Authors: Alan Jacobson
“And?” Vail asked, walking over to his desk and bending over to see the monitor. Friedberg followed, taking up a spot over Burden’s other shoulder.
“And I sent it to the printer.” He double clicked on the PDF and Acrobat opened. Scans of Allman’s article appeared on-screen.
Vail read the headline: Bold killer Leaves Body in San Bruno, by Clayton W. Allman, October 25, 1982. A man was found seated on a bench in front of the Federal archives building, fully clothed. Head trauma. “Head trauma,” Vail said.
“I see,” Burden said.
Vail continued reading. A shoe was stuffed in the victim’s mouth. “That’s interesting.”
“What, the tie?”
“Haven’t gotten to that yet. The shoe. Stuffing a shoe in his mouth is fairly obvious, and it’s pretty much what you might think it represents—like the vic snitched on the killer, or said something that offended him. He stuffs the shoe in the mouth as if he’s gotten the last word.”
“I know the inspector who handled the case,” Burden said. “Millard Ferguson. He was retiring when I was promoted. I can look him up, see if I can find him, see what he remembers.”
“Anything he gives us is more than what we’ve got now.”
“I’ll get someone on it.” He rose and walked out.
“The tie?”
Friedberg said, “Read further down. Vic had a silk tie wrapped around his neck.”
“Is there another article?”
Friedberg sat down in the chair and scrolled through the document. “Yes. Ten days later.”
They both went silent as they read.
Friedberg pointed at the screen. “Cause of death.”
“Strangulation. The tie.”
“Vic’s name was Edgar Newhall. And—”
“He was fifty-seven. Much younger than our current vics.”
Friedberg leaned back in the chair. “So you think this case isn’t related?”
Vail hiked her brow. “Hard to say at this point. He’s an older male, but a totally different victim group. That said, there’s a lot more we need to find out about Mr. Newhall. Who was he?”
“Who was who?” Burden asked, a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“The vic,” Friedberg said. “Name’s Edgar Newhall. A lot younger than our current vics, and I’d like to know why. We need to find out more about this guy. I’ll take that, you find Millard Ferguson.”
Burden’s phone rang. He reached in front of Friedberg and lifted the handset. “Burden.”
“He doesn’t answer his phone ‘Birdie?’” Vail said.
Burden made a flapping motion with the hand holding the papers.
Be quiet.
“Say that again?” he said into the receiver. As Burden listened, his shoulders rolled forward.
I know that body language. A new victim.
Burden hung up, then tossed the papers on his desk. “Let’s go.”
THE TEMPERATURE HAD DROPPED INTO the low fifties and the fog had returned. It blew by the skyscrapers with abandon, American flags mounted atop the buildings stretched tight, proudly displaying the stars and stripes.
“Where are we?” Vail asked, seated in the back of the Taurus, her head rotating left and right.
“You mean the area, or relative to the other murders?”
“Relative to the other murders. I’m trying to figure this out spatially, because I have a feeling that’s going to be significant.”
“Why’s that?” Friedberg asked.
“The male bodies, the ones left outside. Those locations were chosen by the offender for some specific reason.”
Burden nodded. “Find the reason, and we may be on our way to identifying the offender.”
“I’m pretty sure of that,” Vail said.
“From Palace of Fine Arts,” Friedberg said, “the new vic’s between a mile and a half and two miles. From the Cliff House, about five miles.”
Not as close as I’d hoped.
“Remember I mentioned geographic profiling? The mental mapping thing? We’re dealing so far with a closed city environment. I’ve got a friend who does it. Could help.”
“You can find out who the UNSUB is based on where he kills?” Burden asked.
“Not exactly,” Vail said. “By evaluating the pattern and location of the victims, we can learn what type of predator he is, how he searches for his victims, and why he goes after the women he does. And by understanding that, we can zero in on where he might strike next. It’s not perfect, but it can be surprisingly accurate.”
They arrived at the corner near 700 Bay Street well after sunset. Sodium vapor streetlights gave off an inadequate, orange-hued glow. Headlighted cars moved along the local streets, but traffic was lighter than what Vail envisioned it would be for a city, even if it was near the end of rush hour.
Burden turned right up the adjacent sloping street and left the Ford in a No Parking zone behind a vacant police cruiser. The officer was twenty feet away, standing in front of yellow crime scene tape he had strung around a wide swath of the immediate area, thumbs poking out through the loops of his utility belt as he paced, watching to make sure kids or dogs didn’t stray across his makeshift boundary.
Beyond the cop was the purpose for their call: a man standing upright, pinned against a telephone pole.
“Well that’s just lovely,” Vail said. She swung her body around, taking in the landscape. Off in all directions, homes similar in style to the ones in the neighborhoods where the Andersons and Ilgs lived. Storefront businesses. And a downward angled street running perpendicular to Bay.
A car slowed alongside the crime scene, then parked. Out stepped Rex Jackson, Nikon hanging from his neck and a toolkit from his hand. “This guy’s busy,” he quipped. “And he’s keeping us busy. We haven’t even finished processing his last scene.”
“When do you think you’ll have that for us?”
“This isn’t TV,” Jackson said. “Just like you don’t solve cases in fifty-nine minutes, we can’t process a ton of info in a matter of hours. We’re running with a thin staff and a thinner budget. You’ll have it when we have it.”
“No rush—whenever you get around to it,” Vail said.
Jackson ignored her dig, setting down his kit and shooting photos. He made an adjustment to his camera and took another test picture. Satisfied, he swung left and began documenting the scene.
“Since Rex is here,” Burden said, “let’s leave him alone to process everything before we trample it.”
Forty-five minutes later, Jackson gave them the thumbs up and they moved closer to the victim.
The body was fastened to the pole with the same type of fishing line as the prior victims. He was dressed in a loose-fitting suit. And a number was scrawled across the vestiges of a scar on his forehead.
“Another goddamn number,” Burden said.
Vail tilted her head. “Thirty-five. So, we’ve got thirty-seven, forty-nine, and now thirty-five. A pattern?”
“None I’m seeing,” Burden said. “And it’s pissing me off.”
“What’s the deal with poles,” Friedberg asked. “They’ve all been secured to poles of some kind.”
“Phallic,” Jackson said as he snapped his toolkit closed.
“You could be right,” Vail said. “But it might simply be a means to an end: the act of leaving his victims erect, standing and facing the people who find him, may be what’s important to him. The pole is the easiest way for him to do that.”
“So this is an attempt to shock?” Burden asked. “Get a rise out of the people who discover the body?”
“We can’t rule it out. Let’s see if we can find some surveillance cameras in the area.”
Burden called to the first-on-scene officer, who was standing near his vehicle, and asked him to look for businesses or homes that had closed circuit systems.
A car came down Bay far too fast. It stopped in the middle of the street and the passenger window rolled down.
“Hey!” It was Clay Allman, leaning across from the driver’s seat. “You didn’t call me?”
“We’re a little busy,” Vail said.
And our first call isn’t to the press, dickhead.
Allman parked a few cars down and jogged back toward them. He stood there a moment, outside the crime scene tape, sizing up the victim. “Okay, that’s a little weird.”
“A little,” Vail said.
Allman made a face, then turned to Burden. “You sure this isn’t personal?”
“Nah, she’s like this with everyone.”
Vail frowned. “Sorry. Murders tend to put me in a bad mood. I’m funny that way.”
“I accept your apology,” Allman said.
“She was being sarcastic,” Burden said.
“Whatever.” Allman pointed at the body. “Who’s the vic?”
“Haven’t gotten to that yet.” Friedberg reached into the man’s suit and felt around. He found the wallet in his trousers, and then flipped it open. “Harlan Rucker.” He pulled out his driver’s license. “Says here he’s seventy-eight.”
“Home address?”
“Hmm. Interesting.” Friedberg turned to Vail and Burden. With Allman only a few feet away, he was not going to read it aloud.
Vail’s phone started vibrating. She reached down and checked the Caller ID: Roxxann Dixon. “Hey, how’s it going?” Vail asked as she huddled with Friedberg and Burden around the license.
“I figured I’d touch base with you about doing dinner,” Dixon said. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“You’re calling because you’ve got an elderly female who’s been brutally raped and tortured, then kicked in the head. And there’s a brass key nearby.”
There was silence.
“Roxx?”
“What are you, a witch?”
“Nothing so exciting. You’ve got one of our vics. Text me your address. We’ll meet you.”
“Where?” Allman asked. “Another vic?”
Vail looked at him, then stepped in closer to Burden and Friedberg. “Got a call from a friend. She’s just caught a case in American Canyon, just over the Napa County line. One of our female vics.” Vail’s BlackBerry vibrated. “And I’ve got the address.” She consulted the screen. “Matches the one on Rucker’s CDL.”
“Hey,” Allman called out behind them. “I keyed you guys in on the ’82 case, gave you my files. How about cutting me in on the scoop?”
Vail looked at Burden. “You’re not considering it.”
“He’s just trying to do his job. He’s always been fair with us. What’s the harm?”
Vail shrugged in resignation. “It’s your case.”
Burden turned around to face Allman. “Fine. We’ll text you the address in half an hour, so we have some lead time. I want to check things out before you get there.”
They spent another ten minutes with Harlan Rucker, then released the scene to the officer and trudged back to their car. This case had just taken a turn—which was not good.
They hadn’t even figured out what was going on when it was moving in a straight line.
They pulled up behind an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria. It was the same one in which Vail had spent about ten days driving around Napa while working the Crush Killer case with Dixon.
The American Canyon neighborhood was at the southernmost tip of Napa County, a thirty-five-minute drive from the last crime scene. A bedroom community of both San Francisco and the heralded wine country, American Canyon was a solid middle-to upper-middle-class neighborhood incorporated in the early nineties.
The house was a production home in a residential area. It looked like it had been treated to a fresh coat of paint recently and the front garden appeared to be similarly maintained. Vail greeted the officer at the front door and led Burden and Friedberg into the house. Lights were on in the hallway, and Vail could hear voices in a room off to her right.
As she approached, Roxxann Dixon stepped into the corridor. “Karen,” she said with a wide grin.
The two women embraced, and then Vail introduced her to Burden.
“Inspector Friedberg,” Dixon said. “How’s the city treating you?”
“Not so good these days. These murders are pretty brutal. But I don’t have to tell you that.”
A man emerged from the bedroom.
“Brix,” Vail said. “Good to see you.”
“Who woulda thought? I figured when you left Napa three months ago, we were finally rid of you.”
“Guess I’m like that piece of chewing gum on the bottom of your shoe.”
They all enjoyed a knowing chuckle.
“Detective Lieutenant Redmond Brix,” Vail said, “Inspectors Lance Burden and Robert Friedberg—who helped us out with the Crush Killer case, over by Battery Spencer.”
“Right, right,” Brix said as he and the crew exchanged handshakes.
“So what’re you doing here, Roxx?” Vail asked. “Did your transfer go through?”
“I gave it a little push,” Brix said. “Guess it was more like a shove. It took the sheriff a little while to free up the cash for another detective, but I told him he couldn’t afford to miss out on Roxxann.”
“Came through last week,” Dixon said.
“Hell of a first case,” Vail said.
Dixon brushed back her blonde hair. “No shit. What you described on the phone...it was dead-on. No pun intended.”
“Let’s take a look,” Burden said.
They walked into the sizable master bedroom, where a CSI was bent over a body that lay supine. He snapped a photo, straightened up, and then shot Vail a less than friendly look.
Matthew Aaron. Not a pleasant memory from her time in the wine country.
“Where’s that key?” Vail asked.
Aaron reached into his kit and removed a clear evidence bag. It was properly identified and tagged.
Burden took it and held it up so he and Friedberg could get a closer look.
“We’ve got two others like this,” Friedberg said. “Well, one in our possession and one on the way.”
“On the way from where?” Dixon asked.
Vail explained the 1982 Edgar Newhall murder. “We don’t know enough yet to say if the cases are related, but it sure looks that way.”
Burden motioned to the woman in front of him. She displayed nearly identical burn marks, the same gruesome vaginal and anal injuries, and bruising around the head. “What do we know about this vic? I assume her name’s Rucker?”
“Cynthia Rucker,” Dixon said. “When I saw what we had here, I called Redd. He told me to call Karen. The sheriff went through the FBI’s National Academy training, so they felt it was best to find out if we were dealing with a psychosexual killer.”
“Kudos to all of you,” Vail said. “We’re getting away from using that term, but that is what we’re dealing with here. And that’s not all. There’s a lot more to this case. I’m not sure what, just yet, but we’re dealing with a very volatile and unstable killer.”