Body of Lies (8 page)

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Authors: Deirdre Savoy

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Body of Lies
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The first time he'd come here, the office had been quiet but the small waiting room had been full. Now it was just quiet. The receptionist stood as they approached. She recognized the police when she saw them, too and apparently she wasn't happy about it.
He stepped up to the desk. “Is Dr. Waters in?”
“She's in, but I doubt she wants to see you.”
He doubted that, too, not that that would stop him. He was about to ask her to let Alex know he was here when she walked into the reception area. She was looking down at a folder. She stopped abruptly when she looked up and saw him.
A frown turned her lips down and her eyes narrowed. Her gaze went from him to Smitty beside him and back. “Unless you're here to clear that pack of vultures off my front door, I have nothing to say.”
He could understand her anger, but that didn't change anything. “Has it been that bad all morning?”
“No. Some of them gave up and went home.” She sighed and he could feel the exasperation in her. “Let's make this quick.”
She turned back toward her office. At the same time Smitty gestured toward the bathroom in the corner with his chin and rubbed his hands. Zach nodded. He hadn't noticed Smitty had a cleanliness fetish before and doubted that was his motive now. He was deliberately giving him time alone with Alex. He didn't know whether to appreciate the gesture or not.
When they reached her office she turned to face him and motioned for him to enter first. “Where's your friend?”
He stepped inside her office but didn't go far. “Bathroom.”
She shrugged, walking around her to lean her backside against her desk with her arms folded. “What's on the agenda today? Shredding my reputation or driving off my patients?”
“Neither. I need your help with something.”
“I already told you that there's nothing I can tell you about Thorpe.”
“Not him. Not exactly. I want your opinion on the profile we've developed. This is one sick bastard. I want to get inside his head.”
“Then you believe me that it wasn't Thorpe?”
“I didn't say that.”
She gave him a hard assessing look. After a moment she extended her hand toward the folder he carried. “What did you bring me?”
He gave her the folder. It contained the profile, photos from each crime scene, a couple of the autopsy reports, and assorted notes. She took the file, sat on the edge of the sofa, and spread out the information on the low glass coffee table in front of her. “Does McKay know you're showing this to me?” she asked without looking at him.
“McKay isn't in charge anymore.” He hadn't cleared it with the new boss either, but since she didn't ask he didn't tell.
“You're right. This is one sick puppy. He abducts these girls, beats them, cuts off their breast, rapes them, and then strangles them. Is that the order of things?”
“It appears to be. Then he dumps them along the same stretch on the service road to the New England Thruway.”
She nodded abstractedly, her attention still on the file. “There's a legal pad on my desk. Would you hand it to me.”
He found it and gave it to her, then came around the other side of the sofa to sit next to her. Automatically she moved over a little, either to make room for him or to avoid him. Either way, the subtle scent of a floral perfume reached him.
Since she wasn't paying him any attention, he leaned back, resting an arm along the back of the sofa, watching her. She leaned forward to write something he couldn't see on the pad. In that position, her skirt had hiked up, displaying her long legs to midthigh. She'd always had an abundance of jet-black hair, even in her ponytail days. She brushed the mass of it back over her shoulder as if it were a bother. In that instant, he would have liked nothing more than to tame it for her with his own hands.
To distract himself, he asked, “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
She glanced back at him over her shoulder, one hand holding down her hair so that she could see him. She said nothing, but her expression suggested he had to be out of his mind to attempt it.
“Where did the Waters come from?”
Her brow furrowed. “What waters?”
“Your last name.”
“Oh.” She turned back to what she was doing. “My married name.”
Since he could see from there that she didn't wear a ring, he asked, “What happened?”
“The usual nonsense. I wanted a child; he was one.”
That sounded like a pat answer, the one she reserved for nosy people butting in. He didn't believe her, but he couldn't get into that now, as Smitty chose that moment to make an appearance.
He sat in one of the seats opposite the sofa. “Any progress?”
Alex sat back and looked at Smitty. “I don't know about progress, but I do have several questions.”
“Fire away,” Smitty said.
She picked up her pad and surveyed it. “First, was it definitively established that these girls were prostitutes from the area?”
“I don't know,” Zach answered honestly. He knew a couple of the girls were spotted in the area by witnesses. And when you found a woman with both PID, an inflammation of the cervix caused by multiple sex partners, as well as track marks or drugs in her system, the first thought was pro. “Does that make a difference?”
She shrugged. “I find it interesting that two of his victims were white. That strikes me as interesting, considering that the neighborhood is predominantly black. Even the hookers I've seen over there have all been black. So where did the white girls come from?”
He didn't have an answer for that. The assumption that the girls had been local prostitutes predated his involvement in the case. He'd simply taken it as a given. “What else?”
“Assuming for a moment the facts are right, you've got one bold killer on your hands. He hunts the same place he dumps. Even if the local police are only halfway competent they've got to figure they'll increase patrols in the area, making it harder to both troll and to dump. That's part of his game. He probably thinks he's very clever to outwit you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Think about it. You find a middle fingerprint under the seat. From what I've read, you didn't find a single print in any of the cars except those belonging to the owners. He didn't wipe the cars down, so that meant he must have been wearing gloves. What are the odds he took them off to adjust the seat? He was sending the police a giant fuck you.”
He hadn't thought of that. He glanced at Smitty, who gazed back at him with a look that said
Didn't I tell you she was something?
He didn't need Smitty to remind him of that.
She brushed her hair over her shoulder. “This last murder is different in other ways, as well. If you look at the other girls' body type, they're all well endowed. This last girl is much thinner. Has her autopsy been done yet?”
“This afternoon. Why?”
“I'm betting the killer knew she wasn't a pro.”
“Why?”
She dug through the stack of photos until she found the one she wanted, a picture of the girl's car. She passed it to Smitty “Was this her father's car?”
“Her mother's.”
“How many hookers do you know who drive around with MD plates?”
Smitty handed him the photo. He'd noticed the plates before, but since it had been assumed the killer had mistaken her for a hooker, the car hadn't come into it. But if Thorpe or whoever had followed her from the gas station, he would have known. As he understood it, the gas station attendant that night, an eighteen-year-old boy, hadn't identified Thorpe as being in the station that night. Zach didn't know if he'd been asked about seeing the station wagon.
One thing he did know was that there'd been far more assumption than police work so far in this investigation.
Zack asked the next logical question. “So if she knew she wasn't a hooker, why did he pick her up?”
“This guy's a joker. What fun is there playing a game if you're the only one who knows you're playing? The police weren't paying him any attention so he decided to up the ante. Even if she was merely a doctor's daughter, her death was sure to draw more attention than a hooker's.”
Zach sighed. Well, he had the answer to his question of whether the killer would shun the limelight or enjoy it. If Alex was right, he'd sought it out. That brought Alex to another question: Now that the killer had their attention, what did he plan to do with it?
Nine
Alex watched Zach as he digested the information she'd given him. He looked tired, as if he wasn't getting any more sleep than she. That would be understandable if it were true. It wasn't his case, but he worked it. If he was as conscientious now as he was when she had known him, that must weigh on him.
But it wasn't her job to soothe him. Surely there was a woman somewhere whose place she'd be usurping if she did. He didn't wear a ring, but that didn't mean there wasn't a woman in his life, or perhaps women. Her father used to call him Casanova in a way that was both censorious and approving. She didn't expect that he'd changed much in that regard.
She shook her head, as if clearing it. She didn't want to think about Zach, his women, or even her own relationship with him. There had been a time when if he'd asked her a question, she wouldn't have lied.
Alex stood and crossed to her desk to retrieve a file she'd left there. “There's something else.” Better to focus on the case than the way her mind had been going. “I did a little checking on the Internet about Amazons. I haven't read through all of it yet.”
She handed a stapled sheaf of papers to Smitty. “They were purportedly a race of women living in Asia Minor in the Third Century B.C. They pinched off or cut off the right breast for ease in hunting but kept the left in order to suckle their girl children, which they kept. The male children were given to the neighboring tribe of men, the Gargarians, with whom the Amazons coupled. They raised the girl children themselves. By killing these women he may see himself avenging himself against some powerful woman who abandoned him, probably his mother.”
Smitty passed the papers to Zach. “Talk about your twisted Oedipal complexes.”
That wasn't quite accurate, but she wasn't going to argue about it. “That is, if mythology plays a part in this at all. He may have some other motivation. The press named him the Amazon Killer because of what he did. Only he can tell us definitively why, and only if he wants to.”
Even then, who knew how much of what a psychopath said could be believed? Berkowitz had claimed some dog had told him to kill, part of his “crazy act” that he hoped would lead to commitment to a mental hospital rather than incarceration. It was only later that he'd revealed that claim had been a sham. Currently he was pretending to be a born-again Christian. Only God knew whether that was another scam.
Zach's cell phone rang. He excused himself and rose from the sofa to stand off to the side to take the call. Though he spoke too softly for her to make out his words, his posture and the timbre of his voice suggested he was talking to a woman.
Whether he was or not wasn't her business. She turned her gaze away from him, back to Smitty, who'd stood. Again, she was struck by the familiarity of his face.
As if to answer her unspoken question, he said, “I knew your father, years ago. A good man. A bit of a hard-ass.”
It didn't surprise her that this man knew her father. Everyone knew him. She couldn't count the times some cop or other person related to law enforcement had found out she was the Bull's daughter and insisted on relaying some story of her father's exploits, particularly back when she had her maiden name. Part of the reason she'd kept Devon's name was to discourage the association. But saying her father was a bit of a hard-ass was like saying Mussolini had been a bit of a dictator.
Her gaze drifted to Zach, still on the phone, then back. “So are you two going steady?” she asked, referring to them partnering on this case.
He winked at her. “Only until I find someone with better legs.”
She smiled. She liked Smitty, especially since he'd been her only champion in that disastrous conference room meeting. Without her meaning to, her gaze slid back to Zach, who seemed to be wrapping up his conversation.
“Not to worry,” Smitty said, drawing her attention. “I've got my eye on that one.”
For a moment she wondered what he'd read in her face to prompt that comment. Usually she wasn't that transparent. But Zach abruptly closed his phone and turned back to them.
He looked from her to Smitty, then back. “So where does that leave us?”
She wondered if he was referring to the case or her conversation with Smitty. She chose to believe the former. He'd been all business since he walked in the door, aside from that one “personal” question he'd asked, which anyone who knew her as a girl might have asked out of simple curiosity. Even when they were alone, he'd never mention their past or whatever it was that had driven him to seek her out that first night. She wondered, with a touch of bitterness, if the woman on the phone had anything to do with his willingness to take no as an answer from her.
Alex shrugged, returning her mind to the man they all sought. Up until now, this guy had operated like clockwork. Even when he didn't make a kill he stuck to his schedule as if he had. But he had deviated from his pattern, picking a woman who didn't fit his usual victim profile. He was upping the ante, making sure the police and the media paid attention to him. She wished she knew what had caused him to skip those two months—maybe illness or unavailability to his hunting ground. Barring that knowledge, she made the best guess she could.
“Considering he's off his pattern, what he does next is anyone's guess. At the most you've got twenty-four days before he strikes again.”
 
 
“Who was on the phone?” Smitty asked once they were back in the car and out of the reach of the reporters.
From the tone of Smith's voice, Zach figured he didn't think it was an official call. He was fishing. Since Zach had nothing to hide, he said, “My sister-in-law. My niece is staying with me a few days. She wanted to make sure she got to school all right.”
“Jon got married?”
Zach had forgotten Smitty and his younger brother must know each other since both worked homicide in the same precinct. “My older brother Adam's wife.”
Smitty shrugged and settled back in his seat, as if it made no difference either way, which it didn't. “Where to next?”
“I'm thinking of going to see the girls' parents. Alex got me wondering if there's some connection between the girls that no one has explored yet.” It had bothered him from the beginning that no witness could be found who had seen either Thorpe or the cars he'd stolen driving around. The spot where he'd left the car was deserted save for a few businesses on the block east and a series of private houses one block south.
How did he know the girls would be there? There wasn't even anywhere from which to observe the area, unless maybe the overpass that served pedestrians crossing over the highway into Co-Op City. But then, he would have to be on foot. Then again, he could have stashed his car in one of the motel lots and waited for his prey to show up. But wouldn't it have been easier to lure someone there, maybe to one of those motels than to lie in wait? Otherwise, there was no guarantee of keeping his schedule.
The bodies of the first two girls had been claimed by families out of state. The third girl's body had never been claimed. Her identity remained a mystery, since no one responded to the missing person's bulletin and her prints yielded no hits. The fourth girl lived on the west side of the Bronx, off Orloff Avenue. They headed there first.
Like the apartments in Co-op City, the building they went to was part of the Mitchell-Lama housing initiative that provided affordable co-ops to Bronx residents. The buildings were well cared for and the apartments were spacious.
Veronica Hassler's mother answered the door to their knock. “Yes.”
Looking at Magda Hassler, Zach could imagine from whom the daughter had gotten her figure. She was tall and what his father would kindly have referred to as big-boned, not obese. He'd put her in her midsixties, a bit on the late side for having a fourteen-year-old daughter. There was a hardness in the woman's green eyes Zach didn't expect considering they'd already announced they were the police, the ones ostensibly working to find out who'd killed their daughter.
He showed the woman his badge, in the event that would help. “I'm Detective Stone. This is Detective Smith. We'd like to talk to you about your daughter.”
“We've already spoken to the other detective.”
The way she spoke the word “detective” clued him in to the problem. Damn McKay, was there anything about this investigation he hadn't screwed up yet? “We're here to follow up,” Zach said in a tone that suggested they were there to clean up his mess rather than exacerbate it.
The woman hesitated a moment. “All right.”
She led them to a large living room just off the front hall. It was decorated in shades of cream, pastel green, and gold. She gestured toward the brocade sofa. “Please, sit down.”
They did as she suggested. The plastic slipcovers crinkled as he and Smitty settled down.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hassler,” Zach started. “First let me say we're sorry for your loss. We don't want to take up too much of your time.”
“It's all right. Just so you understand, my daughter was no prostitute like they're saying in the papers. She was a good girl. She didn't even have a boyfriend.”
Zach said nothing to that. He'd seen the autopsy report. Her daughter had been found with cocaine in her system. From the condition of her nasal cavity it wasn't a new activity. He was no Pollyanna, but if the girl was doing drugs, he'd bet she was into other things as well. He'd also bet mom and dad had no clue about any of them.
“Do you know what Veronica was doing in that neighborhood?”
As he expected, he shook her head. “As far as I know, she didn't even know anyone in that area.”
“Had you noticed a change in her recently? New routines? New friends?”
“She'd started staying out, late, you know?”
Zach nodded.
“It was those girls. She'd started a new school. Things were different. We bought her a computer for her birthday. When she was home she was on that thing.”
Zach swallowed. If the killer had contacted her on the Internet, it wouldn't be the first time some naive girl had been drawn into a situation with a person she didn't expect. “Can I see her room?”
An uncertain expression came over Mrs. Hassler's face, as if the request surprised her, but she stood. “All right.”
Zach followed her down a narrow hall, irritation rising in him, wondering if McKay had gotten this far or if he'd stopped at making the notification.
Mrs. Hassler stopped at the third door down the hall. “This is Ronnie's room.”
She opened the door, turned on the overhead light, then stepped back for him to enter.
He crossed the threshold, examining the room. A four-poster bed covered with a pink comforter and pillows in matching shams rested along one wall. A dresser with a circular mirror took up the wall perpendicular to the door. A rolltop desk sat at the opposite end of the room. An Apple laptop sat on its surface.
The maple furniture smelled of lemon polish and the curtains had been opened, letting in warm late morning sunshine. The girl had been dead since October, but the entire space looked as fresh as if its owner were expected home later in the day after school.
“Ronnie always keeps her things neat.”
This
is
Ronnie's room. Ronnie
keeps
her things neat. Her mother spoke about her as if she were still alive. He felt sorry for the woman, not only because her only child was gone, but because she hadn't dealt with it in any meaningful way. He'd seen it a million times—parents who couldn't deal when death or harm came to their children. He couldn't fathom the depth of their grief and didn't pretend to. All he could provide them with were answers, and he did his best to find them.
He was grateful though that she hadn't been observant enough to notice that Smitty hadn't followed them, leaving the other man time to scope out what he could of the rest of the apartment without being intrusive. Zach intended to keep her here until Smitty surfaced, then give her something to do to get her to leave them alone.
“Did Veronica have an address book that you know of? Did she keep a diary of any kind?”
“She had one of those Palm things, you know, an organizer. She probably had it with her when ...” Mrs. Hassler's eyes brimmed and she lowered her head. “I'm sorry.” She sniffled. “I didn't find a diary.”
Smitty chose that moment to make his appearance. “Do you think one of her friends might know if she kept one? It might be helpful.”
Mrs. Hassler turned in Smitty's direction. If she found anything strange about his rejoining them, she didn't show it. “Eleny might know. They were friends since they were girls. She lives two floors down.”
“Can you write down her name and apartment number? And any of her other friends you know of?”

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