Killing Ways

35

Ren sat in the office of Dr Leonard Lone.

‘Can I just say, not to be flippant about it,’ said Ren, ‘but this was no big drama. Everyone is over-reacting.’

‘You and your partner were fired at,’ said Lone. ‘A man died. That’s a serious matter.’

‘But it’s what we’re trained for,’ said Ren. ‘It’s something we have to expect. I believe a killer was twenty feet from me, and I couldn’t pursue him? That, to me, is dangerous. He’s still out there.’

‘But surely protocol says that you wouldn’t pursue a suspect alone in the woods, in unfamiliar territory. Or run into a burning building.’

‘How did you know that’s what happened?’ said Ren.

‘I spoke with Gary.’

‘Jesus Christ! He’s like a fucking... I don’t know. It’s like he always has to get to you first. It wasn’t... dangerous. I wasn’t in danger. I’m not traumatized in any way. My most extreme emotion is fury at Robbie. Not active fury — just internal fury.’

Dr Lone studied her. ‘Ren, could you talk me through a typical day for you at the moment...’

What? Um... well. Hmm. Wake. Work. Work out. Home. Drink. Work. Work out. Drink. Work. Sleep. Work out. Repeat.

‘There is no typical day, I guess,’ said Ren.

‘Are you taking your medication at night or in the morning?’ said Lone.

You asked me this already. ‘Oh, at night.’ Nod.

‘Are you feeling anxious?’ said Lone.

By questions re untaken meds, yes.

‘No,’ said Ren.

‘This is a high-profile case that seems to have cast a real shadow over the city,’ said Lone.

‘Your female patients are probably all having meltdowns...’

Lone didn’t reply.

‘Sorry — you asked me about anxiety,’ said Ren. ‘I’m not anxious, no.’

‘Are you fearful for your own safety?’ said Lone.

‘No way,’ said Ren. ‘No. I’d like to see him try.’ I really would.

Dr Lone was watching her.

What are you thinking?

‘It’s important that this case doesn’t take you away from your appointments here,’ said Lone. ‘Gary, as you know, is adamant about that.’

‘Gary...’ should be concentrating on himself, not on me, and not on banging his side piece.

Back at Safe Streets, Ren went into the conference room with a large artists’ pad, opened it on the first page and wrote in a pink Sharpie:

She turned to her computer, and opened up the file on the victims’ wounds. She added Amanda Petrie’s as described in the autopsy.

She rubbed her jaw, got a waft of perfume.

It is nice. Everett was right.

Something is gnawing at me. Like a rat at something random on a landfill site. Too tired to come up with something. Dead body?

Oh. That’s it. Perfume.

It’s not about the perfume. It’s what the perfume is covering up.

Oh. Fuck.

‘We’ve been focusing on the wrong injuries!’ said Ren.

Everyone looked up.

‘It’s not about the burning, or the mutilation, or the chopping away of body parts — it’s what doing that is covering up,’ said Ren. ‘Amanda Petrie didn’t burn! It’s all here, laid out, every step of the killer’s M.O. Too much evidence was left behind: she was raped with a foreign object, had two stab wounds to the lower back, three slash marks on each side of her ribs, injuries to the soles of her feet.’

Shit! That’s it.

Ren stood up. ‘The UNSUB did what he wanted with Amanda Petrie, because he didn’t fear revealing his entire M.O. He thought she would be incinerated in the barn. But, more importantly, he believed he had successfully framed Kurt Vine. He killed the way he truly wanted to kill, because he knew that we would no longer be inputting his data into ViCAP. We would believe that Kurt Vine was our UNSUB. And if our killer stopped killing, or moved state, then he was free. He just didn’t bank on us visiting Vine so soon — he probably didn’t think of the Hufuki link. Which also means that he did not meet Vine playing that game — otherwise he would have been aware of that possibility.’

Ren opened up ViCAP again, input the exact details of Amanda Petrie’s injuries. She read through what came back.

Oh. My. God. This is not good. This is not good.

Ren picked up her phone and called Gary. ‘I’m sending you an article you need to read: a horrific serial murder case that kicked off all the way back in 1987. It has disturbing echoes of this. The killer hunted his naked victims first, then he brutally raped them, then he murdered them. He started out with prostitutes, and moved on to other women. They were mainly skinny blondes. There was less sexual mutilation of the bodies, but I think that, over the years, he has escalated. It’s beyond fucked-up, Gary. I hope I’m wrong. See what you think. There’s an old photo — he has the deadest look in his eyes: you can see that he could be capable of this kind of depravity.’

Ren stared at the photo. There’s something familiar about him. I’m wondering did I read about this case at the time? And block it out...

‘Anyway,’ said Ren, ‘there’s one former detective who was heavily involved in it — personally involved in it. I think we need to talk to him.’

Within ten minutes, Gary walked into the bullpen. ‘Your ex-detective is flying in tonight, eleven thirty p.m. You can pick him up at the airport.’

‘Jesus — speedy response,’ said Ren. ‘I didn’t want to be right. Does he think I’m right?’

‘We both do,’ said Gary. ‘This is bad news. If we’ve got the right guy...’ His face was ashen. ‘He’s a monster.’

Ren nodded. ‘And he’s mutating.’

It was midnight in Denver International Airport. Ren stood at Arrivals, running through theories, sifting, discarding, re-evaluating. The killer had a face now. She thought of being alone with him in a tiny, claustrophobic room, punching him in that face. She thought of splitting open the skin under his eye, watching it bleed. She thought of burying her Glock into his jaw. Boom! She thought of forcing him to stare at what she had stared at for months, the Wall of Horrors, the fallout from his fucked-up fantasies. She thought of the frustration of him feeling absolutely nothing at the end... so she would have to beat him all over again.

Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me?

She focused on the people ahead, and guessed from the landing time, the accents, and the clothes, when the New York flight was filtering through. There were very few passengers left. Ren checked her phone for a message that he had missed his flight. Nothing. She checked her email. Nothing new. She glanced up at the last stragglers.

A slender man in an immaculate blue tailored suit walked through arrivals, pulling a vintage peacock blue suitcase with leather trim.

Not him. And why can’t I look that good coming off a flight? I always look like I’ve been in a sauna drinking liquor and having relations.

Another man walked through with a sleeping little girl in his muscular arm, her head tucked against his neck. Too adorable.

He looked like he was in his late forties, tan, dark hair, flecked with gray.

Have you been working out?

Stop staring.

But is there such a thing as a FILF?

She turned her attention to the rest of the passengers coming through.

The FILF was coming her way.

Ooh — what’s going on here?

He kept coming her way.

Shit. It’s him. He looks different from his photo. More ex-Marine than ex-NYPD. He has been working out.

He stopped in front of her. ‘Agent Bryce?’

‘Yes. But, please — call me Ren.’

He shook her hand. ‘Good to meet you. I’m Joe Lucchesi.’

A shiver ran up Ren’s spine: Joe Lucchesi’s expression was preternaturally calm, eerily intense.

Your name is Joe Lucchesi. You’re here to kill a man. That man is Duke Rawlins.