Face of a Killer

18

“Webster, Texas?” Dixon’s gaze swung from Sydney to Carillo, then back. “You think our UnSub might have committed a murder there?”

“I think we need to rule it out,” Sydney said, before Carillo could react on her last-second switch. That was not the case they’d agreed on, and Carillo was no doubt wondering what the hell had happened to it. “The victim was a hooker, last seen in a bar before she was found stabbed to death.”

Dixon eyed the stats on the report that the agency in Webster had faxed to her that morning. “We’re not even talking the same MO. She was burned in a trailer fire.”

“But she was stabbed,” Carillo pointed out.

“Find something closer to home and our MO.” He held up the report, his expression dubious, and Sydney realized if she didn’t think of something fast, he was not going to approve her flight.

“The smoke,” she said, and both Dixon and Carillo looked at her, waited. “When I was doing the drawing at the hospital, Tara Brown said something about our UnSub smelling like smoke from a fire.”

“Yeah…” Carillo nodded, like he’d known this all along. “So of course we were looking for similars that might contain that element, the, uh, smoke. Timing’s good. Just a few days before Tara was kidnapped from Reno. Like maybe he committed the one, hightailed it out of state wearing the same clothes, stops off in Reno, grabs Tara, and he’s off again. We’re thinking maybe that’s what he does. Drives from state to state. At least based on our short history we have of him. Figured Fitz could fly there, check it out.”

“Have we gotten anything back from profiling yet?”

“The report should be coming in today. But Fitz ran the case by Doc Schermer, since he did a short stint in profiling. He says it looks good.”

“Seems a little far out there.”

“Unless,” Sydney said, “you take into consideration that there’s lots of places to stop between there and Reno. And we’ve got a couple other rape-murders that somewhat fit the MO on a direct route from there to here.” She dropped several reports on Dixon’s desk as well. Reports that had little or no connection other than they were unsolved.

Dixon held her gaze, as though he suspected something, but couldn’t come up with whatever that might be. He gave a pointed glance at his retirement calendar on the wall, signed the order, and laid it across the reports she had offered up as proof. “Make it a quick trip,” he said, without looking at either of them.

Carillo grabbed the reports and they left. Once out of hearing, he said, “Webster? Trailer fire? You didn’t tell me you were using that report.”

“They were a little short of dead hookers in the time frame we needed.”

“What happened to the one we decided on last night?”

She flipped open the manila folder they’d carried the other reports in. “I swear I didn’t catch it until we were walking into his office.” She pointed to the name of the victim, Dana Edwards, then the box next to it, stating the sex of the victim, where a big letter M was written.

“Dana’s a male?”

“Apparently he was into cross-dressing, which is probably what got him stabbed in the first place. My guess is whoever did the data entry made the same mistake, which is why we didn’t see it when we pulled it up on the computer.”

They stopped at Lettie’s desk, and she looked up from her computer screen, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Well?”

“He approved it,” Sydney said.

Lettie smiled, hit a key, and a few seconds later, her printer spit out a copy, which she handed over. “Your only option going in is the redeye tonight, arriving in Houston at 6:06 a.m., but that’ll give you several more hours tomorrow to investigate… well, whatever it is you’re investigating. Your return flight is set for 3:30 p.m., arriving back here at 5:58 p.m. tomorrow night. Nonstop, so it’ll give you a little over four hours to catch a nap.”

“You’re a jewel.”

“I know. Remember it on your trip back. I like dark chocolate. In the meantime, ERT’s setting up at Golden Gate. They’re about to start dragging Stow Lake, for evidence in your Tara Brown case, and they want to know what your arrival is.”

Carillo glanced at his watch. “We’re on our way.”

Forty-five minutes later, Carillo and Sydney were standing in Golden Gate Park, at Stow Lake, the location where Tara Brown had been dumped and left for dead. The actual park was vast, more than a thousand acres. Stow Lake itself was a body of water that surrounded a small island called Strawberry Hill, accessed by a bridge for day hikes on trails that meandered through the trees and foliage. From the moment Tara was found, there had been road blockades to the entrances of Stow Lake Drive, the street that circled the water. They intended to keep this area of the park closed off to the public until the Evidence Response Team gave the thumbsup. How long that might be was anyone’s guess. During the day the lake was a popular boating, fishing, and picnic area near the De Young Museum and the Japanese Tea Garden. During the night, with the visitors gone, it was entirely possible to dump a body at the water’s edge and not be seen. Their hope was to find a piece of evidence that had somehow been overlooked, and Sydney and Carillo intended to expand the area being searched for just that purpose.

The main crime scene was located on the west side of Stow Lake, but Carillo and Sydney walked over the bridge to Strawberry Hill. Sydney took one half of the small island, while Carillo took the other.

After about an hour, finding nothing, they took a short break, returned to the parking lot, leaning against the car, eyeing the lake. Devoid of the usual day crowd, it was peaceful and postcard-perfect with the stone bridge reflecting in the calm water, turtles climbing onto rocks, even an egret standing among the graceful reeds. Nothing here gave testimony that a horrific crime had touched Stow Lake’s tranquil shores, until one caught sight of the crime scene tape and the ERT crew setting up shop in the small parking lot so they could drag the lake.

Carillo was drinking from a bottle of water he’d just opened. Sydney was sipping from a travel mug filled with now lukewarm coffee, thinking about her upcoming trip to Houston, and what could possibly be in that suicide note, when it struck her. “I can’t go.”

“What’dya mean you can’t go?”

“In five days, they’re executing Johnnie Wheeler, and what am I doing? Running off on what could be a wild-goose chase, because I don’t like it that my father has been accused of being involved in some… whatever the hell Scotty says he’s involved in. What if this suicide note is nothing? What if it makes absolutely no difference to my father’s reputation?”

“Then it makes no difference. You tried. And when you think about it, you sure as hell don’t know that looking into Johnnie Wheeler’s case will make a difference. Seems to me it’s a crapshoot either way. You just gotta pick which one means the most to you.”

“But it makes a difference to the guy sitting on death row. He’s only got five days until they execute him, and I might be his last hope. I need to deal with that first.”

“He also might be guilty. And you might not get another opportunity to get to Houston this easily.”

“But Johnnie Wheeler won’t get another opportunity at life.”

“Tell you what.” Carillo twisted the cap back on his water bottle, then tossed it into his car. “While you go to Houston, I’ll start the digging on Wheeler’s case. I read some of it after you gave it to me last night. I’ll finish it up tonight, see if I can’t locate some of the witnesses and enlist Schermer to help. He’s a whiz on the computers, digging up old data. Who knows? Maybe he’ll find something the investigators missed the first time around.”

She hesitated.

“Think of it this way,” Carillo said as they walked the circumference of Stow Lake. “With Doc Schermer and me both working on it, that’s two investigators, which is better than one. And we’ve both got a helluva lot more experience in violent crimes than you. So unless you can come up with something better than that, I’d say you’d be turning down a golden opportunity to find out what’s in that suicide note.”

And that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? But before she had a chance to think about it, she noticed some tire track depressions where the grass had been torn up, the ground showing through, still muddy from the previous rains. She took a closer look. “What are the chances this is from our suspect vehicle? It would fit this guy’s MO, driving close to a body of water to dump his victim.”

From the sidewalk, Carillo bent down, examined the track left in the grass. “Sort of far from where the body was dumped, when you think about it.”

She glanced over at the curb, saw a smear of black from where tires had obviously run up and over the pavement and onto the grass. “Unless he was looking for a good spot? Someplace not likely to be seen from the main road? Pulled up here, but changed his mind for some reason. Too many benches, too many rocks?”

“Possible,” Carillo said. “But why pick another spot and not this? Just as close to the water here. Maybe even closer. And there’s a perfectly serviceable bench he could use to lay out his victim. Not quite a picnic table, but a close second.”

“Maybe just a bit too visible from the street? A car drives past, he sees the headlights…”

The two stood there, looking around, trying to piece together what significance, if any, the tire tracks had. They were located on the narrow strip of grass between the street and the path that circled the water. There was a driveway, probably to allow lawn equipment up to care for the grass. At first glance it might seem a logical spot to drive up, get closer to the water, but the way was blocked by the row of green benches where people could sit and view the lake and the pagoda. Then again, as Carillo mentioned, maybe the benches so close to the water were what drew him there to begin with.

As Carillo placed a marker to direct the ERT there for photos and trace evidence collection, and with luck a cast of the tire marks, Sydney pulled out her cell phone to call Dixon. She wanted to know how likely it was that their UnSub had pulled onto the grass here. “Need a favor,” Sydney said, when Dixon answered the phone.

“As long as it doesn’t cost me manpower.”

“Not if you go yourself. I need someone at the hospital to ask Tara a couple things.”

“Such as?”

“We’re hoping she might remember something about the terrain she was driven through. Bumps, noises, that sort of thing. We’re trying to recreate his route through the park.” And then Sydney told him about the tire track gouges in the lawn.

“I’ll check and get back to you.”

Carillo nodded his approval as Sydney hit end and clipped the cell phone on her belt. “Not bad, Fitzpatrick. Didn’t know you had it in you to be proactive.”

“Just when I start thinking you’re a nice guy. You must have had a deprived childhood.”

“Think how boring I’d be if I hadn’t.”

They spent the next hour watching ERT dredge the lake around the area where Tara was found, because according to SFPD, Tara thought he threw something heavy in the water just before he dumped her, something that made a loud splash. She didn’t think it came from the back of the vehicle, nor did she have an idea of what it might have been.

She didn’t dare open her eyes to see, not wanting him to know she was still alive. And so Sydney and Carillo stood there, watching, wondering what they might recover. So far they’d pulled up a child’s sneaker, a few empty beer bottles, a crushed metal trash can painted the same green as the benches, a woman’s purse, a bicycle that looked as though it had been run over, and an ice chest filled with rocks, no doubt to make it sink. No weapons, nothing that stood out. The ice chest was what the techs were concentrating on, thinking that the suspect might have tossed that in, purposefully sinking it, because he’d used it in his crimes. They were in the process of photographing it when Dixon called. “I’m at the hospital now. The only thing she remembers about the drive that night was the guy started swearing when he hit something.”

“Like a curb?” Sydney thought of the black mark near the mud-filled tire tracks.

“Like a car.”

“A car?”

“Or something solid was what she told me.”

“When?”

“Just before he dumped her at the park. Sort of woke her up, the loud noise at the back end of the vehicle.” “You mean he hit a car in the park?”

“Yeah. Backed into it, then took off, swearing, panicked from the way he was driving. She said it was only a couple minutes after that he threw something in the water, came back, dumped her in the water, then fled. Prior to that, he’d been very meticulous, took his time, like it was planned, laid out. That’s all I got, though. She’ll have the nurse call if she remembers anything else.”

“Thanks,” Sydney said, then related the info to Carillo. “Damn,” Carillo said, looking around the park with renewed interest. “What the hell did he back into?” “Parked car? Telephone pole? Whatever it was, it was in a couple minute drive from the dump site.”

“We should check everything from about a two-minute to four-minute radius.”

She looked around the park, beginning to wonder if there might be a different explanation. “What if you struck something while you were backing up, hit the gas a bit too hard? Drive around for a minute, maybe two until you were sure no one heard? The street makes a circle.”

Carillo eyed the tire tracks. “Panic that might be increased from hearing tires ripping up grass and wet soil? Nothing like getting stuck in the park with a body in the back.”

“Exactly,” Sydney said. “But what would he have hit?”

And that was when they both turned and looked out at the water where they were still dredging the lake, and then on shore where ERT had deposited all the detritus and junk they’d found on the bottom.

“The trash can?” Sydney said. “That could sound like a car if you hit it.”

“Sure as hell make a splash if you got pissed and tossed it in the water. If you’re right, lunch is on me.”

“Lunch. You’re on.”

They walked toward the garbage can, which was resting on its side, dent down, and Sydney signaled for someone from ERT to come over.

“Any way you can tell if this thing’s been involved in a recent vehicle collision?” Sydney asked.

The agent, Maggie Winters, pulled some latex gloves from her pocket. “Well, something definitely smashed it,” she said, putting the gloves on, then righting the can so that she could walk around it. It wasn’t but a few seconds later that she said, “Not sure that it was a vehicle collision, but it definitely made contact with something.” She pointed, and they had to move closer. “See this? Fresh gouges in the green paint, where it scraped against whatever hit it. Metal’s clean right there. Shiny. No oxidation.”

“Could that have been made by the dredging equipment?” Sydney asked.

“No. Whatever hit it, hit it pretty hard. Hard enough to rip the metal.” She stopped, looked around, spied another green trash can, and pointed. “That one’s held to the post by a chain. Makes sense,” she said, returning her attention to their trash can. “It looks like it was jammed between something vertical, like a post. The chain probably held it in place, which no doubt caused more damage than if it had just been loose.” She circled the trash can, stopping on the other side. “And whatever hit it on this side was also narrow, which means if it was a vehicle collision, the vehicle hit it at an angle, not straight on. See this here? Little bit of white paint transfer. What color was the UnSub’s vehicle?”

“We don’t have a color from the witness. She didn’t see it.”

“It’d be nice if this was it,” Carillo said to Maggie, eyeing the paint transfer. “We can use a break.”

“If this is it,” Maggie said, “your color is probably white. Going on the theory this is from a vehicle collision, then most of the damage occurred from whatever was behind the trash can when the vehicle hit it. Had to have been something solid, not giving, otherwise we wouldn’t see damage on both sides. And if someone was driving fast enough to do some damage to this, tear it from the chain and grommet, that means there was probably damage to the car.”

“If he was backing in?”

“If I’m correct and he hit it at an angle, look for pieces of taillight or brake light. If he was pulling in, broken headlight or signal lamp. Those are usually what’ll give before the metal does. And if you find out where this trash can was located, you might find some green paint transfer on whatever was positioned next to the can. You also might find some green paint transfer on the vehicle.”

“Do me a favor, Maggie,” Carillo said. “Assume our UnSub did hit it and take all the necessary precautions.”

“Will do.”

They thanked Maggie and walked back to the gouged-up grass.

Carillo kicked at another trash can nearby. “Maybe we could get the guy who empties the things every day. See where one might be missing.”

“Or,” Sydney said, eyeing the tracks, and noting they came in at an angle from the sidewalk to the benches just as Maggie had conjectured, “we assume the collision was where the tire marks ended and start our search there.”

“Don’t try to work this into more than one free lunch.”

“Not sure if I can handle more than one meal with you,” she replied, moving forward, stopping where the tracks ended, right at the backside of one of the benches. “Fresh scratch marks on the back of the bench frame… And if that isn’t a dead giveaway, then maybe the chain hanging from this grommet is?”

“Unfortunately it’s green, just like the garbage can.”

“But taillights aren’t,” she said, spying a piece of broken red plastic at the base of the bench, something she’d missed on the first go-around.

“One thing about our evidence collection team. They know their stuff.”

Maggie definitely knew her stuff, Sydney thought, as she dropped to her knees and started digging. Sometimes brake lights had part numbers on them, numbers that could be traced back to specific car models, something to help narrow down their search, especially if he decided to fix his van and purchase the part at a car repair shop that kept records of customers.

Carillo merely stood there, watching.

“You could always get down here and help.”

“When you’re doing so good?” He leaned against the bench, enjoying himself a bit too much at her expense, especially when her cell phone rang. “You might want to answer that,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Funny,” Sydney said, standing, assuming it was Dixon. There was nowhere to clean her hands, unless she wanted to walk over to the lake and dunk them. “See if it’s Dixon and answer it, would you?” Sydney stood and cocked her hip so he could grab the phone.

He took it, looked at the number, then flipped it open, while Sydney got back to squishing through the mud. “Carillo here,” he said, listening, then, “Her partner. She’s kind of… indisposed at the moment. Digging through the mud.”

“Who is it?” Sydney asked, suspicious because she was pretty certain that Carillo didn’t consider her his partner by any stretch. Her suspicion doubled when he gave a catlike smile. “Give me that phone.”

“Your hands are muddy,” he whispered.

“Then put it up to my ear.”

“Yeah,” he said, into the phone. “I’ll tell her. What time?”

She stood, reached one muddy hand toward him. “Phone. Now.”

“Seven. We’ll be there.” He flipped it shut, then clipped it back onto her belt.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Accepting a date for you.”

“You said ‘we’ as in both of us.”

“She invited me, too.”

“Who?”

“Your sister. She said you forgot to call her this morning to wish her happy birthday, and she wanted to make sure you were coming over tonight for cake.”

She sank back against the bench, her hands held out so she wouldn’t get any mud on her clothes. “Damn it. I forgot. I’ve got that redeye tonight.”

“Make a quick run up there, say happy birthday, then off to the airport. Plenty of time. So, when do you want me to pick you up?”

“You don’t have to go.”

“I like birthday cake.”

“Let me put it this way. I’m not sure you want to go- never mind I don’t want you to.”

“Problems on the home front?”

“My mother and I are having… issues, and me not calling my sister this morning is just going to be one more nail in my coffin.”

“Oh, good. Entertainment while we eat.”