The Rainy Day Killer (14 page)

2
3

Monday, May 13: afternoon

“It’s embarrassing,” Hank said, shifting on the park bench.

“No, no,” Ed Griffin shook his head, leafing through the eight-by-ten prints in the file folder on his lap. “Don’t worry about it. She sounds like a real piece of work, but I don’t take that sort of thing personally. I wouldn’t last very long in this job if I did.”

They were sitting in a small, unnamed park on Cooper Street, a few blocks from departmental headquarters. Across the street and down at the corner, they could see the car rental outlet where their unknown subject had been video-recorded while renting the unmarked white van, stills from which were included in the file Griffin was now reading. Hank watched the traffic, giving Griffin a chance to digest the contents of the folder.

After
their briefing of Martinez on Friday, Cassion told Hank she would update Ed Griffin herself, since she had “more experience decoding BAU bullshit” than Hank. This morning, when he’d asked her what Griffin’s reaction had been, she’d waved him off. She hadn’t bothered calling the FBI analyst; it was a low priority that could wait.

Hank asked for permission to brief Ed himself
. She refused. He pressed. She ranted about losing focus on a case rapidly growing cold. He replied that they’d collected information Griffin should share with other jurisdictions who’d also investigated the Rainy Day Killer, to which she retorted that Hank could feel free to share that information himself with them if he wanted to waste his time. When he pointed out that Griffin already had a dissemination protocol in place, she looked at her watch and said, “Whatever, Donaghue. Just make something happen and stop bothering me with trivia.”

“You’re
correct,” Griffin said, tapping a photograph of the man signing the rental form, “he’s right-handed. Pathology reports have all consistently indicated that the removal of the breasts was done by someone who’s right-handed, and there it is.” He flipped back to a photo from the Food Basket. “He’s got the camera slung over his right shoulder.” He held the two pictures side by side. “Your technical guy’s sure it’s the same person?”

Hank nodded. Mickey Marcotte had run both video clips through analysis software and concluded there was a
95 percent chance, give or take 5 percent, that the man videotaped in the Food Basket was the same man videotaped while renting the white van.

“Unbelievably, none of the others came up with a picture of this guy,” Griffin said. “Not even Pittsburgh.” He flicked the phot
ograph in his hand. “I mean, if he walked by me on the street I couldn’t hold this up and say, ‘Hey, it’s him!’ But just the same, it’s progress, and that’s a good thing.”

Hank described the conversation
between Marcotte and Horvath about whether or not the killer knew how to steal a car, and the reaction he’d gotten when he’d mentioned it during the telephone call.

“
It was a good thought.” Griffin folded his hands on the file, watching a young woman stroll by with a small boy. The boy was walking a Pomeranian dog on a leash. “In Pittsburgh, he leased a vehicle using an online service and had it delivered to a blind address in the suburbs. He used it for the two confirmed murders with the Rainy Day Killer signature, and God knows how many other rapes in between. Then he torched it in a quarry on his way out of town. I know you saw that in the file, Hank. I’m just thinking out loud. Indulge me for a minute.”

“Go ahead,” Hank said.

“I’ve skipped the West Virginia case because no one knows what vehicle he used, since he followed the Witten woman home and then took off. In the Towson case in Louisville, the white van he used was stolen from a construction company’s yard on a Friday evening. The keys were left in it, behind the sun visor. It had been sitting there for a week, along with other vehicles, all with the keys in them, none of them used on a regular basis. We know he invests a fair amount of time in surveillance, so he probably earmarked the yard as an easy place to grab a low-risk vehicle without much effort.”

“In Evansville,” Hank said, “they never did figure out what he used, did they?”

Griffin shook his head. “No rental or leasing companies reported any missing vehicles during either time period. If he stole something, either it was never recovered or it was recovered and returned without ever being connected to the murders. In the first one, in St. Louis, all they know from witnesses who were out on the street when the Mortenson girl was picked up is that it was a dark-colored, mid-sized passenger car.”

“I’ve included a copy of the FBI report on our van.”

“I saw it. I take it they didn’t recover any meaningful physical evidence, otherwise we wouldn’t be here enjoying a peaceful afternoon in your beautiful city.”

“No, it was clean. No fingerprints, no hair, fibers, soil, foo
twear impressions, biological fluid stains, tissue fragments, or any other physical evidence that the Bureau could find. Since it was found in the parking lot of a do-it-yourself car detailing place, it stands to reason he cleaned it up before walking away from it.”

“It’s not his first time around the block,” Griffin said.

Hank hesitated a moment. “I’ve been wondering what his regular vehicle is, Ed. What does he drive in between? How does he move around from city to city? Could he travel from place to place by bus, for example, then pick up a vehicle when he gets to a new location?”

“I don’t think so
,” Griffin replied. “He rented the van here only three days before he grabbed Theresa Olsen. When you consider the amount of surveillance he did, not only of Olsen herself but several potential captivity sites and various dump sites, I’d be willing to bet he put in at least two weeks, maybe more, in preparation. He comes across as a highly-mobile, restless kind of suspect. I’ve started wondering whether that dark-colored, mid-sized passenger car in St. Louis is his own vehicle. Maybe he figured he’d taken an unnecessary risk with it that first time and decided to use different, disposable vehicles after that.”

“
Do you think he has the skill set required to steal a car?”

“Who knows? It
’s a good thought. With these newer cars, the remote keyless entry devices are easily hacked, so maybe he steals them using high tech skills. We don’t have enough data to make an educated guess at this point. The fact remains that here, in Glendale, he rented a white van and let himself be recorded doing it. That tells us something new.”

“He’s raising the risk level, as he said, but not because he wants to be caught.”

Griffin sighed, closing the file folder. “Letting himself be videotaped, showing himself to Officer Montgomery, calling you on your cell phone when he’s not supposed to know the number. Yes, he’s being much more overt this time, a lot more daring.”

“Why, if he doesn’t want to be caught?”

Griffin shrugged. “Bored? Becoming desensitized and wants to increase the thrill factor? Arrogance, egotism? Feeding a narcissistic urge to appear smarter and better than the people hunting him? It could be any or all of these things.”

Hank watch
ed a motorcycle roll past with the characteristic growl of a Harley Davidson engine. The rider wore a shiny black helmet, a navy business suit, and cowboy boots. It was too far away for Hank to read the tag number.

“We’re still trying to get a lead on where he’s staying,” he said. “The districts are canvassing hotels and motels with the co
mposite and profile, but nothing solid’s turned up. We’ve checked with property rental agencies and followed up on classified listings, in case he rented a house or an apartment, and we’ve gone through trailer parks and campgrounds in the area. A lot of legwork with nothing to show for it. Maybe he sleeps in his damned car.”

“These aren’t like your typical cases,” Griffin said
. “The domestic arguments or gang-related drug shootings where you can have a suspect in custody within three or four days if everything comes together. These cases take a long time to work, a very long time. I have cases in my filing cabinet, Hank, that have been open for fifteen years. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to discourage you. I’m just saying, cases like this can take a lot of time, a lot of patience, and a long memory.”

Hank nodded. It would be three weeks tomorrow since Theresa Olsen
had died, and he wasn’t any closer to finding her killer than he’d been on the first day. Cases that stayed open for a long period of time inevitably became institutionalized, like wallpaper you looked at every day until you no longer saw it, or coffee in the bullpen coffee pot that you smelled but no longer bothered to pour because you knew you wouldn’t drink it. Like Karen and most other detectives he knew, he preferred to immerse himself in a case, live it and breathe it twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, until a suspect was in custody. A case like this, strung out over several weeks, with long periods of inactivity, was like a slow form of torture. He understood this type of offender was difficult to catch. He knew that sometimes they were never caught. He appreciated Griffin’s point of view, that he needed to bring unusual patience and doggedness to bear this time around, and he knew his unit, like every other department, had open-unsolved cases which had grown stone-cold. It happened.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

Both men looked up as an empty tractor trailer rumbled through the intersection a block away. For a moment, it had sounded like distant thunder. Involuntarily, Hank glanced at the sky.

Bad weather was coming.

“We don’t know his periodicity,” he said. “We don’t know when he’ll be due again.”

“No. There are months between his signature homicides, but he’s said several times he commits other sexual offences in between
. As far as I can tell, there’s no real reason that he waits so long on the Rainy Day victims other than availability and timing.”

“If he found another victim quickly, worked through his planning and preparations, and then a storm hit—”

“He could strike again at any time,” Griffin completed the thought for him.

2
4

Thursday, May 16: mid-morning

Three days later it was raining as Karen drove downtown to turn herself in at Richard’s Bridal Salon for her dress fitting. Overnight, several isolated thunderstorms had moved inland over the city from Chesapeake Bay, but now it was raining steadily, although the downpour was supposed to ease into scattered showers later in the afternoon. Fortunately, she found a parking spot for her Firebird two doors down from the shop. She fed the meter like a good citizen and ran inside, handbag over her head.

Because he didn’t know her, or know anyone who knew her, Richard
had been otherwise occupied when Karen had made her appointment last week. The woman she’d dealt with, though, whose name was Mrs. George, had been very nice. They’d exchanged e-mail addresses. Karen reluctantly sent her several photographs of herself, along with her measurements (taken by Sandy, with much groping and fooling around), and a general description of what she’d like in a wedding gown. They went back and forth several times, and Karen tried to be patient in her replies. Finally, Mrs. George declared herself “ready with several lovely prospects, one of which is sure to win your heart.”

Dreading
the phony gushiness that would soon be inflicted on her, Karen hesitated inside the door, looking around the shop. The entire place was done in white. White walls, white ceiling, white fake Greek columns, white seating arrangements for bored fiancés to sit in, white lighting fixtures suspended from the ceiling, white carpet underfoot, and, of course, rack after rack of white wedding gowns.

She made her way toward a white reception desk
behind which a twenty-something who looked as if she’d just stepped out of
Vogue
magazine pouted skeptically.

“Yes?”

Karen forced a smile. “The name’s Stainer. I have a ten o’clock with Mrs. George.”

Mrs. George was summoned, and Karen was led into a sho
wroom where three mannequins were set up to display different models that would compete for Karen’s heart. She sat down on a settee and accepted a cup of coffee while Mrs. George went to work, describing the three models and suggesting how each might be a match to Karen’s particular body style and taste.

“As I mentioned, given your petite size, I believe the tru
mpet- or mermaid-style gowns will give you the best silhouette,” Mrs. George said. “You’ll want a waistline above your natural waist so that the lower portion of the dress looks somewhat longer, so as not to over-emphasize your shortness. We must also make sure the detailing stays small, so no enormous bows!”

“I’m not a real big fan of bows,” Karen said.

“Then we’re definitely on the same page, aren’t we? We’ve stayed away from strapless gowns, as you requested. Does any one of these three particularly catch your fancy?”

Karen
set down her cup of coffee. She didn’t wear a dress very often, and her level of enthusiasm for the task ahead was not exactly where it should be. She was doing this more for other people than for herself, because she’d never been one to fantasize about being a glowing bride in a long, white gown. She’d been serious when she’d said to Sandy that she would prefer to be married in her Class A uniform, but she knew that option was definitely out. She had to go the traditional route with all this stuff. Everyone was expecting her to play along and be the nice little bride.

Sighing, she ran her eyes over the mannequins. The one clo
sest to her seemed harmless enough. She stood up and walked over for a closer look. The first thing she did was find the tiny price tag, dangling on a thread, and turn it over.

Twelve hundred dollars.
Jesus H. Christ
.

Mrs. George
beamed. “This is lovely. It’s by Melissa Sweet, inspired by the movie remake of
The Great Gatsby
. It’s a fit-and-flare gown. The layering of the skirt in tulle and chiffon gives an airiness and shape that will ensure a lovely silhouette. I just love these cap sleeves. The corded lace has been hand-applied, and here, this illusion net at the neckline is very wispy and romantic. It’s one of our more affordable models as well, so hopefully it’ll fit your budget nicely. Would you like to try it on?”

Karen nodded
. If twelve hundred was affordable, she was afraid to look at the prices of the others. While she was wondering how long it would take to remove the dress from the damned mannequin, Mrs. George led her over to a long table outside the dressing stalls where several gowns had been laid out for her.

“Based on your measurements, this should
do.” Mrs. George picked it up and held it draped over a forearm. “We’ll make whatever alterations are necessary, of course.”

“It’s nice,” Karen allowed.

“Yes, it is.” Mrs. George raised her eyebrows. “You remembered to bring your shoes?”

“Yeah.” Karen
grabbed her handbag and pulled out the white shoes she’d bought for the ceremony.

“Perfect
.” Mrs. George led her into a stall, hung up the gown for her, and waved a hand. “Take your time. I’ll be out here.”

Left alone, Karen eyed the dress
. Twelve hundred bucks, and she was paying for it. Was she insane? Twelve hundred for a dress? Did they know how many pairs of jeans she could buy in the Walmart for that kind of money?

She fingered the cap sleeve on the dress. It
was
beautiful.

What the hell.

She removed her jacket and hung it on a hook. She peeled off her top and hung it on another hook beside her jacket. She sat down on the bench and began unlacing her shoes. She took them off and set them aside, then stood up and removed her jeans, hanging them by the belt loop next to her top. She sat down again and unfastened the brand-new DeSantis elasticized rig around her ankle in which was holstered her new sub-compact 9mm pistol, a SIG Sauer P-290. She set the weapon on the bench beside her. She liked the style of the ankle rig, which was essentially an elasticized leg band secured by a Velcro thumb strap. Now that it was off, she was able to remove her white crew socks. She took out a pair of pantyhose from her handbag and struggled into them, then wrapped the ankle holster back on, adjusting its position so that the gun was situated on the inside of her lower calf, above the ankle bone, where she could easily reach it.

She stood up and glanced at herself in the mirror
: bra, panties, pantyhose, and concealed-carry weapon.

She reached back into her handbag, took out an ankle-length slip she’d been instructed to bring, and stepped into it. Finally, relu
ctantly, she reached for the dress.

When she stepped out of the stall, Mrs. George appeared from thin air and gave her a once-over. “How does it feel?”

“Okay.”

“Do you like the way it looks?”

Karen walked over to a three-sided dressing room mirror and looked at herself. “Yeah. It’s nice.” She turned around, looked at her reflection over her shoulder, and turned back. “Very nice.”

The neckline came down in a v-shape that was a little lower than she’d anticipated, but her bust was able to handle it just fine. She really liked the way the cap sleeves covered the top halves of her deltoid muscles, leaving the lower half of her shoulders bare, and the way the neckline came up over her collarbone and around the base of her neck in back
, almost like a very short collar. She rolled her head around. It felt good, not buggy at all. The corded lace made it look very feminine.

Holy shit
.
I look pretty in this thing
.

Mrs. George asked her to turn around, then put her hands at each side of Karen’s waist. “It could stand to come in just a touch here. You have a lovely figure, so you might as well show it off.”

She ran her hands down the layers of the skirt, assessing how well they draped as they fell from Karen’s thighs toward her shoes. Her hand brushed the holster as it passed across her ankle. She removed her hands and straightened up.

Karen hiked up the skirts and her slip to show her the gun. “I’m a cop. Where I go, it goes.”

“I see.” Mrs. George stared at her for a moment, then laughed. “That’s a first for me. It definitely is. You’ll be wearing it at the ceremony, will you?”

“I’ll be carrying it, yeah. You don’t wear a gun, you carry it, but yeah, I’ll have it there. For
sure.”

“Then you’re right to wear it
—sorry, have it on—right now.” She stepped back a few paces. “Twirl around for me. Pretend you’re dancing the first dance with your husband.”

Karen turned in a circle self-consciously. Her shoes, ivory peep-toe pumps, had two-and-a-half-inch heels, and she wasn
’t used to them. She was pleased, at least, to discover that she was athletic enough to be able to move in them without looking like Dumbo the elephant.

“Pretend you’re dancing. No one can see you but me, Karen, and I’m busy watching the gown, so pretend you’re all alone.”

Karen obligingly moved around a little, rocking back and forth at the waist, then threw caution to the wind and pirouetted, dipped, whirled, and stepped back and forth. Sure enough, Mrs. George’s eyes were following the movement of the gown with complete absorption. Karen took a few more steps and then stopped.

“Does it look okay?”

“Oh, yes. It looks fabulous on you. There’s no interference from the gun at all that I could see, thanks to the slip. Would you like to try on one of the others?”

“No. I want this one.”

Mrs. George raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? There’s plenty of time. It’s always good to compare.”

“No. First time lucky.” She glanced at herself in the mirror. “It
won’t get any better than this.”

“Confidentially, Karen, I don’t think it will either, but that’s because I believe this gown looks absolutely
stunning on you. You’re going to be a beautiful bride.”

“Thanks.”

Back in the stall, she looked at herself for a moment, hands on her hips. She shook her head. It was unbelievable. She looked great. Who would’ve thought?

She removed the shoes, the dress, the slip
, the gun, and the pantyhose. She strapped the gun back on, having decided to skip the socks, and was pulling up her jeans when there was a tap on the stall door.

Zipping up her fly, Karen opened the door. “Yeah?”

Mrs. George stood there, an apologetic expression on her face. She held out a small white envelope. “Please excuse me, but the gentleman said it was urgent.”

Frowning, Karen took the envelope. It was small, about five inches by three-and-a-half inches, and had some kind of card in it.
Detective Stainer
had been written on the front with a fountain pen in an elegant hand. She turned it over. The flap had been folded inside the envelope, rather than sealed.

Puzzled, she removed the card from the envelope.
For the Bride
was printed on the front in gold cursive. She opened it and read:

Such a beautiful bride-to-be. I regret I cannot introduce myself in person at this time, but most selfishly I’ve made arrangements to spend the weekend with someone else. Perhaps next time.

Your admirer,

RDK

It took her a precious moment to decode the initials:
Rainy Day Killer
.

She looked up at Mrs. George.
“Where is he? Is he still out there?”

“No. He left.”

“What’d he look like?”

“A pleasant-looking gentleman
.”

“
Suit? Umbrella?”

“Yes
.”

Karen drew the gun from her ankle rig and pushed past Mrs. George, running
out into the front of the shop.

The twenty-something behind the reception desk stared at her.

“Where is he? Which way did he go?”

“
Who?”

“Jesus Christ,” Karen snarled, running to the front door, “the guy with the suit and umbrella. D
id he go left or right?”

“I don’t know
. Right?”

Karen burst out onto the sidewalk,
threw a quick look to her left, then turned right. She ran down the block, gun held at high ready, her bare feet slapping the wet pavement. Her eyes darted from one pedestrian to the next, searching for a suit and an umbrella. There were several umbrellas, but no men in business suits. She reached the corner and stopped, looking in all directions at once.

People waiting for the light to change turned and stared
at her.

“Anyone see a guy in a business suit with an umbrella?” she called out.

No one spoke.

“Guy with an umbrella!” Karen shouted. “Which way?”

People backed away from her, alarmed.

“Jesus!” She ran across the intersection, dodging traffic, gun in the air. “Police!” she shouted, starting down the next block. “Loo
king for a guy in a suit! Umbrella!”