Whiskey Sour Page 14

  A stressor is an event that unleashes or sets off a murder spree. This particular spree in the Gingerbread Man’s career of slaughter can be linked to a very specific occurrence. And as for escalation…like any drug, the more you get, the more you need later to feel the same high.

  The majority of serial killers were also abused as children, physically or sexually…

  He didn’t like to think about that.

  At age fifteen he gets a job at an animal shelter.

  His fantasy world quadruples overnight.

  There are plenty of things to do at the shelter to amuse himself. This is where he learns to give injections — too many injections, poisonous injections, eyeball injections; at one point he keeps a log of different things he injects into animals, with descriptions of what happens.

  The stressor comes when he gets caught mistreating one of the animals and is immediately fired. His rage is all-encompassing. He continues to visit at night, letting himself in with his keys, but it isn’t enough. He needs more.

  So he decides to kill a human.

  He picks a girl at school. A freshman. Fat and pimply. He watches her for a week to make sure she doesn’t have any friends.

  Then one day at lunch he sits down next to her and asks if she wants to see the puppies where he works.

  She does.

  Don’t tell anyone, he warns her, or he could lose his job. She promises she’ll keep it quiet, thrilled that someone is actually paying attention to her.

  They walk there after school. He tells her they’ll enter the back way, takes her into the alley, and sticks her with an animal sedative.

  When the shelter closes for the night, he lets himself in.

  After trying unsuccessfully to rouse her, he uses her sexually, and then pulls her into the crematory.

  That wakes her up. For a little while, at least.

  Three young women disappear from his town that year.

  No one ever questions him.

  And now, many deaths later, he’s ready for the big time. Headline news. National attention. All the murders that came before were practice, a warm-up for the main event.

  After he kills the last whore, the one who started it all, he’ll write a long letter to the media. Explaining what they all had in common. Explaining the reason he leaves the cookies. Making a mockery out of Jack and the CPD.

  Promising more deaths someday soon.

  It will go down in history as the greatest unsolved case of all time. And with good cause. All of the planning and preparation, the stalking, the plotting, the violence, and the surprise ending will make this the crime of the century. Worth all the time he’s spent hunched down in his truck, following these whores around. Worth all the pain that lousy bitch has caused him, her and all the others like her.

  When he was a child, nothing ever made him cry. Not even the time Father made him kneel on tacks and beg for penance.

  “You have the devil in you, boy,” Father would say.

  Father was right.

  Chapter 24

  NOW THAT I WAS VICODIN-FREE, stairs posed a real problem. The pain was bearable, but the muscle I’d injured was apparently essential for climbing, and it wouldn’t do what I commanded. To get to my office I had to ascend them sideways, like a crab, using both my cane and the handrail.

  “We do have an elevator, Lieut,” mentioned more than one of the uniforms who passed me going up or down.

  “It’s not the destination so much as how you get there.” I’d grin through my sweat, but after the twentieth stair I began to doubt my own wisdom.

  Benedict was waiting for me when I reached my office. “I see you took the stairs. Or are you fresh from the sauna?”

  “The leg keeps stiffening up. I need to stretch it.”

  “That’s a nice sweater.”

  “Just got it. Thanks.”

  “Are you wearing perfume?”

  “Maybe a touch. Why?”

  “No reason. So how’d that lead pan out at Lunch Mates?”

  Smart-ass. “Shouldn’t you be eating something about this time of day?”

  “That does sound tempting. We’ll stop on the way. I’ll drive, if you don’t mind. And unless you’d like me to carry you on my shoulders, I think we should take advantage of modern technology and use the elevator.”

  “If it’s convenient for you, who am I to argue?”

  We took the elevator, and Herb’s car, and after a quick stop at the local Burger King drive-thru we headed for Theresa Metcalf’s apartment.

  “So, did you join up or not?” Herb asked, finishing off his last bite of burger.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Must have been expensive.”

  “It was. Now let’s pretend for a moment that we’re both cops and we have other things to discuss.”

  “Sure. You gonna eat those fries?”

  I gave Herb my fries.

  Benedict turned off Addison and on to Christiana. The houses here were city houses; two-story, built in the late forties, with concrete porch steps and just enough front lawn to be able to mow with scissors. Unlike the suburbs, where every fourth house was the same model, these were each unique in their design, brickwork, and layout. Herb had a house like one of these. I might have had one, had I made some better decisions in my past.

  Herb found the address and parked by the nearest fireplug. Theresa’s roommate, Elisa Saroto, answered the door after the fourth knock. She was in her mid-twenties, thin, wearing jeans and a white blouse. Her dark brown hair hung down to her shoulders, framing a face that would have been pretty if not for the expression of grief.

  After introductions she led us into the kitchen, where she sat down in front of a cup of coffee. Next to the mug was a photo album. She’d been reliving memories.

  “We went to Fort Lauderdale last year.” She opened the album and began to flip through it. After finding the right photo she pulled it from its slot and handed it to Herb. A close-up of two women, obviously Theresa and Elisa, both smiling and sporting deep tans. I thought of the picture in my pocket that we’d taken of Theresa at the morgue. We’d found our second Jane Doe.

  “These two surfer guys tried to pick us up,” she continued. “Bob and Rob. It was so funny, Theresa and Elisa and Bob and Rob.”

  We lost her to sobbing. Herb located a box of tissue on the counter and offered her one.

  “Ms. Saroto.” I eased it in while she was catching her breath. “What kind of person was Theresa?”

  Elisa wiped her nose and snuffled.

  “She…she was my best friend. We met in college. We’ve been roommates for five years.”

  “Did she have enemies?” Benedict asked. “Ex-boyfriends who couldn’t let go, problems at work, with the family…”

  “Everyone loved her. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true. She was a great person.”

  “Did anyone ever call and make threats? Obscene phone calls?”

  She shook her head.

  “Had she been acting strange lately? Afraid?”

  “She’s been fine…Shit. Why did someone do this?”

  A new round of sobs. Benedict and I stood there, uncomfortable with her show of grief, wishing we could take it away. You never get used to people’s suffering. If you do, it’s time to get out of the job.

  “How about boyfriends?” I broke in. “Was she dating anyone?”

  “No one steady since Johnny. He’s her ex-boyfriend…fiancé. They were going to get married. I was her maid of honor. She pulled out a month before the wedding.”

  “Why was that?”

  “He was cheating on her. When she found out, she dropped him cold. He kept calling, begging her to reconsider. Jerk.”

  “And when was this?”

  “Six, eight months ago? Her wedding was set for May, so a month before that.”

  Herb asked, “What was the boyfriend’s name?”

  “Tashing. Johnny Tashing. But he didn’t kill her. He’s a loser, but he still
loves her. There’s no way he could kill her. Not like that. Not horrible like that.”

  We went on for twenty more minutes, asking more questions, handing her more tissues. Theresa Metcalf had been a waitress at a club named Montezuma’s. The last time Elisa had seen her was three days ago, when Theresa was leaving for work. Elisa had spent the last few days at her boyfriend’s apartment, and hadn’t known Theresa was missing until seeing her photo on television. She didn’t recognize the picture of the first Jane Doe. She didn’t know who killed her friend. She didn’t know why anyone would.

  After the inquisition, we walked down the hall to Theresa’s room. It was neat. The bed was made. The closets were organized. Nothing appeared out of place or unusual.

  Benedict and I busied ourselves looking through drawers and shelves for anything that could give us a clue as to Theresa’s life and schedule. We found a box of letters, an appointment calendar, and some canceled checks. Nothing else warranted further attention.

  Then we checked all the doors and windows, looking for signs of forced entry. We found nothing.

  “Did Theresa have a purse?” I asked Elisa.

  “Sure.”

  We searched the bathroom and the rest of the house and came up empty-handed. Theresa must have taken her purse with her. That meant she probably wasn’t dragged forcibly from her house. So our working assumption was she’d either been grabbed by surprise somewhere else, or she went willingly with someone she knew.

  Benedict gave Elisa a receipt for the items we took, and we asked her if she would stop by the morgue sometime tomorrow to identify the body. Normally we’d ask next of kin, but according to her roommate, Theresa was an only child and her parents were dead. Elisa agreed to come in around ten.

  “So where to?” Benedict queried as we climbed back into the car.

  “Two choices.” I grimaced, trying to get my leg into a position that didn’t hurt so much. “Work or the ex-boyfriend.”

  “I’d like to read through the letters we took before we tackle the ex. I saw his name on a few of them.”

  “Then it’s off to work we go.”

  “You can adjust the seat, Jack. It’s all electric.”

  Comfort won out over ego and I began pressing buttons. By the time I’d found the perfect combination of tilt and lift, we’d reached Theresa’s place of employment a few blocks away.

  “They don’t look open.” Herb pulled in front of the club. We couldn’t see any lights on through the tinted windows.

  “Alley entrance. I’m sure someone’s inside, setting up for the day.”

  Herb parked on the street, refusing to leave his nice car with electric seats in the alley. We walked around and banged on the back door until one of the kitchen workers answered. Our badges got us inside, and after an intense session of question and answer with the manager of the club, we learned that Theresa did indeed work there, but she hadn’t shown up for her last four shifts.

  We got an employee list, along with the current work schedule, and asked if any other employee had been missing shifts lately. None had. Neither had any employee been dating or harassing Theresa. Had any customers? Well, the wait staff got hit on all of the time, but none fit the stalker category. We’d have to talk with the other servers to be sure. No reaction to the picture of the first victim.

  Benedict and I walked back to the car. Routine dictated that every employee had to be questioned and checked out. We’d run them all through the computer for priors, and then we’d begin the lengthy and time-consuming process of interrogation, checking alibis, running down new leads. Hopefully something would break loose, but I wasn’t crossing my fingers. The more we turned up, the more it seemed that Charles picked women at random. Maybe all a girl had to do to get on his list was be young and cute.

  We (Herb) stopped for doughnuts on the way back to the station, picking up a dozen and the obligatory coffee. Since Herb’s tongue had been mangled, he’d actually been eating more than usual.

  “I once knew an overweight woman who was anorexic,” he told me. “She refused to give in to her disease, so she ate nonstop. I refuse to let a little mouth pain deter my eating habits.”

  “Who said overcompensation isn’t healthy.”

  “Pass me another cruller.”

  I was unable to talk Herb into taking the stairs when we got back to the station, even when using big words like arteriosclerosis and myocardial infarction. It was a good thing I saved my energy, because waiting for me in my office were the men in gray, ready to save the world and document it in triplicate.

  “Lieutenant Daniels,” Agent Coursey said. Or maybe it was Dailey. “We’ve got good news.”

  I hoped it involved them being reassigned.

  “Vicky worked up a new profile of the suspect, and we’re 77.4 percent sure that he’s French Canadian, and most likely owns a horse.”

  “Our killer is a Mountie.” Herb said it deadpan.

  “A what? Hmm, that’s good. We hadn’t thought of that.”

  They looked at each other, and Benedict and I took the moment to do the same.

  “How about the candy,” I asked. “Did you get anything?”

  “There have been over six hundred recorded cases of food tampering in the last fifteen years. More than two hundred of those were with candy. By limiting the search to individuals who used razor blades, fishhooks, and needles, we narrowed it down to forty-three cases. In only two reported cases had a perp used all three. Both in Lansing, Michigan. On consecutive Halloweens, in 1994 and ”95.“

  I felt, for the first time in this case, the stirrings of excitement. This could be a solid lead.

  “Arrests? Suspects?”

  “None.”

  The hope leached away.

  “Both times, a bowl of candy had been left at an unoccupied house. No prints, no witnesses, no confessions, just several dozen kids taken to the emergency room, and one terminal occurrence.”

  “Have you gone through the Lansing files, found anyone arrested there in the past who might be our man?”

  “We’ve cross-referenced arrest records with anyone fitting our profile, but no one came up who was French Canadian. Several suspects owned horses, and we’re checking them out.”

  Patience, Jack.

  “How about apart from your profile? Anyone arrested in Lansing for kidnapping women? Raping stab wounds? Leaving notes for the police? Any unsolved murders that involved abduction, torture, and mutilation? This guy has killed before. You’ve pretty much confirmed he’s been in Michigan. Did you follow up on any of this?”

  “We’re checking,” the one on the right said, hooding his eyes in a manner that could only be described as sheepish. “However, if you could spare the manpower, we’d like to check out some local livery stables and investigate this horse angle.”

  I blinked. Twice. I was a deep breath away from spouting off, when a uniform knocked on my open office door. It was Barry Fuller, a large patrolman who used to be on the Chicago Bears. He was assigned to the Gingerbread Man task force, though in what capacity I’d have to admit ignorance.

  “Officer Fuller.” I bid him entrance, happy to be interrupted.

  Fuller came in, giving the FBI a sideways glance.

  “We…I took a call this morning.” I now remembered that Fuller had been assigned to work the phones, sorting out fake confessions and tips. “It was Fitzpatrick, the owner of the second 7-Eleven. He wanted to add to his statement.”

  “Add what?”

  “He remembers hearing an ice cream truck before he saw the body.”

  “Like one of those Good Humor trucks with the music?”

  “Yeah. It was playing one of those pipe organ songs, he thinks it was ”The Candyman.“”

  I rolled this around in my head. We knew the perp drove a truck. An ice cream truck would be practically anonymous; there had to be hundreds in Chicago. I turned to Herb.

  “We need a list of all ice cream trucks registered in Illinois and Michigan. And we nee
d to find out if any special kind of license or permit is needed, and check that list for priors; stick with assault, rape, burglary…don’t bother with traffic violations. Then we need the list cross-referenced with Dr. Booster’s patient list. And we need to talk with that kid Donovan, who found the first body.”

  “I did that,” Fuller said. “I called him. He remembers hearing an ice cream truck as well. I’ve also gotten started on the DMV reports. The problem is, they only register make, model, and year. An ice cream truck is a Jeep, and there are thousands of Jeeps in Illinois. More in Michigan, I can guess. We can’t break it down by drivers, because anyone with a standard class D can drive a Jeep. If the guy has a business license, it could be possible to find him through that, but that goes by village, not state. It could take weeks to check every suburb.”