The 9th Girl (25 page)

When they made the movie of Quinn’s life, George Clooney would be first in line to play him. He had that look about him—dark hair peppered with distinguished gray, dark eyes, strong jaw. He was the guy other guys wanted to be and the man every woman drooled over. He used those attributes to his advantage when he could but didn’t rely on them to carry him. He had a keen intellect, and he knew his subject as well as or better than anyone else in the business.

“What happened to her face?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the screen.

“She says she took a fall on the ice,” Elwood said. “Sprained her wrist too.”

“What does she do for living?”

“She’s a rep for a pharmaceutical company.”

“Where’s the husband?”

“They’ve been divorced for four years. He’s an odontologist. He remarried a younger woman who worked in his office.”

“Mom’s in a relationship with a shrink,” Kovac said.

“What’s he like?”

“Like a shrink. Dr. Know It All and Let Me Explain It to You Like You’re a Moron. Wears his sweaters tied around his neck,” Kovac added with disdain.

“I googled him,” Elwood said. “Turns out he’s fairly well-known in the metro area.”

Kovac scowled. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Because you’re out of touch with the world around you,” Elwood pointed out. “He has a radio show on one of the local AM stations for parents dealing with teenagers. Two hours every Saturday morning. And he does a five-minute guest spot on the channel twelve morning show every Monday.”

“Oh, great,” Kovac grumbled. “A celebrity in his own mind. I’m liking him more and more.”

“What’s he like with the mother?” Quinn asked.

“He tried to be supportive last night,” Elwood said. “He came with her this morning.”

On-screen, Julia Gray had collapsed against Kasselmann, crying. Kasselmann held her upright and put an end to the press conference with another appeal for anyone with information to contact the department. The news feed cut back to the studio and perky Dana Nolan for a rehash of everything that had just gone on.

“So, John, you’ve already looked at everything we have on the Doc Holiday cases,” Kovac said, going to the coffee machine and pouring himself a cup of something that looked like used motor oil. “Now you’ve had a chance to look at our Zombie case. What’s your impression?”

Quinn jammed his hands on his hips and looked at the photos of the body that had been taped to the wall.

“It depends on where Doc is at in his career,” he said. “Based on the known cases we attribute to him, he’s dumped more bodies in the Twin Cities area than anywhere else—as far as we know. If we count this girl, he’s dumped four bodies here in a year’s time. To me, that says he’s comfortable here, he knows the area. Could be he lives here and he’s getting lazy. Dumping victims in his backyard, so to speak, allows him to easily revisit the spots and relive the fun. But it’s also risky.

“The other victims dumped here came from outside the state. If Zombie Doe and Penelope Gray are the same girl, then he both grabbed her here and dumped her here. That says he’s getting careless and he’s possibly escalating.”

He turned and faced them, looking grim.

“Some of these guys implode at the end of their careers,” he explained. “They start doing things they don’t normally do, varying from the pattern they’ve perfected.

“The classic example of this was Bundy. After years of following the same pattern, being careful enough to elude capture, to hide his victims’ remains, he went to Florida and went on a spree. In one night he attacked multiple victims in a sorority house, left them to be found instead of getting rid of their bodies, left potential witnesses behind, then went into another house and attacked another woman. A couple of days later he snatched a girl much younger than his usual victim. He was like a shark on a feeding frenzy.”

“Why do you think that happened?” Elwood asked.

“We don’t really know why some of these guys self-destruct like that,” Quinn said. “One theory is they build up a sense of invincibility that grows and grows until it crosses a line into mania. Another theory is they start feeling less and less control over their aberrant desires, that this scares them and they want someone to stop them.”

“Doc seems to enjoy the game too much for a conscience to stop him,” Kovac said.

“I would agree,” Quinn said. “But you never know. We can never truly get inside the heads of these guys. There were people in my field who believed Bundy took his act to Florida at the end because he knew he stood the greatest chance of being executed if he was caught there. Yet once he was convicted, he did everything in his power to stall and appeal and prevent the state from putting him in the electric chair. He played mind games with law enforcement right up to the end and enjoyed every minute of it.”

“Doc Holiday could be one of those guys, spiraling out of control,” Elwood said.

Quinn nodded. “He could be. There are definitely deviations from his usual pattern if this girl is one of his. The acid is something new. The nature of the stab wounds is different. The knife was different, less efficient.”

“Tippen suggested he could have been playing with the victim, creating more terror over a prolonged time period by using a smaller knife,” Kovac said.

Quinn considered the idea, raising his brows and tipping his head. “That’s possible. Or it’s not Doc at all, and we’re looking at an inexperienced killer who grabbed a weapon of opportunity, not realizing it wasn’t enough to get the job done easily.

“It’s just as easy to look at this and say it’s a mess created by an amateur. The knife didn’t get the job done, so your unsub tried to bludgeon her; thought she was dead and poured the acid on her face to obscure her identity, but she was still alive.”

“Great,” Kovac said. “So it could be Doc, or it could be anybody. Thanks for narrowing that down for us, John.”

Quinn shrugged. “It’s an inexact science.”

“Let’s say it is Doc Holiday,” Elwood said. “What would you suggest? Do we press that angle and try to draw him out?”

“The fact that he leaves his victims to be found says he clearly wants credit for his work,” Quinn said. “I would expect him to keep a scrapbook with a collection of articles about his murders. But he hasn’t tried to contact the authorities or the media up until now, right?”

“Nothing,” Kovac said.

“You’d probably get a rise out of him if you
didn’t
talk about him, if nobody mentioned him on the news or in the paper, but it’s too late for that.”

“I had to play that card to get manpower,” Kovac said.

“Everything’s a trade-off,” Quinn conceded. “You could push the idea that he’s getting sloppy, that you’re closing in on him, that it’s only a matter of time—”

“But I can’t back it up.”

“And you might push him into making a grand gesture,” Quinn warned. “You piss this guy off and he could make you pay—by making an innocent victim pay.”

Kovac picked up the remote and turned Dana Nolan the perky news girl off midsentence.

“That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

He grabbed a VHS tape cassette off the stand beside the TV and put it in the VCR.

“This is the last known sighting of Penelope Gray,” he said, hitting the Play button. “She left the Rock and Bowl at nine twenty-seven
P.M.
after having words with Christina Warner—the shrink’s daughter—and this is her at the convenience store that’s down the block from the Rock and Bowl a few minutes later. She comes into the store, buys a six-pack of beer with what we can assume is a fake ID.”

The girl walked toward the door, toward the camera, then stopped and spoke to someone who had to be standing outside the door—and outside the camera range. There was no audio. There was no way of knowing what she was saying or what her tone of voice might have been. There was no way of knowing what the other person was saying to her.

The girl took a couple of steps backward into the store, turning her head and looking in the direction of the counter, where several people waited in line to pay for purchases. One of the other customers glanced in her direction, disinterested, and turned back. Then Penelope Gray walked out of the store into the night.

Kovac froze the frame.

“Is there a camera outside the store?” Quinn asked.

“On the gas pumps, not pointed at the building.”

He rewound the tape and played the last bit again, feeling haunted by the image of Penny Gray walking out of sight. Walking toward a friend? A stranger? A killer?

Tippen came into the room holding up a sheaf of papers. “The Gray family cell phone records.”

Kovac snatched them with one hand and pulled his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket with the other. “Have you looked this over?”

“No. Hot off the press,” Tippen said. “I just got back from seeing Dr. Timothy Gray, root canal specialist to the beautiful, well-off mouths of Edina.”

“His daughter is missing, probably dead, and he’s at work?” Elwood said.

“The odontology show must go on.”

“We can assume dad and daughter aren’t close?” Quinn said.

“Dr. Gray says he used to be close to his daughter but that the girl just couldn’t understand the complex malfunctions of his marriage to her mother,” Tippen explained. “Like his need to do the nasty with the twentysomething receptionist named Brandi-with-an-
i,
for instance.”

“Poor kid,” Kovac muttered. “Dad betrays her and her mom for a piece of ass. She blames Mom for not being enough of a hot dish to hang on to her father. Mom resents the girl for reacting badly to having her family torn apart. The girl is collateral damage from both sides.”

“It’s the American way,” Tippen declared. “Destructive entitlement family-style. Dad wants what he wants. Screw everybody else. His involvement with his daughter is reduced to writing tuition checks and being annoyed by the fact that she won’t leave him to enjoy his shiny new family in peace. He seems more irritated than worried that she’s missing.”

“A recurring theme among the Gray parents,” Elwood commented.

“He said Penny has disappeared before. She’s headstrong and belligerent and is probably somewhere relishing the grief she’s causing.”

“Yeah, like the morgue,” Kovac said. “When did he last hear from her?”

“Christmas Day while he was enjoying a Rocky Mountain High holiday at his second home in Aspen. She sent him a text, a poem.”

“Did he still have it in his phone?”

“Yes. He says he keeps them all ‘just in case.’”

Quinn frowned. “In case of what?”

“The young Mrs. Dr. Gray is afraid of Penelope,” Tippen explained. “According to Dr. Gray, his wife is afraid Penny might try to do something to hurt her or their three-year-old daughter.”

“Does the girl have a history of violence?” Quinn asked.

“Apparently there was a drunken altercation at the grand opening of Dr. Gray’s new office eight or nine months ago,” Tippen said. “The spewing of obscenities, a slap, a little hair pulling. Nothing much as catfights go, but it frightened the wife and embarrassed the good doctor. He’s still pissed off.”

He pulled his phone out of a pocket and called up a text message. “This is her last text to her father:

Have a Holly Jolly Christmas

with your happy family

Don’t think about the child you left

Your home, your wife, and me.

You live the life you want to

Have everything you need

That’s all that really matters

You’re all about the greed.

So happy, happy Christmas

my father great and true

From the daughter who means nothing

in the greater scheme to you.”

“Wow,” Kovac said. “She should write for Hallmark. They could have a whole new line of greeting cards for bitter people.”

“I’d buy them,” Tippen said. “But the bottom line for us here is that our derelict dad was out of state when Penny Gray went missing. He’s off the hook—at least directly. He did, however, have some ironic unflattering things to say about his ex-wife.”

Kovac arched a brow. “Doesn’t every guy?”

“Specific to how she’s raising their daughter. He claims if she was more maternal and less self-absorbed and angry, the girl would be more well-adjusted and not hate everyone so much.”

“Kind of like how if he was more paternal and less of a dick, the girl would have a brighter outlook on relationships?” Kovac suggested.

“That train of thought somehow escaped him. He says the girl has no respect for the mother as a parent or as a woman or as anything. They fight constantly, and she especially hates her mother’s choice in men.”

“The girl doesn’t like the boyfriend?” Kovac asked, then shrugged. “I don’t like the boyfriend either.”

“Too bad she isn’t your daughter, then.”

“Yeah. She’d hate me too.”

“She’s a teenage girl,” Tippen said. “They hate everybody. Except rock stars and Channing Tatum.”

“Who’s Channing Tatum?”

Tippen gave him a look. “Do you have even a passing acquaintance with popular culture?”

Kovac scowled. “Hell no. Why would I?”

“This is why you’re single.”

“That’s not why I’m single,” Kovac said irritably. “I’m single because I spend all my time with you assholes.

“What’s going on with your niece?” he asked. “Is she getting any feedback from her Internet stuff?”

“A lot of comments,” Tippen said. “Whether or not any of them lead anywhere is another matter. I’ve got a couple of the guys borrowed from Sex Crimes tracking down the more interesting ones.”

Kovac blew out a sigh. “This thing is going in so many directions, I feel like I’m wrestling a fucking octopus.”

“You need to know what happened after she walked out of that store,” Quinn said. “Right now, that’s your key moment. Who was she talking to? Did she leave with them? Did they follow her? Somebody had to see something.”

Kovac nodded. “We’ll get this video to the TV stations and stress the need for any kind of information at all. If someone remembers seeing her that night, I want to talk to that person whether they think they have information or not.