Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (5 page)

I thought about the murdered little girl lying all alone beneath the 7th Street Bridge. Thought how I’d feel if she were mine. Thought about ripping the spine out of her spineless killer. Then banished the image to the darker recesses of my mind.

The number continued to ring.

I stood there for about a minute before remembering the time difference. I’m West Coast. Grace is East. A fact I seem to overlook too frequently. I dialed Grace’s direct line at her Fort Myers office. Went through the automated options with an impatient finger. Ordinarily, I resist calling Grace at work. I know how it feels to be distracted right in the midst of something important. The number went straight to automatic voice mail. I hung up.

Patience and cunning.

I scratched the telephone receiver against the sandpaper stubble coating my jaw. It made a crackling sound. Something snagged. I winced. Grace would call back. As it was, she called at least three times a week.
How’s my old Daddy doing? Are you still taking your meds? When are you coming to Florida?

I took a deep breath and telephoned my son, George, in New York. George and I lock horns. Always have. I heard an answering machine click into life. It was going to be one of those days.

‘Pick up, George.’ I breathed into the mouthpiece. ‘It’s your father. Remember me? Pick up if you’re there. I know you don’t want to speak with me right now. And that’s fine. But I need to hear your voice. Just a short hello will do. Just to know you’re okay.’

There was another click on the line and the answer-message was replaced by a woman’s voice:

‘Gabe? Hello? Is that you, Gabe? Give me a second …’

The harried voice belonged to Katie – my daughter-in-law. She sounded rushed and rightly so. I could hear my one-and-only grandchild in the background. It sounded like he was giving his mom a run for her money. Ask any new parent.

‘Katie, how are you? How’s the baby? I’ve been meaning to call all weekend. You know how it is.’

‘I certainly do. Babies are so time-absorbing. We’re all fine, Gabe. Connor’s teething.’

‘Is he?’ I felt a surge of grandpa pride. ‘So soon?’

‘He’s six months. In baby terms, he’s a late starter.’

‘Like his father.’

I heard her chuckle.

‘George isn’t home, is he?’

‘No, he isn’t. Was it urgent you speak with him?’

I leaned against the door jamb and loosened up my tie. Some children give their parents more cause for concern the older they get.

‘Katie, it’s been ages since George and I last spoke. Families should stick together.’

She could hear the disappointment in my voice and tried to compensate. ‘He just needs some time. Don’t worry too much; he’ll come round.’

‘I hope so. Call me crazy, but I feel like we’re rapidly becoming strangers. He still doing those crazy sports of his?’

I heard her grunt. Answer enough.

‘Leaping off the El Capitan as we speak.’

‘In Yosemite?’ I shook my head. ‘Katie, he’s going to get himself killed!’

‘That’s exactly what I keep telling him. But you know how stubborn he is.’

‘Like his father.’

I heard her chuckle.

‘If he calls, I’ll pass on your love. Best I can do. How’s LA?’

‘Unusually cold. Something to do with El Niño and sunspots. What about New York?’

‘Central Park is under three feet of snow. And there’s rumors of icebreakers on the Hudson. Want to swap?’

‘No, thanks. Porous bones. How’s work?’

Working under her professional name of Kate Hennessey, my daughter-in-law is a successful television news journalist. She works out of the ABC Studios in New York City. Since she and George became an item, it’s been the norm for Katie to act as my official Media conduit on the Eastern Seaboard.

‘D.E.A.D.,’ she answered with a chuckle. ‘What about you?’

‘More or less the same.’ I sighed a little too loudly and Katie caught it.

‘Don’t tell me: back three weeks and already straight into the thick of things? I like your style, Gabe. It’ll most probably get you killed. But at least you’ll go out in a blaze of glory. Have they got you chasing a new serial?’

I thought it over. No doubt about it: both Samuels and the little girl had been murdered by the same hand. Same mock interment. Same calling cards. But the official definition of a serial killer came with a minimum of three kills, with a cooling off period in between.

‘I hope not.’

‘Dad ...’

‘I know, I know. I’m okay. I can handle it, Katie. I promise. You don’t need to worry yourself with me and my antics. You have enough on your plate with the baby.’ I didn’t add
‘and with my son’
.

I heard her think it through. Mental gears whirring.

‘All right. I trust you. Has he a name yet, this new one you’re chasing? I could do with a new meaty serial to boost ratings. And you know my viewers love Celebrity Cop updates.’

12

^{___________________________}

Detective Bob Bales looked downhearted. I couldn’t blame him; Bales and his team were working triple overtime, but not for the extra pay or for the love of it. They were trying to track down a serial killer the Press had labeled
Le Diable
. Bales let his shoulders sag. I felt bad for him.
Le Diable
was a sneaky son of a bitch. Materializing out of thin air. Murdering men of the cloth. Then disappearing just as fast. No wonder the name had stuck. I could see a sheen of cold sweat on his balding pate. Could hear a tremor of despondency in his words as he addressed our small gathering. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. I wondered if I looked the same.

We were crammed into one corner of the large open-plan office area at the Station House like buddies gathered for a game. Two dozen attendees for the daily Robbery-Homicide update. Anyone within earshot and not out on the beat was invited. Some had fancy titles. Some wore police uniforms. All attentive. No beer and no pre-match banter. Never was for this kind of party.

‘Why are they calling him Le Diable?’ The question came from the fresh-faced officer I’d met earlier in the day, at the Union Pacific rail yard. She must have been the only one here who hadn’t seen the weekly updates in the Press. She saw me looking and smiled, fleetingly.

Bales cleared his throat. ‘Partly because of the disturbing nature of the crime scenes.’

He held up a bunch of eight by ten pictures as proof. I could see images of satanic symbols drawn in the blood of clergymen. Chicken heads and other weird paraphernalia strewn around the blooded alters. I was glad it wasn’t my case.

‘But principally because the Media likes to Hollywoodize these kinds of things,’ he added.

Another word I didn’t think existed. Not bad for the first day of the week.

Bales gave me the nod and suddenly it was my turn under the spot lamp. Limelight makes me look green. The only plus side is it helps hide the Saturnine rings orbiting my eyes.

I clambered to my feet. Put my back to the evidence board – home to a collected array of case notes and photos – and surveyed my audience. I recognized every tense face here. Knew several like friends. They were sitting or standing, with arms folded or drinking coffee, waiting to be brought up-to-speed on the weekend killings I was tentatively thinking of as The Mortician Murders. Childish, I know, but my conversation with Katie had got me thinking.

‘Over the last thirty-six hours we’ve had two homicides by the same hand,’ I began. ‘A professor from the USC and a child as yet unidentified.’ I copied Bales’ trick: held aloft a pair of eight by ten color prints. ‘As you can see, the killer arranged each crime scene just the way he wanted it. Ceremoniously. He was in complete control the whole time. Here’s what we know so far:

‘We believe the first victim, Professor Jeffrey Samuels, a singleton in his mid-fifties, was killed sometime early Sunday morning.’ I stuck photos to the board as I spoke. ‘His cleaning lady found him at around ten a.m. and phoned the police right away. No signs of breaking and entering. No signs of a struggle. We did find two small burn marks side by side on Samuels’ neck, just here – so it looks like the killer overpowered him with a Taser.’

‘Home invasion?’

I shrugged my lip at Detective Janine Walters. Janine was one of our veteran detectives here at Central Precinct. She and her long-time partner, Fred Phillips, were a tour de force when it came to cracking cases. My asset.

‘Seems unlikely, Jan.’ I said. ‘Other than the murder itself there is no evidence of foul play of any kind whatsoever. It looks like Samuels let the perpetrator in and that’s when he hit him with the stun gun.’

‘Burglary gone sour?’ The suggestion came from one of the uniforms.

‘Again, it doesn’t look like it. Samuels was wearing a ten-grand Rolex when we found him. Plus, there was at least a thousand dollars in his wallet on the nightstand, together with a bunch of platinum credit cards. If anything, the Samuels’ residence looked like it had been tidied post mortem.’

‘I could do with one of those killers at my house,’ one of the sergeants muttered. ‘It’s murder keeping my place tidy.’

A wave of nervous laughter rippled through my audience.

I glanced at case notes.

‘Let’s see. Samuels’ blood alcohol level came back at over four times the legal limit – so he wouldn’t have put up much of a fight in any case, even without the Taser. No initial signs of drug or substance abuse.’

‘What about the cause of death?’

I looked up. ‘We’re still waiting to hear about that. Same goes for the child. I hear the ME’s had a busy weekend – so it could run through midweek before we get our answers. At this point, we can find no obvious causes. No ligature marks. No wounds. No petechial hemorrhaging – which means they weren’t suffocated or strangled. For now, it’s a mystery.’

I pinned a photograph to the board. It showed a close-up of the ash on Samuels’ forehead.

‘The killer made this mark on the brow of both victims. Trace are getting back to us when they’ve identified the type of ash he used.’

Fred Phillips leaned closer. ‘Looks like regular cigarette ash.’ Fred was the Precinct’s resident smoke stack; if anyone would know, he was our man. ‘That a cross or a letter X?’

‘Take your pick.’

‘Could be a religious nut.’