The Kill

CHAPTER 5

Zack Travis slammed the phone receiver down on his desk so hard the mouthpiece broke. He stared at the chunk of plastic and blinked. Why did he let Vince Kirby get to him?

He knew why, but didn’t like to think about it.

He looked up and saw a couple of the guys in the bullpen staring at him.

“Kirby,” he said, and several heads bobbed in understanding. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief that he didn’t have to explain further. Yeah, they all hated the reporter who portrayed their department as incompetent and overpaid (now, there was a real joke). But Zack’s reasons were more personal than the newspaper’s animosity toward the Seattle P.D.

Damn Kirby. Just talking to him brought back conflicting memories. Anger and deep sadness. Because every time he talked to Kirby, he thought of his dead sister. Having him reporting this case was going to poke at old wounds, but Zack was determined not to let Kirby get under his skin any more than he already had.

“What’s up?” Boyd asked, jerking Zack from his thoughts.

Zack picked the broken plastic off his crowded blotter and tossed it into the trash. “Kirby’s running with the damn serial killer angle.”

“Oh.” Boyd frowned and looked down at the pen he twirled between his fingers.

“What?”

“Maybe he’s right,” Boyd said.

“Hell, I know he’s right, but the last thing we need is every friggin’ mother picketing the station, or a copycat pervert snatching little girls off the street. One twisted killer is enough.”

Two girls, abducted, raped, and stabbed to death. One was nine, the other eleven. Both had blonde hair. Both were playing with friends and wandered only a short distance away. He wished he could picture them alive, playing, laughing. Instead, he could only picture them under the coroner’s knife.

The first, Jenny Benedict, had been in a park with neighborhood friends. She went to get water from the fountain and two girls saw her willingly walk off with “some guy.”

When Zack learned the father was allowed only supervised visitation with his daughter because of a bitter and prolonged custody battle, he wanted the man to be guilty. He tried everything to get him to confess. But in the end, Paul Benedict wasn’t a murderer. He was a father beyond grief, as destroyed by the news of his daughter’s murder as any innocent man would be. More so, perhaps.

I should have been there. Protecting her. Benedict’s words haunted Zack. Too close to the way Zack felt about his sister Amy.

I should have been there.

But what could he have done? Amy hadn’t been a little kid, and she sure as hell hadn’t wanted anything to do with her brother, the cop.

The second girl, Michelle Davidson, had been riding her bike when she raced ahead of her friends, trying to beat them home. Her bike was found in the yard of her next-door neighbor. Michelle was found dead three days later.

That was early yesterday morning, thirty-six hours ago. Now the press was all over him. They didn’t care that the parents were grieving or that he’d slept no more than four hours a night since the first victim was murdered three weeks ago, or that he spent two hours yesterday afternoon watching the autopsy of someone far too young to die.

“Did you run the killer’s M.O. through the computer?” Zack asked Boyd. The single best thing about the young rookie was his skill with all things electronic, in particular, computers. It would have taken Zack endless hours to plug in the information with his hunt-and-peck-and-erase system, and then he’d probably have to redo it because of mistakes. But Boyd was of the next generation. He was a whiz with the damn thing and took over that end of their work.

Boyd nodded. “I printed out the report. There are several unsolved cases. Seven years ago in Austin, Texas, four blonde girls were abducted in a six-month period. No suspects, no witnesses. The bodies were displayed in the same manner.”

“Fully clothed, underwear missing, hair cut,” Zack mumbled.

“Ten years ago in Nashville four girls were killed who matched the M.O. An eyewitness gave a description, but it didn’t lead anywhere.”

“Do you have it?”

“ Nashville is digging it up and said they’d fax it by the end of the day. But there wasn’t enough information for a composite.”

“At least it’s something.” Like hell it was. Zack glanced at his watch. It was already five o’clock here; there’s no way Nashville would be getting them anything tonight. “What about the tattoo?”

Jenny Benedict’s abductor had some sort of tattoo on his upper left arm. The two girls who watched her leave couldn’t tell what it was, but a tattoo was better than nothing.

“The Nashville witness also mentioned a tattoo, but no description of it was in the file. I asked them to check on it.”

“Two cases?”

“You said go back ten years. That’s what I found.”

Zack’s instincts screamed that this guy had left a lot more than eight dead girls in his wake before hitting Seattle. He was too damn slick; he had to have had practice. And since Zack suspected that he’d been at this for a long time, the killer might have left something more of himself at the beginning of his crime spree.

Serial killers worked hard to perfect their murders. They preyed on humans for their own sick pleasure. Though they often looked normal, acted normal-even charming, like Ted Bundy, or attractive, like Paul Bernardo-beneath the surface they felt no remorse, no empathy for their fellow human beings. They were cunning, and constantly striving to commit the perfect crime.

Right now, Zack didn’t have much to work with. The trace evidence they’d collected at the two crime scenes was still being analyzed. Their best bet at this point was carpet fibers collected from the victim’s clothing. Unfortunately, the samples were from two different vehicles, which didn’t make sense to Zack. One was a late-model Ford Expedition, the other a late-model Dodge Ram. Two very popular trucks that could belong to one of thousands of men in Seattle alone. This morning they’d run registration reports for both types of vehicles. Now, they were manually comparing the lists to see if any address had both truck types registered. Zack didn’t expect the results until tomorrow. He’d been frustrated that with all the technology they had, and the ability to run instantaneous registration reports for the two vehicles, running a comparative match was impossible because the “program didn’t work that way,” he was told. What was the point of technology if it couldn’t do what he needed?

This morning, the coroner had sent a DNA sample to the state lab. Even though Doug Cohn had asked the state to rush the analysis, it could still take weeks, maybe months. Once complete, he’d enter the information into the national DNA registry, CODIS, and see if there were any hits. Unfortunately, with tight budgets across the country, law enforcement primarily entered DNA information only in active cases. Ten years ago it wasn’t a common practice, and twenty years ago-forget it. All the cold cases had to be entered manually, and unless there was funding for it, the work was done haphazardly if at all.

But DNA was only good if there was a suspect to go with it. Zack hoped that whatever Doug Cohn preserved from Michelle Davidson’s body would match a known offender in the registry, though he didn’t expect miracles.

Then there were the odd marks on the victims’ forearms. Both Jenny and Michelle had twelve small, almost uniform, punctures made with some sort of extremely narrow, sharp object. It could be a fine-tipped knife, like a scalpel. The marks weren’t made with the same knife that killed them, but the coroner said with certainty that they were intentional.

“Do you think-?” Boyd began before he was interrupted by the bellow of Chief Princeton.

Princeton wasn’t really his name but he strutted around like God’s gift to women, complete with a master’s degree from some Ivy League school. Zack had been tired and drinking at the blue bar down the street with a bunch of the guys late one night. Earlier in the day, the chief had been playing politics with the mayor and they’d been overheard talking about their respective alma maters. Zack didn’t know who had come up with the nickname “ Princeton ” for Chief Lance Pierson, but it had stuck.

During the two years Chief Princeton had been in charge, Zack learned to respect him. The chief was good at schmoozing with the politicos, something that needed to be done and that Zack detested, and Princeton backed up the boys in blue 110 percent. That went a long way in Zack’s book, even though the chief often acted like his extra year in college and some brainy Latin award made him smarter than his men. They’d developed a good working relationship, and when the chief had learned about his nickname, he laughed it off.

“Detective Travis. My office,” Pierson ordered.

Boyd jumped at the chief’s call. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Down, Boyd,” Pierson said. “Just your FTO.”

Zack told Boyd, “Run over to the lab and see if they have any word on the trucks.” Zack would have preferred to do it himself.

He crossed the bullpen. “What’s up?”

“There’s someone you need to meet,” Pierson said.

“You’re not setting me up for another glad-handing with the mayor.” His chief constantly tried to get Zack to play politics.

“It’s about your homicide case.”

Though Zack had four active homicide cases on his docket, only one commanded his attention now.

“What?” Zack didn’t want to be blindsided.

“Someone who might be able to help.”

Pierson wouldn’t say anything else, and Zack followed him to his office, curious but apprehensive.

Through the glass window Zack saw a slender golden-haired beauty sitting in the chair across from Pierson’s desk, her profile classic and elegant, with perfectly carved features and luscious red lips. He blinked when he realized she was wearing only lip gloss, not lipstick-or if it was lipstick, it was the most natural-looking color he’d ever seen. He’d seen a lot of colors. Hell, he’d kissed a lot of lips.

As the men approached the door, she turned fully to face them, as if she didn’t like having her back to anyone. Cop. Zack would know, he never sat with his back to the door, either.

But this little number dressed too well to be a cop, complete with an expensive-looking pale gray suit and blue silk blouse. And were those pearls around her neck? She looked nothing like the hot, flashy bimbos Chief Princeton liked to date. Far too classy. And she looked smart.

Pierson walked in, smiling solemnly at the woman. Zack leaned against the doorjamb, not stepping inside until he knew what was up.

“ Agent St. Martin, I’d like you to meet the detective in charge of the case you’re interested in. Detective Zack Travis is, frankly, our best cop here. He’ll certainly be able to help you.”

Zack vaguely heard the compliment. He was irate after hearing the first word. Agent.

“What’s this?” he asked through clenched teeth. “You brought in the Feds without talking to me?”

He didn’t have anything personal against the FBI. But every case Zack worked in which the Feds got involved, they caused more problems than their presence was worth. Not to mention they became all proprietary with evidence, kept local cops out of the loop, and generally acted like they were superior.

“Detective,” Pierson said in a tone that made Zack take note. They stared at each other and Zack knew that his chief hadn’t made the move. It made him feel marginally better, but with the Feds hanging around his precinct, something was up.

Pierson continued. “ Agent St. Martin is here because of a similarity in your case with one she investigated, and believes her information may help us find the killer. I spoke with her boss yesterday and he assured me that they’re not sending anyone officially. I agreed, after hearing what information they had, that he could send someone unofficially.”

“Yesterday?” Zack repeated. Why hadn’t the chief given him a heads-up?

“I don’t have to remind you of the seriousness of this matter,” Pierson continued, ignoring or oblivious to Zack’s implied question. “I agreed to the FBI’s offer, but you’ll retain total control over the investigation. Agent St. Martin is here simply to help. Think of her as-” he paused, now obviously uncomfortable “-your partner.”

That didn’t sit well with Zack, but he wanted any and all information that could help him find the bastard who murdered two little girls. Still, could he trust this Fed to be on the level?

“You know how they operate, Chief. All wine and roses up front, false promises to share information, then wham! They pull a rabbit out of the hat at the last minute, and we find out they’ve been keeping their cards close to the vest. We do the work, take out the bad guys, and they take the credit because they were less than forthcoming.” It had happened twice in Zack’s career, once with near fatal results. He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“I wouldn’t think it would matter who got the credit as long as justice is served,” Agent St. Martin said, her voice as smooth as twenty-year-old Scotch.

Zack glanced at her, cool and collected, making him feel like a hothead. When he was a kid, he’d had a harder time controlling his temper, especially when someone was being unfairly picked on.

“Zack,” his grandmother would say, “your passion for those who can’t defend themselves is admirable, and will take you far if you don’t become a bully in the process.”

He’d worked hard at it, mostly had his temper under control, but tonight he remembered the bad taste the Feds left in his mouth the last time they’d worked together.

He was about to explain his comments when the woman said, “What’s mine is yours, Detective.”

She arched her eyebrows and stared him down, her hands clasped in her lap, her hazel eyes firmly locked on to his. Almost daring him, challenging him…

He looked away, surprised that the little woman had such courage to attempt staring him down. Yet she had. He’d turned away first. He felt an unwanted jolt of admiration. “Fine,” he said. “But,” he continued, looking at Pierson, then at Agent St. Martin, “if I find out that you’re playing games, withholding evidence, or generally jerking the department around, all deals are off.”

“I don’t play games, Detective,” she said.

Olivia knew she was on thin ice. If Detective Travis really pushed, he might learn the truth. The threat of exposure terrified her, but also gave her the courage to stand firm, and she mentally braced herself for a confrontation.

Travis stared at her, his dark eyes taking in her entire appearance with an almost crude appraisal. She resisted the urge to straighten her spine. He reminded her of a football player, a man who worked out and liked it. She felt even smaller than her diminutive not-quite-five-foot-three. Being seated certainly didn’t help.

But Olivia would not be intimidated.

“As long as we understand each other, Agent St. Martin,” he said. “Ready to share?” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm toward the door.

Olivia released a pent-up breath. Slowly, so neither Chief Pierson nor Detective Travis could see her relief.

“Absolutely,” she said as she stood, holding her briefcase. She nodded to the chief and followed the detective from the office.

“I have one of the conference rooms set up for this case,” Travis said. “Let’s go there.”

“I’m not here to cause problems,” Olivia said, feeling a strong need for him to accept her.

“I’m sure you’re not.” Sarcastic.

“You don’t like the FBI?”

“My dealings with them in the past have never been what you’d call positive.”

She frowned. She knew some stories of locals and the FBI not getting along, but she’d always been two or three steps removed from the investigation. Everyone she worked with seemed to be friendly. True, her experience was often thousands of miles away in a crime lab, but she thought she would have picked up on hostilities.

Detective Travis led her through a maze of desks. A dozen men and women watched them pass. Their watchful eyes made her increasingly nervous as she crossed the brightly lit space. She kept her face impassive, determined not to let any of these people get to her. She was already playing a dangerous game; jeopardizing her career was only the beginning. But she would see it through. She had to.

She would find Missy’s killer and he would pay. Justice would be served. Or she would die trying.

The thought didn’t scare her-and that worried her. She should be scared. She should be terrified of the killer who-by her count-had raped and murdered no less than twenty-nine girls in thirty-four years. Thirty, counting the death of Michelle Davidson.

But she’d come this far. There was no backing out now.

Zack stopped abruptly and turned into a conference room, closing the door behind them. “Sit. We have a lot of work to do.”

Olivia put her briefcase down and slid into a chair. “I said I would share everything I have. I don’t think it’s fair that you’re judging me without even giving me a chance to prove that I have no agenda other than to capture this killer.” A tickle of guilt flitted down her spine. She was withholding information from him, but not about the case.

He pulled out a chair and sat heavily, pulling a stack of files toward him. He stared at her, seeming to weigh her words. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable, but she held firm. Zack Travis was the type of cop who would see right through her if she even thought about lowering her shields.

“I’m glad that we could come to an agreement,” he finally said, without directly responding to her comments. “Our department wants to find this guy just as bad as your agency.”

Olivia nodded. No you don’t. No one wants this guy more than I do.

Zack noticed an odd look cross Agent St. Martin’s face, something he recognized but couldn’t put a name to. She straightened her back, which didn’t do much for her overall height. She was petite, trim, with an hourglass figure under an expensive suit.

As he stared, she tightened her jaw. He almost missed her biting the inside of her cheek, and for a brief moment she looked haunted. But he blinked and whatever he thought he saw had disappeared, and she simply looked like someone used to being in charge.

Zack said, “Do you have a first name? Or should I just call you Superagent?”

He liked the way she bristled. She would have been fun to tease if they didn’t have serious business ahead of them.

“Olivia,” she said.

“Do people call you Liv?”

She shrugged. “Some.”

He waved a hand to the murder boards set up against the far wall. He’d watched her eyes darting toward them, obviously eager to get started.

“What do you know of my cases?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, but it almost immediately fell forward. “Initially, I read the press reports, then I had the lab reports sent to me so I could review the evidence. But everything I have is from the Benedict murder. I haven’t had time to review the Davidson file. I assume it’s the same killer?”

“Yes.”

“No doubt?”

“Not in my book. The director of the crime lab is taking the case himself. Doug Cohn. He concurs-same knife, same M.O., and-” he paused, then said, “You know about the hair, right?”

“The killer cut a chunk about one inch in diameter from the victim’s head.”

Zack nodded.

“Any differences between the two cases?”

Zack shook his head. “Nothing substantial. Jenny was nine; Michelle was eleven. Jenny was an only child whose parents are divorced; Michelle has two siblings and her parents are still married. Both were abducted in the afternoon, killed within forty-eight hours, bodies dumped in a marginally public area and discovered in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Someone found the body of Jenny Benedict quickly, though,” Olivia said. “Your report said possibly within two hours?”

“We tracked down every employee who works in that industrial park. The owner of Swanson and Clark Electronics left just after six o’clock Friday evening, three weeks ago. He swears he walked right past where her body was found and she wasn’t there. The last employee to leave,” Zack checked his notes, “Ann Wells. Works at an industrial paint supply store at the end of the row. She didn’t see or hear anything unusual; her husband picked her up right at seven o’clock.”

“And your witness arrived about 9:30?” Olivia prompted.

Zack nodded. “Sunset was officially 6:57, but it probably wasn’t full dark until after 7:30. I’m figuring he waited until dark to dump the body as an added precaution.”

“You’re looking at a two-hour window?”

“I’m thinking the killer didn’t expect someone to discover the body until at least Saturday morning, and possibly not until Monday. None of the businesses open over the weekend.”

“I saw something about a tattoo.” Olivia’s heart quickened. This was what she really wanted to hear, but she didn’t want to seem overeager at this point. “No details?”

“One of the girls who saw Jenny walk away with the killer saw a tattoo. It was a vague impression, and she had nothing else for us. My partner is looking into similar crimes. We’ve tracked down two so far-four dead girls in Austin, Texas, and four in Nashville, Tennessee. We’re waiting on Nashville ’s reports.” He stared at her and leaned back in his chair. “You work either of those cases?”

Clearly, it was her turn to share.

Olivia opened her briefcase and took out the thick folder of information she’d compiled. “Unfortunately, I believe the man we’re looking for has killed thirty girls, including Michelle Davidson.”

“Thirty? And no one caught on that we have a nationwide serial killer?” Zack looked as irate as she felt.

“He’s cautious. Methodical. Patient. Years of inactivity between murders. In three cases- California, Kansas, and Kentucky -someone else was arrested and tried for the crimes. There’s no clear-cut pattern, and because the murders happen within weeks of each other before he stops, the cases grow cold quickly.” She slid over a copy of her file.

“How did you connect these cases to mine?”

“I told you someone was tried in California for a crime I believe your Seattle killer is responsible for. The M.O. is similar. The man convicted was just released from prison because of a DNA test. He was convicted on circumstantial evidence, but it convinced the judge and jury. But he didn’t rape Mel-the victim.”

“He could have been involved.”

“Yes. I’ve thought of that, but the prosecutor said the evidence after all this time is too thin to guarantee a conviction. And with all the publicity over wrongful convictions across the country-well, I think they simply didn’t want to try a difficult case.” She’d talked to Hamilton Craig about it when Hall was released two weeks ago. He was willing to retry Hall, but he didn’t think they’d win. There was no evidence suggesting there were two people involved. That didn’t mean there weren’t, but it would be harder to prove. And thirty-four years later? Virtually impossible.

“What do you think? Think my killer has a partner in crime?”

He was asking her an opinion that another cop, or an FBI agent, could offer. She didn’t know. “I don’t have any evidence to suggest either way-”

“What do you think? What’s your gut instinct say? Or aren’t you FBI types allowed to listen to your instincts?”

Instincts? She didn’t know how to listen to her instincts. She needed the facts in front of her. Numbers. Statistics. Probabilities. She could compare microscopic threads and tell with certainty whether they matched or not. But her feelings about whether Missy’s killer had a partner? This was unfamiliar and potentially dangerous territory, and an area she wasn’t comfortable exploring.

“Well,” she said, trying to buy time.

“You have an opinion. Spill it. I’m not going to hold you to it if you’re wrong.”

She swallowed, tucked her hair behind her ear. “Okay, I think the killer works alone. His crime is too personal, too intimate to share with another person. But-the California murder appears to be his first. And maybe he was still working out the bugs in his killing style. The primary evidence that convicted Hall was his truck-evidence in the truck proved that the victim had been in it.” She paused when she realized she’d said Hall’s name out loud. She hadn’t meant to, and quickly continued her line of reasoning, hoping Zack didn’t seize upon her slip. “Perhaps he drove the killer? Or maybe lent the killer his truck? But I can’t see anyone keeping quiet and going to prison to protect someone.”

“I agree.”

She was surprised. “You do?”

“The crimes are too personal. I don’t see him having a partner. But maybe early on he had help.” Zack shrugged. “We won’t know until we find him.”

“Do you have a DNA sample? Anything like that?” Olivia asked.

“We have a sample off Michelle Davidson, but it’s apparently small.” He shook his head. “I’m not well-versed in DNA testing, I’ve left it to Cohn. He’s good. But it’ll still take a few weeks to get anything. Cohn’s trying to push the state crime lab into rushing the test, but they have to put court-ordered DNA testing first.” He ran a hand over the dark stubble on his face, then rubbed his neck.

“I-” How could she get that sample without Zack thinking she was taking over the case? She had to proceed carefully. “You know, I might be able to rush the sample through the FBI lab.”

He gave her a blank stare, only the tic in his neck telling her he was suspicious of her motives. “And?” he prompted.

“We have state-of-the-art equipment there, and I sort of know the assistant director of CODIS. He’ll rush it for me.”

“Oh?”

She felt like she was on the hot seat. “He’s my ex-husband.”

“Your ex-husband works in the lab?” He grinned. “Hell, I wouldn’t be able to get my ex-wife to do me any favors.”

His humor relaxed Olivia a bit. “Well, he’ll do it for me. We parted friends.”

“It’s not easy keeping a marriage going in our line of work,” Zack commented, almost to himself.

Guilt again tickled Olivia. It wasn’t her line of work, but she knew enough agents and cops to know relationships were difficult for them. Ironically, work was the one thing that had brought her and Greg together, and kept them friends.

“All right,” he said, standing abruptly. “If we can get answers faster by using your ex, I’m all for it. Let’s go down to the lab and you and Cohn can talk about all that technical stuff. You probably picked up a lot of knowledge just being married to one of those lab guys.”

He doesn’t know the half of it, Olivia thought.