My Lost Daughter (25 page)

She walked to the other side of the gym and tried to climb a rope ladder. Halfway up, the ladder began swinging and she became scared she would fall.

Alex was waiting as she climbed back down. When she was on the last rung of the ladder, he placed his hands around her waist and lifted her off. “Don't want to get hurt now, do you?”

Shana felt her sense of well-being evaporate. Twice in one day, this man had touched her. She knew better than to allow a stranger to place his hands on her, particularly in this environment. Had the drugs turned her mind to oatmeal? Here she was climbing ladders and playing games as if she was free to walk out the door anytime she wanted.

“You never answered me before,” Shana said, a serious look on her face. “How do I get out of this place?”

“Well,” Alex said, reaching for a cigarette and then realizing he couldn't smoke in the gym, “the first step is deciding what you're going to do when that day comes.”

He turned and walked off, leaving Shana to mull over his statement.

MONDAY, JANUARY 18
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

Mary was back at her desk in Quantico, digging through the stacks of files collected from the Connelly, Thomason, Madison, and Sherman cases. She had already tried to get in touch with Sheriff Mathis but with the three-hour time difference, he had yet to arrive at his office.

Genna Weir stuck her head in the doorway. “I called to see what you were up to this weekend but you never called me back. Was Brooks in town?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “We met in Ventura. I wanted him to see my house.”

“You mean the one you're going to turn into a nursing home?”

“It isn't going to be that way. Both of our parents are in good health. They just don't see as well as they used to, so we'd rather they not drive.”

“I bet they love that.”

“They don't drive now, Genna.” She didn't know why Weir was always ragging on her about their plan. Both she and Brooks knew it might not work, yet it was worth a try.

“So what did lover boy think?”

“He thought the house was perfect. We ran into a homicide, though. I'm certain it's connected to those suspicious murders the chief asked me to profile. What I need to put it together is the autopsy and ballistics reports from Ventura. Unfortunately, there's no telling how long it will take to get my hands on them.”

“Since you're leaving, Adams will probably dump all your cases in my lap. Shit, I'm up to my ears right now. How many other cases are you working?”

“Just these,” Mary told her, glancing down at the paperwork spread out on her desk. “Just so you'll know, I'm not giving these cases up.”

“How can you not give them up?” Weir argued, placing her hands on her hips. “You took a post in a Podunk town, girlfriend. We're talking about a serial killer who's already snuffed out four lives. Adams won't let you work that big of a case in Ventura, for Christ's sake.”

“That's enough, Genna,” Mary shot out, tired of her negativity. “I need to get back to work. You're distracting me.”

Weir's face fell. “Don't be mad at me. I'm upset that you're leaving. You're the only friend I have around this dismal place.”

“I know you wish the best for me. You just have a strange way of showing it.” Mary smiled, then opened her drawer and pulled out a pack of gum, offering Weir a piece. “Why don't we go to lunch tomorrow? You know, just the two of us.”

“I'd like that,” Weir said, popping the gum in her mouth and disappearing down the corridor.

Mary went back to work. Although few were aware of it, she held a degree in biochemistry and had never contemplated becoming a police officer before her father's death. When the LAPD had exhausted all efforts to apprehend the shooter, she had resigned from her high-paying job with AMS Biotech to concentrate on bringing the man who killed her father to justice.

Since the fifth grade, Mary had spent several hours a day on the computer. She had later refined her skills to a professional level,
thinking if she bombed out as a scientist, she could establish a career in the computer industry.

Her claim to fame was single-handedly tracking down the man who had murdered her father, achieving something the LAPD had failed to accomplish. And she'd done it without leaving the confines of her apartment. If a person knew how to work the back doors of the Internet, they could find almost anything and anyone.

Mary then decided to enter law enforcement in honor of her father. LAPD had been so impressed with her skills and determination that they had vigorously attempted to recruit her, but Mary had turned them down, preferring to affiliate with a smaller department where she felt there would be more opportunities for advancement and a reduced chance of getting killed. Ventura seemed to be the perfect community. She could indulge her love of the beach as well as her passion for running. She had broken records in the 440 in both high school and college. Ventura was a runner's paradise. It had cool ocean breezes and fresh air. What more could she want?

Once she joined the Ventura PD, she'd moved up through the ranks remarkably fast. After only three years in the field, she received her detective's shield and was assigned to homicide. Some officers went their entire career without making detective. She laughed, thinking about her former supervisor, Hank Sawyer. They were always squabbling about one thing or another. But they had fun, as much as anyone could in homicide. A year or so ago, she'd also befriended a superior court judge, Lily Forrester. Lily's path had crossed with a serial killer and she'd almost lost her life in a shootout.

Lily was an amazing woman. She and her young daughter had been raped at knifepoint by an Oxnard gangster back when she was still a prosecutor. Everyone and their dog knew about it, which Mary thought was sad.

The man who'd raped them had been raised in Oxnard. A sister city to Ventura, Oxnard had recently become a more attractive place to live, after battling a serious problem with violent crime for
generations. The majority of the bad actors came from a Hispanic barrio called Colonia. The Oxnard PD had squeezed and squeezed until the area now only amounted to a handful of blocks. But it didn't take a large space to house a lot of gangsters. Since most gangs were formed in prisons today, Oxnard was unique in that respect. She'd talked to kids from Oxnard whose grandfathers were members of the same gang.

Pulling out the stacks of autopsy and ballistics reports on the four unsolved deaths, she began to meticulously examine them, hoping to find something she'd previously overlooked. Almost everything was available online these days, but scanning reports and documents were left to humans, and humans made mistakes. Also, when reviewing autopsy and ballistic reports that contained graphics, it was hard to see the complete picture on a computer screen.

The FSRTC, or, in plain English, the Bureau's $150 million–plus crime lab, had confirmed that the same weapon had been used in all four deaths. One of the programs they used was called
Drugfire,
a multimedia database imaging system that automated the comparison of images of bullet cartridge cases, shell casings, and bullets. The system was developed by a company called Mnemonic System Inc. (MSI), which allowed examiners from across the country to compare and link evidence obtained in the form of spent cartridges and other ammunition casings.

Drugfire
was developed when the Bureau came under pressure to respond to the wave of gun violence gripping American cities during the crack-cocaine epidemic of the 1980s and early 1990s. They subcontracted with MSI to come up with a faster way of comparing and linking evidence from drug-related crimes across the country.

Mary was fascinated with the science of ballistics, and knew almost as much as the Bureau's experts. She knew that low-velocity bullets, such as those from handguns, did virtually all their damage by crushing. Cavitation was significant with projectiles traveling in excess of one thousand fps (feet per second). A permanent cavity is caused by the path of the bullet itself, whereas a temporary cavity
is formed by continued forward acceleration of the medium, such as air or tissue in the wake of the bullet, causing the wound cavity to be stretched outward.

Then there were shock waves, which compressed the medium and traveled ahead of the bullet, as well as to the sides. But these waves lasted only a few microseconds and didn't cause profound destruction at low velocities. At high velocities, they generated shock waves that could reach up to two hundred atmospheres of pressure. Bone fracture from cavitation, however, was extremely rare.

The mathematics of wound ballistics worked well for bullets that were in good condition or technically referred to as “not deformed.” To demonstrate tissue damage, materials with characteristics similar to the soft tissues and skin in humans was used. Pigskin, for instance, provided an external layer to blocks of compounds such as ordnance gelatin or ballistic soap. After firing bullets into these materials at various ranges, the ballistics technician would then examine them visually, what they referred to as cutting the block, or by use of CT imaging to determine the sizes and appearances of the cavity produced by the bullet.

Wounding was a complex situation involving variables of bullet size, velocity, shape, spin, distance from muzzle to target, and nature of tissue. These factors were interrelated, and the wounding potential was difficult to predict even under controlled test conditions. In an actual forensic case, few of the variables may be known so it's up to the medical examiner to determine what can be known from examination of the evidence.

With information on the wounds in the victim's body and at least one shell casing that wasn't deformed from the crime scene, the murder weapon could be identified. Then
Drugfire
's enormous database of bullets and shell casings used in various crimes all over the country might even lead to the identification of the shooter himself.

The kink in this perfect scenario was the fact that handguns had an extremely long street life and could change hands a dozen times
or more in any given year. The one break that had developed in this particular series of murders was the identification of the murder weapon: a 9mm Walther. For one thing, this particular gun was expensive. Depending on the accessories, a 9mm Walther could cost seven hundred dollars or more. A common criminal might have stolen a gun like this in a residential burglary, but this killer was anything but common.

The murder weapon could tell you a great deal about the shooter. Mary decided her UNSUB possessed both money and class, both of which could ultimately cause his downfall. The best way to get away with murder was to kill someone you didn't know with a gun that would quickly make its way into someone else's hands. This killer liked his gun, though. He liked it enough to kill four, possibly five people with it. Using the same gun showed confidence. His crime scenes were exceptionally tidy: no DNA, no fingerprints, no hairs, basically no evidence whatsoever. He shot his victims in the back of the head, which was the earmark of a coward, but he was not a coward. Mary wondered if he shot the victims in the back because he didn't want them to suffer. They were probably dead before they knew what hit them.

Concern for his victims denoted compassion, something Mary wasn't sure he possessed. Perhaps he'd developed his M.O. to keep the victims from screaming or calling for help, which would draw attention. She estimated he took no longer than five or ten minutes to kill the target, clean up the crime scene, and then flee.

On the other hand, the killings may have gone smoothly because the victims wanted to end their lives. They may have entered into some kind of suicide pact, maybe through a suicide club.

The problem Mary was anticipating was that the sheriff in Ventura might not use the Bureau's crime lab. Some law enforcement agencies relied on their own resources for a variety of reasons. Chain of evidence was of utmost concern, and there was always a possibility that something could go wrong during transit. Contamination was another issue, as was response time. Although the Bureau employed
more than seven hundred highly trained forensic scientists and technicians, the demand for their resources was enormous.

As a homicide detective, Mary had been employed by the city of Ventura but the sheriff's office held jurisdiction over the entire county with a population of almost a million people. If things hadn't changed since she'd left Ventura, the sheriff's office relied on their own crime lab under most circumstances. But if the evidence required state of the art equipment, they would turn to the Bureau to process it. Another reason they might use the Bureau's lab was credibility. If the evidence was processed in the FBI's lab, not many defense attorneys would attempt to refute it.

If the SO decided to use their own lab, which she suspected they would, then Mary wouldn't be able to call the FSRTC and gain instant access to the reports and evidence collected in the Washburn homicide. She would have to make a formal request and wait. She didn't have time to wait, not when she was certain the killer would strike again within the next ten days, a pattern he'd established in the four earlier deaths.

She called John Adams and asked if he had time to see her. When he said he could give her a few minutes, she grabbed her files and rushed down the corridor to his office.

He shot her a dark look. “What do you want, traitor?”

Mary assumed he was joking but the look in his eyes said otherwise. She decided the best way to proceed was to ignore his comment. Taking a seat in front of his desk, she immediately began speaking. “Brooks and I went to Ventura this weekend to look for houses. While we were there, the SO discovered a body. The victim was a paraplegic.”

“What does this have to do with us? I have a million things to do right now, and this time next week, I'll be short an agent.” He held up a picture. “This is Special Agent Labinsky. He's allegedly bright but his eyes look dull, don't you think?”