Cold Hearted (Cold Justice Book 6) (30 page)

Zimmerman started to shake his head and then realized that a man accused of rape and murder wouldn’t mind hitting a woman. “Sure.”

“Why’d you hit that one?” Darsh pointed to Cassandra Bressinger.

“She got mouthy with me. Must have said something I didn’t like.” Zimmerman’s fingers hovered over both photographs before pulling away. He curled his fingers in his lap.

“But the other one didn’t, so you raped her?”

“I don’t remember why I did it. I just did it.” Zimmerman closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face as if the weight of what he’d confessed to had finally sunk in.

There was no way this guy was guilty. No fucking way. But someone out there was smart enough to set it up to look like he was. And the idiot Marine had taken the fall rather than reveal the depths to which he’d descended to the people who mattered to him most.

Darsh placed the clear evidence bag on the table with a thump. It held the gun he’d found last night. “You threaten them with this? That how you controlled them?”

“That’s right.”

“So why didn’t you shoot them?”

“Because I know you can match the bullets, dickhead.”

“So you confess instead? Now who’s the dickhead?”

Zimmerman glared at him. The pride beneath the ragged surface wanted to fight back. Darsh wanted to make him.

“Did you think that if you confessed, pled guilty, no one would ever hear about this down in good ol’ Texas?”

Zimmerman’s eyes popped. “What do you mean? Why would anyone care about this down in Texas?”

Darsh sneered. “Don’t be a dumbass. This case has made international headlines. You think the press isn’t going to be knocking on Maria’s door once they find out your identity? You think Katy isn’t going to find out what her daddy did to these girls? Or her friends at school?”

The man’s eyes were growing wider and wider. His mouth opened and closed without anything coming out.

“What about the men who served under you? What are they going to think about their old gunnery sergeant killing two innocent women?”

Zimmerman dropped his face into his hands. “Oh, hell.”

“Did you rape and murder Cassandra Bressinger and Mandy Wochikowski?”

Zimmerman shook his head, and Ully Mason looked ready to spit nails.

“Where did you get the sheet? And the rope that tied your camp together?”

“Someone tossed it over the side of the bridge. Like I say, people dump stuff all the time.”

“Why’d you confess?”

Zimmerman looked defeated now. “I didn’t want them to see me like this.” He drew in a deep breath that seemed to rattle in his chest. “Fuck, I need a drink.”

Last thing this guy needed was a drink.

Darsh stood and collected his photographs and file. “You’re being charged with interfering with a police investigation.” Zimmerman looked shocked at that. Maybe it was harsh, but it might be the one way for Darsh to start the ball rolling and try and get this guy the help he needed. He’d talk to the judiciary in Texas and see if they couldn’t work something out involving rehab. He also had friends in the Corps who would help. “You confessed rather than face the truth about what you’ve been doing with your life. That’s a dick move, pal. The real killer is out there and probably lining up his next victim as we speak.”

Zimmerman sobbed.

Darsh nodded to the guard to take him back to the cells.

When they were alone, Ully stood and turned to face him. “You know you just talked our prime suspect into retracting his confession.” Brown eyes weighed him.

“You think he did it?” asked Darsh.

Ully let out a big sigh and shook his head. “I did. Now we’re back to square one.”

“Not really.”

Ully’s gaze sharpened.

“We know whoever is doing this is smart and focused and two steps ahead of everything we do.”

“Great.” Ully pushed away from the table. “Perp smarter than the police. Gonna make a great headline. You got anything useful to add to the investigation?”

“Let’s call a team meeting.”

E
rin walked into
the precinct to a symphony of chaos. She found Ully in the break room.

“What’s going on?”

Ully raised a mug to his lips. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like he hadn’t slept last night either. Knowing Ully, he’d been doing exactly what she’d been doing. “Stinky Pete retracted his confession after talking to the fed.”

Erin hid her relief by busying herself getting a coffee. “You think he did it?”

“I did,” he admitted. “Right until Agent Sing-along started talking to him.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Ully looked confused.

“Make fun of his name. You’re called Ulrik for God’s sake. If anyone should understand what that kind of mockery feels like it’s you.”

“I’m joking,” he said with exasperation.

“Doesn’t sound like joking when the person you’re laughing at isn’t here.”

He muttered something unintelligible. “Did you know he was in the Marines?”

Erin raised her brow, more at the fact he did.

“He started talking a little about it during the interview, so I called a buddy of mine in the Corps. Apparently Agent Singh was a badass with a sniper rifle. His call sign was Specter.”

People around here liked guns so she had no doubt Darsh had raised his cool quota by a factor of a thousand. The boys would all be comparing the length of their barrels later. She rolled her eyes. “So what’s happening?”

Ully checked his watch and finished his coffee. “Agent
Singh
,” he pronounced the name very carefully and precisely, “ordered a team meeting. Conference room in five. Find out anything at the campus?”

She thought about her run-in with Brady and wondered why the hell she hadn’t had him arrested for assault. Because he’d pulled back? Changed his mind? Because she’d seen something in his eyes that looked more wounded than angry? Weren’t wounded animals the most dangerous when cornered?

She could feel bruises forming down her spine and the knot on the back of her head where she’d hit it against the wall. She was failing in her duty by not reporting it, and she was also scared it was an echo of her past, showing her how weak she truly was. Truth was she didn’t even know if anyone would believe her.

Brady could wait, unless she could tie him directly to the murder. For now.

“Not much.” She finished her coffee and washed up her cup, spotting Darsh across the bullpen, talking to Chief Strassen and one of the lawyers from the college. The chief shot her a look, and she knew they were talking about her. Her lips tightened, and she ignored them all, heading to her desk to drop off her coat.

Harry sat there with two laptops perched on his desk. “You survived the trip to campus?”

Erin sent him a sharp glance. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Didn’t you see the headlines this morning?”

Erin peered over his shoulder as he pulled up the website of the local paper. “Murdered girls’ housemate says detective sat outside the house while victims were slain.”

Erin grimaced. It was close enough to the truth to hurt, and no way would she give away vital information about the fact the women were dead before the 911 call just to save her reputation. Her reputation was shot anyway. “Why do you think she does it? Desire for notoriety? Money?”

Harry shrugged. “And why are they all so focused on you? I mean, you got there before Ully, and you weren’t even on duty that night.”

She shook her head and shrugged. “Just lucky I guess. It’d be nice if they just let us get on with our jobs without the hourly appraisals. Got anything else?”

He gathered up his files. “I’ll give you the rundown at the meeting. Come on. We’re late.”

*     *     *

Darsh watched Erin
take a seat near the front of the table. The lawyer for the university had heard they were dropping the charges against Peter Zimmerman, seen this morning’s headline, and come gunning for Erin’s badge.

The fact Darsh had been the one to vouch for her, rather than her boss, told him she was on shaky ground. They needed to solve this thing fast if they wanted to save Erin’s job.

She stared down at her notes, refusing to look at him. He wiped down the whiteboard, determined to forget they’d gotten way closer than colleagues should, and to stop trying to figure out how to get closer still. He’d told her what he wanted, she didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t like he could push it considering the shit her ex had put her through.

He consciously unlocked his lower jaw before it fused permanently shut.

Strassen came in and sat at the other end of the table. There were two senior uniform officers, Ully and Bill Youder, Bickham, and both detectives present. He figured the fewer people here for this session, the better.

He checked his watch and began. “I was brought into this case to help you find this killer as fast as possible, and also to assess whether or not these murders were carried out by the same person who committed the college rapes last year.”

“And what have you decided?” Strassen asked. The tension in his body was palpable.

“There are too many similarities for me to say they aren’t connected.”

Strassen closed his eyes. The other cops bristled.

“You saying we messed up the Hawke investigation?” Ully asked belligerently.

Darsh shook his head, eyes on Erin, who now met his gaze with steely blue eyes. “I don’t think you messed it up.”

A line cut between her brows. “I don’t understand,” she said quietly.

“The average IQ of a serial killer is 94.7. Bundy was a 136. The most intelligent serial killer ever tested is Kaczynski, who tested at 167.” He looked at Strassen. “I think we’re looking at someone in the same range as Kaczynski—genius level and someone who understands criminal investigations.”

Ully swore.

Darsh wrote
“SMART”
on the whiteboard.

“So we didn’t fuck up, the perp is just cleverer than we are?” Erin’s lip curled in disgust.

“Exactly.” Darsh could have called her ugly, and she’d have been less insulted. “We’re looking for a narcissistic predator, someone with a tremendous sense of entitlement and a callous disregard for the feelings of others. Let’s look at other factors.”

Erin started taking notes. She was pissed, but she was engaged. She never gave up unless it was to do with her personal life.

“This is someone who moves freely amongst the student population. It could be anyone from another student, to a custodian, to campus security. Bottom line is they fit into life on campus.”

“What’s the average age of a serial killer?” asked Ully.

Darsh hesitated. “I’m not a big fan of inductive profiling even though it’s faster than deductive.”

“Why?” asked Ully.

“Because data is only collected from killers who’ve been caught, or unverifiable sources, which biases the sample.” Darsh grabbed a quick mouthful of coffee. “If inductive profiling was really valid, we’d approach every case by rounding up all Caucasian males between 18-32 with an above average IQ. We’d find the ones with some sort of child abuse in their history and unstable family life—he’d have been abandoned by his father and raised by a dominant female. We’d have evidence of the McDonald triad—bed-wetting beyond the age of twelve, animal abuse, fire setting. The killer would work alone and rarely cross racial barriers. Based on inductive profiles we’d pick up all those guys in the vicinity and the chances are we’d have our man.

“But if we’d only used inductive profiling we wouldn’t have caught Joseph Ball, John Wayne Gacy, Ray and Faye Copeland, Jeffrey Dahmer, and a whole slew of others.”

The quiet in the room was contemplative.

“In the rapes last year, the attacker was very careful for the victims not to see him until after he’d subdued them, or their faculties were inhibited by alcohol or drugs. Rachel Knight—he pressed her face into the pillow until the ketamine kicked in. Mary Mitchell—he held a pillow over her face until the drug kicked in. Jayelle Rouseau was drunk to the point of passing out. Paula Gruber, again drunk, but not as drunk. She’d willingly had sex with one guy. He leaves and she wakes to find someone penetrating her from behind. It was dark. Once she figured out this was not her earlier lover she started to fight and had her face pressed into the pillow and then a jab of ketamine in the ass until she passed out.”

“But Drew Hawke is instantly recognizable. He wouldn’t want them to see his face if he was raping them,” Ully argued.

“Agreed. So why didn’t he blindfold them? Stick a pillowcase over their heads? Duct tape their eyes closed for chrissake? Hawke’s a smart guy. The women all say they saw his face clearly at some point during the attack. Why? Why let them see him?”

Silence crackled.

“So either it
was
Drew Hawke raping them and assuming the women were too out of it to recognize him because they were drugged. Or…” Erin swallowed.

“Or,” Darsh finished for her. “It was someone purposefully pretending to be Hawke to women who were already either inebriated with alcohol, or who he’d drugged with ketamine which—interestingly enough doesn’t wipe short-term memory unless they’re unconscious.”