CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Sun was gently setting as Janet and I peeled out of the parking lot, then through the wide boulevards of Rosslyn, toward Washington, and away from Carolyn Fiorio’s crowded murder site. At the first red light I turned to her and inquired, “Did you get the impression Spinelli’s pissed at us?”
She chose not to answer.
I said, more specifically, “Actually, he’s pissed at you. I think he likes me, and he thinks you’re jerking him off.”
“Nobody likes you.” She grinned. “And recall that he’s the one who keeps calling me.”
We both contemplated the road for a minute before I said, “What are you withholding and why?”
In reply, she asked, “Did you see the burn marks all over her legs and arms?”
“And the bruises, rope burns, and her broken neck. It was sickening. What’s your point?”
“They’re estimating he spent maybe thirty minutes with Cuthburt, and nearly two hours with Fiorio. The difference in ferocity was huge.”
“Maybe the killer has a thing for celebrities. Maybe their different hair colors set him off. Maybe he gets a twitch in his ass on Thursdays. I’m not particularly fond of Thursdays myself.”
“Don’t you want to know how this guy thinks? Get inside his head?”
“No. Wackos live in a world of dark depravity and twisted impulses. That’s a journey I’ll leave to the pros. And so should you.”
She stared out the window and said, “I just think…” and she let it drift off.
“What?”
“It… it doesn’t add up. DNA traces that don’t match. Lisa is simply murdered, Cuthburt’s beaten, then killed, and now, Fiorio.” She paused, and added, “The poor woman was brutalized, as though the killer had something to prove with her.”
“Like what?”
“Like he wanted to generate publicity and excitement. He went over the top with her-a circus killing.”
“Why would he do that?”
She ignored me and continued, “With Julia Cuthburt, he was inflicting humiliation and domination. The dog leash, the severe bruising on her butt, even the impertinent pose he left her in. Fiorio was tortured-methodically tortured. You see the difference?”
“Yes.”
“The lack of consistency should indicate something to us. I think the killer is staging.”
“Staging?”
“Not acting on impulses… staging.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why.” She stared straight ahead and asked, “Do you think there are two different killers?”
“Wouldn’t it account for the differences? They match the generalities of the murder, but their individual pathologies creep to the surface and what they do to the victim before death appears different.” I turned and asked, “Yes? No?”
“What about the pace? He’s smart, and has to know that the faster he kills, the more likely he is to make a mistake.”
“And doesn’t that also point to two of them? Then they’re only killing every four to six days.”
“And how does he pick his victims?”
We appeared to be speaking at cross-purposes here-me trying to draw her out, her deliberately diverting me with these incessant mysteries. It’s an old lawyer’s stunt, you maintain control by asking questions.
And like Spinelli, I’d had enough of it. I swerved into the parking lot of the Orleans House, a restaurant on Wilson Boulevard, swung into a space, and parked. Janet asked, “What are you doing?”
I reached down into my briefcase, withdrew some printouts, and tossed them at her. She stared at the stack and asked, “What are these?”
“The sex cases Lisa was involved with.”
I said nothing as she arranged them on her lap.
After several moments, Janet put her finger on a line and suggested, “Here. This looks interesting. Lieutenant John Singleton. Raped a woman and slashed her with a knife. Sex and violence, the same ingredients we’re looking for, right? Also, he was an officer. Presumably he’s intelligent and resourceful, like our killer.”
I asked her, “Anything else?”
After a few moments, she plunked her finger on another sheet and replied, “Right here. Corporal Harry Goins, rape and attempted murder. Sex and violence again.”
She read through the rest of the printouts, but apparently no other cases jumped out at her.
Clapper’s executive officer had instructed Lisa’s former offices to blindly forward every case she’d been involved with that involved sex in any shape, form, or variety. The result was an interesting mix of weirdness and oddities. Sex brings out the best and worst in people, and defense attorneys see the worst.
Janet eventually straightened up and said, “Singleton and Goins. .. they’re the only two cases that appear to have a connection.”
“You’re sure?
“If these lists are complete, yes.”
“They are complete, and I selected the same two.”
“And did you run checks on them?”
I nodded. “Start with Lieutenant William Singleton. Lisa was his defense attorney. It was her second case, in fact.”
“Go on.”
“A girl from Fayetteville, outside of Fort Bragg, was jogging, someone pulled her into the bushes, cut her up a bit, then raped her. She gave the police a good description of her assailant: black, about six foot six, buck teeth, a nasty scar on his right hand. Some two weeks later, Lieutenant Williams was stopped for speeding through Fayetteville. The officer noticed a scar on his hand during the license exchange, that he was black, slightly bucktoothed, about six foot six, and he booked him.”
“And what happened?”
“Lisa got him off.”
“How?”
“Insufficient evidence. The semen swab taken from the victim somehow got lost. On the stand, the victim admitted it was dark, she was terrified, she wasn’t wearing her glasses, and she couldn’t be completely sure it was Williams.”
“But it could have been, right?”
“It would seem so.”
“So he’s in the running.”
“Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
“Died in a training accident two years ago.”
She shook her head. “We’ll cross him off.”
“Right. Now Harry Goins. He broke into the quarters of a Mrs.
Clare Weatherow, whose husband, a Special Forces sergeant, was on deployment to Bosnia. Goins raped Mrs. Weatherow, shot her in the head, and left her for dead. She wasn’t dead. Ballistics matched the weapon he was carrying, the DNA matched, he was identified by the victim-open and shut. Lisa gave him the best defense possible, but he was found guilty and sentenced to thirty years in Leavenworth, no chance of parole.”
“So he’s still there?”
“Cellblock C.”
I backed the car out of the parking space and said, “You got what you asked for, right?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
