Kill Me Once (10 page)

Twenty minutes later she was peering down the sight of her Glock-17 and squeezing off three shots in quick succession. The metallic ring of shell casings hitting the concrete floor echoed throughout the otherwise deserted shooting range for a moment, and then everything went silent once more. She paused and aimed the gun again. Three more shots rang out.

Taking off her standard-issue yellow-tinted Wiley X shooting glasses, Dana removed her hearing protection and pressed the button to activate the pulley system that would bring the paper target to her. Fifteen seconds later she was examining the tight pattern of bullet holes in the target’s head and chest areas.

Dana closed her eyes and wiped a line of perspiration from her forehead, picturing a face at the top of the target. A face she didn’t know at all and yet saw every day. Weird how your mind could make something you so desperately wanted to forget the only thing you could remember.

She snapped a fresh magazine into the Glock and clipped a fresh target into place while running through the case in her mind again. Everything from finding the first dead body in a garbage dumpster behind a grocery store in September to the discovery of Jacinda Holloway’s mutilated corpse on the east side of Cleveland the previous night.

Each of the little girls had been sexually molested, but not in a
sexual
way. In each instance the vaginal tearing had been caused by a foreign object. No semen – no DNA
at all
– had been collected from any of the bodies.

The Cleveland Slasher was a very careful man; that much was clear. And unlike some of the other killers that Dana had come across in the past, he obviously had zero interest in getting caught.

The lack of DNA on the bodies didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t getting a sexual charge out of the murders, though. Most serial killers got their pleasure out of the feeling of control they exerted over their victims, not from the sexual act itself.

Still, how was he not leaving
any
trace of himself behind at the scenes? It was almost impossible not to do so in this age of advanced forensics.

Unless, of course, you happened to know
exactly
what the authorities would be looking for. Of course, anyone could claim to be an expert these days with all the TV shows and books on the subject but this killer knew all the extra little details that only someone closer to an actual case could know. Either that or he was very smart indeed.

Dana’s heartbeat quickened as a thought occurred to her. It was unlikely that anyone would be so audacious but she made a mental note to have background checks run on everybody who’d been involved in processing the crime scenes up to this point. She berated herself for not thinking of it earlier. If Crawford had taught her anything it was to not leave anything out. However fanciful or unlikely something might seem, sometimes that was where the truth could lie. She couldn’t afford to ignore any thought or hunch, however random. Not when people’s lives depended on her doing her job properly.

When the fresh target was in place fifty feet away, she quickly riddled it with bullets again. This time they all went to the head.

Ten minutes later Dana exited the shooting range and made her away across campus to the packed lecture hall. It was as if she’d never been away – everything was so familiar. Inside, close to a hundred students were listening to Crawford Bell explain the bizarre circumstances that had surrounded the case of a notorious serial killer known as ‘Don Juan’.

It was the same lecture he gave to all students, of course, but Dana was always amazed at his ability to bring a fresh slant to each lecture he gave, the way he was always able to make things sound new and interesting again. No wonder the man was a
New York Times
best-selling author five times over. The guy was
good
. Captured the bad guys like Eliot Ness and then wrote about it like Truman Capote. A pretty potent combination, to say the least.

She watched him from the back of the hall. He hadn’t changed in the months since she’d last seen him – physically, anyway – but there was something different about him. It was probably only visible to her because she knew him so well, or thought she did, but she detected a slightly distracted look in his eyes, his demeanour. And then it was gone. Perhaps she’d imagined it.

Crawford ended his lecture five minutes later and dismissed the class with a quick wave of his hand, which caused the simple gold wedding band on his left ring finger to flash in the bright overhead lights. Crawford might have been a widower for more than thirty years now, but the ring had never left his finger once. Dana’s mentor and former partner might have been a lot of different things to a lot of different people, but
unfaithful
sure wasn’t one of them.

He nodded at Dana as she crossed the wooden lecture-hall stage and made her way to his side, his manner indicating that he was almost surprised she’d actually come, which momentarily disarmed her. Then he turned and introduced her to the thin man with sandy brown hair and a boyish face sprinkled with freckles who was standing next to him.

‘Special Agent Dana Whitestone, this is Special Agent Jeremy Brown.’

Dana and Brown shook hands.

Ever brusque, Crawford said, ‘Now that we’ve all been properly introduced, Jeremy, perhaps you’ll fill Dana in on what we’ve got going on?’

Brown cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’ Turning to Dana, he said, ‘Rather strange development in Los Angeles, Dana – if I may call you that.’

‘Of course. No need for formalities here.’

‘Great. Call me Jeremy.’

Brown spoke in a clipped professional tone as he ticked off the details. There was no time for idle chit-chat now. ‘A seventy-nine-year-old woman was brutally murdered last night in South Central. She lived in a ground-floor apartment by herself. The victim’s son lived in the apartment above her. The assailant entered through an open living-room window and raped her with a knife. The suspect left a vehicle behind at the scene – a rented 2004 Audi 3000 convertible. It’s being processed now, but a preliminary check didn’t yield anything. Was rented to a Darrell Wayne Baxter of Marin County last Friday. Problem is, Darrell Wayne Baxter of Marin County died of a massive coronary two years ago. After the murder, our suspect successfully fled a small crowd attempting to give chase on foot. Ring any bells to you?’

‘The Night Stalker,’ Dana answered automatically as she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. ‘Fits perfectly. A copycat?’

Crawford was looking across the hall as if he was lost in thought. Then he loosened the perfect Windsor knot in the silk necktie at his throat and nodded. ‘Exactly what I was thinking, Dana. Please go on, Jeremy.’

Brown turned back to Dana. ‘Yes, sir. This is actually kind of weird, Dana, but there was also a plastic bag tacked to the woman’s living-room wall. The kind they give you at a convenience store.’

Dana frowned. ‘Crawford told me about that. Was there any lettering on the bag? What store’s it from?’

Brown shook his head. ‘Don’t know. No lettering – just plain blue plastic. No way to trace it. At least, none that I know of. I heard about the letters inside the little girl in Cleveland. The anagrams you came up with would seem to connect the cases.’

‘Yeah, but for what purpose?’ Dana asked. ‘Are we reading too much into it all? These clues really aren’t clues at all. Kind of like the picture in Cleve—’

She stopped suddenly and turned to Crawford. ‘I know what the larger photograph in Cleveland is,’ she said quickly. ‘Goddamn it, I know
exactly
what it is.’

Crawford looked at her, puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Come with me,’ Dana said. ‘I’ve got something you guys need to see.’

She led Crawford and Brown out of the lecture hall and back across campus to a place where she’d spent hundreds of hours during her time as a student at the Academy.

The FBI library was located in a four-storey building in the centre of the dormitory complex, always the hub of activity at the Academy. Four reading rooms on the first floor offered comfortable chairs and tables for study or relaxation. The second floor contained the book collection and lounge chairs for readers. Internet stations were scattered throughout.

Dana, Crawford and Brown were seated in front of a computer terminal as roughly two dozen students stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at them, most of the stares fixed squarely on Crawford. It wasn’t often that the King came down from on high to mix with the commoners, but Dana sincerely hoped none of them were taking counter-intelligence roles after graduation. Subtlety didn’t exactly seem to be this particular group’s forte.

A nervous-looking man approached and handed Crawford a glass of water. He frowned and immediately placed it down on the table next to the computer. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

Dana shook her head as the man scurried away. Stretching her fingers, she found the home row and quickly pecked ‘Richard Ramirez Pentagram Photograph’ into the search bar on ‘Server in the Sky’, a joint database that the FBI shared with senior British police officials which held photographs and vital statistics for millions of criminals and suspects.

The second picture was the one that Dana was after. ‘There it is,’ she said triumphantly, leaning back in her chair and running a hand through her hair while she double-clicked on the photograph.

Outfitted in a dark blue jumpsuit, Richard Ramirez was holding his left palm up to the camera lens to display the crudely drawn pentagram he’d sported during his trial. Scraggly black hair framed a ghost-white face featuring hollow cheeks sucked in below dark, soulless eyes. A half-smile covered his face, which surprisingly enough had been considered handsome enough for no fewer than half a dozen women to actually propose
marriage
to the Night Stalker at the height of his infamy. A pretty young woman named Doreen had eventually won the sadistic killer’s black heart.

Dana dragged the thumbnail onto the desktop and selected the section featuring Ramirez’s palm before blowing it up.

Crawford leaned forward in his seat and stared at the image on the screen. ‘Well, I’ll be goddamned,’ he said. ‘Perfect replica of the photograph in Cleveland. He was telling us where he was going to strike next.’

Dana nodded. ‘Guess he thought the plastic letters inside Jacinda Holloway’s uterus were a little too subtle for us to pick up on. Wanted to make damn sure we didn’t miss his message.’

‘So what does the convenience-store bag tell us?’ Crawford asked. ‘Where’s he going to strike next?’

‘No idea.’

‘Try typing it into the search bar.’

‘Typing what?’

‘I don’t know. Try “Plastic Bag Serial Killer.”’

Dana did as she was instructed. Exactly point-eleven seconds later a hundred and thirteen thousand results popped up. She turned in her seat and gave her former partner a doleful look. ‘I’ll take the first fifty-six thousand or so if you guys’ll take the rest.’

Crawford tossed her a look of his own before glancing down at his expensive watch. ‘Hey, it was worth a shot.’ He looked down at his watch again, then turned to Dana as if he had something he wanted to say to her specifically but couldn’t find the words. Dana finally looked away first, embarrassed by his scrutiny. There was
definitely
something different about Crawford. She just couldn’t say what.

Crawford took a sip of water, collected himself and said, ‘So what’s next? Where do you guys go from here?’

Dana fiddled with her necklace. ‘I’d like to go out to LA with Jeremy here, if that’s OK with him. I’d like to take a look at that crime scene.’

Brown nodded. ‘Of course, Dana. I could use whatever help I can get.’

‘We both could.’ Dana turned back to Crawford. ‘Could you clear it with Headquarters for me?’

‘Not a problem.’

‘Thanks. Could you also start compiling a profile for me? I know you’re probably very busy but I’d really appreciate it. I thought I could handle this on my own. My mistake.’

Crawford smiled briefly. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Dana. This is a tough case you’re working on. Anyway, I’ll start compiling the profile tonight. Should have something for you in the next couple of days.’

He looked down at his watch again before rising to his feet, which sent the two dozen gawking students running for their lives between the towering stacks of books. ‘Now get out of here,’ he said. ‘You two have a plane to catch first thing in the morning and I’ve got somewhere I need to be. I’ll get the office to arrange the airline tickets and a couple of rooms for you over at the Radisson; so don’t worry about that. Just go get some sleep.’

Forty-five minutes later – after agreeing to meet Brown outside the hotel entrance in the morning – Dana let herself into her room. She stayed up for two more hours researching even the most minor details of Richard Ramirez’s horrific murders until she thought she’d go blind. She finally crawled into bed and pulled the comforter up over her body.

Her mind reeled from the events of the past couple of days – not to mention the horrific events of her past. As her tiredness finally overcame her, she wondered if the two had somehow become connected in her mind. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising. After all, Dana knew of another little girl who’d once had a terrifying run-in with a killer. A little girl still trapped inside her mind who was screaming out desperately for justice.

Dana turned on her side and adjusted the pillow beneath her head. Her eyelids drooped. Slowly drifting back in time, she allowed herself to enjoy the one memory from her childhood that wasn’t completely soaked in blood.

CHAPTER TWELVE

West Park section of Cleveland – 4 July 1976

Dusk darkened the summer sky as James Whitestone barbecued hot dogs and hamburgers on a rusty outdoor grill. He flipped a burger expertly with a quick flick of his wrist and used the spatula to motion to the sandbox where Dana was playing quietly. He spelled out the word to his wife so that their only child wouldn’t know what they were talking about. Although she was a precocious and highly intelligent little girl, Dana had yet to completely master the tricky art of spelling.