Kill Me Once Page 12

  Dana shifted her gaze to the ornate script tattoo on Moreno’s neck. Orgullo Salvadoreno. Salvadorean Pride.

  ‘You from El Salvador?’

  Moreno didn’t answer, just as she didn’t bother responding to Dana’s outstretched hand.

  ‘OK, then – I guess we’ll just skip that part.’

  Over the past couple of days the Indian summer had shattered like a fumbled dinner plate, dropping the temperature to a chilly if more seasonable sixty degrees, so Moreno shuffled her booted feet against the pavement and shoved her hands deep into her puffy coat pockets against the cold. ‘What the hell do you want, lady? It’s fuckin’ freezin’ out here and I ain’t got all goddamn day. The wrong homies see me talkin’ to you and I end up like Brenda Paz. No fuckin’ thank you.’

  Dana searched her memory until she remembered the name. Brenda Paz was the MS-13 member who’d been found murdered along the banks of the Shenandoah River in northern Virginia in the summer of 2003 – the victim of her fellow gang bangers, who’d taken exception to the fact she’d been sharing information about Mara Salvatrucha with the feds.

  Brenda Paz had been all of seventeen years old at the time of her brutal murder, just a couple of years younger than Luz Moreno. Brenda Paz had been stabbed more than a dozen times. Brenda Paz had also been four months pregnant.

  Blood in, blood out. You live for your mother, you live for your God, you die for your gang.

  Dana pulled her collar up against the cold wind that was sweeping the street like an icy broom and fought off a sudden shiver. She couldn’t remember Los Angeles ever being this cold before, even at this time of year.

  ‘I need you to tell me what you remember about the man you saw in South Central that night, Luz,’ she said. ‘Anything. Everything. Start at the beginning.’

  Moreno screwed her pretty face up in irritation. ‘Goddamn it, lady, you gonna get me killed over some stupid shit like that? I already told them fuckers everything I know. Already helped them make their stupid little drawing. Read the fuckin’ police report, why don’t you?’

  Dana stared at her evenly. ‘I did, Luz. Now like I said, start at the beginning.’

  The young Latina tried holding Dana’s blazing stare for a moment, but quickly realised it was a battle she was going to lose. Crawford Bell wasn’t the only one in the FBI who could stare somebody down.

  Sighing, Moreno shook her head and said, ‘OK, here’s how it goes – and this is the last goddamn time I want to say it. I was visiting a friend of mine over there when I heard the sirens going off. I went outside to see what the fuck was up and that’s when the creepy motherfucker bowed up on me. He stood there until I saw the blood all over him and I screamed. Then he hauled his ass the fuck outta there. There ain’t nothin’ else to tell, lady. That’s the whole goddamn story.’

  ‘What do you mean, he “bowed up” on you?’

  Moreno shook her head, an action Dana took as disgust for her ignorance of street slang. ‘I mean the motherfucker raised up on me and tried to stare me down, that’s what the fuck I mean. Got all up in my face.’

  ‘Did he say anything to you? Anything at all?’

  Moreno considered the question for a moment before snapping her gum and stealing a quick peek over her shoulder at the esses. ‘Nah,’ she said finally. ‘He just stood there looking down at me all crazy and shit. It was definitely fucked up, though.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Moreno eyed Dana for another long moment before sweeping her head around to check the position of her homeboys again. They hadn’t moved, but neither had they taken their eyes off them. The natives were definitely starting to get restless. It was good to know Brown was watching her back, Dana thought.

  Moreno leaned in close – close enough for Dana to catch an unmistakable whiff of Tommy Girl floating on the air. ‘He didn’t say nothin’, but it was almost like he was waiting on me to say something to him, you know what I mean?’

  The young Latina shook her head, sending her huge silver earrings swaying back and forth. ‘All I know is it was royally fucked up and I hope to God I never see his creepy ass again. And that’s the truth.’

  Dana nodded. She knew the feeling. ‘Anything else you remember from that night, Luz? Anything at all?’

  For once, Moreno didn’t hesitate with her answer. ‘His eyes,’ she said quickly. ‘I remember his eyes.’

  ‘What about them?’

  The girl’s lower lip began to tremble, and for the first time Dana could see that she was just a frightened little child underneath all her tough bluster. Dana didn’t blame her in the least. It was a rough world that Luz Moreno had to live in.

  ‘Los ojos de Diablo,’ she whispered.

  ‘Translation?’

  ‘It means his eyes were all fucked up, bitch. It means he had the eyes of Satan.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Dana brushed her way past the pack of underage, wannabe gang bangers walking down the sidewalk in their matching uniforms of FUBU clothes and returned to the loaner car. FUBU stood for ‘For Us, By Us,’ which meant that whites weren’t welcome to participate. Judging by the hostile glares she received from the aggressive-looking group of young black and Latino boys, she figured that was pretty much the motto for the entire neighbourhood.

  Wordlessly, she and Brown got in the car and Dana hit the power door-locks before pulling on her seat belt and cranking the engine to life. Tracy Chapman’s ‘Fast Car’ came on over the stereo.

  ‘Nice song,’ Brown said. ‘Pretty damn appropriate, considering the circumstances.’

  ‘How much you figure real estate goes for around here? I’m thinking a nice little place for the summers,’ Dana said, keeping things light and trying to keep her frustration and fear in check. Mainly frustration. Moreno hadn’t told her anything new.

  Brown rolled his eyes at her. ‘Let’s just take our fast car and get the hell out of here. I’m moving. This place gives me the creeps.’ He turned serious then. ‘So what did Luz Moreno have to say? Looked like things were getting serious there for a moment.’

  Dana filled him in as they drove back to the LA field office.

  ‘So we’re looking for Satan, huh?’ Brown asked.

  ‘Either him or one of his minions.’

  ‘Charming. I’ll make sure I start bringing my crucifix along from now on.’

  He paused and cracked the passenger-side window to let some fresh air into the car, then glanced down at his watch. ‘You ready to move on? We’ve got a full day of fun activities in front of us.’

  ‘So what’s next on the list?’ Dana said.

  ‘Well, first we’ll meet with the handwriting expert back at the office. Hopefully he’ll be able to help us break down the note stitched into the killer’s pants. After that we’ll go see the sketch artist Luz Moreno worked with the day after the murder. To top things off, we’ll meet up with the blood-spatter expert over at Mary Ellen Orton’s apartment in South Central.’

  ‘Sounds like fun. Let the games begin.’

  Twenty minutes later they were back in the field office conference room downtown discussing possible motives for the killer. Maybe this time they’d make a real breakthrough.

  ‘He obviously hates women,’ Brown said. ‘No surprise there because they usually do. A revenge complex, perhaps? Maybe he had a horrible mother or a wife who dumped him? Like they always say, there’s a very thin line between love and hate.’

  Dana was on the verge of coming clean with Brown when a soft rap sounded at the door. A moment later a large unkempt man in his early sixties entered the room holding a sheaf of papers in his right hand.

  ‘Hey, Fred,’ Brown said. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  The handwriting expert smiled a full smile of brown teeth at Dana while Brown introduced them. Brown pulled back a seat at the conference table for him and he and Dana took seats opposite.

  ‘What have you got for us, Mr Spangler?’ Dana asked, taking over.

  Spangler lower
ed his overweight frame into a plastic chair and spread photocopies of the Disneyland note out on the table in front of them. ‘Well, near as I can tell, it looks like a classic case of OCD.’

  Dana studied the papers. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Spangler leaned forward and traced the letters on the note with a ballpoint pen. ‘See here how each occurrence of every letter is exactly identical? That’s actually very unusual. Most people tend to write in approximately the same manner, but this guy is off the charts for consistency.’

  He produced a small magnifying glass from the breast pocket of his rumpled suit and ran it over the note. ‘See here how all the Ds have exactly the same hump, and how each of the Es curls down in exactly the same fashion? It’s like that throughout the entire note.’

  ‘Don’t most people do that?’ Brown asked. ‘I know my handwriting’s always been pretty consistent.’

  Spangler shook his head, sending his impressive jowls quivering into motion. ‘That may be the case, Jeremy, but you most certainly don’t do it with this precision.’ He rifled through his sheaf of papers and slid a transparency over the note. ‘I’ve copied down the letters in question. As you can see here, there’s not even the slightest deviation in any of them. It’s almost like he was using a typewriter.’

  ‘But he was using a normal ballpoint pen, right?’ Dana asked.

  Spangler nodded. ‘A Scripto Blue No. 4, to be exact.

  Anyway, that’s what makes this so goddamn unusual. He did this by hand – but he also managed to do it with the precision of a machine.’

  Dana looked up at him over the papers. ‘What else does the handwriting tell us?’ This wasn’t really telling them anything they didn’t know or suspect already, but Spangler might just hold an ace up his sleeve.

  Spangler leaned forward again, excited now. ‘Glad you asked. As you can see here, his writing also has a lot of pressure to it. That’s what makes it appear so dark. The heavier the pressure, the more emotional energy the writer possesses. Also, the lack of a slant is very important to note. People whose handwriting slants to the right are more likely to keep their cool under pressure than those who don’t exhibit any slant at all. People who possess very little emotional energy use light pressure and a leftward slant. They generally prefer to avoid confrontation. That’s definitely not the case here.’

  ‘So what’s your verdict, then?’ Brown asked.

  Spangler looked up at him. ‘My verdict is that this guy doesn’t like disorder, Jeremy. In anything. My verdict is he craves perfection, even on a subconscious level.’

  ‘A pretty lofty goal,’ Dana said.

  Spangler gathered his papers together into a loose pile and, with a groan, rose to his feet. ‘Lofty, yes, but I’d say this guy is pretty close to perfect already.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Ten minutes after Spangler left the conference room, Dana and Brown made their way down the hall to Jim McGreevy’s office where they found him hunched over a large drafting table in the middle of the room, the fresh pencil in his left hand poised and ready for action.

  At fifty-four and jokingly referred to as ‘Rembrandt’ by his less artistic co-workers, McGreevy was generally considered the best composite-sketch artist in the country. People everywhere knew his work, if not his name. His two most famous examples – or, more accurately, infamous examples – could be found in the ubiquitous composite he’d done of the Unabomber in 1996 and the widely distributed sketch he’d made of the phantom black man that Susan Smith claimed had abducted her two young sons out in South Carolina shortly after she’d drowned them in a man-made lake in 1994.

  McGreevy looked up when Dana knocked on the door. ‘Special Agent Whitestone,’ he said, rising from his chair and extending his right hand. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Please come in.’

  Dana shook hands with McGreevy, who then turned and smiled at Brown. ‘How you doing, Jeremy?’

  Brown sighed. ‘I’ll be doing a hell of a lot better if you can tell us something we can actually use, Jim. I feel like we’re running around in circles here.’

  Dana interjected, ‘We were told that Luz Moreno came by to see you the other day, Mr. McGreevy.’

  McGreevy nodded. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact she did. Quite the little wildcat, that one.’

  Dana smiled. ‘Tell me about it. I just got done talking to her myself an hour ago. Anyway, did anything productive come of the meeting?’

  McGreevy nodded again and turned to unlock the large silver filing cabinet next to his desk. Reaching in, he extracted a folder and took out an eight-by-ten sheet of paper. ‘Ah yes, the composite of the Night Stalker copycat. Have a look for yourself.’

  Dana took the sheet of paper from his right hand and looked down at it, suddenly feeling like she’d just been slapped.

  The eyes jumped off the paper at her like a rapist in the night. Dark, simmering, unbalanced. Los ojos de Diablo. Luz Moreno was absolutely right. He did have the eyes of Satan.

  He also had the eyes of someone else Dana knew from her past.

  Almost almond-shaped with impossibly long eyelashes, the eyes were the exact same eyes that had visited her dreams every night for the past thirty-four years. A chill went through her, right to the bone.

  Other than the eyes, though, the rest of the composite drawing was hardly remarkable. No other distinctive features you couldn’t find in half the male population of the United States. Still, the eyes were enough to make Dana’s heart thud in her chest.

  Brown looked at the drawing. ‘Charming-looking fellow.’

  McGreevy chuckled. ‘Homicidal maniacs usually are. I’ll tell you what – his eyes remind me of good old Charlie Manson’s. You know, how they looked in that picture on the cover of Life magazine? But young Miss Moreno insisted that’s what they looked like. Other than that, though, she wasn’t able to provide very much detail, I’m afraid. Actually happens quite a bit, to tell you the truth. The eyes are the only things anyone can ever seem to remember.’

  Dana nodded. She knew the feeling. She remembered the eyes of the monster who had murdered her parents as well as she knew her own, but she wouldn’t have been able to pick the rest of his face out of a line-up if her life depended on it. ‘When’s this going to be released to the media?’ she asked, trying to disguise the undercurrent of fear rippling through her voice. She could no longer ignore the now very real possibility the killer was her killer. It had been just a feeling before, a very strong feeling, but a hunch that she could push aside as her overactive imagination working overtime. Now too many things were coming together for her to be able to dismiss her feeling as paranoia. She’d have to tell Brown about her past, and soon.

  ‘It’s already out there.’ McGreevy broke through her thoughts.

  Dana was happy to hear at least this bit of good news. ‘Great. It’s one of the best leads we’ve got so far—’

  ‘One of the only leads we’ve got so far,’ Brown cut in.

  Dana turned to him and smiled thinly, fear still rippling through her body. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. ‘Exactly. So what do you say we get back out there and try to drum up a few more before this jerk has the chance to kill again?’

  ‘Lead the way,’ Brown said.

  They thanked McGreevy for his help and made their way back outside to the loaner car. As they drove over to Mary Ellen Orton’s apartment, they discussed the composite drawing that the sketch artist had prepared. Even though the focus was mainly on the eyes, hopefully somebody out there would recognise the rest of the face, no matter how bland the rendering, and they’d take another step toward tracking this killer down. Still, Dana knew she couldn’t rely on that. She and Brown had to start making some serious inroads through good old-fashioned police work.

  Ten minutes later Dana slid the car into an open space on Drexel Street in South Central and she and Brown got out. It was their last appointment of the day. Dana just hoped this would give them something new. Each expert was painting a
very ugly picture, but had they given them enough to actually catch the sick son of a bitch?

  FBI blood-spatter specialist Jeff Simmons got out of his own vehicle fifty feet away and waved them over. He was wearing a snug pair of Levis, old work boots and a tight white T-shirt with a slogan on it that said ‘Talk Nerdy To Me’.

  Simmons smiled at them as they approached, showing straight white teeth. ‘Pleasure, guys,’ he said. To Dana, he added, ‘Special Agent Whitestone, nice to meet you. Been hearing some really awesome things about you.’

  ‘Same here,’ Dana lied. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’

  Simmons laughed and adjusted the canvas bag on his shoulder. ‘That’s what I was afraid of. Anyway, come on in and I’ll give you guys the grand tour.’

  Thirty seconds later he lifted the yellow police tape stretched across the front door and led them into Mary Ellen Orton’s apartment. Dana stepped inside and was immediately surprised by just how tiny it was. Not much bigger than a studio apartment, if that. There was a small living room with a couple of pieces of mismatched furniture, including a rickety TV table with a pair of metal knitting needles lying across the top. To her right there was an even smaller kitchen. The musty smell of an old person’s home pervaded the entirety of the tight space, tickling Dana’s nostrils and making her want to sneeze.

  A short walk that took all of five seconds led them to the only bedroom. In the middle of the hopelessly small space it looked as though a plastic Heinz ketchup bottle had exploded on the single bed shoved against the far wall.

  Dana fought a wave of revulsion as Simmons passed out thin latex gloves for them to pull on. ‘What does the blood tell us?’ she asked.

  Simmons dropped his canvas bag to the floor and pulled the blackout curtains closed. He flicked on a flashlight and ran the light over Mary Ellen Orton’s sheets. Dana blinked as her eyes adjusted to the new lighting.

  ‘There are three basic types of blood spatter,’ Simmons said, his frat-boy tone giving way to a decidedly more professional demeanour now. ‘Low, medium and high velocity. I’ll give you a quick rundown on each. Where do you want to start?’