of names, but his best source of information came from working in restaurants.

When he lived in Atlanta, his name was Tom
Ullman
and he was a bartender. Hands down, he yielded the best personal information and found the right truck most easily when he tended bar. But he also had to listen to a lot of crap, and everyone wanted to have a conversation.

He didn’t want to talk; he only wanted to listen.

He didn’t work in a restaurant or bar in
Colorado
or
Kentucky
, but when he hit
Massachusetts
, his name was Andrew Richardson and he found employment in a large, friendly restaurant in a middle-class section of Boston. And since he was a patient man, he was able to wait for the information he needed.

Also, in restaurants he could easily and discreetly see the parking lot. When he learned what he needed to know, he watched the patrons leave. If they had the right type of vehicle, it was an omen that the time was right for action.

Now he answered to Steve Williams.

Everything was coming together perfectly, as if preordained. He’d already found the angel. Tonight, he’d found the truck.

He’d been on Vashon for well over a year and had not only come to recognize the regulars, but knew their vehicles and schedules. Karl and
Flo
Burgess were retired and lived in West Seattle. They came to Vashon at least once a week to eat, and usually sat in his section because he didn’t have to be reminded that Mrs. Burgess liked four olives in her vodka martini.

They owned a Ford-150 with camper shell.

He placed the tray with their change on the table. “Thank you for coming. See you next week.”

He was about to walk away when Mrs. Burgess said, “We’re leaving tomorrow to visit our daughter. We won’t be back for a couple of weeks.”

His heart raced and he smiled. “Have a safe drive.”

Karl Burgess shook his head. “I’m just not up to making the drive to Phoenix this year.”

“His back,” Mrs. Burgess said with a half-whisper. “Growing old.” She smiled and patted her husband’s hand.

“I’ll see you when you return, then,” he said and walked away.

He was so eager to complete his planning he could hardly complete his shift, but he forced himself to remain patient. Everything was coming together perfectly. Tomorrow was Friday; he knew exactly where his angel would be.

He eavesdropped on the Burgess’s conversation as they finished their coffee. Their flight left early. They were driving to the airport. That meant long-term parking lot.

He’d gotten in and out of the long-term parking lot easily in Atlanta,
Kansas
City, and Austin. Seattle would be a piece of cake.

He’d gotten into the habit of hanging out after his shift for a few minutes because most of the servers did it. He didn’t want to stand out. He knew how people thought of him—a friendly guy who liked his job, working to support his art. He had some talent, and made a point of bringing in sketches to show the crew. It gave him the necessary background so no one gave him a second thought.

He’d told them he was divorced and had moved and settled on Vashon Island for a change of pace. They also believed he had a grown daughter in college, so anytime he was late or had to disappear for a few days, he said he was visiting his daughter in
Oregon
. Close enough for a weekend trip, but not close enough where anyone would expect her to visit.

Success was in the details. Laying the foundation so that people believed what he wanted them to believe. And because every story in every state was similar, he never lost track of who he pretended to be.

But tonight, he said he was tired and left the restaurant as soon as he closed out; he walked to his cottage a half-mile away, and went right to his room. He took out his map and his notepad and plotted out each step for tomorrow.

Tomorrow would be the last. The thought was bittersweet. He liked the Pacific Northwest. He particularly liked living on the water. It reminded him of his early childhood, before everything changed. When it was just him and his mother, inseparable, living on the coast in a state he barely remembered. Before Bruce Carmichael came into their lives and stole their innocence and his mother’s life. Before Angel.

He found himself sitting on the small cottage porch watching the sky change color. The sun had already disappeared, but it wasn’t the setting sun that enticed him, it was the layers of the sky. Azure and lavender and jewel green. He watched as one color faded into another, growing darker and darker, as the Seattle skyline came to life.

Angel would have loved it here.

“Take me away, please.”

He and Angel were sitting on the narrow balcony of a three-story walk-up, cramped because the balcony was barely large enough for a planter of flowers. The old lady in the apartment next door had six pots teetering on the edge of the iron railing; twice in the three months they’d lived here one of her planters had fallen and shattered on the cement walkway below.

“Where can we go?” he said.

He was scared. He hated being scared, but the fear ate at him until he couldn’t think. It wasn’t fear of the unknown, or fear that he would starve, or fear that he would be killed.

It was fear that he was more like Bruce than he wanted to be.

“Anywhere,” she whispered, hugging her knees, her beautiful blonde hair hanging down. It shimmered for him, sparkling even here, on this filthy balcony above a garbage-strewn walk. He reached out and touched it. So soft. “It hurts when he touches me. It hurts so bad. Sometimes, I can escape and make up stories so I can think about something else. But sometimes I can’t and then it’s worse.”

Angel had had her ninth birthday the weekend before. And something about that night had changed her.

Bruce had been hurting Angel in her bed for two years, ever since their mom died and Bruce took them away. But last week was worse.

“He’s going to kill me,” she whispered. “Just like Mama.”

“I won’t let him kill you.”

“You can’t stop him.”

Anger bubbled up. She thought he couldn’t protect her. That he wouldn’t stand up for her. Didn’t she know how much he loved her?