Psychobyte (12 page)

Mitch’s voice filled all available space in my mind. “Breathe, El. Just breathe.”

The strength of my voice surprised me as I formed an internal reply and pressed send. “Don’t worry, M. I got this.”

“Conway?”

Kurt’s hand rested on my forearm.

“I’m good. Two things … I saw the knife that did this to Michelle and shampoo.”

“The knife?”

Kurt let go my arm, took his phone from his pocket and touched the screen. I heard an app open. He typed as I spoke.

“A fixed-blade hunting knife with a blood groove.”

“Blade length?”

“Six inches maybe a bit more.”

“Did you see any of the handle?”

“No, the Unsub’s hand covered it. But the guard shone in the light.”

Moments later he showed me some images on his phone. I scrolled through them, stopping at a Buck 119 Special fixed-blade hunting knife. I flipped back to the previous knife then settled on the 119.

“That one,” I said handing his phone back.

“Good to know,” Kurt replied. “I’ll follow up on that knife when we get into the office. Now, what about shampoo?”

A sigh of relief tumbled from my lips. Every time I confessed to seeing or hearing something, the potential escalated for Kurt to go all Doctor Henderson on me and start throwing letters around like MRI or CT. Every time he didn’t, it felt like I’d dodged a bullet.

With my face close to her head I inhaled a faint scent from Michelle’s wet hair. Not much smell left but enough. Better still I knew I’d recognize it if I smelled it again. “Her shampoo is missing.”

Kurt stepped over the body and took a look in the shower caddy. “There’s shampoo here.”

“Pass it.”

He handed it over. I flipped the lid and inhaled the aroma. “Not this one. How many conditioners are there?”

“Two. One that matches the shampoo you’re holding and another one.”

I held out my hand. Kurt took the shampoo from me and handed me the conditioner. I opened the lid and took a whiff. “This is it.” I smelled it again. “Yep, this is it. She had shampoo that matched this. That’s the one she used.” She didn’t have time to condition before he stabbed her. I wondered if he would’ve taken the conditioner if she’d lived longer.

Kurt put the conditioner back in the caddy. “Add that to the list.”

Trophies, but not from every scene?

“Five murder scenes but only two trophies?”

“Only two we know of,” Kurt replied. “We don’t know yet what else could be missing.”

True. I gave that some thought as I left the room. Why not every scene?

Casting my mind back to Jane Daughtry, I conjured the smell I’d noted on her body. Faint. Still recognizable. Similar to the shampoo smell on Michelle. Similar but not the same. The base notes were deep and rich. Had I smelled that anywhere else?

“Kurt, there is something significant about the smells of the body wash or gel at scene one and the shampoo at scene five.”

“To?”

“The Unsub. I need to talk to someone about the base notes of the products. Also, check the other scenes.”

He was still watching me and it spelled trouble for me.

“You okay, Conway?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Little paler than usual. Getting enough sleep?”

The question amused me but it shouldn’t have. I shrugged. “Been a few late nights, I’m tired, shitty case, impending wedding. Enough?” I threw one more thing in for the hell of it. “There haven’t been a lot of opportunities to run so far this week. Lack of fresh air?”

For a minute, it looked like Kurt had moved on.

Then he hadn’t.

“Not buying. I’m going to schedule a checkup for you.”

“After we sort this, I’m all yours.”

Well, right after I get back from my honeymoon. Let’s not get too carried away.

“That in itself worries the hell out of me.”

“Some vitamins and fresh air and I’ll be all good. You’ll see.”

I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets before my fingers crossed. My mind rolled over the smell of the shampoo and the body wash. There was something familiar about the base notes.

“What are you thinking?” Kurt asked.

“I need to see the earlier victims’ bodies again.” Not so much see, as smell. I needed to smell their skin.

Not something I wanted to say aloud even in the context of the case. Too much honesty happening for my liking. Sooner or later the mountain of odd occurrences would trip Kurt’s doctor reflex and I’d end up in the donut of doom having my brain scanned yet again.

“Trip to the morgue then. Now or later?”

“Later.”

Kurt nodded. “We need to talk to the car thieves and I want to research that knife.”

“Office then.”

Flowers On The Wall

My contact list contained two phone numbers for Noel Gerrard. I called the first number. Disconnected signal. Six rings into the second, it went to voicemail. I left a message telling Gerrard to call his mom and me, in that order, A-SAP. My next call was to Sean O’Hare.

“Hey, it’s Ellie Conway, you heard anything from Noel Gerrard?”

“No, not for maybe two months.”

“How was he when you heard from him last? His mental state?”

“He was fine. Usual Gerrard.”

“Was he working on anything in particular?”

“He retired. Last I heard he was working on catching fish and drinking scotch.”

“Did he say he was going anywhere?”

“What’s this about, Ellie?”

“He’s UA. No one, not even his mom, has heard from him in weeks.”

“All I can tell you is that he was fine when I last heard from him. You called Gerrard?”

“Yeah, the landline’s disconnected and the cell went to voicemail.”

“I’ll see what I can turn up.”

“Thanks, Sean. I appreciate it. I’m kinda swamped with this case.”

I replaced the receiver. If Gerrard didn’t want to be found, it would be almost impossible to find him; that wasn’t something I wanted to tell his mom. I pulled the top drawer of my desk open and rummaged through it, searching for what used to be in there. Cigarettes. Old habits die hard.

Shoving the drawer closed I popped a mint from the container on my desk, stood up, and stretched. Time to gather the troops and get back to work on the case in front of me.

The bullpen hummed with conversations. A low drone rippled down the walls and undulated across the floor when I stepped into the busy room. Sam and Lee sat at their desks. Both looked over. I raised my eyebrows, held up two fingers then tapped my left wrist.

My office, two minutes.

The rippling low hum became a head-pounding pulse. I turned on my heels and left the area. Stepping into the quiet of my office calmed me. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and sat at my desk.

Sticky notes with the names and phone numbers of Terri Kane’s friends stared at me from the surface of my desk. No time like the present.

I called the first name, introduced myself and asked about political leanings. She didn’t know. Not that close then. The second name did know. She and Terri attended a Republican rally last week. I thanked her and hung up.

Maybe there was something in the Republican thing. Did the Unsubs not like Republicans, or were rallies the hunting ground of choice? Something to look into. That didn’t answer the question regarding the two-month gap between the first and second deaths though.

Lifting the lid on my laptop woke the machine from its slumber. Words flew from the screen, winding around my head and forcing their way to my eardrums. The Statler Brothers? I’d last heard “Flowers on the Wall” during the Hawk case. A shudder ran the full length of my body, leaving bitter cold in its wake. I let the lyrics take shape.

Mental illness. Solitude. Someone happy in their own world, unwilling or not wanting to join society. Maybe someone unable to join society? I found the song on YouTube and hit play.

Sam and Lee arrived just as the song started. I motioned them to sit down and we all listened to the lyrics. I played it again.

“This is something,” I said.

Sam nodded.

“You think the Unsub has been institutionalized?” Lee asked.

Not just me hearing that aspect then?

“It’s a possibility.”

“Maybe between Winchester and here …” I said. “And maybe not the first time.”

“I’ll look into recent releases from psych facilities and drug treatment centers,” Lee replied. “See if we get a hit to the description you came up with.”

I nodded. “Use the identikit image.”

“Will do,” Lee said.

“Being in a facility for mental illness or addiction could explain the two months between the Winchester death and the first Fairfax death,” Sam said.

Lee and I agreed.

“I still think there are two Unsubs,” I said, leaning into the back of my chair and stretching my legs under my desk.

Two Unsubs. And a woman.

“You
saw
two different men, yes?” Sam said.

“I believe so. Also …” I took a swig of water. “Things are missing from two crime scenes. I think body wash and shampoo.”

“But not all,” Sam said. “That could be why it’s not
all
the scenes. One Unsub likes whatever scent it is.”

“Yeah.” That’s where I was headed too. “I want one of you with me, I need to interview the car thieves before we turn them over to police.” I stood and picked up a manila folder from my desk ‒ a quick look told me it contained all the information Sandra had dug up on Danny Wills.

Sam rose to his feet, his muscular frame towering over my desk. A grin slid across his face. “I’m with you, Chicky Babe. Lee here is all over the hospital situation.”

“There’s a street map of Fairfax County in the bullpen, grab it for me, please.”

His eyes held questions that never made it to his tongue. Good, because I couldn’t explain why I wanted a map.

Sam met me at my office door. He opened his jacket and exposed the map in his inside pocket. Together we walked down the corridor and through several heavy doors into a more secure area on the right of our floor. Armed guards stood either side of two interview rooms.

I showed my ID and entered the first room. “Good morning, Mr. Wills. Hope you enjoyed your accommodation last night.”

He shrugged and glanced at the door. Sam waved.

“Your real name is?” I asked, sitting across from the young man and placing the closed folder between us on the table.

“Danny Wills,” he replied with a hint of a smirk.

“Date of birth? Social security number?” I took a pen from my shirt pocket as if prepared to note his answers.

“You have that information. I gave it to that cop.” His smirk settled.

“I do have that information but from a different source. Your prints, Carmine, netted a plethora of information.”

He swallowed the smirk.

“Does your mother know what you get up to at night while she’s working?”

A vicious stare met my gaze. I took that as a big fat no.

“How this goes, Carmine, is entirely up to you. You can have a reasonable conversation with me now or you can talk to Fairfax PD and your mom. What scares you the most?”

He shrugged, swallowed hard, and tried to recover some of his cool.

Yeah, that’s not happening.

“I suggest you think about the attitude you want to channel while you’re in my company.” I let that sink in for a moment. “You drew attention to yourself last night by deliberately tailgating a federal car?”

His head moved; the smallest nod ever.

“Maybe I did but you can’t prove that.” His eyes met mine. A hint of defiance swam in their brown depths.

I arched an eyebrow. “What did I say before about attitude?”

He lowered his gaze.

“Should this be about the cars?”

He shrugged again. I let it go: I could see his conflict: in over his head and last night wanted out of whatever he was involved in but now, not so sure.

“Where did you come from last night?”

“Around.”

“Specifically, Carmine, where were you?” Chance said he knew something about the killings; they happened in the mornings. I let my mind go blank for a moment. Chance appeared holding a calendar. His finger circled Monday. “Back up. Where were you at six on Monday morning?”

He frowned. “Taking coffee to my mom. I do it most mornings.”

“At home?”

“No. She was at work. I took her coffee.”

“She works where?”

“PSTO center.”

“Public Safety and Transportation Operations Center?”

“Yeah.” He nodded.

“Alliance Drive?”

“Yeah.”

“What does your mom do there?”

“Nine-one-one operator.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Where’d you get the coffee?”

“Fair Lakes,” Carmine replied.

“Did you take West Ox Road to Alliance?”

“Yes.”

I felt so close to something that could help us, I could feel it in my bones.

“I want you to close your eyes for a moment.”

Skepticism settled on his features. “Why?”

“Because I need you to visualize the route you drove Monday morning.”

He closed his eyes then opened them again.

I waited.

He shut both eyes.

“Listen to my voice …” I walked him through a mental exercise to help his mind focus on details. Then I started asking about Monday morning and getting him to describe the day.

His eyes pinged open. “A man crossed Ox road in front of me. He was carrying a bag that looked like it had blood on it.”

Pay dirt.

“Can you show me where?”

Sam stepped forward with the map. He unfolded it on the table. Carmine traced his route and pointed out exactly where he saw the man.

“Here.”

Fifty yards from Jane Daughtry’s front door.

“Did you get a good look at him?”

He described the first Unsub I saw, the swarthy Greek-looking guy. Sam reached around Carmine and showed him the identikit image on his phone.

“Yeah, he looked like that.”

“How about the bag? What’d it look like?”

“A messenger bag. Maybe for a laptop or something. I remember thinking it looked cool. Pale colored with bloody streaks on it. Gruesome. Awesome. Ya know?”

No. I have no idea.