The Perfect Veil, page 6
Ryan regretted having that extra cup of coffee.
As he stood at the edge of the shower stall at the downtown YWCA, looking at the hacked-up body of the young woman, he felt his stomach churn uncomfortably. He’d seen hundreds of dead bodied, some mangled worse than this. But the combination of factors at play in this case was particularly unsettling. He looked over at his partner for the day, Susannah Valentine, and could tell that she was equally troubled.
“So,” he said, turning away from what remained of Kaylee McNulty to focus on the officer in charge, an older black sergeant named Moss, “you’re saying she volunteered here two to three times a week. What was she doing in the locker room?”
“Apparently she was also a member,” Moss told him. “The program director said she swam most days either before or after she did a volunteering session.”
“What kind of work did she do?” Valentine asked.
“Mostly legal services,” Sergeant Moss said. “She was in her second year over at Southwestern Law School. But the director said she’d help out anywhere she was needed: employment services, youth recreation. Apparently she was a delight to have around.”
“Wonderful,” Ryan said heavily, glancing back at Kaylee. “When is Forensics getting here?”
“I requested them a half-hour ago, Detective. Maybe a follow-up from you would expedite things. This girl shouldn’t have to stay like this much longer, if you ask me.”
Ryan didn’t disagree. Kaylee McNulty deserved better. While most of her body was on the floor of the shower stall, her feet had slid against the side wall, creating tension and preventing her upper torso from completely collapsing. As a result, her left arm and shoulder were pressed against the tiled shower wall and her neck was bent at an awkward angle.
Her blue, vacant eyes were still open and her wet, stringy blonde hair had fallen down to partially cover her face, but not enough to hide her beauty. From where Ryan stood, he could see six large slices, likely made with a large knife along the lines of a machete. None were above the neck. Two were to the chest and they continued down the body from there. One blow, to the back of her right forearm, had cut all the way through to the bone. That was almost certainly the arm Kaylee had raised in futile self-defense.
“And there are no cameras?” he asked Moss, tearing his eyes away from the girl again.
“Certainly not in here. There’s one in the main lobby and one outside the main entrance. We’re checking the footage on those now. But those are the only working cameras. All the others are fakes for deterrence. And there are multiple other entrances and exits to the facility. Unless whoever did this was dumb enough to enter and leave through the front door, we’re not going to have footage of them.”
“What about sign-in sheets?” Valentine asked. “Or witnesses?”
“There is a sign-in sheet at the front desk but they don’t enforce it. The pool only has a lifeguard during child lessons and free play so we don’t know if there was anyone around when she was swimming. And according to the recreation director, this area is pretty quiet on Fridays until after lunch. It’s possible that the victim and the assailant were the only ones in here at the time. Considering the ferocity of the attack and how loud it probably was, I’d say it’s likely they were alone.”
“I tend to agree,” Ryan said. “Even if there was someone else in here at some point, the killer would have surely waited until they were alone to do this. It’s a long shot but we should have the entire locker room fingerprinted, and especially the area right around this shower stall. Maybe the killer gripped the side for leverage.”
“As soon as Forensics arrives, Detective, I’ll make them aware,” Moss said, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
Ryan nodded.
“I’ll make the call,” he said before turning to Valentine. “While I light a fire under Forensics, can you start to pull up a list of family and friends? Maybe Jamil Winslow can help out with that. After we notify the next of kin, I’m thinking we should talk to some of her law school friends. It’s possible she mentioned someone who threatened her. Or maybe someone she did legal work for here wasn’t happy with how it turned out.”
“I’ll get on it, Ryan,” Valentine said. “Don’t worry, we’ll catch this bastard.”
He nodded hopefully. While he appreciated Valentine’s optimism, he wasn’t sure he shared it. This was the kind of case that gave him an unpleasantly familiar feeling. It was the kind that, if it wasn’t solved in the first few hours, it likely never would be. He stepped outside and called Forensics. Once he got the supervisor, he tore him a new one.
“You guys are literally a mile and half away from here,” he growled. “There’s a dead twenty-three-year-old good Samaritan lying naked and chopped up in a shower stall. The officer in charge called you a half-hour ago. It’s 9:53 a.m. right now. If there’s not a complete unit here in ten minutes, I’m going to make life very ugly for you. Get your ass in gear. Now!”
He hung up without waiting for a reply. After allowing himself a moment to regroup, he texted Jessie. Decker had assigned him and Valentine the case so quickly that he hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye before they left or even let her know his status.
He filled her in on the situation and concluded: Not many leads so far. Valentine is looking into close contacts. Hoping we get lucky with Forensics. Could be a late one for us. Will keep you posted. Love you.
He had just hit send when Valentine came outside.
“Jamil’s pulling up contacts as we speak,” she said. “I thought we could head over to the law school in the interim, see what we can turn up on our own.”
“Sounds good,” Ryan said. “We’ll go as soon as the Forensics unit gets here. I want them to see the steam coming off my head when they arrive.”
Valentine smiled.
“Whatever gets the job done,” she said.
Ryan was glad to see the newcomer got it. So far, she’d been a halfway decent partner. He hoped it stayed that way.
CHAPTER NINE
“His name is Josh Sawyer.”
Jamil had just punched up footage of Addison’s boyfriend walking into the hotel at 9:36 p.m. That was thirty-nine minutes before the cameras went down at 10:15 but well within the 9 p.m. to midnight estimated window of death.
“How did you find out about this guy?” Jessie asked.
“I was able to access Rutherford’s e-mail,” Jamil explained. “Apparently this Sawyer guy isn’t a fan of texting. He says, in an e-mail, that it ties him down too much. He always feels beholden to the little black rectangle. Frankly, I get where he’s coming from. Anyway, he likes to go old school, which to him means e-mail. That’s how I found his message to her saying he’d be at the Buckingham at 9 p.m. Of course, after all that, he showed up over a half-hour late.”
“He’s wearing jeans,” Karen noted, studying the screen.
“But no baseball cap,” Jessie pointed out. “And he looks a lot younger than fifty.”
“Are we sure we trust eighteen-year-old bellboy Eli Almeida as an accurate judge of people’s ages?” Karen asked.
“No,” Jessie conceded. “But Sawyer looks closer to thirty to me.”
“Twenty-eight actually,” Jamil said.
“What do we know about him?” Karen asked as Jamil let the footage play, showing the guy enter an elevator. He switched to another camera that tracked Sawyer traveling to the tenth floor.
“He’s an aspiring musician,” Jamil said. “He’s the guitarist for a rock band called Loaded for Bare, as in naked. I guess it’s supposed to be clever. They play semi-regular sets, mostly around Hollywood and Los Feliz. But his day job is working in a warehouse at an office supply place on Santa Monica Boulevard.”
The elevator doors opened and Jamil switched to a different camera, which showed Josh Sawyer approaching suite 1002. Once he entered, the screen went dark.
“He’s in there for fifteen minutes,” Jamil said. “I’ll skip ahead.”
Jessie thought back to the untouched bed in Addison’s suite. Fifteen minutes was obviously long enough for the couple to have gotten romantic, but it seemed less and less likely that it was that kind of visit. The next clip showed him exiting the room. As he walked away, he didn’t look exactly relaxed, but he also didn’t look overly stressed.
“You never know,” Jessie said, “but he certainly doesn’t carry himself like someone who just bashed his girlfriend in the head with a lamp.”
“Plus” Jamil added, “he walks out the front door of the hotel at 9:54 and we know that her cell phone was still pinging there well after he left. Remember, it didn’t go dark until 11:06.”
“That doesn’t eliminate him as a suspect,” Karen countered. “Maybe this visit was to scout the hotel, the points of entry and exit. We don’t know that he didn’t come back later in a baseball cap to finish the job.”
“Fair point,” Jessie conceded. “I guess the best way to find out is to talk to the guy. Let’s head out. Jamil, can you shoot us the address for his work please?”
“You got it,” he said, already typing it into his phone.
They checked in with Decker to let him know their plan, and then headed down to the garage, where Karen volunteered to drive. Jessie was just getting into the passenger seat when her phone buzzed. It was a text from Ryan. As she read it, her heart sank.
“What’s up?” Karen asked.
“Oh, it’s just Ryan,” she replied, trying to keep her tone even. “He and Valentine caught an ugly case—female law student butchered in a YWCA shower stall. No good leads yet. He was just warning me that it could be a long night for them.”
She didn’t mention that, independent of the awful nature of the crime, something far pettier was eating at her. She realized that, had she not been so averse to working with Susannah Valentine when Captain Decker allowed her to pick her partner this morning, Ryan wouldn’t be spending “a late one,” as he called it, with her.
It’s not like she thought that her fiancé would start flirting with the woman over crime scene photos of a dead girl. That was ridiculous. But just the idea of Susannah Valentine laughing at his mildest quips and tossing her hair around extravagantly as she batted her eyes at him was quietly infuriating.
“What’s wrong?” Karen asked, snapping her out of it.
“Nothing,” Jessie told her. “Let’s go.”
*
Josh Sawyer’s apartment was a dump.
As Jessie and Karen tiptoed up the rickety outdoor stairwell that led to his second floor unit, Jessie was on high alert.
They already had reason to be suspicious. When they went to Office Pros earlier, the warehouse manager said that he hadn’t shown up today, hadn’t even called in sick. So the next stop was this place, a grimy two-level apartment complex, just three blocks from the famed Hollywood Forever Cemetery, and classily named Corpse Court. It looked it too. The front gate was missing entirely. Pieces of metal siding dangled precariously from the exterior and paint was peeling back from the outside walls to form curled, snail-like designs. The cracks on the first floor courtyard pavement were wide enough to get a shoe stuck in.
Once on the second floor, they approached Sawyer’s unit, 207. They hadn’t even reached the door when they could hear loud voices, not quite yelling, but definitely animated. Karen released her holster lock and Jessie followed suit. Karen was about to knock when Jessie held up her hand. There was something odd—heightened— about the argument going on inside. After another moment, she understood why.
“It’s the TV,” she whispered.
Karen nodded in recognition, pointed to the adjoining window, which appeared to be partially open, and moved in that direction. Jessie waited while she peeked inside.
“I can’t see anyone,” Karen said when she returned. “I’m going to knock. But with him missing work, the television on, and the window open in this neighborhood, we may be talking exigent circumstances if he doesn’t answer.”
Jessie tended to agree. If Sawyer had left his place like this, that likely meant either something had happened to him or he was in a condition where he didn’t care what happened to him. Karen knocked loudly.
“Mr. Sawyer, this is Detective Karen Bray with the Los Angeles Police Department. Can you please open the door?”
After ten seconds of silence, she knocked again and repeated the request but still got no response. She turned the knob. It was locked.
“I’m going in through the window,” Karen said. “Hold tight.”
Jessie watched anxiously as Karen shimmied through the small opening. She kept her hand on her weapon, ready to grab it if necessary. After a painfully long half minute she heard the front door unlock. Karen opened it, looking unscathed.
“He’s not here,” she said.
Jessie stepped inside. It was immediately clear that, even amidst the mess, someone had packed and left in a hurry. A small suitcase rested on the couch, along with some clothes and toiletries. From what was there, Jessie gathered that Sawyer had decided he didn’t need the extra items or the suitcase.
“You check the bedroom yet?” she asked.
“Just a cursory search to make sure he wasn’t hiding in there or the bathroom.”
“I’m going to look around,” Jessie said, heading back.
The bedroom wasn’t much use in terms of clues. It looked like a tornado had torn through it. But the bathroom offered some hints. She found a razor, cologne, and some over-the- counter medications. But there was no sign of a comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, or prescription meds. It looked he’d taken the essentials and bailed.
When she turned around, Karen was standing in the bathroom doorway with an expectant look on her face.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” the detective asked.
“If you’re thinking that Josh Sawyer left this place fast, with no intention of ever coming back, then yes I am. I’m also thinking we don’t have much time to find him.”
“We better get started then,” Karen replied.
CHAPTER TEN
Even though she was staring at her own shoes, Hannah could feel Dr. Lemmon’s eyes on her. Despite the older woman’s tiny frame, coke bottle glasses, and woefully outdated perm comprised of tight little blonde ringlets, she could be an intimidating presence.
The two of them had been dancing around the same issue for the last ten minutes and unlike all their prior sessions, the therapist didn’t seem willing to let it go this time. She was insistent on learning more about what happened that night two and half weeks ago: the night when the Night Hunter broke into their cabin and held her, Jessie, and Ryan at gunpoint before they created a distraction and Hannah shot him in self-defense.
That was the official story, the one that made it into the police report. But of course that wasn’t the whole story, and it was clear that Lemmon sensed that she was holding something back about what occurred that night, even if she wasn’t clear on exactly what had really happened. But what was Hannah supposed to say? We managed to outwit a serial killer in his seventies who’d murdered hundreds of people for decades, then my sister and her cop boyfriend subdued and handcuffed him, after which, to their shock and dismay, I shot him while he was unarmed and no longer a threat?
That didn’t seem like the kind of admission that could be easily worked through with a prescription and some hand puppet theater. Hannah knew that Jessie wanted her to tell Lemmon the truth herself—that it would be more…therapeutic if she was the one to reveal what really happened. But admitting that she’d shot the man when he couldn’t hurt them anymore would inevitably lead to other admissions.
Technically, she could argue that the Night Hunter (who’d suggested that they call him Wally while he was still in control) was a potential danger to them even then. He could theoretically have gotten out of prison or manipulated a guard or a soon-to-be-released inmate into doing his dirty work. But that wasn’t the real reason she’d shot him. She shot him because she wanted to.
And if she acknowledged to Dr. Lemmon that she shot him for reasons other than self-defense, then she’d eventually have to concede the real reason. And when Dr. Lemmon asked why she wanted to shoot Wally, well, then she’d be in a real pickle, because that’s when her black heart would finally be exposed.
What would esteemed psychiatrist, behavioral therapist, and criminal profiling consultant Dr. Janice Lemmon think of her when she said that not only did she want to kill Wally, but she liked it? And more than that, in the weeks since it happened, that she desperately missed the satisfaction she got from it.
She still remembered watching the light fade from the old man’s eyes just before his weathered, broken body sagged in on itself. It had given her such a thrill to know that she was responsible for extinguishing that light. How would Dr. Lemmon respond to that tidbit?
She wondered if this was what drove her father to kill. Xander Thurman, better known as the Ozarks Executioner, was the familial connection between her and Jessie. He was not only their shared birth father, but he had murdered both their mothers, over half a decade apart. And when they were older, he had hunted down and killed both sets of their adoptive parents too. Did he watch the eyes of his victims, waiting for that sliver of time when they passed from this world to whatever came next? Was that the legacy he’d passed on to her?
Was that what drove Bolton Crutchfield too, a serial killer who had viewed her father as a mentor, who killed her foster parents only weeks after she lost her adoptive ones? Was he also chasing that fraction of a second between worlds, trying to share it with her, when he kidnapped her and tried to train her in his own image, tried to get her to kill Jessie as her first conquest on the path to joining him in some weird partnership of carnage?
Did she ever even have a chance at a normal life when she’d experienced all that before she was old enough to vote? Frankly, the fact that she wasn’t already institutionalized or operating her own, personal human butcher shop was kind of a miracle. She almost smiled at the thought.
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