Speaking for the Dead Page 5

  “Shit. I hate that, Garrett,”

  “I do too, Lucy.”

  “So, what now?”

  “We let the CSI’s do their thing and we go back to the station and open up a new murder book,” Moseby told her.

  “Sounds like a plan. At least as soon as Lisa gives a time of death.”

  “Yeah, we should probably wait on that,” Moseby replied. The sky to the east was starting to lighten as dawn approached.

  “This guy is one sick puppy,” Lucy French said as they dropped into their chairs back at the station.

  “Yes, he is. He’s a special kind of sick,” Moseby replied.

  “So, what do we do next?”

  “You printed the body, right?”

  “I did.”

  “Run the prints; see if she’s in the system. If she isn’t we’ll send her picture out to the news outlets and see if anyone knows who she is.”

  “That is a good plan.”

  “I thought so.”

  “So, have you told the Captain that we’re pretty sure the same guy is behind this one?”

  “Why do you think he gave us carte blanche on this one?”

  “Publicity?”

  “No, he wants this guy taken down quickly. He’s hoping to avoid a lot of negative publicity,” Moseby sighed.

  “Yeah, a serial killer on the loose might stem the flow of tourist dollars,” Lucy French rolled her eyes.

  “Exactly. The Mayor is going to throw him to the wolves. You know that as well as I do. Especially if we can’t solve this case and solve it fast.”

  “I get that. I’m just not happy about it.”

  “Who is? I sure as hell am not. I fucking hate when our cases become political.”

  “I do too,” French agreed.

  “I know that,” Moseby told her.

  Key West, Florida.

  “All right already,” Harry Dove growled as he reached for the phone on the nightstand next to his bed. He was one of the few people who even still had a land-line. His hand found the receiver and pulled it to his ear as he squinted at his digital alarm clock to see what time it was. “What and it had damn well better be important!” Dove snarled. Harry was a stringer for the Independent News Service.

  “You need to haul your ass up to Tampa ASAP. It looks like they have a serial killer on the loose and the Boss wants you up there to cover it,” Tim Regan, his editor’s voice sounded in his ear.

  “A serial killer eh?” Harry asked, blinking his watery blue eyes to full wakefulness. He swung his feet off the bed and onto the floor.”

  “Yeah, the guy killed some jogger last night, and the word off the scanners is that another body was found this morning with the same kind of slashes.”

  “A slasher?” Harry’s voice perked up. Regan had his full attention now.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think this one is cutting out thyroid glands. However, he cuts their Achilles tendons first to cripple them and then does his thing to them,” Regan told him.

  “Okay, Tim. I’m gonna hit the shower and grab some breakfast and be on my way up there in an hour. Do you know who caught the case? And how the hell have you gotten this much this fast?” Dove asked.

  “I have a source in the Medical Examiner’s office. Right now, you need to get your ass in gear,” Regan said.

  “I’m on it,” Dove said, hanging up. He had worked a slasher case a few months back, right here in Key West. The guy was never caught, though the police claimed that he had drowned after being shot multiple times by police. Nobody was ever recovered. To Harry, that was a loose end. He didn’t like loose ends in his stories.

  Harry Dove was no spring chicken. He had been reporting the news since World War Two. He ran a liver spotted hand through his shock of thinning red hair. It was turning white at the temples, but still had plenty of red in it. He headed for the bathroom, stripping off his white tee shirt as he went.

  Tampa, Florida.

  Moseby and French were back in the station. Lucy had entered the victim’s prints into the system and was waiting for something to come back from AFIS. Moseby had just come back from pouring himself a cup of black coffee and dropped into his chair. His job was to start the murder book on their Jane Doe. He had recorded most of her vital statistics on a notepad, and he read it as he typed it into the computer. Once he had everything entered, he would send it to the printer and print it all out.

  Glenn Morris walked over and sat on the corner of the desk. Morris was short and heavy-set, with thinning gray hair and heavy jowls, His shirt and tie had splotches of grease stains, and strained at the buttons. “I hear you caught a tough one. You think this guy’s a serial?” Morris asked.

  “I don’t know what to think yet, Glenn. It’s too soon to tell,” Moseby replied.

  “Word around the station is that they were identical,” Morris said.

  “And I told you it is too soon to say,” Moseby gave the other detective a hard look.

  “Have it your way,” Morris said, standing, and walking off in a huff. Moseby didn’t care. This was his and French’s case and he wasn’t about to feed any rumors. There had been a few that Morris liked to leak details of on-going investigations to reporters. Moseby hoped to keep most of the details out of the press for as long as possible.

  Once he had the victim’s vitals typed in, he recorded what he had witnessed at the scene, along with his impressions. He added what Lisa Blair had told him as an appendix. He would let French add her impressions before printing it out, as well as whatever she might have turned up on the victim. Moseby saved the file with a case number that French could use to access it as well. So, could the Captain. He e-mailed the case number to Captain Stanley, knowing that his boss would want to see it first thing to chart their progress. At the coffee machine, he had heard that Rebekah McCabe had managed to get the guy that had killed Caroline England. He respected McCabe, and he remembered her from her days on the Job.

  He was tired. His sleep had been interrupted by the call out to the second body. But he had to focus. Two women were dead, and he could feel in his gut that more were going to die. He didn’t want it to happen, but he knew it would. At least until the guy made a mistake. So far there was nothing in the evidence to say that he had yet.

  “Her name is Tina King,” Lucy said as she dropped into her seat behind the desk across from his.

  “She have any priors?” Moseby asked.

  “Just a couple of traffic violations, nothing major.”

  “So not a working girl?”

  “No.”

  “Why do you think he picked her?”

  “I wish I knew,” Lucy sighed.

  “Looking at her face, even in death, she was a pretty girl.”

  “She was, she had the looks that would appeal to any man,” Lucy agreed.

  “Our guy likes them pretty,” Moseby said.

  “He seems to, yes.”

  “So, he’s not choosing them because of their vanity.”

  “No.”

  “What if he is choosing them because of his vanity?” Moseby asked.

  “It certainly is a thought,” French nodded.

  “He wants us to know that he’s good-looking enough to be able to pick up any woman he wants.”

  “Sounds right. So, we know he is attractive to the opposite sex. That’s not a lot to go on.”

  “It’s more than we had before.”

  “So, that’s what we have, he likes pretty girls?”

  “It’s more than we had before. He wants us to think he’s escalating, but he is playing a longer game than that.”

  “Which is?” Lucy raised an eyebrow at him.

  “I wish I knew,” Moseby told her.

  He had gone to sleep eventually. He knew that the next day would be a long one since he had stayed up so late. But he couldn’t allow himself to do anything out of the ordinary. He would have to go to work on time, spend the day there. Once the day was over, he could hurry home or go out. He would be free to do
either.

  Personally, he was excited to see the headlines in the morning paper. It would almost be like masturbating as he read the news accounts of his crime. He was awake before the alarm went off and turned on his television to catch the early news. He smiled as he listened to the reports of the second slasher killing on the news.

  He showered and then went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. He put a microwave egg into the microwave oven and cooked it for a minute. He added a piece of toast and ate them both while he read the news accounts of his activities of the night before.

  “We need to finish reading Sunny’s diary. Maybe there’s something in there to point us in the killer’s direction,” Moseby scooped the diary up and began flipping through it. Lucy French shook her head as she typed and entered what information they had into the system. There was a chance that the girl was in the system. Not a good chance, but a chance.

  Once she had that done, Lucy pushed her chair back and stood up. Moseby glanced over at her. “I’m going to talk to a couple of people,” Lucy told him.

  “You want me along?” Moseby asked, curious.

  “Not yet. They might not be as willing to talk if you’re there.”

  “Okay. Go see what you can find. I’ll keep working the diary. Call me if you get anything.”

  “You do the same,” Lucy said turning and heading out of the squad room. She figured a freak like this one might be known to some of the higher class working girls around town. Moseby made them nervous, but they would talk to her.

  Chapter Eight

  Lucy checked out an unmarked car and headed out. The AC was blasting cold air from the vents by the time she was out of the garage and hitting the surface streets. She knew who she wanted to talk to first. Lauren might know their guy. Lauren Campbell was a high-class call girl that had started out on the streets and worked her way up to out-call services. Lucy had a feeling about this guy. He liked beautiful girls, and she was willing to bet that he occasionally paid for company. Even good looking guys did sometimes, especially if they just wanted sex and no strings. She had a feeling that the killer fit into that category. He didn’t like strings, and if he was with a girl and had problems, pros were sometimes able to overcome those sorts of things.

  Luke Stanley dropped into the chair across from Moseby as the detective continued to work his way through the diary. “What have you got so far, Garrett?” Stanley asked.

  “Not a whole lot, Captain,” Moseby sighed, setting the book aside.

  “What’s that?” Stanley nodded towards the book.

  “The first victim’s diary. Lucy went out to work some street sources on both victims,” Moseby said.

  “How bad is it, Garrett?” Stanley asked.

  “It’s bad, Captain. Both Lucy and I and Lisa Blair feel like the same guy did both women. But there was something off on the second one. It felt like he killed her at random like he was trying to throw us off,” Moseby explained.

  “So you don’t think he’s escalating?”

  “Not in a traditional sense, no.”

  “Then how?”

  “He’s playing with us, Captain. It’s become a game for him.”

  “So how are you going to handle it? I have to tell you, I’m already getting a lot of heat on this one.”

  “I figured that. But we need to have the chance to work it.”

  “Heat or no heat, Garrett, find this bastard and take him down.”

  “I’ll do the best I can, Captain,” Moseby told him. Stanley nodded, stood, and walked away. Just then Moseby’s telephone rang. He reached over and scooped it up. “Moseby.”

  “Hey Sarge, this is Len Foley from patrol. I heard you were looking for a guy named Chester Wilkins?” said the voice on the other end.

  “You heard right, Foley. You know the guy?”

  “I do, and I’m looking at him right now,” Foley replied.

  “Where are you?” Moseby asked, his heart beating faster in anticipation.

  “He’s currently sitting in a gas station at the corner of 30th and Fowler. Driving an older model Chevy Lumia, if that helps,” Foley explained.

  “Don’t let him leave. In fact, he’s wanted for questioning in the murder of Sunny Cargill. Pick him up and bring him in, Officer Foley,” Moseby ordered.

  “See you soon, Detective,” Foley broke the connection. Moseby put his phone down and dug out his cell phone, sending French a text to let her know that Wilkins was being picked up and brought back to the station. It looked like things might be beginning to break their way for a change.

  Chester Wilkins walked back out to his car and opened the door, tossing the bag full of snacks and cigarettes inside. He had places to be and things to do. Then he heard a single bleat from a police car and looked behind him. Two officers were stepping out of their vehicle, hands on their guns. Wilkins sighed and put his hands on the roof of his car and assumed the position.

  “Lucy, it’s been a while,” Lauren Campbell said. Lauren was a striking woman, with golden hair and vibrant blue eyes, high cheekbones.

  “Yes, it has, Lauren. Too long. The thing is, our jobs don’t allow either of us much time to socialize with each other,” Lucy smiled at her old friend.

  “Yes, they do tend to rather put us at odds most of the time,” Lauren smiled and nodded, her blue eyes sparkling.

  “This time, we can help each other.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m sure you have seen the news, the two slasher murders?”

  “I certainly have. They are bad business for both of us.”

  “Yes, they are. This guy seems to be a bit of a freak. He cuts these women up but leaves their faces untouched. We think he’s a good-looking guy, but to indulge himself up until now, we think that he has mostly hired his companions.”

  “I can ask around, see what I can find out for you.”

  “Will you?”

  “Yes. I’ll let you know what I find,” Lauren told her.

  “Thanks, Lauren,” Lucy said. Her phone pinged with an incoming text. Lucy dug it out of her purse and looked at the screen. She looked at Lauren. “I have to go,” she said.

  “I’ll call as soon as I know something,” Lauren called after her. Lucy headed out the door and for her car. The text had been from Moseby. Chester Wilkins was being picked up and on his way to the station.

  He left work early, saying he wasn’t feeling well. The truth was, he was on top of the fucking world. The cops still had no fucking clue as to who he was, even after he had killed twice! They were starting to sweat now. That was evident from what the news reports were saying.

  The words serial killer hadn’t been said publicly yet, but it was only a matter of time. He already had the invitation to travel to California from a friend he had met on the dark web. One of those hidden chat rooms that only people of his kind used and met, talked about their urges without being judged. Instead, they were welcomed by them and they could get help and suggestions for ways to keep the police off balance.

  Sunny had been personal. Tina had been to throw off the cops. Tonight, he would begin searching for victim number three. He liked what he was doing, actually got off on it. He had exploded in his underwear again after he killed Tina, despite having just had sex with her using a condom.

  For him, the killing was an aphrodisiac. So, who would be number three? He wanted to watch her first, find out her routine. Just like he had Sunny. Maybe he’d even fuck her first like he had Tina. He smiled at the thought. Sunny had to die because she had laughed at him and belittled him. Tina was simply a ruse to make the cops think he was escalating when he really wasn’t. But number three, he wanted to take his time with her and make sure that he got the maximum pleasure out of it. Tonight, he would go out on the hunt!

  Detective Sergeant Moseby was waiting when Foley and his partner brought Chester Wilkins in. Moseby directed them to put Wilkins in an interrogation room. After they had deposited the mutt, Moseby thanked Foley and his partner, a guy nam
ed Eric Stone, for bringing Wilkins in.

  “This guy is an ass, Sarge. We’ve rousted him more than once for complaints,” Foley said.

  “Any sexual assaults?” Moseby asked.

  “Four or five,” Foley replied.

  “Interesting. You think this guy is a predator?”

  “Yeah, I do. I don’t know how much of one, but he likes stalking and attacking women.”

  “Thank you, Foley. I appreciate your insight,” Moseby told him. The two patrolmen left and Lucy French walked in.

  “You have any luck?” Moseby asked her.

  “Not off hand, but I have some feelers out on our boy.”

  “Good. We’ve got Wilkins in the box. Seems like a good time to ask him some questions.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “You want to take lead on it?” Moseby asked her.

  “Why not?” Lucy asked, grabbing the file folder and opening the door. Moseby walked into the interrogation room behind her.

  Chester Wilkins slouched at the table, his hands still in cuffs. His brown hair was on the longish side and greasy, dark stubble covered his cheeks and chin. His eyes were such a dark brown that they almost seemed black. His white tee shirt was dingy and had holes in it. His jeans were also grease stained and his sneakers were a dirty white. He glared at them both defiantly as they entered the interrogation room. Lucy French walked over and dropped into the chair across from the subject and lay the manila file folder flat on the table, coolly appraising him with her eyes. Moseby leaned against the wall, but he loomed menacingly behind his partner, looking like he wanted nothing more than to beat Wilkins to death.

  “Good evening, Chester. I’m so glad you came in to talk to us,” Lucy said by way of opening the dialog.

  “I didn’t come in. I was dragged in against my will.” Wilkins replied gruffly.

  “Well, when you have priors, we don’t really give you a choice.”

  “Yeah, I get that. So why the fuck am I here?”