Daddy's Little Killer (7 page)

"No shit?"

"Not even a skid mark," I said dryly. 
"Or didn't George tell you that I recently left the bureau?"

"The old goat said you had cred, but he
never mentioned you was FBI."

"I'd suggest we keep that as quiet as
possible for now, detective.  In the meantime, maybe you can
tell me something.  I was here for a couple of weeks several
years ago.  I don't remember it being this foggy."

Briscoe's belly jiggled.  "Ah hell,
honey.  Fog is what we're second most famous for.  Half
the time it feels like you're living in a cloud on top of the
Himalayas.  I surely do hope you brought a coat."

"Isn't this springtime?"

"Yeah, but we end up wearin' gear year round
out here.  It's soggy and wet every day.  You're gonna
freeze your tush off in that get up."  He gestured toward my
spring suit, a light wool and cotton blend.  "I'd suggest
something leather to cover anything you wear.  Keeps the dew
out."

"I'll keep that in mind, detective."

I signaled again and wound away from the
freeway into an affluent neighborhood.  Heavy ground fog
notwithstanding, the crime scene came into view easily
enough.  Red and blue lights penetrated the haze in an eerie
glow.  All was not well on Templeton Lane tonight.  I
parked behind one of the patrol cars illuminating the
neighborhood.

"Ready?" Briscoe asked after a brief
struggle out of the car.

My eyes were already
devouring the scene.  Three men were on the front lawn
arguing.  One wore a dark jacket with the letters
CSD
emblazoned on the
back.  His index finger punctuated the air in front of another
man's nose – older, maybe Briscoe's age, in a long trench coat,
with a nice spare tire circling his waist.  Beside him, jet
black hair, sparks from the eyes, another trench coat with a badge
clipped sideways on his lapel was a younger, leaner man. 
Silver-haired fox from CSD seemed to be losing the
battle.

Yellow strips of crime scene tape cordoned
off the front yard.  Uniformed officers were perched against
vehicles on the street. 

Under the pale glow of a single bulb at the
front door stood another.  This one was a rumpled sentry, his
coat hem torn and hanging haphazardly on one side, wrinkles from
head to toe.  His tie was askew, and even from a distance, I
could see spots that were not part of its design randomly scattered
across the surface.  A thin sliver of wood rolled between his
lips from one side to the other and back again.  His arms
crossed over his chest, but one fist thumped irregularly against
his side.  His hair was jet black, and the narrow slit of his
eyes would likely disguise the color even when I was close enough
to see them.  His face was thin, gaunt, a man who didn't
overindulge at the table.  From a distance, he wouldn't have
been half bad to look at if he bulked up a bit and took better care
of himself.

My eyes narrowed.  Central Division's
finest.

Briscoe's speech played rapidly through my
mind.  Lieutenant somebody was his commanding officer. 
So where did that leave my old undergrad pupil Captain Martin?

"Briscoe?"

"Yeah."

"What division is Rodney Martin working out
of?"

His fingers bisected my upper arm. 
"You know Martin?"

"Not in the way you associate with the
word.  I was getting my PhD and Rodney was an undergraduate in
one of the psychology classes I taught on occasion.  George
mentioned that he's a captain now."

"He is," Briscoe said.  "At Central
Division.  He tells these buffoons what to do."

"I take it those three are detectives out of
central."

"That older dude is Matt Rogers.  The
slick bastard is his partner Jim Daltry."

"And who is the one from CSD?"

"Lieutenant Ken Forsythe.  He's the
commander of our Crime Scene Division."

"I see."

"Not to taint your perspectives of all this,
Eriksson, but Forsythe is one of the good guys.  Not that my
opinion counts."

"And the one guarding the door?"

"None other than Flynn Myre."

My eyes wandered across the lawn a second
time, taking in more than the immediate area.  Light hair was
illuminated blue and red in turns.  Broad, hulking shoulders
on an enormous physique stood with his back toward me.

"Briscoe, who are the uniformed officers
detaining?"  As I spoke, he turned toward me.  My jaw
dropped.

"That's Johnny Orion.  I didn't mention
he's the one who found the victim tonight."

And here I thought Todd
might be wondering why I vanished without a trace. 
Todd. 
Todd Hunter
aka Johnny Orion stood not more than twenty yards
away from me, staring with as much shock as I felt.  Clever
name, Orion the Hunter.  I wasn't the only one telling
lies.  Anger and humiliation mingled bitterly on the tip of my
tongue.  I swallowed it, put it away with the rage that would
be unleashed in due time. I was after all, a chip off the old
block, daddy's little killer.

Chapter 6

I turned away
quickly. 
Shit!
  If Briscoe noticed my reaction to Orion, he didn't say
anything. 

"We might have a hard time getting inside if
they won't let CSD in there," Briscoe said.  "Shall we,
Eriksson?"

"Not without Forsythe."  I ignored the
urge to hop in the bubble car and race back to the airport at its
top speed of fifty-five.  What was Orion really doing in
D.C.?  Had I been suckered into coming here after all? 
The bits of truth I shared about my father churned in my gut, a
stinging hornet's nest of swelling nausea. 

"I'll introduce you."  Briscoe cupped
my elbow and led the way toward the ongoing argument dead center on
the lawn.  I could still feel Orion's eyes burning through my
back, but was determined to ignore it.  I had a right to be
here.  From the look of things, Orion was nothing if not a
person of interest in the case, perhaps even the prime suspect.

Dirty cop.  Nobody
will believe anything he says about you, Helen.  Stop worrying
about Todd and his lame attempt to lure you into bed.  For all
you know, that's all it was.  A chance meeting between two
lonely people.
  The part of my psyche
that tries to soothe me into complacency more often than not simply
pisses me off. 

Bullshit
.  My brain was
screaming at it's kinder cells.  Dad's opinion on coincidence
was that there was no such thing.  I didn't want to
believe.  I don't want to believe.  Am I really so off my
game that I missed all of this?  Warning signs were screaming
at me from the get-go, from the moment those thugs grabbed me in
the hotel lobby.

I groaned softly.  Should've called
hotel security to verify that story.  Orion could've set up
the whole scenario to get close to me.  Stupid!  Stupid,
Helen!

"Forsythe," Briscoe nodded curtly, "Daltry,
Rogers."

"What the fuck are you doing here,
Briscoe?"  Rogers dismissed me with barely a glance. 
"And who's the broad?"

He was certainly old enough for that
particular sexist slur to be part of his vernacular. 
"Eriksson," I said, thrust a confident hand forward, "Dr. Helen
Eriksson.  I'm a criminal profiler.  Commissioner Hardy
asked me to take a look at the crime scene.  If you gentlemen
will excuse us, I believe Lieutenant Forsythe and I need to look
inside the house.  Shall we, lieutenant?"

His eyes tightened in an expression of
admiration, perhaps of my grit or my shrewd side-step of the
ongoing battle for control.  He stepped around Rogers and fell
into cadence at my side.

"George did a good thing getting some
outside help."

"Thank you.  I haven't signed the
contract yet.  I suppose you could say this is my job
interview."

He laughed softly.  "Leave it to
Hardy."  Humor evaporated as quickly as it appeared. 
"Did Briscoe tell you why this is such a mess?"

"The old case?  Hmm," I nodded. 
"If I have to get physical to get past Myre at the door, do you
think it would help or hurt my chances of getting a contract in
Darkwater Bay?"

"It might get you a medal, maybe a
parade."

"He's as incompetent as he looks?"

"Oh yeah," Forsythe exhaled his opinion on a
sharp breath.  "I doubt he'll put up a fuss.  He might
think he's on par with Rogers, but the guy is a complete
moron."

I followed Forsythe up the sidewalk to the
front door.

"Myre," Forsythe greeted with a curt
nod.  "This is Dr. Helen Eriksson.  She's a criminal
profiler George hired to help us close this case once and for
all.  He wants her to take a look at the scene."

"Then let her go look," Myre chewed the
stick of wood between his teeth lazily.  A few words came to
mind.  Caricature.  Cliché.  Inspector
Clouseau.  Keystone cop.

"Detective Myre, under no circumstances will
I enter a crime scene alone.  Whoever ordered you to prevent
the crime scene from being properly processed should be fired," I
said.  "Lieutenant, after you."

Myre's jaw dropped.  The toothpick
bounced off the concrete. 

"You'll want to retrieve that, Flynn. 
We wouldn't want your DNA processed as part of a crime scene."

I grinned at the remark and followed
Forsythe into the house.  The humor faded, replaced with a
heavy metallic odor.  Iron and honey.  Thick, sweet,
cloying.  Forsythe paused and pulled out shoe covers and
nitrile gloves.

"Have you got experience at fresh
scenes?"

Translation: are you going to toss your
airplane peanuts all over the crime scene when you see how
disgusting this is going to be?

"Enough to have a cast iron stomach. 
This isn't the first time I've seen the end result of a
decapitation, lieutenant.  Don't worry about me."

"There's heavy saturation of blood. 
She's been here awhile."

It was an odd moment for Todd to pop into my
thoughts.  Tony was his mentor.  Tony Briscoe
perhaps?  Was there a kernel of truth in what Orion told me,
or was it all honeyed lies?

I slipped on the shoe covers and
gloves.  "Do you think anyone has taken Orion's statement?" I
asked.

"That's the one thing you can count on,"
Forsythe said.  "They'll have him cuffed and under arrest
before we're out the door."

"Probably."  I followed him through the
spacious foyer through and arched doorway into the living
room.  The lights were on.  "I wonder if Orion lit the
place up or if the lights were already on when he got here. 
Do we know if he knew who he was coming to see tonight, if this is
our victim's home?"

"I haven't talked to him.  It was
pulling teeth to get Rogers to budge about letting me in here
before Lowe called."

"Where is the intrepid chief?"

"Nobody knows … Jesus."  Forsythe
stopped short on the shag carpeting.  The victim lay on her
back in front of a large coffee table, as promised, sans head and
hands.

My eyes darted to the surroundings. 
Yes, there was plenty of blood, but it was pooled around the stumps
where head and hands once were.  "She wasn't dismembered until
after she died."

"No, she wasn't.  I was expecting a
blood bath in here to be honest.  I'd say it's a refreshing
surprise, but this is … wow.  Déjà vu."

"You were at the Bennett crime scene?"

He nodded.  "I wasn't a lieutenant
yet.  Plain old detective at the time.  What do you make
of this Dr. Eriksson?"

Three stacks of magazines, each three high
were piled neatly on the coffee table.  The sofa cushions were
arranged from end to end in pristine form.  There wasn't so
much as an overturned lamp or knickknack out of place.  The
body wasn't posed per se, just laid out on the floor in the center
of the room where the dismemberment had taken place.  The
victim's blouse was torn open.  Tiny pearl buttons peppered
the floor, but none of her clothing appeared to be removed. 
Damaged yes.  I stepped closer.

Everything was as it should be. 
Nothing inside out. 

"Have you got a pen light?"

Forsythe handed it over.

I lifted the skirt gingerly.  "No
panties.  It looks like there's semen dried on her
thighs."  My nostrils revolted.  "Postmortem loss of body
fluids.  The medical examiner will have to determine if there
was a sexual assault.  I can't see anything else without
moving her."  I dropped the skirt.

"She should be here any minute.  When
we heard what we were looking at on this one, the big guns all got
called out."  He paused and stared at me.  "What do you
think?"

"There are no signs of struggle.  I
didn't notice any sign of forced entry at the front door.  We
should probably look at the other points of entry.  It looks
like she was killed, then dismembered.  Why take the head and
hands?"

"He did that the last time too. 
Brighton Bennett's head and hands were never recovered."

It screamed trophy.  Then again,
fifteen years ago, removing the head and hands was an easy way to
delay identification.  It hadn't prevented it from happening
quickly for the Bennett girl though.

"What led the investigation to look at
Masconi in the other case?"

Forsythe scratched his head.  "Well, if
I recall, a number of women came forward after the fact and claimed
sexual offenses committed by Masconi in the workplace.  Five
or six girls, if memory serves.  They claimed they were too
afraid to come forward prior because he was the boss."

"Briscoe said he worked for Danny
Datello."

"He did, managed Datello's casino out on
Hennessey Island."

"Hmm."

"What are you thinking?"