Fifteen Times a Killer Read online

  Once he was gone, I gathered the shell casings and put them in my pocket. Don’t want to be leaving clues for the police, not when I’ve still got so much work to do. Then I took the folding shovel from my backpack and started to dig. It was quite easy, what with the recent rain. I had a good hole dug in about two hours, and after relieving him of his car keys—he wouldn’t be needing them again—I threw Thomas and his bike in before filling it in again.

  As I’d expected, I was covered in his blood. Not a problem, though. I stripped out of my shirt and pants, leaving me in my cycling getup. I put the bloody clothes in the backpack, then got on my bike and went back to my van.

  There were only a few vehicles left when I got there, including mine and Thomas’s. I put my bike in the back of his station wagon, put on some gloves, then drove a couple of miles down the road. I abandoned his car and rode back to get mine.

  I must admit, I was worried that I might have left some clue behind. Maybe my DNA, perhaps a hair or two. The police didn’t come calling, though, so it was worth the risk. A fresh grave is easy to spot, even though it was off the beaten track. Better to have the police looking somewhere else for him.

  So, three down, twelve to go.

  I told you that Thomas got off lightly.

  The others won’t.

  Chapter 11

  It was developing into a waiting game, and Corrina was losing patience. So far, all they had were two dismembered bodies—one not yet formally identified—a couple of missing persons files, and the ramblings of a madman. They were nowhere near close to solving the murders, and the depressing part was knowing that they were unlikely to make any progress until he struck again.

  Corrina stared at the whiteboard on the office wall. One half had a map of the Los Angeles area with pins marking the two graves, and next to it was a list of the What3Words codes the killer had sent them. Josh had suggested they might be significant, maybe spelling out a sentence that might lead them to the killer, but Corrina and Hank doubted it. The company hadn’t launched until 2013, a couple of years after the first bodies were buried, and it wasn’t until three or four years later that it became popular. It would have to be a huge coincidence for the locations to be meaningful in any way. He must have marked the locations somehow, perhaps using GPS co-ordinates, or maybe he visited them regularly to make sure he knew where to send the authorities.

  The killer’s profile took up the right-hand side of the board, a list of traits that would narrow down the search. They knew that he drove a van with a sliding side door on his first two kills. He used Ketamine to incapacitate his victims. He had a house in a remote area, one with a basement and storm doors. But how remote? Three hundred yards from the nearest neighbor? Three miles? Judging by the way he dismembered his victims, then buried the parts at different times, he would have to make multiple trips to the same place. Which meant he spent a lot of time hiking.

  That added up to not much at all.

  Josh and Hank arrived. The kid looked fresh, ready to get to work. Hank looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.

  “Morning, gentlemen.” Corrina pointed to the briefing sheets she’d prepared that morning and left on the table. “We got confirmation that our first victim is Kerry Swanson.”

  Both men picked up a copy and scanned through.

  “He’s not keeping the fingers and toes as trophies,” Hank noted as he read from the autopsy report.

  “No, they were all found with the body, though there was no clothing or personal effects, like jewelry or wallets. It’s possible he kept those instead.”

  They continued to read, and when he’d finished, Josh asked about the email the killer had sent to Corrina.

  “Larry Unger left me a message overnight,” she said. “The email was sent by a cell phone from within half a mile of the central library. The cell hasn’t been used since, nor has the email address. Looks like he turned it on, composed and sent the email, then turned it off. Larry’s put a watch on it, but my guess is the killer’s too smart to use the same phone more than once.”

  “What about CCTV from Tuna Canyon Road?” Hank asked. “They come up with any vans that night?”

  “Two houses had cameras facing the street and LAPD saw one van, but it belonged to one of the residents. She’d taken her kids to the movies that night. It’s possible that the killer changed vehicles, so McCrae’s going to run every plate they captured. He’s also checking to see what he can get from the other scene.”

  “How about cross-referencing the results with every van purchase in the last twenty years, see if the same name pops up in both cases?” Josh offered.

  “Good idea,” Hank said, to Corrina’s surprise. “Get on to the DMV and ask them to send the information over. As well as new sales, you’ll need transfer of title from private sales, too.”

  “Yeah, nice idea,” Corrina added. “Tell them you need it in .csv format so that Larry can work his magic with the results.”

  “I can handle that,” Josh told her. “I studied computer science at college. I can create an SQL database and feed in all the information we receive. Shouldn’t take me more than a day, plus half an hour every time we get a new data set.”

  “Okay, concentrate on that for the time being.”

  It would be nice to think it could be that easy. The killer gets overconfident, his vehicle is spotted on camera and they have him in custody within days. Deep down, though, Corrina knew it wasn’t going to happen. The killer was too smart to get caught so readily.

  Corrina’s phone rang, and she saw that it was Jess Duffey. “Damn! I don’t need this right now.” The reporter had been calling her all night, but Corrina had let it go to voicemail each time. Putting it off wouldn’t make the problem go away, though. She swiped the Answer icon to the side. “Hi Jess. What can I do for you?”

  “Where have you been all night? I called you about fifteen times!”

  Twenty-six, Corrina wanted to correct her. “Busy. Is there something you want? If there is, the answer’s gonna be ‘no comment.’”

  “It’s about his third chapter. Did you find anything?”

  “We haven’t got chapter three yet,” Corrina said.

  “You haven’t? But he sent it to me last night.”

  Corrina rushed back to her desk and logged in to her computer, then refreshed her email client.

  Nothing.

  She checked her junk folder, but that was empty.

  “Can you forward it to me?” she asked Jess. “I haven’t got a copy.”

  The phone went silent, and Corrina sensed Jess was looking to press her advantage. She had to nip that idea in the bud.

  “Sorry, I was just getting a pen,” Jess finally said. “What’s your email address?”

  Corrina felt a twinge of guilt over suspecting the journalist’s motive, but fought past it. ”It’s on the card I gave you.”

  “Oh yeah. Okay, it’s on its way,” Jess said a moment later.

  Corrina refreshed her client and the new email appeared. “Got it.”

  “Good. It says we should work together, you and me. That way we’ll solve the puzzle. I was thinking, if I could get copies of the case files—”

  “Not going to happen,” Corrina cut her off. “I don’t care what this whack job wants, we have rules.”

  “I don’t think he cares about that. Read his email, see what you think. You can get me on this number, but only for the next fifteen minutes.”

  “Why? What happens then?”

  “I’m getting on a plane,” Jess said. “Gotta go see some people.”

  Corrina wondered what could get an eager reporter to skip town in the middle of such a huge story, then it hit her. “If you’re thinking about interviewing people relating to this case, you better have a good lawyer.”

  “I’m not going to tell them that Kerry has been found,” Jess said. “I just want the human-interest aspect before you break the news to them.”

  “You’re too late. We got confir
mation this morning. Police officers are scheduled to inform Anthony Swanson today.”

  Corrina heard Jess swear under her breath. “Then how the hell am I supposed to write a story if I’m not allowed to speak to anyone involved in it?”

  “Your problem, not mine,” Corrina said.

  Another silence ensued, and it grew uncomfortably long.

  “If you don’t want to co-operate,” Jess eventually said, “that’s fine with me. You won’t hear from me again. You go ahead and conduct your investigation with all the information he sends you.”

  The implication was clear to Corrina: let me in, share everything, or I won’t be forwarding any more of the killer’s messages. It looked like Jess was calling her bluff, for that’s all it was. Corrina knew she couldn’t hold the reporter or stop her printing the story without violating her rights. Any competent journalist would have learned that early in their career, but maybe it was the first time Jess had been threatened with arrest, and the incident had thrown her. It looked like she was back on an even keel now.

  “It’s a crime to withhold information,” Corrina said, trying to gain control of the conversation.

  “I won’t be withholding it,” Jess countered. “I’ve just created another email address and I won’t be using the old one from now on. If he sends anything, I won’t know about it. And before you say anything, not checking your messages is not a crime, the last time I looked.”

  Touché.

  Much as she hated the idea, Corrina was going to have to cave to Jess’s demands.

  “Okay, you win. I’ll schedule a thirty-minute interview with you each day, but you don’t go to press until I give the say-so.”

  “Deal. And I want to speak to Anthony Swanson before the police do,” Jess added.

  “You’re pushing your luck.”

  Jess didn’t respond, leaving Corrina holding the ball. She wasn’t used to being dictated to, but she’d been backed into a corner.

  “What time will you arrive in Scranton?” Corrina asked.

  “My flight arrives in five and a half hours. I’ll be meeting Swanson about an hour later.”

  What she was about to do could land Corrina in a lot of trouble, but she felt she had no other option. “I’ll tell the officers to hold off on the press release until tomorrow.” She didn’t like the idea of Jess visiting the father and the police turning up moments later with the terrible news. It would be too much of a coincidence that an LA reporter would choose to cover the story just as the body of his daughter is identified. Even if it happened a day later, Anthony Swanson was bound to be suspicious of the timing.

  “Thanks,” Jess said. “I’ll call you tomorrow for a catch-up.”

  The phone went dead. Corrina thrust it into her pocket. She printed out three copies of the email and the attachment, then forwarded the message to Larry Unger and asked him to see whether it yielded any more clues as to the killer’s identity or location.

  Back in the task force office, she handed out the next chapter in the story.

  “For some reason, he sent this to Jess Duffey, but not to me.”

  Hank read the email. “Why does he want you two to work together? What’s the connection?”

  “I have no idea,” Corrina said. “I’d never met her until yesterday.” She took a seat and began to read, as did the others.

  Fifteen minutes later, all three had a page of notes ready to compare.

  “We can forget about profiling victims,” Josh started. “Young girl, grown woman, adult male. Apart from them all being white with English names, there’s no pattern at all.”

  “He chose them for a reason,” Hank sighed, exasperated. “We’re just not seeing it yet.”

  “He’s adaptable,” Corrina added. “He doesn’t feel compelled to stick to a set routine. The ones who do are the easiest to catch. With this guy, there’s no telling what he’s gonna do next.”

  She took out her phone and entered the code into the What3Words app. It settled on a location in the Angeles National Forest. Corrina called McCrae as she stuck a new pin into the corresponding spot on the map that was hanging on the wall.

  “We got number three,” she said when he answered. “The body’s just off a trail south-east of the Mount Wilson Observatory. His name’s Thomas Crane. I’m heading up there now.” She gave him the code from the killer’s email.

  “I know the place. I’ll meet you at the trail head,” McCrae told her, and hung up.

  Corrina put on her jacket. “Hank, find out who investigated Crane’s disappearance and get the case files. Josh, work the background and see if there’s any connection between the three victims. He said they have to feel the pain, just like he did, so we need to find out what they did to him.”

  Corrina went back to her desk and forwarded the email to McCrae’s LAPD account, then took her copy along for him to read at the scene.

  An hour later, Corrina pulled up outside the observatory. The parking lot was packed, and her first thought was that if the killer had been here recently to leave the two crossed sticks that seemed to be one of his calling cards, any evidence he’d left would have been obliterated by now.

  There was no sign of McCrae, so Corrina sent him a text and went in search of a coffee shop. She had just reached the counter to order when McCrae called.

  “I’m here,” he said, “and Alistair Birch is on his way.”

  “Okay. Wait by my car, I’ll be there in five.”

  She wasn’t pleased that the FIU would be showing up at such a busy time. Someone was bound to take a video on their cell phone and upload it to the internet, asking why #LAPD were gathered at #TheObservatory. That was the downside of social media. They were great for raising awareness and enlisting the public’s help to solve cases, but the flip side was that most of the news outlets had people trawling feeds looking for their next story. It wouldn’t be long before the Bureau and the police were inundated with news hounds looking for the scoop. At times like this, Corrina was glad she didn’t have to wear anything that identified her as FBI. All media enquiries would go to the LAPD. If the story broke, it would be over their heads, not hers.

  That reminded her that she still had Jess Duffey to contend with. The girl might not be a seasoned reporter, but she had the tenacity and cunning to go a long way. Corrina’s main concern was keeping the story under wraps for as long as possible. The moment it broke, the pressure to find the killer would be immense.

  What she really needed was a break, something that would lead to the killer before he was able to strike again, to have him in custody before the people of LA even knew that a serial killer lurked among them.

  Maybe today was the day.

  McCrae was sitting in his car with the door open, lacing up a pair of hiking boots. Corrina waited until he was done, then handed him his coffee and the copy of the latest chapter.

  “Thanks,” he said. He looked at Corrina. “Something wrong? You look frazzled.”

  “What? No, I’m fine. Just had a run-in with our friendly neighborhood reporter this morning. I think she’s got me over a barrel.”

  “How come?” McCrae asked.

  “The killer sent her the latest chapter, but he didn’t send me a copy.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. His email said we had to work together, and that’s the last thing I want to do.” Corrina told him about the conversation she’d had with Jess. “Cops and reporters have never been good bedfellows. I got a feeling he’s just doing it to jerk my chain.”

  “Then don’t let him,” McCrae said, standing and stamping his feet. “You’re better than him. Don’t rise to it. Just do your job and catch his sorry ass.”

  Corrina smiled. She could always rely on McCrae to put things in perspective.

  “Ready for a wee hike?”

  The Scottish expression threw her momentarily, until she remembered that “wee” meant “little.” It was one of the idioms she’d picked up during her many visits to
McCrae’s parents’ house. They held a barbecue every year and invited everyone from the homicide squad. The only downside of that was not being able to understand a word the hosts said. Even after thirty years in America, their accents were still strong.

  “Aye,” Corrina grinned. “Let’s go, laddie.”

  McCrae chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter 12

  They found the grave with no trouble. McCrae called Alistair Birch. “We found the crossed sticks exactly where the killer told us they’d be.”

  “My team and I will be there in ten minutes,” Birch said and hung up.

  “Maybe we should invest in a couple of quadbikes,” Corrina said as she hung her jacket on a branch of a nearby tree. “Can’t be easy for Alistair and his team, lugging their gear out into the wilderness every couple of days.”

  “Or a mountain bike, at least,” McCrae agreed.

  Corrina froze, the word reverberating inside her head. “Shit!” She snatched the printed chapter from McCrae’s hand and began reading.

  “What is it?” the cop asked.

  “From what I can make out, he spends lot of time in the wilderness. I thought he might do it on foot, but he came here with a mountain bike to catch Thomas Crane.” She started searching the ground for tire tracks. “I think that’s how he took the bodies to the graves. He said he used a backpack, and this guy’s too clever to drive his car to the scene. I think that when he left the crossed sticks at each of the graves, he was also on his bike.”

  “That’s why we didn’t see him on the CCTV covering Tuna Canyon Road,” McCrae said. “We were only looking for vehicles.”

  Corrina nodded, and McCrae and called the station.

  “Martinez, go back through all of the CCTV we have and look for someone wearing a backpack on a bicycle. I think that’s how he transported the body parts to the graves.”

  “I’ve found something,” Corrina said, squatting down. “It’s only a partial, but there may be more.” She didn’t know how much use Birch and his team could make of it, though. Vehicles often left distinctive tracks, but she wasn’t sure if the same could be said for bicycles. She searched for another ten minutes, until the FIU team showed.