The Killing League (2 page)

He glanced up at the packed auditorium, then back down to his notes.

“It’s also my belief that if you truly focus on active serial killer cases, where new victims are appearing with some regularity, the number is somewhat lower. I put it more in the range of twenty-five to thirty-five cases. Which is still too many.”

Mack thumbed the electronic control in his left hand and a large map appeared on the wall behind him.

“What we know for certain is that they are plying their trade across the country in small towns, big cities, rich neighborhoods and crime-riddled slums,” he said. “Today, I want to talk about a few of what I consider to be cases where the killer is clearly active, and if anything, increasing the frequency of his or her attacks. I’ll share with you my thoughts on the evidence, and what I know about them.”

He clicked the control again, and the map zoomed into the central United States, where a series of red dots appeared in a rough line down one of the north/south freeways.

“The I-75 corridor,” he said. “Seven victims, all reported to be male prostitutes, have been found in various locations along the freeway, mostly in Georgia and Florida.”

He thumbed the control again.

“Chicago. So far, eleven females, all in the age range of seventeen to twenty-three, all blonde, missing.”

Another map.

“Fort Walton Beach, Florida. Seven men dead, all middle-aged, all known to frequent prostitutes. All drugged first, then shot, stabbed or beaten. In each case, the sedative was the same, unique cocktail of chemicals.”

Mack took a sip of water from a water bottle he’d placed on the podium.

“Now, let’s talk specifics.”

•

Seated near the back row, a man could barely contain his laughter.

The man watched and listened as Mack went over his detailed notes on the crimes he had listed. The man couldn’t help but be amused. He’d hacked into Mack’s computer over two years ago, installed a shadow desktop program that sent him any new notes or changes to the computer’s files. The security software the FBI had put on Mack’s laptop was obsolete within three months, and he had easily broken through.

As he listened, to Mack’s lecture, the man noted the items Mack left out. They always did that to prevent anything getting to the media or nutjobs who loved to phone in and claim to be the killer.

As he listened the man had to admit that Mack was actually pretty close to solving three of the crimes. The murders along the I-75 corridor, for instance. Mack had sent in a request to the national trucking bureau for information about any truck drivers with criminal histories, especially of a sexual nature who frequently drove that stretch of freeway.

The man had hacked into that organization’s computer system, and replied to Mack’s message that they would look into their files and send him a response. Then he deleted Mack’s message and searched through their records himself.

He came up with three drivers. The man compared known times of death for the victims, and compared the locations of the three drivers. Only one driver was in the same general vicinity as the victims at the time of their murders. A little more digging, all of it the illegal kind, and he had his man.

The man nearly let out a laugh when Mack moved on to another set of mysterious killings.

He was really enjoying this.

3.

Truck Drivin’ Man

The custom Peterbilt semi truck sat in its space, among the other giant long haulers, at a packed truck stop off I-75 in Florida.

Inside the cab with its extra large sleeping compartment, Roger Dawson sat behind the wheel, a joint between his thick, stubby fingers. He had the window down.

A boy in his late teens, wearing a short leather mini skirt and a tight black T-shirt, approached Dawson.

“You lookin’ for a date?” the boy said. His voice was high and girlish. Dawson looked down at him from his perch. The boy’s face was oily and dotted with pimples.

“You think I need one?” Dawson said. He had a pug nose, and his dark eyes revealed nothing.

“Doesn’t everyone?” the boy said.

Dawson handed the joint out the window to the boy. The boy had to step on the truck’s running board to reach it. He took a deep hit and handed it back to Dawson.

“You new here?” Dawson said. “Never seen you around before.”

The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. “Just got in from L.A.,” he said. “Where you headed?”

Dawson examined him.

“Turn around.”

The boy was momentarily caught off guard by Dawson’s sudden change in conversation. He did a pirouette, working to put his goods in the best light.

Dawson took another deep drag of the joint. The two remained silent for several moments.

“Well?” the boy said.

“Kinda skinny,” Dawson said.

“Not where it counts,” the boy said.

A small smile crept across Dawson’s face. He nodded toward the passenger side of the rig.

“Door’s unlocked,” he said.

•

Less than an hour later the young prostitute was on his belly, his head turned to the side. His eyes were wide and lifeless. His tongue was sticking out.

Dawson pulled the big rig over to the shoulder of the highway. He was on State Highway 75 - known locally in Florida as “Alligator Alley.” Just off the shoulder were deep canals, covered with vegetation.

Dawson got out of the truck, put the hood of his Peterbilt up and he stood in front of it, smoking a cigarette.

A car drove by, the only other vehicle on the highway, and Dawson moved to the other side of the truck, blocking any view of him.

After the car disappeared up ahead, Dawson opened the passenger door of his truck.

He looked down at the dead boy on the bed, inside his sleeper compartment.

“Time to feed the gators boy,” he said, and slung the boy over his shoulder. He walked down the shoulder of the freeway to the canal. He hoisted the boy up in his hands like a weightlifter doing a clean and jerk. He held the boy in both hands over his head then threw him deep into the marsh.

A loud splash and then the quiet of the swamp.

Dawson waited, smoking his cigarette.

When he heard a second splashing sound, he smiled as the alligators began to take care of his disposal needs.

4.

Nicole

The man crouched in front of Nicole Candela, his hands moving in a circular motion, the right hand holding a knife.

Nicole, her back against the wall, leaned forward, her hands also rotating in a circular pattern. The man blocked the path to the room’s small door, and Nicole had nowhere to run. Sweat ran down her face as the man inched toward her. She felt a slight pain in her left leg where Kostner’s punji stick had buried itself. Despite surgery and rehab, it sometimes still ached. She was never sure if the pain was real or one of her many phantoms.

It was the slightest disturbance of air in the room, the most subtle intake of breath that set Nicole in motion. When her assailant took the tiniest bit of breath, she bent slightly at the knees, saw his right arm shooting at her with the knife out ready to slash. She brought her left arm up, tapped the outside of his right arm near the elbow and pushed it across her body. She brought her right arm up, hooked the man’s knife hand, then pinned her left forearm against his tricep.

Keeping her feet shoulder length apart, she applied pressure and felt the man’s arm start to hyperextend, and in seconds would break-

“Okay, okay Nicky!” the man said.

Nicole dropped her arms and stepped back. Her instructor shook his arm loose, and tossed the rubber knife across the room into the equipment basket.

Eric Anderson smiled at her and she thought again of how he was one of those men difficult to put an age on, but Nicole guessed he was nearly fifty. He had a shaved head, and bright blue eyes. He was shorter than she was, but thick and powerful. He moved like a boxer.

“Good, very good,” he said.

“Thanks,” Nicole said, a small smile on her face.

Anderson showed her several ways to tighten her trapping technique and make her footwork more efficient.

As she gathered her equipment up and headed for the door, Anderson walked with her.

“You’re doing well, Nicky,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel good,” she said. “This training is tough, but when I leave I feel great.”

They had been working together for several years, and from the beginning she had fallen in love with the martial art.

She had chosen Pekiti Tirsia for good reason. A fighting art originally from the Philippines, she learned that it is not a sport. There are no tournaments. It is a warrior art that teaches practitioners not just how to defend against multiple attackers, whether they use hands, clubs, knives or guns, but how to kill.

The other thing that attracted her to Pekiti Tirsia was that it includes a lot of work with knives. In fact, the literal translation of the name was “to cut into small pieces.” Ever since her attack, she had been very, very fond of knives.

“It will become even more and more natural,” Anderson said. “When it matters, you won’t think about it. Your mind reverts to the lowest denominator. You’ll perform by sheer instinct only those moves you’ve practiced thousands of times. You know them so well, they happen almost by themselves. That’s why we train.”

“I understand,” she said. And she did. More than her instructor could ever know. Because she had been in that type of situation. And she knew firsthand that, yes, you really did revert to the simplest things you knew. It was difficult just to think, let alone act.

They gave each other the traditional Pekiti Tirsia goodbye, a closed fist against the heart and said “Mumbuhi,” which means “health.”

She walked out to her car, threw her gym bag in the backseat, and got behind the wheel.

She checked her watch. There was just enough time to go home, let out her dog, and get to the most important night of her life.

5.

The Butcher

A floor drain finally caught up to its workload and devoured the last batch of swirling blood.

The flow had slowed to steady drips with the occasional gush that sent a stream of thicker, darker blood toward the floor. The blood emerged from a corpse hung from a thick ceiling beam into which a huge metal eye hook had been screwed. The body belonged, or once belonged, to a middle-aged woman. Now, it was in the possession of a craftsman, who stood before his meat-cutting saw, its blade still spinning.

Roy Skittlecorn appeared like the stereotypical image of his profession. He was a butcher, and very much looked the part. He had on an apron, its front smeared with blood. He had thick black hair, slicked back, and his hands were large with bulging knuckles. They, too, were covered with blood.

A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

His thick fingers were wrapped around an elongated piece of flesh, with a jagged circle of bone protruding from the middle.

The AC/DC song “If You Want Blood,” boomed from the stereo that sat on a wide, metal shelf.

Skittlecorn took another drag from the cigarette, set it back in its ashtray, and pushed the severed leg onto the table saw’s blade.

He’d heard of people using hacksaws and sawzalls to chop up bodies. He had a name for them: amateurs. A sawzall, even with a new blade, made a mess of things. His technique was a work of art. He watched as the blade sliced through the leg in a perfect, smooth cut. He set the piece next to the others, all lined up in neat groups. A wave of contentment washed over him. Life is never better when work is going so well, he thought.

He turned his attention back to the leg, and pushed it onto the blade. The sound of the diamond-coated cutting tool drowned out the words to the Butcher’s favorite song.

6.

Mack

Mack was surprised and more than a little disappointed to see him. FBI Assistant Director Paul Whidby stood near the back of the small group who had waited to speak with Mack upon the completion of his lecture.

Whidby looked exactly the same to Mack, even though he hadn’t laid eyes on the man in several years. A career politician, Whidby looked the part. A tall, handsome black man in an expensive suit and tie, perfect teeth, the arrogant posture of a man who thought he owned the room.

Mack hid the surprise at Whidby’s presence, and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Mack caught the eye of his old partner, Ellen Reznor, who seemed to transmit a what-are-ya-gonna-do expression to him.

The last student thanked him for the speech, leaving Mack, Whidby and Reznor alone.

Whidby approached him. Mack noted that the man made no pretense of offering a handshake.

“Interesting speech,” Whidby said.

“Thanks,” Mack said.
That really means a lot to me
, he thought, but held back from actually letting the sarcasm fly.

“I see semi-retirement hasn’t stifled your creativity,” Whidby said.

Mack almost smiled at the thinly veiled insult. Whidby had always been the first to attack Mack’s theories as pure speculation. Only when a case was cracked and Mack proved right did Whidby ever get on board. And he did so only then to try to take credit.

“And you haven’t lost your knack for missing the obvious,” Mack said.

Reznor held up her hands and literally stepped between the two men. “Guys, no pissing match here, please,” she said. “Just say hello, and go on your separate ways.”

“Clearly, no one consulted me on letting you give these presentations,” Whidby said. “I would have told them to save their money.”

Mack nodded. “I’m not surprised no one consults you, Paul. Sounds like the value of your input hasn’t increased over the years.”

“But I found out it’s part of your
extremely
generous retirement package,” Whidby said. “These little seminars or whatever they’re called.”

“All right, good to see you,” Mack said and brushed past Whidby. He was halfway down the auditorium stairs to the exit doors, when Whidby called out.