and recreational drugs, while others were far wilder. Raves in the United States had started in Brooklyn in the abandoned underground railroad tunnels, and while they still existed, they’d peaked in popularity a while back. The new fad was sex parties with heavy drinking and hard-core drugs. Music and dancing were precursors to multi- partner anonymous sex. Even before these murders, there had been several drug-related deaths associated with sex parties. If the pattern held true, evidence inside this warehouse would show that this Jane Doe had participated in the latter type of party, which Detective Panetta called “extreme raves.”
The press had dubbed the killer the Cinderella Strangler when someone in the know had leaked the missing- shoe detail to the press. It may not have been a cop who had talked-there were dozens of people working any one crime scene-but most likely it had come from inside the NYPD. The press didn’t seem to care that the victims weren’t strangled-they were asphyxiated. The Cinderella Asphyxiator just didn’t sound as good on the eleven o’clock news.
Suzanne had sent a memo to all private security companies in the five boroughs asking them to be more proactive in shutting down the rampant parties at abandoned sites, but it was like a game of whack-a-mole-when authorities shut down one location, two more sprang up.
Though only two of the first three victims were college students, she’d contacted local colleges and high schools to warn students that there was a killer targeting women at these parties. Unfortunately, Suzanne suspected that getting through the invincible it-won’t-happen-to-me mentality of young adults was next to impossible. She could almost hear their reasons.
“Suzanne!”
She looked up and waved to Vic Panetta as he strode over. She liked the wiry Italian. He was her exact height, five foot nine, and wore a new wool coat, charcoal gray to match his full head of hair. “Hi, Vic,” she said as he approached. “New coat?”
He deadpanned her. “Christmas present from my wife.”
“Very nice.”
“It cost too much money for a label no one can see,” he grumbled. He gestured at the tarp. “We photographed the area, then put the tarp over the body so we don’t lose any more evidence.”
“Well, the way this wind has been going nonstop for the past couple days, I think we already lost it.”
“You take a look?”
“Briefly.”
“You noted the missing shoe?”
“Duly.”
“Could be under the body.”
“You think?”
“Nah.” He shook his head, then pulled his phone from his coat pocket and read a message. “Good news, coroner is on the way. ETA ten minutes.”
“Yeah, he’s former NYPD-permanent disability, works three days a week. Takes his job seriously. Got an earful about the night shift.”
“Anything I need to know?”
“He suspects Ronald Bruzzini of being bought off. Too much cash in the guy’s wallet, but no proof.”
“Your guy knew about the parties?”
Panetta shook his head. “Not until after the fact, and he doesn’t work nights. He thinks Bruzzini looks the other way. Finds evidence of all kinds of wild parties nearly every week. Hicks and I will follow up on both the night guards, see what shakes out.”
“So you think this was one of your extreme raves?” she teased.
He rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated breath. “And then some. They did some cleaning up inside, but left the garbage on the other side of the building. The wind sent it all over kingdom come. The crime scene unit is working inside and out, but contamination is a huge problem. We’re printing the place, but getting anything usable-”
“I know. A couple hundred stoned kids, a complete mess, limited resources. If you need our lab, let me know.”
“Will do.”
NYPD had a decent crime lab, and since it was local Suzanne preferred to keep evidence here. Because Panetta was a well-respected, well-liked twenty-two-year veteran, he worked the system well, and most of the time could get results faster than if Suzanne shipped evidence to the FBI lab at Quantico.
“The press is going to be all over this,” Panetta mumbled.
“No comment.” She never spoke to the press-not after her diatribe five years ago during a missing-child case. That had landed her on the evening news and in front of the Office of Professional Responsibility. Further, she’d been left with the irritating and unflattering moniker “Mad Dog Madeaux.”
“We got a lot of nothing,” Panetta said.
There was extensive physical evidence on all of the victims’ bodies, but nothing they could use to track the killer. The first three victims had had at least two sex partners within twenty-four hours of their death, but the DNA left behind had either been contaminated or hadn’t brought up a match in the system. They had evidence of seven different males total among the first three victims, but none were the same, suggesting that the killer went to extraordinary lengths to avoid leaving DNA on his victims, and possibly didn’t have sex with them. Because of the multiple sex partners and the nature of these parties, the coroner could not determine whether the victims had been raped or had had consensual sex.
Not having conclusive evidence as to a killer’s motive made profiling him that much harder. A sexual sadist had a different profile than, for example, a man who killed prostitutes because he thought they were whores. Serial killers who raped or tortured their victims would have a different profile than those who didn’t sexually molest their victims. The task force couldn’t even pinpoint whether this killer was one of the partygoers or whether he waited nearby for a lone female to attack.
Whatever was used to suffocate the victims was taken by the killer-along with one of the victims’ shoes-and their bodies weren’t moved. They were dead when they fell to the ground.
Panetta said, “By the way, this one didn’t die last night.”
“I didn’t inspect the body that closely.”
“The day guard only works Wednesday through Saturday. He doubts that the other day guy does much more than a slapdash inspection of the properties. Our Jane Doe might have been here as early as Saturday night.”
“Because?”
“Our ex-cop walked through here on Saturday afternoon and she wasn’t here then.”
“And you don’t think he’s the killer?” She was only half joking.
“No, but I’ll check him out anyway. I did take a long look at the body, and rigor has come and gone. She’s probably been here more than forty-eight hours. The coroner should be able to give us a range.”
“I’ll leave the forensics in your capable hands. I need her identity ASAP, and in the meantime I’ll review the other three victims and reinterview friends. Someone knows something. I’m getting damn pissed at these bratty college kids who zip their lips because they don’t want to get in trouble for illegal drugs and parties, but don’t seem to care that a killer is hunting on their turf.”
TWO
Kirsten Benton had been missing for five days.
Because she’d been dubbed a habitual runaway for her tendency to disappear on the weekends, the Woodbridge, Virginia, police didn’t take this episode seriously. Sean Rogan, however, took it very seriously, because
