Hour Game

Chapter 35

Later that week Chip Bailey of the FBI called an early morning meeting of all law enforcement personnel engaged in the search for the murderer or murderers of five people. It was held at the Wrightsburg Police headquarters, which King—who was in attendance along with Michelle, Todd Williams and assorted Virginia State Police and FBI folks—thought made a cheap-shot statement as to who was now running the show. The FBI, after all, was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla. His resulting bad temper exhibited itself rather quickly.

“We have a profile,” said Bailey as his assistant handed out folders to those situated around the table.

“Let me guess,” said King. “Caucasian male in his twenties to thirties, at least a high school education and possibly even some college. I.Q. above average, but has trouble holding a job; firstborn to working-class parents, childhood trauma, dominant mother, possibly illegitimate, who showed interest in law enforcement and is a loner control freak who also expressed early enthusiasm for sadomasochistic pornography, voyeurism and torturing of small animals.”

“Did you already get a copy of the report?” growled Bailey.

“No. But most of them say that or something pretty damn close.”

“That’s because serial killers share those sorts of traits. That’s been clearly established over time,” Bailey fired back. “In fact, everything in this profile has been substantiated over time. Unfortunately, we’ve had lots of experience. Over three-quarters of the serial killers in the world are in this country with well over one thousand murders to their collective credit since 1977, and two-thirds of the victims were women. The only interesting thing about this guy is, he seems to be a mix of organized and disorganized in his approach. Restraints used in one case but not in the others. One victim transported, the others not. One body hidden in the woods, the others left where they fell. Weapon absent in one case, but not in the others. This is based on hard data, Sean.”

“Most of them probably do fit that profile, but not all. Some don’t fit neatly in any box.”

“And you think this is one of those times?” asked Williams.

“Think about it. None of the victims have been sexually assaulted or mutilated; in serial killings that’s almost always a component. And let’s look at the targets. Most serial killers aren’t exactly brave. They grab for the low-hanging fruit: children, runaways, prostitutes, young homosexual males and the mentally afflicted.”

Bailey shot back, “One of the victims was an exotic dancer and maybe a prostitute at some point. And two others were high school kids. And another was lying in a coma in a hospital bed. That’s pretty easy pickings if you ask me.”

“We don’t know if Rhonda Tyler was a prostitute. And even if she was, was she killed because she was a prostitute or for some other reason? And Canney and Pembroke weren’t runaways. And do you really think a Ted Bundy type killer is going to sneak into a hospital room and shoot stuff into an elderly stroke victim’s IV bag?” He paused to let this all sink in and then added, “And Bobby Battle was a very wealthy man. There might be other people who wanted him dead.”

“Meaning two killers out there?” said Bailey skeptically.

“Meaning we don’t know, but we can’t ignore that possibility,” shot back King.

Bailey was undeterred. “I’ve had a little more experience doing this than you, Sean, and until something else turns up that causes me to change my mind, this is the profile we’re using, and we’re going under the assumption that we only have one killer at work.” He eyed King closely. “I understand that you two have been deputized.” He nodded at Michelle. “I want you to know that I have no problem with that. In fact, in my book, having two more seasoned professionals on the case is a good thing.”

But, said King to himself.

“But,” said Bailey, “we have established protocols for how we do things. We need to coordinate and keep each other informed. We all need to be on the same page.”

Williams said through clenched teeth, “And of course the Bureau will be the central clearinghouse for everything.”

“That’s right. If any promising leads come up, I want to know about them pronto. Then we can evaluate who’s best suited to run them down.”

King and Michelle exchanged brief glances. They seemed to be reading each other’s mind. That way Bailey and the Bureau can call all the shots, make the arrest and get all the credit.

“Speaking of leads,” said King, “do you have any?”

Bailey leaned back in his chair. “It’s a little early to tell, but now that we’ve got the manpower out there, something will pop.”

“Anything turn up on the Zodiac watch?” asked Michelle.

“Dead end,” said Bailey. “There was no other trace of any significance at the crime scenes or on the bodies. We canvassed Diane Hinson’s neighborhood. No one saw anything. We’ve talked to the families and schoolmates of Canney and Pembroke. There’s no jealous rival out there with a guilty conscience.”

“And Rhonda Tyler?” asked King. “What’s her backstory?”

Bailey leafed through his notes. “Contrary to what you might think, the FBI does know how to assemble the facts, Sean,” he said. “She was born in Dublin, Ohio. Dropped out of high school and hit the road to L.A. to become an actress. Right! After that dream popped, she developed a drug habit, headed east, did a little time in jail for a couple of misdemeanors and headed south. She’d been an exotic dancer for about four years in a string of clubs from Virginia to Florida. Her contract at the Aphrodisiac was up about two weeks before she was killed.”

“Where was she staying when she disappeared?” asked Michelle.

“Not sure. The club has some rooms that the girls use when they’re performing there. They’re on the house and they come with three squares a day, so they’re pretty popular with the strippers—excuse me, exotic dancers. I spoke with Lulu Oxley, the manager. She said that Tyler had stayed in one of those rooms for a while when she first came there but then found another place.”

“While she was still working at the club?” asked King.

“Right. Why?”

“Well, these dancers can’t make all that much money, so free room and board must be pretty hard to give up. Did she have any friends or family in the area she might have been staying with?”

“No. But we’re trying to find out where she was staying during that time.”

“That really needs to be followed up on, Chip,” said King. “If she found herself a sugar daddy close to when she was murdered, we need to know who he is. It could very well be the guy who put a pistol in her mouth and left her for the wolves.”

“Funny, we had the same thought,” said Bailey, unable to hold back a sneer.

“Did you talk to the Battles yet?” asked Williams.

“I was going over there today,” said the FBI man. “Care to join me?”

“Why don’t you take Sean and Michelle along instead?”

“Fine,” Bailey said, frowning.

After covering other points of the investigation, the meeting was adjourned. While Bailey gave additional orders to his men, Williams buttonholed King and Michelle. “Okay, I was right: the feds call the shots and take the glory.”

“Maybe not, Todd,” said Michelle. “I can’t say they’re being unreasonable. And it’s more important that this psycho be caught, regardless of who does it.”

“True. Still, it’d be a lot better if the people who nabbed him were us.”

“We’ll go to the Battles’ and see what we can find out,” said King. “But don’t expect miracles, Todd. This guy knows what he’s doing.”

“The killer or Bailey?” he said irritably.

They drove over to the Battles’ in separate cars, King and Michelle in the Whale and Bailey in his big sedan provided by the Bureau.

“The FBI always had better cars than the Secret Service,” said King, eyeing Bailey’s vehicle.

“Yeah, but we have better boats.”

“That’s because we snatched them from DEA, which confiscated them from South American drug lords.”

“Hey, you do what you have to.” She glanced at him. “By the way, what bee got into your bonnet at the meeting? Bailey had been pretty cooperative up until this morning. It was like you deliberately tried to piss him off.”

“Sometimes that’s the only way you find out what someone’s really like.”

As the large gates to the Battles’ estate clanged shut behind them, King said, “The one I’m worried about is Savannah.”

“Savannah? Ms. Party Girl? What makes you say that?”

“Were you Daddy’s little girl?”

“Well, yeah, I guess I still am.”

“Well, once Daddy’s little girl, always Daddy’s little girl. And Savannah’s daddy’s gone.”