Kill Me Once Page 8

  He nodded at Dana as she crossed the wooden lecture-hall stage and made her way to his side, his manner indicating that he was almost surprised she’d actually come, which momentarily disarmed her. Then he turned and introduced her to the thin man with sandy brown hair and a boyish face sprinkled with freckles who was standing next to him.

  ‘Special Agent Dana Whitestone, this is Special Agent Jeremy Brown.’

  Dana and Brown shook hands.

  Ever brusque, Crawford said, ‘Now that we’ve all been properly introduced, Jeremy, perhaps you’ll fill Dana in on what we’ve got going on?’

  Brown cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’ Turning to Dana, he said, ‘Rather strange development in Los Angeles, Dana – if I may call you that.’

  ‘Of course. No need for formalities here.’

  ‘Great. Call me Jeremy.’

  Brown spoke in a clipped professional tone as he ticked off the details. There was no time for idle chit-chat now. ‘A seventy-nine-year-old woman was brutally murdered last night in South Central. She lived in a ground-floor apartment by herself. The victim’s son lived in the apartment above her. The assailant entered through an open living-room window and raped her with a knife. The suspect left a vehicle behind at the scene – a rented 2004 Audi 3000 convertible. It’s being processed now, but a preliminary check didn’t yield anything. Was rented to a Darrell Wayne Baxter of Marin County last Friday. Problem is, Darrell Wayne Baxter of Marin County died of a massive coronary two years ago. After the murder, our suspect successfully fled a small crowd attempting to give chase on foot. Ring any bells to you?’

  ‘The Night Stalker,’ Dana answered automatically as she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. ‘Fits perfectly. A copycat?’

  Crawford was looking across the hall as if he was lost in thought. Then he loosened the perfect Windsor knot in the silk necktie at his throat and nodded. ‘Exactly what I was thinking, Dana. Please go on, Jeremy.’

  Brown turned back to Dana. ‘Yes, sir. This is actually kind of weird, Dana, but there was also a plastic bag tacked to the woman’s living-room wall. The kind they give you at a convenience store.’

  Dana frowned. ‘Crawford told me about that. Was there any lettering on the bag? What store’s it from?’

  Brown shook his head. ‘Don’t know. No lettering – just plain blue plastic. No way to trace it. At least, none that I know of. I heard about the letters inside the little girl in Cleveland. The anagrams you came up with would seem to connect the cases.’

  ‘Yeah, but for what purpose?’ Dana asked. ‘Are we reading too much into it all? These clues really aren’t clues at all. Kind of like the picture in Cleve—’

  She stopped suddenly and turned to Crawford. ‘I know what the larger photograph in Cleveland is,’ she said quickly. ‘Goddamn it, I know exactly what it is.’

  Crawford looked at her, puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Come with me,’ Dana said. ‘I’ve got something you guys need to see.’

  She led Crawford and Brown out of the lecture hall and back across campus to a place where she’d spent hundreds of hours during her time as a student at the Academy.

  The FBI library was located in a four-storey building in the centre of the dormitory complex, always the hub of activity at the Academy. Four reading rooms on the first floor offered comfortable chairs and tables for study or relaxation. The second floor contained the book collection and lounge chairs for readers. Internet stations were scattered throughout.

  Dana, Crawford and Brown were seated in front of a computer terminal as roughly two dozen students stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at them, most of the stares fixed squarely on Crawford. It wasn’t often that the King came down from on high to mix with the commoners, but Dana sincerely hoped none of them were taking counter-intelligence roles after graduation. Subtlety didn’t exactly seem to be this particular group’s forte.

  A nervous-looking man approached and handed Crawford a glass of water. He frowned and immediately placed it down on the table next to the computer. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Dana shook her head as the man scurried away. Stretching her fingers, she found the home row and quickly pecked ‘Richard Ramirez Pentagram Photograph’ into the search bar on ‘Server in the Sky’, a joint database that the FBI shared with senior British police officials which held photographs and vital statistics for millions of criminals and suspects.

  The second picture was the one that Dana was after. ‘There it is,’ she said triumphantly, leaning back in her chair and running a hand through her hair while she double-clicked on the photograph.

  Outfitted in a dark blue jumpsuit, Richard Ramirez was holding his left palm up to the camera lens to display the crudely drawn pentagram he’d sported during his trial. Scraggly black hair framed a ghost-white face featuring hollow cheeks sucked in below dark, soulless eyes. A half-smile covered his face, which surprisingly enough had been considered handsome enough for no fewer than half a dozen women to actually propose marriage to the Night Stalker at the height of his infamy. A pretty young woman named Doreen had eventually won the sadistic killer’s black heart.

  Dana dragged the thumbnail onto the desktop and selected the section featuring Ramirez’s palm before blowing it up.

  Crawford leaned forward in his seat and stared at the image on the screen. ‘Well, I’ll be goddamned,’ he said. ‘Perfect replica of the photograph in Cleveland. He was telling us where he was going to strike next.’

  Dana nodded. ‘Guess he thought the plastic letters inside Jacinda Holloway’s uterus were a little too subtle for us to pick up on. Wanted to make damn sure we didn’t miss his message.’

  ‘So what does the convenience-store bag tell us?’ Crawford asked. ‘Where’s he going to strike next?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Try typing it into the search bar.’

  ‘Typing what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Try “Plastic Bag Serial Killer.”’

  Dana did as she was instructed. Exactly point-eleven seconds later a hundred and thirteen thousand results popped up. She turned in her seat and gave her former partner a doleful look. ‘I’ll take the first fifty-six thousand or so if you guys’ll take the rest.’

  Crawford tossed her a look of his own before glancing down at his expensive watch. ‘Hey, it was worth a shot.’ He looked down at his watch again, then turned to Dana as if he had something he wanted to say to her specifically but couldn’t find the words. Dana finally looked away first, embarrassed by his scrutiny. There was definitely something different about Crawford. She just couldn’t say what.

  Crawford took a sip of water, collected himself and said, ‘So what’s next? Where do you guys go from here?’

  Dana fiddled with her necklace. ‘I’d like to go out to LA with Jeremy here, if that’s OK with him. I’d like to take a look at that crime scene.’

  Brown nodded. ‘Of course, Dana. I could use whatever help I can get.’

  ‘We both could.’ Dana turned back to Crawford. ‘Could you clear it with Headquarters for me?’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘Thanks. Could you also start compiling a profile for me? I know you’re probably very busy but I’d really appreciate it. I thought I could handle this on my own. My mistake.’

  Crawford smiled briefly. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Dana. This is a tough case you’re working on. Anyway, I’ll start compiling the profile tonight. Should have something for you in the next couple of days.’

  He looked down at his watch again before rising to his feet, which sent the two dozen gawking students running for their lives between the towering stacks of books. ‘Now get out of here,’ he said. ‘You two have a plane to catch first thing in the morning and I’ve got somewhere I need to be. I’ll get the office to arrange the airline tickets and a couple of rooms for you over at the Radisson; so don’t worry about that. Just go get some sleep.’

  Forty-five minutes later – a
fter agreeing to meet Brown outside the hotel entrance in the morning – Dana let herself into her room. She stayed up for two more hours researching even the most minor details of Richard Ramirez’s horrific murders until she thought she’d go blind. She finally crawled into bed and pulled the comforter up over her body.

  Her mind reeled from the events of the past couple of days – not to mention the horrific events of her past. As her tiredness finally overcame her, she wondered if the two had somehow become connected in her mind. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising. After all, Dana knew of another little girl who’d once had a terrifying run-in with a killer. A little girl still trapped inside her mind who was screaming out desperately for justice.

  Dana turned on her side and adjusted the pillow beneath her head. Her eyelids drooped. Slowly drifting back in time, she allowed herself to enjoy the one memory from her childhood that wasn’t completely soaked in blood.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  West Park section of Cleveland – 4 July 1976

  Dusk darkened the summer sky as James Whitestone barbecued hot dogs and hamburgers on a rusty outdoor grill. He flipped a burger expertly with a quick flick of his wrist and used the spatula to motion to the sandbox where Dana was playing quietly. He spelled out the word to his wife so that their only child wouldn’t know what they were talking about. Although she was a precocious and highly intelligent little girl, Dana had yet to completely master the tricky art of spelling.

  ‘Think we could let her hold a S-P-A-R-K-L-E-R when it gets all the way dark out?’ he asked. ‘She’s been bugging me about it for weeks now.’

  Sara Whitestone slid her sunglasses down the bridge of her slender nose and raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow in her husband’s direction. ‘Yeah, right, James. You’re the one who’s been bugging me about it for weeks now and you know it.’

  Her husband grinned at her. He looked absolutely ridiculous in his Kiss the Chef apron, which was par for the course for him. James Whitestone was easily the world’s biggest dork – but then again that was precisely what Sara loved so much about him.

  ‘C’mon, honey,’ he whined. ‘Whaddya say? It’ll be a lot of fun. Don’t pretend it won’t.’

  Sara let out a soft sigh, knowing she’d lost the argument already. Dana was the apple of her daddy’s eye, and he never denied her anything that wasn’t unsafe for her. Probably the result of his growing up as the youngest of five sons of a strict Presbyterian minister, a stern man who would have been happy if playtime had been classified as the Eighth Deadly Sin. ‘Fine, you big goofball.’ Sara finally relented. ‘But you’re the one taking her to the emergency room when her hair catches fire.’

  Her husband’s lopsided grin exploded into a full-blown smile as he easily covered the fifteen feet between the grill and the lawn chair where she was sitting in three long, graceful strides. He leaned down and planted a kiss on the top of her head. ‘That anything like when my mom told me not to come running to her when I broke my leg?’

  Sara laughed and punched him on one tree-trunk thigh. ‘Damn straight it is. Moms always know what we’re talking about. It’s hard-wired into our psychology.’

  James groaned theatrically as he straightened back up, as though the strain of leaning down to kiss his wife had been enough to throw his back out of alignment.

  Sara Whitestone was a remarkably small woman; a trait that Dana would inherit as she herself grew into womanhood. Standing a shade under five feet tall, Sara tipped the scales at just below a hundred pounds, though those she went up against in court as a litigating attorney for the law firm of Smith, Frey and Bogner never seemed to mention anything about her size. Her diminutive stature simply didn’t register with them when she was in front of a jury, more often than not whipping their tails and looking for all the world exactly like what she was – an intellectual giant with a brilliant legal mind. Whenever people asked her if it was nice always being the smartest person in the room, she’d smile politely and reply, ‘Well, no. Actually, it’s hell.’

  Sara pouted and punched her husband on the leg again, harder this time. ‘Hey, be nice to me, you oversized gorilla. Be nice to me or no dessert for you tonight.’

  James smiled and dropped down to his knees in front of her. His weight dented the soft grass as he wrapped his strong arms around her slender body and leaned forward to press his face into her breasts, which were braless and straining against a tattered Abba-concert T-shirt. ‘Just exactly what kind of dessert are we talking about here, Mrs Whitestone?’ he breathed into her chest.

  Sara laughed and pushed his face away. ‘Nip it, lover boy. Nip it right in the bud. There’s a time and place for everything, and this is certainly neither the time nor the place for this little conversation. If you’re a good boy, though, maybe we’ll revisit this subject later on tonight when our little angel is in bed sleeping. Play your cards right and anything’s possible, I suppose.’

  Favouring her with a comically lecherous wink, James rose to his feet and returned to the grill by way of the sandbox, stopping just long enough to ask Dana what heinous and unforgivable crime her Holly Hobby doll had committed to warrant the extreme punishment of being buried up to her neck in sand. Sara smiled at them as she watched them talk before turning her attention back to the legal brief she’d brought home from work.

  Fifteen minutes later James announced that the food was ready and that Dana needed to go into the house to wash before they could eat.

  ‘Why do I have to?’ the little girl asked, turning her enormous blue eyes up to meet his.

  ‘Well, you have to because your hands are all dirty from playing in the sandbox, silly goose.’

  Dana stood up with a dramatic sigh. Tiny granules of sand cascaded down from her Barbie T-shirt as she wiped her hands across the butt of her previously clean white shorts and held them up for her father to inspect. ‘There, that should do it. All clean now. See, Daddy?’

  James threw his head back and roared with laughter. It was a deep, joyful sound. ‘Sorry, kiddo. Not good enough.’

  He paused and grinned down at his daughter. ‘Now, I could be all wrong about this, but I’m pretty sure it’s just about time for this plane to take off.’

  And with that he ran over and swept her small body up into his strong arms, swinging her out wildly to his side in a horizontal position five feet above the ground. Dana’s eyes lit up brighter than the runway lights at Hopkins airport as he held her suspended in the air. They had played this game many times before and it was one of her all-time favourites.

  Winking at Sara again, James began humming loudly to imitate the rumbling of a plane’s engines. The sound came from deep within his chest and Dana could feel the vibrations as they tickled her body. ‘The pilots are ready for take-off in the cockpit!’ James boomed. ‘Are the passengers ready?’

  ‘Ready!’ Dana giggled. ‘All the passengers are ready for take-off, Daddy!’

  Engines rumbling joyfully, the impromptu summertime flight quickly taxied down the runway of the backyard and into the house, where it banked sharply to the right in the foyer before finally touching down at the kitchen sink to complete its vital hand-washing mission with a fresh bar of Ivory soap.

  When father and daughter had returned and they were all seated around the wooden picnic table in the middle of their backyard, the young family began eating and fell into an easy conversation centring on Dana’s trio of imaginary friends: Lula, Pano and Mr Sunday.

  ‘And just what is Mr Sunday up to on this fine Fourth of July?’ Sara asked, dabbing with a paper napkin at a smear of mustard that had found its way onto her daughter’s left cheek.

  ‘He’s working today. No fireworks for him. And, boy, is he ever sad about that.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’ James empathised. ‘Seems pretty darn unfair he has to work when everybody else is out there having a good time. What line of work is he in, anyway, sweetheart?’

  ‘He’s a filthy prostitute,’ Dana mumbled through a mouthful of half-chewed hot dog
.

  A shocked look flashed across Sara’s delicately pretty face. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said Mr Sunday’s a filthy prostitute and he’s gotta work today,’ Dana repeated nonchalantly, her attention now squarely focused on the tiny army ant steadily marching its way across the table and toward her plate.

  James arched an inquisitive eyebrow at his wife before turning back to his daughter. ‘Where on earth did you learn a word like that, honey?’

  ‘From that movie you were watching last night, Daddy. You know, the one with all the filthy prostitutes in it. Did you forget about it already?’

  Sara shot her husband a look that could have frozen water. ‘That’s it, James. That is it. No more late-night television for you until this little girl’s been in bed and sawing logs for at least an hour. You ever hear the saying about little pitchers having big ears? Well, there you go. There’s your proof right there, buster.’

  ‘But, Mom!’ Dana whined.

  ‘But, Mom!’ James echoed in the same tone.

  Sara held up a hand to silence them. ‘Don’t But, Mom me, you two. That’s final. I mean it, James. Only PBS until she’s in bed and lost in dream world, you hear me? The only words she needs to be learning are the ones they teach her on Sesame Street and The Electric Company.’

  Turning back to Dana and frowning, she added, ‘And I don’t ever want to hear that word out of your mouth again, little lady. It’s a bad word and if I ever hear it again you’re getting the soap. You didn’t like it very much the last time, remember?’

  Dana rolled her eyes and took a long drink of her Kool-Aid before smacking her red-stained lips once. ‘Fine, Mommy. I heard you the first time, you know.’

  It took everything Sara had to hold back the laugh she felt coming on. In some ways her daughter seemed so advanced for her young age that she often had to remind herself that Dana wasn’t even five years old yet. ‘I only said it once, Little Miss Smarty-Pants.’