A World Without Secrets (22 page)

The other case was a bank robbery with a kidnapping. Bank robbers typically did not enjoy long careers. With the commission of each crime, the chances of getting caught increased substantially and the penalties were high. When kidnapping was added in, the criminal was almost assured of spending a good part of the remainder of his or her life behind bars, assuming no one died during the crime. The criminals had gotten away with the crime and no one had been seriously injured. The kidnap victim had been found dazed and wandering on a back country road the next day but was unable to provide any new information about the perps.

I figured the serial killer case was the more important of the two, especially if the perp was now free and presented a possible danger to the public. Solving the case quickly was important, but the killer had been inactive for twelve years, so what was the possibility that he would begin again today? I decided it was important I become familiar with all aspects of the case, so the gizmo would remain in its storage box for now and I would tackle the case the old-fashioned way. I opened the case file and began reading.

The details were horrific. I remembered hearing about the murders back when they were occurring, but I was just a teen at the time and paid little attention. Most young men of seventeen— and I was no exception— were normally driven by their hormones at that stage in life. Mother Nature imposed just one, all-consuming thought throughout their day, and so, depending on the status of their love life, they tended to be less caught up in insignificant happenings such as murder, crime, politics, and other events that didn't affect their lives from a sexual standpoint.

In spite of teen distractions, I remembered the basic details. At the time, only images provided when the women went missing had appeared in the media. However, the FBI case file contained the autopsy pictures. The partial decomposition of the bodies was enough to make people ill, so it was understandable they weren't provided to the press. Whoever the murderer was, he was a monster. Forensics had shown that the killer had mutilated the victims' genitals and removed body parts but hadn't engaged in sex, either before or after their death. That meant there were no bodily fluids or pubic hairs from which DNA could be secured. There was a note in the file that said information about the mutilation and missing body parts was not to be shared with anyone outside of the official investigation until the case was solved.

Serial killers usually followed a pattern, but there were many inconsistencies about these murders. The first victim had last been seen alone on her way to a shopping mall, and her car was later found in the parking lot there. Another had been alone at a library and had asked the librarian to please hurry when checking out her books because she had to catch a bus. The third victim was known to be at home alone, and there was no sign of forced entry or a struggle. Her car was still in the garage. The final victim had last been seen riding her bicycle home. The undamaged bike was later found over an embankment and not visible from the road.

One thing consistent among the victims was that their bodies all contained traces of a drug normally used by veterinarians to euthanize pets. It could induce a coma-like state in the human body and even kill, but none of the victims had died from that. Three had been strangled, and the other had died from a broken neck.

The case file was enormous, as one would expect from an investigation such as this, and seemed to contain every relevant fact except who committed the murders. Hundreds of people had been interviewed, and there was a report for every interview. Thousands of man hours had been expended during the investigation. I wished I had a hard copy.

When I finally got tired of reading from the computer, I checked to make sure my printer was filled with paper and had plenty of toner. When the file began printing, I went to rest my eyes.

As I refilled the paper drawer for the third time, I promised myself I was going to get a new printer with two large-capacity drawers so I didn't have to babysit the paper supply. And the new printer should be one of those high-speed jobs where printed pages were spit out faster than a mouthful of soured milk. Maybe I'd even get one of those new color laser jobs. I grinned as I thought of how I used to fantasize about the things I'd love to have, and now I could get them. And the printer would even be tax deductible. Life was good.

When the printer had done its work, I sat down again to study the reports. Having my own hard copy meant I could use a highlighter pen to mark everything I felt might be important.

Many hours later, some of the documents looked like those seen on the news during congressional hearings where information has been redacted, leaving only a few words visible here and there. Of course, since I was using a highlighter instead of a black magic marker, every word was still readable.

I needed to stretch my legs, so I went for a walk to pick up the local rag at my neighborhood newsstand. New York City residents had an undeserved reputation for being unfriendly, but nothing could be further from the truth
if
they knew you or at least recognized you as a neighbor or as the friend of a friend or friend of a neighbor. It was only their general mistrust of strangers that made them seem distant. I'd always enjoyed a very cordial relationship with all of my neighbors, but since I'd been 'outed' as a detective, things had changed. When I was just a poor, struggling author, I could always engage any of my neighbors in friendly conversation, but now those conversations seemed a bit stilted. I didn't know if it was because they feared being too open with me because of my involvement with law enforcement, or if they feared being too close because of my perceived violent life. For my part I continued to remain as I had been before, and I always addressed them by name if I knew it.

Only old Mrs. Schmidt, my next door neighbor who hung her wash out to dry almost every day of the year, seemed completely unchanged. She was at the newsstand and we enjoyed five minutes of conversation that centered mostly on the explosion of the apartment building and the eyesore the fenced lot now represented. She told me that as much as she was sorry to see the old building go, she was delighted with the new double-pane windows that had replaced the her old single-pane windows. She said her house was much warmer in the winter and quieter in the nice weather.

A mountain of work still awaited me, so I finally ended our conversation and trudged home. I'd always put work ahead of pleasure because I couldn't properly relax while I had tasks waiting.

A day later I had read through the full report— twice— besides the read where I had used the highlighter, and I didn't have a clue how I would proceed to learn the perp's identity without my electronic edge. I knew how frustrated the previous investigators must have felt. It was time to use the gizmo.

I performed a full electronics sweep of my apartment and, as always, found nothing. Then I put my cell phone into the special case I had bought that would block all signals both in and out. Even GPS reporting was neutralized while it was in the case. I disconnected the television and the new cable box I'd purchased because of disturbing news stories about how the cable companies now have the capability to spy on their patrons without their consent. Lastly, I flipped the switch that disabled the landline into the apartment. That meant no wired interception of electronic signals from my computer or the house phone was possible. I had never detected any attempt to spy on me, but that didn't mean there had been none. I doubted I was so important as to justify satellite time, but there could be someone in the neighborhood with eavesdropping equipment or the simple video monitoring equipment such as that used by the police for surveillance. I knew
someone
was watching me, if the unusual emails in my computer were any indication, but it seemed that could only be someone who had a gizmo like mine.

Once I knew my apartment was secure, I took out the gizmo and put it on the wall over my kitchen table. I had earlier established the latitude and longitude of each incident, so it took me just minutes to pinpoint the location and approximate time of the first abduction. I found the victim's car and then backed up the time of day until I saw her arrive, at which time I tagged her so I could follow her travels without constantly adjusting the location manually. Then I just sat back and watched. I had no idea how long it would be before the perp showed up, but when he did I couldn't help uttering, "Son of a bitch."

When the victim had parked and exited her car, the perp was waiting. I certainly hadn't recognized that this could be the perp initially and would later understand why no one had ever reported seeing anything suspicious. All I saw was a tall, dark brown delivery vehicle with gold lettering like tens of thousands of others on the streets and highways of the U.S. and other countries.

As the truck rolled up behind the victim's car and stopped perpendicular just inches from her rear bumper, the woman stopped walking towards the shopping center. She turned and walked back to the truck that was now effectively blocking her in. Since she had just arrived, it was unlikely she wanted to leave, so she probably wanted to learn why the delivery driver had practically parked on top of her car, or perhaps it was to see if his van was touching her car.

As the woman reached the van's right door, the driver stepped down from his high perch behind the wheel and slid the door open. I wished I could have heard what she said, but it probably wasn't important. The driver simply reached out, grabbed the woman, and pulled her into the truck, sliding the door closed as her feet cleared the track. She looked so surprised that she didn't even scream before a piece of cloth was held tight against her face. My guess would be that the cloth was saturated with the drug used to euthanize animals. The woman went limp in seconds, and as the driver dragged her into the rear of the truck, it was apparent that this wasn't a genuine delivery vehicle. All of the vehicles like this I had seen in New York had racks built onto the high walls to organize and hold packages. I guessed the perpetrator had purchased a vehicle like the ones used for deliveries and painted it to appear genuine, then purchased a uniform similar to the genuine ones worn by legit delivery people. The height of the vehicle had blocked the kidnapping from the sight of everyone not on the right side, and the perp had simply waited for a victim until there was no one visible between the right side of the truck and the mall. It had happened so fast that it was doubtful anyone would have seen anything anyway, and who really paid attention to parked delivery trucks? They were everywhere during the week.

The ruse was so effective that the perp had used it for each of his attacks. The second victim had been standing at a bus stop on a deserted street when he pulled up. He opened the right door and said something that made her lean towards him. Perhaps he was asking about an address, or perhaps he mumbled something unintelligible and she leaned in to hear him better. Whatever he said, it was enough to draw her close enough that he could grab her and pull her in, as he had done with the first woman.

The third victim had been at home when the driver came to her door. He said something, then gestured towards the truck. I assumed he might have told her that he had a package for her. There had to be something else, such as telling her that the box was damaged and that because it was so heavy he'd like her to come look at it before he carried it all the way to the house. She walked willingly to the truck and then disappeared inside when he grabbed her and pulled her in.

The fourth victim had been riding her bike when the truck pulled up alongside her. There were no other vehicles in sight when she stopped and listened as the driver said something to her. As she leaned towards him to respond, he leaned out and literally yanked her off her bike. Two seconds later she was on the floor in the rear of the van with the cloth being held over her face. When she stopped struggling, he left the cloth on her face and jumped out of the truck to dispose of her bike. After pitching it over the embankment, he glanced around quickly before hurrying back inside.

The first three women had offered almost no resistance, so the driver may have gotten a bit careless with the fourth, or perhaps it was because this was the first time evidence had been left outside in plain sight after the victim was pulled into the van. He needed to get rid of the bike before a passerby noticed it on the ground next to the truck. Whatever the reason, it seemed he hadn't held the cloth over the face of the fourth victim as long as he had with the others. As soon as he left the vehicle, the victim pulled the cloth off her face. She was incapacitated and unable to get up, but she still had some motor functions left.

After reentering the van, the driver moved into the rear area. He noticed that the cloth was no longer on her face and that she was trying to get up. He picked up the cloth and stepped over her body with one leg. It appeared to me as he began to squat down that he intended to sit on the victim's stomach. He probably meant to hold the cloth over her face until she was unable to move.

As he was almost onto her stomach, I saw the flash of her right arm and hand. The driver jumped up and stumbled backwards against the wall of the truck. Although she had performed the move swiftly, she was apparently still too dazed to get up. I was amazed that she had been able to muster enough strength to punch him in the stomach and that the one punch had driven him back as it had. Perhaps she had just startled him.

As the driver leaned against the wall, I realized the victim hadn't merely punched him. His face contorted in great pain as he pulled a slender, bloody object from his stomach. At first, I thought it was a knife. I had been watching the driver as he disposed of the bike, but at this point I returned to that timeline and watched the victim as she lay on the truck's floor. She was wearing one of those small cases that strapped around the waist. Some people called it a fanny pack, and others referred to it as a waist pack. While some wore it with the pack at their back and others wore it with the pack on their side, the fourth victim was wearing it in the front, which seemed to be the preferred placement.