Some Degree of Murder

Friday, April 16 th 0941 hrs Investigative Division

TOWER

My desk was cleared of everything except two files. Fawn Taylor and Serena Gonzalez.

I pulled the Taylor file toward me and opened it.

I flipped through the medical report, looking for the tox-screen. I paged all the way through the autopsy but didn’t find one. I checked again. Still no report.

I picked up the phone and dialed. It rang twice before someone picked up.

“Forensics Unit. Whitaker.”

“Cam, it’s Tower. Let me ask you something.”

“What?” His tone was guarded.

“Any reason why a tox-screen wasn’t done on Fawn Taylor?”

“No. One should’ve been completed.”

“There isn’t one in my file. Can you hunt it down for me?”

“Sure. Listen, I’m glad you called.”

“Good news, I hope.”

“Not really. I sent those two hairs off to the FBI. I don’t know if they’ll end up being the same guy or not, but the Fibbies may be able to extract some DNA. The turnaround time on that is four to six weeks.”

“Four to six weeks? Jesus, Cameron, can’t we get a little priority?”

“Everything the Bureau gets is either a murder or kidnapping or serial rape.”

“Yeah, but six weeks?”

“They’re busy and backlogged, just like the rest of us.”

“Yeah, yeah. My heart bleeds for federal agencies and their tribulations. Tell me you’ll keep on top of this.”

Cameron said, “I will” and hung up.

I paged through the Taylor file some more, reviewing facts that I already knew and hoping something would hit me.

Nothing did.

I was reaching for the Gonzalez file when the phone rang.

“Tower,” I said and turned over a photo of Serena Gonzalez at the dump site.

“Detective Tower? Ernie Williams, Salinas PD.”

“That was quick.”

“Sometimes things work out. Last night, I ran into three of the Gonzalez crew and Lucia was with them. I pulled her aside and we had a long chat.”

“You get anything?”

“I don’t think so. She hadn’t heard about Serena being murdered yet, so the first part of our talk was her getting a grip on things. After that, she told me everything she knew. It just wasn’t very much.”

“Anything might help,” I said.

“All she could really say was that Serena left to get away from her family. She didn’t have any boyfriends to speak of and definitely didn’t have any that she had problems with.”

“Did she write to Lucia after she left town?”

“Occasionally. She mostly got postcards from wherever Serena was staying.”

“Which was where?”

“L.A., first. Then Portland, Seattle and finally up there in River City.”

“What did the postcards say?”

“Not much. She’s in a new town, she’s got a new job, that kind of thing. No boyfriends ever mentioned.”

“She ever mention to Lucia what kind of work she was doing?”

“Lucia said waitressing and secretary work. And some kind of cashier up in River City. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d been lied to.”

“Were they very religious?”

“What do you mean?”

“It may be nothing, but I found a couple of pages book marked in the Gideon Bible in Serena’s motel room. I don’t even know if it was her that did it.”

“Well, they’re almost all Catholic, I can tell you that,” Williams said. “I don’t know that she was particularly devout, though. But who knows? People live double lives all the time.”

“That they do.” I moved the receiver away from my mouth and scratched my chin. I was surprised to find stubble there. I must’ve forgotten to shave again.

“Like I said,” Williams finished. “Not a lot of help.”

“No,” I agreed. “But you never know.”

“Call me if I can do anything else.”

We hung up.

After closing the Gonzalez file, I leaned back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling.

I considered my options. I could head out to the crime scenes and re-canvass the area. I could go re-interview witnesses. Neither one was likely to turn anything up. I could sit on my backside for four to six weeks and hope the FBI miracle workers back at Quantico could solve my cases for me.

Or I could start over. Pretend I didn’t know anything about either case and approach both with fresh eyes.

Which one first? Taylor came first. Gonzalez was freshest.

I moved the Gonzalez file off the top of the Taylor file and set them side-by-side. Then I paged through both slowly until I reached the close-ups of the crime scene positioning. I looked back and forth between both.

That’s when I noticed something. Something subtle that I couldn’t put a finger on before. Maybe it was nothing. But it was there. Fawn was lying on her back. Serena was lying on her back. In both photos, the chin jutted upward, as if both women were staring up at the sky.

Or their killer.

A signature pose?

I’d rejected any thought of a single killer from the very first moment I went to Serena Gonzalez’s dump site. Why? Because it was too fashionable in today’s serial killer obsessed world to connect those dots? Stupid. Trends and politics should never outweigh logic in an investigation. Just stupid.

“Okay,” I mumbled. “We’ll run it from the top. See how stupid I really am.”

Victimology. Always start with victimology.

Both females. Check.

Both under twenty. Check.

But Fawn was White and Serena Hispanic. So there’s a minus.

I looked down at both pictures, side by side. Sure, Serena was Hispanic. There could be no mistaking that. But her skin was fair for a Latina. And she was beautiful. So was Fawn. So maybe, if it’s the same guy, maybe he doesn’t care about race.

Okay. So that’s not a check or a minus. It’s a neutral.

Both worked in the East Sprague corridor. Check.

Both worked in the sex trade. Loosely, anyway. Stripping was a long way from being a prostitute but it was a lot closer than working a cash register. Check.

Both bodies were dumped. Check.

Both dump jobs were ignoble and degrading. Check.

Both died of strangulation. Check.

I double-checked a page in both files and leaned back again. Check. Both had bruising on the wrist, probably from being tied up for some period of time.

Both women were sexually assaulted. Check.

Little or no transfer evidence on the body. Check.

That bothered me. From the day I made detective, I’d been taught that Locard’s Law was supreme. It was the law of transfer. When a suspect commits a murder or a rape or any crime, transfer exists. He brings something to the scene. He changes the scene. He leaves something at the scene. He takes something from the scene with him when he leaves. Any or all of these things happen, according to modern police science, even if they only occur in microscopic or trace amounts.

So, if this is the same guy, how come no transfer evidence is showing up? One pubic hair and one head hair. And the head hair was questionable. It could belong to anyone. Hell, so could the pubic hair. How many other men rubbed up against Fawn Taylor in the last few days of her life?

How does he avoid transfer?

Condoms. Gloves. Plastic coated trunk for transport. I suppose that was a start.

What else? What other checks or minuses?

Serena was stabbed. Fawn wasn’t. Was that a minus? Or, if it were the same guy, was he escalating?

I gathered up both files. The walk down the hallway was a short one. The Crime Analysis wing consisted of one large room with several cubicles. I weaved through the maze until I reached Renee’s desk.

She was mid-bite when I rounded the corner. A powdered donut jutted out from her mouth and when she saw me, she jumped. The donut broke off and she cupped her hands, catching it.

“Ugh,” she grunted at me and laid the donut on a napkin on her desk. A cup of steaming coffee sat next to it. She pointed to her cup and then across the room where a full pot was brewing. I set my files down on her desk and quickly poured myself some coffee into a Styrofoam cup. When I returned, she was washing her bite down with her own coffee.

“Busted,” I told her.

She shrugged and adjusted her thin glasses. “You want something?”

“Yeah. I need some fresh eyes.”

“Run it for me.”

I gave her all the details I thought mattered and some I wasn’t sure about. She listened carefully, interrupted seldom and then only to clarify. When I finished, she stared at the wall and absently handed me her empty coffee cup. I refilled it and put it in front of her and waited patiently.

After a few minutes, she reached for the cup and took a sip. She nodded and muttered her thanks, then began thumbing through the files. I refilled my own coffee and sipped it from the Styrofoam cup and read the cartoons she’d cut out from Foxtrot and The Far Side and pinned to her cubicle wall.

“Interesting,” she mumbled, then looked up at me. “Sexually motivated murder doesn’t just pop up in a vacuum, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“If this is the same perpetrator, then he did not begin his career with Miss Taylor.”

“You think it’s the same guy?”

She nodded slowly. “I would say so. Almost identical victimology, similar crime scenes, same cause of death. Both sexual assaults. Even this little pose here. Do you see that?” She pointed to photos of both Fawn and Serena. “See how he’s tilted their chins unnaturally? It’s almost like they’re looking up at something. If he were to stand at their head, this tilt would make it appear that they were looking right up at him.”

“If it is the same guy, then you’re saying he’s killed before?”

“No, not necessarily. The perpetrator may have stopped short of murder. But I’d be willing to bet that he has committed assaults before. And rapes.”

Renee turned to her computer and started typing. A couple minutes later, she said, “Okay, here it is.”

I leaned over her shoulder and looked at the screen. She pointed at data with the mouse pointer.

“I went back twelve months and put in criteria. Basically, we’re looking for rapes or assaults with some of the elements of your homicides. Within the last year, there have been two rapes that somewhat fit. Both are unsolved.”

She hit a button on her keyboard. “I’m printing off both reports for you. In both cases, white male perpetrator, manual strangulation involved, and sexual assault.”

“Suspects?” I asked.

“None named.”

“Only two cases fit?”

“Well, no. There were actually five that fell into the criteria, but three were solved and all three of those men are currently incarcerated or deceased. That leaves these two cases.” She tapped her finger on the computer screen. “Maybe this is your perpetrator. Maybe he started out with a rape and graduated to sexual homicide.”

“It would be textbook,” I said with a shrug.

“The textbooks are there for a reason.”

Renee stood and disappeared around the corner. When she returned, she plopped a small stack of paper on top of my files. “Hope this helps.”

“It does. A lot.” I gathered up my files and the reports. Then I turned to Renee.

She sat primly in her chair, holding her coffee cup and watching me. I leaned forward slightly. “Renee, I’d really like to work on this for a little while longer. If people start thinking serial killer on this…”

“There’ll be a task force.”

“Right. And four or five more dead bodies will pile up while they figure out who’s in charge and how to reinvent the wheel.”

Renee sipped her coffee, then set the cup down. “Right now, We’re just talking theory. If another body shows up, then I think we’ve moved past theory and more people need to get involved.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Me, too.”

The apartment complex on Nora Avenue had paint peeling from the trim. It was one of many tri-plexes scattered throughout the lower north side of River City. Eva Patterson was the first victim in the reports Renee gave me. Her last known address was in number two.

I could smell a barbecue nearby as I mounted the rickety steps and knocked on the apartment door.

When no one came to the door, I leaned across the porch and tried to peer in the window. The thick white curtains obscured any view. I returned to the front door and knocked again. Still no answer. I raised my fist to knock again when I heard the jiggle of a doorknob.

“Who the hell is it?” came a disgruntled voice from doorway of number three.

“Police, ma’am.” I showed my badge. “I’m looking for Miss Patterson.”

A head full of curlers popped out from the doorway. “Eva? You’re looking for Eva?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She moved away months ago. Never said a word. Just packed her boxes out to her car one day and drove off.”

“You don’t know where?”

“No,” she admitted. “She didn’t say anything to me.”

“You haven’t seen her since she moved?”

“No. Don’t see much of anything around here.”

“Do you know where she works?”

“Samson’s,” she said. “Down on Sprague.”

“Thanks,” I told her and started back to my car.

“Eva Patterson? That stupid bitch left without giving notice months ago.”

I stood at the bar in Samson’s. It was a bar for white trash muscle heads, guys who couldn’t afford memberships at the trendy gyms, but lifted weights in their dirt floor garages. The bartender called himself Samson and I didn’t care what his real name was.

“She didn’t talk about leaving beforehand?”

He wiped the bar absently and shook his head. “Nope. Course, she wasn’t worth a damn after getting raped.”

“You knew about that?”

“Yeah. She missed three days of work because of it.”

“Any idea who raped her?”

“I got no idea.”

“How long did she work here?”

“I dunno. Seven, eight months.”

“Was she a good worker?”

Samson shrugged. “Not bad. How hard is it to schlep drinks, you know? She was easy on the eyes, though, and that’s what matters in here.”

“Was she dating anyone?”

“Not serious. At least, not so as I could tell. She jumped around a little bit, though.”

“With you?”

“Me?” Samson chuckled and wrung out his towel, then continued wiping. “I don’t bang the help.”

“Good policy.”

“It is for me.”

“Did she have problems with any of the patrons?”

“Nothing memorable. She got hit on a lot, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I mean more along the lines of obsessive or violent. Stalking. That sort of thing.”

Samson shook his head. “Then no. Not so as I ever heard.”

“Do you know where she moved to?”

“No.”

“Where she’s from?”

“Here, far as I know.”

I sighed. “How about any friends? You know any of those?”

“All I can tell you is that she was a tight little spinner, she came here and worked, she did okay until she got raped, then she wasn’t worth a damn. And then she left. End of story.” He shrugged. “If you find her, I still owe her about sixty bucks in wages. I already paid the payroll taxes on it, so she might as well have it.”

I turned and left the bar.

“What do you want with my Beverly?” the woman asked me.

I stood on the porch outside her trailer. The woman, Beverly Stubbs’ mother, had already refused to give me her first name and insisted I call her Mrs. Stubbs. When I had asked for her daughter, she became even more guarded.

“I’m doing some follow-up investigation, ma’am.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that I’m trying to fill in some gaps in a few different cases, ma’am. Your daughter’s case is one of them.”

Mrs. Stubbs pointed her finger at me. “You sonsabitches have had plenty of time to find the man that hurt my baby. Why don’t you go do that instead of bothering her?”

“Ma’am, your daughter may have information that can help — “

“She already told you everything she knows! Asking her again isn’t going to make a difference.”

“Mrs. Stubbs, I am not here to con you. I’m here to see if your daughter can help me. Not just with her case, but maybe even with some others.”

“How?” She crossed her arms.

“Facts have come to light that weren’t available at the time of her assault. I need her help with them.”

“What facts?”

“I can’t go into that with you.”

“Then fuck off!” she screeched and slammed the door in my face. The trailer shifted and rocked as she stomped away from the door.

I waited and considered knocking again. I strained my ears to hear any conversation from inside the trailer.

The front door opened a crack, then widened to a foot. A young face appeared in the narrow opening. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry she yelled at you.”

I shrugged. “It happens. Can we talk?”

She cried harder and shook her head.

“Only for a minute, Beverly. Just one minute.”

She shook her head more forcefully. “I’m sorry, but I’m never gonna talk about that ever again.”

“Beverly-“

She looked away and closed the door gently.

I stood staring at the front door of the trailer. After a few seconds, I turned and walked back to my car.