Illusions of Death (19 page)

Chapter 36

The hunger burned in him. He preferred taking his time once he located a specimen. He’d spent overnight wreaking havoc with each of them.

Except for the artist.

Much as he’d hated it, he had to rush playtime with Mario.

But the man stumbled into his pattern so beautifully, he decided to be satisfied with dallying for a short time before the kill.

It hadn’t quenched his thirst. Not by a long shot.

That’s why he’d come to Atlanta. He needed a larger hunting ground if he were to find the particular specimen he needed. Trolling online had given him several strong leads. And the Marriott proved to be lucky. His first stop, and he’d located the exact specimen he required.

He’d waited to see what he looked like. A buttoned-down type. Probably mid-fifties. Married, according to the gold band on his left hand. A younger man stuck to him like glue. Acted subservient. He assumed it was some underling who’d felt lucky to leave the corn fields of Iowa for a national convention in a big city.

They gathered their information packets. Slapped on the provided lanyards. He slipped a packet off the table for later. Followed them to a downtown restaurant. Watched from a distance from the bar. The specimen knocked back several drinks. That never hurt.

He followed them down the street, keeping a comfortable distance. They stopped in front of the Marriott. Had a brief conversation before the younger man scooted off. Probably had to check in with the wifey.

The specimen entered the Marriott and headed straight for the bar.

He pulled the lanyard from his jacket pocket and placed it around his neck. Removed the packet from the briefcase he carried, full of his toys. Clutched the packet in his hand.

And casually strolled in.

He would make contact since he had the proper props. Learn where his room was through casual conversation. Make sure the specimen got another few drinks in him—the last laced with the trusty bottle of Rohypnol in his right pocket.

And then he’d enjoy a night of unwinding in his favorite manner.

Chapter 37

Logan poured a cup of coffee and snagged a Danish as he followed Rick Mabry into the lecture hall. He’d met some interesting cops from all over the southeastern US in the bar last night, but yesterday’s meetings with FBI personnel working on the Rainbow Killings had felt like a bust. He hoped today and tomorrow’s sessions proved more interesting. He hated spending time away from Karlyn and that scruffy little Lucky when Roy was still on the loose.

He glanced around. “Hey, isn’t that Ron Ames over there?” Logan asked. “From our Atlanta PD days?”

“Yeah. But he’s put on a lot of weight.” Rick thought a moment. “Didn’t he have a wife that left him for another woman?”

“That’s him,” Logan said. “I heard last night that he’s on wife number three. Had a quick, forgettable marriage right after his first divorce.”

“Rebound Girl,” Rick said and laughed. “I had one of those in college. I was ready to ask my girlfriend of two years to marry me when she broke up with me. I went and found the first available girl at a frat party that weekend and thought she was The One a week into it. Fortunately, she had more emotional maturity than I did and saw what was going on.”

“So she broke up with you, too?”

“Yeah. But we ran into each other a couple of years after graduation. I was visiting a buddy in Augusta for the weekend. We went to a sports bar to catch a Bulldogs game, and there was Rebound Girl.” Rick smiled. “With the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.”

“Hildy?” Logan asked.

“You got it. She was Rebound Girl’s cousin’s roommate. I haven’t looked at another woman since.” Rick paused. “I’m glad you’ve found Karlyn. I think you’ll be happy together. Of course, she’ll probably pump you for crime info she can work into her plot lines.”

He shook his head. “Karlyn’s got a way better imagination. The Springs is small potatoes. Issuing a DUI is about as exciting as it gets. I don’t think she’ll be able to take any cases from the Springs and make them into a book for Matt Collins.”

“Except for Roy,” Rick noted.

Logan sighed. “Except Roy. She’s got a notion that she should write Roy’s story. I’ve discouraged her, but Karlyn’s pretty headstrong.”

“She’d have to be a strong woman to make it in the publishing business. If anyone does decide to write about Roy, I’m sure she’d do a good job of it.”

“Don’t tell her that,” he warned. “Roy is probably the kind of guy who would love to know that a famous author has taken an interest in him. I do not want her involved in any way, shape, or form with that animal.”

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Rutherford stood behind the podium, ready to start the day’s workshop.

Logan turned to see the lecture hall had filled up while they spoke. He settled back into his chair.

“I’m Bill Rutherford, a profiler for the FBI and part of the Investigative Support Unit. I work with local law enforcement throughout the southeastern United States. This seminar is devoted to the modern serial killer. There will be break-out sessions which will explore different methods recent caught and convicted killers have used, as well as how these killers implement technology into their killings. We’ll also discuss patterns and how these murderers can be discovered if law enforcement can detect their repeated design when killing. And as a group, we’ll review a few unsolved killings that are still active.”

“How about the Roy G. Biv case?” someone near the back called out.

Rutherford looked grim. “We’ve planned to devote two hours after lunch today specifically on the Rainbow Killings.”

“Is the FBI task force even close to solving it?” a woman on the front row asked.

“No,” Rutherford said flat out before he paused. “That’s one of the reasons the Rainbow Killings are included in this conference. We’ve invited select members of the current Roy task force, as well as local law enforcement officers from every town Roy has hit in Georgia. They’ll present what we know. We’re hoping someone in attendance will give us that one break we need to catch this monster.”

The profiler took a sip from a water glass. “In addition, we’ll look at serial killings in Florida, Texas, and West Virginia. Right now, though, I’d like to introduce Fred Simpson. Fred is head of our DNA unit.”

Logan’s cell buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw it was a member of the Atlanta task force. He tilted the screen toward Rick to show him. The two men slipped from their row and headed out a back door.

“Warner. What’s up, Bob?”

“Roy’s back in Atlanta,” Bob Dreyfus said. “He hit last night at a small boutique hotel in downtown. I’m notifying the heads of departments in towns Roy’s already hit.”

“I’ve got Rick Mabry with me. We’re attending the FBI regional conference at the Hilton. I’m putting you on speaker, Bob. Give us the particulars.”

Logan and Rick moved toward an alcove with a few seats for privacy.

“Same M.O. This has Roy written all over it. Vic is a fifty-two year old financial analyst. Married. Three kids. From Des Moines but in Atlanta for a convention at the Marriott. Name of Walter Lee Buchanan, nickname Bucky.”

He asked, “Do you think since small town cops haven’t stopped him, he’s back to challenge the big boys in Atlanta?”

“Who the hell knows with Roy?” Bob asked. “Buchanan didn’t show up at an early breakfast meeting this morning. He was here with another guy from his company.” Papers shuffled. “A Franklin Sommers.”

“Sommers clean?” Rick asked.

“Squeaky. Married, thirty-six, deacon in his church. Doesn’t drink, smoke, or swear. Had dinner with the vic last night after they registered for their conference. Said his boss had four drinks at dinner then stopped at the Marriott for a nightcap. Sommers went back to his room two blocks down to webcam a bedtime story to his two daughters. Had planned to meet up with his boss for breakfast this morning around six-thirty, back at the Marriott. That’s where the financial seminar’s being held.”

“So an early breakfast. The vic got a drinking problem?” Logan tossed out.

“You got it. Sommers was reluctant to spill that since Buchanan is—was—his direct supervisor. He thought old Bucky had blown off breakfast due to a hangover. Seems he’s done that at home in the past on several occasions. But then the boss didn’t show at the first seminar that started right at eight. Sommers said Buchanan was excited to attend since the featured speaker was an old friend from college.”

“So he went to his room? And found him?” Logan asked.

Dreyfus chuckled. “Warner, you should be a detective instead of a police chief. Go to the head of the class.” He paused. “Yes, Sommers doubled back to their hotel and went up to knock on the door and hopefully rouse his boss. He found a pamphlet stuck in it, slightly propping the door open.”

“And went in and got the fright of his life,” Mabry finished.

“He’s pretty shaken up. Called us from the hall on his cell. Smart enough not to touch anything in the room. His 911 call got a quick response, but dispatch knows all about the task force and routed a call to us. Based upon Sommers’ brief description, we figured we had a Roy case.

“I’m here now in the hotel in the corridor. You’re welcome to come look the scene over since you’re only a few blocks away. Crime scene techs are in there now, but I know they’ll confirm it, down to the correct color of the paint.”

“Text us the address,” Logan said. “We’re on our way.” He ended the call and asked Rick, “When will this end?”

Logan finished the last bite of his roast beef sandwich and washed it down with what was left in his can of Coke. He and Rick had gone back to the Hilton after spending all morning at the crime scene and with Franklin Sommers. When they returned, Rutherford gathered all Roy task force members together in a conference room during the lunch break to review the latest killing of the Des Moines financial analyst.

Rutherford asked them to share what they’d seen. Rick deferred to him. He walked the team through Sommers’ account of the chronology of events that led to discovery of the body. He passed around copies of photos from the hotel room and early reports from the techs that Bob Dreyfus supplied them.

Discussion centered around Roy’s second kill of an out-of-towner. All other victims lived in the city they’d been killed in except for Mario Taylor—and now Bucky Buchanan. Speculation as to that small difference in the killings was the only new significant fact.

Logan didn’t think killing an Iowan had any significance. He left the room to clear his head before he returned to the lecture hall.

Bill Rutherford followed closely behind. ““Are you heading to the classroom? I’ll walk with you.”

They went down the hall and up a flight of stairs from the conference room. Logan wasn’t surprised to see the room at capacity with ten minutes before the session even began. Even among law enforcement officials, Roy’s case tantalized people. Logan thought of it as the classic car wreck—everyone drove by slowly to eyeball the scene. He took one of the few empty seats and used the time remaining to go over some of his notes about Mario’s killing, his part of the presentation.

Rutherford convened the session, introducing Felix Nixon, who took the spot behind the podium.

“No relation to Dick Nixon,” Felix stated up front. “Get that some from older folks who actually remember who the hell Tricky Dick was. What you need to know about me is that I’m detail-oriented. Nothing’s too small. Sometimes it’s the tiniest item which breaks the logjam in a murder investigation, particularly when we’re speaking about serial killers.”

Nixon came out from behind the podium and clipped a mic onto his lapel. “I’m here to talk antisocial behaviors, so we can place Roy on the spectrum. The FBI has labeled him a psychopath.”

He clicked a slide. “We believe that Roy is well educated. Maintains a steady job. More than likely has stable relationships with people, be they work-related or with a woman.”

Nixon smiled. “Psychopaths exhibit no remorse. They are risk takers and quite fearless. They compartmentalize their lives. After exquisite planning and execution of a murder, they sleep like a baby.”

“What about arrogance?” asked Logan. “I see Roy as completely arrogant. Confident that he’s smarter than everyone around him—including those trying to catch him.”

Nixon nodded in agreement. “Assume arrogance. And cunning.”

Rutherford spoke up. “As the lead profiler on this case, I believe Roy may have a military or law enforcement background. He leaves no trace of physical evidence at crime scenes. And he’s a master at not being seen. Witnesses who’ve been with several victims minutes before claim to have never seen anyone or anything out of the ordinary.”

“And yet he’s killed within all genders, races, and occupations,” Nixon concluded. “Bill, let’s have your team present the evidence that’s been collected and see what conclusions we can draw.”

Logan sat through the next hour of the presentation, which went through each of Roy’s victims in chronological order. Only half his mind was tuned to what was presented. He kept processing what Nixon had said, trying to draw a clear picture in his mind of what Roy could be physically, mentally, and emotionally. He reviewed Mario’s murder for the audience and sat, waiting to see if any fresh information had been uncovered from this morning’s discovered corpse.

Bob Dreyfus walked through the last Rainbow Killing, finishing with photos of the most recent murder scene.

He stared at the screen, studying the room and the positioning of Bucky Buchanan’s body. Then it hit him.

“The sequence. It’s wrong. Roy’s gone off the reservation.” He jumped to his feet and moved next to the photo of the body. Logan studied it a moment.

He turned and looked at the puzzled audience then motioned to Buchanan’s naked, painted body. “Look at the color. It’s violet. Roy has meticulously cycled through the colors of the rainbow. The last killing occurred in Walton Springs. The victim was spray-painted blue. The next color, what Buchanan should be, is indigo.”

Logan looked back at those gathered. “He’s skipped it. Walter Buchanan is violet, like Rita Jackson. Either there’s another vic we haven’t discovered yet who’s painted indigo, or Roy’s messed with his own well established pattern.”

Rutherford cleared his throat. “This, ladies and gentlemen, may be that small break we’ve been looking for.”