The Rainy Day Killer (15 page)

People backed away from her.

A siren blipped behind her. She stopped and turned around as a patrol car pulled up, lights flashing, and two uniformed officers tumbled out, guns drawn.

“Drop your weapon!” the nearest cop
shouted, aiming at her. “Right now! Put it down on the sidewalk and put your hands on top of your head!”

“Police! Homicide! In pursuit of a suspect!” Karen shouted back as she knelt and set the gun
down on the sidewalk.

“Turn around!
On your knees! Hands on top of your head!”

“Badge and ID in my right front pocket!” Karen called out, complying, as the other cop, a young woman, raced around to cover her from the front. “Can I remove it?”

“Don’t move!” the female cop screamed.

The cop behind her grabbed her right wrist, cuffed it, pulled it back behind her back, grabbed her left wrist, pulled it down and back, and completed the handcuffing job. Applying upward pressure, he instructed her to stand.

She stood up. The female officer, whose name plate said
Barnes
, holstered her sidearm and stepped forward. “Right front pocket?”

“Goddamn it,” Karen growled, adrenaline pumping, “he’s getting away!”

Barnes reached out, felt the outside of her pocket, then reached in and took out the wallet containing Karen’s badge and identification. She opened it, looked at Karen to compare her to the photograph on the ID card, then held it up to her partner. “She’s GPD.”

The officer behind her removed the cuffs.

“Detective,” Barnes asked, “can you explain why you’re running around in the street wearing only a bra?”

Karen looked down at herself. It was true. She’d run out of the dress shop in her bare feet without having put on her top. Her upper body was completely wet, her skin slick with rain, her bra soaked. Rain dripped from the tips of her hair down onto her
bare shoulders. The adrenaline disappeared from her system as though it had been flushed down the drain.

“Jesus Christ,” she said. “The rest of my clothes are back at the dress shop. I’m picking up my gun now, okay?”

“Feel free.”

Karen rescued her new P
-290 from the sidewalk. “Give me a tissue. You need to call in a possible sighting of the felony suspect the Rainy Day Killer. Get backup, get this area cordoned off, and have them contact Lieutenant Donaghue in Homicide. This guy may still be in the area. We need to move fast.”

The male cop, whose name plate said
Krevinski
, handed her a tissue while Barnes stepped away, speaking into her portable radio. “What dress shop did you say this happened at?” he asked.

“Richard’s Bridal Salon. Back a block.
The guy walked in, left me a note.” She scrubbed her gun with the tissue. “Look, he may be still in the area; we need to move fast.”

Barnes came back. “Back-up’s on
the way. Is the suspect on foot or in a vehicle?”

“I have no idea,” Karen replied, exasperated. “I couldn’t get anyone to speak up outside the shop. That’s what I was doing, trying to find someone who
’d seen him.”

Barnes rolled her eyes and keyed her portable radio again.

“Get in,” Krevinski said, pointing to the cruiser. “We’ll take you back to the dress shop.”

“He could still be in the area,” Karen insisted.

“And he could be long gone,” Barnes said, shaking her head at Karen. “We can’t exactly lock down the entire downtown.”

“We have to set up a perimeter! He was here!”

“Let’s start by getting you back to the dress shop,” Krevinski said.

“Yeah,” Barnes
chipped in, “you could even finish getting dressed, if you want.”

2
5

Thursday, May 16: early evening

The daytime civilian staff who worked outside her office had already gone home for the evening by the time Ann Martinez stepped off the elevator on the eighth floor. The voices coming from her board room could be heard clearly as she made her way through the rows of workstations to her corner of the floor.

“
So what?” Helen Cassion said. “It’s the eastern seaboard, Lieutenant. It rains all the time.”

“That’s not the point,” Ed Griffin
said. “This note to Detective Stainer clearly indicates his intention to take another victim this weekend.”

“T
hat’s bullshit and you know it,” Cassion said. “He’s obviously jerking our chain.”

Martinez caught her own reflection in the locked glass doors leading into her office. She wore a red knee-length cocktail dress with a plunging neckline and high heels, and she carried a matching ev
ening bag that was large enough to include her badge, identification, off-duty weapon, and credit cards. She and her husband, Oscar Sanchez, had been on the way to Baltimore for a dinner with a group of Oscar’s clients when Hank had called her with the news of Karen’s near-encounter with the Rainy Day Killer. They’d been forced to stop at Annapolis, where Martinez arranged for a ride back to Glendale while Oscar, very much annoyed by the change in plans, continued on to Baltimore.

Her career had always been a sore point between them, and had caused him to break off their relationship before they were ma
rried. It had happened when she was still a detective and Hank was her supervisory lieutenant. A series of successful high-profile investigations had led to very favorable media attention, and she’d been a rising star in the division until Hank’s enemies in Internal Affairs decided that her stellar performance appraisals had been given to her by Hank in return for sexual favors. Although false, the allegation had provided the media with enough toxic sludge that her reputation had taken a hit. The unexpected publicity had shocked Oscar, and he’d broken off their engagement.

She shifted her purse to her other hand and
walked away from her reflection. Their affair, brief and intense, had come nearly two years later, when she was a sergeant assigned to Midtown district and Hank was working a desk in Public Relations. A year later, she and Oscar resumed their relationship.

“I don’t think we can take that chance,” Hank was saying as she reached the open door. “We need to move proactively.”

“We need to keep our heads and not panic,” Cassion retorted.

“Nobody’s panicking,” Griffin said. “Hank’s right, you need to make the next move right now, right away.”

Hank sat with his back to the door. Cassion stood at the head of the table, hands on her hips. Across from Hank, Griffin stared at Cassion, chair tipped back against the wall, legs crossed, arms folded. Karen Stainer paced back and forth at the far end of the table, hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans. Tension was thick in the room.

Martinez
walked behind Hank, tapping him lightly on the shoulder, and sat down in the chair on his left, allowing Cassion to keep the symbolic head of the table. “Sorry I’m late, Helen. It was a bit of a drive back. Where are we?”

“The
FBI lab has Stainer’s card,” Cassion replied, “but I’m not hopeful it’ll give us prints or DNA. The store employees confirmed it was our suspect after looking at the composite and the video stills. We think he took a taxi after leaving the store, and we’re canvassing the cab companies for confirmation.”

“Or,” Griffin said, “he has another vehicle already,
and he drove it to wherever he’s staying between captures.”

“Whatever.” Cassion folded her arms. “As far as I’m co
ncerned, this is a lot of noise and hot air over nothing. He’s playing games with Stainer just like he played with Montgomery last week. We’re wasting time running around like chickens with our heads cut off while this guy sits back and laughs at us.”

Griffin’s face clouded and he opened his mouth, but Hank
interceded. “I disagree, Helen,” he said. “It’s been nearly a month since he abducted Theresa Olsen. He’s probably going to use the same captivity site again, since we haven’t found it, so he’s had four weeks to select and study another victim. We can’t afford to assume he isn’t ready to make his next move this weekend. Conditions are perfect.”

“That’s what he said,” Karen said, stopping her pacing to confront Cassion. “In the note? ‘I’ll be spending the weekend with someone else?’
Duh?”

“Sit down, Detective,” Cassion said, pointing at a chair. “You’re getting on my nerves. As I already said, he’s playing games with you.”

“Jesus.” Karen pulled out the chair next to Griffin and dropped into it.

“Our investigation has been conducted so far on a proactive basis,” Martinez said, deciding it was time to weigh in. “Community outreach, increased patrols in target areas, surveillance cameras along the river. We need to stay in that mindset.” She looked across the table at Griffin. “
Comments?”

“Absolutely,” Griffin said.
“It’s the best approach you’ve got.”

“If we assume he
’ll take someone again this weekend,” Martinez said to Cassion, “what can we do to get ahead of the curve on this guy?”

Cassion
shrugged. “I suppose we could try another media release. Get Donaghue to hand out the posters, that routine. ‘Stay vigilant, be cautious with strangers,’ blah blah blah.”

Martinez
waited.

“
We can get the districts to brief their patrols again on what to look for,” Cassion went on. “But they’re not going to like it when it turns out we got them all cranked up crying wolf yet again.”

“For the luvva—” Karen started.

“Detective,” Martinez interrupted, without taking her eyes from Cassion, “please.” She raised an eyebrow. “What else?”

Cassion sat down. “
We can keep a channel open to Missing Persons, so they’ll inform us right away if they get a report on someone matching the victim profile.”

“Who’s your replacement
down there? Winston?”

“Yeah. I
’ll instruct her to call me when they get a hit.”

“
Call Captain Williams instead. Tonight. Tell her I want Winston to call Hank immediately. He’ll brief her on the situation and explain what he needs. We want direct lines of communication in place if a report comes in matching the victim profile. Hank will be the boots on the ground this weekend. Right?”

Cassion looked at her. “
Yeah. Right.” She looked at Hank. “Wait for Winston’s call. Tonight.”

Hank nodded.

Martinez looked at Karen. “Did you get anything at all that could help us? Are we any further ahead?”

“Other than
knowing he’s gonna grab another one, probably tomorrow?”

“Other than that.”

Karen’s face clouded. “No. He’s a careful bastard. Even with his face plastered all over town he still parades around like he’s King Shit, waving his suit and damned umbrella under our noses. What we need to do is trap the sonofabitch. He’s so arrogant, I’ll bet we can walk him into something he won’t walk out of.”

“Such as
what? Using you or Montgomery as bait? That’s not going to happen.”

Karen
looked away.

Martinez
understood that Karen wanted to make it personal, wanted to bait the subject into coming after her instead of some unsuspecting victim, but it wasn’t going to fly. As much as she admired Karen’s courage, Martinez would never sanction that kind of tactic.

“It’s bad enough,” Cassion said, “charging around in the street half-naked. You need to act a little more like a professional, Stainer
, and not like some TV bimbo.”

Hank’s cell phone buzzed.
He looked at the call display and got up from his chair to answer it, walking down to the far end of the board room.

“Stainer’s actions are not in question, Helen,”
Martinez said, before Karen could open her mouth. “She acted in haste, yes, but I think given the circumstances I would’ve probably done the same thing. We all feel the urgency to catch this bastard.” She turned to Griffin. “Why do you think he’ll strike again this soon?”

“He feels at the height of his power right now,
” Griffin said, “like he can do no wrong. Karen’s right, he’s arrogant and self-confident. I think he’s ready, he wants us to know he’s ready, and I think he’s so sure of himself, so addicted to the adrenaline from the greater risks he’s taking, that he can’t pass up the opportunity to make another move right now, right under our noses.”

“You’re over-reacting,” Cassion said. “You’re too subjective.”

Griffin looked at her. “Subjective? Because I know this guy’s profile inside and out?”

“
If we’re going to catch this guy, we need to concentrate on the evidence and not a bunch of headshrink guesswork.”

“
Guesswork
?”

“Come on, Griffin. It’s all guesswork. You’re guessing
at what’s going on inside his head and you’re guessing he’s going to make another move, when it’s obvious to anyone who’s objective about it that he’s pulling on your dick and having a big laugh.”

“
Can you take that chance?” Griffin asked. “Gamble with someone else’s life that I’m full of shit,” he waved his hand at Karen, “that
we’re
full of shit and you’re the one with the correct read on the situation?”

“We have to be proactive,”
Martinez interrupted, looking at Cassion. “Hank will brief the media, I’ll contact the district commanders, and Helen, you make that call to Williams tonight so Missing Persons is briefed and ready to go.”

Hank returned to his chair
, putting away his cell phone. “That was Byrne. The FBI lab just sent over a set of reports on the Olsen evidence. They found something.”

“Oh?” Martinez sat up straight. “What?”

“A hair. Imbedded in the manila rope from the package with Theresa Olsen’s effects. Byrne’s upset they missed it.”

“I have to wonder about their competence down there,” Ca
ssion said. “Sounds like a pretty fundamental oversight.”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Hank said. “The lab’s under eno
rmous time pressure and working with a serious backlog. Anyway, that’s why we’re using the FBI lab in this case, so we have a safety net. Byrne shipped everything from the Olsen case over to them two weeks ago, on the chief’s orders, and they’ve been going through it since then.”

“
And?” Martinez prompted.

“The hair
’s a small one,” Hank said. “According to their microscopical analysis, it’s an eyelash hair. The theory is, it was dislodged at some point when he was using the rope, maybe when he rubbed an eye without thinking, and it worked its way into the fibers while he was tying the rope around the package.”

“
Finally,” Griffin exulted, “he makes a mistake!”

“Hard to believe,” Cassion
said. “He’s been very careful so far.”

“He’s good, but he’s not a genius by any means.”

“Fucking right he’s not,” Karen said.

“They know it’s an eyelash hair?” Martinez asked.

“Byrne, being Byrne, gave me the mini-tutorial,” Hank replied. “Under the microscope, they can usually tell by appearance what part of the body a hair comes from. This one’s short, stubby, saber-shaped, and with no significant difference in the shaft diameter from one end to the other. Eyelash hair.”

“It could be fr
om anyone,” Cassion said. “A worker in the factory, a clerk in the store where it was bought.”

“But it’s not,” Hank
disagreed, “because there’s more.”

“I was hoping there would be,” Martinez said.

“The follicle was intact,” Hank went on, “so they were able to extract nuclear DNA. But Sandy, on a hunch, got them to take a sample of mitochondrial DNA as well.”

“I’ve never understoo
d the difference,” Cassion complained. “Is this telling us anything useful?”

“Nuclear DNA,” Griffin
said, “is found in the nucleus of the living cells in your body. It contains the recombined genes you inherited from both your parents. You know, the famous double helix? It’s unique to you as an individual—unless you have an identical twin, of course. Mitochondrial DNA, on the other hand, is in the mitochondria inside your body’s cells. It contains the same gene structure as your mother and your siblings, if you have any. So not unique, but definitely identifiable.”

“Yeah? So?”

Hank leaned forward. “They ran the nuclear DNA sequence through CODIS,” he said, referring to the Combined DNA Index System, a database of DNA profiles at local, state, and national levels. “They came up empty. Whoever he is, he’s never donated DNA to the system.”

“So it’s a dead end.”

“Not at all.” Hank glanced at Karen. “On a hunch, Sandy went through the other Rainy Day Killer files and discovered that in the Harrisville case they collected a lot of hair evidence.”