Wild Card

Chapter 9

The station house was a tomb when Valentine came in at five past nine.

“Hey Joe, where is everybody?” he asked the desk sergeant.

Joe Scagglione looked up from the sports section of the newspaper. He’d gotten shot in the spine during a foiled bank robbery ten years ago, and was a constant reminder to every cop of what happened to the disabled.

“Jesus, Tony, didn’t you get the memo?”

“What memo?”

“Banko wanted everyone here at nine sharp. He’s brought in the FBI.” Joe pointed down the hall at the room that was used for morning briefings. “In there.”

Valentine hurried down the hallway, and entered the briefing room to the stares of a hundred of his peers. The briefing room had tiered seating, and he saw Doyle sitting in the last row, holding a chair for him. He scampered up the aisle and joined his partner.

Moments later, Banko entered the meeting room followed by two men wearing off-the-rack suits that screamed law enforcement. One was Mexican, heavyset, with salt and pepper hair and slate blue eyes. The other was white, with a hatchet face and a mouth as thin as a paper cut. Banko addressed his troops.

“Good morning. I realize it’s not the wisest thing to pull every cop off their beat for a meeting, but I believe this situation warrants it. As you know, there’s a killer on the loose, and we have no idea who he is, or where he’ll strike again. To help our investigation along, I’ve asked the FBI for help. Special Agents Romero and Fuller are based in Washington, and work in the bureau’s Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Agent Fuller will speak to you first.”

Fuller took center stage. He wore a scowl, and looked like a classic ball-buster. Behind him, Romero pulled down a movie screen hanging above a chalkboard.

“Good morning,” Fuller said. “The FBI normally doesn’t involve itself with local problems. But with serial killers, we make an exception. And that appears to be what you’re dealing with here.”

A slide projector sat on a table in front of the screen. Fuller picked up a clicker and pressed it. A slide appeared containing two photographs. One showed a smiling brunette, the other, the same girl hanging by her bound wrists from the ceiling. The dead girl wore wide bell bottoms, a denim shirt with flower embroidery, and strands of love beads. Rigor mortis had left her body, and her flaccid skin hung limply from her bones.

“This is Mary Ann Crawford, originally from Philadelphia, most recently Atlantic City,” Fuller said. “Twenty-two years old, trained as a beautician. Moved to Atlantic City six weeks ago, lived by herself. She was found in a hotel room on the beach, cause of death starvation. The hippie clothes are her killer’s calling card.”

Fuller pressed the clicker, and a second slide filled the screen. It was similar to the first: A photo of a smiling brunette on the left, the same woman hanging from her wrists on the right, dressed in a flowing Woodstock dress and love beads.

“Melissa Edwards, twenty-two, part-time actress and model, a recent transplant from the Baltimore area. Cause of death was also starvation. Same deal with the clothes. She was also found in a motel room hanging by her wrists.”

He hit the clicker a third time, and the roomful of cops stared at the photos of the most recent victim. “Connie Howard, twenty-four, aspiring actress, originally from New York, lived in Atlantic City a few months, reduced to skin and bones and hippie clothes. She was found hanging by her wrists in an abandoned warehouse last week.”

The screen went blank. Fuller stuck his hand in his pocket, and the scowl on his face grew. “This killer — who we call the Dresser — is on a spree. We believe he’s suppressed his murderous urges for a long time. Now, he’s erupted. Why, we have no idea. But we are reasonably certain he’s going to strike again, and probably soon.

“There’s a great deal we don’t know about our killer. We don’t know his name, or what he looks like. However, there are certain things we do know. Our profilers have determined that he’s a white male, between the ages of thirty and forty-five, who lives alone and has few friends. His taste in women runs to attractive brunettes between five-four and five-six, with green eyes. He’s methodical, and of above-average intelligence. We also think he’s an Atlantic City native, since he seems to know where to dump these bodies without getting caught.

“My partner and I are asking for your cooperation in helping us track this guy down. We need you to put the word out on the street, and talk to everyone you know. Our guess is, other women have been approached by the Dresser, and might remember him. With a little prodding, perhaps we can get a solid lead on who he is. I’m leaving a stack of sheets with the killer’s profile for you to distribute. Before we go, my partner would like to say a few words.”

Fuller stepped aside, and Romero took his spot. He was over six feet tall, and built like a linebacker. For a big guy, his voice was unusually soft, and every cop in the room leaned forward to hear what he had to say.

“These women were all starved to death,” Romero said, his hands stuck in his pockets. “As some of you might know, starvation can take five or even six days, sometimes longer. These young women all died painfully. We’re dealing with one sick bastard here, and we’re hoping you can help us catch this guy. Thank you.”

Romero relinquished the floor to Banko. The chief asked if anyone had questions. He got no takers, and escorted the FBI agents from the room.

The cops began filing out, with no one saying a word. Soon the room was empty, save for Valentine and his partner. Doyle rose from his chair while Valentine remained seated, staring at the blank movie screen.

“Give me a minute,” Valentine said.

“Something wrong?

“I’m not sure.”

Valentine shut his eyes and focused on the darkness. It made him relax, and he felt his body melt into the chair. It was like being in a trance, and something he’d been doing since he was a kid. Doyle’s brother, a priest, called them epiphanies. All Valentine knew was that when he had them, the world always seemed a little clearer.

A minute later Valentine opened his eyes. Doyle was still there waiting for him. He stared at the blank movie screen, still seeing the faces of the three victims. He ticked off their names in his head: Mary Ann Crawford, Melissa Edwards, Connie Howard. It was an old trick a homicide cop had taught him. Remember their names, and you’ll always remember their faces.

“You going to tell me what’s wrong?” his partner asked.

“The FBI has got this case all wrong,” Valentine said.

“How the heck do you know that?”

“Because I saw this guy on a surveillance tape. He was in the casino, hunting a victim.”

“When was this?”

“Back when Higgins was in town.”

“Why is the FBI wrong? What did they miss?”

The FBI knew a lot about serial killers, but they didn’t know much about Atlantic City. Valentine had begged Banko to put him on the case a few weeks ago. Now, Banko was going to wish he had.

“He’s picking up his victims inside the casino,” Valentine explained. “We’re probably seeing him on the surveillance cameras, and not realizing it.”

“How can you be certain of that, Tony?” Doyle asked him. “Maybe he picked up one victim inside a casino, and met another in a bar, or the grocery store.”

Valentine shook his head. Doyle had missed it, and so had every other cop sitting in the room. He pushed himself out of his chair, and walked out of the room with his partner. “I need to talk to these FBI agents before they leave.”

“Sure. Just do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t say anything to these guys you’ll later regret.”

Valentine slapped his partner on the shoulder. Doyle knew him too well.

“I’ll be on my best behavior.”