A False Dawn

FORTY-FIVE

Three bikers, straddling Harleys, roared into the oyster shell parking lot next to the deck. I watched them park their bikes, trudge into the restaurant, and sit at the bar.

Leslie reached across the table, softly touching my hand. “Tell me about it. What happened?”

“Miami. About four years ago. It’s one of the cases I still relive. You don’t forget investigating a crime scene where women have been beaten, raped, and left with a plastic bag over their heads.”

“What?”

“We never solved them. I never solved them and I think about it often. For some reason, the killings stopped. My partner, Ron Hamilton, and I thought they’d stopped.”

“What are you saying?”

“The perp killed at least seven women, probably more. He’d pick out vics that usually wouldn’t be missed by family or friends. Prostitutes. Runaways. The killer would attack his victims, slap them into submission, place a clear plastic bag over their heads and begin the asphyxiation. All the time raping them. When they’d lose consciousnesses, he’d push up the plastic bag and give them mouth-to-mouth. Once they regained consciousness, he’d do it again. He’d even kiss them through the plastic bag he’d pulled back over their faces. We believe he’d time his climax as they died looking at him.”

Leslie touched her throat, her eyes looking toward the water.

“One woman managed to survive, barely. She was attacked in a park, near South Beach at night. The perp was surprised by two high school kids making out in a car about two hundred feet away from where the assault happened. They turned on their headlights, and the perp got up and ran. They couldn’t get a good look at his face.”

“Could the vic ID him?”

“She said he was very strong. Dark features, but she was so traumatized, all she could remember was his eyes. Called them ‘wildcat devil eyes.’ And now I think those eyes could have resembled that of a jaguar. After she recovered, at least recovered physically, she looked at hundreds of photos. Couldn’t pick out one. Something inside her died, though. She left Miami and moved in with her mother. I think they’re in Jacksonville.”

Leslie pushed her plate away from her and wiped her hands a long time on a napkin. “Sick. Diabolical, evil bastard. You think these murders might be related?’

“Now I do.”

“None of our vics were found with plastic bags over their heads.”

“What did the pathologist’s report say about the vic’s noses?”

“Noses? Nothing. Their noses weren’t beaten or broken.”

“Inside their noses. The nostril cavities.”

“I don’t recall anything.”

“Can you check?

“Sure. I can call Dan, have him take a look.”

“Do it.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Leslie flipped open her cell and punched in the numbers. “Dan, are you at your desk?” She nodded. “Good, I need a quick favor. Look at the ME’s report on the two vics and see if he found anything inside their nostrils.”

She paused and nodded. “Yes, okay. Call me back. Thanks.”

The waitress delivered fresh coffee to our table and left as Leslie’s cell rang. She flipped it open. “Whatcha got?” She pulled a pen from her purse and began writing on a napkin. She thanked Dan Grant, closed the phone, and looked across the table at me. Her eyes distressed. “ME’s report for both vic’s says…I’ll read the exact words…‘broken capillaries found inside the nasal cavities consistent with trauma…or pressure.’ Why didn’t I pick up on this before?”

“Because you weren’t looking for it. With all of the other wounds on the bodies, combined with the rape, strangulation marks, broken neck, et cetera, a few broken vessels inside the nose normally wouldn’t raise a red flag.”

“What are you thinking?”

I sipped the coffee and watched a squirrel dart off with a piece of bread. “I’m thinking that the killer held his hand over the vics’ mouths or used duct tape and then held their nostrils. When they passed out, he’d revive them. Then he’d cover their mouths, pinch their nostrils, and continue raping them as they died. In the case of the vic that I found, the duct tape may have been used to cover her mouth. Could have happened with the second vic, too. But the tape, evidence, wasn’t found.”

“I was hoping for a DNA hit from the duct tape hair from the feds, but nothing.”

“You wouldn’t because no one was ever charged, let alone convicted in the Miami cases. However, DNA was taken from the perp’s salvia on the last plastic bag. It’s been stored. It wouldn’t have been included in the database because there’s no ID attached to it. I’ll call Ron Hamilton at Miami-Dade PD. The three of us need to collaborate on this. You can send the DNA profile from the hair to him.”

“And if we get a match…”

“We have the most prolific serial killer in Florida, maybe the entire nation, four years later. We just don’t have a name.”