Face Off (15 page)

*   *   *

Harry sat atop Caswell's desk, slapping a red file against his knee, impatiently. He had called the five detectives assigned to him back to the precinct after getting the call from the FBI.

“Okay, okay.” Harry held up his hand to silence the small group. “We need to go over everything Mr. Jamieson from the FBI gave us. Let's hit just the highlights of what he had to say when he was here three months ago.” He read down the list.

“First, he told us that our killer probably had an injury of some sort that prohibited him from sexual activity. And as you know, Clark has a shriveled penis from an attack on him by his father.

“Second, he told us that our killer was intelligent, but an underachiever, probably not finishing high school, certainly not college, but that he was self-taught in some area where he got along well when he wanted to, and when it was on his own terms. And we know Clark only went to the eleventh grade, but he worked for an electrician and became expert in that field.

“Mr. Jamieson also told us our killer probably drove a later model, dark-colored car which he kept in good running condition, polished, and clean. And Clark, in fact, drove a 1996 navy Ford Taurus, which was in perfect condition. We don't know if this is the vehicle he used to grab any of the girls or not. We have no reports of a car fitting this description at any of the sites where they were abducted.

“And Jamieson also said our killer would have a neat apartment, live alone, not be well known by his neighbors, and would quite possibly have either clothing or some body part from the women he killed. There again, a clean match to Clark.”

“If you ask me, we had the right guy all along,” Gordon Connors said. “That FBI guy came so close to Clark, it's spooky!”

Harry held up his hand. “But not totally. He said our killer had a deep rage against his mother, not his father. And we have medical records indicating it was the father who abused Clark, not the mother. So Mr. Jamieson was wrong on that score. He also said our killer had had some bad run-ins with the police, and harbored resentment, but Clark has absolutely no police record—not even a parking ticket.”

“What does he have to say now that we've released Clark?” Connors asked.

“He thinks we've fucking lost our minds, thank you very much,” Harry answered him. “He says Clark fits the personality profile so closely, that this latest murder almost assuredly has to be a copycat.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“Back to the beginning. Gordie, I want you to sift through every piece of information we have on Clark, plus, I want all the background information verified. Go back and talk to his teachers, relatives, and neighbors. If he so much as broke a window with a baseball in the third grade, I want to know about it.”

Connors nodded.

“And, Howard, I want you to go back through all of our other suspects in this case. We know that at any one time, there are anywhere from forty to fifty serial killers doing their handiwork across the country. They all have their own little idiosyncrasies, their own signature. So review everything we have on the butcher, including the full FBI report, then start looking at the other suspects we had. I want you to look not only at whether you think they might be the butcher, but whether or not they might be a copycat, or connected with Clark some way.”

Detective Kane grinned, scratching his head as if perplexed. “I see. Our assumption being that we may have two serial killers at work, plus a copycat. Right?”

Harry raised his eyebrows and managed a weak smile. “Don't be a wiseass, Kane.”

Bruce Langston, the third member of the special unit, spoke up. “And me?”

“You,” Harry answered him, “are going to review every word we have spoken to the press, and go over every officer's record who has had any connection whatsoever to this case, and everyone else who is involved, no matter how little.”

The intake of breath in the small room was audible. He knew what he was suggesting was going to come as a shock to his crew, but something in his gut told him it was necessary. He held his hands up. “I know. I know. But there are just certain things about this case that don't add up. Why was Clark so confident there wouldn't be a DNA match to him? And why was he so outraged when he heard about the body parts found in his apartment? If there is the slightest chance they were planted, I want to know about it. And don't look so horrified. Clark wouldn't be the first guilty person to be convicted on trumped-up evidence, and you know it. No one screams any louder than a guilty man convicted on evidence he knows he didn't leave at the crime scene!”

Chapter Fifteen

A man with a lighted baton waved them into the parking grounds. Behind him, Suzanne and Jessie could see an enormous Ferris wheel, with bright lights flashing against a dark sky. To the left, farther down, cars that were filled with screaming people sped over the rails of the roller coaster. A shiver of excitement, mingled with fear, ran down Suzanne's spine, as she listened to the calliope music filling the air. Whatever was in store for them, it was too late to turn back now. The determined look on Jessie's face told her that.

As soon as they exited the car, Jessie began trotting toward the midway. It was all Suzanne could do to keep up with the young girl. “Hey! Don't get too far ahead, Jessie,” she called.

Jessie slowed, turning around and walking backward as she talked to Suzanne. “Come on, come on! Amy's here. I just know it!”

Suzanne threw away the cigarette she had just lit and started jogging after Jessie. She caught up to her at the ticket booth, where Jessie had already paid their five dollars and was being issued two tickets. “Jessie! Stay with me when we get inside. We must not take the chance of getting separated!” She firmly clasped Jessie's hand with her own. “This way, if you start picking up anything, I will be able to feel it, also,” she explained.

The Fife and Drum Carnival was the largest traveling carnival Suzanne had ever been to. Its midway was crammed with row after row of games of chance, each with a man or woman yelling out to the people the virtues of their game. Suzanne leaned down to Jessie. “Just follow my lead and don't say anything. Okay?”

A man of about fifty, with a short beard and a scar traveling across the bridge of his nose, finished placing a two-dollar teddy bear in the arms of a little girl whose father had just spent nearly twenty dollars pitching baseballs at stacked milk bottles. He turned to Suzanne and Jessie as they strolled up. “Only fifty cents a try, young ladies. And it doesn't take strength, just hitting the bottles in the right spot.” He effortlessly tossed a tennis ball toward the bottles, and they fell away.

“I don't know. What do you say, Jessie?” Suzanne laughed and turned toward the girl. “Randal said he would meet us somewhere around here. We might as well have fun while we're waiting.”

“Got yourself a boyfriend, huh?” the man said, winking at Suzanne. “Well, if he don't show up I'd be right happy to escort you two around—if you don't mind waiting about an hour.”

“Why, how nice of you.” Suzanne smiled. “But Randal works here, so I imagine he'll be along. Maybe you know him? His name is Randal Clark.”

The man's demeanor changed rapidly. “You a cop or a reporter?” he asked bluntly. “We been overrun with both these last two weeks.”

Suzanne turned innocent eyes on the man. “I'm just a friend. And if you mean all that business about the butcher, well, you can rest easy. They dismissed all charges against Randal today. Didn't you hear? He's out of jail.”

“You mean Clark ain't the butcher?” The man seemed genuinely surprised. “Well, I'll be damned. We all figured he must have done it. Not that we ever said as much to the police you understand, but Clark always did seem like a queer duck to the rest of us.”

“Huh!” Suzanne said, tossing her head. “I think he's nice. What do you mean by saying he's a queer duck? In what way?”

The man shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. Most people who work the carnival are a little off the beaten path, if you know what I mean. Carnies are thrown with people when they work the midway, and even their off hours are spent with other carnies. Most of us are pretty, well,
sociable.
” He spoke the word, as if being proud he knew its meaning.

“And Clark wasn't sociable?” Suzanne prodded.

“Oh, hell no! He kept to himself. And he
painted!
You know—like
pictures!
Pretty damned weird thing for a carnie worker to do, you ask me. But he done pretty good with it, I guess. The boss used three of his paintings to advertise the carnival. Had several hundred posters made up from Clark's paintings, the way I remember it.”

Suzanne and Jessie exchanged knowing looks, then Jessie asked, “Do you suppose I could have some for my poster collection? Where would I go to find them?”

“Hell, I don't know, little lady! He painted them up maybe six, seven years ago. Then he made off with a carload full of them, or so I heard. If you're here to meet Clark, why don't you just ask him for one?”

Suzanne stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and leaned forward. “You wouldn't have any idea where Randal might be, would you? I can't wait around all night, you know. Where would he most likely be hanging out?”

The man tilted his head toward the east, enjoying Suzanne's teasing manner. “Down by the big rides, most likely. If he has his old job back, he'll be doing the juice for the big ones.”

Suzanne grabbed Jessie's hand and started walking away. “Hey,” the man yelled as they disappeared in the crowded midway. “You be careful, now!”

*   *   *

Randal Clark pushed the elevator button to the basement, watching in satisfaction as the doors swished shut, protecting him briefly from the outside world. Hardly anyone ever used this old service elevator—only maintenance men. And unless the owners had already replaced him,
he
was maintenance—or at least had been until the cops started swarming all over his place. He wondered if they had searched the basement as well.

The boiler room was located at the end of a maze of small rooms crisscrossed with pipes and wiring. There, almost to the ceiling, was a solitary small window, probably added after the original building was erected, to comply with local codes. Clark had already checked it out thoroughly. It opened right behind two large Dumpsters, into an alley littered with trash. Even if he was unlucky enough to run into some of the homeless who frequented the area, they would only think he had been sleeping behind the Dumpsters.

A shiver of excitement coursed through Clark's body as he crossed over to a large steel vat and felt in behind it. His hand closed over the hair of the beard and he smirked in satisfaction. Stupid damn cops. Right under their noses, and they had missed it. He loosened the duct tape holding it in place.

In only minutes, he was out the window. Even though the window well hid the basement light from the alley, he had still turned the lights out before making his exit. He pulled himself out of the well and waited for any sound which would indicate another presence in the alley. Nothing.

Silently, he lifted the lid to the Dumpster and drew out two large trash bags. He threw them over his shoulder and started down the alley, stopping here and there to pick up debris, depositing items in the bags.

At the end of the alley he came within ten feet of one of the police cars. He paid no attention to it as he spotted an empty can and pounced on it. He stopped and opened one of the bags, placing the can carefully inside. He then started looking around for other treasures. He could see both officers watching him without the slightest change of expression. He hoisted both bags back over his shoulder and shuffled on down the street.

*   *   *

Suzanne and Jessie stood in front of the enormous roller coaster, a short rope fence separating them from a series of gears and wiring. Suddenly, Jessie stepped over the rope, motioning Suzanne to follow her. The boy taking tickets did not notice them as they disappeared back under the big ride. Jessie began running her hands back and forth over the cables.

“Let it come naturally, Jessie,” Suzanne spoke softly. “Empty your mind. Make it a blank screen, like at the movies. There is nothing there. Nothing to clutter. It is a void, waiting to be filled.” She grabbed Jessie's hand, holding it tight.

Jessie's head tilted to the left. Almost immediately, little mewing sounds began coming from her lips. “No. Please, no.” She could see a single-edged razor coming toward the face of a girl whose features were frozen in terror. But then instead of slashing at the girl, the razor began making strokes over her right eye.

The girl's hair was golden, dressed in two long braids which hung to her shoulders. Suzanne and Jessie could see that her hair looked wet, as she fought against her attacker, scratching him.

Clark brought his hand to his face, and they could see blood when he brought it down and looked at it. She had at least struck a blow, but it cost her. Clark slapped her hard, back and forth, across the face.

“Jessie!” Suzanne spoke with authority, drawing the child from the scene. “You must get a wider view. Make your mind like a video camera. Pretend you are hitting the zoom lens for a larger picture. You can do it. Pan back to see who is holding the knife, and then wider to see if you can tell where they might be located.”

Jessie nodded. She had read about this technique used by many psychics but had never had enough control to do it herself. She tried to clear her mind, but the frightened face of the girl was consuming her thoughts.

“No, Jessie.” Suzanne's mind was filled with the terrified face of the girl in Jessie's vision. “Let it go! Move to the man. It's Clark, isn't it? See the hand holding the razor? Look at the man.”