Kiss Me, Kill Me

TWENTY

Suzanne and Vic Panetta split the search warrant—she took Barnett’s residence, Panetta took his office.

Barnett lived in a secured high-rise in the upper nineties off Central Park West. The tall building with views of Central Park from the higher floors was bordered by older four-story town houses, some single residences and some converted into apartments. Suzanne preferred her flat on the Lower East Side to the opulence of Barnett’s apartment building, but she admitted that she coveted one of the brownstones.

Not in the cards on a government salary.

She flashed her badge and warrant to the doorman, who rang the manager on duty. Ten minutes later, she was let into Barnett’s nineteenth-floor five-room apartment.

It was a larger version of his office. Cool gray carpeting; white leather furniture; lots of steel and glass. Yankees posters—framed and signed; an eclectic version of art on the walls from realistic charcoal drawings to flashy, bright paintings that didn’t appear to be anything specific. But the framed artwork that caught Suzanne’s eye were photographs of abandoned warehouses. She recognized the printing supply house where Jessica Bell had been killed.

“Where do you want us to start?” asked Andie Swann, from the Evidence Response Team.

“Photograph everything, then dedicate someone to the computer and any electronics. Our warrant covers everything in his apartment and any storage, in addition to his car. And can you also get someone to pull down those photographs?”

“Of the buildings?”

“Yes. I want to know who took them and when and ID every site.” She didn’t immediately see photographs of the first three crime scenes, but that didn’t mean they weren’t around.

She turned to the manager. “Does Mr. Barnett have a vehicle stored on the property? Any storage unit?”

“We have an underground garage where he has a slot, number 103. We have storage units, but he doesn’t rent one.”

She said to Andie, “Send someone down to the garage to check on the status of the car and arrange for transport.”

The manager said, “Oh, no, he never drives it. It’s a classic.”

“What good is a car you can’t drive?”

“I suppose he might take it out on occasion, but I haven’t seen it missing in months. It doesn’t have a roof.”

“You mean it’s a convertible?”

“No, it doesn’t have a roof. He bought it at auction, and the roof was damaged. He only drives it on nice days if he’s going out of town.”

Suzanne looked at Andie and Andie nodded. She would check it out. “Prints, fibers, and trace,” Suzanne called after her.

“Mr. Barnett is a good tenant,” the manager said. “We’ve never had any problems with him. No complaints.”

“Good to know,” she said in dismissal. “You’re welcome to stay and observe, but I ask that you stay in the hall. Let my people do their job.”

“No, go ahead; just please let me know when you’re leaving so I can lock up.”

“I’ll be putting a police seal on the door,” she said.

Suzanne slipped on latex gloves and walked through the apartment. A large living area, a separate dining area, a kitchen that was bigger than her entire one-bedroom apartment. And the view of Central Park was nice. But the best thing about the place was the light—lots of windows, lots of open space. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an office. Large space for a bachelor. Had to be at least 2,000 square feet. Maybe more. For a New York City apartment with a view, that was rare and pricey.

Suzanne walked through the apartment slowly, taking in the atmosphere, imagining Wade Barnett living here. Killers came in all shapes and sizes and economic classes. Psychopaths weren’t rich or poor; black or white; men or women. Suzanne believed any human being had the capacity to kill, given the right motivation. But while most people killed only when they were in immediate jeopardy, psychopaths killed for pleasure. Whether it was a gangbanger who had no regard for human life or a serial killer with a sick, twisted view of women, they could come from any socioeconomic background.

She wouldn’t allow Wade Barnett to get away with murder because he was rich.

While Andie was down in the garage and her team methodically worked through the apartment, Suzanne went to Barnett’s office, which was more cluttered than the living areas. The computer tech was already at work, and Suzanne focused on the contents of the desk. They were already working on getting Barnett’s financials, but because he was paid by a trust it was tricky. She’d leave those details to the accountants and lawyers.

Nothing jumped out at her. Baseball, architecture, and the historical society. His bookshelves were lined with books on those same three subjects, with few exceptions. He had three Yankee game balls, all signed by the player who’d hit a home run. They were displayed under lights, behind glass. An award from a local preservation society was prominently displayed on the wall, next to a picture of the former mayor handing a teenage Wade Barnett a plaque.

On the surface, Barnett appeared to be an all-around good guy. Arrogant, but a longtime advocate of things he cared about. What turned a guy like this into a serial killer?

Andie Swann walked into the office. “Car’s clean. No way he drove that out to Brooklyn on Saturday, not with the weather. The interior is immaculate, no water damage, nothing to indicate that he’s used it recently. I asked security to prepare the logs for every time he took the car out from October first through today, and one of my team is vacuuming for trace, but I don’t expect anything.”

Andie asked the computer tech, “When are you going to be done in here?”

“He recently wiped histories and deleted a bunch of files, but it’s a surface job. I can put it all back together at the office. It’ll take me thirty minutes to label, log, and box everything up.”

Suzanne hoped the computer yielded hard evidence because there was no way any more serious charges would stick to Barnett just because he’d lied about knowing the victims. DNA or finding the victims’ shoes would be ideal. Even if she could prove that he was at all four parties and knew all four victims, she wouldn’t be able to get the U.S. Attorney to bite unless there was physical evidence tying him to at least one of the murders.

One of Andie’s people stepped into the office. “We found this letter in the nightstand drawer of the main bedroom,” he said to Suzanne and Andie. The letter had been sealed in a plastic bag and tagged.

The tech continued. “There was a stack of writing paper. We also bagged it because of impressions on the bottom sheets. We might be able to get something from those. This was at the bottom of the pile, and folded.”

“Thanks.” Suzanne took the undated letter. It had an angled crease and was only partially written. Suzanne often did that when she was writing to her eighty-nine-year-old grandmother, who refused to get a computer, if she misspelled a word or decided not to tell her something. She’d written Gram her first year of college and received the letter back, her grammar and misspellings corrected, a week later. Dear Alanna, I’m a jerk. My brother says I don’t know a good thing when I have it, and he’s right. You were my good thing and I blew it. I miss you. I’d love to promise I won’t screw up again, but I know I will. And you don’t deserve that. I’d say I can’t help myself, but we both know it’s not true. I’m too selfish to make a commitment. But it hurts when I see you, and so I’m trying to avoid

The last incomplete sentence was scribbled out, but Suzanne could easily read it.

“Who writes letters anymore?” Andie asked.

Suzanne didn’t want to admit that she thought it was sweet—not the apology for the fact that Barnett obviously did something unforgivable to Alanna—before he killed her—but that in this day and age, a handwritten letter seemed more sincere than sending an email or text message.

Another tech looked through the doorway. “Suzanne, there’s a guy here says he’s Barnett’s brother.”

“I’ll talk to him,” she said and walked out.

The young man—hardly older than a teenager—stood just inside the door biting his thumbnail. His hair was too long in the front, partly covering his eyes, but overall he was a clean-cut kid.

“Mr. Barnett?” Suzanne said as she approached.

He looked startled, almost mousy, then nodded. “Dennis Barnett.”

“Nice to meet you, Dennis. Do you live here with your brother?”

He shook his head. “I live in Staten Island with my mother. But sometimes I stay with my brother. My other brother, Charlie.”

“Charlie? Is that CJ Barnett?”

Dennis nodded. “He says CJ is his business name, but I still call him Charlie.” Dennis was mildly retarded, Suzanne realized as she spoke to him, but didn’t seem to be impaired. “Is Wade in trouble?”

“Yes, he is. I’m sorry to have to tell you that.” She showed him her badge and ID. “My name is Suzanne Madeaux. I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

He looked around. “Where’s Wade?”

“I’m sorry, Dennis, but he’s in jail right now.”

Dennis’s eyes widened. “W-why?”

“Well, it’s a bit complicated.” Suzanne didn’t want to upset the kid; she felt sorry for him. She opted to start with the sanitized version. “He lied to me, and it’s a crime to lie to a federal law enforcement agent. Did you know that?”

He shook his head.

“I asked Wade if he knew some young women. I showed him their pictures. He told me he didn’t, but then I found out that he knew them really well.”

“Wade knows a lot of girls.”

“Does he date a lot?”

“Oh, yes. He likes to have sex.”

“With the same woman or different women?”

“Different. Sometimes he has a girlfriend, but he always screws it up.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“No. Charlie says that. Because Wade can’t be man-ag-a-mis.”

“Do you mean monogamous? Meaning, staying faithful to one person?”

Dennis smiled. “Yes. Monogamous.”

“Do you know any of his girlfriends?”

He shrugged. “Some.”

“Like Alanna?”

He smiled. “I liked Alanna.”

“She was nice?”

He said in a low voice, “Some of Wade’s girlfriends were mean to me. I know I’m not too smart. My mom says it’s the way God made me and I’m perfect the way I am, but moms got to say that. But I don’t think as fast as normal people. Wade didn’t like it when his girlfriends said mean things, like I was too stupid to understand.”

“But Alanna didn’t do that.”

“No, never! She even got mad at Wade once when I accidentally knocked over a statue he had over there”—he pointed to the credenza in the dining room—“and it broke into a million pieces and then he yelled at me. I cried, I was really sorry, and Alanna helped me pick up every single piece. And Wade said he was sorry. He never says sorry unless he really means it, so I know he meant it.”

Suzanne was having a hard time putting Wade Barnett as his younger brother described him into the role of a killer. But most killers weren’t pure evil S.O.B.s. Maybe Wade put himself in the investigation spotlight because he wanted to be stopped. Maybe killing his ex-girlfriend was an accident, and he killed the others … why? Or maybe she was off about the whole motive and the guy was just a psycho who was nice to his little brother.

“Why did Wade and Alanna break up?”

Dennis rolled his eyes. “Because he’s a big jerk.”

Suzanne’s ears pricked up. “Why do you say that?”

“Because that’s what Wade said. He said he was a big jerk and Alanna wouldn’t forgive him.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“I thought it was ’cause he slept with another girl, but I don’t know for sure.”

Suzanne needed a long conversation with her suspect.

“If I showed you some pictures, could you tell me if you recognize any of them?”

He nodded, then he stopped. “Why?”

“I’m trying to—” she almost said help his brother, but she couldn’t do it to this kid. He’d believe her, and when he found out she’d lied to prove his brother was a killer, he’d be devastated. She decided to go for the straightforward approach.

“Dennis, you’re an adult, so I’m going to be honest with you, okay?”

He nodded.

“Four young women your brother knew are dead. That’s what he lied to us about. He told me he didn’t know the girls, but we learned that he did. That’s part of my job, finding out when people are lying. People lie so they don’t get in trouble. I think your brother might have lied because he hurt those girls.”

Dennis’s bottom lip was trembling. “Wade wouldn’t.”

“You know, I was walking around here thinking that Wade seems like a good guy. He likes the Yankees. I like baseball, too.”

“He loves the Yankees.”

Suzanne smiled. “And he has these awards for preserving historic property; he obviously cares a lot about the city. I can see why you like him a lot. You probably admire him, too.”

Dennis gave a half-shrug, half-nod.

“Is he a good brother?”

“Yeah. He didn’t like how Mom made him watch me all the time, even when I got bigger. He said I was a dork. But he didn’t like it if someone else ever called me a dork.”

Having brothers and sisters herself, Suzanne understood.

Suzanne switched the line of questioning. “Have you been to any of the underground parties your brother likes to go to?”

“I don’t like them.”

“But you’ve gone.”

“I went once. Much too loud. It hurt my ears and I hated it. I stay in the car now.”

Suzanne’s instincts vibrated in her gut. “Why do you go?”

“Wade lost his license for drunk driving. I have to drive him.”

“So you were at the party in Brooklyn last Saturday?”

“I—” He stopped talking and frowned. He started biting his thumbnail again and didn’t look at her. “You’re making me confused.”

“It’s an easy question,” she said. “You’re a smart kid; I think you know why I’m asking.”

“No. No.” He wouldn’t look at her.

Suzanne couldn’t figure out if this was an act or self-preservation. Dennis didn’t want to think about his brother being a cold-blooded killer, so he just shut down when he figured out where she was going with the questioning.

Either way, she was onto something, and she’d get Dennis to tell the truth. It was just a matter of time and patience.

She had all the time in the world.

Until James Thorpe walked into the apartment a minute later and put an end to her questioning of Dennis Barnett.