Spider's Web (13 page)

Jacob went back to his desk and opened his mailbox. The e-mail from Bernard was already waiting for him. He opened it and began to read the report of the Isabella Garcia case.

He read it three times, taking notes in his notebook. The third time through, he noticed something unusual in the autopsy report. Gabriella had long curly hair, and she’d had a haircut only a day before her murder. This made it much easier to see that one clump of her hair was shorter than the rest. Inspection under a microscope found that the hairs were cut with different scissors than the ones used by Gabriella’s hairdresser. No further note of this was mentioned in the entire case file, and Jacob felt like punching the detectives in the Boston PD. He picked up his phone and dialed the ME’s office.

“Hello?”

“Annie, it’s Jacob Cooper.”

“Hey, Jacob. Tamay Moseley’s autopsy isn’t done yet,” she said immediately. “It’ll take a few more hours—”

“No problem,” he interrupted her. “I just wanted to ask something specific. Did Tamay have some of her hair cut off just before or after the murder?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… was there some hair missing? A piece that was a noticeably different length than the rest? Probably cut with…” He glanced at Isabella’s autopsy report. “Blunt scissors?”

“Let me check. I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks.” He put down the phone, then printed out Isabella Garcia’s photograph and stuck it to the whiteboard next to the three other victims. “Mitchell, Hannah,” he said. “This is Isabella Garcia. She’s probably our earliest victim. I’ve forwarded the case files to your e-mails.”

The detectives both nodded. Jacob took another look at Isabella’s face. Would they find any other victim? He could already see Isabella Garcia’s Facebook page opening on Mitchell’s left monitor; the right monitor displayed her murder report. Jacob wondered briefly if Mitchell could really pay attention to both windows simultaneously.

His phone rang and he answered immediately.

“You were right,” Annie told him. “One of Tamay’s braids had been cut off using a blunt blade. How did you know?”

“It’s a serial killer, Annie,” he said. “One of his other victims had her hair cut as well. I think it’s part of his MO.”

She was silent for a moment. “Any other victims in Glenmore Park?” she asked.

“Kendele Byers.”

“So Kendele had part of her hair cut as well.”

“Probably.”

“And I didn’t notice it.”

Some people didn’t give themselves any slack. “You did an amazing job there, Annie. The body was severely deteriorated when we found it—”

“Not the hair, Jacob. I should have spotted it.” She sounded as if she was about to resign there and then.

“You’re an incredible medical examiner, Annie. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

“Shut up, Jacob. You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I need to get back to my autopsy. I don’t want to botch this one as well.” She hung up.

Jacob sighed.

The killer was keeping mementos from his victims. He had actually stopped the car after running over Tamay for the second time to cut a braid of her hair. If Jacob had any doubts that this was a serial killer, this fact pretty much dispelled them.

He got to work again, filling up the whiteboard with basic facts about the victims. Then he began to make calls to Isabella Garcia’s family and friends.

An hour later, a man walked into the squad room. Jacob immediately noticed his shoes: brown, expensive-looking, and brand new. His hair was completely white, and he was dressed in a gray suit. His face was vaguely familiar, but Jacob couldn’t quite place him.

“Sir?” he said, hurrying forward, trying to block the man’s view before he noticed the boards. “This area is off limits—”

“The chief let me in,” the man said calmly.

Jacob paused, frowning, trying to figure out who this was. Someone from the Feds, maybe? Or… oh. He suddenly felt like a fool. Not a feeling he was a stranger to.

“Mr. Mayor,” he said. “I’m sorry, I was just—”

The chief bustled in. “Mr. Mayor,” she said. “I’m glad you could make it. Right this way, please.” She led him into Captain Bailey’s office. Jacob saw Hannah grinning at him.

“Like you would have handled it any better,” he grumbled.

“I know what the mayor looks like, just saying,” she said. “But memory fades with age, so…”

“Shut up,” he said.

He noticed a new e-mail in his inbox and opened it. It was a short video from a CCTV camera Bernard had sent him. The camera was positioned near the spot where Aliza Kennedy had been shot. The video showed a man rushing away from the scene. He didn’t look anything like the sketch they had. Jacob forwarded the e-mail to Hannah.

“Hannah,” he said. “Can you find a good frame from the video I just sent you, where the guy’s face can be seen clearly? I want it printed for the suspects whiteboard.”

“Sure thing,” she said, opening the clip.

He made a few additional phone calls, with no results, before Hannah handed him three printouts. One was from the video he had sent her. The second was the sketch Rabbi Friedman had helped with. The third showed a shadowy profile of someone sitting in a car.

“This one is from the video that Officer Lonnie obtained,” Hannah said, pointing at the third printout.

“The man in the car might match the sketch,” Jacob said, narrowing his eyes. “But the third guy is different.”

“Just different hair and beard,” Hannah said. “It’s probably a disguise.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jacob said. He got up and flipped the whiteboard. He then taped the three printouts to it, and took a step back. Could it be the same guy? It was hard to tell.

He went over to the timeline whiteboard and looked at it. The killer had struck at least four times. Isabella Garcia had been murdered six months before. Aliza Kennedy had been murdered three and a half months after. Kendele, according to the time of the text message, was murdered on July 21st, ten weeks after Aliza. Tamay had been killed six weeks after Kendele. Maybe there were missing cases, maybe not, but the pattern seemed clear. The killer was accelerating. The clock was ticking.

He glanced at his watch and groaned. When had it gotten so late? There were no windows in the squad room, but according to the time it was already dark outside.

He dialed Marissa.

“Hello?”

“Hey, hon,” he said. “Listen—”

“You’re running late,” she said. There was no anger in her voice, just a hint of sadness.

“Yeah.”

“When will you be back?”

“Uh… very late, I suspect. You’ll probably be sleeping when I get home.”

“Did you have dinner?”

“We’ll probably order something,” he said.

“Do that. Don’t start forgetting to eat again. A workaholic husband is one thing, but I don’t want you getting skinny.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, smiling. “I already am skinny.”

“Sure you are, Jacob. Don’t fall asleep driving home.”

“Bye, hon.”

“Bye.”

He ended the call and stuck the phone in his pocket, then noticed Captain Bailey standing near the coffee maker.

“Making a pot of coffee?” he asked.

“I need to be helping somehow,” Bailey said.

“I could definitely use some,” Jacob said, and sat down. There was another e-mail from Bernard, just a quick update. Everyone in the Boston PD had suddenly gotten a lot less helpful. He was having trouble accessing their files.

“Hey, Captain,” Jacob said distractedly, “Once you’re done with the coffee, Bernard could use some help from you and the chief. Looks like Boston PD got the memo that they’re not going to be in charge, and they seem to be feeling a bit childish about it.”

“I’ll handle it,” the captain said.

Jacob heard Mitchell’s voice in the background, and realized he’d hardly heard his partner talk since morning. When Mitchell was doing online research, he always became deeply absorbed, not noticing what went around him, talking to no one. Now he was on the phone, talking to Pauline, having the same conversation Jacob had just had with Marissa. Jacob wondered if Hannah was about to call anyone. As far as he knew she had no one in her life, but who could tell?

His phone rang again. Matt this time. “Hey, Matt,” he said.

“Hi, Jacob. Listen, we finished processing the Camry.”

“What did you find?”

“We found several hairs and a few fabric threads,” Matt said. “And one set of fingerprints that matched Rabbi Friedman, who’s in the system.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know about the fabric yet; we’re running tests. Let’s talk about the hair.”

“Let’s,” Jacob said.

“So… we have two groups of hair. One is probably Friedman’s; it matches his hair color and it was his car. The other hairs are much darker, and the strands are thinner. They don’t look like a good match for the rabbi, and apparently his wife and kids all have lighter hair.”

“How do you know?”

“I sent one of my guys over there. Friedman wasn’t happy.”

“I’m sure,” Jacob grinned.

“So these hairs might belong to our guy. I sent them to the lab for DNA testing.”

“Okay, good.”

“Not so good. They’re hair shafts—no roots—and the shafts usually don’t contain nuclear DNA. Nuclear DNA is the type we need to match against CODIS. We’re testing them anyway, but it’s a long shot.”

“I have full faith in your skills, Matt.”

“Faith is not the issue here. We either have nuclear DNA, or we don’t. If we get lucky, we might still find some nuclear DNA in the hair. And when I say we, I mean the Feds.”

“You sound tired.”

“It’s been a long day. And it’s not over yet.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jacob said. “Thanks, Matt.”

Mitchell was vaguely aware of everything going on around him, but he pushed it all out. His mind was deeply focused on the four women.

Isabella Garcia, Aliza Kennedy, Kendele Byers, and Tamay Mosely. Each woman had thousands of virtual strands online—social network profiles, forums, e-mail accounts—and he was diving through the ocean of information, trying to submerge himself in the lives of all four women, looking for the connections.

It was easy to get lost in trivial details. Two of the victims liked the same movie, or shared the same Internet meme, or a video of a funny goat. He ignored the noise, looking harder.

They each had hundreds of connections. Tamay had thousands of fans, Kendele had dozens of clients, Aliza and Isabella had numerous social media friends and followers. He tried to gauge which was more important, which was worth noticing. The names blended in his mind; when he tried to list them, the work became monotonous, slow and useless. What was a list of names worth? No, he had to
feel
them. The victims’ digital lives were complete things, not lists of names, of likes, of comments. Each of them was a real thing, that should be treated as a whole.

The first connection was easy to spot, and he discovered it quickly. All the victims had followed supermodels and modeling agencies via the different social networks. None of them were models, but they were all interested in the modeling world. Could the killer have found them at a fashion show, or a fashion world event somewhere? He tried to look for events they had attended. Aliza did go to fashion shows, and posted about them regularly in her Instagram feed, but he saw no indication of the same behavior in the other three. Still, it was a possible connection, and he made note of it.

There were hours where he simply clicked link after link, scanning their posts and their friends’ posts, switching between the four victims constantly. When pizza or coffee came his way, he ate and drank, the taste a faraway thing.

Then, when he was just about nodding off in front of the screen, his concentration fading away, something snagged his mind. He was looking at Kendele Byers’s Twitter account, examining the handles she followed. There was one named
@AtticusHof
. He frowned, and then recalled that a week before he’d been calling all the people in Kendele’s contact list on her phone, trying to fish for any clue. She had an Atticus there as well.

He opened the list of all the calls he’d made. There—Atticus Hoffman. Mitchell remembered him. He was an agent who represented models. He had said Kendele asked him to represent her, and he refused.

Mitchell reached for Tamay’s phone, which lay on his desk. He opened her contact list and scrolled until he found it.
Huffman Modeling
. She’d misspelled the agency name. He compared the number to the one he’d called the week before, just to be sure. They matched.

“Jacob,” he said aloud. “I think I found a suspect.”

He glanced at the time, exhausted. It was half past midnight.

Chapter Twelve

When Atticus Hoffman woke up in the morning, he wished for death.

This was not something new. He wished for death quite a lot. He wished for death after eating too much, he wished for death when he had a cold, he wished for death when there was a traffic jam. But lately his death wishes were becoming somewhat more sincere.

This was mostly Dana Hoffman’s fault. She was his wife—or, to be a bit more precise, his fifth wife. Soon to be his fifth ex-wife. She was the reason he was waking up on the floor of his office, in clothes he’d worn the night before, with the acute taste of vomit in his mouth and one of the worst hangovers in his entire life.

Dana had kicked him out of their apartment two days ago, after she’d found out he was fucking Maribelle. He suspected the real cause for her anger was not that he was fucking someone else, but that he was fucking someone younger. She’d chased him out with a broom and a bread knife, swinging them both like a deranged gladiator. He hadn’t even had time to pack any clothes. When he could finally return home, his clothes would probably be cut to ribbons. It wouldn’t be the first time, either; his second wife, Jessica, had done that when they broke up. And Ingrid, his third wife, had once burned all of his underwear.