Deadly Justice

4

SERGEANT TOMLINSON ENTERED THE briefing room and took his assigned seat on the end of the first row. All the other officers were already there, but Morelli wasn’t, thank God. The last thing he needed was for Morelli to have another excuse to chew him out in public.

Tomlinson didn’t understand why, but ever since he requested a transfer to the Homicide Division, Lieutenant Morelli had been riding him, humiliating him in public, and taking every opportunity to make him look like an idiot. Maybe he wasn’t the brightest guy on the Tulsa police force. Maybe he hadn’t gone to college like Morelli and couldn’t quote Shakespeare at the drop of a pin. But he worked hard—harder than any of the other candidates. He did his homework and he never turned down an assignment. And once he took an assignment, he didn’t give up. So why was Morelli always ragging on him?

Tomlinson supposed it was because he was married. Very married. And he and Karen had a six-year-old daughter, Kathleen, to boot. For some reason, that really seemed to jerk Morelli’s chain. Once, in a booming voice in front of all the other officers, Morelli asked if Tomlinson had been playing paper dolls during the briefing. On another occasion he suggested that Tomlinson join a stakeout—if he could get his wife’s permission to stay up late. Tomlinson had heard that Morelli himself was married a while back, but that it dissolved into a bitter divorce. Now he was apparently down on any police officers with families.

Tomlinson thumbed through the briefing book that had been left on his chair. As he suspected, this meeting was about the mutilation-murders of the teenage girls. After three dismembered corpses, there seemed little doubt—they had a serial killer on their hands.

Tomlinson pored over the materials, all of which he had seen before. He wanted badly to be assigned to this case, so he’d made a point of reviewing everything that came through the office on it. If he could track down this serial killer, he’d be transferred to Homicide for sure. Chief Blackwell would sign the transfer, even if Morelli wouldn’t. And who knows? Maybe Morelli would back off. At least for a day or two.

As if on cue, Lieutenant Morelli came stomping into the room in that ridiculous tan overcoat he always wore. What a pretense. It wasn’t even cold outside. Morelli gripped the podium and began talking, without any introduction or greeting.

“As you’ve probably figured out,” Morelli growled, “you’ve been selected to be part of a special task force to investigate—and solve—this recent chain of murders.”

Tomlinson grinned. A special task force. That sounded cool, very elite. The boys down at the bowling alley would be impressed.

“Don’t get excited,” Morelli said. He seemed to be looking directly at Tomlinson. “This is no great honor. You were chosen because…frankly, you’re all that’s available. We’ve got every able-bodied person on the force working this case, and that’s going to continue until it’s solved. Everyone’s in on this one—Homicide, Sex Crimes, the Special Investigations Unit—and just about anyone else we could round up. This could be the most grotesque crime spree Tulsa has seen since the race riot of the 1920s. I don’t have to tell you how we’ve been crucified in the press since the killings began. This bastard has killed three teenage girls—and I want him caught. Because if we don’t, he’ll kill again.

“There’s something else,” Morelli added, “and this will really curdle your blood. If we don’t solve these crimes soon, the FBI will be butting in. So far we’ve been lucky; all three murders have occurred within Tulsa County. Unfortunately, it looks like we’ve got a serial killer, so it’s just a matter of time before those federal bozos descend with their profiles and high-tech geegaws. I don’t care for that a damn bit. I want this case solved before it happens.

“Now open your books and follow along.”

Tomlinson opened his briefing notebook to the front page.

“You’ll find all the police reports, the medical examiner reports, and the forensic lab reports. Everything we’ve got is right in here.”

Morelli’s subordinates flipped to the next page, a photo taken at one of the crime scenes.

“As you probably remember, the first body was found on the morning of May second, the next was found on the fourth, and the third was found last night. In each case, the victims were teenage girls, found nude, with no identification”—he took a deep breath and stared down at his notes—“and with their heads and hands cut off.”

Tomlinson saw several officers flipping ahead in their notebooks to the morgue photos. They must have stronger stomachs than he.

“The bodies have been impossible to identify. No face, no fingerprints. We have yet to figure out who any of the victims are. If there is a connecting link among the three, we don’t know what it is.”

Tomlinson raised his hand. “Sir, may I suggest that we make the identification of the victims our number one priority—even over identifying the killer? After all, if we can figure out the pattern, we may be able to save future lives.”

“What a brilliant plan,” Morelli replied. “Are you sure you aren’t a lieutenant? Or maybe even a captain?” A mild tittering filtered through the room. “Or did you steal that idea from your wife?”

Tomlinson ground his teeth together. When would he ever learn?

Morelli resumed his briefing. “All the bodies have been found within a twenty-mile radius in an unpopulated area in the western part of Tulsa County. Everything has been neat and tidy; the killer hasn’t left us a clue to work with. Even the amputations have been effected with almost surgical precision.”

He looked up from his notebook and stared out into the sea of uniforms. “The bottom line is this: we’re in the dark. We have a major crime, no leads, and no likelihood of preventing repeat offenses. We’re looking for ideas, people. Any suggestions will be considered, and anyone who suggests something that helps will find some extra change in his or her pay envelope—and maybe another stripe on his or her shoulder. Even you, Tomlinson.”

Another mild chuckle from the crowd. Tomlinson realized the insidious reason he must’ve been invited to this briefing: so he could be the butt of Morelli’s jokes.

“On the next page of the notebook,” Morelli continued, “you’ll find an action plan I’ve devised in coordination with Chief Blackwell. Item one, as you can see, is to identify the victims. We’ll call that the Tomlinson Plan.”

Laughter again, even more unrestrained than before. What did the man want—his resignation?

“Other action items involve creating a useful profile of the killer, defining his working environment, and setting a trap. But we’ll talk about those when the time comes.” He flipped to the back of his notebook. “On the last page, you’ll find orders informing you of your work assignment on the task force. A lot of thought has gone into these assignments, so I don’t want to hear any bitching about them. We’ve tried to distribute the work so as to make maximum use of our available talent. We expect each of you to perform your assigned tasks to the best of your abilities.”

Tomlinson turned to the back of his notebook and read the order sheet. Under his name, the assignment name read: SWITCHBOARD/RADIO DUTY.

Switchboard/radio? Tulsa was facing the most heinous crime wave in its history—and he was going to be the frigging telephone operator? Tomlinson slammed the notebook shut.

Morelli heard the noise, but didn’t comment. He told everyone to “get their butts in gear” and dismissed the meeting.

Tomlinson followed the crowd out of the room, then started down the hallway to—he could barely even think about it—the switchboard room. He wasn’t going to take this lying down. If Morelli didn’t have any faith in him—fine. He’d prove himself without Morelli’s help, and with any luck, he’d make Morelli look like a fool in the process.

He checked the duty roster. He would be off the switchboard by midnight. No problem—he’d start then.

Someone was going to have to make the first breakthrough. This time, it was going to be him.