Lucy Carlyle addressed the group of five agents seated with her around the CAU conference table. “Her name was Alana Rafferty, age thirty-one, divorced, no children. She was a graphic artist for Bloomfield Designs in Cleveland, Ohio. She was outgoing, loaded with talent, and just plain old nice, according to her coworkers and friends, and she met the wrong person at Nielson’s Bar and Grill on West Blake Street Tuesday night. The bartender, who’s also the owner, said she left with a guy all duded up in black, even a black beret, said he looked sort of gay, at about nine o’clock Tuesday night. Another couple saw the guy wave down a taxi, but the cabbie was off duty. Then the guy yelled out an insult, even kicked the tire. The couple said Alana looked a bit tipsy, and when they walked away, the guy was holding her arm because she wasn’t all that steady on her feet. They walked west, toward her apartment, two blocks farther on, at the corner of Hudson Avenue.” She nodded a bit unwillingly at Agent Cooper McKnight, wanting to continue and not turn it over to him, but she said, “Coop.”
Coop said, “Her body was found in her apartment at noon yesterday by the manager and a coworker from Bloomfield Designs. The Cleveland PD put a rush on the autopsy since the murder bore some similarities to four recent murders, two in San Francisco and two in Chicago. This was the first victim in Cleveland.
“The bartenders in all three cities describe the guy as looking arty, maybe gay, in his late twenties, early thirties, with longish black hair under a black beret, tall, thin to gaunt. Two of the bartenders said he looked like he’d dusted his face with white powder, and he had long white hands that he seemed to like to show off, you know, picking out individual pretzels or nuts from a bowl.
“The bartenders told police none of the women seemed to know him, but they all appeared to hit it off with him quickly. He always bought them beer or wine or whatever, and after about an hour or two, they all left with him.
“In each instance, the women were murdered in their apartments. Each had ketamine and Rohypnol in her bloodstream, probably due to spiked drinks. As you know, ketamine is an anesthetic and now a street drug known as Black Hole or Special K that’s become popular at raves. Rohypnol is your classic roofie, the date-rape drug. Together, they’re a potent cocktail. One Chicago detective said it looks like the guy uses a roll of common wire, impossible to trace, and he unrolls the length he wants and snips it off before strangling them.”
Lucy said, “There’s more information in the folders I handed out, photos of the crime scenes, copies of all the interviews, autopsy results, but those are the high points.” She nodded to Savich.
Savich said to the group, “Mr. Maitland wants us to handle the case now that this guy’s crossed state lines several times and is killing every few days.
“Look through the packets and familiarize yourselves with the cases in San Francisco and Chicago. All major police departments across the country have been alerted about this guy and are already on the lookout.
“Cleveland Police Chief Aaron Handler has moved fast. He compared the sketch their own police artist made from the bartender’s description to the other police sketches made in San Francisco and Chicago.” He held up the sketch. “This is a composite sketch, based on the descriptions provided by the three bartenders. Chief Handler had the sketches posted prominently in every neighborhood bar in Cleveland, and they’re running the sketch on local television channels. You can see the guy has a distinct look—dressed all in black, with his black beret and black jeans, boots, T-shirt, and leather jacket—and he’s kept to his initial pattern—always a neighborhood bar, always choosing a young woman who’s alone. He drugs her, and garrotes her in her own home or apartment, which means all of the women let him take them home.”
Ruth Warnecki-Noble said, “Well, if they were all feeling ill from the drug he fed them, I guess it makes some sense they would accept some help. Plus, if they think the guy is gay, they probably wouldn’t see him as a sexual threat.”
Lacey Sherlock said, “I guess he drugs the women so they won’t be able to fight him, either.”
Lucy nodded. “The bartenders all said the guy looks like a stereotypical artist type, white as a vampire with the white face powder, and bone thin, which means he does indeed need the drugs to make sure he can handle his victims. He looks harmless as a puppy, softspoken, real polite, attentive, a good listener. Another thing—Alana Rafferty didn’t look dizzy or shaky on her feet when she left the bar, so he probably put the drug in her last—” Lucy looked down. “In her last Burning River Pale Ale.”
There were a few more questions and comments, and then Savich brought things to a close. “Okay, Coop and Lucy are the leads on this case. Any of your specific input should go through them. I’d like each of you to think about this guy, about what makes him tick, and give all your ideas in writing to Lucy and Coop. Steve in Behavioral Analysis will get us a profile shortly.
“This police sketch and the local TV coverage might make the guy cut his losses and head out of Cleveland, or maybe he’ll change his outfit and ditch the beret. We’ll see.
“No matter what, this case is top priority. Whoever the guy is, we want to stop him before anyone else dies.”
Lucy said, “This is really ugly, guys, and really sick. Dillon wonders if he’ll realize he’s a sitting duck and change his routine or his clothes—and that’s my biggest worry. If he does change his routine and ditch the black, we’ll lose any edge we have.”
Sherlock said, “Whatever he decides to wear, I’ve got the weirdest feeling he’s not afraid of the cops and he’s not going to stop. He’s arrogant.”
Lucy nodded slowly. She agreed with Sherlock.
As Lucy and Coop walked back to their workstations, talking quietly, Sherlock said to Savich, “Why’d you put Lucy and Coop together? They don’t care much for each other. You can tell that by their body language. Look at the distance between them.”
“That’s why I put them together,” Savich said matter-of-factly. “They need to learn to get along. They’re both excellent agents, and I wouldn’t want to lose either of them. They’ve got to learn to respect each other, protect each other, or else one of them will have to go.”
“I’d hate to lose either of them. I wonder why they don’t get along well? They’re the new guys in the unit; you’d think they’d have bonded simply because they’re the rookies.”
Savich said, “I asked Ruth what was going on between them, and she said she’d heard Lucy call Coop a dickhead—quote/unquote—because he dangles too many women on his string.”
“Hmm, I hadn’t heard that. Do you think it’s true? You think he’s some sort of idiot playboy?”
Savich shrugged, opened his office door, and ushered her in. “I’ve never seen anything in Coop’s behavior that’d make me think so. He’s got a good brain, he’s committed, a good team player, and I can usually kick his butt at the gym.” He grinned at her, flicked a finger over her cheek. “So, what’s not to like?”
Sherlock laughed, hugged him a moment. She leaned back in his arms, studied his face. “It’s only been two days since the shooting at Mr. Patil’s Shop ’n Go. Are you all right, Dillon?”
“Mr. Patil will make a full recovery, Dave Raditch and his kids are dealing okay with the shock, and yes, I’m fine as well. Look, Sherlock, I’m handling things, okay?”
Lucy and Coop were studying the composite sketch of their murderer, tossing ideas back and forth, when Lucy’s cell phone rang. It was a Dr. Antonio Pellotti at Washington Memorial Hospital. Her father had suffered a massive heart attack and wasn’t expected to live.
CHAPTER 4
