Ken Fraser didn’t hesitate when Staal signaled him to drive. Staal dialed Hennessey’s apartment and got the machine. In the background of the outgoing message he could hear loud speed-metal. “Yeah, you’ve got Hennessey,” the voice said. “You know the drill. Beep-speak.”
“No answer,” Staal said. Staal hoped that this wasn’t a waste of time like the Douglas tip. They needed a break in the case. The killer was probably stalking his next victim.
“So, Jack. You’re thinking this guy meets these women at the DMV, or at least sees them and uses the stats on the department’s computer to track them down.”
“Uh-huh. They went in to renew their DL’s. He learns their routine, and then does his thing.”
“His prints on file don’t match anything we’ve lifted so far?”
“Nothing, but that doesn’t clear Hennessey. He could have paid someone—called in a favor from a friend to send the faxes.”
“Yeah, but earlier you were certain our guy knows these women?”
“Call it a gut feeling—definitely not certain of anything, though.”
Fraser accelerated to beat a train crossing Marine Road. Hennessey lived in a tumble-down brick building near the lakefront called the Abercrombie. The area was the oldest part of Hanson, neglected by developers and business; the tenancies were cheap and received little upkeep.
Staal slung his crime-scene kit over his shoulder and then buzzed the manager’s suite at the main entrance.
“Got nothing for rent until August first,” a slurred cigarette and whiskey voice replied.
“It’s the police, sir. Can we have a word in person?” Fraser yelled over the freight train noise and vibration.
“Sure. Whatever. I’m in 101.” The door hummed and Fraser pulled it open.
Staal passed through the lobby. The red carpet was threadbare and stained. Beneath the mailboxes lay a sloppy pile of flyers and unclaimed phonebooks. A sign pointed left for the manager’s suite. Staal rapped on the door.
The door opened to the chain and body odor stink wafted out. “You officers got some ID?”
Staal held his badge open to the guy. “I’m Detective Staal. This is Detective Fraser. Can we ask you some questions about one of your tenants?”
As he closed the door and then opened it fully he said, “Sure. No problem.”
“And you are, sir?” Fraser asked.
“Bundy. Dale Bundy.” Bundy was about fifty. His belly overfilled his sweat pants and his thick body hair contrasted with his bald scalp.
“Mr. Bundy. Is Francis Hennessey a tenant in this building?”
“Sure, in 720,” he scratched at his chest through a filthy undershirt.
“What can you tell us about Hennessey?” Staal flipped open his note pad.
“Other than the fact that he’s a complete nut-job?”
“Why would you say that?”
“The guy’s just strange, man. Plays that heavy metal shit way too loud. Had a few complaints ‘bout him. Somebody said he has rats up there. Rats and a huge friggin’ snake. But, he always has the rent on time and that’s more than I can say about most of the scabs here.”
“You mind if we talk to his neighbors?” Staal closed his notebook.
“Sure, no problem. Just make sure you close the front door when you leave.”
“Got an elevator in this place?” Fraser asked as Bundy stepped inside his place.
Bundy laughed. “Been out for a month.”
The detectives began the seven-story walk up. Staal loosened his tie. The stairway was narrow, the carpet worn down to the plywood, and the air smelled of mildew and cooking odors.
Fraser raised his hand to knock on the door next to Hennessey’s, but Staal interrupted him.
“Hold up, Kenny.” He dialed Hennessey’s number on his cell phone. They could hear the ringing through the thin apartment door. Staal reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a small sachet of lock picks.
“Shit, you gotta be kidding, Staal. Without a warrant?”
“We don’t have time to dig up a judge for a warrant. Let’s take a look. If we find anything we’ll come back later with one.”
Fraser shook his head.
“Hey, you can hang in the hall while I go in.”
“Shit. I can’t take that kind of hit on my record, man.”
“I understand, Kenny.” Staal knew that Fraser had a perfect personnel file. That file would help him down the road when, if everyone’s predictions came true, he eventually became Inspector or even rose to the rank of Chief Constable. “Step out for some air.”
He opened his kit while Fraser walked away. The hallway was quiet. Staal removed a curved tension hook and a straight dentist pick from the satchel. Before he went to work he tried the doorknob.
“Hey, Kenny, it’s open.” He smiled. “Watch the hall—I’m going in.”
“You really do have a horseshoe up your ass!”
“So they say. You coming?”
“We still have no reason to go in.”
“Hennessey could be a victim of a home invasion or some other heinous crime.”
“And it’s our duty to check it out?”
“Come on, Fraser. Two minutes, we’re out.” He could tell that Fraser was still uncomfortable with making the entry.
The apartment featured hardwood floors, and a view of an appliance warehouse. Staal pulled on rubber gloves and handed Fraser a pair.
“My favorite,” Fraser quipped. “Illegal entry and search.”
“Mine, too,” Staal said. “Made without a warrant or due cause!” He stepped inside. “I’ll take bed and bath. You grab the rest.”
“I don’t know, Jack—this ain’t right, man.”
“If heat comes for this...you were never here.”
Fraser nodded.
Staal noticed a large pile of clothing on the living room table. “He’s down at the laundry, Ken...check it out and call me if he’s there.”
The bathroom had blue fixtures and no window. Staal thumbed through the medicine cabinet and the under sink cupboard. He pulled several hairs from Hennessey’s hairbrush and placed them in an evidence bag, even though he knew none of it could be used in court.
He took photos of everything until his cell buzzed.
“Hennessey’s here, Jack. Sleeping in the laundry room.”
“Thanks. I’ll be done in two.”
Three minutes later, Staal heard footsteps in the apartment. He stepped out of the bathroom, reached for his Glock and gripped the stock.
“Jack, check this out,” Fraser called.
Staal found him standing in front of the PC in the living room. “Got some weird shit in this guys e-mail. Damn thing was on and signed in.”
“Unlimited access, huh?”
“Yeah, unlimited creepy shit. Got email from different names at DFA dot com.”
“DFA? Why does that sound familiar?”
“Death From Above. It’s a death cult. Bart followed them for years in the early eighties. They were up for seven ritual murders from Vancouver to San Diego. Bart never collared up, but the bureau put them down in ‘87.”
Bartholomew was Kenny’s father, Detective Bart Fraser of the LAPD. Staal always wondered why Fraser didn’t call him Dad. “Yeah, I think I remember. DCD? Is that a rock band?”
“Could be. Should I burn this all to disc?”
“No, save it all to this if you can hide the fact you were in there.” Staal removed a USB flash drive from his crime scene kit. The chip had crime scene photos and other information from old cases. “I’m gonna check the bedroom. Three minutes in,” Staal reminded him.
Hennessey’s bedroom had more DFA artifacts. Posters, news-clippings, photos, images of blood, bondage, suffering, and death adorned every inch of the walls. Every victim or sacrifice was a woman in her teens to early thirties. The room was bathed in crimson light from a red bulb in a desk lamp. DCD stood for Ded Can Dance, a speed metal band.
“Jesus Christ!” Staal felt sick to his stomach. He tried to convince himself the images were made up, but he knew better. “Kenny, you better get in here!”
Fraser entered the room, his mouth dropped open as he surveyed the walls. “Shit, this guy’s a freak. Take a look at the bureau.”
On top of the chest of drawers was a skull collection. The bleached white specimens included a bird, a dog, a large cat, probably a cougar, and a human skull, including the mandible.
Staal lifted the skull, felt its weight and decided that it was real. “I’m going to take pictures with my digital. Then we’re out of here.”
“Yeah. Good.”
“I’m going to save all this shit to my laptop when we’re done.” Staal took two pictures of the bone collection and several more of the wall posters. He began to look through the bureau, flipping through clothes. The bottom drawer contained comic books in plastic bags. He searched the magazines, hoping to find a copy of Dickson’s Damian Knight, to no avail.
He opened the closet, next. Most of the clothing was black, gray, or brown. He found a hanger with three belts and pulled a short ruler from the kit.
“What are you doing, Jack?”
“Drummond says our guy uses a waist belt 41 millimeters wide. Most common men’s belts are 25 to 35 millimeters wide.”
“And those are?” Fraser turned off the red desk lamp and flipped on the wall switch. This time a black light bulb came on, showing up hundreds of glowing skulls, lizards, snakes, and stars glued to the ceiling tiles.
“These three are too small,” Staal said, staring up at the display. “This guy’s a fuckin’ whack-job. Let’s go, Fraser. He probably has his gear stashed away from this place—a locker or at work.”
Staal left the bedroom lighting the same way they found it. In the living room, he picked up the hand held phone and pushed the redial button. The dialing sequence sounded like a long-distance call. On the third ring, a man answered. The voice was that of a thirty-something Caucasian.
“Anybody there?” Still nothing. “Say something, dipshit!”
A few seconds later Staal said, “Yeah, who’s this?”
“It’s Raven. Who’s this?”
“It’s John. Um, wrong number I guess.” He hung up. To Fraser he said, “Any e-mails from a Raven?”
“Yeah, almost all of them.” The phone began to ring. Raven had used star 69 to trace the call. The machine came on, and Raven left a message. “Blood? It’s Raven. Why the fuck did you call me and then say you were John?”
“Shit!” Staal shook his head and cleared the message.
He opened the door to the hallway slowly. When he was certain it was clear, he led Fraser to the stairwell. The detectives paused in the lobby to catch their breath.
“You think this DFA is starting up again?” Staal asked.
They left the building for the street.
“Nah, these dick-heads probably stumbled onto it online. They thought it was cool and began to copy the protocol.”
“Heads up—press,” Staal said.
Leaning with his back against Staal’s Impala was a man about twenty-five, with streaked-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Know him?” Staal asked Fraser.
“Nope.”
“Detective Staal. I’m Paul Pierce,
Vancouver
Sun.
A few questions?”
Staal didn’t recognize Pierce, either, and he figured the reporter was either lying or a free-lancer whom occasionally worked for the
Sun
.
“I don’t know you. Get lost!” Staal said.
“Is this building the residence of a suspect in the Birthday Boy case, Detective Fraser?”
“No,” Fraser answered.
“We’re talking to everyone who knew Kim Walker. It was a routine interview,” Staal said.
Fraser followed Staal’s lead. “We call it running the names, Pierce.”
“Anything?” Pierce asked.
“No comment,” Staal answered. “So get the fuck away from my car.”
“How do you both feel about the FBI running a parallel, yet separate, investigation into this case?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Fraser said.
“I have information that the Bureau has people on the Birthday Boy case, and that information is being fed straight from your homicide book to the Special Agent in Charge.”
“Who’s feeding info to the SAIC?” Staal asked.
“You’re not buying this bullshit are you, Jack? I mean shit—the FBI? Up here?”
“My source says it’s coming from the Inspector of Operations at HPS.”
“From Ben Ross? No way. Jack, this kid’s full of shit.” Fraser’s hands were animated.
“Hold on, Ken. I had a feeling Chin and the others were hiding something. This makes sense somehow. Pierce, you have a card?”
Staal took the reporter’s number and sent him on his way. When he was in the car, he flipped open his phone and called Rachael Gooch.
“Yeah, it’s Staal. Listen, Rach. Has anyone filed any paper on Hennessey?”
“No, Jack. We’re all too busy to worry about the paper.” She sounded irritated.
“That’s good. Tell Gina and Wakamatsu to hold all paperwork on Hennessey, and not to talk to anybody about the guy, including the brass, until further notice.”