The Christmas Killer (17 page)

It couldn’t be put off any longer. Jake had to drive into Indianapolis to see the lab people and see if he could get them to speed up.

The reception area was small, sparse and functional. There was a big desk and double swing doors to the left. He walked up to the desk. A big man in his twenties looked up.

Jake flashed his badge. ‘Detective Austin, Littleton PD. I’m here to talk about the forensics on our triple homicide.’

‘The Christmas Killer? That’s a bad one,’ said the desk guy. ‘Have you got an appointment?’

Jake couldn’t believe it. This was a crime investigation, not a trip to a hair salon. He had spent ninety minutes behind the wheel in bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic. Shoppers every-fucking-where. He had driven in circles for the last ten minutes just to find a parking spot. It was a real pisser of a journey, a reminder of why he had left Chicago for small-town policing. He wasn’t about to see the rest of the morning go that way.

‘Of course I haven’t made an appointment,’ he said. ‘I just need to speak to someone who’s working the forensics for us. Through here, is it?’

Jake made to walk through the heavy swing doors, but the receptionist was on his feet fast. ‘No one is allowed through there,’ he said, blocking Jake’s path. ‘If you call ahead, you can make an appointment and come back later, or tomorrow.’

There was something about the guy’s arrogance. Jake knew the type and what he was trying to prove. ‘New here? Or are you just a temp?’

The man pursed his lips. Angry and not fond of being talked down to, but undecided on whether messing with a detective, even one from a small town, could cost him his goal of long-term fixed employment.

Jake pressed home the advantage: ‘Three people are dead; we have a killer on the loose, and I am going to talk to the forensic investigators.’

The guy held up a hand but Jake glared at him, and he dropped it.

‘I’ll call my supervisor,’ he mumbled.

‘I’d appreciate that.’ Jake kept an eye on the fellow as he made the call.

A few minutes later the big doors swung open. A slight woman in her fifties walked through and smiled at Jake.

‘Detective?’ She reached forward and shook his hand. He scanned her quickly: short brown hair to her shoulders, straight. Glasses. Neat blouse under the
white lab coat, and a single strand of pearls. Probably farmed. He smiled back, glancing at her name tag.

‘Ms Zatkin. Jake Austin, Littleton PD.’

‘Dr Zatkin,’ she corrected. ‘But everyone calls me Ronnie. We spoke on the phone yesterday. You’re here about the Christmas Killer?’

‘I don’t like to call him that, but yes.’

‘What a sad business. You’d better come through. Peter, the door.’

Sulking, the man behind the desk pressed a buzzer that opened the swing doors, and Jake followed Ronnie through. She led him down a corridor and into a small office. He saw the door plaque:
DR ZATKIN, DEPARTMENT HEAD
.

‘Sit down.’ She immediately began fussing with a small machine. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Nonsense. You’ve driven all the way over. How’s everyone back in Littleton?’

‘You know the place?’

‘I was raised there.’

‘Everyone’s on edge,’ Jake told her. ‘We’re trying to catch a killer.’

She caught his tone and became more businesslike. She sat down at her desk opposite him. ‘It’s not an easy case. Messy forensics. The site yesterday had plenty of contamination, most of it from before the body was dumped. But it all has to go through the sieve. It takes time.’

‘I appreciate that. But Monday’s—’

‘We’ve had a few days with Marcia Lamb and Belinda Harper. But then we’ve had a drowning, two drug-related deaths, one homicide, and that asylum business over in Springfield. Frankly, we’re swamped.’

‘Springfield is a cold case. Cold. With skeletons. Our guy is still killing. It should take priority over—’

‘You
do
have priority, I can assure you. But we have to devote some time to each case as it comes in. We can’t just put Springfield on the back burner. There were two children killed, after all.’

Jake had sympathy but he also had limited time. ‘Ronnie, I need
something
,’ he said. ‘I’m chasing a guy who’s killed three people in five days. Technically, he’s not even a serial killer – he’s on a killing
spree
.’

The doctor sighed, then opened one of the folders on the desk. ‘I can tell you a little about the murder weapon,’ she offered. ‘Someone suggested that the injuries might be crush injuries.’

‘That was me,’ Jake said.

‘So it was. Very good.’ She beamed. ‘But it’s not as simple as that. Very specific pressures were applied to two points on the head, resulting in radiating fracture wounds to the skull. The pressures eventually led to the structural collapse of the front of the skull, resulting in teeth falling out and the eyeballs protruding.’

‘Like a vice?’

‘Not exactly. But that’s in the ballpark. The pressure was applied to the top of the skull and the chin, and it
was steady and cumulative. My guess, and I admit this is a bit left field, is an archaic device, some kind of a turning screw, slowly pushing the skull down until it bulged out and cracked. It would have caused the victims excruciating pain. The way we see it, the pressure would have caused the jaw to distort first, loosening the teeth. Eventually, as the squeeze became more severe, the jaw would clamp and the teeth would have nowhere to go.’

Jake tried not to think about what these women went through.

Dr Zatkin drew in a deep breath as she continued. ‘The pressure would have increased, crushing the front of the face together. But the main structure of the cranium would still have survived, so the victim would have probably been conscious right through this process.’

Jake rubbed his temples.

‘Eventually the orbital sockets cracked, and the eyeballs were pushed out by the pressure. At that point the pain would have probably caused the victim to pass out.’

‘Fuck,’ said Jake. ‘Sorry.’

Dr Zatkin waved away his apology. ‘Blood loss would have been significant but not catastrophic. Preliminary conclusion is that death was caused by asphyxiation, due to severe damage to the airways.’

She paused for a moment to flick through the file. ‘I can’t tell you what it looks like, but logic tells me the
device is portable, though it must be big. I can tell you that once you find it, you’ll know you’ve found it. And you’ll have your killer.’

Jake nodded, still massaging his head as he wondered where a man might purchase an archaic torture device.

Jake wanted to take the report away with him, but Dr Zatkin filed it in one of the grey drawers behind her deck instead.

‘The team are still working on it – you’ll get the full and final version,’ she promised. ‘We’re throwing everything at this. But the rest of the forensics aren’t giving us much. The guy isn’t raping the victims, and that means we are left with almost no physical evidence to work from.’

‘I’m getting nowhere,’ he said. ‘Every suspect has had to be discounted. We’ve no witnesses. I can’t find any connection between the three victims. He’s killed three times in five days, and we’re on the starting square waiting to throw a six. I was banking on forensics to give me a direction. Give me a lead I can chase, anything …’

She shrugged. ‘I can’t give you what I haven’t got.’

As she escorted him from the building, Jake decided to get one more thing off his chest.

‘Ronnie, can I ask you something?’ When she nodded, he made a slight show of looking left and
right – her ears only. Conspiratorial. ‘It’d harm the investigation if the press got hold of details we wanted to keep quiet.’

She looked at him. He could see the frown and knew that he was stepping close to a line now. No one likes their unit to come under criticism from outside.

‘The press know about the teeth,’ he said by way of explanation. Softening the accusation, he added, ‘They also know that two of the victims were killed in their homes, which didn’t come from here. But I’m seeing all these reports in the papers, and their dumb headlines about the Christmas Killer, like he’s some boogeyman made of smoke. It’s obstructive – it puts the public at greater risk.’

The doctor frowned. ‘We have a big staff. Almost thirty, if you include janitors, night staff and admin. And they all have family and friends. I suppose there could be some loose talk. I’ll look into it.’

‘This is more than loose talk. Someone is selling information, and—’

‘As I said, I’ll look into it.’ Her voice was hard. ‘I will tell my staff to be extra-vigilant, and I will make it clear that this is a disciplinary matter.’

‘Thanks.’ He smiled.

‘Have you considered that you might
want
the press on board?’ she asked, her voice softer. ‘You could use them.’

Jake hated to admit it, but she was right: maybe an appeal for information would throw up the lead he was
looking for. But that meant dealing with reporters. And after Chicago … after Adam Banks …

Jake blinked away the thoughts that were clawing at his mind. He extended a hand for Dr Zatkin to shake, turning away and trying not to dwell on a name and a face he had not allowed back into his mind for quite some time.

Jake arrived at the Church of Christ the Redeemer late. He was freezing cold on the outside, but boiling hot inside, with Leigh’s parting shot ringing in his ears.

‘Not even a Saturday dad,’ she had said before slamming the front door behind him.

She’s right.

In part the fight had been caused because Leigh had wanted to attend the service, but Jake had wanted her to stay at home. If Gail was right about the killer showing up there, he couldn’t allow his family to be on display.

Mills was already there, mingling with the crowd. He was trying to look inconspicuous but failing miserably. A cop was a cop and couldn’t conceal the fact. The size, the regulation haircut, the jacket and tie, the walk and posture were all giveaways. People saw Mills and moved along. Unless they wanted to pester him about the developments in the Christmas Killer case. Jake bit back a scowl when reminded of the sensationalist nickname.

Now Mills was ambling up to Jake, a goofy grin on
his face that was intended to obscure the seriousness of his words. ‘If the shrink is right about him being here, I sure as hell can’t see him.’

Mills was right. The only way they could have got anything useful out of the service was if they had had enough warning to set up a sting operation. If they had got a volunteer task force together to police the event, the odds were high that the killer would have been one of the volunteers. It had happened before. Jake figured they could maybe try something like that on the one-month ‘anniversary’ of the first kill, if they hadn’t made an arrest by then.

He tried not to think about how many victims this guy would have racked up if they had to wait
that
long.

Asher was there, in a three-piece business suit. His bulk and his thick neck meant that he didn’t look especially dignified. In fact, he looked more out of place than anyone.
If chief of police was an elected post, Asher would have struggled
, Jake thought.

Harper, on the other hand, was looking if not immaculate then pretty good in his dark suit. His tie was a discreet maroon, and his regulation pale shirt matched his complexion. Although Jake noticed that his hair was not perfectly groomed – some of it stuck out at an angle – his shave was close as the cut on an Augusta green. The combination of untamed hair yet effort with the razor gave him the right look for a grieving widower. It was sick, but Jake knew that if Harper
performed well today and at the funeral, he was a shoo-in for mayor.

Jake scanned the crowd. Although it was thirty minutes to the start of the noon service, several hundred people were already there. Many had gone into the old church, which had been opened for the occasion. Some were lighting candles. Others were kneeling at the abandoned altar. He didn’t know who he was looking for.

He was aware of a shadow looming to his left and turned to see the smiling face of Father Ken.

‘I am glad to see you could make it, Detective,’ he said.

‘I wouldn’t have missed it,’ Jake lied. He could see Asher, beckoning him over to the PD podium at which he stood. Jake offered Father Ken a nod that was half an apology for stepping away and half an unspoken commitment that they would continue their pleasantries later on.

Jake approached Asher. ‘Let’s get started,’ said Asher, aiming his mouth away from the array of microphones bearing the logos of local radio stations and television affiliates. The podium had been set up outside the large ornate wooden door of the old church. With so many community representatives and press in attendance, Asher had decided to hold an impromptu press conference. Jake hoped that the press would be more respectful standing outside a church, but then he remembered the bedlam at the construction site on
the day they discovered Marcia Lamb’s corpse and found himself not very hopeful at all.

‘I want you two square behind me,’ Asher said to Jake and Mills.

Jake winced. ‘Sir, I think—’

‘I don’t care what you think,’ Asher interrupted. ‘You two are the lead investigators on this case, and you stand here so that the whole community can see you. This is as much about calming people as it is about appealing for fresh witnesses.’

Jake had to concede the colonel had a point.

‘I’ll be letting out some information,’ Asher continued, ‘but the eyeballs – I don’t want any mention of them.’

Jake nodded.

‘Any theory on why the third victim wasn’t killed in her home?’ Asher pressed as if the question had just occurred to him.

Jake barely paused to think; it was a question he had already considered. ‘Candy didn’t live alone. Too risky for him. A roommate is an unknown variable – not only a potential witness, were she to return unexpectedly, but someone else he would have to kill in order to preserve his own freedom. Such a scenario opens up the possibility of mistakes, which is not our guy’s style. So he doesn’t take the risk – he does it outside. One time. I’d expect him to go back to the established pattern next. Invading their space seems to be part of his signature.’

The colonel made a strange gesture with his head and shoulders – like he was trying to shrug, but the sheer awfulness of Jake’s scenario had drained him of the energy to complete even that basic gesture.

‘I am going to say we are following several strong leads and have identified a number of potential suspects. It’s a lie, but it will buy us some more time.’

As Asher turned to the podium, Jake reached for his sleeve. An unprecedented gesture, one that Asher may not have experienced since at least three promotions ago, but Jake’s instincts were tingling. He had an idea. ‘One suspect, Colonel. We have one suspect. Let’s put this prick under pressure,’ he hissed. Asher nodded grimly. Message received.

Jake half-turned to let his eyes rove over the crowd gathering in the narrow shadow of the podium. Was his target among them?
Let’s see how you react when you think we’re on your tail.

The press corps had swollen considerably over the past few days. Now all the major regional papers had their own people in Littleton. Some of the nationals too. The work for stringers was drying up. All the news channels had their own OB units in place, big trucks with logos and banks of satellite dishes and aerials. He had heard rumours that several foreign correspondents were in Littleton.

Under FBI classification rules the Christmas Killer was still a ‘spree’ rather than a ‘serial’ murderer. A ‘cooling-off period’ followed by another kill would
muddy the categorizing a little, but Jake was beyond caring about labels. Spree, serial or mass – his target was a highly dangerous and evil individual. And he needed to be stopped.

Jake distracted himself by eyeing the throng of reporters. He found himself looking for one face in particular, a face he could not decide if he wanted to see or not. His former best friend, Adam Banks, a Chicago-based journalist, should be here somewhere. But Jake couldn’t see him. Good – he didn’t want to pick at that sore again. Banks was the one blemish on a perfect record.

Chuck Ford was here, of course. He was looking a little grubby beside the big hitters, but his face had the eager furtiveness of a rat scavenging for carrion. Clearly, his plan was to stay on top of this story at all costs.

By now the colonel was reading out his prepared statement, and Jake was only half-listening. He knew the drill – a few words about the victims, then an appeal for help. Asher would dwell on Marcia Lamb because of her child, and on Belinda Harper, whose grieving husband was at the service. He was going to skip over Candy for a variety of reasons.

Jake felt a twinge of guilt and rage when this thought blew through his mind, a brief flash of a need to get justice for Candy more than the other two women. A strange, barely articulated conviction that in death – especially the humiliating, inglorious kind suffered by Candy and Belinda and Marcia – there should be no hierarchy.

‘We believe we know who the killer is,’ Asher was saying, ‘but knowing it and proving it are different things. We are appealing to the public to help us give this killer the needle, as he deserves. Someone knows something. Someone has seen something. You might not realize it now, but some small thing you saw on the night of any of these three killings might be the final piece of information we need to make our case. Please come forward, in complete confidence. We are all on the same side. We need to make our streets and our homes – our community – safe. As it should be.’

It was four minutes to twelve, and nearly time for the start of the service. There would be no time for questions.

Chuck Ford had thrust himself to the front of the pack. His arm was raised, his face a frozen mask of righteous anger that probably wasn’t genuine. ‘You’ve identified a suspect?’

Asher looked a little startled because of the way the question had been bellowed at him. He turned and looked at the clock on the steeple of the church. He had time to answer Ford’s question. He looked at Jake, who tried to shake his head without shaking his head.

Asher turned back to Ford. ‘We have an idea who we are looking for, yes,’ he said. ‘That is all I’m willing to say at this point.’

You should have given him nothing.

‘Should the people of Littleton – the citizens of
Indiana – be feeling like prisoners in their own homes? It’s Christmas, Colonel!’

To his credit, Asher maintained his cool. ‘There is no need to panic. The usual precautions that people would observe should also apply in this case. Don’t accept lifts from strangers, don’t let them into your homes, don’t give out personal details.’

It was a platitude, and it wasn’t convincing. Jake wished that Asher would utilize the tried and tested ‘No comment.’

‘Are we safe?’ demanded Ford. ‘Yes or no?’

Asher hardened. ‘I’ve already answered your question, Mr Ford. Any more questions?’ He looked up, trying to make eye contact with literally any of the other reporters.

But Ford wasn’t going to let go of the bone. ‘He’s killed three times; he’s left three crime scenes. You have plenty to go on and you claim you have a suspect. Why isn’t the Christmas Killer in custody yet, Colonel?’

Jake could see Asher’s fists balling. ‘We have a city-wide task force working the investigation. Leads are being followed, suspects tracked. Rest assured, the full resources of—’

‘
Suspects?
So now there are more than one?’

‘Er …’ Suddenly Asher looked like a drowning animal. Jake could have killed Asher for saying too much.

‘If you can’t handle this, why has the FBI not been called in?’ Ford went on.

Jake knew the answer: no police department,
however out of its depth, wanted to give up jurisdiction over a high-profile case and admit it was beyond them. Besides, there was no federal aspect to this particular case. It had not crossed state lines, and unless the governor specifically requested it, the FBI could be no more than consultants. But Jake knew there was no way to explain that to a pack of rabid journalists without giving them ample opportunity to paint Littleton PD as glory hunters putting the public at risk rather than calling in the big guns.

Asher gritted his teeth while the other reporters took notes and snapped photographs. Jake feared for the fellow’s mood when the morning papers arrived, showing his harassed face beneath less-than-flattering headlines.

Ford was not finished. ‘Why is the case not being handled by an experienced Littleton officer? I understand the lead detective has only been in the city a few weeks.’

Jake felt it like a knee in the guts. He stepped forward and took a spot next to Asher at the podium. He glared down at Ford, now only a foot or two away.

‘We are doing the best that we can,’ said Jake, keeping himself from snarling. ‘We know this town; we know how to investigate a murder. We’ll find this guy.’

‘That’s not very reassuring for the people of Littleton. Don’t you think that it’s time to call in the
experts
?’ said Ford.

‘We are the experts,’ said Jake.

‘You’re an outsider,’ said Ford. ‘Maybe a few bodies here and there is acceptable back in Chicago. Maybe you let them build up before you do anything. But here in Littleton we value human life—’

A wave of something dark fell over Jake. He couldn’t stop it. He took half a step forward, his shoulders squaring.

‘Austin!’ shouted Asher.

Jake managed to rein himself in.

Ford stepped back and then feigned a stumble. He threw his arms out and fell into the crowd of journalists.

‘Don’t hit me!’ he shouted at Jake. The cameras flashed, and Jake felt rough hands hauling him back. Mills and Asher had rushed forward. The colonel’s face was in his, screaming admonishments that Jake’s raging brain could not decipher. The only thing he was aware of was the sly grin on Ford’s face as other reporters helped him to his feet.

‘What the fuck was that about?’ Asher yelled, pushing Jake back towards the podium.

Uniforms swarmed the makeshift stage, blocking Jake from photographers desperate to get a shot of the lunatic cop. Jake didn’t care. He was letting his body go limp, against the commands of his mind, which urged him to fight off Asher and Mills, then charge at Ford and give him what was coming to him. But the two cops held him tight even though they didn’t need to. And this just made him hotter and angrier.

They took him around the side of the church, and more uniforms stepped in. Jake shoved Asher away from him. ‘I’m all right.’

‘You are not all right!’ shouted Asher. ‘Attacking reporters? What the hell’s the matter with you?’

‘I didn’t touch that asshole. But I should have. I should have taken a good swing at him, knocked his fucking teeth down his throat.’

‘Snap out of it,’ said Asher, and he held Jake to the wall by his shoulder. ‘I know you didn’t touch him but it’s not the point. You lost it. You went for him.’

‘He goaded me. He made it personal.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Asher.

Jake took some deep breaths. ‘How did he know about me? Who told him I was from Chicago? Where does he get off, questioning my professionalism?’