cellulite-pitted thigh above her knee-highs, her arm stretched over her head, fingers grazing the twenty as if, in death, still reaching for it. He almost laughed.
A twenty placed at eye level. A human trap, guaranteed to catch the first person who climbed these stairs. There was an element of risk here, something he’d never allowed himself before. If she hadn’t been alone, he’d have had to scrap the whole plan. But the thrill of it, the purest surge of power, came from knowing that if this attempt failed, it made no difference in the overall plan. Kill this person, kill another. Kill here, kill there. Kill now, kill then. For once, it didn’t matter. There was no contract, no obligation. He could take risks, enjoy them even, and, to his surprise, he found that he did.
He looked down at the woman. His penultimate strike, perhaps even his last. That was the plan anyway. He’d make this last hit and then, if all went well and the police stayed stumped, he’d stop here. If it didn’t go smoothly- and one always had to plan for contingencies-he had one more victim in mind, someone who could take the blame.
But now he wasn’t so sure he should stop. He told himself it wasn’t the unexpected thrill of this newfound power-that would be unprofessional. Instead, he wondered whether he hadn’t been shortsighted. Perhaps five wasn’t enough. He’d gotten this far and the Feds were still chasing their tails. Why not add another couple of bodies? He always had the backup hit-his scapegoat-if things went bad. And, more likely, another body or two would only add to the confusion. Then he could stop, free and safe.
He smiled and walked away, leaving her lying there, the bag still over her head. As he passed, he glanced down at the twenty lying by her outstretched hand. Let them tie up their labs pulling scores of fingerprints from it, running them through the database. They wouldn’t find his…on the bill or in the database. He took the folded book page from his pocket, unwrapped it and tucked it under her hand, beside the twenty.
One last visual sweep. All clear. He adjusted his driving gloves, picked up his briefcase, then walked down to the main floor door, cracked it open and peered through. Closed doors, darkened windows, an office building still slumbering. He straightened his tie and walked out.
SIX
I ran into the convenience store and bought
As I climbed into the car, Jack plucked the magazines from under my arm. “
He looked at the half-naked supermodel on the cover of
“Chock-full of articles on catching a man,” I said. “I thought it might help us.”
Jack shook his head.
“Hey, in this outfit, do I strike you as a
Another head shake. He turned the key in the ignition and the subcompact’s engine puttered to life. “I’ll drive. You read.”
The articles contained only a single line on each victim, descriptions so brief even Jack would be hard-pressed to condense them further. That’s not to say the articles were short. Each magazine contained not less than three separate pieces on the case, each running several pages. So what did they write about? The killer. Theories, motivations, expert opinions, editorial comments.
The list of victims was almost identical in both publications.
Alicia Sanchez, 21, Hispanic, college student, suffocated in her dorm room, October 5, Beaumont, Texas.
Carson Morrow, 36, African American, stockbroker, stabbed in a parking lot, October 8, St. Louis, Missouri.
Leon Kozlov, 53, Caucasian, retired, shot in his apartment, October 12, Norfolk, Ohio.
Mary Lee, 68, Asian American, business owner, strangled in her shop, October 14, Atlanta, Georgia.
Four lives and four tragedies reduced to factoids.
I studied the four minuscule photos and wondered what they’d been doing the days they’d been killed, what they’d been thinking, planning, dreaming.
In just over a week, four lives had been taken and countless more thrown into turmoil-husbands, wives, lovers, children, parents, siblings, friends, wondering why this had happened, and what they could have done to prevent it, and whether their loved one had suffered, and why hadn’t they said something more meaningful the last time they met. And, most of all,
Four lives taken, countless more awaiting justice. But when I read that article, I saw no end-no justice-in sight. Just more deaths. More victims. More mourners. More questions.
Neither magazine mentioned the possibility of a hitman killer, but that likely wasn’t a theory investigators would release to the media. The murders, though, had all the earmarks of professional hits-the deaths clean and cold.
“Four murders in four parts of the country, four very different victims, four separate methods,” I said. “Linked by a calling card. A page from
“Yeah. Heard about that.”
“It’s a book, isn’t it?”
“About Manson.”
“Charles Manson? The freak with the cult? He killed some actress, didn’t he?”
“Before your time, I’m guessing.”
“The sixties. Peace, love and drug-induced murderous rages. Hippie stuff.”
“Now I feel old.”
“Right, like you were more than a baby yourself. From what I remember, the Manson case was textbook disorganized crime. Definitely not the work of a pro. So what’s the connection?”
“None, other than that it scared the shit out of a lot of people. Like this guy’s doing.”
I glanced over at him. “According to
“Then we don’t ignore it. But don’t focus on it.”
“Okay. So where do you want to start?”
A small frown my way. “No idea. That’s your area. Yeah, you weren’t a detective. But you think like a cop. Good enough. We’ll work something out.”
So we did, laying out theories. We had a hired killer making random hits. Option one: system overload. When a pro chess player goes nuts, he becomes obsessed with the game. A pro killer goes nuts? No mystery what might obsess him. Option two was more likely. Why does a hired killer kill? Because he’s been hired to.
“The guy beside me on the plane mentioned that Leon Kozlov had a record,” I said. “That’s a good place to start-checking criminal records and arrests. I have contacts in U.S. police departments-lodge regulars-but I’d
“Agreed. Last resort.”
“Good. There are legit ways we can check for criminal backgrounds, though it’ll take some time and legwork.”
He stared out the windshield, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
“Got another way,” he said finally. “Contact. Couple hours’ drive. Find out about Manson, too.”
