Paint It Black (18 page)

Louis rubbed his eyes and looked up at the wall clock. Twelve-ten in the morning.

“Well, it's officially Wednesday,” he said quietly.

Farentino glanced up at him, then went back to the notes she was making. The table between them was littered with papers, files, photographs, Styrofoam cups, and half-empty cartons of Chinese take-out. They had been at it for fourteen hours straight, going through copies of police reports that had been flowing in since yesterday.

Louis took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. His thoughts drifted back to the other night on Dodie's patio. Dinner had been just a continuation of what had gone on before—Wainwright drinking too much, Farentino bristling with indignation, Margaret and Dodie furiously refilling the wineglasses. And he himself sitting there not having the slightest idea of how to get Wainwright and Emily to pull together.

But by the end of the evening, even Wainwright had begun to come around to Emily's assertion that the killer was black. There was no choice really; they had to believe her. There was no evidence to the contrary.

When Louis had arrived at the station early the next morning, Emily was already at work. She had tapped back into VI-CAP searching for any other cases up in New Jersey with MO's similar to the Broward County and Ocean County cases—black victims who had been beaten, stabbed, and painted. When she found none, she had expanded her search to all East Coast states, specifically jurisdictions near water. Still drawing a blank, she expanded the MO to victims who matched any of the three criteria—stabbed, beaten, or painted. She was looking specifically for bodies that had been left in water.

They had pored over the faxes, looking for red flags. But so far, they had uncovered only a handful of cases that were similar to the six they already had. There were no more exact fits. There were a half dozen middle-aged black victims who had been stabbed to death, four who had beaten to death. Some had been left in lakes or rivers, one even in a swimming pool. But none had been painted.

Louis tossed the fax he was reading on the table. His ass ached from sitting, his eyes were fuzzy from reading. He pulled his legs off the table and slowly got up, stretching.

“We're never going to get through all this shit,” he muttered, taking off his glasses.

She didn't look up.

“Farentino,” he said, “shouldn't we be concentrating on evidence we have instead of evidence we don't have?”

“You don't have any evidence,” she said, still not looking up. “You don't have prints, hairs, fibers, or witnesses, for God's sake.”

“We could be trying to match the blade.”

“You want to go visit pawnshops, be my guest.”

“We could be looking for an expert, or a knife show or something. There's lots of things we could be doing besides sitting here looking at paper.”

She looked up at him. “He's in here. I know he is.” She paused. “I got the impression the other night you were interested in this.”

He stared glumly at the mess of faxes that they hadn't even looked at yet. “I am,” he said.

She smiled slightly. “But you want to be out there. You're a cop. You can't help it.”

He heard the low murmur of the dispatcher's radio behind him. It was Candy, reporting in from the Sereno causeway. He heard Wainwright answer from his post out on Captiva. There were thirty men out tonight, counting the sheriff's department and extras from Fort Myers. Cruising, watching the beaches and the causeways. And she was right; he wanted to be out there with them, even though he knew they had no chance of catching him in the act.

There was really nothing to do now but wait for the next body to be found.

Louis went to the map on the bulletin board, staring at the pins that marked the places of the abductions and crime scenes. Yesterday, they had added maps of Ocean County, New Jersey, and Broward County, Florida.

“Maybe it's got something to do with his job,” he said, staring at the pins.

“What does?”

“The water. Maybe it's part of his job.”

She let out a sigh. “Possibly. Or maybe it's just part of his hunting ground. Bundy liked college campuses.”

Louis fell quiet again. He could hear the scratch of Emily's pencil on paper.

“Why the gap?” he said quietly.

Farentino looked up at him.

“I mean, why did he kill up in Jersey, then wait almost nine months before he killed again in Fort Lauderdale? Then wait some more before he killed three men here?”

Emily gave a weary shrug. “It's common. Sometimes these guys can go for months or years without killing but then the stressor kicks in and sets them off.”

Louis turned to look at her. “Stressor?”

“Yeah, it's like a trigger. Something that sets him off, some crisis in his life that he can't cope with.”

“So something down here triggered him to kill Tatum?” Louis asked.

“Maybe. Or maybe there are cases in between we haven't found yet.” She dropped the pencil and ran her hands roughly over her face. “What we really need to do is find the first case. You can usually tell a lot about the killer from that.”

“You don't think the one up in New Jersey was the first?”

She shook her head slowly. “No, it was too much like all the others. Serial killers aren't usually perfect on the first try. They get better at what they do. If we find earlier cases, I'll bet they are not as . . . refined.”

“Strange choice of words, Farentino.”

She shrugged.

He picked up the files again, opening to the personal report on the Barnegat Light, New Jersey, victim. He was fifty-five years old, a high school geography teacher with a son. No known enemies, no odd lifestyle patterns, just didn't return home from work one night after coaching a Little League game. He looked at the black-and-white Xerox of the autopsy photograph. Specks of black paint could be seen on the man's face, but at least he had a face.

Louis opened the other two files from Broward County. One was a fifty-year-old janitor whose service truck was found in a bank parking lot, door open. The other was a forty-eight-year-old X-ray technician who walked five blocks to a store for a pack of cigarettes and never made it home.

Louis turned to the photographs. The same. The faces were beaten but intact.

“He didn't beat these men as badly,” Louis said, sliding the photos over to Emily.

She didn't even look at them. “Like I said, he's getting better at his work.”

They were silent again. The radio traffic hummed in the background. It was too quiet.

“Why does he leave the bodies out in the open? Why not hide them?” Louis asked.

Emily looked up again and gave him a small smile. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I have a lot to learn about this,” he said.

She leaned back, stretching her arms above her head. “Some of these guys want their victims found because they are taunting police or—this is sick—they are really proud of their work.” She paused. “Then there are some who want to be caught.” She hunched back over the files and put her glasses back on. “But those are few and far between.”

Louis remembered the debris on the causeway where Tatum was found. “I think he just thinks they're garbage,” he said, tossing the photos back on the table.

Emily nodded thoughtfully. “I think you're right. How a killer disposes of the body is crucial to understanding him. This killer has no use for his victims, takes no souvenirs, and makes no effort to hide the bodies from us. When he's done, he's done.”

The phone rang. It was Wainwright's line. Louis punched the button.

“Sereno Police Department.”

“Dan?”

“No, this is Kincaid. Louis Kincaid.”

“Shit. This is Chief Horton over in Fort Myers. Where's Dan?”

“On stakeout, Chief. I'm—”

“Get Dan on the radio. Now.”

“What's—”

“We got another victim.”

“Same MO?”

“Yeah. Except this one's alive.”

 

 

Louis yanked open the door to the Fort Myers Police Station, and was met in the lobby by a short, muscular man with a brush cut and intense brown eyes. He wore gray uniform pants and a white shirt that stretched tightly across his chest. He thrust out his hand.

“Chief Horton,” he said, pumping Louis's hand as he pulled him through a door. “You must be Kincaid.”

“Right, and this is Agent Farentino,” Louis said, nodding behind him. Horton gave her a cursory smile.

“Dan said you'd get here first. He's about five minutes out.”

“Where's the victim?” Louis asked.

“Interrogation room one.” Horton led him down a hallway, crowded with uniforms. “A passing patrol car picked him up. He was a mess when he got here. We bagged his shirt, pants, and apron.”

“Apron?” Louis said.

“He's a waiter. We also scraped his nails and checked his hands. Maybe we'll pick up a skin sample, a fiber, who knows?”

They came to a stop in front of a window. Louis stared at him.

He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with tawny brown skin and a short-cropped tuft of dark brown hair. He was small-framed but wiry, his sinewy arms exposed in a white cotton T-shirt. His bare feet were visible beneath the baggy orange jail pants. His head was bowed and his hands were wrapped around a Styrofoam cup.

“Is he hurt?” Louis asked.

“Bruises on his neck, but that's all.”

Louis glanced down the hall. He was anxious to get in there, but he knew he should wait for Wainwright.

Louis suddenly thought about Mobley. “Have you called the sheriff?” Louis asked.

Horton was staring at Emily, who had moved down the window for a better view of the victim's face.

“Chief?”

Horton looked at Louis. “What? Hell no. I'll roust his ass about five
A.M.
” Horton's eyes moved back to Emily, and he leaned toward Louis. “Who's that?” he whispered.

“FBI. She's been assisting. She's a profiler.”

“No shit?”

Someone called Horton's name and he disappeared. He was back a few seconds later with Wainwright. Wainwright looked as if he had run all the way from Sereno Key.

“This is him?” Wainwright asked, looking in the window.

Horton nodded. “Roscoe Webb. He's a waiter at the Pelican Restaurant.”

“That place down on MacGregor by the outlet mall?” Wainwright asked.

Horton nodded.

“Outlet mall? Isn't that near Hibiscus Heights?” Louis asked.

“Yeah, I guess it's on the way,” Horton said.

“What did you get from him?” Wainwright asked Horton.

“Just what I've told you. I wanted to wait till you got here to talk to him.”

“Thanks, Al. I owe you one.”

Horton opened the door and the four of them went inside, Emily sliding in just as the door closed.

Webb looked up them, his eyes skittering from one to the other.

Horton walked around behind him and patted his shoulder. “Sorry to leave you alone, Mr. Webb.”

“It's okay,” he whispered. His hands, clasped around the cup, were trembling.

“Mr. Webb, this is Chief Wainwright and Officer Kincaid from Sereno Key and Agent Farentino from the FBI. They want to ask you a few questions. That okay with you?”

Webb nodded.

Horton turned on a tape recorder and moved the mike closer to Roscoe. “Just talk normal.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright, who nodded toward the table. Louis pulled up a chair and straddled it, across from Roscoe Webb.

“Let's back up, Mr. Webb. Where were you when he came up to you?” Horton began.

“Coming out of the restaurant. We close at midnight. It was about twenty after. I noticed the boss's car and this truck in the lot, which was weird 'cause there weren't any customers in there when I left. But I didn't see anyone so I just went to my car.”

“What did the truck look like?”

“Dark pickup, maybe blue. Rust spots, old.”

Webb took a deep breath and a drink from his cup.

“I was getting ready to unlock the door and I dropped my keys. I bent down to pick them up when I heard this explosion.”

“Like a shotgun blast?” Louis asked.

Webb frowned slightly. “I've never heard a shotgun, but yeah, it sounded kinda like I heard on TV. Loud . . . real loud and close.”

“It hit the car door,” Horton said.

Webb ran a hand over his face. “I keep thinking . . . if I hadn't dropped those keys . . .”

“Did you see him, Mr. Webb?” Louis prodded gently.

Webb shook his head. “Before I could turn around, he grabbed me from behind.”

Louis let out a breath, disappointed. “How exactly did he grab you?”

“Put an arm around my neck,” Webb said, using his own arm to demonstrate. “I started clawing at his face, over my head, 'cause I read once how you could get away by scratching their eyes out, but I couldn't get ahold of anything. Except his hair. I grabbed that.”

“Can you describe his hair, Mr. Webb?”

“I didn't see—”

“I know. What did it feel like?”

Webb blinked. “Greasy, it was greasy like.”

Louis glanced at Horton. “Hair cream maybe?”

“I'll tell the techs to look,” Horton said. He looked at Roscoe. “Mr. Webb, did you wash your hands yet?”

Webb's eyes went from Horton to the others. “Yeah, yeah, I did. I had to take a piss after that lab guy finished with me.”

“Can you guess how long the hair was?” Louis asked.

“I got a good handful, so it couldn't be short. Maybe ear-length. I don't know.”

“Thick or thin?”

“Thick, seemed like there was lots of it.” Webb paused and brought the coffee slowly up to his lips again. He took a sip and set it back down. He stared at his trembling hands. “Man, I'm sorry . . .”