Kill Me Once (4 page)

Templeton nodded. ‘I’m on it.’

Dana took a deep breath as Templeton walked away, wondering what had happened to the nervous rookie agent she’d been more than a decade earlier. Back then she’d been half-afraid even to look anyone squarely in the eye, but now she was a woman used to having her orders followed without question. She considered it a blessing knowing that Templeton would execute her autopsy orders to the letter – which hadn’t always been the case with some of the other law-enforcement personnel she’d worked with in the past – but she couldn’t help worrying that she’d miss something if she didn’t do the work herself. Still, the difference between her old self and the current version couldn’t be starker. And thank God for that.

After those initial growing pains Dana’s meteoric rise through the ranks had been the talk of the FBI, inspiring respect in some corners and deep resentment in others. First in her class at Quantico. Handpicked by the legendary profiler Crawford Bell to be his partner out in the field before his age relegated him to a teaching role and her ambition led her to strike out on her own and move back to the Cleveland of her youth.

Through it all, Dana had never been the type who delegated responsibility easily. It was her greatest strength, and also her greatest weakness. She might have been a hotshot according to some of her colleagues (and a royal pain in the ass who always insisted on doing everything by the book according to others), but even hotshots needed help sometimes, and she’d do well to remember that.

Dana felt another sudden thrill in her stomach.
The thrill of the chase
. Some senior agents might have considered her next task beneath them, but she actually
relished
what was coming next.

A little good old-fashioned police work to make sure she didn’t miss a single clue in this case that was slowly beginning to drive her crazy.

CHAPTER THREE

Los Angeles – 8:25 p.m
.

Nathan whistled softly to himself as he exited the cheap motel. The oddly comforting smell of warm asphalt floated up into his nostrils. A good kind of anxiety rippled through his muscles as he walked. He felt ready for the exciting night ahead.

An updated kill to start things off right.

Now that he’d finally gotten
her
attention back in Cleveland, the fun and games could really begin. Following tonight’s festivities, no way in hell she wouldn’t see all these murders were connected. She just wouldn’t understand how or why yet. He’d leave
that
part up to her to figure out. After all, he certainly didn’t want to make things too easy on the bitch, now did he? Where in the hell would be the fun in that?

Of all places, he’d found tonight’s intended victim in the metro section of the
Los Angeles Times
– a fawning, retrospective fluff piece on how she’d been some kind of semi-famous dancer on the Chicago nightclub circuit back in the late 1940s, back in the days when a little burlesque had actually been considered racy.

A careful reading of the article was followed by a quick Google search that provided him everything else he needed from there. And judging by her photograph, her advanced years and general look would fit in perfectly with his intentions for the evening, which were to flawlessly mirror the Night Stalker’s first and most horrific slaying.

AC/DC’s ‘Night Prowler’ blasted over the beautiful rental car’s stereo system as he slowly circled her block, in no particular hurry now while he deliberately scouted for his prey. Richard Ramirez was said to have been a big fan of the Australian heavy-metal group, and especially of this song in particular – the media’s inspiration for his thoroughly chilling moniker – so tonight Nathan was a fan of the Aussie rockers as well.

He checked his mirrors and eased the wheel to the left before carefully pulling the car over to the side of the road across from her ramshackle apartment complex just as an emaciated black man wearing a pair of filthy khakis and a tattered wife-beater stumbled past on the cracked sidewalk. The black man stopped walking and leaned his head down, trying to look through the tinted window on the passenger side.

Nathan could almost
smell
the man’s body odour through the rolled-up glass as he turned the music down with the steering-wheel control and activated the power window. When the window slid down and their stares locked, the black man recoiled like he’d just been slapped.

His bloodshot brown eyes widened into saucers. ‘S – s – sorry, man,’ he stuttered. ‘I was jus’ lookin’. I don’t want no trouble.’

Nathan shook his head and reactivated the power window as the black man scurried away. ‘Fucking crack addict,’ he muttered.

He turned the music back up, plucked a small glass vial from the glove compartment and shook a large pile of cocaine onto the webbing between his left thumb and index finger before lifting the drug to his face and snorting it up hard into his nostrils. The powerful cocaine took effect almost immediately, shooting sharp waves of pleasure throughout his entire body.

So
this
was what the big fucking deal was all about.

Although he’d never done any kind of drugs before – much less something as potent as cocaine – authenticity was paramount to what he was about to do, so he figured there was no time like the present. Richard Ramirez had been stoned out of his fucking mind on the night when he’d viciously raped and murdered Jennie Vincow, so tonight Nathan would dabble in a little bit of the stardust as well. Not a lot, not enough to make him do anything stupid, of course – just enough to cover his bases and ensure authenticity. Above all else, it was the
details
that mattered most.

Another ten minutes passed before the old woman finally came walking down the street, clutching a small beige change purse in her gnarled hands and hobbling slightly as she favoured her right side. She glanced around furtively to make sure no one was watching, then quickly inserted a silver key into the antique door lock and let herself inside the small ground-floor apartment.

Nathan smiled and gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel tighter while a series of cold, almost
painful
goose bumps spiked across his forearms and shoulders, a thrill of adrenalin rolling so hard through his bones that he thought it might lift him right out of his seat. He was deep inside the killing zone now and all five of his senses suddenly felt sharper, more in tune with the world around him, more
reliable
.

This was it. The culmination of everything he’d been working so hard for. For the sake of updating history, this old woman would have to die a very violent death here tonight. There was simply no other way around it.

He waited patiently for a passing patrol car to turn the corner and drive out of sight before hopping out of the sleek green Audi and popping the trunk. Aimlessly wandering crack addicts and half-asleep cops aside, the quiet street was deserted at this time of night, so rather easy to prepare undetected. Still, he knew the empty street would be full of people soon enough. That was key. There had to be people around.

They had to
see
him.

The chords of ‘Night Prowler’ were still ringing in his ears as he dressed quickly in breakaway athletic pants and a thin black turtleneck before pulling an AC/DC baseball cap over his head. To complete the sacred transformation he used a blue ballpoint pen to carefully draw a perfect pentagram in the centre of his left palm.

Anticipation bubbled in his loins as he slid a sharp knife into the leather sheath on his belt and closed the trunk softly. Quietly –
oh so quietly
– he crept across the street under the cover of darkness.
“

It was time to get to work.

CHAPTER FOUR

After leaving Templeton with her instructions concerning Jacinda Holloway’s autopsy, Dana walked out into the hallway of the Section-8 apartment complex and knocked on doors until one finally opened. Most agents usually delegated this sort of chore to underlings, but she’d seen that approach backfire enough times to know it was always better to do the work yourself. It was what had gained her the respect of most of her fellow agents and the resentment of others – individuals who didn’t want to look bad in comparison. It certainly wasn’t as easy as they made it look on television, but you never knew what vital clues might be hidden in the seemingly mundane tasks. Sometimes you just had to roll up your sleeves and get your hands dirty – all the way up to the elbows, if need be. Crawford Bell had taught her that much.

Three doors down from the murder scene a shadowy figure darkened the peephole before a chain rattled and a young black woman holding a sleeping baby eased the door open a crack.

The young woman narrowed her eyes when she saw Dana and shifted the baby on her hip. ‘What do you want?’

Dana held up her badge and smiled. It was extremely important that an investigator’s demeanor appeared non-threatening and non-confrontational from the outset, pretty much Questioning Techniques 101, as it were. Besides, she found that being friendly usually worked a hell of a lot better than pulling the old ‘goodcop/badcop’ routine. Another trick she’d learned from Crawford Bell early on in her career.

‘Hello, ma’am,’ Dana said in a cheerful voice. ‘My name is Special Agent Whitestone and I’m investigating a murder on this floor. I’m sure you’ve heard about it by now. May I come in?’

The young woman studied Dana’s badge, then glanced down at the sleeping baby. Not much older than a newborn, Dana noticed. Then again, Mom couldn’t have been much more than eighteen herself. ‘I don’t want no trouble,’ the young woman said warily.

Dana brightened the smile on her face. Even if her troubled past made her keep people at arm’s length in her personal life, she never felt that kind of pressure on the job. No doubt it was the main reason she enjoyed working so much while her colleagues were off spending time with their families. Work was a
relief
for Dana, a place in which she could concentrate on other people’s lives and problems, not her own. Still, lately she couldn’t help feeling like maybe she needed something more in her life. A loving husband, perhaps. A couple of kids. A white picket fence edged with beautiful daffodils that the family dog would dig up half an hour after she’d planted them.

Maybe in another lifetime.

‘Won’t be any trouble, ma’am,’ Dana told the young woman. ‘I just need a moment of your time, that’s all. It’ll only take a couple minutes, I promise.’

The young woman opened the door further and shifted the baby on her hip again. ‘You sure you got to?’

Dana nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am, I’m sure. I really appreciate your cooperation.’

The young woman sighed and opened the door all the way. She stepped aside to let Dana in. ‘Well, come on in, then– if you really have to.’

Dana stepped inside the apartment and looked around. The place was absolutely spotless, with the heavy smell of freshly baked cinnamon buns hanging in the air. Dana’s stomach growled loudly, reminding her that she’d left most of her dinner on her plate at the bar during her mercifully brief date with the leering accountant.

The furniture inside the apartment was old but well maintained considering the fact it appeared to be mismatched pieces hastily thrown together from a 1970s-era Sears catalogue. Pictures of Jesus and John F. Kennedy hung on the wall above the small table in the dining room, interior-decoration staples for black folks who’d come of age during the civil-rights movement in the 1960s.

Dana lifted her eyebrows in surprise. Truth was, she’d expected something shabbier. ‘You live here?’ she asked.

The young woman closed the door and motioned to the threadbare couch in the middle of the living room. ‘Nah,’ she said, crossing the apartment and placing the baby down in a playpen next to the television set. ‘This here’s my grandma’s place. She’s just letting us stay for a while until I can get back on my feet.’

Dana nodded and sat down on one end of the couch. ‘Is your grandmother home?’

The young woman shook her head and took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. ‘No, she’s in the hospital right now. Cancer.’

Dana shifted away from a broken spring that was jabbing her in the butt. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that. My name’s Dana. What’s yours?’

Questioning Techniques 102:
Establish rapport with your subject early on whenever possible. Don’t dive in too quickly with the complicated questions. Get your subject on your side and gently steer them into the topic of conversation, especially when they don’t seem all that willing to cooperate
.

The young woman tossed an intricate braid over her left shoulder. Dana noticed that her elaborately styled fingernails were painted bright red. ‘My name’s Tyesha.’

‘And your baby’s name? She sure is a cute little thing.’

The faintest trace of a smile finally creased the young woman’s lips. ‘Tamara.’

‘How old is she? Six months?’

‘Five.’

‘She your first?’

‘Nope. Fourth. I got three others.’

Dana didn’t ask where the other children were. None of her business. Still, she felt a sharp twinge in her heart. If she hadn’t burned through a string of relationships with perfectly worthwhile men over the years she’d probably be on her fourth child herself by now. At thirty-eight, her biological clock wasn’t just ticking any more. It was
thundering
in her ears like a goddamn runaway freight train.

‘Listen, Tyesha,’ Dana said, ‘I need to know if you’ve seen or heard anything unusual around here lately. Especially around eight a.m. this morning.’

The young woman looked confused. ‘How do you mean
unusual
?’

Dana waved a hand in the air, painfully aware of just how bad her own fingernails looked compared with Tyesha’s. ‘I mean did you notice anything out of the ordinary today. Hear anything out of the ordinary? I want to know if you’ve seen any strangers on this floor lately. What the Holloway family was like. Where they went for fun. If they were a close family. If they were religious. If so, what church did they go to? Who came to visit them on the weekends? That sort of thing. It’ll help give me a clearer picture of the family and of anybody who might want to hurt them.’