Girl, Missing, page 5
“Other people message me too, you know.”
Her partner ignored the defensive comment and re-immersed herself in the melody. Ripley’s message had been from an old friend, turned new. Someone she’d shared cases with in the past before an injury forced him into early retirement. They’d rekindled in the past two weeks, but Ripley had to keep him at arm’s length. She wasn’t sure she was cut out for romance anymore, and her re-lighted flame was the kind of guy who wasn’t as available as he thought he was come the next morning. Ripley had decided to take it slow, but she couldn’t deny that it was nice having someone to confide in again.
Chief Sawyer appeared at the door with a petite, middle-aged blonde woman by his side. She walked slowly, dragging her feet, her cheeks streaked with tears. Ripley pulled the needle off the record player and nudged Ella to join her outside.
The chief said, “Agents, this is Mrs. Chase. Lives next door.”
“Thank you for meeting with us, Mrs. Chase,” Ripley said. “We understand this must be difficult for you.”
The woman scraped her bangs off her forehead and said, “Please, call me Alison. I was the one who found Grayson last night.”
“Could you talk us through what happened?”
“God, I’m still not really sure. It all happened so fast.”
“Just relax and cast your mind back. Take as much time as you need.”
Alison glanced up and down the street a few times, pointed to the edge of the curb and said, “I was putting the trash out. About twenty past ten. Suddenly I heard music coming from Grayson’s kitchen. I thought he maybe had a new piano or something, so I casually walked past his window to take a look. Me and Grayson are good friends so I knew he wouldn’t mind, plus I figured while I was out here, I’d put his trash on the curb too.”
“Of course,” Ella said. “Then you found him?”
“I knocked but didn’t get an answer. Then I saw Grayson laying on the floor. I panicked, rushed inside…” Alison trailed off.
Ripley and Ella exchanged a look of concern. The connotations were somewhat obvious.
“Alison,” Ripley said, “you went in there within what, two minutes of hearing the music?”
“Less, I’d say. A minute at most.”
Ripley shuddered at the thought. Someone had manually pressed play on that machine, someone that wouldn’t have had time to exit before Alison entered.
That meant she’d shared the same airspace as the killer for as long as she stayed in there.
Ella asked, “Did you see anything suspicious? Any signs of anyone?” The rookie had caught it too.
“No one, but I wasn’t looking. I figured Grayson had maybe gotten drunk, fallen over, and banged his head. It was only when I looked closer that I saw… the cuts.”
“You knew Grayson well?” Ripley asked.
Alison shrugged. “Well enough. As much as you can know any neighbor.”
“Anything you can tell us about him that might point us to who did this? Enemies, scorned exes, anything like that?”
“No idea. You could try talking to his brother over in Clarksville; he’ll know more than me. But from what I know, Grayson was well-liked around here. Kept himself to himself. That’s why I was surprised he was making such a racket.”
“You mentioned a piano,” Ella said. “Grayson was a musician?”
“Not a musician, no, but music was his life.”
Ripley’s interest piqued. She sensed a connection coming, something that might tie Grayson’s life to his death. “How do you mean?”
“Don’t you know?” Alison asked. “Grayson was a music reviewer.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Ella headed down the long corridor towards autopsy room C in the Chief Medical Examiner’s office, her mind racing with a thousand theories and doubts. Their unsub was undoubtedly a rare breed of killer, and while his approach was relatively straightforward, his strange ritual created a lot more questions than it answered.
Ripley’s boots clanged off the linoleum floor. She ended her phone call and said, “The chief’s got his guys checking out CCTV in the area and they’re checking the victims’ homes for burglaries. It looks like the killer didn’t move around the house much, but it’s worth checking out.”
“Can we get someone to identify the music at both scenes? The songs themselves could be significant.”
“How? They’re classical pieces. Instrumentals. It’s not like there are any lyrics to interpret or anything.”
“Music is a painting you can hear. You can say more with music than you can with words.”
“Dark, that’s something you’d see on a sign in a record store. That doesn’t work for us.”
“Not my words. I think it was Prince who said it.”
“The guy who changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol? Yeah, he’s probably not a beacon of advice on homicide cases.”
“Fair enough. I just think we need to identify what they are in case they hold some special meaning for either the killer or victims.”
Ripley pushed the buzzer to autopsy room C then said to her partner, ”It’s on the list. Let’s keep to the hard evidence first.”
The door slid open and the scent of chemicals spilled out into the hallway. A masked doctor appeared across the threshold. “FBI agents?” she asked.
Ella said, “Agent Dark, Agent Ripley. We’ve got an appointment to inspect two recent arrivals.”
“Come in,” the doctor said. She unhooked her mask, removed her gloves, and retied her raven hair. She was a young woman, Asian heritage, and looked much too pristine to be spending her time around dead bodies. “I’m Doctor Sharma, the head medical officer here. I’ve examined both of the bodies personally.”
The doctor reapplied her gloves then moved to the far wall of cabinets. She slid out two of them, gray sheets covering them from the neck down. Ella took a moment to process the gut-wrenching sensation that came with viewing your first dead bodies of the day. These two unfortunate souls, barely in the middle of their lives, now resigned to the ground because of some maniac’s homicidal whims. Their flesh was white and blotchy, sucked to the bone like fledgling skeletons about to shed their skins.
“Could we start with the most recent victim?” Ripley asked.
The doctor pulled down the sheet covering Grayson Miller’s lower half to reveal a maze of stab wounds in his abdomen and chest. Ella had to glance away for a second. No one, no matter how much wrong they did, should have to endure such a painful demise. She breathed a heavy sigh, composed herself.
“This is Grayson Miller, forty-two. Six puncture wounds to the abdomen, one to the ribs.”
“Cause of death?” Ripley asked.
“Organ failure. Lacerations to the liver and right kidney.”
Ella took a closer look at the body. The wounds on the abdomen were haphazard and close together, which suggested the killer had attacked in a frenzy. Controlled attacks were usually more spread out for maximum injury and quicker death. The wounds were slightly extended beyond the width of the average blade, which meant he’d cut through the flesh while the blade was lodged inside the victim. Another sign of a chaotic mind.
“Total loss of control,” Ella said.
“Indeed,” said Doctor Sharma. “Your perpetrator attacked in a flurry. He used a standard steel blade, most likely a butcher’s knife. He has no medical training, no butchery expertise. These wounds are as amateur as it gets.”
“No defensive wounds on the hands. No ligature marks on the wrists,” said Ripley.
“Blitz attack,” Ella said. That suggested the killer wasn’t confident in his own physical abilities. He needed to immediately subdue the target to get the upper hand. It also meant that death was the primary goal, not terror. Their killer was the polar opposite of a sexual sadist. He wanted these victims dead as quickly as possible.
“Doctor, can you pinpoint a time of death?” Ella asked. “I know it’s always a big ask.”
“In this case, yes. This body hasn’t been exposed to the elements so I’ve been able to get a good idea – at least to the hour – of when he died. Judging by the discoloration of the skin, he’s been dead around sixteen hours.”
“So, around nine last night?”
“Thereabouts.”
Ella checked her partner. Grayson’s neighbor had heard the music around ten-twenty that night.
“And victim number one?” Ripley asked.
“Vicky Haben. Thirty-nine years old. Almost identical manner of death. Five stab wounds to the abdomen, again random and careless, but cause of death here was rapid blood loss.”
Ripley looked the victim over, stopping at her hands. “Callouses. Hardened finger tips. The ball of her thumb is redder than the edges. You can always identify a musician by their thumb.”
“According to her file, she was a violin player,” the doctor said.
The agents locked their eyes, a silent conversation passing between them. These were not victims of opportunity. Both victims had connections to the music world. That meant the killer was purposely targeting them.
“Told you,” said Ripley. The thumb expert struck again.
It was a two-fold revelation. On the one hand, it meant the victim pool was much smaller, so if Ella and Ripley could identify potential future victims, they’d have a better chance of keeping them safe.
On the other hand, it meant that the killer had probably already scouted all the victims he needed for his bizarre mission. He wouldn’t wait for an opportunity to present itself. He’d make a beeline for these people.
Another issue was that San Francisco had no shortage of people in the music world.
“And the time of death again?”
“More or less the same, just twenty-hours before. I’d put her death at around nine pm on Thursday evening.”
Ella, “Thank you doctor. Did anything else stand out about the bodies? Anything unique?” It was a long shot, Ella thought, because she knew that this unsub wasn’t so concerned with how the victims died as long as they died. Death was the end game and he wanted to get there as quickly as possible. The ritual was the crucial component of the M.O.
“Not really. My examinations didn’t pick up on anything out of the ordinary, although I should mention one thing.”
“Oh?” asked Ella.
Doctor Sharna pointed to Vicky Haben’s neck. “This might not even be related to her death, so don’t put too much stock in it. However, there’s a faint but visible strangulation mark around Miss Haben’s neck.”
“Strangulation?” asked Ripley. “But the cause of death was blood loss?”
“Indeed. Now, this mark may have been there prior to her death. It’s impossible to say, but interestingly, this mark didn’t come from a hand. It came from a weapon.”
Ella arched her eyebrows. “A weapon? And not a knife?”
“No. I found traces of nylon and zinc there. But it’s very mild. It could have come from jewelry, but it would have needed to have been a very tight necklace.”
The air in the autopsy room thickened, as though the dead bodies lining the cabinets might suddenly rise up from beyond the veil. Ella pictured Vicky Haben’s final moments, blitz attacked by a frenzied killer, brutally stabbed, and left for dead.
Then she saw the aftermath. Blaring music, a lifeless corpse face down on the floor.
And for the encore, the final salt in the wounds, Vicky’s killer strangled her with a violin string.
***
“We need to make a few stops on the way to the precinct,” Ripley said from the driver’s seat. “We need to talk to people who knew these victims best, because I’m sure you’re thinking along the same lines as me.”
Ella was. This killer may have been more organized than they thought. “He didn’t just attack like a maniac then get the hell out of there. He was meticulous in his operation.”
Both victims had died around nine pm, but the eyewitnesses reported hearing the death-symphonies after ten pm. That suggested that the killer spent around an hour with each victim before fleeing. Or in the case of Grayson Miller, hid in the house while a neighbor found the body.
Ripley said, “He took the time to clean things up. He could have stashed the record player outside the house, gone and killed the victim, then come back and got it.”
“Yeah. That’s not some disorganized sociopath. That’s a cold, calculated monster. Given how clean that vinyl player was at Grayson’s house, he took the time to wipe it clean too. Made sure there were no traces of him left behind before getting out of there.”
“He’s still a ritualist, but he’s a damn careful one. If he spent around an hour with each victim, forensics should have a lot to work with, but the chief says that even the second sweep came up short. He did all this and still stayed invisible.”
“This guy is a cocktail of psychopathologies. He’s not just a ritualist; he’s a home invader and stalker too, because it’s pretty obvious these aren’t victims of opportunity.”
Ripley said, “Definitely not. You don’t just lug a vinyl player to someone’s house and hope you get the chance to kill them. He knew these victims would be home. He knew they’d be alone. He’s still a risk taker, but only when it comes to the post-death M.O. Everything before that is planned out to the nth degree.”
“That’s bad news for us.”
“Yeah, but if he’s targeting people in the music world, we have a smaller pool to work with.”
Ella laughed. “Ripley, this is California. Los Angeles is a few hours’ drive away.”
“True. The city of failure, as my friend would say.”
“And what happens if you don’t make it in Hollywood?”
“You fall out, end up living in Oakland or San Francisco.”
“Yeah, pretty much everyone in California was a stroke of bad luck away from being an actor or singer or writer. Our victim pool is an ocean.”
“You’re right, but these victims mean something to our killer. I doubt they’re just random figures in the music world. If we can figure out what connects them, it’ll give us a lot more to work with.”
Ella admired the scenery, pure West Coast beauty. A majestic steam train chugged through the distant mountains, its whistle echoing off the peaks as it passed. In the valley below, a tranquil lake shone in the sun, its rippling surface sparkling like a million tiny diamonds.
This unsub, as brazen and unknowable as he was, was beginning to take shape in her mind. She had the makings of a psychological profile in place but needed to dig much deeper to apply the finishing touches. Odds were that he was a white male, given his victimology, and his sudden burst approach suggested he was weak and physically unimposing. He didn’t want to fight with these victims, nor did he want to savor their trepidation. His murders bore no kind of sexual component either.
But then there was the strangulation. The strange revelation that was at odds with everything she thought she knew about this offender.
“Ripley, I can’t wrap my head around the strangulation part. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Don’t give it too much thought,” Ripley said. “The coroner said it might not even be relevant.”
“But she said there were traces of nylon. She was a violinist. Violin strings are made of nylon.”
“If he did strangle her with a violin string, then it was to add insult to injury. A final middle finger. Maybe some kind of experimentation while he had a dead body to play with. You’ve heard how serial killers talk about the first time they’re alone with a body. They’re like cats in a pool of cream.”
“But strangulation is intimate, intense, even sexual. If he wanted that kind of closeness, why would he go on to not do it the second time?”
“Because the first victim was a woman, so he embraced the opportunity. Besides, you’re getting distracted by the term strangulation. You can’t strangle someone who’s already dead. It was just post-mortem experimentation. Every deranged serial killer does it. You know this.”
“Maybe, it just seems… like an anomaly.”
“Yeah, but right now focus yourself on our second victim. His neighbor told us to check out his brother, so that’s where we’re going. Get your questions ready because this isn’t going to be an easy conversation.”
“Are we sure this guy was a music reviewer? I’ve tried searching his name online but I can’t find anything relating to reviews.”
“Beats me. You’re the tech girl. Hopefully his brother can point us in the right direction.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Please accept our deepest condolences,” Ella said to the man sitting at the kitchen table. For all the dead bodies she saw, speaking to the bereaved was usually the most distressing part. It was here you got to see the real repercussions of a serial killer’s actions. “We understand this must be difficult.”
Frederick Miller sat at the kitchen table with his face in one hand, a bottle of rum in the other. That morning, a tornado had swept through his life, bringing the bad news that his brother had been killed. Ella and Ripley opted to stand, giving the poor guy the space he needed.
Frederick hit the rum, swallowed hard, then winced. “Why would someone do this to Gray? He wasn’t the brightest spark, but Jesus. The man was harmless.”
Grayson’s brother was around forty years old, slender frame, bright blonde hair combed back into no particular style. He had an angular face and the kind of tight cheekbones that came from a long-term evasion of carbohydrates.
“We don’t know yet, but with your help, we might able to find out who did this.”
“My help?” Frederick asked, as though the comment was out of order. “How can I possibly help?”
“We have reason to believe that this wasn’t a crime of opportunity. Grayson was purposely targeted by someone. Would you be able to shed any light on his life, friends, enemies?”
“Gray kept a close circle. He didn’t talk about many friends, and the ones I knew lived a ways away. We’re from Arizona originally. Moved up here about twenty years ago.”
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