What Doesn’t Kill Her (18 page)

Now Mark smiled a little. “Yeah, she did.”

“You really aren’t very good at this, are you, son?”

“Not yet, sir. But I will be.”

Elkins studied him. “Maybe. Maybe you will. You
have
tried talking to Jordan about her family?”

Mark shook his head. “She says she’ll let me know when she’s ready.”

“The reason I ask is because she’s in my support group.”

This was delicate. If Mark pretended ignorance, and got caught at it, this interview—maybe
any
interview with Elkins—was over.

Mark said, “I thought you and she might be in group together.”

“And why is that?”

“The Violent Crimes Support Group meets at St. Dimpna’s. That’s where Jordan was institutionalized, and she’s a likely candidate.”

“And I am, too.”

Mark shrugged. “It’s the only support group of its kind in Cleveland.”

Elkins nodded. He seemed to be buying it.

“Detective, uh, Pryor, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have a certain loyalty, you know. Group members. There’s a confidentiality that’s understood, like at an AA meeting.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“And since Jordan hasn’t talked to you, I shouldn’t either.” Elkins sat back in the chair, but did not push back to make it recline.

Mark felt he’d blown it—
gosh dang it!

Then Elkins said, “At least not about
her
case. If you want to ask about
my
family, I might answer your questions.”

“That would be very helpful, sir.”

“So ask. Listen, how new at this are you?”

“I’ve been a detective a few months.”

“So I should cut you some slack.”

Mark grinned. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Elkins grinned back at him. “Well, I’m not going to. You said five minutes, and we’re almost there.”

No more stalling.

“You were gone when the attack occurred?”

“You already know that.”

“And no one, none of your neighbors, saw anything unusual that night?”

“Come on. You know that, too. I thought you were going to present your theory.”

Funny—he seemed testy and good-natured at the same time.

“Yes, sir. I started thinking about it back in high school, with Jordan’s family. There just didn’t seem to be any explanation for what happened to them, nothing beyond just… random evil at loose in the world.”

“Nice phrase, son,” the writer said. “But get to it.”

“The more I studied, the more likely this seemed to fit the classic mode of a serial killer. I know, I know that they are rare, no matter what our pop culture puts out there. And there were problems—one was that he left Jordan alive. Another was that there was no even vaguely similar attack, at least not until your family six years ago. Some killers of this ilk will take a hiatus between episodes… but six years seems inordinately long.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“As I got older, studied more, learned more, it finally occurred to me that this predator’s hunting ground might be a far larger one than just the Cleveland metro area.”

Elkins set his glass down and sat forward again. “And where did that thinking take you?”

“Eventually, all across the country.”

The writer’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes. Some here, in this region, but… well, I think I can tie together at least a dozen family murders to this one killer.”

Now Elkins leaned forward so far he was almost off the chair, his prayerfully folded hands dangling between his legs. “And no one else has put these pieces together? The FBI has profilers and investigators working on just these kinds of rare cases.”

“Maybe so,” Mark said, “but there’s no indication of that. My captain would be in the loop if the FBI was investigating the Cleveland-area homicides.”

“So why hasn’t the FBI noticed this killer?”

“Our predator is highly intelligent, maybe genius level. He knows not to have an immediately recognizable MO, so his methods vary—there’s always extenuating circumstances that make the crimes look like something other than textbook serial killings.”

“Such as?”

“Home invasions, primarily. One instance on the East Coast was made to look like a mob hit. He takes an approach that I would call diversionary.”

“Where nationally have you tracked these cases?”

“Providence, the Bronx, the Midwest. So far, never the South, but with several out west.”

Elkins was mulling it. “One man operating on that kind of scale—is it even possible?”

“For a suspect who travels a lot—with his business perhaps—it would be feasible, even fairly easy.”

Elkins got up, leaving the beer bottle behind on an end table, and began to pace, to prowl.

“How would he go about targeting families?” the writer asked. “Randomly? My God, that’s somehow more horrifying than thinking your family
had
been targeted. Even a warped reason is, at least, a reason.”

Mark had no answer for that. He asked, “No one ever found a commonality between you and the Riveras, did they?”

“Not really,” Elkins said, returning to his chair, perching himself on its edge again. “We both had six-figure incomes, but that was about all.”

“Didn’t your daughter study gymnastics?”

“A couple of lessons—she was just a beginner. Why do you ask?”

“Jordan took a few gymnastics lessons, too. Just to build a foundation for her cheerleading. This never came up in the investigation?”

“Not that I know of. You seem quite conversant about Jordan, Detective Pryor. How well did you know her?”

“Not well, but we were friendly. The gymnastics aspect I learned from talking to several of our mutual friends from back in high school.”

Elkins was no dummy. He wrote about crime, and the research that required gave him a leg up; and he created densely plotted thrillers, which meant he could put things together. Still, his next question jarred Mark.

“You’ve got a suspect, haven’t you, Detective?”

“Well… suspect might be too strong a word. Let’s say… person of interest.”

“That’s a stupid phrase,” Elkins said, with a sneer that hinted at the man’s underlying anger. “I hate that it’s entered the law-enforcement lexicon. What the hell
is
a ‘person of interest,’ anyway?”

“A person who isn’t a suspect yet, but is under consideration.”

Elkins scowled. “I know that, Detective. It was a rhetorical question.
Mine
isn’t—
who
is your ‘person of interest’?”

“I’m sorry, sir. You’re not a novice in these matters. You know I can’t share that with you.”

“Why don’t I tell
you
then?”

“Sir?”

“Basil Havoc.”

That didn’t jar Mark—in a way, getting Elkins to identify Havoc as a suspect had been his intent, bringing up the gymnastics tie. But he was more and more impressed with the writer.

Mark asked, “Why would you mention Mr. Havoc as a possible suspect?”

Elkins returned to his beer for a sip and leaned back in the recliner, again not reclining. “Havoc was in charge of the gym where Akina went. He’s a publicity hound and a prick. But not a killer.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why a publicity hound and a prick? He used my daughter’s death to get on the news and talk about how much promise she had, as if she’d been his star student, which she most definitely hadn’t been. It was nothing but a publicity grab for him and his gymnastics school.”

“But he
did
coach Akina, right?”

Elkins grunted. “He may have worked with her once, maybe twice. Hell, he was barely ever at that ‘school’ of his. His flunkies actually trained the kids. Oh, he might have worked his magic with the best and the brightest, but the beginners’ class? He might come over, say hello on the first day, give a little pep talk, then fade away.”

Mark had watched video of Havoc’s interviews again and again. The coach always made it sound like the girl was practically his protégé.

Elkins said, “He couldn’t have picked my daughter out of a lineup of any six girls in that dump. If, as you say, Jordan wasn’t serious about gymnastics, the chances of her having much personal contact with him are next to nil.”

Had he singled out Havoc too soon, too easily?
Mark wondered what he might have missed.
Who
he might have missed.…

“But maybe Havoc
isn’t
your suspect,” Elkins said. “Maybe it’s one of Havoc’s staff. You know, he was frequently out of town, judging tournaments and making personal appearances.”

Mark sat up. “That kind of travel would be ideal for this killer.”

“You’ve seen the case files, so you know CPD didn’t look at Havoc very hard, if at all. He’s
your
person of interest, not theirs.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, I don’t find him a very interesting person at all.”

Mark just sat there, the wind out of his sails.

“But maybe you’re looking at Havoc’s staff,” Elkins went on. “Is
that
what you’re up to?”

He hadn’t been. Mark hadn’t really looked into the staff carefully at all—didn’t know who, or how many of them, traveled with the man.

But what about the encounter in the parking lot of Apollonia’s? And Havoc’s jab about the osso buco being “to die for”? Or had it been a jab? Could it have been nothing more than a guy spouting a cliché with an unfortunate, unintentional resonance, and Mark all too eagerly misinterpreting it?

“So is that it?” Elkins was asking. “You have a suspect on Havoc’s staff?”

“I’m sorry, sir. Not at liberty to say.”

“Then why did you bring up Havoc?”

“Actually, sir,
you
brought up Havoc. I merely pointed out that both girls studied gymnastics at his school, if briefly. It just demonstrates one connection I’ve found that was overlooked in the initial investigation of your family’s murders. There might be others, and that’s what I’d like to talk about.”

“Maybe looking at Havoc and particularly his staff is worthwhile, and I wish you luck. But I have nothing to contribute.”

“Sir…”

Elkins let out a sigh that filled the room. “Look, son. Detectives have come around every few months since this goddamn thing happened. They seem always to have some little new thread to pull on, but it winds up leading nowhere, and I have to revisit the… the
horror
of it all… over and over and over. And each time, it cuts off another little piece of me.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been put through that,” Mark said, “and needlessly. But those detectives, none of them have been pursuing the serial killer possibility, have they?”

“That’s true. That is true.”

“So they haven’t looked for the kinds of connections that I have. Like your tragedy and Jordan’s. And there are more, not just around here, but all over the map.”

Elkins sipped more beer. He leaned back, rocked a little, thinking. Then a brusque laugh came out of him. “You know, Detective Pryor—it’s funny.”

“What is?”

“Some of my support group has been working on this very theory for a long goddamn time. Serial killer notion? And way at the beginning, when we
first saw the pattern emerging, we took it to the police, and they basically patted us on the head and sent us on our way.”

Someone else was investigating his theory?
Victims of the killer, no less. Were they Jordan’s circle of friends he’d seen exiting the coffee shop?

Mark gave his host a bitter grin. “You and me both, Mr. Elkins.”

“Huh?”

“Sir, my investigation is strictly off the books. I’ve managed to be taken just seriously enough by my captain to secure permission to explore this on my own time.”

“Are you
sure
you and Jordan weren’t good friends?”

Mark ignored that. “What made you and those other group members think a serial killer might be behind these different cases? No one else did.”

Elkins sent the question back: “What made
you
think this was a serial killer?”

“Families as victims. That’s the common dominator.”

The writer sat forward again, nodding. “That was our thinking, too. But they all seemed too different to be connected.”

“The details vary,” Mark said. “I believe we have a shrewd actor who knows all about MO. But underlying these assorted atrocities is a desire to destroy a family, leaving one family member alive to suffer.”

Now Elkins was looking at Mark in an entirely new way. “Maybe I can get the group to meet with you. You could be our door into the police.”

“I’m anxious to see what you’ve got,” Mark admitted. “But I don’t think I can share what I’ve found with you.”

“That doesn’t seem like much of an arrangement.”

“I know. But if my superiors do finally accept my theory, my investigation will suddenly be a heck of a lot more official than it is now. I can’t be seen as having compromised it by showing potential evidence to civilians.”

Elkins was nodding again. “I can understand that. Perhaps… perhaps it’s enough that we share the same goal.”

Mark nodded back. “To put this monster away, yes.”

Before they could go any further, Mark’s cell chirped. He slipped it out of his jacket pocket, saw an unfamiliar number, and almost ignored it. But a hunch told him to answer—wasn’t he waiting for a call, after all? He hit the button, knowing it couldn’t be her.

Yet it was: “This is Jordan Rivera.”

Getting quickly to his feet, Mark put a hand over the phone and told Elkins, “I need to take this.”

Elkins waved permission and Mark excused himself to the front porch.

“Are you there?” Jordan asked.

“Sorry,” Mark said. “I needed to step away from something.”

“Okay.”

“I’m, uh… a little surprised you actually called.”

“Not as surprised as I am.”

He thought of how she’d looked when he saw her at the grocery store, close-up for the first time in so many years, as beautiful now as she had been in high school—maybe more so. Not a lot of makeup, dressed casually, a baseball fan like him, apparently, judging by the Indians cap.

“I’m ready for us to talk,” she said.

“When and where?” he asked, perhaps a little too eagerly.