Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (15 page)

Melvin Prichard was the first to step forward with his hand extended.

“I haven’t seen you since Harvard,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

Kathy smiled as they shook. His grip was firm and warm.

“Dr. Prichard. I can’t believe you remember me.”

“Please, plain old Melvin will do.”

The round of handshakes continued as Andrade introduced NYPD Homicide Detectives Thames and Johnson, and FBI special agent Kenneth Thatcher. Kathy had to crane her neck to look up at Agent Thatcher. He was six foot five inches tall and his muscular frame strained against the cut of his clothes.

Kathy nodded a silent greeting to the two men at the rear of the group, Chief of Detectives Henry Smythe and her colleague Harold Olson, the Coroner.

Olson inclined his head at Thatcher and said to Kathy, “Can you believe this guy? That is one seriously large specimen, isn’t it?”

He looked at the FBI agent. “How much do you bench press?”

Thatcher gave him a look that was halfway between exasperation and amusement. Kathy had seen that expression on many people’s faces when they first met the outspoken Olson.

“Come on,” Thatcher said, “really?”

“Seriously, must be in the three hundreds, am I right?”

Thatcher chuckled. “More like four twenty five.”

“Jesus.”

Smythe stepped forward.

“Let’s get started,” he said. “I understand the FBI is considering taking over the investigation of these three murders. Thames and Johnson will examine all the collected evidence and Prichard indicated his forensics team will be here later today to start cataloging the material. I believe Agent Thatcher is here to observe and make the decision whether this is to be treated this as a serial case, at which point it would become federal.”

“That’s basically it,” Thatcher said.

“You’ll have our fullest cooperation,” Andrade said.

“Can we see the bodies now?” Prichard asked.

Olson started walking toward a bank of stainless steel drawers.

“The first victim was claimed by his family after our preliminary investigation,” he said. “We have full files on his case, complete with autopsy photos and the recording of the procedure. We also kept full samples. His family has already buried him in their plot in Buffalo but agreed to allow exhumation if required.”

“And the other two?”

“Right here,” Olson said.

He and Kathy opened two of the wall drawers and slid the corpses out.

“Victim three hasn’t been here long,” Olson said, “and our second victim has no family we could reach. He has no kids and his ex wife wants nothing to do with him, even in death. He has a brother who is apparently cave diving in Central America. All efforts are being made.”

“And the crime scenes,” Thatcher said. “Do we have access?”

Andrade nodded. “Absolutely. I would just need to get one of my Detectives to make a call.”

“Excellent,” Prichard said, although his attention was already focused on Mueller’s remains.

Smythe and Andrade left the newly expanded investigative team to begin the tedious process of examining the bodies, reading through the reports and asking questions of Olson and Kathy.

Thatcher took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He moved from one team member to the next, listening intently to the discussion and making notes on a legal pad.

After a few hours of preliminary investigation, Olson made a trip to the cafeteria and returned with coffee for everyone. The group took a break in Kathy’s office.

“Based on what I’ve seen,” Thatcher said, “I’d say we’re dealing with a classic sociopath, most likely pathological, focused in his tasks. I’ve faced these types before. In 2001 my partner and I worked a case in the California mountains. I underestimated the killer then and ended up with a scar on my stomach to remember him by.”

“And what did the perp get?” Detective Thames asked.

A cold smile creased Thatcher’s face.

“Dead.”

* * *

Outside the hospital, a black Lincoln Navigator pulled into the parking lot. Prichard’s forensics team emerged into the freezing rain. They hunched their shoulders and hurried to the front doors.

At the edge of the parking lot a figure huddled beneath the meager cover of a bus stop. He had his coat collar turned up to cover his neck. A fur hat was pulled down to meet the collar, and his hands were shoved deep into the jacket’s pockets. The watcher’s gaze was steady as he took note of the group’s arrival.

Headlights flared in the steady drizzle as the University shuttle turned up Medical Parkway. Like a groaning animal, the bus gained speed up the incline and then slowed and pulled alongside the bench. The door squeaked open.

“You getting on?” the driver asked.

The watcher looked down and waved the driver on.

“Suit yourself.”

The shuttle’s tires hissed on the wet asphalt as it lumbered away with a blast of warm exhaust.

* * *

Drake was miserable in the Monday morning cold rain. The walk from the station to his car left him shivering. The trek across the parking lot to the bookstore was just as tough. As he stepped up onto the sidewalk he caught movement to his left. Someone was backing through a stand of trees along the edge of the parking lot. The shadows were too deep for him to make out the person.

“Jesus,” Drake muttered to himself, “this town is full of crazies. Go ahead, freeze your nuts off.”

Drake pushed through the door and pulled off his gloves. He rubbed his hands together while blowing on them. His scalp tingled beneath his cap and he felt a shiver up his spine as the store bathed him in relief. Opening his coat to let in the warmth, he headed for the coffee bar. Before he could make it there, he heard a familiar voice call out from behind him.

“Officer Drake,” Sandy said.

Drake turned. “Oh, hi.”

“Come to join our motley crew again, have you?”

“Absolutely,” Drake said and shook Sandy’s hand. “You’re cold as ice.”

“Just need coffee,” Sandy said. “Hey, have you lost some weight?”

“Yeah, I’m down eighteen pounds.”

“Damn. Good for you.”

“What are you drinking?” Drake asked. “I’ll get it for you. That’s okay, right?”

Sandy smiled, gave him his coffee particulars, thanked him, and went to join the group at the tables. After a quick visit to the counter, Drake carried the cups to an open chair and set his bulk down.

“Hey Drake,” Nordstrom said. “What’s the hub-bub down at the station about this latest killing? I heard this morning he was another agent. That right?”

“Yeah,” Drake said, “I heard his name on the news about an hour ago. Guy named Thomas Mueller. Anybody know him?”

Nordstrom nodded. “That’s the bastard who signed me and I never heard from him again.”

“So you killed him?” Pooter asked.

“Yeah, and then I danced over his corpse.”

Sandy put up his hand. He quieted the raucous voices like Jesus calming the seas.

“Three agents are dead,” he said. “Sounds like one of us has gone wrong.”

“One of us?” Franny asked and put her hands to her chest. “In this group?”

“No, I mean some writer must be out for his own sick version of vengeance. And I’ve heard the murder scenes are unbelievably sick. Is that true, Drake?”

“Afraid it is,” he said, feeling important. “I’ve seen the reports. I can’t tell you the details but this perp is brutal. The victims are mutilated and defiled. The killer is making a statement, and we still have no idea who it is.”

“That’s too bad,” a voice chimed in.

They all looked up to see Brian Shakespeare approaching. His face with ruddy with the weather.

“Hey, you made it,” Sandy said happily.

“I realized this was closer to home than my other group,” Shakespeare said. “Can I join in?”

“Of course. You know everybody I think. Oh, this is Lou Drake, writer and cop.”

“Really?” Shakespeare said.

Drake nodded. “Yup.”

“That’s fascinating. So what were you saying about the murders before I interrupted you?”

“Just that there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of evidence to go on.”

“After three murders? Is that normal?”

“Not at all. Typically we’d expect to have fibers, prints, hair … something by now.”

Shakespeare raised his eyebrows. “So this killer must be very careful.”

Drake nodded. “I’d say so.”

“Impressive.”

The group stared blankly at Shakespeare, whose face turned a little pink.

“I watch that C.S.I. TV show,” he explained in a small voice. “I love the procedural stuff.”

“You could use that in your books,” Sandy said.

“I tried, but nobody was interested. Now I’m writing in a new genre.”

Drake noticed that Franny was staring at her hands, paying no attention to the conversation.

“Hey Franny,” he said. “You okay?”

She flinched and looked up as if his words had startled her.

“I went out with Tom Mueller once,” she said, her face pale. “We met at a book signing in Greenwich. I thought I could make friends and maybe get him to look over my work. He wasn’t impressed and he stopped calling.”

Carl Nesbit slapped the table. “She did it.”

That broke the tension. Everyone laughed. Even Franny managed a rueful smile.

“Or maybe I did,” Nesbit said.

“No, it was me,” Pooter said and there were more laughs.

Drake marveled at the ghoulish satisfaction these writers seemed to be getting from the deaths. If he were to think like a Detective, Drake realized any one of them could be the killer.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

THE STATION TEN staff emptied interrogation room 2 for the forensics team. The janitor scrubbed all the surfaces and cleaned the ceiling with a special water trap vacuum system. He installed an air purifier to scrub the air before hauling in the evidence. Fresh white butcher paper covered the three long tables.

Once preparations were complete, three teams began the long task of categorizing all evidence. Everything gathered from each of the crime scenes was piled on one of the tables, including every sheet of paper taken from all three sites. The victims were page merchants, so there was a great deal to process.

Each page was scanned beneath a special light to detect any fluids, hidden messages or telltale markings. A spray solution exposed fingerprints and there were many, each to be crosschecked through the national database.

One technician at each table was responsible for skimming the text of each page, especially to compile a list of everyone who had dealt with the victims. The Detectives knew the list would be long, but they wanted a record of every author who had queried the three dead agents, and what sort of response each author received, if any.

The technician at Orland’s table worked her way through a series of cryptic passages as she scanned the pages.

… came through the window, the man wept as his wife slowly passed away …

… as the sun rose over fields of gold, the clouds drew back like curtains …

… the opportunity to present myself for representation for my novel …

… drew rave reviews from the judges at the LAUN Writers conference …

So many messages on so many sheets about the same thing. She stopped and consulted her laptop whenever she encountered a name, adding it to the database if it was new. Scan and read and box and scan and read and box and scan and read. Two hours went by and the team collectively stayed focused on their tasks.

The technician stopped and stared at one particular sheet. It first caught her eye because it was spattered with blood. Then she read the contents.

… the killer pulled against the rope and hefted the limp bulk of the man until he was within an inch of the pull up bar. His neck bulging upwards to the jaw from the pressure of the dog chain, the bone-shaped license jingled sickly against the metal noose. ‘Answers to Rufus’ was etched in the red aluminum and the victim gasped as he slowly choked to death …

“I found something,” she called out.

Prichard rose from his seat and walked over.

“What is it?”

“Smoking gun.”

His hands held high so as not to cross contaminate anything, Prichard leaned over to peer at the paper.

“My God,” he said, “this is a detailed written account of the killing, a complete description.”

He thought for a moment and then looked at the technician.

“Tell me we got lucky and this sheet is part of a query package, with the killer’s name on the letter.”

The technician started sifting through the paper, looking at the pages she had just processed, as well as the next few in her pile. She was already shaking her head as she did so.

“No,” she said, “this was a single sheet found all by itself at the scene.”

“Damn,” Prichard said. “Okay people, this adds a whole new dimension. Orland’s killer obviously wrote a script ahead of time, and then went to Orland’s apartment to act it out. I need everyone to drop what you’re doing and look for more pages like this.”

The team started looking through the remaining reams of paper from the three murder scenes. An hour and a half later someone at Petre’s table called out.