You Can’t Stop Me (11 page)

It was all the Messenger could do to get out to the truck before he broke down. He was weeping as he drove away from the house where his most recent message had just been delivered.

“Got too close,” he whispered. “Got too close.”

In town, he made sure he was obeying the speed limit as he slowly scanned the darkening business district for a parking lot.

Finally, he saw a city park, down a block on a side street, which he turned onto, coming around on the far side, near a ball diamond.

No one was around.

He locked the pistol in the glove compartment, and got out of the truck. He’d walked only a few steps when he felt the bile rising in his throat. He had only a second to check for passersby before the vomiting doubled him over.

This had been bad. This had been the worst one.

The only thing that allowed him to carry out his missions was knowing that those who received his messages were just the delivery system—symbols,
not
people. That had gone blooey at the Hanson house. The little girl had nearly touched the inside part of him. Nearly? No, she
had
touched him.

He stood, wiping his mouth, and shook his head. It could never be like this again. He would have to be sharper, smarter. He couldn’t risk this sort of thing again. He might not be able to do what had to be done.

The little girl’s hysterical screaming rang in his ears, and he felt more coming up. He bent over just in time as he retched again.

Wasn’t supposed to be like this. All his work, all the time he had put in, couldn’t all be undone this easily, could it? That screaming little girl…

He looked up and down the quiet street. Nothing moved. Silence, blessed silence in this park. A block over, a dog barked. Somewhere he heard the revving of a car motor in a garage, someone obviously working on it.

His life had been like this once. Blessedly silent, boring even, until they
ruined
it….

He couldn’t stop delivering messages until someone made it better, until someone heard his pleas for help.

If it took delivering a hundred more messages to make the world pay attention, so be it. But he could
not
have another one like tonight. No more like tonight.

He was good at this, he knew that. Efficient. Not cruel. But tonight he had found out he still needed to improve, to become even more efficient.

As he climbed back into the truck, his stomach settled. On the long drive home he would lay the groundwork for the next message. He would redouble his efforts to know everything about the recipients beforehand. When he delivered the next message, and the one after that and the one after that, he would be more detached, more untouchable.

Tonight could never happen again.

The snow and the rain did not stop the postman on his appointed rounds, right? Or dogs or even screaming little girls.

Laurene met the sheriff’s gaze. “Mr. Hanson found something terrible, all right—his family dead.”

“Yes. Wife and daughter, both shot twice in the chest. You already know that your bullets from Florida match ours.”

“We understand Mr. Hanson took his own life.”

“Yes. Killed himself a week after the murders. Snapped. Hanged himself.”

Why,
she wondered,
was this killer punishing these men? Public servants coming home to slaughtered love ones? Or were
fathers
being punished?

She asked, “Who did the crime scene analysis at the Hanson home?”

“State BCI. We don’t have the tools for that kind of investigation.”

“What did they find?”

Fox held up a sheaf of photos. “You’ll want to look at these. Autopsy got us the bullets.”

“You think the photos should be helpful…?”

“Not my area, Ms. Chase. They’re crime scene photos, and maybe they’ll mean more to you.”

“What did you get from the photos, Sheriff? And from being on the scene?”

He thought for a moment. Then: “Guy was real careful. No fingerprints, no witnesses, and he collected the shell casings from the automatic. Only evidence they gathered were some tire tracks that didn’t match either of the Hanson vehicles.”

“Do you have those results?”

The sheriff nodded. “You take the photos and the tire marks information info too—these are dupes. When we’re finished here, I’ll request the BCI e-mail their files to you.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Laurene said, passing the folder of pictures to Carmen, who began thumbing through. The tire mark evidence Laurene gave to Choi.

“I’ll get started on these,” Choi said, glancing at the several sheets. The tool mark and firearms expert squeezed past the cameraman in the doorway, and was gone.

Turning back to Fox, Laurene asked, “Who interviewed the neighbors?”

“I did—but ‘neighbors’ overstates it. Neighbors are few and far between out that way. Nearest one’s almost a quarter of a mile away.”

Another similarity to the Harrow case, Laurene noted.

“What time of day did the crime take place?”

She knew the answer, of course—actually, she knew a lot of the answers. This was part of the
Killer TV
process: getting somebody like the sheriff here to deliver the exposition. Still, she liked getting this kind of stuff from the source.

The sheriff said, “Just before seven p.m.”

“Were the not-so-next-door neighbors home?”

“Yeah, only they didn’t hear anything. You wouldn’t expect them to—windy night, even for around here. Anyway, they could have missed the sound even if they’d been closer.”

Laurene asked Carmen, “Do you have any questions?”

“Actually, yes.” Carmen withdrew two photos from the folder, showing them to Fox.

One was a picture of the daughter’s room, where nothing appeared out of place—bed made, stuffed animals piled near pillows. A small table to the right of the bed was home to a considerable collection of snow globes, Disney characters mostly, whose familiar faces and forms were turned toward the bed. A desk held a computer, and, above it, shelves displayed the spines of DVDs and books, all neatly arranged. The second picture was a closeup of the table with the snow globe collection.

Fox looked at the photos with eyes that indicated he was well beyond seeing anything in these much-viewed crime scene shots.

Carmen asked, “Did you dust that room for prints?”

“Why, no.”

“How about the state crime lab? Were you there when they processed the scene?”

“I was. They didn’t consider the bedroom part of the crime scene.”

“So they didn’t check the Winnie the Pooh snow globe for fingerprints?”

Perplexed, the sheriff said, “Nobody thought the killer went in that room—nothing was out of place.”

Carmen leaned in and tapped the closeup shot of the snow globes. “Except Winnie the Pooh,” she said.

“Be damned,” Fox said, and shook his head and grimaced, handing the closeup picture to Laurene.

Laurene looked at the photo. The snow globes all faced the same direction, except one—Winnie the Pooh had his back to the bed.

“He picked that one up,” Laurene said.

“Well, someone did,” Fox said. “We’ll see if we can find out who.”

“If the whole family has been dead for almost two years,” Laurene asked, “where’s the snow globe now?”

“No idea,” Fox admitted glumly. “But I am damned sure going to find out.”

To Carmen, Laurene said, “Hell of a catch, girl. That’s
two
for you. Maybe it’s time you joined the crime scene team and I took over as host.”

Carmen smiled, chagrined. “I’m happy doing what I do.”

Everyone on the
Crime Seen!
team was aware that all of this had been caught on camera. Funny, Laurene thought, how the knowledge that they were putting on a show as well as chasing a killer colored her perceptions.

Fox said, “I should mention there’s a new family living in the house now. You want to go out there?”

After a moment’s consideration, Laurene said, “Let us run with what you’ve given us for right now. If we need to visit the scene, we’ll go out later.”

“But you will call me if you go?”

“Absolutely, Sheriff. You’d be a big help. Hey, you’ve
been
a big help. Thank you.”

“No problem. Who wouldn’t want this thing cracked? Now, can I ask a question…?”

“Of course.”

“Is this the same bastard who killed J.C. Harrow’s family?”

Laurene locked eyes with the man. “Can’t be sure…but it’s very damn likely the ‘same bastard’ who took out the Ferguson mom and kids in Florida.”

Fox sighed. “You’re covering a lot of hunting ground.”

“Yes. But we are closing in. We know to a near certainty that he’s targeting only the families of civil servants.”

The dark brown eyes flared. “
Why
in hell?”

“Pretty soon, Sheriff…we’ll ask
him
.”

After their good-byes, Laurene, Carmen, and the camera crew caught up with Jenny and Choi in the lab.

Choi took the ball: “First, the tires are so worn, he coulda replaced them by now.”

Laurene just gave him a look.

“Tire size 275/70R18, is very popular for light trucks and SUVs. This particular one’s manufactured by Michelin, and is the standard tire on the Ford F-150 pickup.”

“Does that help us?”

“Oh, sure,” Choi said, his smile mirthless. “Thanks to declining sales over the last five years? Leaves us only about four million F-150s, plus whatever vehicles bought them as aftermarket tires.”

“So, then, that was sarcasm.”

“I been saying you aren’t dumb, Laurene. Ask anybody.”

She sighed. “Keep digging, Billy. See if you can do something to make this a more manageable number.”

His eyebrows went up. “For instance…?”

“Start with Kansas. That’s where our errant Florida corn leaf came from—make it Fords sold in Kansas in the last, say, ten years.”

Choi smirked. “That’s still going to be a bunch.”

“But a smaller bunch,” Laurene said. “Didn’t Marshal Ferguson say he saw a blue pickup the night his family was killed?”

Choi snapped his fingers. “Right! That
will
help narrow it down.”

“Go,” Laurene said.

Practically bouncing, Choi moved back to his computer, and his fingers were soon flying over the keyboard.

Jenny gave Laurene a glance, which was enough to summon the African-American crime scene analyst to the petite blonde’s side.

Looking up like a little girl about to show Mommy her latest drawing, Jenny said, “Sheriff said Mr. Hanson was the county comptroller?”

“That’s right.”

Laurene liked where this was headed already—Harrow had told her Jenny was smart; now Laurene was seeing just how quick the girl really was.

“I checked on shooting deaths involving the families of public servants in the last ten years.”

“And?”

“Ten years ago, a member of the board of supervisors in McCracken County in Kentucky found out his wife was having an affair. He shot her and their three kids, her lover, and himself.”

“Jesus,” Carmen whispered.

Laurene could only think that it must be nice, being able to still be surprised by the evil that people could visit on each other. She’d been at it long enough that such revelations rarely made an emotional blip.

Jenny was saying, “Nine years ago, zero killings of that nature. Every year ever since? At least two, sometimes three separate instances.”

Carmen gasped—Laurene hoped it wasn’t just for the camera—but this news
was
news worth gasping over.

Laurene said, “That’s like…twenty something.”

“Oh, you
can
do math.”

It did not seem to be sarcasm—Jenny was no Billy Choi.

Jenny was saying, “Twenty-two, so far.”

Carmen, still stunned, asked, “How…how is that possible?”

“Killing strangers,” Laurene said, “is easy. So is getting away with it.”

From his computer, Choi called, “You mostly get killed by people you know!”

“Eighty percent of the time,” Jenny said.

“What
I
want to know,” Laurene said, shaking her head, “is how in the hell this SOB could carry out
twenty-two
such acts, murdering…
how
many?”

“Fifty-three women and children,” Jenny said. “Twenty-two mothers and thirty-one children. Eighteen boys, thirteen girls.”

The lab fell silent. Only the faint mechanical hum of sound and camera and computers could be discerned.

Finally Laurene asked, “How did he kill fifty-three people…and no one caught on?”

Jenny shrugged. “Killings may not all be his. But to answer your question? Small jurisdictions with limited police presence, spread across the country.”

Choi left his computer. “You know, in sleepy little Davenport, Iowa, they’ve had over two dozen bank robberies in the last ten years.”

They all looked at Choi expectantly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I mean, you didn’t hear
shit
about twenty-one of them. Those other three though, they all happened in 2004 when George Bush and John Kerry were campaigning in town at the same time.
That
got the attention of the national media, made CNN and MSNBC, and
still
generates a kajillion hits on Google.”

“What are you saying?” Carmen asked, suddenly defensive. “That this is somehow the
media’s
fault?”

“No, not all,” Choi said.

Laurene said, “I think what Billy boy is saying is that this is a really big country, and it takes something completely off the charts to catch our attention…and he’s right. Our unsub has been operating below the radar. Hell, until fifteen minutes ago, we thought he was going exclusively after law enforcement…and, Carmen, before you found that leaf thing? We didn’t even know this monster was
out
there.”

Carmen said, “So…this guy we’re looking for…he’s killed fifty-some people?”

“Could be,” Laurene said. “Most likely not, though. We’re only reviewing the stats in the most superficial way, at this point. But we
do
know he’s killed three in Florida, and two in North Dakota. It’s also possible, because of the MO, that he killed Harrow’s family, as well. Which makes at least seven.” Turning to Jenny, she asked, “When was the most recent one?”

“Three days ago.”

Carmen said hollowly, “The night of our first segment on
Crime Seen!…”

They all exchanged grave glances.

Laurene asked, “Where, Jen?”

“Socorro, New Mexico—family of George Reid, accountant with Socorro County. Gunned down.”

Laurene drew in a deep breath, let it out. “All right. You take Socorro, Jen—really dig in. See if the mom is missing a finger. Billy, take the truck tires. Carmen, you and I will interview the Hansons’ neighbors one more time, and
maybe
someone will remember
something
. First though, I gotta call the boss.”