The Night Caller (6 page)

“Because in each case the local cops made the same mistake the NYPD is making in Bette’s case,” Deni replied. Knowing she’d hooked him, she was paying attention to her food for the first time. She used the flat of her knife to mash and spread the cream cheese on her bagel. “The Oakland cops arrested Ofelia Valdez’s ex-husband. They had to let him go because they didn’t have enough evidence. But they were sure he did it. When he died in a car accident three months later, they closed the case.”

“And Ellen Banta?”

“She was a Wall Street hotshot who’d made a fortune and retired at thirty-five. Never married or had kids. Her younger brother inherited everything. Naturally the cops liked him for the murder, especially when they found out he was chronically unemployed and had a couple of drug arrests. Again, though, they were never able to make a case.”

“Were both victims killed in their homes?”

Deni raised her eyebrows. “You ask all the right questions. No, neither one was. Ofelia Valdez was at her ex-husband’s house. They still slept together sometimes. A lot of divorced couples do, but most don’t like to talk about it. In fact the cops couldn’t find anybody Ofelia had told. That’s why the cops arrested her ex. Who else would have known where she was staying the night? But he’d gone to work at three
A.M
., loading trucks at UPS, and they could never figure out how he snuck home to kill her.”

“And Banta?”

“Well, Ellen was a sports nut, but she really liked to eat. Every few months she’d sneak away to a fat farm, live on rice cakes and carrot juice, and sweat the pounds off. She didn’t want anyone to know. Always told people she was off scuba diving in the Bahamas or someplace.”

“So let me guess. She was at this fat farm when she was killed, and only her brother knew where she was?”

“Actually, they were never able to prove he did know. But he was her closest living relative, so they figured he’d be the one she told.” Deni paused. “You see the pattern? Five years ago, two years ago, thirteen months ago, and then your daughter. There’s the shoe print in the cases of your daughter and Marlee Clark, and latex glove powder all over the bodies in all the murders. Like most serial killers, this one is compelled to kill with less time between victims. And of course there are probably more victims we don’t know about, and he’s operating on an even more accelerated timetable. In each case the local cops assumed it had to be a lover or family member or close friend, because the killer showed such an intimate knowledge of the victim in the way he got at her.”

Coop nodded. He saw the pattern, all right. Both patterns. “Valdez was sleeping with her ex-husband; Banta didn’t advertise the fact she was going to a fat farm; and Marlee Clark was in her high-security condo, so it had to be somebody who knew how to sneak past the alarms and cameras. And my daughter was at my cottage, and the only way for the killer to know that was if she’d told him.”

“Exactly. That’s why you went to Haverton yesterday, wasn’t it? To find out who she’d told? Did you have any luck?”

“According to your theory, how do you—” Coop began.

“You cops. Ignore the question and ask one of your own. Is that something they teach you at the police academy?”

“According to your theory, how do you figure the killer learned his future victims’ secrets?”

“My guess is he’s a Ted Bundy type, a charmer who insinuated himself into the victims’ confidence and affection.”

“That’s only speculation.”

“I’m going to test it, though. If Marlee Clark knew someone like that, her lover Sue Coppolino probably also knew him, or at least met him. I managed to arrange an appointment to question Sue Thursday in Florida. Want to come along?”

Coop wasn’t sure of his answer. “You’re doing all this because you think there’s a book in it.”

“Of course. I’m a writer. Are you afraid of what we might find out about your daughter?”

A woman who sensed weakness. And exploited it. “It isn’t that,” Coop said.
Not entirely that.

Deni’s lips curled into a half smile. “Then come along.” It was a challenge. “It’s in both our best interests to work together on this. We can be a team, pool our resources and talents. You think like a cop, and I think like a writer. You have cop connections, I have connections that aren’t all cops or criminals. My guess is you’re not exactly computer literate. I can work the Internet like a wizard and find out anything.”

Coop knew she was being reasonable, but he didn’t trust her. She was hoping to write a sensational best-seller, and she wouldn’t care whom she trashed along the way.

But maybe she
was
on to something, and had information he wasn’t aware of. He had little choice but to team up with her, at least until her avenue of investigation arrived at a dead end.

“If we’re going to work together,” Coop said, “I want to know everything you know. Organize it and make copies, put it in a file folder and get it all to me; then we’ll meet and discuss the case.”

“Will I know everything
you
know? I have to point out that so far I’ve been very forthcoming with you, Coop, and you’ve told me diddly-squat.”

“Am I right in assuming you need me more than I need you?”

“I get the point,” Deni said, making it clear that she didn’t like the point or maybe didn’t even necessarily agree with it.

“I might be retired, but I can’t go around blabbing certain police business or I’ll lose my credibility and sources. You should understand that.”

“I do,” Deni said. “We’ve got ourselves a deal.” She extended her hand and they shook on the agreement.

Coop noticed her hand, broad with blunt fingers, nails chewed almost to nonexistence. And with the strength of a man’s.

“There’s something else obvious about this killer,” Deni said. “Ellen Banta was killed in New York, Marlee Clark in Florida, Ofelia Valdez in California, and your daughter was killed in New York. This killer began in New York, though he probably killed elsewhere for years, and now he’s come home.”

Coop was afraid she might be right.

“See,” she said, guessing she’d been a step ahead of him, “you’ll find that I’m an asset.”

As well as a liability,
Coop thought.

He watched her grin and tear into her bagel as if it were alive and might escape.

She hadn’t mentioned any plastic saints. And he couldn’t.

The Night Caller had read all the available material on the subject, how law enforcement defined serial killers, how they divided them into “organized” and “disorganized” types by analyzing crime scenes, how they worked up psychological and physical profiles that usually turned out to be amazingly accurate. Or so they said.

From the much maligned point of view of the killer, there were, of course, some common denominators that simply couldn’t be avoided. But there were others that were controllable. Variables could be introduced, as well as misleading consistencies. Then the threads the police sought, the compulsions that must be served, would be lost in the maze of conflicting and misleading information.

It was not, for instance, always necessary for a serial killer to use the same sort of weapon or dispose of bodies the same way, to be known as “the .44-Caliber Killer” or “the Hillside Strangler.” How many different types of firearms there were! How many different ways and places to dispose of bodies!

How many different kinds of cutting instruments.

Cut to the chase. Shortcut. Cutlery.

The Night Caller opened Georgianna’s kitchen drawers until the overhead fluorescent fixture’s pale glare glinted off a clutter of bright steel blades.

What would it be? A chef’s knife? No, that was too similar to a previous deletion. A paring or steak knife? Their blades were short, flexible, and uncertain. An ice pick? Possibly, possibly…. But what was
this?
A sharp edge that cut, a cutting instrument, a cutter that could cut through metal—a hand-operated can opener. Here was a change yet not a change in modus operandi. Once a manual can opener snagged skin, entire sections of flesh could be peeled off, in layers if necessary, vital organs exposed.

Messy? Of course messy. But controllable. The victim could be unconscious in a bathtub, heartbeat and blood flow minimal. Initial cutting could be done underwater. If she regained consciousness, shock would immobilize her. The face needn’t be touched. That was important. And when the moment was right and true, a dull but sufficient consciousness could be induced, and the union and instant would occur even through the paralysis of shock. All pain, all destruction, would be beneath the surface, leaving the ritual intact and the moment complete.

Georgianna would suffer, but that was a necessary variation on the theme. It would appear to the police that her murder was the work of a vicious sadist, yet she would be perfect and at peace beneath the time and above the blood.

The Night Caller lifted the can opener from the drawer, then experimented with its long lever, observing its clamping action at the cutting wheel. Excellent. And there in the drawer was a heavy steel mallet for tenderizing meat. Perfect! Not for tenderizing, but for effecting unconsciousness with a precise and single blow. After unconsciousness, and what followed, the cutting and misdirection could begin, the creation of a truly red herring. The police would never have seen such a red herring!

But it would all happen under careful control. None of the red must get on clothes. The basin would be for washing away minor stains afterward.

The Night Caller carried the can opener and mallet into the bedroom and laid them on top of the bureau, then began to undress.

As time passed, this seemed a better and better plan. Since this murder was one of practicality and precaution rather than urgency, and out of sequence, it would serve well to divert the authorities. Not only would the MO be altered, but the assumed motive as well. The Seattle police would see the murder as impulsive rather than logical and systematic, or a combination of both. The police would be searching for a mindless ghoul, not a killer who was educated and sophisticated. Nobody liked being cubbyholed. Compulsions could be harnessed. Needs could be met without categorization.

The plastic St. Augustine left last time in the still warmth would divert the police. St. Augustine the forgiven. The Night Caller had come across the cheap souvenir saints in his travels and decided to use one. Yet he had bought a dozen. Eleven more were at home. No, ten. Seattle was a long way from New York.

Nude, the Night Caller padded barefoot into the bathroom and removed the plastic shower curtain so it wouldn’t be in the way, then ran lukewarm water into the tub and began to arrange towels.

Anticipating. Smiling.

Everything under control.

Dr. Rainier Gregory leaned back in his black leather desk chair, a green folder containing Coop’s charts open before him. Behind him were framed certificates attesting to his qualifications and expertise, family photographs taken at various vacation spots, attesting to his professional success.

Coop hoped the certificates and photos meant something. Dr. Gregory was the surgeon who’d removed the part of his colon that was cancerous, and had, in a series of minor operations and chemotherapy, eliminated what cancer had spread. Once metastasized, the blood-borne cancer from the colon might turn up in any part of the body. It had to be dealt with in a way redolent of putting out brush fires. What was hoped for, prayed for, was the magic word:
Remission.

“Your numbers look good, Coop,” Dr. Gregory said. He was a man in his early forties, younger than Coop. His hair was dark and he’d grown a raven-black Van Dyke beard since Coop had first met him. “Blood count steady. PSA holding.” He put down the folder and sat forward. “So how are you feeling these days?”

“Not bad. Tired sometimes. I think more in terms of rationing my energy instead of my time.”

“There’s obviously been some stress, considering what happened to your daughter. Are you coping with that all right?”

“I think so.”

“I know it isn’t easy, but it would help if you managed it as well as you can. There are anecdotal data correlating stress with cancer.”

“I’m dealing with it as well as could be expected,” Coop said.

“Do you need anything?”

At first Coop didn’t understand.

“Perhaps something to help you sleep,” Dr. Gregory said, seeing his confusion. “Or to relieve anxiety.”

“No, I want to keep thinking clearly. Stay active.”

“I guess you know, from your profession, that everyone deals with grief, with stress, differently.”

“True enough,” Coop said.
Some of them murder women.

“We’ll keep an eye on things,” Dr. Gregory said, standing up. “Continue your diet, Coop, and get at least some regular exercise. Let me know immediately if you perceive any change in yourself.”

“I will,” Coop said, also standing, shaking the doctor’s hand. “Thanks,” he said simply, as always after an appointment.
Thanks for saving my life.

“Sure,” Dr. Gregory said, almost casually. “Don’t forget to stop and see Mary on the way out, set up an appointment for your next blood workup. In these cases, the tale is in the blood.”

Balancing a box and two paper sacks containing her shopping bounty, Georgianna unlocked the door and entered her apartment. Once inside, she set her burden on a small table, carefully relocked the door, then fastened the chain lock.

She got out a peach-colored blouse from one of the paper sacks and held it up to herself, beneath her chin, checking her image in the mirror. She was pleased. The blouse’s color was right for her, as it had appeared in the harsher light of the department store. That lighting could fool you when it came to color. She hadn’t been so sure in the store.

She lowered the blouse but kept looking at herself, at the image of an attractive and confident woman with a mischievous grin. Somebody on the way to somewhere important, if looks and grooming were any indication.

Georgianna tossed the new blouse over the back of the sofa and started toward the kitchen to get a glass of water.

Then she stopped and stood still, feeling chilled and as if every fine hair on her body were standing on end.

She had heard nothing but somehow knew that someone was standing behind her.

Close.

She made herself turn and look, and gasped at what she saw.

Instinctively she whirled to run.

She managed half a stride, hearing or imagining a single, whispered word,
Julia,
as the mallet fell.