The Christine Murders (11 page)

Next came sharp criticism of the police. No progress had been made finding the killer. The column finished with a suggestion that all young blonde women in San Francisco should arm themselves against a maniac loose in the city, since nobody could rely on the police to catch him very soon.

Wow, Christine thought, that’s pretty volatile writing. Go get a gun and arm myself because I’m a blonde. She finished the article and looked at the photo of Lieutenant John P. Kinsella, who was in charge of the investigation. She remembered having seen him once before on an evening TV newscast one night after the first killing.

She drained the last of her coffee, folded the paper, and reached for her phone. There were people she needed to call today, friends she’d lost touch with recently because she’d wasted too much time with Ted. It was time to start getting herself back into circulation again.

***

Across town, Deputy Chief Martin Connor finished reading his newspaper. Tossing it aside with disgust, he looked at John Kinsella, who was sitting opposite him. “Damn it, John! What is he trying to do now, whip the whole city into a panic? Urging women to arm themselves? We don’t have enough gun violence now as it is, so all we need are vigilantes pulling weapons out at anybody they think is suspicious.” He got up, and began pacing the office. “Talk to me, John, tell me exactly what you have on this guy so far.”

“Still very little, I’m afraid. He’s being super careful. Never leaves any kind of trail behind him, probably also using gloves because there are no prints of any kind at any scene or on anything that belonged to any of the women. CODIS is no use to us - not yet anyway, because there is no DNA available from this guy. And VICAP hasn’t given us any hits either. There are no similar types of cases here or anywhere else where the killer uses a blue silk scarf to strangle his victims.”

Kinsella took a deep breath and continued. “Nobody that we’ve been able to find saw Kelley Grant after she left the deli on Geary Street. Nobody working there that night could remember seeing the guy in the composite either.”

“Not even the cashier, the one who thought she saw Kelley talking with some man at the door?”

“Nothing. She said she never did see the man clearly. She was only mildly aware of Kelley talking to someone as she left. It might only have been somebody holding the door for her. The place was packed.”

Martin Connor made a face and continued pacing. Kinsella went on. “Then with Ann Heald, nobody saw either her or her drinking companion leave the Mark Hopkins Hotel. We checked every cab company in the city to see if anybody picked Ann up that morning at the Mark Hopkins. Again, nothing. So we have to assume she went somewhere with the guy she met.”

“Most likely her killer,” Connor said.

“More than likely, but not positive. We have no solid proof of that. Then we come to Susan Sayles. A waitress at Jaycene’s recognized our composite as the man Susan hit on. But again, nobody actually saw them both leave together. Our guy there went out first. It seems that everybody connected with this case just goes up into thin air. Until we find their bodies.”

He continued. “The waitress, Ellie, at Jaycene’s, told us the guy in question approached another blonde woman Saturday night, before Susan went after him, but he got a brush-off from her.”

“Lucky for her.”

“Ellie also told us he gave Susan a one-hundred-dollar bill, but we never found it. So I guess he took it back. As I say, he’s clever about leaving no prints anywhere. And we still have to consider that Susan was a prostitute. Her death could be either a coincidence or a copy-cat killer.”

“No coincidence, John. And no copy-cat either because nobody knows about the blue scarves,” Martin reminded him.

“True, that’s true. It’s got to be the guy in the bar, but as I say, we are still lacking solid proof. Everything lines up but without that, a case could fall apart, even if we find out who this guy is.”

“What do we know about the scarves?” Connor asked.

“Expensive, French silk, sold only at Neiman Marcus, but not recently. Not in a few years, in fact, from this particular manufacturer. Impossible to track now who bought them and when. So we have to think our guy has a stockpile of them.”

Connor looked surprised. “You mean nobody else sells them?”

“No, not any longer. Not this exact line, since this manufacturer is no longer in business. And Neiman Marcus was the only store here in San Francisco that did carry the brand. I know, it’s just one more weird situation with this case.”

Connor shook his head. “Unbelievable. A psycho stockpiling French silk scarves to murder women with. Have we ever had any other killings like this? What about other jurisdictions, anywhere? Same MO?”

“No, not that we’ve been able to find, and believe me, I’ve run every detail of these killings through VICAP.”

“What about the composite? When do you plan to release that?”

“I’ve called a press conference at three o’clock,” Kinsella said, stopping then for a few minutes before finishing what he had to say. “You know, Kelley’s friends told us that she wanted to meet a new man, a rich guy. Susan Sayles was looking for somebody with money maybe to marry her, poor creature, somebody to take care of her. I think this guy we’re looking for comes across as a class act. I think that’s the lure. Ellie said as much, a very classy guy. And he flashes money around.”

“With his French silk scarves . . . but tell me, how does Dr. Heald fit into that trap? She was a classy woman all by herself and she certainly didn’t need any money. Did she fall for the act, too?”

“Probably,” Kinsella said. “She saw him as an equal, most likely. She was alone, remember, and from what we’ve learned, she was getting over a very painful breakup back in Portland. Her friends and family say she was heartbroken. Then along comes a charming man in one of the most respectable places in San Francisco. No harm for her to strike up a conversation and trust this man. Even the waitress up there said he was charming, that he fit in perfectly. He plies Ann with drinks, gets her very drunk. And I guess you can take it from there. Dr. Heald let her guard down.”

“But where the hell does he take them? Where are they being killed?”

Kinsella looked at him. “My guess? In a car. He gets them into his car and takes them someplace and strangles them, maybe knocks them out or drugs them first, and then he dumps them in an isolated area.” He looked at his watch and stood up. “Martin, I have to get going. You will be joining us this afternoon, I hope?”

“Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it for anything. I’ll see you later.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

In his office on Union Street early Monday, Luther Ross-Wilkerson read his morning paper, looking intently at the pictures of the three murdered women. Quickly, he folded the paper up and dropped it into the waste basket next to his desk.

He felt sick. What had he done?

He thought of the woman doctor, Ann, at the Top of the Mark. Oh yes, he remembered how lovely she was. But what happened next? He also remembered that he had gone to Jaycene’s, of all places, on Saturday night. Why in the world would he have gone there? There was a woman he liked who would not give him the time of day. She had rudely brushed him off when he’d tried to talk to her.

But there was another woman, the waitress. Susan, a bold piece of work. Something about her had disgusted him. Why had he bothered with her?

He realized he must have been seen by many people talking to both of these women, although those places were busy and really how many people would have been paying much attention to him? He had gone to both night spots purely on a whim. It had been years since he’d taken Alyson to the Mark, and he’d wished he could have taken Christine last week. But that didn’t work out well, and now look what had happened.

Susan Sayles came into his mind again, quite suddenly. A flash of memory showed him Susan pulling a tank top down in his car, exposing herself to him. She was so beautiful, but how could he be tricked by a woman like that? He hated cheap women like her. Selling herself, she was. He was the only one who would initiate any love making, not a woman like Susan, a whore. Then suddenly he remembered hitting her, several times.

And then he remembered what had happened after that.

He sat at his desk, feeling sick panic rise up inside him. He started to shiver. The voices had told him to kill these women. So he had done so, all three of them.

He felt horribly sick suddenly. There was a brief knock at his door just then before it opened quietly and his secretary, Shirley Lao, came in with a stack of mail and folders. She walked toward Luther, high heels beating a faint staccato across the parquet floor beyond the Oriental rug under Luther’s desk. Shirley smiled brightly at him. “Good morning, Mr. Wilkerson.”

As she was about to place the mail and folders on Luther’s desk, she stopped, her smile vanishing and her dark eyes reflecting concern and fear. “Mr. Wilkerson, are you all right? You’re white as a ghost and you’re trembling. What’s wrong?”

Luther tried unsuccessfully to smile, instead making only a horrible grimace. He was perspiring heavily. He found his voice and croaked at Shirley. “It’s all right, I’m all right. I just don’t really know what came over me.” He attempted to stand, to prove that he was fine, but his knees buckled under him and he staggered back into his seat.

Shirley dropped what she was holding and hurried to his side. “No, don’t try to stand up. Do you have any pain anywhere? Shall I call for help?” Shirley, small and slender, tastefully and fashionably dressed, laid one elegantly manicured hand gently on Luther’s shoulder. Even though she was frightened, her voice remained low and soft. Luther had never heard Shirley raise her voice. She was always a model of tact and decorum, in any circumstance.

“No, no, it’s not necessary to call for anyone, Shirley,” he managed to say. “Just bring me a little water, if you would. I’ll be all right in a few minutes. I’ve . . . there’s been some bug or something working on me these last few days. Maybe flu. It’s the time of year.” He looked up into Shirley’s worried face. “Please don’t be frightened, Shirley. However, I’m very grateful for your concern.”

He was mortified. Never had he allowed himself to show the slightest hint of emotion in front of his employees. Never did he display anything other than a calm, pleasant demeanor. But now, here he was shaking and perspiring like an invalid. Well, he must at least be thankful for small favors. He trusted Shirley completely and was grateful that she was the only person to see him in this condition.

She placed a glass of cool water in his hand, which Luther took with a steadier grip. He drank deeply, feeling better, then removed his handkerchief and wiped his clammy forehead. He smiled at her; she was still watching him carefully, still not sure whether the crisis was over.

He spoke calmly to her. “Please do forgive me, Shirley. Such a way to greet you on a Monday morning! But I’m feeling much better now. Much better. Just dreadfully embarrassed, that’s all.”

She smiled at him. “There’s no need for embarrassment, Mr. Wilkerson. I’m just glad I came in when I did. I was late, you know. There was terrible traffic over the bridge this morning.” She moved back around the desk and sat in the chair facing him. “Perhaps you should have called to me as soon as you heard me come in. It’s terribly frightening to be alone when you feel sick.”

Alone. He knew well what it was like to be alone. Luther had almost always been alone.

Shirley spoke again. “Maybe you should go home, if you think you’re coming down with flu.”

Luther felt his composure returning. He got up again, steadily this time, and reached for the pile of folders and mail on the desk where Shirley had dropped it. “No, it’s okay now. Actually, I’m so far behind schedule these days. I have a lot I need to catch up on here.”

“And quite a lot of that involves things I can do for you. But, all right, whatever you feel is best. Just please let me know if you feel sick again or need me, okay? I’m right outside.”

Luther looked at her. She was a very fine woman. She was dependable, efficient, trustworthy, and decent. He knew how lucky he was to have her. He would reward her especially for her loyalty and concern for him today. “I promise I’ll call you if I need anything.”

He turned toward the window above Union Street and pondered a few moments before speaking again. He had many things to do, but perhaps it would be best to do them somewhere else. Still watching the street below he spoke. “Shirley, I think starting tomorrow, I will take a few days off, get away for a bit. I really haven’t been feeling too well lately.” He turned back to face her. “We’ll take some time this afternoon and discuss what needs to be done here while I’m out. And of course I’ll keep in touch with you.” He smiled as he watched her. “I know I can always trust you implicitly.”

She nodded agreement. “Of course you can. I think that’s a good idea. You know, you haven’t seemed completely yourself since that last trip you took to London. I think a good rest is well in order for you now.”

That last trip to London. Christine . . . “How very observant you are, Shirley. You are right, I haven’t been up to par since then. I think I caught some kind of sickness on that flight back, some sort of weakness.” He looked out the window again, staring at the street but seeing little, lost in his thoughts.

Well, he would get away for a short time. He thought of Christine. So like his Alyson. Why was she so set against being with him? He had to think of a way to change her mind. It was the only way he could prevent himself from looking for and trying to find her elsewhere. No other woman could ever take the place of his Christine.