The Rainy Day Killer (7 page)

1
1

4/23/13
  19:34

First there was darkness. Then a patch of faint light became evident in the top right portion of the frame, filtering through
high, filthy industrial window panes, taking on an amber tint as it fell across the silhouette of a man sitting in a chair facing the camera.

The man stirred, as though to draw attention to himself.

“Hello, Lieutenant Hank Donaghue,” he said. His voice was unremarkable, a mid-range tenor, neither forceful nor weak, with a slight Midwestern accent. “It’s a pleasure for me to make your acquaintance, though I don’t imagine the feeling’s mutual yet.”

The man’s face could not be seen
, of course, because of the shadows. He sat with his right leg crossed over his left knee. His hands were folded calmly in his lap.

“This is a little something I like to do in all the towns I visit,” he said. “I feel like it’s a good idea to connect with the man whose job it is to find me, to reach out and say ‘hello, here I am.’ Hello, Hank. Here I am.
You seem to be the go-to guy in this town, from what I’ve seen, so I’m guessing you and I will be getting to know each other over the next while. By the time I’m done here, you’ll feel like we’re old friends.”

He shifted slightly, moving his hands to cup his raised knee. “Of course, there
’s the little problem of what to call me. If you don’t know already, the press in other towns called me the Rainy Day Killer. Actually, I suggested the name to a reporter myself quite a while ago, I forget where it was. Evansville? I’m not sure. Anyway, it’s not important. Rainy Day Killer’s kind of a mouthful, so why don’t you just call me Bill? That’s my name, after all.”

He released his knee and put his hands to his cheeks in mock horror. “Oh no! Did I just give myself away? A vital clue! First name William! Last name—oh
oh, we’re not sure.” He lowered his hands back to his lap. “It could drive you insane after a while. Sifting through all the tiny clues you think I’m stupidly giving you, trying to find two pieces of the puzzle to fit together. Well, good luck with that, Hank. Join the long list of cops who’ve been in the same seat you’re in now, watching and listening to me as I take you to school on the hard realities of life in the cruel lane.”

His hand moved slightly, and the camera began to pan left. When it stopped, the dark, indistinct shape on the left now filled the screen. There was an audible click, and a floodlight on a six-foot tr
ipod suddenly illuminated the foreground.

Theresa Olsen’s body lay on a low cot. She was naked, her legs straight and only slightly apart, arms at her sides. Her breasts were still intact.

“Speaking of school,” he said, “isn’t she lovely? Oh, don’t worry. She’s dead. I still have some work to do, of course, but this is the time when I like to take a little break, still feeling that post-coital warmth from our final lovemaking, and have this little one-way chat. It’s kind of cool, actually. Like projecting myself forward into the future. The now-Bill speaking to the future-Hank while the future-Bill’s already busy with his next hunt.”

The camera zoomed in on the body. “Look at these breasts. Aren’t they lovely? Not enormously large, but such a fine shape. Pe
rfect, really. But of course you know that, don’t you? You’ve already sent them to your lab, or whatever you do with that sort of thing, but trust me, they’re hers. It’s not so much a matter of identifying them as figuring out why on earth I would cut them off. Why would I do that, Hank? Why, oh why?”

The camera zoomed back to its previous setting and panned right until he was once more near the center of the frame.
The spotlight went out. “If you haven’t already done so, I suggest you contact Supervisory Special Agent Edward Griffin of the FBI. The famous Behavioral Analysis Unit has already been called in on my case, and Ed’s the analyst who’s been following me from town to town, picking up my bread crumbs and trying to put the loaf back together again. In fact, if I can project myself into the future once more, this may be the third or fourth time you’ve watched this, and Father Ed’s probably right there in the room with you.”

He leaned forward. “Are you there, Ed? How’re you doing? Do you think this cop’s going to have any more on the ball than the others? Have you made any improvements to the profile? I’m sorry
if I keep feeding you misinformation through these hopeless saps, but it really is a lot of fun.”

He leaned back again and folded his arms across his chest. “You see, Hank, I’ve read Ed’s books. They’re required reading, really, for anyone in my line of work. I’ve studied very carefully ev
erything he’s written about antecedent behavior and planning, characteristics of the crime, post-murder behavior. Fascinating stuff. Gave me a few ideas, I have to admit, but mostly they gave me openings to exploit. In some of my early experiments, I’m afraid I lied rather shamelessly to confuse things and mess with Ed’s profile. Ed will explain; I don’t have much more time right now. Anyway, your job is to figure out, with Father Ed’s help, what part of this message is bullshit and what part’s golden. Good luck.”

He unfolded his arms and put his palms flat on his knees. “Here are the basics. My pretext, if I can use that word, was simple with this little beauty. I knocked on her door, told her I was a police detective, showed her this great-looking badge I have in my colle
ction, and said her parents had been in an accident and we needed her to come to the hospital right away. Simple and straightforward. I prefer taking them out in the street, it’s more of a challenge, but as Father Ed will explain, I’ve gone up on their doorsteps before, and I knew this would work like a charm. It did. I had her out onto the sidewalk and into my car before she knew what was happening. Wham, bam, and she was out for the ride.

“I know you’ll watch this video many times, and I appreciate the attention, believe me, but if you’re trying to figure out from the background behind me where I am right now, don’t blow a gasket. I like to work in abandoned buildings. Ask
Father Ed. I have to say, there’s a real crisis in America right now. Did you know there are fifteen thousand fires a year in vacant buildings in the United States that cause a hundred and twenty million dollars’ worth of damage? Do you realize in your own city that the cost of police and fire service for a city block goes up by fifteen hundred dollars for every vacant building on it? Did you know there are over one hundred violent crimes committed in abandoned buildings in this city every year?”

He waved a hand at the body on the cot. “Here’s my contr
ibution to your stats, Hank. By all means, step up the patrols of vacant buildings now, because you’ll really want to find your primary crime scene, as they call it on TV. I may stay here, but then again, I may not. I scouted out a number of different spots, so I have some options. Something else for you to think about. And think about. And think about.”

He folded his hands in his lap again. “I have to get moving, because there’s still lots to do and she’ll be stiffening up soon, but let me leave you with a couple of thoughts. First of all, she was great. She screamed and yelled and begged and moaned the whole wee
kend. I love it. That’s why you won’t find any signs of gagging, because I let them talk away.” He waved a hand. “Who could hear, around this place? Second, we explored some things sexually I hadn’t been able to try before, for one reason or another that I won’t get into now, and she was wonderful. I came so hard I thought I’d see stars.

“The key word here, Hank, is lust. Ask
Father Ed what it means in terms of my profile, will you? It’ll be so helpful.” His laugh was low, chilling. “He’s such a great guy. Have you attended any of his courses or presentations before? I have. He’s a great speaker. He explains things so simply. Lust murderers, organized and disorganized, nonsocial and social. All that bullshit. It just rolls off his tongue. He’s so smooth. But honestly, Hank, these guys couldn’t find their own ass in the dark with both hands. And neither can you, because I don’t intend to leave you any physical evidence. Gasp! But anyway, don’t mind me. I only work here.”

He stood up and held out his hand, which gripped a wireless remote control device.

“Come and get me, you idiot.”

The screen went blank.

1
2

Saturday, April 27: late morning

“He’s intelligent,” Griffin said, leaning back in his chair, his knee propped up on the edge of the table. “Not as smart as he’d like you to believe, but smart enough. Studies have shown that 80 percent of serial murderers have an average or higher than average intelligence, and he certainly falls into that category.”

“He said to ask you about lust and what it means in terms of his profile,” Horvath said. “I don’t know a whole lot about behavioral profiling. What are we supposed to understand, here?”

Griffin shrugged. “It’s another game he likes to play. He’s trying to use our own tools against us to confuse things and have a little fun. If you want, I can go over some of the basic stuff first, to get it out of the way.”

“
Feel free,” Hank invited.

“Lust murder is a term that goes
way back,” Griffin said to Horvath. “Different analysts have different preferences when it comes to terminology, never mind the concepts themselves. Even the pioneers in the field like Hazelwood and Douglas have fundamental disagreements on a lot of this stuff. Here’s my take.”

He lowered his knee and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “I prefer to use the term sexual homicide when it comes to guys like this, because in its simplest terms it means we’re dealing with a crime where the sexual element is the primary reason why it happens. It drives the whole thing, it determines the various acts committed during the period of captivity and rape, and it climaxes, pun intended, with the murder.”

“So as we put together the sequence of events,” Horvath said, “to figure out what he did, step by step, we need to ask ourselves why each thing was important to him in terms of sexual gratification?”

“
You won’t need to get quite that fancy,” Griffin said. “You can just come right out and call a spade a spade. This is a sexual homicide. Let me explain.” He gestured at the blank television screen. “He mentioned organized and disorganized, social and nonsocial. Suffice it to say, this guy is what’s commonly called an organized offender. Despite all his playing around, there are definite characteristics that let us make this basic assumption.” He held up a hand to tick off the points on his finger. “He’s fairly smart, where disorganized offenders are usually less so. He’s socially adept, because he can talk his victims into his trap, where a disorganized offender usually has to use a blitz attack to subdue them. He’s sexually competent, whereas disorganized killers usually act out of sexual frustration or confusion. He has pretty good control over his emotions during the rape and murder, instead of being all over the map in his behavior. He follows himself in the media closely, where a disorganized offender either wouldn’t bother or would be too upset.”

He switched hands and continued to count off the points. “He plans ahead, controls the event, is comfortable hunting an
ywhere, targets strangers, uses restraints and requires a submissive victim, where disorganized offenders usually grab a victim on impulse, improvise as they go along, may act against someone they already know within a geographical comfort zone, and blitz in a sudden attack that makes restraints an afterthought. Our UNSUB’s not afraid of personalizing the victim, where a disorganized offender often depersonalizes or dehumanizes them.”

“Where does
the torture come in?” Karen asked, her voice flat.

“The asphyxiation routine is not uncommon with organized
offenders,” Griffin replied. “They use the ligature to strangle the victim to the point of unconsciousness for their own arousal. It’s a control thing, and I expect the rapes occur at this point.”

“Which fits with what you said about wanting passive vi
ctims,” Horvath said.

“Yes. The mutilation, though, is something else. It doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the picture.” Griffin leaned back. “Let me explain by talking first about sexual substitution. Insertion of a fo
reign object is something you often see with a disorganized offender, a stick or screwdriver or some other phallic object that compensates for the offender’s own inability to penetrate his victim. There’s never been any indication of this with the Rainy Day Killer, as far back as we can go.” Griffin waved at the television. “You could see the arrogance about his sexual prowess and, as far as I’m concerned, that rings true. So it doesn’t surprise me there’s no use of foreign objects because their absence is consistent with his type, if I can use a negative to prove a positive. See what I mean? There’s a certain consistency.

“Mutilation, now, is often seen as a form of depersonaliz
ation. Either the offender wants to hide the identity of the victim, thinking maybe it’ll hinder the investigation, or he wants to desexualize or dehumanize the body. There are different conclusions that might be drawn from this, including regret and a wish to deny that he’s just killed a human being, misogyny and a feeling of contempt, resentment or hatred of the female body and a desire to androgynize his victims and rob them of their sexuality. You could go on, but the point here is that you’re much more likely to see this kind of behavior with a disorganized offender, which this guy clearly is not. So there’s an inconsistency here.”

“
So why does he do it?” Horvath asked.

“Why, indeed.” Griffin glanced at Hank. “This is the first time he’s talked about it specifically in one of his videos. ‘Why, oh why.’ I’m thinking maybe he’s getting a little
bored with it. In the first case linked to this UNSUB, in St. Louis, there was mutilation of the breasts
and
the genitals, and they never turned up. In the second case, in Evansville, there was mutilation of the breasts only, and he sent them to the investigating officer, his pattern ever since. Looking back, I think he may have been experimenting in the first one. Maybe he wanted to try cannibalism because he’d read about it and thought it’d make him appear that much more horrible.”

“And didn’t like it,” Horvath said.

“And didn’t get the kick out of it he thought he would. But he’d already included it as part of what he was viewing as his signature, so the next time, he skipped the genitals, skipped whatever he did with the breasts the first time, and just sent them to the police instead.”

“What the fuck’s the point?” Karen demanded.

Griffin nodded. “That’s the five-dollar question. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no sexual component. They’re removed post-mortem, and it’s pretty evident he doesn’t engage in sexual activity with his victims after they’re dead. It’s not depersonalization, because he wants their identity known and he likes to brag about how they performed sexually for him. I think it’s strictly for shock effect. He lives for the fear factor. He wants to get inside the investigator’s head and freak the hell out of him. Plus, it inevitably ends up in the news, and it upsets the public. That’s the other thing that’s so important to this guy. He wants the community to be afraid of him. It’s part of his power-and-control thing.”

“He’s a fucking inhuman monster.”

“Yes,” Griffin said. “That’s exactly what he wants everyone to think.”