Unhinged (7 page)

I entered the office, immediately holding my hand out to the government agent so he didn't have to stand up. “I'm Detective Dupree. How are you?”

Square jawed and in his midfifties, he looked more like a banker than anything else. His handshake was firm. “Special Agent Wayne. I'm a profiler from the Criminal Justice Information Services in Clarksburg, West Virginia. I'll be working out of the Leon C. Simon field office while I'm here.” He remained leaning forward.

I felt his discomfort. His dignity as he sat on the kiddie couch spoke volumes. He must have agreed to sit there just to be gracious.

“I've got the lab results right here.” Wayne held up a folder. “Together, I think we can come up with a generally accurate profile of our killer.”

Our killer?

I could tell Ron wasn't impressed, and I gathered that he didn't want the Feds' interference. We also both knew that if Agent Wayne snapped his fingers, Greenwood would jump to attention.

“The lab's findings are in this brief.” He handed me copies to pass around. “To sum up, we have his DNA on file now. It's being run against unsolved murders in our data banks. The National Crime Information Center will run the prints through the IAFIS.”

“That's the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System,” Greenwood said as if rehearsed.

Wayne continued, “It has about 200 million prints on file. Your forensics man collected strands of dark brown hair, which we found to be oily and undamaged. That indicates he rarely washes it because the chemicals in shampoo can damage hair follicles. There was no indication of drug use, either. We also believe he's probably a loner. Of course, this may not be our suspect's hair, but it's all we have, correct?”

We nodded.

“I've gone over the photos and your reports from the crime scene and have formed some conclusions. Dr. Covington, please let me know if you feel that it's an accurate assessment.” Wayne paused as he made eye contact with everyone in the room.

“In a nutshell, the killer is in his mid- to late twenties or slightly older. Poor, possibly living in squalor, but having a few nice things, clothing and such, in order to keep up appearances to be able to approach his victims. Maybe he lost everything in Katrina. He's attractive, having been able to lure another attractive individual from a nightclub. He has dark brown hair, not quite shoulder length. He stands approximately five foot ten to six foot one, with a thin frame.”

I could feel Greenwood's burning stare, and I knew he was going to rail at me for questioning Wayne, but screw him. I needed to understand the process. “Mind if I ask how you came to those conclusions?” I knew they didn't have much to work with. The size issue was probably just a guess, but the unwashed hair caught my attention. Toliver didn't seem like much of a bather, and Ron was probably thinking the same thing. Not to mention Toliver's flimsy alibi.

“Your pathologist faxed over his notes last night, per your captain's request. According to the location of the stab wounds, we were able to approximate height. The wounds were high on the woman's abdomen, indicating the perp isn't a short man. The bruises on the dead man's arms and chest would indicate that the victim attempted to fight him off. As a matter of fact, I've already sent my report to the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, which is a national database for unsolved violent crimes. Law enforcement agencies from all over can compare similarities and maybe match them up. What do you think, Dr. Covington?”

Dr. Covington took off his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed between his eyes. His dark-complected face was round, symmetrical, and he had big, intense eyes that seemed to be measuring you. He always kept his collared shirts buttoned to the top, yet I'd rarely seen him with a tie.

He blinked a couple of times, then said, “Unfortunately my expertise is mostly textbook, but I have to agree with you as far as it goes. I'll add that the killer obviously has deep-rooted sexual problems, a conflict, considering the two people murdered. Is he gay or straight? Is he bisexual? Is he really one and trying to be the other?”

Will ended up stating the obvious, so that was a bust, but I loved the psychology classes I took at UNO and decided to put my ideas to the test. “Maybe the murderer burned the head of the male victim to take away his identity. He's ashamed of himself, and he's making the victim faceless.”

“That's good.” Wayne nodded. “What else?”

Dr. Covington coughed and blinked incessantly, possibly afraid I was upstaging him.

I continued anyway. “The reports say that the killer didn't have sex with the man and the gay man wasn't anally penetrated, but the coroner said he had ejaculated before being killed. And the nipples of the woman were bitten right off. What if he received the sex from the male victim, taking it instead of giving it, which is taboo in the hetero world, then redeemed himself by having intercourse with the female victim, probably with a condom. The nipples are sexual icons for males. By removing them, he focused on what's been ingrained into the male psyche. He's a homosexual but doesn't want to be.”

Everyone remained silent. Dr. Covington folded his arms, tense, at least that was the vibe I picked up. I could've sworn I glimpsed a proud look on Ron's face, and Agent Wayne was busy writing in his notepad.

I decided to keep going. I was either going to have welcomed insight or sound like a fool, but I felt I was on a roll. “And he cuts the penis from the male to make the body more androgynous. He puts the penis in the male's mouth to symbolize that he's a cocksucker.” I let a nervous laugh escape and felt my cheeks turn red. “He hates homosexuals, but he's losing a personal battle with denial.”

“I'm impressed.” Agent Wayne lifted his eyebrows. “Okay. We've beaten down a general description of the killer and his possible state of mind. I hope you don't mind, Detectives, but I want to be a part of this investigation, just to help out, you understand.”

“We believe we have a decent suspect.” I looked at Ron, knowing his account of our meeting with Toliver would hold more weight.

Ron sighed and scratched the back of his head. “A bouncer at a bar called Breaux's had a relationship with Gant, and his prints were found at his apartment. This guy Toliver was less than friendly with us earlier, and he doesn't bathe, which goes along with Agent Wayne's hair theory. He has no alibi, and he's an admitted absinthe drinker.”

“I'll get a warrant,” Greenwood said. “You can get a sample of his hair, and we can match it to what you found in the dead man's apartment.”

Ron shook his head. “We want to send Bienvenue in undercover. He can come on to Toliver at Breaux's and try to gain his confidence.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” Wayne rested his hands on his knees. “We can hook your guy up with a bug, and maybe Toliver will say something no one else knows about the crime scenes, and then we'll have him. I wouldn't recommend getting a hair sample from Toliver right now, Captain. One, a lawyer would be able to rip the results to shreds since Ryan Gant and Kenny Toliver used to see each other. Lord knows how many times he was in the victim's apartment. Two, if he thinks he's a suspect, he might be more suspicious of a setup. I say we go with the stakeout and save the hair comparison as icing on the cake.”

“Perfect.” Greenwood smiled.

Ron remained quiet. I expected to hear something from him as soon as they left.

Wayne summed up the plan. “You inform Detective Bienvenue of what's going down, and I'll arrange for a surveillance van. We'll try to get him in there tonight if Toliver's working.”

“Right,” Greenwood said. “You need anything, just let us know.”

Wayne let out a huff as he rose from the couch, then made a round of hand shaking. “I'm going to the office, but I'll be back this evening.”

We watched the agent and Greenwood as they headed down the stairs.

I veered off to my desk with Ron. Could Wayne see what an obvious bootlicker Greenwood was? I guessed that was how some people felt they had to advance their careers.

I sat at my desk, and Ron stared right through me from his chair. I began to collect the files that were no longer needed and stacked them at one end of my desk. I waited patiently for something to come out of his mouth.

He suddenly regained his focus and smirked. “They're going to take over this investigation. You don't know the Feds.”

“Can they do that?” I asked.

“Not technically,” Ron said, tilting his head. “They're not supposed to take over criminal cases that aren't under federal jurisdiction, but they do. They got so much backing them up that everyone's scared to oppose them. Can you see Greenwood keeping them off our backs?”

“No. But they can probably help catch this guy. They have a lot of resources at their disposal, don't they? You heard all the crap that the Feds have to work with.” I tried not to sound green, but I was generally unaware of the FBI's regulations concerning criminal investigations.

“Yes, they do have a lot of resources, but they don't see us as equals. They're above us. They're smart, and law enforcement officers are stupid, otherwise we'd be doing what they're doing. They go through this Marine-type training, except it's a bit more cerebral, and come out of it thinking they're God's gift to criminal investigations. They think we're at their disposal when they get involved in local investigations. They look at us in the same light as the police look at the general public. They're a tight-knit, exclusive club that's worse than the police—they have the backing of the federal government.”

I tried to calm him down. “No matter what, it's our investigation. They're not going to take it over. We'll probably find the killer before they have a chance to claim the headlines anyway.”

“Yeah. C'mon, let's get Bienvenue in on this. He's gonna love it.”

We both rose from our chairs and silently walked to the other side of the room where Bienvenue was sitting. Landeaux was probably off getting drunk somewhere as usual. We moved to either side of him, putting him in an uncomfortable sandwich.

“Oh, shit. You're not going to beat me up?” He looked at each of us with fearful but comical concern.

“You've been recruited to help us on the double homicide.” Ron placed his hand on Jake's thick trapezoid.

“We need you to go undercover,” I added.

“You have to play a fag.” Ron rubbed his shoulder gently. “You gotta get in with a bouncer at Breaux's.” He smiled and blew kisses at him.

“You have hot pants, don't you?” I asked.

“Wait, wait, wait. Just how far do I have to go with this?”

“To the bitter end,” Ron said.

I
t was close to midnight when me, Ron, Agent Wayne, and a surveillance technician named Agent Brian Tucker sat in a Budget Truck Rental right around the corner from Breaux's. Agent Tucker was a pale redhead with broad shoulders and a farm bred Midwestern accent. He had quite a setup inside the small space. There was a monitor, radio, receivers, and speakers plus some other equipment that I had no idea about. The smell of electrical gadgets energized me while I watched Tucker adjust the surveillance controls.

“This is the bottom-of-the-barrel surveillance. Old school,” Wayne said to me. “It's the best I could do on short notice.”

“No, this stuff is great.” I tried to hide my nervousness.

Tucker huffed. “This is nothing. Do you know there's a little robot fly that's built with a tiny spy camera in it? It could buzz by you, and you'd never know it.”

“Of course we don't have that,” Wayne said.

“No, I've never even seen one. It's not for everyday use,” Tucker added.

“Incredible,” was all I could say.

Bienvenue had just meandered past the truck a moment before, wearing a white tank top and tight blue shorts. For added effect, he had spiked his hair and put on a hint of eyeliner. To finish off the ensemble, he was set up with a small video device in his belt.

The four of us sat close in the truck. Looking up, I noticed a huge vent on the roof. The heat the equipment let off was intense enough to feel it brush past my face.

We watched the tourists on the monitor as Bienvenue made his way up the street. The drunken clamor of those around him was crystal clear. As soon as he arrived at Ponyland (our code word), Toliver was there to let him in.

“Need my ID? Because I forgot it,” Bienvenue said with a hint of flare.

“You look old enough to me.” We could see Toliver smile as he eyed Bienvenue up and down.

“See you later.” Bienvenue raised his hand to Toliver's shoulder and touched it softly. He then eased his way over to the bar, and the monitor went dark, with the camera pointed at nothing but cheap wood. All we could do was listen.

“What do you want, stud?” we heard faintly over the music.