So Close the Hand of Death (23 page)

T
aylor felt a weight release from her chest when she pulled into the parking lot. This was all just another false alarm.

Sam’s car was parked in her slot. A silver BMW 330ci, the very car Baldwin drove. He’d taken one ride in Sam’s backseat and decided then and there to get one for himself. When they were parked in the driveway side by side, Sam’s titanium silver and Baldwin’s titanium gray glinting in the sunlight, Taylor always teased them about their expensive tastes. “The neighbors are going to think we’re putting on airs,” she’d told them, more than once.

She was more than happy driving her truck. Practical. That was her.

Sam must have simply let her phone die. Taylor herself had done it herself the other day. All this worry, the tension; she was just on edge, seeing ghosts everywhere. Typical of Copeland, too, to send her off in a rush. He wanted her to react, not to think things through. This was all a game to him, one that took lives to satisfy his sick sense of humor.

She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Mitchell’s
men were in place, then entered the building and went straight to Kris. The bubbly blonde was chatting on the phone, obviously on a personal call. She had a smile on her face a mile wide, her finger twirling a lock of hair at her shoulder. Taylor tamped down her annoyance. It was before hours, there was no reason Kris shouldn’t be on the phone with a personal call.

When she saw Taylor approaching, she murmured something, and placed the phone to her chest to block the conversation from whomever she was speaking to.

“Morning, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Sam.”

“She’s long gone, I’m afraid. She scooted out of here before I made it in this morning. I had some reports to finish, so instead of staying late last night I decided to come in early today and get them done. Did you try calling her?”

“She’s not answering her phone. Kris, you’re sure she’s not here? Her car is out front.”

Kris’s forehead creased. “Yeah, I’m sure. She was having trouble with the car last night. She was going to run out for dinner at 10:00 or so and it wouldn’t start. She probably had Simon pick her up. I’m glad you mentioned it. I should call a tow truck for her. She didn’t leave a message about it but I know what shop they use.”

Taylor’s heart returned to her throat.

“Kris, hang up the phone.”

Kris didn’t hesitate—the look on Taylor’s face must have been enough. She set the phone in its cradle without saying goodbye.

“What’s wrong, Lieutenant?”

“We don’t know where Sam is. Have you been
in her office, or through the whole building yet this morning?”

She came out from around the desk with her badge out. “No, but let’s go look. My God, I hope nothing’s happened to her. Did you call Simon?”

Kris crossed the lobby and swiped her key card through the access slot. It unlocked and she yanked open the door to the executive offices. Taylor followed close on her heels. They jogged down the hallway to Sam’s office. The door was cracked. Taylor pushed it open. Empty.

“I talked to Simon. He doesn’t know either, but don’t get in touch with him just yet. He said Sam had the overnight shift, then a doctor’s appointment,” Taylor said.

“Yeah, her first big checkup. They were going to do an ultrasound this morning.”

Oh, my God. Sam
. She took a deep breath.
Stay calm. You’re going to find her. She’s going to be okay
.

Taylor made a mess of Sam’s desk looking for her datebook. “Where’s her schedule? I can’t find her Day Runner.”

“It’s online now. We’re trying to go paperless. She wanted to set an example.”

“I assume it’s on her computer?”

Kris nodded.

“Pull it up. I need to look at it. Then you go to the autopsy suite, check with whoever’s down there now.”

Kris sat at Sam’s desk, trying to type. Her hands were shaking, little wispy breaths leaking out of her mouth. She was closing in on a panic attack. Taylor finally reached over her shoulder and grabbed her hands.

“Listen, relax. Breathe. We’re going to find her. She’s going to be just fine. I promise.”

There were tears in Kris’s voice. “I hope so. She’s the best. Lieutenant, I’m sorry, this is taking forever. She shut her computer down last night. She never does that. We always put them in sleep mode, password protected, of course. But she’s turned her whole damn system—”

“Shoot, Kris. Stop. Stop typing. Don’t touch anything. Back out of here, shut and lock Sam’s office and access the schedule from your computer.”

Kris listened, stood quickly and turned to Taylor. “What’s the matter?”

“You said Sam never turns off her computer.”

“No, never. It uses less energy to keep them in sleep mode, it’s a part of our green initiative.”

“In case we need to dust for prints or Hemascein the area for DNA, we need to keep it as undisturbed as possible.”

“Oh, God,” Kris sobbed.

Taylor took the girl by the shoulders. “Kris, I need you. You have to keep it together for me. Go back to your desk, bring up Sam’s calendar. If there’s anything else you think of that might be relevant, tell me. Who she was with last night, too. I need a list of everyone who was on shift, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Kris swallowed hard and nodded.

“Good. I’m going to head over to the autopsy suite myself and have a quick look around, make sure she isn’t over there lost in a case. I’ll be back in a minute.”

More time, leaking away.

Taylor watched Kris head back through the door to the lobby and her desk. She swiped her own key card to enter the autopsy suite. It was eerily silent. The sun shone through the skylights, making the metal accoutre
ments along the table glow in the early morning light. There was no one there. No one alive, that is.

Panic struck her. She closed her eyes for a moment, braced herself, then slowly walked into the hall, to the stainless-steel door that housed the body cooler. Bodies were kept systematically stored, laid out on the wheeled tables that were used for autopsies, in their body bags. If things got crowded, they could be stacked vertically.

The door opened with a hiss, refrigerated air spilling into the corridor. A row of about ten bodies greeted her, all nestled in their black casings like caterpillars preparing to shed their chrysalis, their souls hardening into afterlife’s wings. A slow day.

She tore through them, ripping open the bags, breaking a zipper on the third, glancing at faces, seeing nothing while she desperately searched the chilled bodies for her best friend.

The end of the row now, the last bag. She took three deep breaths, then firmly grabbed the zipper and pulled.

A man. It was a man.

Relief overwhelmed her.

She’d never been so happy to see a dead man before.

B
aldwin paced his office nervously, waiting for Kevin to return his call. He hated agreeing to split from Taylor. He didn’t like letting her out of his sight right now, not with this maniac so close. He glanced out the window; the bright morning sun disappeared behind a gray cloud that looked ominous. He could smell snow when he’d crossed the parking lot half an hour before. Just what they needed, a storm on top of this mess.

The idea that Taylor had about the list of figures on the CD was proving to be quite fortuitous. A quick search through the databases showed that the numbers the Pretender had sent them were in fact license plates, and all three plates were registered to car rental companies. Kevin was searching through each database with the appropriate agencies, trying to find out where the cars were.

It had been over twenty minutes. What was taking so long?

Baldwin glanced at his phone again, willing it to ring.

Nothing.

He sat at his desk and opened his laptop. Surfed through his news sites. Felt his stomach drop.

Son of a bitch.

The story was everywhere. Headlines screamed:

Serial Killers on the Loose

The Country Is Under Attack

Do You Know Where Your Children Are?

Don’t Talk to Strangers

Resurgence of Old Killers Stuns the Nation

He clicked on the last link, just to see what he could glean. Sometimes, the news outlets did him a favor when they picked up on a murder. This time, he didn’t think that would be the case.

The story was as sensational as he feared, with frighteningly accurate information.

Anonymous true-crime blogger Felon E has become a victim. Fans who comment on the widely read blog are under attack by the very killers Felon E purports to bring down. Police are keeping the story hush-hush, but sources close to the investigation say the FBI are now involved in the case. Since Monday, at least thirteen people have been killed across the country.

The investigation is centered out of Nashville, Tennessee, being run by a Homicide lieutenant named Taylor Jackson. It has become clear that the Felon E blog is headquartered in Nashville, and the owner of the site is in police custody at this time. There is no word as to whether Felon E is a suspect or is being held legally responsible for the
commenters’ deaths. These are issues for the new age of online reporting, and the eventual litigation surrounding this case may decide how many websites will use nonprofessional citizen journalists to populate their news sites. According to the Felon E blog, California, New York and Boston were the first states hit by these elusive copycat serial killers, who imitated the Zodiac Killer, Son of Sam and the Boston Strangler, respectively. The first murder happened on Monday. Independent confirmation has come in that the Zodiac has also committed murders in Las Vegas, Nevada, and Denver, Colorado. Letters were mailed to the
San Francisco Chronicle,
the
Las Vegas Sun,
and
The Denver Post,
all claiming responsibility for the murders of five people in total: Vivi Waters, 18, and Ike Sharp, 19, shot to death in a lovers’ lane outside of San Francisco; Colin and Sherry Barker, both 35, stabbed to death in their Las Vegas home; and Halley Marshall, 20, who answered an ad on the popular classifieds site Craigslist for a pair of Rollerblades and was shot to death behind Cherry Creek Reservoir.

We have also confirmed that June Earhart, 34, was killed in Boston in a very specific manner indicating the presence of a copycat of the Boston Strangler. A source who asked not to be named told this reporter that the victim’s scarf had been tied in a bow around her neck, though independent confirmation is yet to be achieved. There was a second murder in this style less than twenty-four hours ago in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a stockbroker named
Frances Schwartz, 31, and another strangulation was recently reported in Indianapolis, Indiana, Mary Jane Solomon, 28.

The FBI are looking into the cases, and people across the country are rushing to buy new locks, guns and other items to increase their homes’ and loved ones’ safety.

The Son of Sam copycat has proved more elusive, his trail not as defined as his compatriots. After murdering Barry Teterboro, 41, and Martin Bass, 50, in Manhattan’s Washington Square Park, he moved to Washington, D.C., where his victims, Joseph Conley, 43, and Nicholas Anche, 40, were found shot to death in the Lyndon B. Johnson Memorial Grove. There have been no new murders attributed to Son of Sam’s copycat for over a day.

These killers must be stopped, but speculation abounds as to the individual motives and overall scheme of the situation.

The article went on, but that was all Baldwin could take.

He closed the browser and ran his hands through his hair. Gotcha journalism, run with half truths and outright lies be damned, whoever had written that story had a source inside the investigation. At least the story hadn’t made a connection to the Pretender. They had managed to keep his involvement relatively private. Fox already had the bones for that part of the story. Since Taylor had been openly named as leading the investigation, it would only be a matter of time before the rest jumped on board. They were out of time.

He couldn’t sit here waiting anymore. He needed to
do something. He wasn’t used to being on the outside of a case, looking in. Being suspended was making this difficult. Difficult, but not impossible.

He opened his phone and called Salt, who answered on the first ring.

“Good timing, I was about to call you.”

“Tell me you have some good news.”

“I do. The cars were rented at the same time, online, using a single credit card, which traces back to Nashville, though to a P.O. Box, not a physical address.”

“Probably counterfeit then, an assumed identity. What name was used?”

“Troy Land. It’s bogus, I can’t find anything that matches up. I can’t imagine him using his own name. Just in case, I’ve started a couple of searches. Though if he’s sending you the plates of the cars, he’s hardly trying to hide himself.”

“Exactly. That’s why I assume the ID is fake. What about the names of the drivers?”

“I’m almost there. They said they’d be happy to give me the information, chock-f of specifics, as soon as I provided them with a warrant. We’re getting the paper now but you know how long that takes. So in the meantime, I’m taking a small peek into the daily database, see who signed for the individual cars. This company has moved to electronic signatures. Assuming they’re legible, we’ll at least have something to work with.”

“Excellent. What else?”

“Confirmations of murders in Philadelphia and Indianapolis that are attributable to the signature of the Boston Strangler copycat. He’s using UPS delivery trucks, and stealing the drivers’ uniforms to make deliveries. Who doesn’t answer the door for a parcel? Three UPS drivers have been found dead so far. There’s
been a media explosion, too, in case you didn’t have your television or computer on.”

“Yeah, I saw that. Hard to avoid, considering the victims are being targeted through a popular online site. The minute that hit Twitter, we were sunk.”

“Dude, it’s a top five trending topic right now. They’ve hashtagged it #copycats. Honestly, I think it’s going to help. So much attention, you know? Everyone is watching. All the law enforcement agencies are on alert. The entire online world is paying attention. His moment in the sun is about to end.”

“Excellent. Great work. Keep it up. Can I speak to Charlaine? I’d like her opinion on something.”

“I’ll transfer you. And I’ll shout the minute I have some names, okay?”

“Thanks, Kevin.”

“See ya.”

There was a long beep, then the phone went quiet. Two seconds later Charlaine Shultz’s sweet, Southern voice came on the line.

“Hey, boss! How are you? Please tell me they’ve pulled their heads from their asses and are letting you back? This place sucks without you.”

“Charlaine, dear, thank you. No word yet, but I know Garrett’s doing everything he can.”

“Is Taylor okay?”

“We may have a new situation on our hands, she’s off chasing it down now. Before I go into that, let me ask you something. No one seems to know what Ewan Copeland looks like. There were pictures in the files from when he was a kid, but nothing that anyone can agree upon as an adult. What do you think that means?”

Charlaine didn’t hesitate. “It’s so funny that you
asked that. I was just working on a theory. He’s moved from city to city for at least a decade, right? Holds no job that we know of. His sister is making money, but enough to support herself and her brother as he traverses the country? That would be hard to pull off on a city forensic analyst’s salary. There was a small life insurance policy that the baseball folks took out on Roger Copeland, emphasis on the small, so that money has to be long gone. He died over fifteen years ago. The mom was a guest of the state, died about six months ago. Breast cancer. Nothing suspicious, doctors ruled it natural causes. The last visitor she had was three years ago.” He heard her shuffling papers. “His name was Thomas Keck.”

“Son of a bitch. That’s the name of the husband of our celebrity blogger. There’s no way he visited Ewan Copeland’s mother three years ago, he’s been dead for over four.”

“Another fake ID. Not a surprise. This Copeland guy is a piece of work.”

“No kidding,” he replied.

“That’s not all. About an hour ago, I started going through the files we have on Copeland’s previous crimes. All of the victims were single, and very much alone. The men, the women. He never chose anyone who had people. A couple of his victims were from upscale neighborhoods, we’re talking wealthy, highend places. So I started thinking, maybe he stole from those people. And guess what I found?”

“Dazzle me. Not that you aren’t already.”

“There’s a name that’s been linked to the escrow payouts on five of his victims. A lawyer named Roger Anderson. He’s the beneficiary.”

“Roger for his dad, and Anderson for his sister. Ewan got himself into their wills. Now that’s impressive.”

“It gets better. The money that was paid into Anderson’s accounts was definitely enough for Copeland to live on, for years. Garrett pulled some strings and got a guy from the forensic banking department to get the account information released. He’s living on the interest, he’s made some very smart investments. All he needs are small withdrawals here and there, on a debit card, and one set of checks. The checks get interesting though, they’re all made out to the same person over the course of ten years.”

“Who is?”

“A doctor in McLean, Virginia. Plastic surgeon. Specializes in facial reconstruction after accidents, removal of burn scars, those kinds of things. He’s on the up and up, a regular Ward Cleaver of a guy. Donates his time to fix cleft palates in South America, does a bunch of pro bono work here in the U.S.”

“Charlaine, Ewan Copeland has a mess of scars on his stomach from his multiple surgeries as an young boy. We’ve known he was hiding something, I’ve always thought he had some sort of physical deformity that was readily apparent. What if he went to this doctor to have those scars removed, or skin grafts to help minimize them, and got addicted to surgery?”

“Exactly. You know how pain can work for Munchausen’s by proxy victims. Pain equals love and acceptance, so even if it’s self-inflicted, it becomes a necessity. Body dysmorphic disorder could explain why no one knows what he looks like. He’s addicted to changing his surface. His skin, his face, his bone structure. He’d never be satisfied with how he looks, he’d be compelled to continue changing himself. Unlimited budget,
an insatiable need for change and a lot of murders to cover up add up to one very sad, sick puppy. Probably with impossibly perfect skin. The bastard.”

Baldwin gave this idea a moment to process. “That’s why he doesn’t care if he leaves DNA behind. He’s altered his appearance between major kills. The odds of finding him through photos or witness identifications are slim to none.”

“And Slim’s out of town. Exactly.”

“I assume you’re going to talk to the doctor?”

“Already have an appointment, Baldwin. He cleared his schedule when we mentioned the name Roger Anderson. Guess he has an idea that there’s a problem already.”

“He could be just as much of a victim as the rest of Copeland’s dead. Go careful. I’d assume Copeland has a warning system to let him know if anyone comes calling on his doctor.”

Baldwin heard Charlaine slap shut her laptop, envisioned her getting to her feet, a crusader on a hot trail.

“Probably. But I’m hoping he’s too engaged in his game to notice we’ve snuck in through the back door.”