The Holiday Killer (5 page)

"Mrs. Daffy, Mr. Michaels was under the impression that Russell was here last night."

"Well, he never made it here. I figured he'd kept him home. It's not the first time the man's said he was letting Russell come over, and decided to keep him home without calling. 'There's a killer on the loose,' he says, seeming to forgetting that the killer's stealing kids from their homes, whether their parents are there or not." The woman seemed to freeze, looking at Liz's face. "Wait… That call earlier… His agitation… Dear God… Russell isn't…? God, why didn't I call him?"

"Russell was found this morning, down by the marshlands. There are signs it's a Holiday Killer attack, but there are also signs that it's not. We're currently investigating, and we hope to catch Russell's attacker quickly."

The woman covered her mouth in horror. "The Holiday Killer. Oh, Lord, It was him! Robin, get the kids in here!"

"Mrs. Duffy, please, I see no reason to distress the children." Liz shook her head. "There's a young boy in the morgue tonight, and you don't want to have to explain what happened to Russell to the children. Let them stay children as long as you can."

She handed the woman her card, even as a gaggle of small children started to build up around her. The youngest was three, the oldest maybe eight. "I have to get back to the station and begin the paperwork. Please, if you think of anything that could help—if you remember any strange people hanging around the neighborhood, for example—give me a ring. I don't think I need to remind you that this case must be handled with the utmost delicacy, in order to maintain the integrity of the investigation. Please speak to no one about what happened here."

The woman nodded, sniveling a little. Liz stood and left the house quietly, keeping her thoughts to herself. She needed to get out and think, and she needed some solid evidence.

These people were strange, no doubt. They were hiding something, but she didn't think it had anything to do with Russell's death. She sat in her car for a few minutes, rubbing her eyes and thinking. She'd already been awake for over twenty-four hours, and she was getting droopy.

She hadn't learned much from this visit, except that Mr. Michaels and his mother-in-law didn't really see eye-to-eye on much. They were both going to blame each other for Russell's death, almost as much as they were going to blame themselves.

It was a dead end, this lead, and she thumped the steering wheel in frustration. She'd just wasted a few hours learning nothing but that Russell was stuck between two sets of parents when he died. Neither realized he was missing until she turned up on their doorstep, telling them that the boy had been dead for two days.

She turned the key and headed off toward the station, thinking. How could someone treat their child with such unknowing indifference that they didn't realize he'd gone missing? She couldn't imagine doing that to Jamie, and believed Phil was the same.

But the kid went missing off the street, and that brought one person right to mind. A man who had been arrested on child pornography charges less than twelve months earlier, though he'd walked on a technicality. Child snuff films might just be up his alley, and she'd have to ask him to find out.

They hadn't brought Mark in since Sally Kerric went missing last Thanksgiving, and Liz thought it would be a good idea to re-open the file with his name on it.

As for Carl, Russell's grandfather… Well, she was reserving judgment on the man until she could have her own little chat with him.

Liz rubbed at her face as she examined the chart in front of her. The chart logged the Holiday Killer's seven victims, and no matter how long she looked at it, she still couldn't make out a pattern to the victims themselves. But there had to be something there. Each of the children was younger than eight, but had a different background. Their rooms had been cleaned up after their kidnapping—or before, maybe, she couldn't tell—and the child's favorite toy had been stolen. She wished she knew where those toys were, because it might lead them straight to an arrest—and a city finally at peace. But no one had recovered the toys.

There had been only one suspect in the last six months: Mark Windsor, charged with possession and distribution of child pornography and sexual assault less than twelve months ago. He had a rap sheet that covered everything from breaking and entering to drug dealing and sex trafficking, having dipped his fingers into almost every crime imaginable at some point. He was a known laborer, which put him in the docklands, where they found the chemical sealant from the glove print at Mike's home, and he was one of the few workers there whose hands and feet fit the prints left outside the kidnappings, which Lisa had noticed while processing him for assault three weeks ago. He was also the only dockhand who had a pair of gloves in their possession covered in the same residue found on Mike and the second victim, Sally's, windows.

She was still bitter about letting him go on the Holiday Killer case, but she didn't have any evidence that wasn't circumstantial in order to hold or charge him. That said, she had two officers on him at all times, watching and reporting his every move. And they'd finally found something useful.

Liz stared down at the mug shot on the table, then glanced briefly at the artist's sketch she'd had commissioned after Mike was found on Lowrig Boulevard—that of the man who had found the body, talked to her, and then disappeared. While of the right body type as the suspect from New Year's, Mark didn't sport the same heavy-set brow or thick beard. He did, however, sport a similar moustache. But his eyes were also the wrong color—black, instead of light brown, almost gold. The man she'd talked to hadn't been Mark. She didn't think.

Then she came to the jackpot—the picture she'd been searching for. When they arrested him on child porn charges again a couple of days ago, the team photographed Mark's bedroom while he was in custody to catalog any place where the porn was kept, video or photo, including some dusty shelves in a dark corner of the room.

They'd been looking for evidence that he was selling kids to rich men who could pay. But the picture proved something even worse than that—that he'd had at least something to do with the Holiday Killer murders.

Liz glanced up as the tall, thick Italian man was brought in again, his hair greased back and his clothes ironed. He was followed by two very expensive lawyers, who were shadowing him at his elbows. Three policemen were trying to escort him into the room, but they were put out of the way by the large lawyers and forced to wait for the man a few times.

Liz didn't even bother to stand as he strode into the room, taking a seat on the other side of her desk. She glanced up at him and then continued to write in her notebook, scribbling nothing at all. Attempting to put the man off.

"Do hurry up with your bullshit claims," Mark said, sitting back in his chair and gesturing to the lawyer on his left. "This is your invoice for the time you've already wasted. As you can see, my time is expensive."

Liz didn't look at the paper his lawyer handed her, instead crumpling it up and throwing it on the floor. She wasn't about to play his stupid games.

"You've had some pretty special evidence in your possession," she said, handing him a photo of his gloves, seized under a search warrant a month ago. "These gloves were used in a kidnap-murder case a few months ago, Mark. I'm sure that if we were to run them against the samples found at the crime scene, I'd find an exact match. Because…" She passed over a picture of his boots, which were seized that morning, "these boots made the footprints at the base of the some of the victims' windows."

"What you have is a rather large pile of circumstantial evidence," the lawyer to Mark's right said with a grunt, pushing the photos back across the table at Liz. "You can't prove any of that. Now, my client agreed to come here today, to talk about when his possessions would be returned to him. He did not come here to face wild accusations of kidnapping and murder. Unless you have something concrete to substantiate these claims, my client is leaving now."

"How about this?" Liz asked, pushing the final picture across the table.

On it was a collection of children's toys, including a stuffed tyrannosaurus, a wooden train, and a teddy bear missing an eye, sitting on a shelf in Mark's bedroom. She watched Mark carefully. "Care to explain why I don't have you arrested? At the very least, you're breaking parole for that 'assault of a minor' charge you left prison for mid-last year, owning these child-friendly toys, never mind whether they came from my victims or not. At the most, DNA tests on these items will turn up matches to the some of the victims of the Holiday Killer, and you will go away for a very long time."

The man laughed, his face giving nothing away. He glanced at the lawyer on his right, who flipped the photo upside down and pushed it across the bench.

"And just what are these supposed to be?" he asked, helping his client stand up from the table. "Souvenirs of a crime my client didn't commit? If they are, they were planted in my client's house by someone of nefarious means or action. I wouldn't place too much stock in your evidence, Detective Donhowi." The lawyer smiled, waving for Mark to walk out of the room first. "Until your DNA evidence comes back, you have no case—"

"Actually, all the evidence I need came in this morning." She looked at Mark as two burly officers stepped into the room, holding handcuffs. "Mark Windsor, you are hereby charged with the kidnapping, torture, and murder of seven children. Jenkins, take over, will you?"

The officer nodded, then led the man out of the room by his elbows as he read him his rights. Liz smiled at the lawyers, who were frowning at her.

"Well, the good news is that you boys are about to get a whole lot richer," she said, pushing all her papers and photos into the folder, and standing up. "I trust you know how to find your way out."

"You'll regret this," one of the lawyers said, his voice low.

"Even scummy cops like you have friends and family to lose," the other one said, both of them picking up their briefcases.

"Of course we do," she said, holding the folder to her chest to hide her shaking hands. "We're not scumbag lawyers working to make the world a worse place, after all."

The pair shot her looks as they left, and she headed quickly to her office for a mid-afternoon drink.

She was equal parts afraid and elated as she let out a sigh of relief and sagged into the seat. The Holiday Killer was caught. Now he just needed to stay that way.

The adrenaline rushing through her body was a relief and a stimulant, pushing her to jump and celebrate, even if she only allowed herself a shaky breath and a small smile. She hadn't bowed to those cowardly lawyers and their threats, and she was sure their words were caught on the security cameras up in the corner of the ceiling. She'd have their asses, too, and relish every second of it.

She decided to have a second mid-afternoon drink, just to make sure she was really good on her feet. She needed to get home, to tell Phil the good news, and to warn him and Rose not to be too relaxed; there was still a chance something terrible could happen, but as far as she could see, the nightmare was over.

The Holiday Killer was behind bars, and her son was safe.

But there was one thing she didn't quite have solved yet: the second man. Who was the man who attacked Officer Malcolm at the scene of Mike's body? And if he wasn't working with the killer, did the killer himself have another accomplice? Would the murders stop now? Or would they get worse?

The questions plagued her as she left the interrogation room, ready to go home to bed.

Mark Windsor was released from custody at the end of June, the charges against him dropped owing to a lack of evidence, in spite of the children's toys being found in his house. The district attorney claimed that none of the evidence submitted against Mark Windsor would hold up in court, and threw them out of his office.

Liz sought an investigation from Internal Affairs, suspecting that the DA was either dirty or being intimidated by Mark Windsor's people, but they didn't want to get involved.

On July 6
th
, the eighth victim was pulled from a basement on Reighurst Street, heavily mutilated and bearing the Holiday Killer's signature markings. Liz fought to get Mark Windsor prosecuted, but he remained out on bail, and even with new victims turning up, the DA ignored Liz's case, turning a blind eye.

By the time the ninth victim was taken on Thanksgiving, the man was actively avoiding her and her questions.

She took to the streets during the peak of the crisis, randomly patrolling, hoping to stumble across the man sneaking into a house or—on those desperate nights after a kidnapping—dumping the body of his latest child. She didn't even care if it was the man who discovered Mike's body, or if it was Mark, or if it was a pink elephant in a tutu singing the Star Spangled Banner. She just wanted the fear to stop, the dread to lift, for holidays to mean something other than fear and death.

Most of all, she wanted Jamie safe.

Not once had she seen anything of use, but she still tried, determined to keep the city safe for as long as she could, even if it meant sitting in a car with a broken heater for hours at a time, in the middle of winter.

Thoughts of Jamie kept her going. Thoughts of protecting him kept her awake.

Phil and Liz were a little more relaxed now about the Holiday Killer's threat to take Jamie, but that didn't mean they weren't vigilant. Jamie wasn't allowed out of their sight for even a moment on holidays, or the nights surrounding them.

The fact that the Holiday Killer hadn't made so much as a move on Jamie had both if them worried. Was the man attempting to lull them into a false sense of security? Was he deterred by the security kept on him at all times? Or had he given up, deciding that it wasn't worth the effort to take him?

The questions gnawed at her as she climbed into bed each night, but none of his threats ever came to fruition. Liz wanted to believe she was doing what was best for Jamie, trying to catch the Holiday Killer instead of bowing to his demands, but eight hard months of nothing more than frustratingly clean bedrooms and decidedly messy child-corpses was wearing her down.

Maybe it would be better if she stood down, she thought on those long, desperate nights as she stalked the city. Let someone else take on the danger. She and her family were already skating a knife's edge; one more holiday without an attempt on Jamie could very well undo them. The tension that surrounded each holiday led to bruised egos and fights over nothing, creating grudges that neither could let go of.

It was Christmas Eve; couldn't the Holiday Killer just give them one Christmas of happiness?

Liz was broken out of her thoughts by her cell phone vibrating in time to her ringtone. She pulled over near the mouth of an alley, killing the engine and the headlights.

"Hey, Phil."

"Hey Liz. How's Jamie doing?"

"I don't know. Isn't he with you?" A chill ran down her back, but she swallowed it down. She wouldn't have a heart attack over a prank!

Phil hesitated. "Officer Rhonda said you came and picked him up an hour ago, in the minivan."

"I'm at work, Phil; I'm in the cruiser." She could feel bile rising in her throat, but she swallowed it down. "See if he's at home. I'm on my way over right now."

"See you then."

Liz started the engine and swung out into a U-turn that almost caused an accident. She flashed her sirens at the men in their cars and they backed down, glaring instead of shaking their fists at her. She ignored them, so focused on where she was driving that she failed to take in the crashes she left in her wake.

What the fuck! What the fuck was she thinking, not waiting for us to reach the door before she let him go? Goddamn it, Mother, you said she was a secure babysitter! Fuck that bitch, she's going to pay if he hurts Jaime! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Desperation had her skidding to a stop outside their house in what felt like minutes, leaving the engine running as she ran inside. Phil was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at her, a sad, terrified look on his face.

In his hand sat a small Christmas cracker.

"Where did you get that?" Liz asked, slowly ascending the stairs to where he stood.

"It was on the bottom step," he said, clearly in a daze. Liz whipped out her cell and ran inside, and up the stairs.

"Denise, no pleasantries. I need you to send everyone to my place." She swallowed, gently pushing open the door to Jamie's room. Inside, everything was spotless—a drastic change from the pigsty it had been that morning. Phil had been gone since midday; the killer could have been there at any point between then and when he picked up Jamie.

Over the last four months, she'd realized that the cleaner the room was, the bigger the mess he made of the body.

The walls were gleaming, they were so clean, sending off glare from the light in the ceiling.

This was the cleanest room she'd ever seen from the killer.

"He's taken Jamie, Denise. And the fucker has been in my house!"

She didn't hear the woman's words, her own statement was so loud in her head.
He's taken Jamie, he's taken Jamie…
She sank to her knees, clutching at her phone. Her
training didn't cover this, her disaster management skills couldn't help her cope with the fact that a madman had her only son. She shook, but made no sound, and otherwise didn't move.

"What do we do?" Phil asked her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Liz, what do we do?"

Liz was stumped, her thoughts caught in loop. She climbed slowly to her feet and led Phil down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she poured them tea and paced, ignoring her own slowly cooling cup as she anxiously awaited her peers, who should be barging through the door at any moment.

Fucker has been in my house! If I ever get hold of him, I'm going to rip him apart! If he touches a hair on Jamie's head, I will never rest until I find and gut the fucker.

Goddamnit, why didn't I have extra protection on him? It's Christmas Eve, for fuck's sake! What was I thinking? I should have dropped the case when he made his first threat, I never should have put my family in danger…

Oh, God, think, girl, think! There has to be a connection somewhere, something to tell me where Jamie is! Think, damn you, think, think!

"For God's sake, will you sit down? You're driving me up the wall."

She sat down opposite him, nursing her cup, but drinking none of the tea. Her leg bounced, knocking the underside of the table with every jump.

Where haven't we looked? The docklands? The marshes? The old courthouse on the far side of town? The vacant lot on Lowrig Boulevard? What do they have in common? Where could he be hiding? Goddamn it, think!

"Jesus, I can't stand this. I'll be in the living room."

Liz watched Phil abandon his tea and walk out to slump down on the couch with his head in his hands. She sat still for a few seconds.

Fuck this!

Phil said the man used her minivan to pick Jamie up. So that was her first stop.

She flicked on the light in the garage, and was surprised to find the minivan still sitting on the concrete, the wheels a little wet, as though it had recently been taken out. The floor was dry, though, so she reasoned that it had been out earlier in the day—the concrete dried a lot faster than the rubber.

How the hell did he get it out?
she wondered, then looked at the lock on the garage door. She went to touch the lock, but pulled her hand back sharply.
Mustn't contaminate.

She shut the door carefully, returning to the living room and looking to Jamie's room at the top of the stairs.

Without another word, she climbed the stairs, heading for the room, pulling on a pair of gloves as she went. But she stopped at the landing. She couldn't trust herself in there right now. She might throw herself on Jamie's bed and demand that he be returned from thin air, or she might throw something across the room in anger.

She felt ill with both guilt and anger, and could feel her heart breaking. Tears boiled up her throat, sitting behind her eyes, but she pushed them down, knowing that she had work to do. She didn't know how long they had until the Holiday Killer killed Jamie, but it couldn't be long. She had to find him, now, or face the idea that she could have stopped him, could have saved Jamie, if only she hadn't gotten emotional.

She stepped back down a couple of steps, then halted and looked back at his room. Climbing a step back up, she stopped again, and closed her eyes. She didn't know what to do—whether to go sit down at the table again, or sit in the living room with Phil, or examine Jamie's room, or…

Hell, she might just shoot someone to break the tension in her shoulders.

The knock on the front door broke her from her spiraling thoughts. She snapped out of her indecisiveness and hurried down the stairs, beating Phil to the front door. She gestured the forensics team and a couple of detectives into her home, wordlessly pointing to Jamie's room before vanishing into the kitchen.

"Liz," Sergeant Donhowi said gently, joining her for tea. "I've had to make a decision this afternoon. You've been removed from the Holiday Killer case and, effective immediately, you're on stress leave, on full pay, until the situation is resolved. One way or another."

"You can't remove me from this," Liz protested half-heartedly, looking her father-in-law in the eye. "Not without making yourself a target. You're giving him exactly what he wants! He won't just stop at me—"

"Which is why I'm standing down as well, Liz. There's too much conflict of interest. Orders are to treat you like any other potential witness, to drill you the same way you drilled the others."

"And what are you doing about my missing son?" she asked. "If you take me off this case, then there's no one who can solve it. And we need to solve it, Bill, before your grandson turns up in a gutter or hanging off a building somewhere."

"Believe me, Liz, I know," the man said, trying to calm her down. "He means just as much to me as he does to you."

The glass in Liz's hand shattered in her tight grip, and she swore, throwing the remains of the glass in the bin and cleaning her bleeding hand. "This needs stitches," she muttered to no one. "I'm going to the hospital."

"Not alone. Marcus and Mal are going with you. I don't want you doing something stupid."

"I don't need an escort, Bill. I'm just going to the emergency room, and it's not like you don't know where I live." Irritation made her face grow warm. "I'm a goddamn cop, suspension or not. It's not like you can't trust me. I'm just going to the hospital to get this fixed, alright?"

Bill huffed, looking her in the eye. "Fine. Make sure you're back within the hour. Use your badge to cut the queue."

Liz gave him a sarcastic salute and pulled on her coat, squeezing the towel in her hand. "Yessir, Sarge."

She felt his eyes on her back as she left, and ignored Phil's sobs as his father muttered comforting things between barking orders to the police team around him.

"Don't forget to tell them to check the minivan!" she called out to her father-in-law. "It's in the garage. No one's touched it. And don't leave a mess!" The door slammed after her.

She waited outside, hiding in the shadows, and watched. A younger cop slipped out of the house, heading for his cruiser, and she scowled. She was going to find her son tonight if she had to search every building in the city.

And I'll be damned if a rookie is going to stop me, Bill.