The Christmas Killer (2 page)

Mills drove because the roads were icy and he was local, which meant he not only knew the roads, but knew how to drive them at speed without getting them both killed. The blue light was on the roof and heat was blasting out of the dashboard as the sedan sped across town. It was about six miles to the site where the body had been found. Another point on the new interstate, where construction was cutting along the back of Glendale, a lower-class suburban sprawl.

‘Female, African-American, late twenties or early thirties,’ explained Mills as he drove. ‘Whoever the sick fuck is who did it, she died a horrible death. Her eyeballs—’

Jake held up a hand. ‘Don’t tell me anything more. I want a clear mind when I look at the kill site.’

‘Is that some big-city cop technique we hicks don’t know about, Grasshopper?’

‘No,’ Jake said. ‘It’s, kind of, my own technique.’

More a curse than a technique.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, a silence eventually broken by Mills. ‘Neat move on that protester. Karate?’

‘Judo. We covered it in basic training.’

Mills sighed. ‘
My
training covered basic nose-picking and hamburger eating,’ said Mills. ‘I was good at the nose-picking.’

Jake laughed.

They lapsed into an uneasy silence for a few minutes, which Mills broke by flipping on the radio. Some local station DJ was rambling over a song intro, which was apparently number 14 on their ‘Epic Yuletide Countdown’. Jake flicked the radio off.

‘You not a fan?’ Mills asked.

‘Nope,’ said Jake, resisting giving Mills the explanation he was clearly after. His new partner was the kind of man who had obviously—

‘I’ve always loved Christmas.’

‘One day of the year your dad showed an interest, right?’ said Jake. Then he winced. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’ Mills kept his eyes on the road as he said, ‘Things between me and my dad are tough, that’s all. Always have been. How’d you guess?’

Jake shrugged. How could he explain it to Mills?

‘Go on then, what else you got?’ Mills joked. ‘When will I meet my Princess Charming, and how many kids will I have?’

‘You have an aunt called Vonnie,’ said Jake. ‘Your wife has a phobia about cats. And you broke your leg in a skating accident when you were twelve.’

‘Wrong, wrong and wrong,’ said Mills.

‘I know – it’s a pile of shit.’

Both men laughed. ‘First right thing you’ve said all day,’ said Mills as they turned off the street.

They pulled in beside three black and whites, a medical examiner’s van and an ambulance. Mills’s eyes twinkled as he said, ‘The ambulance is a bit optimistic.’ He undid his seat belt but Jake didn’t follow. ‘Coming?’

‘I need a minute to get orientated.’

‘I can help there. North is to your left, south is to your right, and brutal death is straight ahead.’

Jake stepped from the car and stood, leaning his elbows on the roof. It was a highway construction site, simple as that. A broad swathe of land laid bare by the machines, a strip of brown mud dusted with snow frozen hard by the winter and dotted by diggers silent and still now because of the corpse. Construction workers stood around in small groups, talking. Most of them were congregated to the right of where the cop cars had pulled up.

When Jake looked left he could see the gleaming new interstate – six lanes of progress surrounded by suburbia. The construction site was fenced in, but it wouldn’t have been difficult to get access, particularly at night. A cheap pair of wire cutters would have done the trick. Near where the new road petered out to levelled mud Jake could see a cluster of cops and paramedics, and a couple of technical guys in whites. The Indianapolis Crime Scene Squad, on loan for the forensics. Littleton didn’t have its own body team.

The area was marked out with yellow tape. Jake
straightened up and walked over. He reached the tape and ducked under it. Immediately a uniform moved forward and put a hand on his arm. ‘This is a crime scene, buddy. You can’t come in.’ Jake held up his badge and walked on.

He could make out the body, but the face was the first thing – the
only
thing – he saw, and the full horror struck him like a physical blow. The top half of her face was dominated by twin dark patches of dried and caked blood standing out against the flakes of snow that had settled on her skin. Something seemed to be hanging from both eyes. The murderer had inserted something into them.

‘Whoa,’ said Mills, covering his mouth with his hand.

Jake bent forward, then recoiled, the gorge rising in his throat. Experienced though he was, he hadn’t prepared himself for this. Nothing had been inserted in her eyes. Instead both her eyeballs had been popped out and were hanging from their blood-blackened sockets by the optic nerves. Her jaw was strangely distorted. He could see that several teeth were missing, and one was dangling from her mangled lips. He was sure that when the medical examiner took the body, some would be found in her mouth and throat – maybe even her oesophagus, depending on how long she had lived.

‘Christ,’ said Mills. ‘What did he do to her?’

Jake ignored the question and took in the secondary injuries. The woman was on her back, arms spread
wide. Like an insect pinned to a display board. Jake took it all in at a glance. African-American, mid-to-late twenties or early thirties, just like Mills had said. Slightly overweight but probably attractive when she was alive.

There was a dark ring of bruising around both wrists and down her arms. She had been tied up. And there was a ligature mark around her throat. Jake hoped she had been strangled before the injuries had been inflicted. But he got the feeling she hadn’t.

She was poor, that was obvious from the way she was dressed. Smart but cheap, probably Walmart. One shoe was half off her foot, and her mud-smeared clothes were crooked. There were two buttons missing from her blouse. Sign of a sexual motive? No …

She was dragged.

And the woman had fought, which probably prompted the blow that had mangled her jaw. The missing teeth looked like a quirk of the killer’s rather than an attempt to frustrate police identification.

He looked around at the CSIs. ‘Anyone find her purse?’

No one answered.

‘Gloves.’

Scowling, a white-coated technician handed him a latex glove, which Jake pulled on. He bent down and reached a hand into the victim’s coat. There it was. Her wallet.

‘Don’t most women keep their wallets in a purse?’ asked Mills.

Mills was right. The wallet was probably put there on purpose.

You want us to know who she is.

Jake snapped it open. There was her driver’s licence. Her name was Marcia Lamb.

A shadow hovered in front of him. He looked up. It was one of the lab people from Indianapolis. She was early thirties, with small glasses and brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked like a librarian.

‘Detective, this is the scene of a murder,’ she said. ‘Please move behind the tape until we have examined it.’

He turned to her, wondering if he had been that arrogant when he had first moved from the city.

He shook his head gently. ‘No, it’s not.’

He looked slowly around. The whole area seemed to darken and sharpen. He could see that it was far too exposed.
You’d move furtively, like a small animal avoiding the predators. It would have been quiet here last night, but you’d still have to hurry in case someone saw you from the road. But you didn’t hurry the killing. You wouldn’t hurry something you get so much pleasure from. So why did you lay out the body here?

The body – not the woman. She had to have been dead already. That’s the only way it could have worked.

‘This isn’t the murder scene,’ Jake went on. ‘This is a dump scene.’

The CSI stiffened. Jake replaced the wallet, then turned to head back to the car, hearing the woman mutter, ‘All that after two minutes?’

Jake didn’t turn round.

Mills caught him up. ‘How come you’re so sure?’

‘If I was going to kill someone this slowly, this deliberately, I wouldn’t do it here.’

Crying was the one thing Jake couldn’t deal with. And Bertha Sinclair was laying on the waterworks. A big woman in her forties, she described her missing friend between long drags on her Chesterfields, the smoke contributing to the stuffy air inside the cramped apartment, whose floor space was cut in half by the undecorated Christmas tree in the corner. Ms Sinclair had been dragging it into place when the detectives had arrived.

‘Marcia is always so reliable – never left me waiting before.’

The address from the licence had proved a bum lead, being several years out of date. But they had got lucky: Ms Sinclair was Marcia Lamb’s babysitter and she had been the one to report her missing.

‘OK,’ said Mills, who seemed less affected by emotions. ‘First, we need to establish the facts. How long have you known Miss Lamb?’

‘Since she was a kid. She grew up down the street from me.’ Bertha sniffed through a large handkerchief.

‘And you look after her child?’

‘Yes, little Kelly. She’s four. I take her in here while
Marcia’s at work. She’s got a job in a cocktail bar – Blue Dog, I think it’s called.’

She sucked on her cigarette and blew out a shaky breath.

‘But last night she never came.’ She looked from one detective to the other. ‘You will find her?’

Jake narrowed his eyes at Mills, who picked up on the sign.
Don’t tell her yet.

‘You reported her missing?’ Jake asked.

‘Yes. Around two o’clock in the morning.’ The woman’s eyes suddenly blazed. ‘But the cop who took the call tried to get rid of me. Told me I had to wait twenty-four hours … I told him straight, he should tell
that
to her little girl.’

Jake could hear Kelly – a cute little thing with her hair in neat cornrows – playing with some dolls in the back room. She was in a world of her own, oblivious to the darkness that was gathering around her life.

‘Does she always pick up Kelly by midnight?’ asked Mills.

Bertha nodded. ‘Never once let me down. That night her boyfriend was supposed to get Kelly.’

Jake’s head flicked up at this. Ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the boyfriend was the killer. The statistics don’t lie.

‘When he didn’t show, I called her and she said she’d come—’

‘Tell me about the boyfriend,’ Jake asked.

Bertha looked at him with wide eyes. ‘Sonny’s a
lowlife,’ she said. ‘Marcia could do a lot better. But who am I to judge? He picks up Kelly every so often, and … well … what do I know?’

‘You didn’t phone him last night, when he didn’t show?’ asked Jake.

‘I don’t have his mobile number,’ said Bertha. ‘I know where he lives, if that helps.’

‘Where?’

‘With Marcia. About two minutes from here. It’s on Washington Street – 149, I think.’

There was a knock at the door. Bertha was about to haul herself up but Jake raised his hand and went to get it himself. Outside on the porch stood a sweet-looking woman in her early twenties wearing a colourful scarf over a plain beige coat. Jake knew she was from Social and Family Services even before she showed him her badge.

‘I’m here for Kelly,’ she said, her voice low.

Jake nodded and stood to one side to let the woman in. As soon as Bertha saw her she started crying again. ‘The poor child. I’d keep her myself, but I just can’t.’

From where he was he could see Kelly still playing in the back room. The woman from Social Services walked through the den, throwing a polite smile to Bertha as she passed, and knelt on the floor beside the little girl.

Kelly looked up at the woman and said, ‘Are you bringing me to my mommy?’

Jake felt his fists clench.